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italianhomosexuality · 1 month

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you don't have to know what to say or what to think on ao3

The first time it happens, it's an honest mistake.

(The times after that are also honest mistakes, but Nico feels like he should've known better.)

He's been working really, really hard to learn American Sign Language. After his three days in the infirmary, after working night after night, talking to Mr. D, struggling to learn how to open up to other people and how to finally be a 15-year-old teenager who tries his best to not let his lifelong trauma get to him too much, Nico di Angelo had become close friends with one Will Solace.

He'd never thought he'd be able to have a friendship with someone like Will. Someone who didn't take shit from anyone—he made sure to make that clear—, but was doting and cared for everyone else, sometimes a little too much. Someone who was as bright as the sun itself, who could light stars in the sky just by smiling, who could coax Nico's fears out of him and make him feel equal, not judged.

Someone who Nico could see himself loving.

Okay, and, woah, that might be a little too far, but was he wrong? He was finally allowing himself to feel hope after The Incident (mental trademark), letting himself have friends and a crush that didn't feel like ripping his insides apart and stir-frying them for dinner. So what if Nico's eyes lingered a little too long on the way Will's hair glowed against the infirmary's emergency lights?

(“Nico, when the siren rings and lights up, you stop everything and you go help!”, Kayla had yelled at him the first time it happened. He only felt death in the air after Will finally started running after the patient.

It was that bad.)

Who could blame him, then, for wanting to learn the language the boy he liked felt more comfortable with? Will had assured him that he did just fine with English, that his Cabin Nine hearing aids worked more than perfectly, but Nico had seen the way he got excited whenever he got to sign with someone. There were a few Deaf demigods around camp and Will knew every single one of them. Sometimes, he would sign while speaking, and it made Nico's Italian self happy because hand gestures! Then it made Nico's gay self happy because Will's hands, oh my gods, and then Nico wanted to learn how to make Will's face light up like that.

So, he learned. He got familiar with the computer in the Big House, watching YouTube videos on the matter, practicing in the mirror, going up to other campers who were signers and fighting social anxiety like his life depended on it. He had nailed most stuff by week three. The power of hyperfixations.

He did it all hiding from Will, of course. It was meant to be a surprise. He would walk up to Will, sign something, and Will would be like, “Nico, I didn't know you signed!”, so Nico would reply, “I learned just for you!”, and they'd hold hands and kiss and skip into the sunset.

A guy can dream, right?

“Hey, Nico!” Will yells out from the infirmary steps. “I'm done with my shift. Wasn't expectin' to see you here.”

Gods, his accent is so cute.

“I just thought I'd stop by, see how you were doing,” says Nico, preparing himself mentally for what comes next. “I have a surprise for you, actually.”

“Oh, you do?” Will gives his side-tooth smile, the one he does when he's excited for something he doesn't want to show excitement over.

Nico takes a deep breath.

“Food-you-want?” He signs, slowly but surely. “Me-hungry.”

Will blinks.

“Do that again.”

A warm feeling bubbles up in Nico's chest. Embarrassment, adoration, nervousness, teenage crush? He doesn't really know. He only knows that Will's cheeks look flushed and his voice is barely above a whisper, a tone Nico doesn't get to hear often, so of course he signs his sentence again. He'd do anything Will asks for.

“Do the last sign again.”

“Hum,” Nico starts, feeling a little off. He signs it again, anyway, placing his hand shaped like a C in front of his torso, following a line from the center of his collarbones down to the middle of his chest, then vice-versa. “It means 'hungry'... Right?”

Will takes a deep breath, face redder than Nico's ever seen.

“It means 'hungry' when you do the movement once,” he explains, carefully, doing the sign. The same handshape and movement Nico did, but just once, from the collarbone to the middle of his chest. “When you do the movement twice… It means something else.”

“What does it mean?”

They stare at each other. Nico's eyes are wide. Will's eyes are so blue. Nico would pay more attention to the blue if he weren't so preoccupied with—

“It means 'horny'. You signed, I'm horny.”

—With running away.

☀️🤟🏻⭐️

The second time it happens, Nico is still embarrassed by the first one.

Maybe it had been his fault to not pay a lot of attention when the online video he was watching went over the five parameters of ASL. But it wasn't entirely his fault the two signs were so similar, right? Will assured him afterwards—after he found Nico and after a few awkward laughs—that it was a very, very common mistake. The signs were really similar, after all. Nothing wrong with admitting that.

Still, Nico couldn't help but feel his face heat up every time he remembered that day. He'd told his crush he was horny. Unwillingly, sure, but it was sort of true! Nico was still accepting what being horny meant, but he knew that, even in the mildest sense of the word, he was horny for Will. Embarrassing, but honest.

So now, they were hanging out in the Hades' cabin, just the two of us and a bunch of DVDs they'd stolen from the Apollo cabin and Chiron's stash in the Big House. A mix of old rom-coms, sci-fi, noir, and historical dramas, limitless options, but they still argued over what to watch.

Nico suggested, finally, Back to the Future. Will adjourned his case.

As Will walks back from the DVD player, having put the disk in there, Nico takes a deep breath.

“You-eat-want-what?” he signs, going over each sign in his head like a mantra. He does not need a repeat of last time. Then, he raises his eyebrows, signing, “Pizza?”

Will goes as red as a tomato in the face.

“N-No, I'm good,” Will stutters, fanning himself like Hazel does when she's shocked. “Not hungry.”

“You just came back from a 12-hour shift,” Nico deadpans.

“Let's just watch the movie.”

So Nico is taken back to nights at the Lotus Hotel, when they would have movie nights and play Back to the Future in a loop. Marty McFly might have been his first boy crush. Briefly, he imagined Will in a costume like that for Halloween. But, for now, they're doing just fine, thighs close enough to touch, Will's hand nearly making its way to Nico's scalp for some good head scratches, and life is good.

Sooner than Nico would've liked, it's curfew time. The DeLorean is long gone, and Will is rising up to his feet, stretching, his shirt riding up, and Nico sees the sliver of skin, with a little of hair on his navel, and, oh, gods, he shouldn't be seeing this, but Will is really handsome, and—

“Walk me out?” he says, sweet as ever, and Nico can't say no.

“I had a good time,” says Nico, leaning on the door panel. The moonlight makes Will's hearing aids glimmer.

“Me too,” Will replies, smiling. “The infirmary today was as excitin' as a mashed-potato san'which, good Lord.”

His accent got thicker the more tired he got, just like Nico's.

“Good-night,” Nico signs. “Sleep-good, you.”

Will's eyes linger on Nico's hands, then on his face. His expression is unreadable. It seems… fond? Happy? Nico doesn't know. He just knows he wants that big smile.

“By the way, Nico,” Will starts, voice a little serious, “this is how you sign 'pizza'.”

He goes through the motions. It's just fingerspelling, Nico notices. P-i-z-z-a.

Nico furrows his brows. “What did I sign?”

“You signed…” Will takes a deep breath. “You asked me if I wanted to eat, uh, the… The female genitalia.”

Nico slams the door so hard he doesn't know how Will keeps all of his teeth and nose intact.

☀️🤟🏻⭐️

The third time it happens, Nico is just plain tired.

He had been on a week-long trip for his father, working on some old business in Louisiana, fighting the occasional monster that came his way and shadow-traveling out of danger—no longer to an inch of his life because he didn't want to make Will worry about him. His clothes are a mess, his hair is greasy, there's soil built up under his fingernails, he hasn't had an actual meal in days, and he's exhausted to say the least.

After showering, eating, and bed-rotting any leftover worries away, he sleeps for fifteen hours straight. He wakes up still exhausted, though a little less, so he walks up to the infirmary since he has nothing better to do. Might as well get a check-up while he's there.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he says to the head of blond hair when he sees it.

“Good afternoon, di Angelo,” Will replies, looking ready to tackle any challenge, bloody or non-human, that comes his way in his combination of scrubs, cargo shorts, and Jesus sandals. “You look like you're near 'bout past goin'.”

Nico doesn't know what he's saying, but shrugs anyway. “I'm tired.” Then, he signs, “Me-tired. Coffee, me-need.”

Will smirks.

“All you had to do was ask, Death Boy,” he replies, amused, and Nico lights up.

“You have coffee?” He doesn't know why Will looks so smug about coffee, in a way he's never looked before, but he lets himself be led to the infirmary kitchen, watches Will drape over the Nespresso machine, churning out a nice cup of pure, slightly-processed espresso.

The smell is enough to make Nico's eyes open a little more.

“Also,” Will says, putting his doughnut down by the table, still smirking for reasons unknown, “the sign for 'coffee' goes like this.”

He demonstrates. Nico barely follows, focused on taking a sip from his coffee.

“You signed, I need to make-out. You've gotta pay more attention, di Angelo, or— oh, my gods, Nico, breathe! You're gonna burn your throat! Nico!”

☀️🤟🏻⭐️

Nico is tired of failing.

It's not like he's failed-failed. Will has been more than helpful, willing to show him the ropes and correct his signs, and they've actually spent more time with the other Deaf campers, practicing and practicing. Nico is still fighting the flush that decorates his cheeks whenever he signs with someone else, but he's getting there. Anything for that megawatt Will Solace smile.

So, on the Fourth of July, as they're watching the fireworks, Will takes his hearing aids off, saying the noise makes it hurt. Nico gets a little antsy, but shakes it off, and would rather focus on the way the red, white, and blue from the sky makes Will's freckles change colors, too.

And he looks so good tonight. He ditched his usual medic attire for something still Will, a white tank top, denim shorts, an American flag bandana to keep his curls out of his eyes and flip-flops. Nico dressed similarly, but in a black t-shirt and black shorts, black socks and black sneakers. No bandana; only Will can pull it off.

The tank-top is low cut enough that Nico can see his tattoo peeking out. Gods, he's so beautiful, he thinks to himself, lost in thought he almost misses the way Will is waving his hand in front of Nico's face.

“Hi,” Will signs. “Here, fun.”

Nico nods.

“Confess-me,” Will signs. It's a closed fist by his sternum, opening outwards, like he's pulling something out of his chest. Nico translates it to, I need to tell you something, then nods again. Will takes a deep breath. “Me-like-you. Me-like-like-you.”

Nico's breath is stolen. He doesn't know where it went. He doesn't know what's going on. Off in the distance, someone whoops loudly and a group of campers cheer, but he can only focus on the opaque thump of the fireworks and his own heartbeat increasing pace against his chest. Will is staring at him, blue eyes like the sky, like the bandana, like the prettiest gemstone one could conjure.

“Sign-you-learn. Why? Me. Special-you. Me-like-you, why? You.” When he points at Nico, the final 'you', he does a flourish, like he's honoring Nico. You learned sign for me. You're special. I like you because you're you.

Nico feels words bubbling up in his throat, but doesn't let himself say anything. Instead, he moves his hands like he's practiced so many times in front of the mirror before.

“Me-like-you. Long-how? Long. Favorite-person, you-mine. Date-you, I want.”

I've liked you for a long time. You're my favorite person. I'd like to date you.

With that, he finally gets a megawatt Will Solace smile.

#pjo #pjo fanfic #pjo hoo toa #solangelo #solangelo fic #solangelo fanfiction #gianna writes #will solace #nico di angelo #will solace x nico di angelo #deaf will solace #3+1 things #solangelo fluff #wahhhhhhh #unbeta'd

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karmaisntab · 9 months

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SO WHAT WILL WE DO WHEN-

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiled forlornly at the demon. “The only reason I accepted the Archangel position in the first place was because you would be able to come with me.”

Crowley’s heart stopped. “But I didn’t want that. To come with you. To Heaven.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted away from Crowley’s. “Well, yes, and I-I should have thought of that.” And in a quieter voice, “The Metatron made me think otherwise. And by the time I wanted out- well, he mentioned the Second Coming, and it was then I knew that there *was* no out.”

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. “Oh, Angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale chuckled, “well, I don’t suppose that we could be friends again. If you would be okay with that.”

He seemed both reluctant and hopeful at the same time.

“I don’t think I can do that.” Crowley grunted. “Be friends with you again.”

And before Aziraphale’s dawning horror led him to do something drastic, he quickly continued-

“Not without you doing the apology dance.”

Aziraphale looked relieved. “I do believe that can be arranged.”

He adjusted his waistcoat, before going-

“You were right, you were right,

I was wrong, you were right.” And when he bowed, Crowley felt like he had done the world a favour.

Or a damnation, considering he was a demon.

He pretended to consider something, before saying, “Alright.”

Aziraphale hesitated, before- “But I-I was wondering, if, well, if you’d be alright with…” At this, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “…it, then can we be… more than friends?”

Shock made him freeze for a split second.

Then they were kissing.

It was unlike the last time- Aziraphale was the one who initiated, Crowley was the one not responding- from shock, and when he realised this, he started to kiss back immediately- his Angel had a fistful of his shirt, and Crowley didn’t know where to put his hands.

They eventually settled on his back.

When they parted, Crowley immediately took his glasses off.

Aziraphale smiled at him. His breath got caught in his throat.

Crowley tilted his head forward a bit, hesitantly kissed Aziraphale- it was shy, and only went on for a few seconds- and stopped soon after to take a step back and run his hand through his hair.

“I forgive you.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was the sweetest, most tooth-rotting thing that Crowley had ever laid his eyes upon.

Perhaps they would be able to get through this.

Ao3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens spoilers #go2 #go2 spoilers #good omens season 2 #good omens season 2 spoilers #good omens fix it #aziraphale good omens #crowley good omens #aziraphale x crowley #unbeta'd #unedited

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melikochan · 1 year

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#4 with aloy and beta?

"I don't understand why I need to do this, Aloy," Beta complained. She was hot, and sweaty, and, and dirty, and this was just... not her idea of fun.

Aloy looked at her with that critical—even judgmental—gaze, and explained again, slowly, "because we live in a dangerous world. If you can't fight, we need to find other ways for you to defend yourself."

Beta clutched her spear closer, heavy in her arms with the weight of solid wood and the override mounted to the shaft, torn from the carcass of a FAS-ACA3 Scarab—sorry—Corrupter. Beta had watched Aloy scavenge and attach the part with expert efficiency, then copy over all of her overrides. They had walked for an hour after, and Beta could feel a blister forming on the ball of her foot. All just to find this herd of Chargers they now crouched behind, obscured by what Beta thought was some rather sparse shrubbery.

"I still don't see why this is necessary," Beta wheedled, but Aloy gave no quarter.

"You need to be able to override machines, Beta, either to fight for you or help you run."

"I'd prefer just to stay out of danger, back at the Base..."

Aloy shook her head. "We need to be prepared. Anything could go wrong."

"That's reassuring..."

"Just override the Charger, Beta. Please?"

Beta scoffed, turning to the herd. A quick scan of her Focus helped her identify and tag each machine, so she could keep track of where each machine was at all times. Didn't want to end up with a bad surprise. She scanned the surrounding area as well, just in case, but the only other activity her Focus picked up was a fox scurrying about in the distance, and a bird awkwardly waddling over a boulder. Beta crept forward a step.

“I’ll stay right here, okay?” Aloy whispered, and Beta shot back a tight nod over her shoulder.

Deep breath. She could do this.

The closest Charger had its head down in the grass, converting the organic matter into Blaze. An important job, much more useful for the terraforming system than the so called "hunter-killers" HEPHAESTUS deployed to...discourage tampering. At least she would just be overriding the machine, not killing it.

Beta was within feet of the machine when suddenly, it raised its head, as if sensing her presence. She froze, adrenaline coursing through her veins and making her limbs tingle. Of course Aloy had shown her some basic spear moves, just in case, but she'd never had to test those skills. She was almost about to turn tail and flee when the Charger shook its head, then ducked back down to the grass.

Beta could have collapsed, she was so relieved.

"Now's your chance," Aloy hissed behind her.

Steeling herself, Beta crept forward. Overriding seemed simple enough—the Corrupter's override module would kick in on impact and take care of the process for her—but suddenly the idea of jabbing the Charger with a long piece of wood seemed...ill-advised.

But she couldn't back down, not with Aloy behind her. She had to prove to her sister that she was capable. She squared her shoulders, adjusted her staff so it felt less awkward in her hands, and stuck the module end into the hind-quarters of the machine.

The override took over as blue light pulsed across the Charger, primitive nanotechnology in the machine becoming slaved to her personal Focus network. Glowing tendrils spread across the machine like mycelium.

Beta contained her whoop of enthusiasm, not wanting to alert the other machines, but her blood surged with excitement. So caught up in the thrill of the moment, she almost fell over in surprise when Aloy silently appeared next to her, then crept forward to override her own mount.

Aloy quietly led both of their Chargers out of the herd, Beta trailing behind, nervous about alerting the others. Once they were safely hidden, her sister helped her awkwardly up onto the mount, Beta struggling to pull herself up and over.

"Race you back to the Base?" Aloy joked, mounting her Charger with effortless ease.

Beta scowled. "You just want to see me land in the dirt, don't you?"

Aloy smirked. "Maybe you'll learn to hang on tighter."

With a huff, Beta stuck out her tongue, and then kicked her mount forward into a run, nearly charging into Aloy. Her sister yelped in surprise and raced after her, laughter echoing as they galloped back towards home.

#thank you!!#unbeta'd #sobeck sisters #horizon forbidden west #hfw #prompts

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estellaluna · 3 months

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when words fail, music speaks

Gwynriel college au

Warnings: None just pure fluff

Summary: Gwyn asks Azriel for a big favor.

words: 1.7k

"A hundred bucks. Take it or leave it."

Azriel smirked as he shook his head, making Gwyn roll her eyes in frustration. It has been 45 minutes since Gwyn started persuading Azriel to sing with her at an open mic event at the cafe near their campus on Saturday.

“Gwyn, love, look. If you’re going to have me sing in front of many people, probably even in front of some people we might know from campus. I might need a lot more than a hundred bucks,” Azriel said, propping his chin on his hand as he looked directly at Gwyn’s teal eyes.

“Fine! Name your price,” she replied.

Azriel stared a little bit longer, a few seconds to minutes until he finally opened his mouth again.

“I’ll think about it,” he said with a low chuckle, earning him a frustrated groan from Gwyn and a loud come oooon. He just smiled before turning his attention back to his computer.

Azriel and Gwyn have been friends since freshman year in college. They used to be only acquaintances from high school but when Cassian and Nesta started dating in their first year in college, the two became closer and soon became best friends. Gwyneth Berdara’s name is sort of a big deal around the university. She’s always known for her looks and her angelic voice. She is always viewed as the sweet girl, which is true most of the time, but not entirely from Azriel’s point of view.

Being friends with Gwyn made Azriel learn a lot about Gwyn’s personality. First, she is unbelievably competitive in any way. She also talks a lot about her favorite bands, her favorite books, her secrets, and hobbies that people are not aware of. She is really supportive of her friends. She sleep-talks quite often—Azriel has an album in his phone full of videos of her sleep-talking. All of these little things Azriel knew about Gwyn made him a little proud in some way.

“But are you really going to do it?” Gwyn asked once again, her head popping up beside his laptop screen.

“Yes, Gwyn.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Don’t let me down,” she said.

“I won’t let you down. You know I’m always true to my words,” he replied, looking at her. There is a huge smile etched on her face as he utters his words. He loves that smile—probably more than anyone else.

“You’re the best. I love you. See you later!” she said before leaving the study room they were in. He was left dumbfounded inside the study room recalling what she just said. Saying I love you to each other was normal to them, except recently when Azriel found himself yearning for her and her I love yous.

~~~

It was Saturday, and just like what Gwyn and Azriel talked about, they met inside the cafe for the open mic event. There were quite a lot of people, some were familiar faces, some were probably just there for the coffee, and some were probably there just to watch. The staff of the coffeehouse were preparing the little podium with two microphones and two guitars.

“I already signed up our names,” Gwyn said.

“You good?” Azriel asked as he pulled her cold hands towards him. Gwyn nodded.

Last night, they decided to change the songs they were going to perform. They both decided to sing the song Gwyn made not long ago. It was a silly song about friends falling in love with each other.

“You remember the chords?” Gwyn asked.

“G, D/F, E minor 7, C add 9.”

“Let’s do this?”

“Let’s fucking do this,” Azriel answered and Gwyn smiled.

They both made their way up to the little podium with neon lights all over. There was a sign behind the podium that said open mic night. Some of the people, mostly students from the campus recognized Azriel, and some were shocked that he was at an open mic event. He was also quite popular because of his friends. Although he was infamous for being cold and his unwelcoming aura. Unlike his other friends, Rhys and Cassian, Azriel is the only one who has a sort of unpleasant reputation.

“Hello everyone!” Gwyn said with her usual bubbly tone that earned her some greetings from the people as well. Azriel passed her the other guitar and placed the capo on the 3rd fret.

“My name is Gwyn…” Gwyn said, looking at Azriel beside her.

“And I am Azriel, her best friend.” The crowd cheered, some were whistling.

“Uhm…I actually just dragged him here tonight to sing the song I wrote recently,” Gwyn said with a chuckle.

“What’s the title of your song?” someone from the crowd asked.

“It’s called I don’t want to fall in love unless it’s you. It’s a song about…” Gwyn took a deep breath as if preparing herself to say something she had been meaning to say for a long time. “It’s about a girl confessing her love for someone special to her,” she added.

The crowd cheered once again. She heard someone ask if the song was about him but she just smiled and started strumming. She closed her eyes and the memories from the time she was writing the lyrics burst into her. She pictured the beautiful face of the man sitting beside her right now, playing the guitar.

Truth is, she asked him to come with her tonight to formally let him know what she has felt for him for quite some time now. She tried to tell him, but words always intimidated her, and she realized that the only way she could say her feelings out loud was through music. She imagined the time they became friends, the times he comforted her every time she got upset with academics or things about her life, the times he stayed up late to study for her exams, their shenanigans, the many times she told him I love you, hoping he would get the deeper meaning of it.

Her heart beat a little bit louder as they approached the bridge of the song. There is quite a long guitar solo at the bridge of the song, and she thought it was the perfect time for her to tell him, and everyone in the coffeehouse tonight, to say what she wanted to say.

“I hope everybody’s enjoying the song right now. Before I end this song, I just want to tell you something very important.” She switched her gaze to Azriel who was now very much confused but he continued to strum the guitar. She flashed him a smile before taking a breath in.

“Do you know a quote that goes, ‘When words fail, music speaks?’ To the person who asked earlier if this song is about this beautiful man beside me right now, my answer is yes. I am the type of person who always falters with her words, and music is my escape.”

Gwyn kept her attention to the crowd. “So, Azriel I know you are looking at me right now like I am the biggest idiot for confessing this way, but bear with me a moment until I finish this song…” she said and continued strumming and singing her heart out.

There was a pause after she finished the song then it was the people in the coffeehouse cheering and urging Azriel to say something. She looked at him, her face almost red, her heart racing unusually fast, her hands shaking as she put down the guitar.

Please say something, she prayed.

Azriel cleared his throat. “The reason why I agreed to this is because she bribed me with her ‘name your price’ tactic. But because I always liked teasing her, I told her that I’d think about it.”

He shifted his eye to her. “I guess I’m ready to tell you my price,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Gwyneth Berdara, go on a date with me. And what I mean by that is not only one date. Not two, not three. Go on a date with me until we’re both sick of it. Are you down?”

The crowd grew louder. “Fuck yeah! My lovesick brother finally had his balls!” Cassian, who suddenly appeared from the crowd shouted. Gwyn laughed and covered her face.

Azriel gently removed her hands from her face and whispered something. “Please say something, Gwyn.”

Gwyn just nodded, unable to formulate her words. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him as tight as possible, not wanting to let him go anytime soon, but they were still on the podium. She felt him kiss the top of her head like he always does but this time it felt different. It felt better.

~~~

After their performance, they both decided to get out of the coffeehouse to stroll around the college town. Azriel couldn’t keep his hands off her which she didn’t protest to. Gwyn likes his touches. His fingers intertwined with his fingers as they stopped below a sidewalk lamp.

“You said earlier something like until we are sick of it,” Gwyn said looking up to meet Azriel’s gaze.

“Hmm?” he murmured, tucking some strands of Gwyn’s hair behind her ear.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get sick of going out with you.”

“So do I, Gwyn,” Azriel said, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose.

His other hand went to hold her nape. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely a whisper.

She only nodded before he planted his lips onto hers. It was quick and soft. Her heart began palpitating. He never fails to make her heart burst into happiness and she loved every bit of it. His hand went up to her nape only to capture her lips again, this time deeper and with much more fervor.

Gwyn pulled away, giving Azriel a smile.

“You’re a great kisser, Azriel. I wonder how many girls you kissed to be that good.”

“Are you kidding me? Are you really curious about that now?”

“Gotta thank them because damn I get to kiss all of that every time? For me alone?” she laughed.

Azriel chuckled. “Sure you do. All of this is yours alone, love,” he said gesturing his body from head to toe.

Gwyn laughed again before diving in for another kiss.

#gwynriel #gwyn berdara #gwyn x azriel #azriel #gwynriel headcanon #pro gwynriel #gwynriel au #unbeta'd

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theangrykimchi · 3 months

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For the Thorki kiss number 33 please 🙏

I had such a hard time deciding which premise I wanted for this kiss it was insane lol I hope you will like some canon-adjacent thoughts 🥰

✵✵✵

“-the righteousness surging! Hey, do you want to have a rousing discussion about truth? Honor? Patriotism? God bless Amer–hmpf!”

Loki lets the Captain’s Glamour drop as he gets knocked back against a pillar, Thor's massive hand pressing against his mouth to shut him up. He thrashes a little at the sudden manhandling but it's mostly for show. Loki knows this. Thor also knows this, because as soon as Loki grabs his hand Thor retracts it.

“What?” snarls Loki, more irritated by the fact Thor gave up so easily than being handled in that way by him.

Thor takes away his hand resting on the side of Loki’s neck and along with it his warmth, and steps back, silent and somber like a stone statue. He isn't even looking at him and that stokes the fires of Loki's ire. He keeps quiet, though, when he notices the guards passing by them some feet down the hall, subconsciously moving closer to Thor. The last thing he'd want right now would be to be thrown back in his cell before getting to have some fun, so he waits until the guards have vanished down another corridor, before he speaks.

“You could at least furnish me with a weapon. My daggers–something.”

Thor finally looks at him, scowling—Loki doesn't care, elation fluttering in his gut—and pulls something metallic from inside his drab cape.

“At last,” Loki smiles widely, offering his hands for the weapon to be placed inside them, “a little common sens-...”

A pair of seidr-dampening handcuffs locks around his wrists and it's Loki's turn to scowl now, raising his hands between them, glaring at Thor.

“I thought you liked tricks.” Thor chuckles and is about to walk away when, in a motion quick as lightning, Loki throws his arms above and over his brother's head and pulls him close by the neck, bringing their mouths together in a forceful kiss that doesn't last more than a few seconds. Thor’s hand slaps against his lean chest in reflex, pushing him back against the wall again, growling. “Loki–”

“I do like tricks. Especially ones played at your expense.” Loki purrs and locks his hands firmly behind Thor's neck, tangling his fingers in long, blond strands of hair. Thor doesn't come easier when Loki pulls him close this time but their lips come together in another kiss that doesn't last longer than the last. The third, though, this one does last longer and the flutter in Loki's belly turns into a blizzard as Thor loses himself into the silky side, the familiar taste for a few moments more.

When he speaks, his voice has lowered, got raspier, sending sparks down Loki's spine to his toes for hearing it like that again after all this time, filled with want. “There's no time for your games, brother.”

A long leg wraps around Thor's hip, keeping him firmly pressed against Loki, their manhoods rubbing together through layers of clothing.

“This is where you are mistaken, dear Thor, there's always time for a little fun to be had.”

Those massive hands finally return to Loki's body, one pressing bruises above his hipbone and the other cradling his neck. So fiercely. So tenderly.

“This doesn't change anything, I'm still angry at you,” Thor whispers before Loki seals their mouths together in a biting, unforgiving kiss that leaves them seeking more and more when it's over.

They don't pull apart until a commotion from down the hall compels them to do so, Loki already thinking of how he's going to tease his brother into ravishing his mouth again at the first possible moment when a hard slap makes his head turn. With his lips still tingling and bruised from their kisses, it takes every little ounce of self-control in him not to start laughing at Thor's new amore’s face.

✵✵✵

#thorki #thunderfrost #thor/loki #my stuff #writing #tdw thorki #tdw scene rewrite #unbeta'd #kiss prompts #ficlets #my fic #will post on ao3 at some point #kimchi.writes #loveisakiss

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yunxi-11085 · 11 months

Text

"Maybe being a cat isn't so bad!"

˚ · . pairs ¡ platonic(?) dan heng & gn! reader, platonic march x gn! reader, platonic himeko x gn! reader, platonic welt yang x gn! reader

˚ · . sypnosis ¡ “you were talking to dan heng about the next trailblazing mission after exploring Jarilo-VI when you feel something building up in your chest.

oh yeah you forgot to tell them that something sprayed in your face when you were ravaging through some boxes in your time of exploring Jarilo-VI alone

you turn into a cat and chaos ensues.

maybe your relationship with the members of the astral express grows stronger too.

TDLR; maybe platonic, you turn into a cat because of your weird antics and you get smothered by the astral express."

₊˚ପ⊹ tw ¡¿ : (none) just fluff, no use of y/n or (name)

·˚ ༘ tags //

@ send me an ask if you want to be tagged in my stories!!

you were talking to dan heng about the next trailblazing mission after exploring Jarilo-VI when you feel something building up in your chest.

oh yeah you forgot to tell them that something sprayed in your face when you were ravaging through some boxes in your time of exploring Jarilo-VI alone.

“huh?”

poof!

you plop down onto the couch with a thump, thankfully the couch wasn’t hard but still kind of painful to fall on.

owww

“meowwww”

you stare confused at the sound that came out of your throat, and you look down at your new furry body. what?

you raise your ha— paw and stare dumbfounded.

"you....?"

dan heng looked at you, looked at his hands, and looked back at you. you try to scratch your way into the couch out of embarrassment

“lets… tell the others about this.. we might have to go to herta for a health check-up.”

you freeze because knowing herta, she would treat you as if you are some experiment when she sees you. you wail and jump around trying to let dan heng know you dont want to.

he sighs and opens the door, you rush out and see a familiar pink haired figure and you jump in her arms despite knowing she was probably eating.

“woah! what is the super adorable cat doing here?” march exclaims, her voice going super high and cute. she squealed when you rub your head in her arms.

“oh my, it seems it came running from the archives, dan heng.” himeko chuckled, placing the coffee cup on the table and looking at you- or the cat you in a loving way. seems she secretly adores cats too

“yeah… um” dan heng opened his mouth and closed it a few times before you heard a sound coming from the door of the cabin.

welt walked out of cabin room, and his eyes immediately went straight to you. you think something in him snapped when he gripped a— towel tightly? now where did he get that from

he stiffly walked towards you and march, you were scared at first because it seemed like he’s gonna give you an earful before… he squealed. yes. squealed.

he knelt down and wanted to touch you so bad his hands were shaking in excitement, you leapt out of march’s arms and he caught you. he rubbed at your ears and you leaned into the touch. his eyes were glowing literally behind his glasses.

i didnt know welt yang was such a sucker for animals too!

“ahem, uh i think that the cat is…” dan heng spoke, arms crossed. “you..” all eyes were on you now..

“whaa??” march was surprised, she poked you a few times and you pushed your paw out at her. “i dont believe it dan heng! how can someone turn into a cat?”

“it appears to some type of fumes i think, i’ve done some research on it before.” dan heng replied.

“we may have to reach out to herta for some answers then.” himeko said, you hid yourself in welt’s arms at the thought of going through weird tests. “its fine, you can do it! we can give you treats when you are finished” welt exclaimed, patting you when he noticed your discomfort.

so you sadly get carried into the master control room.

though thankfully they didn’t tell you a lie because you were given a ton of sweets.

“so herta said its probably the fumes you inhaled while you were rummaging through those shady boxes. the fumes are nontoxic but can give adverse reactions to the body. you are lucky you didnt inhale too much or you might’ve turned into a rat she said.” dan heng looked at you while reading aloud the medical record.

you avoided his gaze and chewed on your tuna. he was giving you this eye that you didnt bother deciphering.

with a sigh he continued “she said the effects will wear off within 24 hours of inhaling this fume, so if my calculations are correct. you still have 21 hours left.”

“so we have 21 hours of play time with cat you!” march was excited, she even got those.. cat clothes? but you didnt mind it if you get to have treats and belly rubs.

oh you really love belly rubs

you are now in the parlor car with weird but comfortable cat clothes on, while march was taking an insane amount of pictures of you. you swear she probably needs to switch out her sd card every week because she always fills it up.

himeko chuckled and said “march, make sure you send those pictures in our group chat. we have to frame this”

you groan and lay flat down on the couch, when you notice someone handing you a treat. you stare up and you see dan heng. wasn’t dan heng just angry at me?

you still eat it out of his hands though.

you didnt know but march already pulled out her second camera and took hundreds of pictures of your interaction with dan heng.

sigh….

in the next few hours, you played around with a few cat toys. you didnt know how or why but the cat instincts just moved.. now your fighting to get what— a feather…?

its okay, your cute though.

as night approaches, you yawn and fall asleep in someone’s arms. you feel yourself being pushed into a very fluffy bed and you snuggle closer.

the next day, you wake up sandwiched between march and dan heng. with himeko and welt chuckling. oh with their phones out to take pictures of this cute sight.

you didnt mind it though, you liked it.

end note ¡ take this unbeta read work. i really wanted to make mr. yang a huge sucker for small critters and cats so here it is! i wrote a lot more for this fic instead of my other one oops..

i hate how i write for AO3 first because now i have a ton of codes to delete ;; also tumblr mobile isnt working right now somehow???

crossposted on AO3 ¡ here

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sauron-kraut · 3 months

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Summary: Mairon binds the Witch-King of Angmar to him with the little aid of a song.

I wrote this little thing to honor @lvsifer 's wonderful fic Night Moth, which gives me life.

This can be read as an accompanying piece.

A conversation with my dear @cilil about the power of Ainurin magic through song inspired what I did with this drabble. 🖤

I hope you all appreciate that I wrote this at the office and that I'm posting it from my work computer lol.

Candles flicker and make the walls dance. Sat on the floor they face each other, the Maia holds the witch’s hands in his. The king looks calm. He is twisting one of Mairon’s rings.

Sing for me, the king had demanded. Share your chants with me. And Mairon does. He sings in an old tongue the Witch-King does not know, a song of shaping ore and shaping hearts and taking root.

He sings of forging, tempting, lust and lies. Of breaking and remaking things.

The Witch-King flinches, as if struck.

What will it do?

Mairon smiles.

You will know soon.

#drabble #mairon #sauron #tolkien #witch king of angmar #mairon x witch king of angmar #the silmarillion #silmarillion #tolkien fanfiction #silmarillion fanfiction #silm fanfic #my writing #m writes #unbeta'd

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scifrey · 1 year

Text

Cling Fast: Prologue

Read below, or read the updated/edited version over on AO3.

by Loysark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse)

Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)

Unfinished

PG-13 (for now)

Unbeta'd

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he's not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series "Elizabethan Manor," they're overjoyed to find a professor of domestic history who, according to their meticulous research, is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they're filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Episode 6.

Author's Note: I don't know what I'm doing. New to this fandom, new to this ship, and this is the first fanfic I've written in over a year. I am just coming back from a creative burnout so bad that I ended up leaving my literary agent. I haven't written anything that isn't loosely connected drabbles in literally years. So, I don't know what's going to happen with this fic. It may get written, it may fizzle. I have the idea plotted out, but I'm trying to approach it cautiously, with my eyes averted, in case it spooks and bolts.

That's why I'm posting this here instead of AO3, I guess. I want to see if it's something that resonates with people, and me, before I commit to posting it there.

"One hundred years, then?" Hob's Stranger asks, hours later, when Hob's talked himself hoarse and his business partner is flipping chairs onto tables to mop. Hob's marking has been jammed unceremoniously into his briefcase and completely forgotten, and there are three empty pint glasses at his elbow. The wine glass in front of his Stranger is still full.

"2089 or 2122?" Hob asks, through disappointment like broken glass on his tongue. Hob's stomach sinks when his Stranger rises from his chair.

Hob's Stranger seems to mull this over. "'89," he says at length. "I believe it is customary for friends to meet more frequently than a century."

"Then why wait even that long?" Hob asks, both startled and completely unsurprised with how desperate he sounds. "Or is that some sort of… of supernatural law? That the terms of our bargain have to be adhered to and we can't… I don't know," he confesses helplessly. "Renegotiate?"

Helpless.

Yes, that's how he feels.

Helpless and desperate for his Stranger to stay, to not abandon him again, to not leave Hob wondering if he may miss another meeting on a whim. If his Stranger was getting tired of playing with his little mortal toy and Hob would be left to eternity with no friend, no through-line, no continuity, no foundation—

Unavoidably detained, what does that even mean? Hob thinks viciously, brain spinning in circles between despair and hurt, elation and greed. Is it an excuse? Did he even want to—

His Stranger frowns, a fearsome, dark expression that Hob's never seen on the man's face before. Hob flinches when his Stranger makes an abrupt flicking motion at Hob's shoulders, as if shooing off a housefly. All at once Hob's breathing eases, the panic and surging loneliness retreating.

"What?" Hob asks weakly, when he realizes that… that somehow that single gesture from his Stranger has banished decades worth of crushing loneliness and anxiety. Hob had grown so used to bearing the ever-grinding worry that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be without it.

"A waking nightmare," his Stranger says. "And a bold one, too, to cling to you so persistently in the face of its king's displeasure."

King.

Well.

Hob had always figured that his Stranger had to be some sort of nobility. It was in the way he dressed at the peak of fashion each century, the softness of his skin and hands, the cleanliness of his hair, the way he spoke and held himself as if he'd never been denied anything his entire life. And the giant ruby of course, which, Hob had noticed a few hours ago, was nowhere to be seen this time around.

But a King.

"My friend," Hob whispers, mindful of the staff closing the New Inn around them. He swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. "Forgive my boldness, but… what are you? Who are you?"

"It… it is not important," his Stranger hedges, hesitating for the first time since Hob's known him.

That's unusual.

That's a crack Hob can get his fingers into.

"It is, though," Hob says, rising to his own feet. He dares to reach out, to pinch the fabric of his Stranger's coat cuff between his fingers in an old-fashioned, petitioning plea. The way you would kiss a queen's hem, or a king's ring, Hob pinches the cuff and hopes his Stranger understands. "It is to me. You are important to me."

"Hob," his Stranger says, but it's not a rebuke or a dismissal. It sounds awed, and humbled. Mercury shimmers along his bottom lashes, mouth pulled tight, a display of emotion that Hob never thought to garner from his Stranger, and not one he's sure he knows how to read, just yet.

What has him so upset?

"When you didn't come, I waited," Hob whispers, daring to press closer, so the words are little more than a puff of air between them. "I waited hours. Days. I returned every day for weeks. Where were you?"

"Rest assured, I did not want to miss our appointment."

"Then why?" The Stranger hesitates again. "Please. Please, if you're really my friend, please don't…" Hob trails off, not sure what he's really trying to say here. Don't shut me out. Don't treat me like a servant who only needs to do as he's told. Don't run away from me all the time. "Please don't go without telling me how to reach you, at least. I couldn't bare it if you…"

Without his meaning it, Hob's grip on his Stranger's cuff slips, and his fingers brush the cool, smooth back of his Stranger's hand. The Stranger hisses as if he's been burned.

"Sorry, sorry," Hob says, jerking his hand away. "I'm—"

"That is the first kind touch I've had in…" his Stranger's eyes drop to where their hands meet. Slowly, he reaches out with one shaking finger to stroke it along Hob's knuckles.

Understanding and rage flash through Hob like a lightning strike. The little hints that his Stranger probably hadn't realized he was even dropping come together, all at once, into a horrible picture.

You can be hurt. Or captured.

Hob seizes his Stranger's hand in his own, enraged further when his Stranger gasps, cheeks flushing pink and lips parting in a soft 'oh' that might have sounded lewd if it wasn't so obviously overwhelmed.

"Who did this to you?" Hob growls, low and dangerous. "Where are they now? I'm going to kill them for—"

The Stranger jerks his head up so fast that one of the quicksilver tears shakes free and rolls down his gaunt cheek.

"Hob," his Stranger chokes, and Hob is sure he would have said more, maybe even leaned closer, except that Dennis at the bar shouts:

"Fuck's sake, Gadlen. Take your booty call upstairs. I wanna close!"

"Sorry!" Hob calls back, leaning to the side and modulating his volume so he doesn't shout in his Stranger's ear. "Sorry Dennis, right. We're going."

Hob tugs on his Stranger's hand, and is absurdly grateful when the man allows himself to be led toward the back of the bar. Hob snags his briefcase from the banquette as they pass, and heads straight for the door marked "Staff Only." He punches in the keycode and within a few quick moments, he's gently pulling his stranger over the threshold and into his flat.

"You live above the pub?" his Stranger asks, looking around with curiosity as Hob toes off his shoes and drops his briefcase by the door. The Stranger has neither released his hand, nor wiped the moisture from his own face. When Hob looks down to see if his Stranger has taken his boots off, Hob is startled to be met with a pair of bare, moon-pale and delicately arched bare feet.

Okay.

Well.

Hob knew he wasn't human.

Apparently that includes vanishing clothing at will. Which probably means making it, too. Which definitely explains why his Stranger has always been in the pits of fashion.

Absolutely 100% not a Vampire, Hob adds to his mental List Of Things I Know About The Stranger. It's a very short list.

"Live above it, own it, built it," Hob says, pulling his Stranger gently into the living room and toward the sofa. "When I heard they were going to tear down the White Horse, I did some financial juggling, dug up a few treasure caches, and bought it. The building, the land… I mean, really, the whole area. I own most of this side of the river, all the green bits at least. I couldn't stand the thought of losing all the parks and the trees and… I wanted to save the White Horse itself, but the… well, the restoration is tricky. Time-consuming and costly. Cheaper to knock it down and start over but…" he shrugs as he encourages his Stranger to sit. "I'm not into bulldozing the past because it's cost efficient. Is it okay if I let go of your hand?"

His Stranger looks down at their entwined fingers and blinks as if he hadn't realized he was still holding onto Hob. "My apologies," he says softly, and lets go.

"Don't apologize," Hob says, even as he retrieves his arm. Touch starved, his brain screams, adding it to the list of sins that his Stranger's… captors must have perpetrated. "I'm making tea. Do you drink tea?"

"I could… I could drink tea, yes," his Stranger ventures, as if he's unsure if he actually can.

"I'll be right back."

You can still be hurt. Or captured, his Stranger in his memory says again, and Hob waits until he's turned away and headed to the kitchen before he lets his face transform into a scowl.

Behind him on the sofa, the real-life Stranger makes a wounded little noise, as if he'd heard the memory.

As he fills and sets the kettle to boil, Hob tries to dissipate the frisson of tenseness hanging between them with nonsense.

"The National Trust is both amazing and a huge pain in my arse," he laughs, but it sounds strained even to him. "It's half the reason I'm a history professor now. I wanted to preserve the White Horse right, you know? I spent so much time in historical architecture lectures, buried up to my eyebrows in library books and research grants and… well, when it came time to establish this identity I thought, why not? Fudged up an undergrad degree in Medieval History, breezed into University of York for a Masters and spent it focussing on the lives of the common folk, you know, hearth and home kind of archeology. Wattle-and-daub construction, wooden nails and cooking fires, sellswords and home remedies, the beautiful mundanity of the everyday. And now here I am. Professor Bob Gadlen, with a PhD in my own bloody life."

The kettle whistles and Hob leaps to pull it off the hob when his Stranger flinches at the sound.

I'm going to stab them through the earhole, Hob snarls to himself. When he tells me who they are, I'm going to—

"Justice has already been delivered, Hob Gadling," his Stranger says softly, as Hob pours the water into a teapot. There's not a lot of modern conveniences that Hob eschews—humanity invented new and exciting things all the time for a reason, and that reason is usually that it's better—but he has never managed to get on board with tea bags. Looseleaf all the way. "And revenge has been, as they say, dished out."

Hob sets up a tray with two mugs, some biscuits, and the teapot under its hand-knitted cozy from the 50s. He's done this so often over the last few hundred years that muscle memory takes over, even as his brain stutters to a fizzy halt as he registers what his Stranger has said.

And what it means.

"Oh," Hob says, setting down the tea tray on his coffee table. He drops into his armchair beside the sofa with a thud. "Uh. Can you... Can you read my mind?"

"Only your daydreams," his Stranger confesses. "And only those on the surface of your thoughts. You dream of doing violence to people who, I assure you, are already dead."

"My daydreams. And my waking nightmares," Hob echoes, feeling like his brain is slogging through molasses. There's a… there's a confession in there, somewhere. A truth that his Stranger is trusting him with, if he could only work it out.

And then he remembers, suddenly, what he had been daydreaming about in 1789 when he'd caught sight of his Stranger's extremely shapely calves in his silk hose, and Dear Lord above. Hob has a sudden and humiliating urge to be swallowed up by the ground. A glance at his Stranger makes it very clear, by the smug little microexpression around his eyes, that his Stranger also remembers Hob's fantasies from that particular evening.

Hell.

"You're a King," Hob says slowly, pouring out a measure of tea for each of them to hide his blush.

"Yes."

Hob dollops milk into his own, and invites his Stranger to doctor his own to his liking with the sugar and milk he'd left on the tray. His Stranger only holds the mug between elegant pale hands, and simply inhales the steam instead.

"A King of… Dreams and Nightmares?" Hob ventures.

"Yes," his Stranger says.

"So you're a, a what… a god?" Hob asks, feeling both giddy and foolish to be saying it out loud. But then, he's been alive for six hundred and seventy-two years. That's a long time. He knows for certain that while his Stranger is not the Devil by his own admission, there are more things that walk the earth than are dreamt of in anyone's philosophies.

Hob scowls at himself for letting Shaxbeard's drivel cross his mind, and hides his pout in his mug.

"No," his Stranger says slowly. "And yes." He pauses.

Hob leans back, and lets his Stranger work through what he's trying to say. His Stranger sips his tea and seems to find it lacking, because he pauses to dump four cubes of sugar into it.

Sweet tooth, Hob files away, right under the entry on the list that says God.

"I am a being beyond gods," his Stranger goes on once he's tasted his tea again and found it satisfactory. "I am older. I am more powerful. I am… simply more. I have existed since the moment the first sentient being closed its eyes and sought its rest, and I will continue to exist until the final one slips away to the Sunless Lands in its sleep. And yet, the version of myself that you see before you was once worshiped as a god."

"That explains a lot," Hob says, redirecting the buzzing adrenaline from his lingering, now futile rage into sarcasm.

The Stranger blinks again, as if unused to being teased. Being a… whatever he is, he probably is.

"Endless," his Stranger corrects. "I am Dream of the Endless. I am…" he gestures in an elegant arc with his free hand. "Limitless. Everywhere. Unchanging and ever present. I am every Dream of every creature, across all of space and time. I am both master of all dreams, and I am the dreams themselves."

"Bit like a TARDIS," Hob says, trying to wrap his head around what his Stranger, Dream of the Endless, is saying.

Dream blinks, head tilting like a corvid, a far-away look in his pale eyes as if he's shuffling through a mental rolodex. His lips curl up into, what is for him, a very wide, expressive grin when he seems to hit on the right entry. His face brightens with mirth.

"Yes, Hob Gadling. I am indeed bigger on the inside."

Hob laughs, if maybe only to contain the slow creep of existential horror. He has some sort of cosmic entity sitting on his squashed, unhygienic sofa that he hasn't cleaned properly since the day he moved in thirty years ago. Yeah. Hob's totally fine.

What's the bigger leap of understanding, anyway? Illiterate peasant sellsword in 1389 to university professor who taught the last two years through Zoom in 2022, or normal boring human with a bit of an Immortality thing to God's teeth there is a celestial creature in my apartment, and he is my friend.

"But that is the… the whole of me," Dream goes on, seemingly amused by Hob's quiet panic. "And the facet that sits before you, this particular anthropomorphic personification, is the one born of a worship and naming on this world, several eras ago."

"Oookaaay…" Hob says slowly, not entirely sure what Dream is getting at.

"Humans create gods," Dream says, filching a biscuit and crunching on it delicately. "Not the other way around."

Even spilling crumbs across his black teeshirt like stardust looks deliberate and elegant when he does it. Hob shoves down a new daydream, as far as it will go. If Dream catches it, he doesn't let on.

"Didn't God create mankind and all the world in seven days, though?" Hob asks, dragging his treacherous brain back on topic.

"In one story," Dream allows. "And in others, Zeus sculpted humanity from clay, and sundered the pieces to create soulmates. In yet another, Skywoman fell through a hole she dug through the world, and landed upon the back of a turtle. There are as many origin stories as there are gods, and there are as many gods as there are humans to imagine them. This—" Deam gestures to himself, and only then seems to see the crumbs on his shirt. He whisks them away with a flick of his wrist. "This embodiment was thought into being by what you would call the Bronze age cultures of the Mediterranean. To them, I was the God of Sleep. I have other names, but the most appropriate and widely remembered in this day and age is Morpheus."

"Morpheus," replies flatly.

"Yes," the creature on the sofa says, preening. "I desire that you call me that, Hob Gadling."

"Not Dream of the Endless?"

"Dream of the Endless is… Dream belongs to all sentient beings, of all kinds, on every planet and plane of existence. That creature has as many names, and faces, and physical embodiments as there are species to sleep. But here, the man who sits before you, whose form and face you know—"

Thank god he said 'know' and not 'desire', Hob thinks frantically.

"--this is Morpheus."

"The God of Sleep," Hob repeats, because is bears repeating.

"And you built me a temple."

"I… what?" Morpheus flicks a look around the room. "The New Inn? No, I built it for you so you could find me." Hob clocks what he just said. Then he thinks about the libations, the singing on karaoke night, the offerings and toasts, the way everyone totters away to pass out after last call. "Fuck me, I built the god of sleep a temple."

"If that unsettles you, you may alternately call me The Prince of Stories. The Shaper of Forms. The King of Nightmares. The Sandman. The—"

"Okay, okay!" Hob laughs. "I ask for one name and I get a hundred. Careful what you wish for, eh?" Hob scratches his fingers through his stubble and heaves a sigh as Morpheus helps himself to another biscuit, munching peevishly. "So if I'm understanding this right, Dream is… is like a diamond. And Morpheus is just one facet. And there are hundreds of facets of you."

"Millions of millions," Morpheus agrees.

"And it's Morpheus I have my agreement with? And my… friendship?"

"Yes, Hob Gadling," Morpheus says fondly. "Though I can assure you that the whole of all I am considers you a friend, not just this facet."

Something in his posture that changes then, something that relaxes a little. Relief, that's what it is. Did he think Hob would be scared of him?

Overwhelmed, maybe. Confused, a little. Intrigued, definitely. Attracted to? Hob's mind shies away from that one. But scared? Never. Except for when he was worried he may have condemned his soul to Hell, Hob has never been frightened of Morpheus. And even that fear was of purgatory itself, not of the man-shaped thing that may end up dragging him there.

"Then it's Morpheus I'd like to… see more of," Hob decides on, tripping over confessing something maybe a little bit too intense for just now, and sidestepping it as politically as possible. "More than once a century. If that's okay."

"Why?"

Hob blanches. "Are you not allowed to? Or… or do you not want to?" Hob asks, wondering if he's completely misunderstood the point of Morpheus' confession.

"I did not say I was opposed to it," Morpheus says gently. "I simply wonder why my company is that which you would… choose."

Hob wonders, in turn, who it was that made Morpheus feel like his company was a burden, as he clearly thinks it is. He carefully does not daydream of doing them any violence. He wants to, though.

"Listen, I…" Hob says, and stops to lick his lips, wet his throat with tea, and choose his words carefully. "Before I explain, I want to make it clear that I don't regret, or rue, or am bitter about this… this gift you've given me."

"My sister gave you," Morpheus corrects him gently.

"Sister?" Hob asks, derailed. "It wasn't you who… made me like this?"

"You and I have but an agreement to meet every hundred years. No more, no less," Morpheus explains. "My sister is the one who granted your request to never die, and traded a boon with our father to ensure you that you and I could keep our appointments."

"Uh. And who is this sister of yours I need to thank, then?" Hob asks.

"The woman who accompanied me at the White Horse that first night, do you recall her?" Hob nods. "She is Death."

"Death," Hob warbles, heart kicking in his chest. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Makes sense. Death. I called her stupid to her face."

"She thought it charming."

"Fuck. And… your father?"

"Time."

"Time," Hob squeaks. The mug in his hand trembles and Hob sets it down before he sloshes on himself.

Morpheus frowns. "My sister did not think that the terms of the agreement between you and I would be fair if you continued to age, but did not die."

"No, no, makes sense," Hob says, heaving in a breath and trying not to freak out at the idea that Death and Time know who he is, and granted him his greatest wish simply because he was a loudmouth braggart in the right pub, on the right night.

"But you were speaking of the terms of our friendship," Morpheus prompts him.

It's a kindness, and Morpheus must know it, to be distracted from the existential crisis that is creeping up on Hob. Maybe Morpheus can see the waking nightmare hovering behind him, who knows.

"Yes, as I was saying, I don't regret being, uh, like this," Hob starts again, pointing at his own heart. "But it gets… well, it's hard. Maybe you know what I mean, being you know, Endless. Maybe you don't notice the passage of time, or maybe mortal lives are so fleeting that you don't care—"

"I care. And I notice."

Hob swallows hard again, and plows on, because if he stops to unpack the utter misery with which Morpheus just said that, he thinks he's going to have to get up right now, race out into the early morning dawn, and dig up whoever did this to his friend and kill them all over again.

"Right. Okay. Yes, you care, so you understand that… you have to let go. Do you know what I mean? You have to walk away. You have to… let things, let people, slip through your fingers. It doesn't matter how tightly you hang on to someone or something, change is inevitable. Time… ah, your father… has its… his way with us all. Except me. And you."

Morpheus watches him carefully, intensely, and Hob can't read what that expression means, hasn't seen it before. But if it was on a human, he'd call it intense and focussed affection.

"And I love life. I love humanity. I love the weird shit we come up with, and the ways we change, and grow, and at the same time stay exactly the same. I love people. I love love. But it can be…" he spreads his arms wide, clutching at the empty air, wishing he was better at putting thoughts into poetry. Then maybe he could explain himself better to the Prince of Stories.

Oh, so that's why that bitchy little twink Shaxbeard—no, focus, Gadling. Not right now.

Morpheus smirks at Hob's line of thought, but otherwise doesn't interrupt.

"The point of what I'm saying is that…" Hob takes a deep breath and plunges in. "You're my anchor. And you pull me through the years, and I follow along the tow line and… no, no, that sounds like you're dragging me down." Hob scrubs a hand through his hair, the beer and the adrenaline and the late hour catching up with him. He feels giddy and tongue-tied and stupid. "Maybe, you're a kite, then? And our meetings is the string, and when it's wound around my wrist, when I know what direction my life is being pulled by you and the wind, then it… it's full. It's taught. It's exciting. But when that string was… was slack… when you didn't come, when I thought I'd driven you away, I… I couldn't… there was no direction, and there was no point, and I—" Hob laughs flatly, false. "I had to build myself a fan, I guess. An Inn to fill the sail of the kite, and just hope that my breeze would come back and—"

And he doesn't talk about the years in the middle. The years between when he bought the White Horse, and before he threw himself into his schooling. The years when the misery of being forced to shut down the one place he needed more than air and food and water, because it tied him to his Stranger, the years when the White Horse continued to deteriorate and there was nothing he could do, except maybe sleep until 2089 and hope. The years when he put anything and everything down his throat, into his veins, up his nose just so that he didn't have to feel it, the wretched passage of time, the despair, the isolation and loneliness, the—

Morpheus' hand on his knee brings Hob back to himself. He huffs and wipes the moisture away from the corner of his eyes.

"What I'm saying is… I lost who I am, without you," he says slowly, covering that moon-pale hand with his own sun-browned and sword-calloused one. "And I'm not saying that you have to spend time with me. But I thought I ruined everything. And learning that instead you were captured and suffering, and I had no way of knowing and no way of helping, that's just so much worse. I need you, Morpheus. And more than that, I like you. These last few decades were awful without you, and I… I don't want to force you to spend time with me to keep me sane, that's not what I'm saying. I don't want to drown you in order to keep my own head above water."

Mixing metaphors again, Gadling. Get to the point.

"I guess what I'm saying is that I want to spend time with you. More than once a century. I want to be your friend, and I want to know when you're hurt, or in trouble. I want to be there for you, the way that you're there for me. I want to be the solution to your loneliness, the kind that only people like you and me know. The people who go on, and on, and on, when everything around you is always changing or withering away. Because you are the solution to mine. You're…" Hob decides that six hundred and seventy-two is too old to speak in euphemisms. "You're all that I get to keep. So, please. Can I keep you?"

"I too find that I thrive when I am seen," Morpheus says, summing up Hob's rambling with eloquence and sincerity. "And I am more than satisfied with your explanation. I find that I… share your sentiments. So yes, I shall give you a way to contact me, and a way to know if I am in distress. And I will be happy to meet with you more often."

"Once a week too much?" Hob asks, sniffling with pent up emotion and swift relief. "God's bones, I sound like such a clingy bastard. I guess I am. I won't be ashamed of it."

"If that is the case, then I find I am one as well. Will every Tuesday evening be acceptable?"

Hob didn't teach Tuesday afternoons, but Morpheous probably already knew that. "More than."

"Excellent. It is done."

Hob huffs out a weak laugh, flopping back into his chair and feeling like he's just gone a hundred rounds with a heavyweight champ. Or sold his soul to Morpheus all over again. Morpheus releases his hand and pours them both more tea, though when Hob takes a drink, he finds it's become a sweet, cool wine, the kind he'd once had in Greece, centuries ago.

After they sip for a few moments, Hob screws up his courage, and asks, "And was it Morpheus who was… 'unavoidably detained'," Hob says, putting the finger-quotes around the phrase.

Morpheus goes silent for long enough that Hob worries again that he's offended his friend again.

"We don't have to talk about it," Hob assures him. He reaches out his hand for Morpheus, offering support and understanding, just as his friend had offered it to Hob. He is relieved and flattered when Morpheus takes it again, without a moment's doubt.

"I… do not think I could bring myself to speak of this again, if I were not to unburden myself now. You have confessed so much this evening, and I feel I must honor your truth with my own, no matter how… infuriatingly painful and humiliating the confession may be. I was, as you surmised, captured."

"How can someone capture a… a concept?" Hob asks softly. "A literal, actual force of nature?"

"How indeed," Morpheus says, rueful and bitter. "While most magic is insubstantial nonsense," Morpheus begins slowly. He lifts his free hand and spreads his fingers wide, and on his palm a whirlwind of golden sand swirls into the shape of a small glass cage, with a tiny, prone man trapped inside. Hob's heart clenches when he realizes what he's looking at. "There are some immutable laws of existence that can be harnessed and twisted to entrap even one such as I. But it was not Dream of the Endless that Rodrick Burgess sought to enslave, nor even Morpheus the God of Sleep, but Death her very self…"

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ask-the-clergy-bc · 7 months

Text

“It’s ok. Don’t cry, love.”

“I’m NOT fucking crying!”

Aether chuckled down at the fire ghoul wrapped around his waist. One of his large hands rested on the straight, ginger hair of the smaller ghouls head.

“It’s just goodbye from touring, not forever.”

Aether’s soothing voice almost sounded convincing. But Sodo could hear the hidden sorrow. Like the bitter after taste of shitty hotel coffee. The kind they always shared together when they waited for the busses to load.

Now Sodo was going to have to drink it by himself.

“You should be going with us!”

Sodo’s bright eyes glared up at the bigger ghoul, using rage to hide the pain.

“No, I’m right where they need.”

“What about what I need! Stop being so fucking accommodating to them!”

“YOU need to focus, they’re counting on you. You’re the lead guitarist. “

Sodo groaned.

“Did they have to choose the middle of the fucking tour to train you? Can’t Omega wait! We’re almost-“

The fire ghoul paused, the weight of his own words hitting him.

“Fuck… we’re almost done.”

“Just for now.”

Two strong arms held him tighter. Sodo could do nothing but melt into them, his cheek on the strong chest. It was better than getting angrier.

“I’m gonna be tied up for a while, but you’ll be having a pretty ace time right? Play hard for both of us!”

A large finger tilted Sodo’s chin up.

“I’ll be here when you get back. Then we can celebrate another album well done.”

Sodo snorted but relaxed.

“I’m sick of things ending, Aethe.”

#the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost fanfic #ghost Drabble #unbeta'd #i normally don’t write ship but I had this idea #Aether #sodo #nameless ghouls #the last three Popestar ghouls bonded closer than any other you can’t change my mind

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ghouletteanon · 6 months

Text

Girls Night In

“This what you wanted, baby?”

Aurora nods enthusiastically, moaning without shame. This is exactly what she had been craving all night.

Summary: Aurora has an idea what she wants to happen when Cumulus suggests a movie night with just the two of them. Cumulus has other ideas.

Relationship: Cumulus/Aurora

Word count: 580+ words

Rating: E

Tags: Explicit sexual content, overstimulation, clothed sex

Aurora bites the inside of her cheek, trying to keep herself from whimpering, fighting a losing battle. There is a movie going on somewhere in the background, but she has not paid any attention to it ever since Cumulus had pulled her down to sit in her lap, her back leaning against her soft chest and legs forced open by Cumulus’ knees.

Aurora can hear how wet she is, even through the layers of her panties and sleep shorts as Cumulus’ fingers slowly fuck her. Cumulus has pushed up Aurora’s shirt, exposing her as she cups her chest with her free hand, pinching her nipple and mixing pain and pleasure in a way that’s driving Aurora closer to an orgasm.

Her manicured nails bite down in the softness of Cumulus’ thigh, desperately holding on to where the air ghoulette had placed them earlier, which only makes Cumulus’ chuckle. The hairs on the back of Aurora’s neck stand up as she feels a puff of Cumulus’ cool breath against her hot skin. “Still not satisfied?”

“No, I need more…” Aurora whimpers, squirming in Cumulus’ lap, grinding down to get some sort of reaction from the other, to rile her up and make her indulge in a hedonistic ritual of their own. Too bad Cumulus is still fully dressed in her shorts and tank top.

It has the opposite effect. Aurora whines as Cumulus pulls her hand out of Aurora’s soaked panties, wiping her fingers on Aurora’s shorts. “You think you can tease me, and now you’re somehow in control?”

“Please, ‘lus, I’ll be good, just for you,” Aurora promises, desperate for the other ghoulettes’ attention.

“Oh I know you will,” Cumulus reaches for something. Her other hand is still playing with Aurora’s nipples, moving her hand to the other nipple, tugging it hard enough to make Aurora let out a yelp. Distracted, Aurora does not have time to guess what it is before Cumulus is already reaching back down inside her shorts.

Cumulus has no mercy, pressing the buzzing bullet vibrator right up against Aurora’s clit. The fabric of Aurora’s soaked panties keeps the vibrator in place as Cumulus’ fingers play with the entrance of her cunt, teasing before she pushes her fingers in properly “This what you wanted, baby?”

Aurora nods enthusiastically, moaning without shame. This is exactly what she had been craving all night. The bullet vibrator, Cumulus still fingerfucking her and all teasing her sensitive nipples is everything she has been dreaming of ever since Cumulus suggested a girls night with just the two of them.

It doesn’t take long before Aurora feels the muscles in her stomach tighten, pleasure overtaking her. She throws her head back, leaning heavily against Cumulus’ as she comes, pleasure washing over her. She relaxes for a moment, feeling weightless as she watches the cloud of Cumulus' hair move in a non-existent breeze. Air ghoul powers never stopped intriguing Aurora. “So good, ‘lus.”

Cumulus hums and moves her hand away from inside her panties. But instead of letting Aurora bask in a post-orgasmic haze, she only presses the button on the vibrator and adds the intensity.

Aurora starts squirming, realizing she has no power over the situation when she tries to close her legs only to be rapped with the spade of Cumulus' tail. Cumulus' hand wraps around Aurora’s neck, forcing her to stay in place as the vibe is pressed against her overstimulated clit. “You think you’re done already? Oh sweetheart, I’m only getting started. You can't tease me and act out and expect me not to find a way to punish you. Let’s see how many times I can make you come.”

Aurora loses count, too overstimulated in the end to be more than a whimpering mess.

#the band ghost fanfiction #aurora ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #ga writes #unbeta'd #i love women

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just-an-enby-lemon · 4 months

Text

I wrote something for my Georgian Body Hopper Elias and XXI century Beholding upstart employee Jonah AU:

When asked how did he manage to get promoted to head of the an academic institute - normally with some rude intonation that was clearly insinuating his lack of competency - Elias Bouchard would use his amazing bullshiting talents to make a passionate speech about how behind his lax posture he had a firm work ethic and a knack for both the supernatural and finances. In reality it was mostly the fact that by trying to prevent him from “walking with the wrong crowd” his father had in actuality throwed him directly into the worst influences and what should be another vain attempt to impress the old man - and maybe have some secret quick fuck before he had to finally fold into an arranged marriage that luckily never came - only caused his downfall into a terrible cruel worship.

Years ago. Before fear took him down Elias Bouchard was not a curious man. He was on the other hand a truly adaptable man and one that liked to experiment more than most, he also has always been a coward. Too afraid of being the only one left as all his friends falled one way or the other to malicious gods and as Robert failed, he realized he too needed to choose divinity. He looked for the less violent options and since he really disliked loneliness to the point of getting himself into this situation to begin with… He had no choice but to choose the Eye,

There was a reason that even though he was one of the oldest avatars he and his Institute were still mostly sawn as a joke (or a threat but the last was all thanks to Gertrude). He was faithful to his god but also terrified of it and the fates worse than death Beholder must grant to his failed followers (Albretch and the eyes everywhere come to mind). So he watched, he did nothing to protect his friends, unsure he even could, as he observed every aspect of their demise and he kept watching. In the better days he was truly grateful to his patron, in the worst he would consider death, still he clingled to the only life he knew, going between bodies and sometimes choosing the type of unknown person he could just pass his old name to.

Still he would say that all of his victims - including the ones whose body he stole - were an accident, a weed induced trip or just a bolt of having a paranoia evil god living rent free insise his head. The complicated situation he was in right now was none of it.

It started with a Lukas.

Elias truly hated the Lukases. Alas he needed them for funding, so when Peter Lukas mentioned a new kid that hanged with him and Annabelle and was a truly Eye freak he easily conceded in interviewing the poor sod. The last time Annabelle had given him Jon, someone that the Eye was clearly fond off and hopefully the soon to be solution to Gertrude’s mess, honestly if Jon wasn’t such an active worker - and a handsome one at that - Elias would have thrown him as an assistant and ensure he became Gertrude’s successor soon and by any means necessary, unfortunately doing that would generate a deficit in production and Bouchard, who was never really good with money even as rich man in the georgian era, could not afford to take. Peter mostly only gave him leftovers which all things considered was still really good for a Lukas.

The first impression he had of the kid was that it made a lot of sense that he knew Annabelle, as both of them clearly had the same vintage clothing sense, the second was that between his plump lips and mid length red hair he was very attractive and would surely be a satisfying meal. His academic credentials were, in Elias' opinion, way too good for the Institute, but most of his employees were in different levels of way too good for this weird dead end job, except the fun nervous wreck in the library that had strayed up lied about everything. He smiled predatorily to his next meal, hiring people was always an acceptable lunch, is not like they wouldn’t have anxiety in a normal job interview anyway, for an instance he saw a flash of terror, the words “the moment you die will feel exactly the same as this one” and then nothing, only static and gray eyes that looked way too old Looking at him, Elias had forgotten he still could be Seen, or maybe hoped he couldn’t, not in any significant way, not besides Jon unconscious slips or Gertrude intimidating stare. He felt true terror in his bones. He could almost see the Beholding saying mine.

“Mr. Bouchard, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” The young man said politely. “Peter tales don’t get close to the magnificence that is this place.”

“The pleasure is mine” More like Beholding’s, he thought angrily. “Perdon me, I reckon that in the middle of so many applications I forgot your name.” He knew it pretty well. He just needed a moment to compose himself. He was sure there was nothing to worry about, the Eye was satisfied enough with him, he wasn’t perfect but he wasn’t a lost cause… The Eye wouldn’t send another Watcher. Would it?

“Jonah Magnus, sir, but Jonah is good enough.” He was still Watching him. Filling him with dread.

“So Jonah, what makes you want to work at the Bouchard Institute of Paranormal Studies?”

Magnus smiled. This time not predatorily nor with the subtle look that showed he saw himself as somehow more than Elias, but a truly full wishful smile.

“My God is calling me home.”

His voice was velvet, powerful and Elias knew he had to let the boy join, he also knew he had to find a way to deal with it, maybe convince the Beholder of having two Watchers? Or something else. Anything at all. Fast.

A small but still significant part of him considered that maybe he should break his rule and consider murder this time, full murder no excuses. Jonah smilled, suspiciously like he had read Elias mind and found the consideration of murder amusing.

He was completly, undeniably fucked.

#tma #the magnus archives #double watch au #elias bouchard #original elias bouchard #jonah magnus #you can take Jonah's first experience with the entities was with the End from my dead cold hands #tma fic #unbeta'd

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