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2tcs · 12 days

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Danny’s Journal or A Countdown to the Beginning

Summary: A look into the year leading up to the accident from the perspective of a forgotten journal.

February 9, 2002

Dear journal. Mom and Dad said they had a surprise for me and Jazz when we get home from school. Please God don't let it be another ghost gun or something. My hair is still singed from the last one.

Update. It was, in fact, a gun. Jazz now has a mild burn on her arm and is screaming how they need therapy. Not disagreeing but I don't think it's going to happen.

February 12, 2002

Dear journal. Happy birthday. A year ago Jazz gave you to me for my birthday. How my parents haven't accidentally destroyed you I don't know.

Me Tucker, Sam, and Jazz went out to eat for my birthday. Sam even had her family driver take us a town over to try that new restaurant. Well, that's what their excuse was. I think they were trying to get me out of the house for a little bit since Mom and Dad are going on a rampage through the house disassembling all the appliances. It's 10 pm and I can still hear noise coming from the basement.

March 26, 2002

I have the best idea for an April Fools prank. It involves chez whiz and glitter.

April 1, 2002

The prank worked like a charm. The jocks are going to smell like cheese for weeks. And they ain't ever getting the glitter out.

On the downside. Dash broke my arm and Mom and Dad put a “Fenton Anti-ghost Cast” on me. It kinda glows and makes my arm feel weird.

April 23, 2002

Sam’s birthday party was a glorious disaster this year. Her mom decided to do a princess-themed party. We have been preparing for this day since Sam found one of her mom’s work journals. We managed to sneak paint and glitter bombs into the venue before anyone got there. We even managed to get one on each of the chandeliers. It was awesome. Everyone got covered in black paint and red glitter.

What we didn’t account for was Grandma Ida hiring professional snake handlers to bring in a bunch of snakes for Sam. The snakes were non-venomous and luckily were all caught after one of the rich people bumped into the table that the snake cage was on. And the paint was non-toxic so it was easy to clean off the snakes too without them getting sick. Still kinda feel bad that the snakes got caught in the crossfire though.

May 20, 2002

🎵Schools out for the summer!🎵 Lol this is going to be so exciting. Our last summer as middle schoolers. Nothing but the big leagues after this!

June 13, 2002

Dad wants to go camping for Father's Day so we're going to head out tomorrow morning. Think I heard them mention Lake Arrowhead. That'll be cool. Haven't fished there before.

June 15, 2002

I don't know how but we're in Gotham. Apparently, there's some stupid ghost conversation going on so we're going to be stuck here for the next week. On the pulse side though I found a really cool cafe not too far from the hotel. And they don’t seem to care if you just hang out as long as their not busy and you buy something. Me and Jazz will probably be spending a lot of time here or at their library. It’s huge and has an entire section of space!

June 16, 2002

Turns out I'm allergic to something called Blood Blossoms. Mom and Dad ended up having some guy try to cleanse me of “the evil spook” after I accidentally brushed up against the flowers he had on his table. Jazz had to convince them to get me to the hospital. Luckily one of the guys walking around had an epi pen. So that helped. Still sucks and now I'm stuck at the hotel while Jazz frets like a mother hen. I don't think she's even realized that she has a rash on her hand from when she threw the flowers away from me.

June 19, 2002

So… Batman is real… wtf? He apparently has some questions for Mom and Dad but they haven't come back yet. He apologized to me and Jazz for waking us up and gave us suckers? Which. Weird. And Jazz threw them away when he left because “stranger danger is still a thing even if they are a hero”. RIP little Root Beer flavored DumDum. You will be missed.

And on the other hand, Robin was pretty cool. He's snarky and brave and hilarious and he is just so cool. 10/10 New favorite Robin. He even gave me a book recommendation for the report I'm supposed to turn in at the start of freshman year.

June 22, 2002

We were supposed to leave Gotham today. We were supposed to finally head to one of the lakes on the way home to do some camping and fishing. We were supposed to have a relaxing time. So please journal. Can you tell me why the giant wannabe scaly just threw the GAV? Now we are going to be stuck in this stupid city for another week while Mom and Dad fix it.

June 24, 2002

I made a new friend! Do you remember that cafe I talked about a few days ago? Well, I met a guy there. His name is Jason. He’s an absolute lit nerd but is way cool. The guy’s got muscles underneath his school uniform too. The guy looks like he could snap me like a twig yet isn’t at all like Dash. Hopefully, we can keep in contact after we head back to Amity. For now, we are planning on meeting up at the cafe tomorrow with our favorite books. I found “Star Stories”at the library so I’m bringing it with me. I don’t know if he likes stars but I hope he likes some of the stories about them.

July 9, 2002

Finally back at home. Dad had smuggled fireworks into the GAV (how they didn’t explode when KC threw it in Gotham idk) so we spent the 4th of July shooting them off at the lake. We ended up going to Lake Erie for the camping trip because Mom heard something at the convention about a ghost hanging out around there. Didn’t see any ghosts but the fishing was good. I even caught a bass the size of my head! All around it was really fun! Oh and the stars were so clear! The Summer Triangle was so clear you could point out Vega, Deneb, and Altair! It was so cool! Did you know that Vega is in the Lyra constellation? Or Deneb is in the Cygnus Constellation. And Altair is a part of the Aquila constellation!

Maybe I should ask if Mom and Dad could get me another journal for charting the stars. I’ll need the practice if I want to become an astronaut.

July 29, 2002

It’s a good thing that I got two of everything when me, Sam, and Tucker went shopping for school supplies. I got a lot of new space-themed stuff but the moment I got home Dad insisted on ghost-proofing my new backpack… It melted. I don’t even know how he managed to melt a canvas bag. It didn’t even catch fire first. Just started melting the moment Dad started spraying his new “Fenten Ecto-Rejecto Spray” on it. Wtf Dad.

On the plus side, Sam found a new coffin backpack and Tucker was able to get a new bag that had a pouch that he can put the walkman he got yesterday for his birthday. He is so hyped about it.

August 6, 2002

School starts next week and I am so hyped. Finally going to be a high schooler. Cool Kids Club here we go!

August 15, 2002

Kill me now. May the Gods strike me down and end my suffering. May the Faits find me lacking and cut my string. May the Crone tear me from the tapestry, the mother rejects my thread from the loom and the maiden take the wool of my youth and set it aside.

Sam has just informed me that that isn’t quite what the Mother, Maiden, and Crone do but whatever. Just know that everything sucks because apparently someone called the house phone and told Mom and Dad that there was a ghost in the school. The A-listers are blaming me for ruining their high school debut.

August 30, 2002

Mom and Dad have started making more noise in the lab than normal. It’s gotten to the point that Jazz has been spending more time at the library to study. Speaking of Jazz, she has been obsessing over self-help and psychology books lately. I mean. Jazz has always talked up therapy but now she’s kinda getting snooty about it. Sam suggested we start hanging out at that gazebo thingy at the park so we can get our work done on the nicer days. We’ll have to hang at Tucker's place though on the rainy days. Sam’s parents have decided that it’s time to put their foot down and get Sam to “socialize with your actual peers Sammy-kins so that you can make better connections and start networking” or whatever. So basically Sam’s mom doesn’t want her to be associated with us plebs I guess.

September 8, 2002

Mom and Dad repurposed the fridge so they could put samples in it. Apparently, the one in the lab broke. The green stuff in the tubes kinda creeps me out. Jazz is yelling at them about it. I kinda agree. Cross-contamination anyone? Think I’m gonna eat out at Nasty more often.

September 28, 2002

Either I’m going crazy or the leftover chicken and noodle soup in the fridge was moving. Like the noodles were wiggling around like worms or something. Jazz ordered pizza.

October 5, 2002

There are new wires in the house now and they glow? Mom said that they had some sort of breakthrough and are using the samples that they have to coat some of the tech in the house to “ecto-proof” it. Apparently, the ectoplasm doesn’t like electronics so they weren’t really able to mix it with tech too well. Some of Mom’s blueprints look like Star Wars blasters. Dad’s are less impressive.

October 29, 2002

Mom and Dad have locked me and Jazz in our rooms because of the “Ghost Menaces”. Me and Jazz have both taped warning signs on our windows so some brave trick-or-treaters don’t accidentally get hurt.

November 1, 2002

The signs worked but I saw Mom and Dad taking off in the GAV around midnight. Whatever. Me and Tucker did manage to reach a new level in DOOM last night so that was cool. And it’s World Vegan Day today so Sam is going to take us out to eat at a vegan place for dinner. I have no clue what Tucker’s going to eat. Well probably get it to-go so he can get something.

I found out where Mom and Dad went last night. The cops showed up and gave Mom and Dad a ticket for destroying a part of the park's water fixture. Someone had organised a haunted forest thing in the park and my parents went absolute ape.

November 2, 2002

Who told Mom and Dad about Dia de Los Muertos? Or that there was a little remembrance celebration/party thing going on today because of it? I’ve decided to make deviled eggs in protest of their chaos and have also bought candy skulls to eat.

November 18, 2002

Apparently, there is an Occult Day(?) and Sam insists we spend the day researching cults. Tucker has found a tech cult online that says there is “Techno Magic” and he is now trying to learn it. Sam has found a book of curses and has been giggling since she found it. Sam giggling is terrifying. I am concerned.

November 28, 2002

The turkey came to life and attacked us. Mom and Dad are blaming ghosts but me and Jazz agree that this is totally their fault for putting the stupid ecto in the fridge. At least the rest of the food was edible. I mean. It had a kinda glowing but I haven’t gotten sick yet. So yay?

November 29, 2002

So the food wasn’t good and I ended up getting sick this morning. fml Jazz is mad that I ate some of it. I am fully aware of what food safety is Jazz. But I was hungry and after the turkey, I was just tired and hangry. I had no clue you had ordered pizza so :p

December 5, 2002

On the 5th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me! Nothing because my family is insane. Mom and Dad are already starting their yearly Santa argument. Sam and Tuck are both out of town to visit family for the holidays, Jazz is avoiding the house because it’s “disruptive to my mental development” and I’m grounded for yelling at Dad when he burst into my room and accidentally made my little Rover fall off the shelf and brake.

December 9, 2002

Mom and Dad’s insanity is ramping up. They almost never leave the lab now and whenever I try to bring food down to them they either just mumble and keep working or start arguing again. The whole in the wall has a frame now too.

December 24, 2002

I made a mistake when I brought Mom and Dad their dinner today. In my defense, I was just tired of them yelling about Santa. So I asked why they had hazmat suits but me and Jazz didn’t if ecto was so dangerous. Because if it’s that dangerous then the fact we have ecto in the fridge means that we should all have suits. Jazz is furious with me cause now our parents are making us try on our new suits tomorrow. I am terrified of whatever monstrosity they create no matter how “fashionable” Dad claims they will be.

December 25, 2002

It’s worse than I thought. Mine’s white.

January 15, 2003

Gods, I hate this. I’ve been sick for the past week and Jazz says we’re almost out of soup. I keep going back and forth between being hungry and puking up whatever Jazz feeds me. Mom says that she has some tea that may help but when Dad brought it up it tasted funny. It did make me feel a little better but it just had a really weird taste. Dad said it’s just because I’m sick so everything tastes funny right now.

January 19, 2003

Is it weird that I want to lick the ecto in the fridge? I’m pretty sure it is but it still kinda looks lickable to me. Like how you know that D batteries are not edible but almost everyone has licked one at some point?

Jazz just gave me a lecture about putting things in my mouth that I shouldn’t… Again…

January 27, 2003

Jazz scared me this morning. I walked into the kitchen this morning and just saw glowing eyes. Like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Jazz thinks I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep because of the all-nighter I pulled with Tuck trying to pass the next level on DOOM but I swear that her eyes were glowing.

February 9, 2003

I’m starting to worry. I know they're obsessed with their dumb portal but they haven’t eaten in 2 days. Jazz is planning on going down there and persuading (yelling at them) them to eat if they don’t come up for dinner tonight.

February 12, 2003

Happy Birthday to me. I am now 14 years old. Mom and Dad forgot it was my birthday again. They ran into the kitchen this morning because they completed their portal. They even dragged me and Jazz down into the lab to see them turn it on before we went to school. It didn’t work and now Mom and Dad are going to take a drive around town to clear their heads. They probably won’t be back until dinner time. Sam and Tucker are coming over after school though so at least it will be quiet while they are over. And I think Jazz is going to make a cake if the box of mix I saw her trying to hide from me yesterday is any indication.

#danny phantom #a touch of #dpxdc #journal #oneshot

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guardian5tiger3 · 1 month

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An honest love reading (general)

Pick a picture -

1 2

3 4

Group one

A cycle has just been completed in terms of love and romance and either you or someone else did not this to happen. They're almost like, dramatic about that.someone involved , you or someone connected to yourself somehow, is overly focused on love and it stresses them out and it feels extreme though I can't pick up on any situation extreme enough to justify this. Someone could have insomnia and or hair loss you could also possibly see someone's tiredness in their eyes. Someone's money might be affected. I keep picking up on a a group of, as in multiple, people. Either someone here is polyamorous and if that's the case it has something to do with denial about something or the want to be in control of something or someone, or for others there's a group of people you're dealing with and they're "heated " about something . I also heard " eyeing you" who the hell uses phrases like this if you know that's a confirmation for ya. You have a group of people somewhat obsessed they seem like obsessed people in general they may be obsessed with something to do with you or just you, I'm also picking up on one individual who has something to do with you that (is very weird, and the groups I'm picking up on more or less give me weird vibes,) well connected to this person I'm getting something about childhood and I'm seeing candy this is really weird and I just involuntarily made an angry or confused look with my eyebrows you know I pushed them down I don't know why. This person may have known you for a long time or thinks they do or something idk this is super strange g make sure you're not overly trusting of every single person ever in your life you know. Someone also could be trying to take something that isn't theirs. Lock your doors , literally. Wow.sorry y'all . Genuinely. I also am somehow picking up on someone's long straight hair and something about glitter. I also saw a purple dress.

Group Two

You guys are easily manipulated and people who are going to want to manipulate you can notice this probably way more than you can about yourself also someone needs to not bite their fork when they take a bite of food it's bad for your teeth I don't know how or why that would come up for me to say sorry. Somebody needs to literally or metaphorically open a window. Um you're on the path to love and it will happen exactly when it's supposed to how it's supposed to with who it's supposed to and honestly unless you really go out of your way you may not have any romance at all until then even if that isn't what you want like for some reason I guess it depends but either your soul wants people in the meantime or you want someone sooner or what I don't know it just don't work like that though you know. I'm generally getting like if you're the type to hope your person isn't with anyone else before they meet you then this is probably for you also. Or your person is like this and I guess they are somewhat powerful cause therefore that's the way it's gonna be and in the meantime I guess you're gonna have to be solo. Somehow this seems better and more productive for your personal development than learning by Interacting with other people and being with "karmics" and stuff.

Group Three

I'm seeing two energies that are basically, literally, nothing alike. Yet somehow they're paired up. You're with this person right now in the past or future or you wanted or want to be with them lol. Some of you it's your soulmate ,though and that's really special and actually really cool and refreshing. Like 99% of you are supposed to at least at one point be with someone like this to you. Or for like very few of you this is just about your signs like fire and water but I really doubt that's as far as it goes you are probably very different either way. You guys are very deep and cool refreshing people very beautiful , good listeners and balanced. Someone has ADHD or something else so you might doubt the good listener thing I'm getting but I think you pay attention to detail or something like somehow this is still infact accurate and you may be don't see it about yourself . I think you all are very deep mentally and have a deep capacity to hold a lot lot lot of information, knowledge, wisdom, n stuff. A lot of people might be drawn to you or notice you and also possibly a lot of different types of people as something about you a lot of different people can still connect with somehow. Yeah also someone's a hater here though and they might tease you with something somehow so I really hope you stay aware of that possibility, realize this about whoever they are and stand up for yourself basically I feel like you have the potential to retaliate and as long as it is nothing illegal I kind of feel like saying I want you to . ????????? I don't know o feel like it would be really satisfying maybe to your guides or it is when you do, fight back or argue cause you're good at it and it would not be easy to win against you or come up with any comeback especially if you plan something. Wow. Hahaha. I'm leaving it here.

I heard desperado and I know three songs called that well two are just remixes of the og you could look up the og or the Mike bars desperado lol . Or just the word maybe is significant, goes with your picture anyway. I feel like most of you that will hear the song will just like the song lol . I can dig it

Group Four

There was a conditional love given and when this was taken away it had someone really stressed out and hurt. Someone was being a complete dick that was giving love conditionally and then stopped . I feel like the shit they do or say is old as f... Like it's ugly and getting old man anyway. This very well could be past energy like long long ago for some of you. This person might have lied. They might be selfish. They may be downplaying your come up or they will when you do come up. Or some , even saying you don't deserve it but I'm being shown you very clearly do. Like this person only gets dustier through time nobody is ever gonna pick up this old kick knack and undust them theyre old and lame. I'm picking up on like, when people say the type of person that peaked in high school. Yeah so this person has their qualities but eventually everyone's like ok whatever yawn. They're definitely super greedy as I just got a card saying " GREED " lol. In terms of future love y'all will be good I'm picking up generally most of you just need to become more comfortable within yourself first and I'm picking up on like cozy night chilling and watching movies and stuff by yourself or with a pet even a friend but you get me just learning to be content also and have good times like that without the need for someone else romantically. Either way somehow some time after you get into that energy a person will come along softly and surely and it will be really nice and happy . Around that time maybe shortly after you will have something happen positive when it comes to work or their work . I also channeled the movie my big fat Greek wedding as I was channeling this last part haha so I thought I should mention that, I know I'm partially Greek and always loved that movie. Someone might like telling stories ? But yeah in the movie she has a glow up and then she sees this guy she thought was cute again and things just worked out and he asked her out and they fell in love it was just simple smooth and sweet and the timing matched up with what I said may happen for you so that's really cute y'all stay hopeful and focus on relaxation. And for some of you if you know this is true though also studying .

#pac reading #free tarot readings #pick a card reading #pick a pile #pac #pick a card #pick a picture #tarot reading #tarot pac #pac tarot #tarot love reading #love pac #love reading #love tarot reading

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cuubism · 11 months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still. If you want to tell."

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

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

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

"Why?"

"For sharing."

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

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

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

"Were all of your lovers women?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream frowns. "I do not..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

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

Experimental.

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

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

I want to understand, Dream thinks. I want—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe I don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Revel in that victory if you must."

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

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

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

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

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

"Hob—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hob. I want—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob is inside him. Hob is inside him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among lovers, too, perhaps.

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

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seafoamreadings · 5 months

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week of january 7th, 2024

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: it is a great week to be you. but it may not feel like it. the reason is that the sun is squaring the nodes and that's a lot of clashing cardinal energy, like maybe you have ten million things to do at once. but really - mars is doing so much good stuff behind the scenes. trust the process.

taurus: the aspects this week are invigorating and strengthening. your sign is known for kind of languishing in relaxation and it's actually good for you nearly always but this week? please go outside, please get up and accomplish things. it is so auspicious for you to be in movement and flow right now. crash on the weekend if you must.

gemini: you may feel quite antsy about staying at home, like you can't bear to see your own walls a moment longer. alternatively, or even simultaneously, there may be a feeling that you can't handle the public eye. maybe it helps to go wander around in disguise, or at least with big giant sunglasses and a floppy hat on.

cancerians: the new moon in capricorn is fresh relationship vibes. a new romance, a breakup, an engagement are all possibilities. no, probably not all at once. set an intention around how you want your commitments to actually look in real life, regardless of what happens to you at this time.

leo: this time of year can be hard for solar creatures like you, especially north of the equator. but this week is bookended by two lunar ingresses that are quite supportive to you, especially if you are out there looking for love. create something new. it can be just for yourself. it should probably involve glitter.

virgo: you have a lot of supportive astrology all week in taurus and capricorn. go out of your way to create, learn, and grow. granted, commitment is not really your thing right now. dabble and have fun and if you need to shed a few things, people, or situations, do so.

libra: even though lots of great things are likely to happen this week, the quality of the period can be quite frazzling to your typically very delicate constitution. watch for omens but make what changes you can if you don't like what you see. you don't have to resign yourself to a bad lot.

scorpio: this is a great week for your relationships. ALL kinds of relationships. it's okay, and indeed quite good, to nurture romantic ones! but do NOT forget all the manifold other ways to love. go out of your way to spread love in your community locally, online, to children, to animals, to the vulnerable, to your friends, to your family... what else can you think of?

sagittarius: be cautious with mercury-things, yes even though it's direct now, because it is right at the end of your sign preparing to move. it's still in the shadow zone, and especially at the so-called critical degrees it can feel like you just went back in time a week or two for a moment. probably not in a good way. just be careful.

capricorn: you're in a good, steady, stable place and picking up momentum. mercury re-enters your sign and mars gives you a major boost. you're getting things done and probably not feeling too depleted by the effort. one caveat; mercury is still retracing its retrograde path, so you're not done with the themes of the last few weeks yet, you're just wrapping them up. probably in really nice littel satin bows.

aquarius: beneath all the jolly jupiter vibes lies the constant hum of electric current due to your ruling planet uranus. rebellions in the name of justice do well at this time, but on a smaller scale too you might want to revolutionize your own life.

pisces: expect a little agitation early in the week. but keep in mind that agitation can serve as a boost to improve things. so it's not a time to be lazy, but it is a time to scry for omens, at least figuratively. scry and then act.

#weekly horoscopes #weekly horoscope #horoscopes #horoscope #astrology #signs #zodiac #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces

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trap-wire · 3 months

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Day 2 of @mcyt-aro-week was way harder for me for some reason. I decided to do the prompt "loveless" so for context, in this headcanon Gem is a loveless aromantic, however she doesn't actually know it yet. ALSO, i am not actually a loveless aro, I am in fact the opposite, so if I got anything wildly wrong please tell me <3

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Gem had never liked romance. Even as a kid, she'd wrinkle her nose at kiss scenes, complain when her parents called each other pet names, and gag whenever anyone asked about “her future boyfriend.” Back then, though, it was less apparent. Easier to ignore. Sure, it was a bit strange, but she'd been a kid, and kids do strange things all the time.

The first time she remembers being aware of this, is also the first time she got in trouble at school. She was eating lunch with a group of kids, when one of them started bragging about how he'd kissed a boy. All the other kids were oohing and aahing, asking him what it was like and acting all together more impressed then she thought was deserving. If she was honest, she had thought it was gross, so when it came her turn to speak she said as much.

The reaction she got for that was surprising, even to her child mind. Up until then she'd been under the impression that romance didn't appeal to her, so why would it appeal to anyone else? The boy had started crying, and someone got a teacher involved, which all led to a very reluctant apology from Gem and a very awkward ride home with her parents.

Even that, though, was quickly forgotten. Sure, it was a bit strange, but strange things happen all the time, and for now Gem could easily go about her day talking to her friends, and drawing, and definitely not thinking about romance.

As a teenager she was well and truly sick of it.

She didn't get it. She'd never gotten it, and if her luck held she never would. She didn't know how, or why for that matter, but even with their exams only a few weeks away all anyone ever talked about was love, love, love. She didn't know where they got the time.

One day, while she was complaining to her parents on the floor of their living room, and working on an architectural sketch for her portfolio, her dad told her something that would stick with her forever, though not for the reason he probably thought.

“Everyone falls in love. It's what makes us human.”

He'd said it with a patronising grin, like he thought her feelings were childish, and her childish to feel them.

She took it as a challenge.

From then on, she stopped referring to her feelings as love all together. It was a subtle change, one you didn't notice until you did, but once you did you couldn't unsee. She adored it. She'd always felt divorced from what others called love, and being able to reclaim that discomfort, that disconnect as her own? It was nothing short of delightful.

################

“Hey, Gem?” Pearl asked.

Dappled light shimmered though tree leaves, spreading across a stepping-stone path as if someone had splattered the ground with paint. Gem and Pearl walked slowly, enjoying the view and each other's company. A bittersweet atmosphere stuck to them like glitter, since this would be the last time they could talk before Pearl left to her new server, the Empires SMP.

“Mhm?” Gem hummed

“Are you aromantic?”

Huh?

Gem cocked her head to the side, her red hair flowing over her shoulders. “What's that?”

“It's where you don't fall in love”

Well, that was unexpected. Neat.

“Huh. Guess I am.”

#geminitay #hermitblr #hermitfic #hermitcraft #mywriting #mcyt aro week #i hate doing italics on tumblr fr

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littlest-dark-age · 2 years

Text

He's so pretty when he goes down on me

Headcannons for eddie with a thembo!partner

Listen to while reading : shiny by lil mariko

tagging @eddiemvnsongf

Warnings : unedited, cream pie, penetrational sex, slight degradation, underwear thief eddie, eddie touching you in public, slight public sex, sexual pictures, cum eating, spit, cockwarming, mentions of love bites, mentions of being fed, mentions of spanking and bruising

Eddie saw you around school, always admiring from afar. Thinking you wouldn't give him the time of day if he were to approach you. Especially with the way everybody else treated you. Which, is as if you're royalty. And you might as well be.

He notices how you seem to drift between the "groups", always offering your sweet smile to anybody even if the people you're with roll their eyes at it. How you seem to be a much kinder person than most of the people in hawkins, even if he thinks that just for the simple fact that you don't look at him funny when the two of you are sat next to one another during the few classes he actually attends

While thinking the fact that all of your school supplies are pretty shades of pink and most of them covered in glitter is pretty cute.

It's not until one day, when you walk up to the hellfire table, does he fully recognize how ethereal you are. You completely ignore him and the others, in favor of asking Dustin and Mike something. Causing his brows to shoot up, since when did you know them?

He stands up at the end of the table, with his usual dramatic flair. The shift catches your eyes and you look up at him from your bent over position at the opposite end, before offering him your candy sweet smile he's seen flashed around the halls

"What brings such a lovely creature over to our very own corner?"

Dustin chimes in with a soft "they're my babysitter"

"And I was just checking about something. Sorry to bother you! Nice hair though!" You tell him before going back to your own table without a second thought

You helping dustin calm eddie down when he has the bottle to steves neck, causing a look of confusion to flash over his face. Wondering why you're with the group and why you were even looking for him

A few moments later, after he's done explaining what happened with chrissy, you explain your involvement with dustin and the others. Telling him how you helped steve protect the kids from the demodogs, the way you made sure El was safe and that you were there at the starcourt mall when every thing went to hell.

"I've always babysat dustin and it just turned into....this. But steve, nancy and robin don't make me feel dumb for anything. Same with little dude, he always just explained it. Kids too smart for his own good if you ask me."

Thinks you look cute offering suggestions to help with vecna, even if some of them don't quite make sense. Like when you asked if you could try to politely ask him to leave hawkins alone before trying to attack him

Made sure to zip up your jacket and double knot your shoes for you before going into the upside down because he knew probably won't think about it

Once the two of you started dating, eddie started carrying whatever you usually forgot in his metal lunchbox. A extra tube of the glittery lip balm that he loves to kiss off between classes, a couple of your pink pencils for class, the specific brand of gum you always seem to chew, anything he noticed that you've forgotten a couple of times and pouted over it.

Constantly opens things for you, but at the price of a kiss. All you have to do is hold it out with puppy dog eyes and he'll grab it with an eye roll. But he does it every time, and even when he grabs something from the store for you, he automatically opens it before handing it to you. Tapping his cheek with a grin just waiting for you to lean up and give him a soft kiss.

Always calling you sweetheart, honey or bunny. usually dripping with sickeningly sweet tone.

Thinks it's cute when you look at him as if he hung the stars in the sky when he explains things to you. Eddie always makes sure you're listening and asks if you have any questions as you're going over something. Like when he was explaining d&d to you, his heart melted(and he got hard) everytime you turned to him to make sure you were doing everything correctly. Even with the small things like designing your character. Which you still had him help you with.

Whenever you but new clothes, he always expects a fashion show after. Full of twirls showing off every inch of the new outfits, complete with your happy laughter. He tells you how pretty you look in everything even if its not his personal style. Eddie couldn't dream of his pretty fairy dressing like he does, he thinks you look perfect in the pinks and the crop tops that show off your soft skin.

Eddie will crumble if you whine and pout about something, and if you break out the tears? He will do anything physically possible to solve it. Always softly shushing you and wiping them off of your face with his big hands, telling you that you don't wanna ruin your pretty mascara now do you?

He instantly puts his hands in front of you whenever you sit by him, so you can fiddle with his hands and rings. After noticing how you always stare at them whenever you zone out and constantly play with them whenever the two of you hold hands. Teases you for it all the time, asking if you like how big his hands are and how shiny the rings can be.

Bought you a stuffed animal one day and was shocked that it sat separate from all your others that litter your bedroom. Even more shocked to find out that you sleep with it every night.

He buys you a set of die and customizes them to be baby pink with white glitter numbers.

Always pats your head when you look over at him confused about something before trying to explain it, doesn't always work out but he at least tries.

Started carrying an extra jacket or hoodie in his van for when your outfits get too cold you can have something if he's not wearing his battle jacket or leather jacket

Loves when you get so excited over the smallest things, like when the store had a cute sticker pack and you had enough change to get it. Some ended up on his metal lunchbox.

Always holds out his fork or spoon whenever he's eating, offering you some. Gently reminding you to stay hydrated, holding the bottle or cup to your mouth to make sure you actually take a drink.

Doesn't mind if you leave lipstick marks on him, especially not when you giggle about how it stands out against his pale skin.

Eddie will sometimes spend far too much money on movie nights just so you can everything you want. So what if he has to skimp a little on food? The way your eyes light up when you see everything set up, as nice as he can offer.

He feels bad when you spend money on him but realizes later on you don't care as long as it makes him happy, the same way he is with you. The way you look at him with soft doe eyes, waiting for his reaction to the newest ozzy cassette or the deluxe version of the mettalica album he doesn't have yet.

Constantly kissing your forehead and telling you not to worry your pretty little head over things, that he'll take care of it for his lil baby

Nsfw

Guides your hips when you're on top most of the time, usually leading to him flipping the two of you over so he can thrust into you. Asks if you're gonna take it like he knows you can and laughs when all you can do is nod and whine while bucking your hips into his

Introduces you to cockwarming, knowing you'll want more before five minutes go by. Ready to tease you and call you his greedy crybaby while starting to bounce you on his cock

Drools over you in white panties, especially if you make a wet spot in them. Immediately reaching out to touch it and ask if you got messy like that just for him? Grinning when you tell him that its always just for him, you're his pretty baby and nobody else's

Tries (and does) to convince you to have sex in the hellfire club room.

Regularly steals your underwear and lotion so he can jerk off with it later, wanting to smell you as much as he can.

Could have stock in polaroid film with the amount that the two of you use. He keeps his current favorite ones tucked into his wallet, the rest are in his bedside table drawer as well as the camera.

Says you look so pretty already but even prettier when he marks you up with lovebites all over. Loves when they peak out of the collar of your shirt at school the next day

Cums in you and cleans it up with his fingers before sucking it off and giving you a sweet kiss

"God you feel so good wrapped around me baby, like you were made for this. Were you? Made just for me to fuck even dumber?"

Would rather die than tell you the amount of times he's dreamt about you in the cutest skirts and he woke up with cum in his boxers

Constantly has his hands in your bottoms, gently playing with you. He can't keep his hands to himself in general and loves see you squirm and send him questioning looks while making your underwear messy

Loves when you drool and it makes him want to lick it up before spitting it back into your mouth and making you swallow it

Doesn't usually get frustrated when you brat unless you push it too far, then you end up with bruises and indentions from his rings on your ass and on the tops of your thighs.

Rolls a d20 to decide what your reward for being good will be, the list of possuble rewards is tucked away with the pictures and camera in the drawer.

Bites. Just bites you where ever he feels like it. On your neck, your chest, your thighs, your hips, etc. Eddie grins whenever you yelp when you're not expecting the bite.

Thinks its cute when you watch his guitar pick necklace swing in your face when He's on top of you, letting you catch it in your mouth some times so you have something to suck on while his hands are supporting his weight.

#eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcannon #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things blurb #stranger things x y/n #stranger things vol 1 #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things headcanons #eddie munson x bimbo!reader #eddie munson x thembo!reader #bimbo reader #thembo reader

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raccoonfallsharder · 8 days

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Hi!! I adore your blog and everything you write, cause it's so wholesome and giving comfort!! I was wondering about your take on this kind of trope between Rocket and the reader (because I can't see anything similar on the internet and I'm biting my walls). But I was thinking about friendly convo with Rocket as a semi new crew member, who's young and maybe more outgoing. Still sarcastic and brave, yet empathetic. And they started to get along, eventually became friends. In my mind it was a late night vibe, maybe something like talking about trauma or just simply comforting. I'm a sucker for anything involving petting him so (👀). Maybe they have something in common, maybe something happened. But some friendly fluff never hurts. I'd love to see your take on this scenario!! I just love your work I'm hoping to see something like that ksjdksjx 🤍🤍

wholesome? are we looking at the same blog lol

dear little sugar cookie sunbeam. you're so sweet and i'm so grateful for this kindness, truly. thank you for your sweet words! i’m so sorry it’s taken so long for me to get around to this. between you and @whitedragoncoranth (who always so kindly sends me adorable raccoon-related videos and little fictions) the two of you have been spinning lovely little thoughts in my head. so this is for the both of you ♡

like, imagine that pete wakes up in the middle of the sleep-shift. there’s something happening in the benetar’s ventilation system, and it doesn’t sound good. a strange sort of pitchy rattle, like something’s come loose. normally pete wouldn’t be the one to notice something like that — rocket’s sensitive hearing would pick up any deviation in the benetar’s normal low murmur long before pete’s “inferior baldbody ears.” but here it is — far too late in the so-called night — and star-lord has noticed something wrong with the ship. and not just any part of the ship — one of the parts most integral to survival in the inhospitable void of space.

so he rises, half-frantic, and goes to find the benetar’s genius creator and resident mechanic.

"goddammit," you mutter, scowling down at the carton of milky-fizz in your hand. normally, you'd be staring out at the stars as they spiraled past: gorgeous glimmering clouds of glitter-dust and refracted light, swirls of color and soft-edged flakes of illumination, haloes and radiant pinpoints — all bright and pulsing against the black jeweler's velvet of an endless sky. tonight, though, you're just pissed, and not even the shimmering specks of a thousand distant suns can ease the cringing ripple of shame prickling up the base of your spine and between your shoulderblades. you hunch your back, trying to shiver it right off your skin.

"hey, kid. what the hell are you doin' out here?"

you pause, shoulders still high under your ears — but when you breathe out, some of your tension goes with it. rocket's an ornery bastard, but he's also your best friend here on the benetar, and if anyone can make you feel better, it's probably him.

not that it had always been that way. your friendship is more or less a recent development. you wouldn’t call yourself new to the crew anymore, but you're definitely the freshest of the guardians family. you'd run into them when they'd stopped back on knowhere after defeating some kind of — god? planet? — and the pilot had clearly not been a fan of further expanding their little crew beyond the recent addition of mantis and, to a lesser extent, kraglin and nebula.

why d'you wanna even do this? he'd sneered. it ain't all fame and fortune.

you'd snorted. fame and fortune? at best, it had seemed the so-called guardians of the galaxy had only earned the suspicious and sometimes-entertained watchfulness of any given band of locals — as if they'd been some troublesome trickster-folkheroes brought to life.

plus, this stupid galaxy's always needing to be saved, rocket had snarked, half-resentfully.

you'd grinned and shrugged. as a matter of fact, i'm here for the job security, you'd only replied, and it had tugged a startled smirk into the corner of his mouth.

"you all right?" he asks now, nearly thirty cycles later.

you sigh. "oh, you know." you wave your carton at the stars behind the armored glass.

rocket snorts. "yeah, i do know," he drawls, one brow winging up. you're not looking at him, so you can't see it — but you can hear it in his voice. "i know exactly what you're doing."

it's your turn to raise an eyebrow. "what am i doing?" you take a swig of your milky-fizz, but rocket doesn't miss a beat.

"beating yourself up for stupid shit."

"ahhhh," you breathe softly into the chill, recycled air. "you would know, then."

"i would," he agrees. "now, c'mon." his hand reaches out and shoves gently at your hip. "you can whine about it while we eat some zargnuts."

you can't help but laugh. after you'd first come aboard, it had only taken a few rotations for the two of you to begin gravitating toward each other. if asked, rocket would have muttered he’d just given you a shot because you’d been the only one who groot seemed to tolerate: mature enough to hold your own with the other guardians, but young enough that rocket's adolescent son somehow — miraculously — hadn’t despised you. luckily for rocket, he'd also quickly learned that you'd been willing to engage in the stupid multi-front prank-wars that he’d had going with almost every other member of the crew. hell, that thing with the frickin’ zargnuts had been your idea — he’d just come up with the tech. the two of you had crept into food storage one rotation, and you’d emptied every bag into jars, then passed each one to rocket. he’d puffed them with air and neatly closed them with the heat-resealing gun he’d crafted as soon as you’d made the suggestion.

drax had been sulky for cycles, and you'd stayed strong, not 'fessing up until mantis had burst into tears after opening her fifteenth empty bag.

still, the majority of the jars of zargnuts are currently residing in the corner of rocket's bunk.

you follow him across the catwalks and down the hatch, passing arched armored-glass windows separating the two of you from the cold void of space. outside the benetar, the galaxy is lit up with spilt-glitter-stars and moons like twinkle-lights. inside, guages and buttons pin the shadows like velvet stage-curtains to the wall, and security orbs stitch them to the edge of the grated floors. most of the other guardians are in bed already, and the narrow corridors are quiet, with only the low hum of the benetar's life support systems echoing a low lullaby. rocket leaps up to tap the sensor that slides open his bunk door, and you throw yourself easily into the pile of cushions in the corner under his hammock. he's one of the lucky bastards with a starboard-side porthole in his bunk, which means the whole little room is softly aglow with the dim blue and mauve haze of stardust. he taps a plasma orb, adding a sheen of gold to the edges of the shadows so that he can dig through his locker more easily, producing a giant, half-eaten jar of zargnuts and sliding it across the thin, faded rug toward you.

"dig in," he orders, and you do — unscrewing the lid and reaching in to pull out a couple of the bite-sized snacks. "you wanna tell me what's got you all knotted up?" he adds casually, tapping the datapad he's got docked on his workbench. some song he's cloned from pete's zune drifts out, melancholy and mellow, across darkness.

"is that california dreamin'?" you ask incredulously.

he listens for a beat, till the chorus hits. "sounds like it," he replies with a shrug, "but you're not gettin' outta answering me, kid."

you sigh and take another sip of your milky-fizz . it goes surprisingly well with the zargnuts. "i almost got pete killed today."

rocket snorts. "what?"

"when that symbiote attacked him, i should've switched over to the disresonator blaster you made, and instead i just sh-shot at it with the rotary cannon and i almost—"

"kid," rocket interrupts, sounding exasperated. "you been in how many fights like this? m'not talking about threatening some jerk with your quadblaster, i mean actually fighting a dozen corrupted klyntar, or some high-powered alien despot, or whatever."

"i dunno," you say dismally. "however many there've been since i started with you guys."

"and this is your first mistake," he reminds you. "and it wasn't even that stupid."

you roll your eyes. "thanks ever so."

"seriously," he says, grabbing another handful of zargnuts. "you know, our second fight was because drax decided to call up the kree accuser we were running from and give 'im our coordinates."

you pause with your milky-fizz halfway to your mouth. "what?"

rocket snickers. "and that jackass is like, old enough to be your dad. at least. he's supposably been fighting way longer." he pauses. "though he did get caught and thrown in the kyln so maybe he was always an idiot about it. what i'm saying is, you don't gotta beat yourself up for doing one stupid thing."

you look at him solemnly, taking in the way the plasma orb gilds the strands of gunmetal and brass in his fur, and the halo of mint-green and rose and purple as you drift past a rainbow-hued nebula.

"what about you?" you ask. the quiet shadows pool around the two of you, cool and just heavy enough to press any anxiety out of your lungs. that's how it always is on these nights with rocket, you think. usually the two of you are on the flightdeck, drinking some of drax's kylosian coffee while rocket flies till you fall asleep — but sometimes you hole up in his bunk or yours, listening to music and telling stories and cracking jokes until one or both of you passed out.

"what about me?"

you wrap the shadows and the starlight around yourself and finish off the milky fizz, setting the plastic carton carefully to one side. "you beat yourself up all the time."

he sighs. "that's different."

"howso?" you challenge, but he slants you a look that glints like red spinels and rubies in the stray starlight, and you know you're not gonna get an answer. you hum a faintly disgruntled, half-playful note. "you know what would make me feel better?"

"no."

you grin, and reach out toward him with both hands, palm-down, rubbing your fingers and thumbs together.

"absolutely frickin' not."

"please?"

"you're annoying."

your fingers don't stop. "you don't have to pretend like you don't like it," you tease him. "i had a friend back on terra—"

he snorts. "you had a friend?"

you pout. "don't be a jackass." you flex your fingers in a grabby motion. "i had a friend on terra and she use to tell me — you know, you are allowed to let yourself enjoy nice things."

he snorts. "oh yeah? and what’d you say to that?"

your grin splits wide. "probably the same thing you’re gonna say to me," you admit with a dip of your head. another gold galaxy swirls slowly past, limning everything: platinum and bronze and sunset edges, melting against the dark violet-blue.

he wings one brow upward. "what’s that?"

you can’t stop the chuckle riding under your ribs. "sounds fake, but okay."

he snickers. "well, you're not wrong."

"c'mon," you wheedle, not letting him out of it that easily. you flex your fingers again, and rub the tips together like you're testing the velvet quality of the shadows, or the fading strains of california dreamin' as they melt into time after time. "please? for me, rocket?"

he raises his brow again, rolling his eyes. they're deep amethysts in the darkness, but every time he moves them, they throw back glimmers of almandine and garnet.

"sounds fake," he mocks, "but okay." he slides across the cushions. "and watch the tail this time. don't need your frickin' elbow leaning on it again."

you fake-scowl. "that was one time," you sulk, winding your arms around him and pulling him in close so you can burrow your fingers into the thick velvet pile of his ears. he immediately cocks his head like he's been secretly waiting for it all night, leaning into the little massage at the base of the twitching appendages. his head his heavy and weighted against your hands, alternating side to side as he tries to push into the pressure of your touch. you'd never point it out to him, of course; he'd stop immediately, you're sure. and you weren't lying — it does make you feel better. millennia of evolution have contributed to this one perfect element of the terran human condition, you suppose: the release of endorphins whenever you get a cuddly animal's fur under your fingertips and palms.

you ease your hands down, stroking long lines over the back of his head, burying your fingers in the fur at the base of his skull and around his shoulders, weaving them into his lush, soft undercoat. it becomes mindless, meditative: his fur gleaming thread by soft thread in the starlight, the hypnotic lullaby of the moons and suns and planets rolling by like round, loose beryls and pearls, the sparkling haze of cosmic dust spilling past the porthole. the music shifting through the dark shadows and puddling in the little pools of light, weaving in between each strand of rocket's fur and the soft valleys between your fingers: fleetwood mac and bowie and kate bush and joy division, all layered into the darkness and the sprinkle of lights — the spray of glitter, the haloed glow; the quiet of your breath and rocket's; the pulse of your shared heartbeats; the sleepy tug of your eyelids. the knowledge that he knows you well enough to recognize when you're ragged at the edges, and the eagerness to help patch you up with zargnuts and music and stories about drax; the knowledge that you'd do the same no matter what. the warmth of him under your hands, his body going relaxed and heavy under your arms, the soft brush of his fur under your chin.

the knowledge that in all of the wide universe, you always have a home with each other.

something rumbles against your belly, where his chest is leaned up against you, and your hands stroke over his back. it's rare that he purrs, and usually brief: but this time he lets it happen, and it grows. the rapid, deep-rooted clicking, like a dark-velvet chirp that never ends, rolls up from his body and into your hands like a gift passed from him to you. it shivers out into the air, tumbling and rippling through the silk shadows, blending with the music, flickering against everything in the tiny room and echoing softly, rebounding, shimmering. you lose yourself in the pattern of it, matched to his inhalations and exhalations. matched to yours. you're drifting into it like an incoming tide, moonlit and starstruck, little waves that lap and tap against your heart and your brain until you begin to doze off while your fingers trace deep little forest-paths into his fur, taking and offering comfort as easily as breathing, as easily as the gentle thump of your hearts against each other. you lose time like that: lost in the sounds of him and the music, lost in the deep blue, the aubergine, the glimmering in and out. you don't so much as stir until there's a thump in the corridor, and then against the frame of the door—

you jolt awake, blinking blearily, and rocket's already torn himself out of your arms and off the cushions as the door slides open.

"what the fuck, quill? i coulda been — i dunno, doing something—"

"there's a problem with the vent system," pete rushes out, sounding nervous and frantic. "i don't know how long it's been going on but there's like a — a rattling, rumbling noise—"

"shut up," rocket snaps, one dark hand extended toward pete in a halting motion, and you freeze as the three of you go still and quiet.

the vents cycle on, hushed and gentle as a breeze in a field of wheat.

you wait.

"i don't frickin' hear anything," rocket growls.

"i don't—" pete starts, looking baffled and almost betrayed by the functioning ventilation system. "it was—"

"what'd it sound like?" you pipe up from the corner, and pete's brows furrow when they focus on you.

"like a kind of a... brrrrrrrrrh," he mimicks, rolling his tongue off the rough of his mouth in a guttural purr.

your eyes go wide, and then shoot over to rocket's. your friend's face is a picture in absolute horror.

"uh," you start, the corners of your mouth twitching as you try to hold back a sudden cackle.

"it's nothing, pete," rocket snaps. "you're imagining shit."

"but—"

"go back to bed!" rocket half-roars, and pete takes one last bewildered glance at the air vents before slinking out the door.

rocket slaps the sensor panel and whirls on you, one claw extended.

"not a fuckin' word," he snarls.

you say nothing. you only smile — eyes sparkling — and reach for him with both hands: palms down, fingertips rubbing against thumbs in a silent demand for more pets.

headcanons & imagines masterlist

#wholesome nonnie #whitedragoncoranth #rfh asks #rfh fluff #rocket raccoon #gotg rocket #rfh headcanons #rocket raccoon headcanon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket raccoon fluff

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ehlnofay · 20 days

Text

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

#for context - in my version of events sheogorath's recruitment of the HoK is a lot more active #it needs someone who can fulfill the metaphysical niche of the hero. it needs someone experienced enough that they might not even die tryin #and it needs someone desperate enough to take the deal #pax is fifteen years old has alienated everything that maybe could have been a support system and is grieving very badly.#perfect mantling material!!#so sheogorath pursued them very specifically and was very judicious about what they revealed when. which is why pax already has some kind o #relationship with it here - they've interacted before - in that for weeks pax's reflection has been constantly begging them to 'visit'#writing the interactions of these guys is a lot of fun because there is always so much sheogorath is keeping from pax. it is #extremely strategic in how it presents itself #and pax falls for it hook line and sinker. though we can't really blame them #it's hard to outsmart something that's in your head #and at this point pax is pretty much made up of their worst impulses #which sheogorath cannot and does not help with #see: this piece #“I would NEVER make you do something you don't want to do <3 if you'd like to go back to your miserable self-destructive hellscape that's #YOUR CHOICE. but wouldn't it be more fun to be regular destructive here... i made you brass knuckles... 🥺“#im obsessed with them #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #pax #oblivion #shivering isles #the shivering isles

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thosewickedlovelies · 5 months

Text

Private Eye | Tim Rockford/Marcus Moreno x F!Reader

Rating: T for Teen

Summary: You're a detective assigned to the strangest case this apple pie America town has ever seen. Enter: Marcus Moreno, alias Tim Rockford. Will you and your secretly super-powered partner be able to solve this case and the mysterious thing brewing between you?

Tags: vague murder(?) mystery; workplace romance; this is about detectives even though acab 😔✊🏻

Word count: 2,214

Note: Despite making fun of his name, I do still enjoy writing for Tim 😂😅 So here he is! This will eventually (hopefully) be a fun(?) series involving late night paperwork sessions, sneaking around a cool old mansion in the dark, and those intriguing powers of Marcus's...

Masterlist

No matter how many times you’ve been here, the mansion’s long, twisting hallways were never as unnerving as when you were alone in them at night. The shadows seemed to skulk closer than they were able to with your partner by your side. Now they skitter and warp, growing in the corners of your vision, as distance stretches between you. You stare after him in outrage and disbelief.

“Rockford!” you hiss.

He doesn’t answer, and you’re forced to nearly jog to catch up with his long stride.

“Marcus!”

He whips around suddenly, and for a fleeting instant he’s caught in the moonlight slanting through the tall, narrow windows. Fury glitters in his eyes. In all the various stages of stress you’ve seen him, his jaw has never been clenched this tightly. His livid expression brings you up short.

The next thing you’re aware of is a searing pressure around your wrist as Marcus’s hand encloses it in his blazingly hot grip, dragging you, stumbling, until you reach one of the manion’s many now-familiar closets. The door slams behind you, and all you can see is darkness.

“I told you not to use my name onsite! You know it could put us in danger!” Marcus’s voice has dropped to a scalding whisper.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do? You weren’t listening to me,Tim!” You place a scornful emphasis on his alias. “You were the one who said we can’t just go stomping around- that we don’t know who we’re dealing with, we have to be careful. You can’t just throw all that away.”

There’s a long, tense silence. You can practically hear Marcus’s internal combustion, a roaring fire of frustration spitting and discarding replies, the pressure rising all the while.

The tension clamors and builds. Marcus takes a long, long inhale- and then releases it, a great gust of a sigh so deep it ruffles your hair in the small space.

Something creaks. You picture him leaning against the shelved walls, or maybe a serving cart. This old mansion was built with a plethora of butler’s pantries, and some of them still contained evidence of when this place actually employed a butler.

There’s a squeaking sound that could only be the wheels of a serving cart as it’s pushed aside.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, and I’m sorry. It’s just…this fucking house, and this case. The evidence keeps piling up, but it’s not leading anywhere. I can’t get anything out of the knives or the needles, and the damn grandma…”

Marcus growls his frustration.

In the utter blackness of your surroundings, the sound breathes goosebumps down the back of your neck.

You swallow, trying to think to professionally. “I know. I’m as frustrated as you are, okay?”

That probably wasn’t strictly true. Marcus’s superpowers were best described as metalbending enhanced by modern-day science, but even he was struggling to glean any insights from the many knives and knitting needles you had in evidence for this case. He’d built his career on cracking strange cases like this; with his powers stymied, it must feel like groping in the dark.

You take a deep breath of your own. “I’m sorry for using your name. I know you told me not to; I just couldn’t think of how to get you to stop.”

Marcus sighs again, but this time it sounds less burdened, like some of his irritation has dissipated.

“I know you understand the danger if my identity was revealed. I just…had to remind you. I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because of me."

A sound like his shoes scuffing against the ground, a sense of movement in front of you- what is he doing?

His deep voice is much closer suddenly. “Detective?”

You’re grateful he can’t see you jump. “Yes?”

It takes your body a half second longer than your brain to realize that what’s touching your arms are Marcus’s hands, so this time he definitely knows you jumped. You almost immediately relax again, however. No matter how long he’d been wandering around this drafty old house in the cool of night, Marcus always managed to be radiator-warm. With your upper arms in a gentle grasp, he strokes soothing paths with his thumbs.

“Please don’t think I’m questioning your abilities. Just- you have be careful using my real name. No matter how much I enjoy hearing it from you.”

His tone drops to a velvety murmur. Your pulse kicks up. Is he…?

Your breath hitches. You scour the darkness for any glimpse of Marcus’s expression, but are only able to perceive the faintest hint of his silhouette. Blindly, carefully, you lift your hands until they find his chest.

“I’ll be careful.” Your voice comes out remarkably steady.

“By the way…remember how I told you my powers extend even to things like blood? How when I concentrate, I can do things like…sense your heart rate.” Beneath Marcus’s nonchalance lurks a damning amusement.

You still, although it’s not the mention of Marcus’s powers, but rather that of your traitorous, stuttering heart that’s provoked a sudden sense of danger. Blood rushes to your cheeks, doubtless confirming his guess.

Marcus chuckles softly. “Something making you nervous, Boss?”

You swallow hard against your dry mouth. “‘Nervous’ isn’t exactly the word.”

“No?”

Marcus’s suit jacket brushes your front as he rustles closer, and your fingers instinctively curl around the lapels.

“No. Maybe.”

His presence fills the dark, enclosed space. The smell of Marcus pricks at your nose, his deodorant losing out to the exertions of a day of work and two hours of mansion-haunting. You fight the urge to inhale it. Your knees wobble, at risk of giving way.

Marcus takes your hand and guides it higher up his chest. “Me too,” he admits. “See?”

His heart thuds beneath your palm, beneath his ever-present layers of shirts and the firm pectoral beneath. It’s a comfort to find that it beats nearly as rapidly as yours- but not quite, the calm, confident bastard.

“Can’t see much of anything, actually…” It’s low-hanging fruit, but you manage a weak laugh.

Marcus snickers. “Fair enough.”

His breath hits your cheeks first, and then his nose bumps yours. You gasp quietly. It’s still too dark to see, but you can feel him- the shape of his body against yours, every nervous shuffle as he presses as close as he hasn’t dared in the weeks since you’ve met.

“What about now?” he murmurs.

“I think so,” you whisper.

Deep within the house, a door slams.

You both freeze. The tip of your nose digs into Marcus’s cheek; his mouth hovers against yours, your lips barely brushing in an agonizing almost-kiss. Your hands now clutch at each other, every muscle tense and listening.

A Few Weeks Earlier

“Someone else is here,” Marcus breathes.

---

“Detective, meet Agent Tim Rockford. He’s a federal investigative liaison who’s been assigned to assist us on this case.”

You blink. “A what?”

“Just think of me like FBI, but freelance,” the man- Agent Rockford- interjects smoothly. He extends a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you say slowly.

A freelance federal investigator? Like…a government-approved private eye? What is this, a noir film?

Surveying the grounds again, you snort to yourself. It might as well be. An utterly nonsensical mystery, set in an enormous mansion that could have easily been the setting of an Agatha Christie investigation? The spooky elegance of rundown old money infuses everything about the place, from the overgrown hedge garden to the mildewing paint of the building’s front turret.

Yeah, you’ve definitely seen a murder mystery setting like this before.

“Take Agent Rockford through the crime scene and get him up to speed. Report to my office before you go home, both of you. There’s been some developments we need to discuss.” Your captain strides back to her car, boots crunching on the gravel roundabout. The fountain in the center, filled with stagnant water, blocks your view of her driving off.

The agent in question is looking around curiously- or at least, you assume it’s curiosity. It’s hard to say for sure with his eyes semi-obscured by a pair of dark lenses. They’re set in a common, unremarkable frame, matching the unassuming aura exuded by his brown pinstripes and polite posture.

“Well, Agent Rockford, let me show you around.” Maybe his job title will make more sense as the day goes on.

“Please, just Tim is fine.”

The man uses his long legs to step neatly ahead and open the door for you. You give him a look, but his smile appears genuine, not condescending- as far as you can tell.

“Right. Well, as you can see, we’ve got gardens to either side of the driveway, which wrap all the way around the house. There’s a couple greenhouses, sheds, and several other entry points to the house, all with locks intact. I’ll take you through the gardens on the way out.”

Only after you finish speaking do you enter the house. “Thanks.”

Rockford pulls the door shut behind him without comment, but you’re sure you spot his mouth twitch.

The entry foyer is brightly lit by a vast chandelier twinkling high above. It illuminates the corniced ceilings, the grand central staircase with gracefully curving banisters, the shiny granite floors. It’s clear that effort was made to preserve this piece of the mansion’s grandeur, if little of the rest of it.

“Wow.” Rockford is openly gaping, neck craning to take in the view overhead and throughout the polished space.

It’s strangely endearing; you would have guessed from the gray flecks in his scruff that a man of Rockford’s experience would be hard to impress by now.

“Yeah. It’s a shame we’ve had to scuff this place up, but, you know. Crime scene.” You gesture wryly, apologetically to the dust tracks and footprints dirtying the marble floor.

“Is the whole house like this?” Rockford adjusts his sunglasses, still looking around. Why doesn’t he take them off?

“More like it used to be like this. The last generation or two of the family wasn’t big enough to need the whole house, so they closed off most of it. The rest is a few years away from caving in.”

Rockford nods. He’s looking closer at the details now- the painted portraits and original wood finishings, the evidence tags in the room beyond- and you can see his professional mind beginning to turn.

He turns to you expectantly. “Lead the way, Boss.”

Whatever you thought a ‘federal investigative liaison’ might be, it wasn’t Rockford- Tim, as he kept insisting. He was sharp without being obnoxious, respectful without being spineless, and, as you discovered, making your way back through the station, funny. As Tim pulls a face at your least favorite colleague’s diminishing figure, you think: maybe this case won’t be such a drag after all.

“Captain. You wanted to see us?”

“Yes, come in. Shut the door, please.”

Sitting at her desk, your captain shuffles aside the paperwork she’d been doing and unlocks a drawer to retrieve another file folder.

“Rockford. I trust my detective brought you up to speed?”

Tim nods, his face strangely grave. “Yes. I’d like to be honest with her, if you agree.”

“I think at least one other person should be aware. And she’s one of my best; you can trust her.”

Your captain’s praise doesn’t quite mollify your irritation at being talked about like you aren’t there. You’re opening your mouth to interject when she squares her shoulders to you.

“Detective. My apologies for the subterfuge. The agent here will be your partner and federal arm in this case- but Tim Rockford is not his real name.

“This is Agent Marcus Moreno, from a classified branch of the FBI which trains super-powered individuals in investigative capacities.”

You stare, dumbfounded.

“All that means in practice is that we’re detectives, just with super powers,” Tim- Agent Moreno- adds hastily. He awaits your reaction with a thin, anxious smile.

Your stunned gaze slides to him.

Oh. He’s removed his sunglasses.

Well, that’s…distracting, frankly. Clearly visible for the first time, his eyes are a lovely shade of brown, and round and shiny with sincerity- utterly incongruous with the rest of his ‘generic jaded detective’ look.

“It was my decision not to tell anyone at first. It’s safer that way- it’s hard to know who to trust with this information, being classified and all. But since we’ll be working together so closely, I think it’s better for us to be open with each other.”

Well, that changes things. Or does it? It’s not your first time working with the FBI, but it is your first time meeting an agent with superpowers. Like a freaking Heroic!

And you’ve seen the danger they face. Seen them targeted by all manner of enemies. You remember the shock and terror on their faces when one of their identities was publicly revealed- and the terrible, gaping hole left when that particular hero vanished afterward.

Maybe you can understand Moreno’s desire for discretion.

You stick your hand out to the anxious agent sitting beside you. “Nice to meet you, Agent Moreno.”

Thanks for reading! Find more on my Masterlist ❤

His relief is palpable. He accepts your handshake with a boyish smile. “Please, just Marcus is fine.”

#tim rockford x reader #marcus moreno x reader #tim rockford x you #marcus moreno x you #merge mansion #we can be heroes #wcbh fic #marcus moreno fic #tim rockford fic

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sarahshoots1st · 4 months

Text

RWBY Characters as Tarot Cards

Not an artist so I can't make these, but I've been stuck on the idea of RWBY characters as tarot cards for some time now and I wanted to share my opinions.

(Note: I am by no means an expert on tarot cards or the arcana in general, so my interpretations of their symbolism is based on whatever I was able to find on the internet. You are perfectly allowed to disagree with my conclusions.)

0. The Fool - Jaune

Jaune's arc starts with him being easily the least experienced member of the cast. He has placed great expectations upon himself to live up to the standard of his family line, but has none of the training or experience necessary to be a Huntsman. His bravery, while admirable, often prevents him from backing down in situations where he has no chance of success. He has all the trappings of a great hero-to-be, but he has a long way to go.

The Fool symbolizes naive innocence, a blank slate who will be shaped by the adventures to come. Over the course of the series, Jaune learns to readjust his definition of what it means to be a hero. It is not his optimism, but his expectations, that are ultimately tempered by the journey.

At the beginning of the series, Jaune's goals are wrapped up in traditional male power-fantasy - a conquering warrior who saves by killing, and wins the affection of the ladies by doing so. RWBY is a show that consistently and intentionally subverts gender-norms in media, and so it is no surprise that Jaune grows beyond those Fool-like expectations for himself. To paraphrase the opening monologue between Salem and Ozpin, victory will be found not in strength, but in the forgotten virtues of a more honest soul.

Though he grows into a competent fighter, Jaune does not fit the classical ideal of a front-line warrior. Instead, he fills more of a support role in his team, coordinating his allies' attacks and boosting their Semblances with his own. He is still a brave hero who tirelessly fights to protect the innocent. However, that process involves healing his allies and keeping civilians calm and out of harm's way just as much as it does slaughtering hordes of Grimm. In Volume 9, even that can be a stumbling block for him, as we see his inability to accept failure ultimately preventing the Paper Pleasers from growing into what they needed to become.

Our favorite Vomit Boy has grown a lot since the early days at Beacon. The awkward, clumsy boy we meet in episode 1 has quite the journey ahead of him, with many hardships to come. But the fires of tribulation will ultimately forge him into something stronger. Not the idealized knight in glittering armor he imagined himself to be, but a bruised and tattered warrior whose compassion and optimism can inspire others even in the darkest of times. I can think of no other character who better fits the diamond-in-the-rough, naive-optimist archetype that The Fool represents.

For the card art, I think we would see V1-3 Juane, still on the Beacon Academy grounds, but looking out over the wider world as a whole. In the background, a semi-transparent image of his V9 incarnation could be present, symbolizing what he is growing into - an older, more mature version of himself, having achieved the hero status he so desperately craves, but also having been weighed down by the experiences it took to get there. Classically, The Fool is depicted with a dog nipping at his heels, so obviously we would get a Zwei cameo here.

(This came out much longer than I thought it would be, so I'll probably try to do these one at a time. If this gains interest, I'll add links as I go.)

#greenlight volume 10 #rwby #rwby analysis #rwby jaune #jaune arc

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moodymisty · 5 months

Note

“Honestly, I imagine that Traitor Primarch is Lorgar. But there's caveats I'll touch on when I get there”

I would like to add onto that and say that the biggest caveat to dating Lorgar is probably that you’ll be interacting with Kor Phaeron. You’ve written about that in some of your Lorgar fics, and I just know that despite Lorgar telling him to not talk about it (or especially, mention it around you) he would haaaaate the reader so much.

It’s almost like he’s linking up to a warp hivemind of every toxic mother/father-in-law that has ever existed. He can’t be mean to you directly, because Lorgar will find out. He can’t kill you, because Lorgar would definitely know that he did it. So he has to just sit there and watch as his son falls even deeper in love with someone who adores him and genuinely cares for him, while he’s left to sulk in the background (As he should).

Perhaps Lorgar decides to take you on a low-risk diplomatic mission of some kind. And perhaps he suggests that you should be present while he speaks to the leaders of that planet. He gives you the finest of clothing to wear, which turns out, matches his own! Except his is a bit more intricate, you surmise it’s because he’s got to be the center of attention. The cuffs of his sleeves are decorated with beadwork, golden bracelets and necklaces adorn his form, rolls of scripture hang off the side of his belt. But the thing you’re most entranced by is the beautiful veil he’s decided to wear, the fabric’s wonderful colour that’s complimented by the intricate embroidery woven into it, the embroidered script glittering in the light like stars in the night sky. You can’t parse out what it means though, so you conclude it must have some sort of religious significance.

You don’t know what it means. But you know who does? Phaeron. And he’s far more acquainted with Colchisian traditions than you are. So when his son not only arrives to a diplomatic mission with you in tow, but also wearing clothing with writing that very famously symbolises future engagement and marriage?! Ohhhh he’s beyond pissed. He’s going to have a long talk (shouting match) with Lorgar after this, wherein Lorgar will make the very solid argument that he is an adult and can choose to do whatever he wants with his life, even if that involves marrying someone that his father doesn’t approve of. (Kor Phaeron is now planning on wearing white to your wedding)

It may be a sci-fi romance to you. But to Kor Phaeron it’s a sci-fi tragedy. And to the astartes that bear witness to this situation it’s a comedy that’s been running for multiple seasons. “Hey everyone! Check out how grandpa punched a hole in the wall after being told that he can’t talk shit about our father’s spouse!”

Oh hey, you hit the button inside my mind that said LORGAR THOUGHTS DON'T TOUCH, so now I get to go apeshit.

Sorry in advance :3

Everything in this is GN!Reader apart from one use of the word 'temptress'

₊ ⊹٠ ࣪⭑⊹₊ ⋆₊ ⊹٠ ࣪⭑⊹₊ ⋆

I feel like given Kor Phaeron and how much he tried (and honestly succeeded) to mold Lorgar into the perfect vessel for his own ambitions, he would not take Lorgar having another voice in his ear sitting down.

At first he might 'entertain' the idea because he thinks that Lorgar will eventually grow bored and you'll get thrown to the wayside- that's he's just experimenting with the frivolity that is love and he'll get over it. But when he doesn't, when he listens to you more and more, perhaps he starts even venting to you, walking through what he needs to do next, and you're given the opportunity to plant seeds of doubt in his mind (you're just being nice and comforting him, but with Kor Phareon's mind being warped by his own delusions he cannot see something as simple as selflessness) he's not going to stand for that.

Kor Phaeron is one of those 'i will use my son as a puppet to be ruler', types as he instilled Lorgar with a god complex, but he also knows that there would be a massive riot from Colchis if he ever took over. So he rules from the background, and he won't let anyone, especially someone who's becoming the figurative apple of Lorgar's eye get in the way.

Meanwhile throughout all of Kor Phaeron's internal meltdowns and scheming, Lorgar is thriving. This guy is absolutely head of heels in love, and can't spend more than a waking moment apart from you. It's not fading either, as over time you rise higher and higher in rank, closer to Lorgar, and while you may not have any official place or title, people have begun uttering the word consort.

While he has been very vocal to anyone who can listen and the Astartes underneath him, any time he tries to instill doubts they largely don't stick. Whispers of Temptress spread largely from Kor Phaeron's most steadfast loyalists, but not enough to take a significant root that he can garden.

Throughout all of this as you've implied Kor Phaeron will not shut up about this, and will constantly try to 'right' Lorgar. Get him to abandon these insane ideas. If he want's someone to just keep his bed warm then that's Lorgar's personal business, but things like marriage? The stunt he pulled on that planet? Bringing you to a diplomatic meeting, drowning you in gifts? He's going to pop a neural link during the screaming match that inevitably ensues.

But I think that most of the Word Bearers would be pretty on board with Lorgar's significant other. I think that they have faith in their sovereign picking someone who is 'worthy' of him. And it's been established that the Word Bearer Astartes interact with baseline humans a decent bit, so it's not as if they're one of the more pompous of the chapters. I mean they are, they're Astartes, but in comparison to other chapters.

So most ill will isn't necessarily coming from them. They're pleasant to be around, and you enjoy them. They seem to feel the same, at least on a surface level. (So they'll for sure defend you or your name from grandpa Kor Phaeron's absolutely unhinged schemes)

There will definitely be some who are displeased however, particularly ones close to Kor Phaeron. So perhaps you should be careful.

-- Anyways, here's a drabble. No warnings apart from Kor Phaeron being a turbodouche. Apologies I only reread this once during a communications class.

₊ ⊹٠ ࣪⭑⊹₊ ⋆₊ ⊹٠ ࣪⭑⊹₊ ⋆

The entire Fidelitas Lex can feel it.

The tension.

Lorgar Aurelian is on the bridge watching Colchis come closer as they dock, and Kor Phaeron stands not far away. He watches as well, and both of them sport the same neutral expression that poorly veils their true emotions underneath.

They are both furious, overwhelmingly hot faced, but don't say a single word. To each other nor anyone around them. The air between them, that Primarch aura emanating unfettered rage barely held in check, has even the servitors swaying their paths to give them a good breadth of space.

Lorgar turns to leave, and return to the fortress he calls his home. Kor Phaeron follows behind roughly ten minutes later, the only noise he makes being the whirs of his armor and a sharp cough.

Lorgar arrives at his personal writing room first, looking out the window. He knows what's coming, he can hear the footsteps; The ones that sound different from the Astartes, about seven minutes after he arrived here. He had seven minutes of time alone.

The door opens, and closes with a sharp slam. Lorgar turns his head just enough to look over his shoulder at his pater, of whom is pursing his lips and trying to find the right words. He always chooses his words carefully, particularly when speaking to his surrogate son. His mercurial nature has never changed, and part of him wonders if it was instilled in him from his creation.

"You..."

He doesn't stammer, but stops to take a breath and keep his hands firmly to his sides instead of erupting into a fury of words and insults. As much as he might desire to.

I do not know where I could've gone wrong with you-" Lorgar can think of more than a few ways. Kor Phaeron raises his shoulders with a sharp intake of breath and continues.

"But that, stunt, was inane. You bring shame to the entire L-" Lorgar interrupts him and throws his hand as if trying to brush away his words.

"You do not dare tell me I bring shame to my own Legion. I have done nothing but what I thought was right."

Kor Phaeron sharply exhales through his nose. Even since Lorgar fell in love- at least he assumes that's what Lorgar thinks this is- he's been uncontrollable. Before he could offer his advice, his guidance to help him steer his legion, his Gospel, but now he acts as if he's just that lost young boy again.

"No; You did want you wanted. If you want to toy with mortals, very well. But do not embarrass us all."

He seems to be conveniently ignoring that your good will and pleasant attitude had been very helpful in speeding along a negotiation of planetary relinquishment that had previously been at risk of falling apart at the seams. Lorgar may have a bit of a silver tongue, but he is a Primarch, and when speaking to baseline humans, sometimes another is what's needed. Then again, he can't remember a time when his pater has ever said your name, so he supposes he can't be surprised.

He remembers how perfect you'd looked, dressed in the gifts he'd given you looking like a art piece given life. When you'd smiled at him, it was like you'd set his heart ablaze. He wishes to do nothing more than to show you off to anyone who lives.

He's already doing so, and if all goes to plan, you'll be with him on his next return to Terra. It will be your first time on the jewel of the galaxy, and he's nothing but eager to show you things that only he can. Not even Kor Phaeron will stop him from marrying you, if that is what he wishes to do.

Standing fully upright Lorgar stands up to his surrogate father, not intent on being trampled like a child.

"I will do what I want in this regard. This is something I will not take your advice in."

He leaves no room for argument, and Kor Phaeron knows that if he pushes it, he'll risk tearing some of the trust he's built up. If he lets it go, he can return with another strategy at another time.

Perhaps he can go about this some other way. He won't rule out removing you from the situation if Lorgar continues to insist on tailing you like a street dog.

Lorgar knows that his father isn't done with this either, but Kor Phaeron simply gathers himself and leaves the room, passing guards in his wake.

#The Lorgar Aurelian family drama plotline #Misty's book club #mywriting #lorgar x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader

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birgittesilverbae · 1 year

Note

hey em what happened to princess after mary was also gone and does the answer involve lilith

how did I know it was gonna be you who landed on this (probably mainly bc I've already yelled at casper abt it). it'll be touched on briefly in the epilogue, but yes, you're v right, it's always been about Lilith (smth smth Lilith being mentioned in concert with Princess in every appearance 😌)

In the wake of the Vatican, in the wake of Beatrice and Ava leaving, Lilith teleports. It's uncontrolled, haphazard, some force drawing her, hooking into the meat of her and pulling her through fire and brimstone to emerge, reeling, in Mary's living room.

She collapses on the couch, exhausted, too tall to stretch out on it but unable to bring herself to take the bed. One hand curled beneath her cheek, the other dangling off the edge of the couch cushion.

She's awoken in the middle of the night by a strange sensation, something prickly and rasping across her skin, and her claws unsheathe of their own accord before she fully reaches consciousness. When she's finally blinked the sleep from her eyes, she finds herself face to face with Princess, who's sprung back away from her, fur puffed up, back arched, tail on high alert.

Lilith stares at her for a long long moment, at this mirror of her hurt and anger and fear, and tries to get her racing heart to settle. Finally she exhales all in a huff, retracts her claws, hugs her arms tightly about herself and tries to fall back asleep.

Her eyes snap back open at the sound of movement, though, and the last thing she sees is princess's eyes glittering back at her in the dark from the top of the cat tree in the corner of the room.

At first it's all automatic, the pull in her chest, the hole torn through the fabric of space time, spitting Lilith out in Mary's living room. She dutifully refreshes Princess' automated food and water dispensers, unhappily deals with the litter box, and sits in a silent uneasy truce with Princess, the two who've been left behind.

The first time it's a conscious decision to return to Mary's apartment, to use it as her homebase, Lilith's been badly injured by a wraith-possessed group. Well, it would have been a bad injury, had she not been who she is. Instead, the wounds seal up, scale over. But she's left sitting in her own blood-damp clothes realising that if she had died there'd be no one to look after Princess.

She teleports into the bathroom this time, feels faintly proud of herself for the improvement in precision she's worked so hard to train into herself that lands her directly in the tub. Shucks off her gear, washes the filth off her skin, raids Mary's closet for sweats. A burst of energy has her tackling the fridge, clearing out the moldering remnants of Mary's last meals. Has her cracking open a can of wet food and plating it beside Princess' usual bowl.

It wanes quickly though, the energy sapped from her limbs as she slumps on the couch and realises, distantly, that she may not have gotten the Halo, but she's still assuming some aspects of Shannon's life in her absence.

She pulls the hood of her sweater up over her head and curls up on her side on the couch. A moment later, there's pressure on the cushion beside her, and she opens her eyes to find Princess settling inside the curve of the lonely parenthesis of her body.

#ask #kchzndrvh #fic: tmtl #warrior nun #sister lilith #myfic #mywn

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inevitablysomber-dark · 1 year

Text

Shackled (Chapter 11)

Dark! Rafe Cameron x Pogue! Reader

Warning: There are some intense, dubiously consenting and nonconsensual sexual themes in this series, MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. MINORS DNI.

Summary: You hate Outer Banks with a passion and are working hard to get out despite all the obstacles in your way. Rafe himself eventually becomes one of those obstacles after a night of low impulse control. Will you be able to overcome him or with you have no choice but to submit.

Slow Burn

Series Masterlist

It’s been a few months since your little heart-to-heart with Rafe, and although you can’t say he’s done a complete 180, some changes were definitely made.

He decided to get more involved with Cameron Development, occasionally running off somewhere to help Ward with what you assumed was supposed to be business.

Ward started him off with administrative duties, and Rafe was initially insulted. Still, you had to remind him that everyone has to start somewhere, and with his track record, it made sense that Ward would give him something light.

As time moved on, Rafe moved fast. However, you didn’t realize just how intelligent and meticulous he was. Rafe wasn’t stupid, he just made bad decisions.

Ward never gave up on Rafe because he knew and understood his son's true potential. Rafe, however, shared with you that he had no intention of staying with Cameron development, it was always more of Sarah’s thing.

No, Rafe wanted his own business, which he created and developed.

In the meantime, it was nice to earn his own income, and you found that he spent a lot of that income taking you out on dates and buying you lovely things, which made you nervous.

It felt like you needed to remind him of the true nature of your relationship. He would state his awareness, but it didn’t stop him from getting upset whenever it was mentioned.

He got irate when you tried to give him back the gifts. One gift that really set him off was a silver necklace with an ‘R’ charm hanging from it. Going on a 15-minute rant about how you were probably sleeping with other people before eventually stating that it was only temporary and that you could give it back once your relationship ended. So you took it if only to appease him.

Outside of his little outbursts and rants, everything was going great. You were almost happy in Outerbanks, you still planned to leave, but you realized you weren’t as tired of life as you were before, And a big part of that had to do with Rafe.

Maybe that's why you felt so comfortable telling him about the secret stash under your bed or about your connection with Kelly, the sex worker turned banker. You hadn’t told him about your weekend work at Misty’s Lounge or the late nights selling drugs to college kids, but you were seriously considering it.

Until he fucked it all up.

***

Like any other Friday morning, Rafe dropped you off at the ferry, and you noticed his behavior was a tad strange that morning. Still, you didn’t think it had anything to do with you. When you got to the mainland, you took to your stops as usual, first the bank to meet with Kelly, who let you know that you’d reach your goal in no time.

Then you went shopping for a bit, it was odd though because you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You decided not to get anything and headed straight to Misty’s Lounge. Spending the next few hours on your phone before getting ready to work.

Unfortunately, when your set was on, you realized exactly why the day felt off. Rafe sat smack dab in the middle of the patrons watching the stage. You did your best not to fumble and carried on with the show. Pretending like he was just another part of the sea of customers.

You didn’t know if he could recognize you with the wig and all the glitter, but your question was answered when you were called to a private room as soon as you were done with your set.

You reluctantly stepped in, your steps unsure.

“ Don’t get shy on me now. Close the door and show me what you got.” a smirk was plastered on his face, but the anger behind his eyes was evident. “So this was your infamous weekend job?” he asked. “Never would have guessed.”

“What are you doing here?” you ask, folding your arms over your middle.

He peeped at the movement and opted to walk toward you. You try not to back away, holding your ground as he approaches.

“ I should be asking you that.” he bends his body a bit to meet you eye to eye.

“It’s a job, Rafe,” you say.

“Right!” he quickly straightens his back “ A job where you get naked for other men despite having a boyfriend,”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you retort

He pulls his hands from his pockets and clenches them near your face before dragging out an index and poking your nose.

“But I am.” he takes a breath and walks away for a moment. “You think I spend all this time with you, buy all these things for you, and help you with your stupid fucking chores because we’re fuck buddies?”

“I was hoping,” you admitted “ You kept pushing, and I needed the help,” it was true when Rafe offered to help you, something in the back of your mind told you not to give in, but you were tired. It’s why you kept reminding him, but you should have known Rafe already had his own rules.

“You’re quitting,” he says

“What?”

“You’re quitting. Tonight. Grab your shit, and let's go home. No more Bunny Dee,” he grabs your hand, but you pull away.

“No.”

“Excuse me,”

“I said no, I'm staying here getting my cash, then I’m headed to my side gig. Not everyone can afford to quit their jobs, Rafe.”

“ I’ll take care of you,” he retakes your hand, this time holding on when you try to pull away.

“I don’t want that -you know what, this is over,” you pull away again and walk towards the door, leaving Rafe shocked in the middle of the room. This was the time to end this Rafe had crossed a line, and if you allowed him to get away with it, you don’t know how much farther he would take it.

Just as you open the door, he bristles behind you.

“If you walk out, you’ll regret it,” he says

You look back, “I don’t think I will,” slamming the door behind you knowing Sam was going to be pissed that you didn’t get any tips from the private room.

***

You were surprised that Rafe had left a hefty tip before leaving. Unfortunately, he was sorely mistaken if he thought that would make you forgive him.

You finished your work weekend, and when you were dropped off by the ferry Monday morning, Rafe was nowhere to be found. You were back to your old ways, tackling chores throughout the week so you didn't overwhelm yourself, taking public transport everywhere and trying to avoid passing out in public.

Weeks of doing this almost had you calling Rafe to apologize, but you had to stand your ground, besides you’d be leaving soon anyways, so it’s good that you and your boy toy went your separate ways.

Imagine your bewilderment when you spot Ward leaning against his vehicle as you struggle to carry a load of laundry up the road to your home.

“My Dad’s not home at the moment, but I’ll tell him you came by,” you put the laundry down on the porch and begin sifting through your bag for your keys.

“I’m not here for your father,” you pause and look back to give Ward a confused look.

“Then why are you here?” squinting your eyes in his direction.

"Listen, I'm sorry for everything that went down during dinner."

"That was months ago,"

"I know, but you must understand where I was coming from. I love my kids and want nothing but the best for them,"

"Well, you don't have to worry about Rafe and me anymore. We're over," damn, where were your keys.

"That's why I'm here,"

You finally find them, but as you try to pull them out, they fall to the ground. Before you can think to reach for them, Ward is already at your feet, picking them up.

"What do you want, Ward?"

"I didn't realize how much of a positive impact you really had on Rafe, and he's taking this breakup pretty hard," he holds on to the keys, " I think you should give him another chance. Whatever happened between you two couldn't have been that bad."

"It was a breach of trust. Can I have my keys back?" you held your hand out, waiting for them to be placed.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it,"

You kept quiet as you continued to hold your hand for your keys, you're not sure why he sent his father to do his bidding, but it was pathetic.

Ward nods and hands your keys, dropping them to the right before they reach your fingertips. This time making no move to pick them up.

"You know, I'm starting to realize that I don't need Charlie around as much. I was doing a few budget cuts and thought I could start with him."

You pick up your keys and shrug your shoulders. He didn't realize that you were at a point where you no longer needed your father. You'd be buying your plane ticket in about 2 weeks, and it was bye-bye Outerbanks, forever.

" Do what you need to do." you step in, pulling in your laundry bag.

#Dark!Rafe Cameron #Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader #Dark! Rafe Cameron x Pogue! Reader #Dark OBX #Pogue! Reader #Pogue Reader #dark fics #Rafe Cameron c Reader #Outer Banks #series #Shackled #Shackled Series #dub con #dubcon #dubious consent

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year

Text

Below the cut is an unedited and very rough excerpt from chapter one of yet another side project I'm currently working on. It is a Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader story where Reader can travel the multiverse and is being hunted because of that ability. It is tentatively titled Keep Coming Back to You. There's also a world of intelligent zombies Reader gets pulled into whenever she really panics which she calls Nightmare 1. In the story, she starts out meeting college Matt and Foggy but because of her ability and her need to hide, she obviously disappears often. So she eventually meets a slightly older Matt (season 1?) as time passes. And this story will be an angsty slowburn after some initial romance (all thanks to you Elektra).

This is a very, very rough concept I'm still working on which will also probably involve Doctor Strange at some point. And I'm going to say it's 18+ for some smut (because we all know I write smut) and violence/gore (I mean...there's zombies). Just curious who is even interested before I invest too much time in this one.

Anyway, below the cut is a raw snippet from the middle of chapter one!

_________

"You can't hide forever, girl," they called out again.

You tried to ignore them, your eyes searching for the thread that you had always felt a slight draw towards, though lately it was getting harder and harder to find through the multitudes of universes. Home–that thread meant Home to you. Or at least lately it had become something like Home. You figured you’d jump there and then quickly find somewhere else to jump to lose them for good for a while.

"The others couldn't hide from me either," they told you, their voice closer.

Their words caused you to pause, momentarily distracted as the threads glittered before you, varying shades of colors and lights softly reflecting along your jeans.

"You’re not the only one, Serena," they continued, smug satisfaction in their tone. "And I know that's not your real name, girl."

Your head snapped to your left. They were standing at the bottom of the playset’s slide now, staring right at you through the dark with a menacing smile. The teeth of the young man they were currently possessing flashed at you like a warning. A terrified shiver ran down your spine at the sight.

"I always get them eventually," they called up to you. "Just like I'll get you."

Ice cold fear shot its way through your veins. Before you could control it, something was tugging sharply at your body. That horrifyingly familiar feel of cold hands gripping your shoulders and yanking you forcefully backwards hit you hard.

And then you were falling.

Your stomach felt like it was flying up into your throat, your organs shifting and squeezing unpleasantly inside of you as you were pulled–the second worst possible thing that could have happened to you in that moment.

Just as fast as it had started the sensation stopped. You landed hard on your knees along cracked pavement, wincing in pain at the rough drop. Your hands instinctively flew forward, scratching roughly along the broken cement as you tried to steady yourself on all fours. Panting hard, you looked up and surveyed your surroundings while hoping against all hope you weren’t where you thought you were. But your heart fell to the demolished road beside you the moment you took in the sight of the plant life overtaking the decrepit houses around you. Eyes closing, you tried to fight back the sting of tears.

Not here again.

A fresh wave of panic rolled through you as you quickly and quietly rose to your feet. It had been awhile since you’d been to this world, but you remembered exactly what you needed to do. You needed to be silent. You needed to remain calm. And you needed to get the fuck out of here as fast as you possibly could. Before one of those things found you. You just needed a second to catch your breath and scan your surroundings to make sure you were safe and alone. Then you would find a safe universe and jump again.

That's it, you told yourself. Just calm down. I'll get out of here, I always do. Just need to stay calm.

You tried to take a steady breath, keeping your eyes open while you scanned the area around you. Carefully you expelled the breath as gently as you could, your eyes taking in the sight of the apocalyptic neighborhood. There was a gaping hole in the roof of the house just in front of you, the front door entirely missing. Both houses beside it had broken windows and ivy snaking its way up the front of them. The exterior paint had long since faded and the mailboxes out front were rusted and tipped to the side. But at least you didn't see any movement. As you observed your surroundings, you kept an ear out and listened to every single noise around you. For now, the soft whistle of wind through the copse of trees nearby was thankfully all you could hear. Everything else was quiet.

Good. Silence was good here. Silence met one of those things weren't about to jump out and try to savagely rip you to shreds and eat you like you were their last meal.

Or infect you.

Fuck, I hate this place.

Cautiously you made your way through the tall grass as it brushed against your jeans, the soft swish of it hitting your ears. The overcast light from the sun sneaking through the cloud cover overhead was a sharp contrast to the dark night you'd just been running through moments ago.

Traveling through worlds was incredibly strange. It could be broad daylight in one place, but then you could jump and end up somewhere where it was pitch black seconds later. Same with the weather–it could be springtime somewhere, with birds chirping and flowers blooming, and then another moment you were landing in three feet of freezing cold snow in a pair of shorts.

Your concept of time was entirely fucked at this point.

Moving on the front of your feet, you tried to make as little sound as possible as you walked. It was difficult to catch your breath, trying in vain to keep your labored breathing steady and quiet after that chase you’d barely escaped. You just wanted to get your back against something solid and search the threads for a universe that felt safe to jump to. That was your focus right now.

You moved slowly, careful to be as soundless as you could and grimacing at the stains of old blood you saw splattered along the panels of the house as you walked. You crept your way gradually around to the side of the house, glad that it was windowless. Very carefully you turned, stepping backwards until your back hit the wall. At least nothing could sneak up behind you while you worked now.

With a sharp exhale through your nose you tried to focus on the space before you yet again. Gradually the threads of multiple universes appeared, shimmering in the overcast light of the day. This time there was a rush of blues and purples that came forward. You squinted, reaching two fingers tentatively out and trying to get a feel for a few threads of light.

Maybe you needed to find somewhere new. Somewhere that they wouldn't easily think to find you. But you hated finding new worlds. You never knew what you would be walking into every time you jumped. Though usually if you trusted your instincts you would end up in a world similar to your Home. Right now that's what you needed to find.

A noise came from not too far away, cutting through the silence. You froze instantly at the sound, your fingers holding onto a thread as your eyes darted to the side. And then the jarring, guttural, screeching noise that plagued your nightmares rang out through the trees nearby. The hair along your arms instantly rose, a prickling feeling growing at the base of your skull.

Your jaw clenched, your heart rate rising again. Time was up. You needed to get out of here now. You didn't need to encounter one of those again. You had nothing to fight it with and you sure as shit wouldn't manage to outrun it.

As the terrifying, rasping growl cut through the air around you yet again, you knew exactly what that sound meant from the time you’d spent here before. It was searching, probably having caught onto the fresh scent of the blood on your scraped hands. But before you could pull the thread of light between your fingers and jump, it disappeared. All of the colorful lights before you suddenly vanished.

"Shit," you whispered.

That loud, rasping roar reverberated through the air again and shot another spike of fear and adrenaline through you.

It had gotten closer.

As you turned, trying to remain calm, you prepared to hide in the house behind you. But that’s when you heard it. Something like a high-pitched shriek in response. There was a second one. And they were communicating with each other. You knew what that sound meant.

They knew something was here.

#excerpt #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock series

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