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cup1drul3z · 9 days ago

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★ — Thats MY girl | CH 4

6.3ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ | ᴄᴇᴏ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ 𝙭 ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

CW : Age gap if you squint, PLUS SIZED READER, power kink, cheating, modern au, new york, assistant reader, readers a little awkward but we love her anyway, sugar mommy, SMUT, fingering, cunninglings, strap, bondage, lingerie, angst, pregnancy

A/N : boobies

The waiting room is quiet—too quiet.

Sevika’s been pacing for over an hour, boots echoing softly against the linoleum. She hasn’t touched the vending machine coffee Mel brought her. She hasn’t sat down.

Jinx is slouched in one of the plastic chairs, earbuds in, 2 braids draped across her shoulders. Mel stands near the check-in desk, arms folded, eyes flicking toward Sevika every few minutes like she’s a ticking bomb.

The nurse said you’re stable now. Fever under control. Fluids in your system. Still asleep.

Still not ready for visitors.

But alive.

Then the doors open.

And he walks in.

Your boyfriend.

Hair slightly messy, hoodie unzipped like this is just another errand. He blinks around the waiting room like he’s mildly inconvenienced. He’s not even out of breath.

“Hey,” he says casually. “What room is she in?”

Sevika stops pacing.

Turns.

And stares.

Jinx pulls out one earbud.

Mel goes still.

Sevika walks toward him, slow, controlled. Each step deliberate.

“She’s not ready for visitors,” she says flatly. “And if you know what’s good for you, by the time she is, you’ll be gone.”

He blinks, then scoffs. “Who the hell are you—her bodyguard?”

She smiles. It’s not friendly.

“She didn’t ask for you. I did.”

He sneers. “Oh. I get it now. You’re that dyke she’s been acting weird about.”

Time stops.

Jinx’s eyes widen. “Ohhh, shit.”

Before Mel can even react, Sevika’s fist has already grabbed the front of his hoodie, slamming him into the wall with a thud that makes the receptionist scream.

His feet scramble to find the ground as she leans in, her voice a low growl:

“Say that again.”

Security’s already rushing in from the hallway, but no one moves fast enough.

“If you ever go near her again,” Sevika growls, teeth bared, “you’ll need more than a hospital.”

Mel’s hand lands hard on her shoulder. “Sevika. Stop.”

She doesn’t let go immediately.

Security shouts again.

“Sevika, let him go.”

Finally, her hand unclenches, and he drops like a sack of trash, coughing, red-faced.

Security’s already grabbing him, dragging him back toward the front.

“She’s crazy!” he shouts, looking back at Mel. “You people are nuts!”

“No,” Mel snaps, voice sharp and cold. “We’re just done with you.”

He’s gone.

The room is still again.

Sevika’s breathing heavy.

Mel looks at her—then gestures toward the hallway. “Take a walk. Now.”

Sevika doesn’t argue.

She just shoves open the exit door and steps into the night air, fists still clenched, chest still heaving.

But you’re safe.

And that’s all that matters.

The waiting room has quieted again, but the tension still lingers like smoke. Jinx is sprawled across two chairs now, her hoodie bunched up under her head as a makeshift pillow, tapping her fingers against her stomach to some beat only she hears.

Mel stands nearby, arms crossed, gazing at the door Sevika stormed through like she’s trying to decide whether to follow or give her ten more minutes of air.

After a long beat, Mel breaks the silence.

“Speaking of breakups,” she says casually, her voice a bit lower, “how’s Violet?”

Jinx snorts without lifting her head. “What, you miss her giving you grief at board meetings?”

Mel’s mouth quirks. “Just haven’t seen her around.”

“She’s laying low,” Jinx mutters. “Still salty about the last girl.”

Mel hums, a little curious. “Still hung up?”

“Maybe,” Jinx shrugs, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Or maybe just bored. She keeps saying she’s done with relationships but then flirts with everything that breathes.”

Mel’s eyebrow arches. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Jinx grins but doesn’t deny it.

“She’ll meet someone,” Mel says. “Eventually.”

Jinx chuckles under her breath. “God help whoever that is.”

The waiting room has calmed, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly above. Mel sips a stale coffee. Jinx flips through a wrinkled magazine she doesn’t care about, her foot bouncing impatiently.

The elevator dings.

They both look up.

A woman walks out—tall, composed, coat still buttoned, dark blue hair pulled into a ponytail. She scans the room quickly, then zeroes in on them.

She approaches.

“Excuse me,” she says, her accent clipped and precise. “I'm looking for someone—Y/N. I heard she was admitted.”

Mel’s eyes narrow instantly.

Jinx leans forward slowly, eyebrows rising. “And you are?”

“Caitlyn,” she replies. “I’m—” she hesitates, just long enough for the tension to spike “—a friend.”

Mel folds her arms. “Funny. Never seen you around.”

“She doesnt talk about me at work?” Caitlyn says in a worried voice. “Whatever- we were friends in highschool and college and now i guess”

That gives them pause.

Caitlyn adds, “do you want to see my yearbook?”

Jinx’s face lights up at the thought of seeing the baby version of you, already looking at mel for her to say yes

Mel smirks despite herself. “No- thats quite alright”

Before Jinx can quiz her further, the door to the patient hallway opens and a doctor steps out, clipboard in hand.

“She’s awake,” he says. “Still groggy, but stable. You can see her—just one or two at a time for now.”

All eyes shift.

No Sevika.

Caitlyn glances toward the door, then back at them. “I can go first. If that’s alright.”

Mel exchanges a look with Jinx.

Jinx shrugs. “Its fine”

Mel nods once. “Go. We’ll wait.”

Caitlyn offers a soft, grateful smile, then heads toward the hallway. Her pace quickens just a little.

Mel watches her disappear around the corner.

“Think she’s legit?” Jinx asks.

Mel sips her coffee. “I hope so or we just let a stranger into our bosses girlfriend- fling– whatever she is, Into her hospital room.”

The room is quiet, dimmed by the automatic lights and softened by the drawn blinds. The monitor beside your bed beeps steadily. Somewhere nearby, an IV drips into your arm with a soft, rhythmic tick.

You stir slowly, head heavy, mouth dry.

Your eyelids flutter open.

The world is blurry, swimming in warm whites and muted greens. You blink a few times, then squint toward the shape sitting beside you.

Caitlyn.

Her dark blue hair rests over her shoulder, and she’s dressed in a long coat and slacks, posture stiff from sitting for too long in a plastic chair. Her phone is cradled in her lap, untouched. Her eyes are fixed on you.

The second you make a sound, she’s already leaning forward.

“Hey,” she says gently, voice low and calm. “You’re okay.”

Your throat is dry when you try to speak. “Cait…?”

“I’m here.”

You swallow hard, brows furrowing. “Weren’t you—weren’t you with your aunt?”

Caitlyn’s brow softens. “Yes.”

You blink a few more times, trying to piece everything together. Your voice comes out small. “You didn’t have to come all the way here…”

“I did,” Caitlyn says, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead. “And I would again.”

“But it was important. Family. I didn’t mean to drag you away from—”

“Stop.” Her voice is firm but still kind.

She sits back a little, eyes searching your face.

“You don’t drag people. You’re not a burden. You were sick, and no one else picked up. I wasn’t going to let you be alone.”

You blink up at her, chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with the fever.

Caitlyn exhales, her tone softening again. “I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

You nod slowly.

Then, after a pause: “I missed you.”

Her smile is small, but it’s real. “You’re not allowed to make me cry in a hospital room, okay?”

You close your eyes for a moment, breath shaky.

The beeping of the monitor continues steadily beside you.

For the first time since waking, you feel safe.

Sevika stood outside the hospital, the cold biting through her sleeves, but she didn’t flinch.

The cigarette between her fingers burned low, the smoke curling past her lips before vanishing into the early morning haze. Her jaw was locked, her shoulders stiff, her thoughts spinning in circles she couldn't punch her way out of.

You had been unconscious.

When she found you, your body had been limp, overheated, your breath shallow like it hurt just to keep going. She could still feel the weight of you in her arms, the way your head had fallen against her shoulder, the way your fingers had twitched like they were trying to hold on to something—even in your sleep.

And where the hell had he been?

Not a call. Not a single fucking text.

Just a stupid napkin note left on your nightstand like you were some afterthought.

Gone to hang with Miles.

That wasn’t a partner. That wasn’t someone who cared. That was someone who didn’t deserve to know your name.

Sevika gritted her teeth, the cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers.

You hadn’t asked for her. You hadn’t begged her to come.

You’d just… called.

Soft. Scared.

And she’d come.

Not because it was her job.

Not because she had to.

But because the thought of you being alone—sick, struggling to breathe on a bathroom floor while the person who claimed to love you did nothing—lit something inside her she didn’t know how to extinguish.

She tossed the cigarette, watching it scatter sparks across the concrete before dying in the wind.

Mel had told her to cool off, and she had tried. But all she could think about was how small you’d looked in that hospital bed. How weak your voice had sounded when you whispered her name on the phone.

And how much she wanted to be the one you called every time—not just when no one else picked up.

She didn’t know what that meant yet.

But she knew one thing for sure:

If he showed up again, if he tried to spin some excuse, to crawl back into your life with cheap apologies and selfish hands—

She wouldn’t let him near you.

Not again.

Not ever.

The doors to the ER wing hiss open, and Sevika steps back inside.

She’s less tense now—at least on the surface—but her eyes still hold that sharp edge, the kind that says don’t test me. She barely makes it three steps into the waiting area before her gaze lands on someone unfamiliar.

Tall. Neat. Dark blue hair. Very out of place.

Her eyes narrow.

“Who the hell are you?”

The words come out low and clipped, more bark than question, and her glare instantly darts over to Mel and Jinx like why the fuck is there a stranger here?

Jinx raises her hands like, don’t look at me.

Mel just sighs.

The woman—Caitlyn—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

She offers a small, tired smile instead. “She really doesn’t talk about me, huh?”

The tension shifts slightly. Not gone. But thinner.

Sevika stares at her, silent.

Caitlyn steps forward, calm and cool like she’s done this a hundred times. “I’m Caitlyn. A friend.”

There’s something steady in her voice. Grounded.

Mel adds under her breath, “She passed the test. Let her live.”

Sevika still doesn’t look convinced.

But before she can say anything else, Caitlyn tilts her head, just a little, and says:

“She’s awake. And she’s asking for you.”

That hits.

Whatever comeback Sevika had dies instantly on her tongue. Her jaw works once—then stops.

“thanks” she avoids caitlyns gaze.

Caitlyn gestures toward the hallway. “No problem–”

Sevika doesn’t waste time. She brushes past caitlyn before she could get her sentance out

Mel watches her go, then glances sideways at Caitlyn.

“You’re definitely gonna be fun to have around.”

The hospital room is quiet.

Dim morning light spills through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the white sheets and the slow rhythm of the heart monitor. The beep is steady, calming, a reminder that you’re still here. Still breathing.

And then you hear the door click open.

You look up.

It’s her.

Sevika stands in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes flicking immediately to you—but she doesn’t move further just yet. Her hand hovers on the edge of the doorframe, like she’s not sure she has the right to be there.

Her voice comes low. Rough. “You’re awake.”

You nod, throat dry but steady. “Yeah.”

She steps in slowly, letting the door shut behind her with a soft click. There’s no cigarette between her fingers now, but the scent of smoke still clings faintly to her coat.

For once, she doesn’t try to fill the silence.

She just watches you.

The way you sit propped up against the pillows, your cheeks still flushed from the fever, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy—but alert.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she mutters finally, voice quiet but sharp with honesty.

You blink at her. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” Her eyes flicker to the IV in your arm, the monitor, the oxygen clip on your finger. “You sounded like hell.”

You offer a weak smile. “Felt worse.”

Sevika exhales and finally sits down in the chair beside your bed. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced together tightly.

There’s a beat of silence between you.

Then you ask, “Did you hit him?”

Her brow lifts just a little. “Define ‘hit.’”

You try to laugh, but it comes out like a cough.

“I didn’t kill him,” she adds with a smirk. “Mel wouldn’t let me.”

You close your eyes for a moment. When you open them, she’s still watching you—closely. Carefully.

You reach out, just a little, fingers twitching near the edge of the bed.

And without hesitation, she leans forward and takes your hand.

Her thumb brushes across your knuckles.

No words.

Just warmth.

And presence.

She’s here.

And this time, you don’t have to ask.

Your fingers stay curled around hers, but your brows knit together as you glance at the door behind her, then back at her.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Sevika scoffs, but it’s quiet. “You’re in a hospital bed, barely able to sit up, and you’re worried about my schedule?”

You give a tired shrug. “I know it’s been a rough week. That investor leak… the press stuff…”

She leans back slightly in the chair, still holding your hand. “You think I’d rather be sitting in a boardroom full of men who wear the same three ties every day and talk in buzzwords?”

You raise an eyebrow at her.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to lie and say this is better—but it’s not a hard choice.”

There’s a pause before she adds, “Mel’s got it handled for now. Jinx is… probably scaring interns. And I’d rather be here.”

That part comes out a little softer.

You blink at her, guilt flickering across your face. “I didn’t mean to make you drop everything.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” she cuts in firmly. “I made a choice. You needed someone. I was there.”

You nod slowly, eyes falling to your lap. “Still. Thank you.”

Her grip on your hand tightens, just a little.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she mutters. “You still owe me a real meal and an explanation for why your idiot boyfriend thought a napkin note counted as caregiving.”

You manage a small smile, and for a moment, the monitor beside you is the only sound in the room again.

Steady. Comforting.

And for the first time in what feels like days, so is she.

The apartment is quiet when you walk in.

Too quiet.

The door clicks shut behind you, and it echoes in a way it never used to. You set your keys down, the clatter unnaturally loud in the silence, and for a moment, you just… stand there.

The air feels different.

You glance around—and it hits you all at once.

Half the apartment is empty.

The gaming chair’s gone. His speakers. The ugly blanket he always left on the couch no matter how many times you folded it. His shoes aren’t by the door. His toothbrush is gone.

And on the dining table, in the spot where he used to leave unopened mail and fast food receipts, there’s a letter.

Folded once.

Your name on the front.

You already know what it is.

But you open it anyway.

His handwriting is rushed, like even this was an inconvenience.

“Hey,

I’ve been thinking, and I just don’t think this is working anymore.

You’ve changed. You’ve been distant, and honestly, it’s been like walking on eggshells. I’m not the kind of guy who does drama, and that’s what it’s been feeling like lately—like a lot of drama.

Maybe you need someone else. Someone who understands… whatever it is you’re figuring out about yourself. I tried, but I’m not into girls who don’t know what they want.

No hard feelings.

Take care of yourself.”

You stare at it for a long time.

You don’t cry.

You just fold it in half and set it back down, very gently, like you’re afraid it’ll shatter if you touch it too hard.

You walk through the apartment.

The absence is loud.

Half-empty drawers. Blank spaces on the shelves. A missing dent on the couch where he used to sit. You press your palm against it anyway, feeling for something that isn’t there.

And for the first time in your life—

There’s no one else here.

No background noise. No footsteps. No second toothbrush or shared fridge shelves.

Just you.

Alone.

Really, truly alone.

You sit down on the couch and pull the blanket around your shoulders, the silence swallowing you whole.

And you breathe.

Because it hurts.

But maybe, somehow, this is what being free feels like, too.

Later that night, the apartment is still dark.

You didn’t turn the lights on when the sun set. You just let the shadows stretch across the walls like old memories you were too tired to fight. The only light in the room now comes from the fireplace, crackling softly, flames licking at the logs like they’re hungry for something more.

You sit on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, a blanket around your shoulders.

Beside you is a cardboard box.

Everything that was his—or worse, everything that was yours because of him—is inside.

The cheap little gifts he got you after fights. The polaroids where you were always smiling and he was never looking at the camera. The concert wristband he made a big deal about but spent the whole night texting someone else. The note from the first time he said I love you, scribbled on the back of a receipt like it was an afterthought.

You hold it between your fingers.

Then feed it to the fire.

It catches quickly.

You don’t look away.

One by one, you drop them in—slow, deliberate. A candle he bought you that never smelled right. A beanie he left on your side of the bed. The Valentine’s card he signed without even writing a message. A photo of you two at that party, arms around each other, your smile too big, his eyes already somewhere else.

And finally—the letter.

The last thing he gave you.

You unfold it again. Read the part about “drama,” the jab about your “sexuality,” the cowardice bleeding through every word.

You don’t fold it back.

You crumple it.

And you burn it.

The flames crackle louder now, swallowing everything you gave too much meaning to. The heat brushes against your face, but you don't flinch.

You just watch it all go.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed…

You feel lighter.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

But less full of him.

And more full of you.

You don’t remember when the tears started.

Maybe it was the letter. Maybe the beanie. Maybe that stupid polaroid where your smile looked like hope and his looked like he didn’t even know who you were.

But now they’re here, and they won’t stop.

Hot, steady trails down your cheeks.

Your nose is running, your breath hitching in short little gasps as the fire dies down, leaving behind glowing embers and the scent of scorched memories.

You pull your knees to your chest on the floor, oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, your underwear barely covered by the hem. You’re a mess. A soft, broken, silent mess.

And then—

Knock knock.

You blink, startled.

Wipe your face fast, scrambling to your feet. You hadn’t ordered much—just takeout, something greasy to pretend it could fill the hollow in your chest.

You swing open the door without looking.

“Yeah, just—”

But it’s not the delivery guy.

It’s her.

Sevika.

Her jacket is still on, one hand tucked into her coat pocket, the other raised like she was about to knock again. Her expression shifts the second she sees you—eyes moving from your swollen, tear-reddened face, to your oversized shirt, to the faint orange glow of the fire behind you.

And her voice lowers instantly, all that usual steel wrapped in something softer.

“…Hey.”

You freeze.

You don’t say anything. You just stare at her, bare legs trembling, hands gripping the doorknob like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

“I… I thought you were my food,” you whisper, voice wrecked and cracked.

Sevika blinks, like that wasn’t what she expected to hear.

Then her gaze flicks past you—to the fireplace. The box. The ashes.

Something shifts in her face.

“You been crying long?” she asks gently, stepping forward without waiting for permission.

You nod once, biting your lip, trying to hold in the next wave of tears—but your chest trembles anyway.

She doesn’t say anything else.

She just reaches out.

And pulls you into her arms.

You melt into her, hands bunching the fabric of her coat, your forehead pressing into her collarbone, your tears soaking into the wool.

She doesn’t let go.

She just holds you there, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other curling around your waist like she’s trying to keep you from falling apart completely.

And for once, you let her.

You’re both on the couch now.

The fire’s died down to soft embers, the living room bathed in that late-night orange glow. You’re curled up on one end, still in your oversized T-shirt, legs tucked under you. Sevika sits on the other end—relaxed, legs slightly apart, one arm draped over the back of the couch like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.

She watches you for a long moment.

Then finally says, “I’m giving you the month off. Paid.”

You look at her slowly, like you misheard.

“What?”

“You just got out of the hospital,” she says, tone even. “You’re recovering from a sinus infection, you’ve barely eaten in two days, and now…” Her eyes flick toward the fireplace. “This.”

You stare at her. “You’re suspending me?”

“No,” she says calmly. “I’m giving you time.”

“Like I’m a child who needs a fucking nap?”

“You need rest.”

“I need to work!”

Your voice cracks as you sit up straighter, arms flailing in frustration. “I need to feel like I’m doing something. Like I matter. Like I’m not just sitting here crying over a breakup like a pathetic cliché.”

Sevika doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t want to be coddled,” you snap.

“I’m not coddling you.”

You stand up, pacing in front of the couch, your hands in your hair. “Yes, you are! You’re doing the thing—you’re treating me like I’m delicate. Like I’ll break if I send one goddamn email.”

“You almost died,” she says quietly.

You stop.

She’s still sitting there, legs spread, eyes fixed on you—not unkind, not smug, just… there. Unshaken.

“Do you want me to apologize for caring?” she asks.

Your jaw tightens. “I want you to stop acting like I’m made of glass.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Then stop trying to wrap me in bubble wrap and tell me it’s for my own good.”

Another beat of silence.

You feel your voice catching, your chest trembling again, and you hate it—hate how vulnerable you still are.

And still, she doesn’t move.

She just looks at you, steady and patient, like she knows you need to shout until your throat goes raw.

Like she’ll be right there when you run out of words.

You stand there in the silence you created, chest heaving, tears drying on your cheeks. The fire’s nothing but a quiet glow behind you, and still, she hasn’t moved.

Sevika just watches you.

Calm.

Unflinching.

Infuriating.

And maybe… safe.

Your lip trembles. You hate how hot your skin feels. You hate how the tears burned your eyes and how your voice cracked and how she’s the one sitting there like she’s waiting for the storm to pass.

You blink hard.

“Why are you even here?”

It doesn’t come out angry this time.

It comes out small.

And Sevika finally speaks without restraint—no more CEO tone, no boss voice, just her.

“Because I care.”

You scoff under your breath, turning away, but she adds quickly, “And not just because you work for me. Or because you were sick. Or because some guy didn’t know what he had.”

You pause.

She stands slowly from the couch. You don’t turn, but you feel her move behind you—close, not touching.

“I’m here,” she says, voice low, “because I wanted to be.”

You close your eyes.

Her presence is too much and not enough all at once.

When her hand finally touches your arm, it’s gentle. You flinch—but not away.

She steps closer.

“I’m not trying to coddle you,” she murmurs near your ear. “I’m trying to keep you from falling apart.”

Your breath hitches.

“I’m already falling apart.”

You turn then, finally facing her, and her hands are on your waist before you can think. Strong, steady, grounding.

“You’re allowed to,” she says softly. “Just not alone.”

Your eyes meet hers.

She’s so close. You can see the faint tiredness beneath her eyes. The warmth behind the usual edge of her gaze. You can smell the smoke and leather on her coat. You wonder if she’s always looked at you like this and you were just too scared to notice.

Your hands lift to rest on her chest. Her shirt is soft under your fingers, but her heart is beating hard beneath it.

“Sevika…”

She leans in slowly—giving you every second to stop her.

You don’t.

Your lips meet hers with a tension that’s been waiting to snap, and the moment they touch, your whole body exhales. She kisses you like she’s been holding back for weeks—hands gripping tighter, mouth hungry but measured, like she doesn’t want to take too much too fast.

You pull her closer.

You need her closer.

And when her mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, your breath catches.

Her lips are warm against yours, but not hurried.

You’re the one who deepens the kiss—hands sliding up to curl into the collar of her shirt, tugging her closer like you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you let go. Sevika doesn’t resist. She moves with you, slow and certain, like she knows exactly what you need even if you haven’t said a word.

Her mouth opens just slightly under yours, and your tongue brushes hers—soft at first, then more demanding. Your breath is shaky, hers steady. She’s grounding you without saying a thing.

Her hands roam your waist, then up, fingertips pressing through the thin fabric of your oversized T-shirt. Her palms are warm and sure, smoothing over your sides like she’s memorizing the curve of you.

“You sure?” she murmurs, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You nod without hesitation. “Yes.”

She kisses you again, slower this time. Not because she’s hesitant—but because she wants to savor this. You.

You break the kiss with a breathy whimper as she lifts your shirt just a little, hands sliding beneath to touch bare skin.

You twitch under her touch—so soft but so certain—and your whole body leans into her.

She leads you backward with a hand low on your hip, guiding you toward the couch like you’re something precious. Like this is something worth taking her time with.

You don’t let go of her even as you sink into the cushions, legs parting slightly to make room for her between them. She kneels between your thighs, eyes sweeping over you, hands still on your waist beneath your shirt.

"You’re beautiful," she says, like it’s a fact.

Not sweet.

Not romantic.

Just true.

Your throat tightens—but you let her keep looking.

She leans down again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower—lips brushing the heat of your neck.

Her teeth graze your skin gently. You gasp.

Her hands slide higher.

“I’m gonna take this off,” she says softly, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt.

You lift your arms.

She pulls it over your head, slow, deliberate.

And you’re bare before her now—chest rising and falling, nerves buzzing under your skin.

Sevika doesn’t stare.

She worships.

Her mouth trails down your collarbone, one hand cradling your side as she kisses a path between your breasts, never rushing. You can feel her breath, her lips, her restraint.

Your thighs squeeze around her waist.

“Sevika…”

Her name comes out as a whisper.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, voice low against your skin. “All night if you want.”

Sevika’s hands are firm on your thighs, thumbs brushing the soft skin near the edge of your underwear as she kisses her way down your torso.

Every kiss is slower than the last.

Like she’s dragging the moment out just to see how long it takes you to tremble.

And you do—your breath catches every time her mouth dips lower, hovering above places she hasn’t touched yet. She lingers at your hipbone, teeth grazing the curve of it before she presses an open-mouthed kiss there.

You let out a shaky sigh.

Her hands slide further up your thighs, parting them with ease, the heat between them making you gasp. Your legs fall open for her instinctively.

She looks up at you from between them, half-shadowed in firelight, eyes dark but calm.

“You want me to stop,” she says, voice rough, “say it now.”

You shake your head fast. “Don’t.”

That’s all she needs.

Her fingers hook the waistband of your underwear and pull them down slow—watching the way your body shifts beneath her, how your breath stutters when you feel the air against your wet skin.

She kisses the inside of your thigh first—right next to where you need her, and it makes you ache.

Her mouth is warm, patient, everywhere but there.

You whimper. “Please…”

She smirks against your skin. “Needy tonight.”

“Sevika—”

And then her mouth is on you.

All at once.

Her tongue moves slow, precise, like she’s savoring every sound you make. Your hips twitch and she tightens her grip on your thighs, holding you still like she owns this.

Like she owns you.

Your head tips back against the couch, hand flying to her shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as your breath comes out in short, broken moans.

She hums against you, and the vibration makes you whimper again.

You feel her—every flick of her tongue, every low breath, every pause just before the pressure returns. She doesn't just go through the motions. She reads you. Responds to you. And when your hips roll forward, when your legs tense around her shoulders, she presses in deeper.

You’re so close it hurts.

“Let go,” she murmurs between strokes, voice low and hot and certain.

“I’ve got you.”

Your legs are shaking.

You don’t even realize how tightly you’re gripping her shoulder until she shifts slightly, and your fingers follow like you can’t let go.

Her mouth hasn’t left you—not even for a second. Not since you begged her not to stop.

Her tongue circles you in slow, devastating strokes, pausing only to suck gently, then harder, just to hear the way your breath catches. The way your thighs tighten around her.

“Sevika—” you gasp, voice trembling.

She hums again—deep and low and intentional—and the sound sends a full-body shiver down your spine.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

You’re close. So close you can’t think. Your hips are rolling against her mouth now, helplessly, needily, chasing it.

Her grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you down.

“I said I’ve got you,” she murmurs, lips brushing against your skin between strokes. “So come on.”

And you do.

Your body tenses—back arching, mouth falling open in a gasp that turns into her name, drawn-out and ruined. The heat rips through you all at once, a wave crashing against everything that’s been building: the heartbreak, the fever, the loneliness, the want.

She stays with you through it.

Tongue slow now, gentle. Helping you ride it out. Helping you land.

You’re panting, trembling beneath her.

You didn’t even realize your eyes were wet again until she kisses the inside of your thigh and glances up, voice low:

“Still with me?”

You nod.

Barely.

She sits up between your legs, hand running along your calf as she watches your chest rise and fall. Her face glistens, her lips flushed, and there’s something unreadable in her eyes—like she’s trying not to let you see how much this meant to her, too.

You reach for her—still breathless—and she leans in without hesitation.

This kiss is slower.

Softer.

You taste yourself on her lips, and it only makes you shiver again.

Her fingers brush your cheek as she kisses you, and you realize she hasn’t even taken off her shirt yet.

It’s early.

Too early.

The kind of pale, blue-tinged morning where the world still feels half-asleep. The apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the faint rustle of sheets when you shift under them.

You’re still warm from her.

Your legs tangled in hers.

Your head resting against her bare shoulder.

And then—

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Twice.

Three times.

A groggy groan vibrates in her chest as she rolls onto her back, reaching for it.

You don’t open your eyes.

But you feel her arm slip from around you, the warmth at your side dipping slightly as she sits up, muttering a quiet, “Shit.”

Her voice is low and tired, but steady. “Yeah?”

Pause.

“…Are you serious? That wasn’t due until next week.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

You can tell by the tone in her voice that it’s bad.

The kind of bad that means meetings. Damage control. Probably yelling.

She sighs deeply.

You shift slightly, eyes still closed, voice soft and scratchy: “Do you have to go?”

Sevika turns toward you, brushing your hair from your face. “Yeah,” she says. “Office fire. Not literal. Just... the usual.”

You crack one eye open.

“Take me with you.”

A faint smile pulls at her lips. “Nice try. You’re not even wearing pants.”

You let your eyes close again, voice even sleepier now. “Exactly.”

She chuckles under her breath, then leans down to press a kiss to your temple—slow, lingering.

“You sleep.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll check in later.”

You barely nod, already half-drifting again, the smell of her still on your skin, the blanket pulled tight around you like a shield.

You hear her moving around—dressing, grabbing her keys, muttering something about her tie under her breath.

Then the door clicks shut behind her.

And you’re alone.

But not like before.

This time, the silence doesn’t feel so empty.

It just feels like... waiting.

The warmth of the sheets is still wrapped around you.

Sevika’s scent lingers in the pillowcase—faint cologne, smoke, and something grounding you didn’t realize you were holding onto until it was gone.

You were just starting to drift back to sleep.

And then it hits.

Sudden.

Sharp.

Your stomach twists violently, flipping like you’ve just been yanked out of a dream mid-fall. Nausea punches through your gut without warning. A cold sweat prickles at the back of your neck.

You sit up fast—too fast.

The world tilts.

Your head throbs.

You clutch at your middle instinctively, heart racing as the pit in your stomach deepens. It’s not just the kind of nausea that passes. It’s something.

You breathe through your mouth, forcing yourself not to gag, your throat dry, your skin clammy.

The fire from last night is long gone, but your body feels fevered—off balance. Heavy.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and sit there, hunched forward, elbows on your knees, trying to figure out why.

You haven’t eaten.

You haven’t cried again.

You haven’t moved.

And yet—

Something feels wrong.

Deep down.

Not just sick.

Unsettled.

You barely make it to the bathroom in time.

Your knees hit tile, cold and unforgiving, as you lurch over the toilet.

Everything comes up in waves—violent, gut-deep. Acidic. Like your body’s trying to rid itself of something it doesn’t understand.

When it’s over, you slump against the cool porcelain, breath shallow, hand gripping the edge of the tub like it might stop the world from spinning.

Your forehead rests on your arm.

The nausea still lingers, clawing at the edges of your stomach, not quite done with you.

But something else creeps in.

That cold pit again.

Sharp.

Knowing.

No.

No, it’s probably just stress. The infection. The fever. The fact you barely ate anything in days. It has to be.

But your hand moves on its own.

You reach up, fingers trembling, and open the cabinet above the sink.

Back behind the bandages and half-used bottle of acetaminophen is a slim, dusty box you forgot you even kept.

An emergency pregnancy test.

You’d thrown it in there ages ago. One of those “just in case” things, back when you were with him. You’d laughed it off back then. Never opened it.

Now your fingers close around it like it might burn you.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror.

Eyes red.

Lips pale.

Breath held.

You sit down slowly on the edge of the tub.

And open the box.

comment to be added to the taglist!

@gaptoothedlesbo @magnificentmilkshakearbiter @half-of-a-gay @vkumi @kazimakozu @aiden-slayyyys @loreensdarling @tsubiki @h0n3yf0rlif3 @h2pinky @emmasjxlian

#arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #lesbian #sevika x reader #wlw #wuh luh wuh #sissormetimbers

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archangeldyke-all · 1 year ago

Note

that amab ceo!Vika ask got me 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

can i request a fic about reader jokingly requesting a nut video with sound & Sevika actually ends up sending it, whining & dirty talking in the background? 😣

hehehehehehehehhehehehehehehehehehe

men and minors dni

sevika's at home today. you were supposed to have the day off with her, but you got a call this morning from seamus begging you to come in and fix the copier. it's acting up. again.

she spent the morning trying to get you to stay in bed with her, but you went in anyways, knowing that if you didn't handle the problem now, by the time you get back on monday the copier would be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

you're sitting on the floor of the printing/copying room, surrounded by parts of the machine and the giant manual that came with it, trying to find the source of the error. you've been here for hours. you've got a half eaten sandwich beside you for lunch. you're cursing yourself for not taking sevika up on her offer to stay in bed all day.

your phone pings with her ringtone and you smile. speak of the devil...

'hows it going' sevika's text reads. you sigh and tap out a quick response.

'horrible.' you reply.

'poor baby' sevika rapidly responds. you smile.

'wish i was home with u.'

'anything i can do to make it better?' sevika asks. you grin and bite your lip.

'nut video with sound?' you text, adding on a few prayer hands emojis. sevika doesn't reply, which only makes you laugh more. sevika's shit at sexting, and she knows you know this. each time you tease her with a sexy text, she replies with a middle finger emoji or a phone call, knowing that her virtual dirty talk would only make you laugh more than it would make you horny.

you return to your project, scouring the guidebook for an answer, halfheartedly picking at your sandwich. you get up to stretch and do a loop around the floor, take a quick bathroom break, and chat with riley. when you return, you're surprised to see a response from sevika.

when you unlock your phone, you nearly pass out.

sevika did it. she actually did it. granted, you haven't pressed play on the video yet, but from the thumbnail (sevika's hand wrapped around her rock hard cock, a little drip of pre escaping the tip) you can pretty safely assume that sevika's actually taken your prompt to heart.

you gulp.

then you scramble to your feet, running out of the copier room to sevika's office, slamming and locking the door behind you before pulling down the curtains. for a second, you just stand there, staring at the tantalizing video on your phone, and then you jump into action, sprawling out on her couch and shoving your hand down your pants as you click play.

'you're lucky you're cute, y'know. this shit is ridiculous.' sevika narrates to the camera as she gently jerks her cock. eight inches long and not even fully hard yet-- not because she's not aroused, but because it takes a cock that big so fucking long to fill up with blood-- her cock's standing proud in her hand as she steadily, slowly jerks it.

you bite your lip.

sevika's foreskin is bunching up tantalizingly around her head, before being pulled back down around her shaft as her hand moves. she knows how obsessed you are with the flap of skin, obsessed with how sensitive it is. 'you're such a pervert.' sevika's breathy voice scolds, like she's reading your mind.

you gulp as your fingers start tracing circles around your clit, matching the slow pace of sevika's hand.

the small drip of precum on her head starts growing, before it slowly, slowly drips down her shaft until it's swiped up by sevika's grip. her pace is increasing, her breaths coming out shaky from behind the camera. 'shoulda just stayed home, this coulda been your hand. fuck, or your mouth. or your cunt, shit.' sevika curses as she imagines you. 'fuck, i wish you were here, baby.' she whispers. 'fuckin' miss you.'

your cunt clenches around nothing, and you bite your lip to muffle a moan as you dip your fingers down to tease your hole.

sevika's pace is quick now, her cock is throbbing in her grip. for a moment, she lets go, gives you a full, unobstructed view of her girthy, twitching dick. then, you can hear her spit in her hand, and when her fingers wrap around her cock again, it grows wet and shiny.

she's close. you are too.

sevika's breaths are quick and shaky, she lets out little grunts and curses each time she swipes her thumb over the head of her cock. 'look how fuckin' messy 'y make me, honey.' sevika grunts. 'look how wet i am for you.' she moans. 'you drive me insane. can't believe you left me all alone this morning. i had plans y'know-- fuck-- plans to fuck you all day long.'

your cunt flutters around your fingers, and muffled wet sounds start filling sevika's office with each thrust of your fingers.

''m gonna split you in half when you get home. gonna fuck you so hard you can't walk-- then you won't be able to leave me. just keep you on the fuckin' bed, all fucked out, all your holes drippin' in cum and gaping-- beggin' for me-- shit!' sevika groans. her balls are tightening beneath her hand, her cock leaking more and more pre. 'fuck, you're not even here and you're drivin' me crazy. 'm so fuckin' close.'

"fuck, please." you whisper to your phone as you watch your girlfriend approach her orgasm.

'miss you so much baby. wish you were here, wish y' could lick up my cum.' she moans as she finally cums, coating her knuckles in rope after rope of her thick white cum.

you cum at the sight of it, your back arching off the couch and a high pitched whine escaping your lips. you don't take your eyes off of your phone, watching as sevika drains her balls and makes a mess of herself.

for a few moments, you can hear sevika's huffing breaths as she recovers from her orgasm. her thigh twitches, and her cock begins to grow flaccid, and she sighs, satisfied and sleepy. she pulls her hand away from her cock, giving you a good show of the cum coating her fingers, before flipping the camera around and winking at you. then, the camera cuts to black.

you flop on you back, panting as you stare at the ceiling. fuck. you think. i'm going home, fuck this. sevika can buy a new copier on monday.

before you get up to leave, you pull your fingers out of your pants and open your camera app to selfie mode. you take a quick video, showing off the strings of cum that glisten and cling to your fingers, before sinking them into your mouth and licking them clean. you moan at the camera, popping your fingers out of your mouth then smirking. "be home soon, honey." you say with a wink.

you send the video off then rise to your shaky legs, grabbing your bag and heading to the exit. when you get to your car, your phone pings again.

'cant wait ;)' sevika says.

you grin.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #sevika smut

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 6 days ago

Text

Adam Zyglis@adamzyglis :: More than he can chew…

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

May 9, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

May 10, 2025

Yesterday afternoon, President Donald Trump withdrew his nomination for interim U.S. attorney Ed Martin to become U.S. attorney in Washington D.C., the top federal prosecutor in the nation’s capital. A Missouri political operative with no experience as a prosecutor, Martin defended the January 6 rioters and fired the prosecutors who had worked on their cases, threatened to investigate Democrats and critics, and hosted a notorious antisemite on his podcast. His nomination proved too much for Senator Thom Tillis (R-NC), who joined all the Democrats on the Senate Judiciary Committee to oppose his confirmation, deadlocking the committee and blocking the nomination.

Trump announced he was moving Martin into three roles that do not require Senate confirmation. He will become the new director of the Weaponization Working Group at the Department of Justice, an associate deputy attorney general, and a pardon attorney. “In these highly important roles, Ed will make sure we finally investigate the Weaponization of our Government under the Biden Regime, and provide much needed Justice for its victims,” Trump posted on social media.

To replace Martin, Trump has tapped Fox News Channel host Jeanine Pirro, who is passionately loyal to him. He noted among her qualifications that she “hosted her own Fox News Show, Justice with Judge Jeanine, for ten years, and is currently Co-Host of The Five, one of the Highest Rated Shows on Television.”

Matt Gertz of Media Matters for America recalls that the Fox News Channel took Pirro off the air after the 2020 election because of her conspiracy-theory-filled rants. In emails turned up in the defamation suit against the Fox News Channel for pushing the lie that voting machines had tainted the election results, her executive producer called her “nuts” and a “reckless maniac,” who “should never be on live television.” That lawsuit cost the Fox News Channel $787 million.

A similar scenario played out earlier this week when Trump withdrew his nomination of former Fox News Channel contributor Dr. Janette Nesheiwat for surgeon general, the officer who oversees the nation’s public health professionals. Nesheiwat is the sister-in-law of former national security advisor Mike Waltz, let go after he admitted a journalist to a group chat about a military strike on the Houthis in Yemen. As Anthony Clark reported in The Last Campaign, she had falsely represented her “medical education, board certifications, and military service.”

Trump’s replacement pick for surgeon general, Casey Means, did not finish her residency and is not currently licensed as a doctor but has embraced the anti-vax positions of Secretary of Health and Human Services Robert F. Kennedy Jr., including his thoroughly debunked claim that vaccines cause autism. Still, she is not extreme enough for some of Kennedy’s followers, who are unhappy with the nomination.

When asked yesterday why he had nominated her, Trump answered: “Because Bobby thought she was fantastic…. I don’t know her. I listened to the recommendation of Bobby.” Today, Casey Means’s brother Calley, a White House advisor, went after Trump ally Laura Loomer for opposing the nomination, posting on social media that he had “[j]ust received information that Laura Loomer is taking money from industry to scuttle President Trump’s agenda.” Loomer responded: “You’re so full of sh*t.”

The administration appears not to be able to attract the caliber of federal officials to which Americans have become accustomed.

Federal Bureau of Investigation director Kash Patel, who did not have experience in law enforcement when he took the job, has drawn criticism from current and former officials in the FBI and the Department of Justice, which oversees the FBI, for reducing FBI briefings, traveling frequently on personal matters, and appearing repeatedly at pro sporting events.

Yesterday Patel showed up at a hearing for the Senate Appropriations Commerce, Justice, and Science Subcommittee on the FBI’s spending plan for 2025, but he had not produced the plan, which by law was supposed to have been turned over more than a week ago. When Senator Patty Murray (D-WA) called the absence of the plan “absurd” and asked Patel when they could expect the plan, he answered he did not have a timeline.

Stacey Young, a former DOJ lawyer who co-founded Justice Connection, which supports current and former DOJ employees under pressure from the administration, told NBC’s Ken Dilanian: “There’s a growing sense among the ranks that there’s a leadership void. And that the highest echelons of the bureau are more concerned about currying favor with the president, retribution, and leaks than the actual work.”

Senator Chris Murphy (D-CT) took Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem even more fully to task. At a meeting of the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on Homeland Security yesterday, Murphy told Noem: “[Y]our department is out of control. You are spending like you don’t have a budget,” he said. “You are on the verge of running out of money for the fiscal year…. You're on track to trigger the Anti-Deficiency Act. That means you are going to spend more money than you have been allocated by Congress. This is a rare occurrence, and it is wildly illegal. Your agency will be broke by July, over two months before the end of the fiscal year.”

The obsession with the border, he continued, “has left the country unprotected elsewhere…. To fund the border, you have illegally gutted spending for cybersecurity. As we speak, Russian and Chinese hackers are having a field day attacking our nation. You have withdrawn funds for disaster prevention. Storms are going to kill more people in this country because of your illegal withholding of these funds.”

On Wednesday, Customs and Border Patrol confirmed that it had been using the communication app TeleMessage, which was a clone of Signal and which was hacked earlier this week. On Tuesday, Senator Ron Wyden (D-OR) asked Attorney General Pam Bondi to investigate “the government’s use of TeleMessage Archiver,” which “seriously threatens U.S. national security.”

Last night, New Jersey’s Newark Liberty International Airport suffered another 90-second radar blackout at 3:55 am. On May 6, Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy took to social media to blame his predecessor in the Biden administration for the troubles in the airline system.

Hugo Lowell of The Guardian reported today that the White House is so fed up with the turmoil around Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth it will not permit him to name his own new chief of staff after his first one resigned last month.

Tim Marchman of Wired reported yesterday that Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard failed to follow basic cybersecurity protocol, reusing “the same weak password on multiple accounts for years.”

The administration appears chaotic, but far from taking the chaos in hand, President Trump appears happy to let others take the reins. As his tariffs are beginning to bite, today he suggested his worry about the economic fallout by posting “CHINA SHOULD OPEN UP ITS MARKET TO USA—WOULD BE SO GOOD FOR THEM!!! CLOSED MARKETS DON’T WORK ANYMORE!!!” Five minutes later, he posted: “80% Tariff on China seems right! Up to Scott B.”

The Constitution gives Congress alone the power to set tariffs. Trump seized that power for himself by declaring an emergency. Now he appears to be handing that power to Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent, likely so that he can blame Bessent when things go poorly.

Today, in the latest legal setback for the Trump regime on immigration, a federal judge in Vermont ordered the government to release Tufts University graduate student Rümeysa Öztürk from custody. Agents arrested Öztürk, a Turkish national, on March 25, claiming that she had been engaged with associations that “may undermine U.S. foreign policy by creating a hostile environment for Jewish students.” U.S. District Judge William Sessions III noted that the government provided no evidence for that assertion aside from a 2024 op-ed Öztürk wrote for the school newspaper criticizing the university’s response to the crisis in Gaza. She was freed this evening and will have to pursue her case before an immigration judge.

As the administration has lost repeatedly in court, officials appear to be upping the ante in their attempts to traumatize migrants and increase its power, but it remains unclear who is calling the shots. Amy McKinnon of Politico reported today that Trump has sat for only 12 “daily” intelligence briefing sessions since he took office, and does not read his written daily intelligence report.

On Tuesday, Reuters reported that the U.S. was preparing to send migrants to prison in Libya. On Wednesday, U.S. District Judge Brian Murphy issued an order stopping the removal, saying such renditions would clearly violate a court order. Migrants from Asia sat on a military plane on the tarmac in Texas for hours before being taken off the plane and bussed back to detention.

When a reporter asked Trump if his administration was sending migrants to Libya, he answered: “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask, uh, Homeland Security, please.”

Today, Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents arrested Newark, New Jersey, mayor Ras Baraka when he and three members of New Jersey’s congressional delegation stood outside a private ICE detention facility in Newark called Delaney Hall. New Jersey’s interim U.S. attorney, Trump loyalist Alina Habba, posted on social media that Baraka had “ignored multiple warnings from Homeland Security Investigations to remove himself from the ICE detention center…. He has willingly chosen to disregard the law.” But, as Tracey Tully, Luis Ferré-Sadurní, and Alyce McFadden of the New York Times reported, videos show him being arrested in a public area outside the facility.

Tully, Ferré-Sadurní, and McFadden report that in February, the administration signed a 15-year, $1 billion contract with GEO Group, which operates private prisons, to expand the Delaney Hall facility dramatically as an ICE prison. New Jersey officials have argued in federal court that GEO Group does not have the required permits to operate the expanded facility.

White House deputy chief of staff Stephen Miller told reporters today that voters elected Trump to “deport the illegals” and that “Marxist” judges frustrating that effort are attacking democracy. In fact, Trump convinced many voters that he would deport only violent criminals, and they are now aghast at the scenes unfolding as masked agents grab women and children from their cars and sweep up U.S. citizens.

In The Bulwark today, Adrian Carrasquillo explained how podcasters, sports YouTubers, and comedians, including Joe Rogan, have brought the rendition of Venezuelan migrants to El Salvador onto the radar screen of Trump voters. Americans now disapprove of Trump’s immigration policies by 53% to 46%.

Miller made an even bigger power grab when he said “we’re actively looking at” suspending the writ of habeas corpus, a legal change that essentially establishes martial law by permitting the government to arrest people and hold them without charges or a trial. Legal analyst Steve Vladeck explains that Miller’s justification for such a suspension is dead wrong, and suggests Miller’s threat appears to be designed to put more pressure on the courts.

But in this chaotic administration, it seems worth asking who the “we” is in Miller’s statement. In the group chat about striking the Houthis, when administration officials were discussing—without the presence of either the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the president himself—what was the best course of action, it was Miller who ultimately decided to launch a strike simply by announcing what he claimed were Trump’s wishes.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #Chaos #Steven Miller #false statements #lying #habeas corpus #legal challenges #unlawful #tariffs #rule of law #illegal #FOX news cabinet

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tj-dragonblade · 8 months ago

Text

[FIC] Loyalty Rewards Program

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 9204 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, top Hob, bottom Dream, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, Hob matches his freak, Bossy Dream, Agreeable Hob, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiatic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, there is a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet at one point, blatant disregard for typical human refractory periods, rimming, anal sex, felching-adjacent, inconsequential ingestion of lube, effusive endearments, dirty talk, overstimulation, anal fingering, help my hookup is growing feelings

Notes: Third in the Turbo Lover series (Customer Service and Every Nerve Alive on Tumblr, if AO3 is down). This one happened because Dream was insistent on getting properly fucked in the garage and I refuse to be the author who uses engine grease or motor oil for lube. This fills the free space (B2) on my @dreamlingbingo card, and is also the longest Sandman fic I've written to date.

Summary: Dream comes back to Matthew's Motor Repairs the next day and Hob gives him everything he asks for

On AO3 Hob re-locks the door as soon as he's ducked inside the shop the next morning; he's not opening for people today.

He has other obligations, after all.

He first makes a thorough job of cleaning and sweeping the floor around the Porsche. Whatever the plan today entails, he doesn't want to wind up kneeling on a bit of gravel or taking a stray hex nut to the arse cheek while he's fucking his rich admirer. Granted he may need to do a quick spot-sweep when Dream shows up—if Dream shows up—since he'll be working on the car in the meantime, but doing it now will make that faster.

…Of course Dream's going to show up, Hob's not worried. Guy was thirsty as fuck yesterday, he'll be back. He's got a car to pick up, after all, and speaking of, Hob had best make sure it's ready.

He strips out of his clothes and dons his coveralls nude, leaves them unzipped to the waist, not even bothering to keep his underwear today. It's cooler than yesterday but still plenty warm, and this will make things faster once Dream shows up. He's pretty sure Dream will appreciate the aesthetic, also.

Hob whistles to himself working under Dream's Porsche, finishing up the clutch replacement that he hadn't quite been able to focus on after Dream left yesterday. It's quick work to wrap it up and he makes sure to let grease smears accumulate on his arms and maybe he deliberately puts a couple of artistically-placed smudges on his chest, for fun.

With the clutch done, he moves on to changing the oil, flushing and refilling the other fluids, and giving the car a general tuneup. The Porsche is a beautiful machine and Hob's thrilled to have the chance to work on her.

He's thrilled to have the chance to work on her owner, too.

When the shop bell rings, Hob's heart leaps. He's just got the car all closed up and down from the ramps and done another quick sweep so assuming that's Dream, and it should be, his timing is perfect. He winds his way to the front, zipping up his coveralls just in case and opening the door.

Dream is there on the other side, as breathtakingly gorgeous as Hob remembers. "Am I the 'special circumstances'?" he asks, coy and smouldering as he taps the handwritten sign Hob had pasted in the window—Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances; ring if you have an appointment.

"The specialist of circumstances," Hob agrees, effervescent joy and lust bubbling up inside him, spilling into his smile. "Closed up so I'm all yours. Entirely at your service."

"Wonderful," Dream purrs, stepping through the door. "For I am desperately in need of the services of a good mechanic."

Hob pulls the door closed after him, ensures it's latched in and that it's still locked, then turns with a grin. "You've come to the right place then, love. I'm at your disposal, one hundred percent, and I will personally see to your complete satisfaction. Guaranteed." He winks.

Dream steps in closer, tilts his head just enough to gaze up heatedly from beneath his lashes, toys with the tab of the zipper at Hob's collarbone. "Do you offer such comprehensive personal service to all your customers?" He's slowly drawing the zip down as he speaks.

Hob's heartrate picks up and his breath goes a bit short. "Oh no, this comes special with our uh, our loyalty rewards program," he manages, with his best charm-the-customer smile. The dainty fingertips unzipping his coveralls are very distracting.

Dream stops once he's exposed Hob's chest hair, rakes his nails through it lightly, skirting the grease smeared above it. "But this is the first time I have brought my patronage to your shop," he counters, with the prettiest little pout.

Hob shakes his head. "See I count twice; you tried out my services yesterday and found them satisfactory enough to come back today. And I'm very sure, if I meet your exacting standards, I can earn your repeat business. So I'll opt you in, because I have that much confidence in the quality of my work."

He's mixing his references clumsily, the car repairs and the sex getting muddled together, but Dream is smiling all the same. "Let us hope your confidence is not misplaced, then," he says, voice dipping lower in that way that makes Hob's stomach tighten delightfully. "I should hate to be granted such privilege unduly."

With that, Dream draws the zipper down more, then turns and steps away, casting a come-hither glance over his shoulder as he sashays toward the door into the garage. Hob, unzipped to the waist and hard already, is hot to follow, but first—

He tears the sign from the window, hangs the normal 'Closed' sign in its place, double-checks the lock and throws the deadbolt for good measure. He rounds the reception desk and logs into the phone system, makes sure the auto-answer is set to the 'closed unexpectedly' option, and sets the ringer to after-hours so it'll go straight to messages instead of ringing through. Not that he'd be stopping in the middle of whatever they're about to be doing to answer the phone, but this way they're guaranteed no distractions, no interruptions. Then he hurries after Dream.

Dream is completely naked when he gets back to the garage, leaning pale and pretty and barefoot against the side of his Porsche with his arms loosely folded and his cock hanging ready, half-hard, beautiful.

"Well hello, gorgeous," Hob says, unabashedly enthusiastic as he approaches, wondering if he's meant to just dive in or wait for a cue, if he's allowed to pull Dream into his arms and start with a kiss. His gaze falls to the delicate arches of Dream's feet, the soft pale curves of his toes (with black-painted nails!), and he's really glad he swept up first.

"You occupy my thoughts incessantly, Hob Gadling," Dream says, pushing off the car and stepping close to Hob again, hands reaching to toy with the open edges of his coveralls.

"Do I, now?" Hob decides on a caution-to-the-wind approach and snakes an arm around Dream's waist, raises a dirt-stained thumb to brush over his cheek. Dream hadn't hesitated yesterday to say what he did and didn't want; Hob will trust him to do the same today. "They're good thoughts, I hope?"

"Very," Dream breathes, gripping the coveralls, tugging marginally; his eyes are dark, his pale cheeks faintly flushed with excitement, his pretty pink lips slightly parted, and Hob sees no reason to resist the temptation presented.

The noise Dream makes when Hob kisses him is soft, eager, encouraging, and Hob presses closer, lets both hands play over Dream's bare skin, up and down his spine. Dream is kissing back, heated and insistent; he slips both hands inside Hob's coveralls, around his waist and down to grasp his arse cheeks, squeeze appreciatively, pull him closer.

Hob breaks away with a gasp, delighted and impossibly turned on; Dream squeezes again, nips at the scruff on his chin. "You are not wearing any underwear today, Hob," he murmurs, in a tone of pleased discovery, and Hob can't help grinning.

"Thought you might appreciate it," he says, breathless, hands stroking up and down Dream's biceps, leaving faint smudges behind. "Makes things a bit faster, easier—"

"And are you easy, Hob Gadling?"

"Only for you," he answers, which is truer than it would have been two weeks ago. "God, you smell good today—" He really does, floral-herbal freshness wafting from his hair, faint notes of soap and a light cologne lingering on his skin; Hob lets instinct shape his words. "So clean and pretty, too; come down to the garage to get properly dirty, have we?"

The way Dream shivers against him tells him that was indeed the right thing to say.

"Perhaps," Dream replies, and squeezes Hob's arse again. "I very much appreciate your wardrobe choices, in that regard." He brings his hands around front, one dipping to cup Hob's dick while the other draws the zipper all the way down underneath.

"Thought you might," Hob manages, while Dream's slender fingertips touch his balls, stroke with gentle pressure, and then Dream is moving, grasping at the shoulders of Hob's coveralls and pushing them off.

"I would feel you, bare, against me," is what he says, which sounds like a fine idea to Hob. He struggles briefly with the rolled-up sleeves but as soon as his arms are free Dream is in them, pressing up against him, kissing him fiercely and completely derailing any attempt at getting the coveralls all the way off.

Fuck it, Hob decides, letting them just fall around his legs as he wraps Dream close and kisses him back, hungry and insistent to match Dream's fervor. He backs him up a step, two, until Dream's narrow arse hits the Porsche again and he squirms prettily, his cock nudging up against Hob's as they break the kiss, panting.

"Over the bonnet then, love?"

Dream shakes his head, an effortlessly imperious little gesture. "I wish to ride you, first." He gestures to the creeper. "Please."

Clearly, clearly Dream's got some very specific fantasies about cars and mechanics and Hob is delighted that he gets to help make them happen. "Absolutely," he grins, shuffling down into position on the board.

Dream grabs a condom and a bottle of lube from where he'd stashed them between the windscreen and the bonnet and drops next to Hob. Which is just as well since Hob's supplies are with his clothes in the locker on the other side of the garage; he leans back on his elbows as Dream tears open the condom and rolls it onto him.

"You've got such pretty hands," he breathes, shivering at the glide of Dream's touch along his shaft, and doesn't miss the breath Dream sucks in at the compliment. "Gonna show me how you use those fingers to open yourself up? Or do I get to do that for you, hm?"

"Neither," Dream answers, rising and turning to lean over the side of the bonnet, which confuses Hob for half a second until he speaks again.

"Spread me open," he directs, and Hob is only to happy to sit up and comply, to see the greasy smudge of his fingerprints smeared on Dream's lily-white arse—

Dream is wearing a plug.

Hob's libido, already cranked to eleven, ratchets up another notch. "Oh, fuck," he breathes reverently, wide-eyed. Dream had put that in at home, had come here sitting on it, walking with it inside him, just to be ready for Hob's cock?

Christ, but that's hot.

He watches raptly as Dream's slender fingers grip the wide base and start pulling; he takes his time and Hob gets to just hold him open and watch as Dream's hole slowly stretches around the flare of the thing, bigger and bigger until it finally passes the widest point and slides the rest of the way free, and the hungry little sound of relief Dream makes as it comes out makes Hob's dick ache.

He desperately wants to slip his tongue in there, wriggle it into the shrinking gape and let Dream's body close to grip snugly around him, but Dream is a man on a mission, and that mission is getting Hob's prick inside him. He straightens up, turns and straddles Hob, fingertips to Hob's chest pressing him down as Dream squats over his lap. He drops the plug aside, reaches behind to take Hob's slicked-up rubber-wrapped cock and guide it into his body as he comes down, and the sound he makes plus the tight warm sheath of his arse have Hob absolutely riveted.

Dream lifts himself, thighs straining and hand firmly on Hob's chest now, fucks himself up and down on Hob's prick while hovering over it, letting out the most decadent moans each time he sinks onto it. He'd said he wanted to ride Hob but he's only made it as far as squatting, like he's so desperate for Hob's cock he can't even wait to get all the way into proper position for it and Hob (and his dick) definitely feel some kind of way about it. Dream's own prick bobs stiff and eager in front of him, a little drop of fluid glistening at the tip already, and Hob almost wishes he was enough of a contortionist to get it in his mouth. Later, perhaps. Right now he's got this gorgeous creature pistoning eagerly on his cock and well on his way to losing his mind, from the sound of it.

Hob spreads both hands over the tops of Dream's thighs, feeling how they tremble with exertion, and finally draws them down, forward, coaxing Dream out of his squat and into a proper kneeling position. He shifts his grip to Dream's hips and pulls him onto his cock at the same time, all the way down until he's buried deep up inside and Dream is panting the breathiest little 'yes, yes, yes's as he bottoms out, eyes wide and glazed. His hand is still planted on Hob's chest and Hob takes it up carefully, draws it to his mouth and kisses Dream's fingertips; Dream whines, gaze sharpening and honing in on Hob's actions. Hob's lips brush the pads of those fingers as he speaks.

"Did you still want to ride me, darling? Or should I hold you still and start fucking up into that pretty little hole?"

Dream shivers, makes another needy little noise and draws himself up on Hob's cock, sinks back down, does it again, and again, faster, harder, until he's panting breathless moans on every pass. His hands are planted on Hob's chest, up near his shoulders next to the grease smeared beneath his collarbone, and Hob rests his hands at Dream's hips, ready to take up the slack if he's needed.

Dream rides like a pro, to be honest, finding his rhythm and moving steadily in pursuit of his pleasure. His arse is snug and hot and slick, his voice like a song as he glides so easily up and down on Hob's prick; he feels amazing, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe as it goes on and on, to keep a rein on his own pleasure until Dream's gotten everything he needs.

At last Dream's pace begins to falter, his panting moans stuttering into broken little whimpers as he flags in his feverish bouncing. "Hob," he whines, arse wriggling lower, his fingers clutching at Hob's chest hair. "You feel. So good, inside me—"

"Do I?" Hob breathes, fingertips brushing over Dream's flanks, and it's weak, so weak as far as dirty talk goes but he can't help it. He's enamoured, struck senseless by how into this Dream is, and words are failing him.

"Yes—" Dream squirms forward and back, circles his hips beneath Hob's attentive grease-stained hands, moans prettily. "Hob, please—"

He doesn't even have to specify, it's clear enough what he's after now, and Hob moves to grip him properly, to lift him just slightly. He clutches tight, fingertips digging in to what little meat there is on Dream's arse, plants his boots on the concrete floor and thrusts up into him.

Dream cries out, clenches his fists on Hob's shoulders and throws his head back, chest heaving. Hob draws out and thrusts again, full force, and again, and Dream shudders, gasping, delighted. "Hob—yes—yes—" He squeezes tight around Hob's prick and groans, drops his head to meet Hob's gaze with fever-bright eyes. "Fuck me—I want—"

"Tell me," Hob breathes, mesmerized, shifting his feet for better leverage and thrusting into him again, and Dream warbles beautifully.

"Faster. Deeper—as hard and as deep as you can, Hob—!"

"'Course, love," Hob gasps, hips moving to comply with barely a thought, and Dream's voice rises into a long keening wail as Hob gives him precisely what he's asked for.

"Yes—yes—yes—!" He tosses his head back again, the arch of his throat working beautifully as he chokes out 'yes' after 'yes', arms stiff and trembling, hands still braced tight on Hob's shoulders.

Hob grunts with exertion, pounding up into Dream with everything he's got, thighs damp and sticking slightly where they press against Dream's. He's transfixed by the rapture in Dream's face, the sheen of sweat on his neck and chest, the stream of noises coming out of his pretty mouth; he looks and sounds like having Hob's cock in him is the best thing ever, like it's everything he wanted, and Hob is fast falling in love with how expressive he is about sex.

Dangerous thoughts, those; he puts them far away, concentrates on pumping hard and fast and deep up into Dream's lovely arse to make him come. He's careful still not to come himself; Dream has clearly got plans and it's his job to stay hard as long as Dream needs his cock.

"Hob—Hob—ahh, don't stop, Hob—!"

Hob squeezes Dream's arse, spreading his cheeks just a tiny bit more, and shifts the tempo down slightly, fucks up into him long and smooth, deep, steady. Dream wails, lost in the pleasure of it, and droops suddenly to lay over Hob's chest, a graceful fall into an open kiss interspersed with Dream's panting and whimpering. Hob shifts his hips to accommodate the changed angle and Dream sobs into his mouth, needy, desperate. His prick is nestled against Hob's belly, wet at the tip, hot and hard and Dream is moving helplessly as Hob fucks him, rutting through the hair on Hob's stomach in little jerks. He's tense in Hob's arms, trembling, skin damp with sweat all over and Hob thinks he could do this forever if he had to, fucking this gorgeous creature curled atop him but he doesn't have to, he knows, he can tell, Dream is nearly there—

Dream goes rigid abruptly, breath choking in his throat as his mouth opens wider, still meshed to Hob's. A high thin sound trickles out of his throat and Hob laps it up, fucks into him once, twice, again, and then Dream convulses with a wail, wet warmth blooming on Hob's belly. He buries himself as deep into Dream as he can and holds it there, flexes against the rhythmic clutching of Dream's arse around him, kisses Dream through the tremors and pulses of orgasm until he goes limp.

He spends a moment petting up and down Dream's spine then while Dream lies boneless atop him, catching his breath. He's still warm and tight around Hob's dick, perfect and tempting and—

And heavier than he looks, honestly; Hob shifts to take him by the shoulders, lifts him off his chest just a bit. Dream takes the cue, raises himself somewhat, blinks the haze from his eyes as he meets Hob's. The smile on his lips quickly sharpens to something simmering with heat, but Hob saw. He saw that glimpse of softness, the glow of bliss on Dream's face and he feels the way his heart trips, knows he's losing his battle.

There's a faint smudge of grease on Dream's forehead that probably came from Hob's collarbone and his dick twitches to see it. Dream shivers and squeezes around him and Hob sighs, a full and happy sound.

"You're pretty when you come," he says, gathering his wits about him again. He smears his hand through the mess on his stomach, picks up a little grease from just beside it, reaches to cradle Dream's face. "So, so pretty." He strokes his fingers back through Dream's hair, leaving a faint black smudge and sticky colorless smears on his cheekbone and more than a trace of filth in his hair.

"Only when I come?" It's a tease, accompanied by a gentle squeeze around him, and Hob shivers.

"'Course not," he murmurs, flexing his dick in response, delighted by the shiver that runs through Dream in turn. "You're pretty when you're bouncing on my cock, too. And when you tell me what you want me to do to you. And yesterday." He flexes again, warming to the topic. "You looked so pretty yesterday, with grease smeared on your face and my prick in your mouth."

Dream makes a pleased sound, squeezes his arse around Hob again, and Hob is more than ready to carry on, if Dream is. He strokes his thumb over the tacky mess on Dream's cheek. "Can I dirty you up some more, beautiful? Make you come for me again?"

"I should be very disappointed if you did not, Hob Gadling," Dream purrs, and there's that imperious little smirk again, the one Hob is already too attached to.

He'll give this man whatever he wants, and love every second of it.

"What next, then, sweetheart?" He's slowly pulsing up into Dream now in unhurried rhythm, too leisurely to be called fucking but ready to pick up the pace in a heartbeat. "Keep going like this?" The creeper is getting a bit uncomfortable, truth be told, and he wouldn't mind getting up off the floor but if Dream's not done yet he'll tough it out.

"No." Thankfully Dream sits all the way up, wriggles deliciously on Hob's cock, bottomed out and heavy-eyed with the pleasure of having it so deep inside him. "Next, I would have you—ahh—" He squirms, back arching, mouth falling open as Hob gives in to the temptation of dragging the rough grease-stained pad of his thumb over one pristine petal pink nipple. "Bend—bend me over the bonnet. Fuck me until I scream—Hob—!" He's panting as Hob caresses the tender little bud of flesh, writhing as if he could take Hob any deeper.

Hob shivers. "Fuck. Alright. As you wish, you precious beautiful man—" He lifts Dream's hips, lifts Dream off his cock as he sits up, then wraps one arm under Dream's narrow arse and heaves them both up with a grunt of exertion, his other hand braced on the car for support. It's awkward as fuck with his coveralls still wadded about his ankles and he can tell already his back and thighs are going to hate him for it tomorrow, but it's entirely worth it for the arousal that flares in Dream's widened eyes, the way he clings and wraps his legs around Hob, the way he surges in to kiss Hob again.

Hob shuffles round the front of the car using his one hand for guidance while Dream devours his mouth, and carefully lowers Dream onto the bonnet. He knows it's not the position Dream was looking for but he can't help slipping his cock back into him like this, when Dream is still wrapped around him and ripe for the plowing.

Dream breaks the kiss with a reedy little whining noise as Hob nudges inside him and sinks deep; he claws at Hob's shoulders and draws his legs back, open and practically begging and alright, okay, Hob can give him a good minute like this first, fucks into him in soft smooth rhythm. Dream's pretty pink cock is stiffening up again already, laying thick and half-filled against his belly and jolting with every thrust; he's panting open-mouthed, the sweetest little sounds falling out of him each time Hob pushes in.

"You're gorgeous like this too," Hob gets out, needing the talk to divide his focus, to keep himself going without risk of finishing. "So eager, so open, so fuckable—" Dream shudders, biting off a deep whine at the word, leaned back and still hanging onto Hob's shoulders for support, feet braced on his hips, and Hob zeroes in on his advantage. "Has no one ever called you that before, sweetheart? Fuckable?"

"None I would care to hear it from," Dream moans, pulling himself up closer, disrupting Hob's rhythm. "But. From your lips. It sounds like a benediction—" He kisses Hob, tongue plunging into his mouth, arms wrapping tight behind Hob's neck. His legs shift also, wrapping back around Hob's waist and he pulls himself close, up off the car as Hob gets his arms quickly underneath to support him.

"Give a bloke an ego, talking like that," he gasps, when Dream lets him up for air.

"It's well-deserved," Dream counters, nipping at his lower lip and shifting his weight so that Hob steps back to keep them balanced. "You are exquisite, and talented with your dick, and I wish to be so deeply and thoroughly fucked over my car that I will still feel you inside me tomorrow." He plunges his tongue back into Hob's mouth and unlocks his legs from around him, lets Hob set him back on his feet.

"Do you need a refresh on your lube first?" Hob gasps, mindful of what they've already done and what Dream still wants from him and the serviceable life of water-based lube.

Dream pauses, considering. "Perhaps," he says, with the restlessness of someone eager to get back into action but recognizing the wisdom of the question regardless.

Hob leans around him and reaches, snags the lube off the bonnet. "Let me slick you up a bit more just to be safe." He glances at his hands, perpetually stained and still dirty enough to leave smudges on Dream's skin. "Or you can, since your hands are cleaner?"

"Yes," Dream agrees, taking the bottle and squirting some out. He reaches behind himself and Hob gets to watch his face flicker through half a dozen little expressions; he's clearly moving for function over pleasure but there's enjoyment to be had all the same, from the look of it.

"There." Dream straightens as he finishes, eyes Hob with new heat in his gaze. "Are you clean."

"What?"

Dream narrows his eyes, clearly conveying both horniness and impatience in equal measure. "I am clean; I test regularly. I want your come inside me. Are. You. Clean."

Hob's libido flares, wildly. "Yes. Fuck. Yes, okay." Caution to the wind, and all that.

Dream reaches down and removes Hob's condom, drops it aside and picks up the lube again. He slicks up Hob's cock, kisses him fiercely while doing so, then turns and drapes himself over the bonnet of his Porsche and lifts up on his toes, arse presented. "Fuck me," he demands over his shoulder, breathless and eager like he hadn't just come bouncing on Hob's cock not ten minutes ago. Insatiable. "Hold me down with your work-dirtied hands and fuck me—"

Hob doesn't need to be told twice. He lines up and pushes in, bare slick and easy, all the way to the hilt. Dream makes the most appreciative and desperate little moan, wriggling backwards; Hob grabs his hip with one grease-stained hand, plants his other in the middle of Dream's narrow back and fucks.

Dream cries out, high gasping breaths punched from his lungs with every thrust and Hob just revels in it, moving in sure and steady rhythm. It's easy, so easy, smooth and slick and so good, and Dream's enthusiastic response is—it's heady, to have someone react to him this way, to want him this much, and he'll do everything he can to give Dream what he wants, to make it worth it. It's no hardship, far from it.

"Your arse is so hot," Hob pants, "so tight, absolutely perfect. Can't believe you wore that glass plug here so you'd be ready to get plowed." He grinds his hips deep in emphasis, draws out a little and relishes the way Dream whimpers when he slams back in. "Sweet of you, though. Did it turn you on, sitting on it in the cab? Feeling it move inside you when you walked? Were you horny and eager the whole way here, darling, stuffed full with your toy and imagining my prick in its place?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Dream cries, as much an answer as it is interjection. He's thrusting backward as best he can in Hob's hold, eager and desperate, and Hob keeps fucking, keeps talking.

"I loved watching you take it out. Your beautiful hole stretching bigger and bigger around it, how open you were after. Wanted to stick my tongue in there, sweetheart, wanted to eat you out, make you squirm."

Dream is gasping, wailing, trembling where Hob pins him to the car, head tossing, breath heaving under Hob's steady hand. His cock is surely leaking a mess all over the bonnet; Hob'll have to clean it for him again when they're done.

"You've got the prettiest little hole I've ever seen," Hob continues, steady and unflagging in his rhythm. He leans back, drags both hands to Dream's arse cheeks and squeezes, spreads them so he can easily see himself sinking in, his naked prick pushing and pulling at the puffy pink rim of Dream's hole again and again. He slows, savoring the sight, and Dream whines, clenches around him as he presses back in. "Absolutely beautiful," Hob breathes, thumb moving to stroke over the delicate skin stretched tight around the girth of his prick. "Exquisite. I'm so lucky I get to ravish it."

He knows on one hand he sounds ridiculous as he picks up the pace again, but on the other it's doing the trick on both counts—distracting him from his own pleasure to draw it out, and driving Dream higher at the same time.

And Dream is absolutely being driven to the heights of pleasured madness, that much is clear. He's writhing on the bonnet under Hob's steady pounding, fingers clutching futilely at the glossy surface, skin flushed and sweat-damp and sticking to the car, ribs heaving. And the sounds coming out of his mouth? Good god, he's noisy, so fucking loud and it's not like Hob doesn't love it, not like there's anyone around to hear or any other reason to hold back. It does great things for his ego, the way Dream's wailing like he's never been railed this good in his life, but Hob's got an idea and his instincts say it's spot-on, so he goes for it.

He claps his hand—still grimy from the tune-up, still a little tacky with Dream's come—he claps it gently over Dream's mouth, stifling his volume, and Dream jolts, then goes wild. His head goes all the way back, giving Hob easier coverage; his breath comes short and sharp through his nose, faster and faster in time with his cries that go higher and shriller, muffled by Hob's not-exactly-clean hand. His body has gone tense, trembling, hips thrusting back against Hob's with mounting desperation and god, but Hob is in love. "That's it, sweetheart, come for me again," he murmurs breathlessly, bending close to Dream's ear and the dried mess on his cheek and squeezing his hip, flexing the hand that covers his mouth. "Take your fill of my cock, shoot your load all over your car—I'll clean it again for you, don't worry—"

Dream stills abruptly, shaking, voice a strangled muffled shriek as he comes; Hob thrusts deep into his pulsing clenching arse and holds, intending to let Dream ride out his orgasm. But Dream wriggles, wrenches his head free of Hob's hand, gasping.

"Move—don't stop—"

So Hob moves.

He straightens up and sets both hands back on Dream's hips, fucks eagerly into him, quickly re-establishing his rhythm and speeding up. "Good?" he grunts, sweat dripping down his temple, and Dream warbles out an affirmative.

"Harder—Hob—use me, claim me, fill me—!" His voice shakes; his hands are spasming against the bonnet, his arms trembling, and his arse is so tight and slick and hot, clenches so beautifully around him, Hob isn't going to last but another moment.

"Use your pretty little hole for my own pleasure?" he gets out, pounding into it now with everything he's got, spiraling up to the horizon, and Dream sobs.

"Yes, Hob, yes—!"

"Claim it for myself?" Hob gasps, grinding deep, slamming into him again and again. "Fill you up with my come—ahh—here it is—Dream!"

Dream wails, and Hob comes, gasping, grunting, the euphoria sweeping through his veins in a warm rush. His hips jerk involuntarily, shoving deep, emptying himself thoroughly into Dream's clutching arse.

"Fuck," he pants, pulse pounding in his ears, "oh, fuck—"

It's good, so damn good, feels like it goes on forever, everything in his body alight with pleasure and pouring out through his dick, until at long last it subsides and he collapses, barely catching himself before he crushes Dream. He takes a minute, just panting above him, and then pulls out carefully—still wet and messy, regardless—with a groan. Dream whimpers, a sound of abject loss, but does not move from where he has gone limp on the car.

Hob turns carefully to perch beside him, resting his arse on the bonnet, catching his breath.

"Alright there, Dream?" he asks, after a moment.

"Mmh," is the only reply, and Hob takes a moment to just look at him, gaze sweeping over the lines of his body and the grey-black smudges he himself has left on that pristine pale skin. He lingers over the curves (such as they are) of Dream's arse, leans far enough to see where there's a mess of lube and semen dribbling down Dream's perineum to his balls, a glistening runnel of it trickling down his inner thigh—Hob shivers, arousal sparking despite the remains of orgasm still simmering in his blood.

"Christ, you look beautiful like this," he can't help saying. "Fucked out across the bonnet of your Porsche with your legs spread, and my come dripping out of your arse…"

"Silver tongue." Dream does not move from where he sprawls, languid and heavy-lidded, spread-eagled on the car, even as Hob levers himself up, moves to stand behind Dream again.

"Mmyes, that's right. Said something about having a use in mind for it, didn't you?"

"Perhaps."

"'Perhaps' he says," Hob drawls, grinning, but the idea's back in his head now and oh, he would like to get his tongue in Dream's arse, lube or no lube. He saw the bottle, it's water-based, it's not going to kill him to lick a bit of it up. "Why don't you tell me if this is what you had in mind, then."

He drops into a squat and flicks the tip of his tongue around the puffy rim of Dream's messy and very-pink hole, circling it with a light touch, and the sound that Dream makes is nothing but encouraging. His own come is no particular delicacy but just like the lube, he doesn't mind that he's getting a taste in the course of eating out this beautiful man. Dream's hole is swollen with use and sensitive and Hob kisses it softly, wets his tongue and wriggles it in, gently at first with slurping licks in between but with increasing enthusiasm until Dream is squirming against his face and he's as deep as he can get, grease-stained hands gripping those milk-white cheeks and spreading them wide.

The keening noise Dream makes urges him on and he delves back in again and again, breathless and eager, feasting until his face is sticky and his jaw aches. Finally he draws back, panting, senses filled with the smell and the taste of this man and still, Dream remains insatiable.

"More. Hob, I want more, do not send me on my way so unsated—"

He has come twice, surely he is not sincere when he says 'unsated', and yet. Here he is, pleading for more, as needy and eager as he's been the whole time. And god, but Hob wants to give him everything, is itching to finger him out but he's not doing that when his hands are still dirty, he's just not. Nor is he going to make Dream wait while he scrubs down with the Swarfega. He casts about, thinking, tongue lapping soothingly around Dream's sloppy hole all the while; there's the plug Dream was wearing but it's been sitting on the shop floor so no; it's shaped for stretching more than fucking anyway. His fingers really would be best—

"Did you bring more than just the one condom?"

"Mmh?" Dream sounds keyed up and hazy, blissed out on the attentions of Hob's tongue and Hob smiles, plants a kiss over his hole.

"Condoms, love. Have you got another?"

"Yes. Trouser pocket—"

"And where did your trousers escape to?" He kisses again, flicks his fatigued tongue inside in a teasing lick.

"Front seat." Dream wriggles, needy, restless and wanting.

"Brilliant. Hang on, got an idea—" He scrambles up and around and finds the clothes rumpled in the Porsche's driver seat, rifles through the pockets for the promised condom and tears it open, slips it over his first two fingers as he shuffles round the front of the car again, coveralls still tangled in his boots. Dream is a vision sprawled face down and spread-legged on the bonnet, eyes tracking Hob's return, and Hob won't leave him waiting another instant.

"Here we are," he murmurs, condom-clad fingers sliding down the cleft of Dream's grease-smudged arse and slipping deftly into his hole still slick with lube and Hob's jizz, Hob's spit. Hob pushes deep, curves his touch down and massages, and Dream cries out, going rigid.

Grinning, Hob leans over the bonnet beside him, fingers working deep and steady, and watches Dream's prettily-dirtied face as he comes apart. He's mewling, eyes wide, mouth open and gasping; he's come twice already and his insides are swollen and sensitive, his pleasure easy to stoke to trembling heights. Hob shifts briefly to drizzle more lube in for good measure and then gives him no quarter, fingers steady and relentless in their attentions until Dream is shaking, sobbing, tears leaking from his eyes and saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. He pushes up on trembling arms, collapses back to his elbows, head hanging low between his shoulders. "Hob—aah—Hob, please!" It's unclear if he's begging for more or begging for mercy, but the way he flexes up on his toes and pushes back on Hob's hand is telling enough.

"Shh," Hob soothes, leaning close enough to brush his mouth across Dream's bicep in an open kiss, and then, because he can't help being just a touch evil: "Do you want to come again? Or did you need me to stop?"

"Do not stop," he manages, and it is very much an order despite his gasping breathless delivery. "Your hands are exquisite, Hob—!"

"You say the sweetest things," Hob murmurs, kissing his arm again and rubbing particularly hard with both fingers.

Dream wails, head tossing, trembling, helpless, and Hob draws his fingers partway out only to drive them back in, again and again and again, curving his touch to hit that spot on every thrust. He twists his hand as he goes, employing every expert technique he's honed in his time to bring Dream up to the edge again.

God, he loves this, having another person trust him with their pleasure and being able to give them everything they want and then some. It's heady, addictive to have this beautiful man sobbing in delight because of him, shaking apart, because of him; he desperately wants for this to not be the last time. Predictably, his mouth starts running again, pleading his case.

"You can have this anytime you like, love, I'd be delighted to take care of you again. Your pretty mouth, your pretty cock, this pretty perfect eager little hole—" He twists his fingers just so, curls and presses.

Dream warbles out a wet, broken sound that may or may not be Hob's name, bends trembling knees to widen his stance just a little, letting Hob that much deeper inside him.

Beautiful. Perfect.

"Come see me anytime you just need a good hard fuck, mmh? Whenever you want a fun and filthy seeing-too from your handsome bit of rough down at the garage?" He pauses with his fingers buried deep, strokes them fast and firm over exactly the right spot again and again and Dream wails, a high thin keening noise deep in his throat that rises into a proper scream as he comes at last. His body spasms, clenches hard on Hob's fingers in pulsing rhythm and Hob doesn't let up for a long moment, milks him relentlessly through it until he collapses onto the bonnet, boneless and panting.

Hob stills his fingers at that point but doesn't yet pull them out, savoring the snug warmth they're nestled in and the beautiful picture Dream makes like this.

He did that. He made Dream come three times, worked this posh pretty thing into a limp fucked-out mess sprawled across his expensive car.

God, but he wants to do it again.

"Do you think you've got one more in you?" He can't help it; he's always been greedy.

Dream groans, a low sound that stirs something deep in Hob's stomach. "Three times, Hob. I am spent." Yet he makes no move to rise from the car or pull off from Hob's hand, which he could easily do.

Greatly daring, tempted beyond reason by this ravenous marvelous creature, Hob twitches his fingers where they're still pressed against Dream's prostate.

Dream jerks, a shudder running through him, then squeaks when Hob does it again. "Hob—!" His eyes fly open, shining beneath his wet lashes.

"I'll stop if you say so," Hob hastens to assure him. "But you did chide me to not send you home unsated and I just want to make sure I've given you everything"—he presses again—"you need."

Dream whines through his teeth, sucks in a great gasping breath as Hob lets up and cries out when Hob's fingers curl mercilessly within him again, and again, and again. He scrabbles uselessly at the bonnet and lifts his head, mouth open, muscles straining, body trembling as Hob starts taking him apart again before he's even pulled himself back together from the last orgasm.

Hob's good with his hands, in this as well as his work, and he's quite certain he can make Dream come again in fairly short order given how sensitized and overstimulated he is. Hob is also quite certain he can draw this out just a bit longer, work him up even more before pushing him over the edge again and quite frankly, that sounds like more fun.

"Stay with me sweetheart," he murmurs in between Dream's cries, shifting his hand to stave off the cramp that wants to start. He strokes Dream's insides with both fingers, together at first and then one after the other; the condom and the grip of Dream's body restrict his range of movement somewhat but not so much that he can't do his job well.

"God, I'm so fucking lucky," he breathes, fingers still moving steadily, and kisses his way softly up Dream's arm. "You're beautiful, perfect, so pretty and so hungry and so eager—" He's planting kisses across Dream's shoulders and back between words, moving down his spine next. "And you let me touch you, worship your body, get you off again and again and again—" He bends over Dream's arse, draws his fingers partway free and spreads them as wide as the condom allows, stretching open Dream's swollen well-used hole. He dips close, slides his tongue into the gap he's created and Dream moans, gasping, trembling. Hob takes a good minute with his tongue before pulling back and sinking his fingers deep again. "This hole, this perfect hungry insatiable hole, you let me fill it as I please, with my cock and my come and my fingers—so lucky, I am. Would you let me fill you with toys, too, sweetheart? I'll bet you've got a drawerful at home; I'd love to try them with you one by one, learn the best ways to play with each, to make you scream and sob and shake—" He's massaging Dream's prostate again, thorough and unhurried and Dream is indeed sobbing, incoherent. He moves, suddenly, draws up one knee beneath him on the bonnet and then the other as Hob moves with him. He's up on all fours briefly and then sinks down, folded double on his knees with his arms stretched out to grip where the bonnet meets the windscreen and his arse opened wide, letting Hob's fingers sink as deep as possible.

"Finish me, Hob," he begs, gripping weakly around Hob's diligent fingers, voice hoarse and shaky, "make me—make me—fuck, I can't—I can't—" He sobs, trembling, and Hob. Well. He's neither a cruel man, nor strong in the face of temptation, and his hand is ready to give out as well. So he buries his fingers to the hilt, seeks out that spot and gives it his all, strokes it quick and steady and firm, both fingers together, then one after the other, together again and Dream's knees spread wide, his spent prick pressing soft against the bonnet. He's making one long sound now, low and thin and straining in his throat, interspersed with gasping gulps of breath. His body trembles, jolts every time Hob presses harder at his prostate, and Hob leans back over beside him, softly kisses the curve of his shoulder.

"I've got you, sweetheart, we're almost there," he breathes, fingering relentlessly. "Is it still good?"

"Yes—fuck—fuck—Hob!" Dream scrabbles one hand down in Hob's direction and Hob seizes it, laces their fingers together; Dream is sobbing, breathless, utterly wrecked and Hob's hand is giving out but he refuses to stop, to quit, not until—

Dream's body stiffens, convulses, bearing down on Hob's stuttering fingers in tremulous pulses and his voice has gone high, whistle-thin, and then he is gasping, tension falling out of him in a rush as he goes limp, breathing hard and heavy against the bonnet. Hob stills his aching hand at last, draws it out carefully and peels off the condom with his teeth, flings it aside. He'll clean up later. He stretches the cramping sensation from his hand and settles it lightly on Dream's still-heaving ribs, unable to keep from touching him even now that they're done.

"Alright, dove?" Hob asks, gently stroking up Dream's spine. "Can you move?" He gives a soft squeeze to their still-joined hands and is gratified to feel brief pressure in return. Dream turns his head, lifts it slightly; his eyes are wet, his hair sticking damply to his forehead and the grease smudge there; his mouth is open, a bit of drool still in the corner and Hob is helpless, gone, so fucking besotted and far too deeply attached for what this is. He dips in, kisses Dream with every soft emotion squirming captive in his chest and Dream just kisses him back, quiet, exhausted, willing.

"C'mere," Hob murmurs, straightening up, sitting back, leaning on the bonnet. He draws Dream after him, tucks him awkwardly up against his side and Dream allows it, nestles underneath his arm, still catching his breath.

This is the drawback to sex in the garage, Hob decides wryly; there is nowhere really suitable or comfortable for post-coital cuddles. He's seriously considering whether he can slide into the passenger seat of the Porsche with Dream in his lap when finally Dream stirs, lifts his head, shivers all over as he straightens and graces Hob with a small smile.

"I believe I will make use of your shop for all my future service needs," he says, primly, with a playful note underneath the exhaustion.

Hob laughs, hearty and full-bodied and joyous. "Glad to hear it," he says, when the laughter subsides. He's so utterly gone on this man, no matter how unlikely a pair they make, and he feels far too good right now to care about the future heartbreak he'll inevitably have to deal with.

He helps Dream down from the car then, steadies him on his feet and sees him around to the driver's seat where Dream first downs half the bottle of water he brought with him and then proceeds with re-dressing. Hob makes to get his coveralls pulled back up into place at that point but Dream stops him. "You promised to clean my spend off my car, I believe," he says, with that tone in his voice that makes Hob's insides go warm despite himself.

"Absolutely," he confirms, waiting, because there was clearly more forthcoming.

"I should like to see you with your trousers around your ankles and your arse on display while you do so." Dream blinks at him, all coquettish charm that is somehow enhanced by his disheveled and dirtied and half-dressed state. "If you are amenable, of course."

"I can do that for you," Hob agrees, delighted, even as he feels his face heat. It's not at all what he's used to but being ogled, being objectified—especially by his beautiful Dream—is no hardship, whatever his reason.

He finds a rag and the polish while Dream finishes putting himself back together and comes round the front of the Porsche again, and then Hob cleans up the bodily fluids on the bonnet, sweat and semen and lube and anything else, coveralls still around his ankles as requested. He wiggles his arse just a bit, since Dream is watching, and when that gets a pleased little sound out of Dream he does it a bit more, putting his whole body into the cleaning motions, bending at the waist and letting his hips swing in wide suggestive arcs.

"There," he says, finished, tossing the rag aside, and his arms are full of Dream as soon as he turns.

"Magnificent," Dream breathes against his mouth, and kisses him, warm and wet and thorough. Hob gives back as good as he gets, threads his hands into Dream's hair, and Dream's hands skate down his bare sides, around his hips and lower, seizing his arse cheeks and squeezing. His fingernails comb through the hair there and Hob squeaks, delighted, dick twitching with interest.

Dream breaks the kiss after only a few seconds. "There is so much more I want to do with you," he murmurs, kneading Hob's arse in slow sensual motions, "but I am spent. Well used. Sated, despite my lingering desires." He releases one cheek, moves to draw a fingertip along the slit of Hob's mostly-soft cock, where he surely encounters the tacky lube-laced remains of Hob's earlier orgasm. He brings that finger to his mouth, makes a show of licking it delicately before slipping it into his mouth to suck properly, and Hob whimpers.

"Dream, love, I meant what I said. Pop by anytime you need, I'll take care of you—"

"I believe you. After all, you have opted me into your loyalty program, yes? I must be sure to claim all of my associated benefits." He steps back, pulling out his phone and handing it to Hob with the contacts open. "Your number, please."

Hob types it in gladly, hits save, hands the phone back.

Dream cradles it close, a look on his face like he's savoring the addition of Hob's number, and glances up at Hob through his lashes. "I look forward to employing your services again, Hob Gadling. You are very much worth the trip."

"You just like me for my rugged filthiness," Hob says, a tease to keep his head in the right place—there's still no sense getting sentimental, after all, no matter the elated cartwheels his ego is doing at those words.

Dream regards him haughtily, one eyebrow lifting; the grease stains do nothing to diminish the expression. "I am quite certain I would enjoy you equally as much cleaned up and dressed up, that I might wine and dine you, take you home to my bed for an evening."

Hob almost, almost detects a hint of vulnerability threading the words and grins, a little pang of tenderness tugging helplessly behind his chest. "Think so, do you?"

"Would you like to test my theory?" There is something both hesitant and eager underneath his casual tone, and Hob's heart trips a little as that tug grows stronger.

"Why, Mr. Atelíotes, are you asking me out? On a proper date?"

"Perhaps." It's equal parts caginess and coy teasing, and Hob is forced to admit—again—that he's smitten despite himself.

"Well." He grins, dialing it up to his most charming. "Rumor has it I'm excellent company whether my dick's involved or not. And while a standard dinner date may not be as fantasy-worthy as getting plowed by the rough mechanic in his garage, I think we could still have a good time." He's showing his hand a bit, gently calling Dream on the fantasy fulfillment that has obviously been going on here, but what's life without a little risk? Especially when the potential reward is so very worth it?

"You are very confident of your own appeal," Dream replies, mouth turning up at one corner in a way that tips over from 'cautious' to 'amused'. And if Hob's not mistaken, there's a hint of pink blushing over his porcelain complexion under the filth clinging to his cheekbone.

He grins, spreads his arms, still stark naked with his coveralls around his ankles. "Am I wrong, though?"

"…No," Dream decides, after a long moment of deliberation, and Hob steps closer to him, dares to touch his face affectionately.

"Why don't you pick me up here at seven tomorrow night. Tell me exactly how posh I should dress, and we'll see where it goes?" He leans in, presses his lips softly to Dream's.

Dream hums into it, pleased, and palms his chest gently before pulling away. "Very well. Seven, tomorrow night. I will make us a reservation and text you the dress code."

Hob smiles, an effervescent sort of happiness bubbling up inside him. "Sounds perfect."

He finally puts his coveralls back in order after that, zipped just past the waist, and makes certain that the condoms are picked up and Dream gets his lube and his toy all collected before he shifts back into business mode. Dream is no more interested in cleaning his face before leaving today than he was yesterday so Hob moves on; he explains the repairs and runs Dream's credit card, then returns his keys and guides him in backing the Porsche out of the garage. Dream leans out the window once he's clear and Hob ducks down, delighted to get a final kiss.

"I'll be waiting to hear from you," he says, trying to temper the giddy anticipation he feels against the reality of their acquaintance, and Dream's soft smile turns sultry around the edges.

"I will be counting the hours until I see you again, Hob Gadling," he purrs, and drives off.

The way the Porsche jerks when he shifts after turning the corner makes Hob wince.

Maybe, if they do continue whatever this is beyond a single dinner date, maybe Hob can give him some tips on driving stick so he doesn't burn out the new clutch.

Then again, the more Dream abuses his poor car, the more excuse he'll have to invoke his 'loyalty rewards'.

And Hob doesn't think that's such a bad thing, in the end.

= Started: 5/4/24 Drafted: 9/17/24 Posted: 9/21/24

#TJs Fics #Sandman #Dreamling #wip: turbo lover

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draceempressa · 8 months ago

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oh sega really knows what they are doing when they make an arthurian legend sonic game and they make shadow lancelot of the verse

"but isn't lancelot have always been THE black knight?"

well yes, but the fate:zero incarnation often uses machine gun . and iconic with fighter jet too. But more importantly this line from berserker lancelot is basically all lancelot sonic fanfics

on the other hand delight works really knows what they are doing when they give galahad white hair

oh they know what they're doing

i'm sure they know what they're doing when they make fairy lancelot *checks list*

-remnant of the ULTIMATE LIFEFORM, who is also said to "cannot return to the stars"

-touted not only as the strongest knight but also most beautiful

-another gun nut

-takes pride in her speed

-black mud as symbolism for sins and grudges

-called herself "freak of nature" due to the circumstances of her "birth"

-goes apeshit after a blonde woman dies

-themes involves heavy metal with prominent electric guitar

-tapping into her real power wanes sanity, hurts her physiologically and psychologically

-red black monster form

hmmm....

#satbk sir lancelot #shadow the hedgehog #fgo melusine #berserker lancelot #fairy lancelot #fgo galahad #satbk sir galahad #silver the hedgehog

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clawsextended · 2 months ago

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@radiaking asked: 🕰

send the clock and i’ll make selina talk about shit she is haunted by irreparably.

“it’s super annoying. feeling… nuts.” she bounces the ball — the little rubber sphere, bright blue, bounce bounce thud, bounce bounce thud. sometimes the thing taps beneath her toes and she kicks it as it flies back, catches it to toss. her eyes never leave the ball, her body leaning back and forward with each movement. and now one must mention the chair she’s fucking leaning on, balance constant, a fulcrum. it leans back sometimes in a near diagonal— and then it’s on the floor, soundless, over and over.

“no other fucking word for it. the world looks one way to you and then you slowly learn it’s.. just not that at all. someone tells you everything is fine but your head is on a fucking swivel,” thunk. her shoulder throws easily in, the ball bouncing — corner, floor, ceiling, back to her hand with a satisfying THKK. “you see nothing and i see everything. and when i say it, i sound insane. because i am.

—you know i blew my dad’s head off? carmine falcone. the mob guy,” thK. her cigarette moves with her words, smoke rising stale through the air, “he wanted me to run his shit. didn’t even know me. knew i could be—“ THUNK. “useful.”

she says the word like it means nothing, to be commodified like this. she’s a well-oiled machine because she has to be. she keeps moving and yet not moving at all.

“i’m so good at that. being useful. but he pissed me off. so i did the only thing i could do — i grabbed his twelve gauge and i asked if that was what he wanted. i deserved it. revenge or whatever. i got it. and it doesn’t matter. not at all. you know how i feel? way no better. way, way worse.

—just as useful as i’ve always been.”

her eyes are deeply brown, but she sees nothing beyond that wall, beyond the way the little rubber ball always goes back to where she expects, and always, unblinking, she receives it. the expectancy is soothing in its redundancy — it’ll always be followed by that satisfied THUNK.

#CLAWS EXTENDED.#RADIAKING #[relaxing myself by discussing horrible murders Selina has committed in the most nam vet coded way ever.]

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galaxy-ficsa · 7 months ago

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LET’S GO WORLDBUILDING!!

The Magic System

The lore I’ve crafted & certain are heavily inspired by Undertale & some of it’s AUs. Familiarity with the subject matter is recommended, but not required. ANYWAYS Enjoy the read!! :)

What Are Souls?

A Soul is composed of an individual's essence housed in a physical shell! If someone (or something) is sentient, it has one!

Souls take the rough shape of a heart, pointing upright or downward, depends on the species.

When a Soul shatters, its essence, the magic inside, is released into the surrounding atmosphere. Just as there is moisture in the air, same applies to magic.

Soul Magic & Attributes

Those in-tune with their own Souls can tap into magic! The more someone relies on Soul magic, they stand less of a chance of surviving without their Soul.

HOWEVER, stronger Soul magic makes a Soul last longer after it’s host dies. Pros & Cons!

Outer magic ISN’T from a Soul (ex: enchanted artifacts/clothing) & will always harm the body. Effects are unpredictable, can damage a limb, senses, or even an organ.

Soul magic doesn’t have this side-effect, but takes significant time to master.

Soul attributes reflect what a host expresses with their Soul magic. All Souls start grey before gaining color. DOES NOT define a person with one word!!

Standard Undertale Soul colors apply as Soul attributes, only expanded to include more shades & hues.

No two people express the same Soul attribute the same way, & a Soul can have (at most) two Soul attributes at a time.

Hate is a Soul enhancer, further increasing Soul magic power as their host becomes spiteful & psychotic. Hate’s appearance depends on how the host perceives it. Hate hosts have their sclera, blood, & bruises turn black.

Sensitivity opposes Hate (NOT a counter.) Inherited after a traumatic incident, their host is more emotionally-susceptible & responds to triggers. Can represent anxiety, PTSD, other mental health problems.

Sensitivity can become Hate if the host self-deprecates. Both are NOT Soul attributes, merely add-ons.

As long as there’s reasoning for a Soul-wielder to wield the magic they do, go nuts! However, Soul magic doesn’t come easy, not without a cost…

So I Have a Soul, Now What?

Soul magic can be harvested & made physical with the right tools or spells. Similar to a machine that collects moisture from the air & renew it into water. This is how enchanted artifacts & clothing are made.

If Soul essence is meshed into a new body, it will gain their memories. Soul “copies” may not carry over every aspect, such as their personality, especially if their previous life wasn’t a happy one.

Soul spells are dangerous practices that can grant a variety of effects “efficiently” (ex: sudden Soul attribute inversion, swapping Soul magic, reviving the dead with your owl Soul.)

Soul surgeries recreate Soul spells with “safer technology” - but good luck affording them!

#ocverse #worldbuilding #magic system #souls #magic #soul magic #original character

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kino-rogers · 1 year ago

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He is always a call away (Tangerine/Reader)

Word count: 825 (reasonably short and sweet)

Song: 0800 HEAVEN | Nathan Dawe, Joel Corry, Ella Henderson (listen, I know the vibes don't fit but the lyrics inspired me to write this aha)

Short summary: Bullet Train happens and everything goes down as it does in the film. Reader is trying to process that Tangerine won't come home again.

Warnings: Canon typical swearing, angst, (light) past trauma mention

notes: thank you @nocturnest for jumping on this to fix my broken English and being a wonderful beta!! what an intro but uh [coughs] i'm already excited to write more for this fandom (bits in which Tangie is very much alive ehehe) anywaayyy, hope you guys like this!! - 🥝

It's not been the… easiest time - it has to be said.

Since that phone call from Lemon, you've been struggling with sleep. It doesn't show in your work, of course. Keeping up appearances has always come to you rather naturally. Some of it being from your repressed trauma, that even years of therapy barely scratched the surface of, but also because of your line of work too. It doesn't sit well to be an emotional wreck after every kill you're paid to do.

The call was from a number you didn't recognise. The passing sound of traffic suggested it's from a payphone as Lemon sighed heavily down the line.

"You lost your phone? On a train?" You answered the call lightheartedly and you recognized his sigh immediately, you hoped it was just a release of pent up tension over a job well finished. Although, the fact that Lemon was the one to call, put you on edge, hoping it's not coming through your pretend jolliness.

"He's gone." His statement was simple and sudden. The tone, stone cold, as his voice was raspy, possibly from crying.

"Who's gone, Lemon?"

Your throat ran dry as you swallowed around a lump. Your chest quickly tightened as you tried to piece together what he could have meant. You couldn't- no, didn't want to think about the most likely possibility.

"Tan-" He took a pause, cleared his throat before continuing. "Tangerine, was shot in the neck, he is gone."

It's not like you guys were dating, no, it wasn't anything like that. Neither of you had the emotional capacity for that. What, with your jobs requiring you to spend weeks, months away from each other at a time, sometimes in different countries, opposite sides of the world. But he was the first person, in a long while, that you genuinely cared for.

~~~

You turn to your bedside table, glance at the alarm clock there. Its digital display shines in orange numbers, 01:54.

It's a month, today.

You suddenly have a stupid idea. What would happen if you called his number? Last time you checked it was still live, it'd probably just take you to voicemail. Weirdly, your therapist at your last session suggested writing letters to him, in your bereavement. Bereavement. Such a weird word. You're not even sure that's what this is. But maybe leaving a voicemail would be an equivalent. Maybe he can listen to his voicemails, wherever he is. You scoff at the fleeting thought but reach for your phone anyway.

Tangie is still in your recent calls. You tap the saved contact and wait for it to ring.

You're not expecting anyone to answer, of course not. Your grief hasn't driven you completely nuts. But as the phone rings, you can't help but think about getting to talk to him, just once more. By some divine intervention, you'd be connected through to him, in the afterlife and you could tell him everything you couldn't the last time you spoke.

"-after the beep BEEP"

"Hi Tangie," You scoff in embarrassment, not really sure why you're doing this anymore. "I uh,"

You sigh heavily, all too aware of the silence the machine is expecting you to fill. You sniffle as you start to speak again.

"I know you won't hear this. That… Isn't really the point." You draw a shaky breath. "I know who did it though. Well, knew. Lemon and I took him out last week. What kind of an assassin's name is Ladybug anyway?" You snicker. Can't avoid the tightness in your chest though.

"I just… I dunno. Apparently I should be writing letters to you, as if I could send them off with a pigeon and they'd get to wherever the fuck you are. So, this is the next best thing. If this was anyone else, you'd tell me to fuck off and to suck it up. We always were on the same wavelength, when it came to feelings." Your chest deflates with a long exhale as you realise you need to stop dancing around whatever it is you're trying to say here.

"I guess I just wanted to tell you I really fucking miss you." You sniffle again, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. "I miss your stupid grin, your teasing, your annoyingly cocky attitude, your… The way you looked at me."

"I wish you were here right now so I could tell you I love you. I wish I didn't, I really goddamn wish I didn't care for you so much but I fucking love you. And I hate that I can't see your face as I told you, for the first time. Please call me back."

You bury your face in your pillow and you howl into it, sobs shaking your body as the voicemail recording is saved and you continue to wallow in your bereavement. You're supposed to be feeling better. You need to stop paying your therapist.

#oh *boy* first fic for the fandom and it's a sad one cause ofc it is LMAO #anyway #tangerine/reader #tangerine x reader #reader #reader insert #bullet train reader insert #bullet train #tangerine bullet train #lemon bullet train #bullet train fic #bullet train fanfic #bullet train angst #bullet train canon inspired #bullet train canon #uhhh how do i tag this

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verosvault · 1 year ago

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🚨SPOILERS FOR FANTASY HIGH JUNIOR YEAR EPISODE 6🚨

Dimension20 "Fantasy High Junior Year"

Episode 6 "Party Politics"

Timestamp: 1:18:17

Video Length: 2min. & 45sec.

Broken Cloud Rider Engine (Pt. 1 | ‣Pt. 2)

Gorgug: "I feel like someone just pushed him into the machine, 'cause he's so blazed."

Fig: "Who was he down there with? Do you have security cameras?" *points to Fabian*

Lou: "Does my dad have security cameras?"

Brennan: "Yeah. If you run it back, you see there's people down there. There's a bunch of kids down there. You don't see any of the Rat Grinders."

Emily: "Mm-hm."

Brennan: "The kids are down there, they're smoking, they're talking, and after a certain point, you see a bunch of ice mephits fly in and start ginning up the kids. Start getting the kids ginned up and rowdy, and then they start wrestling. The ice mephits are nut tapping people and blowing frost on their faces, just getting people riled up."

(Siobhan's face when Brennan mentioned the ice mephits! 💀✋)

Emily: "This would be very, very convenient if you're a conjuration wizard and you wanted to imitate someone else."

Siobhan asks if Adaine can tell if the ice mephits are hers. 👀

Brennan asks for an arcana check. It'll be hard to tell just by looking through a security camera. 🥲

Siobhan rolls a 13 arcana 😭✋

Brennan: "Unfortunately, as far as you can tell, these are your ice mephits."

Adaine apologizes to Fabian. Fabian says that it's fine.

Ally: "They just get everyone excited, and then someone accidentally–?"

Brennan: "You see a couple of the ice mephits join in to tip the box over.

Investigation checks as everyone sees the box get tipped over! DC25! 😭✋

Riz gets a 21 😭

Brennan: "You're looking at it. Mephits, a couple of wrestling kids in the basement. Box goes over. Something." 🥲🥲🥲

Murph: "Okay, something that helps you fly."

Fig tells Fabian that he needs to stay on the Ivy beat and asks if he's willing to do it. 💀💀

Fabian says he is! 😂💀

Ally to Murph: "Did they[Rat Grinders] steal it for their adventuring party?"

Gorgug to Fabian about Ivy 😂: "You might have to go out on dates with her." 🤣😭💀

Fabian: "I'll do that. Yeah, I'm down."

Murph's "I'VE REALIZED SOMETHING" FACE! 😭✋

Ally to Murph: "Are they[Rat Grinders] gonna use it?"

Murph: "Wait a second. All of the...Everyone...This has not anything to do with the little machine that was stolen, but people from their team wanted us...Max, who was acting strange, everyone wanted us to do drugs. Is it possible they're trying to get us kicked out of our various clubs?"

Zac: "I think Kipperlilly was here."

Ally: "Trying to get us kicked out? Oh!"

Zac: "Trying to get a picture of us taking drugs."

Murph: "Yep. Yep."

Siobhan: "Are we not supposed to take drugs? We murder people."

Emily: "Would we get in trouble?"

Siobhan: "We're now allowed to take drugs?"

Zac: "Maybe if you're running for office."

Brennan: "Well, here's the thing. It never would've been a problem when Arthur Aguefort was principal."

Fabian: "Did any of us do drugs?"

Adaine: "You did!" 😭✋

Riz: "No, you said you were going to, and then you were interrupted."

Zac: "Snuff is just tobacco, right?"

Lou: "Yeah, snuff's, I mean-"

Fig to Kristen: "You never actually went down, right?"

Kristen: "No, I never went."

Adaine: "And we were drinking, which is illegal."

Fig to Kristen: "You almost did."

Fabian: "Oh, it's milk. It's bad baby milk. It's mostly milk."

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popculturebuffet · 1 year ago

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Uncle Scrooge: The Secret Santa Spell Review (comission by WeirdKev27)

Happy Holidays all you Happy People. It's that time of year again, time to haul out the holly and the breadcrumbs because we're talking about ducks again. Yes while I haven't talked about ducks nearly enough on this blog as of late, finding a Ducktale for christmas has always been a priority.

This year though Kev took the reigns on this one after realizing this was a tradition, and found me TWO. We were originally going to do the darkwing duck christmas special, something I didn't know existed and still know little about on purpose and still plan to next year.. but then... he found this. See back in 2021 I reviewed the Carl Barks comic a letter to santa. You can find the review here.

But the main takeaway is it features THIS iconic scene

Look saying i'm a simple man would be a boldfaced lie, but sometimes it's the simple things like an absurdly rich duck and his nephew fighting to the death with heavy machinery so one of them can give their nephew's the remaining machine as a christmas present that bring me joy on this holiday season.

That said after years of basking in the warm glow of having randomly found a comic about Scrooge and Donald battling to the death with steam shovels, I found something just as holly jolly.. and just as gloriously, wonderfully nuts. My friends it's time I introduced you to the Secret Santa spell.

Again Kev, my producer of sorts, deserves the credit here: he found this in Disney Christmas Parade, IDW's christmas anthology they printed every year for a while, and god bless him for it as this story is gold. It's a genuinely good, well done Magica story that thanks to taking place on christmas and involving a claus somehow less thought out than the one where if you kill Santa you become Santa, figgy pudding, a murder tree, and a volcano finale, is also completely bonkers and I love every second of it. This is a geninely fantastic scrooge story and one worth taking a look for yourself if you can find it online since it's out of print. For those of you who can't or simply don't wanna, come with me under the cut as we explore the hap happiest christmas since bing crosby tap danced with danny fucking kaye while Donald and Scrooge tried to pummel each other with steam shovels.

This story comes to us from writers Fransico Artibani, Lello Arena and artest Silvio Cambolli. I hadn't heard of any of these people before this as i'm not really up on my itallian duck comics but they do an excellent job here and I certainly will be looking out for more of their stories.

For this story we open at the bin a few days before christmas as everything's winding down for the holiday and Donald's doing one of his last bits of slave labor for Scrooge when two Scottish obviously suspcious carollers show up. Scrooge apparently gets so many that both are and aren't villians in disguise he's worked up a bit of an extreme solution.. granted he wanted to just pour oil on them but then legal got involved.

So he has to go with the Virtuetron 3000, an elaborate setup he had gyro work up that puts MIND READING HELMETS

Yup i'ts magica.. I mean I can't blame Scrooge for being suspcious, turning her shadow into a teenager to sneak into the mansion only for said teenager to fall in love with scrooge's daughter, this ain't, but i'm less concered with Magica and Co's half baked scheme and more concered a man who underpays his employees, quite literally owns the town, and already has a fairly sketchy moral compass has MIND CONTROL technology.. and giant killer robots

You'd think this would be an out of character expendature... but he got it from a reliable presidental source

Scrooge did all this so he could have a restful christmas. Magica.. isn't having the same as she has some uninvited guests.

Okay so some introductions are in order as i'm sure some of you had the same reaction I did

Thankfully Inducks also indexed who they are. Starting with the one I DID recognize, the little tyke is Magica's niece Minima, the basis for Lena and Magica's exact oppisite: kind, selfless, cheery. The only thing she isn't inverted on is magical talent, as Minima has a knack for it.

The two strangers are Rosolio and Gramma DeSpell. Yes GRAMMA, that's magica's grandma. What's intresting is there's two distinct versions of the character that don't really contradict each other, with this one in the 90's becoming a bigger fixture, and there being nothing to say this isn't the same character given a Sabrina the Teenage Witch style makeover, just a few years BEFORE Zelda and Hilda's got there's in fact. Go figure. She's a bit of a hippie and tries to talk down Magica from her schemes.

Her sidekick here, and sexual harasser, is Rosolio, a mildly inepet magician who followed her from italy to hit on her.

So Magica's about ready to just abandon her magic shop and go.. fuck off or whatever when Minima innocently brings up something...

Yes folks, this is indeed our premise: Santa put in a clause in his magic that's somehow weirder than "If tim allen shoves you off a room tim allen become santa claus" or "If tim allen dosen't find a wife in time he ceases to be santa claus" or.. let's just say anything tim allen adjacent. If you wish for something seven times and happen to be some sort of spellcaster, you get it, regardless of morality, intent or what it actually is. Which DOES mean good news for one little boy man robot

But still raises a LOT of questions. It's not a bad concept, that asking for something enough means santa will take pity but why isn't their restraints? Why has Magica, someone Santa would objectively not liked asked 7 times? why have we only heard about a magic version of the junior woodchuck guidebook this once? why didn't we get a fourth season of ducktales so Frank could adapt this? These are the things that keep me up at night. This is also a thing that keeps me up at night.

Donald just admit you need glasses instead of taking it out on your children, for all our sakes!

So Magica goes to the north poll to deliver letter 7 personally while Gramma.. only stops Rogoilo from going with her then hopes she'll be okay.

Magicia isn't as an elf being pulled by a sleigh full of pengys and getting there late notices her. Honestly we wouldn't have this plot at all if the best boy pengy wasn't busy.

Magica is frozen solid and is revived by 30 cc's of hot chocolate. I don't know if Tom Hanks sang to her, he was also busy that christmas

Magcia repays this kindness by busting up the north poll, going on a rampage to find Santa since the elves handle letters. Keep in mind this ENTIRE act of the story, her getting frozen, her going on a rampage, her bringing an evil dead tree to life before fighting an army of teddy bears and snowman

YUP. You didn't think the insanity stopped at mind policing, killer robots, santa clauses and improperly placed penguins did you? Nope we get a full on offscreen lord of the rings battle complete with ents simply because Magicia wants to gloat in person. And despite this section being padding.. it works. of COURSE magicia would want to gloat to santa, of COURSE she coudln't wait for Christmas day. It's totlaly in character and her singing oh christmas tree or spitting out hot chocolate are just.. such nice character touches. Of course she's so dedicated to being evil she hates something sweet. OF COURSE.

It's something neat about this comic: i'ts bonkers, no question.. but it's also simply fantastic on it's own merit. The idea of Magica getting a santa wish is neat on it's own, but the story then uses Minima to anchor it: she's frustrated it seems her aunt will never be happy and always obess over the dime, and thus teleports to the bin to take it from her, not understanding WHY it's precious to scrooge or WHY her aunt wants it, simply wanting to make her aunt happy. No one even knows; the thought police helmet's don't scan ill intent.. because there isn't none. It's just an innocent child wanting to bring her Aunt christmas. This version of Minima reminds me a LOT of 87 webby, and it's in the best way: innocent , kind, selfless.. all the good things.

Anyways Santa finally goes to confront magica, wondering why she's doing this the answers no.. and forgetting his own stupid policy until it's too late, with her asking for the dime and him entering a trance to go get it.

It's christmas eve and Scrooge is bored as nothing's going on. Disturbingly he wants to know how litigatoins are going. Those orphans aren't going to be forced out into the snow themsleves, ghosts of past buisness partners be dammned!

Scrooge is interuptted from taling to Mrs. Quackfaster byt he arrival of santa. Thinking it's magica in a disguise , he sicks a robot guard dog on her he turns into a sheep.

But then we get the crowner, the weirdest, best, and most wonderful thing in this story.. I present...

I"ll level with you all, while holiday shopping was easy this year, i've still been dealing with a lot of seasonal depression and regular ole depression. It's been a long month with loved ones in the hosptial (nothing serious but also nothing you need to know about in full), work piling up and me not even taking the time to enjoy some of my gifts. I've had plenty of kind people, thoughtful gifts, and wonderful friends but sometimes the stress of this job, as much as I love it, and the world can get to you. So getting to just relax and review a comic where Santa turns Scrooge's bin into a giant figgy pudding while under hypnosis.. it helps> it warms the spirit and reminds me why I do this. For the joy of good stories.. and for the wonder of nonsense.

For those who like me wondered what Figgy Pudding actually even is, wonmder no more: it's a traditional british pudding made out of animal fat. You no doubt have more questions but we have more story

So Santa snaps out of it once he gives Magica the time and she teleports out. Scrooge asks santa to go get it.. but despite you know having TURNED SCROOGE'S BIN INTO PUDDING and stolen his prized possesion, he's .. less than helpful.

I just.. dude... man.. santa dude man claus... Christmas is important. It brigns joy to children and it's why youd o this. I get that. But how does "I need to return the dime I stole while BRAINWASHED due to a stupid bit of magic I never bothered to undo or work up a backup plan for", equate to "greed begats greed'.

For starters the Dime.. isn't just a dime.. and you should know this. Your santa. You know everything about a person, it's your deal. This dime was the first bit of honest money Scrooge ever earned, a reminder of what he started, something he dearly loves and treasures not because it's MONEY but because of what it means. And even not knowing that Scrooge didn't start any of this shit. Scrooge has to constantly ward off Magicia's crap, something you DO for a fact know as you rejected her wish till your dumbass magic kicked in. She's not trying to steal his hoarded gross amount of money, she's trying to take the dime and she's trying to do it for an evil plan. YOU KNOW BETTER SANTA.

Granted this could be a christmastime grift as Santa gets Scrooge to promise a big dinner and bonuses for everyone in duckburg, so he could've simply been fleecing scooge.. and I prefer that interprtation as it fits santa better: Santa would WANT to make up for what he did with magica and WANT to stop her because Santa is a kind, caring person. And even if she hadn't used the santa spell against him, she still attacked his elves out of spite. I prefer to think he would've helped anyway but knew Scrooge deserved to be taught a lesson which, fair play to the big guy.. Scrooge ABSOLUTELY did.

So they go to stop him while Magica goes to show off her dime.. and minima realizes Magica didn't open her present and thus dosen'jt know and is about to make an oopsie.

So Scrooge and Santa go to stop her, but can't... luckily thanks to Minima giving Scrooge a chocolate coin instead of giving her the midas touch, the spell gives her...

It's an excellent brick joke on Magicia hating chocolate, and a great visual. it temproarily makes her the sweetst duck in the world.. which leads to some shipping bait

But a genuinely sweet ending for Minima who, if for one moment and only thanks to magic.. gets to enjoy her aunt. I mean Magica becoming sweet thanks to choclate magic is KINDA Messed up.. but it's hard to not enjoy a child who simply wanted her aunt to be happy.. getting that for one breif moment.

I still feel bad for her as this won't lass, Magicia will be back to her abuse hateful self.. but I can't begrudge a kind, innocent little witch her happy ending. I just don't have it in me. It's not forever, Magicia gets herself back.. but for one day.. she'll treat her family how they deserve. And Rogilo how he really dosen't but you can't have everything now can you?

So because we can't just end on the sweet moment, Santa assures Scrooge the figgy pudding bin will turn back after christmas.. but until then.. he has a promise to fufill.

Every christmas story should end with the whole town eating a rich man's property. Hell EVERY christmas should. Eat the rich's buildings kids!

This story is excellent. Really werid? yes. Having a pretty bonkers ending for no reason? Yes. Is said ending hilarious, the throughline of Minima heartfelt, and the zanier stuff also really funny? Entirely. It's a well done Scrooge story set around christmas with santa's indgiance at helping scrooge being the only thing I really don't like. Had he phrased it less as "you brought this on yourself" and more "you don't deserve it after how you've treated your employees" it'd make more sense. Still one little bump dosen't ruin the figgy pudding.. I think. I don't know how figgy pudding works. I do like this story though and highly recommend it. Thanks for reading.

#scrooge mcduck #disney #donald duck #magica de spell #minima de spell #granny de spell #rogillo #comics #idw #ducktales #christmas

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misfitwashere · 6 days ago

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May 9, 2025

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

MAY 10

READ IN APP

The administration appears not to be able to attract the caliber of federal officials to which Americans have become accustomed.

When a reporter asked Trump if his administration was sending migrants to Libya, he answered: “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask, uh, Homeland Security, please.”

—

#heather cox richardson #letters from an american

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