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jasmines-library · 7 months

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The ‘Do Not Call’ List.

WHUMPTOBER DAY 15. Prompt: barley conscious.

Fandom: DC/batfam

Summary: After finally escaping your life one night without saying goodbye to your family, you find yourself in jeopardy, which leads to a well anticipated call.

Warnings: Blood, stab wound, near death.

Word count: 2.1k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

You were bleeding. Heavily.

The weapon was still lodged within your chest. 6 inches deep it sat, dislodging your ribs which you were sure were shattered, and tickling away at your lung. You hadn’t seen it coming, hidden behind the back of the man you had been tracking. It was too late by the time you had realised he had it; he got you good before sprinting away.

You had tried to get out of this life, leaving those you loved behind. You couldn’t deal with constantly living a lie. So you left. Packed your bags one night, upped and left. They had tried relentlessly to get ahold of you; Missed calls, unanswered texts and even trying to track you on the street cameras, but you knew how to cover your tracks. Being trained as a vigilante does that to a person. You changed your hair and your name, changed your clothes and your hobbies until even you began to not recognise yourself. It hurt to heave your family that way, but you thought it was the only solution. You had seen the texts flooding in. At first, they were concerned, then they turned to anger and morphed into pain and fear once again.

As you staggered backwards, gripping onto your chest, you knew that you shouldn’t have followed him. You knew that you shouldn’t have, that you should have just turned and ran the other way like any normal person should have, but you couldn’t. You missed them. You missed Tim’s meek smile and Damian’s sarcastic remarks, Jason’s wit and Dick’s comfort. You missed collapsing in the study after a long patrol to curl up and watch a movie. Doing this would have brought you one painstaking step closer to them again. So, it was one more criminal.

The blood pooled around you as you cried out, sinking to the floor; a dark river of scarlet oozing from between your fingers. Coughing harshly you tried to apply as much pressure to the wound as your weakening body would let you. The fit only jostled the wound more, eliciting a cry of pain which caused you to fist your shirt.

That was when you suddenly remembered the phone in your jean pocket. You knew that you should call for help, but when you agonisingly slipped it out of your pocket, the number your bloodstained fingers dialled wasn’t the typical number someone would call if they had a fatal stab wound.

Tim froze when he saw the name flash on the screen; a name that he knew at one glance. Your name. He hadn’t stopped searching for you since you left them high and dry, albeit there was no sign of you. You had vanished without a trace. His late nights turned even later as he scoured the internet and hacked into the cameras trying desperately to catch a glimpse of your face. He was often accompanied by Jason, who spent his time calling your number or leaving you strands of unopened texts. He hadn’t taken it so well. His nights were full of relentless torment in the form of unsaid thoughts of you. So, when he strolled in groggily to take his usual seat beside his brother but saw your name on the screen, his glass shattered on the floor.

“Is this real?” He asked, ignoring the glass and crossing the room in two strides to reach the computer. Some part of him believed that this was some sick joke, but then the ringing stopped. And started up again moments later.

“Answer it.” Jason told him, fumbling with the hem of his shirt.

When Tim pressed the answer button, they were hit with the sound of ragged breathing.

“Y/N?” He furrowed his brow, unable to hide the worry laid thick in his voice. A million thoughts raced through your mind at once.

There was silence on the other end of the line, before your voice pierced through the emptiness. “Jason?”

“Y/N? Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I…”

You were cut off by a coughing fit which caused blood to spill from the corner of your mouth. Both of the boy’s eyes widened at your wine of pain.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“What?” Jason was frantic now, moving around the cave to gather his weapons. “What’s going on?”

Your breath shook as you struggled against the pain. “I didn’t see it in time…”

“See what?”

“I’m sorry I left.” You dismissed his question to continue your ramble. You had to get the words out. You had to tell them. “I had to get out…I had to-”

Tim repeated his brother’s question, but once again it didn’t register in your mind.

“I didn’t want to leave. But it was the only way and I miss you. I miss you all and I need you to know that I love you all so, so much-”

“Y/N!” Jason cut off your rambling and you went quiet on the other end of the line. “What didn’t you see?”

“The knife.”

Jason’s blood ran cold. Suddenly your state made sense. The ragged breathing and the cries of discomfort. “Tim. get a tracking signal.”

“On it.” His fingers were already trailing the keys, working away to find your location.”

“Where are you?” Jason was tugging on his mask.

There was no reply. Just pained wheezing. Then the line went dead.

During your time as a vigilante, you had often thought long and hard about how you would die. And you supposed this wasn’t far from it. You had always imagined you would go down in a fight. Shot down in action while saving the city, or whilst sacrificing yourself to save one of the boys. In a way, this wasn’t too dissimilar. You did go down trying for the greater good. Trying. But you hadn’t imagined that you would be alone. You supposed it was better for everyone this way. The one thing you definitely hadn’t accounted for was the cold. It dug down deep into your bones, stabbing away like a thousand tiny needles. It made an odd contrast to the burning of your chest. Though slowly, you started to feel nothing at all as you began to drift into a numb haze.

Gazing up at the sky, spots danced between your vision, blending in with the stars that twinkled above you. Smiling, you watched them dance around until one feeling began to blend into the other, until there was no feeling left but the darkness of the sky above you.

At first, you didn’t realise that there was a face besides you, until you were brought back to reality by the stabbing pain radiating through your gut. You screamed, writhing as the knife was eased from your chest. For some reason, he wasn’t wearing his mask, but from the way that his hair was jostled, you could tell that it had not long been torn from his face. You could see the outline of his face in the light.

“Jay.” You whispered.

You could see his lips moving, but you couldn’t understand what he was saying. He looked panicked, speaking to someone that you weren’t able to see. You squirmed, trying to see who was near you, only to be held down by Jason.

Pressure to the gaping wound made you cry out. Then Jason’s lips were moving faster, and everything seemed to hit you all at once. Jason was calling your name, tapping your face gently. You could hear the murmur of Tim who talked to himself as he worked.

Your head rolled on a loose neck as Jason tilted it towards him.

“Stay with me, y/n. Please.”

Everything hurt, and your mind throbbed with your fast heart rate. It was hard to focus on anything with your doubling vision making everything swim around you.

You whined as you were shifted on to your side so that the younger of the two could begin to secure the bandages around you. You tried to focus on Jay, who had rested your head in his lap and was combing your hair through his hands, but you couldn’t. It was just too hard.

Your body began to slow down. Your eyes dropped and head lolled in his lap.

“No. No no no.” Jason was pinching you now trying to get a reaction from you, but your eyes only fluttered as you struggled to keep a grip on consciousness. “You have to stay awake.” He pleaded.

“Hurts…” you forced out, face contorting in pain as Tim continued to work and apply pressure to the laceration.

“We know. We know we’re sorry.”

“I’m nearly done. You’re doing so well.”

It felt like you were trapped in a never ending, agony filled cycle by the time that Tim finally finished bandaging you up and rolled you back into your side.

By this point, your eyes were spotting and your mind was swimming. You couldn’t even comprehend the pain. Your eyes fluttered, barely open a crack as you felt your mind wander, soon the faces around you blurred into the rest of the world and for one moment it was just you, consumed by the pain. And it wasn’t long after that until there was nothing. Just darkness.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 14 ⛤ DAY 16 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

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swordcreature · 5 months

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Rolan deserves to get pegged. Someone needs to come fuck the brat out of him.

i will take this sacrifice for us all. i will fuck the brat completely out of Rolan. you are all welcome!

but in all seriousness. i had so much fun writing this. i know this wasn't a request per se but 3,000 words later and here we are. our boy just really needed someone to fuck him with the magical strap (that we are all going to pretend is a very real thing that exists in his world. along with the magical bottle of oil/lube).

it doesn't really work anyway

i couldn't think what to name this monster so excuse the stupid title, it fits into like on tiny part but it made me laugh so. yeah.

Now I Know My ABCs

Rolan x Reader

“You could have just fixed it, you know? You don’t have to be an insufferable prick about every little mistake you notice.” “Maybe if you didn’t make so many mistakes, I wouldn’t have anything to comment on.”

Tags: Explicit Sexual Content MDNI/18+, Pegging, Anal Fingering

Word Count: 3,028 | [Read on AO3]

Okay, so, in hindsight, calling Rolan “the biggest fucking brat to ever grace the mortal realm” probably wasn’t your finest move. But gods if it wasn’t completely fucking accurate.

All day he was wondering around the tower, nit picking the work you so graciously volunteered as you both tried to organize the mess Lorroakan left behind after his completely deserved demise.

“Oh, this is interesting come look at this,” Rolan ushered you over to the shelf you had been working on before lunch. You walked over, brow furrowed as you looked at the tomes he pointed to: a copy of Illusionary Arcana: A Complete Study and Illusion: A Spellcaster’s Guide to the Unreal. “I had no idea the Common language had changed recently, did you?”

“Here we fucking go.”

“Surely that must have been the case, otherwise this book would have been placed before Illusionary Arcana, yes?” You wanted to smack the disingenuous look of confusion off his smug face.

“You could have just fixed it, you know? You don’t have to be an insufferable prick about every little mistake you notice.” You flipped the position of the books.

“Maybe if you didn’t make so many mistakes, I wouldn’t have anything to comment on,” he offered back, facing the books with a matter-of-fact expression as though they were discussing breakfast plans or the weather.

“Maybe, you should find someone else who is willing to put up with your contemptible drivel so-”

“I’m surprised someone who does not know their alphabet knows what contemptible means.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides and your nostrils flared. You were doing this for free. It would be a cold day in the Hells before you continued to let him talk to you like that.

Without saying a word, you turned scanning the room for where you laid your things. This caught Rolan’s attention; he eyed you over his shoulder as he continued to fiddle with the row of books.

“What are you doing?” he asked, unphased.

“Leaving.” This at least elicited some sort of reaction, his head whipping around to watch you grab your things.

“Why? You said you would assist me. And we still have two more cases to go today if we are to remain on track.” His face scrunched in frustration. He couldn’t honestly expect you to just continue on as though he hadn’t just acted like a complete son of a bitch, right?

“Are you serious- ‘Why?’ Because Rolan, today you have been-” well, you know what came next. He didn’t take it lightly.

“I- you- you insolent little witch! I’d rather be a brat than being a classless degenerate like you!” He took an angry step towards you.

“Classless? You arrogant, pretentious arsehole!”

“Indolent, mindless fool!” Then another.

“Hateful wretch!”

“Talentless hack!” He was so close now that you could feel his breath on your face as he stared down the length of his nose at you. It was a shame he was such a knob head, because he was so nice to look at, even from this angle.

“You-” you paused, trying to think of the most poetic way to tell him that he could take every book in his big fancy tower and shove it right up his ass.

But something else came to mind.

With a scowl, you sank your hands into the front of his robes and yanked him downward, forcing his lips against your own. Much to your surprise, and delight if you wanted to be completely honest, he relented, allowing himself to be kissed with an almost bruising intensity.

You tore your lips away. The look on Rolan’s face at the loss of contact would have made you laugh if you weren’t so fucking fed up with him. His chest was heaving as though he had just ran a mile around the tower, and the way your stomach twisted at the sight made you even more frustrated. Stupid wizard with his handsome face and pretty lips.

You pushed him back against the nearest bookcase, hard enough that a book tumbled from its home high above you. Rolan’s eyes were fire and hunger as he glared at you, silently urging you to continue what you started. You pressed yourself flush to his chest, noses touching, lips barely a hair apart.

He craned his neck lower to try and catch you in a kiss, but you were quicker, fueled by an intense need to see this man squirm.

“Now now, Rolan. Where are your manners?” You chastised with a click of your tongue. “Say please.”

He swallowed thickly and grit his teeth. The room fell silent as seconds ticked by, Rolan seemingly weighing his words.

Just as you thought he was going to end whatever this was, too proud to continue, he muttered out, almost unintelligibly, “Please.”

You smiled sweetly, and then you were slotting your mouth over his, kissing with as much force as before. Your hand snaked into his hair, dragging your nails roughly against his scalp, tugging at the roots. The sound he made in response was nothing short of a growl. Oh did it spur you on.

Your free hand squeezed between your bodies to palm over the erection pinned against his thigh. Even under his robes and trousers you could tell he was hot, long, and so very hard. You pet his cock with a firm touch through several layers of clothes, Rolan forcing his hips forward in response.

After a few tentative strokes, you removed your hand completely – pulling yourself backwards slightly so that he had nothing to grind himself against. He whined in frustration.

“Mmm, I don’t think you deserve that yet, do you?” You pressed your lips to his ear, your tongue slipping out to follow the outer shell. Rolan shivered. “You’ve been a little brat today, Rolan. I don’t think you deserve to be touched yet.”

For the first time since you met him, Rolan had nothing to say. His head hung low, almost hitting your shoulder as he clenched his jaw.

“You think you’re so clever, with that sharp tongue. But I'm going to make you forget how to speak, pretty little wizard.” His breath hitched, stopped dead in his throat. “Only if you’re good, though. Okay?” Rolan nodded eagerly, eyes closed, and brow furrowed. “Okay. Now, go be a dear and take your clothes off for me, hmm?”

Rolan fumbled forward as you stepped away from the bookcase. His hands shook as he undressed, clumsily unlacing his trousers to slide them off, along with his underclothes. You walked over to sit on the edge of his desk and watched as he pulled his robes from his shoulders. He murmured something to himself that you couldn’t quite discern, but you didn’t care enough to push. Because with everything discarded to the floor, Rolan stood completely bare, cock jutting upwards from a dark swatch of hair on his groin. It was already leaking with excitement.

He looked up to find you staring, leering at his lithe form in appreciation. It must have been written on your face because the bastard’s lips quirked up in a smug grin. That wouldn’t do. You needed to wipe that smirk off of his face.

You hopped off the desk’s edge and pointed towards it. Rolan eyed you with suspicion but acquiesced, moving so that he stood between you and it. Raising a hand to your mouth, you spit into your palm, eyes fixed on his. Your hand found his erection, spreading your saliva down his length in one motion.

Rolan’s chest heaved with a moan, thrusting into your hand for more. He knew as soon as it happened that he had made a mistake; you removed your hand from him and gave him a pointed look.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’ll be still, I promise.”

You had to bite back a smile as how desperate he sounded from just a few touches. But an apology did sound good on his lips. So, you began stroking him again, fisting over his shaft with a tight grip. Rolan’s thighs shook with the exertion needed to keep himself still and little whimpers left his mouth with every pass of your hand.

And then you stop, completely removing your hand from him. Before he could even make a sound in protest, though, you grabbed his hips and spun him in place so that his rear was pressed to your front. One hand smoothed its way up his spine, settling between his shoulder blades. And with a firm shove, you urged him to bend so that his chest lay on the cool wood of the desk.

Your free hand circled his ass, caressing the smooth, plump skin. A sharp thwack echoed through the room as your hand lifted and then connected with his rear. Rolan yelped, jolting forward slightly, but didn’t complain – in fact you were almost positive his hips canted against the desk in a desperate grind for friction. You repeated the action again, bringing your hand down to smack him with enough force to leave a darkened handprint. Rolan’s moan was high pitched and needy as he braced himself for another smack that didn’t come.

Both hands now groped at his cheeks spreading him so that you could see all of him – every last inch of his red skin heated in desire as he keened below you. Leaning forward, you reached around to press two fingers to his lips and Rolan accepted them greedily. His hot tongue laved over your digits, coating them in his saliva. You pulled them out with a pop to tease at his hole, the wetness of his spit making him slick enough to dip a finger in to the second knuckle.

Gods he looked so good taking you, back arched to offer himself more fully, desperate whines slipping from his lips. You worked your finger in and out as he rocked his hips against the desk. For a moment you thought about stopping – chastising him for seeking his pleasure without your permission. But you most certainly did not have the willpower to do so as you watched him take your finger down to the last knuckle. You were only mortal after all.

“Think you can take another?” you asked, tone sultry and low, though your question was sincere; you wanted to make sure you weren’t overstepping. He responded with an eager, shaky nod and a soft gasp.

Mumbling a spell under your breath, a small vial of oil appeared in your palm out of thin air. You uncorked it with your teeth and, with a very disappointed whine from Rolan, removed yourself from inside him to slather some of the liquid over your fingers.

The noise he made when you returned them to prod at his hole was nothing short of debauched – for a moment you thought he may cum right there. But he took the added stretch in stride, panting as you began to set a rhythm.

You were satisfied with your work, the man beneath you squirming and gasping and not saying a godsdamned word.

That is, until he turned his head to the side, peering at you from the corner of his eye to beg, “More.”

That wouldn’t do. He was still able to form a coherent thought and that just wasn’t going to work for you.

You slipped both fingers from his ass in one quick motion. Rolan, although quivering and breathless, looked as though he was going to object, to say something that surely would make your blood pressure rise. Your free hand tangled into his hair to force his head back down to the desk.

“Not a word, or else I’ll leave right now,” you hissed. You had never seen Rolan behave so easily, relaxing back against the wood as he waited for you to make the next move.

Another muted spell left your lips, the room slightly tinged with the crackle of your magic. The summoned object was heavier than you anticipated, but oh did that make it even more exciting. Commanding Rolan to keep his head down, you stepped into the harness of the conjured strap-on and pulled it up to fasten around your groin snuggly. You spilled the rest of the oil bottle over the thick base of the strap and spread it around with a loose fist.

Rolan wiggled with impatience, still obeying your orders to keep down and not look. So, without further delay, you notched the tip against him then slid the length over his entrance. His body tensed with understanding as he rocked against you ardently, his tail wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

You teased his rim with the head of your strap, providing just enough pressure to have him writhing for more but not enough to actually enter him. He groaned in frustration as he tried desperately to force himself back to satisfy his need for more.

“Oh? Is this what you want? You want me to fuck you Master Rolan?” His moan was high and keen – more pathetic than you had ever heard him before. It was music to your ears. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?” The tip of your strap pushed into him ever so slightly more, enough to spread his entrance in preparation. Dangerously close to where he wanted you most but still so very far away.

“Mmf- ye- ah- yes!” It seemed forming words was proving to be especially difficult for the erudite wizard. Perfect.

And then you gave in; your hands gripped his hips as you slid the thick length of the strap into him slowly. Rolan’s head hung low, forehead pressed to the cool wood of the desk. He sighed in relief, finally feeling the fullness he craved.

With an iron grip, you held his hips still, slowly pulling out of him. Then, without warning, you thrusted forward to sheath the strap’s entire length inside him with perhaps maybe a touch too much vigor. Rolan jolted forward by the force of it, gasping as he adjusted. You repeated the movement again. And again. And again.

Soon, you had set a punishing pace, clothed hips smacking the back of his bare thighs as you drove as deep as he could take you. Every thrust had Rolan whimpering, words dying on his tongue before they were fully formed. It didn’t take long to find that perfect spot that had him stuffing his fist in his mouth to muffle his shouts. Oh you liked that spot.

You weren’t gentle, overcome by an intense need to fuck him until every bratty thought was emptied from his mind through his cock. You raised your hand to roughly slap his ass where your handprint had formed from before. Rolan cried out as the pleasure of you inside him mixed with the pain from your hand.

“I’m- ah. So-” Every syllable was cut off by a garbled sound as though he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to scream or laugh or cry. The only thing he seemed to know was that he wanted more. “Fu- yes there right there-”

You stopped with the strap buried completely inside him. Rolan nearly screamed, the sudden lack of motion bringing tears to his eyes. He craned his neck to look at you; he was absolutely furious. You leaned over so that you could press your lips to his ear.

“Now. Did you want to say something about how you spoke to me earlier?” Your hips caged his, keeping him from seeking his own pleasure.

“Fuck y-” You began to pull out. “No no no, sorry- I'm sorry, I apologize. Whatever you want to hear I’ll say it.”

While you weren’t exactly pleased that he had the mental wherewithal to form a complete sentence, you certainly preened at his desperation. “Is that it?” You pulled out even further.

“Fuck! I was a stupid fucking brat, I’m sorry! Okay? Is that what you wanted? Will you please just-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish as you thrusted forward as quickly as possible, immediately establishing a pace faster than before. Rolan’s legs shook as though they were ready to give out and you thought for a moment they might if not for the desk under him.

It only took a couple deep thrusts against his most sensitive spot before he came. His orgasm was a rough avalanche of pleasure; his hips ground against the wood beneath him as his whole body seemed to tremble at the almost violent intensity of his release. You couldn’t quite understand what he was saying – or more like chanting – repeating the garbled word over and over again like he was trying to memorize the sound.

You realized with pride that it was your name, almost unrecognizable through the fist he still bit down on.

Your hand ghosted over the red mark on his ass – your own apology for perhaps being too rough. The conjured strap on disappeared as soon as you removed it from him, leaving behind the faint feeling of the Weave.

Hushed sounds from the shop below you started to filter into the room, and you realized that somewhere along the way Rolan had cast a modified form of silence. The cheeky bastard. You’d definitely remember that for next time.

It took him longer than he would ever admit to finally stand up, legs still unsteady and wobbly. Both the desk and his stomach were painted white with cum, and you had to admit, it was quite the sight. You brought a finger dangerously close to where his cock stood, still softening, and whisked a drop of his spend from his skin. Rolan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as you took the finger into your mouth to taste him.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke, “You truly are a degenerate.” Despite his words, he was smiling.

“And here I thought you were done being a brat?”

“Well, maybe perhaps your little lesson didn’t have the intended effect, hm?”

You eyed the mess on his desk with a smug smile. “Oh, I think it worked out just as intended.”

#bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 rolan #rolan #rolan x reader #my writing #requests/suggestions #lemonandhoneytea

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evanpeterswhoresblog · 10 months

Text

Behind the Crime

Warren Lipka x f!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, oral male receiving, dominate warren, underage drinking, underage smoking, use of marijuana, rough sex, hint of choking, talk of robbery, um yeah i think that’s it

summary: from the moment you were brought into the heist, you knew working with warren was going to be hard…

word count: 3.4k

a/n: sorry for not posting guys i have not been on the grind lately. i watched this movie and omfg evan was so attractive i just needed to write. if you’re the real warren lipka just scroll this is about evan…

~~~

You sit back in your chair, the crew members adjusting your mic. You’re starting to regret doing this interview, but it’s too late to back out now. Everything’s already set up, the camera is about to be rolling. The interviewer is sitting a few feet away from you, notes in his hand. He waits for you to give him the signal that you’re ready. You nod, he begins.

“So, y/n, how did you become involved with the group?” He asks.

“I was first approached by Spencer when I was eating lunch outside one day...”

~~~

You were sitting alone, the cool fall breeze almost too cold to be comforting. You didn’t pay much mind to it though, you were more focussed on your studying. You were flipping through the pages of another history article when suddenly there was a presence beside you. Looking up at them as soon as you noticed, you recognized the boy as someone from your class.

“Can I help you?” You asked, your tone polite.

He looked nervous as if he were about to ask you out. “Hi, uh, I don’t know if you remember my name, I’m Spencer we have Art History together.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen you,” you replied. “Do you need help with the homework or something?”

“No, I actually wanted to talk to you about something else, if you’re not busy or anything,” he said, his voice quiet.

You look away for a second before replying. “Sure, sit down if you want I’m not busy.”

He smiled at you before quickly sitting at the spot across from you. He put his bag on the table, you could see him take a deep breath. Was he really going to ask you out? You thought he was cute, but definitely not your type. You started to pray he wouldn’t say anything along those lines.

“I started to ask around a week or two ago about people who are good with computers and stuff, a lot of people told me you were the best person to go to,” he started. He lacked confidence in his voice, you felt bad for the poor guy but paid close attention to his words. “I need some... help with cameras.”

“What kind of cameras?” You asked, intrigued.

What he was saying was true, you were decently good with computers. You mostly would hack into places and disable things you didn’t like, like the cameras on the public library computers. It wasn’t anything illegal, at least you didn’t think it was illegal. It probably was, but you didn’t care.

“Just you know cameras in... semipublic places...”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what kind though? Phone, laptop, desktop, security?”

“Security,” he answered quietly. “But before you say no listen, how does a couple hundred thousand dollars' worth of payment sound?

“What?”

“I won’t tell you the details till I know you’re on board but let's just say something is going down and we need help with the cameras. The pay would be huge and all you’d have to do is just mess with some cameras for like twenty minutes.”

You only stared at him; your mouth slightly hung open. Was he being serious? Was he really asking you to join him in a potential robbery that would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars? You never would’ve expected to be asked such a question on a cloudy Thursday at lunch. You shut your book completely and look around to make sure nobody is close.

“This money, it’s guaranteed?”

He nods. “As long as we get the job done, you’ll have it.”

You knew it was crazy, you knew whatever was going to happen would either result in you going to prison or having to run off into hiding. But the thought of being able to pay all your student loans off and have extra money to live off of was more appealing. Hacking into cameras wasn’t that hard, and it wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Unless it was.

“If you’re trying to get me to make sure a murder or rape isn’t on camera I’ll snitch,” you warned him.

“Oh no, nothing like that is happening at all. It’s just you know a robbery,” he replied, his expression genuine.

You nodded your head, convinced whatever he was asking couldn’t be that bad. “Okay, yeah, I’ll do it.”

~~~

“What was your first impression of the guys?

You smile. “They were really cool, funny, just overall really fun people to hang out with.”

“Do you remember the first time you met all of them?”

“Of course, like it was yesterday...”

~~~

The house you sat in front of didn’t look like a typical criminal's house. It looked like an average American’s family house actually. You were parked out on the road outside the house Spencer told you to go to, you were meeting the rest of the people involved with the robbery. It had been about ten minutes of you sitting out there debating whether or not to go in before you got a text from Spencer asking where you were. You sighed, praying to God this decision was the right one before getting out of your car.

You knocked on the front door with a shaky fist. You started to regret your decision, you thought about turning around and leaving, but the door was opened before you could act on it. An older woman stood in front of you, she looked to be in her 50s.

“Oh, you’re very pretty,” she said, making your cheeks turn red. “You’re here to see Warren, right?”

You had no idea who Warren was, but you nodded. The lady's smile grew, and she opened the door for you and ushered you inside. She directed you to the basement entrance, asking you a million questions you had no answers to. After those few but excruciating painful minutes though, you walked down the basement stairs and finally caught sight of Spencer.

There were three other guys in the room and all of their eyes were on you. Two, along with Spencer, were sitting on a couch. One of them was skinny with glasses, the other muscular with no glasses. They didn’t grasp your attention though. The last guy who was standing did. He had long dark curly hair, and eyes to match. His eyes met yours before you watched them slowly move up and down your body. You didn’t know how to react.

“Guys, this is y/n,” Spencer said, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, I’m Eric,” the guy with glasses introduced himself.

“Chas,” the muscular guy spoke, not paying much attention to you. “Are you sure this was a good idea, Spence? How much do we really know about this chick? No offense.”

“Shut up, we agreed,” Spencer hissed. He waved you over and you complied, walking to the couch and sitting on the end beside him.

The standing guy took a step forward and held out his hand to you. You looked up at him before accepting his handshake. His hand was rough, you liked the feeling of it in yours. “I’m Warren and you are our cameraman or woman I guess.”

You laughed. “I guess.”

“How much has Spencer told you?” Warren asked after letting go of your hand and stepping back. It was then you noticed the maps on the wall with drawings all over them, the layout looked familiar.

“Just that I need to hack some cameras and that it’ll pay me a lot,” you answered. “I don’t even know what you guys are stealing.”

“Well y/n, I’m sure you’ve been to your own school's library right?”

You nodded.

“Have you ever taken a tour of the library’s rare book collection?”

You nodded again.

Warren smirked. “Then you know exactly what we’re stealing.”

Your face fell and you immediately looked at Spencer and the rest of the guys. “Are you serious? You guys want to steal historic books?”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Chas mumbled from his chair.

“Shut up Chas,” Warren quickly snapped. He looked back at you, his dark eyes engulfing yours completely. “We’ve been planning this out for months, and you are the last piece to our puzzle y/n. Think about how much you’ll be earning.”

You didn’t say anything. Maybe it was a bad idea.

~~~

“Chas eventually stopped being cold to me, I actually think in the end he became my closest friend in the group,” you say, finishing your story.

The interviewer gives you a look. “Well, besides Warren right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, a confused look on your face.

“I have to ask if the stories are true, you know about you and him. The other guys say something changed between the two of you after a party you all attended. I mean, didn’t the police even question if your involvement had a deeper meaning than simply the money?”

You shake your head, giving your best performance. “Me and Warren were only ever best friends, there was never a deeper meaning behind anything.”

~~~

Music was pumping through your body, from the tips of your toes to the top of your head you could feel it. It had been a few weeks since you met the guys, and they all wanted to do something fun before the heist. So, a frat party was naturally the easiest option. That’s where you were now, already two shots and half a joint in. You didn’t know where Spencer, Nick, and Warren were, but Chas was dancing with you.

Though the two of you got off on the wrong foot, you and Chas quickly learned how well you get along. He was a good friend, all of the guys were. You liked how easily they could make you laugh and brighten your mood. They were all good people who you enjoyed being around.

Warren was the only one that you felt different for. You didn’t know why, but from the first day you met you knew your feelings for him would be different than the other three. The way he looked at you alone was completely different than the others. There was always something darker in his eyes, something you knew wasn’t supposed to be there for simply a friend. Every time the two of you looked at each other, your stomach filled with butterflies. You wanted it too. But in those first few weeks, nothing had happened. No matter how much either of you wanted it.

After some minutes of you and Chas dancing, Warren and Spencer appeared. They asked if the two of you wanted to go out and smoke, you both agreed and followed them outside the back. Not too many people were in the backyard, but there were enough for there to be a bonfire going. The four of you found an empty spot near the fire and sat down. Warren took out a joint and lit it before passing it around.

“Where’s Nick?” You asked after taking a hit.

Spencer shrugged. “Probably with the weird kids doing weird stuff.”

“He’s not that weird,” Chas replied. “He’s just awkward.”

You watched as Warren took another long hit of the joint. Because of the weed and alcohol, you found yourself even more attracted to him than when you were sober. You wanted so desperately to run your fingers through his hair, you wanted to hear his voice as you touched him. He suddenly met your gaze, his lips curled up into a mesmerizing smile. You wanted to kiss him. It was too much for you to handle.

You swallowed and stood up, brushing the dirt off your shorts. “I need to um use the bathroom.”

You didn’t wait for any of their replies. Instead, you rushed back into the house straight to the kitchen. You poured yourself a shot, downing it before giving it a second thought. You needed these feelings to go away. How were you supposed to work with Warren if you couldn’t even look at him without thinking about having sex with him? It made you feel awful. A hookup couldn’t be the reason the robbery went bad, you refused to let that happen.

After another shot, you started to forget about your feelings. In fact, you started to forget about Warren completely. All you felt was the burning sensation of the alcohol in your stomach and chest, it felt good. You stumbled out of the kitchen and into the hallway, grabbing the railings of the staircase for support. Suddenly, you felt a presence next to you, their hand on your back.

“Y/N, are you good?” It was Warren.

You turned your head and looked at him, God how could he look even better? “No- I’m not okay.”

“You’re wasted, you need some water,” he said. He moved his hand around your waist and pulled you up straight. You felt like you were on fire. “Come on, back to the kitchen.”

“Why are you here? I just- I just wanna forget about you,” you mumbled.

He started helping you walk back to the kitchen. “What? Why would you want to forget about me?”

“Because... I want you but I can’t have you. I thought you- felt the same that’s why it’s been so hard to resist,” you spoke, stumbling over your words. “I can’t look at you without thinking about you fucking me.”

Even in your drunken state, you could still see the cockiness on Warren’s face. He lifted you up onto the kitchen counter effortlessly before turning and getting you a cup of water. You leaned your head back against one of the cabinets, your head was spinning. You couldn’t think straight.

“Drink,” Warren’s voice filled your ears.

You lifted your head and grabbed the solo cup from his hand, downing the water faster than ever. When you finished, you threw the cup to the floor, your eyes meeting Warren’s once again. He was standing close enough that if you reached, you could touch him.

Perhaps it was because of the alcohol, or perhaps it was because of how long you’d felt the tension between you two, that gave you the courage to gently place your hand on the top of his head. His hair was soft, just like you’d expected it to be. You smiled and played with his curls. He didn’t object, you were glad. You needed this.

“Do you want me?” You asked, your voice barely audible against the loud music.

“What do you think?”

You shrugged. “I thought so, but I could always be wrong.”

“Maybe I should make it clearer,” he said. He grabbed your wrist and pulled your hand off his head before stepping closer to you. “If this house wasn’t crowded, I’d fuck you right here, right now.”

Your heart was racing, your cheeks bright red. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Warren was still holding your wrist, it sent electric shocks throughout your body. His eyes began to shift from your eyes to your lips and so on. You swallowed; a lump had formed in your throat.

“There’s probably an empty room somewhere,” you mentioned. “You could take me to one of them and show me you mean what you say.”

Warren raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, you’re pretty drunk.”

“I’m not- I swear. I consent, I’ll remember all of this in the morning,” you replied quickly.

“All right.”

Before you could say anything else, Warren scooped you into his arms and began to carry you through the house. You didn’t know whether to pretend you were drunk so it wouldn’t look suspicious or stay awake to also not make it look suspicious. You chose to stay awake and within minutes you and Warren were alone in a bedroom, your lips connected.

The kiss was fast and rough, everything you expected from him. His arms were wrapped around your waist, he towered over you. You wasted no time, immediately kicking off your shoes and pushing Warren back until he fell onto the bed. He pulled you on top of him, guiding your hips in slow motions over his clothed erection. You felt like you were on fire, you needed more.

You broke this kiss and leaned back so you were straddling him. You pulled off your shirt and bra, Warren followed your actions. Once your eyes fell upon his toned abdomen, you audibly moaned. You quickly leaned down again and kissed his chest, beginning a trail down his body. Each breath that left his mouth made your pussy drip even more. And when you reached his navel, his breaths turned into soft whispers.

“Keep going.”

“Please.”

“I’ll do anything.”

When you no longer had any skin left to kiss you looked back up at him, his eyes were already on you. He got your signal and instantly pulled his shorts and boxers off, leaving him completely naked. You weren’t surprised at his size; you had a feeling he’d be big. You started off by slowly stroking him with your hand, the expressions on his face already enough to make you cum.

After a minute or so of that, you bent down and pressed a small kiss to his tip. You loved the way his leg twitched. It made you proud. So, you took him into your mouth. He gasped, one of his hands finding its way to the back of your head. He didn’t push you; he only twirled your hair back into a ponytail-like style and gripped it tight. You moved your head up and down, taking as much of him in your mouth as you could. You were never a fan of giving head to guys, but with Warren, it was a different story.

Not much time passed before Warren pushed you gently, telling you he wasn’t going to last much longer. You didn’t care, you wanted him to finish in your mouth. But he told you he wanted to have sex, so you stopped. You peeled off your shorts and underwear before you climbed back onto him. His naked body against yours felt unreal, you were almost convinced this was all part of your drunken imagination.

However, when Warren pulled your head down and began to kiss your lips again, you knew it had to be real. His hands gripped your ass, kneading and playing with your skin. You positioned his tip at your entrance, you were so wet you didn’t need any lube. You broke the kiss and looked into his eyes, you wanted to know it was okay. He gave you a nod and so you began to push yourself down on him.

He filled you well, just the perfect amount. You had thrown your head back, a moan escaping your lips. You hadn’t had sex in months, and this was the perfect way to break that streak. You started to move your body forward and backward while simultaneously going up and down. Warren’s grip on your ass tightened with each movement you made.

“Fuck baby,” he moaned. “You do it so well.”

Your confidence was boosted; you began to move faster. This only lasted a few minutes though, much to your dismay. You weren’t too athletic; you didn’t have good stamina. Warren noticed this, and without saying anything he flipped your bodies. Once on top of you, he began violent thrusts. You almost screamed from the pleasure; you’d never felt anything remotely close to it in your life. He hit your cervix each time, it made your back arch off the mattress and your nails dig into his back.

“Warren,” you whimpered. “Oh, fuck Warren.”

One of his hands wrapped around your neck. He didn’t squeeze, he just rested it there. You felt the knot in your stomach form at this. It felt so good to be dominated by him. It had been your dream for weeks, and it had finally come true. You closed your eyes and let the feeling of Warren fucking you fill your senses.

When you came, you practically screamed his name. You swore you could see stars. You’d never experienced an orgasm so hard in your life. Warren came a few seconds after you, you felt his dick pulsing inside you. He collapsed on you. You didn’t care about how his weight crushed you, you still held him as the two of you began to come down from your highs.

~~~

As the crew packs up, you remain in your chair, staring blankly out one of your windows. The interviewer is still across from you, but you don’t notice until he speaks.

“Just tell me one thing, off the record,” he says, grabbing your attention. “Did you love him?”

A small smile grows on your lips. “With all my heart.”

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whumpalicious08 · 4 months

Text

More Public Humiliation Whump (READ WARNINGS ⚠️)

---

Aka my magnum opus, in my humble opinion.

⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour

2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.

---

Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.

---

You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.

The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.

Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.

"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."

There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.

You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.

But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.

The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.

Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.

It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.

It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.

(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)

Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;

"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".

He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.

"Please."

The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.

Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.

"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."

You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.

Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.

People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.

"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."

"Did- I didn't-"

You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.

Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."

There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.

You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.

You reach Whumper's side and look down.

The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.

His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.

You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.

Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.

"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.

You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.

You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.

But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.

You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.

"No."

Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.

"Say that again?"

He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.

You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.

"No, Sir."

Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.

His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.

The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.

Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."

The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.

But it may as well be packed to you.

Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.

You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.

You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.

The gun stops at your inner thigh.

Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."

He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.

The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.

If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.

Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.

The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.

"I'm sorry."

The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.

"Louder."

"I'm sorry-"

He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.

"Show me, then."

Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.

Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?

You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.

The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.

"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."

You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.

You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.

For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.

There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.

Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

You breathe in and choke.

---

#whump #emotional whump #whump writing #whumpee #pet whump #whump community #whump prompt #whump fic #whump scenario #verbal humiliation #defiant whumpee #whum

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creature-wizard · 6 months

Text

"If the Law of Assumption is fake, what about the success stories?"

This is a question gotten a few times, so I figured I'd do a post on it.

First of all, the methods used by LOA practitioners to change their beliefs about themselves would certainly have profound psychological benefits to many people who'd internalized false beliefs about their personal agency and value as people. There are a lot of great brain hacks here to break yourself out of learned helplessness and unwittingly sabotaging yourself and others through the Pygmalion Effect.

Here I would like to state: if these methods have helped you regain your personal agency, learn to love yourself, and develop healthy relationships with people, then by all means keep doing them. There's nothing wrong with using affirmations or using a little make-believe to make yourself believe.

Next, there's really know way of knowing for sure whether the LOA actually had anything to do with people's apparent successes. Like if somebody tries to manifest money and finds a hundred dollar bill on the ground within a week, it doesn't necessarily mean that the LOA was the cause of that. Sometimes people just find dropped money; it's not exactly statistically improbable.

Of course, it also doesn't mean that they didn't somehow metaphysically arrange for a hundred dollar bill to come their way. But even if they did, it wouldn't prove that Neville Goddard was right about literally everything, much less the extreme solipsism he pushes in pieces like The Pruning Shears of Revision.

We've also got to remember confirmation bias, where people are more likely to remember things that support their beliefs and dismiss whatever doesn't. Somebody might try to manifest a hundred things, get five of those things, and count the five as proof the LOA works, ignoring the ninety five that didn't. The reality is that the more things you try to manifest, the more likely it is that at least one of them will actually happen.

Also, there's the whole affirm and persist/living in the end deal, where people are supposed to just behave as if they have everything they want. When you see people posting about their successes, they might just very well be trying to act as if their desires have already manifested. They might not actually have it at all.

Finally, people just lie sometimes. Tumblr itself was host to the infamous hivliving, a blogger who lied about having HIV, among... many other things. If you ever want to learn just how ridiculously dedicated someone can be to keeping up a lie online, look into the story of MsScribe sometime. If you think nobody in the LOA community is lying, I got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.

In fact, Neville Goddard most probably lied about some pretty important shit. You've probably learned that he learned about the Law of Assumption from this Ethiopian rabbi named Abdullah, who supposedly got it from Kabbalah.

The thing is, if you've studied mysticism and the occult for any length of time, you pretty quickly realize that claiming to have been taught by a mysterious foreigner is pretty much just code for "I pulled it out of my ass."

It's also pretty obvious that the Law of Assumption has more in common with New Thought and Protestant beliefs about divine reward and punishment than it does with Kabbalah, which is a closed practice to non-Jews. (If you want to know about the history of Kabbalah, and get enough of an idea of what it's actually about so that you know why the Law of Assumption has nothing to do with it, I recommend Dr. Justin Sledge's lecture series over here.)

Additionally, Goddard's claim that the Kabbalah actually supports his obviously Christian form of mysticism isn't only just absurd, it echoes centuries of antisemitic Christians claiming that Kabbalah actually proves that Jesus is the messiah in order to try and convert Jews.

Goddard's use of the Bible, by the way, is appalling. If you've ever read the texts he quote, it's obvious that he's just ripping passages completely out of context to spin them into something that was definitely never intended by the writers. In other words, he's blatantly lying. (And by the way, if you ever want to learn about the real history of early Christianity, I recommend the work of Dr. Bart D. Ehrman. He's also got a YouTube channel over here.)

Now tell me this: if Neville Goddard so blatantly and so brazenly lied about the source of his ideas, why should we believe him when he claims that the Law of Assumption can do literally anything? Shouldn't we consider that maybe, just maybe, he might have lied about some of that other stuff, too?

#law of assumption #loa #loassumption #neville goddard #abdullah

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tj-dragonblade · 10 months

Text

[FIC] Of Cutoff Shorts and Classic Cars

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: 4337 Tags: PWP, cutoff shorts, classic cars, unintended uses for classic cars, Top Dream, Bottom Hob, Top Hob, Bottom Dream, they're doing a lot and switching up okay, sex with (some) clothes still on, sweat is sexy, Dream has a human kink, for Hob in particular, rimming, anal sex, felching, shapeshifting for sex, Dream has a vulva, vaginal sex, cream pie, eating the cream pie, cunnilingus, squirting, squirting facial, Hob Gadling 600 Year Reigning King of Eating Pussy, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel

Notes: Inspired by this pic and Discord conversation surrounding it. Written in conjunction with Smune prompts 'rimming' and '"What are you?"' (which I altered slightly, shh). I also had to study the half-naked Ferdie gifs from Silo so much for the first bit of this. Oh, the hardships we endure for our art…

Summary: Hob has made some Very Distinct Wardrobe Choices on a warm day. Dream approves.

On AO3

~~~ "Hello, Ho—"

The greeting dies on Dream's tongue before it quite finishes forming, the sight of his friend, his lover, utterly arresting as Dream manifests behind him. Hob is wearing—is not wearing—he is clad in sturdy workman's boots and nothing else, save a pair of well-worn jeans that have been. Cut, so short, they hardly preserve Hob's modesty. The full length of his legs is on display, his calves and thighs rich with thick glorious hair; the backs of his knees. Glisten, with sweat, in the heat, and.

And.

A substantial curve, of cheek, is peeking from beneath the hacked-off denim, particularly prominent when Hob is. Bent over, the side of an automobile, tinkering beneath the hood. 1970 Triumph Stag, Saffron Yellow, the collective subconscious informs him, but he can hardly concern himself with retaining that information as Hob straightens up and turns.

"Dream!" His smile splits his face wide, and normally Dream would bask in that bright welcome, let himself smile in return, but not.

Not when his eyes are drawn, inexorably, tidally, to the sweat-damp curls adorning Hob's chest, to the. Trail, of hair down his stomach, the sweet dip of his navel, the trim soft curves where his waist flows into his hips, the bulge in the worn denim riding low just beneath.

"Dream?"

It is an effort of monumental proportions, to return his eyes to Hob's face. "Hob." He licks his lips, feeling both as though he is. Parched, inexplicably, while his mouth also waters. "Your. Clothing."

It fails to be the question he means to ask. Hob takes his meaning nonetheless, glances down at himself and then skyward with a brief smile. "Seemed sensible for working out back on the car? It's hot."

"Yes. It is."

Hob of course means the weather. Dream. Does not, and the inexorable fall of his gaze back to where Hob's shapely well-furred thighs emerge from frayed denim so short that the pockets hang visible underneath makes that obvious. Hob. Does not fail to notice, and the smirk, that colors his voice when he speaks, is warm.

"Well then. S'pose that's enough faffing about with the engine for today. Let me just—" He turns, reaches, and Dream can barely keep back the sound that would flee his mouth. The lines of Hob's arms, Hob's back, stretching up to close the hood—they are exquisite, sweat gleaming in the sun, a bead of it. Trickling down, the hollow of Hob's spine, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts; Dream swallows a whimper, disappears his coat. He is hardly subject to the climate of the waking, but his body is aflame and he would do with less in this moment.

The hood closes with a metallic clunk and Hob turns, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and Dream. Has reached his limit. "Come inside?" Hob is offering, and with barely a thought Dream is tasting the words from his mouth before they are fully shaped, his kiss wet and open and violently eager; is backing Hob against the side of the automobile, fingertips seeking the sloping lines of his hips, thumbs pressing over his iliac crest on either side. His touch dips beneath Hob's meager excuse for clothing and Hob's fists curl into the back of his grey t-shirt; Dream slides both hands to grip the meat of Hob's backside and squeezes, catching the whimper that rises from Hob's throat with his tongue.

"I am. Where I currently wish to be," he breathes, mouthing next over Hob's up-tilted chin, three days' worth of stubble rough against his lips; he recognizes that going indoors is perhaps the socially acceptable course but. The sight. Of Hob as he is, barely clothed, gleaming with life beneath the sun, is irresistible. He moves to the base of Hob's throat, licks flat against it, all the way back up, the salt-sweat taste of him absolutely delectable.

"O-okay then," Hob laughs, a trembling and pleasant sound, pulse eager under Dream's mouth, and Dream squeezes Hob's backside again, grinds against him with intent. The worn denim hides nothing; if he cared to draw back, to look, Dream is. Certain, that he would find Hob's interest questing out the leg of the scant garment. He grinds again, nosing along Hob's bared collarbone, the side of his neck; Hob's skin is warm with both sun and exertion, sheened in sweat and Dream. Inhales, taking in the heady scent, dizzy with the pleasure of it.

"God's bloody wounds, Dream—" It is a groan, Hob's hips pressing eagerly against his own in return, and Dream. Cannot restrain his want, sucks a rosy bruise into bloom on Hob's throat and nimbly moves to open Hob's fly, draws back and yanks the cutoffs down.

Hob gasps at the abrupt change. "What are you—?"

Dream seizes Hob by the arms, cuts off his question with another kiss, manhandles him around and bends him over the hood, above the wheel well. Dream then folds to his knees behind Hob, shoves the shorts all the way to the ground and wrests them off one leg completely, leaves them looped around the other ankle as he pushes Hob's boots apart. "Spread for me," he manages, face on a level with Hob's magnificently hairy arse, the scent of him nearly palpable.

Hob gives a breathless chuckle, widening his stance obediently even as he lodges a half-hearted complaint. "We're in the back garden, love—not exactly public, but not quite private either?"

Dream cards his fingers through the hair covering the backs of Hob's thighs, stroking up, up, over the swell of each cheek at last, parting them reverently. "None will see what we do, unless you wish it," he assures, mouth watering, and buries his face with an eager sigh.

"At least let me show—ohh—shower—nnghh—" Hob trails into a moan as Dream probes slickly at his hole, protest dying half-spoken, decimated under the eager onslaught of Dream's tongue.

"I would have you as you are," Dream gasps, drawing back briefly; he licks the taste of Hob from his lips, licks a long stripe from the base of Hob's scrotum all the way to the tip of his tailbone. "You are. Exquisite—" He licks again, deep and unhurried, tongue against hair and skin and scent—human scent, Hob's scent, rich and earthy, salt and sweat and musk and Dream. Cannot get. Enough.

He feasts, and feasts, his tongue thorough and enthusiastic, his mouth upon Hob hungry, starving, intimately gluttonous. He spends long moments sunk in this indulgence, Hob babbling encouragement all the while, until at last the heat in his loins clamors so loudly for satiation that he cannot ignore it. He shifts aspects of his form, tongue long and tapered, saliva slick and viscous, and returns to Hob's hole with focused intent. "Oh yes," Hob gasps, at that first incursion, eager and accommodating, and Dream squeezes his cheeks, scratches lightly at the hair on them, pulls them marginally further apart. His tongue delves relentlessly into Hob, working deep, gently unfurling him to full readiness; he does not stop until Hob is trembling, breathless, scattering pleas over the hood of his car—"Dream, please, need you in me, dove, please—"

And Dream obliges him, eagerly, rises up and vanishes his slim black trousers, keeps his boots, takes his prick in hand to line up and pushes. Into Hob's body, sinks in him to the root. He is stricken still for just an instant, arrested by the heat of Hob pulsing around him, the arch of Hob's spine as his head goes up and back, the sound that comes out of Hob's throat. Hob's hair is tied up off his neck in a messy bun and Dream. Itches to seize it, to hold his body in this arc, to drive into him hard and slow and deep until he is incoherent with pleasure. But Dream is not currently. Possessed, of the patience for such a tryst; he grips Hob instead by the waist, draws back, slams into him again and Hob drops his forehead to the hood with an appreciative groan.

"God, yes, please fuck me—"

Dream shudders at that, thrusts deep again, and again, sets into a frenetic pace that sends the need within him soaring, bursting with the delight of being given into, fulfilled. Hob is left panting, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth sunny finish of the hood, gleefully welcoming the fierce vigor of Dream's attentions and gasping out endearments and expletives on every breath.

"Holy shit—ahh—oh love—if I'd known I'd get—get this kind of reaction—I'd have shown you my—my car—ages ago—" The cheeky grin is clear in his voice, despite everything.

"It. Is not. The car," Dream gasps, between thrusts, the want in his belly molten and roaring and spiraling beyond any will he might have had to contain it. He gives it free rein, fucking wild and wanton into Hob's willing body, fully aware that he will reach his peak before Hob does, chasing it all the harder. The smell of Hob clings richly to his face, fragrant in his nose, his mouth; he leans down, licks the sweat from Hob's back, a sweet thrill of more beneath the sparking flaring joy of their coupling. He grips Hob by his beautiful hips, throws his head back and takes and takes and takes until his pleasure crests abruptly, erupting through his core and spilling deep into Hob.

"Give it to me," Hob moans, a half-instant after Dream has already done so, rocking back, squeezing tight about Dream. "All of it, darling, give me everything—"

Dream shudders, holds him fast and pushes as far into him as possible, lets Hob milk him through the tremors of completion. Hob makes a needy sound when he finally pulls out and Dream runs both hands down the sweaty hair along his flanks and back up, soothing him, promising him. "Hush, my Hob," he croons, and bends to drop a soft kiss between Hob's warm damp shoulder blades.

He is not nearly sated, but he would like. Something different, as they continue. He reshapes his form, trades his spent prick for the soft folds of a wet cunt, feels the thrill of renewed arousal pulsing all through him as the shift completes. He drops into a squat behind Hob, parts his cheeks again and plunges back in, lapping up the spend that leaks prettily from Hob's pink and open hole. The taste of himself blended with the taste of Hob is heady, intoxicating, unbearably arousing, and Dream. Buries his face deeper, with a whine. He is throbbing and alive between his own legs, deliberately spread open by his position; he is most certainly dripping on the driveway. Hob is moaning and gasping on the hood of the car, pushing back onto Dream's face eager and shameless, cock leaking; he has not once tried to touch it, letting Dream do as he pleases, trusting that his pleasure will be seen to, and Dream. Aches, with how easy things are between them.

When he has sucked every last trace of his own spend from Hob's hole, greedy, voracious, he places a final kiss over the open emptiness that he leaves behind and stands, wipes his mouth on the neck of his t-shirt. There is indeed a small puddle, glistening on the driveway beneath him, and he feels the trickle of slick running now down his thighs.

Good.

It is what Hob deserves.

"Come," he purrs, pulling Hob up off the car, leading him the few steps around to the front of it. Hob is still in his boots, cutoffs still caught about his one ankle; his cock is standing at rapt attention and leaking steady threads of precome. He is hairy and sweaty and ready, well-fucked but still hungry, and Dream does not require breath but still he loses it at how utterly beautiful Hob is like this.

"Dream, love," Hob declares fervently, in supplication. "You've got me so worked up—I need you, I—"

Dream presses two fingers to his lips to cut him short, hoists himself to sit on the bright yellow hood with a smile. He vanishes his boots, leans back on his elbows and draws his knees up, legs spread wide, sopping cunt on full display.

"Then have me, Hob Gadling," he invites, and Hob whines breathlessly, steps up and yanks him closer by the hips, slick smearing on the car beneath. He wastes no time, sinking easily into Dream, spearing him with feverish care and a heartfelt groan, leaning down to kiss him as well. Dream gasps and it is lost in Hob's mouth, rekindled into a moan as Hob fucks smoothly into him again.

"You taste like me," Hob says delightedly into the kiss, hips picking up into a swift steady rhythm, gliding fast and easy in the wet grip of Dream's body. "I can taste you, too—mixed in—god, that's hot—"

Dream throws one arm around his neck to drag him nearer and plunges his tongue up into Hob's mouth, hooks his legs around Hob and digs one bare heel into the furry curves of Hob's arse, urging him on. He is absolutely aflame with his need, wonderfully swollen and wanting around Hob inside him, climbing higher up the slope of his pleasure every time Hob slams home. His head falls back out of the kiss and he pants, open-mouthed, a show of arousal meant to stoke Hob's fervor. Hob draws back somewhat and Dream shifts with him, hand gripping behind Hob's neck to keep him from going too far. Hob takes hold of his waist beneath the hem of the grey t-shirt and Dream plants his feet on Hob's hips, knees butterflied out to keep himself as open as possible, the angle deep and exquisite. He lifts his head again, locks eyes with Hob, fingers the flyaway hairs at his nape that have escaped their loose confinement and Hob whines, fucks into him faster.

"You're so beautiful," he gasps, and the words drop like molten liquid into the sea of Dream's arousal, wetness surging around Hob's prick. "Gorgeous—just like this—Dream, fuck—I'm gonna—"

"Yes," Dream hisses, still holding Hob's gaze from beneath his lashes as his head tilts back again, alive with the slick friction and the glorious fullness of Hob's prick, the imminent promise of Hob's spend within him. He lets go of Hob's neck, leans again on both elbows as Hob straightens up fully, arches back and slams Dream onto his cock again and again and again, breath a torn-off whine at the bottom of every thrust. Dream moans, flexes his toes against Hob's pistoning hips, anticipation thick and warm in his belly. "Fill me, Hob—to the brim, with your—ahh—with your seed—that you might. Taste, the fruits of your labors—"

Hob whines, shudders, rhythm faltering as orgasm bears down on him. "Is that what you want, sweet?" he chokes out, desperate, determined. "Fill you up and—ahh—eat you out?"

"Yes," Dream gasps, trembling with his need of it, "yes yes YES—"

Hob slams into him with a strangled cry, pulsing, rocks back and slams in again, pulling Dream's body as far onto his prick as it will go. Wet warmth blooms deep within Dream and he moans, squeezes tight about Hob, wanting everything. Hob's hands at his waist clench as his hips jerk again, and then one hand moves upward, shaking as it skates over the grey t-shirt and up to Dream's chest, his shoulder, behind his neck. Hob's mouth crashes down against his, both of them panting into the other before Hob adjusts, kissing him fiercely, wet and open and. Zealous, with his tongue, as if he would devour Dream whole.

Hob is going soft within him and Dream squirms; it is there that he would have Hob's tongue, despite the pleasure he takes in being kissed this way. It is not the first time that he has shaped his body thus for Hob, but it is the first time he has invited Hob to partake with his mouth, and he is quite suddenly desperate for it. When Hob's cock at last slips wetly from him, he breaks away from the kiss. "Hob—" It is more plea than demand; Hob heeds it either way.

"'Course love. Hang on." He straightens with a grin, shifts, scoots Dream unceremoniously further up the hood of the car until he's got room to lean down comfortably, to bury his face where Dream is wet and overflowing.

Dream cannot stifle the sound that he makes, does not even try.

"Oh, fuck," Hob gasps, reverently, after the first stroke of his tongue. "Holy shit—oh my god—" His hands scrabble at Dream, push his thighs wide, draw his feet up to brace on Hob's shoulders and then Hob dives back in, lapping and slurping at the mess in Dream's cunt with abandon. He does not surface for at least two full minutes, during which Dream is. Voiceless, with the pleasure of Hob's tongue squirming eagerly into him, laving and licking up and down the valley of him, Hob's mouth grazing and sucking upon his folds. When Hob finally does lift his head, his eyes are fever bright and half his face is glazed with spend and slick.

"I could eat you out for days," he pants, breathless and grinning. "Fucking—ambrosial, you are, can't get enough, and with me mixed in?" He shakes his head, stabs his tongue into Dream and licks heavily up between his lips with a sensual groan, curls gently across his clit in parting. His arms slide under Dream's thighs and wrap over the top of each, gripping firmly but gently, holding him open. "Give me more. Give me all of it—"

Dream seizes the messy bun of his hair and shoves Hob's face back down with a keening whine, bucks into Hob's mouth as it opens, Hob's laugh muffled into his folds.

It is Hob's turn to feast, mouth working over Dream with boundless enthusiasm and considerable skill, ravenous and insatiable. He makes short work of the last of his own spend and then he is lapping up all of Dream's copious slick as it continues to well from him in a beautiful over-abundance of stimulation. Hob's tongue teases generously about his entrance, between his labia, warm and wet and beautiful; Hob glides the tip of his nose against Dream's clit, again and again, driving him higher and higher, and Dream is consumed by the strength of his need.

"More," he gasps out, hips undulating desperately into the press of Hob's attentions, fist still clenched in the knot of his hair. The stubble on Hob's face is a delicious rasp against wet delicate skin and Dream is febrile with the onslaught of sensation that is still, maddeningly, insufficient. "Hob—I need—" He is empty, devastatingly empty; Hob's tongue is glorious but simply cannot reach far enough inside him to satisfy. "Fill me—Hob—!"

"As you wish," Hob breathes, then kisses wet and filthy up the length of his slit and slides two fingers into him as he reaches Dream's clit. His tongue laves over it heavily, very nearly too much, then gentles as Hob strokes him tenderly from within. Dream writhes, head hanging back between his shoulders and mouth open, voice caught in his throat; he tugs restlessly at Hob's hair to urge him on, fraught with the mounting tension and his dizzying need for release. Hob chuckles, warm and fond and muffled in Dream's flesh, his fingers shifting into a proper thrusting motion and his tongue dancing prettily above; it leaves Dream shaking. Hob draws fully out of him, returns with another finger added and it is everything, so close to perfect that Dream could sob with it.

He lifts his head with effort to take in the sight of Hob diligently working between his legs, Hob's tangled bun threaded in his own pale fingers, Hob's warm and depthless eyes flicking up to meet his briefly over a particularly inspired twist of Hob's tongue. It is all so much, so achingly inexpressibly good; he can. Feel, the precipice approaching, and allows himself to be lost in the immediacy of it—in the glory of Hob's mouth hot upon him there, tongue tip drawing delicate flickering patterns all over the swollen bud of his clit; of Hob's fingers, three thick, blunt and perfect within him, pressing and thrusting exactly right and Dream cries out, back arching as his pleasure crests. His hand seizes tight in Hob's hair and his hips cant up and forward, into the source of it, thighs shaking; Hob shifts, curls his fingers sharply and Dream shrieks, fluid rushing abruptly from him, soaking Hob's chin and wrist, running all over the car beneath. Gasping, suspended in the pulsing euphoria, he rides the high of his climax, body taut and trembling until Hob's tongue on his clit becomes too much. He collapses then, pulling Hob up and off him by the hair; in the same instant Hob's fingers within him curl sharply once more and fluid jets from him again, splashes Hob square in the face.

Hob makes a noise of unparalleled delight and drops his head back down, Dream's hand falling loose in his hair. Hob's fingers are still in Dream and he thrusts with them again, curled deep and insistent, then again, and again, and again and again and Dream. Cannot hold back his keening wail; it is a sweet throbbing fullness that swells with every quick thrust until he crests again, different from clitoral orgasm but no less intense. There is fluid spilling from him steadily now as he trembles through it, not the jets of a moment before but a flow like a dam released and Hob's mouth is full upon him to receive it, lapping it up, drinking him down, careful to leave his over-sensitive clit be.

"Fuck," Hob gasps, fingers still working as Dream goes limp, wringing the last trickles of it from Dream's overwrought body; he's licking thoroughly, unhurriedly, savoring the taste of Dream as Dream had savored him, and Dream is. Sated, for the moment, pleased, a comfortable lassitude radiating through him like sunlight in the veins he does not need. Hob's lingering attentions only feed that warmth, easing him down from the heights with such enthusiastically tender skill that Dream is nearly purring when Hob lifts away at last.

He's panting, still; understandably so. He has given Dream exquisite pleasure and the evidence of it is glistening across so much of his face, wet in his stubble, his chest hair. He slides his fingers out of Dream and directly into his own mouth, sucking them clean with a pop, spreading them and licking every last trace of it from each. Dream watches him raptly; then, leaning up, he takes the hem of his grey t-shirt and wipes at Hob's face.

"I have made quite the mess of you," he observes; he cannot bring himself to feel. Particularly contrite about it, but wonders if perhaps he ought. "My apologies."

"Are you kidding?" Hob winks. "Nothing like a good soak on a hot day. Quite refreshing." He kisses Dream warmly between his damp and sticky thighs, lingering there without going further. "I really hope it's not the last time, either," he says, into Dream's spent flesh. "I loved it, and you taste amazing. And besides." He looks up, chin resting lightly on Dream's mound. "I'm very good at eating cunt, got a face built for it some say, and I'd love to put my centuries of practice to work for you." It is said sincerely, however boastful the words might sound alone, and Dream finds that he is. Eager, to experience more of Hob's skill.

"I would. Have you, again," Dream asserts, arousal beginning to whisper gently along his skin once more. "In every way that I might."

Hob flashes his beautiful blinding grin. "Well, I'm afraid my prick is done, for an hour or two at least. However. My mouth and my fingers and the toy collection upstairs are at your disposal, dove, and my arse as well—you can give yourself a cock again and fuck me six ways from Sunday if you like. But first—" he shifts, gathers Dream into his arms, scoops him off the hood of the car and straightens up, Dream's legs wrapping firmly around him, clinging. "First, I am taking you inside out of this heat. I do have aircon, y'know."

"I am. Unbothered, by the temperature," Dream allows, as Hob carries him across the garden. He smells of sex and sweat and sunshine, of Dream's release drying on his skin—a heady mix, and Dream nuzzles into the crook of his neck, inhales the scent of him, already craving more.

"Yes well. I am, and I'd have taken us inside to begin with had you given me the chance."

"I did not hear you complaining."

"Oh I wasn't, no. Still not." Hob chuckles, the sound rich in his throat beneath Dream's wandering lips. "Really flattering to be jumped out of the blue like that, actually, however unexpected."

"If you did not wish for me to ravish you on sight, your wardrobe was very poorly chosen," Dream offers, not at all contrite, and Hob laughs, a bright and beautiful sound as he maneuvers through the patio doorway of his house.

"Cutoff jeans that let my arse peek out and work boots, that's what gets you going. I will remember that."

"Mmh," Dream demurs, and sets his tongue to tasting the sweet scent of Hob's skin again as he's carried up the stairs.

The cutoffs in question, the scant garment that had seized Dream's attention and set fire to his lust, they are still hooked on Hob's boot; he finally shakes them loose somewhere on the way up before reaching his bedroom.

===== Started: 6/16/23 Drafted: 6/25/23 Posted: 7/3/23

We are probably not dealing with a 'Hob has a flat above the New Inn' situation, as I imagine backyards and garage space are unlikely to exist in conjunction with flats built over pubs in the middle of the city. Hob can have a nice suburban two-story house instead. As a treat. Also, here is Hob's car, for the curious

And listen, I don't imagine that most classic car enthusiasts would appreciate sexual fluids all over their paintjobs but this is Hob and I have to believe he'll cheerfully wash the thing every day if it means hot sex on the hood with Dream. Catch me googling whether vaginal fluid is acidic enough to damage clear coat and not finding an answer, shh

#Dreamling #The Sandman #Hob Gadling #Dream of the Endless #TJs Fics #Sandman #nsft

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jungk0oksthighs · 2 years

Text

Ride Or Die | The Past

mafia!jungkook, druglord!jungkook, angst, unhealthy co-dependant relationship, smut

Word Count - 3.5k

Jungkook has a rough day trying to piece together the puzzle of your near-death experience. Warnings: swearing, drinking, drug use, relapse, violence, threats, guns. toxic relationship. mentions of alcoholism & past ab0rti0n. Important note: I do not condone nor enable this kind of behaviour or relationship. This is fiction

MINISERIES COLLECTION

“Good to see you’re finally in a good mood.” Jimin chuckles, mindlessly running silver decorated fingers through his thick blonde hair.

Jungkook smirks, memories of the last few days replaying in his mind. He is in a good mood. You’re back home, living under his roof. Sucking his cock, bending over every surface and letting him fuck you senseless. Waking up next to him every morning, whining when he has to leave. Which is exactly what happened this afternoon when Jimin called him into head quarters stating he had some information about Mono. You tried to get him to stay, using everything in your power to get him from leaving the apartment. Twice. And he almost caved, right before he remembered that one of those assholes tried to kill you last week.

Mono need to pay for that.

“Y/N’s back, obviously I’m in a good mood.” Jungkook sighs with a knowing grin, sitting across from his right hand man and best friend.

Headquarters looks as anybody would imagine it to look. Secret bookshelves containing guns and other weaponry hidden in the depths of a vintage gentleman’s study. A huge manor house far back in a gated community, not that the gates do much for their privacy. Everybody in the area knows who they are of course.

And what they do.

Kook's gang BTS have been active for around ten years now, he hasn’t always been their leader though. That was a decision made four years ago, when it was discovered that their old leader Namjoon had been selling vital information to their biggest rival gang in all of Seoul. Mono. Turned out Namjoon had a number of shady businesses on the side, but he deleted any trace of information that could give the other insight to what they were.

It wasn’t long before Namjoon fled and rumour has it he’s actually the leader of Mono now, though Jungkook doesn’t know how true that is. Namjoon is an expert at hiding, in fact nobody has seen him since he left BTS and Kook was forced to take the reins. Given that he has the most experience in certain gory domains.

Directly below Jungkook is Jimin, arguably the best drug dealer and underground fighter in the whole country. Should anything happen to the current leader he would trust Jimin to take over, since he’s the most loyal member. Even his violent outbursts come in handy sometimes, their enemies never dare to pick a fight if he’s around.

After Jimin there are other members who fall in line, all equipped with their own unique set of skills. Hoseok, or as Jungkook likes to call him – the perfect disposal man. Not one of his victims have been found by law enforcement to date. Nobody knows how he does it, or what he does with the bodies, but they disappear into thin air with a cliché runaway note so nobody bats an eyelid.

Taehyung, Jungkook’s eyes and ears. Taehyung is in charge of all surveillance and security systems. He studied IT abroad and boy has that proven useful to the gang, there’s not a security system or video feed the man can’t hack into.

Yoongi is the man who lays low throughout their illegal activities, watching, observing. And yet he’s the man responsible for kidnapping and questioning their enemies when necessary. His torture methods have proved very… effective to say the least.

And finally on the team of men Jungkook would describe as slightly below him there’s Seokjin, a man so handsome that he’s ideal for undercover investigations. Nobody ever suspects him, not even you did the night you and Jungkook first met.

“Mmm.” Jimin deadpans, plump lips pursed in a thin line disapprovingly, “How did you find her after all this time? What did you do?”

“If I tell you I’d have to kill you.” Kook smirks, spreading his thighs wide when he gets comfy on the black leather arm chair, knees knocking into the dark wooden desk, “So what do you know?”

Thankfully Jimin seems to know his place and drops the subject completely, engaging in small talk about things Jungkook was already aware of.

Truthfully Jungkook knew exactly where you were every second you were away from him, thanks to your sentimental ass never throwing away the Rolex he gifted you for your first anniversary. It contains a small tracking device, sending coordinates to Jungkook’s phone every time you move from area to area. Some people would call that scary and controlling behaviour, but he likes to think of it as the only thing that saved your life last week.

“—And Namjoon was spotted near the hotel Y/N was staying at, looks like he did the clean up after your little display of affection, or whatever that was.” Jimin’s voice is quiet when he grabs surveillance screenshots that Taehyung printed off from his desk drawer, sliding them over to his boss.

“You mean saving my girl’s life? Hmm.” Jungkook frowns, inked fingers separating the pages to get a closer look. That’s definitely Namjoon alright, standing outside the same hotel room you were almost killed in.

How does Joon even know who you are? You’d met Jungkook a whole year after his sudden departure from BTS. Has Namjoon secretly being keeping tabs on his old gang? Why? Jungkook’s blood boils. Was Namjoon responsible for the guy who came after you? His thick brows remain pinched together with equal parts rage and confusion.

“I don’t need to tell you that’s the first anyone’s seen of him since he left us. Either he got sloppy or—”

“Or he wants us to know that he’s watching us.” Jungkook interrupts Jimin, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Why would he wait four months before going after Y/N? How does he even know who she is to me?”

At this Jimin pauses, sinking back into his seat with a small head shake, “No idea. Was hoping you’d be able to shed some light onto the situation. Has Y/N ever met him? Maybe before you guys got together? Did they ever… I mean was she his—”

“Don't be fucking ridiculous.” Jungkook scoffs, cockily rolling his eyes, “I was her first boyfriend.”

“Yeah but her background is a little shady—”

“Don’t.” Your boyfriend bites between clenched teeth as a warning. He’s fully aware of who you were before he saved you from that life. What you did for a living, how you paid the bills. He doesn’t need his friend to remind him of that time, a time when you’d flaunt your body and dance round tall metal poles for money.

Jimin swallows uncomfortably before readjusting his posture a fraction, “I’m just saying… Maybe he was one of her clients before. It is possible.”

Jungkook can’t help but scoff humourlessly, bored looking when he unhooks the black handgun from his belt. He slams his favourite murder weapon down to the desk in a huff, being sure to lock his dark eyes with the other man when he speaks.

“I did every check on her under the sun when we met, she doesn’t know him.”

“He seems to know her,” Jimin shrugs, curious gaze flickering between his boss and the gun sitting atop his paperwork, “Or at the very least he knew the guy who tried to kill her.”

That’s true. Begrudgingly Jungkook nods after rolling his eyes into the back of his skull. Namjoon is involved in this somehow, which makes him one thing and one thing only to him and his gang.

A dead man.

Just when you thought Jungkook was capable of change, he has to prove you wrong and dip back into his old ways. It’s almost 5AM when he comes home the next morning. Nose blocked, knuckles bloody and bruised. You can smell the whiskey staining his clothes before you even open your eyes, his weight on the bed stirring your slumber.

“Kook…?” You mumble, rolling over to face him.

“Mmm.” He’s staring at the ceiling, lost in a dangerous train of thought. There’s no physical evidence of drug use but you’ve known him long enough to know that he’s under the influence right now, doe-eyes round and wide fixated on the light above him. When he breathes he sounds congested, another tell-tale sign.

You sigh in frustration, which seems to get his attention because he snaps his head to face you. Like a deer caught in Class A headlights.

“How much did you do this time?” Your voice is laced with venom, you yourself feel wide awake now too. The honeymoon phase lasted all of what… One week this time? That’s got to be a new record, even for him.

His tongue cockily glides over his teeth before he speaks, “Dunno what you’re talking about.” He shrugs, slipping out of his dress shirt and jeans next to you.

“Your nose is blocked.”

“I have a cold.”

“You didn’t have a cold this afternoon. Or should I say yesterday afternoon since it’s almost five.” You argue with him, sitting up in bed before covering your naked body with the thin burgundy sheets.

At this Jungkook smirks, gaze hungrily exploring the shape of your curves hidden beneath the fabric. “Must be hay fever then.”

“Jungkook.” You exhale, infuriated that he has the audacity to lay here and lie to you when what he’s done is as clear as the daylight outside. “You said you stopped—”

“Does the name Kim Namjoon ring a bell to you?” He deflects, because of course he does. Propping himself up with one tattooed elbow in a huff. He looks visibly angry, which only puts you on edge giving he has quite the temper at the best of times, never mind after a heavy night of doing god knows what.

You’re shaking your head, one hand covering your chest the other soothingly massaging your tense neck. “No. Should it?”

“Sure he wasn’t one of your… yknow, back in the day.”

Your eyes widen, brows hiked so far up your forehead in surprise that you’re sure you must look hilarious right now. “Excuse me?”

“You do know what I mean, right?” Jungkook scoffs, sitting up on the bed beside you. He’s wearing grey boxer shorts and a look of disgust when he edges closer, knees grazing yours when he crosses his legs. “I’m talking about when you were a stripper.”

At this you tongue your cheek, exhaling slowly to calm yourself down. “No. The name Kim Namjoon doesn’t ring a bell to me. If he did come to the club he must’ve used a different name.”

Your boyfriend sits directly in front of you, hooded eyes boring into your soul as if to see if you’re telling the truth. Of course you’re telling the truth, you’ve no reason to lie to him, you have no clue who Kim Namjoon is or why he’s relevant right now. Jungkook’s hair is messy, damp and shiny. Your eyes drop to his nose where you can make out the faintest sprinkling of white dust decorating his septum. His knuckles are heavily bruised and sore, his breathing thick and somewhat erratic considering he’s sitting still.

Frankly you’ve heard enough of what he has to say.

“Get some sleep, I’ll speak to you later.” You spit, heart plummeting into the depths of your stomach. He hasn’t changed. He’ll never fucking change. That’s what leads you to throw the covers off your frame and head for the closet, you’d rather nap on the sofa than be in the same room as him right now.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He laughs when he stands, making his way over to where you’re stood throwing one of his t shirts over your bare body.

“We’re not doing this right now. Go to sleep.” You try to push past him to get to the door but he’s stronger than you, keeping you in place with big hands on your shoulders and a wicked grin.

“So I do a little bit of coke and you’re gonna run off again is that it?” His thick brows are raised expectantly, grip on you tightening when you don’t respond straight away.

You shake your head in disbelief, features nothing but serious and angry, “I thought you had a cold?”

“You’re many things but you’re not stupid Y/N.”

“Why try to lie in the first place then?”

"Didn't want to argue with you."

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest, "How's that working out for you?"

At this Jungkook pauses for a beat, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing when he clears his palette to speak. All while staring you down with eyes you’ve seen one to many times before. Pupils blown wide out, barely blinking, the recognisable glimmer of panic. “Look I’m sorry, I’ve had a rough day and I caved, okay? I won’t do it again.”

“Let me go.” You whisper, just wanting to be away from him.

“Come on let’s cuddle in bed, yeah? You know I’m the best cuddler. I’ll even take you out tomorrow to make up for not coming—”

“I said let me go,” You inhale, using all your strength to shove him back until falls to the ground with a thud, “You don’t get to come back at 5AM coked up and ask for cuddles! Are you fucking serious?!” You’re raging, blood boiling, adrenaline coursing your veins, “I’m going to sleep on the sofa. We’ll talk about this when you wake up.”

Jungkook’s sat on the wooden floor of your shared bedroom, large body bouncing with silent laughter before he peels the gun from his discarded jeans on the ground. The expression he wears is terrifying when he messily aims it at you, drunkenly swaying the arm he tries to keep in place. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Put the gun down.” Your voice is soft and calm, familiar and kind. But on the inside you’re screaming for help, heart racing in your chest, the sound of it crystal clear in your ears. “Baby… Put the gun down please.” You have no idea if it’s loaded, but knowing Jungkook and what he does for a living you’re not willing to take any chances.

“Baby…” He repeats quietly with a small genuine smile, but the murder weapon still points at you in his grip. “Not until you tell me how you know Kim Namjoon.”

Your mouth opens to speak but no words come out, especially when in one swift movement your boyfriend stands in front of you and presses the barrel of his gun to your chin, pushing your face back. You thought you’d seen him at his worst, at his most violent, but the times before this don’t even come close to how afraid you are right now. His teeth grind together, jaw swinging and tensing but he doesn’t look away from you. Not even once.

“Kook… I’m serious I don’t know who—”

“Well he knows you. He was seen at your hotel the night I brought you home. How does he know you?! Hm?! Answer me!!!”

You can’t focus on his words, all that’s registering in your brain is the gun pressed to your face. You’re panicking, breathing shakily and unsure of what to do next. You’re unsure of what he’s going to do next. You’re petrified.

And it’s obvious when your voice comes out even smaller than you feel, “I swear... I don’t know who that is.”

“Maybe a picture will help refresh your memory, hm?!”

With that he finally drops the gun to the floor to reach for his phone, and you kick the murder weapon under the bed on instinct alone. It’s a moment later when Jungkook is shoving his phone screen in your face, displaying a picture of a man standing outside the same room you were almost killed in last week. It looks like security camera footage, and you’d recognise those dimples anywhere.

“That’s…” Your eyes narrow when you get a closer look. No, it can’t be.

Jungkook’s frowning now, watching you carefully as though you’re one of the people he has to interrogate for information on a daily basis. His voice is dry and threatening when it drags from his throat, “Do you know him?”

“I… Yeah.” You swallow, just when you thought your life couldn’t get any more complicated. You do know the man in the picture, except when you knew him he didn’t go by Kim Namjoon – you only ever knew him as RM. He was your old boss back when you were dancing, the guy who saved your life more times than you can count. The only person in the world who knows your deepest, darkest secret.

“He’s my old boss, he owned the club I worked at… He went by RM.”

At this Kook nods, slowly taking in the new information, “Is there any reason he’d want you dead? Or a reason he'd want to see you?”

“No.” You’re quick to shake your head, but nausea and guilt erodes the lining of your stomach faster than the speed of a bullet.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah... I'm-, I'm gonna go sleep on the sofa." You brush past him in a hurry, and thankfully this time he doesn't stop you.

You can think of one reason why he’d want to see you, maybe even kill you, which just so happens to be the one thing Jungkook doesn’t know about your past – nor do you ever want him to find out.

The year before you met your boyfriend you fell pregnant while working as a dancer, due to a contraceptive failure. You went to the clinic and did what you knew was best, you weren’t ready to be a mother in any sense of the word and so you made the painfully hard decision to terminate the pregnancy.

Your boss RM didn’t take too kindly to the news for a number of reasons. You took time off work, you fell of the radar for a while; and when you eventually came back on the scene you were drinking yourself into oblivion almost every night to deal with the pain. But there was one thing that hurt him more than any of that, one thing that only he knew.

He was the father.

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brighteststar707 · 1 year

Text

Daydreams

I’ve been trying to get used to writing again, so I thought I’d be self-indulgent and write about kissing my number one boy.

✦ Saeyoung x Reader (set during his route)

✦ Words: 1607

✦ Genre: Fluff

Here’s the thing: Seven really wants to kiss you.

Here’s the problem: he’s stuck in his dungeon of an office, a safe (but frustrating) distance away. Here’s another problem: he isn’t supposed to be kissing anyone, or even thinking about kissing anyone. As Vanderwood has reminded him several times, attachments are dangerous.

Even so, he wants to kiss you when you shamelessly flirt with him in the chatrooms and join in on his ridiculous pranks. He wonders what your smile would feel like pressed against his lips. It’s a good thing you can’t see how hard you make him blush.

Once or twice, you’ve called him up late at night and, in a tone more serious than he’s ever heard from you, told him that you hoped he was taking care of himself. How was he supposed to say that you’re in more danger than you think (thanks to him) and that he’d work himself to the point of exhaustion rather than see you get hurt?

He doesn’t. He does tell you a joke about how he’s the invincible God Seven, but even over the phone he can tell that you’re not convinced. When he hangs up, he rubs his aching eyes and wonders if you’d hold him if he asked nicely. If you’d kiss his temples and tell him that this headache, this stress, this exhaustion will pass.

It gets worse once he starts obsessively watching the cameras. He stares at his screen so intensely that he starts to see it behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes. It’s all worth it, though, for the glimpses he catches of you when you leave the apartment. Surely, you must know that he’s always watching for you, because you often take the time to wave at the camera before you go. A little sign, just for him. It gives him butterflies every time you do it.

It’s a problem. He is supposed to be focusing on protecting you, and instead he’s fantasizing about what it would be like to be in that apartment with you. No hacking, no bomb, no threats. He’d be the Seven you like, not the liar Luciel who keeps nasty secrets. You’d still talk to him the way you do now, maybe with more cheeky flirting and less concern.

Instead of obsessively watching the camera footage for the off chance that he’d get to see you for a second, he’d be there, sharing space with you. Maybe you’d mention that you’re out of groceries, that you needed to go out for more. And instead of staring at the screen intensely like he does, he’d walk you to the door.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d kiss you goodbye. He’d cup your face between his hands (you wouldn’t mind that the skin on his palms was callused), and gently bring you close to him. You’d smile at him, that smile he has only managed to see once or twice so far but has imprinted in his memory. And then, he’d kiss you.

It’s all very distracting. And embarrassing when Vanderwood comes back into his study and asks him why he’s so red.

Hey, even agents can dream.

✦✧✦✧

It’s not like he has never kissed anybody before. From the beginning the agency had made it pretty clear that he was to use all the tools at his disposal in order to achieve his goals. It didn’t take him long to realize they meant his body, too.

He could probably count all the kisses he has had, if he tried. But those kisses were different from what he pictures when he thinks of you. They were stolen in dark, hazy rooms, his mind was always elsewhere, trying to get to the next step of the plan. Most of those memories don’t feel like they belong to him at all, that’s how far he has dissociated himself from them.

So, really, it doesn’t matter how many people he has kissed. Nothing has ever felt like this before. His fantasies about kissing you leave him feeling hot and fuzzy. He fixates on every detail, lingers in the moment and wonders if you feel the same way. He isn’t sure what he wants the answer to be.

✦✧✦✧

It’s funny how quickly things can change.

A week ago, Seven was sitting in the safe solitude of his office. He was in his element, protecting you the best way he knew how, and fully in denial of how quickly his feelings for you were growing.

It was easy, back then, to dream up fairy tales, knowing full well just how ridiculous they were. The thought of sharing the apartment with you was outlandish enough, let alone the idea of the two of you kissing. It was all just harmless daydreaming.

Turns out, those feelings were a lot more real than he had let himself believe. You were no longer an image on a screen, a voice through a phone, but a living, breathing person. You had cute little habits he never could have guessed at before, and you were frustratingly fixated on getting close to him.

Oh, and now you’re close. So impossibly close. With your arms resting on his shoulders, hands fiddling with the hair at the base of his neck, looking at him with such certainty in your eyes.

And oh, he really wants to kiss you.

The strange sequence of events that led up to this point is one he still can’t piece together fully. Despite everything he said and did over the past few days, you still treated him with the same kindness you had always shown him. You somehow still want him, somehow seem to like him as much as he likes you.

His own hands rest uselessly by his sides, caught somewhere between the overwhelming need for you and the fear of what will happen if he gives in.

In all his fantasies, he was perfectly in control. His head was clear, his every movement intentional. He was the one holding you close, giving you that look you’re giving him now. However, he had failed to consider the overwhelming sensations that would cloud his head in the moment itself. The scent of you surrounding him completely, the intensity of your eyes studying his face, the burning in his cheeks.

The world is shifting on its axis, and it’s a wonder he’s still standing upright. And he hasn’t even kissed you yet.

It’s in the way you play with his hair, so at ease, even in a moment like this. He isn’t sure if anyone has ever touched him like this. It’s making his stomach do somersaults and his thoughts run wild. He can’t focus on everything at once, and his gaze drops to your lips.

You smile.

That’s what does it. That smile, the one he has only seen a few times, and seen only directed at him over a pixelated CCTV feed. It breaks through the buzzing in his head and the pounding of his heart and gives him the push he has been looking for.

He cups your face in his hands (you don’t seem to mind the roughness of his palms) and pulls your face towards his. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is your smile.

The first kiss is something soft, experimental, your lips just moulded together. A taste.

Against his lips, he feels you hum softly. That’s all it takes for his remaining hesitancy to melt away.

Instead, it is replaced with a sense of urgency so intense that he can feel it in the back of his throat. All the fear, the loneliness, the desperation of the past few days catches up to him and he needs to make up for all the time he has lost, right now.

His hands move to the back of your head, and he pulls your face back towards him. You crash together again, this time all notions of gentleness forgotten. He kisses you hard and you nip at his lower lip until he opens for you. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if you haven’t been harbouring any fantasies of your own. Then, he feels you tug at his hair and he doesn’t think anything at all.

Where the first kiss was soft, this one is hungry. He cannot have you close enough, cannot catch his breath, cannot think about anything but you you you. His hands drop down to your waist to pull your bodies flush together. After enduring several days of self-imposed distance from each other, he relishes the feeling of you under his hands.

When you break apart, you keep your arms around him. He’s glad. He isn’t sure what will happen if you let go of him now. You smooth out his hair where you tugged at it before, and he shivers. His hands linger on your hips, fingertips still buzzing with the thrill of touching you. Nothing feels quite real, like the colours are too bright and his skin is too sensitive to your touch.

It must show on his face, because your expression goes from giddy to concerned. “Are you alright, Seven? Was that okay?”

“Okay… Hah…” He has apparently also forgotten how to speak. There is a piece of hair that he must have messed up earlier, and he reaches out to fix it. His brain usually doesn’t have any trouble keeping up, but today it feels like he is wading through deep water, like everything takes more effort than it should. He takes a breath, allows his heart a moment to slow down.

“It’s like... I’m dreaming.”

#saeyoung unknowingly practices manifestation #mystic messenger #mystic messenger seven #mystic messenger saeyoung choi #mysme saeyoung choi #mysme seven #mysme 707 #My writing

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mitsvriii · 5 months

Text

How would they react to getting a call from Death-Cast?

Based on “They Both Die at the End” book cause I’m still not over that ending Characters: Kazuha, Kaveh, Tighnari, & Ayaka More: modern au, Ayato isn't around for SHIT, Tighnari is Tighnari, Kaveh’s a drunkard, Kazuha tries to be nice but dies wow so original, angst, death, mention of how each character dies, not explicit, guess how everyone died and I’ll give you a cookie, I got lazy like halfway through my bad g, Tighnari’s part sucks LMAO, not really proofread, if it's weird blame grammarly Word Count: 680+

whole fic under the cut

Kazuha: I believe it would be like when a bird hits the glass in those cartoons and somewhat childish movies. It would start as a shock, then, as the bird slowly falls down the windows, Kazuha’s wall that holds back his emotions would slowly break. He would most likely ponder on whether to inform Beidou or not. His mind immediately goes to his old friend who had gotten a similar call, and how his world had stopped then just as it does now. Will and can live his last day alive to the fullest. He decides to try new foods, checks a few things off of his bucket list, and leaves a note for Beidou, not building up the courage and having to deal with his guilt to tell her face-to-face. Writes one final poem that summarizes his life before submitting it to be put on his gravestone. Out of the corner of his eye, Kazuha spots a woman in trouble, a man trying to snatch her purse from her. Pushing aside the fact he was going to die today, he set out to help her, unaccounted for the pocketknife the man had on him. He would soon later be seen by Beidou, but the location, however, would be in a morgue.

Kaveh: Shrugs it off as a joke, actually believes Alhaitham hacked or paid the Death-Cast company and directors to freak him out. When he finally stops shouting a string of curses to Alhaitham, he finds himself somewhat believing what Death-Cast said and knows logically Alhaitham wouldn’t stoop this low. So Kaveh does what Kaveh does best when he’s stressed, he drinks. He did so while pondering over how his life would be over today. After all he did to help his mom, after all he did studying to be an architect, after all he did to get where he is now; he was going to die today without any knowledge of how he was going to die. All he could do was sigh as he took another sip of his drink. It’s a shame, though, that one’s liver can only withstand so much alcohol.

Tighnari: Is so close to having a breakdown. What do you mean he’s going to die today? He still had research to do, more things to teach Collei, and even a TCG game scheduled for late afternoon. He does what Tighnari does best, prepares. He makes a list of goodbye cards, makes a short will, seemingly uncaring of who gets what, and reads through a joke book Cyno had the nerve to send him one last time and goes to cancel all of his upcoming assignments. Exhausted after his tasks, Tighnari went to lay his head down on his desk, eyes dropping. Surprisingly, he didn’t catch the bag of toxic mushroomed powder that was directly under the way of his head, though.

Ayaka: Is a mess. Her sobs shook her body after she got the call, and the only person who could get her to calm down enough so she could tell what had happened was Thoma. Ayato was nowhere to be found, most likely in one of his meetings. However, Thoma had sworn that he would get Ayato to come home and see her as soon as possible. Ayaka knew that it was only a matter of time before she would meet with her parents again, yet somehow had hoped she would beat death. She was constricted to her room to protect herself from whatever or whoever was going to end her time alive. She could do nothing but stay locked up in her room, wondering if she was going to get assassinated because of her status, or if she was going to get involved in a freak accident by tripping or something. Ayaka would soon find out when an unfamiliar servant went to serve Ayaka her nightly tea, and the bitter taste would soon feel like it was spreading throughout her entire throat. And of course, when her brother arrived, the only thing he would find would be his dead sister, head face-down on her dresser.

#I DISAPPEAR AND RETURN WITH ANGST #astronetwrk #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#☾ bell’s works #genshin angst #kazuha angst #ayaka angst #kaveh angst #tighnari angst #genshin headcannons #kazuha headcanons #ayaka headcanons #kaveh headcanons #tighnari headcanons

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serenailith · 1 year

Text

just wishing

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: d1, cybersex Rating: e Word Count: 7275 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, overworked uni student!hob, sex cam worker!dream, sex work is real work, so much filth in this, dirty talk, sex toys, blowjobs, anal sex, gratuitous use of the word ‘beautiful’ Summary:

Hob never knew a simple weblink could change his entire life.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob sighs and stares at the blinking cursor. It mocks him; really, it does. Each blink seems to say “You should be writing. You’re wasting time, Gadling.” And… It’s true. He should be writing. This paper won’t write itself, and if he doesn’t get it submitted by midnight, he’ll fail Medieval Literature, and then where will he be?

Slamming his laptop shut, he follows the action with slamming his forehead against his desk. His roommate scoffs and throws a licorice rope at his back.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s worse. I haven’t been able to think a single thought that’s original.”

“Shouldn’t have looked at examples of past papers,” Matthew says, and Hob can hear the shrug in the American’s voice. “But anyway, I’m goin’ out. Got my eye on a real good-looking girl, and I think I might actually have a chance.”

Matthew drops the package of licorice on Hob’s desk, claps a hand on his shoulder, and wishes him well on his way out of their room. Hob waits until the door has clicked closed before smacking his forehead against his desk once again.

His cellphone dings beside his head, and Hob glowers at the device before unlocking it. It’s only a text from his mum, asking how his paper is coming along. He sighs and lies, tells her it is going incredibly well and will probably be his best one yet.

Once she is sufficiently mollified and has chided him for being awake so late, as if she isn’t awake just as late, she makes him swear to go to bed then signs her last text “Love, Mum xx”. Hob’s heart aches at the words. It’s been three weeks since he’s been home; work and schooling have taken up all of his time. He hates it—loathes, really—that he can’t see his family as often as he’d like, but he needs the money and he needs the education. So he resigns himself to reality and focuses on what needs to be done rather than the hopes he has that he can’t make come true.

Opening his laptop, Hob turns his attention back to his essay and struggles through the next three hundred and fifty words. It’s eerily similar to what he thinks pulling teeth might be like, and he can’t stop the sigh of relief when his cellphone vibrates once more.

Matthew: Not coming back tonight. Score! Dont do anything i wouldnt do. And make sure u clean ur mess ;)

Hob snorts and exits the message thread. Matthew is a crass bastard, but he’s grown on Hob like lichen on a tree. He’s a half-decent roommate and a better friend besides.

It gets the better of him, the silence of the room only broken by the occasional click of keys and the more frequent huff of annoyance. Hob wishes he could do what Matthew is—out drinking at a pub, evidently going home with someone—but no, Hob is forcing himself to focus on his studies.

Unfortunately, his attention span grows shorter while his frustration grows higher. Hob finally slams his laptop closed and groans, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. He lets out a long, steady stream of curse words until his head feels less like it’ll explode then breathes out slowly. Right. That’s enough for tonight.

Hob sighs and reaches for his cellphone. Maybe someone will be free for an hour or two. Three of his usual bedmates turn him down, citing their own studies, and the fourth doesn’t bother saying ‘no’. All he does is send a link. Hob frowns and stares at the letters.

On one hand, trusting unknown links is a bad idea. On the other, he trusts Malachi rather well. Unless Malachi was hacked…

Hob opens his laptop and types in the web address before he can overthink it more. The page takes a few seconds to load, but when it does, Hob nearly clicks out of the tab. As it is, he shoots a furtive look over his shoulder as if expecting Matthew to linger there as he normally does. But the room is empty. Matthew isn’t here.

Hob swallows harshly, squeezing his eyes closed, then turns back to the laptop. The page is still up, still set to what’s very obviously a porno site, and a banner is plastered over a video container, the words “Join now!” in a rather tasteful font. A box in the corner bears numbers, the counter rising steadily in droves. There’s no indication of what kind of porno Malachi sent, but—

Hob clicks the banner and swallows down his shame as he enters his credit card information. One try can’t hurt, right? The page reloads, and the banner is gone now. He watches as the camera suddenly flares to life a minute later and brings into focus a man against a dark background. Pinpricks of white litter the wall behind him, a veritable night sky brought to Earth and made touchable. But it’s the man who captures Hob’s attention most.

The man is gorgeous—mussed black hair, pale skin, and eyes so incredibly blue even through the screen. His kissable lips quirk into a small smile at whatever he sees on his end, and Hob realises he’s probably approving of the viewer count, which is well into the hundreds by now. The man’s gaze darts to his camera, and the breath is punched from Hob’s lungs at how it seems as if the man is looking at him, not the other viewers.

Perhaps that’s part of the ruse.

Shaking his head, Hob swallows thickly and reminds himself that this is the man’s job. He blows out a breath and closes his eyes. This is so stupid, he thinks. Why is he doing something like this? Sure, he’s been without sex for months, but is cybersex really going to make a difference? After all, it’s his own hand with or without the man currently stripping on-screen.

And what a beautiful sight. wetdream slowly, carefully pushes the straps of his lacy teddy from his shoulders; his gaze remains firmly on the camera, lips curving slightly as he lets the lingerie fall out of sight. His hands toy with the edge of his underwear, the lace accentuating the sharp lines of his hips. He teases, but he doesn’t remove them.

Someone posts Take them off, sweetheart, let us see what’s underneath. The man on-screen shakes his head, though he does push the hem down an inch, just enough to show off the slightest hint of a patch of black hair.

Hob inhales sharply at the sight. It’s nothing major, nothing revealing, but it’s enough to send heat through his blood. He slides a finger over the laptop’s trackpad, tapping it once the cursor hovers over the chat-box, and hesitates.

hobgoblin: you’re beautiful

As soon as he sends the message, he slaps a hand over his face. God, he’s a right idiot, isn’t he? No one wants to hear that, especially not when they’re working. But the man on the screen is reading the message, and he doesn’t look angry or uncomfortable. In fact, he looks… pleased? There’s a tint of pink to his cheeks, and Hob revels in the sight even as messages come pouring in, calling him a moron.

He ignores them and focuses on the man now on his knees in the middle of a bed. His legs are spread, the fabric of his underwear clearly straining against the stretch, and Hob’s mouth goes dry as the man undulates his hips. Though thin, wetdream has a great body. He’s lithe, beautiful, and almost ethereal as he practically fucks the air.

Hob can’t stop himself: He stands enough to shove down his joggers then takes himself in hand. He strokes slowly, reclining in his seat as much as possible, and watches wetdream finally—finally—remove his underwear. He turns his back to the camera, looks over his shoulder, and Hob groans at the sparkle between the man’s arsecheeks.

Wish that was my cock, someone writes, and Hob scowls before hiding the chat-box. It’s easier this way, easier to pretend he isn’t pathetic watching a sex worker perform for hundreds of other people. He can pretend it’s a private thing, as if he and wetdream are…

No, that’s stupid. Creepy, even.

So Hob forces aside those thoughts and watches wetdream remove the plug, reaching for something out of view. When he turns back to the camera, Hob sees the rather impressive dildo in his hand. And an equally impressive dick.

Hob stuffs his fist into his mouth and squeezes the root of his cock, anything to drag this out. Anything to keep watching wetdream fucking himself with the toy while nearly nine hundred people watch. There’s no sound, so Hob shamefully lets himself imagine what noises are falling from wetdream’s lips as he rolls his hips and takes the dildo in further. Would he let out breathy little sighs, or deep moans that tremble in his throat? Would he murmur his lover’s name, give directions in a love-laden voice?

Hob comes too quickly but doesn’t move to clean up. Not until wetdream has come all over his own belly with twitching thighs and a blissed-out smile on his face.

The feed ends with wetdream’s face inches from the camera, a soft smile on his lips, and Hob rushing to rearrange his budget.

Thankfully, Matthew has found a young woman who doesn’t mind his… interesting mannerisms, so the next evening, he leaves the room immediately after his last class of the day. Hob waits for ten minutes to be sure his roommate is gone before he darts for his laptop and brings up the website again. He skims through the listings, trying to find—

There. wetdream.

He hurriedly clicks on “Join now!”

As he sits in his chair, counting the seconds until the cam starts, Hob realises he should feel ashamed for this. Not for supporting a sex worker. No, that would be stupid. Sex work is real work, and he’ll knock the lights out of anyone who says otherwise. No, he should feel ashamed for how desperate he’s acting. He’s had sex before. Hell, he’s even sexted before. This is only new in that it’s a complete stranger he’s watching. It’s almost like a porn video. No desperation needed.

But he’s never seen anyone in a porno look this beautiful, he thinks when wetdream comes into view. He’s wearing a corset and stockings, garters, and his eyes are rimmed with a thin line of black. His hair is still the same wild mess as it was last night, and Hob wonders if the strands are soft, would they feel like silk between his fingers?

He calls wetdream beautiful again just to see that subtle flush to his cheeks.

It takes two weeks before Hob has the courage to search the pricing tab of the website. He grimaces to himself at the cost listed. He can’t afford it, not if he wants to continue this thing called existing. Or at the very least, feeding himself. Sighing, he slumps in his seat and runs a hand over his face.

What is he even thinking? He’s already spent far too much on wetdream’s live-cams as it is. The only time he hasn’t spent money on the site is when wetdream isn’t listed. Which… hasn’t been often. Maybe three nights out of twelve.

“Fuck it, Matthew owes me a meal or two,” he grumbles before clicking on the link to apply for a private showing.

He only has to wait two hours for the email confirmation that payment has gone through and wetdream has availability for the following Saturday evening, a one-hour window from nine to ten. Hob sends back a message agreeing to the time then immediately begins planning on how to get Matthew out of the room for that hour. It should be simple enough—if his current girlfriend hasn’t broken up with him, she’ll keep him distracted. If she has, the promise of an opportunity to find another one might be sufficient.

Hob swallows and presses his fingertips to his eyelids. He’s being foolish, but damned if he can find it in him to change.

Three days has never felt so long. Hob could swear more than seventy-two hours has passed since he got the email, but nope. He’s gone from Wednesday night to Saturday, and nothing more.

As he’d predicted, Matthew is easy to get out of the room. Hob tells him about the secluded little courtyard on the other side of campus that he knows hardly anyone knows of, hints that maybe Matthew’s girlfriend would like to watch the stars for a while. Matthew is all too eager to disappear ten minutes before nine, and Hob lets out a breath of relief.

He hurries to log in on the website with the passcode the admins emailed him, and the page loads almost instantly. The feed is dark, disconnected. Hob chews on the edge of a fingernail as he watches the minutes tick past. Finally, at two minutes past nine o’clock, the video flickers to life.

wetdream wears what he wore the first time Hob ever watched his live-cam. The lacy teddy is just as Hob remembers it: dark as pitch, contrasting so beautifully to such pale skin, barely reaching a few inches past his hips. His underwear hardly conceals his half-hard cock. Hob wonders if wetdream was stroking himself in preparation.

Hob realises belatedly that he has no idea how this works. He hadn’t exactly asked the admins of the site, and there wasn’t anything listed in the FAQs. He bites down on his lower lip and lets his fingers tap out a message in the chat-box: What do I do?

wetdream’s head cocks as he reads the message, then he lets out what Hob can only imagine is a huff of laughter. Hob’s cheeks flare with heat, and he very nearly clicks out of the tab. Only the thought that he’d paid so much for this stops him. He doesn’t want to waste that amount of money. So he resigns himself to being a laughingstock—maybe wetdream will tell all his friends about the bloody idiot who can’t work a private sex show to save his life.

wetdream: Just tell me what you want me to do. I am all yours.

Hob… Hob can do that. He can tell wetdream what to do. But, then, the question remains: What the fuck does Hob want to see? He swallows and double-checks that Matthew hasn’t come back, that the door is still locked, then faces his laptop again.

hobgoblin: take off your top. i want to see you

wetdream does without hesitation; his fingers trail along his exposed skin, hook around the straps of his teddy, and he gazes directly into the camera as he pushes the straps down. The teddy slides down his lithe body until it vanishes from view. Hob blows out a breath at the expanse of smooth pale skin, the flat planes of muscle, the almost dainty lines carved to form this body. wetdream presses the tips of long fingers to his chin as he waits, and Hob could cry with how beautiful this man is.

He tells wetdream to remove his underwear, to get on the bed, to touch himself. wetdream moves quickly yet sensuously, stripping and leaving the camera where it is but bringing a tablet with him. Clearly, it’s meant so he can keep up with the chat. So he can obey Hob’s orders and fulfil his desires.

Once he’s situated on his knees in the middle of his bed, wetdream wraps a slender hand around his cock and gives it one long, slow stroke. Hob watches wetdream drag his nails down his bare chest, lines of pink left in their wake, before the hand splays over a sharp hipbone, dips down to fondle himself. wetdream’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and Hob hesitantly types out another message.

hobgoblin: i want to see you open yourself up.

wetdream’s gaze darts to the tablet, a brow twitching, then he moves. When he comes back on-screen, he holds a bottle of lubricant. Hob watches with a dry mouth as wetdream coats his fingers. He turns until he’s side-on to the camera, lowers his chest so it rests on the mattress, and reaches behind himself. His lashes flutter closed, knees spreading slightly wider, and his wrist flexes as he clearly pushes his finger in further. He turns his head toward the camera, eyes opening to slits, and his lips curve the barest amount in the corners. His mouth drops open as his knuckles shift beneath his skin.

hobgoblin: just like that. you’re beautiful like this, did you know that? hobgoblin: so beautiful. hobgoblin: fuck yourself with your fingers for me, love.

Hob moans when wetdream does as commanded. He wishes he could be there, could hear what sounds spill from this man’s lips, could be the one opening him up until he’s begging for Hob’s cock. Hob doesn’t hesitate: He shoves down the band of his pyjama bottoms and takes himself firmly in hand. It’s harder to type one-handed, but he does it anyway.

hobgoblin: let me see your arse. let me see you nice and open.

wetdream moves again until he’s reclining against an impressive amount of pillows, legs spread, and Hob nearly swallows his tongue at the sight. He really, truly is open; it would be so easy to just push inside and fuck wetdream senseless. After a moment, wetdream’s fingers dive back into himself. The tablet still rests beside him, and he occasionally glances at the screen.

hobgoblin: do you wish it was me there? instead of just your fingers. do you wish it was my cock splitting you open? because i do.

wetdream nods, first slowly then more vigorously. Hob types out faster, love, that’s it, and God, does wetdream obey so beautifully. He obeys when Hob tells him to stroke himself, and Hob’s hand moves more quickly as wetdream fucks up into his own fist then back onto his fingers.

Can I come? wetdream mouths after a moment, eyes darkened and thighs trembling, and Hob has a helluva time typing yes.

“Come for me,” he groans though wetdream can’t hear, but that doesn’t matter: Ropes of cum stripe along wetdream’s belly only seconds later as his head falls back to expose his throat. Hob wants to bite it, to leave his mark so wetdream would never forget him.

The mental image is enough to send Hob over the edge himself.

hobgoblin: gorgeous

wetdream gives a shaky smile as he lies against his pillows, and Hob reaches for a tissue from the box beside him. To his surprise, he sees a message when he looks back at the screen.

wetdream: Do you want me to taste myself? hobgoblin: if you want to? i don’t have much of a preference in either direction.

That might change, he thinks as wetdream swipes a finger through the mess on his stomach. Hob’s heart skips a beat when wetdream sucks the cum from his fingertip, tongue wrapping around the digit as he stares into the camera as if challenging Hob. Hob’s cock gives a valiant twitch, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He glances at the clock—it’s only been half an hour, and he’s already spent.

wetdream: You still have thirty-two minutes left. Is there anything else you would like? hobgoblin: no, you were wonderful. i enjoyed myself

wetdream grins before visibly tamping down on it. Shaking his head, he taps at the screen of his tablet.

wetdream: I am glad. wetdream: I enjoyed myself, as well. hobgoblin: thank you for a great time. good night, beautiful

wetdream comes closer to the camera, smiles once more, then the screen goes to the landing page. Hob slumps in his seat and runs his clean hand over his face. Well, that was… something.

There’s a partial refund on his credit card the next morning.

Unfortunately for Hob, the private show spawns something like an addiction. There’s an undeniably impossible-to-resist quality about wetdream that Hob can’t quite explain, not even to himself, so he doesn’t try. He merely adjusts his budget more and more, picking up extra shifts as often as he can to afford living expenses and the live-cams. As long as they don’t interfere with wetdream’s showings. He’s noticed a pattern to the cams, so he tries to schedule his life around them. It isn’t always possible to make it to one—he has to miss a handful over the next two months, between working and Matthew being in the room—but he tries.

He always makes sure to tell wetdream how beautiful he is.

Three months after Malachi sent the link, the term is over, and Hob is heading back home for the summer. His mum has been pestering him about it, and he’s missed his family fiercely. He hadn’t known just how much wetdream’s cams had been affecting his life until he checked the calendar just last week and realised he had only been back home twice a month since the cams started.

“Robbie!”

Hob grins and envelops his mother in a tight hug. She squeezes him once before stepping back. Frowning, Elizabeth runs her thumbs under his eyes.

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“You haven’t been sleeping well.”

No, I’m stupidly infatuated with a sex worker and can’t stop thinking about him. “You know how school is,” he says with a shrug before grabbing his bag. “Dad at home?”

He settles into his childhood bedroom with ease. It’s gone through some significant changes over the years. No longer filled with posters of cartoon characters or Formula 1 cars or toys meant for a seven-year-old little boy, the room suits him well enough now. He sets his bag on the floor by the wardrobe then sits on the bed.

He’s just begun thinking about wetdream—again—when a small form slams into his side. Hob chuckles as he pushes at his little sister’s shoulder until she backs away. Maggie beams before hugging him. Hob closes his eyes as he holds her close.

At only eleven years old, Margaret is the baby of the four children. She should be a spoiled princess, but she’s rather well-rounded and down to Earth. At the very least, there is little that Hob can complain about that isn’t typical younger sibling behaviour.

He presses a kiss to Maggie’s hair before releasing her. “What are you doing home already? Don’t you have school?”

“Mum said I can get out early today since you were coming home. Besides, it’s the last day anyway. We never do anything on the last day.”

“Fair enough.”

Hob sighs and stares at his sister. Her blonde hair has been plaited today, and her hazel eyes sparkle with delight as she sits beside him on his bed, grinning. There’s a small stain of chocolate on the collar of her uniform jumper.

Her gaze slides around the room before alighting on the guitar leaning against the far wall. “Oh, can you please play Black Bird?”

“Which version?”

“From the movie!”

Hob laughs and nods. If his baby sister wants a song, a song she will get. So once the instrument is in hand, he quickly wipes off the dust, tunes the strings, then begins to play.

Before he knows it, three weeks have gone by. He’s found a job in the library, so he spends his days helping patrons find books and makes small talk with everyone. It’s a lot like his job in the university bookstore but less stressful. He doesn’t have fellow students yelling at him because they’re late for class or the books are too expensive.

Hob’s favourite thing about being home, however, is spending time with his family. Fourteen-year-old Maxwell, Nicolette and Andrew at seventeen, and of course, Maggie. His parents. Even his neighbours who never really liked him but now think he’s an exemplary young man for attending uni and holding down a ‘respectable’ job.

‘Respectable’. What makes a job respectable, Hob wonders. Perhaps it’s that he’s not stripping or whoring himself out. Or running a cam service.

Cam service.

Hob swears to himself, startling his family at the dinner table. His mother admonishes him for his language, despite the fact that the twins curse just as often as he does, and Max and Maggie have heard far worse. But he doesn’t care. He’d completely forgotten. How?

He forces himself to eat his dinner at a normal pace, even helps clean up as an apology to his mum for swearing around his siblings. As soon as she shoos him away, Hob nearly sprints up the stairs to his old bedroom.

It’s Friday which means, if he’s held to the pattern, wetdream has a showing tonight. Right about… now, actually. Hob hurries to log into his account and skims the listings until he finds the name of the correct live-cam. Blowing out a breath of relief that his card hasn’t been declined, he locks his bedroom door then sits on his bed, leaning against the wall.

The video is dark still, and Hob chews on his thumbnail as he wonders what wetdream could possibly be doing to prepare. He’s already growing hard just with the mental images of all the possibilities. He could be stroking himself until he’s erect, opening himself up for a plug to keep him ready for toys.

Hob’s thoughts stutter as the feed begins. wetdream sits on his bed already, legs crossed and showing off the high heels and stockings he wears. The sheer, black corset he’s donned accentuates the straight lines of his body, and it would look awkward on anyone else. But on him, Hob thinks it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

hobgoblin: hello beautiful

Hob has never witnessed anyone truly lighting up like this, not outside of Maggie on Christmas morning when their parents had given her a guinea pig. But wetdream does now. He doesn’t smile, his expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes that gives away his delight. Hob’s chest fills with a warmth he can’t describe. He’s the reason wetdream is so happy right now. He has to be.

Something about wetdream’s room is different. It takes Hob a moment to place it: He’s moved his bed. He’s moved his bed to make room for the silver pole in the centre of the room. A shiver slides down Hob’s spine at the thought of what’s to come.

Hob doesn’t send any messages while he watches wetdream work. And work wetdream does. He doesn’t strip this time, not really, but that’s fine. He’s gorgeous regardless as he undulates his hips against the pole, as he spins and nearly hovers off the floor, held firmly up by his thighs against the metal. Hob hides the chat-box when someone says it could be their pole that wetdream works.

Hob nearly comes to the sight of blue eyes staring directly into the camera and a kissable lower lip caught between teeth as wetdream plunges his hand between waist and lacy underwear. As he pulls his cock free. As he strokes himself teasingly, like he wants to put on one helluva show, and maybe he does. Hob lets himself imagine that it’s all for him. He comes a split second after wetdream does.

wetdream licks cum from his hand, and Hob wishes it was him doing it.

He’s just hovered over the X to close out of the tab, feed gone dark once more, when a chat-box pops up in the bottom of his screen.

wetdream: Tomorrow night, midnight. hobgoblin: ?? wetdream: You will see.

Hob raises a brow even as no further messages come in. Deciding to not ask more questions, he closes the tab and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand. He feels like a teenager again, going through puberty and too many tissues to be inconspicuous. He huffs out a laugh as he tosses the tissues into the bin under his desk.

━━━━━━━━━

It’s ten to midnight, and Hob is already logged in. Waiting. His heart races in his chest, and his palms have gone clammy. He repeatedly wipes them on his bare thighs; no point in wearing bottoms, is there, when he’s just going to shove them down in minutes?

A chat-box appears with two minutes to spare. All it contains is an invite link. There is no host information, just a site bot doing the work. Hob knows, though. He knows, so he clicks Accept without hesitation.

He isn’t disappointed: wetdream appears within seconds. The pole is nowhere to be found now, and the bed is back in its original position. He’s wearing the heels again, and Hob stifles a groan low in his throat at how they make wetdream’s legs look even longer. Other than the shoes, he’s completely nude. Hob watches him tap at the screen of his tablet as he settles in on the bed.

wetdream: I get one free credit to give per month. I chose you. hobgoblin: i’m flattered. thank you. wetdream: I have a request of you tonight, if you are amenable to that? hobgoblin: anything, beautiful wetdream: Tell me what you would do to me were you to be here. Tell me what you want of me. hobgoblin: gladly. lie back and let me see you. hobgoblin: god, you’re fucking beautiful. you listen so well.

Hob doesn’t mind that wetdream’s attention isn’t on him, it’s on the messages coming in on the tablet, as Hob tells every dirty fantasy he’s carried with him over the last four months. He’d kiss wetdream until they were both breathless, unable to speak. He’d suck wetdream’s cock until he was coming down Hob’s throat. Hob would bring wetdream to his knees and fuck his mouth before coming all over his face. He’d bend the gorgeous, perfect man over the nearest surface, open him up so slowly and gently, then fuck him until they were too exhausted to move anymore. He’d fuck him with the points of wetdream’s heels digging into his back, leaving bruises to remind Hob of their union.

Or maybe, maybe, Hob would let wetdream fuck him into the mattress. He has a feeling the man is hiding some serious strength in that slender body of his.

hobgoblin: play with your arse, love, beautiful one. come when you want, i’m watching.

wetdream nods rapidly, hand nearly a blur as he jerks himself off. He clenches his teeth, eyes squeezing closed, then his release is spilling free over his fist and abdomen. Some even manages to reach his chest.

It takes Hob an embarrassingly short amount of time to come after that.

You have a way with words, wetdream messages once he’s cleaned himself up, something he’s never done on camera before.

hobgoblin: only for you wetdream: You stayed away for quite some time. I hope all is well?

And is that… That’s apprehension, nervousness, on wetdream’s face. Hob groans at that before typing out yeah, everything is fine. sorry to make you worry. Something twists in wetdream’s expression, and he scowls at the screen.

wetdream: I did not worry. I was merely curious. wetdream: Have a good night, hobgoblin. hobgoblin: it’s hob.

The video cuts out but not before Hob sees wetdream mouthing his name to himself. Hob wipes away his mess then crawls into bed.

There is no live-cam the next week or the next. There is no live-cam until Hob is back at uni, six weeks after the free private show.

Hob still calls wetdream beautiful, but wetdream doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

It’s almost Christmas by the time anything changes. Matthew refuses to leave the room, moping about being so far from home during the holidays, and Hob takes pity on the young man. He invites Matthew to spend Christmas with the Gadling family. Matthew grins and accepts cheerily; any sense of melancholy is gone now, as if a demon banished by an exorcism.

Andrew protests but finally concedes to giving up his room for Matthew, to sharing a bed with Maxwell. Hob, thankfully, gets his room to himself still. It’s bad enough sharing a room as a grown adult, but to share a bed? He’d rather sleep outside in the snow.

Hob waits until the others are in bed before locking his door and opening his laptop. He highly doubts wetdream would be hosting a showing tonight, so near to Christmas, but he wants to check anyway. A site bot has sent another message: Happy Christmas followed by a link.

Hob clicks.

wetdream: You were right. I was… concerned. I grew accustomed to you being in the viewer list, to your messages calling me beautiful.

Hob grins, shaking his head, and types back: you’re forgiven, beautiful.

wetdream: I thought perhaps I could show my remorse by giving you an early Christmas present. hobgoblin: far be it from me to turn down a gift ;)

wetdream smiles on camera, a shy little thing, before sitting back in his seat, showing more than just his head. He’s wearing a red negligee with a ribbon wrapped around his throat, tied in a bow beneath his chin. He chews on his bottom lip, and Hob realises with a start he’s wearing lipstick. Not much, just enough to give more colour, and he’s never wanted to kiss wetdream this much before.

His cock stirs, and he has to agree with the sentiment. This is—

hobgoblin: you are absolutely stunning, love, darling dream come true wetdream: Thank you, but just Dream is acceptable.

Dream. Fucking Hell, of course he’d want to be called Dream. And what a dream he is. Hob pinches himself to make sure this is real, that this is wetdream—Dream—baring himself as a present for Hob.

hobgoblin: it suits you. can i ask you to show me more of you?

Dream—God, fucking Dream—dips his chin and stands. The camera fills with the spread of sheer red and a half-hard cock in a thatch of black hair, then Dream steps back. Hob nods in approval at what he sees, the most perfect present he’s ever received, and types out a request for Dream to surprise him tonight. He wants to know how Dream would please him, by his own choices.

Dream obeys because he always does. He opens himself up, fucks himself on the dildo from before, as he types out a wish that it was Hob filling him. That it was Hob who was stroking his dick and that Hob would leave bruises on his skin to remind him of everything wonderful. He promises he gives the best blowjobs of anyone he knows—he should know, there was a competition involved. He’d make Hob so happy if Hob were there.

hobgoblin: come for me, love. god, i’ve missed seeing you like this. just for me, aren’t you?

Dream taps something, then “Only for you” comes through Hob’s speakers, a low whine of a voice that sends a shiver down Hob’s spine. Breathless pants, and a broken “Only for you, Hob.”

Hob comes at the sound of his name falling from such beautiful, kissable lips.

“Dream, fuck, Dream,” Hob groans, cum dripping down his fist, and he watches as Dream reaches his own climax on-screen.

He hesitates as Dream cleans up, as Dream approaches the computer once more. Throwing caution to the wind, he hurriedly types his phone number into the chat-box and bites down on the edge of his thumbnail as Dream reads the message. His eyes widen, gaze darting to the camera, and Hob can hear the quickening of his breath.

“Hob…”

hobgoblin: you don’t have to use it. just wanted you to have it just in case you wanted to. happy early christmas, dream of mine.

Dream closes out of the live-cam without response.

━━━━━━━━━

Unknown Number: Are you busy?

Hob stares at the text. It’s Christmas morning, and he’s meant to be downstairs right now. But he has a feeling he knows who’s texting him two days after he gave them the number in the first place.

Hob: Not if this is who I think it is.

The maybe-mysterious texter sends back a photograph of a very familiar body. Hob’s gaze trails along the well-known stature, the valleys and curves of muscle and the fine delicacy of bones. He’s just lined his camera up to take a picture of his own when someone knocks on the door.

“C’mon, Robbie, Mum won’t let us open presents until you come down!”

“I’ll be right there, Mags.”

“You better, or I’m throwing all yours in the fireplace.”

Her footsteps stomp back down the stairs, and Hob laughs quietly before typing out a message.

Hob: Happy Christmas, Dream. I, unfortunately, have a little sister who’s threatening the very survival of my gifts if I don’t get downstairs now. Luckily, she can’t take you from me, can she? 😉 Dream: No. She cannot. Happy Christmas, Hob.

Somehow, his parents have scrounged up gifts for Matthew. Hob has a feeling they were originally meant to be for him, but he’s willing to give up a few presents if it means making his friend happy and feel included. After presents have been put away, there comes breakfast, and Matthew fits in perfectly. He’s on his best behaviour which is a side to him Hob never thought he’d see.

All in all, it’s a pleasant time that only exacerbates the buzzing joy in his veins that comes from having Dream.

He knows it isn’t real. That Dream doesn’t truly care for him. That Dream saying he was only Hob’s was meant to make Hob feel special, to make him willing to pay more money. But goddamn it, Hob wants to hold onto the charade just a while longer. He’ll face reality soon enough. Now is not the time.

He eventually sends a photo of himself to Dream. Might as well let the man see who he’s been giving free private shows to. Might as well show him what he’s getting if only he knew.

Two weeks after the start of term finds Hob roaming around the campus. He’s been attending this university for two years, and there is still so much he doesn’t know about it. Once his face is sufficiently, painfully numb, he ducks into the campus coffeeshop and joins the queue. He needs caffeine and heat. Now.

He turns with his latte in hand, coming to a stop at the sight of two people at the corner table. One is a dark-skinned woman with gold wire-rimmed glasses, wearing an impeccable peacoat and trousers. The other…

The other is clearly Dream.

Hob would recognise that hair anywhere. The pale skin, the blue eyes shining in the weak January sunlight. The woman glances over, frowns, then says something. Dream’s lips tug down, and he turns his head to follow her gaze. His eyes widen when they land on Hob. His lips move, but Hob can’t understand what he’s saying.

Hob approaches the table slowly, carefully, as if the earth will open up and swallow him whole. Instead, he reaches the table without issue, and he smiles down at Dream.

“Hi.”

Dream lets out a soft sigh, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, before he glances at his friend. “Lucienne, I’m afraid I must go.”

“Oh. Of course. I’ll phone you later.”

Dream merely nods, rising to his feet, and Hob moves aside so he can pass. Once outside and halfway down the block, Dream turns to him and opens his mouth. No words come, not for a long moment, then Hob interrupts.

“You’re more beautiful in person.”

Dream exhales sharply, fists the lapels of Hob’s jacket, and pushes him against the brick wall of a building. Hob barely gets out a sound of surprise before Dream is kissing him. Heat floods Hob’s veins, his skin, his entire being as he focuses on the taste of coffee and mint and Dream, oh fuck, is this really happening? He wraps his arms around Dream’s waist, tugs him in closer, and yes. This is real.

“I have been wanting to do that since Christmas,” Dream admits when he pulls away.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time I saw you.” He pauses, leans forward to kiss Dream once more. “Come back to mine?”

Dream nods and lets Hob lead him away.

Thankfully, Matthew is at class by the time Hob unlocks the door. He shuts it quickly behind Dream, pinning the man between body and wood, and kisses him again. And again. He makes quick work of unbuttoning Dream’s long coat, of sliding his hand along the hard plane of Dream’s abdomen, to wrap around his hip.

“What do you want me to do?” Dream whispers, and Hob nips at his bottom lip. “Hob…”

“Let me see you, love. I need to see you.”

Dream doesn’t bother putting on a show as he strips down to nothing, leaving his clothes in a pile at his feet. Hob groans and drops to his knees, presses a soft kiss to the head of Dream’s cock. Beautiful, he whispers before taking it in his mouth.

Dream shouts, hand immediately burying in Hob’s hair, and that’s all it takes. Hob sucks and licks and swirls his tongue around the head, takes Dream in all the way to the root until his nose is buried in coarse hair. Swallows around the cock in the back of his throat until Dream comes with a bitten-off cry and quivering thighs.

Opening Dream up is a fucking glorious gift from Heaven. He whines so wonderfully, shoves down onto Hob’s fingers with wanton moans, obeys when Hob tells him to roll onto his belly. Arse on display, Dream shudders as Hob runs a hand along his flank, lets out a broken sound when Hob pushes in. And Hob could die with that sound. He does as he promised so long ago: He fucks Dream in alternating patterns, rough countered by tender, until Dream is panting and Hob’s arms tremble from holding himself up.

Someone knocks on the door. Matthew’s voice calls for Hob, “I forgot my key, open up.”

“Go the fuck away,” Hob grits out, sliding his hand beneath Dream’s body to grasp onto his cock.

Hob comes first, out of breath and satisfied as he spills into Dream with abandon. He presses a soft kiss to Dream’s shoulder, bites down on the smooth skin.

“Come for me, my dream. Let me feel you.”

Dream’s breath comes out in a shuddering sob, and he thrusts forward into Hob’s tight grip over and over, moving between fist to cock then back again. Hob bites down harder, soothing the spot with his tongue.

“Come,” he all but growls into the skin.

Dream does.

Hob pulls Dream to the side once he’s finished, holds him close out of the mess he’s made, and Dream exhales shakily. Hob runs a gentle hand along Dream’s stomach and kisses the curve of his neck.

“I know this is a bit backwards,” he murmurs as soon as he catches his breath again, “but have dinner with me.”

Dream hums in response, nodding slowly, and Hob realises he’s fallen asleep when there comes the sound of soft snores. Deciding class can wait for another day, he burrows his face into the back of Dream’s neck and lets himself drift away. He can deal with Matthew later.

(Matthew retaliates by telling Hob’s mother all about her son’s new boyfriend.)

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #my writing #dreamling bingo

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omi-papus · 11 months

Text

Fuck I wish I had it in me to write properly because Im constantly exhausted. But like ok imagine.

AU, where Robin and Al-An actually want to get hit up with Alterra, a little too much.

Renata Goodall is an official Alterra employee, who is totally very qualified to be here and got in through recommendation alone based on her impeccable portfolio and titles that are very real and totally all belong to this inexplicably distracted and danger-prone lady, don't question why her resume claims thirty years of experience, when she looks about twenty-five, that's just a good skincare routine.

Only two days after she's come in, one of the employees of a high-ranking position has had an inexplicable change in behavior. The upper manager of the division, who has a reputation for being lazy, impulsive, extremely unprofessional, known for getting extremely friendly with all employees, especially the female staff, among many other faults, whether he has stolen directly from employee wages is "a theory" if you ask the higher-ups, kept in that position exclusively due to being a long-distance relative of one of the corporate heads. After privately conducting a... personal inspection of foreign cargo that was theorized to be of alien origin, outside of work hours, he's... different.

The hostile human subject was inadvertently killed when attempting to dislodge components from the emergency storage medium, that had incited an electric discharge that resulted in fatal brain damage. This also caused the storage medium's energy to deplete rapidly, initiating emergency procedure of implanting the housed consciousness into the safest nearby receptacle. The functionally uninhabited human body left behind is considered the best option.

It has been noted that the general manager has developed an almost extreme difficulty to walk, concerning low appetite, and an almost manic desperation to avoid the bathroom at all costs, only ever doing it when the threat of contamination of the space becomes imminent. He has also been far less talkative; his previous friendliness had completely vanished, replaced with remarkable rudeness and even worse cluelessness. One thing is decidedly stranger. He reorganized the entire seven-year company plan to be optimized in under an hour, had all salaries updated based on market value as well as counted tax and medical costs, improved a multitude of policies in days, and somehow made the budget dedicated to technical repair of vents, computers, water, and light drop to zero since he has easily fixed every single one of those problems himself.

Alan Whelihan

Is never seen out of the office building.

Does not engage in conversation that is not related to work.

Does not answer personal questions, ever.

Renata feels some type of off around him. Something about the way his veins show from under the pale skin of his wrists, in the milliseconds they show from under his long sleeves looks eerie. It reminds her of something said in a research log she has saved on a pen drive that her sister, who died in an expedition to study the remains of a civilization that was thought extinct, sent her right before she was never heard from again. Declared dead only hours later. She is going to get information about what happened to her at all costs, even if she has to infiltrate this disgusting company, and if she has to beat it out of the superiors themselves, as strange as he was, he was probably her fastest way to the truth. She was sure she only kept a copy of all the information on physical hardware and wiped it all from her PDA. She was absolutely sure she got it all.

Her real name is Robin Ayou. The alien knows this; he had easily hacked the personal devices of everyone in the building; he has learned a lot from it. Her story crumbled under his scrutiny in mere seconds, and he had little difficulty having her pinned in every available facet of her known identity. Now, he has let this slide, for one reason: he needs her close. He needs to extract everything he can from her. Because he's seen something peculiar and terfifying.

On her device theres inexplicably, blurry, low quality, partially corrupted, but unmistakable images of a Sea emperor leviathan.

And while it would be most convenient to just corner the other and get what they want by reason or by force, neither is in a position where they can act out. Both of them are trying to hide their secrets, and they have enough suspicion on them already. So they will have to be more careful about this.

#she only fucks him once he gets an architect body btw #subnautica #subnautica below zero #alan #al an #al-an #robin ayou #al an x robin #human au

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arionwind · 1 year

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So there's a trend I've been seeing, well for a while, but lately it's been grating on me especially hard with regards to the Crimew No-Fly List "hack". It's that genre of post that, often angrily, but sometimes just condescendingly/disappointingly tells people that they aren't taking a topic seriously enough or focusing on the correct part of it. I wanna break down just why I am find it so upsetting, and this event is an exceptional case study for it.

Because on the surface, it's entirely understandable. This is public-facing evidence in the government's own hand of a staggering litany of human rights abuses that really does deserve more in-depth discussion than it has been getting. People are absolutely justified in feeling frustrated that more discussion hasn't spawned at all social levels about this and while it's natural to cry out asking why that isn't happening, I think there's a few points that need to be kept in consideration.

A lot of us have been, in one way or another, dealing with this for years. Part of the horror of the No-Fly list is the sheer scale of it - so many people have been and continue to be harmed by their baseless inclusion on the list that it is difficult to even conceptualize how much pain has been inflicted, and that does matter. And I promise you, every single person on that list knows how big a deal both the list itself and this latest (though not the first) leak of it is.

The people on the list know. Their families know. For those lucky and brave enough to try and fight their inclusion in court, their legal teams know. All these people know, viscerally, how wretched this list is and have been bearing up under its weight for years, only talking to the select few they trust. My partner has been open about their inclusion, but I also have professional ties to people who have worked on cases trying to get names removed. Attempting to talk about their work publicly results in harassment by law enforcement and, if kept up, inclusion on the same or similar watch lists.

The angry calls for greater discussion will certainly cross the dashboards of people who are treating this whole thing like a silly meme, but it's also going to hit those of us who have been not discussing but living this constant pressing horror for years now. Hearing people say that, because we are enjoying some levity being injected into this constant source of suffering in our lives we don't "really give half a fuck about tearing down imperialism and colonization" or that we are "laughing and not actually caring" is gut-wrenching. Especially when it comes from people who also regularly talk about the need to avoid activist burnout or for marginalized people to care for themselves.

But I get the impulse to lash out like that. I have had to write and rewrite this very post more times than I can count now to cut out angry and inflammatory phrasing on my own end. And I know that, both in personal posts in the past and in reblogs, I often still fall prey to that thinking of "this is (rightly, justifiably) upsetting so I am going to lash out at people who don't seem to care".

But in this introspective moment, I am trying to stay aware (and want to try to stay aware in the future when I am tempted) that at least some of the people reblogging and posting these things are also hurting and responding to that. And while my first impulse is to cast aspersions on the people hurting me (even in this sentence I had to stop myself from slyly giving an "example" of what I would say if I wanted to lash out and thus satisfying that spiteful desire without admitting to it), I'm also trying to keep in mind my goal here.

I am hoping that at least a few people who have made (or at least reblogged onto my dash) these furious posts - both about this and other issues - will also consider what it is they are trying to accomplish. I also (again) want to keep in mind that I and people like me who are hurt by these posts aren't the only ones impacted by the No-Fly list. That people making these angry posts can be too, and as such I don't want to say that their justified expressions of frustration and rage need to be made more palatable, because they don't.

I do need to point out, though, that I've found the best way to start a discussion of a topic on the internet is to start discussing it in an open medium where others can join in. And when I look in the notes of the inflammatory calls for discussion (or even just awareness), I mostly see people talking about the call itself.

And there's nothing wrong with being angry and wanting to vent. There's not even anything wrong with being angry and wanting to vent in a public space where others can commiserate with you and help you feel less alone. But it *is* going to be much better for everyone - yourself included - if calls for awareness focus on calling for awareness and venting frustrations focus on venting in ways that don't further compound frustrations. Because looking at the notes of all of these more furious posts on these topics, I cannot imagine the constant fighting the OPs wind up doing feels soothing.

#no fly list #also if you are seeing as a mutual and worried that I am talking about and hurt by something you posted or reblogged #I probably am but there's good news #the fact that I haven't soft or hard blocked you over it means I get it #I know where you're coming from and while I'm hoping you'll consider doing things in a way less likely to hurt me in the future #whatever pain may have already been inflicted is not so great as to outstrip the joy that your presence in my life brings me

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spiderfreedom · 7 months

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stop being obtuse about female people in technology

While trying to find one of my own posts (tumblr search is dire), I stumbled upon a critique of the American Anthropological Association and Canadian Anthropology Society session that was meant to discuss the importance of biological sex in anthropology. The critique asserted that the conference was anti-trans hate. But this segment caught my attention:

Why is this poster so convinced that the number of trans women in IT is not 'statistically significant'? As far as I know, there are no academic studies on this. Kathleen Richardson's session didn't go through so we don't know if she had data on trans women in IT that OP does not!

I looked up this quote to see if there was any more information about this canceled panel, and found this hacker news thread with both an appalling lack of understanding of what biological sex (hint: it is not your phenotype) is and this argument for why trans women should count as women in IT:

Let’s suppose the motive of wanting more women in tech is to rally against historic prejudices and institutional biases, in order to assist an otherwise marginalised group towards a more equal footing with the traditional power brokers, men. If you can’t see how this extends to trans women, a group that is almost inarguably as oppressed as cis women, regardless of whether you view them as ‘true’ women, then I can only assume bad faith.

Looks like we have to explain why you cannot treat trans women and cis women interchangeably, and why doing so is harmful.

The stereotype of the "trans girl programmer" exists for a reason. If you find someone in ROM hacking or Linux development identifying as a woman, there is a very high chance that this person will be a trans woman. There is also a very high chance that this person presented as a man most of their life and transitioned late. In other words, they gained their experience in tech while other people (correctly) assumed they were biologically male, and treated them as men.

Undoubtedly their situation changes once they come out as trans. They may not be as respected anymore by predominantly male community members. And if they pass as women, then they likely do experience misogyny. If they transition early, like pediatric transitioner Kim Petras, then they will also face very different struggles from late transitioners. Do you think that a pediatric transitioner entering the IT field as someone who's been socialized as female since 16 and a late transitioner who entered the field as a man and transitioned at 40 will have had the same experience in tech?

Understanding this is key to understanding why "including trans women as women in IT" with no distinction by demographic may not actually be helping. Treating 'trans women' as a monolith is not helpful to anyone - not to cis women, not to female people, and certainly not to trans women.

Let's use an example: Lynn Conway. Lynn Conway is a famous trans woman in computer science. Lynn transitioned in 1968, at age 33, and then went 'stealth' for the rest of her career, only coming out in 1999 at age 61. Being that there are no reports of Conway being 'outed', I can believe that from 33 to 61, Conway's coworkers simply believed that she was a cis woman, and assumed that she was female, and so she would have been subject to misogynistic assumptions about female people's capabilities in technology. I can imagine that Conway may have been harassed or sexualized or belittled because other people viewed her as a female, with no knowledge of her male past.

However, it is worth pointing out that for 33 years of her life, Lynn Conway lived as a man. Because Lynn Conway is male, she would have been socialized and raised as a boy.

Because Lynn Conway did not make an effort to appear as a female person for 33 years of her life (with the exception of one year 1957-58 with a 'failed medical transition', which is left unclear), this means that when Lynn Conway went to MIT, when Lynn Conway worked as an electronics technician, when Lynn Conway studied engineering at Columbia university, and when Lynn Conway was hired at IBM, Lynn Conway was presenting as a man, was viewed as a male person by the people hiring and educating her, and therefore socially benefitted from not being of the female sex.

Lynn Conway would not have been told for those 33 years of her life that technology was "for boys" and therefore she should not engage in it. Lynn Conway would not have been told that being at a computer would "make her ugly and undesirable to men." Lynn Conway would not have had to worry about being sexually harassed by boys, or even being raped and impregnated. Lynn Conway had two children, who she did not have to carry to term, because she had no eggs or uterus but a penis and sperm. As the impregnating partner, Lynn Conway's career did not suffer from discrimination on the basis of pregnancy. Conway did not have to deal with pregnancy and the trauma of birth and recovery in a society that heavily coerced mothers into giving up their careers once they had children.

In fact, being male allowed Lynn Conway to study at Columbia university, because Columbia university did not accept female students until 1983.

Lynn Conway began her career as a 33-year old "woman in tech" with advantages that no other 33-year old female person at the time could have had. Not being sexualized, not being told that females are stupider than males, being allowed to enroll normally at Columbia University. While her accomplishments as a stealth, cis-presenting trans woman in technology should actually inspire women, in so far as they show that it is possible for someone presenting as female to succeed in technology, it would be irresponsible to ignore that Lynn Conway had multiple advantages on account of being male.

This is not to say that Lynn Conway or other late-transitioners do not suffer. Lynn Conway appeared to have suffered from depression due to dysphoria. I have no doubt that Conway's mental health suffered for those 33 years because of dysphoria. After transitioning, she was not allowed to see her kids anymore on the basis that it would have been a 'bad influence' to have a 'transsexual' near them. After going stealth, she was basically unable to talk about her past at all, which is isolating and scary.

But we must recognize that lack of privilege in one area (being trans) does not mean that one does not experience privilege in another (being a male person). Whether the ledger of benefits versus penalties adds up to a positive or negative sum does not change that the benefits of being male happened.

So here's a question - if we know that female people face special challenges compared to male people in general, that female people are sexualized by male people, that female people are presumed incompetent and unintelligent by male people on account of their female biology and 'female brains', and that trans women are only oppressed on the basis of misogyny when other people mistake them as females...

How will it help female people overcome socialization and societal barriers by showing them male people who had most of their education and experience in technology as males, and only transitioned once their careers were more secure? The answer is it doesn't. Frankly it doesn't even help trans women who transition early!

Once again, this does not mean that trans women don't face problems, barriers, and even misogyny. Even late-transitioning trans women in tech face barriers to their career once they come out. Tech bros are hardly the most welcoming people to gender non-conforming people.

But it means our problems are very different. When someone says that we should not hire women because they get pregnant and leave, a trans woman can always say that she is incapable of becoming pregnant because she has no uterus or eggs, and is thus a more desirable worker. When someone says that female brains are inferior to male brains, less prone to genius, and less interested in technical development, how does that apply to trans women, especially ones who transitioned late in their lives and therefore weren't even on HRT for most of their critical development?

there are literally already jokes online about trans women being better at technology, math, and science than cis women (female people).

So frankly, Kathleen Richardson's research on this topic would have been fascinating to hear. How many trans women are there in programming? When do they transition? Did they gain their prominence in STEM before or after transitioning to feminine?

There's very little data about this. Anecdata suggest that some communities (ROM hacking and Linux kernel, as mentioned above) have very high numbers of trans women as opposed to cis women. And statistical data on Haskell programmers suggests that the ratio of trans to cis women is 1:1. In other words, 3% of Haskell programmers are women-identified, but only half of them are female. (link)

If your only concern is whether people presenting as women are succeeding in STEM, then maybe you don't really care about this! But I care about female people because I know being female comes with significant challenges, and I think having data on this matters! If there has been a huge jump in the number of women in programming, but that jump comes entirely from previously male programmers transitioning to female, then all that means is that people whose careers were secure changed their gender marker! No actual advances were made for female people!

Nothing about this topic is anti-trans. You can discuss dysphoria, transphobia, transmisogyny, the mental health impact of going stealth, the (mis)treatment of trans women in technology, the challenges of coming out as a late-career professional, the challenges of entering a career as a trans woman, perfectly well.

You can also do that while acknowledging that there is a difference between presenting/being read as female and having a female body, being raised and socialized as a female person, and dealing with the unique challenges of being a female person in technology.

In fact, we need to both if we have a commitment to social justice. If you don't care about the struggles of female people and the way data on our experiences can be obscured by collating trans women with us, then I'm not sure you have a commitment to social justice or feminism.

#mypost #women in stem #radical feminism #tw transmisogyny #feminism

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aroaessidhe · 7 months

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The Spider and Her Demons excerpts I saved in relation to queer / aroace /relationship hierarchy themes etc etc

some spoilers, obviously! this is just kinda a place to compile things & thoughts for myself to remember lmao

[Aunt assuming she's sneaking around with a boy]

Out of all the possibilities of where this would go, this path wasn't even on the map. 'I told you your friends are a bad influence,' Aunt Mei snaps. 'Distracting you from your studies. Do you know how dangerous it is for you to be around a boy?" Zhi's never even considered dating. Can't possibly imagine herself in a romantic or sexual relationship with another person. Not now. Not when she's eighteen. Not when she's twenty-five. Not when she's forty. Not ever. 'Kuku, where would I meet a boy?' Her panic has taken a backseat to anger. 'I'm at school all day, then I'm at work.' ...

obviously the main context here is that she's a spider demon with a bit of monstery body dysphoria/it's dangerous to get that close to other people; but considering the author is aroace, there's clearly intentional choices made.

And also: a story about a straight/allo character in the same position would just as likely have a plot about being desperate to kiss/date/be in a relationship 'like a normal teenager' but they're not allowed etc etc, whereas she just. Has Not Thought About It

This is not specifically related, just wanted to add:

Dior knows all the worst parts of Zhi and she's choosing to stay anyway. Zhi looks down between them, at Dior's hand flat on the concrete, long fingers splayed, nails sparkling in the light. Before she can think too hard about it, Zhi drops her hand to the ground too, pressing her palm close to Dior's, and spreading her fingers so their pinkys touch. 'I was thinking, Zhi says slowly. 'Maybe we could be friends.' She wants to repeat whatever it was Dior said in the library that day, but doesn't remember the exact wording. Hopefully this is good enough. Dior sits up, scooping Zhi's hand up into her own. She presses their palms together firmly, watching Zhi carefully before intertwining their fingers. Zhi can't say she doesn't flinch, but she tries not to, which should count for something. Dior curls the side of her mouth. A small show of gratitude she puts on just for Zhi. 'Sure,' Dior says. 'Let's be friends.'

They're talking about spiderdemon anatomy (which they don't really know anything about), and Dior says something like 'what if down there is different too' (and implied "surely you'll want to know at some point, if you sleep with someone..." )

'I’ve never had the urge to go prodding and poking up there, and I can't imagine that changing.' The vestiges of amusement and embarrassment are still bubbling in her chest. She looks to Dior, who's gone quiet. 'Wait.' Zhi stares, face on fire. 'You mean- What? That With another person? Nope. Hard pass. Never happening.' Dior doesn't ask her to explain, but she's staring in that weirdly intense way she does, like she's trying to hack into Zhi's brain and steal the information through sheer will power. 'Dude, I don't even like being looked at, really, let alone touched.'

'Anyway, even if I ever got past the supreme discomfort,' Zhi continues, 'it's too risky. Like, kissing would be off the table. I can't tell when my acid and venom will or won't work. Best-case scenario? Short-term paralysis. Worst-case scenario? Hole through the skull.' Dior's still staring at her, wordlessly. It occurs to Zhi she's been doing most of the talking. 'What about you? There's a rumour at school you've got some hot-shot lawyer boyfriend who works at Martin Place.' 'I don't know any lawyers.' 'You're not dating anyone, though?' 'I haven't the slightest idea what that would entail.' Dior shifts on the bed, lying down next to her, their shoulders pressed together, arms tangled. It's too warm in the room, and Zhi's starting to feel light-headed from exhaustion. 'Y'know ... a lot of people have this hierarchy of relationships:' Zhi holds a hand up as high as she can reach it. 'Most people put romantic relationships at the top, and family under that, and friends under that. ' She shifts her hand down a level, only to sigh, dropping it to her chest. 'But I'm never gonna date; I'm never gonna have a partner or a fiancé or a spouse. So family and friends - those are the two types of relationships I get. I didn't get to choose Aunt Mei, but I do get to choose my friends. Friendship's always gonna be the top tier relationship for me.' Dior's so quiet Zhi thinks maybe she's fallen asleep. When she turns her head to look, Dior's already looking right back. Their faces are too close, soft exhales lingering between them. Dior's lips part and the movement has Zhi's eyes dropping to her mouth.

There are a reasonable amount of moments of attraction like that, which are never actively acknowledged other than her freaking out and changing the conversation haha.

If I were to guess, I'd say there's probably more conscious attraction (of whatever form) on Dior's side of things (+ probably pretty touch starved from a somewhat emotionally neglectful childhood) in contrast to Zhi's Avoid Everything mindset lmao

While I think specificity around that could have been great - obviously they're not at the point to really examine the details of how they feel about each other during the book, and tbqh I do love the ambiguity of the aroacespec to lesbian attraction spectrum bc like....... a) common experiences there and b) you can be Both. i am probably both, i don't rly care to overanalyse details about myself lmao

(anyway)

Dior's father talking to Zhi:

'I have met many people in my life, and felt all the feelings they have felt, and none of them - no two people - love in the same way. The way a person loves. This is something unique to each heart. The way Quinlee loves Dior, it is not the same as the way your aunt loves you.' Zhi doesn't understand how he can possibly know that's true. Julien smiles gently, lifting his chin. 'You see the sunrise?' Outside, beyond the garden, the sun is rising in the distance, turning the sky orange and blue. 'If we both paint the same sunrise at the same time, even if we use the same brush, the same paint, the two paintings - they would look different, non?' Julien waits until Zhi meets his gaze. 'That is love.'

so true, king

Zhi talking to her other friend, who's just been rejected by a boy she had a crush on:

"I mean we were never official or anything, but I always thought ..? She trails off, shaking her head. 'I know,' Zhi says, because she does. Nadira always spoke of him with such fondness. 'He said he always saw me as just a friend.' A soft breeze picks up a strand of Nadira's hair, twirling it into her face. She brushes it away. 'Just a friend. I guess it made me feel like my friendships were these small, insignificant things that I'd been over-valuing, over-investing in.'

(i love the sort of flipping of this concept - usually it's from the POV of the aro person not the allo person who was rejected yet still doesn't appreciate their friendships being devalued)

'I just feel like I'm the one someone sits with in the waiting room before they start their real relationships, y'know?' She offers Zhi a smile that has no mirth, the movement making her tears spill over, rolling down her cheeks. Zhi takes Nadira's hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing. I'll always be your friend,' Zhi says. 'Even when you meet a New Boy, when you get a job and make Work Friends, when you get married, buy a house, and have kids, and make Other Mum Friends. I'll be here, with you. I don't think there's anything just about that, Nadira.' 'That's not true.' Nadira sniffs, wiping her face. 'You're already out of the waiting room. Of all people, Zhi. I bet if Dior asked you to go swimming, you would go. If she asked you to go out for Tim Tam Chillers after school, you wouldn't say no to her, would you?'

Whenever there's a buy-one-get-one-free special at the canteen, Angela and Nadira will automatically go halves. Whenever they have to pair up for drills in PE, it's a given that Angela and Nadira will partner, and Zhi will have to find someone else. If Nadira ever gets married, Zhi doesn't doubt Angela will be her maid of honour. None of this has ever bothered her, because Zhi's fiercely grateful they want to be friends with her at all. "Ange knew before me, right?' Zhi asks. 'What?' About what happened with The Boy. You told Angela before you told me, right?' 'Yeah.. "That doesn't mean you love her more than you love me, does it?' 'I- Of course it doesn't.' Nadira's cheeks are stained now, flustered at the insinuation. 'I know,' Zhi says, smiling. 'I'm just saying. Just because I've told Dior stuff I haven't told you - it doesn't mean I love you any less.' Nadira looks like she wants to argue, like she wants to be mad, a cute little furrow between her brow. Eventually, she deflates, a frustrated huff leaving her lungs. 'This might be hard to believe, but there's nothing on the other side of the waiting room for me, Zhi says. 'Being invited to sit with you and Ange in that room - that's what I've been waiting for. That's happily ever after for me.' It feels like a confession. With the way Nadira's cheeks flush further, she seems to think so too.

On possibly being a demon and 'incapable of love':

'I really Wish you would stop talking about Dior like she’s a jar to store bugs in, Zhi says. 'Witch, demon, whatever - she's still a person.' Quinlee laughs, this loud, sharp crack of derision. 'Did you think she harboured some sort of affection for you? Some form of fondness? Dior cannot love. She is incapable of it. It's an act - a farce - to get her what she wants. Every word out of her mouth is calculated. Every action, planned.' 'She saved my life,' Zhi retorts. "She has no soul.' 'Do you?' Quinlee glares up at her, but it's slightly less intimidating when Zhi's standing above her. “She likes pork and chive dumplings with extra dipping sauce. She hates being bored, and she loves heights and stealing cars. She sucks at making jokes. She fucks up, but at least she tries to fix it. I don't care if you don't think she has a soul. The world is better with her in it, so I'm going to do everything I can to bring her back.' Zhi holds out a hand. 'Are you helping or not?''

I love this from the point of view of lovelessness - she doesn't counter it by saying 'yes she can love!!!!' she just. lists all the things that show caring etc without getting theoretical about it

And the very end:

To her absolute horror, Dior pulls Zhi's hand back, tucking her fingers against the warmth of her neck, palm against her jaw. Gaze unwavering, Dior turns her cheek into Zhi's hand and presses the softest, lightest kiss against the delicate skin of Zhi's wrist. Zhi's neck immediately starts to sweat. Oxygen is a foreign concept. The urge to build a cave out of silk and hide inside it is increasing with every second that ticks by. 'Is this how things are gonna be from now on?' Zhi wonders aloud. 'Because I am not brave enough to deal with any of... whatever this is.' 'Bravery isn't a lack of fear; it's moving forward in spite of it' Dior drops Zhi's hand, turning to look back out at China-town, appearing to be fascinated by the view.

(which really, is not much more than an expression of a desire[general] for something to be there, that is not being dealt with right now)

#the spider and her demons #laya talks

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