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soft-beams · 3 days ago
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soft-beams' masterlist ✨️
arcane:
vi
piercer!vi: 1 - 2 - 3
gym crush!vi
vi + reader working out together
vi giving reader kisses during sit-ups
gym crush!vi headcanons 1 - 2
teen!vi
teen!vi has a crush on you
teen!vi who swears like a sailor but never around you
teen!vi + reader's first date
teen!vi + girly girl!reader
teen!vi seeing your breasts for the first time
teen!vi who sees sevika as butch inspiration
teen!vi works out just so she can carry you
reader dies and vi mourns: 1 - 2
vi's obsession with your tits
vi randomly grabbing your chest for support
vi loves your tits, she's kind of obsessed
vi grabbing your tits (again)
streamer!vi headcanons
telepathic!vi + reader: 1 - 2
random vi + reader fics
you say you feel like an orange, vi says she feels like an apple
ekko paints a portrait of you (parallel universe where reader dies instead of vi)
you tell vi how much the internet loves her; she's amused
you sing juno and vi's hypnotised
vi comforts you after a nightmare
delinquent!vi headcanons
vi discovers your obsession with her back
vi believes she's hallucinating you after a break-up
sneaky link!vi headcanons
vi loves being your girlfriend more than anything
you leave scratchmarks down vi's back (she loves them)
you get a tramp stamp of vi's name (she loves it)
vi calls you sweetheart for the first time
college roomate!vi + nursing student!reader; vi allows you to use her for anatomy practice
boxer!reader + vi
vi tells you caitlyn wants her to join the enforcers + 2 (ft caitvi)
nsfw vi + reader fics
sometimes she just wants to feel you
teen!vi who coaches you on how to touch yourself
vi + reader with a praise kink
you take vi's strap for the first time
caitvi + reader
caitlyn learns something new
caitlyn returns home to you from the undercity
vampire!reader + caitvi
seemingly unrequited!caitvi + reader
you and vi are menaces and caitlyn is amused
caitlyn's nervous and you're there to help
caitlyn + reader
caitlyn won't lose you, she can't lose you (you fight ambessa instead of caitlyn)
caitlyn has you as a pre-dinner treat (nsfw)
jinx + reader
jinx is scared to lose you after isha dies - 2
jinx asks for isha's permission to date you, her older sister
you sacrifice yourself so jinx doesn't have to (season 2 ending)
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littlcdarlin · 2 days ago
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My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise
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part 1 | part 2 | part 3 || read on AO3
summary: Reader goes on a beach vacation with Joel after her father breaks his leg. tags: daddy kink, big age gap (Joel is 49, reader is 23), dbf!Joel, Joel has a lovely belly, Joel is a little mean, praise kink, Joel calls reader "kid", unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, sexual tension, blow jobs, smut with a little bit of plot, no use of Y/N, afab!reader, reader has hair (will add more as I add more parts)
note: The devil works fast but I work faster. New multi chapter smut fic inspired by those damn new Pedro pics in the works…enjoy part 1! I haven't planned all of the smut scenes, so if you have any requests for specific kinks/scenes, do let me know!
He’s dead fucking wrong. You love your father, enough to not immediately say no, but he’s wrong. It’s true you could use a girls’ trip, perhaps even a couple of days out of town with your Dad, and he’s not entirely off about university being the death of you, kiddo – you’ve spent one too many nights inhaling coffee and cramming for your finals. The idea of an all-inclusive trip is tempting, given the fact that all you manage to eat these days is pasta and store-bought pesto, if that.
Nevertheless, you need to keep studying, there’s less than two weeks left until your exams, and although the trip is only a couple of days, you don’t know Joel.
Sure, you’ve been to his barbecues, and he let you use his bike one year when yours was stolen and your Dad refused to buy you a new one, because you should have locked it up in the first place. You know how he patched up your Dad after the divorce – you never worried about your mother, who was heartbroken, but able to talk about it to her family and friends. Your Dad was the one you spent sleepless nights over. The way the beer bottles accumulated in his garage, how distant he seemed on the phone. You know it was Joel who looked after him, made sure he left the house and had anything edible inside it. You’re grateful for it, you are, but you don’t really know him. For most of your life, he has been a friendly smile and wave over a fence, and you’re shy around people you know much better than the occasional hey kid, you back for the summer? or if you see your Dad, tell him I borrowed his screwdriver, I’ll put it back tomorrow.
You do feel slightly guilty your Dad can’t go on his trip. He broke his leg, and although it’s not entirely your fault he slipped, you had been the one to mop the stairs right before the accident. As much as your Dad was looking forward to his vacation, after a week he had to admit a beach holiday would be little fun with a whole leg in plaster.
You sigh, staring at your phone screen, tapping on it every once in a while to keep it from turning black. He’s expecting an answer soon, you know he is. Who the hell books non-refundable trips anyway? When you get the time, you’ll need to tell him about a lovely invention that is insurance.
You glance over at the stack of unfinished coursework on your desk, your laptop taunting you with its quiet – no responses to the millions of job applications you have sent out have come through. At this rate, you’ll be jobless in a couple of months, when you finish your degree. You’ll have to live with either of your parents forever, no money for any sort of vacation whatsoever.
"Oh, screw it,“ you mutter, unlocking your phone, and typing quickly.
I’ll do it. Only because my A+ cleaning is the reason you can’t go. Tell Joel to bring something to read, I need to study.
***
"It’d be a shame if it went to waste, kiddo, I’m glad you’re doing this.“
"Yeah,“ you answer, thinking of the endless powerpoint slides you haven’t even looked at yet. "Maybe studying at the beach works wonders.“
There’s a knock on the door, and you move to open it, your Dad chained to his chair by his broken leg. You’re not particularly excited about the smalltalk you’ll have to make with your Dad’s friend, but if you remember correctly, Joel is as much the quiet type as you are, and might actually appreciate your studying. Great, you think, at least one of us will enjoy it, then.
When you open the door, the first thing that strikes you is how hard you find it to envision Joel at the beach – he’s all mountains and trees to you, with his lumberjack boots and flannel shirt. His smile is friendly, and only gains warmth when he notices the critical look you give his outfit.
"I know,“ he says, voice deep and quiet, "I’m king of dressing for the occasion.“
You grin, and open the door wider.
"Come on in. Dad’s in the living room. What’s with the…uh…“
Your voice trails off, as you gesture towards his distinctly un-vacationy clothes.
"Thought you might bail,“ Joel answers easily, stepping into the house. "Can’t imagine you’re overly thrilled about this.“
You think about denying it, but this is your chance to come clean about how you would much prefer keeping to yourself and preparing for your finals, so you sigh.
"Well, it’s kinda my fault Dad was, like, almost paralyzed from the neck down, so I figured the least I could do was not let his trip go to waste. I’ve got finals in two weeks, so the timing is…suboptimal.“
"Yeah, your Dad said. I brought reading material, so I won’t bother you too much.“
He’s easy, you realize. Easy to talk to, and easy to accept your reluctance to bond with an almost-stranger, quick to make you feel comfortable by hinting at that boundary. You smile back, and are struck by how he holds your eye contact until you break it yourself, nodding towards your suitcase.
"Think this will fit inside the car?“
"Sure,“ he answers, "I’ve got a Bronco.“
You have no idea what that means, but you assume it’s a good thing, so you smile vaguely.
"It’s an SUV,“ Joel explains with a hint of good-natured amusement in his voice.
"Right,“ you say, attempting to overplay your obvious lack in car-knowledge, "SUV. One of the big ones.“
It makes Joel smile again, and you notice the wrinkles around his eyes that make his face look all sunny. 
"Yeah,“ he says. "One of the big ones.“
You lead him into the living room to say good-bye to your Dad, who’s expression is a weird mixture of sombre and excited at the sight of his daughter and best friend getting ready to drive to the airport.
"Take care of her, Joel,“ he says, when you’re getting ready to leave.
"Don’t worry,“ Joel answers with a pat to your father’s arm. "I’ve got her.“
"I’m twenty-three,“ you remind your father, "I’ve done more dangerous things than a trip to the beach.“
"Yeah, but you’re still my little girl,“ he answers with a smile, squeezing your hand. You squeeze back, though his comment irritates you.
"See ya, Dad. Call me if something’s wrong with your leg, alright?“
"Sure, kiddo. Have fun, you two, and bring me a seashell.“
Joel grins at the open envy on your Dad’s face.
"We’ll go on another trip next year,“ he says in an attempt to cheer him up.
"Yeah, yeah,“ your Dad answers, glancing at his watch. "Better get going, or you’ll miss the flight.“
"We’ll be fine, Joel’s got a fast car,“ you argue, "A Bronco. That’s an SUV.“
Joel snorts.
***
Joel lets you take the window seat and plops down next to you, legs slightly spread so as to fit into the little space the two of you have. His leg nudges yours, and he pulls it back immediately, though you can see how uncomfortable it must be with his knees pressing into the seat in front of him. You move your legs towards the window with a glance at Joel, who looks grateful and is able to relax his muscles into a more comfortable position without invading your space.
"Thanks,“ he mutters, "Fucking hate flying.“
So do you, though not because you’re too big to fit into the space, and not because you’re afraid – mostly because it’s boring. Sure, takeoff is exciting, but you get nauseous from watching movies and the plane is much too loud to really enjoy your music the way you would lying on your bed at home. You could study, you suppose, but you tell yourself you wouldn’t be able to concentrate and kick your backpack further under your seat. Joel notices and chuckles.
"Finals, huh? You almost done with your degree?“
You can’t imagine him finding your boring university struggles interesting, but you’re not exactly fantastic at smalltalk, so you take the conversation he’s offering you.
"I’ve got one more year, but I’ve got to do a six month internship, and write my thesis, so yeah, this is, like, the last of my regular classes and exams.“
"You enjoy it?“
The question is strikingly honest, like he really wants to know, like it’s fine if you don’t. You look at him, his eyes already on your face, and for a second you think how handsome he is. You didn’t notice before, when he was just the owner of a bike you could conveniently borrow, when life was all skinned knees and staying up till sun-down. Now, he looks like an equal, like someone who wants to know about your life, someone you want to know about yourself. The change is a little unsettling, but thrilling. You realize you haven’t answered him, so you clear your throat.
"Sure, it’s alright. Not what I would have done if money didn’t matter, but it does, so…I can be content with it.“
Joel considers this, eyes still lingering on your face, as the plane starts speeding up for takeoff.
"What would you do if money didn’t matter?“
You shrug, and smile to yourself.
"Creative writing, maybe. Or English lit.“
"You always were the smart one in your family,“ Joel answers with a chuckle.
You glance at him, and feel a pang of something warm in your stomach as he compliments you. When the plane takes off, you look out of the window, but get the feeling Joel’s eyes keep looking at you. It makes your skin prickle, though not at all unpleasantly.
***
You get to the hotel when the sun is high in the sky, burning the top of your head and making you long for a shower and an ice-cold coke. Joel courteously carries your suitcase and although you don’t want to inconvenience him, you don’t mind the way his muscles bulge under the weight, arms straining against the navy shirt he had underneath his flannel. You wonder how he’s not suffocating in the heat, wearing his thick jeans and boots.
When you get to the front desk, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, searching for his reservation details with furrowed brows. You smile when you notice he uses two hands to scroll. It takes him a couple of minutes, cursing under his breath, and you smile at the lady, who smiles back, patiently waiting for Joel to find the right email.
"Sorry,“ you say to her, and try to catch a glimpse at Joel’s phone, so as to figure out what’s taking him so long. "Need some help?“
He throws you an offended look that makes you grin, and finally shows the lady his phone. She smiles, types something into her computer and gets out two room keys.
"Go easy on your Daddy, it’s easier when you grew up with the internet,“ she says, handing you each a keycard. You feel Joel stiffen beside you, and your stomach flutters.
"Here’s your keycards, you’re on the third floor. Enjoy your stay!“
"Thanks,“ Joel mumbles, taking the cards and handing them to you, before grabbing the two suitcases. He huffs, when you walk around a corner and towards the elevators.
"She was makin’ fun of me,“ he says accusingly when the lady is out of earshot, as if that would be your fault. You snort, all of a sudden feeling giddy at the prospect of being at the beach soon, your holiday only a couple of minutes away.
"I don’t think so, she was trying to help you by blaming your incompetence on your age,“ you say, Joel looking at you like he can’t believe what you said.
"Sorry.“ Your voice is quivering with amusement at how offended he is. "Daddy.“
That makes him clear his throat, and if your eyes aren’t playing a trick on you, his cheeks turn a shade darker. Bingo.
"Don’t say shit like that,“ Joel grumbles, "’M not that old.“
"How old are you, then?“
"Why?“, he asks, eyes meeting yours, and suddenly you’re the one blushing, your stomach swirling with something you definitely should not be feeling for your Dad’s best friend. Joel shakes his head. "Don’t start something neither of us can finish, kid.“
It’s just an offhand-comment about the way you jokingly flirted, but you feel all bashful all of a sudden. His mention of there being something to potentially start, the fact that the possibility even crossed his mind…when you look up at him again and watch him press a button on the elevator, you study the grey patches in his beard, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches as you’re waiting, his thick fingers drumming against the handle of his suitcase. It’s not what you expected to happen, but Joel’s got you intrigued.
***
You both agree to take a shower, get settled in and meet outside the rooms in half an hour – they’re neighboring, so it’s not far. You’re too lazy to properly unpack, so you just grab a bikini and a comfortable white sundress to change into after your shower. The water is welcome on your skin, washing away the grit and sweat of the hours spent on the plane, and you feel like a new person when you step out of the bathroom. You put on sandals and a pair of sunglasses, grab sunscreen, your books and notes for class, and a bottle of water, and throw it all into your beach bag, then head for the door. Joel is already waiting for you, leaning against the wall opposite your door wearing a different shirt, red swimming trunks and dark sunglasses. He’s got a towel thrown over his shoulder and you grin.
"Raw-dogging the beach?“, you ask, which makes him furrow his brows.
"The hell does that mean?“
You snort at his obvious annoyance at your innuendo.
"It means you’re only bringing a towel, nothing to entertain yourself with,“ you explain, gesturing towards your bag. Joel shakes his head, still frowning.
"I’m going to the beach, not the library,“ he answers, and starts walking towards the elevators, his flip-flops making their soft sound on the floor. Your gaze flickers down towards his legs, his swimming trunks revealing tan thighs.
"Comin’?“
You swallow, and catch up with him.
***
He’s fucking gorgeous. It’s a problem, how gorgeous he is, tan torso, swimming trunks low on his hips, bits of dark hair scattered across his chest and soft belly. His shoulders are wide, like they were made for swimming, his hair glistening as he shakes like a wet dog when he comes up for air. You have been staring at the same page for far too long now, but there’s no way Joel is able to notice your staring, not when you’re wearing your sunglasses and he’s busy swimming.
You know it’s a bad idea, that there’s no good that can come from crushing on a man twice your age, more than that, even. You know he must surely see the girl who came over to borrow his bike with tears of anger in her eyes every time he looks at you, and you know how much he respects your father.
Still, you are allowed to have fun. You’re doing this for your Dad more than anything, and you’ve been bending over backwards trying to make him proud with your good grades, so if there’s something you’re able to get out of this trip, you figure you’re at least allowed to look. And anyway, it’s not hurting anyone. It’s just natural, the half-naked bodies and blissful relaxation would affect anyone who has spent the last four months cramped up in a little dorm room.
You watch Joel swim towards the beach again, rising out of the water like some sort of Poseidon sent to personally make this trip unbearable for you. You think of his reaction when you teasingly called him Daddy, and swallow.
"Fuck,“ you mumble to yourself, when he tugs on his swimming trunks so that they don’t slide over his hips, dripping water onto the dry sand all around him. He smiles at you as he makes his way over to your spot – two deckchairs shielded by a parasol.
"Wow,“ Joel says sarcastically, when he looks at your book, still on page two. "Real page turner, huh?“
You blush, and open your mouth to defend yourself, but Joel’s expression softens, all biting humor gone, as he grabs his towel.
"You’re allowed to take a break from studying, you know?“
You watch him dry himself off, big hands rubbing the towel over his chest and stomach, leaving his legs to dry on their own, as he lays down on his deckchair.
"Easy to say, you’re not the one who has to face my Dad if you fail all your exams.“
Joel turns his head towards you, and you’re struck by how gentle his expression is.
"I know he can be a hard ass, but I guarantee you you’re not goin’ to fail all your exams, kid.“
You sigh and shrug.
"He give you a hard time ’cause of your grades?“
"No,“ you answer quickly, all of a sudden feeling defensive of your father. "I just wanna…make him proud.“
Joel smiles.
"I know for a fact you’re doin’ that without even tryin’. And anyway, it’s good to take breaks. Let’s your brain cool off and absorb information much better afterwards.“
Can’t argue with that logic, you think and close your book with a thud. Joel grabs it from you and throws it into your beach bag.
"I grant you two hours of studying each day,“ he says, and you have to laugh. "The rest is for having fun, gettin’ tan and drinkin’ cocktails."
It’s preposterous, that he would order you around like that after you told him you need to study, back before you even made it to the airport. But something is different here, away from your desk, and your Dad’s broken leg (and the rest of him, for that matter). Joel and you have fallen into an easy dynamic, and although it’s unusual, your reservations are gone. You’re actually looking forward to spending time with him, and not just because of the way his belly nudges against the waistband of his swimming trunks, or how his accent seems to thicken in the sun.
"Fine,“ you say, "but you’re paying for my tuition if I do end up failing, Miller.“
He grins at you.
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americanpi · 2 days ago
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@aeroargonic
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soft-beams · 2 days ago
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i had a vision of pit fighter vi going to a bar and hooking up with the hot bartenders after she lost one of her matches 🙈
omg yes, absolutely.
this may have gone in a slightly different direction, oops 🫢
i feel like vi would turn to two things when she loses a match: alcohol and sex. usually at the same time. so she has her routine set, and loris lets her do what she needs to do to unwind.
she often tries to look for women who look like caitlyn. if they have the bluish-black hair or blue eyes, then vi's instantly taking them back to her small, unkempt apartment. if they have an accent too? even better because it allows vi to fully immerse herself in the fantasy she plays. where it's caitlyn who's with her and not some stranger she's going to kick out in the morning.
but there's something different this night; it doesn't start different, though. vi drowns her wounded pride and shame in bottles after bottles of booze. loris is a forever presence beside her, not getting in her way but ensuring she doesn't hurt herself too much. she's already pent-up, rearing to find herself a victim to sink her teeth into tonight when she sees you.
you're new at the bar, just started your shift, and you're mixing drinks like a pro. your smile is pretty; wide and shining as you speak with patrons and roll your eyes at sleazy flirting attempts. you seem too radiant for this place, sticking out like a sore thumb and that intrigues vi through her drunken haze. she's curious and, frankly, horny so she waves you over.
"what can i getcha?" you ask once you've made it to her side of the bar. your smile is even prettier up close, highlighting your already stunning features. vi feels herself go tongue-tied, but she recovers and aims what she knows a charmingly sloppy grin your way.
"would it be weird if i said you?" vi asks, peering up through her lashes in an attempt to be coy. "or am i overshooting here?"
"definitely overshooting," you snort, but you don't walk away. instead, you refill her drink and add, "but i wouldn't want to hit a drunk loser when she's already down."
usually, something like that would strike a nerve. and while it still does, vi doesn't feel as offended by those words as she should be. maybe it's because you're pretty. but a pretty face's never stopped her from cussing someone out before.
"i don't need your pity," vi attempts to spit out, to sound mean and intimidating. but it falls flat; sounds soft and a little slurred. "so if that's all you're offering then fuck off."
vi doesn't want you to fuck off, though.
she wants you to stay, and it's like you sense that because you don't move. in fact, you're staring at her, amused with a raised brow, that radiance of yours blinding.
"okay," you say easily. "but then you can't tell me what you actually want me here for."
vi's eyes widen, a slight jolt of shock sobering her up a bit.
"...what?"
"i know you, violet." her name rolls of your tongue perfectly. she wants to hear you say her name again. "whenever you lose a match, you drown yourself in booze and find someone to fuck." you reach for a glass behind the bar and set it on the counter. then you pour yourself a drink, smooth and elegant. "and i can only imagine that you're so interested in me because you want to fuck me, correct?"
vi swallows, feeling a bit too hot in her jacket. she doesn't answer immediately and that has you tilting your head to the side, a sly smirk gracing your pretty lips.
"do you want to fuck me, violet?"
god, yes.
"i want to fuck you," vi rasps out, flushed and pulsing between her thighs.
"good girl," you purr before tossing your drink back, showcasing the tempting curve of your throat and vi curses a little too loudly.
fuck.
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regthomas1728 · 18 hours ago
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Bare with me, I’m gonna actually try writing…(written on my phone, sorry for mistakes)
***
Your humble sandwich shack was recently upgraded to a small hovel. You now do specialized drinks and sandwiches.
Of course, you also had to get better insurance when you moved into the rent to own two story building in the city.
Not just any insurance! You needed insurance to cover hero and villain damage. You live in the city that birthed the greatest heroes and deadliest villains. While the chance of being murdered is extremely low, the chances of losing a house or building due to the fights were incredibly high.
High enough, insurance companies decided to make a pretty penny on all the people of the city.
You owned a small business that was rapidly gaining popularity. To keep up with demand, you decided to capitalize on the idea of heroes and villains. You began catering to tourists and eventually became one of the reason people visited the big city.
You began naming items on your list after heroes. Sandwiches and drinks alike had catchy names such as “Spexpresso” in reference to the fastest hero and the fastest acting coffee any coffee addicts have had or the brisket sandwich called “Smoked Pixet” named after the fairy hero named Pixie.
You thought it was funny, some of the customers thought it was creative, but the real fun came in the drawn cartoons merging the heroes with their respective menu item.
You bought a couple tv’s to showcase any submitted art and attention for your sandwich joint grew.
It wasn’t until the second hero stopped in, in their hero getup, and ordered their sandwich that you realized you were at the top.
Hey! The first one might have been a fluke or an accident.
Maybe you fumbled over your words but everyone was star struck.
“Good sandwich, I’ll have to get Euro in to try the gyro.” The hero chuckled on his way out, taking another big bite of his sandwich.
The customers and you let out a big sigh—you hadn’t even realize you were holding your breath—and then the little caf filled with laughter. It didn’t die down for a week—your caf was expanding and it took so much out of you until you hired three more people. All three workers were college students and you hired them within two weeks of the second heroes visit.
A few months later, your menu had changed greatly as new heroes wanted a spot on the menu and heroes already on the menu wanted to change certain ingredients.
You catered to a fee and stood your ground with most. The heroes respected you more for that as did the customers. You still made their sandwiches the way they preferred when they came in.
It was crazy for you to think about. You knew the orders of some of the most popular heroes and they came at regular intervals to get their lunch or dinner.
Marketing heard about your setup and chose to setup times where heroes would take photos with fans. You were gaining publicity and hero agencies were jumping on the band wagon.
You politely declined interviews or let your employees sub in. You weren’t someone who liked to be on camera and even the smooth talking lava rock hero couldn’t make you budge.
He did enjoy the spicy sandwich you made in his honor.
After all the humbug settled, you found a steady rhythm. But, all good things must come to an end.
After closing shop at 10:00pm, you were on your way to the car when you heard a voice call out to you from across the lot.
You turned at the sound, startled and trying to remain calm. Just because murders didn’t happen often didn’t mean they never happened. You were desperate not to be in the three percent.
“Why haven’t you made sandwiches for villains?”
“What?”
“Villains eat to, ya know?”
Not that you hadn’t thought of it but you didn’t think it’s go over very well. Not with heroes frequenting your place.
“I’m not too sure that’s a good idea. I don’t need heroes and villains fighting at my restaurant. I have insurance but it could never be that good.”
The man stepped out of the shadows and you realized you just told the most wanted villain no.
“Work on those sandwiches and I’ll work on a compromise.”
“You sure? I could just make you a sandwich under the table…? You could stop out back and grab it to go?”
The villain, covered in shadows and red (was that blood?), shook his head and took a step back.
“No. Put our sandwiches on the menu after a weeks time.”
“It’ll take longer than that to establish a villains menu and a good advertising strategy.”
“Well…I’ll have the hero and villain compromise figured out by then. The timeline isn’t up to you. I look forward to your work.”
“You’re not going to kill me if you don’t like the sandwich, are you?”
With shadows covering his exit, all you heard was an evil laugh that reminded you despite his absurd request, he was still a villain who made up one or two percent of the kills in the city over the last ten years. Okay…maybe not that many but you knew it was a lot! You just didn’t know ALL the statistics regarding heroes and villains.
While a normal person may have brought the conversation up to one of the many visiting heroes or maybe called the police, you brought out your folder of dreams and got to work on sandwich ideas.
And sure, you told the shadow villain that it would take more than a week to get started on this idea but you may have lied. It would take no time to start the menu—no the real issue was convincing civilians and heroes to accept a few changes.
One of the changes would be making a seasonal menu. Which would not correlate with actual seasons but rather about keeping scores between favorites sandwiches and drinks.
The advertising took some time and planning, you only had a rough outline of what that would look like.
By the end of the week, you were positive you’d be getting another visit from the shadow villain but it wasn’t him who called out to you in a parking lot. It was the number one hero.
“Y/n. I’ve heard a lot about you and your sandwich shop.”
“But you haven’t tried anything? That’s a real shame.” You smiled, turning your key into the car and starting the heat. You sat in the seat with your hands in your pockets and the door open. The hero walked a bit closer but kept a respectable distance.
“I heard you got a visit a week ago from…a mutual acquaintance.”
You frowned, your brow crinkling.
“I think? I think I know who you’re talking about.”
“Do you get so many visits from villains?” There seemed to be genuine concern in the pull of his smile. “He’s requesting your restaurant be made neutral territory. No arrests, no fights.”
“Sounds like an ideal insurance policy.”
The hero grimaced but nodded.
“I’ve agreed. I’m sure it wont be much use but I’ll ask anyway. One, is he pressuring you?”
“Not really. I’ve had the idea in mind for a while.”
“I thought so. So, is there any chance you tell me who he is?”
“I don’t know him. But even if I did, I wouldn’t put myself in the middle of the most powerful villain and every hero and hero agency. I’m powerless not stupid.”
The hero seemed surprised by your response but quickly covered it with a small smile.
“Right. Well, if you need help or if any of the villains try anything, I’d feel a lot better if you had this.”
He took a step forward and held his hands out, dropping a small device in your open palm.
“If you press that button, it’ll call me directly. You don’t have to say anything when it calls—very few people have it and know to only use it in an emergency. I’ll come running.”
“Flying.” You correct lightly with a soft smile.
“Flying.”
Business returned to normal and within a month you were preparing the advertisements and informing your regular customers of the upcoming menu additions and changes.
Heroes were a bit distant at first, not excited about the change, but the number one hero quickly helped with the transition by becoming a regular customer. He visited and chatted with you every Friday.
Villains, on the other hand, were much quicker to visit and test the boundaries set by both heroes and villains.
Just when you’d had enough, the shadow villain you hadn’t seen since the night he proposed the new menu showed up.
“I believe I made myself clear! Neutral territory. No stake outs, only steak cuts!”
That earned a laugh from you, nervous chuckles from civilian patrons, and an earnest smile from a couple heroes.
“I’ll have a conversation with you after your shift. I shouldn’t have had to find out from that snotty number one hero that you were having difficulties with my crew.”
“Don’t you threaten me, Shadows.”
“Shadows?”
“I don’t know your name, sorry.”
“I’m literally the number one villain. I have a reputation that exceeds me. I’m a symbol!”
“Bit egotistical, don’t ya think?”
Luckily, he was in a playful enough mood to see the joke for what it was.
“Perhaps. I’ll take the sandwich you have undoubtedly made after me. I’m surprised I haven’t seen it in the advertisements.”
“I wanted to wait until you had tried it.”
“Naturally. Only you would make a guinea pig of me.”
You took fifteen minutes to make his sandwich and his sidekicks drink. You brought it out, a breath nestled deep in your chest clawing out but unable to until he stamped his approval on the sandwich you made with him in mind.
“How is it?” The number one hero stood directly behind the most wanted villain with a bright smile on his face.
With his mouth full, the villain rearranged it into his cheek to say: “Give me a second to savor it.”
The hero looked down, his hands on his hips as he awaited the answer you were eagerly shaking for. You were jumping with excitement as he took another bite.
“It’s a winner!!” You did a little happy dance and the few people watching cheered with you, grinning almost as madly as you were. Almost.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good. I’ll give you that. I’m not a pickle person, though.”
“I’ll tell you like I’ve told everyone else! That is a damn good sandwich and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna change it because of personal preference.”
The cheers died down, the hero shifted his weight from his front foot to his back, subtly getting in a defensive position.
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll still make you a sandwich without pickles but that’s the one going on the menu. Glad you like it.”
The villain walked out with a small smile that disappeared into the shadows along with him. That grin was the last thing you saw of him.
“I’ve never seen anyone talk to him like that.” The hero spoke with note of admiration and shock, eyebrows nearly to his forehead.
“I won’t back down to anyone.”
“I suppose that’s a good trait to have. Almost gave me a heart attack but, a good trait nevertheless.”
He ordered the same sandwich and complimented you with a wink.
“When do I get a sandwich?”
You own a sandwich shop in the heart of a superhero city. After gaining customers by making sandwiches based on heroes, you decided to try making some based on villains. Today, a villain stopped to review theirs.
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reds-hoodies · 3 days ago
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MINORS DNI 18+
F!Reader
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That’s the thing though. GK!Jason wouldn’t be rough with you.
Do you think he’d degrade you? Punish you?
No.
This man thanks every power he can think of for bringing you into his life. Jason sees war on the streets of Gotham every day. He’s been through hell and back. Literally. So he’s grateful for the calm you bring to his chaotic life.
And each night he comes back to you.
Because you are his gospel. A deity tantalizingly spread bare to worship at the altar. And worship he shall.
He’s reverently pressing his thanks into your skin. From the tips of your fingers to the bottoms of your feet. And every sigh you give him is a blessing to his ears.
He’s kissing and nipping the sensitive flesh of your thighs, leaving proof of his devotion as he makes his way to your center where he has you shaking and gasping under his tongue. He drinks from you as if you were made from the finest ambrosia.
But here’s another thing: Jason is unfair.
This man will have you pressed against the comforters, nearly folding you in half as he spears himself into you. He splits you open slowly, slower than you thought was possible because he wants you to feel every inch of him.
And as he bottoms out, he’ll stop. Holding your hips still as you try in vain to rut up to him because, well?
He loves to see you desperate. So pushed to the edge that tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you plead for him to move.
And he thinks, you’ve never looked more gorgeous.
You had begged for his cock though and Jason just couldn’t deny you.
He pulls out, out, out until jut the tip of him is left.. and the slams back in. It rocks the bed.
“Thaaat’s it baby,” He grins, “ You’re doing so well for me.”
You nearly get whiplash, his words are soft and taste like honey but the way he’s slowly pounding into you leaves you a drooling, babbling mess because —somehow— he hits that perfect spot Every. Single. Time.
"Come on," he pants into your mouth, teeth clenching, the wet clap of your hips as he fucks you harder, "Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you come."
Your eyes roll back, mouth agape in ecstasy as you shake and clinch around him. And he rides out your orgasm, pressing a large thumb in tight, fast circles into your clit. He’ll keep going, following you as you try to squirm away from him until your pelvis is nearly hovering over the bed because you can’t, you can’t-
His thrusts get a more ragged and desperate edge to them, his hips nearly bruising you at the brutal pace. Until he slams home one last time, shoulders hunching over with a punched out groan as he gives all he can into you. He stuffs you so full it dribbles out the sides where it beads down to mix with your mess on the sheets.
And the last thing? He’s a sap.
Because even after both of you wind down from your high he can’t bear to part with you. He wants to stay locked with you for as long as he can.
He looks at you as if you hung the moon and the stars. He’ll kiss your face, and down to your lips to catch your tired giggles and taste you once more.
You two will get up eventually to clean up, but for now, he’s going to bask in your warmth as you card your fingers through his hair.
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kisakis-boyfriend · 3 days ago
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Like Ships in the Night…On a Train… (BSD version part 1)
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Author's Note: Got horny. Thought about one of my favorite scenarios. Bon appetit 👍 Other installments are already in the works for different series. :3
Pairings: Sigma, Dazai, & Chuuya x male reader (separately)
Warnings: Male!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!characters, trans Sigma, chikan, grinding, groping, fingering (Sigma), nipple play (Chuuya)
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Sigma
Why is this happening to him?! He's read the news headlines about creeps groping people on trains, sure, but he never imagined he'd be on the receiving end of that!
Sigma feels helpless as the mystery man hooks one arm around his waist, locking him in this position like a caged bird. Soon, he feels a touch on his hip, sliding down to his plush thighs as he's groped right here and now — standing in front of the train wall with his hands bracing himself against it.
Panic floods in as the stranger grabs his crotch, rubbing two fingers over his slit — you both realize something in this moment; Sigma realizes that his secret may not be safe anymore, and the dangers that come with that, while you realize that you can touch this guy more discreetly like this.
Your fingers make quick work of his pants, opening them up just enough to reach inside and touch his pussy again. Despite the fact that your victim is shaking, he's already a bit wet before you're even inside. You tease him over his underwear for a second, then dive even deeper and finally touch his bare pussy.
With all of his remaining willpower, Sigma whispers a quiet plea for you to stop, and you can practically hear the tears welling in his eyes. You ignore him, of course, already sinking between his folds and groaning at the wetness oozing out just from that.
A stranger is fingering his cunt on public transit, and no one else seems to notice. Sigma can only pray that you stop before things escalate, or before you realize he's a trans man…maybe his long hair fooled you into thinking he's a girl?
That line of thought is shattered as Sigma presses his thighs together, biting back a squeal as you fingerfuck him so rough that he squirts a little, messing up his clothes as a result. As he cums, you lean closer to his ear and whisper a “Good boy~” before you readjust his clothing for him and disappear, presumably exiting the train.
You left the man as a panting, confused mess in his little corner. Left to wonder who violated him in an almost gentle way, compared to all of the horror stories Sigma read about. His pussy was still wet, and he swears that he didn't enjoy that…but the memory won't stop replaying in his mind as he lay in bed, squeezing his thighs together once again…dripping…aching…moaning…
Dazai
How bold do you have to be to think you could get away with this? Honestly, don't you recognize the man that you're attempting to grope? Do you really think there won't be consequences?
Well, ok, hear him out… You're not being rough right now — if anything, you're actually touching Dazai rather gently. Hands caress his sides, hidden by his large trench coat, sliding across his clothed abdomen almost romantically. The most you've done so far is rub his hips, not even trying to go for anything more private (yet).
What's the harm in letting this go on, seeing just where this will lead? Dazai's pretty strong, not a big muscle man, but strong enough to hold his own when need be. If things escalate too much, or he feels unsafe, he can simply reveal who he is and threaten to call the cops on you. But for now, he'll just let this play out.
You take a step closer, pushing Dazai further against the window, and he seizes the opportunity to reveal your identity in the reflection…except your face is buried in the back of his neck so he can't actually see who you are…
Dazai feels your warm breath tickling his skin, and he can feel you… wait, are you sniffing him? Really? What a creep, smelling some stranger while you're touching him. Jeez.
That's not the only thing Dazai notices though — he also feels what he assumes to be your hard-on poking his ass now that you're hugging his body tightly. You begin to move, and this is when Dazai should stop you…but he can't deny how…nice…this all feels. Especially when you reach forward and grab his hand, clasping his with yours in a strangely soft display–
Seriously, what a depraved, obsessive, sad creep you must be to hold a stranger's hand while you're smelling them and humping them on a public train. That's just not normal, dude.
There's not much more time to question anything, as you grind against Dazai's ass until your movements stutter, then eventually stop altogether. And he can guess by your heavy breathing that you just creamed your pants without ever truly touching your victim.
'How sad. That guy could easily get off by humping another guy on the train — who knows what dirty fantasies were running through his mind to make him cum like that.' Dazai thinks, stroking himself in the shower while he pictures your fat package gliding in between his cheeks again.
Chuuya
Honestly, Chuuya surprised himself when some strange man came up behind him and trapped him in the corner of the train and he didn't say a word of protest. Perhaps the shock was what prevented his usual reactions?
Shocked at how bold you were for grabbing a Port Mafia executive by the hips and forcing his ass to meet the tent in your pants, that is. Do you really think this is going to end well? Are you just so stupid that you have no idea who Chuuya is, and how easy it would be for him to use his special ability to pin you to the floor and knock your teeth out?
You're either stupid or desperate, or maybe both, but Chuuya can't think about that too much when you're already humping him so boldly. Sure, you're somewhat hidden in the corner, but does no one pay attention to the obvious motions?
Not only are you grinding against him so hard that he's forced to his tiptoes, you're untucking his shirt from his pants and sliding your hands underneath like it's totally normal! Quickly finding his nipples and toying with them so roughly that Chuuya has to cover his mouth to remain quiet.
His smaller body jerks with your every thrust, forced to submit to this gross act of depravity or else everyone on the train will find out that Chuuya Nakahara is a public use slut. His reputation would be destroyed!
So, he lets you have your way with him — thrusting your clothed erection against the curve of Chuuya's ass until you cum, grunting right into his ear — and then a familiar chime signals the opening of the train doors, and you exit, leaving the little guy high and dry and completely disheveled as his cock leaks inside of his boxers.
Now, a Port Mafia executive doesn't have any need to use public transport — he could easily use a private car or even a fucking helicopter if he wanted to — but, Chuuya finds himself taking the same train at the same time again tomorrow. This time, he's already standing in that corner, facing the wall to conceal his hard, throbbing cock, and to advertise himself as vulnerable prey.
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reginamillls · 2 days ago
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'Twas the Night Before Christmas
"-and with our final Christmas Mystery. One year ago today, LAFD Firefighter Thomas Kinard went missing-"
Buck is quick to turn off the TV, not wanting to hear anything more from one of his exes talking about the other one.
It hurt still, a year later, to find out that Tommy had gone missing on Christmas Eve, and that no one had reported him as gone until the 28th. It hurt that Tommy had been alone enough that no one noticed it, it hurt that even a year later, Buck was still hoping for some kind of Christmas miracle that he would come back.
Most people assumed he was dead. California wouldn't declare him as dead until he was missing for five years, but search efforts have gone down. He's heard all the theories, that Tommy was one of the Serial Killer's first victims, that he had flown off and crashed somewhere, that he moved away with out telling anyone -
That he was a lonely man who just decided Christmas was too much.
Buck didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't not just wonder what the hell happened. No one had heard from Tommy since the break up, and Buck didn't reach out - he was trying hard to just enjoy the Christmas season (the one they had made plans for together) and he wanted to reach out to Tommy more than once, but he always just threw himself into another activity not to.
The last time anyone saw Tommy was in a bar just before closing on Christmas Eve, 2024. Walking out into the dark streets. Alone.
After that? Total mystery. Tommy's house showed no signs of a break in, and he had gotten a ride to the bar that day, so his truck was safetly parked in his driveway. He had off on Christmas (had taken off to be with Buck) and his captain was the one to report him missing.
The police came and questioned him, wondering if he had anything to do with it. Buck had to explain their breakup, and the rest of the 118 had backed him up. Athena ended up stepping in at the end, and the investigation moved on from Buck.
Four days later, Buck had a letter from a law firm that stated that Tommy's house and all of his posessions were given to him.
It just made Buck think that maybe Tommy really had ran away?
Why did he leave everything to Buck?
Why didn't he say goodbye?
Buck chose to believe he was still alive out there somehow, he had to. Just because they were broken up, didn't mean that Buck wanted Tommy to be gone. He hoped that every new lead would lead somewhere, even when everyone else seemed to lose some faith.
There's movement and Buck wakes up to see Amelia wide awake, her head looking out of the bedroom into the living room. She jumps down and runs out, and that's when Buck notieces that the lights in the hall are on.
He knows for a fact, that he turned them off.
Buck gets up and grabs the wooden baseball bat that Tommy had in his closet and holds it carefully. After he had been given the house and Tommy's cat as well, Buck had made the decision to move in. He had been given some brows at doing so, but Buck had wanted Tommy to still have his house if he came back.
When he came back.
Amelia isn't one to be brave around strangers, so her running into a possible break in had alarmed Buck more then the hall light. Eddie had a key to Tommy's place too, but Eddie was with Chris tonight and at this late hour, they were both most likely asleep.
There's movement, louder then anything Amelia could make and Buck spots a large shadowed figure bent at his chistmas tree.
He swings the bat.
The bat smashes against the man's back and splinters.
"What-"
Amelia howls and runs away, and the figure straightens up. He's tall, as tall as Buck, and built to. The jacket he is wearing is red, with white fur on the cuffs and the lapel. There's a red hat on his head -
"Santa?" Buck asks, dumbfounded.
"For a while yeah-" Santa says, but it isn't Santa, or at least, he wasn't just Santa.
"Tommy?"
"Merry Christmas Evan."
Tommy's hands were up in the air, his blue eyes darting to the splintered bat still in Buck's hands and Buck drops it.
"What-" Buck asks and Tommy snaps his fingers and the lights come on in the living room. Buck blinks against the harshness of all the lights being on and he blinks a few times to adjust. In that time Tommy had lowered his hands, and Buck looks.
And stares.
Because it is Tommy, Buck would know his voice anywhere, along with his deep blue eyes that are looking at Buck warrily.
There's been some changes though.
For one thing, Tommy was wearing a Santa Suit. A high quality one in a rich red color that looked like it was hand made and not from a halloween store. There were sturdy black boots on his feet and a leather sack at his side, but that had only been what he was wearing. The real change had been his hair.
"You have a beard-" Buck blurts out. And it was a full beard. Salt and pepper, though a little heavier on the salt. Tommy's hair was the same, and yet he didn't look any older.
Buck had discovered a few grey hairs when they had been dating, had even imagined a future where Tommy looked like he did standing before Buck, he just expected that it would have happened in a few years.
"Comes with the job," Tommy says, rubbing at the beard. "I was told it was mandatory-"
"What the fuck?" Buck interupts, voice sharp. The shock of seeing Tommy again was quickly turning into anger.
"Please, let me explain?" Tommy asks and before Buck can answer Amelia has come back into the room and is pawing at Tommy to lift her up, and Buck notices just how exhausted Tommy looks.
"Sure-" Buck answers because once upon a time, Tommy allowed him the same and Buck can return the favor.
What comes next is a crazy tale of Tommy finding a man after he fell off the roof and the man begging him to put on his coat and finish the night. It's a story filled with impossible things like magic and elves and talking polar bears. Giant reindeer and Christmas abilities that Tommy is actually afraid of. If it was anyone else but Tommy, Buck would have believed it all to be a lie.
"-I'm just a temporary replacement," Tommy says. "I need to find the real next Santa tonight, or I'm stuck with this job and I'm not meant to be that person Evan," Tommy says warily, hand's in his magically greyed hair. Just sitting here now, Buck can see that it's more white than it had been an hour ago.
"Why did you come to me?" Buck asks. His ex-boyfriend is Santa Claus and he hasn't been dead this whole time but had been stuck in the North Pole and he had a Lawyer Elf give Buck his house and his cat because he knew they were safe with Buck, and he was on a desperate mission to find the next true Santa. He had magical gifts that he couldn't always control, a whole army of mythical creatures that shouldn't exist, and physically was almost like a Christmas super hero. He had all of this plus a deadline of Christmas morning to worry about. Buck didn't actually think Tommy needed him at all.
So why was he here?
"I told you, that I can hear what everyone wants for Christmas," Tommy says, and he taps the side of his head. "And you-" Tommy swallows and looks up at Buck, and he's looking at him like he did before they broke up, with a fondness that made Buck feel whole.
"You wanted me."
Buck's breath hitches.
He can't even deny it, not when all he wanted this whole year was for Tommy to come home.
"What happens if you can't find the new Santa?" Buck asks, changing the subject away from himself and how even over a year later, he still wanted Tommy. Tommy, thankfully, doesn't switch back to what they were talking about before.
"Then I become Santa," Tommy says, and he sounds desperate and his eyes are scared.
"Okay," Buck says and he stands up from the couch and takes Tommy's hand.
"Lets find Santa."
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straylightdream · 2 days ago
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always
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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bang chan x f.reader
loving someone who can’t return your feelings can be heartbreaking.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): angst, friends to ??
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol au, underground boxer au
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: injuries from fighting, cuts, mentions of blood and stitches, talks about powerful men who want to get leverage on Chan, lots of tears, and angst
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: pg 13
𝐚𝐧: sorry I haven’t posted a skz story in a minute.
𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.
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It had been a rough night to say the least. You laid in the same bed with a foot between the two of you. The room was so silent it seemed to leave a ringing sound in the room. Chan wore nothing but his boxers that sat low on his hips. He was laying on his back with his hand holding his side that had a pair of cracked ribs. His breathing was pretty uneven because he was in so much pain. The night had left him stumbling into your apartment with a deep gash on right below his collarbone, that you had to stitch up as he sat at your kitchen table. Unfortunately Chan coming to your apartment beat up wasn’t anything new. This was a side effect to him being an underground boxer.
Biting your bottom lip, you stared at the man who seemed to easily hold your heart in his hands. Luckily, he wasn’t careless with your heart, he was well aware you were in love with him. He went out of his way to make sure you didn’t get hurt, but knew at some point he was going to break your heart without even trying.
Laying on your side you reached your hand out slowly as it shook. You wanted to touch him to pull him close to you, but you knew you shouldn’t do it. He wasn’t your boyfriend, and probably was never going to be. A normal friendship between a boy and a girl normally didn’t involve the boy getting the shit beat out of him and then crawling through your window beaten. Normally the girl wouldn’t have to stitch him up and then beg him to spend the night so you would know he was safe.
His eyes were closed as he attempted to get some sleep, but he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, at least not until you had a very important conversation. You were well aware he wasn’t asleep even with him laying there with his eyes closed.
Your hand reached out a little more so you could touch him, but before you were able to touch him, you pulled your hand away. You needed to tell him that you couldn’t take this anymore, but you were terrified.
“Chan?” Your voice was shaky as you were unsure of if you should even be speaking.
“Yeah?” his eyes opened up as they blankly stared at the ceiling.
“What is going on here?” You whispered as tears continued to slide down your cheek.
“I’m a selfish asshole,” he groaned as his head moved so he was blankly looking in your direction.
“Why did you come to me and not Changbin?” You needed to know if he returned your feelings.
“Because for some reason even though I know I need to leave you alone, I can’t seem to stay away,” he sighed. He knew he was being selfish, that he was well aware of your feelings, and that he should respect them and stay away from you since he couldn’t give you what you truly deserved.
“I don’t want you to stay away, but I need you to know how I actually feel.”
He nodded his head and moved his arm from his stomach where it was resting onto the bed so it was about an inch from your hand.
“Chan I’m in love with you and I hate seeing you get hurt, but what hurts most of all is that I know that no matter how much I actually love you…” you hesitated knowing that no matter what was said right now you were never going to be able to take back anything you said. “I’m never going to be able to actually be with you. You won’t ever feel the same way, and I understand but I just need you to know that it hurts loving someone who doesn’t feel the same way.”
There was a silence between you as Chan was taking in everything you had just said to him. He had known for a while that you were in love with him, and he had even let you know that he couldn’t be with anyone as long as he was illegally fighting. It was too risky to actually be with someone. He made a lot of money fighting and he had made some enemies along the way.
“Okay I regret saying all that,” you mumbled at the fact that he hadn’t even said anything in response.
“Hey,” he reached out and rested his hand on top of yours as he lay still on his back. “Give me a second to take in everything you just said to me. I know that you’re in love with me, and believe me I return the feelings. I have for a long time, but…” he paused knowing that what he was about to say was going to hurt both of you. You attempted to brace yourself for whatever was going to come after the “but”. “I can’t be selfish and put you in harm's way. I love you too, but if someone finds out that I have someone that I love, you would be the first person that people would use to get leverage. Too many powerful men know who I am, and I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt because of me.” His hand that was resting on top of yours gave it a gentle squeeze.
Everything he had just said to you made your world feel like it was spinning. You knew Chan might have some sort of feelings for you, but you never actually expected him to say that he was in love with you too. As your brain was attempting to process the fact, he said he was in love with you, you were also realizing that it didn’t matter that you were both in love, because you couldn’t be together.
“What happens here then?” You sighed.
“I’m not sure exactly, I should probably give you space,” he moved his hand away from you.
You shook your head to yourself refusing to let him walk away from you right now, “Bang Chan you don’t get to tell me you love me, and then say you should give me space.”
He slowly moved so he was sitting up and you laid next to him still in bed wondering if he was actually getting up to leave. He stood up and groaned as he grabbed his side.
“Are you seriously getting up to leave?” You asked quickly getting out of bed. He groaned as he reached on the floor searching for his pants that were on the floor. “Chan,” you got up and ran to the other side of the bed so you were standing in front of him. He didn’t say anything as he reached his hand out so he was cupping your cheek. He stepped forward a little so there were a couple inches between you, you looked up at him as he held your face with one hand. The tension between them seemed to grow even more as you licked your lips as your breathing seemed to pick up. “Please don’t leave, I just poured my heart out to you,” you whispered.
“I’m so selfish when it comes to you, and it's not fair to you,” he sighed as his thumb brushed a tear off your cheek. “I want to give you the world, but I can’t.”
“I’m not asking for the world,” you reached up so your hand held his wrist. “I’m just asking for you to show me that you actually love me.”
“I can’t let you get hurt because of me,” he sighed. “I should start going to Changbin when I get hurt,” his hand was still holding your face as he attempted to convince you and himself that he needed to give you space.
“Chan, please don’t pull away from me, if you do that it will break my heart,” your hand held onto his wrist not wanting him to leave.
“We can’t be together, not right now at least,” he sighed.
Your breathing seemed to catch in your throat for a moment at what he had just said. The tears seemed to slide down your cheek even harder suddenly, and it was as if he held your heart in his other hand, and that he just crushed it.
“Okay,” you pulled away from him shaking your head. “You can have your space if you want it,” your voice was shaky as you were trying your hardest to not sob.
“You mean the world to me, and I don’t want to hurt you, but being with me isn’t safe.” He reached out to grab your wrist. He needed you to know that he wanted to be with you, but it just wasn’t an option. “I already lost my first love, I can’t deal with losing you too.” He never seemed to move on from his high school sweetheart passing in a tragic car accident almost a decade ago.
“Why does it feel like I’m losing you right now,” the tears continued to slide down your cheek.
“I’m sorry that can’t give you everything,” he took a step closer to you. You reached out and rested your hand on his chest and looked back up at him knowing that he was right. That even though you wanted nothing more than to be with him, you knew deep down inside that a lot of powerful men have lost money because of him. Chan is the best fighter in the city and that has made a lot of men angry. Ultimately it wasn’t safe to be with him. You had watched him lose his first love, and you knew how much that destroyed him.
“I understand we can’t be together, but I can’t deal with losing you as my friend too,” you sighed.
Silently he nodded his head and leaned forward so his forehead was resting against yours. You took a deep breath taking in the sudden closeness.
“I want to kiss you so badly, but I shouldn’t,” he mumbled.
Without saying anything you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. You kissed him as if this was going to be the only time ever that you were going to be able to feel his lips against yours. His strong hand moved up and rested on your cheek holding you close to him as your lips moved together. Pulling away slowly you let out a sigh.
“What happens between us Chan?” You asked, wondering if things would ever be the same after tonight.
He sighed and said, “we attempt to be friends.”
“Okay,” you said softly. You didn’t want to be only friends but you knew it was for the best. “If one day you walk away from fighting, would you actually give us a chance?” You asked, needing to know if maybe one day you stood a chance at being together.
He nodded his head and gave you a sad smile, “I’m not going to ask you to wait around for that day, but when I’m finally no longer a fighter I would like us to be together.”
“Let’s go back to bed,” you reached down and laced your fingers with his. You led him back towards the bed. He slowly got back in bed groaning at the pain from his cracked ribs.
You laid in the bed in the same positions you had been laying in before. Your hand was resting on the bed between you, slowly he reached over and laced his fingers with your.
“Thank you for always taking care of me,” he said softly.
“I’ll always take care of you,” you said knowing that no matter what happened between you, that you would always care about him.
“I hope one day that I’ll actually be able to give you the world,” he said gently, squeezing your hand.
You couldn’t help but smile at the possibility that maybe one day you could be together.
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ladykailitha · 2 days ago
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Soulmate AU
Soulmate AU where when you're ready to meet your soulmate, you start seeing them in your dreams.
Only Steve's got a problem.
The man in his dreams is ultra famous Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson.
There is no way any agent, manager, PA, or publicist worth their salt is going to let him anywhere near the man just because he says they're soulmates.
Steve isn't sure what to do, he can't afford to go to every concert hoping they make eye contact. Which is how you form a bond between between soulmates.
But luckily fate has other plans.
Steve goes to the Hideout to get drunk after a particular bad day. Robin met her soulmate, he got broken up with, and Max and Lucas announced they’re getting married.
And there he is, Eddie is hanging out at the bar with his bandmates.
Only now Steve has a problem in the form of three very beefy guys he assume is security.
But Eddie is over there freaking out in his own way.
Because yup! There's Steve Harrington but he didn't realize his dreams about Steve recently were about his soulmate because Eddie's been dreaming about Steve since high school
But now that he's in the same room with him Eddie realizes that the dreams of late have been...softer, lately.
Less spicy the way they are normally and more hazy like a filter had been placed over top.
Warm.
And so he walks over to Steve, because he knows he has to make the move.
And the instant they make eye contact it's like sparks, downing hot chocolate, and coming home all at once.
They knew of each other in high school but in that nebulous popular kid and the outspoken weird kid kind of way.
And the reason it took them so long to get together is that they both had to grow up past their high school prejudices.
It took Eddie the longest because despite his crush on Steve he was still worried about his appearance and what people would think if he had a preppy soulmate.
But recently he had eureka moment when Brian’s soulmate was platonic. That he just needed someone who would love him for all his flaws and weird moments.
Steve had been getting dreams about his soulmate since high school, but they were never clear. They started getting into sharper focus recently and was shocked when it was revealed to be Eddie. Not because it was boy, but because of the whole famous thing.
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valeriianz · 3 days ago
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Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!
for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!
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“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. 
Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.
Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.
Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.
Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.
“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”
Dream stops playing.
“The what?”
Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses. 
“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”
Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.
Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now. 
But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.
Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed. 
It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity. 
Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.
But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.
Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.
Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.
Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically… 
If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.
Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did. 
Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance. 
Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.
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Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.
It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?
Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around. 
He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.
Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.
Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.
Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.
While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.
It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.
Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.
Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.
“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”
“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour. 
And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.
“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”
“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.
“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”
“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting. 
But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.
“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”
Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.
“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”
“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”
The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now. 
It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.
Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.
Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush. 
Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.
Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?
Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream. 
Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.
And Hob. Well.
Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood. 
Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.
How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.
It was his best and worst trait.
The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.
It’s a little awkward, to say the least. 
After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.
And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.
The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.
At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.
Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory. 
“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.
And he’d only spoken two words.
Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.
It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.
Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.
“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”
Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.
It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.
And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.
Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink. 
Cute.
Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.
A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.
Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.
The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.
Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.
He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.
Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.
“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”
Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.
“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.
Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.
Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.
“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck. 
Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes. 
They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.
Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.
But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.
Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.
Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.
The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.
Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.  
Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.
It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.
Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.
“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”
Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.
Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.
Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him. 
But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.
Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.
“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.
Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight. 
He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.
“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not? 
Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax. 
And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.
“You can’t just say that.”
“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.
Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer. 
Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?
Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.
So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.
“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”
They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry. 
Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.
Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.
Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.
Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.
Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.
Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.
The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.
Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.
Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.
But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.
Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!
Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.
Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.
Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.
Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.
Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.
“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.
Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.
“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”
A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.
“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.
Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.
Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.
(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)
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moonlight-prose · 2 days ago
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A CASE OF YOU
➻ under the mistletoe
a/n: i fear i am obsessed with this pairing before i've fully put out the series. all i want is to be trapped in a cabin with them during winter. this was posted once before but was getting lost in the tags/for some reason i couldn't see it. so i am retrying. there is another winter fic of them coming hopefully this week! i got this idea and wrote it in one go, but i am thoroughly in love. enjoy something spicy and sweet my loves! divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics.
summary: simple acts of love at the end of the world draw the string tight around the three of you. even if all it takes is some mistletoe and kisses on a cold winter's night.
word count: 2.8k+
pairing: joel miller x f!reader x old man!logan howlett
warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, romance, love, fluff, logan is a little shit, filthy makeout sessions, squirting, dirty talk, spit, explicit activities, threesome.
SERIES MASTERLIST
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“Don’t drop me okay?”
The scoff echoed louder than he intended, fingers digging sharply into the meat of your thighs. “Not gonna drop ya bub.”
“I’d believe you if I didn’t have proof from the Halloween party-” A smack to your leg shut you up quicker than expected, your mouth open and heart fluttering at the feel of your thigh rippling. “Logan!”
“You were takin’ too long,” he muttered, soothing the spot with a soft brush of his thumb.
Tradition didn’t happen often in your stolen time together. Winter called for the swirl of frost to build on the outside of the cabin, snow packing along wooden walls and a doorway hung with a wreath of greens and reds. The world stilled—time an inconceivable factor—in order to get the three of you to find your way back to one another in a cabin you claimed as your own. Home felt different on the outskirts of a town stuck at the end of the world.
Holidays were sparse. Scattered amidst the tragedy that became an everyday story told over and over again. Each ending wrapped up the same way—a death sentence signed the second the world fell to pieces overnight. Nightmares were tinged in golds and greens, the soft feel of flannel wrapped around your naked body—heat pouring off two bodies littered with scrapes and scars.
They clung to what normalcy remained. The tree pushed into the corner of a small living room, a record player discovered in Logan’s basement two months before. The first time you hummed along to an old fading tune about mistletoe they nearly tripped over themselves to find you—each enraptured by the echo of joy after they were buried in pain.
Two days ago you found a small bunch of mistletoe wrapped neatly in a red ribbon on the kitchen table. A small token of their affection in a time where even that was difficult to give.
“Is it straight?” you asked, adjusting the bow with a huff. “Can you see it?”
The rumbling emanated from his chest when your head ducked down to catch a glimpse of his face. Only to find his eyes latched onto the swell of your breasts beneath the soft green sweater dug up in an old store years ago. You cherished the luxury of its cashmere feel; even if a hole gaped at the very bottom hem now stitched over with black thread.
Where Logan stood mere seconds ago—a smirk plastered across lips you bit this morning—you found a man transfixed at the thought of bare skin and nipples that begged for the searing heat of his mouth. Slick pooled in your cotton panties, his nose flaring at the heady scent—fingers harshly carving their way into your skin. He was voracious for you—hungry enough to take what you so often gave.
“I think you lost him darlin’.”
“Fuck off Miller,” Logan barked, reluctantly dragging his gaze from the shape of you to glare at the man propped against the doorway.
Snow gathered in his unruly curls, gloves discarded at the side table and jacket draped over a hook near the back door. Joel Miller never failed to steal your breath with a single look. With brown eyes that once were darkened with pain, he watched you with a gleam of joy—his lips curled into a crooked smile you felt practically press to the skin of your throat.
He changed as the years went by.
There was no doubt that the grief he harbored would outweigh yours and Logan’s. The sinister curl of anguish still tugged sharply at his heart during the winter holidays. His memories vivid and bright with the image of Sarah, of time spent in the warmth of his old home in Texas.
You could remember your first year here—his failed attempts to participate even as his heart screamed for that familiar numbing sensation he knew well. The nights spent wrapped in his by a dying fire—a separate body pressed to your back. Christmas was drenched in poison until you gathered him with your touch and poured the antidote down his throat.
“It looks perfect,” Joel said with ease, ignoring how you were still propped on the larger man’s shoulders.
Smiling, you curling a hand into Logan’s hair—tapping his temple to let you down. “Thank you for it.”
“Don’t look at me sweetheart.” His gaze shifted to a silent Logan who helped you slip back down to the floor, an arm wrapped tight around your waist. “It was all his idea.”
The rapid pace in which he averted his gaze confirmed Joel’s words before you could ask the question. Logan Howlett wasn’t a soft man when you met him. In fact, he came off as a brute who raised a daughter more feral than him. Falling for him didn’t come without its struggles; the fight he put up to beat Joel at his own game nearly turned you away from him.
But beneath the layer of armor, entwined with bones coated in metal and agony, you could see a man who longed to be held with the reverence of forever. He didn’t prefer being alone. He settled for it.
When you arrived in his life—enticing and as sweet as biting into a fresh summer nectarine—he understood that his past would never be a deal breaker for you. He was the man who clawed his way through an apocalypse, protecting a young girl tied to his hip. Someone weary and withered with age, yet longing for a place to belong.
Cupping his scruffy cheek, you turned his gaze back to your soft smile. “Is that true Logan?”
The tough exterior crumbled to the ground—hazel eyes softening at the utterance of his name. “‘S a tradition,” he mumbled, curling a hand around your wrist. “I don’t want you to lose your traditions.”
So that’s what this feeling burning a hole in your chest was.
Practically unbearable the longer you tried to come up with a name. Only to find its definition staring you straight in the face.
Love.
You loved him. You love them both.
You couldn’t think of a time where you didn’t love them—where your paths hadn’t crossed yet—and found that wasn’t a past you wished to reside in. They were your home, your future wrapped in flannel and tied with a shitty red fading bow.
“Fuck. Come here please,” you breathed, tugging him down with a gasping breath.
Kissing him felt endless. His lips were rough on your soft ones, hands quick to grab your hips and haul you to his chest. Blood rushed to your head, fingers twisting into his hair as he met your intensity with a wave of his own. Mind numbing, blissful, and everything you never thought you’d have.
He licked into you with a harsh groan, teeth scraping your bottom lip as the mistletoe hung above your heads—taunting Joel to come closer. To see how Logan’s tongue looked smearing his own spit along your teeth.
The shuffle of boots fell on deafened ears attuned only to the soft grunt you pulled from the man before you. Becoming lost to his touch felt like its own gift. How he gripped your ass to press you close, yet his lips softened in their relentless need to consume you in whatever way he could. You didn’t become aware of Joel standing behind you until his own hands slid up your ribs, curling to cup your breasts through the cashmere fabric.
A string of saliva connected Logan’s lips to yours as you pulled away to breathe. The gentle touch of Joel’s calloused fingers pinching your nipples drew a soft breathy moan from your throat. His lips latched to your neck—teeth scraping the sensitive skin with a sound of his own.
More often than you intended you found yourself trapped between them and their insatiable cravings. Logan would fuck you for hours, nestled between sore thighs and chafed skin. Joel would one up him with his mouth, sucking your clit hard enough to have your legs clamped around his neck. A cry of his name bouncing off the walls of your shared home.
“Go on bub,” Logan mumbled, nose brushing yours as he stole another chaste kiss. “Give him a kiss.”
You were turned before you could comprehend his words, Joel’s hands finding purchase where Logan’s once sat. A soft game of tug and war between men who would drop to their knees if you asked. Men who killed to keep you safe—their fiery natures subdued by the oxygen you stole from their lungs.
“Gonna gimme a kiss darlin’?” Joel asked, lips sliding along yours.
The answer was obvious but you were too dazed to respond with words brimming in snark. “Uh-huh.”
“That’s a good girl.”
Tenderness poured out of his kiss and filled your chest with a warmth you knew well. He didn’t take as often as Logan. Far more interested in what he could give. Yet both ached to be given purpose, to be put to use. Even if you got tired of them at the end—a conclusion that would never come to pass. How could you ever choose to let them go? You’d never be able to live without them.
He sucked on your tongue with a hoarse moan, Logan’s hands pushing up under your bra to toy with your hard nipples. The shiver that wracked your body made him chuckle into your ear—the hot trail of his tongue dragging down your neck as Joel languished in the feel of your tongue. It drove you mad how easy they managed to rip you apart. How fast you fell into their touch with a burning need of your own.
“How’s he taste?” Logan breathed, sucking at your earlobe.
You pull away, dragging in a lungful of air. “Like coffee.”
“Gotta be better than that,” he mused. “You were eatin’ him alive.”
The mewl slipped off swollen lips. “Logan.”
“Bet you taste better. Ain’t that right Miller?”
Joel’s chuckle echoed in your other ear, a rasp that had your toes curling on the hardwood floor. “Taste’s like fuckin’ heaven.”
Your eyes slid up to the mistletoe that taunted them further, a gasp torn from the base of your chest as Joel’s hand tugged at your shorts. Cold fingers pushing your panties to the side with a soft bitten out fuck. Surviving them was never an option. Not when they drew every nerve in your body tight with endless pleasure—setting a fire beneath your already hot skin.
Two fingers slid through your wet folds, a punched out groan drawing your attention back to Joel’s crimson face. He watched himself touch you. Stuck on the sight of how you parted for him, how your thighs unconsciously opened to let him explore the familiar expanse of your body. He would spend eons worshiping you and never tire of the way you reacted.
“Looks like it too,” he said more to himself.
Logan heard him loud and clear. “Tell me baby. Do you like the mistletoe?”
Nodding slowly, you felt two thick fingers plunge into your sopping pussy before any words could form in your hazed mind. Your head fell back onto Logan’s shoulder, hips canting into Joel’s touch with a breathy whine that made him grin.
“There ya go,” Logan cooed. “Open up for your old men. Let us have some fun.”
It was only a matter of time before you unraveled. They could see it in the way you struggled to breathe properly, your mouth parted in a silent cry of their names permanently lodged in the back of your throat. Nothing prettier had ever graced their lives before you. Their reason to live, to keep finding their way home—discarding boots by the door and jackets on hooks.
You were forever when the prospect of it seemed impossible to have.
“She’s so fuckin’ wet,” Joel grunted, curling his fingers until they struck right where you needed. A sob wrenched from your mouth, thighs trembling around his hand. “Drenchin’ my hand.”
“Yeah?”
“You hear that darlin’?” Joel’s voice dragged you back with its lilting tease. “That’s it huh? Right there?”
“Y-Yes!”
Logan’s hand dropped from your waist, his fingers prodding at your entrance where Joel’s currently ripped you to pieces. Dragging out sounds you didn’t know you could make. Hooking two fingers into you from behind, Logan swallowed your shout with a searing kiss. His broad hand cupping your chin to angle you closer—each noise muffled by the wet heat of his tongue finding yours.
They worked in tandem to drag you towards the edge. Where Joel pulled, Logan pushed. Two men finding their rhythm in the confines of your writhing body. You’d been stretched before, but this felt different. As if each of them were intent on striking that soft spot along your fluttering walls. Slick pouring out and coating their hands as the loud squelching echo bounced off the walls.
If you weren’t pressed between them you would have collapsed. Your knees giving out and body curling in on itself as they pounded into you with biting groans and harsh breaths.
“C’mon bub. I can feel ya achin’ for it.”
And you were. You were screaming in your head to finally be thrown into the depths of ecstasy. But your voice only existed in cries and garbled words that sounded eerily similar to their names.
“Be a good girl and cum,” Joel growled, grinding his palm into your throbbing clit.
The release ripped from your body with a broken sob. Your legs kicked out and your body arched as they broke you even further. Pleasure strangled the air from your lungs, tearing through you like a fire without end. A bliss that threatened to break you beyond any type of repair they could offer. You were a ball of nerves completely and utterly gone for them as you struggled to keep your head above water.
“There it is,” Logan hummed, smiling against your cheek at how you gushed over their fingers. A splash of your release hitting the hardwood floor. “Made such a pretty fuckin’ mess for us baby.”
A soft whimper was all you could muster, your eyes slipping shut as Logan wrapped you in his arms. Joel releasing you with a soft huff.
“Gonna grab a towel.”
You tracked his shuffling as the breath returned to your lungs. Logan’s nose a soft press against your temple—his lips warm enough to pull you back to the present. Time seemed to fall away in their presence. A limited escape within this haven the three of you created—a place you could fall in love all over again.
“How are you?” he murmured, thumbs curling along your waist.
You hummed, brimming with contentment. “Good. Even if I can’t feel my legs.”
The laugh you got in response was all you could have hoped for. His hold grew tight as he shifted to settle you in his lap on the floor. This is what you longed for, what you dreamed of in the early stages of your relationship. When friendly gestures were all you could give and the idea of love felt so far away.
“How’s that? Better?”
“Yeah,” you sighed, curling into his chest. “Perfect.”
“‘Course you chose the fuckin’ floor.” Joel’s voice once again had you wrenching your eyes open with a grin. “Not like my knees are shot to hell.”
“We can move to the couch you old fucker,” Logan snipped, gathering you close as he clambered to his feet.
Finding Joel’s hand you tugged him to fall in step with your trembling legs. “Baby.”
He lit up at the sound of your voice. “He’s gotten enough of your time darlin’.”
Logan scoffed, draping himself on the couch. “And you’re one to talk. What with all those late night conversations in here.”
“Not my fault you sleep like you’re already dead.”
You giggled, falling delightedly into Joel’s chest as he settled with a grunt. “Always fighting.”
“I’m not fighting,” Logan remarked. “I’m explaining.”
“Is that what you tell Laura?” you asked, quirking your lips at the sight of him scooting closer. With a huff he dragged your legs into his lap. “Or does she do that to you?”
“Ellie does it too,” Joel muttered. “Never not fightin’ with me.”
You smiled, the simmering ache of love igniting anew in the base of your chest. “I can see where she gets it from.”
Logan’s laughter filled the space, yours soon joining as Joel bit at your shoulder to keep you in check. Even in the midst of tragedy—stuck at the end of the world—you understood that your path would always curve towards them. A destined fate that carved itself into your ribs long before you were born. They were your permanent space in this horror story.
Your forever even as you ran out of time.
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see-arcane · 3 days ago
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You know the one good thing about being a pessimist?
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It feels great to be proven wrong.
Bravo, Bobby Egg.
I was so happily surprised by this. This film went through a fantastic puberty between the leaked script and the screen. The main points to note:
-No, Ellen is not hot for Count Orlok. She and Thomas are 110% in love. There are even certain Harker-flavored quotes thrown in to prove as much. (Details under the cut.)
-Count Orlok is a terrifying bastard and a half. Significantly more imposing than classic Orlok’s spindly rigor mortis-stiff figure and only wearing a sliver of Dracula’s performative charm. He is a Devil-Death archetype playing a monster who operates in deceit and contracts to wring out what he wants. That and a lot of corpses.
-This film is so beautiful. No gothic touch is skipped.
In sum, I more than like this film. I love it. It isn’t perfect, because no film can be, but damn. I am so proud of this nightmare you made, Bobby Egg.
SPOILERS FOR Nosferatu (2024) BELOW
-Getting some cons out of the way. There are points where a few of the actors lean maybe a bit too heavy on the ham-and-cheese in their deliveries (I’ll not blame the kids, they’re very young, but yeesh. That’s some cartoon acting.)
Yes, the g-slur is still used; though while I wish it hadn’t appeared in Eggers’ script at all, it does make sense within the context of the setting, i.e. Thomas and the Innkeeper probably only having the one word they know, same as in Dracula. And yes, naked teenage girl-on-a-horse does happen for the vampire hunt scene. Whee.
-Now, an early pro: Eggers nixed the ‘hot teen girl tries to pickpocket Thomas’ bit, and the ‘land of phantoms and thieves’ line never happens. All that happens after Thomas wakes in the inn—post witnessing the vampire slaying in the local graveyard, mud on his shoes to prove it was real—is he discovers himself utterly alone. No people, no horse. Cue the long walk.
-Ellen doing the ‘Come to me,’ bit early on is her in adolescence. It’s revealed that her Weird Girl elements have been turned up to 11, tragic lonely past included (replete with dad threatening to send her to a madhouse), and her prayer was just for company. The psychic ping was picked up by Orlok, who took advantage, turning an isolated and desperate barely-more-than-a-kid’s wish into a ‘covenant.’
-Thomas was met not long after this, cue them being genuinely in love <3
-Knock Does Not Jerk Off On Screen. If he does, his back is to us, and Little Knock is covered with some occult tablet or suchlike while he’s doing his ritual business. Also he kills a guy in his cell. Using his teeth.
-Castle time! Thomas is greeted by a driverless carriage at a crossroads and seems to be hypnotized into stepping in. A lot of things Thomas does once in Orlok’s territory seem to very clearly have psychic puppet strings attached. That and some increasing terror on Thomas’ part. There is no warm Dracula-style welcome from Orlok when he arrives, but a terse and strange leading to the dinner table where paperwork is demanded.
- We get a glimpse of this version of the Count’s ego. Thomas calls him sir. Orlok demands Thomas address him as my lord. And then we get the bread cutting scene. Thomas’ thumb bleeds. Orlok get far too interested. His voice, a very guttural and rasping bass, turns into something closer to an animal trilling and growling. Thomas is paralyzed beside the fire; cut away as Orlok closes in.
-Ellen and Anna Harding have a bit of a Mina and Lucy deal going on at the beach. It’s sweet <3 (Prepare for pain </3)
 - Orlok starts getting tricky. He 1) borrows (steals) Ellen’s locket from Thomas and 2) Tricks Thomas into signing a contract to ‘sell’ Ellen/break their marriage via a strange contract in a language Thomas can’t read, with Orlok using the prop of some gold to imply that this is merely a document in ~his native language~ to complete the property sale. Thomas signs, less for the gold than to be gone from the castle and back to Ellen…only for Orlok to insist Thomas is not well. He must stay the night.
- No mind games here. Just Thomas pleading to leave and Orlok’s parting word being that he will stay, and that he will obey his orders.
-Orlok has already chomped Thomas on the tiddy as of last night. Next night, after Thomas almost lands a blow on him in the coffin—Orlok sleeps with his Orcock out in the box, by the way, alongside several rats—Orlok wills Thomas to unlock the door he shut between them. Cue Thomas being tranced onto the bed, pounced on, and basically dry-humped by Orlok as he drinks Thomas all but dry. Thomas is left that way, only to be woken by Orlok’s wolves—he has those too!—and go clambering out the window, dropping to the river below.
-Orlok makes Ellen’s life hell. Holy fuck. The 1838 quality ‘medicine’ definitely doesn’t help—corsets for correcting posture, draining blood because there’s too much in there, binding to the bedposts to stop sleepwalking, general drugging etc etc—but FUCK. Lily-Rose Depp did a great and terrible job of reproducing shaking fits and some of the faces and sounds she made had me thinking I might choke on my own tongue. And for all the sexually provocative poses/noises that happen, every time she comes out of it it’s clear that she hates this. It’s on par with psychic rape.
-The only times we see Ellen respond positively~ to Orlok’s dream-advances is when she’s telling Thomas about the ‘marrying Death’ dream where everyone died and she was deliriously happy and then the infamous trailer line about Thomas not being able to satisfy her as Orlok can~~~
Well guess what.
Guess fucking what.
That was Orlok leaning on her brain. The same way he did to Thomas when, eventually, after the nuns rescue him and pray the plague/vampirism out and he makes it home while half-dead, he lays in bed with Ellen and gets a panic attack combined with Orlok’s image being grafted over Ellen’s face…
…a reverse of the illusion Orlok gave him in the castle, with Thomas imagining it was Ellen on top of him instead. The effect terrifies Thomas all over again and he unwittingly tosses Ellen away, I can't breathe, get off of me, get off!
-Orlok does his murder snacking. Knock, who escaped, offers to find and kill Thomas to please the Count, literally on his hands and knees. Orlok calls him a dog and backhands him, insisting Ellen must be given, not stolen.
-Orlok has already visited Ellen by this time. He presses her to keep her deal with him. She tells him, flat out, I abhor you. In response, Orlok grabs her and chucks her like a ragdoll in a rage. He fumes, telling her he will give her three nights to pledge herself to him, and in the meantime he will start killing. (RIP to Anna and her little girls, the latter of whom ORLOK KILLS IN FRONT OF HER, EATING THEIR THROATS OUT AS SHE ENTERS THEIR ROOM.)
-Before all that, he spins bullshit about Thomas ~selling her to him for mere gold~. A technical truth that Ellen, mid-Orlok spell, spits back at Thomas amid a rage, along with details that are likewise based in only a granule of reality; but which Orlok did not mention in their scene together. Things like Thomas being weak and childish, that he ‘fell into Orlok’s arms like a fainting woman.’ Interesting choice of spin there, Orlok. But whatever.
This all culminates in what is either reality or a dream or a blend of both as Thomas makes sudden desperate love to her, Ellen weirdly heady about it, telling him yes yes yes they will show Orlok their love. Cue her snapping back to full cognizance (awake? dreaming?) as her eyes and mouth spurt blood in a vision. She collapses in fear and tears as Thomas holds her. AND THEN:
-Ellen. Drops. The I am unclean line. She wants Thomas away from her, she is not worthy, she puts him in danger.
-Thomas goes full Jonathan and clings to her. Nonsense. I love you. I love you. I love you.
-V i n d i c a t i o n
-Anyway.
-Dafoe-Von Franz-Van Helsing is a kooky science occultist. Finds a book that Knock had which fills the role of highlighting Orlok as Solomonari (hey, Scholomance shout out!) and Knock as a would-be beneficiary. Also includes the ‘maiden offers her body and blood to the monster to kill it via sunrise’ bit.
-While he reads this, he does NOT actually spell any of these details out to Ellen when they have their secret mini talk about tricking Thomas into hunting for the coffin with him and Sievers. He gives her a big ~you're the only one who can save us magic maiden martyr~ pep talk, but that's it. Meanwhile, Ellen was already preparing to offer herself to save Thomas and whoever’s left in Wisborg. Not the same kind of agency as the original, but still better than I was expecting.
-Harding, Thomas’ rich friend whose wife and children got drinked to death, dies of plague in the family tomb. They burn the bodies.
-In the ruin Orlok bought, cue the iron stake slamming down as they open the coffin..! But whoops. Knock’s in the box, not Orlok. Von Franz says Ellen offering herself is the only way~ Thomas doesn’t waste time throttling him, just makes a run for their home.
-Too late, of course. Orlok is there (with a very cool homage to the original stalking shadow silhouette routine) and Ellen welcomes him. While they are both naked in bed and it’s implied that they are/or intend to have sex, the bulk of the scene centers on Orlok taking Ellen’s blood from her breast. No clear shot of the Orcock on screen for that bit—Bobby Egg saved that pleasure for the Count flashing Thomas at the castle.
-Orlok’s death throes. Are so. Fucking. Cool. Definitely up there with one of the best vampiric demises I’ve ever seen on film. No spoilers there. You’ve got to see it.
-Heartbreak o’ Clock as Thomas bursts in just as Orlok has died and as Ellen is dying under him. There’s time for them to hold hands. And then she’s gone.
-We close on Von Franz popping up with some poetic soliloquy shit and a bunch of lilacs. The final beat is an overhead shot of Ellen, the Maiden, laying under the now-skeletal Orlok, as Death. Looks almost like a painting. Unlike the implication in the leaked script, she does not look happy/at peace. Simply asleep. The End.
-Other important notes:
1) Orlok has a little combover’s worth of hair on top and mighty and powerful ‘stache. Not Dracula-white, but it is there. Finally.
 2) The guy who plays Dr. Sievers has Alan Rickman’s voice. If he isn’t in opera, he should be.
3) I was too late to get a popcorn coffin box. I shall be in mourning until the New Year.
4) Bobby Egg if you can give me one more gift, let it be a deleted scene of Thomas beating Von Franz over the head with the iron stake, please and thank you <3
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itsusernotfound · 2 days ago
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At first, I had a knee jerk reaction of 'No! Smaller seasons have led to better writing, better storytelling, better everything!' After years of enjoying Mad Men, Midsomer Murders, The Wire and Bosch, I went back to Star Trek The Next Generation. I had watched it in bits and pieces during it's initial run (yes, I know, I'm old) and off and on since then. But after having blown threw Strange New Worlds in a couple of weeks, my wife and I wanted to go back to (what was for us) the original. And while the first season was a mixed bag, coming back to the same characters for months, an now a couple of years, we found that we were down for whatever the team had for us next. You see, on an episode by episode basis, I don't think that Next Gen holds up to Strange New Worlds. I know, it's not a fair comparison, that's the point. Next Gen had to produce 25 episodes a year that had special effects, fight scenes, elaborate costumes and fantastic make up. Strange New Worlds, while doing roughly the same thing, is only producing 10 episodes a year. And now, there is going to be almost a 2 year gap between season 2 and 3. The consistency of Next Gen having to produce an episode a week for years on end may mean that not every episode is amazing, but the folks that you have gotten to know are there, and you are there for it.
Sometimes I think of it as a crazy theater troupe that produces a new play every week. You go in to the theater every week, not because you are expecting something on the level of Hamlet every week, but because you enjoy the company of these actors, the words of these writers. And a little bit for the spectacle of 'They made this in a week, that's bonkers.'
I'm not supporting the downfall of prestige TV in support of the 22 episode season, I think there is room for both. The inconsistency of the work for actors and writers and directors in the modern streaming market is a real problem. It's not just bad for them, it's bad for the end product.
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tartagliove · 3 days ago
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IN GOOD COMPANY kinich x reader ✧ 1.1k words
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"when there's no saurians to hunt, i take on other jobs too. i guess that means we're in the same line of work."
tags ✧ fluff, no pronouns used for reader, clumsy reader, reader and kinich are childhood friends but have feelings for each other.
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note ✧ dedicated to @hanaeriin, from your @pixelcafe-network secret santa! i hope you're doing well and are taking care of yourself! i decided to not go down the wintery route for this since i know you don’t celebrate the holidays—hopefully you'll like this little kinich fic ahhh
a huge thank you to @fandomsuggestions for betaing this!
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Three sheets of paper hang limply from the commission board. They flutter weakly as a hot breeze blows, which offers little relief from the scorching summer sun and the stifling humidity. You wish you were relaxing at home or cooling off in the river far below the tribe, but you have expenses that need to be paid, so you’re scanning the few available commissions and debating on which one you want to take.
Two of the commissions are straightforward and easy—a package delivery and hilichurl camp clearing—but the reward offered is nowhere near enough to cover your monthly expenses. You look at the third paper, skimming the wall of text that details a long and arduous commission. However, it also displays a reward of Mora with enough zeroes to make your eyes widen. That money would last you through most of next month as well.
It appears as though you will have a lot of traveling and fighting ahead of you. You normally are excited for a commission like this, but in the summer heat? Sighing, you reach for the commission.
A flash of green darts across your vision, snatching the sheet of paper out from beneath your fingers.
You whirl around. “Hey! Give that back, I was– Ajaw. Of course it’s you.”
“That’s Almighty Dragonlord K’uhul Ajaw to you, puny human! How many times–”
Tuning out the floating dragon’s usual rant, you look beyond him at the approaching Saurian hunter. A smile lights up your face. “Kinich!”
The bright sun makes the blue and green shine to his hair more obvious. His gorgeous eyes seem to glow from within as they look from his companion to you. “Morning,” he says, nodding at you in greeting.
You try to ignore the way a shiver runs through you at the sight. “It’s good to see you! Are you looking for a commission to take on, too?” you ask him, pointing toward the commission board that now bears two lonely pieces of paper. “The options aren’t very good.”
“Except for this one!” Ajaw flies between you two, waving the commission you were looking at in front of Kinich’s face. “It’s perfect—days of scaling the sides of mountains, fighting some dangerous creatures, not to mention, I can feel a storm brewing!”
You frown at Ajaw, knowing full well why the dangers of the commission delights him.
Kinich, however, swats the Saurian away with the back of his hand. “Were you planning on taking this?” he asks you.
You nod slowly, but then wave your hands in front of you. “You can take it if you want though! There are two more on the board, I can do those without a problem!” But even the combined pay of those commissions won’t be enough. You wince at the thought.
Kinich catches the expression that flashes across your face. “What is it?”
You hesitate for a moment, but under his steady gaze, give in and confess, “Those commissions don’t offer enough of a reward to cover what I need—even if I take both.”
There is no judgement on his face as he listens, only understanding. He nods when you finish talking, then says Ajaw’s name.
The Saurian darts over, still holding the commission. “You’re gonna pick this one, right? That puny human can’t handle this anyway–“
“Shut up,” Kinich growls, the harshest you’ve heard him in a while. He yanks the paper out of Ajaw’s grasp, then grabs the dragon and chucks him into the sky, where he vanishes with a furious yell.
With Ajaw temporarily gone, Kinich’s face relaxes as he turns his attention back to you. “Here,” he says, handing you the commission. “You had it first, you take it. I know you have the skills to see it through to the end.”
His vote of confidence warms you from within, washing away any sting Ajaw’s words had evoked. “Thank you, Kinich.” You accept the paper from him with a soft smile. “I hope you’ll find something good to take on yourself.”
He nods, strands of hair shifting from the movement. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your commission.”
“Yes, sir!” you respond with a giggle. “Well then, I need to get ready for the job. When I’m back, we should catch up sometime! It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. I missed it- missed you,” you add on, a bit shy at the admission.
“That would be nice,” Kinich says. By his tone, you can tell he is sincere, so you can’t stop the grin from growing across your face.
“Alright then, I’ll see you around! Bye, Kinich!”
You turn and walk away, leaving the Saurian hunter to peruse the remaining two commissions on the board. Glancing down at the paper in your hand, you read it over once more to take in the details. When you get to the final line, you stop in your tracks.
The smallest string of words say, “Two or more adventurers recommended for this commission.”
Your lips part. What if- There’s no way. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?
“Kinich!” You shout his name as loudly as you can, running back toward the commission board. When you’ve almost reached him, you step on the back of your own sandal and trip, a noise of alarm escaping your mouth. Bracing for the impact of the ground, you are instead caught by warm hands and a steady frame.
You blink in surprise at Kinich, who keeps his grip on your upper arm and lower back until you regain your balance—and even then his touch lingers for a moment before he pulls away.
His eyes seem to pierce through you as you look at him and breathlessly ask, “Would, um, would you like to go on this commission with me?”
You hold out the paper, finger trailing along the final sentence.
Kinich huffs out a wry laugh. “Of course Ajaw didn’t mention that detail. Are you sure you want a partner for this? I know you could complete it alone.”
Swallowing, you manage to ask, “And what if I don’t want to do it alone?”
A soft look appears on his face. “Then you have someone willing to do it with you.”
You laugh in delight, and can’t help bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Alright then! I’ll be in good company.”
“And so will I.”
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