#motorcycle shipping service | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

five-and-dimes · 2 months

Text

Skin Deep

Dreamling Bingo Square D2: Bar Fight

Rating: Explicit

Ship(s): Dreamling

Warnings: Implied past rape/non-con (not explicit or described)

Hob has a routine for how he uses his tattooed, biker aesthetic to coax people into his bed, and tonight he knows who he’s going for the second he steps through the door. The man at the bar is just Hob’s type- lithe and pale, artfully messy black hair framing his face. Despite the warmth of the bar, he’s fully covered up, a black turtleneck hugging his body and leather gloves covering the hands tapping away at a laptop. Hob wants to peel the fabric off of him, wants to see that pretty white skin blush beneath his mouth.

Hob has no idea what he's getting into, but he knows it'll be worth it.

Read on AO3

The thing is, Hob knows what he looks like.

He likes what he looks like- thick set and strong, muscle and fat filling him out, abundant body hair, and numerous tattoos and piercings adorning him. With a leather vest and a motorcycle parked outside of the pub he owned, he looked like every tough biker stereotype, only offset by his wide grin and friendly demeanor.

Hob likes the way he looks. In part, he’s not ashamed to admit, because he is a lot of people’s type .

Specifically, when he walks into the pub, he is usually guaranteed at least one stuffy, buttoned up patron who secretly wants a little excitement in their life will look up and stare a little too long to be subtle. It’s too easy, the way Hob will sidle up to some nine-to-fiver, “just unwinding after work,” they explain, and Hob offers to buy them a round, and they ask Hob about his tattoos, and then Hob offers them a ride home if they don’t mind riding on the back of his bike, and by the end of the night he’s got the nice quiet secretary who “doesn’t do this normally, really,” moaning in his bed.

Tonight, he knows who he’s going for the second he steps through the door. The man at the bar is just Hob’s type- lithe and pale, artfully messy black hair framing his face. Despite the warmth of the bar, he’s fully covered up, a black turtleneck hugging his body and leather gloves covering the hands tapping away at a laptop. Hob wants to peel the fabric off of him, wants to see that pretty white skin blush beneath his mouth.

When he approaches, he is confident that he will get exactly what he wants. The stranger looks like the type that needs to relax, and Hob is more than willing to offer his services. He gives the bartender, Johanna, a quick look, wagging his eyebrows and nodding towards the man with a lecherous grin. Johanna rolls her eyes, but says nothing. As much as she gives him shit for his habits, she still keeps her mouth shut about him being the owner of the New Inn, so when he goes after someone sitting at the bar, she treats him like just another regular, and not her boss and longtime friend.

Sliding onto the stool next to the stranger, he swings his body around until he can lean backwards against the bar top casually. The man glances at him out of the corner of his eye, eyes narrowing slightly, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge Hob.

“Hey gorgeous,” Hob drawls, nodding at the nearly empty glass of something clear that sits to the side of the man, “Can I get your next round? I find that drinks taste better when they’re shared,” he winks.

“No thank you,” the man responds without hesitation, continuing to type away without sparing Hob a second glance.

Hob grins wider. He loves when they play hard to get.

“Well that’s a shame,” he spins in his seat, facing forward and gesturing to Johanna even as he continues speaking to the man next to him, “You look like you’ve been working hard. Everyone can use a break now and then.”

Johanna places his usual order- a simple whiskey on the rocks- on the counter in front of him, not bothering to linger. Hob takes a slow sip, letting the taste wash over his tongue and maybe swallowing a bit more prominently than is strictly necessary. The man continues to ignore him, but when Hob slips his leather jacket off his shoulders, he catches the man’s eyes darting towards him. Icy blue eyes roam over his arms, muscular and hairy and tattooed, and Hob doesn’t see any lust or want, but he does see curiosity. And he can work with that.

“Like what you see?” He asks teasingly.

The man huffs, turning his eyes back to his laptop, but Hob leans forward and continues, “Might seem crazy, sitting and getting stabbed with needles for hours, although to be honest I barely felt it,” he flexes subtly. The stranger doesn’t see it, so he keeps chatting, “But I like them. Getting to decorate myself however I want, make a statement, tell a story.”

The word ‘story’ pulls the man’s gaze back to him, staring at Hob intently, and he grins, “I could show you more of ‘em if you want,” he says suggestively.

Next to him, the man arches a perfect eyebrow as he drawls, “Does that line actually work on anyone?”

“You’d be surprised,” Hob shrugs, “But the more important question is, is it working on you ?”

“No,” he responds without missing a beat, and despite not being the answer he was hoping for, it is so deadpan and blunt and utterly unexpected that Hob cannot help but burst into laughter.

“Wow, you don’t pull your punches!” He puts a hand over his chest theatrically, “It’s always the quiet ones that stab you when you aren’t looking.”

“You were looking.”

Hob laughs again. Oh, this guy is a riot. Hob feels something in his chest, a little flicker of flame that he has to beat back down until it turns back into lust.

“You’re right, I was,” he concedes, looking the man up and down blatantly as he licks his lips, “And for good reason. A pretty thing like you here all alone? That’s asking for the exact kind of trouble I specialize in.”

The laptop slams shut, but it feels more like a door being slammed in his face.

“Well then,” the man drawls, “I will save myself that trouble, and find somewhere else to be alone.” As he stands to gather his things, he catches Johanna’s attention. When she approaches, he slings his bag over his shoulder and gestures between his drink and Hob, “Put it on his tab.”

It’s official. Hob is smitten.

“You know I’m good for it,” he grins, waving his fingers at the stranger’s back, watching as he leaves without a second glance.

When he straightens in his seat, Johanna is raising an eyebrow at him, “I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen you strike out.”

“Nah,” Hob smiles wider, leaning his chin against his hand, “I think it’s gonna be the slowest I’ve ever succeeded.”

Hours later, Hob goes home alone, but he barely notices. He’s too distracted thinking about the beautiful stranger from the bar.

~~~

A week later, the stranger is back. He doesn’t sit at the bar this time, instead occupying a small table for two in the back corner, laptop once more in front of him and a glass beside him, his clothing concealing him just as it had before. Hob feels an excited little leap in his chest, forcing himself to stop by the bar to grab a drink instead of beelining straight for the other man. When he does approach, he notices that the second chair is pointedly occupied by the man’s messenger bag. Grinning, he casually grabs a chair from another table, pulling it up and seating himself at the man’s table confidently.

The scrape of the chair against the floor makes the man jump slightly, head snapping up and blinking in surprise as Hob settles in across from him.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

His eyes narrow, spine so straight it almost looks painful, “It seems like you are the one incapable of staying away.”

“Can you blame me? I’m surprised no one else has tried to catch your eye.”

“Everyone else seems capable of taking a hint,” his eyes return to his computer, but his fingers don’t move.

“Everyone else is a coward,” Hob quips, taking a sip of his drink as he leans back in his chair, “The best things in life take a little work.”

“Is that what this is?” The man raises an eyebrow, “Work?”

“It’s a fun puzzle. Like the NY Times crossword. It’s only fun when it’s hard.”

“You do the New York Times crossword?” The disbelief in his voice is blatant.

“I’d do it in pen if I had the actual paper,” Hob brags, “But I make do with their app.”

“You do not look the type.”

“Oh, so now we’re profiling, eh? What’s that saying about books and their covers?”

“You have put far too much effort into your cover for me to believe you don’t want me to make assumptions.”

“You don’t miss a beat, do you?” For a moment, he leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, before abruptly sitting up. He doesn’t want to look like he has a schoolgirl crush after all. “All this and we still haven’t even introduced ourselves,” he holds out a hand, “Robert Gadling, b ut my friends call me Hob.”

The man doesn’t take his hand, simply raising an eyebrow, “Are you sure they are friends and not bullies?”

“Hey, it’s a perfectly fine nickname!” Hob laughed, “Old family name, who am I to break tradition?” He drops his hand, raising his own eyebrow in return, “I take it your name is better?”

“Do you actually care?” he fires back, “You don’t seem the type to remember it the next morning.”

“Again with the assumptions!” Hob shakes his head, and tries to grin, but is caught off guard to find that just a little of his mock offense is real, “I’m not an animal. I’ll remember your name and make you breakfast the next day.”

Across from him, the man leans back in his seat, and for the first time Hob gets the sense that he has his full attention.

When his eyes drift over Hob’s body, it doesn’t feel like judgment, but it doesn’t feel like lust either. Just like the last time, it feels like curiosity.

“I will not be going home with you,” he declares finally, looking Hob straight in the eye, “regardless of whether you remember my name or make me breakfast.”

“Bummer,” Hob responds easily, “I’d still like to know your name.”

There is a long moment where they simply stare at each other. Then, the other man slowly and gently closes his laptop, not the slamming door of their last meeting.

“Next time, perhaps,” he says, gathering his things once more.

Hob grins, “Next time, then.”

Watching the man leave, he gets the distinct sense that he just passed a test.

He goes home alone again, and he doesn’t even care.

~~~

The third time, Hob is there first. When he had arrived he had immediately descended on a sharp-dressed businessman who looked like he’d run his hand through his hair a few too many times, tie loosened enough to undo the top button. Everything about him screamed that he’d had a long day and could do with some fun. Hob was good at fun. He was in the middle of telling the man all about how freeing it felt to ride a motorcycle and how he happened to have an extra helmet when his stranger walked in.

He enters like a shadow, a silhouette just barely offset by the paleness of his face. As he approaches the bar, his eyes flick over to land on Hob where he’s still got one hand playing with the man’s tie. There is a barely perceptible purse to his lips and a look in his eye that can only be described as disappointment before he looks away.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, my friend just walked in and- I just need to- it’s complicated, sorry, hope the conference goes well,” he scrambles from his seat, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste. He’s pretty sure he’s given the poor man whiplash, but he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty. The fact is, this man was just a distraction from the one who’s really been occupying his thoughts.

When he reaches the bar, Johanna is just placing the man’s drink in front of him. She gives Hob a pointed look, as though she knows he fucked up. Hob just shrugs. What can you do?

Slipping into the seat beside his stranger, he puts on his best winning grin, “Fancy meeting you here. Weren’t planning on saying hello?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he replies smoothly, opening his laptop and waiting for it to turn on.

“You could never interrupt,” Hob responds a little too honestly.

He sees the man’s hands clench into fists on the keyboard, “You should go back to him,” he turns his head to glare at Hob out of the corner of his eye, “You already know I will not give you what you want.”

“Still no name then?” Hob quips.

“We both know you want more than just my name.”

Hob doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

“I suppose that’s true,” he drawls, “I also want to know what you’re always typing away at.”

There is a heavy sigh in response, “You are persistent, Hob Gadling.”

“One of my best qualities,” he leans forward, grinning widely, “Got you to remember my name, didn’t it?”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Hob swears he sees the man’s lips twitch towards a smile. And then, miraculously, he turns to face Hob.

“I am a writer,” he explains, “I am in the process of outlining my next novel.”

Hob whistles, impressed, “ Next novel, huh? Is that why you don’t want to tell me your name? Don’t want me fawning over the famous author?”

“I use a pen name,” he states plainly, “I simply enjoy watching you struggle.”

“Should’ve known,” Hob shakes his head with a laugh, “What genre do you write?”

“Fantasy.”

Hob is a little bit terrified of the feeling blooming in his chest, “For real? That’s amazing! So is what you’re working on now the next in a series, or do you write standalone novels?”

The man seems surprised by the question, but turns to face Hob more fully, “I have written standalones before, but this particular story is the third in a trilogy.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re so focused on your outlining. Gotta make sure you wrap everything up properly.”

“Indeed.” There is a pause as he seems to consider something before asking, “Are you a fan of fantasy?”

“Oh absolutely,” Hob replies gleefully, leaning over and holding out his right arm. Winding around his forearm is a serpent-like beast, waves around its body and a delicate compass by its head, stylized like a monster drawn in the waters of a medieval map.

“Always loved stories of monsters and magic,” Hob explains. Once again, he sees his stranger’s eyes sharpen at the word “story”. “I especially love old sailors' stories, ‘ here there be monsters’ , sirens and leviathans. We don’t know nearly enough about our oceans to convince me it’s all fantasy. But to avoid sounding totally off my rocker I’ll begrudgingly use the word,” he winked.

“Fantasy realism, one might say,” the other man quips with a smile.

Hob likes him when he smiles.

“One might.”

The stranger refuses to tell Hob anything about his book, nose up haughtily as he claims he doesn’t want to give away any spoilers. But they talk about other books, and movie adaptations, and when he finally stands to leave, the man pauses for just a moment.

“Dream,” he finally says, voice grave and regal, “My name is Dream.”

And then he is gone again, leaving Hob to utter the name under his breath to himself, just to taste it.

~~~

“If you’re so anti-people, why do your writing at a bar? Why not just tap away at home?”

Hob had arrived a little later than usual this evening, and had sighed in relief at the sight of Dream sitting in the back with his laptop. He was tapping rapidly, barely sparing Hob a glance when he slid into the seat across from him. While Hob was used to the man giving him the cold shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. He’d thought after being given a name, they were making some kind of progress.

Dream narrows his eyes at the question, finally pausing in his typing to answer, “I am not ‘anti-people’,” he insists, “I simply do not enjoy strangers invading my space.” He raises an eyebrow at Hob pointedly

“Oh, I’m hardly a stranger at this point,” he grins.

“I know you as well as I know any actor,” he replies coldly, no hesitation, “skilled at your craft, and completely fake.”

That… hits a little too close to home, and Hob feels himself tensing, his own voice turning cold as he responds, “All the world’s a stage, sweetheart. Don’t pretend your high-and-mighty schtick isn’t its own act.”

“Perhaps you should worry less about the stage,” Dream snapped back, “and more about your audience.”

Rolling his eyes, Hob crosses his arms, “God, I can’t believe you pissed me off enough to quote fucking Shakespeare,” he grumbles, mostly to himself.

Dream scoffs, “I can’t believe you know Shakespeare.” Hob feels himself bristle, and Dream raises an eyebrow, “If you do not like my ‘high and mighty’ act, you are welcome to find another,” he gestures at the other patrons in the bar, several of whom Hob can tell at a glance would be his usual targets before he met Dream.

It strikes him, suddenly, that this is another test. Dream has been trying to scare him off since the moment Hob first saw him, and the moment he found a button of Hob’s to push he started slamming it. He thinks back to their last conversation, and something in him settles.

Maybe Dream had a point. He’s starting to understand his audience.

He allows himself to relax, leaning back in his seat with a smirk, “Listen, it’s not that Shakespeare is bad . And I’m definitely not saying he’s unimportant, from a historical standpoint. I just think he gets way too much hype.”

Dream blinks slowly, and Hob gets the impression that a lesser man would be gaping.

“Like, if I could just read Shakespeare, or watch one of his plays, and just experience it for what it is on its own? I probably wouldn’t be so bitter,” Hob explains, “But it’s the hype. Had to do a few too many essays on the guy in school and hear a few too many professors go on, and on, about him. He got built up too much and then couldn't live up.”

Slowly, Dream closes his laptop. Hob expects him to stand and leave, but instead, he folds his hands in his lap, tilting his head at Hob curiously, “It is not his work or merit that you dislike. It is the way you experienced it.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Hob shrugs. He nods his head towards Dream’s closed laptop, “You leaving me again?”

“No,” Dream answers carefully, “Now I’m interested.”

“In me?” Hob feels his traitorous heart stutter hopefully.

Dream grins slowly, “In your experience.”

Hob grins back, leaning forward on the table, “Lucky for you, baby, that’s something I’ve got plenty of.”

~~~

Johanna has taken to rolling her eyes dramatically every time she sees Hob practically skip over to Dream. Hob has taken to ignoring her.

He tells himself he likes the challenge. He tells himself it’s more fun seducing someone when it takes a little effort. He tells himself that’s the only reason he hasn’t gone home with anyone in months, why he’s taken to scanning the bar for the shape of a dark silhouette of a man instead of the shape of someone who might find him useful for a night.

He hopes if he tells himself enough it will become true.

“You know, you never answered my question,” Hob prods one night, a few drinks in and having coaxed Dream into closing his laptop while they talk, “Why come to a bar to do your work?”

There is a pause, and Hob is surprised to see that Dream seems to be truly considering his answer. “I do not like to be alone,” he finally answers, “not truly alone. In my empty apartment just staring at-“ he cuts himself off. When he continues, he is even more tense, “It is nice to be around people. In a crowd. Even if I am not a part of it.”

His voice is even and steady, but to Hob it still feels so… sad.

“Do you want to be a part of it?”

Dream dips his head, looking down at his gloved hands and tugging at the edge of his shirt sleeve, “I don’t think it matters what I want.”

“It matters to me,” Hob replies softly.

When Dream looks at him, his eyes are carefully blank, windows with the curtains drawn tight. “Are you sure?”

There’s a lot Hob’s not sure of. This isn’t one of them.

“Yeah, Dream,” he smiles, “I’m sure.”

Leaning forward, Dream rests his chin on one hand, and Hob can’t tell if he believes him or not. “And what of your wants, Hob Gadling?”

Hob’s mouth moves on autopilot, “I’m a simple man, with simple wants,” he grins running his tongue across his lips suggestively.

Dream shifts in his seat, leaning away from Hob, “Less simple than you think, I believe.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hob can’t help but question, “Me or my wants?”

He can only watch as Dream stands, going through the motions Hob has become so familiar with from each time he decides it’s time to walk away.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

~~~

Hob has no idea how Dream always manages to do it. One minute Hob’s sliding into the stool beside him at the bar, rattling off cheap pickup lines that make Dream huff and glare.

And the next, he’s rambling about the worst essays he ever read back when he was a history teacher.

“I literally gave them outlines. My office hours were practically 24/7, and these punks still handed in papers with my name spelled wrong in the header and describing the 20s as ‘Ancient History’.”

Beside him, Dream’s lips twitch towards a smile, “I suppose it depends. Which 20s were they writing about?”

“Har har,” Hob rolls his eyes, “You’re hilarious. Prehistory is important, you know, and very different from medieval times, which is very different from Ren Faires, but even that was hard to drill into some of those kids’ heads.” He gestures enthusiastically with his hands, “And history is interesting ! Obviously I couldn’t go as in depth on every subject as I wanted too, but you would think just the sheer amount of time I was trying to cover would catch their attention. Imagine being too young to buy a pint and someone tells you we’ll only be covering 3000 years of history? Like, it’s mind blowing to me.”

Dream is giving him his full attention, something soft on his face, “It is a shame they did not appreciate your knowledge.”

His heart skips a beat, and with it Hob is suddenly struck by the fact that he has been rambling for most of the evening about literal ancient history that no one alive cared about. How did that even happen? How did Dream always manage to fluster Hob to the point of falling back on his old, nerdy habits?

It’s uncomfortable. He wishes it felt unfamiliar, but the truth is it feels too familiar, and he has no idea what to do with that. These are someone else’s habits.

So he takes a step back.

Shaking his head, he grins sharply, “Honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Make a better living owning a pub than I ever did as a teacher. Plus here I have the added benefit of beautiful patrons.” Next to him, Dream frowns, furrowing his brow as Hob leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, biting his lip as traces a finger over the cuff of Dream’s coat. “We’ve been dancing around each other for months now. What do I have to do to get you to shed a few layers, huh?”

Dream tenses so quickly and so sharply, Hob almost imagines he can hear his bones creaking. He jerks his arm back away from Hob, sliding to his feet to put even more space between them.

His eyes are cold and glassy. Angry and frightened and hurt.

“Do you want to know what the last person who saw me naked did?” His voice is clipped, slamming his laptop shut and gathering his things into his arms before hissing through clenched teeth, “They didn’t care when I said stop .”

Hob thinks it would have hurt less if Dream had simply stabbed him.

“Dream, I…”

The other man nearly runs from the building, one hand gripping his bag while the other clutches his coat closed, as though there was any risk of skin showing through all that fabric.

“Dream-“ Hob stands as Dream opens the door, calling out, uncaring of the other bar guests, “Dream!”

“You sit your ass right the fuck down, Gadling.”

Hob has known Johanna for most of his adult life, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound so sharp.

His voice wavers as he looks between her and the door, “But, I just want-“

“Do you really think following him outside, at night, after what he just said to you, is going to make him feel better?” Johanna interrupts. She doesn’t sound angry, exactly, just… strict. She’s not messing around right now.

And she’s right. Hob knows she’s right, and he finds himself collapsing back into his seat like a puppet with its strings cut. “Fuck,” his voice cracks, and he puts his head in his hands as if he could hide from the past five minutes.

“Look,” Johanna sighs, crossing her arms, “I’m gonna give you some tough love. You’ve been batting your eyelashes at that man for months now, and you know what I’ve noticed?”

“That he hates me?” Hob mumbles miserably.

“That he hates your act ,” she corrects sternly, “But every now and then you loosen up and forget whatever stupid script you’ve written for yourself to get into people’s pants, and it’s like,” she scrunches her nose in distaste, “like he lights up a little. Like a stray cat crawling out from under a car, or, whatever. Something stupid and sappy like that.”

Furrowing his brow, Hob glances up, hardly daring to hope, “Really?”

“Really,” Johanna answers definitively. “He actually likes you . Even if you don’t.”

Hob opens his mouth, but closes it without saying anything. There’s nothing he can say that Johanna doesn’t already know.

“Even if that’s true,” he responds slowly, “there’s no way I’ve got a shot now. Not after…” he waves his hand vaguely before dropping it back onto the bar with a soft ‘thud’, “...y’know.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Johanna shrugs, pushing Hob’s drink towards him, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

~~~

Hob waits for over a month.

Thirty-three days, technically. But who’s counting.

Normally Hob visited his own pub once or twice a week, taking care of any official management business at home. But for thirty-three days Hob goes to the New Inn every night. He sits in the back where he has a clear view of the door and he waits. If anyone approaches him he tells them the other seat is taken, he’s waiting for someone, they’ll be here soon he’s sure. He ignores the pitying looks, and the number of nights Johanna has to silently switch him to water instead of whiskey, and the way a not small part of him wants to give up and fall back into his routine.

He keeps waiting.

And then, on the thirty-third night, Hob doesn’t even make it inside the pub. He stumbles when he sees the dark figure leaning against the wall beside the door to the pub. Dream is a thin void in the shadows, a silhouette with just the slightest spots of color where his cigarette casts a faint glow on his face.

He steps forward cautiously, like approaching a stray cat. Desperate not to scare him off again.

“Hi,” Hob says, barely audible as he exhales the word.

Dream looks at him, and he looks so tired , “I couldn’t decide whether to go in or not.”

Nodding, Hob looks down in shame, “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I don’t know who you are ,” Dream continues, voice strained and frustrated, “Sometimes. You seem so…” Hob can’t tell if he is struggling to find the words or to say them. Finally, he clenches his eyes shut and admits softly, “Sometimes you seem so safe .”

Hob wants to cry.

“You can be so kind, and funny, and- and someone I want to be around,” Dream rushes on, “And then all of a sudden you go back to being someone who just. Just wants something from me that I can’t give.” He drops his cigarette, grinding it out under his boot as he whispers, “You give me whiplash.”

Johanna’s words ring in his head, about Dream hating his act, and it only just now occurs to him that of course Dream wouldn’t be able to tell which part was the act. All he knew was that Hob had two different sides that he couldn’t seem to settle on. How terrifying that must have been.

“I’m sorry,” Hob says, looking at Dream even as he doesn’t look back.

“I don’t understand your persistence. Even before…” Dream trails off, waving a hand vaguely, “Just. Before. Always, I guess. People do not find me worth the wait.” His lips twist in a mockery of a smile, “Surely you have noticed. I am stiff, and awkward. I can be prideful, and cold, and… generally off putting,” he says, with a note in his voice that tells Hob he is quoting someone, “I am too much work for far too little reward.”

“Bullshit.”

Dream’s head snaps up, brow furrowed in surprised confusion, and Hob rushes to get the words out, “That’s absolute bullshit. I know I-” he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know I started things off all wrong. I know when I first walked up to you I was just another asshole looking for a hookup. But it’s not work to get to know you. It’s not a chore to treat you with respect. I’m not waiting for anything, even if I’ve been shit at showing it. I’m not putting up with all these moments between us just to get to the sex. I want the moments in between, want whatever you’re comfortable with.” His hand twitches at his side, wanting so badly to reach out but not feeling like he is allowed just yet, “I’m excited just to see you. There is no work, no reward . Spending time with you is a gift .”

Dream looks at him, searching his face before swallowing thickly, “You are much bigger than me,” he states bluntly, and Hob has never wanted to shrink so badly, “If I wanted you to stop something, I could not make you. I would just have to trust that you would listen.”

His eyes are challenging and questioning and desperate, and Hob feels his heart break. “I get it,” he chokes out, “I… I know you might not believe me yet, but I would. I will , I will always listen to you. You’re in charge, you can choose the pace, or, or if you even want anything more than this at all, and I’ll only ever be grateful to have met you. Even if you walk away right now and decide you never want to see me again… I’d be sad, yeah, but. I’d still be glad to have met you.”

There is a long pause, Dream considering his words with a look of uncertainty. He thinks about Dream’s words, I don’t know who you are , and takes a deep breath, decision made.

“Can I… can I show you something?” He waits until Dream glances up at him to start tugging at his own shirt, waiting until Dream nods hesitantly before shrugging off his leather jacket and tugging his shirt over his head. He grips the fabric tightly in one hand, and almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of being nervous at being seen shirtless, given how often he used to spend naked with complete strangers. But he knows this is different.

“A lot of these don’t mean anything,” he begins, gesturing at the tattoos covering his skin and the metal studs through his nipples, “After a certain point I was just filling up space, trying to complete the aesthetic. But some of them still, y’know. Say something about me.”

He points at the tattoo on the right side of his stomach. His tattoos blend together, so few people notice the individual images unless he draws attention to them. Normally, he doesn’t want to draw attention to them.

Dream blinks, lips parting in surprise at the tattoo Hob normally prefers goes ignored, “Is that,” he asks slowly, “a Pokémon tattoo?”

Hob grins bashfully, “Ah, I was wondering if you’d recognize it.”

Nodding, Dream stated easily, “Eevee.”

“Yup. Always was my favorite,” here Hob lets himself be a little enthusiastic, let himself start to shrug off the instinctual embarrassment, “I mean, the fact that they can evolve into so many different things, all depending on their environment and how they’re raised. It’s poetic,” he says determinedly.

He is rewarded when Dream looks to be fighting back a smile, teasing without malice, “It is a children’s cartoon.”

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t cry during Mewtwo’s speech in the movie.”

“I never saw it.”

Hob gasped, clasping his chest dramatically, “That is a crime!”

Dream lets out a small, soft exhale, the closest to a laugh Hob has ever heard, and it makes it all worth it. So he continues, twisting to point at the intricate text across his shoulders, decorated like an illuminated manuscript.

“You’ve already heard me ramble on about Chaucer, so this one shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.”

It’s a tattoo he doesn’t often see himself, only ever catching the edges of the decorative ropes out of the corner of his eye. But he still knows it well: “ Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury”

“There was a time I thought I would get my doctorate in Medieval literature and language, and I was honestly excited to do my dissertation on The Canterbury Tales.” He still thinks about it sometimes. More, he privately admits to himself, since meeting Dream. As though that part of himself that he had given up on was still clinging inside him. “It… didn’t end up happening. But it’s still something I’m passionate about.”

Moving on, unable or unwilling to dwell, he lifts his right arm, pointing to a tattoo hidden on the inside of his upper arm. Leaning in to get a closer look, Dream’s lips twitch towards a smile.

“It’s so…. cute,” he says teasingly, “I would not expect that.”

Hob can feel himself blush, glancing down at the image of a pink and orange cartoon cat holding a strawberry, “Yeah, yeah. I had a cat named Strawberry growing up, and a friend of mine drew this for me after she passed. I don’t usually draw attention to it cause it does, y’know. Clash.”

Dream hums thoughtfully, “No,” he says confidently, “I think it fits well.”

The words are so simple and yet they make Hob’s breath catch in his chest. Turning around, desperate to move on before he loses his nerve, he points a finger at the next tattoo. When he looks over his shoulder, he grins at the sight of Dream biting his lip, very clearly stifling a laugh. Hob laughs too, as he’s learned to when it comes to this particular ink.

“It seemed like a good idea when I was drunk,” he laments, remembering picking the gothic font for the word “Harder” tattooed on his lower back. “You wanna know something funny though?” Hob turns back around, continuing when he sees Dream’s eyebrow raised questioningly, “I’ve only bottomed once since getting that tattoo. Guy saw it and proceeded to listen to my ink instead of me. Not-“ he rushes to elaborate when Dream sucks in a breath, “not like that . He was an asshole, and it was some of the shittiest sex I’ve ever had, but he never crossed any lines, promise.”

Dream relaxes minutely, nodding in acceptance, and Hob’s heart warms at the other man’s concern for him. It gives him just enough courage to move on.

“This one is… hard to talk about.”

He points to his left bicep, Dream tilting his head slightly to take in the tattoo of a magic eight ball. A sliver of the eight at the top and a reading at the bottom that says ‘Try Again’, a large field of solid black separating the two and forming a nearly perfect circle.

“It’s a coverup,” Hob admits softly. “I was nineteen. Got mixed up with a bad crowd. I wish I could say I was just stupid but… the truth is I was mean . I was selfish, and cruel, and bigoted. Enough so to get a fucking hate symbol tattooed on my arm.” Hob has to close his eyes, breathing past the shame, “I’m not that person anymore. And maybe I can’t undo the harm I did in the past, but the least I can do is not walk around and make other people see something that makes them feel like shit.”

It’s a time in his life he hates thinking about, preferring to pretend it never happened. As though covering up the tattoo could erase the fact that he was ever such a shitty person. When he glances up at Dream, he thinks there might be a hint of judgment, a fraction of what Hob himself feels, but there’s also… acceptance. Not of the past, not the person he once was, because that person was unacceptable. But acceptance of the present. He looks like he knows Hob better and is not thinking less of him for it.

And so he keeps going, hand drifting to his chest, “This one is hard to talk about too, but for a different reason.”

It’s cliche. It was cliche when he got it, and Eleanor teased him relentlessly but fondly, but Hob had no regrets. On his chest, over his heart, are three doves, with three dates beneath them.

“I got the first two after I married Eleanor.” Dream’s eyes snap up to his, surprised and confused. Smiling sadly, Hob points to the first of three dates under the birds, “One for each of us and our wedding date. Super sappy, but I didn’t care. And Eleanor loved to tease me but I know she loved it too.” His fingers drift over to the third dove, “I got this one added after Robyn was born.” He taps on the second date, “I had this image in my head, of getting a whole flock tattooed on my chest, of running out of room and filling every spare inch of my skin with my family.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He presses his palm flat over his chest, over his heart, over the tattoo, as if he could press it even closer. When he moves his hand a minute later, he simply slides it up just enough to show the third date.

“Drunk driver,” he chokes out, “I wasn’t even there. Eleanor had been picking Robyn up from a friend’s house. I was getting dinner ready for when they got home. It was still warm when I got the call.”

It hurts less now, the pain dulled by time. But it’s still there . He thinks about telling Dream about how he had considered getting this one covered up too. Not even with a picture, just a black hole over his heart where his family used to be. He remembers how Johanna talked him down, told him to wait a week, two weeks, a month, and then suddenly he realized that he didn’t want to cover them up. Because his heart wasn’t a black hole. He was still here, and he would carry on, and he would carry them with him. So he simply added the third date instead.

Hob thinks about telling Dream all of this. But after the fourth time he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, he feels soft leather against his skin. Dream places his gloved hand over Hob’s, resting against his chest, and slowly intertwines their fingers.

That little bit of contact is all it takes for the dam to break. “I thought that they were it for me,” he confesses, “I thought that I was done. I dropped out of school, only barely managed to keep myself above water, bought this pub through grit and luck. I knew I had to survive, had to keep living, but I thought I was done loving .”

His voice cracks again, and he realizes that he needs a minute to compose himself or he’s going to shatter before he even gets to the important part.

Dream gives him that minute. Silent and steady, stroking his thumb against Hob’s.

Finally, he is able to take a deep breath, and he continues, “I got into this routine. Puffing myself up and mastering every line and pose to have a little fun, casual sex, because I thought that was all I wanted. I don’t… really know what to do without that script. When I want more than just sex.” When he looks up, Dream is staring at him with watery eyes, jaw clenched. “I haven’t felt like this since Eleanor,” he admits, not as ashamed as he thought he would be, “And it’s terrifying.” He lets out a watery laugh, “Sorry for fucking it up.”

The hand over his grips a little tighter, and Dream looks like he has made a decision.

“You didn’t fuck it up.”

Hob isn’t sure if he wants to insist that he did, or just say thank you, but before he can make up his mind, Dream is leaning in to kiss him. His eyes flutter closed, his focus narrowed into the soft press of their lips, and the way Dream’s free hand drifts up to rest against his neck.

“Take me home with you,” Dream murmurs against his lips, and Hob feels it like a gut punch.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to, I meant what I said-“

“And I meant what I said,” Dream interrupts, carding his fingers through the hair at Hob’s nape. “If you would rather not, that is fine. But if you are so willing to listen to what I don’t want, be willing to listen to what I do ,” he places a pointed kiss at the hinge of Hob’s jaw, making him shiver as he repeats himself, “Take me home with you.”

Hob exhales shakily, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’ve certainly never been shy about telling me off before,” he laughs, and feels it catch in his throat when Dream’s tongue chases the motion, “To my place. And we can figure out the rest together, yeah?”

“Yes,” Dream pulls away reluctantly.

Pulling him in for one more kiss, Hob can’t help but grin mischievously at him, “As long as you don’t mind riding on the back of my bike. I have an extra helmet.”

Dream steps back, and Hob misses the contact already, “Lead the way.”

Once Hob has put his shirt and jacket back on and they are situated on the motorcycle, Hob glances over his shoulder, and allows himself to be a little flirtatious, “Hang on tight, sweetheart.”

It backfires when Dream slides his hands around Hob’s waist, kneading at the soft flesh of his stomach before tightening his grip. One hand is braced just below his pecs, his thumb just barely brushing against where his right nipple piercing can be felt through his shirt.

Hob doesn’t believe in miracles, but it might be the only explanation for how he gets them to his flat without crashing.

~~~

Once Hob closes the door behind them, he has no idea what to do next.

He knows he needs to trust Dream to be honest about what he does or doesn’t want, but he’s so terrified of messing it all up again.

Luckily, Dream doesn’t seem to mind taking the reins, and Hob finds himself pushed up against his own front door as Dream kisses him firmly. His hands rest on Hob’s stomach, pressing and gripping and pulling him closer until their hips are flush together. Hob was hard the entire ride here, but now he can feel Dream’s answering arousal pressed against him. All he can do is moan against Dream’s mouth, arching his back against the door to shrug his jacket off. Dream pulls back just enough to do the same with his own coat.

It strikes Hob that this is the first time he has seen Dream with even that one layer removed. No matter how muggy and warm the New Inn got, Dream always kept his coat tight around himself. There isn’t much difference now, at least not visually. He still has his turtleneck, the sleeves falling past his wrists over his gloves, his jeans. He is still a black shadow standing in Hob’s entryway, even without his coat. But Hob knows it's important. Knows it deserves another kiss.

When Hob kicks his shoes off Dream once again follows suit, though he is forced to take a moment to loosen the laces before revealing his predictably black socks. In between every motion they return for kisses, constantly drawn to each other, each kiss getting deeper and hotter and more desperate.

“Dream,” Hob moans, the name muffled against the man’s lips, “Tell me what you want? Anything you want, anything at all,” one hand cards through wild black hair while the other grips a sharp hip bone, holding him as close as possible.

There is a soft hum in response, Dream looking up at him through dark lashes as he takes a moment to consider. Then he takes half a step back and holds out one of his hands. It reminds Hob of a king presenting his hand to a subject, and so he cannot resist taking the offered hand and bending his head to press a kiss to the covered knuckles.

He’s rewarded with a soft huff of laughter, and when he raises his eyes, Dream is smiling at him, “You may remove it, if you would like,” he says with a note of teasing.

Hob grins, straightening, and takes his hand in both of his own. Reverently, Hob tugs at the fingers of the smooth leather, well worn and soft. He slides it off Dream’s hand gently, and feels his jaw drop almost comically when he is granted the sight of intricately tattooed skin.

The top of Dream’s hand is decorated with a thick black outline of a cathedral window, similar designs running down the tops of his fingers. He turns Dream’s hand to look closer and finds himself gaping at a black starburst in the center of his palm, rich black specks splattering out to the edges of his palm. The ink is so thick and saturated, it feels like he can barely make out Dream’s skin beneath it.

His staring is interrupted when Dream silently offers his other hand, waiting expectantly. He is no less in awe when he removes the remaining glove and finds matching tattoos, holding both of Dream’s hands in his own as he admires the cathedral Dream has made of his skin.

“Take me to bed,” Dream says bluntly, “and I will show you more.”

Swallowing thickly, Hob can’t resist leaning in slowly, kissing Dream again when he doesn’t pull away. No matter how stoic Dream may try to appear, Hob knows he can’t rush this. Hob doesn’t want to rush this.

Once he has kissed some of the tension from Dream’s body, he begins carefully walking backwards towards his room, still holding Dream’s hands. Still kissing him thoroughly. He stumbles a few times over his own clutter, but it’s worth it to be able to taste Dream’s soft breaths of laughter against his mouth. In the bedroom, he moves them deliberately until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Reluctantly, he releases Dream’s hands, letting himself fall back onto the mattress with a little bounce, crawling back until he can sprawl out among his pillows, head propped up enough to gaze at Dream. For a moment Dream stares, blinking slowly like a cat. Hob grins, patting his lap in invitation, and that gets Dream’s lips to twitch towards a smile. He climbs onto the bed gracefully, settling to lightly straddle Hob’s thighs.

As soon as he’s close enough Hob is leaning up to kiss him again. He’s never disliked kissing, but ever since Eleanor it’s just been a means to an end, a detour from what he was really looking for. But now, he feels like he could kiss Dream all night, just kiss him, and he wouldn’t even notice the time passing. He could get lost in the softness of Dream’s lips, the bite of his teeth, the taste of his sighs.

But then he tugs at Hob’s shirt lightly, questioningly, and Hob is all too happy to let those gorgeous, tattooed hands explore his skin. It is strange to pull his shirt off for the second time in as many hours in completely different contexts. This time his shirt is tossed carelessly to the floor, and Dream does not hesitate to cup Hob’s pecs, massaging his flesh and running his fingers through the thick hair obscuring the art. Hob can’t help but moan, almost embarrassed by the sound until he sees the way Dream’s eyes darken with want.

A whine escapes when Dream pulls back, but he is distracted from the loss of Dream’s hands when he sees him deftly pull his turtleneck off, his hair falling wildly around his face when the fabric is released from over his head. He is expecting it this time, and yet it still comes as a shock to see miles of richly inked skin.

Much like his hands, all of Dream’s tattoos are solid, heavy black. His entire chest is taken up by an elaborate, upside down castle. Tall spires and towers reach from his upper chest down to the dip of his ribs. Around his collar bones, the image becomes distorted, black waves like water ripples, like a mote wrapping around his shoulders. On his stomach are three black stained glass windows, thickly framed with countless patterns and pieces inside, the line work thinner and yet so dense it still hides the pale skin it is drawn on. Hob catches glimpses of wings wrapping around his sides, and in the center of his throat is a solid black outline of a gemstone, the barest lines left open to show the cut of it, with black lace patterns wrapping around his neck like a choker.

“I was held for a month.”

Dream’s words startle Hob from his revelry, ice water running through his vein as he looks up at Dream’s carefully blank face.

“I lived with my sister. The man wanted her. He had been stalking her, but when he finally sent his men after her, they made a mistake. And they grabbed me instead. So he decided to make do with what he had. He stripped me bare.” Here, Dream pauses. Ducks his head, closes his eyes, steels himself for the next three words. “He. Hurt me.”

It’s something out of a horror novel. The type of tragedy you hear about on tv but doesn’t feel real. But the pain on Dream’s face is very, very real.

“Afterwards, I could not handle the sight of my own skin. I could not handle the idea of someone else seeing my skin. I could not stand the thought of being forcibly exposed again. It was a struggle to shower, to change my clothes, anything where I would have to see myself. It is still hard, sometimes. So I decided. I wanted a covering that could not be taken from me.”

Looking over Dream’s tattoos with this knowledge, Hob understands. He can see the way the swathes of black form a cloak around him, shielding him. He imagines sliding his hands beneath the ink, parting it like fabric to reveal marble white skin. He imagines Dream pale, and vulnerable, and alone, and he wants to cry. He wants to wrap Dream in more fabric, cover him with his body, and protect him from the past.

“It was not easy,” Dream continues, “the process. I had to uncover my skin in order to cover it with ink. But I was,” he stops, and he softens, just a little, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “I am . Lucky. To have a trusted friend who is a tattoo artist. Who was willing to work with me, and allow me to have sessions in a private room, and to hold my hand when I could not breathe.”

He looks down at his own arm, at the heavy black shapes that twist with the movement of the limb as he raises it up to hold in front of himself, “It helps,” he states plainly. “Even if my skin does not feel like it belongs to me anymore. The ink, at least, is mine.”

Someday, Hob will cry for Dream. Someday he will let the pain he feels for this man well up and spill over because Dream deserves to be cried over. But right now, he reaches up to Dream’s raised arm and twines their fingers together, tugging him down gently until he can press a kiss to the soft skin of his inner wrist.

“It’s all yours,” he says, voice full of wonder and awe, “All yours, all beautiful.” He lets out a huff of laughter, “Here I’ve been going on about my own tattoos, and you’ve been walking around as a masterpiece the whole time.”

Pulling his hand free of Hob’s grasp, Dream shakes his head, “No.” He leans back, resting his palms on Hob’s stomach, eyes roaming over the colors and lines adorning his skin, fingers tracing each picture idly, “If your body is a collection of stories, then mine is the Library of Alexandria. It’s all just ash now.”

Hob isn’t entirely sure of what to do, and simply bursting into tears doesn’t feel like the best option. So instead, he sits up slowly, pushes himself up until he and Dream are face to face and chest to chest, and then he wraps his arms around him. He hugs him firmly, but not so tight that Dream could not pull away if he wanted to. But Dream stays still in his arms, hands still pressed between them as Hob cups the back of his head with one hand while the other strokes up and down his spine.

“You are so much more than ash,” he whispers into his hair, “and I’m going to do whatever I have to to prove it to you.”

For a long moment, he just holds him, and he thinks it might be enough when he feels the way Dream sighs and sinks into his arms. But eventually, Dream pulls back, the tip of his nose brushing against Hob’s.

“You can start by kissing me again.”

Hob can do that.

It’s an easy slide from soft back into heated. The embers that the sorrow had damped reigniting with each tug Dream gave to Hob’s chest hair, each earring Dream catches in his teeth. Hob lays back against the pillows and pulls Dream on top of him again, reveling in the way their bodies fit together. Hob moans loudly when Dream twists one of his nipple piercings, and then pulls an answering groan from Dream when he grazes his teeth over inked collar bones.

His hands drift down to the sharp jut of Dream’s hips, his thumbs brushing over feathers and flowers before ghosting towards the button of his jeans. He has barely brushed the metal there when black lined fingers wrap around his wrists.

“No.”

When he glances up, Dream is still flushed and panting, but he’s not looking at him, his head turned to the side and wild hair obscuring his eyes. He is not tense, exactly, but not relaxed either. He seems like he’s bracing for something.

Hob’s heart hurts, but he manages a small smile, “Alright.” He lets his hands fall back onto the mattress. Dream hesitantly raises his head, expression carefully neutral as he looks down at Hob.

Humming, Hob questions gently, “No to undressing, or no to touching? Or no to both?” He keeps his voice light, hoping to convince Dream that any answer is okay, because any answer is okay. Hob meant what he said, and if Dream needed him to prove it he would, anytime, as many times as he needed.

Blinking, Dream glances down again, letting the fingers of one hand brush against Hob’s chest softly, tracing the lines of the Clippership on his right pec. Hob watches and waits as Dream bites his lip, brow furrowed as he carefully considers his answer.

“I think. I would like for you to touch me more,” he finally replies, glancing up through long eyelashes, “but. I do not wish to remove any more clothing.”

“Not a problem,” Hob grins, bringing a hand up to cover Dream’s, craning his neck to press a kiss to his sharp knuckles. “Can I touch you under your clothes? Get your pants open just enough to get my hand inside? Or would you prefer I touch you through your jeans?”

There is a slight hitch in Dream’s chest, and his eyes glisten as tears well in his eyes. For a terrifying moment Hob is afraid he has said the wrong thing, but then Dream is leaning down to press their lips together. Their hands are trapped between their chests, still clasped together, and Hob can’t help but moan at the feeling of Dream’s smooth chest pressed against his, at the way he grinds down to press their erections together.

When he finally pulls back to breath, Dream has mostly blinked the tears away, “You may put your hands inside my jeans. Just. Try not to push them down too much.” His voice is breathless, and still a little shaky, but the nervousness has been replaced by want, and Hob doesn’t think he will ever be able to deny this man anything.

“Whatever you want, love,” he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Dream’s hair, tugging him back down for another kiss. Being pressed together makes it a little more difficult to get his hand between them, to fumble with Dream’s jeans, but his gut tells him that Dream needs a distraction, and Hob is all too happy to provide one by sucking on his bottom lip, just a hint of teeth to the kiss.

When he finally gets his hand into Dream’s pants, Dream lets out a stuttering gasp, His prick is rock hard and burning in Hob’s hand, and when he brushes his thumb over the tip he can feel the precome leaking there. He gathers up the bit of wetness with his fingers to smooth the next stroke, relishing in the jerk of Dream hips and the hitch in his breath.

“ Yes ,” Dream exhales, his entire body writhing against Hob’s, the sharp points of his bones kneading into Hob’s flesh in a way that yesterday he wouldn’t have expected to be pleasurable. But tonight, he thinks he could come just from feeling Dream slide against him.

He starts a slow pace, mouthing at Dream’s jaw as he strokes him, “Like that, sweetheart?” Hob’s words are strained. They are so close together that his knuckles press up and down his own cock through his jeans with each stroke, rough and hard and exactly what he needs right now.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dream chants, voice gravely with lust, and he dips his head to latch his mouth on one of Hob’s nipples.

Hob lets out a sob as Dream’s tongue toys with his piercing, “God, you feel so good,” he slurs out, breathless and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

Apparently Dream can read his mind, or maybe just the desperation in his voice, because suddenly his hand is pawing at Hob’s fly. His back curls, putting a little space between them without separating their hips, allowing him to flick the button of Hob’s pants open. Hob lets out a shuddering sigh of relief at having even a little more room for his cock to breath, but the sigh quickly turns into a voiceless cry when Dream wraps cool, slender fingers around him.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” a part of him is worried he’s going to come from just that one touch, but somehow he keeps it together, even when Dream pushes his briefs down enough to grind their cocks together.

With Dream arching over him, he’s granted a view of the space between them. Lifting his head breathlessly, he sees the soft pink head of Dream’s cock revealed through his open jeans, framed by the tan skin of Hob’s hand wrapped around it. Most of his cock is covered by Hob’s hand, but as Dream thrusts into his fist, Hob catches the barest glimpse of the shaft. And he sees a hint of ink.

He doesn’t mean to tighten his grip, but he does, his hand spasming as he moans helplessly at the beautiful man on top of him. Dream whines at the feeling, rutting a little harder as he drops his forehead onto Hob’s shoulder, “Gonna make a mess on you,” he warns, breathless as the head of his prick smears precome through the hair on Hob’s stomach.

Hob’s pretty sure his neighbors hear the moan he lets out, “ God , please do.”

His words are enough apparently, because with a few quick stutters of his hips, Dream is coming over Hob’s hand with a sharp gasp, thick spurts landing in hotly across Hob’s belly and chest. As his orgasm tapers off, he grinds down hard on Hob’s cock, pressing his pelvis and Hob’s own hand against him, and then it’s Hob’s turn to come undone, adding to the mess between them with a long, drawn-out cry.

Hob’s not sure how long it takes him to come back down to Earth, his body still singing with pleasure and his breath slowly evening out. But when he finally opens his eyes, which he doesn’t even remember closing, Dream is still hovering above him, his own breath still a little quicker than normal. Dream is looking down at him, watching him with those sharp blue eyes, and when he sees Hob looking back at him, he smirks. And then, without breaking eye contact, he runs one finger up the center of Hob’s body, from the tip of his softening cock, up his belly, all the way to his sternum, drawing a trail through their combined spend until his finger is coated in it.

And then he licks his finger clean.

“Fuck, Dream,” Hob moans, one hand coming up to cover his face, trying to laugh but just sounding desperate, “Have mercy. I’m not a teenager anymore.”

When he spreads his fingers to look up at Dream, he finds him smiling. He looks relaxed, and mischievous, and happy, and Hob would do anything to make him smile like that every single day.

“My apologies,” he drawls, not sounding sorry at all. He rolls smoothly off of Hob, moving to lay on his back as he tucks himself back into his pants and straightens his jeans, “Our come just compliments your tattoos so nicely.”

Hob covers his face with both hands this time, trying to muffle the sound of his embarrassment and lust, “Menace. You’ll be the death of me.” He hears a soft chuckle, but they fall into comfortable silence, both of them coming down from the adrenaline of their climaxes. When Hob turns to look at Dream again several minutes later, he is staring up at the ceiling, hands folded laxly on his stomach.

“You can stay the night, if you’d like,” Hob offers, his voice a whisper so as not to break the peace, “I can sleep on the couch if you’d rather not wake up next to someone.”

Dream’s head snaps to look at him, his eyes wide with surprise. Hob looks back evenly, not taking it back, but not overexplaining either. Just gives Dream time to decide what to do with it.

“...May I have my shirt back?”

“Yeah, of course,” Hob replies immediately, sitting up with a groan and a wince at the increasingly uncomfortable mess on his stomach. But he ignores it for now in favor of reaching over the side of the bed to scoop up Dream’s turtleneck, handing it back to him easily. Dream silently slips it back over his head.

“…Is it really that easy for you?” Dream asks after a long pause, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeves, “You are not… disappointed? With tonight? With... me?”

Hob feels his eyebrows reach his hairline. And the thing is, he knows what Dream is talking about, even understands it in a distant way, and so he knows he should probably respond seriously.

But the thing is, Hob knows what he looks like.

“Dream,” Hob speaks slowly and gestures at the drying come coating his abdomen, his spent prick still hanging out of his open pants, “do I look like I’m disappointed?”

For a moment, Dream just blinks, eyes wide with surprise as he stares down at Hob’s chest. And then he is slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle actual giggles , and Hob is so in love he can’t help but laugh with him.

“I think,” Dream says once he has composed himself, “that I would like to spend the night with you. In bed together.”

Hob smiles so wide his face hurts, “Lovely,” he says, “lovely, lovely.”

There is an easy peace between them as they move around the flat. Hob wipes himself down and then finds a spare pair of sweatpants. Dream changes into them in the restroom while Hob rushes to put fresh sheets on the bed, because that’s how badly he wants to impress this man. He thinks it might have backfired when Dream exits the bathroom to find Hob struggling with the fitted sheet. His face flushes, feeling embarrassed and incompetent, some small part of him feeling like somehow this will be what runs Dream off for good.

But Dream just smiles fondly, and moves silently to the other side of the bed to assist him, and everything feels right for the first time in a very long time.

When they pull the clean sheets back to slide under the covers together, Hob feels something inside of him settle as Dream curls shyly against his side. He pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him loosely, and smiles to himself when he hears Dream sigh softly and melt against him. He is lithe and lanky, and Hob can feel the points of his bones through the layers of soft fabric covering him. Hob is soft flesh and muscle, wearing only his boxers.

They fit together perfectly.

~~~

The next morning, Hob awakes to the feeling of Dream’s fingers running gently through the hair on his chest. Even half asleep he has the presence of mind to appreciate the feeling of Dream’s bare fingers touching him.

“Morning, darling.”

Dream startles a bit, but settles just as quickly, “Good morning, Hob.”

Hob rolls onto his side to face Dream properly, and they end up nearly nose to nose. Dream still has one hand resting lightly against Hob’s chest, the other curled under his chin, absentmindedly rolling the end of his sleeve between his fingers.

“I want to take you on a proper date,” Hob blurts out, “Y’know, dinner and a movie. Or something. Hell, you can pick what we do and I’ll just pay and carry your things. I just. I want to treat you right.”

Dream stares at him, looking surprised, and Hob keeps rambling, “Or not. If you don’t want to. I mean, even if you don’t I’m still probably going to get a tattoo for you. To match the one on my heart.”

He didn’t actually mean to say that last part out loud, and he’s positive it was far too much for a ‘morning after’ talk. But then, before he can get too caught up in his own catastrophizing thoughts… Dream is laughing. A full, proper, full body laugh, though it sounds rough and unused, as though he is laughing through a mouthful of broken glass.

It’s beautiful.

Dream kisses him, clumsily because he’s still smiling. He leans their foreheads together, and says, so earnestly Hob thinks he might cry, “I like it when you are sappy,” he pulls Hob close, tucking his head under Hob’s chin, “and I would love to go on a proper date with you.”

Hob tightens his hold on Dream, “Excellent,” his face hurts from smiling so much, “I’m going to spoil you.” Hob thinks he needs it.

He feels Dream hum against his throat, and then he is wiggling free of Hob’s grip, leaning back to look at Hob with a raised eyebrow, “But first,” he smirks mischievously, “I was told I would be provided breakfast in the morning.”

Hob was planning to cook for him anyway, but first he has to tackle him, and pepper his face with kisses until they are tangled together in a mass of limbs and laughter and ink.

~~~

A year later, Dream stutters through an explanation, even as Hob tries to interrupt with reassurance that he gets it.

It took some time, but Dream has shown Hob all of his tattoos by this point. The towers and trees along his legs, the birds and dragons spanning his back, the strange bone-like mask running down his spine. Hob has had the honor of pressing gentle kisses to all of them.

“It’s different,” Dream explains now, desperately, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or-... I don’t know, I know it’s silly, but I just-”

“ Dream ,” Hob cups Dream’s face in his hands, thumbs resting softly on his lips to silence his anxious rambling. “Love, it’s okay . I promise, it’s okay. I get it.”

And he does. He thinks it makes perfect sense that even after being allowed to see Dream’s body that he wouldn’t want Hob in the room when he is being tattooed. It’s different, he thinks, being seen in the safe intimacy of their home, versus a sterile shop where- willingly or not- he is experiencing pain. Or course he wants the comfort and familiarity of being alone in the private studio with his best friend.

Some of the tension melts from Dream’s frame, though he still has a touch of nervousness in his eyes, and so Hob leans in to kiss him softly. He lifts one of Dream’s hands and presses it to his chest, to the spot where, under his shirt, a fresh tattoo rests. Dream had helped him design it, a solid black silhouette of a raven, wings spread as it flies in the space below the image of three doves. He knows part of Dream’s concern is that Hob will be offended, because he was allowed to sit beside him and hold his hand while Hob got the tattoo dedicated to Dream.

But he also knows it’s different .

“I’ll be there to pick you up when you’re done," he says casually, "I’ll even bring you one of your ridiculous coffees.”

Finally, Dream smiles, relaxing as he finally seems to believe Hob’s words.

“I love you,” Dream whispers against his lips, and Hob will never get tired of hearing it.

“I love you too. Now go, before Lucienne has my head for making you late.”

That night, back in their shared apartment, Dream lifts his shirt to show where his stomach is wrapped in Saniderm. Hob’s eyes well with tears as he sees the vibrant colors beneath the clear plaster. The three stained glass windows on Dream’s abdomen, previously just stark black outlines, have been filled with a gradient of color. Bright oranges, purples, reds, yellows. A sunset or a sunrise shining through the windows.

“For the light you brought back to my life,” Dream had explained when he first told Hob of his idea. Hob had cried then. He cries now too.

Once their respective tattoos are healed, he knows neither of them will be able to keep their hands or mouths off of them, the visible proof of how they’ve changed each other. But for now, they settle for curling up together and kissing everywhere else.

They leave behind little love bites in the scant spaces between tattoos, until every spare inch is filled in.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #my art #human au #Goddamn this turned into a beast

221 notes · View notes

stizzysupremacy · 4 months

Text

ahhh I have such a good idea for a secret reverse sugar baby modern AU. it's sprizzy in my head but I think you could substitute other Izzy ships with only minor changes to details.

So basically the premise is that Ed left and took with him half the income that was propping up Izzy's tight budget. now that Izzy has to cover rent and bills in full instead of just half, he is struggling financially. He really can’t afford to live, honestly. But he's a proud man so he tries to hide it. Tries to tough it out and make it work.

But Lucius (or whoever you fancy) notices and tries to help without making it obvious he is helping because Izzy probably won’t accept help, especially from Lucius, off all people.

Lucius, trying to be subtle, starts:

-timing his smoke breaks so he can run into Izzy and annoy Izzy into ‘stealing’ the cigarette right out of Lucius’s mouth. because Izzy won’t ask to bum one, and helping izzy hands avoid nicotine withdrawal is basically a public service. Lucius is a hero for that.

-“ugh, I told them no pickles! Here, eat this stupid sandwich, I don’t want it anymore, I loathe pickles!” (Lucius likes pickles just fine) or getting ‘just sooooo full’ from drinking elaborate iced coffees that he can’t possibly finish more than half of his lunch and he doesn’t want to waste food but he’s going out straight after work and won’t be able to bring it home to put in the fridge for tomorrow and really you may as well eat it, Izzy, or it’s just going to sit in the trash bin stinking up the whole place.

-asking Izzy to walk him to the tube station after work ‘for safety’ but it’s really so Lucius can swipe an extra ride for Izzy on his transit card. sometimes when it’s cold and miserable enough to make Izzy ache Lucius will opt for cab or rideshare instead as soon as they hit the street, insisting it will be cheaper to split the ride. always drops Izzy off first, conveniently forgetting to split the fare

-buying izzy a cozy cashmere scarf and claiming that it was Buy One Get One Free when Lucius was scarf shopping for himself, but he didn’t see any other colors/patterns he liked and this one just screamed Izzy Hands. (And maybe a knit cap that Lucius claims he stole from the lost and found because it coordinates with the scarf so well)

-begging Izzy to come over and ‘fix’ something ‘broken’ at his place, conveniently near dinner time, just so Izzy can spend a few hours somewhere where the heat and lights aren’t turned way down low to save on utilities. Somewhere warm and bright, where the WiFi service hasn’t been turned off because of all the past due bills.

-constantly starting bets that Izzy can win. This backfires when Izzy starts to feel bad about taking Lucius’ money because he thinks Lucius is a typical starving artist type. Not knowing that Lucius makes $$$$ on furry art commissions and just doesn’t tell anyone about it because his friends, much as he loves them, have zero moderation and would cajole Lucius into partying all his savings away.

And all the while he is being sneakily generous, Lucius is trying to figure out how to trick Izzy into letting Lucius buy him a new winter wardrobe, treat him to lunch every day, and buy back the motorcycle Izzy had to pawn to pay off some debts Ed left when he blew town.

#neither of them realizes how sugary their situation is getting. they sure aren’t fucking. they haven’t even been on a date.#someone write this cuz I never will #sprizzy #spriggyhands #lucius spriggs #izzy hands

119 notes · View notes

stateautoshipping · 5 months

Text

The Importance of Enclosed Auto Service: Protecting Your Vehicle

In the world of vehicle transportation, ensuring the safety and protection of your prized possession is paramount. Whether you own a classic car, luxury vehicle, or a cherished motorcycle, entrusting its transportation to a reliable service is crucial. Enclosed Auto Service, particularly in the realm of motorcycle shipping, offers a level of protection and peace of mind that traditional open-air transport simply cannot match.

#autoshippingcompanies #doortodoorcarshipping #enclosedcartransport #motorcycleshipping #militaryautotransport #opencartransport #motorcycle shipping service

0 notes

the-cat-and-the-birdie · 1 year

Text

Inca-Spider - Moche Huapaya - Earth-802

Pronounced 'Mo-Chae HWA-Pa-ya' (Also goes by Mochi) - 24 - She/Her - 4'11 - Yes, I ship her with Miguel. - From Incan Year 802 (or our 1992) ______________________________________________

Bitten and blessed by The Fanged Spider-God - Aia Paec, Moche is the wall-crawling protector of Cusco. Along with the likes of Pavitr and Spider-man Noir, she's a part of a small class of Spider-people blessed and empowered of Gods.

Moche Huapaya:

Moche is best described as warm and independent. She's autistic, and spent most of her childhood weaving alone, or roaming the mountainous plains around her village with her family's pack of llamas. But Moche loves people, and has always found much community in her village's temples, her Aunt Mayu a great curandera (healer). Moche takes after her aunt, always eager to help. And she was raised by her aunt and Uncle Huacan to always serve the community, but always find strength within herself. Advice that'd become very useful the night her village was attacked. At 15, after centuries of peace, the Spanish army invaded her country, armed with new vibranium-made weaponry. Chased into the wilderness by Spanish soldiers, and stranded - Moche unknowingly came across Huachuma* [Hwa-chu-ma], a sacred psychedelic cactus, and ate it to avoid starvation. As she began to consume the plant, a spider crawled from the root and bit her - And as she fell under a spell of Huachuma and venom, she was faced with Aia Paec, The Fanged Spider-God. She returned to her village as The Inca-Spider, the Avatar and vessel of Aia Paec. And she has the fangs to prove it. For 9 years, Inca-Spider has served as the nation's protector, defending them through the intensive and ongoing war with the Spanish. The summer after her college graduation, Moche returned from Lima to her family home Cusco. The day before returning to the city, Moche's village is faced with a strange man - almost 7 foot tall, and speaking Spanish. And to her, Miguel is the strangest person she's ever met. But above all else - Moche's still just a 24 year old in 1992 and she acts like it. Sarcastic but lighthearted, she likes Quechuan soap operas, Q-Pop (Quechua Pop), riding her motorcycle and surfing off the coast of Lima.

The Inca-Spider:

The Provider of Water and Protection - Aia Paec has protected the Quechua people for centuries. Considered the Decapitator, his fanged mask sits in every Inti temple. Victorious against the first Spanish invasion, Aia Paec fell dormant - relegated to a bringer of rain. And so did the Inca-Spider. But when there is a need, Aia Paec is of service. Compassionate but not merciful, Aia Paec submits to no one - but his community. And he considers all Quechua people as his children. The newest living incarnation - Moche is no different. She's the village Curandera (a indigenous healer), responsible for spiritual brews, divination, and ceremony - a tradition taught to her by Aunt Mayu. After her aunt's passing, she also went on to become a Mamacona (Sun-god Inti's temple attendant) As a Mamacona she now lives at the Inti temple with the other 'nuns', and despite her loss, she considers her sisters as her found family. And they ALL have an opinion on Miguel. (They call him AncaApu or 'Blue Mountain' for how tall he is.)

[WARNING: This post is LONG. VERY LONG. Like..my longest so far. And very detailed. Below are more details about Moche's Style & Design, Origin, Powers, & Other Quechua cultural details.

Plus her relationship with Miguel, her role in ATSV and her friendship with Hobie. [There are mentions of colonization in this post - as well as how joining the Society and learning about Spanish colonization affected her. * - There are also mentions of the ceremonial psychedelic Huachuma Cactus, which is a real and practiced Andean ceremony to this day. I personally have sat in ceremony and would love to share my experience/knowledge - for more information on these medicines - check the very bottom. Thanks!]

Style:

When Moche is in her home city of Cusco, she will often wear the traditional Quechuan style of dress - a red sweater, a black and decorated skirt, and a wide brim hat. One of the only remnants of the Spanish's attempt at colonization - Quechuans in Tawanti instead see their dress as something completely reclaimed, a reflection of their resilience and art.

And because she spends most of her time between there and Spider Society - it's almost everyday that you can find Moche in a petticoat and red sweater, made from the wool of village's llamas. She's worn a hat and black skirt from childhood to college, and when she's back home, she has no plans of stopping. Because of this Moche prefers skirts, and never wears pants if she can help it. Thought that became a problem walking upside down at HQ. So now she sews her own harem pants with tiered lace around them, to give the same fluffy illusion. But when it comes to skirts, she likes them any length, any fluffiness. Even black jean skirts. She's from 1992 after all. However while on HQ, Moche likes to wear her hair out of her braids, knowing the older women at the Inti Temple would have a heart attack over it. As gold is sacred to her people, it's VERY fashionable back home, and Moche tries to wear it as much as she can. Just the same, when not in her everyday-Quechua clothing, she'll usually be caught wearing a red-top/black-skirt combo and a hat of some sort. She feels naked without them or a little gold.

Her Suit:

Not being able to wear a skirt while swinging was one of the main thoughts Moche kept in her mind during the designing process, and the solution - lace bloomers and a waist-cape! But unlike most Spider-people, Moche didn't make her suit at all. Aia did. Much like Miguel's, Moche's suit is a layer that manifests over her body when her web-gauntlets are on. Aia Paec manifested the suit based on what he perceived to be Moche's needs and tastes. The foot straps were her idea though. Moche's head-dress is directly inspired by the traditional headdress of Warrior Priests - When Moche hangs upside down, her headdress and cape forms her home flag. And although Moche is ace - that's not a LGBTQ+ flag! It's the actual Flag of Cusco, Peru -

[Sometimes the Cusco flag is also shown without the gold emblem! And the original (Gilbert Baker) pride flag has extra colors - so how do you tell them apart? LGBTQ+ flags usually have an even number of stripes. Cusco is always odd. Good rule of thumb: LGBTQ+ = queer, but Cusco = odd.] Though she gets questions about it on campus A LOT. Moche also grew up wearing sandals all the time, so running around in her suit barefoot felt a little wrong to her. Instead she ties leather straps at her ankles - to help her grip when clinging to mountainsides or cliff faces.

Face Claim(s): Quechua-rapper Renata Flores

History & Origin:

Living in the Andean year 802 (1992 for us), Moche was raised in the mountains outside of Cusco, a historical, bustling city teeming with Inca culture and religion. Tawantinsuyu (the indigenous name for Peru, Chile, Boliva, Ecuador etc) - or just Tawanti has known peace for 400 years. But when Moche is 15, her village is attacked, thrown into chaos as the Spanish unleash another war, backed with new vibranium weaponry. Moche's Auntie Mayu urged her to flee to the mountains, taking her families herd of llamas with her. Chased into the wilderness by Spanish soldiers, Moche - once a clever navigator - found herself disoriented and stranded among the deserted hills and plains. Facing starvation, Moche collapsed at the foot of a Huachuma Cactus - unknowing of the sacred plant teacher inside. Begging for mercy and to live, Moche ate the cactus to survive - unknowing of the plant's ceremonial and psychedelic nature - or the spider inside. Moche was faced with 'Aia Paec - The Decapitator' - a fanged spider-god in her religion. The protector of The Inca, Aia Paec presented Moche with her first premonition: the potential destruction of her people. Aia then presented Moche with a choice: become the Avatar of the Spider-God - or refuse, having no recollection of the event afterwards. Either way, she'd live another day. Moche accepted the role of Avatar, earning her fangs and web gauntlets. And she returned to her village as the Inca-Spider. Although her Uncle Huacan died in the fight, Moche arrived in time to fend off the first of many Spanish attacks. With fangs of her own to prove her title of Avatar, she was accepted by her community with open arms, her identity as Inca-Spider open and known. However, they do not revere her, instead seeing Moche more as a public servant than an idol. Moche lived in her village outside of historic and sacred Cusco until she was 18, before attending college in the futuristic city of Lima - near the pacific coast. - During the 16 century, a mine of gold near the city was found laced with Vibranium, catapulting the nation into a Wakanda-like surge of advancement. There Moche attended the University of Lima on a musical scholarship, for her cultural flute playing. At 24, she graduated Cum Laude with a dual degree in Cultural Studies and Computer Science (she's technically still from 1992). During this time, she learned English and Spanish. [However she does not speak Spanish natively at all, and speaks it like any other person who learned it in college. Considering this, the history of her nation, and confusion around Spanish gendered nouns (as Quechua has none) she prefers to speak English]

Powers and Abilities:

Moche has all the usual Spider-Powers - including a pair of fangs to prove her title of avatar. However, unlike Miguel, Moche's are purely ornamental, and she'll only really flash them to other Quechua people to prove her status. They're unretractable and noticeably shorter than his.

The niece of a textile weaver, Moche is a Weaver spider - like Pavitr, she focuses on maneuvers and flips that allow her to create webs and tangles. Her web-shooters easily cocoon opponents, and Moche often uses webs as wings and gliders instead of swinging, which is more convenient in the Andean mountains. Up-keep: To maintain her abilities, Moche must follow a thorough moral code and spiritual regimen - including things such as divination, meditation, formal ceremony, and occasionally fasting. One time throughout the year, Moche loses her powers. During this time she enters a period of isolation, fasting, meditation, and spiritual rest. All the while, she can only access her powers if she or her community is in direct danger, in which she has to call upon Aia. Otherwise, during this time she reverts to an average human, and focuses on self-reflection, devotion, and mindfulness. Once she's recharged and proves to Aia her duty to her great responsibility, she regains her great powers. This cycle usually takes 3 weeks out of the year. Web-shooters: Moche's Web-shooters are not mechanical or organic, but something in between. The second mark of the Avatar is her gauntlets, two relics given to her by Aia Paec. They're magical, spawning unlimited golden webs. However, they act like organic webs - because they spawn whenever she needs them. Moche's gauntlets can't be stolen or lost. When legitimate danger strikes, her cuffs will appear within her reach or bag immediately. Once they are on, however, they can't be taken off until the threat is dealt with or gone. Aia Paec sees fleeing as dishonorable, and so for Moche it's not an option. The Machu Blade: A real-life blade found at Machu Pichu, Moche weilds a golden ceremonial blade used like the one below. Used to farm Huachuma in Tawanti, she mainly uses it for farm work. The blade spawning from her gauntlet, Moche often uses it like a machete in battle - but the white of her suit will never stain with blood and the blade itself cannot pierce her. She usually combines it with her webs, throwing it over her head or swinging it at opponents before lassoing it back. Ever seen the use of the tomahawk in the movie 'Prey'? She's doing that.

[POV: You're dishonorable and with be dealt with swiftly] Eye of the Spider - Every battle is made equal and honorable with this ability. Moche will get visions that help her even the field in battle. She can't see hits coming, but if the enemy is planning on doing something that is considered dishonorable in battle, Moche will get a vision in warning. Example: If Moche gets into a fight she believes is one-on-one, but the person has a third party in hiding to ambush her, Aia will give her a vision in warning. - If instead, the other person discloses the third party before the fight, Aia Paec would consider that an honorable move, and Moche wouldn't get a vision. This extends to things such as concealed weapons, hidden doors/rooms, acts of cheating/slight - and if you're bluffing at Poker, she can see your cards. She can't help it, and it's technically NOT cheating. According to her. Aia took some convincing. Still that trick got her through college. Intentional lies always go noticed by her as well. The Big Guy Upstairs Aia Paec is considered both a provider and warrior for the Andean people. Ruthless in battle, Aia Paec is the creator god responsible for all food, water, and triumph in war. He is about balance, honor, and respect above of things. Fortunately for Moche, he's more agreeable than say - Venom or Khonsu - and he doesn't care much for Moche's personal life or interests. Sure, he cares about her well-being. But not her soap-ops. However when it comes to The Inca-Spider, Aia Paec can be demanding, and he'll never let Moche walk away from a 'worthy' or justified battle. He cares little about things like pride, but if he feels like someones basic respect or rights are being encroached on, or someone is being threatened by another stronger than them, he WILL make Moche step in. Either by pestering her, or if necessary, assuming control and getting her into a fight before leaving Moche to get out of it. ('That wasn't me, I swear. God made me smack you.') After witnessing Miguel attack Miles and assault both Gwen and Diane (while sending Gwen home), Aia Paec declares Miguel as dishonorable and compels Moche to battle him. Despite her deep care for Miguel, Moche chose to follow her oath to Aia Paec and oblige.

Moche & The Spider Society: And the trauma of joining -

Recruitment:

The summer after her graduation, Moche returned home to her family home Cusco. The day before returning to the city, Moche's village is faced with a strange man - almost 7 foot tall, and speaking Spanish. Moche is immediately skeptical and very suspicious of the man named Miguel - and she almost doesn't believe his story, concerned he may be a Spanish spy. That is, until she realizes that he's marked with fangs, the same way she is. Still, he has to earn her trust. And getting her to join is no easy feat. First, she must test his honor. The test took three days, a trek to the mountains and a meeting with Huachuma cactus and Ayahuasca brew that changed Miguel's life. Miguel passed Aia Paec's test in the Astral Plain, and so - as she'd promised - Moche joined the Spider Society, with him as her mentor.

"Integration":

To be honest, Moche's first few weeks on campus could be considered outright traumatic. However, it wasn't the Society or technology she found jarring - but the loss of her culture. During her induction process, it had been Miguel's job to tell her about the colonization of her people - in almost all other universes. Until this point, Moche had no understanding of Latin America, because to her - America had never become latin. Up until this point, she had only a vague idea of why Miguel spoke Spanish and not Yucatec, but it was only then that she was explained the full extent of the damage. Quechua culture, people, and language are still VERY much alive today, with 8 million native speakers (it's actually the indigenous language in the Americas with the most speakers) - but that does not understate the massive destruction and slaughter they endured at the hands of the Spanish - even down to the murder of their last emperor - nearly 600 years before 2099. In the multiverse, much of the culture and history Moche has been taught over her lifetime doesn't exist - the massive developments made in the last half century completely lost. To her, the country of Peru was foreign, despite her being 'from there'. It was a very sharp shock to the senses, and Moche went through a deep period of mourning. Even moreso, she became terrified of collapsing her universe - and the only trace of her culture. Induction periods are usually spent in the dorms, and Moche spent most of her time there alone. During that time she between talking to the Lyla in her watch, and the two became close friends. To Miguel this hardship was completely unexpected - and unintentional. A majority of his time went to rectifying this and trying to comfort Moche. Determined to avoid the trauma towards recruits in the future, Moche and Miguel directly developed The Spider Society Adjustment Course together (- in which vulnerable recruits live in a separate wing and receive services like therapy and a mix of mental health and multiversal culture courses) It took Moche a long while to adjust - and she still is, mostly working at Society HQs in administrative roles rather than active missions. Those she is great in the field. But she still has a LOT of problems with people constantly misrepresenting her because of her indigenous ancestry and unique universe. "Oh! A Peruvian Spider! We love a latina queen!" "No. I'm not Latin." "Sorry, 'Hispanic', then?" "No, I learned Spanish in college." "So, then what are you? Not to be rude." "Inca." "Those still exist?? Or are you from like 1500 or something like Webslinger? OMG Are you from El Dorado or something?" "El Dorado is Spanish. Also, it doesn't exist. Also no. I'm from 1992." "That doesn't make much sense cause the Spanish-" *Moche looking at a nearby Lyla like she's on The Office*

['There's a talking piece of fucking plastic and a sentient car here what is so mystical about an indigenous person to these people???????'] -Moche ranting to Lyla later

Moche & Her Job @ The Society:

Overall, Moche is clearheaded but a total 'Type A' personality. She loves to stay busy, consistently the only person on campus who gets up before Miguel. She is known as a 'Class A - Weaver' Spider under Society Specifications, and is usually called for missions that include large crowds of civilians - as she's great at making cocoons and hammocks to catch people. Recruited and mentored by Miguel, she's a graduate of the Spider Society Educational Program - with a concentration in a Multiversal Sociology and Data Input - basically learning and tracking the cultures of the incoming recruits. After revolutionizing the Societies' computer systems with a computerized version of Quechua Quipus (an ancient information system made of strings), Moche was promoted to Third-in-command, after Miguel and Jessica.

[A Quipu for reference. Imagine the base canon event of being bit as the central string, and all other canon events/canonical paths being the outward strings. She did that but in Lyla if that makes sense.]

She also works as Miguel's '2nd assistant' - the person who does all the things Lyla can't. Like getting Miguel coffee. Or making sure he eats, reminding him to drink water. Fetching parts and physical files for him, and reminding him the details of every recruit before a meeting. If something is going down on campus - If it involves talking to people, It's her Miguel's sending.

Moche & Miguel:

Yes. I ship them. (Also I'll write more in another post but)

Moche and Miguel aren't necessarily boyfriend and girlfriend. If you ask, they'll say they're 'seeing one another'. And then they'll quickly change the conversation because talking about relationships in the workplace in unprofessional and they're professionals (and shy).

In fact, their relationship could even be described as Non-conventional because they're extremely conventional.

As in, Moche and Miguel operate like a pair of 1950's teenagers that are 'going steady'. If anything, their relationship is a lot closer to 'courting' than dating. Whereas Diane and Hobie hardly ever go on dates, Miguel and Moche go on dinner dates a LOT. Usually accompanied by flowers and Miguel having to drop her off at the temple after. (He has to bring something gentlemanly or else the older Mamaconas are NOT letting her out). The two of them had to build up to holding hands before they ever kissed - if that gives you a better idea of what I mean. Before she fully joined the society, Miguel was almost embarrassed when he walked in on her and for the first time she wasn't wearing her braids - as if that were an intimate thing to see. He apologized profusely. She apologized profusely, telling him it was okay. Aia Paec was annoyed with the both of them.

When it comes to pet names, neither use Spanish terms. Just cause. The first time he called her 'mi amor' Moche was probably caught off guard a little.

Instead, they may call each other 'Chata', 'Muna', and 'Wayllu' or any other number of shortened Quechua terms. They also usually say I love you in Quechua, which is simply 'Kuyayki.' [Chata -> Chatashka - Lover / Muna -> Munashka - Darling / Wayllu -> Wayllushka - Beloved] Miguel's most common name for her is 'Cuy' or Guinea, which Moche HATES. In Quechua, 'Cuy' means Guinea pig. The Spanish were known for bringing over beef and cattle, and as a result for her, beef is hardly eaten in Tawanti. Instead, eating and raising Guinea Pig is more common (as is common in Peru). Moche was raised eating cuy. Miguel has never eaten it in his life. Considering cuy LOOKS like a fried guinea pig, he can't really take the thought. But back at her village, Moche was raised breeding and taking care of the cuy. Miguel finds them kind of adorable, and what's even more adorable is Moche looking after them. And since she's fairly small compared to him - he calls her Cuy. To many people - on campus - this is cute. To Miguel it's like calling her bunny or mouse. But to the people in her village, and probably the whole country, it's hilarious. To them cuy are not pets - It's like calling your girlfriend a chicken or turkey and expecting it to be romantic. Which he does. Her telling him to stop usually results in him kissing the side of the head (and doing it again). She'll usually call him AncuApu in return.

With Miguel's past loss and Moche's traditional upbringing, the two enjoy taking it slow. Like really slow. And since both of them are A-spec (Moche ace and Miguel demi) their relationship is mostly to completely romantic and emotional.

Moche's only interest in sex is starting a family one day. And Miguel is fine with that. It wasn't something they really talked or thought about. UNTIL Mayday. Having her around campus, has given Moche baby fever. And even if she's not running to jump in bed, she can't stop saying how much she LOVES Mayday's chunky cheeks and little arms and curly hair and- So when Jess got pregnant - It's like, okay - when's the other baby shoe dropping? Jess is like 'We twinning? Just kidding..We twinning though???' Instead they spend their time eating in downtown Lima (they're foodies), watching Quechua soaps (she got him hooked), or organizing things for the Society. Although those sound like old people married couple stuff, they LOVE it. The two of them see each other as rocks in the other's lives, but more than that, the two of them are most focused on feeling each other out, learning each other, and hopefully starting a future together.

[Lol just wait till you get to the ATSV section - PAIN]

Oh - and while Miguel's test Moche met Gabby face to face while the two of them were in Ayahuasca ceremony - and she was able to deliver a message from her to Miguel. But that's a long story.

Schedule:

Moche still lives back home in her village in Tawantinsuyu, taking over a lot of the spiritual and mundane needs of the village. She wakes up at dawn, tending to the llamas and spiritual herbs in the morning before heading to campus. After, she'll spend her 8-10 hours on Society Campus before returning home to bring in the animals and watchover the community during the night. It's usual for the other Mamaconas (temple assistants) to wait for her portal in the yard, and start talking her ear off right away. But by now, it's normalized. So long as she's not late or anything.

Moche & ATSV:

Moche does not join in on the chase - being physically unable to. Aia Paec declares the act as dishonorable, restricting her movement and 'forcing' her to hang back. She instead heads to the control room to aid Margo and update her on the situation.

When the Go-Home Machine began to go 'haywire', her 'Eye of the Spider' ability allows her to see Miles as soon as he steps in the room. However, Moche chooses not to acknowledge him at Aia Paec's order. Aia Paec also restricts her vocal chords at the time, making it impossible for her to rat Miles out - though she wouldn't either way.

Watching as Miguel assaults Gwen - and then Diane, who comes to her defense - Moche is completely shocked. And although she tries to calm him down - Miguel refuses to hear it.

So Aia compelled her, and she agreed. But terrified of fighting Miguel, Moche made the decision to let Aia Paec assume complete control for the first time - total possession. As Miguel ordered the rest of the Society to scour the multiverse - Aia Paec openly challenged him, citing him as no longer honorable and worthy of the fanged title. And although he is in Moche's body, he will not allow Miguel to go unchecked.

However as the fight stretched on, Moche's emotional state - mixed with the fear of seeing Miguel aggressive beyond her understanding - renders her unable to maintain the connection, weakening Aia's efforts. And the fight ends with Miguel almost badly wounding Moche after Aia refuses to relent.

Aia releases Moche just in time, so she can see Miguel's abuse and dishonorable behavior for herself. Terrified, she comes to with Miguel standing over her, and for the first time Moche finds herself frozen in fear - and she begged him not to wound her further.

Finally coming to the weight of his actions, Miguel however, is horrified. But before he can attempt an apology, Aia Paec resumed control, using the chance to escape through a portal.

However, understanding that her watch would be disabled from this point on - instead of her home universe, a wounded Moche finds herself of the bow of a boat she's never seen.

Hobie's boathouse. Moche may not know him, or Diane, or even Gwen that well. But Aia Paec knows she'll be of use to them. So here she is.

RANDOM HEADCANONS about Moche: [We're almost done I PROMISE - not really lol]

When needed her suit can spawn a manta (called a Lliklla in Quechua).

It's a woven cloth worn over the shoulders to carry babies or literally anything else you need to. That's her 'suit purse'.

She will also carry children she rescued in her manta. Or just give them rides around Cusco.

Moche's best friend is Lyla - and she feels a little embarrassed by this. She has to keep telling herself that Lyla is real, she's just not human. Still, kinda weird being from 1992.

But they are very close and have discussed things about if Lyla is real or can feel and stuff - and to Moche it's very clear she can.

Moche is very hard to upset. She's rather calm, and usually expresses sadness more than anger. But for Spider-people that say Lyla isn't real or that she's not sentient -

Moche gets VERY upset very quickly. The both of them find it hurtful and Moche will not talk to you after if you say that. She will immediately leave the room to go be alone.

Being autistic, it can be daunting to make friends though Moche is friendly. She finds talking to Lyla a lot easier, plus Lyla is always in her watch.

Some of the chillest memories Moche has is hanging out with Miguel and Lyla in his office, listening to Spanish music and Q-pop and cracking jokes.

(Miguel can take a joke I promise and he's funny as hell. He tells the jokes that have you like 'damn he got my ass'.)

It usually turns into her and Miguel roasting each other playfully as Lyla keeps score.

Miguel doesn't understand how an AI HE MADE could like Moche MORE.

Because of this, losing access to her watch (and thus Lyla) after ATSV - combined with barely knowing anyone on the houseboat besides maybe Peter, Moche finds herself a bit lonely.

Mentioned by Miguel, Moche became a mentor herself.

She's Pavitr's mentor. When he joined, her and Aia were a large part of redesigning his suit to what it is today.

Since they share a swinging style, she trains him and he's her star pupil.

Pavitr can get really competitive though, and she often has to reel him in when he gets REALLY into it -

Like screaming at the top of his lungs during 4wallFootball or wanting to race people EVERYWHERE.

Pavi is also taller than her. She didn't notice until he brought it up because he's SO PROUD he's found 'someone to be short with'.

She prefers she/her when it's about her specifically - and they/them when referencing IncaSpider, as she considers her and Aia as two people, not one.

Another subtle mark of the Avatar, Moche's eyes glows gold/yellow in the darkness, similar to a cat's - a sign of her Spider-eyes and Aia's presence.

This feature also reduces the amount of glare Moche sees, a very needed thing in the sunny Andes mountains.

Because it can get so sunny and bright during the day, it's hell on earth for Miguel. Sunglasses all day.

But it's the altitude sickness that gets him. He's superhuman but still feels out of breath. And NO amount of chewing coca leaves is enough to help.

So now 4'11 Moche has to baby and look after this nauseous GIANT because she said 'I know a place' then started walking them up a mountain

Moche is a very talented musician and musician - exceptionally so - with a focus on indigenous music

She is a master pan-flute player - and currently one of the only women to reach such status.

Traditionally considered a 'man's instrument' - Moche was taught by her Uncle Huacan for her to aid in traditional ceremony.

As a Mamacona and Curandera she also knows traditional dance, and loves all other kinds of dancing too.

Moche was the first female flute player to be accepted into her universities Musical Program.

She also plays acoustic guitar (and the first time she saw Hobie swinging his she was like 'What's wrong with you??') and occasionally sings.

And she makes her own music - though it's not what most people expect.

Moche writes mainly Inca-rap and 'Runagae' - a blend of Runasimi (literally 'The people's language') and Reggae.

She's is from 1992 after all.

Runagae takes large influence from Reggae drums and rhythm, mixing it with traditional Andean instruments like flutes and percussion.

Like an indigenous version of Reggaeton and Rap.

Runagae is often in many languages, primarily Quechua, Aymara, and Yucatec - as well a indigenous languages from the Caribbean.

Miguel is a sleeper fan.

Don't ask what they're listening to - cause Miguel is gonna tell you some obscure ass Runagae rapper from Lake Titicaca

That's because Tawantisuyu is extremely multilingual.

Many because of the half dozen indigenous ethnic groups in the country.

Quechua and Aymara are the two primary languages - with Yucatec being a secondary language, and English an 'international' language.

Yucatec is usually taught in the place of what people usually take as Spanish. This is largely because of Tawanti's close ties to the Aztec Nation of Maya to the north.

Most people know in the cities know their local indigenous languages, as well as secondary Yucatec or English.

In fact less than 1% of people in Tawanti speak any kind of Spanish

Without colonization, Spanish lacks much of it's global influence and many people are surprised to hear Miguel speak it.

He gets questions about both parts of his name there.

Many Tawantins say his Spanish accent in Quechua is hard to understand, or 'unique'.

Miguel Quechua is good enough that he can probably get around without much help, but if he has to talk to someone more than five minutes he's gonna need Moche there.

'Excuse me, he said no pickles.'

One thing she loves just as much as music is her motorcycle.

You're not getting to the highlands with a sedan. Sorry. If you wanna make your way out of Cusco and to her village, you're better off with a bike.

And she rides hers from Lima back to Cusco every chance she gets - the ride shortened to only 6 hours.

The only thing-

Miguel looks ridiculous on the back of her bike. He's HUGE. Everytime he gets on the bike dips down.

And she goes "MI, YOU'RE HUGE."

The first time Miguel really thought she was gonna let him drive.

That might've been the first time in her life she's laughed in ANYONE'S face.

And considering their drastic height difference, she was looking UP and laughing in his face.

Though, as a motorcycle owner himself back in Neuva York, they just got Jess to teach them how to ride through portals.

The other Manaconas LOVE it when Miguel rides through on his bike. He gets a lot of squeals.

But not from Moche.

The two of love racing each other, or just riding together, and that's the biggest way they relieve stress. Just riding through the mountains and streets.

Their first kiss happened after a night of riding their cycles in Nueva York.

Moche kissed him (they were sitting next to each other - otherwise he's too tall)

And she immediately was like 'UH I HAVE TO GO. RIGHT NOW. I HAVE TO GO HOME.'

Considering she kissed a guy 8 years older than her AND HER BOSS

And of course Lyla was easedropping on all this.

To shocked to tell her it's alright, Moche takes off back to 802 before he can say anything.

As soon as she gets through the portal, Lyla is like 'OOOOOOHH, you've really done it now!' - 'Don't tell Jess.' - 'I already told Jess.' - 'Lyla, It JUST happened.' - 'She has her notifications on~'

MEANWHILE Lyla is talking to Miguel back at HQ and they're like 'Lyla, Did you se-' - 'I did.' - 'She-' - 'Uh-huh.' - '...' - 'Do you want me to play your 'too-many-emotions' playlist? - '...Yes.'

Miguel was the first to say I love you - story for another time

Prior to appearing on his boat, Moche had barely spoken to Hobie or Diane - though she knew who they were.

She honestly thought the two of them were literally crazy. She understands VERY little of what they do or how they act.

On one hand, Moche needs things to be very blunt, and is more fact minded. That's why her and Miguel get along.

On the other, Hobie is very cryptic and good at concealing things - everything he does having an extra layer of context.

Moche can't read that context AT ALL - and because Hobie isn't being dishonorable, only a weirdo, her power doesn't help.

But that combined with Hobie's accent, Moche can barely follow a conversation with him without saying "Elaborate." ten thousand times.

Or just flat out saying "What are you talking about?" - "Hobie, You're not making any sense." - or - "You're speaking gibberish right now."

His elaborations never help.

There's been many times in the past that Miguel and her have had conversations about his mysterious ways after he leaves the room.

'I swear, I'll never understand him.' - 'I've stopped trying.' - 'I don't think he wants to be understood.' - 'That's usually called being a pain in the ass.'

Though Hobie respects her on the whole 'Indigenous God Vessel' thing - but he's even more interested in Aia Paec.

He LOVES annoying him, knowing that Aia can't directly reply and that Moche is caught in between.

Sometimes though it gets to the point of Aia Paec consuming control to tell him some choice words.

Hobie loves this.

Though it isn't until Moche sees the workshop of his boathouse that her purpose with the team is revealed

Because of her work at The Society, her and Hobie work closely together on things like new watches and other multiverse technology.

After he realized that Moche had lost her best friend in Lyla, Hobie made it his mission to become her friend no matter what

And he finds they really grow through their love of music and composing. You might find it surprising, but Hobie doens't just play music - he KNOWS it

Scales, Majors & Minors, Tempo, the history behind classic composers, blues artists, everything

So even if they don't really listen to the same music, they talk about music like it's a science, how a key change can really give a song emotion, different kinds of singing the singer uses - etc

He's successful - and although they're basically opposites in every way, somehow Moche thinks he's an absolute goofball - plus he helps her get out of her shell more.

He's without a doubt her second best friend - after Lyla (Mayday is her third.)

Hobie completely understands why she may not get his jokes all the time and never looks him in the eye, he's super chill about it.

Eventually the two of them learn how to reactive her watch, and using the old parts, Hobie made Moche a new one with her own separate Lyla, with her old memories and all.

Their reunion was REALLY EMOTIONAL. They're literal bffs4ever.

Tawantins (citizens of Tawanti) don't call Moche Spider-woman

Instead, she's is usually called the AwaqMasi or simply Masi - Quechua for 'Weaver's Assistant'

In this case, Aia Paec is the Weaver - and Moche is considered the assistant.

Because of this, she's usually treated like a public servant - someone spiritual hired to do a job - rather than a 'chosen one'.

This extends to Miguel as well - if his fangs are showing. Which sucks, considering he's fairly clueless in her world.

Often, Tawantins who see his fangs will almost start ordering him around, expecting him to help. Like telling him to take the animals out, though he's never touched a llama in his life and doesn't know the difference from an alpaca.

Good thing his can retract and he can get out of it. Moche is very jealous.

Often for them to get in somewhere, like needing a place to sleep during travel, they'll be lengthy conversation in Quechua with someone before she turns to him and goes "Show the fangs."

Usually, that's enough.

People know Moche and Aia. They're not novel.

But when people see MIGUEL, a huge new fanged being, they treat him like he's a newborn on his first day home.

Moche often has to tell them he's 'empty-headed', as in he lacks a patron God.

Miguel always has to ask if she has to say it that way (she doesn't lol)

[LMAO I had to add a break here so tumblr wouldn't mess up the post formatting]

Now however, Tawantins know about Miguel, and 'Spider-man'.

Although the same way her people don't call her 'Spider-woman', they don't call Miguel 'Spider-man' either. In fact, they don't associate him with spiders at all.

Most Tawantins would identify him as a jaguar - a sacred animal in Andean culture

This is mainly because of the way Miguel's fangs, claws, the way he runs, and his long leaps.

Because of this, the hero 'Spider-man' is called Runa-utu-runcu, though they usually just say Runarun.

A 'Runa' is an indigenous person, and a 'UtuRuncu' is a jaguar - so the same way Moche & Aia are seen as a spirit and a human -

Most Twantins see Miguel as something akin to a werewolf. Or werecat rather.

They believe he is a man who turns into a spiritual 'panther' of sorts.

Which Moche finds hilarious. The head of Spider-Society getting called a cat? Genius.

When Jess told Moche that Gwen called Miguel 'Garfield' - another orange cat - she laughed until she was in tears.

Because of this, Moche will call him 'Runcu' as a way of calling him 'jaguar' - the same way MJ says 'tiger'.

She also calls him Garfield and makes cat jokes about him.

"His webs are red lasers so he can entertain himself like the housecat he is."

Tawanti is a communist nation - much of the culture based on the traditional Incan 'commune-like' village.

Miguel was astonished to find that if they flash people their fangs, they'll just - invite them in. They're happy to have them.

Because of the vibranium-laced gold found near Lima in the 1800's, the country is a large player in world politics and economy.

And citizens can enjoy things like basic income, rent-controlled housing, free university, and more.

Thanks to the vibranium, Lima is very 'Wakanda-like' in essence and New York in everything else.

The average Quechua woman is 5'0", and Moche is just under that at 4'11. Her and Miguel have a 22 inch height difference - almost 2 feet.

This she is fine with. What she ISN'T fine with us people making it out to be a HER thing.

'Awww you look so short next to him-' No, Moche INSISTS, she's average. He's just fucking gigantic.

He barely fits doorways in Tawanti. The village had to weave him new clothes cause nothing they had fit.

With Diane at 5'11" (6'4'' in skates) and Hobie at 6'5", Diane WISHES they had a height gap. And she hates it if you say they're the same height.

(Hobie always tells her they're the same height. No, we're not, She says while being almost exactly at eye level with him)

Meanwhile, Moche and Miguel are the opposite.

They'll look at you like it's bizarre you noticed, because well... It's not that they get anything out of it. Other than maybe neck pain.

It's not like Miguel finds her 'more cute' because she's 'small'. And if anything it's kinda annoying.

Especially when Moche is mad at him - so she makes him sit down during an argument so it's fair.

If you bring it up or say something like "Awww, he makes you look so tiny!'

She's likely to say "I know, he's a freak of nature isn't he?"

Or going further "He makes everyone look tiny. He's 6'9". Back home, you can see him from a block away. People crowd around him. Honestly it's kinda hard taking him in public-"

This is usually enough to get Miguel chuckling, as he loves a good roasting. Though he's the type to burst out laughing and then clear his throat, immediately try to hold it in.

They love roasting each other.

Just the same, Hobie towers over her as well - with an 18 inch height difference.

Moche speaks Spanish with a noticeable accent, and often drops certain parts of sentences on 'accident'.

Quechua doesn't have separate pronouns for genders - however both English and Spanish do. And in addition, Spanish genders objects as well. Which is very confusing for her.

She often leave out 'el' and 'la' in a sentence - but congregations are terrible for her, so she usually just switchs back to English.

However Miguel has spent enough time with her in Lima for her to mash Spanish and Quechua - usually for his sake and not hers.

Because of this, she prefers speaking English on campus.

Most of the time her and Miguel speak English to each other, or more recently, Quechua. But if they'd like their conversation private or are on a team with other Spanish-speaking Spider-people, then they'll use Spanish.

She still hangs with a lot of Latino community on campus, though she can't relate to a lot of cuisine, culture, or slang. And she's very close with all the Indigenous spiders.

When Aia Paec assumes control of Moche, a gold neon-like mask flashes dimmly over her face - in the emblem of Aia's face.

Because of her circumstance and her role as Avatar of The Decapitator, Moche is apart of the small number is Spider-people known to kill. She sees nothing wrong with this and finds it weird if someone does.

Aia's reasoning? He'd been killing long before the first Spider-man came to the first Earth, and he'll keep doing it after if need be.

Aia will immediately braid Moche's hair if it's unbraided and cover her head with a hat or cloth as soon as he gets the chance to - and this is a good indicator of when he's the one more present in the moment.

After work Miguel would often come to her universe, for Moche to teach him Quechua. He's almost conversational at it - thought they can't get through a lesson without the other Mamaconas whispering and giggling.

Her and Miguels favorite part-time though is slow dancing, which they usually talk during. It's relaxing and REALLY funny, considering Moche has to reach ALL THE WAY UP to even touch his shoulder. (4'11" and 6'9" is a sight to see)

They're the couple that always disappears to hang out together. Homebodies basically.

Miguel genuinely draws crowds in Tawanti. He's often a foot and a half taller than everyone - plus he's jacked. Seeing a mountain of a man who can't speak a lick of Quechua following their Protector around always gets stares.

In her country, people will often be outright shocked he speaks Spanish - often approaching him in Yucatec, the second largest language in Tawanti.

Moche's name comes from a culture that predates The Inca Empire - The Moche

Aia Paec (or Ai Apaec), the Fanged Spider-God is the Creator of The Moche people, so I saw it fit that Aia-Paec created my Moche - and IncaSpider as well

Moche - capital of the Moche people - is also a place in Peru to this day, in the province of Trujillo.

Because Andean art is typically related to pottery and textile, her universe is largely unstylized.

AIA PAEC ALMIGHTY WE MADE IT.

If you genuinely read this far THANK YOU SO MUCH. It genuinely does mean a lot to me. For me, I have never seen Quechua culture represented - anywhere. I've never seen a Quechua - or Incan - or Peruvian hero, so why not make one!

I hope I was able to share some of that culture with you and you found any of it interesting or new.

In this post I mentioned Huachuma Cactus (and Ayahuasca) and their ceremonial uses - and below is more information I'd like to offer for those curious. If not, no sweat!

THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN and as a Quechua-decedent and a follower of indigenous religion - I will always try my best to answer any questions.

Here's a picture of Miguel. You can imagine Moche standing in front of him - in this photo you would be able to see her anyway lol. (I checked)

Bye.

NOW LET'S GET INTO THE NERDY STUFF -

___________________________________

[ I am a Quechua decent as well as a follower of these practices. I personally have gone through ceremonies with plant medicines in the past and hope to dispel some misconceptions ]

DISCLAIMER: Huachuma and Ayahuasca are NOT closed practices - anyone can sit in ceremony regardless of religion or ancestry - as long as they are siting with the intention of spiritual growth or self help. And even today these plants are used in treatment of addiction, abuse, and mental illness.

These plants are NOT drugs. They are medicines are should be treated as such. Trust me. Huachuma and Ayahuasca trips aren't fun and they aren't supposed to be. They are made for healing.

ALSO - I am a practitioner of Andean Spirituality and Ancestor Worship. Although Aia Paec isn't apart of my practice - everything stated below IS. Please treat it with kindness, and do not call it things like a myth or cult or something.

These are sacred practices we are hoping to share with the world to promote mental healing. Please be respectful (ya'll always are) and thank you so much.

Huachuma Cactus / Ayahuasca & Plant Medicine:

[Hwa-Chew-Ma / Eye-ya-hwa-sca]

[Raw Huachuma Cactus and Ayahuasca Root]

Often called San Pedro Cactus - after the Spanish Saint - Huachuma Cactus is a vital part of Andean spirituality.

Huachuma & Ayahuasca are two of the most revered plant medicines - known for inducing extended psychedelic trips. However, these trips are not similar to LSD or Acid.

Used for literal centuries Huachuma Cactus & Ayahuasca Vine have been taken (separately or consecutively) through a bitter brew of medicinal plants.

[Ayahuasca above. Shit tastes GNARLY. Ayahuasca like coffee and licorice - Huachuma like Nickelodeon Slime. Huachuma is thicker and green.]

Huachuma & Ayahusaca is usually reserved for those within the practice - or those facing deep trauma, mental illness, or something to internally heal from. Huachuma and Ayahusaca are specifically used to bring buried emotions and memories to the surface - as well as a feeling of euphoric self-compassion - in a safe and sacred space in order to help the person grow mentally.

Huachuma & Ayahusaca trips are not pretty - and often involve sobbing, vomiting, and painful memories. Diarrhea too. These trips are not meant to be recreational, but psychological treatment.

These ceremonies require a large group of Curanderos - indigenous healers as well as trained mental health professionals. Many Plant Medicine ceremonies have a trained therapist or psychologist throughout the stay - and a long integration process to reflect and heal.

And while this might sound out there, recent science is showing the profound effects of Plant Medicine - and that Ayahuasca directly impacts many parts of the brain extremely positively.

Now, scientists have gleaned deep insights of their own by monitoring the brain on DMT, or dimethyltryptamine, the psychedelic compound found in Psychotria viridis, the flowering shrub that is mashed up and boiled in the Amazonian drink, ayahuasca. The recordings reveal a profound impact across the brain, particularly in areas that are highly evolved in humans and instrumental in planning, language, memory, complex decision-making and imagination. The regions from which we conjure reality become hyperconnected, with communication more chaotic, fluid and flexible.

[Source: The Guardian - also as for the first line in the article, people DO NOT have near-death experiences while in proper Ayahuasca ceremony - just listen to the medical stuff cause wtf]

Spirits & Plant Medicine:

[Left: Raw Huachuma Cactus - Right: A Curandero setting the Mesa (the red tablecloth in this case). You can see the jar of Huachuma (or Ayahuasca it looks like Aya in this case) in his right hand, as well as a cigarette. The smoke is blown into the brew to kinda 'wake up the spirits'. Being from the Andes - tobacco and coca leaves are traditionally used in ceremony a lot.

The table is covered with other offerings to the gods, stones to represent mountain spirits, and a number of other things used in the ceremony.]

I cannot stress this enough - In Andean practice, we believe each plant has a particular spirit associated with it. Like a fully-formed deity. And ceremony is often approached as if you were meeting someone you respected.

Often in ceremony, people may see and speak directly to these spirits. (Which is true in my experience but not everyone.)

Because Huachuma and Ayahuasca often go hand-in-hand, they are often referred to as the Grandfather (Huachuma) and the Grandmother (Ayahuasca - also called Mama Aya for short).

And we genuinely believe that the way you approach ceremony, your intentions, and your willingness to heal directly affects the way the Spirit will treat you or deal with you, but it is never in a malicious way.

The Grandfather - Huachuma is considered tamer, more milder - one of the reasons I chose Huachuma instead of Ayahuasca in this case.

Huachuma is centered on personal peace and emotion. While on it, your emotions are amplified, you feel a deeper connection to the Earth. But you also throw up too usually. The drink is grosss. (Sorry Grandpa)

Trips last 6-8 hours, but affects can linger for 14-18. Unlike Aya, Huachuma induces less visuals or 'trippiness', but a state of thoughtfulness - bordering joyful meditation. (As these do have neurological connections to the effects of long-term meditation.)

Huachuma can be consumed raw, or served as a drink. [I believe I was given a mixture of raw cactus, agave, and water. You're told to CHUG IT because it thickens a lot in like a minute and gets gross.]

That's largely why I chose Huachuma for Moche to experience first instead of Ayahuasca.

The Grandmother or Maya Aya is much more forthcoming and intense, and her work is centered more of personal healing and self reflection - and Ayahuasca is more akin to a 'trip'.

Typically, a trip lasts 8-12 hours and is taken overnight and sundown. Trips include things such as psychedelic visuals, flashbacks (and yeah, if I'm being honest, everyone I have sat in ceremony with regardless of religion reported a feeling of being close with the Source, God, family whathaveyou. So, the sensation of being elsewhere. In a way. I experienced this too and the feeling is very vivid. Of course what you experience is very personal to you.

While on Ayahuasca you may experience nausea, and the visuals, memories, and emotions make it useless to really move around. You're a lot more in it than Huachuma. Essentially you take it, you set your intentions, you sit in the dark, and let Mama Aya 'work on you'.

Which is why I chose to put Miguel through an Ayahuasca ceremony at their meeting. [Mwah haha Miguel You WILL heal]

Ayahuasca vine cannot be consumed raw, and is a lengthy brewing process with a number of plants known to Curanderos.

Plant Medicine & Ancestors:

Both plants are also associated by many with Ancestral (or divine) contact, and/or visuals of past lives. Which is what drove the inspiration to have Moche partake in a ceremony.

MY EXPERIENCE: - in short - just incase someone is curious -

I've personally sat in official ceremony three times, in which I meet with Mama Aya twice, before meeting the Grandfather the day after. (Basically I drank Ayahuasca for two night and Huachuma on the third day as apart of the integration process.)

The traditions were done in a ceremonial space with a Curandera & Curandero of Peruvian tradition - as well as multiple mental health professionals.

Preparation for ceremony often takes days or weeks - and one is expected to focus on mindfulness and self-kindness all that days leading up to it. (As much as possible, as many Non-Andeans who go into ceremony usually do so for addiction, depression, mental illness, or a number of things).

In my ceremonies - The ceremony and the people I connected with there are pivotal to my path and life so far. Despite meeting people from literally anywhere, it was also one of the most trans-affirming spaces I have ever been in - which is saying a lot as a New Yorker.

Each ceremony was hard, with the second night of Ayahuasca being the most emotionally and visually intense. This was amplified be the ceremonial music. Thankfully, however I didn't get too much physical side effects. I don't even think I barfed the second night. Big win!

In all Ayahuasca helped me have a way deeper understanding of myself and my wants and it helped me gain closure on a situation I'd been struggling with for years.

My experience with Huachuma was more milder and calmer, although my emotions were hyper-sensitive as were my senses - which is why it's VERY important to do ceremony in a container (a safe space with professionals on stand-by)

The Huachuma ceremony was conducted outside during the day. Because you are more lucid and emotionally calm while under Huachuma, it was encouraged for us to be present in nature and move and walk around.

In all Huachuma helped me to focus more on compassion and was able to form deep bonds with the people around me in a shorter time. I was more present and rather than psychedelic visions, my surroundings were more vibrant and intense but in a comfortable way.

Overall, Ayahuasca and Huachuma are deeply sacred, deeply interesting plant medicines that have shaped Andean spirituality for centuries.

They are not typical 'drugs'. They are medicines and should be treated as such. (aka As prescribed, while under the watch of someone trained and understanding.)

So uhhhh yeah. That's a lot that's a lot lol

But if you made it this far THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR YOUR TIME and giving me a chance to share this culture with others!! 💚

I hope you learned something from this little section here, as I genuinely hold the Grandparents dear and found my ceremonies exceptionally healing.

If you have any questions, let me know! Oh and if you really made it this far - uhhhhhhh QUESTION:

You can choose TWO people from ATSV to protect you - everyone else will try to jump you. Who you picking?

{I just wanna know if anyone got down here also the question is funny as hell - I'm picking Hobie and Miguel. But....they would bicker and probably get me killed. Oops. Maybe Hobie and Pavitr. Pavi has GREAT luck. So far. }

Bye.

252 notes · View notes

tumbling-through-deepspace · 10 days

Text

The Hunter, a baby and the unexpected forming of family in unlikely places

Summary:

Hunter Lyssa Williams finds a baby abandoned outside her apartment complex. The 24-year-old is way over her head and does not know the first thing about looking after a tiny human. However, as the saying goes, 'it takes a village to raise a child' and in her case a group of unlikely men come along for the ride.

Genres: Slice of life, comfort, eventual relationships, eventual romance, enemies to friends, frenemies, fluff...

Word count: 2772 words

Eventual Relationships: Xavier/MC/Rafayel

Zayne/Sylus/Lyssa

Chapter One: The Introduction to It All

It was one of the worst days of her life. Work was hell having to battle high level wanderers—just thinking about it made the cut on her arm burn. Then Tara and her bestie could not shut up about their last shipping escapade.

Their captain was in one of her moods as well, despite the woman trying to mask it well, Lyssa always had a way of picking up the slightest twinge of facial muscle and body language that speaks otherwise. Then finally her motorcycle refused to work, keeping her stranded in Linkon city.

“This day couldn’t get any worse than what it already is.”

Like a preferable middle finger sent her way from the Deep space tunnel, the sky opened sending a heavy shower of rain. The biggest fuck you were shouted to the sky as she stormed off, ignoring the shell-shocked looks from a few co-workers that exited the building at that moment.

Lyssa disliked the busy city life and only ventured in it due to working for the Hunter’s Association and its necessities that she couldn’t get from her home that was located on the outskirts of the city before it crossed over to the N109 zone.

The scowl on her face deepened knowing that her only option now was having to use the apartment she had on standby for emergencies.

Cursing profanities under her breath she continued along, too angry to care about the rain soaking her clothes and temporarily obstructing her vision.

Within fifteen minutes the doors of the apartment building came into view, and she hurried along, shaking the water from her hair as she finally took shelter. Lyssa sighed, leaning against the wall and willed herself to start her deep breathing exercises recommended by her therapist whenever she felt overwhelmed.

It took a while, but she came back to herself as her breathing regulated. The hunter slowly made her way to the door when her hearing picked up on soft whimpers and the rustling of fabric.

Years of training sharpened her senses, and her eyes zoned onto a few boxes that were left out. At first, she thought maybe it was a trick of her ears until the whimpering became a little louder. Moving forward she squatted and inspected the boxes.

Stuffed to the back of the wall was a box of medium size, slightly opened. Lyssa was expecting a puppy or maybe a kitten, the shock of finding a baby blew her mind out of the water.

Like who the hell leaves a baby in a fucking box, outside a building were anyone could either steal it, kick it or heavens forbid, the garbage disposal unit fetches it away unknown to anyone. There were orphanages for crying out loud, child protective services… just why? Why?

Wasting no time, she scooped up the box, punched in the building’s security code and raced to get to her apartment. The child needed to get warm and fed. Oh God! How long were they in the dam box?

The whimpering stopped and Lyssa panicked, peeping inside to make sure the child was still breathing. She let out a relieved sigh at the steady rise and fall of the child's chest. Only a few minutes ago she was angry at being stranded in the city and now was appreciative of the inconvenience.

She refused to let her mind think of what if. As the hunter entered her apartment, she knew making decisions on what next raised her anxiety, and so she needed a second opinion. It was time to call an old acquaintance.

“The number you’ve dialed in currently unavailable. Hang up and try again or leave a message after the beep.”

This was the third day in a row they were unsuccessful in getting on to Lyssa. Dr. Zayne looked at his phone as the call disconnected once again. A week ago, his colleague Dr. Waverly came to him in concern that one of his patient Lyssa Williams missed a very important appointment which was unusual for the young woman to do; there was no call, no correspondence.

Why the doctor told him this left him a bit puzzled. Zayne and Lyssa—even though they have been acquainted with each other for a few years—rarely spoke to each other and sometimes on visiting the hospital she would exchange pleasantries and nothing more.

Dr. Waverly stated that Lyssa did not have a next of kin or emergency contact listed on her record, making it difficult to make any contact. Even her place of employment hasn’t seen the young woman for the same duration and being unable to make contact. Dr. Waverly came to him with hope that might find a way to contact the woman.

The light rapping on his door brought the doctor from his thoughts. Looking up his gaze met his friend and patient Jasmin.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. I can always come back.”

Zayne cleared his throat “No. That won’t be necessary, you are scheduled for a checkup, and it would be counterproductive if you rescheduled.”

Jasmin entered the room taking a seat. She was about to speak again when her eyes landed on the file on Zayne’s table, recognizing her co-worker’s face even though it was upside down.

“Have you gotten on to her?”

Zayne took a moment to understand who Jasmin was referring to. He looked at the file once more before closing it.

“I take it no one has been successful on your end?”

“No and it is concerning. Lyssa is not one to go AWOL. As much as she complains about hating having to work in the city, she is always present. I swear her attendance is almost perfect, works even when sick but this sudden disappearance is so unlike her.”

“Has no one taken the initiative to visit her home, to see if she is there?”

Jasmine huffed “Tara and I have but the only problem with that plan is no one knows where she lives. The address in the Hunter database is fake. She was so crafty about it, using an address that wouldn’t be suspicious if you don’t know what you’re looking for. I went to it to find a bakery.”

Zayne raised an eyebrow. He never realized that Lyssa was such a private person that she would lie about where she lived.

“I even went to our Captain, but she said Lyssa was away on a mission which I don't believe. I just hope she’s alright.”

The good doctor couldn’t help but nod in agreement, yet he felt he was missing something. “If you don’t mind, can you give me that address.”

A week and change ago

“At this point I should stop being surprised every time I get a call from you. Yet again, the only time you do call is when you’re in a predicament. So, what is it this time?”

Lyssa groaned in exasperation, her nerves were already in a state of turmoil and this jackass wasn’t helping “Dox now is not the time. You have experience with babies, right?”

The voice on the other line went silent “What the fuck did you do this time? You pregnant or something? Dam Lyssa, I know we haven’t spoken in a while but the last thing I expected was you popping out kids. Wait didn’t your doctor say that doing that would--”

“WOULD YOU STOP TALKING! IT’S NOT MINE! I NEED YOUR HELP CAUSE I’M WAY OVER MY HEAD HERE.”

The child in her hand squirmed before letting out an ear-piercing scream. Lyssa dropped the phone in surprise, hearing it clatter to the floor but did not try to pick it up, her focus entirely on calming the crying infant.

“Shh… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout but I have no idea what I’m doing. Shh… it’s alright.”

“YO LYSSA! PICK UP THE PHONE AND PUT ON YOUR CAMERA.”

She glanced down, hearing Dox shouting and carefully retrieved the phone.

“I have you on speaker give me a minute to boost up the computer and switch the call over to that device.”

Lyssa did that quickly while simultaneously rocking the now fretting child. The exasperated expression of Dox popped on; his eyes swept over her person before landing on the child in her arms. He grinned like the cat that caught the canary.

“Well, well, well. Child theft is a new low even for you Dove.”

“I called for your assistance not your judgment and if you must know, I found them outside my apartment building, abandoned and left in a box. What was I to do? Leave them there?”

The cheerful look in Dox’s eyes left almost instantly “In a box? Don’t people know about orphanages or child services—whom you should have contacted. Why are you taking on this responsibility Lyssa?”

“My thoughts exactly. Why I haven’t called them is because I don’t want to. Have you forgotten my own experience or Alexandra’s or what about Rose?”

“That was years ago, the system has improved, you know this.”

“I don’t care. I refuse to let this child go through even a smidge of what we experienced and the thought of any organization raising a child sickens me.”

“Your bleeding heart is raising its head. Here I thought you locked away these emotions.”

“You are such a jackass Dox.”

Dox laughed “The jackass you called for help. Anyway, you should come to my place. I have tons of space, and the gang will be happy to see you again.”

“I refuse to come to the N109 zone. I think you’ve forgotten who I’m employed with.”

“Something you shouldn’t have done but I guess at the time you didn’t have much of a choice but be honest, is there really anything holding you back from quitting?”

“Not really,” she said without hesitation “But I don’t want to right now.”

Dox groaned “Girl, it’s not like you have to work. You got a shit ton of money than most people left by—”

Lyssa hissed angrily, being careful not to wake the child that fell back asleep “which I will not touch.”

“Lyssa, we spoke about this already. The money is yours. You deserve it after what happened. If you’re going to keep and raise the child which I know you will, your hunter salary wouldn’t last. Looking from here, they don’t look older than 5 months and you can’t return to work unless you hire a nanny which I advise against.”

Lyssa scowled “I hate when you’re right.”

“Saved you tons of headaches over the years because I’m mostly always right. Now, take my advice like the cute Dove you are and tell me what you want for dinner, Rose and I will be there in under an hour with some things for you and the kid.”

“I really need a crochet hook and wool of every color. This apartment doesn’t have any of my supplies and I feel out of place without seeing wool around the house.”

“You are such a granny.”

“Fuck you, Dox.”

“Sorry Dove, I am spoken for but thanks for thinking of me in that light.”

“Eww. Get off my computer. I’ll see you in an hour.”

True to his word, Dox arrived just under an hour, hands filled with bags of all sizes. Rose followed behind with several boxes.

“Where’s the wee babe. Let me get a good look at ‘em,” Rose asked excitedly. She was a petite woman, three years older than Lyssa, with red curly hair and soft features.

“That babe is sleeping so please don’t wake them.”

Dox snorted “Relax Dove. Rose is a baby expert; she is a Pediatric nurse after all.”

It was at that moment that Lyssa noticed Roses’ medical bag.

Rose gave her a reassured smile “Get something to eat, you look like you haven’t eaten all day and for the love of sake get out of that Hunter uniform.”

Dox gently pushed Lyssa to the direction of her room “You heard the nurse, get going, I’ll dish out dinner.”

Thanking them she did as was instructed. The warm water did wonders for her aching muscles and as she stood under the shower, a list of things that she had to take care of rushed through her mind.

Dox was right, she couldn’t rely on her hunter’s salary alone and speaking of work, being a Hunter wasn’t a safe career if she was going to be raising a child. She would have to request time off. Lyssa didn’t think it was smart to just up and resign, it would raise suspicion which she didn’t want.

She would have to call Captain Jenna in the morning. Next would be getting a crib and stocking up on formula and baby items. Then there is also the issue of making sure the child is not found out by Child services which shouldn’t be an issue with Alexandra and Dox involved.

Then there is her upcoming doctor’s appointment with Doctor Waverly which she would have to miss. Dam, it’s only been a few hours and already her whole life was being reshuffled.

Stepping out the shower, she hurried to get dressed and rejoin the others not wanting to keep them waiting.

When she stepped into the living room, Rose was in the process of putting a new outfit on the baby, cooing and looking excited.

Not too far from the couch stood a crib and a baby swing. Then on the center table had a pile of clothing, diapers, wipes, some books and other baby things.

“Lyssa come join me. Dox is in the kitchen putting away the bottles and formula.”

“When he said he was bringing a few things I wasn’t expecting all this. Saves me the hassle of getting them myself. Thank you.”

“None of that, we weren’t going to leave you headless about this. I think what you’ve chosen to do is admirable, and I agree with your decision to raise this child. Now, you will be pleased to know that apart from a few diaper rashes, she is a healthy baby. Dox wasn’t off about her age either; she is five months old. Poor thing being left alone the way she was.”

Lyssa sat down and observed the way Rose clothes the child. The delicate movements and soft touches. It was a relief knowing the baby's gender since it will help with research.

“To be honest I wasn’t sure whether or not you guys would help, after all, I stay away.”

Rose raised a brow “We know your personality. We know you little one. Even though you act like you’re better off alone, we’ll always offer a helping hand despite you being a stubborn arse.”

That made Lyssa laugh “Thank you regardless.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s leave this other little one to sleep since I’ve given her a feed and we can move this conversation to the kitchen. Dox and I have a few things to discuss with you.”

Present day

Lyssa rouse from her nap at the sound of rapping on her door. The night before little Ella refused to sleep, extremely fussy and did not want to be put in her crib. The little girl was now puckered out, fast asleep on her chest, fist clutching the shirt she wore.

The rapping persisted and Lyssa had a good mind to ignore whoever was at the door. All she wanted to do was sleep. Sleep deprivation was no joke.

Carefully putting the babe to her shoulder, one hand on her back and the other supporting her bottom, she slowly got up and walked to the door.

Blame it on her state of tiredness because she opened the door without checking the peephole.

“I guess I should be relieved that you’re alive, but this was the last thing I expected.”

All traces of sleepiness left her body at the voice of Doctor Zayne. If he found her it means that Doctor Waverly will find out and Jasmin, who will then tell Tara who will tell everyone at the Association, and they will get up in her business. She should have returned home when Dox offered to.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. I’m sure you have your reasons for disappearing.”

Lyssa groaned at the absurdness of it all “How the hell did you find my apartment?”

“Jasmin gave me the address from your workplace and your Captain helped with the rest.”

Cursing, she turned and told him to get inside. The day was starting and already turning out to be a pain. She really didn’t want to talk to Doctor Zayne.

A/N: A new chapter will be out every weekend, on Sundays. If you wish to read it on my AO3 account, here's the link.

20 notes · View notes