#i know this is the time period and love matches are rare but look at her she's so gay

[newtonbridgerton]

something something closeted lesbian picking out men solely based on what she was taught to see as desirable bc she's never experienced attraction to a man

[sugarlywhispers]

s.kiyoomi + gf moments

☆— fem reader, crack, fluff

☆— a/n; i don't know what this is, i just had a thought and felt like writing it.. it could become a serie of events until the Sakusa Kiyoomi finally admits he loves y/n (?) idk, let me know if you like the idea😊

You have been best friends with Bokuto since you were young. Your friendship was so fun and purely like brother and sister that you even decided to move together once high school was over and your University period of life began. Even if you were very different in personalities, somehow you both worked together and couldn't imagine a life without him as your bestie-almost brother.

After some time living together, you got very used to seeing some people around the house almost everyday, his volleyball teammates.

First, it was Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi. Atsumu was the biggest flirt you have ever encountered in your life, almost to the point in which sometimes it annoyed you. In a good way though. He was a cutie.

While Kiyoomi was very chill and shy, he mostly kept to himself if no one bothered him; but he had the most snarky and filled with sarcasm answers for whatever antics Boo and 'Tsumu could come up with. You loved it.

Then Hinata Shouyo joined the team, and it was like a whirlwind uprooted everything in his path. He was the most outgoing and sociable and kind human being you have ever met.

And it all became like a routine. Everyday after practice, all of them would come to have dinner at yours and Boo's apartment. By this time, you already know all of them and how they all liked things and their meals. Especially Omi. He was a particular, rare especimen.

Bokuto had warned you before introducing him, how he did not like physical contact or how he wouldn't take off his mask if he wasn’t playing in a match or eating. He warned you not to feel offended or take it personal if he bluntly commented on how things were not clean enough or whatever.

But surprisingly, he had never looked down on anything in your apartment or even commented anything in front of you.

There was even one time he did comment in the middle of dinner, "I'm surprised how you maintain everything this clean and organized considering you live with Bokuto…"

"Hey!" Boo complained, mouth full of food, while everyone laughed.

That same night, Boo had pestered you about how the Sakusa Kiyoomi liked you. Of course, you couldn't believe it. The man barely spoke to you outside of those moments the team was present at your apartment. 

It was until one night, when everyone came of course after practice to have dinner you were already cooking, when he did something you never thought he would do.

Of course, the amount of noise they made even before getting inside the apartment was a clear sign they were almost there. Shouyo and Boo always came straight to hug, picking you up and squishing you hard as a greeting. Atsumu would fist pump and wink at you before throwing himself on the sofa, of course putting some other volleyball's team match on the TV. While Omi would simply bow slightly with his head, not even getting too close to you, standing on the entrance of the kitchen.

By this time, you already knew and respected each one of them and their ways to show how much they appreciated you.

"It smells so good, Y/N," whined Shouyo as he entered the kitchen and made his way to the fridge to pick something to drink.

Omi was so quiet you have not realized he had followed the red-mostly orange-head and was standing at the door of the kitchen.

"I'm glad you think that," you smiled happily.

"He says that about almost everything. He would eat a bug and say exactly the same thing if he's hungry enough."

To say that you were surprised to hear his deep voice speak that amount of words was small. Yet, you couldn't avoid finding it funny how he always got the cleverest answers and dark humor. So you laughed, while Shouyo pouted, drinking from the beer he took from the fridge–it was Friday night after all.

You kept cooking, smiling and listening to how Shouyo complained to his teammate how evil he was with him when he was all nice to him.

"Alright you two…" you meddled, smiling happily at the incessant noise from everyone around, "If you're gonna keep arguing, you could at least help on setting the table, right?"

They both nodded while moving around to find what they needed, still arguing, but now about something else which sounded like Shouyo's height. Omi loved getting on Shouyo's nerves when it came to his height.

"What's that, Y/N?" Shouyo suddenly asked, signaling to a set of a plate, forks, a glass and a mug that were separated in a corner of the cupboard.

"Oh. That's Omi's," you said, your attention anywhere but said man.

"I don't remember leaving my stuff here," he commented, with no mean intention in his voice towards you.

"No, I mean… I know you don't like your stuff mixed with everyone's, so I picked a set I always clean twice and kept it separated from everything else. No one touches or uses that but you," you answered him, still looking at the food you were cooking over the oven.

Oh, God, kill me now, was all you thought as silence reigned in the kitchen.

But then, you felt a tall, warm presence behind you. You knew it was Omi, Shouyou was not that tall–he was only a head over yours, while you knew Omi was much taller.

It was the first time the Sakusa Kiyoomi got that close to you and it shocked you to the core. But what surprised you the most was when you felt his chin rest on your head comfortably.

"Thank you, Y/N," you could feel the vibrations of his deep voice and the rumble of his chest on your back saying your name, his entire dark but comfy aura so close to you, all you could think was how good it felt.

If you would have turned a bit to Shouyo's direction, you would have seen him with his eyes open wide, like those funny cartoons where their eyes popped off their face to express shock. Thankfully, he didn't say anything, he simply turned on his feet and flew from the kitchen to the living room where Tsumu and Boo were.

"You're welcome," was all you could say, almost a whisper, as he comfortably stayed there, barely a centimeter of distance between his body and yours.

If you weren't shocked enough by that, you definitely almost collapsed when you felt one of his fingers timidly caress your hand that was not holding the spoon you were cooking with, resting next to your hip. It had been barely a touch, yet the warmth and little tingling it provoked made you take a deep breath to gather your mind straight.

If you hadn't before, now you definitely were falling for this rare specimen. 

[murdockparker]

Roses and Regrets - Part 1

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!

A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?

next part

__

She was perfectly happy. 

Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t. 

Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one. 

In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing. 

No matter. 

A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either. 

“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.

“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season. 

“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”

“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”

“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”

“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”

“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”

“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”

“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”

(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”

“My lady!”

“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”

“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”

“Dreadful.”

“It is expected,” Meg repeated.

“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”

—

Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned. 

Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey. 

It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.

“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out. 

“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”

“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”

“You are out of mourning.”

“Is that a question?”

“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.

“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”

“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”

“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”

“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”

“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”

“Like a drunkard?”

“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”

“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”

“I am not Lady Danbury.”

“You are not.”

“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”

“Are you insinuating you are not?”

“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.

Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”

“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”

“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled. 

—

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be. 

Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening. 

His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up. 

While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand. 

Good show, Lady Barlow. 

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

—

“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular. 

“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”

“Er, yes, however—”

“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned. 

“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked. 

“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising. 

“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”

“No.”

“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.

“Oh, according to Whistledown—”

“Sister—”

“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”

“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”

“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten. 

“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked. 

“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”

“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”

“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”

Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was. 

Apparently he was going to the park.

It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.

“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.

“Unbelievable.”

He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.

“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”

“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”

“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”

“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”

“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”

“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”

“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”

“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.

“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”

“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”

She scowled. “You are not amusing.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”

A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell. 

“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.

“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”

While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on. 

Stubborn. Both of them.

“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—” 

“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”

“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”

“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.

“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”

She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”

“Neither am I.”

“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.

“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”

“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”

“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."

“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”

“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”

“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”

“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”

“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”

“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang. 

“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”

Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”

(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.

“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Why you little…!”

She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.

“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.

Perhaps he would burn it.

Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.

In the pocket it went. For now.

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

CopyCat

This was written after a match of copycat w my boyfriend. If i had a nickel for every time i lived becuz someone i knew was the killer, i would have two nickels which isnt a lot

Rated Mature | Warning: Aesop just Aesop

The game supposedly is simple, they said that about Tarot and Blackjack which is not easy! You have the role of Detective, you… Honestly, you do not understand how you are supposed to find clues as everyone is running around doing something to their assigned goals. You find the tasks are easy but finding them is not, as you partially know your way around this creepy unsettling map… Not that you get many matches here.

“What are you doing?” Aesop says from behind you as you are refolding the towels after obtaining a rag… You have no idea why the task wants you to find a rag. You look up from your crouch form and smile.

“My tasks.” Thinking nothing of it, “You?”

“Checking on you. I saw you run in here. You shouldn't be alone.”

“I wasn't at first. Norton was here until Luca passed by then he said he was gonna go check on him.” Standing up after putting everything back in place, “You want to see the piano with me?” Offering to stick close with the Embalmer.

“Yes.” He takes your hand, a first for you, and guides you to the church room with the piano.

Here he watches you attempt the task of playing a few piano notes. His eyes are not on you but on Norton who is hiding a body in another room as quietly as possible. You mess up and retry giving the perfect opportunity for the copycat to hide crime (after quickly killing Luca between the music playing).

“I swear Frederick makes this look easy. Fucking three times…” Finally done, “Aesop?” Turned to get up only to be greeted by his face up close filling your field of view.

He is closer in your personal space with his hand on top of the piano to hold himself in place above you, “(Name),” His eyes on your face then your lips, “A kiss.”

You stare at him completely flustered as Aesop is not the type to always ask for physical affection, you seek it more so from him while respecting his boundaries. You grip the edge of the seat, his finger hooked over the top of his medical mask. To anyone else this is nothing but to you it has you open your mouth ready to question but Aesop is quick to silence any words. His lips on yours without the mask are rare, his tongue in your mouth only happened once but the sensation was too much.

You grab his shoulders as one hand is on your thigh and the other behind your neck keeping you in place as he kisses you. You crumble easily, of course you do, you love Aesop, and anything he gives you is treasured— As he does with you. Your eyes close as you return the kiss the best way you can give the only other person is Joseph who honestly plays with you like a cat to a mouse.

Aesop is demanding your focus on his kiss, stealing your air before you can get it back between kisses. You do not see his eye is on Norton who hid the body and now is leaving to distance himself from the crime scene.

When Aesop pulls his lips away, he realizes he can taste the flower cake you were sharing with Emma before the match. Licking his lips noticing kissing you this way was not bad.

“A-Aesop…” You are completely a mess while he looks completely fine. “Uh… Wow.”

“Sorry,” Pulling back up his mask, “Thought it would make you feel better.”

“Huh… Oh! Yeah, heh, it made me honestly forget what I was upset about haha.” You wish he did not stop and take you on the piano like some scene in a periodic TV show, which reminds you he does have that one outfit…

“Emergency meeting called by the Fire Investigator!”

The announcement is loud from the old speakers.

Everyone is going over clues as the spotlights shift between each player. Aesop is quiet. You are antsy and keep playing the kiss over and over in your head, going a little past kissing.

“(Name)?” Emily's voice makes you snap back to reality, “What were you doing during the time of the murder?”

Without thinking, “Kissing Aesop.” You say than panic, “Doing a task in the piano room then kissing Aesop!”

Silence… “So that clears them…” Says Edgar who sighs.

You mouth sorry to Aesop who sits across you but he looks rather pleased with himself.

When the meeting ends, no one is voted out, you go back to doing your task. No piano but you need to go paint? More like tracing what is painted there already.

Aesop walks by you while following Victor, he glares at Norton who is going to strike you but raises his hands as if he is joking.

Next emergency meeting, Edgar is voted out after trying to blame Florian for the death of Victor. Poor Charles found the body.

You really hate this game is literally Among Us from your time, or that other game Town of Salem. It feels rather fucked up given how after this each person has to depend on each other in matches.

“Are you okay?” Aesop asks after the second meeting.

“Yeah, just… This game would be better for the hunters. At least they don't have to rely on each other.”

“Why?”

“This is a game of lies. Lying to one another, the accuser and the accused. I can't tell who to trust or who to be alone with I—” His hands on your face as to center you with the cold texture on your heating face.

“Do you trust me?”

In your frazzled state, “Yes.”

“Good. Nothing is going to happen to you.” Aesop would rather kill you himself but you are going to be last. The others are a problem, especially Charles, “Stay in plain sight.” And you do.

The Detectives win because you love doing tasks… You are definitely a bit scared of Aesop as he lied to you yet kept his word. You weren't harmed even though it cost the copycats the match.

The kiss is not letting you stay mad at him.

[seiya-starsniper]

I wish you would write a fic where...

…Hob is a little insecure about his body in comparison to Dream. Dream is wondering why his love only wants to have sex in the dark…

I need some hurt/comfort 🥹

Oh man friend, I started writing this thinking it wouldn't be super long and then 9.7k words later...😅

Still gonna post the whole thing on tumblr since this IS a tumblr prompt, but it's probably best read on AO3 for length reasons lmao. I hope you enjoy this angst train!

AO3 Link: Cruel Summer

Rating: Mature

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - America, Developing Relationship, Casual Sex, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Self-Esteem Issues, Self Confidence Issues, body image issues

Also tagging @dreamlingbingo as I'm using this fill for my free space!

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

The first time it happens, Dream doesn't think too much about it. There's not a lot of thinking going on period, not really. Dream's only focused on the touch and taste and feel of Hob Gadling’s body against his as they drunkenly make out against the latter’s front door.

They’d been out tonight celebrating with their friends, all of them having finally achieved some hard earned life goal. Matthew and Jessamy were engaged, and planning a marriage out on Cape Cod the following summer, Lucienne had gotten promoted as an archivist at Harvard, Mervyn had finally launched his own cybersecurity firm, and Dream had just signed a publishing deal for the novel he’d been working on for the past two years. His editing team was even based out of Boston, even if their main headquarters was in New York, which made Dream’s life much easier. 

Hob…well. Hob’s celebration was more muted than the rest. He’d just landed a job at Harvard as well, working as a professor, so he and Lucienne were now technically coworkers. And while it was a fantastic opportunity with decent pay, and mostly free summers, it had come at the cost of his relationship with Eleanor, his longtime girlfriend. 

Eleanor had accepted a job across the country working as a marketing lead for a lifestyle clothing brand based out of Seattle. She’d wanted the position more than anything, but Hob hadn’t wanted to move, so they broke up. Hob insists it was all amicable, and that he’d miss everyone too much if he’d actually left, but they all knew Hob had been thinking about proposing.

Dream knows all this, and yet, when it had just been the two of the left at the bar and Hob had started openly flirting with him alone, instead of just playfully flirting with every single one of their friends, Dream had decided, “why not”, and matched the other man’s energy until they were suddenly making out just outside the bar while they waited for the Uber Hob called for them. It’s still the beginning of summer and not terribly hot outside, but Dream’s still grateful for the cool AC of the car that eventually comes to get them to drive the short distance back to Hob’s apartment.

When Hob finally unlocks the door and they practically fall into the front hall, Dream messily kicks off his shoes and works his way towards undoing Hob’s belt in between kisses. Hob wrangles them down the hall and towards his bedroom and Dream thinks vaguely about turning on the lights when they finally cross the threshold. But then Hob pushes him down into the mattress and Dream stops thinking about anything at all. 

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

The second time that it happens, a little over a month later, Dream is helping Hob clean up his apartment after their monthly movie night with their friends. They had all decided on rewatching Jurassic Park after Mervyn and Lucienne had gotten into a debate on whether or not dinosaurs looked stupid with or without feathers. But it had taken the group some time for them to even start the movie, since they had mostly gotten wrapped up with different bits of work and life gossip. It was rare that they were all able to get together like this, so the movie was a secondary concern for them.

During the movie, however, Matthew and Jessamy’s wedding planner called them about something that needed their attention immediately, and though they said it was fine to keep the movie running, they’d paused it anyways. Not even ten minutes after they wrapped up their call, Mervyn had to take a work call from a client suffering from some server issues. 

Needless to say, it was nearly midnight by the time they finished the movie, and since only Dream and Hob had nothing to do the next morning, Dream had offered to stay late to help clean up and then crash on Hob’s couch for the night.

That is, at least, the story they tell their friends. The dishes and the food end up abandoned as Hob pushes Dream into the couch cushions and palms his cock through his black jeans. Dream moans and ruts beneath the other man, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling Hob in for a desperate, filthy kiss. They make out like teenagers for what seems like hours, the taste of buttery popcorn and overly sweet margarita mix mingled in every kiss. Dream isn’t nearly as drunk as he was that first night, but he’s got a pleasant buzz going, which really only adds to the whole illicit nature of what they’re doing. Neither of them had mentioned the first time they’d fucked to any of their friends, they’d barely talked about just between the two of them, really. 

Dream had figured maybe they could talk about it tonight after everyone had gone home but well. He’d gotten distracted with Hob’s mouth.

When they finally move from the couch to the bedroom, Dream turns the lights on, but then Hob turns them right back off as Dream’s getting undressed. 

“Are you one of those people who prefers to have sex in the dark?” Dream asks, laughing as Hob crawls on top of him, shedding his shirt and underwear along the way. 

“Mmmm,” Hob says, putting his mouth on Dream’s neck instead of answering the question. Dream gasps as the other man bites down on that one sensitive spot just below his ear. “Don’t wanna get up later to turn them off.”

Dream hums, and that’s the end of that conversation as his mind floats away to far more interesting pursuits.

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

The third time almost feels like a date. Almost. They don’t exactly plan to get together, just the two of them, it just sort of happens because Matthew had gotten sick, and Jessamy hadn’t wanted to leave him alone to fend for himself. She also wasn’t entirely sure if she was contagious herself and wanted to be safe. Mervyn was on call for a client this weekend so he wasn’t going out with them anyways, and Lucienne had decided she’d rather stay at home and catch up on some of her backlogged work rather than attend the Oktoberfest event they’d all bought tickets to. 

Hob had texted Dream individually and suggested they go out anyway, just the two of them, and Dream’s heart had stuttered in his chest when he’d read the message. Hob had suggested a new restaurant that had opened up near his apartment, and while it wasn’t necessarily a first date sort of place, it was still a bit nicer than any of the places they’d go with their friends for just drinks or a quick bite to eat. 

Dream agonizes for over an hour on what he should wear, before he ultimately defaults to what feels most natural to him, black jeans and a solid black polo instead of his usual band t-shirt, which he then pairs with a charcoal gray blazer, just to look a little nicer. But not too nice, just in case this isn’t a date. 

Hob, much to Dream’s disappointment, is in his regular outfit of a graphic tee and sweats when Dream arrives. He’s not terribly out of place in the restaurant, but he’s clearly not dressed to impress. He eyes Dream very appreciatively though, and doesn’t comment on why Dream’s a little more dressed up than usual. What he does do, however, is spend the evening whispering into Dream’s ear about how he’d like to peel that blazer off Dream and make him wear it while they fuck.

They only make it through a single round of drinks before they leave, with Hob leaving their server behind a more than generous tip for wrapping up their bill so quickly. 

Hob wastes no time divesting Dream of his blazer and tossing it down the hallway towards the bedroom before turning his attention back to kissing Dream senseless. He sinks to his knees and Dream moans as the other man then works at peeling his jeans off so he can blow Dream right in the front hall, up against the front door where anyone can walk by and hear. It makes everything that much hotter.

Later, when all Dream is left wearing is his blazer and nothing else, Hob gets up from where they’re kissing on the bed to turn off the lights and Dream frowns.

“You can just leave the lights on,” Dream says, before he coyly spreads his legs and shows off his best seductive pose to tempt Hob back to bed. Hob stares, transfixed at Dream’s posturing, before he huffs and then clicks off the lights anyways. Dream groans in annoyance and Hob laughs before he kisses Dream again.

“Sorry, just easier with the lights off,” Hob says, not sounding sorry at all. “Don’t worry about it too much.”

But Dream does worry. He doesn’t in the moment, but he does later, when they’re lying beside each other, Hob snoring away while Dream thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about how Hob always wants the lights off, and how he never cuddles with Dream after sex. He thinks about how they really only ever get together when it's convenient, but they've never made plans on their own, at least, not since Hob and Eleanor have broken up. 

Dream realizes, with a growing dread, that maybe Hob still isn't over Eleanor, that maybe all there is between them is sex, and nothing else. It makes an awful sort of sense; in the dark, Dream can't tell if Hob’s thinking about someone else, hoping for someone that's not Dream. Eleanor and Dream couldn't be anymore different but that hardly matters to a man with a broken heart. A warm body is a warm body after all, and Dream's the only other single person in their friend group.

If Hob's a little bit confused as to why Dream is a bit short with him in the morning he doesn't show it. Somehow that makes the pit in Dream's stomach worse.

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

The fourth time—there isn’t a fourth time because Dream fucks it all up.

Dream had met with his publisher earlier in the day, and the meeting had gone rather…poorly. His editor had straight up told him that he’d needed to make significant changes to the book, and Dream had argued until he was hoarse but to no avail. He’d then been told to go home and sleep on things, effectively being dismissed like a petulant child who’d thrown a tantrum in public.

Dream knew he had a good story. He also knew that some of the suggested changes were good ones, while others would fundamentally change the story he was trying to tell. But still, the sheer amount of changes had overwhelmed him, and Dream had lost his temper. He already knows, with a growing dread, that he’ll have to make some apologies the next day.

He’s about to go home, but Dream decides instead he’d like to get as drunk as humanly possible to wash the bitter taste of the day from his mind. He texts the group chat, and since it’s a Friday night, they all respond with enthusiasm to blow off some steam for the weekend. Everyone except for Hob, who says he’s not feeling like socializing tonight, but he’s sorry Dream had such a shitty day. 

Dream tries not to be disappointed that Hob won’t show up. He wonders if he’d just invited Hob by himself, instead of texting their group, would he have come out, just for Dream? But they don’t do things like that, even with how long they’ve been friends. Before they started sleeping together, Hob and Dream had always just sort of existed together in the same circle of friends. Dream had actually met Eleanor first, and Hob only when they started dating. Dream has never spent any amount of alone time with Hob before now, and he still doesn’t know what sort of relationship they even have, if any at all. 

Dream’s worries leave his mind when the others show up. Mervyn stays for only one round of drinks, and Matthew and Jessamy only two before they head out for the evening. They have an early appointment with the planner the next day to do some cake tastings. Lucienne stays the longest, though she really only nurses the same glass of wine the entire night. She talks Dream through his frustrations with his editors, and his overall story. She’s been with him every step of the way to getting this publishing deal, and Dream hasn’t told her yet, but she’s going to be the front page of his acknowledgements. 

He’s so tempted to unload on her about Hob as well, but before he can gather the courage to broach the subject, she gets a text from someone and blushes furiously when she reads it. Dream pokes and prods until she admits she’s started seeing someone. Johanna. She’s not sure if it’s serious yet but well. They’re definitely physically compatible, and while she won’t show Dream her phone, he already knows she’s been sent something particularly provocative. So Dream lets her go, and then debates between ordering another drink or going home. 

He does neither of those things, and instead pulls out his phone and texts Hob, outside their group chat. The alcohol has more than loosened Dream’s inhibitions and right now, he’s lonely and horny. Lucienne’s reserved but still elated expression as she had happily explained Johanna had made Dream miss Hob. So he texts the other man and tells him he’d like to come over.

Hob’s response isn’t what he’s hoping for: are you drunk?

Dream frowns at his phone and then his initial message: aree tou busy?? Can i comeocer?

Okay, maybe he was a little more drunk than he realized. He asks Hob if it matters, being careful this time to make sure he types everything out carefully, and then closes out his tab while he waits for a response. Nothing comes. Dream’s annoyed and disappointed, but not surprised, so he starts to make his way to the train platform to head home. 

While he’s waiting, he finally gets a response back from Hob: okay. come over.

Dream changes platforms immediately and heads in the direction of Hob’s apartment. 

When he arrives, Hob pushes a glass of water towards him, which Dream drinks down greedily. When he’s done, he joins Hob on the couch and crawls into his lap to kiss him, but Hob pushes him away after only a few moments. Dream lets out an annoyed noise when Hob does it again. 

“Dream, not tonight,” Hob says, pushing him away when Dream tries to kiss him again.

“What do you mean?” Dream asks, now confused. 

“I don’t want to have sex right now,” Hob replies, before he pushes Dream off of him and back onto the couch, going back to watching whatever crime drama he’d had on before Dream arrived.

Dream stares, open mouthed and hurt, as Hob decidedly ignores him for Netflix. He gets up angrily and stomps around the kitchen, tearing open the cabinets looking for something to eat, and also more water because now he has a pounding headache as his body struggles to sober up now that he’s no longer drinking. 

“Dream!” Hob exclaims, getting up when Dream slams more than one cabinet door closed. “Come on, don’t be like this.”

“Like what?” Dream sneers, stuffing a potato chip into his mouth angrily. “I came all this way just to fuck you, didn’t I?”

“You’re drunk,” Hob points out.

“I’m always drunk when we have sex,” Dream argues, crossing his arms, chip bag still in hand. “You’ve never had a problem with it before.” 

“Yeah well, I’m not drunk now, and I’m also not in the mood,” Hob replies angrily. 

“Then why the hell did you invite me over?” Dream growls. 

“I don’t know!” Hob exclaims, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I wasn’t thinking, obviously,” he adds, then gestures to Dream. “How was I supposed to know you’d be like this?”

Dream huffs, then carelessly tosses the bag of chips onto the counter. A few stray chips scatter across the counter, but Dream doesn’t care. Clearly Hob didn’t want him around, not for sex, and definitely not to comfort Dream after the awful day he’d had, so there was no point in staying. 

“Fine, I’ll go,” Dream says, moving towards the door where he’d kicked off his shoes. He decides he’ll check the train times on the walk over.

“Dream,” Hob says, grabbing his arm before he can make it to the hallway. “It’s late. Come on. Let’s go to sleep.”

“I can get home on my own just fine,” Dream argues, raising his chin defiantly.

“No,” Hob replies, his voice stern as he grips Dream’s arm tighter. “Come on, let’s just go to bed. You need to sleep this off.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” Dream says, yanking his arm out of Hob’s grip. “Since you’re not interested in fucking my bad day out of me.”

“Dream, stop being so fucking difficult!” Hob yells, shocking both of them.

The echo of Hob’s roar hangs tensely between them, and Hob steps back from Dream with a hand over his mouth, clearly horrified at what he’s done. Dream also feels the prick of tears in his eyes as he processes just how angry Hob actually has been with him all night. 

How the hell had this night gotten worse? Dream doesn’t know, but what he does know is that he needs to leave before he starts drunkenly crying in Hob’s apartment, and Hob is the last person Dream wants to see him like this. 

Dream tries making his way towards the door again, but Hob seems to regain his senses and physically blocks him. Dream tries to push him, then tries to hit Hob’s shoulder to make him move, but Hob grabs Dream’s wrist to stop him. 

“I’m sorry,” Hob says, his voice much softer this time, laced with regret and pity. Dream hates it. “I lost my temper, I shouldn’t have done that,” he adds.

“Fuck off!” Dream yells, and oh. No. No, no, no, no. Dream furiously blinks back the tears before they can start falling, even if he can’t stop the pained hiccups that betray his emotional state from leaving his mouth.

“Just—” Dream gasps, then forces himself to breathe, slow and deep, and then counts to five. “Let me go home. You don’t—” his breath hitches again, cutting off what he wants to say. Fuck. He couldn’t even string together a full sentence if he tried.

“Dream, please,” Hob replies, his voice practically begging now. “Don’t leave. I don’t want you going home alone like this.” Dream turns to meet Hob eyes, and his anger dissipates slightly when he sees how devastated Hob looks. 

Despite how awful Dream feels, even he knows it’d be a mistake to go home in his current state. He’s highly emotional, drunk, and likely wouldn’t be paying attention to his surroundings. He could get mugged, or worse. 

“Fine,” Dream finally relents. Hob lets out a sigh of relief, and hugs him. Dream doesn’t hug him back. He’s still angry after all. 

But Dream lets Hob wrangle him down the hall to the bedroom, and then he strips down to his underwear to sleep, since he doesn’t have any of his own clothes here. And why would he? It’s not like they’re anything other than an occasional hookup after all. 

Hob does offer Dream a shirt and pajama pants to wear, but Dream tosses them away from him without so much as a second glance. Hob sighs at Dream, and then shuts off the lights, turning away from Dream without another word to sleep. He’s clearly still frustrated with Dream too.  

Dream lies there next to Hob, feeling cold and rejected and lonely. He hates everything about this. Hates that Hob let him come over and make a fool out of himself when he could have easily just told Dream to fuck off and go home instead. Hates that Hob even came onto him in the first place, all those months ago, and now they’re here, in this weird in-between state where they're together but not together. 

Dream realizes too late that he really hadn’t cared if they had sex or not either. He’d wanted comfort more than anything, comfort from Hob specifically. But the only comfort he knew that came from Hob was sex. And that’s the worst part of it. Dream knows now, without a doubt, that he has feelings for Hob. That he wants more out of this than what they’re doing now, but he’s not sure Hob does. At this point, he’s too afraid to ask. 

Hob’s bedroom suddenly feels like a suffocating prison as all of Dream’s feelings hit him at once. He’s going to cry again if he stays, and he really doesn’t want Hob to see him like this. He doesn’t want Hob to know just how badly he’s gotten under Dream’s skin. 

Dream realizes he needs to leave. He’s stone cold sober now, having laid here in the dark with nothing but his thoughts and his third glass of water now emptied on the bedside table. He listens carefully for the evening out of Hob’s breath, then shuffles around in bed to see if any of his movements disturb the other man. When he’s certain that Hob is deep in sleep, Dream hurriedly dresses himself, checks to see that there’s still trains running this late at night, and then rushes out when he sees the next one is in just 15 minutes. Hob lives about 12 minutes from the nearest station. Dream can make it if he runs. 

The front door slams loudly behind him as he leaves, but Dream doesn’t care. Hob probably won’t even notice that he’s gone. 

Dream makes it to the station just as the train is pulling into the stop. As he’s getting on, he hears yelling and frantic running, the sounds of someone about to miss the train.  Dream considers holding the doors until he sees just who's rushing towards the train.

It's Hob. Hob who is barely dressed, and running down the steps to the train platform in nothing but sweatpants and slippers. He catches Dream's eyes and waves frantically to get his attention. Dream’s heart flutters momentarily, and he imagines that maybe he was wrong about everything after all. That maybe there’s more to what’s been happening between them than just rebound sex.

Dream gets on the train anyways, and the doors shut just as Hob reaches the platform, and the train pulls away. 

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

They pretend like nothing is wrong after that night. Hob had texted Dream the next morning to ask if he’d gotten home okay, and Dream had left him on read. He had far more important things to worry about that morning, like his pounding headache and the fact that he needed to talk to his editor at some point.

When he finally fights off the last of his hangover, Dream has a much more pleasant conversation with his editing team, who he apologizes to for losing his temper. His team apologizes to him as well, which he doesn’t expect, but they reassure him it’s their job to encourage him, not discourage him from writing. They have a candid conversation about communication, and then agree on a plan to move forward with his book.

Dream happily shares the good news with his group chat, still ignoring the direct message from Hob. He credits Lucienne for talking him off the ledge the night before, and the flood of positive and congratulatory messages flows easily after that. Even from Hob. 

Dream sighs when he reads the other man’s message in their group chat, then flips back to their private conversation. He really should apologize for his behavior as well, but he has no idea how to explain himself without revealing more than he’s comfortable with. So Dream turns off his phone, and goes back to working on his novel, hoping that maybe he’ll come up with something to say later in the evening.

He never does end up replying. Hob doesn’t privately message him either after that.

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

It’s trivia night at the White Horse, and Dream would normally be excited to go and show off his arcane knowledge, but tonight he’s dreading the occasion. It’s been a month since he and Hob had last seen each other and he really has no idea how he’s supposed to act around the other man. Do they pretend like nothing ever happened between them? They haven’t spoken since, so things were clearly over between them. 

Dream’s still trying to tell himself it’s better this way. They were hurtling towards disaster, and Dream should’ve really known better, should’ve known that he really can’t do casual after all, and now he’s probably permanently fucked up his friendship with Hob because he couldn’t keep his own feelings in check. He still hasn’t apologized, he doesn’t know if Hob even wants an apology from him at this point, or if he just wants to forget about everything that ever happened between them. 

So when Dream’s sister texts him and tells him she’s in town for a few days, Dream jumps at the opportunity to meet her and cancel on trivia night plans. He receives a variety of boos and ‘we’ll lose without you!’ responses, all of which make him smile despite himself. Even Hob laments the loss of Dream’s knowledge for the evening. 

When Dream arrives at The New Inn later that night, it’s not only his sister that greets him. Eleanor is with her. Dream hasn’t seen her since she and Hob broke up. When she’d moved across the country, she left the group chat and hasn’t really talked to anyone since. Dream had missed her, if he were being honest with himself. Even though Hob had said the breakup was amicable, and that Eleanor had only left the chat because she couldn’t be part of their plans any longer, Dream was still sad to see her go. He realizes he could’ve tried harder to keep in touch with her, but then everything with Hob had happened and well.

Dream wants to hug Eleanor and also scream at her. Wants to unload what a horrible last month he’s had, and also wants her to never find out he’d been sleeping with her ex. It’s not her fault that Dream fell into bed with Hob knowing he wasn’t over his relationship with her yet. It’s entirely her fault for being so perfect, however, that there’s no way Dream could ever compare, and that’s why Hob won’t look at him when they have sex. 

When they had sex. Dream and Hob have barely spoken since that night, and only in their group chat. He’s pretty sure Hob doesn’t want to even be in the same room as Dream right now, for how ugly Dream had acted over what was supposed to be just a casual hookup.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, Ellie,” Dream says, giving both her and his sister a hug before taking a seat across from them. “But what are you doing back in town?”

“Dream—” Didi starts, but then Eleanor places a hand on her shoulder and stops her.

“We’re dating,” Eleanor says bluntly, moving her hand from Didi’s shoulder down to her hand. Their fingers interlace and Dream’s eyes boggle as he looks between them, shocked.

“When did this happen?” he asks, settling himself in for what must be an extremely interesting story.

Eleanor and Didi take turns recalling the story of how they met through a local meetup for knitters in Seattle, and how Didi had recognized Eleanor from one time she’d come out drinking with Dream and his friends years ago. Happy to have a familiar face, Didi and Eleanor had become fast friends, and they both realized they had a lot in common too.

Before either of them knew it, Eleanor was inviting Didi out everywhere as they explored their new city together, and Didi became accustomed to calling Eleanor after every shift at the hospital. One thing led to another, and then another, and now they’re practically attached at the hip. Didi even shyly admits they’ve talked about moving in together. 

The two of them beam at him when they’re done with their story and Dream wants to congratulate them. Wants to be happy that his favorite sister is dating one of his oldest friends. He wants to make plans to visit them in their new home, maybe even help them move if he can work out the logistics. He hasn’t been out to Seattle in some time, and he really could use a vacation.

“I started sleeping with Hob after you left,” is what Dream says instead. 

Eleanor spits her (thankfully white) wine all over Didi, who freezes in place, staring at Dream in shock. Dream stares back, horrified both at what he just said, and what followed after. He braces himself, expecting Eleanor to explode on him, to call him a slut, a bad friend, a terrible human being.

Instead, Eleanor starts laughing. Didi does too eventually.  

“Oh my god, of course he did,” Eleanor wheezes as she doubles over in her seat. Their server rushes over, bringing some extra napkins and Didi excuses herself to the restroom to wipe off the rest of the wine. Dream and Eleanor are left staring at one another in silence, before Eleanor breaks the tension with another giggle.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I’m not laughing at you, really, just the whole situation. Imagine if you brought Hob with you tonight?” she practically squeals.

“I—you’re not mad?” Dream asks, more shocked than anything. Eleanor just shrugs and drinks from her water glass this time, instead of her wine.

“I mean, did Hob at least wait a day before he tried to make a move on you?” Eleanor asks. “Not that it matters really, we were broken up before I left but well, you know. Respectful turnaround time and all that.”

“I—” Dream stutters, trying desperately to recall when that first time with Hob actually happened. “I mean, I think it was a few weeks after you left?”

Eleanor snorts. “Good enough, I guess.” 

“Sorry,” Dream says, shaking his head as Didi returns and sits back down next to Eleanor. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. Did you know he wanted to—?”

“Oh no, no,” Eleanor says then starts laughing again. “Our breakup wasn’t planned or anything, don’t worry. It’s just that, well. He told me he wanted to stay with you guys more than me, so I’m not that surprised?”

“What?” Dream says, dumbly. “But you both said the breakup was mutual.” Eleanor sighs.

“I mean,” she replies. “It was technically mutual. But Hob wanted to stay in Boston, and I didn’t. And one of our last arguments before I left was about abandoning our friends.” She shrugs again. “I love you all, don’t get me wrong, but I really love living out in Seattle more. Especially the company.” She smiles at Didi, who kisses her on the cheek. “It kind of sucked that Hob really didn’t want to move, but it wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to do it all just for me and my career goals.”

“Oh,” Dream says dumbly. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” Dream wouldn’t have wanted to leave Boston for any reason either, so it makes sense, he thinks. Boston is just that. It’s home.

“It’ll make double dating a little weird, though,” Eleanor adds, and Didi laughs. 

“I think we’ll be fine though,” Didi adds, then turns her focus to Dream. “So tell us about you and Hob,” she says.  

“I—we’re not,” Dream stammers, unsure of how to proceed further with the conversation. Eleanor and Didi’s expressions both fall.

“Oh, Dream,” Didi says, reaching out to take his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“It’s fine,” Dream says though he feels anything but. “I don’t—it didn’t last long between us,” he admits. 

“Wow, he fumbled the bag on you?” Eleanor interjects, shock clearly painted on her face. “My god, he really is an idiot.”

“No I—we had a fight,” Dream says, unsure of why he feels the need to clarify. “It was my fault really. I shouldn’t have—he wasn’t ready to commit.” 

Eleanor makes a confused face. 

“That—doesn’t sound like Hob,” Eleanor says after a moment, and Dream huffs in annoyance.

“You only knew him while you were dating, how would you know that?” Dream retorts.

“Because he told me he’s never done casual,” Eleanor replies. “When we first started seeing each other, he basically said just that. That’s what I liked about him, he wanted to do the whole commitment thing right away, even if it didn’t end up working out.”

“Well maybe he’s changed,” Dream says, far more grumpily than he intended. “He’s never said shit to me about anything, and still hasn’t, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Dream,” Didi says gently, squeezing his hand. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” Dream insists, not wanting to go into the details of how he’d terribly fucked up his situation with Hob. 

“You don’t sound fine at all,” Didi replies.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation at dinner though?” Eleanor interjects, looking concernedly at him. Dream huffs and then pouts. Eleanor was always hyper attuned to when people were upset, especially Dream.

But Dream does want to talk about it, even if it is a bit awkward, all things considered. Eleanor seems to at least be willing to hear Dream out, if nothing else. 

They wrap up their bill quickly, taking some of their dinner to go, and find their way over to Dream’s apartment, where he spends the rest of the night wrapped up in a blanket while he recounts the past six months to his sister and Eleanor. There’s also, perhaps, a lot of wine involved. Solely because Eleanor had decided it was also girls night and they needed a lot of wine for a proper one.

“I’m going to murder him myself,” Eleanor says, holding up her bottle of wine when Dream finishes telling her everything that had happened up until now. 

“El, no,” Dream whines. He’s really more embarrassed about the whole situation now than anything. Talking things over with the two of them had really helped, and Dream wonders if he should’ve talked to Lucienne, or even Jessamy and Matthew to start. Maybe he wouldn’t have let things go so far the way they did between him and Hob.

“Nah, he deserves it,” Eleanor replies, taking another swig from her bottle. 

“It’s really my fault,” Dream tries to insist, knowing it’s useless to defend Hob to his own ex. “I knew he wasn’t over you and I—”

“No, Dream, listen to me,” Eleanor says, taking Dream’s face in her hands. “He never—” she turns away from him suddenly and then burps. Dream laughs, despite himself. 

“He never what?” Dream asks when Eleanor turns back to face him. She sighs.

“He never told you why he turns off the lights, and that’s on him,” Eleanor tells him. 

“I—what?” Dream says dumbly. Hob turned off the lights with Eleanor too?

“Yeah, he—” Eleanor hiccups and then starts giggling. She releases Dream’s face and then falls back onto Didi, who’s sitting behind her on the couch. “He’s sensitive, you know? About—” she gestures at her front, “All the hair he has. Hates it when people see it. I think we had sex with the lights on like, twice, at most.” She pauses and then regards Dream, her expression sombering. “I thought you knew.”

“Why would I know that?” Dream asks, dumfounded. Hob had never given any indicator that he was sensitive about any part of his body, and no one in their friend group had ever commented on it.

“Because,” Eleanor replies, gesturing wildly. “Think about it. Whenever we went to the beach or anything together, did you ever see him take his shirt off? Or at the pool at Matthew and Jessamy’s place?”

“I—” Dream filters through his memory, which is an especially difficult task considering how drunk they are. He realizes that Eleanor’s right. 

“Shit.” Dream groans. “I think I fucked up.”

“No, no, he did,” Eleanor insists. “I always told him I didn’t mind all the hair,” she adds then sighs. “I mean it’s a lot, but it never bothered me, you know?”

“It’s never bothered me either,” Dream admits. He’d rather liked the differences in their bodies actually. Hob was broad where Dream was lanky, naturally tan and sunkissed where Dream was pale. Dream had never had an opinion on chest hair before, what little hair he’d had it was so fine and thin that his chest looked bare anyways. But Eleanor was right. Dream had never really seen Hob casually uncovered. And while he was always eager to undress Dream when the lights were still on, Hob almost never fully undressed himself until after he’d shut them off. 

It seems so obvious now, in retrospect. But Dream had been caught up in his own insecurities to really notice that Hob had any of his own to address.

“I honestly thought he didn’t want to look at me when he turned off the lights,” Dream confesses. “That maybe he was hoping he could pretend I was someone else in the dark.”

“Okay, I’m with my girlfriend,” Didi says suddenly, a murderous look in her eyes. “I’m a doctor, I can make it look like an accident,” she adds, holding up her weird hand mixed cocktail that has hot sauce in it. 

“Didi!” Dream exclaims. “No murder,” he orders, then laughs at the absurdity of the entire situation. They all start laughing, and Dream feels something unwind in his chest when they do. He thinks about texting Hob, but ultimately decides against it. What he wants to tell him, he wants to do it sober, and in person. 

Dream wakes up the next morning extremely hungover, and orders breakfast for delivery. Didi and Eleanor try to insist on paying him back, but he waves away their money, and tells them they can buy him dinner when he flies out to see them move. They both hug him fiercely on their way out and make him promise to see them at least one more time before they fly back to Seattle.

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

A week after his conversation with his sister and Eleanor, Dream is outside Hob’s apartment door, pacing nervously as he rehearses everything he wants to say to Hob. His apology. His request to start things over, if Hob still wants to try. How he’s really been feeling about their whole not-relationship status.

Really, he’s just stalling knocking on Hob’s door. What if Hob doesn’t answer when he sees it’s Dream? What if he tells Dream to go away without even hearing him out? What if—

Dream groans and then mentally slaps himself. He needs to stop worrying himself unnecessarily. Either Hob will want to hear him out or he won’t. But Dream needs to at least try.

He’s about to raise his hand to finally knock on the door, when suddenly he hears Hob’s voice, distinctly from not inside the apartment. 

“Dream?” Hob asks. Dream turns in the direction of his voice and finds Hob standing at the end of the hall, groceries in hand. Dream realizes he’s been an idiot standing in front of a completely empty apartment. 

“Hi,” Dream says, every rehearsed speech and romantic gesture he’d just been rehearsing evaporating from his mind like wisps of smoke.

“Hi,” Hob replies, his voice flat. He looks tired, but not angry at least, to see Dream. “Did you need something?” he asks as he walks slowly towards his front door, eyeing Dream a little suspiciously. Dream can’t really blame him. Their last interaction had ended rather poorly.

“I—can we talk?” Dream asks, stepping aside so Hob can put his key in the lock. Hob sighs and his shoulders droop, like he’s been dreading this exact situation. 

“Sure,” Hob replies, putting on a fake cheerful demeanor as he opens the door to let himself and Dream in. 

“Do you need help with anything?” Dream asks, trailing Hob towards the kitchen. 

“If you want,” Hob replies, setting the groceries down onto the counter. But before Dream can start unpacking anything, he sighs again and groans. 

“Actually, Dream,” Hob says, turning around and facing him head on. “Let’s just talk now.” 

“Uhm—okay,” Dream replies, now feeling incredibly nervous. Hob looks at him expectantly, crossing his arms as he waits for Dream to gather his thoughts. 

Finally, Dream says, “I wanted to say I’m sorry. About everything that happened last time I was here.”

His apology seems to surprise Hob, who suddenly straightens up from his leaning position against the counter.

“Oh,” Hob replies, sounding dumbstruck. “I—I’m sorry too,” he offers, uncrossing his arms and running a hand through his hair. Dream realizes it’s longer than the last time he’d seen it. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper at you that night.”

“To be fair, I was being an ass,” Dream admits, even though it pains him to do so.  

“Yeah but you had a reason to be,” Hob says. “I was just feeling sorry for myself for no reason and I took it out on you.”

“I still took my shitty day out on you,” Dream replies, shrugging. “So I guess we were both not at our best that night.”

“I guess not,” Hob accepts, with a small smile. “We’re okay then?”

Dream nods. “Yes,” he says, offering a small smile himself, then stepping towards Hob. “Why were you feeling sorry for yourself?” Hob’s expression shutters closed again, and he shakes his head. 

“It’s not important,” he says, turning away and refusing to meet Dream’s eyes.  

“Hob,” Dream says, taking another step closer and reaching out to take the other man’s hand in his. “It’s important to me,” he adds.  

Hob sighs, and then turns his eyes to the ceiling. When he meets Dream’s gaze again, he looks pained. 

“I’m not good at being casual Dream,” Hob tells him bluntly, and Dream feels a sense of deja vu run through him like a live wire. “If we’re going to keep doing…this, I want there to be a commitment. It’s not just sex to me.”

It’s almost identical to what Eleanor had said about Hob to Dream a week prior. Dream suddenly feels wretched for not noticing sooner, but also indignant, because why had Hob assumed that wasn’t what Dream wanted as well? 

“Hob,” Dream says, as calmly as he can manage, before he squeezes Hob’s hand tightly. “What made you think I didn’t want the same things?”

Hob’s face falls. He looks intently at Dream’s face, and whatever he finds there only seems to upset him further. 

“I—I don’t know,” Hob admits, before he groans and places his free hand over his face. Dream finds it a bit comforting that he hasn’t tried to remove Dream’s hand over his other one.

“I’ve read this whole thing wrong, haven’t I?” Hob says through his hand, before slapping his forehead. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not,” Dream says, before he takes Hob’s free hand as well. “And to be fair,” he adds, “it’s occurred to me recently that I may have, as well. We’ve never talked about—about this,” he gestures between them. “Us. We just sort of skip to the sex.”

“Well, we have been drunk every time,” Hob replies. “You said so yourself.”

“Not—every time,” Dream says. “After Matthew got food poisoning, when I thought that you had invited me out on a date, we only had one drink each that we didn’t finish.”

“Wait,” Hob stutters, his whole body going rigid. “You thought I had invited you out for a date? That’s why—,” his eyes widen suddenly. “That’s why you wore the blazer.”

Dream blushes furiously and now it is his turn to look away from Hob’s scrutinizing gaze. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“No I’m not I—,” Hob groans again, and then, unexpectedly, pulls his hands free before dropping his head down on Dream’s shoulder. Dream startles when he feels Hob’s arms suddenly wrap around his waist shortly after.

“I had no idea. None at all,” Hob confesses, then groans again. “God I would’ve taken you somewhere nicer if I knew you wanted it to be a date.”

Dream shrugs, then reaches up to pat Hob on the back. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Not really, but we can agree to disagree,” Hob replies, before he tilts his head slightly up to look at Dream “Can I get a do-over on that then?” he asks. “Take you out on a proper date?”

Dream wants that, he realizes. Desperately. So he nods. 

“I do want that,” Dream says honestly. “But—”

“Oh God, there’s a ‘but’,” Hob groans before he straightens and untangles himself from Dream. Dream already misses the warmth of Hob’s body. 

“It’s not a bad ‘but’,” Dream replies. “But there’s something that’s been bothering me since we—since all this started,” he finishes. “I want to make sure we’re really on the same page.”

Hob nods. “Okay, sure. What is it?” he asks.

Dream takes a deep breath to brace himself, and then looks Hob directly in the eye. Now or never, he supposes. 

“Why do you turn off the lights?” Dream asks. 

Hob blinks, slow, then suddenly blushes a furious red before he buries his face in his hands.

“Aw, come on Dream,” Hob sighs. “It’s really embarrassing.”

Dream softens a bit, but remains resolute. Eleanor had told him what she thought had been the problem all along, but he still needs to hear it from Hob himself.  

“I need to know, Hob,” Dream insists.

“Why?” Hob asks, then sighs again. “I mean, I don’t know, it’s pretty obvious isn’t it? I’m not really much to look at, you know,” he says, gesturing to himself.

“Not much to look at?” Dream asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“I know, it’s stupid,” Hob sighs, running a hand over his face. “But I mean, Dream, look at you. You’re gorgeous and I’m…I don’t know, not that?”

“I’m still not following,” Dream says, still confused but also growing more and more uneasy about what Hob is implying. “Did you…did you really not think I was attracted to you? At all?”

“No, I—I just—,” Hob stutters. “I don’t know what I thought, honestly,” he says, looking guilty. “I just—I’m not as confident as you about how I look naked,” he adds, gesturing to his front, and Dream’s heart sinks at the confirmation of yet another thing Eleanor had told him. “I thought…maybe you’d change your mind about being with me. If you saw, well— everything.”

“Everything,” Dream replies flatly. 

“I mean, you know I’m really…hairy,” Hob says, before he winces. “And well, I’m not really in shape or anything like that either…” he trails off, looking even more guilty with every new word that comes out of his mouth. Like he’s only just realizing now that he pushed his anxieties about his body onto Dream, who clearly hasn't noticed any of the things Hob's insecure about.

“So…what?” Dream says, suddenly feeling indignance and hurt creep into his voice. “You just assumed I wouldn’t find you attractive unless I was drunk and we had sex in the dark?”

“Wait, what?” Hob exclaims. 

“Am I really that shallow sounding to you?” Dream continues, already feeling his emotions start to get the better of him.

“No, oh god, no,” Hob replies immediately. “Dream, I don’t know what’s brought this on, but swear it had nothing to do with you. I was just stupid and insecure about myself, and I wasn’t thinking properly. I’m sorry, I really had no idea it bothered you so much.”

A somewhat tense and awkward silence falls between them. Dream mulls over what Hob has told him, feeling wretched about how deeply they’ve both misunderstood one another. But he had come here to clear those misunderstandings after all. Hob had admitted his insecurities. Now Dream had to as well. 

“I actually thought—” Dream says, then takes a shuddering breath to calm himself. “I thought you turned the lights off because you didn’t want to look at me,” he finally admits.  “Because I wasn’t who you really wanted to be with.”

Hob’s eyes widen, first in shock, then horror. “Wait you thought that I—”

“Was using me as a stand-in for Eleanor?” Dream finishes. He wraps his arms around himself and then looks away, refusing to meet Hob’s eyes. He feels like a coward for doing so but Dream knows he’ll lose his resolve to admit everything he’d been bottling up if he does. “The first time we slept together, I assumed you were only looking for a rebound. And when we never talked about it after, or told our friends I—”

“Fuck, Dream,” Hob interrupts, grabbing him suddenly and hugging Dream to his chest. “I had no idea, I—fuck, I’m so sorry I made you feel like that.”

Dream sniffles, wrapping his own arms around Hob, shrugging helplessly. 

“I should have said something sooner,” Dream says. “But I let it—fester instead. I had no idea that you thought you weren’t attractive to me either. But Hob,” he adds, turning his head to meet Hob’s eyes again, hoping he looks as serious as he feels. “I don’t just sleep with people I’m not attracted to. Regardless of how much alcohol is involved.”

Hob nods. “Yeah. I—I’m still sorry about everything though.”

“Me too,” Dream replies, then adds, a bit more quietly. “I like the hair, actually.” Hob chokes out a noise that seems half between a laugh and a sob. 

“You don’t have to say—” he starts but Dream shushes him.

“I mean it, Hob,” Dream says, before he works a hand between them to pet the small patch of hair peeking out from beneath Hob’s shirt. “I think it suits you. And I would like to be able to fully appreciate it.”

When he looks up at Hob, the other man’s eyes are a bit watery. But then Hob blinks rapidly, and sniffles, before he hugs Dream even more tightly to himself.

“Stay the night?” Hob asks. “Not for—not for sex. Just stay with me?”

Dream nods against Hob’s shoulder. “Okay.”

Hob makes a decision to order takeout instead of making dinner like he originally planned, citing that he’d rather spend time talking with Dream anyways. They still put away the groceries, which helps release a lot of the emotional tension that had built up between them, and Dream enjoys the warm, domestic feel of the activity. 

Once their food arrives, they settle on Hob’s couch and talk late into the night about everything and nothing. Hob catches Dream up on what missed during trivia when he was out with Didi, and Dream shyly admits that Didi had not been the only person he’d talked to that evening. Hob stares at him, equal parts awestruck and mortified, as Dream recalls his conversations with Eleanor and Didi, and how he found out they were dating. 

“So what you’re saying is, I’m lucky to have my bits still attached?” Hob jokes. 

“Hob,” Dream chastises him, bumping their shoulders together. “That’s not nice.”

“You didn’t date Eleanor,” Hob retorts. “She’s terrifying, do you know how many serial killer documentaries she used to watch?”

Dream did, in fact, know this. He had been subject to many episodes of Cold Case Files growing up with Didi, and his knowledge had been how he and Eleanor had first become friends. Dream suspects Eleanor’s deep passion for them is actually one of the reasons why she and Didi get along so well.

“Hob,” Dream says, a new worry now crossing his mind. “Are you—okay—with all of this?” he waves vaguely. “With Didi dating your ex while we—?” He trails off. They still haven’t really decided on what their official relationship status would be going forward, and Dream doesn’t want to presume.

Hob nudges Dream with his shoulder, and then kisses the top of his head. 

“Yeah, I am,” Hob answers sincerely. “I mean—it’s never not going to suck that we broke up,” he adds. “But we had our time, and if she’s happy then I’m happy too.”

Dream nods. “That’s good to hear,” he says. 

“Are you okay with it?” Hob asks. Dream hums. 

“I am,” he answers, then huffs a laugh. “I did offer to help them move into their new place, though.”

Hob groans. “Does this mean I have to help too as part of my good boyfriend duties?” he asks.

Dream’s potsticker falls out of his mouth mid chew, hits his knee, and then falls to the floor.

“Shit!” Dream exclaims, putting his food on the coffee table before bending down to pick up the stray dumpling. 

“I—did I say something wrong?” Hob asks, worry now clear in his voice. Dream shakes his head and then flops against Hob’s shoulder.

“You said nothing wrong,” Dream says into Hob’s shoulder, his face now flushed with embarrassment. “I was just surprised, is all. You—you said it so easily.”

“Boyfriend, you mean?” Hob asks, now in a teasing tone. “Do you like it?”

Dream nods, feeling ridiculous about being done in by a single word. But Hob doesn’t seem to mind.

“I like it too,” is all he says, before he places a hand underneath Dream’s chin and kisses him.

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

As they’re getting ready for bed, Dream feels a thrum of excitement, even though they’ve still agreed that sex is off the table for the night. They’re both far too tired and emotionally drained from the evening to put in the effort anyways.

But then Hob is holding out his arm for Dream to snuggle into, and Dream feels like a teenanger as he curls up against Hob’s chest and rests his head on it. 

“Fair warning that you’re going to wake up sweaty if you stay here all night,” Hob tells him. Dream knows he doesn’t mean to sound so self-deprecating, but now that he knows just how deep Hob’s insecurities run, it breaks his heart a little. 

“That’s fine,” Dream says, pressing himself even closer. He can feel Hob’s chest hair poking through the thin material of his undershirt. Dream rubs his face into it, enjoying the rough, scratchy texture against his check. Hob laughs at Dream’s actions, and Dream hums in contentment. He really did like the feel of Hob’s chest hair. It was surprisingly soft in certain places, and warm. Maybe Dream would wake up because he’s too warm in the middle of the night. Maybe he won’t. He’s just glad that now he gets the opportunity to find out. 

“You don’t have to pretend to be enthusiastic about it,” Hob says as Dream nuzzles him again.

“I’m not,” Dream replies, rolling his eyes. “It feels…nice.”

“Sure,” Hob replies. “Say that again in the morning.”

Dream does in fact, say something similar to that effect in the morning. He says it while he sits atop Hob’s lap, Dream gripping the thick pelt of hair for purchase as he ruts himself desperately against Hob. 

They’ve never had sex in the morning. In the bright light of day. Somehow it’s even more intimate than what Dream imagines having sex with the lights on must feel like and he loves it. Hob is looking at Dream like he’s something divine, like he can’t quite believe that what they’re doing is really happening. Dream thinks he’ll never let Hob turn off the lights again when they do this. He never again wants to miss a single second of seeing the way Hob looks at him, at how stunning Hob’s entire body looks and feels when pressed against Dream’s. His new goal, for however long it takes, is that Hob never questions Dream’s attraction to him ever again.

When they’ve both reached their peaks, Dream collapses on top of Hob, uncaring of the sticky mess between them. Hob’s chest is warm and broad, and Dream finds himself slowly drifting back to sleep. Hob groans after a while, however, wriggling beneath the weight of Dream's body, and disturbing his otherwise peaceful post-coital rest.

“Okay, this is sweet and all, but now I’m the one that's too hot,” Hob whines, pushing gently at Dream’s shoulder. Dream laughs, a brazen, awful honking noise that he’s always been insecure about. But Hob had told him the night before that he loves Dream’s laugh, and Dream can see now that the other man wasn’t lying. He’s looking at Dream softly, so full of affection that Dream nearly forgets he needs to move and just stares at Hob for a while.

“What?” Hob asks, his eyes crinkled with happiness.

“Nothing,” Dream replies, smiling back before he moves off of his boyfriend’s chest.

Hob gets up from the bed once Dream rolls off of him and heads towards the bathroom. He comes back with two warm washcloths to wipe themselves off with. When they’re both done, he tosses both cloths in the direction of the hamper, missing his target by mere inches. 

“Close enough,” Hob says. 

“That’ll leave a wet spot on your carpet,” Dream tells him, already seeing his prediction start to come true. 

“I’ll get to it later,” Hob replies before he kisses Dream, languid and slow and perfect. “I have more important things to do today.”

[panda-writes-kpop]

TWICE - Reaction to S/O Cuddling A Plushie (Requested!)

A/N: We're back to two uploads a week since I'm trying to clear my WIP before December 1st! I want to take a small hiatus for the week before and of exams plus I can spend time with family and friends for a bit without having a bunch of stress and extra responsibilities.

Also, to the lovely anon that requested this since I no longer have that request - I am so happy that my works bring you peace and happiness. I know what it’s like to go through rough periods, trust me, I’ve been through my fair share. There is light at the end of the tunnel, and I promise the future will be so much better than your present. I can’t promise that the road will be easy, or that you won’t want to give up, but stick it out, okay? My writing will always be here for you to enjoy, and I’m so glad I could bring you some peace of mind during a rough part of your life. Wishing you all the love and joy that the world can possibly bring your way. <3

TW: None!

♡ Masterlist ♡

100% teases you by pretending to be jealous

“Ah, well, I guess I’ll just have to find someone else to cuddle since you’re busy.” 

She blushes like crazy when you pull her into your arms along with your plushie

“Yah, I was joking, baby!”

Completely unbothered by the presence of a stuffed animal

Happily accepts the cuddles, and she gives your stuffed animal a boop on the nose in approval

She may tease you about it if you’re okay with it

“Do you mind if I hold you as well, or are you a little too… preoccupied at the moment?”

Otherwise she’ll wrap an arm around you and stare at you lovingly as you hold your plushie

“You’re adorable, honey. Have I ever told you that?”

Definitely does not notice until she’s in your arms and feels the plushie digging into her back

“What are you poking me fo- Oh, it’s your plushie!”

Will apologize to said plushie or the guilt will eat at her all day

“I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Will hold the plushie along with you as long as you let her do so

Immediately pulls out her phone and starts taking pictures

“Smile, my love!”

And then she sets the photo as her screensaver and your contact photo

Will want to get in on the cuddles with said plushie

“You’ll let me cuddle with the two of you, right?”

It warms her heart to see you happy, especially if you’re on edge a lot or have been going through a rough period

She won’t disturb you as you cuddle in peace, but she may check up on you if your plushie is a comfort animal for your rougher days

“Is everything alright, babe? Do you want to talk about anything?”

She’ll happily observe you and the plushie from afar unless you invite her to join… who is she to say no to that?

“Of course I’ll join you! I missed you while I was at work all day, you know, and I like when we can just relax like this.”

Her heart internally combusts as her face externally combusts

You’re too adorable for her heart to handle sometimes, but she rarely admits it

“I like seeing you happy with your plushie… it makes me happy too.”

Will buy you matching plushies for your birthday if you’re a plushie fan

“I know you like the plushie you have… but I got matching ones for us so you’ll always be with me and I’ll always be with you.”

Definitely teases you a lot and/or makes jokes

“It’s only been eight hours and I’ve been replaced… I see how it is, then.”

You know she’s joking by the way she grins and laughs when you scoff at her.

Settles by your side and lays her head on your shoulder as you hold her hand while holding your plushie

A sweet, toothy smile breaks out on her face.

“I love you so, so much, and I hope you know that.”

You are simply too cute for her to handle!

She tries to sneakily take a picture, but you catch her in the act.

“Sorry, baby! You just looked so cute with that plushie…”

Enjoys just being in the room with you while you cuddle your plushie because the sweet, soft vibes cannot be replicated when Chaeyoung is by herself

She leans against the doorframe and just… observes with a lovesick smile.

Your child-like glee really comes out when you cuddle your plushie, and if you rarely show that side of you off, Tzuyu just wants to enjoy that part of you while it’s present.

“Do you mind if I join you, love?”

You invite her to sit next to you, and you place one of her hands on the plushie as she plays with your hair with her free hand.

She’s mostly quiet while enjoying the moment with you, but she will talk to you if you want to talk with her.

[superstarz9]

So y’all fw EVEN MORE Mr. Puzzles hcs?

Cause I got some :}

tbh I feel like Puzzles get’s too babied in the fandom. A lot of people forget that he’s kind of an asshole, and takes a long time to warm up to people. However, once he realizes how he feels and is willing to reach out more, things get a lot better.

It’d probably be really awkward more than anything else. He wouldn’t understand relationship stuff and you’d have to explain things to him, which would kill the tension for a bit. However, he makes a huge effort trying to be a good partner.

Puzzles wants a relationship (platonic or romantic) but doesn’t want to be fixed/helped. He likes the attention and having a permanent audience.

If anyone here knows Guilty Gear, you guys would probably be like A.B.A and Paracelsus, where the two of you would get into a relationship out of needing something from the other rather than for genuine interests (Him wanting someone to control and you wanting to fix him (or make him worse)) (Yes, this is a callout post for all of us, me included). It would take a while for the both of you to finally realize that your goals are what is harming the relationship from going further, and it takes a while to overcome that boundary. But once you guys do, it’s much easier to work together.

If your relationship is in the real world, he’d probably get annoyed with you more often than not during the beginning. Nothing that would make him lose it, but enough that he’d need to take a moment to readjust. Picture him dealing with Mario’s antics in the gameshow episode without going crazy, as well as him talking to Boopkins during the Price is Right Segment.

Bottom.

He’ll let you kiss his screen but the moment you aren’t looking he’s wiping that shit off. Not because he doesn’t like it, in fact he loves how much you wanna kiss him and give him attention, but it’s a ocd/texture thing; he can’t handle feeling dirty in any way.

When he blushes, it’s like screen-burn (when a static/unmoving image burns into the screen for long periods of time). If he’s blushed in the past 30 mins, you can still slightly see it up close.

His love languages is gift giving and acts of service. He also loves literally everything except gift because you’d be the greatest gift (plus he’s personally not a material-wealth kinda guy. Leave the gift-giving to him).

Doesn’t have a type/isn’t picky. Anyone who’s willing to give him attention, he’ll love.

He hasn’t genuinely laughed at something in years. He’s seen all the comedy shows and knows all the tropes so much that nothing gets to him anymore. You might make him chuckle or smirk but his goal is to make you smile and laugh. If you do laugh at his jokes, it warms his heart a lot. However, he can tell if a laugh is forced/fake, and will call you out on it if he’s not in a good mood.

Whether you like it or not, you pretty much can’t leave him alone once the two of you are official. If he needs some kind of comfort, he’s latching onto you. If you’re far away, he’ll either make the journey to see you or will call you every ten minutes

Hates modern phones and can’t text for shit. The gloves DO NOT help at all. He’ll just call you if he wants to talk to you, but the two of you are usually together so there’s no need.

Literally just unhindged Fluttercord.

A Two-for-one deal: a partner and a white noise machine lol.

Tastes like battery acid. I will not elaborate further.

His memories are like recordings that he can display on his screen, but he rarely does. If he falls asleep and dreams about memories of you, he might display them like that one scene of Pearl sleeping in Steven Universe.

Loves coordinating and matching outfits, but he’ll literally wear the same thing so he likes it when you coordinate with him, really.

Fr tho he is totally a bottom, but he’s overall more of a switch. If he has control over the situation, he’ll make sure everything goes flawlessly. However, if you make him go off-script and cause him to fumble, you can easily take over.

Now these ones are specifically horror movie/show based from a request last post!

He’s okay with slasher movies, but hates the amount of unnecessary stuff like the swearing and sex. All cheep tactics to the the audience interested.

Hates phycological horror. Respects it, but hates it. Partially because he’s in minor denial of what he puts his actors through (he knows and accepts that’s he’s brainwashing people and controlling them, but he often justifies if for his sake).

Likes watching some horror movies because a lot of actors started with horror and got bigger because of it.

Truthfully, he’s a little traumatized from horror movies after staying up late one night to watch night television and adult shows as a kid. When a horror movie started playing, he forced himself to watch the whole thing and had nightmares about it months after. He overall tries to avoid horror.

If you guys are in a relationship and you wanna watch a horror movie, he’ll be hesitant. As you set it up, he’d also try to switch the movie and distract you, which fails. “Well, I mean, if you insist. Oh- but how about this other movie! It’s excellent, and the bonus features are so interesting!”

If you call him out for it, he’d apologies and admit he’s not a fan of horror. You could totally tease him, saying that “there’s no such thing as monster” and that you’re there to protect him if something goes bump in the night, and he’ll get offended and would watch the movie JUST to prove that he isn’t afraid.

He’d be shaking by the 30 min mark, over-dramatically reacting to everything. This could be for 1 of 2 things:

1. He’s genuinely terrified and the suspense is killing him. He’s curled up on the couch with his manic smile waiting for SOMETHING to happen, but nothing’s happening yet, so why’s THE MUSIC GETTING LOUDER?!?!?! You could scare him with a poke or a loud noise, which would cause him to basically skyrocket to the ceiling in fear, or you could gently take his hand and cuddle with him, which he’d immediately grab onto you and squeeze you the entire movie.

2. The acting is horrible and nothing makes sense. If the fear isn’t good enough to captivate him, he’s sprawled out on the couch and complaining the whole time. It’s almost funny how passionate he is about it, if not for the fact that you just wanna watch a movie. You could shush him, but he’ll just go back to talking in the next 5 minutes.

As for the theatre, you kinda can’t take him regardless of what’s playing, mainly because of his screen. He can’t dim it, and he’s already a beacon of light in dim rooms, so the theatre is a no go. He doesn’t mind, as he obviously prefer television. However, if you’re willing to drive and watch them, he’s fine with drive-in theatres. They remind him of his childhood, and it give him a reason to cuddle with you.

Only major downside of a drive-in is all the bugs sticking to his screen in the night, which he’d freak out about. He’d drench himself with so much bug repellent that he’d stink of chemicals.

Here’s a bunch of relationship hcs! Tried to make them mostly interchangeable between romantic and platonic relationships. I’ll continue to cook up more headcanons but I may or may not be working on a fic of my own, inspired by all the amazing writing I’ve been reading from the fandom. Til then, I’ll continue posting here! Questions/comments/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Thanks and have a great day!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Congrats on 1k! That's amazing and so deserved.

Thank you so much for doing a little event for all of us! Could I please request NSFW Alphabet with Kyle Garrick please? I just love him so much.

Thank you so much!

Ugh. Kyle. My husband. My man. I adore him. I might have found my way to TF141 because of Simon Riley but I stayed for Kyle Garrick. I had so much fun coming up with these. Kyle truly deserves to much love. I tried to make this as gender neutral as possible. Enjoy!

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

1k Follower Event Rules

NSFW Alphabet Template (I did make some slight changes for mine)

ao3 // taglist // 1k follower event masterlist // main masterlist

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Kyle is an aftercare king. This man is a fucking gentleman. After sex, he’s going to fetch a washcloth to clean you up. He will either make you food, order food, and/or bring it to you. Really, Kyle will tailor aftercare to your needs instead of assuming what you want. He’ll likely suggest several options, and if you can’t seem to decide, he will pick for you. For Kyle, aftercare is as important as the sex itself. He sees it as an extension of the act in every way.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Kyle favors his arms because he loves holding you in them. Could be a hug or when the two of you are cuddling, but also loves watching the muscles flex when he’s fucking you. Nothing is sexier to him. His favorite part of you is your hips/waist. It drives him absolutely feral when he can hold onto them during sex.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Loves putting it inside and on you but the clean up is not his favorite. It’s why he goes through the trouble of putting towels down.

D = Dirty Secret (what’s a dirty secret of theirs?)

Whenever Price pisses him off (which is rarely) Kyle thinks about how he can get you to work so he can fuck you on/over Price’s desk.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Experienced. Absolutely knows what he’s doing, but isn’t arrogant about it. Kyle is confident but it’s because he listens and accommodates to your needs while also expressing his own desires. Kyle is a “is this okay with you?” kind of man.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any that involves him being able to look at your face while you come.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

More so serious in the moment but knows how to laugh when something happens. Sex isn’t perfect. It is messy and loud, and sometimes a trainwreck, but he’s good natured about it.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Kyle is well-groomed. Period. Full stop. Literally don’t need to say more on this matter.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Kyle craves intimacy. I would argue that it is his favorite part of sex. Getting off is all well and good but Kyle wants connection with his partner. If there isn’t any connection or intimacy, what’s the point?

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Kyle doesn’t like to masturbate unless you’re watching.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Mirror sex, or anything that allows Kyle to watch him fuck you or watch you fuck him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

At home, specifically on the bed or sofa. Kyle wants both of you to be comfortable. Plus, he likes to take his time and you can’t really do that anywhere else.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Enthusiastic, verbal consent. And by that I mean “I want you to [insert thing you want done to you here], Kyle.” Man is fucking gone. Chomping at the bit. His only response is “yes ma’am/sir” and then it’s on.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Voyeurism. He doesn’t want to watch others and doesn’t want others watching him and his partner. Age play or being called “daddy.”

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Equally enjoys receiving and giving.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depends! If he simply needs to be inside you for a quickie, expect it to be fast and rough, but he’d rather take his time. Slow and sensual with lots of foreplay and intimacy is his preference.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Kyle enjoys an impromptu quickie now and again, but Kyle enjoys intimacy with his sex, so I can’t see him having quickies often.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely down to experiment but also needs his partner to know that even he has hard limits and will respect that. Won’t take risks in the bedroom unless the two of you are trying something new. Public sex or potentially getting caught is up in the air. Would be down for a quickie at work but anything that might actually get the two of you in trouble is a no.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

If Kyle has the entire day to have sex, I would say five rounds and that includes a round of just oral. However, if this is after a long day, he could probably get one in. Just because he does what he does for a living doesn’t mean Kyle has energy for sex after work. I’d say his recovery period between would be the average standard amongst men his age.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I can’t see Kyle using toys on himself but absolutely for his partner. He does not shy away from them and would absolutely incorporate them into the bedroom. But he would also make sure that the toys are something you both consent to and pick out together.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A bit of a tease but not much. Kyle is more likely to tease when he’s feeling a bit playful. When it comes to general intimacy and connection, physical touch is important to him. Kyle is more likely to tease just day-to-day than during sex.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not loud at all. Kyle has a softer voice in the bedroom, but communicates a lot. Loves to praise and speak softly to you. Absolutely groans and whimpers.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Enjoys cock warming between sex sessions.

X = Xtra (an additional headcanon)

Loves it when you praise him back.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Decent. He could definitely have sex every day but he doesn’t see it as a requirement in a relationship.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Kyle wouldn’t fall asleep until aftercare is done. He’ll check to make sure you’re completely satiated and taken care of first before settling in.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving

@childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666

@unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @enfppuff

@berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf

@lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien

@sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d

@heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria

@lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic

@suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior

@dakotakazansky @talooolaaloolla

[haveyouanytime]

nsfw alphabet - tommy miller | minors + ageless blogs dni! it's my 19th birthday today (6/2) and i wanted to share this quick little thing i did for tommy both as a study and a way to get my groove back lol

౨ৎ daily click to help palestine 🍉

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) He’s sweet. He’ll just smother you in kisses, and for sure has accidentally started himself up again just from the amount of kisses he gives you. TBH he’s not the rush and clean-up guy, he’ll prefer to lay down with you and just chill with the vibes. Like, fall asleep naked type of chill. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He takes care of his hair, I just know it. He lives by “look good, feel good,” and he knows his effort makes it look good. Extra bonus, he knows how good it feels when you run your fingers through his hair. On his partner, I feel like he loves hips. He just loves to hold and grab them. Whether they’re full or have some dips, he’s grabbing onto them. Steering you with them, both in and out of the bedroom.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) He absolutely refuses to cum before his partner does. Takes it seriously like it’s his life’s mission. You joked once saying he was edging himself when he did this, and he just chuckled it off, internally knowing it was partly true LOL! I think he prefers to cum inside of his partner, partly because of the intimacy of it all, partly because there’s no mess. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Methinks his dirty secret is that he kinda wants to fuck you in the woods post-outbreak LOL!!!! Of course, if he knew there were no infected in the area and nobody on patrol would catch you, yeah, I think he’d be down. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) I feel like he’s moderately experienced— he hasn’t slept with a crazy bunch of people, but he definitely had a mix of short and long-term girlfriends. (maybe a few one-night stands?) BUT when he’s with you it feels like he’s a sex god, just because of the dedication he has towards you and your body. We’re talking hours of dedication to finding what scratches your itch. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) I think it depends, same with his seriousness. If the sex is for pleasure and just having a good time, I think he likes doggy style. If it’s more a serious, loving, intimate manner, I think he likes anything where he can see your face and give you some kisses. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) He can be reaaaally sweet and loving and intimate, but oh my god he is such a tease. Pre-outbreak, he’s doing anything to get a smile on your face. Maybe the same post-outbreak? Just a bit more of the serious. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Preoutbreak, I can see a shave a little more often, but majorly trimming. Postoutbreak, I can see a trim, maybe a little shave just to keep it from going crazy. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Pre outbreak, he can be romantic, but he’s a lot more fun. Post outbreak? I think he just uses it as a time to pour all his love out, to remind you that you’re his one. Everyday is a risk when he’s out on patrol, and he uses it as a grounding tool to feel your warmth when he’s back. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Very rare. I mean veeerrryy rare. Only if you’re apart for a while, or he’s really pent up or frustrated while you’re perioding or just not in the mood. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Breeding. He loves his niece, and he loves the idea of being a dad-- almost as much as he loves the idea of you round, carrying his child. And I don’t think he’d keep it a secret, I think he always tells you how much he loves the idea of starting a family. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Bed, for both pre and post-outbreak. Pre-outbreak, I feel like he’d be a little adventurous and get you into the backseat of his truck as most. Post-outbreak, I think he’s a little (a lot) more cautious and prefers the confines of your house. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) YOU! Quite literally everything about his partner. From the sway of your hips, the curve of your neck, your eyes, lips, nose, hands, thighs, voice, tone, words, EVERYTHING! 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) I think he goes as far as his partner is comfortable, so anything that makes you feel uncomfortable is a no for him. Also, scorching-hot take apparently, but he would NOT share (especially with his brother tf.)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He’s such a man so he loves to receive, right, we get that, but when he gives…? Stars. Five stars, actually. Tens across the board. Gold metal. Top of the chart. And like I mentioned before, he’s practically studying your body and your reactions to see what to do correctly, so every time it’s like he gains more and more power. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Depends? Depends. Pre-outbreak, he’s such a killer and prefers to pick up the pace and have fun while also mixing in slow and sensual nights. Post-outbreak, like I said, I think it’s majorly slow and sensual. But, maybe if he’s stressed or frustrated with the commune, or just needing a little quickie, then he’ll pick up the pace. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) Like I said before, quickies are rare post-outbreak. Maybe pre-outbreak they were just as rare? A little more often in comparison, when he just can’t get enough of you before he has to leave for work or something like that. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) I think I’ve clarified what I think already, Tommy had to mature a lot post-outbreak. Not saying he wasn’t already mature, he was a grown man, but his want to experiment is gone. Like before, maybe he was down for a quickie in the backseat of his truck. Now, with the infected, his number one priority is keeping you safe. He can’t do that when he’s caught with his pants down, y’know? 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) He’s a military man, he’s a carpenter, he’s got some stamina. He can go a while, depending on the night. Some nights after long days of working with Joel on framing a house, he just wants to rest. Other nights, you seem like one of those Super Mario 1-Up mushrooms because he’s sprung back to life (in more than one way). 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) He’s such an ass omg— If you had any toys and he found them, he’d be so fussy and pouty saying that he can do even better than the toys do for you, and he’s right! 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) Oh. My. God. If there’s one thing that stayed, it’s how much he teases. He’s so the type to be walking past you, pull you in for a kiss, and keep walking past while you’re itching for more. Once he’s got you in bed, he’s even worse me thinks. And when he sees you weak in the knees, holding onto him, he just calls it his “southern charm.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) He groooaaannnssss. I just know it. Source: trust me and my delusions. I feel like certain moves or flicks of tongues could drive a whimper out of him-- which he will sternly deny ever happened. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He got painfully hard when he taught you how to shoot his guns. He took you out to the range, set up his sniper rifle, taught you the proper position, and just the sight of you made him stiffer than a board. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) Call me Goldilocks because I can’t can’t explain it other than just right. His size isn’t too big, nor too wide, but I know he can steer that ship. My source? Trust me. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) He could go on a while without any, he is a military man, after all… but why would he? LOL! But yeah, he can’t go long without it before whining but could go on a while longer without it before becoming SpongeBob thirsty. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) Preoutbreak, he’ll stay awake just as long as you do. He’s not a stranger to staying up later, just watching some TV, eating some food, bathing or showering, or just talking. Post Outbreak? My old man, he’s out like a light. He’s tired, okay!

[iskratempestmadness]

If you take request, what would the Baki men do with a significant other that did a different sport? Like ice skating, softball, volleyball, or maybe gymnastics, something like that. (I also really love your work so far❤️)

Okay, let's go

Baki:

- he's happy for you. I think he would like someone who is as passionate about his business as he is.

- if you study at home (if possible ) One minute he's training, the next he's training with you. He makes the most of it. He learns from you, despite the discipline you practice.

- regarding training outside the home... He won't be present at all (sometimes for good reasons, sometimes he's just too lazy to go), but he will periodically bring you a snack.

- HOWEVER, HE IS PRESENT AT ALL YOUR PERFORMANCES (unless of course he has a fight at this time)

- despite the fact that Baki is quite gentle in nature, however, he will make sure that you are more disciplined. Training at a set time, diet, early risers.

- in case of failure at the competition, he will find the strength to motivate you to give you the strength to continue training (he knows how important it is)

Hanayama:

- neutral... Well , like OK , he just took this information into account and that 's it

- but he will buy you gifts related to your hobby. If you play basketball, he'll buy you new sneakers or something... In general, he will express his interest financially

- he will watch programs about your sports, performances at tournaments. In general, this boy will try to ensure that you have something to chat about with him

- from the previous paragraph, it can be concluded that Hana immerses himself in your activities when he has time. He can even practice with you if you want.

- He really supports you, it's just that his support is on another level, it's a little deeper than words

- he may attend training several times, but don't get him wrong, as I said before, he is a busy person, but he really tries to be present

- it's the same story with competitions, he's present at some, but just look at him. He doesn't show himself clearly, but he literally exudes pride when you win.

- he is not the best at comforting you in case of loss, but he definitely feels your emotions and will try to give you a motivational speech, but he will be better able to calm you down with touches

Katsumi:

- Oh, he's interested

- he would like your dynamics, like he

- tell him about what you do. Tell him everything from the important things to the little things. (unlike Hanayama, who tries to find out everything himself, Katsumi prefers to find out everything from your mouth)

- and he's super supportive of you. Right at 100%

- he will study with you at home. He will also maintain discipline, as will Baki. (But Katsumi is more forgiving)

- he rarely attends training sessions (he is also a busy person), but he comes to all matches.

- he shouts at you from the stands, he will make a float... It's all about him. Of course it's great, but sometimes... Firstly, it becomes absurd, and secondly, it is sometimes a distraction.

- if you lose, he will do everything so that you do not abandon yourself and continue to train.

- a lot of gifts from knitted with your sport

Jack:

- he also easily accepted the information

- he thinks it's great that you have a hobby... And that's all, he doesn't attach much importance to it, just because everyone should have a hobby, if that's how you prefer to spend your time, then fine. And there is a benefit and you are passionate about something

-but if you ask him, he'll practice with you. At first, he treats it neutrally, but later he will get used to it. (it will probably become a ritual, you will get up at the same time, then warm up, jog, workout for about an hour and work together

- he also monitors your discipline. Jack should know how important she is.

- he also doesn't come to your training sessions. However, it happens at almost all your competitions.

- he will probably give a little motivational speech before the competition

- look at him after you win. He's proud, he's really proud of you. He won't shout about it, but a look at him will be enough to understand how he feels.

- but if you lose... Then he will give you another motivational speech, and you will have no other option but to continue studying

Retsu:

- he is also interested,

- will he train with you? Naturally. He believes that this way of spending time is more useful.

- HE WILL GIVE YOU A MASSAGE AFTER TRAINING. Trust me, you won't regret it, he was extremely good at it, and it instantly relieves tension from the muscles.

"HE'LL ALSO COOK YOU SOMETHING DELICIOUS AFTER YOUR WORKOUT." Something nutritious and delicious, the very thing after a workout, he knows exactly what you need

- there are also a lot of gifts related to your sport

- he rarely goes to training outside the house, but he is present at ALL competitions.

- and he's super supportive of you, but he's not to the point of absurdity. Perhaps he will shout out something supportive, but no more.

- and he's ABSOLUTELY proud of you.

- (in honor of winning the competition, he will cook you a festive dinner)

Shibukawa:

- I'm glad for you. Well, it's really great that you're passionate about something.

- he will train with you at home, of course. For him, this is another way to have fun while away the time

- the same will come up with a snack for you after training (probably tea and a sandwich)

- however, unlike others, he demands to repay him (not with money), like he trains with you, repay him the same, he will gladly teach you aiki

- discipline? Well, maybe he's not really watching it, but he'll make sure to put you to sleep or wake you up.

- it rarely happens outside the house during training, you can say it doesn't happen at all.

- but he comes to all competitions (he's super supportive)

- it is also possible to give you a massage after training.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hello! Hope it’s okay to message. I saw your post about Marius and the paintings in the series/trailer but I’m dumb and don’t understand them. Can you explain them screenshots of when they’re in the trailer and series? Thank you so much

Hey!

Of course!

So in episode 2 we see Daniel in front of a painting.

Armand: "It's Venetian. A contemporary of Tintoretto's." Daniel: ""Marius de Romanus." Never heard of him." Armand: "Little of his work survives. Mr. de Pointe du Lac covets the rare."

Now. it's probably important to know here that Marius is Armand's maker, and he painted him quite a few times. (Armand also was an icon painter in his mortal life, in the book, we'll see how they'll spin it here, though the art in that one shot in the trailer is very interesting.)

Supposedly Armand thought Marius dead for long periods of time. However, given that we're in a mixed timeline, and that there are indisputable elements of the last trilogy in the show (Fareed, for example.) I believe that we are looking at the show's version of "Trinity Gate". And in the Trinity Gate era Armand was more than aware that Marius was indeed not dead. In fact there had been reconciliation. For me the painting on the wall of that apartment indicates that a certain reconciliation between must have happened already. I cannot see Armand look at his maker's painting when he still harbors the negative feelings he must have felt after it all came down.

In the trailer we see this guy, played by Justin Kirk, who I think will be/is Marius. He says: "You should fear the other one."

And right afterwards there is a shot of Louis hurling his glass with blood at a painting.

However, that is not the painting by Marius (that would be behind Louis there). This is "Rembrandt's "The Storm on the Sea of Galilee" (something which Assad Zaman cheekily posted ages ago^^).

Here you probably need to know that after the "chase" of the Devil's Minion arc (so when Armand hunted Daniel across the globe and eventually fell in love with him) there was a phase, where they hunted down art thieves. And kept the art.

That is stolen art from Daniel's and Armand's time together on the wall.

Edit: @cbrownjc pointed out that the timeframe of the theft doesn’t match the likely DM timeframe. So the painting might be from after DM! (But still stolen art^^)

And Louis throws blood at it in obvious frustration.

In the story referenced through the painting Christ calms the storm after his disciples panic, and he admonishes them: "Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?"

Given that (I'll just call him that until proven otherwise) Marius just talked about who Daniel needs to fear in the previous scene? Definitely not a coincidence :)

I also do not think the "presence" of Marius behind Louis on the wall there is any coincidence. (But it cannot be seen, and that is definitely no coincidence either, imho.)

Marius has been foreshadowed, and quite heavily, imho. He is also necessary for both Armand's and Lestat's backstories.

It's... too early I think to fully analyze what it means. It could mean Daniel has fully remembered and he and Armand are in their own little bubble (after all Louis seems to be alone there). We'll see.

Last but not least:

This - there's paintings.

Has Armand started to paint again? Has he shown Louis his paintings? Does he make himself vulnerable there for Louis, and Louis... accepts the invitation? Bites him there? Turns him to kiss him?

I would actually love that.

Because that would be a huge step for Armand. Huge. Cannot be overstated. Because Armand, too, carries lots of trauma. (They all do.)

[musings-of-a-rose]

What the Hell Are Fancams?

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader

Word Count: 2500+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Absolutely felt called out during the SNL sketch with Teacher Ben but I knew I had to write a little something for him. I'm pulling from my own experience as an ASL interpreter in the school system (glad I finally can incorporate it!). Thanks to @vanemando15 for her help in this and for being a beta!

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Main Masterlist

Teacher Ben Masterlist

What the Hell Are Fancams? PART 2

New year, new school, new student. Such is the life of an American Sign Language interpreter when you work in schools. 

My last student moved out of the district so I was assigned a different one. This student's interpreter wanted to go back to work with the little ones and while I loved my time with them, it was time to swap grades. 

My student is amazing and comes from a rare family, in that she is the only member that is Deaf but everyone in her life learned ASL from the moment she failed her hearing test. In most families it's the complete opposite, causing significant language delays and isolation. It never fails to blow my mind how many people won't learn a language for their child, especially when they'd both be starting from the beginning. 

This student, Chelsea, I had worked with from her time in pre-k to 5th grade. It was great already having an established repertoire with a student and we easily fell back into our normal chatter, her filling me in on anything I missed for the few years I was back in Pre-K.

So how's this school? I ask, as she's been here 2 years already.

Not bad. Teachers are mostly ok. Too much homework though.

That's usually the case with high school. Any favorite classes?

I like acting class, but my favorite teacher is Mr. Ben. He teaches marine biology.  She gives me a look I can't discern at this.

Oh? 

Yeah you know, like about the whales you like and other ocean stuff. 

You're in marine bio 2 and you're calling it ocean stuff? Sounds like a great ocean stuff teacher.

She rolls her eyes at me. You know what I mean. Plus he's…

He's..what?

She smirks her mischievous smile that I know can only mean trouble. Nothing. Don't worry about it. 

Chelsea-

Oh look we're at math class.

Saved by the bell, indeed. 

After math was lunch, followed by marine biology. Since it was the first day, I decided to eat quickly and get to the next class a little early so I can start on my "who I am and where I and my student need to be placed" speel. Although he may not need it since Chelsea was in his class before. Still, you never know what a previous interpreter did. 

I knock softly on the door and male voice tells me to come in. I push the door open and see that the teacher has his back to me, bent over his desk grabbing something. His very broad back. 

"Uh hi. I'm the interpreter for your Deaf student for next period and I'm here to answer any questions-"

He turns around and I forget what I'm saying. Bright, brown eyes focus on mine, brown hair that looks so soft with greys starting to creep in, matching the patchy facial hair he has. His nose? Don't get me started on the thoughts I'm having about that nose. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt tucked into black pants, and a tie with tropical fish on it. 

A faint pink dusts his cheeks when he looks at me. "H-hi. I'm Ben Morales. The kids call me Mr. Ben." 

He holds out his hand and I shake it, willing my nerves to not come through it. God he's hot. I wonder if this is what Chelsea was talking about. In fact, I'm sure it is.

I launch into my speel, albeit a little faster than I normally would, but Ben just nods along and does whatever I ask of him. 

"Do you have any questions?" I ask.

"Um… not right now. You're a little different than the last interpreter." He coughs and takes a sip from his water bottle.

"Ah yeah we all do things a little different. Is there anything that worked well for the student and you that I can accommodate?"

He chokes on his water, coughing violently. I move quickly, thumping him on the back but his face keeps getting redder. 

"You-" He coughs "-want to go on-" He coughs more "- a date?"

It's my turn to have my cheeks heat up. "I- what? No I said accommodate… are you ok?"

He nods, muttering something like "Oh shit" under his breath as he turns away from me, his coughs dying down. But before we can talk more, the bell rings and students start moving about the halls. 

"Well let me know if there's anything I can do to date you, Mr. Ben. ACCOMMODATE! Accommodate you!"

Fuck. Me. 

A tap on my shoulder and I turn to see Chelsea, lips upturned in that mischievous smirk. 

I see you've met Mr. Ben.

I have. He's…nice.

Yeah, nice. Is that why your face is all sweaty and warm?

What? 

She laughs and takes her seat, eyes flicking between me and Mr. Ben as the bell rings and he starts his lecture. 

—----

I find myself making it to that class a few minutes before the bell rings just to have a moment to talk to him. When I can talk, that is. I've never met someone who makes me trip over my words as much as he does. But soon, we settle into a routine, after bonding over our mutual love of orca whales. A couple weeks in, I bought him a brightly colored tie with orcas swimming on it. The smile he had could be seen from space. 

Chelsea can't seem to wipe the smirk from her face whenever she sees us talking. 

He likes you. Chelsea signs, giving me a wink.

Focus on your test, Chelsea. 

It's hard to when you guys are up there yelling your love for each other. You should ask him out. 

This has nothing to do with your classwork. And this is highly inappropriate. 

She scoffs. You've known me forever. 

Yes but you're not an adult. 

I'll be 16 soon. And I'm not an idiot. Everyone knows you guys like each other. 

What do you mean "everyone"?

She gestures around the room. Everyone. It's in the fancams too.

The..what? 

F-A-N-C-A-M-S. She repeats the sign. 

Thanks but I have no clue what that is. 

She laughs and Mr. Ben walks over. 

"Everything ok? Any questions?" He's talking directly to Chelsea and not addressing me, which is exactly what I told him to do on day one.

"No, I'm good Mr. Ben. I was just telling my interpreter about fancams." I voice for her, trying to keep my cool.

His face goes blank. "The what?"

She laughs. "You don't know?"

Before he can answer the bell rings and we head off to next period. 

At the end of the day, Chelsea takes my phone and pulls up one of these fancams and wow. It's basically a Mashup of hidden video and photos taken of Mr. Ben that have been heavily edited and music added, making him look hot. How is this appro-

Oh shit I'm in this one. Apparently Chelsea is not the only one to try and push us together. 

Shit. 

The next day, I make it to his class early as usual. He walks from around his desk to lean sit in front of it.

"Hey Mr. Ben."

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Ben?"

I smile. "Sorry. Habit."

"Hey…so what was that fancam business from yesterday?"

Oh. 

"I uh.."

"Please tell me. These kids all talk about them and I have no clue what they are."

"I don't-"

"Please?"

Oh God his eyes are all big and brown and just like a damn puppy. 

I sigh, shaking my head when I realize that was audible and I'm staring too long into his eyes. I could get lost in those eyes. 

I pull my phone out and walk over to him, leaning my butt against the desk next to him. 

"Ok, so please remember that I was shown these and am in no way affiliated with the creation of the fancams."

He chuckles, leaning in closer to me. He smells good, like fresh parchment and aftershave. 

"Are you ok?" He asks me.

"What? Oh yeah. Uh the fan cams."

I scroll through and pull one up, handing him my phone as it plays. His face becomes redder as it plays on. 

"I uh..who…who made these?"

"I'm not sure. Chelsea said a bunch of the students did-"

"There's more than one??"

"Y-yeah. Look." I swipe through a few more until it settles on the one that puts us together. I try to swipe past it but he catches sight of it before I can.

"What was that one?"

"Oh nothing. It's nothing."

"But it had my face-"

"Just another fancam."

"And yours."

"Kids these days. They will make any-anything."

"I can't see it?"

"Uh nah you don't want to-"

"Oh I think I need to see it."

He's not pressuring me at all, more like flirting, but…that's not possible. There's no way he holds the same crush for me as I do for him, right? 

My boldness coming from some tucked away insanity, I reach over and swipe the video back up, letting him watch it in its entirety. 

"The kids…want us to go on a date?"

"Apparently so. C-crazy, right?" I swallow hard, hoping he can't hear the way my heart is pounding though my chest, his scent filling my head and making it very hard to focus. 

"I don't think it's crazy."

RIIIIING!

That fucking bell ruins everything. 

At the staff meeting the next morning, they ask for chaperones to the homecoming dance. Teachers groan but a few hands automatically go up, volunteering their evening. I raise mine too, Chelsea already telling me she had been asked to go by the person she'd been crushing on since last school year. They had spent the entire summer learning as much ASL as they could in order to talk to her, which was too touching for words and I know it meant the world to Chelsea. I won't have to follow her around but I'll be there in case of emergencies. 

To my surprise, Ben raises his hand shortly after watching me raise mine. The admin takes down names and the meeting concludes, Ben catching up with me as I start to head out to homeroom. 

"You're volunteering too?" He asks. 

"Yeah. Chelsea is already going and while she doesn't necessarily need me, she asked me to come in case she does. I think she's nervous."

"That kid learned asl for her, right?"

I nod. "Yeah. She's super excited although she'll deny it."

"Sounds like her." 

"Mmmhmm."

We walk together for a hall or two. 

"I gotta go this way to homeroom."

"Oh. Right. Um, see you soon?"

"Yup. See you!"

—----

When I make it to his class at my usual time, I can see he's nervous about something, his eyes extra wide and small beads of sweat accumulating at his hairline. 

"HI, Ben."

"H-hi."

Silence as I unpack, but then he's standing near me and all I smell is him. 

"Can I ask you something?" He asks.

"Yeah of course."

"I…uh did.. um… would you-"

A student pops their head in, asking for clarification on the homework and he shakes his head, turning to help them.

—----

Homecoming arrives and I pick out a simple dress to wear. Not quite prom dress but definitely nicer than school attire. I head into the dance and get my assigned area and head there, milling about as people and students start to file in. Music blares as the dance starts andI  feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, Ben is standing there, a navy built suit, dark button up shirt and - the whale tie I had given him shortly after we met. His mouth is agape as he takes me in. 

"You…you look…"

"Is that the tie I got you?

He picks up the end and looks at it. "Yeah. I thought it would go good with my outfit."

"Brings out your eyes."

"What?'

"What?"

Just then the music stops and switches to a slow dance, the DJ insisting that teachers should join in on this flashback. "True" by Spandau Ballet starts to play and a few staff members laugh and pull each other to the dance floor. 

"D-doyouwanttodance?" Ben speaks so quickly that I can't understand him.

"What?"

He sighs, gathering up…courage?

"Do you want to dance?"

Oh.

"With…you?"

"Yes. But you don't have to if you don't want to-"

"No! I want to!" Shit, was that too enthusiastic? 

He smiles, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants before offering me his hand. I take it, the warmth from his hand spreading into mine. He guides me to the dance floor and spins me to him, his hand hesitating over my hip. Gently, I place my hand over his and guide it to my hip, encouraging him to grip me with his fingers. 

His eyes find mine as he leads, neither of us saying anything, just staring into each other's eyes. My stomach is in my chest and I swear he can feel my heart pumping out of my chest. He's wearing cologne tonight, but underneath it I can smell that familiar smell of him that makes me forget words. A minute passes before he leans in and speaks in my ear. 

"You know we're going to be in another fancam because of this, right?"

I laugh. "You're probably right. But it's worth it."

He pulls back and looks at me again, his brown eyes sparkling as he stares deep into my eyes. The song ends but Ben doesn't drop my hand or my hip. 

"Will you come with me for a second?" He asks. 

"Of course."

Removing his hand from my hip, he winds his fingers through mine and pulls me through the crowd of students and out of the side door, turning down the hallway and moving away from the cafeteria doors. 

"Ben, what-"

He spins me around and pulls me tight to his body. His eyes flicker between mine and I can feel the nervous tension bubble between us threatening to pop. 

And then it does. 

His hands come up and cup my face, bringing his lips to mine as he places the softest kiss to my lips. He pulls back and I follow him, unwilling to let him go. 

"Was that ok? I should have asked before-"

I grip the tie around his neck and pull him to me, deepening the kiss. His lips are warm and inviting, better than anything I could imagine. His hands are gentle, one sliding around to the back of my head and the other settling on my hip, pulling me in closer. A slight moan from him goes straight through me and I can feel myself getting warm. 

The doors bang open and we fly apart, laughing nervously when the students that had come through the doors disappear down the hall to the bathroom without even spotting us. 

"Dinner?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Ben?"

He pushes his body back against mine, having felt my tug on his belt. 

"I am." His voice is somehow deeper and it goes straight between my thighs. 

"I'd love to."

He kisses me again and starts to put away, but I grip his tie tighter and pull him back down. His eyebrows scrunch together in a question. 

"Let's go check if your classroom is empty."

The question drops, lips hitching up in a knowing smile as he slides his fingers between mine, pulling me down the hall to his room. 

—----

What the Hell Are Fancams? Part 2>>

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[the-daiz]

hiii i loved your flash falling in love fanfic sm it was so cute😭😭

your other idea of having a scenario of him falling for a reader that's strong also seemed very interesting. could you maybe write that but with like.. a short reader? like a reader whose power doesn't match their size at all? (hero or not)

(i may be projecting on the height part😔)

if not, that's ok. i just rlly like your fanfics/hcs, and i enjoy reading them a lot!! <3

Flashy flash, falling inlove? #2

Genre; fluff, hcs

Pairing; Flashy flash x reader

Short! Reader

side note; Isn’t projecting the whole point of x reader fics? 🤔🤔 I’m so glad you enjoy my fics ml! I appreciate your support sm sm 💋

not proofread (sorry)

Flashy flash doesn’t really focus on much.

well, what I mean is: his focus rarely strays to anything but himself and his duties, which sounds slightly narcissistic but he’s simply goal-oriented (and self-loving).

he merely wants to eradicate all evil and get stronger.

Truly, it’s surprising when you catch his keen interest.

You were strong. Possibly as powerful as him, that was the first thing that caught his attention.

The first time he caught you using the full extent of your power, he wasn’t sure if he was jealous or completely riddled with admiration.

but first he needed to test out how truly strong you were, and what better way to do that then accompany you on one of your hero missions, respectfully inspecting you as you slay the fiends bringing terror to the innocent.

very arrogantly asking you to a duel, apparently.

He’s very… stuck up about it. Which obviously doesn’t sit right with you, and your first impression of him isn’t the best.

He can’t help but look down on you, literally and figuratively, because of your miniature size.

However, when you finally have your duel, whether you win or lose or you end up in a draw, he does quickly learn he shouldn’t underestimate you.

After that interaction, he starts watching you more closely, maybe whenever you’re in the same parameter, or even going out of his way to find out what your schedule is and observing you from afar .He’s very subtle about it.

That was when he started experiencing something else other than respectful curiosity…

It’s how easily you navigate your strength and weaknesses, the immense sense of confidence that radiated from you and the power in your every move, it just kept pulling him deeper every time he witnessed it.

He began to talk to you more often.

He’d suddenly appear whenever you’re fighting any monsters and help you defeat them, then swiftly stir the conversation so he’s talking about anything that may be of interest to you, just so he can stretch out this conversation for as long as possible.

His tone is neutral and even a little cold, which fits the stoic expression on his face, so you can’t tell if he has any feelings for you.

Other people can though.

His quite oblivious to his own emotions. He just thinks you’re just another strong hero he can benefit from by being close to. Despite the fact he stares at you longer than he’s stared at anything else, and the fact he often times thinks about you and what you’d do, say or think in certain situations, or even the fact you give him a sense of inspiration he didn’t know he longed for.

ironically, the way it really dawns on him that he likes you, is when he catches himself adjusting how he looks on the reflection of a window before going up to talk to you.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s been taking even more care of how he presents himself ever sense he started hanging around you.

He starts growing more distant after really evaluating himself.

he doesn’t want these feelings to become a distraction for him in the future. He’s still a hero with a duty and a status to maintain.

It doesn’t last very long however, because in that small period of time he realized how much you meant to him.

it irritated him tbh, and he started cursing and insulting you in his head.

But all the negative thoughts dissipated as soon as he glanced at your face. The face that never left his thoughts or dreams.

His attraction to you manifests in subtle ways— He starts to stand closer to you. He compliments you a bit more but often times it’s (a little) back-handed. Whenever he’s in the hero association building maybe for a meeting or such, and he catches wind that you’re there too, he’s quick to ignore everyone else to look for you.

He’s still stuck-up, but he’s now a more gentle, patient, considerate AND stuck-up version of himself (to you at least)

He also invites you to spar or train together every now and then, and he gets so. Incredibly. Excited. If you make time for him. ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE THE ONE INVITING HIM TO TRAIN/SPAR.

He pretends like it’s whatever, and he doesn’t care that much. But he can’t stop thinking about it, like he just keeps looking at the time and calculating how many hours, minutes, seconds are left before he meets up with you.

I can see him confessing to you in a ver stupid way, straightforward and stupid. Something that would keep him up at night because it was so embarrassing and out of the blue.

After one of your sparring sessions, maybe you two are just talking and catching your breathes. And maybe he says something… er, stupid like…

”you know, a lot of people are impressed by me. Obviously.” *pauses awkwardly* “I, uh… i guess I’m kind of impressed by you too. Don’t let it get to your head though, when you can’t even reach my head.” -flashy flash, with a snarky smirk.

”your back-handed compliments are getting a bit old, flash. I can’t really tell if you actually mean them or want to get a rise out of me.” -you

Shit.

He starts to panic internally.

and his heart starts racing.

and he gulps.

“No- I- Sorry- I’m complimenting you! You’re very impressive! I’m impressed!” He blurts out loudly, his face frowning but flushed with red. You blink, surprised by the sudden switch in his demeanor.

”oh, it’s fine. I wasn’t being that serious-“ -you

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, the fact is, I’m inlove with you.” -flashy flash

”Wha-”

The confession is so bizarre, you burst out laughing.

he’s very flustered when you do, and is a little hurt, thinking you may be making fun of him.

How he is in a relationship with you…

In public, he doesn’t really do much. Just makes an effort to be around you when he can, and tells you to stay safe whenever both of you have to part ways.

but behind closed doors, he’s like a new person.

He’s soft and gentle with you, holding you, caressing you, kissing you. Everything.

did I mention that he’s very good with words? He’s very good with words. He tries to charm you constantly, reiterating his devotion to you with a new set of vocabulary each time.

He teases you as much as he sweet talks you though. Especially when it comes to your height.

He doesn’t mind your height difference, but he does find it kind of adorable. The way you crane your neck to look up at him, of how you can slip through small spaces thanks to your size, and how it sometimes helps you with being flexible in battle. But most of all, he likes when you have to stand on your toes and pull him by his collar to kiss him.

if you steal his clothes, he’ll complain and act annoyed, but he adores seeing you wear them. They’re so big on, but that’s what makes it so nice, it’s like a part of him is able to protect you. (In a strange/unique way)

He’ll gift you one of his favorite shirts/hoodies and drench it in his cologne. And will say something like “You steal it so much you might as well just have it. My god, you’re such a hassle.”

He likes giving you pet names like, “gorgeous” or fucking “sweetheart” or maybe even “sweetness”, or the typical “love”, “darling”. He’s very diverse.

When he’s feeling cocky he’ll call you “tiny” or “short stuff” (corny ass)

Just loves spending time with you and generally watching you do stuff.

sitting in your presence is simply intoxicating to him, it provides him with such tranquility he’s never known in his life.

You’ll catch him warmly smiling at you a lot.

He does worry about you sometimes if you’re assigned a dangerous mission, he’s confident in your abilities but that doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid you might get hurt. He’ll send you a short text like ‘hey, you alright? Call me when you’re done’ and he’ll check his phone constantly throughout the day.

when you finally text/call him, he’ll breath a sigh of relief then pretend he wasn’t worried in the slightest.

[merinsedai]

Dreamling Abbey

My fic for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang !!

No lie, guys: I decided to do this after coming out of a heart scan at the hospital on the sign up deadline. The thinking being: I could have a dicky ticker here, why not try something new? And this was perfect because if there's one thing I know about myself, it's that I need a deadline.

And so here we are.

I am MOST affronted by how hard this was?! And how bloody long it took me (mostly because I spent a lot of time staring into space or relentlessly googling 'did they have xyz in Edwardian England) All you wonderful, talented writers have made it look so easy that all that effort came as somewhat of a shock. Honestly, I am deeply saddened that the copious amount of Dreamling fic I have voraciously consumed in the past 18 months has not magically made a fantastic author out of me. Why does osmosis not work for writing?

If you read, I hope you enjoy!

(The ticker's fine, by the way. Not dicky at all.)

Art by the fabulous @lalaithquetzallicaresi Thanks for squeezing me in there, lovely! ❤

Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 50k

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, look it's Downton Abbey but Dreamling omegaverse. Sorta. If you squint, I'm not sure Julian Fellowes would approve, If you haven't seen Downton it definitely won't matter, because I've unashamedly just stolen bits and pieces and thrown the rest to the wind, Attempted Sexual Assault, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pining, period typical attitudes to gender. If you reframe gender to include alpha beta omega dynamics, omega rights paralleling the suffragette movement in England, Minor Violence, lots of vague references to classic cars, mention of unethical medical procedures, Time and Night are bad parents, Omega Dream of the Endless, Alpha Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless│Morpheus Needs a Hug, Unbeta'd

Read chapter 1 on ao3

Fic Summary: Lord Morpheus is the eldest child of the Earl and Countess of Endless, an ancient family hiding huge debts behind a fine name. As an omega, Morpheus cannot inherit his father's title or the family's ancestral home. His function is simple: secure a match that is both socially advantageous and financially viable, thus securing the future of the estate and the title of Earl of Endless for his offspring. The family believe that their troubles are solved when Morpheus dutifully (if reluctantly) becomes engaged to his wealthy cousin, Patrick. However, all their carefully laid plans are thrown into chaos when Patrick drowns on the ill-fated Titianic.

Now Morpheus is navigating treacherous waters of his own and discovering how tight the ties of family loyalty bind him. Will the charming and handsome Duke of Crowborough prove his saviour? Or will the wealthy yet odious Sir Roderick Burgess ensnare Morpheus in plans of his own?

Meanwhile, the family’s new chauffeur, one Robert Gadling, is muddying the waters of Morpheus’s existence even further- where is the line between a servant and a friend? Can Hob help Morpheus see that life exists beyond the confines of family and function?

Chapters below the cuts and in subsequent reblogs, should you wish to read it here on tumblr.

Chapter 1: Complications with the Great Matter.

April 1912.

The papers had been late this morning. Not that Morpheus notices their tardiness. Serious daily newspapers are the preserve of his father and since Morpheus has little interest in the society gossip that proliferated on the pages of The Daily Sketch, the only periodical he is allowed in his room, he rarely bothers to glance at it. However, the large photograph blazing across the front page is so arresting that he finds his eyes drawn to it immediately, ignoring all else on his vanity to take the paper and read.  It is bad news of course, the papers rarely print anything but.  ‘DISASTER TO TITANIC ON HER MAIDEN VOYAGE’ boldly proclaims the headline, beneath which is black and white image of the doomed liner, adjoined by one of her seemingly also doomed captain, John Smith. Morpheus’s eyebrows draw down as he reads the brief article: so many presumed dead, so few saved.  They would know people, of course. His mother knew the Astors, and they had dined with Lady Rothes only last month. Still, the privilege of first class likely meant they would be amongst the survivors. Those below decks… on their way to a better life, well they would not have been so fortunate. What a tragedy, Morpheus sighs and closes the paper. This news rather put his own woes into perspective-

The door bangs open and Desire flounces in without so much as a by your leave, as is their way. 

“Dream!” they shout without preamble, then glance at the newspaper in his hands with a slight moue of disappointment. Being the bearer of bad news is something Desire takes a measure of delight in, “Oh, you’ve seen already, Huh,” They shake their head, before bending over Morpheus to look more closely at his paper, hand gripping his shoulder. This close, the smell of the perfume Desire favours- a rich and spicy aroma deliberately chosen to overwhelm their natural omega scent- makes him wrinkle his nose and move his head away. Desire’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and they huff in amusement. They are not strictly allowed to wear perfumes but Desire goes their own way with everything.  “When Jessamy told me, I thought she must have dreamt it!” Desire continues in a low tone, meeting Morpheus’s eyes in the mirror.  “To think, we were just talking about that ship the other week. Remember how excited old Lucy Rothes was? Supposed to be unsinkable- ha!”

“Every mountain is unclimbable until they climb, so every ship is unsinkable until it sinks,” Morpheus responds neutrally, putting the paper down and shrugging Desire’s hand off to stand. Desire moves with him, smoothing their hands over the non-existent wrinkles on the shoulder of his jacket before adjusting his already meticulously placed tie pin. Morpheus endures the attention for a moment before once again moving away. He does not enjoy this close scrutiny and Desire knows it, but it is always a delight of theirs to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Hm” Desire hums then shrugs, “Come on, now you’re all sorted, lets go to breakfast. Aponoia said she saw the telegram boy come by. I want to find out if there’s any more news. Won’t it be something if someone truly important drowned? Gossip for weeks.”

***

The papers always print bad news. Of course they do. But that news is viewed through a detached lens. Shocking, of course, but not too close to home. Telegrams though- that’s different. They take that news and make it personal. 

Breakfast had proven to be a fraught affair. Their father had been away from the room when they first arrived, speaking with their mother so they were to learn, but he had soon been back and imparted the news of their family’s misfortune to his children with unusual brevity. Then he had left without saying anything further, leaving the three of them to process the news alone: the news that Patrick Endless, their wealthy cousin and Morpheus’s fiance, had been aboard the Titanic with his father, James and neither were listed among the names of the survivors. Morpheus had not felt like eating further and had removed himself back to his rooms with his siblings following uninvited (though not strictly unwanted). He had wanted to think but he also knew the danger of getting lost so deeply in his mind, so Desire’s sniping and Aponoia’s quiet presence would be… grounding. 

The stupid thing was that Patrick was not even meant to be on that cursed ship; he and his father weren’t expected in New York until May. Why? He thought Why did they go? And without saying anything? Perhaps Patrick had planned to telegram from New York- a boast and a surprise. 

“Turns out that the lure of the Titanic’s maiden voyage was too strong.” Desire says as if reading his mind, and with a hint of mischief in their golden eyes. They lounge dramatically against the doorframe whilst Morpheus stands and stares out of his window, gazing at the grounds below. It all looks so quiet, so normal. Why doesn’t he feel sad?  Desire continues, “They wanted to be part of history and now they are history.”

“Desire,” Morpheus chides half heartedly. It is a crass statement but he can’t find it in himself to react more strongly. Maybe they are looking for a reaction from him, or maybe this is now how his sibling processes strong emotions. It certainly seems in character. Aponoia has not yet spoken. She just sits unmoving, staring vacantly ahead, toying with the ring on her finger, turning it over and over. He himself feels oddly disconnected from the news. How is one meant to react upon learning that their intended had been so suddenly and shockingly killed- drowned in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, their frozen corpse not even recovered, just left to sink and rot in the sea. Dream blinks slowly, probably not like this, he thinks vaguely. He feels there should be some weeping and wailing involved at the very least. 

But there is only numbness.

***

“Uh, I detest black,” Desire flounces into the room the next morning whilst Morpheus is busy writing in his journal. He enjoys writing, it helps to order his often scattered and rebellious thoughts. 

Jessamy, the maid he shares with his siblings, has just finished fixing his hair and is busily setting his bed to rights, plumping the pillows and smoothing the coverlets.  Desire regards themself critically in Morpheus’ tall mirror, turning this way and that. Aponoia trails after them silently. She is also dressed in black and it makes her look even more wan and washed out than usual. As for Desire, their outfit may have been the requisite black, but it still looked to Morpheus to be sufficiently rakish as to raise their parents’ blood pressure. Hardly proper mourning material. “At least going into mourning won’t ruin your aesthetic, Dream dear,” Desire stretches languidly and collapses back on the just-made bed, smiling thinly. “Always a silver lining somewhere.”

“Full mourning still seems a lot for a cousin,” Morpheus replies vaguely. He tries to pay little attention to his siblings, bent over his journal and writing quickly. The habit of diary writing was born of necessity: a strategy to help quiet his mind, he’d been told, but now it is a pleasure. 

“But not for a fiance,” Aponoia’s voice is quiet. There is no accusation in her tone, only the retelling of fact.

Morpheus huffs slightly. “He was not really a fiance.”

“No? I thought that was what you call a man you’re going to marry?”

“I was only going to marry him if nothing better turned up,” he turns the page and continues writing.

“Morpheus! What a dreadful thing to say!” Desire looks simply delighted. “Poor dear Patrick was absolutely besotted with you. It was quite pathetic to witness really- your indifference and his lovelorn obsessiveness,” they shudder theatrically. “Perhaps it’s a good thing he drowned; saved him from a miserable life with you as husband.”

“You dare suggest I would have been a poor husband to him?” Morpheus demands, slamming his diary closed and rounding on his sibling. Desire shrugs insouciantly, fiddling with a diamond earring.

‘“Well you didn’t love him. Barely liked him. And he wasn’t the cleverest where you were concerned, but he would have seen it sooner or later, and hated you for it. Of course, I could wish an unhappy marriage upon you, dearest brother. But Patrick? He deserved better.”

‘Better?’ Morpheus raises his eyebrows. Desire’s words were often full of spite towards him but this was such a quick switch around from mocking Patrick to defending him. Was there something here he had never seen? Never bothered to look for, in truth. “You would have considered yourself a better prospect, my sibling? Taken what I would have discarded?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge and they glare at each other for a moment, then Desire drops their gaze.

‘Yes,’ they say softly, vulnerability etching their features momentarily. “Would that I were eldest and not… as I am. Then I would have taken him like a shot.”

They stand, shields quickly  going back up. “Well,” they sniff pointedly, looking away from Morpheus and towards the door,  “It’s not so bad I suppose. Mama says we can go into half mourning next month, then full colour by September. A shame we have to spend the summer so drab- and miss the season down in London!- but at least we’ll be ready for shooting parties in the autumn.  Come on Appy, let’s leave his lordship alone. He clearly craves solitude. To think,” they sneer, “and write in his stupid diary.” They flow out the room without a backwards glance, Aponoia dutifully trailing in their wake.

Morpheus sighs and turns back to his journal, opening it and staring at the blank page but not picking his pen back up. Desire and Patrick… not that he thought Patrick had returned any sort of affection to his younger sibling but still, had he really been so blind?

“I was so terribly sorry to hear the news, my lord,” Jessamy offers quietly into the silence of the room as she finishes adjusting his bed again. “You say these things but I know you are sad. Whatever you say.” “You are a dear,” Morpheus murmurs. “But I do not feel as badly as I should. I do not really know… what I feel.”  That is probably a bad reflection upon me, he thinks. The truth was that beyond the normal amount of grief that came with the sudden and untimely passing of an acquaintance, Dream felt nothing.  Patrick had hardly been a grand passion. They had known each other since childhood but had been thrown together through circumstance rather than any actual attraction and they had barely anything in common.  So no, he was not as sad as he should be and that was what was really making him sad.  This marriage would have been a thing of duty. Their family was old, old enough indeed to have had plenty of time to rack up considerable debts. A lack of money hidden behind a fine name. Morpheus’ marriage to Patrick would have secured the estate’s future, shored up its ailing finances and kept the title very much in the family. As an omega, Morpheus would never have been able to inherit his father’s title but his children could, if they were alphas. And now, there was no marriage, no money and a very uncertain future ahead of them. Morpheus’s one duty, his one function in society, was to secure a good match and that duty lay so heavily upon his shoulders. If only Olly had stayed- but no, there was no use in dealing in ‘if onlies’. Practicalities only, and practicalities meant marriage. And soon.

[hai7ani]

to be loved is to be seen / Nutella

Whenever you're on your period you tend to crave for some bread. Preferably, they are thoroughly spread with generous amounts of Nutella without the skin.

That's just how it is 一 for or all the years you've lived as a woman, bread with Nutella during that time of the month has always been your guilty pleasure.

Today at work your colleague stops by your desk with a cup of coffee in hand.

"What are you having for lunch today?" She juts her chin towards the Hello Kitty lunchbox you always bring to work.

"Hmm, I don't know. Let's check," you grin, excitedly opening up the metal box.

2 slices of bread, each one folded in half with thick layers of Nutella spread on them. On the side there is a small container of grapes and a packet of biscuits of your favourite brand.

A light, sweet lunch, as you prefer on days like these, and you smile.

The usual.

But your colleague giggles beside of you. "Are you sure this doesn't belong to your daughter?" You look up at her at that. "Or did your husband mix up the boxes?" That triggered a series of laughter between you both.

Another colleague pokes her head into your cubicle. "Oh, Nutella again! My kids love it. I've tried it once and I never did again. It's too sweet for me, but you seem to like it a lot." She laughs.

You only bite your lip and look at them sheepishly. "I like it sweet. It's kind of a guilty pleasure."

They leave you alone afterwards, not before teasing you for having such a sweet tooth (and also whispering to you that they are just joking), but you don't take any of it to heart. You know they don't mean anything by it despite the constant tease about your little lunchbox that you match with your daughter and the kiddish contents in it.

They know your husband packs your lunch everyday 一 a habit he's picked up on ever since your daughter has started school and he's decided to takeover your little routine 一 and that you always either have sweet stuff or sandwiches for lunch on most days of the week.

But what they don't know is that despite the many years of craving for and having Nutella with bread as a guilty pleasure on the end of every month, you've spent more time watching other kids have it for breakfast in school.

Money wasn't very flexible in your home. Everything went to something and very rarely it ever went to you 一 growing up it was either hard-boiled eggs dipped into packets of soy sauce from the cheap, cold sushi only your parents get to eat or bread with butter from the buffet they attend on special occasions.

Never Nutella like the others kids eat everyday.

The first time you've ever tasted it was on the second date with your now-husband, outside the library of the engineering building many years ago.

(You met him at a seminar on improving public speaking skills. Fates intertwined together by a laggy spin-the-wheel website and he'd immediately pointed out the character printed on the shitty graphic t-shirt you were wearing that actually belonged to your roommate. You told him you don't actually know the character, but you do know the one on the fading sticker stuck to his laptop cover.

He'd asked you out right after the seminar ended (an unplanned topic of conversation that sounded a little different than what he meant, but since it sounded like that anyway, he took the chance as quickly as it came), hands stuffed into the pockets of his Levi's and an extremely red face for such a confident boy like him.)

He was biting on a piece of bread with some brown spread on the surface, sweat rolling off his forehead as he hastily jogged towards you on the sidewalk. "Sorry I'm late, my presentation ended a little later than I'd expected."

He was only 7 minutes and 10 seconds later than the time you both agreed on, yet the boy still rushed to see you straight after class in his wrinkly college t-shirt that he always forgets to iron after laundry.

"Have you eaten yet? It's kind of a long walk to the restaurant. Hold on," he then reaches a hand behind to grab a flat Tupperware from his black backpack, and showed the opened container to you.

"It's Nutella bread." He said, and you'd looked at him dumbfounded. "Do you... like it?" He faltered a little at your expression and out of your eagerness to not disappoint or embarrass the poor boy, you grabbed the last piece of bread and held it still in your hands, unsure of what to do with it.

"I..." You trailed off. "I think so."

"Huh?"

"I've never had Nutella before."

Three best friends slid past you both and they whispered. You thought they must've heard you and they must think it is ridiculous for a person to not have eaten Nutella before in their entire life.

You reddened and looked away from him out of embarrassment. Now he must think you are a joke. He doesn't wanna go out with you anymore 一 what a loser.

...He didn't think of you that way, though 一 not at all. Instead, he let out a laugh that made you jerk your head back towards his face and you remember feeling your heartbeat quicken behind your bones, threatening to fall out of your chest simply at the innocent sound of his boyish laughter.

"Yeah?" He was already reaching into his backpack again by the time you've regained your composure and was finally holding the slice of bread properly.

"That's great then," and he'd fished out a tub of Nutella with a wiggly plastic knife in his hand, "have some more." He scooped a generous amount of the cocoa spread and slaps it on your bread.

?

This boy...

"I always carry this with me in case I get hungry in class so I can DIY a snack." He said excitedly, "you'll like this, I swear. It's my favourite."

He then folded your bread and gently pushed your hand to your mouth. "There," and he keeps all his stuff back in his bag before huffing a breath. "Let's go." He ushers you with him.

The first time you've ever had Nutella, you had it with 6pm orange painting your skins and the boy you married talking your ear off about the menu from the restaurant he found online.

You ended up not finishing your meal and handed it over to him who happens have a really huge appetite because you were too busy eating his tub of Nutella. Just like he said 一 you liked it. A lot.

You still like it now that you're married to him and have given him a daughter who is just as confident as him when he was his younger, boisterous self.

A silly engineering nerd who now likes packing your lunch the same way he does for your daughter who prefers strawberry jam on her bread instead into your matching lunchboxes.

The things you never got to have when you were a child.

He knows.

They don't.

It's alright, though 一 you think it makes your silly Nutella bread a little more sweeter.

[spookychick78]

OG!Michael Myers X Fem!Vampire

Michael & The Vampire PT 2

Thought I'd bring the vampire back, it is October after all. Thinking about doing a little series with these two, let me know if y'all want some more with Michael and his vampy girl in the comments. Also, I may have gotten a little carried away with this one and it maaaay be like... over 5000 words. Anyway, stay spooky and enjoy. 🧛🏻‍♀️

WARNINGS: 18+, bloody af, rough sex, death, graphic depictions of violence.

Word Count: 5,751

Michael stood silent as ever. His brows furrowed with intrigue behind the pale rubber of his mask. He was observing something he'd contemplated for quite sometime now, he was watching her feed. It started shortly after she'd weaved her way into his daily life, his desire to watch her kill. She fed off of him with such vigor when he allowed her too, as if she had starved a lifetime for his blood, that he couldn't help but wonder what it looked like. It sounded silly, even to him, but one particular time he'd seen the image in the grimy reflection of his childhood home's windows. She was underneath him of course, he hardly ever allowed her to overpower him, but as he watched her nails clutch at the skin around where her teeth had sunk into him, he noticed an urge she was withholding. He hated to admit it, even in the silence of his own mind, but she had great strength. He was well aware he'd met his match and after a brief period of resenting her for it, he'd grown to enjoy it and quite a bit. He could push her well past her limits, bend her, shape her, break her in whichever way he chose. He could kill her, so to speak, bleed her dry and she'd lie there underneath him smiling drunkenly as he did so. She could easily do the same, occasionally she'd remind him of that, just as she did then. He watched her dig into him, that grip of her's turned deadly, he not only saw it, he felt it. It was absentminded for her, a byproduct of the potency of his blood. It brought her a high like no other, perhaps in reality, that was what kept her around. Not so much love, but blood lust for him and only him. Her eyes fluttered open to catch him studying her so intently and she grinned at their reflection. The small dribble of his own blood that ran down the side of her mouth made his breath quicken. He could have watched it for hours, but unlike her, Michael did have his limits as far as blood loss went. If she got ahead of herself, drank too much his eyes would fall shut and unconsciousness would overtake him. He would live of course, but he'd wake to find that image had been torn away from him, stolen by his own weakness. He wanted to see her finish it, he wanted to see her get her fill. More than anything, Michael wanted to see her kill.

It had taken him sometime to find the will to communicate his desire to her in his own silent way. It proved to be more difficult than he thought it would, as she rarely left the house and more rarer than that, she never brought home victims. She had no need to hunt any longer, he was her personal blood bag and she had enough wherewithal to know that when Michael hunted, he went alone. He never brought home trophies either, so she was quite surprised when he burst through the door dragging a man dressed in a poor excuse for a vampire costume by the hair. She had almost forgotten it was Halloween.

She stood from her usual resting spot on the old dusty couch and sauntered over to the front room to lean her wispy figure against the doorframe. With her arms folded, she smirked as she watched him hurl the man into the bottom of the stairs. Before he could regain his footing, one of Michael's boots rested on his back to press him down on the wood. He turned his head to her and waited for her to catch his drift, but she shook her head.

"Michael, what on earth are you doing?"

The man's struggling disgruntled her and she frowned down at him, "Do you mind?"

It was moments like that when Michael was glad his face remained hidden. If she knew she not only had the power to make Michael weak, but the ability to make him smile, her ego would most likely surpass his own. His eyes were hidden in darkness, just as his smirk was, as he watched her glide closer. She leant down and studied the gift he'd brought her.

"I'm surprised he's still alive," she mused as she reached down and brushed some of his auburn strands out of his eyes, "you don't usually keep pets, Michael."

She allowed the man a smile, revealing the sharp points of her exaggerated canines Michael had come to adore as she studied the man's fake ones, amused. That was when the man fell silent, frozen with fear or disbelief, one of the two. She chuckled before she stood straight once more and folded her arms. The usual smirk she wore when she searched him for words pulled at her lips as her pupils dilated and rendered her eyes glassy. That dark shade of orange began to invade them when Michael reached down and yanked the man upwards, putting further emphasis on his bare neck as he strained in the Shape's grasp. She was getting hungry and it seemed Michael wanted to taunt her. He raised his knife to the man's throat and allowed it to graze the fragile skin that hid his jugular ever so slightly, providing her a glimpse of red that trickled over the metal. Behind his mask, his eyes hadn't left her. He watched, captivated as he always was by something he'd seen her do time and time again. Blood lust had a way of making her ever more alluring. Those strangely illuminated orange eyes of her's widened as she watched those little rubies decorate his blade and her brows began to furrow, pained with want. When they cut back up to him, she scowled and a hiss slipped out past her elongated teeth.

"Don't tease me, Michael," she growled before her tongue slid over them with another glance at the red, "you know I hate it when you do that."

Of course he did. Normally, he'd take it further, use her lust against her and make her beg him to give her what she wanted, but this wasn't about what she wanted. It was about what Michael wanted and he growing impatient with her lack of understanding on the matter. He tossed the delicately bloodied blade at her feet and held her gaze through the black holes of his mask. She knelt down, less graceful than usual as she clamored for the handle, careful not to let a single drop escape the metal. She slowly let her knees find the ground below her, sinking in a sense as her tongue glided up the edge to collect her drug of choice. Michael's breath grew ragged and it hadn't gone unnoticed by her. That smirk returned as she took one last swipe of her tongue up the blade.

"You want me to, don't you? That's what this is about," she said in her sultry tone as her palms found the wooden floor and she began to crawl towards his captive, all the while those orange eyes locked on Michael, "well, why didn't you just say so?"

That remark earned some sort of sound from behind the mask. A quick huff, half amused by her subtle dig at him. She longed for conversation, but that was a long game to be played, something to tease her with for eternity, if he could convince her to grant him with it.

Once she was close enough to take hold of the man, Michael released his grip. Before he could fall face first onto the ground, she was on him. She hadn't taken her time in the slightest as she did when she drank from Michael. There was no wooing, no gentle caresses of her nails along his shoulder blades, it was brutal. Animalistic even, he thought to himself as he watched her grip tighten enough to tear his skin through his sleeves and stain them red. When she stood, he went with her. Michael couldn't tell if his was her hands that brought him up or her teeth. She was latched so deeply, feeding so intensely that it looked as though she'd tear through the area completely and render him headless. He had faded by then, gone limp as she clung to him. She held him in such a strange way, her hands like claws strained and struggled with the fabric of his shirt behind his back as he started to slip from her grasp. He wondered how long it would take for her to drain him completely. He was intrigued by how clean the entire ordeal was, she hadn't spilled a drop. She had been meticulous with him, far different than she was with Michael. With him, she liked to be messy, let him see her covered in blood, but then and there, there was no mess. She had drank every last drop. The wet sounds of her gulping started to die down and were replaced instead with contented sighs as she sat on the very edge of her high, just before his heart finally went silent. With no more pulse to steal, she pulled back. Michael marveled at the way her teeth unsheathed themselves from his now withered skin. Blades of her own, drenched in her preferred wine. Her head fell back as she reveled in the lingering taste and Michael's head in turn, tilted. That intrigue had rearranged itself into admiration, she appeared invincible. Her skin, which normally was pale, colorless, much like that of a corpse, had become vibrant. His life's end had renewed her's and she was radiant, empowered by death's gift to her. She turned to him then, her glowing eyes now more illuminated than before bore into him as a different kind of hunger invaded them. Intrigue of her own captivated her as she rested under his blackened gaze, that thus far hadn't left her. With a grin, she let their shared victim slip from her grasp and fall stiff on the ground. Her attention was all Michael's again as she drifted his way. The only movement she earned as she stepped closer was the subtle tilt of his head, it slowly dipped downward as she situated herself in front of his chest. Her palms rested against the blue fabric, warmer than they usually were as she continued her endeavor to understand why he'd brought her dinner. She delved past those black holes of his, curious when she found the glimmer of hazel hidden within all that darkness. He was focused so intently on her teeth, mesmerized more than usual by them and that curiosity of her's deepened, as did the subtle crease between her illuminated eyes. She reached for one of his arms, that hung stiffly at his sides and brought his hand to her mouth to let his rough skin rest on her open lips.

"What is it you want, Michael?"

Her softly spoken words offered the whisper of cold breath against his flesh and he stifled a shudder as he watched her nibble, just hard enough to sting. He pondered that question she'd asked arduously, he wasn't sure he himself even had the answer. Michael only craved two things; power and death. He had thought himself the embodiment of both until she had come careening into his world. Her mere existence had wounded his ego with such brutality. Though at times he enjoyed her unbreakable frame for his own personal use, unbreakable should have been a word used to describe only himself. Death and power were his to claim and yet, he had just watched her claim both for herself. She'd done it time and time again, used him to derive it and he'd let her. In reality, he wasn't sure he could stop her even if he wanted to and that must have been what ate at him most. It had to have been.

"Whatever it is, it's yours," she whispered as she nipped the tips of his middle and index fingers, "it's the least I can do to thank you for such a delicious meal."

Without warning, he ripped his hand from her mouth and replaced it around her throat. She didn't even grant him a flinch and her grin didn't falter. When she began to chuckle, his eyes narrowed. She already knew what he wanted, she was merely teasing him. She had a habit of doing that, just as he did, though he much preferred to be the one who dealt such agitating torment.

"Is it power you want? Death?" She said with ease, unfazed by the deadly tight hold in which he had her, "You're not nearly as mysterious as you imagine yourself to be, not to me at least. I can read you like a book, Michael Myers."

She noticed his hand trembled, not with fear but with rage. He wasn't at all impressed with her words, he rarely was, but she continued nonetheless with a few that would soothe his fury.

"I can give it to you," she said as she leaned into his grasp, invited him to squeeze harder, "just say the word and it's yours."

His head canted to the side again, slowly. She smiled at his signature movement and his brow furrowed. There was admiration of her own that she'd allowed to come to light in her expression. It made him rethink this odd relationship they'd come to form. If she meant what he assumed she did, he would no longer be her's to use, which thus far was what he believed she had stayed there for. He would no longer be her sustenance, he would be an equal. That is, if such a gift was even possible for him to receive. Death wasn't something easily given to Michael, but perhaps immortality. . .

Suddenly, she rushed forward, pinning him to the front door with such infuriating ease. Her slender fingers inched up his shoulders as she gazed hungrily at his covered throat, teeth barred. She drew closer, propped herself upon the tips of her toes to let her lips graze the ear of his mask.

"Come on, Michael. It's Halloween. Die a little."

Michael returned his hand to her throat, but this time he lifted her off the ground. As he glared up at her she beamed with delight, letting the sound of his ragged, fury fueled breath fill her ears and ignite that sense of danger she fed off of. His blood was heaven, sure, but what Michael didn't know was that what she lived for was his innate ability to bring about that feeling of fragility. He offered her a sense of mortality she'd almost forgotten. He reminded her what it was to be human, something she hadn't been in eons and it was something she wanted, needed for eternity. It was why she stayed locked inside that rotting house with him. It was what she truly hungered for.

That adoration began to fill her eyes again and Michael grit his teeth. He hesitated to say it was love he felt for her, but that irritating twisting sensation she brought about in his chest forced him to consider it, that and the simple fact that he wanted to give her what she desired. He wanted to give her himself. Whatever that meant, whatever she was about to do, he would allow it. His justification of such an uncharacteristic thing was his own curiosity. Michael doubted her ability to give him death such as her own, but to see her try would be most entertaining. More so than that, it would ease the worry of age, which was something she had no reason to fear. She would never weaken as he feared he one day would, she would never be stripped of her beauty, her power. Learning such things had confirmed what he had once been terribly uncertain of. He wanted what she had, he wanted to become like her; infinite. Slowly, he let his other hand wander up to the edge of his mask to unveil himself. As he did so, he lowered her enough for her feet to find rest on the wood below. She watched with amusement as he rid himself of the pale white visage she was so accustomed to. She had seen him maskless before, but his uncovered image never failed to bewitch her.

"You're a vision with or without that thing," she mused with a softer, more genuine smile, "you should know that."

He stood still, as he always did. His discomfort was evident, but he fought hard against it to look her directly in the eye as she memorized his details. He was so handsome it was irksome, she thought to herself. Even the scar over his left eye and that milky white coloring it had adopted did little to distract from his distinctly pleasant features. Soft, auburn curls rested gently atop his head, just barely grazing his seemingly permanently furrowed brows. He appeared petulant when he looked at her like he was then, a subtle scowl carving lines above his perky nose with his lips pursed, childlike even. His appearance was a stark contrast to what Michael truly was, his innocent looks were simply a facade, she knew that well. He dipped his head, it seemed to be a nod, a signal let her know he was waiting, ready for whatever attempt she desired to make.

"If it's your neck to want me to take, you'll have to lift your head, dear, not lower it," she teased.

He let out a drawn out breath and his eyes narrowed, never leaving her's as he obliged. A silent reminder not to taunt him with the power he allowed her to have over him, not to take it for granted. Perhaps she wasn't easily killed, but Michael's business was pain. He had ways of making her hurt and it would be in her best interest to remember that if she wanted to avoid such punishment.

"You'll enjoy this," she said as she perched herself against his chest once more, "I think."

Her arms snaked over his broad shoulders as she brought herself up. Now that he'd seen her take a victim, he rethought each movement she made. There was preparation to it, a softness in her touch and a distinct appreciation for him and what he offered her. He wasn't her victim, he thought to himself with suspicion, he was something else to her entirely. He caught the eerie glimmer of those teeth before he felt them sink deep into his jugular. Her bite however, was more forceful than usual, and he was glad she couldn't see how he winced when he felt that familiar, but more noticeable pull. What he hadn't been able to hide was the way he tensed under her hands.

"The pain is worth lifetimes of pleasure," she unlatched herself briefly to mumble against him, "just trust me, Michael."

When she returned to continue draining him, a pained grunt escaped his throat and he instinctively clung to her. His bruising grip on her own shoulders made her hum with delight as she herself returned his tight embrace. The pain was almost euphoric, it caused his eyes to widen in an effort to remain conscious for each moment, but they began to flutter shut, betraying his desires. A low hum infiltrated his ears as his heart beat faster in desperation to replace the blood she'd stolen from him. He began to crumble in her grasp, infuriated as that delirium that came with her bite weakened each of his limbs. She guided him to the ground and took the rare opportunity that had presented itself to straddle him as she continued. Her hands balled into fists, clutching the blue fabric of his coveralls to steady herself as she too began to feel the effects of draining him. It wasn't without effort, it was a longer process than most and she found herself struggling to finish what she'd started atop him. Finally, she felt him squeeze her as tight as he could before his hands fell limp from her shoulders and landed with a thud on either side of him. With an exasperated gasp, she ripped herself from his neck and threw her head back. Her grip on his coveralls loosened as she reveled in her own euphoria.

"That is a taste I'll miss dearly," she breathed before she allowed her gaze to drop down to his still body.

She bent down to press one finely tuned ear to his chest. The faint thrum of his heart brought a satisfied smile to her face. She'd succeeded in weakening him enough to complete the task at hand. She sat up again to admire how peaceful he looked. Michael's expression was rarely tranquil as it was then. It added to that false innocence she'd described before. He appeared angelic with his long lashes resting atop his now pale cheeks.

"I'm half tempted to keep you like this," she said as she brushed his cool skin and some of those tousled curls with the back of her hand, "you make quite a cozy seat."

She was certain he was seething behind that pretty face of his, assuming he'd even heard any of what she had just uttered. She resigned herself to refrain from any further teasing. He would wake soon and even she, as invincible as she seemed, was wary of the power she was about to grant him, but that sense of danger was so alluring. It made her wonder if curiosity would indeed kill the cat. Just as he had her, she'd have to trust that he wouldn't use his newfound abilities to erase her from existence, but trusting Michael Myers wasn't something came without risk. Perhaps there was something terribly wrong with her, she thought to herself as she once again questioned her own immortality while observing the one who could take it from her. Perhaps indeed, because that uncertainty, that gnawing sense of fear was why she loved him. He made her feel the threat of death, he made her feel alive.

"Ah, but cozy or not, I do believe it is your turn for a taste, my darling," she said before she brought her wrist to her mouth.

She hissed when she bit down, but persisted until she'd gotten her blood to drip steadily from the two small holes. She bent forward and gently lifted his head with her unwounded hand to guide him to her wrist. He winced, his mind was still spinning and an ache had settled into his neck.

"Shh," she cooed as she placed her skin to his lips, "drink, Michael. Take your fill."

After a moment's hesitation, she felt his mouth open to receive the drink she offered him, followed by the sting of her blood being pulled from her body. His brows unfurled and his expression became wanton, though his eyes were still shut. Slowly, but surely, strength spread to each of his limbs with each gulp he took. She let out a hiss when she felt him drink with more fervor than before.

"Careful, Michael. Don't get ahead of yourself," she cautioned as her brow furrowed.

He could hear her quite clearly now and he deliberately disregarded her warning. He brought his hand up to press hers harder into his teeth and lifted himself up as he did so, earning a pained cry from her. She tried in vain to pull her wrist from him, but it was useless. His strength had returned tenfold and she tasted delicious.

"Michael," she whined as she struggled against him.

She began to think she'd made a grave mistake as he continued to drink greedily, causing her to grow dizzy herself. Just as panic started to set in and her heart began to break for fear that she'd mistrusted him, his eyes shot open and wasted no time in locking with her's. Oh, and he saw it. She was finally afraid and more than that, she was terrified. He'd never seen such an expression on her face before, it was beautiful.

"Michael please," she begged, "if you drink too much you'll-"

Kill her, or so he assumed and much to his surprise, that wasn't at all what he wanted. He just wanted her to beg, after all he'd waited so long to hear her do so and she did. Before she'd finished that sentence, he lunged forward to press his lips to her's with brute force. He took his hands to his coveralls and ripped the fabric with one swift tug. He'd get another pair, he thought to himself, they weren't important at the moment. He had woken with an urge to claim her and it couldn't go unsatisfied for a second longer. He'd had her before, but not like this, not in this body, not as an equal. It was new and he wanted, needed to test its limits, if there even were any at all. Michael had thought he'd been the epitome of strength before, but this, what he felt as her blood filled him, this was ecstasy. It was undeniable, he had become the definition of inevitable, he had become death. He felt invigorated, power unlike any he'd felt before had replaced his blood and it rushed through his veins with a vengeance. He felt it with each movement he made, coursing through him like a drug. His whole body felt as though it was buzzing with static energy and she, she finally felt breakable in his grasp. He had every intention to annihilate her, bring her to the brink of death with that newfound method she'd unwittingly handed him and force her to cling to life for want of pleasure only he could give.

With incredible ease, he stood and her legs remained wrapped around his waist, but not for long. He meant good on his word in testing his limits and hurled her into the wall. Wood broke behind her and the expression on her face was oh so satisfying. Normally, she'd smirk, but then and there her chest heaved up and down and her mouth remained agape. She was still quite uncertain of his intentions and she had every right to be. She'd never seen such a look in his eyes before, it was hungry, but for what was the question. After he removed his tattered coveralls, he lunged forward and pinned her against the bent wood as he gave her clothes the same treatment he'd given his own. He discarded them to the side and his hand flew up to her bare chest to feel her soft, cold flesh under his own. His grip was bruising, rough as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and forced her legs open with his knee. He was frenzied and she had no choice but to follow his lead, which she did with that awestruck expression stuck on her face. He rethought their position and reached down with a frustrated growl to yank her legs back in place around his bare waist. He relished in the gasp she let out at the unexpected intrusion of himself inside of her and smiled wickedly when he felt her nails dig into his shoulders. He watched with amusement as her head fell back against the wall and her face contorted to display each sensation he brought her as he allowed her a moment to adjust. Michael, however wasn't known for his patience in such matters, so it wasn't long before he took her jaw in his hand and roughly forced her gaze back to his. He wanted to watch her try and catch her breath as he pounded into her relentlessly, more than anything, he wanted to watch her fail. It wasn't long before she did with her eyes rolled so far back in her head it rendered that orange glow invisible. He only furthered his efforts when he heard the house break behind her. He quite liked the idea of it simply falling apart around them. An undeniable display of his power, no less, but he became distracted as he watched her head bob back against the wall once more. She too seemed distracted, her moans escaping her permanently agape mouth without pause. She was in ecstasy and so lost in it that he knew she wouldn't dare stop him from doing exactly what he wanted to do. He returned his mouth to the crook of her neck, peppering it with kisses that steadily started to sting as he let his teeth find purchase there. Gentle nips soon turned deadly and he buried himself in her, allowing a satisfied groan to slip out when her blood filled his mouth.

"Michael," he heard her stutter out, but in reality it was more of a sound than a word, she couldn't form any to save her life.

It felt far too good to be able to speak coherently. He felt far too good. Between his endeavor to conquer that spot nestled so deeply in her core and the way he drank from her throat as though it were his last offering, she wasn't quite sure she was even conscious. Her vision blurred further each time he forced her farther up the wall with one brutal thrust after another and she waffled between the right word to describe what she felt as her mouth hung open to welcome another bruising kiss. Drunk, high, she wasn't sure, but it was somewhere along the lines of both. In simpler terms, he had fully succeeded in fucking her silly. He had brought her to the brink, just as he'd set out to do and now, Michael wanted to push her past it. When he pulled back to see that drunken smile pulling at her lips, he returned to her throat. He didn't have to look to know her brows had furrowed again, the sound she released confirmed that her face was contorted with pleasure. He had found a place inside of her she wasn't sure anyone had quite discovered before and she'd lived more than a few lifetimes, but none of them ever yielded such passion. When his fingers trailed up to tangle in her hair and force her head back, it was stars she saw painted on the old wooden ceiling. Her orgasm came careening over her in lofty waves, each higher than the one before and Michael still hadn't ceased his assault. He had found a brink of his own with her body clenched so tightly around him, forcing him to chase his own high more adamantly. It was right there within his reach as his head began to spin with that taste of her blood and the sound of her moaning his name. Her voice had become an echo, a breathy hum lost somewhere in the back of his mind as he felt himself fall head first over the edge. He came to an abrupt halt after he'd driven himself so far into her that she was certain she'd feel the consequences in the coming days, possibly even weeks. His breath, that he no longer had any use for, was uneven in her ear as he rested his hands against the wood in search for stability. He unsheathed his new weapons from her neck and his head, like a weight, pulled him to the side. He stumbled and she shook her own head to find some sort of grip on consciousness as she absentmindedly reached to steady him, but her attempt was quite unsuccessful. They both tumbled to the floor, her fall broken by his chest, which she landed on with a thud. Michael was too worn to care that she was on top and really, it no longer mattered. After all, they were equals now, so he let her rest on his bare skin as he stared blankly at the ceiling and focused on evening his breath.

After a good while of silence filled only by their labored pants, she propped herself up on him. Despite the pale coloring his skin had adopted that nearly matched his mask, she could have sworn he was flushed, just as entranced by their affair as she was. He tried to keep his breath steady through his nose, but faltered and allowed his lips to part ever so slightly and she chuckled, earning the attention of his gaze. It was more admiring than usual, for a brief moment it seemed he'd allowed her to see what had gone unspoken between them. She saw it in the red. His eyes matched the blood that trickled down the side of his mouth, they were sinfully scarlet. It seemed more fitting for him, but she was glad the dark hazel coloring she adored would return when his blood lust faded. Though for Michael, did it ever really?

"Well," she started with a sleepy grin, "that's one way to do it."

He abruptly sat up and for a moment, that fear crept back into her, but it dissipated when one of his hands found her cheek. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over her skin as he took her in with those crimson eyes. They wandered aimlessly over her features, as if he couldn't pick just one to focus on. For once, he was glad to see the trepidation she'd had fade. She noticed his lips twitch subtly at the corners and she wondered if it was his attempt at a genuine smile. Whatever it was, it was endearing, intimate in a way that they hadn't been before. When his brows furrowed, she realized he was trying to find words. She waited a moment, curious as his jaw began to clench and his expression seemed to sadden. Though Michael wanted to say it badly, he had no idea how to word it, it all sounded so silly each way he thought about it, but he felt it. It was only right he shared it, no matter how it made him squirm, but his discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed by her.

When a sound began to escape him, she quickly closed the gap between them to press a kiss to his lips and keep him silent. She felt him relax against her, relieved she'd finished his thought in a sense. She pulled back and flashed that fascinating grin that he now shared.

"I love you, is how you word it, Michael."