#write it in your agenda

[peachesofteal]

Deckhand Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.

Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind. 

It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge. 

He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.

Hook. String. Pull. Block.

The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly. 

Did you see him? 

Look at the size of ‘im- 

Is that Ernest’s new deckhand? 

Fucking monster of a man, I tell you. 

He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date. 

The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.

King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared. 

The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed. 

And the Bering-  

The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea. 

He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous. 

The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye. 

Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of. 

At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same. 

Rabid and dangerous in packs. 

The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock. 

There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course- 

A pub. 

Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets. 

There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one. 

There are only ten, after all.

The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head. 

None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you. 

He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it. 

“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.” 

You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark. 

Except The Wharf’s. 

It’s the second time he’s seen you here. 

He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle- 

and baring your throat for the slaughter.

The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender. 

He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name. 

Screaming it. 

You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it. 

He knows what you see. What you should see. 

A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess. 

If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.

Rabid, dangerous in packs.  

Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor. 

You. 

You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside. 

The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk. 

Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down. 

He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses. 

For him. 

He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes. 

“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.

He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook. 

You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.

“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for. 

It almost pained him to rip them apart last night. 

“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.

“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth. 

Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish? 

“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“ 

“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile. 

Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.

“Got it.” 

His control is becoming a house of cards. 

You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.

He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.

You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step- 

directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from. 

Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks. 

“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them. 

“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint. 

“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.” 

He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks. 

"Can I bum one?"

His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.

"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.

"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.

"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"

"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.

He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.

Hook. String. Pull.

He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.

You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?

"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.

"Goodnight."

Four days left, and his gear is finished.

You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.

You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.

“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.

Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.

It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.

So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.

There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“

You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.

He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.

When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”

You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”

It all comes to a head, two days out.

There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.

Too many, for Simon’s tastes.

Too many, except for one.

You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.

You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.

Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”

He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.

Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.

“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.

“Out for a smoke?”

“No, just some fresh air.”

“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.

He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.

He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”

“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”

“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.

Hook. String. Pull.

“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.

Hooked.

You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.

He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.

String.

The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.

“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.

“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.

Pull.

“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”

“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.

He licks them with glee.

“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“

“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.

You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.

He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how impossible it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.

He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.

Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.

You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.

“My glasses.”

“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC ADHD Coffee Addicts

Fact number one: Tim Drake inhales coffee like oxygen.

Fact number two: Danny Fenton inhales coffee like ectoplasm (because oxygen is only optional in his case).

Fact number three: Bats typically turn a blind eye when Danny drinks too much of it since there's not really a risk of him going into cardiac arrest with Danny being literally already dead.

Fact number four: they do not turn a blind eye when still thankfully alive Tim does it because they would like him to stay that way, please.

Problem: Tim has ADHD [a fact I strongly headcanon], and without his daily dose of coffee, he becomes not simply unhinged, but, dare I say, no longer connected to the door frame.

Bigger problem: Danny is slightly unhinged even when he has his coffee, and he also shows signs of ADHD. No one risks taking away his coffee in fear of what he might accomplish without it.

Fun fact: one of Batman's contingency plans for a world-ending-case-scenario is to throw Tim and Danny in a secluded room together, not give them any coffee, and simply wait for a few hours. Although this contingency is listed as 'last resort'.

P.S. coffee is not a great way to cope with ADHD. In fact, there's little evidence of it actually helping with the symptoms, but a man can dream, and a man can post random thoughts they find hilarious.

[mischievous-thunder]

Forever and always

[eatingfood]

*

[harbingersglory]

Perhaps the Shogun Puppet and Sara (both trans) sharing the reader? The puppet offering up a volunteer (reader) as a reward for Sara’s devoted years of service, that quickly ends up with the reader getting spitroasted between them. Sara has the privilege of claiming the reader’s pussy (and by extension, their womb and eventual firstborn child) while the Shogun takes their mouth—this is meant to be Sara’s reward after all.

{☆} characters kujou sara, raiden shogun [ puppet ] {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader, transfem kujou sara, transfem raiden shogun {☆} warnings 18+ content, breeding kink, restraints, fingering, face fucking

Kujou Sara was many things– loyal, devoted and first and foremost a soldier. There was little time between a strict schedule for anything but honing herself like a dulled blade. She assumed she simply did not care for worldly pleasures, but now..

Her throat feels impossibly dry, her palms clammy as she tries to ignore how tight fitting her uniform feels all of a sudden. She cannot look away from the meek figure at the feet of the Shogun, her Archon, stripped bare and tied in an intricate display of winding ropes that accentuate your figure– she feels lightheaded at the sight, a broken groan tumbling from her lips, just barely muffled in time by her trembling hand.

"A reward," The stoic, unyielding voice of the Shogun rings in the room like the swing of a blade, cutting through the thick air with the ease befitting of such an imposing figure. "For your service, General Kujou." She gestures so easily to you, as if presenting an object to be owned rather then a person– she cannot find it in herself to dispute it. You are..beyond words. Ethereal, even as you are bound in tight ropes and left at the mercy of an Archon and a tengu.

"..I am honored by your generosity, Almighty Shogun." Sara replies quickly and stiffly, her eyes never drifting far from your body– always drawn back. "Yet you are still hesitant." The Shogun snaps back coldly, eyes narrowed– her shoulders grow stiff in tension, her mind scrambling for an excuse, yet she cannot manage to speak a word.

"If this reward is not suitable.." Sara nearly balks at that, her hands twitching and her teeth aching in an urge she thought long buried. Try as she might, she cannot ignore the desire she feels towards you..and she cannot simply refuse a reward from the Shogun herself. Archons, she is a weak woman, she realizes– her will broken by a pretty face..

"..It is suitable, Almighty Shogun."

Yet she steels her resolve like a honed blade, kneeling before her "reward" and clasping your ankles in her calloused hands– your skin is smooth, at least compared to her own, as she eases your legs apart. Archons, you are even more gorgeous up close. The satisfied hum of the Shogun, watching with piercing eyes as she claims her reward, spurs her on. She leans close to your face, cupping your jaw in her hand and taking a moment to appreciate your features. The bob of your throat as you swallow, the haziness of your eyes..she leans down further, pressing almost reverent, apologetic kisses to your jaw, exhaling heavily against your skin.

She cannot stop herself now. The sickly sweet scent of shampoo, likely the courtesy of the Shogun, fills her lungs and makes her feel dizzy. You're like a fine dessert and she wants to devour you.

Even still, however, she keeps a close eye on your face– watching the slightest changes like a hawk. She leans away from spots you seem to show discomfort from, pressing more kisses and nips to the spots that have your breath hitching in your throat. She likes it– seeing you beneath her like this..Archons, her uniform feels so suffocating now, her cock straining against it.

But she wants to take it slow, if only for her own inexperience. She wants to see your face twisted in pleasure, not discomfort.

So she takes her take unraveling you, her chapped lips kissing down your throat to your chest, the barest hint of bruises marring your skin as she drags her tongue across your nipple, a low growl building in her throat at the way you arched your back into her mouth. It's so distracting that she almost forgets the Shogun stands above her, watching like a statue as her hand slips between your thighs to sink a finger into your cunt– and how easily she does so, your thighs already sticky with arousal. She is slow in her movements, fingering you more like a lover, intimate in a way that feels foreign to her.

"You're so pretty," She murmurs in a haze, words slurred through the fog of desire, sighing softly against your shoulder as she eases another finger inside you, her tongue finding your other nipple. "Does this feel good?" Her eyes meet your own as she presses a kiss to your chest, practically pleading for the answer to be yes– she wants the validation, to know she's making you feel good, at least as good as she feels. Her touch is still uncertain and clumsy, but she has always been a quick learner.

It does not take long before you unravel beneath her, your squishy walls squeezing around her fingers as she eases you through your climax.

Your cum sticks to her fingers when she pulls her hand back, her own breath hitching in her throat as she swipes her tongue across her digits– had she not been in such a daze, she might've been embarrassed, but the taste upon her tongue only made the fog worse. She almost considered burying her face in your cunt for a better taste, but her cock was..painfully hard. So with a hint of reluctance, she fumbled with her uniform, tugging her aching cock free with a broken groan.

For a moment she almost seems embarrassed by your stare, her hands pushing your thighs further apart– but the look of raw need..it matches her own, feeding the almost animalistic urges that urge her to claim you, to push your legs up to your chest and fill your womb till it's bursting with her cum. Archons, she wants to. Just seeing her cum spilling out of your cunt would be enough.

Her nails dig into your thighs as she aligns her cock, dragging the tip through your folds before gently sinking into your cunt. It almost breaks her– the tight, wet heat of your folds around her drags a whine unbidden from her throat, breaths coming out in shallow panting. Her grip on your thighs tightens as she presses a shaky kiss to your chest, satisfied by the moans that tumble from your own lips. She wonders what it would be like to kiss you, but the thought is swept from her thoughts as quickly as it came, her cock slowly stretching your cunt around her, forcing you to take every inch.

You've never looked prettier in her eyes.

But her moment of admiration and awe is short lived, her body falling into complete stillness as she watched the Shogun step forward– Sara can feel her stare through the back of her head, sweat beading on her brow and her throat so dry it's difficult to swallow. Rather, instead of whatever Sara expected, the Shogun kneels.

It's only now she sees the twitching cock between her own legs, stilling any protests that bubbled up in her throat. She watched, transfixed as the Shogun slid a thumb past your lips, tilting your head back enough for her to sink her cock into your waiting mouth. The sight of it makes her heart stutter in her chest, her own cock twitching inside you as she bucks her hips instinctively, hissing at the sudden burst of pleasure.

Sara doesn't dare to speak up, but she can't help but feel transfixed by the way your throat bulges around the Shogun's cock, her hands digging deeper into your thighs. The ease in which you take the Shogun makes her wonder if you were hers– the idea of fucking the Shogun's pet..she was surprised to find the idea so enticing, her hips snapping harshly against yours as she fit herself fully inside your cunt, hands clasping your thighs to the point even her hands were beginning to ache.

The Shogun was still watching her, she could feel it, but it felt less suffocating and more..curious, maybe. Whatever rhythm Sara set, the Shogun would adjust, the gentle rolling of her hips accentuated by the short thrusts into your mouth. She felt dizzy at it all, burying her face against your chest and sliding her hands up your hips, along your ribs, clutching you tightly against as she pulled her hips back, nearly slipping out of your cunt altogether before snapping her hips forward harshly, the slap of skin making her groan.

She couldn't help it anymore– she needed to claim you, to see your face contort in pleasure as she claimed your cunt, filled you to the brim with her cum..she wanted it so badly it made her feel dizzy. A part of her wonders if the Shogun would even let her impregnate you, but she didn't care– she'd try anyway. Even if she had to fill you up again and again, as many times as it took.

Sara's gentle thrusts quickly crumbled into something much rougher, all sense forgotten at the promise of claiming you– of making you hers, from your cunt to your womb, and even your mouth, if she ever got the chance. She was practically an animal in her desperation, stretching your cunt to fit her with every harsh thrust and growling against your chest, leaving visible bruises and bites on your chest. The Shogun matched her with a robotic rhythm of her own, the sound of you gagging around the Shogun's cock making her shudder, her eyes following the drool dribbling down your face.

It was far more arousing then she wanted to admit, watching the Shogun use your throat while she used your cunt, giving you no room to breathe.

It is with a great reluctance that she pulls her gaze away from you and the Shogun, burying her face against your chest once more as the pressure builds, her lips caught between her teeth until the taste of iron flooded her taste buds. But she had no time to dwell on it, pressing her hips firmly against your own with a muffled groan as the pressure exploded, her cum painting your walls, still bucking into you in short thrusts.

She could only imagine the image of your throat being filled by the Shogun's own climax, her lungs straining as she gulped down air between shaky moans, pressing a kiss to your chest.

She was far from done with you, but you deserved at least a moment of respite before she filled you all over again.

[supermarketcrush]

mildly insane to me that so many people are just now saying 'i dont usually go here but' 'i've never listened to rap before but this is funny' like...i dont think "if you've never been interested in rap before you're racist" is a good or even accurate broad generalization to make but the line is also. pretty thin

[luxaofhesperides]

For ghost lights prompts: eldritch/creepy/weird Danny + shy/flustered Duke + hand holding

Your ghostlights fics are giving me so much joy RN I cannot express how much, if this prompt doesn't spark a brain worm for it I get it but I'm excited to read all the others you may wind up posting

There’s a new kid at West Robinson High School. 

This normally wouldn’t be a big deal. They get plenty of new students, being an average high school; not prestigious like Gotham Academy, but not terrible like some of the schools in the lower South Side. New kids are hardly anything to make note of, but something about this student has everyone paying attention to him.

It’s not charisma. The guy doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not attractiveness, because no one really knows what he looks like under the tattered hoodie he wears all the time. It’s not curiosity, not really, because the student body moves around him like he’s dangerous, not like they want to pry all his secrets out into the open. 

It doesn’t help that Duke sees things around him. 

He considers briefly telling someone about it, but then remembers having to argue for returning to West Robinson High School instead of being put in Gotham Academy and decides that Bruce can continue to mind his own business. It’s not like this new kid has done anything bad (yet) and Duke can handle investigating this on his own.

So he watches, catching glimpses of the new kid—Danny Fenton—in hallways during passing period, hiding away at lunch, disappearing into the streets as soon as the school day is over. They even share a class together, French Language and Culture, but Danny is always in the back corner, ignored and made invisible by everyone else. 

Well. That’s not quite true. 

There are shadowy figures that surround Danny and they never leave him alone. Even when he’s got his arms folded on his desk, head down, looking as if he’s asleep, these figures pull at the hood covering his head or reach semi-transparent hands down to pet his hair. And Danny reacts to them, lightly batting their hands away or turning his head away from them.

Duke has no idea what they are. Ghosts are his best guess, but he can’t confirm it. As far as he knows, ghosts are magic and can only be seen by magic users, which Duke very much is not. They do lead to cold spots, keeping the temperatures noticeably colder around Danny, and make the shadows darker, which only makes other students more nervous about being near Danny. 

Through his week of observing Danny, beyond the ghostly figures and visible unease he causes in everyone, what Duke learns is that Danny is lonely. 

No one talks to him. People barely look at him. Teachers avoid calling on him when they can. 

And Danny accepts it. He fades into the background, keeps out of the way, shrinks in on himself. 

No one else sees it. No one else wants to see him.

It’s breaking Duke’s heart, just a little bit.

He’s lucky that he’s not an outcast at school. With his meta gene awakening and his free hours taken up by Bats and fighting crime, it’s hard to have much of a social life, but he still has a few friends during the school hours he can hang out with. Danny doesn’t have anyone, and the more Duke sees how isolated he is, the more upset he becomes.

Which brings him to step two of his investigation: befriend Danny.

So what if he has some ulterior motives! He also just wants to give this guy someone to hang out with! What little glimpses of Danny’s face he’s able to get show him a tired teenager, worn down the way Alley kids are when they’re at the end of their rope and have nothing left to give.

Duke’s first attempts at befriending Danny fail so fast it’s almost funny. It’s as if Danny knows when someone is seeking him out, because every time Duke goes to where he is, Danny up and disappears, hurrying away and vanishing in the crowded hallways, or in the alley a few buildings past the school, or into the fucking restroom, which is always empty when Duke goes in after him. Trying to use his powers to see where Danny goes next doesn’t help either; all he sees is some glowing figure resembling Danny walk through walls, which is either due to Danny being a meta or from Duke’s powers deciding to be unhelpful.

He’s about to resort to Tim level stalking to finally have a conversation with Danny when his French teacher blessedly (and unknowingly) aids him on his mission.

“Find a partner, everyone!” she instructs with a clap of her hands near the end of class. “This is a translation project, and you’ll be doing them in pairs to check each other’s work and decide how to best interpret something into English. If you don’t have a partner in the next minute, tell me and I’ll assign you someone.”

The class is a flurry of movement just as the last word leaves her mouth, friends turning to each other or running across the room to make sure they’re partnered up before anyone else can butt in. 

No one looks at Danny. Which means Duke can just skirt along the wall of the classroom until he’s next to Danny, gently knocking on his desk to get his attention.

Danny looks up, and Duke sees a flash of blue before Danny averts his gaze, tilting his head down again. “Yeah?” he says, and his voice is much softer than what Duke imagined. He expected something hoarse and rough, a little deep, intimidating. Instead, it’s gentle and quiet and smooth. 

It’s a nice voice. It’s a shame that no one else has really heard it.

“Wanna be partners?” he asks, as if he’s offering a choice. They both know no one else is going to ask Danny, and if he wants to avoid talking to the teacher, then he has to work with Duke.

Danny sighs. “Sure.” 

And then he puts his head back down on the desk. 

Duke backs off. This is the best he’s going to get right now. Now that he’s got an excuse to spend time with Danny, he can take his time breaking down his walls and getting to know him. He watches as a figure from the usual group that hangs around Danny breaks away and gently brushes a hand against Danny’s arm. Then they turn to Duke and reach for him.

He moves without thinking, stepping out of the way. The shadowy figure fades back, almost invisible even to his eyes, and Danny’s turned his head to lay his piercing gaze on Duke.

…There’s no way that blew his cover, right? 

He didn’t just reveal one of his meta abilities from taking a single step to the side. No way. 

But Danny’s eyes are a deep blue that seem almost endless as he keeps his attention on Duke. It feels as if he’s staring into Duke, seeing more than what he wants to reveal. 

“Alright, looks like everyone’s found a partner! As you head out, be sure to grab a practice packet from my desk to work on some translation. There are due the next time we meet, and I will be handing out your individual passages once these have all been turned in.” Their teacher sets a large stack of papers onto the corner of her desk, then gets to work erasing the whiteboard just as the bell rings. 

Students grab their bags and rush to take one of the packets before heading out to their final class of the day. Duke stays behind with Danny, waiting for most of the class to leave before swinging his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbing a packet for both of them.

He hands one to Danny, who takes it with some hesitancy and a quiet, “Thanks.”

He leaves before Duke does, and though it’s only a second between his leaving and Duke stepping out the door, Danny’s already vanished from sight.

As soon as school ends, Duke heads for the Hatch, hoping a quick evening patrol will help clear his mind. It’s a quiet evening, though, so he’s left with his thoughts more often than not, staring out over the city long enough that Oracle asks him if he’s alright.

Against his better judgment, he says, “I’ve been looking into something, but I’m not finding much. Can you do some research on Danny Fenton?”

Oracle is already typing before he finishes asking. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything. He’s… strange. I don’t know if he’s a meta or just lightly haunted. But there’s something up with him.”

“Do we need to be keeping a closer eye on him?”

Duke considers. None of them ask Oracle to look into specific people unless they’re dangerous. But danger is not the sense Duke gets from Danny. It’s more like he’s hiding, shying away from the world, constantly on edge. “No. If anything, he might be in danger. Something happened to him, because no one ends up like that by living an average life.”

“I’ll let you know what I find. Turn in for the night, it’s quiet out and you’re too distracted to patrol properly.”

“You got it, O.” He salutes the nearest camera, knowing she’ll see it, and makes his way back to the Hatch to change back into civies and get started on his homework.

When he next goes into his French classroom, all the desk has been rearranged so they’re all in pairs, side by side. Already, patterns are filling up the desks, so Duke heads for the back and sits down where Danny usually hides away. He’s not here yet, which is making Duke realize that he’s never actually seen Danny walk into the classroom and head to his seat.

Did he just never pay attention? Has Danny always just slipped in unnoticed until attendance was taken? How did Duke miss that?

There’s movement in the desk next to him. Duke goes to say that he’s waiting for his partner, so please sit somewhere else, when he realizes that it’s Danny who managed to sneak in yet again.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, hoping his surprise is hidden.

There’s a pause, and then Danny returns, “Hey, Duke.”

That’s all they have time for before class is starting and their teacher goes around to collect homework. She then hands out new packets, each one a different section of L’Ecume des Jours, and gives them the rest of class to begin working on translating it. 

Duke is already dreading it as he flips through the three pages they were given to translate, stapled to each other beneath the two page instructions of how to format the final translation, how to document their previous translation drafts, and what to include in the reflection essay. 

There’s no way he can get all of this done in a week. 

On the other hand, it gives him a week to learn more about Danny. He needs to make the most of it.

“This is a lot,” he comments, hoping to prod Danny into conversation.

Danny shrugs.

“Can we work on this together after school today? Or do you have plans?”

“We can work on it today,” Danny says, voice barely louder than a whisper. He’s already scanning the pages, underlining certain words and phrases. 

Duke hurries to get to work as well, trying to parse out meaning from the text through single words scattered on the page. 

Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie, vous? 

J’apprends des choses, dit Colin. Et j’aime Chloé. 

Duke nods to himself. He definitely doesn’t know French. Well, he knows qu’est-ce que. He knows vous. He know j’apprends and j’aime Chloé. Also dit Colin. Fairly simple, but with the missing pieces to the rest of those sentences, he really doesn’t know what’s going on beyond the fact that it’s a conversation and Colin loves Chloé.

When he glances at Danny’s desk, he’s shocked to see that his partner is already translating the first few lines into something that reads like normal English.

“Oh, wow,” he says, leaning over to get a better look, “You’re definitely better at this than I am.”

“I just like languages,” Danny replies, turning his paper so Duke can read it more easily.

“Have you been hiding your French skills this entire time? I could have definitely used your help before this.”

Danny goes still for a moment, eyes flicking towards his right where a shadowy figure has placed a hand on his shoulder. Then he turns to fully face Duke and says, “Better late than never. What do you need help with?”

“Everything.”

His immediate answer makes Danny smile, and he begins talking in that soft, soothing voice of his. He talks about not trying to translate everything into English immediately, but to understand the French and take it in as a whole language itself. He talks about getting the idea of the text first, the feeling of it, before trying to fit it into English. He talks about splitting up the text into sections to make it easier.

And then he reads the text, entirely in French, and Duke did not have a thing for voices or multilingualism before this, but he sure does now.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie, vous?” Danny reads, reaching the end of the first page. The syllables come to his easily, his French smooth and steady. “J’apprends des choses, dit Colin.” His eyes dart up, off the page, and fix Duke in place. “Et j’aime Chloé.”

Duke has never been happier that he doesn’t blush so visibly with his dark skin because he feels downright romanced. It’s a mix of the French, of Danny’s addictive voice, of their closeness, of how intimate this dark corner of the room feels, tucked away from the rest of the class.

“We can work on the other pages after we finish translating this one,” Danny says, leaning back at bit. 

Duke nods, swallowing to chase away the dryness of his throat. “Sounds like a plan!” 

They work in silence for the rest of the class period, and once the bell rings, Danny says, “I’ll wait for you by the bus stop down the street,” before he slips out of reach and disappears into the throng of students heading to their last class. 

He’s beginning to think that he’s in way over his head. Duke can handle being in the middle of all the action, risking his life, fighting for others. He can handle staring down rogues and criminals and Gnomon. He can’t handle feelings and romance and other such things. Those are much scarier than a criminal shooting at him. At least with the criminal, he knows what to do and doesn’t just freeze up like he did with Danny.

The school day ends faster than he’s prepared for. As promised, Danny waits for him by the bus stop down the street, where other students are also waiting. 

They don’t wait for a bus, though. Danny just meets his eyes and begins walking away, leaving Duke to follow after him, matching his pace so they can walk side by side.

The shadows in the alleyway seem to reach towards them as they walk down it. Something about it doesn’t feel right, so Duke tries to quietly use his powers and force them back. 

He only has time to think, Oh, that was a bad idea, before Danny is shoving him against the wall, getting them both out of the way as a shadow solidifies and lashes out at them. He’s kept in place by strong hands on his chest, and Danny’s eyes are glowing lightly as he hisses at the shadows, making them rear back and settle down once more. 

As if given permission to reveal themselves, more shadowy figures and strange movements in the shadows emerge, surrounding them. 

“Danny, I don’t mean to alarm you, but—”

“I know,” Danny says. “I thought you might be able to see them too. Which is not good.”

“Sorry, man, it’s not like I can turn it off.”

“It’s fine. Just be more careful. They like me because I’m like them, but you just register as a threat. Either that, or prey.”

“Great,” Duke replies weakly, “Those are my favorite things to be. Are we… are we safe to move?”

Slowly, Danny steps back, no longer pressed right against Duke. Nothing moves to attack him, but it might be due to the glare fixed on Danny’s face, eyes still glowing.

“They’ll leave me alone, so…” He reaches a hand out, looking away. The hoodie isn’t able to hide the way his cheeks go red. “Don’t let go and we’ll be fine.”

“I hope this isn’t to lead me to my doom,” Duke jokes nervously as he accepts Danny’s hand, holding it tightly. 

Danny wiggles his fingers, making him loosen his grip, and then their fingers are lacing together. Duke stares down at their hands, wide eyed, and hopes he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels. 

“Not to your doom,” Danny reassures. “Just a coffee shop I thought you’d like.”

“Well, then, lead the way!”

“Allons-y,” Danny replies. 

Stealing glances at him as they walk, ghostly figure and shadow shrinking away from them, all Duke can think is that he doesn’t need to worry about Danny being evil. His immediate instinct to protect Duke has proved that. He’ll keep the investigation going, though, to make sure Danny is safe from others that could hurt him. 

Strange and unsettling as he may be, Danny’s also a smart, kind person who deserves more.

Duke is determined to make sure he gets it.

And if he gets a crush along the way, that’s his business and his business only. 

It looks like Step Two: Befriend Danny is finally complete. He’ll figure out the other steps later. For now, he has an evening of French in a coffee shop to look forward to.

[valeriianz]

Model Student

nearly 4k of PWP crazy inspired by this and THIS super steamy art by @abyssalcryptid that seized me by the back of the neck and wouldn't let go until i caved and ;akgjkafhgaghj

CW: human au, trans Dream, words 'cunt', 'clit', and 'hole' used for Dream's bits, student/teacher relations, age gap, consenting adults, oral sex, penis-in-vagina sex.

------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, professor?”

“Hm?” 

Hob looks up from the paperwork he’d been pouring over, finding Dream Endeleas standing at the entrance to his office, and immediately forgets where he is.

Dream is leaning– draping– himself on the door frame, wearing a tiny black short sleeve button down that looks two sizes too small, tied around his firm stomach, the buttons open and revealing a lacy bra underneath. Hanging low on his hips is a dark, plaid skirt plucked straight out of a school-girl porno, and– Hob swallows roughly as his eyes trail further– stockings that travel for miles down Dream’s legs to the cute pumps on his feet.

Hob’s mouth hangs open, panting by the time he looks up again, struck down by the slow smirk Dream’s face splits into.

“Fuck me?”

Reality slams back into Hob and he vaults from his chair, causing it to roll backwards as he stomps around his desk.

“Dream!” Hob hisses, not missing the devious way the student’s eyes narrow as he casually side-steps Hob on his way to look out into the hallway before all but slamming the door shut.

“Can you not? With the door wide open?” Hob pulls the little curtain down over the window and, for good measure, flicks the lock secure.

“Something wrong?” Dream asks, coy, his low voice cutting straight through Hob.

Hob huffs, casting his eyes heavenward, praying for patience… before looking back at Dream, the devious spark in his eyes, the way his fingers lazily drag up his thighs all the way up to the lines of his stomach and dipping in between the folds of the blouse to touch the black lace hidden beneath. He arches off the wall, back bending like a bow, all while staring intently at Hob.

Hob knows no one in heaven is listening to him. He didn’t deserve any kind of holy interference for what he was doing with his student. If anything, he would be entitled to some righteous judgment.

They had been sneaking around for a while, ever since Dream came by during office hours, maybe three weeks into the semester, and unashamedly– determination flashing behind his eyes– crawled onto Hob’s desk and grabbed him by the face for their first kiss.

Hob had a feeling his student had a little crush on him, day one, if the heated glances during lecture were anything to go by. Or the way Dream would always sit in the first row, legs sprawled out wide– in jeans or a skirt– sticking the end of his pencil in his mouth, blue eyes sharp and confident and so… so alluring. 

He was a good student too, one of the best in the class. Hob had no idea how Dream managed to pay attention to the material when he himself would lose his train of thought constantly, being in the same room with the man who was ten years his junior.

Dream could see it too, surely, the way Hob would stutter or blush in his presence. Hob could always tell when a student liked him a little too much. Could see the way freshman girls would bat their eyelashes or curl their hair behind their ear with a cute smile during talks of homework or asking Hob personal questions. It wasn’t something new, and Hob was good about keeping it strictly professional and never reciprocating, even on accident.

But there was something about Dream that refused to take no for an answer. He was persistent… though he was never pushy, not in a creepy way. And unfortunately, Hob liked Dream, too. He was smitten since the student first walked into his third year lecture hall and barely made an effort to keep his interest at bay.

And, inevitably, Dream began to see the way Hob barely held himself back, leaning into Dream’s advances little by little; standing too close after all the other students had left and Dream would approach him after class, a question on his tongue that Hob knew Dream had the answer to already. Giving his smile with more and more frequency to Dream’s awful jokes and attempts at flirting… never dissuading them– but also not encouraging, just letting it be. Soon Hob found himself eagerly awaiting their alone time, even if for a moment. Finding each other at the campus cafe and naturally sitting down together to talk. That eventually moved onto meeting up off-campus, under the pretense to discuss, say, internships or Dream’s ambitions for the future… which would always devolve into personal life and get Hob talking about himself more freely.

It was a little terrifying, Hob had to admit, sleeping with a student (or were they dating?). He was putting his job on the line– his reputation– but fuck, it was so worth it. And Hob would be lying if he didn’t admit to how all the sneaking around only amplified the sex. The forbiddance of it all. Dream got a kick out of it too, Hob knew. Smug satisfaction written all over his face after each successful affair. Even playing up their roles in the bedroom and full on calling Hob “professor” instead of his name and teasing about how he could get some “extra credit.” It was ridiculous and depraved– Hob had never felt so alive, never felt like this before– falling into bed with his own student.

Despite how physical their relationship was, Hob couldn’t deny the other chemistry between them, how they’d connected emotionally– more than what happened behind closed doors. Hob felt himself looking forward to even the mundane dates with Dream, learning about his family, what his favorite food was, charmed in the way Dream would steal Hob’s clothes in the morning and wake up first to make terrible coffee. It would probably be easier if their trysts were purely physical… but Hob knew this was turning into something he couldn’t control. His heart getting in the way, as usual.

They’ve never done more than kiss in Hob’s office, though. It felt especially dangerous to fool around on campus grounds. Most of their nights spent in intimacy were at Hob’s house, sprawling Dream onto his king size bed and fucking him so hard he’d come into class the next day with a limp.

Now, however, Hob has to wonder if he’d been too lenient with Dream. Too indulgent. What else would prompt him to arrive in his office like this? Shameless and almost uncaring of anyone around.

“What if someone heard you?” Hob asks after picking his jaw off the floor.

“No one did.” Dream says simply, stepping up to Hob and tugging on his tie, his eyes low, considering. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“Didn’t sound much like a question to me.” Hob feels a grin stretch across his face despite himself.

“Mm… it wasn’t.” Dream looks up at Hob, eyes dark and wicked. His smirk sharpens as he wanders over to Hob’s desk, turning and leaning back against it.

“Come here.”

Hob swallows, and knows his fate is sealed. He can only obey, walking up to Dream as if in a daze, his eyes never leaving those crystalline blues.

Once in front of him, Dream takes off Hob’s glasses, folds them, and sets them off to the side before reaching up to kiss him. Hob gets his hands on Dream as he kisses back, matching his energy, resting them on his narrow hips and sliding them up. He gets his fingers around the knot of the blouse, working it open, his hands dipping past the fabric over his flat chest once it falls open, thumbs brushing his nipples through the lace bra.

Dream hums in satisfaction, the gorgeous purr pouring down Hob’s throat and encouraging him to push the shirt completely off.

Once the blouse hits the floor, Dream takes Hob’s hand and shoves it under his skirt.

“Oh, fuck,” Hob moans into Dream’s mouth, his hand automatically moving against the velvety warm folds of Dream’s cunt through the mesh of the stockings he wore. 

“You feel that? How wet I am for you?” Dream breathes. Their lips brush together, hot and teasing and making Hob’s head spin.

Hob presses harder, his palm rubbing and catching the friction of the material against it. Dream throws his head back with a bitten off groan, bucking up into the sensation.

Hob almost blacks out thinking about how Dream walked up here, crossing the quad, wearing nothing under this skirt but air– this flimsy excuse for fabric– dripping slick on his way to him. Leaking down his thighs and– fuck, it turns Hob on so bad. Dream knows exactly how to wind him up and it drives Hob crazy.

Hob watches– enraptured– Dream’s face as he slides his middle finger roughly into Dream’s sopping wet hole, not getting far against the tight stockings, while closing the remaining distance between them so Dream can wrap his arms around him, hiking a knee up and hooking it around Hob’s waist, thrusting inelegantly against his hand.

With his free hand, Hob takes Dream’s face, pulling him into another sloppy kiss that is mostly teeth and tongue. Hob groans, frustration coating his tone– with the sudden urge to taste him. The scent of Dream’s sex is wafting in the air between them and it’s making Hob delirious, all his focus narrowing into one singular need.

Without warning, Hob breaks off, their lips separating with a lewd smacking noise, and dropping to his knees. Dream’s protest at losing Hob’s warmth transitions to a low sound of approval as Hob plunges his face under the skirt.

Hob hears the sound of Dream’s hand slapping over his mouth, muffling his own cries of pleasure while Hob latches his mouth over the rough material of the stockings. He lays his tongue flat and grabs onto Dream’s ass, encouraging his thrusts against his face. Hob moans long and low as the scent and taste of Dream fill his every sense, closing his eyes and working his jaw and tongue exactly how he knows Dream likes. 

It’s exquisite, Hob could stay here for hours, eating Dream out. The helpless mewls that tumble past Dream’s lips encourage Hob to feast, taking what he can manage without actually getting his mouth directly where he wants it most. The thin fabric adds a delicious friction that is almost painful on Hob’s tongue, swapping between licking and sucking before he growls and bites at the mesh gently, tugging it away from Dream’s body.

“Rip it,” Dream pants, he sounds a wreck and Hob’s barely gotten started. His fingers in Hob’s hair tighten with no intention to release him.

Hob pulls the fabric again to rip a hole with his teeth, the sound of the material tearing tickles Hob’s ears. It sends goosebumps down Hob’s arms before immediately plunging his tongue inside the velvety wet heat of Dream and– yes, this is exactly what he needed, what they both needed. 

Dream howls, muffled behind his hand, and gets a leg up over Hob’s shoulder, pitching his hips forward again and again. Chasing his pleasure and wiping Hob’s brain clean of anything except Dream, Dream, Dream.

Hob gets a hand up, trailing the underside of Dream’s thigh up to his ass and gropes, pulling him with more force against his face until he knows he’s gonna have a bruise on his nose tomorrow. He can hardly breathe, but he’s moaning in delight at the absolutely unrestrained way Dream selfishly takes and takes, fucking Hob’s face with reckless abandon, getting faster and faster, more uncoordinated until–

Dream comes with a long, low wine, his hips stuttering with it and Hob unlatches his jaw to catch all the slick in his mouth, humming pleasantly, like he’s just taken a bite from an extravagant meal.

But Hob doesn’t relish in the taste for long, his own cock is throbbing in his pants and after thoroughly licking Dream out– sensing Dream’s thighs shake from the stimulation– he stands up, grabs Dream by the jaw, and kisses him. Hard and messy and Dream licks inside of his mouth like he intends to crawl inside. 

“Fuck me,” Dream reminds Hob in a puff of hot air, and Hob is all to willing to give him exactly what he wants.

Hob leans past Dream to swipe an arm over his desk, pushing things– inconsequential really– off and onto the floor in a loud clatter.

He doesn’t miss the fucked out, satisfied smirk on Dream’s face before Hob then turns him around, one hand flat on Dream’s back to push him down onto the desk. Dream goes willingly, pliant and with a breathy “Oh, yes…” muffled against the polished wood. Keeping his hand on Dream’s lower back, Hob struggles unbuckling his belt with wet, slippery fingers. 

Dream’s ass wiggles temptingly before him, distracting Hob enough to get his hand under that sinfully short skirt and fondle the flesh there, spreading one cheek out and pushing his thumb against the tight material of the stockings to get at Dream’s asshole.

Dream arches his back and pushes into Hob’s hold with a soft whine that goes straight to Hob’s cock. He’d love to fuck Dream’s ass. He presents it so willingly… but Hob is too impatient for prep. And with Dream’s cunt already slick and loose– Hob’s mind is made up.

His fingers trail down to the small slit in the stockings and tear it wider, so Dream’s entire sex is exposed, all the way up to his pretty asshole. Hob hears Dream hum in delight as he pushes his hips back expectantly.

Hob finally manages to get his cock out, his pants barely hanging onto his hips, and gives it a few strokes to take the edge off.

Dream is panting beneath him, spreading his legs, his ass out and god– Hob is obsessed. He’s probably in love too but he’s not going to think about that.

Hob slots his pelvis flush against Dream’s rear, slipping his erection in between the scant flesh there and breathes deeply, taking a moment to look down at the vision before him. Dream’s strong shoulders and slim back, the bra still hooked on with one strap threatening to slip free. His elbows bent at his sides, anticipation clear in his posture and the way his ass pushes now against Hob’s throbbing member, becoming impatient.

“Hob…” Dream’s protest is breathy, probably not as commanding as he’d anticipated but it makes Hob smile all the same, one hand roaming up Dream’s back and down again, resting his hold once more on his rear.

He gets in cock in the other hand and lines himself up with Dream’s soaked hole, almost glistening, sliding into Dream in one long, slow glide, moaning in relief and agony, because Dream is so deliriously tight.

“Fuck, baby…”

“Move,” Dream demands, but his voice sounds broken, desperate.

“So needy…” Hob grunts, sliding out and relishing in the leisurely drag. He starts at a slow pace, biting down another moan that bubbles up from his throat. “Fuck you feel incredible. You dressed like this for me?”

“Do you like it?” Dream looks over his shoulder and Hob gasps at how Dream already looks so debauched. “I was going to surprise you in class with it first– ah!” Hob smirks at the cry, having given in momentarily with a hard thrust. “But I couldn't wait that long.”

“You little shit,” Hob pants, picking up the pace. His hands are tight around Dream’s hips. “Are you gonna get changed before lecture?”

“What do you think?” The grin Dream throws over his shoulder is vicious and drives Hob absolutely mad. 

Hob can see it already, how Dream will squirm in his seat, displaying himself, immodest and shameless as he always is. How the hell is Hob supposed to focus on the lesson plan knowing how brutally he’d fucked Dream just an hour prior.

He fucks him faster. “You’re going to leave cum all over the seat.” Hob means for the words to come out admonishingly, but it sounds like a revelation in his own ears, excitement coloring his tone and it only quickened his pace, snapping his hips and tearing out a choked off cry from Dream’s lips.

“And I’m gonna spread my legs and make sure you see what you’ve done to me during the. Entire. Lecture.” Dream seizes up, his head snapping up as if on a string. “Fuck! Hob! Right there–!”

Hob nearly growls as he sets up a brutal pace. His hips pistoning as he strikes that spot in Dream again and again and again. Dream’s hands flailing to grab onto something, his nails scratching the surface of Hob’s desk while another holds onto the edge of it, his entire body bouncing with each contact. The slick slap, slap, slap coupled with Dream’s ragged, hitched breaths echo around Hob and coil deep in his gut, the tension there coiling tighter and tighter…

Hob throws his head back to stare at the ceiling, keeping himself in check as he slows, his hands clawing at the skin of Dream’s hips, holding him firm. Dream groans, despairing at the slowed pace and begins to squirm in his hold.

“Hob–”

“Oh, my sweet Dream…” Hob breathes, his voice hoarse, pitched low as he looks down again, transfixed at the sight of his cock disappearing into Dream with easy, heavy thrusts. He slips it out just so his cockhead is visible, taking himself in hand to trace around the rim of Dream’s entrance, forcing a full body shudder from the student, before easing back in.

“You take me so well,” Hob slips his hands down to get Dream’s delicious ass in his hands, pushing the skirt up over his sharp hip bones to fully put him on display. “Your body was made for me, sweet thing. So good for me.”

Dream keens under the praise, his body rolling helplessly on Hob’s cock, riding desperately for friction that Hob barely has a hold on, his arousal screaming at him to take, it nearly hurts Hob to force himself to slow down. But he wants to make this last, wants to keep Dream here, sprawled out on his desk and behaving oh so patiently until Hob can get himself back under control.

“Hob–” Dream sobs again, pushing his hips back once more and Hob pulling out just in time, denying the pleasure and Dream’s fingers claw at the desk. “Hob please–!”

It’s the please that finally makes Hob snap, he could never deny Dream for long. He wants to spoil him rotten, wants to give him everything. The revelation is enough to send Hob spiraling, how much his chest aches with the desire to do anything to keep Dream close, always. So he does, his hands sliding back to his hips and holding on as he yanks him back, spearing Dream on his cock again and again, ripping out strangled cries that get caught in Dream’s throat, finally getting what he wants and delivering it at a punishing pace.

“More, more! Oh, fuck! Hob–!”

“Shh, Dream. I got you,” Hob grunts, he watches Dream slap a hand over his mouth again. Hob’s hold is nearly slipping– Dream’s skin shines with sweat, exertion out of every pore. “So close– fuck!”

Dream is close too, Hob can feel how his walls tighten around him like he intends to pull his cock deeper inside. He reaches a hand between Dream’s legs, where they are coupled, and all it takes is a fluttering touch of Hob’s fingers against Dream’s clit and Hob knows he’s coming, his scream barely muffled behind his hand. 

Dream’s head falls, his forehead hitting the desk with a dull thunk as he desperately grinds his hips back, milking it for all it’s worth before he finally collapses, boneless, against the solid wood surface.

Hob drapes himself over Dream’s back, finally allowing himself to give in and fuck relentlessly into him over and over, his hands finding Dream’s and lacing their fingers together tightly as Hob moans into Dream’s skin, coming so hard he nearly slips out and definitely sees white for a moment there.

His thrusts turn shallow, ears attuned to Dream’s happy sighs as Hob pumps his seed into him, slow but unrelenting, even as he feels himself going soft.

“Oh, Dream. My Dream,” Hob praises, breathless, kissing up the knobs of his spine to the nape of his neck. 

“Mm… yours.” Dream’s voice rumbles like thunder, satisfied.

Hob dips his head, his damp brows touching Dream’s back as he collects himself, and remembers where they are. Shit, he really hopes no one heard them. This is why he’d made a hard rule about fucking on campus; Dream was always so vocal. And as they sit in silence, Hob realizes how loud they had been, despite Dream’s best efforts to stifle his cries.

He finally peels himself off of Dream, pulling out and his cock giving a valiant twitch of interest with the way Dream makes a pathetic sound of loss, his knees bending slightly as he properly hangs onto the desk now.

Hob’s cum immediately begins to seep down Dream’s thighs, Hob can see how it soaks into the black mesh and… lord have mercy– Hob is truly going to hell– how it drips onto the floor.

“Dream…” Hob doesn’t know what he wants to say, maybe ask Dream to sit on his face, to lap up their combined spend so he can smell it on his skin for the rest of the day. God he’s so well and truly fucked. 

Instead, he helps Dream off the desk and curls them down onto the floor, Dream seated on his lap and wrapping his arms around Hob’s shoulders.

“You keep surprising me,” Hob says, his thumb caressing the line of Dream’s jaw and up to his cheekbones. “Devious, sexy thing.”

Dream smiles and leans in to tap their noses together.

“I actually don’t want to go to class anymore.”

“No?” Hob grins. He hasn’t checked the time in a while, but he’s sure they still have maybe an hour at least.

“You should cancel it.”

Hob laughs, his arms coiling around Dream’s middle, hands moving up his back.

“I’m not going to cancel it,” he smiles at the despairing way Dream grumbles. “But how about this: you go home, get some rest, and I’ll be there after to give all my attention to you.”

Dream stares at him, his eyes searching. It’s not the first time Hob has said “home” for the both of them, indicating his own house, which of course Dream has the spare keys to. He’d like to make it their home… Hob wants Dream to think of anything of Hob's as Dream’s as well… he hopes he can convey it without being explicit… how he wants to share his life with Dream.

And wonderfully, Dream seems to understand, tipping his head forward for a kiss.

“I’ll be waiting.”

[moonlightflower-queen]

Listener bf with his info dumping gf and info dumping bf

[00fairylights00]

I Guess You Just Don’t Love Me Anymore

GIF from @glowing-starlight on Tumblr

I was so taken by @ash-arts-but-sinful's post which mentions P being jealous of the cat and @oldworldghost’s post which contains the idea of him becoming more mischievous and sassy as he becomes human that I just had to write a little something, I hope it’s alright that I drew on your thoughts for some inspiration!

As a disclaimer, I haven’t finished my first play-through yet so this is more of a character study based off of what I’ve experienced in-game and what I’ve been seeing on Tumblr instead of delving heavily into the world-building and established story that exists within the game. So hopefully no spoilers and it’s very likely that this won’t at all line up with the in-game timeline.

Big thanks to @cupidsredcollar beloved for proofreading <3 

For as long you had known Pinocchio you had never known him to be a jealous individual, in fact, when you’d first met that bleak, overcast morning in Hotel Krat you had been almost unsettled by his uncanny nature. 

His features were perfectly human, aside from the metal prosthetic he’d been fitted with. He had freckles and soft hair, a face that looked fashioned from a real person instead of the smiling caricatures Krat’s puppets were usually fitted with. 

But despite his boyish features, his face barely moved, he nodded along to Sophia as she gave him the task of locating his father, Mr. Geppetto, and tilted his head in question as Lady Antonia explained the concept of lying but his brows didn’t so much as pinch, his lips didn’t quirk and his eyes looked straight through you as you had wished him safety on his travels.

So watching in real time as he came into his own was something you cherished greatly, you continued to watch him grow and change, become something new. Pinocchio chose to spend a lot of his down time with you, he said he found you interesting, that you had a way of explaining humanity that made sense to him and over the last couple of weeks something had started to shift in him.

No, Pinocchio had never been a jealous individual, for as long as you’d known him.

Until today.

Your morning had started normally, woken up by the cool feeling of P’s lips against your forehead, human hand smoothing back your hair. He mumbled something about needing to go out, you tried to convince him to come back to bed, he tried to convince you to get up (he always wins).

P drags you down to the kitchen, you eat and he watches, something that was initially a little awkward but you’ve come to really look forward to, then you farewell each other at the rear entrance of the hotel. 

He holds you close to his chest, resting his lips to your hairline and making you promise to look after yourself and your companions while he’s away, you make him promise to be careful though you know he’s not always able to, often catching glimpses of Sophia muttering blessings and incantations under her breath in the foyer.

“It’s just Ergo hunting today, I’ll be more than careful.” He whispers, human arm winding around your shoulder. You breathe him in, hands to his chest feeling the odd sensation of his heart, not quite a tick but not quite a beat. 

You lean up to kiss against the slant of his jaw, his mechanical pulse jumping in response. He looks down at you, you catch the fondness in his blue eyes without mistake, he captures your lips in his, holding on for a second longer than he knows is necessary (it’s not like you mind though).

Lounging against the doorway, watching him walk towards the entrance of Elysion Boulevard, he turns and gives a last longing look over his shoulder before stepping through the wrought iron gates and disappearing from view.

You sigh, making your way back inside to start on your usual round of chores, helping where you could to take the load off of Polendina who needed more time to focus on Lady Antonia and her illness. You had just returned to the puppet butler for more tasks when you noticed movement on the top of the shelf behind the front desk. 

Sitting tall and proud was Hotel Krat’s resident sweetheart, Spring, tail swishing steadily as she kept watch of the foyer from her perch. The white and orange cat jumped down to the desk as she noticed you, laying down across the dark wood and turning over in gesture for belly rubs; which you gave happily. 

“She’s been very noisy today,” Polendina explained, stroking the cat, “I wonder what she’s trying to tell us?”

“Probably trying to manipulate us into giving her more treats, isn’t that right?” You accused lightly, you were sure that if he could, Polendina would be smiling. 

“There is another load of laundry that needs folding, could I have a hand?” He asked politely.

“Of course Polendina.”

And it seemed you had found yourself a shadow, Spring making an unreasonable amount of noise as she followed you and Polendina around the hotel. She wound between your legs, chirruped in response to your voices and bumped her head against whatever part of your bodies were within her reach. 

It was no surprise that Spring was loved by the inhabitants of the hotel, and it was very apparent that she loved them back, well everyone except for P. Not for lack of trying of course, he followed your advice of trying to build trust between him and the animal but she wouldn’t so much as let P touch her, hissing her disapproval for all to hear.

You’d often watch as P would recoil from Spring, the feline swiping and spitting at the puppet. You couldn’t tell from his expressions if the cat’s dislike for him bummed him out but sometimes as he lay next to you in bed he would lament quietly that Spring hated him, which would award him a sound of humoured pity and a kiss for the cheek.

It wasn’t clear what it was about P that set Spring off so aggressively. In all the time you had spent at Hotel Krat she’d never behaved in such an unfriendly way, even complete strangers who would seek refuge for short periods of time were welcome to interact with Spring freely. 

She would bask in the attention. You hoped that she would eventually come around to the puppet, given it looked like he would be around for the long haul and you just knew the two would be the best of friends if she would stop being so nasty.

But P was patient, far more patient than you were and it showed as you folded and unfolded the same piece of linen for the third time without realising, Polendina placed a gloved hand over your own, silently relieving you of duty.

“Apologies, my mind seems to be elsewhere Polendina.”

“You worry for the boy, it’s only natural that your mind wanders.” You sometimes forget how long Polendina has been around, having been a close companion of Lady Antonia’s for decades. You had a feeling he knew more about human emotions than he let on, somehow he always knew what to say when it came to your thoughts surrounding Geppetto’s Puppet. 

“I just can’t help it, and with him figuring out who he is, I fear he’ll get himself hurt by being too kind.” You wring your hands in your lap, focusing hard on the lines in your skin as you try to keep yourself from thinking of anything too awful.

“He has met humans who have given him trouble before and he has a good head on his shoulders. I would wager that you have nothing to worry about, but I understand that may not put your mind at ease.” 

“It doesn’t but thank you.” Your hand went to Polendina’s shoulder with a smile. “I think I’m going to find something else to do, try and get my mind off of things.”

Polendina nodded once, going back to folding the linens, “I’ll send the boy your way when he returns.”

You smiled in earnest, appreciative of Polendina’s knowing kindness. 

Spring, who had been lounging between you and Polendina, got up, stretching herself out and scampering over to your side. She meowed frantically to grasp your attention. 

Her interruptions continued as you made your way around the kitchen. It wasn’t particularly dirty given how little it was being used now, however, the repetitive action of wiping down the countertops and sweeping the floor were just the distraction you were looking for. 

Your ears perked up at the heavy steps of boots on marble floors, the jingle of P’s belt was something you could identify in your sleep. He stood tall in the doorway, all sweet smiles and fidgeting hands. Happy to see you, always happy to see you.

He was shockingly clean as he approached, resting his forehead to yours as his hands found their place on your waist, all the scolding about tracking oil and muck through the hotel was finally paying off.

You ran your hands over the intricate designs embossed onto the lapel of his coat, smoothing the fabric down before hooking your hands behind his neck.

“Welcome home, pretty boy.” You cooed, brushing your nose against his. 

He liked the small intimacies you shared, bunny kisses you’d come to find were a favourite of his.

“You can go and relax if you want, I’m just cleaning.” You offered, but he shook his head. 

Spring had also gotten bored of waiting on you, brushing up against your legs. So there you stood, sandwiched between your two favourite beings. 

And two shadows wouldn’t be so bad if they would stop getting under foot, you laughed as Spring and P fought for your attention while you made your way around the kitchen.

P hovered close, slinging his arm around your waist as you tried to pass him. You stopped short as he pressed his face into your neck, leaning back against his chest and resting your hands over his wrist. You could feel him smile against your skin, a careful, small smile that only he could manage.

At that moment Spring took it upon herself to jump up onto the counter in front of you, hissing and swiping at P, he scowled and pulled you closer.

“Beast,” he scowled, you gaped at P, smacking the back of your hand at his chest.

“Don’t be horrible, she’s just protecting her territory,” you chided, 

“I haven’t done anything to her, yet she spits at me.” He complained, you thought your ears might be playing tricks on you at the distinct sound of a whine in his tone.

“You love her.” You reminded smugly, a truth he was unable to escape.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” he mumbled, you pushed against his hold, trying to signal your want to move and he hesitantly loosened his grip. Hand ghosting over your waist as he watched you go, you threw a smile over your shoulder which he returned in kind.

You gave Spring a kiss on the head, letting her nuzzle her face against yours before scooping her up and putting her down on the floor where she went back to curling around your legs.

“Ah, so the cat gets a kiss but I don’t?” P asked. You snorted, flinging the rag you’d been using to polish the countertops over your shoulder.

You lent your hip against the counter and crossed your arms over your chest, “you never asked for a kiss, how was I supposed to know that’s what you wanted?”

“I feel like it was obvious.” He placed both of his hands on the counter, stretching his arms out straight as he pushed against the granite. 

You rolled your eyes in jest, unable to keep the fond smile from creeping onto your face, playfully exasperated you closed the short distance between the two of you. Lifting up on your tip-toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, he was quick to move his head once you’d pulled back. Hands to your waist and pulling you against him, sealing his lips to yours so quickly it pulled a sound of shock from your throat.

“What’s up with you today, you’ve been awfully touchy.” You teased, twisting the ends of his hair between your fingers. “Not that I’m complaining of course.”

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead tenderly. 

“I missed you too, always miss you when you’re gone.” You placed a hand on his cheek, thumb rubbing gently under his eye.

He pulled the rag from your shoulder and threw it behind you unceremoniously, taking your hand from his cheek to drag you out of the kitchen, a laugh bubbled out of your throat that P was happy to mischievously return.

He led you to the library, seating you at the piano and turning away to rifle through the sheet music stacked in a crate on the floor. He’d been getting better day by day. 

His body wasn’t exactly built to do delicate actions but that never seemed to stop him, in fact, he was inexplicably drawn to all the soft parts of being human even if initially he was afraid to get it wrong. The last thing he’d ever want to do is hurt anyone close to him and for that reason he was acutely aware of the raw strength he possessed.

Though his conscious effort to be gentle made all the difference.

Spring decided she’d had enough of being ignored, jumping up onto the piano bench and brushing up against you, pressing close and then curling down next to you. P turned around, the particular book of sheet music he was searching for held up in his hand, his expression dropped almost comically as he noticed Spring’s position next to you, taking up what was going to be his spot.

“Move her,” he says simply, you throw your head back with a hearty laugh but P’s serious expression doesn’t change.

“No,” you start with a laugh, “Spring got here first, you’ll have to pull up a chair.”

P continued to stand his ground, you wondered if he hoped his very presence would annoy Spring enough that she’d disappear of her own accord, but the cat only opened one eye. She regarded P from her curled up position before nestling her chin back down into her tail. 

It was like Spring knew she was in his spot and was smugly showing off to him, purring loudly.

“P, I’m not moving the cat. Just come and sit on the other side of me.” You insisted, watching as his unappreciated love for the animal won out and he stalked off to get a chair. You chuckled under your breath and passed your fingers through Spring’s soft fur.

“You are so mean to him, you know? He’s quite fond of you and I think you two would be very good friends if you gave him the chance.” You whispered to the cat who ignored you, continuing to purr unabashedly.

Unbeknownst to you, P watched your interaction with the feline from the doorway, his chest feeling warm in a way he wasn’t quite used to yet. Touched by your words that you thought were falling on deaf ears.

He gave in to your fondness for the cat, pulling his chair up next to you, fingers gently flitting across the keys as you hummed softly, head resting comfortably on his shoulder. He decided he didn’t mind this so much.

Late in the evening, however, he decided he did mind. 

You were curled up in your bed a book in hand and Spring dozing lazily in your lap, he entered the room and his shoulders physically dropped.

“What’s the matter?” You asked, thumb placed between the pages of your book as a makeshift bookmark. 

“Nothing,” he mumbled, sitting down unceremoniously on the edge of your bed to take off his shoes.

You placed the now forgotten book on your bedside cabinet, the act of sitting up a little difficult with the cat in your lap. You reached for his shoulder but he shrugged off your hand, trying to hide the action by stripping off his coat.

He stood and draped the coat over the back of your desk chair and moved to unbutton his waistcoat, all while staring down Spring with a scowl.

It clicked.

“Are you jealous of the cat?” You wanted deeply to believe that your Pinocchio was not jealous of a cat, but you couldn’t come up with a more sound explanation.

“I don’t know what that word means.” He lied, avoiding your gaze entirely, unbuckling his belt and dumping it on the desk, Gemini didn’t say anything so you assumed he mustn’t be awake.

“Yes you do,” you rolled your eyes, “I remember very clearly the conversation we had about it.” 

He didn’t respond, turning his back to you and focusing his attention on rifling through the dresser drawer full of his clothes. The sleep clothes he was looking for were folded at the end of the bed.

“It’s okay that you’re jealous of-”

“I am not jealous.” Quick, concise and with no room for argument, he spun back on you. His snapping didn’t phase you.

“Uh huh,” you teased with a smirk, turning all your attention back to Spring who’d been ignoring your exchange.

Perhaps what you were doing was a little mean, given that before you hadn’t been ignoring him on purpose, but it was too fun an opportunity to pass up. P let out a disgruntled huff, shuffling around in your peripheral.

“I guess you just don’t love me anymore.” He offered with his arms crossed over his chest, your jaw dropped and a shocked laugh fell out of your open mouth.

“You take that back, immediately!” You snapped playfully, sitting up fully and annoying the cat enough for her to get up and move.

“Make me.” The challenge he’d levied would mean conceding to his childish behaviour but after all he’d been through, you thought it only fair. 

You pulled the sheets back and stood from the bed, crossing the room to him. He tried to act as though he was uninterested, tried to pretend that your hands on his chest didn’t affect him, tried to ignore the speed of his heart as it hammered under your palm.

Your hands travelled the beaten path they always did, from his chest to his collarbone, then hooking behind his neck. Trying to pull him down was useless, like trying to topple a brick wall with bare hands, but you caught him staring out of the corner of his eye.

“Look at me.” Your whisper was a command, and he had always been faithful to a fault. “I love you.”

He tried to hide the oncoming smile, dropping his chin to his chest, but you were quick to guide his gaze back to yours. There was no way you’d be missing that careful grin. His eyes were soft and gentle when they met your own, there was hesitance in them that you didn’t want to see, so you kissed him.

He melted against you, arms winding around your back and pulling you against his chest, you hummed and he couldn’t stop the full blown grin from forming on his lips; breaking away to look at you like a giddy school boy.

“Are you going to take it back?” You asked, brushing your nose against his in a bunny kiss. 

“Will I still get to kiss you if I do?” He joked, you rolled your eyes albeit in good nature, hands cradling his cheeks as he continued to smile.

“I think that can be arranged,” you mused, leaning in to kiss him again, the two of you falling into familiar rhythm with one another.

Spring slinked out of the partially open door, tail held high, she had seen more than enough.

[pyrotation]

i am not immune to shipping my two favs together... hello bushfire people

[aleksanderscult]

It is also a teeny bit weird to make Zoya being prettier and thus a more ideal sun summoner be set up as thing to be proven wrong in the beginning but then Zoya actually becomes the Queen with lots of focus on how gorgeous she is and Alina fades into obscurity and wears old shawls.

I mean yeah.

Because apparently one of the messages this trilogy wanted to pass was how nothing is what it seems. Alina is not weak but very powerful, she just doesn't know it. Aleksander is not a man to be trusted but a selfish, power-hungry bastard, except Alina doesn't realize it until it was too late (*inserting dramatic tones if you didn't notice*).

Normally, Zoya wouldn't get that much spotlight. But, alas, Bardugo has said many times that she's one of her most favorite characters so she was bound to become important. A Squaller (among hundreds) became important by becoming a Saint as well.

Saints in the Grishaverse normally have very distinct, unusual powers. Alina had her light, Aleksander his shadows, Elizaveta's Materialki powers manifested themselves through her ability to control nature while Ilya didn't allow his powers to be restricted at all (he was both a Healer and a Durast as well as an inventor). Plus, they get martyred and Zoya is...well....alive.

Her push to the spotlight was, for me, too forced while, at the same time, the author tried to remove Alina's presence (as if she wasn't the main character for three books straight that the antagonist fell in love with and his plans revolved around her). Whether someone likes Alina or not, we have to admit that it's not going to be the same without her on the front. The story doesn't really make sense without her. It's like removing Harry Potter from his own books.

And it seems that whether Alina has powers or not, she stays hidden. And Zoya got what she wanted all along: the spotlight.

[reinedeslys-central]

more!! again!! for the nico after blood of olympus fic!! actually I thought of this while writing the last one but I just finished it.

His elbows buckle and he lets himself fall into Will, snorting at his theatrical groan under the weight. They lay there for a second until Will shoves him gently, and Nico lets him manoeuvre them into a more comfortable position.

"Hi," he whispers, moving a curl away from his cheek. The greenish tint of the loft window casts a weird shadow over Will's face.

"Hey yourself," Will murmurs back, winking.

Nico rolls his eyes. "You look like Apollo when you do that. Please stop." Will squawks in protest.

"I do not! Also, since when do you remember what Apollo looks like? Actually, no, don't answer that, you can't bring up my dad while we're in bed, Nico, why would you do this to me?"

Now it's Nico's turn to sputter and whack Will in the chest - getting another dramatic oof and a laugh in return - before turning around to face Hazel's bed. He's not sure when he'll ever be able to sleep facing the wall. Will can't do it either.

As Will's arms curl around his waist and draw him back against him, just like they did back in the infirmary that one day, he thinks maybe he'd be okay trying that with him sometime. One day, in a house with gates, no longer wary of monsters.

Will noses the back of his neck, causing him to twitch. "What is it?"

Will's answering smile presses through the rough cotton of his t-shirt. "Nothing, sunshine."

Nico frowns under the covers. "Hey, what do you think of houses with gates?" He whispers.

"Gates? Well, it'd be safer, I guess, but we'd lose the neighbours coming over -"

"As if you want to see random people at the door anyway. What if they're monsters?"

"Oh, come on, darlin', I'm from Austin. Of course I gotta keep space for the neighbours to come knocking."

"…Fences? Actually, hey, why'd you assume I was talking about us? Obviously - Obviously I was talking about random. Random houses. For architecture reasons."

Will muffles his laugh into the back of his neck, again. "Oh, my bad. And I'm only here because you ripped a stitch on the lava wall yesterday."

Nico feels his ears warm.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"..Still."

Will reels him in closer until his back hits his chest and he can press a soft peck to Nico's still-red ears. "I think a fence is a great idea, by the way. We could ask Hazel for help with some ward stones too, like you have in the cabin. Gotta make sure we've got at least one window and standing space in every direction, though, or at least in the east, because you know my dad would sulk if he didn't get to scream me awake in the morning."

Nico's blush gets worse.

"Now who's talking about your dad in bed?" He gives up on pretending. Will sees him through every time, anyway. "Also, shrines, obviously, and we need a spot to stargaze."

"Yeah, shrines, obviously. Maybe just yours, mine, and Lady Hestia's though, or else everyone else is gonna get pissy."

Nico barks out a laugh like it's shocked out of him. "Pissy? Don't let them hear you say that."

Will holds him tighter and settles against the pillows. "Sure thing, sunshine. Now can we sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah."

It's not long after that that Will's breath evens out behind him, his muscles untensing. Nico knows he's got a few minutes yet, so he thinks.

Today was…. good.

Today was nice. Normal, even. Just a day of camp schedules, working in the infirmary, an admittedly short campfire, and this. No monsters, and no mistakes. No deaths, but..

Unbidden, the moments in the infirmary come to mind. He thinks of helping Will scrub in for his one surgery of the day, a kid that had gotten parts of an arrow stuck in their leg a week ago and hadn't noticed til yesterday. He thinks of yesterday during capture-the-flag, stepping in and desperately trying to copy what he'd watched Will do, because Lydia was hanging crooked from a tree and there was no one else around but him-

He thinks of Patroclus tying the straps of Achilles' armour, watching his lover sleep peacefully. He thinks of what Connor had told him about at the campfire weeks ago, of Silena Beauregard taking on a drakon when Clarisse declared the Ares Cabin wouldn't be fighting.

He thinks he might understand.

Lydia wasn't the same (thank the gods), but if there was something to be done that only Will could do right, yet couldn't, and the only way Nico could take up his mantle would be to die trying - then, yeah. He'd do whatever it would take for these kids. To do what Will would do. He's gone to Tartarus already, hasn't he? At worst, he'd try his best and greet his father early if he failed to survive. Nico could even give Charon a tip on the way in for the hell of it, why not?

If there is a luxury that comes from being a child of Hades, after all, it is that dying is not the thing that scares him.

There's a brazier still lit outside the window. Its glow falls in slits across their bed.

Will grumbles, pushing his feet forward until their ankles are wound together. The sheets shift.

Nico smiles into the dark, into the chirping of crickets and the soft glow of the fireflies out the window, and falls asleep.

more for this fic:

scene 0 - prologue-ish scene 1 - the library of social awkwardness or here (or in my heart, 'kidney function is not a right, it's a privilege' lol)

general writing directory

also lmk if you want more lore. I am so down to talk about this fic + the worldbuilding ideas I have for it in the notes it is unreal

[cynnkk]

bathin is your calm, introspective, lonely traveller, who does his job diligently but takes every opportunity to roam around freely and seek to see all the beauty that hell and earth have to offer.

a quiet soul but has the stars in his eyes, the world on his mind and you in his heart.

a moon lover, he whisks you away anytime the chance presents itself to a more secluded area to tell you about all the constellations you'll see under the bright night sky. as a matter of fact, there's no one who knows more about the topic than him: he knows the best places in hell to go stargazing and you'll be there to soak it all in, while he watches you with admiration and devotion.

his love languages are quality time, acts of service and gift giving: looking at the stars together, in complete silence and him gifting you his precious moon earrings. he loves you so much.

just like planets around stars, you become the entity he orbits around. he's loving, loyal, reliable, with a glint in his eyes that shows his inner playful side.

a sensitive being with a lot to give but very reserved himself, too many not ready to hear him, to truly see him, until he met you, the love his life, his moon.

the earth's satellite could disappear anytime but his love for you never wavers. you are the north star he follows for guidance, the personification of the moon he cherishes so much and he'll be there for you, until every single star in the universe stops shining.

[psychologicalwarclaire]

10 for Rise. Gimme warcrimes duo >:]

Donnie didn't realize just how much Witchtown hated him until he wound up in front of the majority of the town at Hidden City court.

Witches of all kinds shouted over each other, listing crimes that Donnie most definitely had NOT committed.

"--trampled my mushrooms!"

"--released the kraken into our town fountain!"

"--totally demolished my self esteem!"

"--ATE MY CAT!!!"

"-- and destroyed the statue of our great founder!"

Okay that one he actually had done. In his defense, he hadn't meant to blast it with his tech bo. Defense, however, was something he was missing.

He glanced over at the judge. "I don't know how Hidden City trials work but isn't there supposed to be someone on my side? I mean, ahem, with my superb knowledge of everything I could absolutely provide my own defense but, uhm..." I don't really want to do this all on my own, he finished in his head.

All of Donnie's knowledge of courtroom proceedings came from a show he and Raph used to watch together. Raph loved watching the good guys solve crimes and fight bad guys. Donnie loved the mysteries and collection of evidence. Neither of them found the legal stuff super interesting, so they'd discussed the real life logistics of the crime (whether Donnie could commit it, whether Raph could catch him, and how they'd avoid getting caught) during those scenes. Donnie wished he'd payed more attention.

The doors flew open with a BANG.

"PURPLE TURTLE!" Casey Jones yelled. "I AM HERE TO PROVE YOUR INNOCENCE!"

Donnie blinked.

The jury all looked at each other like she'd made a brilliant point, muttering and nodding along.

The judge stroked his beard. "Good entrance. One point to the defense."

There were very few times that Donnie didn't have at least SOME idea of what was happening. Now was, unfortunately, one of those times.

Casey seemed to appear right next to him. "SO! Got yourself in trouble with Witchtown, eh?"

Flustered, Donnie could only think to say, "I didn't do it! Their accusations are entirely--"

"HEY! That's MY job!" She cleared her throat. "As I was saying, Witchtown is tough, but I'm tougher! You're lucky I took this case, otherwise you would already be rotting in Hidden City prison."

"I-- Casey why are you a lawyer in the Hidden City?" Things were spiraling entirely out of control.

Casey grinned her insane grin. "I love yelling, fighting, arguing, squabbling, debating, etc. Passing the exam was super easy, too! The laws here aren't any more complicated than the Foot Clan laws. You know, normally I'm on the offensive. But I am Hamato Clan now! I WILL NOT BETRAY MY CLAN!"

Donnie couldn't help but be impressed. "Huh. What a strangely fitting career choice for you."

"INDEED! And the lawyer to politician pipeline is extremely fast. I shall build my way up to becoming a mayor, senator, and eventually I shall be the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! Junior has already signed on to be my vice president. Our slogan is either going to be: 'Jones and Jones: we'll feast on your bones' OR 'Vote Jones squared and your lives will be spared'. Catchy right?"

Donnie's mind was already buzzing with how his Genius Built brand could be expanded by personally knowing the president. "Casey," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, "I will personally help fund your presidential campaign."

"Excellent! Now, we are in the middle of court so we can discuss that later."

"Oh yeah." Donnie had actually forgotten that he was literally on trial. Casey has the effect of being extremely distracting. "I need to tell you my alibi and--"

"Pffft, no need. What kind of court do you think this is?" Casey cracked her neck, and stretched her arms above her head.

The judge banged his gavel, which sent a shockwave across the room. The ground rumbled and the seats all slid back to open up a wide space in front of the stand. "We are now in session. Let prosecutor Gilby Gilbert of Witchtown and defendant Casey Jones of the Hamato Clan enter the ring."

The what?!

Gilby Gilbert, whom Donnie vaguely recognized from the Witchtown episode leapt into the ring. "That turtle is GUILTY!"

With a running leap, Casey Jones flipped into the ring and kicked him squarely in the chest. "Mr Hamato is more innocent than you and your corrupted, black market, embezzling town will ever be!"

The jury gasped.

"Flair, solid hit, AND a plot twist! Three more points to the defense!" the judge ruled.

Donnie was now very glad he had not been the one to plead (punch?) his own case.

"Turtle boy is against everything we stand for!" Gilby choked from inside a headlock.

"Since your treasury records show illegal trade with criminals AND many Witchtown officials who have been pocketing those funds, I'd say it's a good thing that Mr Hamato stands against you, you LOWLIFE!" Casey released the headlock, only to kick her opponent to the ground and curb stomp him.

Donnie was no longer worried.

In fact, as he watched Casey continue to kick Gilby (who had curled into a ball), he actually smiled. Perhaps the answer to science vs magic was brute force.

He had decided that when this trial was over and he and Casey had officially won, he was going to make her a fashionable Genius Built lawyer suit. He'd make it easily torn away to give her more points in style.

It was the least he could do.

[wantonlywindswept]

👀

<3

post-order 66 identity fuckery au because vader decides he misses rex. he can't have rex, but he does have that clone who rex always spoke of with grudging fondness and who cody often compared rex's personality to and--

that's close enough, right?

---

CC-1010 doesn't know why he says it, probably due to his impending death, but he's gotten Vader's attention off of the troopers that fired on him and solely focused on him, and he can march on entirely happy with that.

So maybe something in his brain misfires, because he feels Vader's invisible grip around his throat and something angry and petty and cruel rears up in him and he spits,

"He would be fucking ashamed of you."

And 1010 doesn't. Actually know exactly who he's talking about? Entirely? But he knows it hits because Vader freezes and then Vader roars, and instead of being choked to death or his neck snapped or his head separated from his body, 1010 hits the wall again and again and again and--

1010 wakes up.

He's a little surprised.

He doesn't entirely remember why he's surprised.

He doesn't...remember a lot, actually. 

But he wakes up, and he's in a set of officer's quarters (seems right), with the hum of machinery telling him he's on a starship (seems wrong). His throat's as dry as Geonosian dust but when he stumbles blearily into the fresher to get a drink, a jolt of electricity zips up his spine when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. 

(Wrong wrong wrong wrong--)

1010 runs a palm over his light-colored hair with a frown. The ends are short and prickly, like he'd only just buzzed it. It matches with his face--mostly unscarred, devoid of any tattoos--and it looks familiar, but the perspective seems off, somehow, like the angle of viewing is wrong (wrong wrong wrong). 

But 1010 just shrugs, and turns on the water to drink straight from the tap. He's pretty sure that he's used to everything being Wrong.

He's wiping his mouth on a towel when the door of his quarters opens--

catches sight of black armor and feels fear anger terror hate fear fear fear

--and steps out of the fresher to snap to attention, adrenaline kicking through his veins.

"Sir," he salutes crisply.

Darth Vader watches him, silently. Tilts his death's head like a hunting bird eyeing its prey. 

"At ease, Captain."

1010 blinks.

He's pretty sure he was a commander. Was he demoted?

But now that he thinks about it, he can't really remember his last posting. He knows that he was in charge of other clones, in a position to give orders, and that was well within the duties of a Captain. 

Besides, it's not like Darth Vader could be wrong.

"Are you well enough for duty?" Vader asks. He gestures toward the armor rack in the corner, which holds a set of plastoid lined in royal blue. The colors and markings are familiar enough, even if 1010 thinks it would look better in red.

1010 mentally checks himself over: besides the lingering feeling of Wrongness, his body is entirely free of pain. It seems novel, for some reason. 

"Yessir."

"That's good, Rex," Vader says, voice oddly cautious. "Get geared up, and we'll go to the command deck."

Rex, 1010 thinks. He recognizes the name, fondness curling in his chest at the sound of it. It's a good name. 

Rex nods easily, which makes Vader relax.

He crosses over to his armor and pulls the jaig-eyes helmet over his head.