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thexsilentxwordsmith · 5 months

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Biker!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!reader

From the ask here

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: Seeing Simon on his motorcycle is something that awakens a new yearning inside you, but when you get your own bike and start riding alongside him, the way he gets you hot and bothered makes it worse. You need him to fuck you on his bike and you hope your plan will make it happen.

Word Count: 5 k

Warnings:

The first time you ever saw Simon Riley perched atop his black motorcycle, in that moment some innate part of your brain was awakened and you were never the same. There was just something so incredibly erotic about the way those thick thighs straddled over the sides, the way his arms looked with their muscles bulging, straining his black short sleeved t-shirt wrapped around them as he leaned forward to reach the handlebars. Of course his helmet with the blacked out visor didn’t hurt either, not when paired with his sleeve of tattoos. He was a vision even more than usual and you were suddenly hooked.

Then he took you for a ride along the open highway where he could really show you the power his bike had and that solidified your need to be involved in his hobby. Adrenaline, that was and still is Simon’s favorite part of being on the open road, his bike vibrating underneath him as the wind rushed past his body, and now that you had that first taste of it all, it was yours too.

Whatever you needed to do to keep getting to look at him like that, to keep feeling that rush, you were more than willing to do it.

Whenever he was on leave you two found yourselves on his bike, roaming the city on long night rides just to feel the wind on your skin and the rush of speed under your bodies. That was until he made an off-handed joke one day about getting you your own bike so that you could drive alongside him and then suddenly you were expressing how much you actually had been thinking about it. Sharing his hobby with someone, especially you, was something he has always wanted. To think you could experience the same thrills had him rushing to take you bike shopping the very next day so he could start teaching you.

You picked it all up relatively fast and before you knew it you had your license and regular drives have now become a part of your routine whenever your military man is in. Getting on the highway, opening the bike up as you go faster and faster, weaving through traffic with Simon always right by your side, there is something exhilarating about it all. And now you had the best view of that gorgeous specimen of a man.

Being able to see you on your own bike makes Simon have a taste of his own medicine because fuck did you look a goddamn beauty. Is this how you feel looking at him? The way it makes your back arch, full juicy arse just calling his name, has him salivating whenever he gets to see it. And he can’t help what it causes him to do; it’s not his fault when you look the way you do. The first time he ever pulled his little stunt, a ritual of sorts that he has to engage in every time you’re out driving together, you had a hard time focusing on the road after.

Bringing his bike close beside yours, he reaches out and runs his hand over the curve of your ass, making sure that he does it long enough that the other motorists behind you both can see him claim his hot biker vixen as his. You belong to him and he wants everyone that can see to know it.

And fuck does it drive him wild and have you reeling every time.

This goes on for quite a while, and all the times he’s touched you while riding have conjured up a new fantasy of yours and you finally decide you have to do something about it. Lately you’ve been thinking: what type of partner would you be if you didn’t return the favor? Simon deserves to be just as flustered too, right? It’s not because you need him to fuck you on his bike, nope, not all.

Is it strange? Maybe. Will he go for it? You aren’t entirely sure, but one thing you do know is that you at least have to try. And if it works out, you know he’ll enjoy it too. On one of the last few nights of his leave, you decide that you’ve got nothing to lose and put your plan into motion.

“You know, it’s been so long since you took me on a ride with you,” you put your case to him tonight. “Like we used to. Me on the back of your bike, wrapped around you tight, you speeding through the lanes with the wind rushing past us. Remember that? I used to get so excited to see you just so you’d take me out with you.”

Those hazel eyes stare back at you curiously; of course he remembers. Christ, how could he ever fucking forget? Still, it’s intriguing to him why you would be bringing this up now. “What’s got ya all nostalgic sweetheart, hmm?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrow. “Ya don’t like ridin’ beside me?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just thought it’d be nice to be close to you again is all, since you’ll be leaving soon,” you say as you bite your lip with a subtle coyness while you stare back at him with those tempting doe eyes that make him melt.

How can he say no to that? To his girl wanting to be near him? Absolutely fucking never.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he responds as he gets up while pointing towards the bedroom, “well, go get dressed then. Can’t say no to ya when ya look at me like that.”

Simon is already sitting on the bike out front ready to go when you emerge from the front door in a short skirt, tight tank top, and leather boots and once again he is reminded just how lucky he is to be with you. This just keeps getting better and better for the ol boy.

Climbing on the back and securing yourself around him, helmets on and visors down, Simon takes off into the night. He can feel the pressure from your hands wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing into his abs as you hold on, the warmth of your chest against his back, your thighs saddled up against his, and he wonders why you both don’t do this more often.

The lights of the city sparkle around you, cutting through the evening like stars to illuminate your way as Simon drifts through the streets, making his way to the highway like he always does. Your heart is beginning to beat faster as you wait for the opportune moment to implement your plan and you silently hope that it works.

On the highway, weaving in and out of traffic, Simon detects the first signs of something happening behind him. The movement is subtle at first and he almost misses that both hands aren’t pinned against his stomach anymore until he detects the warmth from your palm as it comes to rest on top of his thigh. He looks down through the visor of his helmet to where your hand lays as he wonders curiously to himself about the intentions of your actions.

Just what the hell is she up to? he thinks to himself as he turns his attention back onto the darkened road studded with streetlights.

The answer is quickly approaching as he feels your hand on the move again, now inching towards the middle of his broad thighs, moving and stopping, moving and stopping, to the crotch of his jeans and suddenly he understands just as you make first contact with the mass contained inside.

A shiver runs up Simon’s spine and you can feel his back shudder against your chest as you start to rub over the swell, your touches heavy and full of purpose. Over and over again your palm makes purchase with his crotch and you can feel the muscles in his back tense. A part of him wants to pull your hand off so that can refocus, but it feels too damn good to get you to quit. Fuck, the pressure from your hand and the vibration from the bike has him so hard he can barely see straight.

He needs to find some place to stop and fast; if he’s going to come in something it is not going to be his pants, it’s going to be you.

Up ahead he sees an exit fast approaching and he quickly transfers over to the lane and takes it, not having a plan, but hopeful that he will be able to find something satisfactory enough. Brown eyes dart from one side of the street to the other frantically searching for something, anything so that he can pull off. The sign for a large parking garage is illuminated just up ahead; it’ll have to do. He won’t be able to focus for much longer; the pressure of your hand rubbing against his cock mixed with the vibrations from the bike leaves him gnawing at the bit with a need that he desperately has to satisfy. It wouldn’t be safe to keep going, not with the way his limbs are starting to tingle.

Simon drives through the first couple of levels and is glad to see it relatively empty save for a few straggling cars spaced far apart. Perfect, that means no one will be around to disturb him until he has had his way with you. He continues on a couple of levels that are completely empty as he puts you both more in the middle of the structure just to be sure you will be all alone until finally he drives to the back of the garage and pulls into the shadow, parking the bike and shutting it off.

“Hop off,” he says and you immediately do as you're told, taking off your helmet and straightening your skirt as you make it to your feet.

You stand there close to his thigh as he removes his helmet and sets it on the ground on the other side of the bike, running his fingers through his short hair to fluff it up from being crushed underneath. As he sits back up his tattooed arm quickly reaches out behind your head where he grabs your hair into a ponytail in his fist, keeping your head locked while his opposite hand palms around your waist as he leans in with a smirk across his lips and a glimmer in those coffee-colored eyes.

“Whatcha think you’re doin’, sweetheart? Playin’ games, hmm?” he asks as he stares back into your face.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, your tone playful and coy. You know damn well what you are doing and he isn’t dumb enough to think you don’t.

He glares back at you skeptically. “Right.”

“What?” you dismiss him. “I thought you didn’t mind a bit of touching when we ride? Always grabbing me; thought you’d enjoy a bit of fun.”

There it is; this is payback for all the times he’s made his move while you were out cruising together. And fuck, has it worked to perfection.

Simon rips his hand from your waist and wraps it around your wrist so that he can pull your hand forward and place it right up against the stiffening peak straining against the zipper of his form fitting jeans.

“So this is whatcha fuckin’ wanted, yeah?” he asks, breathiness in his gruff tone as your hand makes contact with the rigid bulge. “Gettin’ me so fuckin’ hard I can’t even be bothered ta wait till we get back home ta fuck ya?”

Can’t wait? Is he saying what you think he’s saying? God, you hope so. “What do you mean?” you ask, faking your ignorance as you rub your palm over the swell while maintaining eye contact. “We aren’t going home?”

A deep hum echoes through the atmosphere as he bites his bottom lip; you’ve started something that can’t be stopped now and the way your hand continues to stimulate him, he doesn’t think you want it to anyway. “No,” he says with a shake of his head, “ya wanted to start all this on my bike, that’s fine. Guess I deserve it. But now…I’m gonna make damn sure I finish ya on it.”

As you stand there silently waiting to see what he does next, Simon shifts back in the seat and helps you climb back onto the bike, but facing him so that he can lay you over the fuel tank. He plants his feet firmly onto the ground to keep the setup steady and pulls your body down, those rough hands pushing your skirt up off your hips to your waist as he forces your legs open wider so he can get himself between them.

Thank God you’ve worn something easy to get into. Or was that your plan all along? Doesn’t really matter much now; he’s in.

Simon looks down and his eyes catch sight of a dark spot in the crotch of your panties. He presses his hand up against the mound of your cunt and the pressure makes you twitch, your back arching up off the tank as he feels what he had just suspected: you’re a little damp.

“Seems someone’s already stirred up,” he comments as his hand releases the pressure only to press in tight all over again in a pattern that matches his increasing heart rate. “Ya like it, don’t ya baby? The way tha bike vibrates ‘tween your legs? Like the way it hums against ya ‘till your clit is swollen?”

Simon’s hard-on throbs harshly against the zipper of his pants and into your naked thigh, tenting the fabric while he grinds it into the muscle as you wrap your legs around his hips; you have to hold on as you can’t stop the way your body jerks the longer his touch prods against those sensitive lips. Just the pressure alone after the drive is enough to make you whimper inside your closed mouth.

“Have ya been thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ like this? Me fuckin’ ya raw while you’re on this thing?”

Releasing his hand, he walks those long fingers over the top of your clothed pussy to the waistband of your panties so that he can slip them inside and back down to the moist slit waiting eagerly for their touch and there it is, the unmistakable sound of his breath hitching as his hand makes contact. God, you always feel so fucking good.

He uses his two middle fingers to part the lips of your slit and run them along the length to gather all the wetness he can on his digits so that once he finds your entrance he can easily slip up inside while the tip of his thumb nestles against your clit. You’re very warm, nice and hot and soft against his fingertips and a pleasurable hum he gives in response to the feeling.

“Ya know, I know why ya started ridin’ with me,” he says as you squirm. “I could see it in your eyes the second I pulled in to pick ya up that first time: ya like the way I look on my bike. Don’t ya?”

Your silence is met with a heavy jab with the pad of his thumb to that sensitive little button, holding it down until you are forced to answer as he thrusts his fingers inside you up to the knuckle. Your body takes them in perfectly, gripping tight around the digits as you suck him in.

“Yes,” you say in a whine and buck as his stocky fingers give you a nice starting stretch. “You

look so f-fucking hot on this thing that sometimes I d-don’t know what to do with myself. That’s w-why I n-need…”

“What do ya need, sweetheart?” he groans as he curls his rough fingers up against your G-spot as his thumb begins to stroke concise circles upon your clit. “Use your words.”

You swallow hard while breathing heavily out of your nose as you clamp your lips shut to stop from audibly crying out in ecstasy at that first contact he makes. “Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds as he pins his thumb down hard again. “Let me fuckin’ hear ya. Ain’t no one here ‘cept us.”

A desperate moan escapes your lips and echoes through the empty space as you let it all out. “I need you to f-fuck me on y-your b-bike,” you say as you vibrate under his skilled touch. “B-been daydreaming about it for a while. Didn’t know if you’d want to, but I’m desperate.”

Using a flick of his wrist, he begins to snap his fingers up into you faster and faster, those fingers vigorously working your cunt until your juices are starting to dribble down to collect on his palm and the sound of wet slaps reverberate off the concrete.

“All ya had ta fuckin’ do was ask,” he says. “Ya know I’d do anythin’ for ya, luv; my pretty girl always gets what she wants.”

You look so beautiful sprawled over his bike like this, disheveled skirt shoved up to your ribs, his hand plunged into the front of your panties so that they are stretched tight around your hips ready to rip, back arching as he again strikes right at the exact point of pleasure, tiny beads of sweat sparkling over the exposed parts of your flesh as you burn for him in the warm night air. It’s an image he’s gonna have committed to memory; every time he rides now he will remember the gorgeous mess he made of you.

If he thought he liked his bike before, it is nothing compared to how he will feel after fucking you on it.

Minute after minute each stroke draws you near that razor’s edge and threatens to violently throw you off. Your walls are fluttering around his fingers as they swell and become engorged the closer you get. Simon knows that it won’t be long now and his pulse races to feel it, that moment you come. But not like this, oh no.

He has still been chomping at the bit to relieve the pressure throbbing between his legs and now that he is sure you are ready for it, he isn’t going to waste time. You’re still in public after all, he doesn’t need this to end before you’ve both gotten off. Amidst your whimpered protests to keep going, that you are almost there, he pulls his fingers out of you with a squelch, your lubrication dripping along his fingers and glistening in the harsh lighting inside the garage.

You lean your head up as Simon pulls his fingers apart to watch the sticky fluid string between them before he brings them to his mouth and rams them into his lips to lick them clean, taking care of the mess he’s created from his touch. Just a taste to sait him, as if his face isn’t going to be plastered between those thighs later as he replays the memory of what happened here.

The sight of him sucking the lubrication off his fingers has you gasping for air. How can someone look so perfect doing something so filthy? You need him, bad. “Please,” you beg with a needy whine in your voice, “I want you inside me.”

Those words are like striking a match near a gas leak; suddenly he is scrambling to move as fast as possible. Feverish hands are clawing at clothing at breakneck speeds as his flesh begs to connect with yours and complete this union. “Ya can shoot me dead if I ever say no to that,” he growls as he moves.

Time is of the essence and so he quickly rips the soaked crotch of your panties to the side, securing them against your thigh and out of his way as his free hand ruthlessly yanks at the button on his pants to get it undone before he wrenches down the zipper and releases his cock that is throbbing and aching with his rapid heartbeat.

“Gotta make this quick, yeah?” he groans as the caress from his hand over the tip is almost too sensitive to handle. He’s falling fast. “Don’t want no one seein’ ya like this ‘cept me.”

Leaning down, he places a brief, heated kiss with his warm lips to the exposed skin near your belly button before he has you sitting up so that he can get at those lips he yearns to feel against him as he enters you. The threads of your panties are beginning to snap as he holds the fabric out of his way so he can move his hips in as he aligns the head of his cock with that dripping, aching hole.

Eyes closed and acting off of pure impulse and adrenaline alone, he mutters a rushed “Breathe” into your open mouth as a warning while his fingertips dig into the meat of your hips. The tip prods the opening before it pushes through and slides up inside, the rest following behind in one steady, fluid motion until he reaches the base and there is no more to shove inside you.

Simon shudders at the overwhelming euphoria hitting him all at once and now he’s burning from the inside out, his bulky chest taut with each heavy breath that he releases between kisses as the feeling of you wrapped tightly around his phallus drowns out everything else that surrounds him.

You throw your head back, breaking the kiss to cry out as you are filled to the brim, being stretched to capacity with all he has to give. His hand grabs at the back of your head so that his lips can shoot back to yours as a tether to help you calm until your body can be allowed a little time to adjust; he’s not exactly small by any means of the word.

It’s a few seconds before he releases your mouth as he starts to thrust, trying to go slow at first even though he is eager for more. Hips rolling at a steady pace now he pulls back to watch himself pump in and out of you. “Look,” he says in a breathless growl as the hand on the back of your head directs your eyeline down in between your bodies. “This what ya been fuckin’ fantasizin’ ‘bout? I think it looks even prettier on my bike.”

The way his swollen, veiny cock disappears as it slides up into you is mesmerizing. You can feel it but still seeing it has you questioning…where does it all fit?

He keeps you close as he picks up the pace until the sound of slapping skin against skin fills the silent space. Panting into your face with mouth open, chest heaving up and down with laborious breaths, Simon puts more into his thrusts so that even the bike itself begins to rock with you from the force. The longer he goes the more feral he gets, relinquishing any hold he had on his sanity for as long as he gets to have his body stay fitting so nicely into your cunt.

It’s building, the warmth in the pit of your stomach is gathering steadily as the epinephrine releases all those euphoric chemicals into your bloodstream. The risky nature of your endeavor, the stimulation he’s already produced with his fingers, the fulfilling of your fantasy, it all works together to fuel your passion and his strong thrusts have you ready to spill over the edge at any second.

Simon keeps his pace even as he is now struggling to keep it together. The excitement has gotten to him too so that if he lets himself lose control he is going to come and he can’t have that, not until you have. With each passing second, each pound of that deadly appendage inside you gets more and more desperate, until he finally hears those sweet, sweet words that make his heart skip a beat.

“Don’t stop, baby,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation as you try to keep your volume at a reasonable level while he slams into you again. “So c-close…”

“Come for me, baby, that’s it,” he coaxes desperately through gritted teeth as he strains to hold on a little longer. Just a little bit more and you’ll finish and he can let go.

That’s when an idea is thrust into his brain and he knows what he needs to do to bring this full fucking circle for the both of you; complete the fantasy and give you even more to dream about for later. Simon moves over top of you to force you back until you find yourself against the fuel tank again.

Reaching above your head, he cranks the key and restarts the engine. The motorcycle roars to life, filling the garage with its sound, and begins to vibrate until it is pulsating through his body as he thrusts into you harder and harder. It’s like having your own living dildo that only intensifies the stimulation the longer he plunges into your dripping hole; a few more seconds of this and you will be coming on his cock.

And then he revvs the engine…

The stimulation is too much and suddenly you are forcibly thrown over that precipice as you come with such force, like a hot flash of white light, that your thighs clamp down around his hips as your head falls back. You cry out in choking gasps as your orgasm tears through you; so strong that you are shaking. Your walls are fluttering sporadically around his cock as your hips buck against him unrelentingly and he can’t hold back any longer.

“Where do ya want me?” he pleads as his fingertips claw at your hips, stabbing harshly into the muscle as he holds on for you to answer; he is about to blow.

“In me, in me,” you whine as you clamp your legs down hard to keep him in. What else were you on birth control for other than this?

He jerks violently as your pussy continues to flutter around him, making his limbs numb from the pleasure, and with a loud groan that is akin to the bellow of a wild beast, the pressure building at the base of his spine finally reaching its peak and he falls over the edge as he lets it go. His hips never stop, slamming into you as the thick, warm fluid coats the inside of your pussy.

“Fuckin’ hell, luv,” he repeats as he shuts off the engine while he milks himself dry, his thrusts slowing down after a few seconds until they stop all together and he stays with his cock still buried inside you to let your body finish off the rest.

An unknown amount of time passes as your unsteady breathing slowly returns to a more tolerable rhythm, all the while Simon just sits there admiring the products of his labor: the beautiful flush in your cheeks and the contented, glazed look in your eyes, until he can find his voice again once his heartbeat has settled.

“Ya know, I’ve gotten plenty a compliments about my bike, but I gotta say that you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever rode, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls you in by the back of your head to press another breathless kiss onto your lips.

It is torture having to pull out of you, but even he isn’t delusional enough anymore to think that you can just stay like this for much longer. You’ll have to go soon and he needs to help you to redress as your legs are shaking uncontrollably. There’s no way in hell someone hasn’t heard the noise you’d been making.

“Was it everythin’ ya hoped?” he asks with a contented smile as he carefully moves you off the bike to your feet so that he can readjust your panties and pull down your skirt back around your hips.

You match his expression through the hazy afterglow of your ecstasy as he finishes you up and gets himself situated. A pretty sizable wet stain darkens the middle of his jeans, but he doesn’t pay it any mind; a risk of a good fucking time, that’s all.

“Better,” you murmur, satisfied.

Bringing his hand up he cups it against your cheek a second before he combs his fingers through your hair until he reaches the back of your head where he holds them wrapped in the strands. There’s one final thing he has to do before you get going and that is to give you one last kiss as praise for doing so well for him. With how strung out you still are from your orgasm, the gentleness of it makes your knees weak.

“Now how ‘bout we get back so we can go for round two?” he smirks against your mouth as he pulls away. “We can pretend I’m your bike and ya can show me how well I taught ya to ride.”

He gets you situated on the back of the bike, helmets and all, and restarts the engine. It bursts to life and that familiar vibration makes you squeeze your thighs together all over again. Simon smirks to himself before he turns to you with the visor still pulled up. He opens yours and leans in. “Keep your thighs tight. I want ya ta keep all that inside til we get back. I got plans to watch it leak out; I think I’ve earned it.”

With a mischievous chuckle, he closes your visor and his and takes off back out of the garage and into the cool night air. Good thing it isn’t far back to the house from here…if Simon doesn’t plan to take a detour first.

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Sexism in TOS: Worst Offender, or Progressive in Retrospect in Comparison?

I see a lot of folks claim that TOS was the most sexist of the Star Trek shows by a landslide -- and while I agree that it definitely suffered from the sexism of the times, I also have other perspectives to share to give some food for thought.

I am of course not insinuating that TOS isn't sexist -- it is, but I have to ask folks to consider the breadth and depth of Berman's sexism in his run and ask yourself: Was Gene Roddenberry genuinely more sexist in his storytelling and delivery than Rick Berman?

I'm not telling you to feel one way or the other, but all I ask is that you hear me out and consider some perspectives and make your own balanced assessments. Nobody is obligated to share my opinion, but it means a lot just to have folks hear it and see their thoughts on the subject. So here is what I was originally responding to:

Someone's response to this photo:

"Devil's advocate. This was a part of the popular form of cardio during the production time of TNG. Yes, it was heavily sexualised by men, but so is literally every other way women work out. Men have been caught taking pictures of women while trying to do dead lifts, running on tracks and working on sled machines. They post them online to share too. The fact is, there is no way a woman can be shown working out without it going there. And yeah,t hat includes the combat forms of workout they do in Star Trek. Just look at how Dax dresses when she spars with Worf. Yes, they're dating, but still, same goes when 7 does and any other female.

Aerobics routines like this were made dirty and cringy. This was what women wore then by and large. This is how the workout was done. We make it cringy."

My response to them:

"I respect your take, but I disagree on a few fronts.

The miniskirt was chosen by the TOS female cast, not the male cast, specifically requested by Grace LW and affirmed by Nichelle and Majel who would go on to vehemently defend the miniskirt over the years as comfortable and embraced by them.

Grace said it was comfortable and seen as a symbol of female sexual empowerment during the 60s and thought it would be a progressive garment (and turns out that it was, as it was later adapted and worn by male crew as a skant on TNG) -- FYI those were designed by a gay man and Gene approved them.

This was also supposed to be Spock's TMP outfit:

Literally lingerie.

We saw both Uhura (who saves Kirk in from Marlena Mirror Mirror) and Yeoman Landon (the first to initiate combat with a classic Kirk-esque kick to help the Captain being attacked in The Apple) carry out their combat training in their Starfleet uniforms without ever being made to change into any ridiculous workout gear.

In fact, I'd argue Jim Kirk was sexualized even more than the ladies of the week on the show and I saw his naked body more than anyone else's on a fairly regular basis. He wore red yoga tights while topless in Charlie X while the women wore full length gymnastic suits that covered their entire body. If anything, it went out of its way to avoid sexualizing women practicing fitness in those scenes and instead focused on Kirk.

Gene confessed that he asked to have Shatner filmed in suggestive/provocative ways to "give something to the ladies", so he -- as he said -- liked to "film him walking away" or have him conveniently busting out of his shirts in just about every episode as it were, because Shatner apparently had great assets. LOL

Gene made an effort to at least sexualize both if he was going to sexualize one, and he carried that attitude forward in wanting the m/m and f/f scenes in the background on Risa for TNG. He also insisted that the men and women wear skimpy outfits on THAT TNG planet. You know the one. LOL I mean the dudes even had on less than the women:

Gene also gave permission to K/S shippers to have their conventions back in the 70s when he was asked for permission. Gene and Nimoy felt with all the skimpy outfits they had the ladies wear, why not let the ladies and gay men have their fun, too? It's how we ended up with moments like this:

Yes, those are two people dressed up as Kirk and Spock's penises doing interpretive dance. Gene didn't give two damns. LOL

In my eyes, that was a very progressive take on Gene's part for the 60s. It was actually PARAMOUNT STUDIOS who had the big problem with K/S stories and vehemently tried to shut them down. Gene literally hired slash authors on his payroll and even had several slash stories/writers published in his official Star Trek books (The New Voyages & The New Voyages II).

I feel I saw Uhura and women in TOS engaged in more physical combat/altercations defending themselves that Troi or Bev were shown holding their own.

In fact, Kirk used to get furious when someone would "dress up" his female crew members without their consent (Trelane episode, Shore Leave episode) because like his male crew members, he wanted them to be treated professionally and to also have his male crew act professionally.

Berman brought some of his own personal biases into Star Trek that in some ways regressed it. While TOS had blatant sexism and was called on it time and again, that show was made in the 60s -- a solid 21 years before TNG. We as a modern audience understood why some of it was cringe/sexist due to the time period -- look at any other media coming out in the 60s and Star Trek was miles ahead of what other shows were doing.

Compare that to Berman who was churning sexist stuff out when women like Starbuck and Scully were simultaneously on screen on other programs airing, and we had already had Sigourney Weaver and other strong women in Holywood playing respectful roles.

In my eyes, there was no need of the sexism seen in TNG but especially VOY and ENT. There was no excuse for it when other shows were writing women far better and a number of those weren't even set in the future like Trek was, making it age even faster due to having those dated perspectives frequently highlighted.

In the Center Seat documentary as well as "The Fifty Year Mission" book you will find cast members, writers and other studio alumni who attest to this. Some discussions from "The Fifty Year Mission":

"First, Berman was supposed to have been a real sleaze ball . . . According to Terry Farrel, he would go on constantly about how her breasts weren't big enough, how she should do something about it, and how his secretary was a good example to follow as she had huge breasts. She even had to have fittings to get larger bras, and that was all done at his behest.

Later Berman and Braga developed a name for Jeri Ryan's character prior Seven of Nine. They originally called the character "perineum" which if you look it up it is the area between the anus and the scrotum. Later they floated the name "6 of 9". I mean, what does it tell you about where these two were coming from in the development of this character if they had names like that put forward in all seriousness for her?"

Gene Roddenberry also had some of his own more progressive ideas for TNG cut or watered down by Berman. Roddenberry agreed TNG should have homosexual relationships and representation at a con in the 80s and insisted on it in a meeting with his writers -- something Berman later would not honor. Gene wanted the AIDS episode, showing m/m and f/f in the Riza scenes -- these were some of Roddenberry's requests to include in TNG that Berman later stonewalled.

Berman's era was sadly dated by his own misogynist bias, IMO, to the point that it can somewhat hurt the shows he worked on through his cringe egoism and blatant disrespect toward his female cast.

There is a reason why Gene could keep female actresses working with him and Berman had a revolving door of women that he couldn't seem to keep working for him -- he was abhorrent to women, on and off set. Gene wasn't perfect at all, he had a lot of issues himself -- but Berman was a whole other level. Just look at what he did to poor Jolene Blalock, Marina Sirtis and his toxic commenting on her body weight which exacerbated her struggles with eating disorders, or how he treated and talked to Terry Farrell.

Anyway, just some food for thought. I'm not saying anyone is wrong regarding a take like that, but there are a variety of ways to look at this. Gene Roddenberry isn't a saint by any means, but it definitely bothers me how folks will tote the Berman era as if it were the lesser of two evils or the more progressive depiction of women when I felt there were far more concerning portrayals of women in his era with far less justification.

(P.S: I don't event want to go near the sheer amount of "creepy old dude/villain preys on innocent/naïve/scared young woman or little girl" stories there were in Berman's era, either. But that's a whole other can of worms I can write about in a part 2.)

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sim0nril3y · 8 months

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Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: Simon hasn't been able to stop thinking about your relationship and how not making a commitment to you might lead you to running off with someone else. He needs to solve this.

Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), suggestive thoughts, canon-typical swearing.

It was strange to Simon that the two of you had settled into routine together. Most nights he’d pick you up after finishing work, he’d bring you back to his home or drop you off at your flat. More often than not Simon would cook you some good food to fill up your empty tummy, then roll around in the sheets together. The next morning you’d wake up beside him and he’d set to making you a hearty breakfast and discuss plans for the days. Those plans typically of doing exactly what you’d done the day before, spending time together and… though he’d never say it aloud Simon enjoyed it, he looked forward to it.

There was the times when Simon was left feeling lonely because you weren’t around. It was when he wouldn’t see you from one day to the next because you were busy working on an art project or work had left you exhausted. Simon was a solitary person, not needing or even wanting other people around him, or… at least that was how he’d felt before meeting you.

So, what was this? A question that Simon had never asked himself before, but now it was burning inside of him. Never before had Simon desired clarification, but as it currently stood you were just two people living independent lives that slept with each other and spent time together. That left opportunity for you to find someone else and bring them into your life. He hoped that wasn’t the case, it certainly wasn’t something you’d mentioned before but it still left that door open for someone to take you from him.

The thought of losing you filled him with utter dread. How was he supposed to sleep at night with your body to curl around? He’d started buying extra food when doing his weekly shop, who was going to help him eat it all? Plus, all your favourite snacks were filling the cupboards, if you weren’t here then they’d just go to waste… Besides, there wasn’t another living soul out there that would be able to make you fall apart as quick as he could.

Bloody hell. He was in deep here.

That night after a long shift at work you were curled up beside him on the sofa, blanket draped over your legs, snacks between your lounging bodies and eyes fixed on whatever dumb show you’d thrown on the TV. You hadn’t seemed to notice that from beside you Simone was stewing silently, mind racing with how to broach the subject in the most subtle way.

These questions and that anxiety was beginning to build up inside of Simon, his knee was bobbing relentlessly, muscles wound tight, fingers tapping furiously against the arm of the sofa like a metronome. How was he going to do this? How was he going to ask for clarification on what you were to each other? What did he actually hope the answer was going to be? He wanted you, right? Only you. He didn’t want another living soul to have you… fuck, the thought of someone else having their hands and their lips on you. It made him seethe.

“What are we?” The question tumbled from his lips, short and frustrated. It caused you to look up at him, brows furrowed. “Sorry?” “You… do you ever do this with anyone else?” He looked down at you through intense dark eyes. “Do I… watch TV with other people?” You questioned, almost not following his line of questions.

Further frustrated Simon bit out. “Do you fuck anyone else?” That made you begin to fight a little smile, finally figure out what he was trying to ask. “And the rest of it… everything we do together… like going for walks, or to dinner… or just watching TV like this…” He gestured to the way you were lounging so comfortably behind him, sans any make-up and looking so relaxed. “Do you?” Simon asked, you simply smirked as you flitted you gaze back towards the TV and muttered easily. “Would it bother you if I did?”

This question only made him stew and simmer again at the thought of someone else being in your life like this. The thought of them kidding and making you fall apart only mad his anger bubble further. “Mm.” He grumbled out, keep his dangerous eyes locked on you.

Reaching across to rest a delicate hand on his tattooed forearm you mentioned softly. “I don’t do this with anyone else, Si.” You informed him, watching the tension leaving him body in that moment. “Only you.” You quip with a little shrug of your shoulders, before continuing. “If I’m not here with you then I’m at work and I’m wishing that I was here with you or counting down the minutes until I’m going to see you again or wildly ignoring all of tasks and remembering all my time with you.” There was vulnerability to your tone as you informed him that. “Then I see you and I’m happy in all those hours before I’m back to being on my own and wishing it’ll happen all over again.”

You were in deep too. With the way that Simon was looking at you, you could have been convinced that there wasn’t anyone else in the world. “Simon, are you trying to ask me something?” Reaching up you brushed your fingers against his face delicately before following with a gentle few kisses against his cheeks and temples and jawline. Every action made forced his body to relax, coaxing his anxiety away before finally the words came. “What if… we did do this everyday? Just… us two…”

You gnawed your lower lip. “I could get behind that.” You agreed with a tiny shrug of your shoulders. “So… if we did do this… what would I call you?” You quirked a brow at him. “My boyfriend?” Simon grimaced. “Love, I’m not a boy.” He muttered, snatching some of your snacks and beginning to munch away. “How about my lover?” You purred playfully and once again Simon groan and threw you a look. “So… just my Simon?” You raised your brows at him, this time he didn’t seem to fight your suggestion, simply smirked.

“Mm…” Then he nodded, much to your surprise. “And you’d be mine.” It was like your heart exploded in your chest, smiling at him and trying not to act overly excited and frighten him off. “I guess I would be~” Then leaning forward you kissed a couple sweet kisses. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Not moving too fast?” You ask, concerned that Simon might change his mind all of a sudden and end up hurting you both. “M’sure, babe.” He responded, pressing a sweet kiss to your nose. "You're mine."

Masterlist | Ask | 29-01-2024

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neiptune · 1 month

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to hell with the stars, keep shooting for the moon

cw: 3k wc, female reader, established relationship, suggestive if you squint, reader is a gymnast, my entry for the super fun summer olympics collab by @tetzoro! hope you'll enjoy the little surprise i squeezed in hehe

“For the last time, I’m not having sex with you on one of those cardboard beds”.

Atsumu isn’t the least bit discouraged by your exasperated scowl, which is met with a pout.

“But babe-”

“I don’t care how many times Tobio’s done it, ‘Tsumu” you click your tongue.

“It’s just so fucking bizarre that he gets so much action, the guy doesn’t even do anything! Shoyo agrees, we discussed it and still couldn’t find a reason” the blond, excessively petulant Miya who makes it a point to be the bane of your existence, keeps listing all the reasons why he believes his teammate shouldn’t be getting laid in the olympic village. Or anywhere else ever, for the matter.

The heated arguments float through a distant hemisphere of your brain, where they dissolve before you can quite catch their meaning and soon enough become simple sounds you’re passively absorbing, thoughts too preoccupied with something entirely different.

The choreographies you put together with your trainer have been playing in the back of your mind ever since last night, after the all-around individual qualification round. You are part of the 10 gymnasts with the highest scores, four performances with each apparatus earning a fairly decent ranking and good enough points. Well, they’re certainly good enough, given that you get to represent Japan at the individual final. But you just know they could be better. Your feet should’ve been firmer, hands less sweaty around the clubs, you should’ve stretched for at least 50 minutes prior to the routine instead of the usual 40 ones.

Pulse picks up in pace, heart thrumming faster against your ribcage, dizziness clouds your mind for a moment as different moves chase each other in rapid succession: the penché comes first, then follows the elbow stand, front walkover, one forward roll, a chest stand-

Gentle, calloused fingers grasp your chin and tilt your head upwards in silent demand. Look at me.

“Get out of there and talk to me, sugar” the fondness in his chocolate gaze is a balm that instantly soothes the churning sensation sabotaging your stomach.

“I won’t make it” it’s blunt, raw in its honesty “I’m too scared”.

“Ya worked your ass off the past four years. Your entire life actually”.

“I know”.

“And whatever happens, you’re one of the best ten gymnasts in the world”.

“I know”.

Atsumu gets closer as his hands hold your face now, gentle but firm, an all too familiar flame starts dancing in feverish eyes.

“But?”.

You recognize that gaze, the raging, febrile determination taking over. He gets it on his side of the net, where he gets to run the show. And oh, isn’t that always a sight for sore eyes? It certainly was at the olympics too, when the entire world got to witness what Japan is already used to. The game against Argentina was nothing short of glorious, the way Atsumu coordinated his team’s offense, established the entire tempo and overall built the confidence in his passers had the crowds chanting his name over and over again. By the evening, you’re positive at least a hundred new Miya Atsumu fan accounts had started following you on instagram.

And yet he doesn’t take any of it for granted. Atsumu always gives his very best, at the olympics or during regular training with his friends. Whether Tobio is going to play or not. That passion simply sets his soul ablaze at all times, with no exception. He’s the man you love and the only one who can truly understand how you feel, the one person who is ignited with the same delirious resolve currently burning in the pit of your stomach.

“But I really want that fucking medal” you whisper. Not to prove him that you have it in you just like he does: truth is you’re the only person who needs additional convincing.

Sharp canines make their appearance when Atsumu smiles widely.

“Then go get it. The hell are you scared of? That medal belongs to you”.

Your eyelids flutter as they fall shut, a deep breath filling your lungs with fresh air. When you open your eyes again, you feel your heart filling up with something else too.

“I love you”.

His eyes soften at that, affection pools within crinkles by the eyes as a confident grin morphs into a warm smile.

“Love ya more, champion” Atsumu kisses your forehead with tenderness, lingers for a moment too long with lips pressing to your skin with intention. Then he lets go of your face but not before searching for any remnants of self-doubt. His chest swells with pride when all he can find in your eyes is that determination he adores.

“Will you be there?” you ask because you can’t help it. It’s perfectly understandable that he might not be able to, his schedule is just as busy as yours and Japan’s final game is just two days away. It’s not entirely fair to ask and someone else might’ve rolled their eyes with a sigh, reminded you that they don’t get to decide that. But not Atsumu. He takes one of your hands and brings it to his lips to kiss each knuckle.

“I’ll do everything I can to be there”.

“Thank you” you lightly pinch his nose with an infatuated smile and he fakes a groan “see you later”.

“I love you!” he shouts as you run away, loud and obnoxious and passionate, just like his affection always is. Once again, Atsumu’s love is thrown over your shoulders like a comforting blanket that weighs just right.

Back at the beginning of your relationship, you had to unlearn a very specific thought process that posed the risk of ending something that still hadn’t had the chance to fully start. It was your first time dating another pro athlete, a very talented and quite renowned one no less. You were first introduced to him at a party, he had no idea who you were but of course you were all too familiar with his name and accomplishments.

Miya Atsumu was a pro volleyball player, known for his exceptional flair and fierce passion ever since high school. His reputation made you believe that, as an athlete yourself, you had to prove him that you were just as good in your own sport. Wasn’t that all he’d be interested in? Dating someone who wouldn’t embarrass him with their mediocrity, someone who wouldn’t stain his polished reputation?

Turns out, by no means Atsumu was interested in all that. He asked if it was okay for him to come watch one of your competitions, coincidentally one of your worst ones. You were all too aware of how badly you had competed, nerves and a recent flu contributing to a terrible performance, yet at the end of it Atsumu greeted you with stars in his eyes. He couldn’t stop talking about how elegant yet strong you looked, going as far as describing your choreographies as breathtaking. With a nervous chuckle, he half-jokingly said he couldn’t believe you’d let him date you.

That’s when you kissed him for the first time, fiery and feverish in a way that would’ve probably scared anyone else off. Not Atsumu, though. He wrapped his arms around you without so much as an ounce of hesitation, kissed you back like it was the last action he was allowed to perform on this earth. And you knew: he didn’t need you to be a winner, to be shiny at all times, to feel proud. To love you. Whether you end up bringing the medal home or not, he will still be your biggest fan and loudest supporter.

The intensity of the crowd doesn’t bother you at all: given your anxious nature, Chisaka-san has been adamant about training you with headphones and loud tapes for years. Music, cheers, booing, clapping, national anthems, you’re used to it all by now.

You observe the ukrainian gymnast, the way she moves so elegantly with her colorful ribbon. It looks like she’s flying, hopping on invisible steps made of air, sparkly leotard catching the light just right. Yours cost a fortune: handmade, sewn in Italy, a triumph of colorful stretch mesh, thermal crystals and sew-on rhinestones in various sizes and shapes.

As Chisaka-san helps you practice the usual deep breaths with a hand pressed to your chest, your eyes are still glued to your opponent. The podium is yours, unless you fuck up so badly even the bronze slips away. Daryna currently has the highest score and it’s certain she will protect the lead at the end of her final routine. Then follows Bulgaria’s Katerina, but you’re hardly worried about her: she finished her last exercise without catching the ribbon, a penalty you can easily overcome if luck and nerves are on your side.

When after an impeccable Daryna your name is announced at last, your trainer gives your butt a friendly, encouraging pat. She believed in you more than anyone else, more than yourself. She knew you’d qualify for the olympics and would be flying to Paris before you could even dream of such an achievement. And now you get to honor her trust, you get to prove that Paris is where you belong. The podium is yours because like hell you’re allowing it to slip away. But you want more, you want that gold.

The crowd seems louder now, flags raised in flashes of white and red in your peripheral as you smile radiantly and position yourself to start the routine. You don’t check if Atsumu was able to make it, don’t allow yourself to think of anything but the way your feet and legs and arms and hands are supposed to move.

The longest 85 seconds of your life begin along with the music, Piazzolla’s libertango but with a modern, energetic arrangement. The ribbon is not as scary as the hoop, it moves with you like an old friend, seamless and reliable. You throw the handle into the air and perform two forward rolls before catching it again in one fluid motion, lips perpetually stretched into a confident smile. The crowd erupts in deafening cheers at your backscale pivot, the more you keep cutting through the air with precision, control and passion, the more your smile grows. Yes, this is where you belong, this is what you love and were made to do.

There’s your signature move, difficult and risky and one Chisaka-san always attempts to talk you out of: a technical element, Bessonova’s swan, while simultaneously kicking the ribbon into the air with your foot once more. You catch it one last time, perform an aerial cartwheel and then a perfectly balanced backward somersault, wrap yourself in the colorful shades of your apparatus and gracefully conclude the routine on the floor.

The crowd is ear-splitting in their support and you don’t have to wait for the score to know: it was perfect. It’s the best you ever did and the tension finally melts into hot tears as you wave and smile and foolishly attempt to wipe the wetness from your cheeks at the same time. Chisaka-san wraps you up in her comforting embrace and you hide your face in her white uniform, ears ringing, blood scorching in veins throbbing with adrenaline.

“I can’t look” you whisper into her shoulder and she gently guides you to the bench, all emotional murmurs and soft touches. She sits next to you, holds your hand as you force a quivering smile to the camera, peace sign held high. And then you can barely catch a glimpse of your scores before Chisaka-san forces you into her arms and against her chest again, right as fresh tears stain your cheeks. She lets you have this moment, shields your first reaction from the world and the prying eyes of cameras that are on you once more because holy shit, Daryna has a 140.60 but you have a 142.850. They gave you a difficulty score of 19.300 and an execution one of 8.550.

“I knew it!” Chisaka-san is the only thing keeping you grounded because it truly feels as if you’re floating. It doesn’t matter how badly you wanted it, how much you fought for it, the moment doesn’t feel real. Not even as the other gymnasts come to hug you and you congratulate them in turn, it’s a whirlwind of all-encompassing love and support and mutual happiness. Moments like this make your sport truly special, they remind you that fierce competition only feels right when balanced by appreciation for your opponents’ efforts and individual journeys.

The crowd erupts in new, loud cheering and you catch a glimpse of the different face the cameras are now focusing on. A handsome face with suspicious dampness glistening on cheeks and a smile so warm, beaming with pride. You can’t help but smile back as your legs move on autopilot, a bottle of water dropped to the floor as you sprint towards the bleachers. Atsumu is in the front row and he easily catches you right as you jump onto him, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Told ya. It belongs to you” he whispers in your ear and you almost start crying again at the trembling in his voice, so many overwhelming emotions swarming in your chest at once.

“Thank you for believing in me” you mutter and pull back to look at him, because even in a venue packed with people and cameras and journalists he still manages to be the brightest, the one thing you could look at forever without ever growing tired of it.

“Always” Atsumu grins, eyes glazed with defiant tears “you did so well. Look at ya, my girl’s an olympic medalist!”.

And because you know he won’t do it, god forbid he takes the most special moment of your life away from you, you kiss him. It’s brief, two pecks that linger just enough before he lets you go, urges you to go back out there and celebrate. You don’t care that videos of this moment are probably going to be flooding every social media platform in a matter of minutes, similarly to how Atsumu hardly gives a damn about all the phones and cameras he has in his face when he runs to you after a game, whether his team wins or not.

It’s hard not to tear up again as the japanese national anthem echoes through the building, so many people singing along as you stand on the podium you have dreamed of every single day of your life. You smile, proud and big, take selfies with the other two medalists and make sure you hug every single gymnast you come across goodbye before walking out of the venue, a promise to catch up with your trainer in the evening.

Atsumu waits for you outside, he doesn’t have any additional training left for the day and you want nothing more than to walk back to the village with him, lovesick smile growing in size when you spot him underneath the afternoon sun, golden light caught beautifully in that honey blond hair.

“There she comes, the girl of my dreams” he coos and you roll your eyes with affection “I hear she’s now the greatest gymnast in the world, too!”.

“Corny” you murmur against his lips as he pulls you in for a real kiss, one of those you’re never willing to give him in front of the cameras.

“About those cardboard beds…” it’s a faint whisper into his mouth but it’s enough for Atsumu to pick you up and twirl until you’re both laughing between kisses, until someone clearing their throat prompts you to abruptly pull back and force your feet onto the ground again.

When you turn around, the embarrassed smile quickly grows into a surprised grin. The stranger is looking back at you with the faintest hint of a smirk and Atsumu isn’t entirely sure he loves the way you take a tentative step toward him.

“Congrats. It was a good routine, not your best though”.

“Oh my god” you chuckle, astonished, and Atsumu is now certain he doesn’t enjoy watching you run to hug this weird, 6’1 stranger with dark hair and teal eyes. He definitely doesn’t enjoy the way the stranger wraps his arms around you with a sigh.

“I should’ve known you’d be here! How long has it been? Look at you, all grown up!” you let him go, still smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Too long” he concedes and if the stranger wasn’t still all caught up in old, familiar patterns of stubborn coldness, maybe he would be able to utter the truth about how much he’s missed one of his oldest friends.

“I missed you” as usual, you take it upon yourself to fill the spaces left empty by his obstinacy with warmth. His eyes soften and you smile again as you turn to look at your boyfriend.

“’Tsumu, c’mere!” you’re holding out a hand, an impatient invitation “come meet Rin!”

Atsumu is openly wary of your friend, one you’re obviously close enough to address by his first name. As he shakes his hand with a fake megawatt smile, Rin seems to be equally skeptical and does nothing to hide it.

“He’s your boyfriend?” he asks, briefly scanning Atsumu from head to toe with an openly dubious gaze “came all the way here just to support you?”

“Atsumu is a pro volleyball player, he’s in the national team just like you!”

“Volleyball, huh?” Rin cocks his head “doesn’t really interest me. I find it to be overrated”.

“I mean…”.

“And what would your sport be, Itoshi?” Atsumu can feel a vein throb on his forehead as he politely interrupts you.

“Soccer”.

“Oh!” a seemingly friendly laugh bubbles up from his throat but you recognize the petulant vibration to it “soccer! I think there’s only so long you can watch a player throw himself on the ground because he stubbed his toe on the grass or, I don’t know, try the same failed corner kick for the millionth time”.

You uncomfortably clear your throat and Rin directs his attention to you once more. Isn’t that what being a mature adult is all about? Ignoring pretentious assholes he doesn’t even know?

“I mean it, by the way. You deserve that gold more than anyone else I know”.

“C’mon, say it” you chuckle “I know you noticed”.

He mirrors your smile, pleased that the familiarity strengthened by years of friendship is still here.

“Barely catched that ribbon in the end, could’ve made that front walkover less stiff. Good job overall, though”.

Atsumu wants to punch him in the goddamn face, especially as you laugh once more.

“How come he’s so familiar with gymnastics?” he asks instead.

“Rin used to come watch my training sessions back in high school, although it’s insane to me that he still remembers!”.

“She never missed any of my trainings either” Rin smirks once more, gaze locked to the man in front of him.

“Speaking of!” you lightly smack his arm “when are you guys playing?”.

“Tomorrow. I can arrange special seats if you want”.

“Oh, I’d love to come! We should totally go, ‘Tsumu!”.

“Yeah, totally” Atsumu forces another smile onto his lips.

That night, as you’re cuddled against his chest on that infuriatingly uncomfortable cardboard bed, he believes it’s of the utmost importance to share the picture of you with an adorable smile and the medal around your neck as you stand proudly on that podium, followed by the two of you kissing right after your win.

miyatsumu the most hardworking person I know. my golden girl, now an olympic champion ❤️🥇

He thinks it’s a good caption and, as you softly snore in the quiet of the dark room, Atsumu also believes he’s in a mood good enough to decide not to block Shoyo on the spot after receiving his stupidly enthusiastic text about befriending some super nice dude on the national soccer team.

Whoever the hell Isagi Yoichi is anyway.

#atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x you #haikyuu x reader

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roxygen22 · 8 months

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FAMILY BUSINESS

"My Little Cocoa Bean" Series

Willy was absolutely smitten by his "little cocoa bean," Benjamin. You called him Ben for short, but Willy affectionately called him Bean. He stayed home from the factory for a bit to help you recover and bond with the baby. He made the most of his limited time off doting on you both. Unless Ben was feeding, he was in Willy's arms. He was truly a devoted, loving father and husband.

Willy went back to work when Ben was about three weeks old. It was an adjustment to be alone with the baby all day, but it made Willy's returns in the evening all the more sweeter. After about six months, he came home with an idea.

"Now that he is a little older and more sturdy, why don't I take Bean with me to work one or two days a week so that you can have some time to yourself?" Willy not-so-secretly struggled going back to work, often lamenting how much he missed you both, but he knew he had to provide for his family.

"Oh my. I love the concept, but how are you going to handle business or have your hands free to make chocolate?" you asked as it took both of your hands to keep Ben from launching himself out of your lap to get to his papa.

"Easy!" Willy exclaimed as he scooped up the baby. "I saw Lottie today, and she had little Georgie tied to her chest with a wrap. Then it clicked - I could do that, too! Besides, babies are good for business! He's so cute, he'll draw a crowd," he mused as he squished his nose against Ben's chubby cheek, then turned to you with a pouty lip.

"I guess we could give it a try. Maybe start with a half day?" you said, excited about the potential but nervous about its execution. You loved your husband, but you were not sure he fully understood what he was in for. You did, however, always admire his determination to get what he wanted in life, even if he resorted to playing on your sympathies with a pout.

"Great! I already went by the store to get fabric to make a sling." You shook your head fondly and went about your evening routine.

Thanks to his mamma's teachings, Willy was handy with a needle and thread. A couple of nights later, his contraption was ready for testing at home. Ben was quite cozy snuggled up on his father's chest, gently babbling while Willy washed the dishes after dinner. Everything was going swimmingly. "Tomorrow would be a good day to try this out for real," he said. "I don't have any business meetings, so I'll just be splitting my time between the stores and the factory."

"Ok," you said tentatively. "I'll get his bag ready and write down his daytime schedule." The next morning, you loaded Willy down with everything he would need - extra clothes for both father and son, burp cloths, bottles, diapering supplies, etc. "So he'll need to eat again in a couple of hours. That will probably be when he needs another diaper change. And he'll need to go down for a na..."

Willy put a hand on your arm to interrupt you, rubbing up and down to calm your nerves. "I've got this. Okay? I want you to focus on enjoying your alone time." Admittedly, you were looking forward to a chance to curl up with a good book without intertuption for a few hours.

"Alright, Bean, ready for some adventure?" The baby cooed and raspberried spit all over Willy's hand. "I'll take that as a yes. Allons-y! Wave bye to mamma!"

"Bye bye, my boys. Have a good day!" You stood at the front door and waved them off.

<><><><>

Willy stopped first at his flagship store in the Galeries Gourmet to ensure things were in order. Mrs. Pennington, a regular customer always in the company of her granddaughter, spotted the chocolatier. "Well, hello there, Mrs. Pennington, Miss Hannah," he greeted and tipped his hat at the ladies. "Are you finding everything okay?"

"Indeed, Mr. Wonka. Thank you," the grandmother smiled. "And who is this handsome little one?" Ben babbled and cooed.

"This is my son, Bean. I mean, Benjamin," Willy replied with a proud smile.

"Oh, how lovely. Learning the family business early, eh?"

"As my mamma said, 'It's not the chocolate that matters. It's the people you share it with.'"

"I remember when my children were that little. Soak it up, Mr. Wonka. It doesn't last long." She patted the baby on the cheek and then continued her shopping. Willy turned around to wipe away a tear and kiss his son on the head.

Ben seemed to enjoy interacting with customers, smiling at their baby talk and staring around the store with wide eyes. But after a couple of hours, he started to fuss. The cashier was on break, so Willy was working the register, bouncing the baby in an attempt to silence his whimpers until he could break away to make a bottle. "Would you like your change spendable or edible?" He practically had to shout at the customers to be heard over Ben's fussing. Luckily the cashier came back before fussing became screaming.

"Okay, Bean, give me just a second and we'll silence those tummy grumbles," he said as he made his way to the stockroom. He deftly prepped a bottle and freed the baby from the sling. Very soon, Ben was reclining in Willy's arms and greedily sucking down a bottle. "See, I told your mamma I've got this."

<><><><>

Once Ben was fed and changed, Willy packed up the diaper bag and set out for the factory. Lulled by his father's swaying, Ben stayed asleep for a good while even after being transferred into the bassinet Willy had set up in his office. Inventing and chocolate making weren't exactly quiet endeavors, so Willy caught up on a bit of bookkeeping instead.

Ben eventually started stirring, alerting Willy with his soft coos. "Hi, sleepy head. Are you ready to go make some chocolate?" Willy set him back in the sling and made his way to the Idea Lab. Feeling refreshed from his nap, the little one was very alert, so Willy thought it would be fun to make this an interactive experience.

"Alright, Bean, I need to come up with something new, and you're going to help me," Willy announced while holding up two jars. "Which jar should I start with?" Of course, Ben's attention was grabbed by the brighest color of the two. "Ooh, essence of rainbow. Good call. What next?" he asked, continuing to hold up two jars at a time for the baby to choose from until he gathered enough.

Willy added the ingredients to his travel factory, which he still used for small batch experiments. Ben stared in wonder as the brightly colored liquids flowing down the spiral tube and giggled at the production noises. Willy was busy pressing buttons and pulling levers when the first chocolates came out of the machine and didn't pay close enough attention to Ben's stray hands. Willy looked down to see the baby's tiny hand grabbing and mashing melted chocolate into the fabric of the sling, his hair, and both of their shirts.

"Well, now I understand why your mother sent spare clothes for both of us." He wiped chocolate off his son's cheek with a finger and licked it. "Tastes good, though! I need to write that concoction down."

<><><><>

You were sitting on the couch with your book when Willy came home at lunchtime. Both boys and even their spare clothes were covered in chocolate. You had to stifle a giggle as you tried to figure out how to best grab the sticky baby without getting covered yourself.

Willy gave you a tired look but also huffed a quiet laugh. "I may have overestimated my ability to keep things under control. I don't know how you get anything done, my sweet. I always knew you were amazing, but you must have superhuman powers."

"Perhaps," you winked as you stripped Ben out of his clothes and started rinsing him off in the sink. "Are you sure you still want to make this a regular occurrence?"

"I would do it again in a heartbeat. But not before I have a bath."

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

MASTERLIST

615 notes · View notes

five-and-dimes · 2 months

Text

Skin Deep

Dreamling Bingo Square D2: Bar Fight

Rating: Explicit

Ship(s): Dreamling

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

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

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

Read on AO3

The thing is, Hob knows what he looks like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what you see?” He asks teasingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were looking.”

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

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

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

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

It’s official. Hob is smitten.

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do not look the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob grins, “Next time, then.”

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still no name then?” Hob quips.

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

Hob doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantasy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob likes him when he smiles.

“One might.”

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream grins slowly, “In your experience.”

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to be a part of it?”

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

“It matters to me,” Hob replies softly.

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

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

“Yeah, Dream,” he smiles, “I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t decided yet.”

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he takes a step back.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dream, I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That he hates me?” Hob mumbles miserably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

Hob waits for over a month.

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

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

He keeps waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob wants to cry.

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

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

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nodding, Dream stated easily, “Eevee.”

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

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

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

“I never saw it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This one is… hard to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t fuck it up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Dream pulls away reluctantly.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was held for a month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can start by kissing me again.”

Hob can do that.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he licks his finger clean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...May I have my shirt back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They fit together perfectly.

~~~

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

“Morning, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

It’s beautiful.

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he also knows it’s different .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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sparrowritings · 1 month

Text

how you two got together

pairing: gojo x zenin!male!reader

summary: non-curse zenin reader and their dynamic with gojo after defecting from the zenin clan to attend tokyo jujutsu high

tags: non-descriptive injury and violence, gay panic

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this started off as hcs, but then got really long as i worked on it lol. i might make a pt.2 where its bf hcs, let me know what u think!

Born into the Zenin clan with little to no cursed energy, a heavenly restriction was placed on you as a child

Similar to Maki, you were viewed as the family's disappointment

This was further accentuated since you were born around the same time as Naoya, who was gifted with one of the family’s prized cursed techniques

You were close to and looked up to Toji due to you both not possessing cursed techniques and became training partners

When Toji defected from the Zenin clan, you defected too to pursue becoming a sorcerer, eventually ending up at Tokyo Jujutsu High

This is also how you got to know the other three first-years when you joined

“Everyone, (Y/N) will be joining us for the rest of the school year. Please behave, especially you, Satoru.” Yaga states as you walk up to the front of the classroom.

You were nervous, there was no hiding that. This was the first time you interacted with sorcerers outside of the Zenin clan.

“Please take care of me!” You say, bowing.

When you stood upright again, you took in your classmates for the next four years. The guy with bone-white hair and round shades caught your eye immediately. His hair looked fluffy, and you wanted to run your fingers through it. He was slumped sideways in his chair, arms draped to his side and his feet crossed on the table in front of him. He was attractive, you had to admit.

“This has to be a joke, Sensei. How is a person with no cursed energy ever going to become a sorcerer?” The light-haired man spoke, with a teasing lilt.

Well, he was attractive to you until he opened his mouth.

The first sentence that came out of Gojo Satoru’s mouth immediately left a bad taste in your mouth

It was that day where you decided that he had a shitty personality and that you did not like him

Once your life at Jujutsu High settled into a routine, you began to adjust and get more comfortable with who you were

You would hang out in the morgue with Shoko when you were bored but didn’t want to train

You would train hand-to-hand with Suguru because he was the only one who could keep up with you in that regard

You didn’t hang out with Gojo too often; after that first interaction, you believed that he was like the people in your family back home

Gojo initially thought that you were a helpless non-sorcerer who had overly ambitious dreams until he saw you spar for the first time

Crickets chirped in the background as the sun beat down on you and Suguru overhead. The dull “clack” of wood on wood echoed through the training grounds. You and Suguru had become regular sparring partners since you revealed yourself as an excellent physical fighter and cursed tools user.

You attacked from the sides quickly, before aiming one decisive, forward thrust towards Suguru’s chest. Caught off guard, he raised his waster to block the attack sloppily. Taking advantage of the surprise, you quickly dropped down and swept at his legs, catching him off balance. Before he had a chance to react, the tip of your waster was resting lightly on his chest. You were both breathing heavily from the exertion and heat. A beat later, you lower your weapon and help the other up, smiles on both your faces as Suguru punches your shoulder in a friendly gesture.

Taking a break from the session, the both of you sit on the side of the field, taking a water break.

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo and Shoko were just walking past the fields and had witnessed the entire exchange.

Gojo found himself unable to tear his eyes off you. He had seen other people fight with swords, but none were ever as graceful as you. You moved like water, each motion flowing into each other seamlessly. It seemed so effortless, but Gojo knew that what you were capable of was only possible with years of dedicated training.

“Satoru, you’re staring,” Shoko spoke.

“No! I-I wasn’t.” Gojo bit back, his cheeks and ears flushing pink.

“Sure, I believe you.” She chuckled.

So okay, maybe Gojo thought that you were attractive when you were fighting

It was something that was absolutely objective, really

At least, that was what he tried to convince himself

Okay, so maybe he had a tiny, tiny crush on you, but he didn’t really know how to go about it since you guys never talked

So he resorted to getting your attention in a mature way

By annoying the fuck out of you

“Oh look, it’s my favorite non-curse user!” He would squeal whenever he would see you and drape himself over your shoulder.

“Fuck off, Gojo.” You would huff before peeling him off you.

Initially, he had succeeded, and you had found it annoying

But as he did it more often, it became the dynamic between you two

You were cooking in the communal kitchen when the tall man had made himself known in all his lanky glory.

“How’s my favorite armrest doing this fine evening?” He spoke, opening the fridge.

“I’m doing better than your string bean-looking ass.” You shot back as you stirred the ramen cooking in the saucepan in front of you.

“You hurt me, truly.” Gojo responds, dramatically leaning against the fridge.

You began to understand why Gojo was the way he was, and slowly, a friendship formed despite the rocky start

You were on good terms, until the first time you were assigned a harder mission with Gojo

It was a semi-grade one, and the higher-ups were originally going to send Geto, but he had been whisked away on another mission

So Yaga assigned the mission to you instead of Geto

For this mission, you brought one of your favourite weapons, Shisui

Shisui was a katana that could absorb and accumulate cursed energy and release it

The fight against the curse started well, but quickly went downhill when Gojo destroyed one of the walls in the building, and it started collapsing

You had to dodge the debris and the curse’s attacks at the same time, which was honestly a hassle

The curse was smart; it had caught on to how much the collapsing building was giving you trouble, and strategically positioned itself in front of the other wall, hoping to trick Gojo into destroying the other wall

However, you had picked up on it

Gojo had already pointed his fingers towards the curse, who was floating right in front of the wall. If he fired Blue now, the building would definitely collapse.

Pushing off quickly, you dash towards the curse, intercepting Blue with Shisui. You gripped the hilt of the blade; it was built to absorb cursed energy, but withstanding the force of Blue was still no easy feat.

You landed stably, before shooting off again, rushing the curse perpendicular to the wall. You gripped Shisui, charged with the cursed energy of Blue, and with a pinpoint-precise thrust, the semi-grade one was no more. However, what you failed to realize was that as the curse was exorcised, it had sent out its tendrils in an attempt to take down the two sorcerers.

Focused on taking it down without destroying the building, you had left your side open. Three tendrils pierced your side, searing pain shooting up your torso. You fell onto one knee, using Shisui for support.

Your erratic pulse drummed in your ears, and black spots clouded your vision. Your limbs tingle as you reach a hand to your side, your uniform now wet with your blood.

“(Y/N)...(Y/N)!” You hear Gojo’s voice become softer and softer as you slump over.

Gojo is the one to take you back to school with his teleportation

He appears in the morgue, frantic and panicked with your injured body in his arms

Shoko takes over immediately, using her RCT on your injuries

She tells Gojo that you will be fine and that you just need rest, but he refuses to leave your side

When you eventually wake up, you immediately get a lecture from Gojo

“(Y/N), I had it handled. You didn’t have to jump in.” He stated.

“You would’ve collapsed the building, Satoru. That would’ve caused trouble for both of us.” You reasoned.

“You were being reckless; you should’ve left everything to me.”

“Reckless? Me?” You started incredulously, “Well yeah, not everyone has Infinity as a get-out-of-jail-free card, so sorry, Gojo-sama, for worrying about getting crushed by a building.”

“Well this get-out-of-jail-free card could’ve exorcised the curse without getting stabbed in the side! Thrice!” Gojo exclaimed, frustrated that you weren’t understanding his logic.

“You should just go alone next time, seeing as you obviously don’t need my help. You could just say it to my face if you think I’m not good enough, no need to play pretend.” You spat.

“(Y/N), that’s not-”

“I think you’ve said enough. I don’t want to talk to you right now.” You cut him off once again. He seems to hesitate before turning and leaving the morgue.

You hadn’t noticed earlier, but your eyes were watery

Whether from frustration or from betrayal that Gojo looked down on you this entire time, you didn’t know

Shoko gave you a reassuring look before rushing off after Gojo

She finds Gojo sitting under a tree right outside the school building, holding his head in his hands

Shoko lights a cigarette, plopping down next to him

“I don’t understand why he’s so stubborn. If he let me handle the curse he wouldn’t have needed to get hurt.” Gojo speaks, head still in his hands.

“You? Worried about someone getting hurt instead of whether they are slowing you down? Who are you and what have you done to the real Gojo Satoru?” Shoko replies.

Gojo feels his cheeks and ears heat up.

“I know you like him. You’re not exactly subtle with it. You should probably make it clear that you’re worried about him and not looking down on him, before he has time to convince himself otherwise.” Shoko speaks before taking a hit of her cigarette.

Many things are running through Gojo’s head, but the main thing his mind was screaming at him was how maybe his crush was something more

Initially he was drawn to you because of how good you were with cursed tools

But after spending more time with you, he realized that he cared about you

In a way where he wanted to protect you, to hear your laugh and to see you happy

He’s never felt this deeply about anyone, or anything for that matter

He stands abruptly, rushing back towards the morgue

While this conversation was happening, you received a call from your clan

They have not contacted you since you left so you were curious

You picked up, putting them on speaker

“(Y/N). We heard that you got injured badly.” Your mother’s voice, “We’ve deliberated with the elders. We are allowing you to return to the estate, (Y/N). We’ve been trying to tell you that you aren’t suited for the sorcerer life and today was just proof of that. The Jujutsu World doesn’t need any more weak sorcerers; you’ll just get in the way.” She spoke softly.

You could feel the tears well up once again, and you sobbed when you couldn’t keep them back. You knew that you had the odds stacked against you when you decided to pursue becoming a Jujutsu sorcerer. You had thought that you found people who viewed you as equal, people who respected your own skills, until Gojo had made you realise that he had looked down on you this entire time.

You had thought that maybe, just maybe that you guys were friends, or even more, when he would entertain your banter and be physically affectionate with you. It hurt that this entire time, you were a joke to him. He didn’t even think you could handle that curse working in a team with him, let alone by yourself.

It hurt.

You were letting the tears flow freely down your face, now that the dam had broken.

“(Y/N)-” Your father had started speaking but you stopped listening when you saw who was at the door. Unbeknownst to you, Gojo had overheard the entire conversation.

“Gojo, I told you I didn’t want to talk to you right now.” You spoke shakily, averting his gaze.

“(Y/N), I-I came to apologize, actually.” Your eyes widen in surprise.

“You? Apologising?” You couldn’t stop yourself before those words tumbled out of your mouth.

Gojo looked down at the floor, face flushing.

“Look, I didn’t mean to say what I said before- I thought that- What I meant to- How I meant-” He struggled with his words, but you waited for him to finish patiently, “I’m sorry I made you think that I didn’t want your help, or that you’re not good enough. That’s not what I meant.” He made his way towards you, kneeling at your bedside, resting his arms and head on the edge of the bed. He grabs your hand.

“I just got really scared that I had lost you, and I-I really care about you, (Y/N).”

You look down at Gojo, still processing his words. Your father’s voice cuts through the silence.

“-the weak don’t have to pretend to be strong. Give up this act and return at once, (Y/N).” It reminded you of your current circumstance and fresh tears rolled down your cheeks.

Observing your distress, he picks up the phone before you could react.

“Oi Zenin, (Y/N) here is one of the best cursed tool users this school has seen, so shut the fuck up before you start talking about someone you know nothing about. He’s one of the kindest, most considerate and strong sorcerers around, and he could wipe the floor with you guys in his sleep, so fuck off with your bullshit. Byeeeee~” Gojo singsongs before hanging up.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

Gojo’s expression returns to the more serious one from early. He gets up, cupping your face in both his hands.

“I’m being serious, (Y/N). You’re an amazing person, and I’m mad that I made you feel otherwise.” He pauses before continuing, “And. I’ve been meaning to tell you this, but I have feelings for you, and I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while. Uh, it’s okay if you don’t return my feelings, and I understand if-”

You don’t let him continue, pulling him in by his arms and kissing him. He freezes for a moment before he reciprocates. When the two of you part for air, he rests his forehead on yours.

“I have feelings for you too, Satoru.” You speak softly.

He chuckles, capturing your lips with his.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #gojo #gojo x male reader #gojo x y/n #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #male reader #jjk x male reader #gojo x you #headcanons #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you

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zesty4zenin · 2 months

Text

“𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞?”

YANDERE!DOUMA X MALE!READER

SYPNOSIS: Douma’s cult offered him a pretty little thing. And for the first time in awhile, he doesn’t want to eat it. He instead wants to keep it with him! Forever.

WARNINGS: gore, cannibalism, implied forced marriage, and that’s it!

A/N: I’m trying a different style for my works..… you guys like it or should I go back to my regular style? :3

IT WAS just another day for Douma.

He greeted his followers with a casual hello, letting them shower him with worship and adoration. Among the rituals of his day, he indulged in the elaborate fake food he meticulously prepared, relished the real delicacies that satisfied his demonic cravings, and of course, savored the taste of women who fell under his spell.

Then, as the day waned, he retired to his quarters, pretending to sleep. It was a routine he followed diligently, day after day, without fail. Occasionally, a follower would discover his true nature as a demon, but Douma disposed of them swiftly, consuming their flesh without a hint of remorse.

And through it all, he felt nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

His life was a repetitive cycle, void of any genuine emotion or thrill.

The monotony was occasionally broken by the desperate pleas of those who realized the horror of what he truly was, but their fear only provided a fleeting amusement.

As the sun set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Douma lounged on his throne, surrounded by his devoted followers. He observed them with a detached curiosity, wondering what it would be like to feel as they did. They looked up to him with such reverence, unaware of the fate that could befall them at any moment.

One follower, a young woman, approached him with a gift, her hands trembling. "Lord Douma, I brought this for you," she said, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and adoration. Douma accepted the gift with a smile, masking the indifference behind his eyes.

"Thank you," he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with charm. "Your dedication is always appreciated."

The woman blushed, stepping back into the crowd. Douma's smile lingered as he watched her, already planning her demise for when her usefulness had ended.

As the night deepened, Douma continued his charade, maintaining his facade of benevolence and divinity. Yet inside, he was as empty as ever, each day blending into the next, the endless cycle of his existence.

But something in the air tonight felt different, as if a change was approaching.

Yeah, right.

Nothing has changed since all these years he’s been a cult leader, so why would it change now?

He shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes, pretending to go to sleep, something he was no longer able to do.

THE NEXT DAY..

Douma 'awoke' with a yawn, stretching his sinewy limbs beneath the dim, crescent moon that cast a faint glow through his chambers. His eyes, devoid of human warmth, flickered with the remnants of a dream he couldn't quite recall.

He sighed softly, the memory of sunlight teasing at the edges of his consciousness, a distant echo of a time when such mundane sensations held meaning. But those days were long gone, replaced by the hunger and power that came with being a demon.

As he began to rise from his makeshift slumber, a soft knock interrupted his thoughts, followed by a timid voice outside his chamber door.

"Come in!" he chimed, his voice carrying an almost playful cadence as he settled onto his ornate throne, unfurling a delicate fan with practiced grace.

As the door swung open, revealing two of his devoted women worshippers, their smiles widened as they beheld Douma lounging regally on his throne. Their eyes sparkled with adoration as they stepped forward, barely containing their excitement.

"We have someone new to introduce to you, Lord Douma," one of them gushed, her voice tinged with reverence.

The other nodded eagerly, stepping aside to reveal you standing in the doorway, bathed in the faint moonlight that filtered through the chamber. Your presence seemed to stir something within Douma—something he hadn't felt in centuries.

His eyes, usually cold and indifferent, widened imperceptibly as he took you in. For the first time in his existence, a strange sensation gripped his heart—a version of what humans called love.

It was possessive, consuming, and entirely his own.

"You've caught my interest," he murmured, his voice a low, mesmerizing purr as he studied you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

Douma didn't usually take much interest in his male worshippers. They were typically predictable and lacked the intriguing nuances that made him want them, for entertainment or pleasure. Their devotion was unwavering but bland, their actions all too similar to one another.

But you? You were different. There was something about you that drew his attention, something that set you apart from the rest. Your demeanor, your presence—it stirred a curiosity within him that he hadn't felt before.

Douma leaned forward, his fan brushing lightly against his chin as he observed you with a growing curiosity. "What is your name?" he asked, his voice dripping with a sweet, almost mocking charm.

You hesitated for a moment before answering, "[Name]."

Douma's lips curled into a slow, almost predatory smile. "[Name]… Welcome," he said softly. "I sense there's something special about you."

The two women glanced at each other, surprised by Douma's unusual interest. They had never seen him react this way to a new follower, especially not a male.

"Come closer," Douma beckoned, his gaze unwavering. As you stepped forward, you felt an inexplicable pull toward him, as if his very presence demanded your attention and obedience.

He waited for you to come closer, his eyes darkening with a possessive glint. "You’re very pretty for a boy," he cooed, his voice a silky whisper that promised both danger and allure.

The women by his side beamed, pleased with their lord's approval. Douma, however, couldn't tear his eyes away from you. For once, he felt a genuine interest, a twisted form of fascination that threatened to consume him entirely.

The women exchanged glances, their smiles widening even more as they saw the intense focus Douma had on you. One of them couldn't contain her curiosity any longer.

"Lord Douma, do you like him?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and awe.

Douma's gaze never wavered from you as a slow, almost predatory smile curled his lips. "Yes," he replied softly, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. "I do."

The women, thrilled by his response, bowed deeply before making their way out of the chamber. "We shall leave you two alone then," one of them said, her voice tinged with satisfaction.

As the door closed behind them, the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of Douma's fan as he flicked it shut. His eyes, now entirely focused on you, bore into yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

"Come closer," he commanded, his voice low and hypnotic. "I want to get a better look at you."

You took a hesitant step forward, feeling the weight of his gaze as if it were a physical touch. The air seemed to grow thicker, charged with an electric tension that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Douma's smile widened as you approached, a twisted satisfaction playing across his features. "Tell me, [Name]," he purred, his eyes locking onto yours with a possessive hunger. "What is it that you desire most?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the intensity of Douma's gaze pierce through you. "I desire love and companionship," you confessed, your voice steady but filled with an underlying sorrow. "My fiancée abused me, and my family despises me. I've been searching for a place where I can belong."

Douma's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes. He rose from his throne and stepped closer, his movements smooth and almost predatory. The air around him seemed to grow colder as he approached.

"Love and companionship," he repeated, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the chamber. "Such simple desires, yet so elusive for many." He reached out, gently lifting your chin with a finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Tell me, [Name], do you believe you can find that here, with Eternal Paradise?"

His touch sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and a strange sense of comfort. "I… I don't know," you admitted, your eyes searching his for any hint of genuine emotion.

Douma's smile widened, a twisted blend of compassion and malice. "You will find what you seek here," he murmured, his voice a seductive promise. "I will ensure it. You will be loved, cherished, and protected under my watchful eye."

His words, though meant to be comforting, carried an underlying threat. There was no escape from his grasp, no turning back once you stepped into his world. Yet, in that moment, you couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope, however twisted it might be.

"Stay by my side, [Name]," Douma continued, his hand sliding from your chin to gently cup your cheek. "And I will give you everything you desire."

"You'll never be alone again," Douma continued, his eyes burning with a fervent intensity. "I will give you everything you desire, and more. All you have to do is trust me."

His hand dropped from your cheek, but his eyes never left yours. The room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with a tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Do you trust me, [Name]?" Douma asked, his voice a soft, seductive purr that promised both danger and salvation.

"Yes," you replied, the word slipping out a bit too eagerly as relief washed over you. Douma's laughter rang through the chamber, a low, amused sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Good," he said, his smile widening into something almost predatory. "I’m glad you trust me. Because I trust you too."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured for you to join the other worshippers who were still lingering outside. "Mingle with the others for now," he instructed, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. "There’s something that I have to do right now."

As you reluctantly turned to leave, you couldn't shake the feeling of Douma's eyes following you, his presence lingering like a shadow in your mind. The other worshippers greeted you warmly, their admiration for Douma evident in their every word and gesture.

Meanwhile, Douma remained seated on his throne, his mind spinning with possibilities. You had stirred something within him—something he hadn't felt even when he was human. It wasn't just desire or possession; it was a twisted fascination that threatened to consume him.

As he watched you mingle with the others, a dangerous smile played across his lips. "Yes, [Name]," he whispered to himself, his eyes glinting with dark intent. "I think I’ll keep you until you turn bitter and old."

With that thought, Douma leaned back in his throne, his mind already plotting the next steps.

—

It was later that night, the temple quiet as everyone else had drifted into peaceful slumber. But you were restless, feeling the need to speak with Douma before you finally lay down to sleep. Dressed in your nemaki, you made your way through the darkened halls to his personal chambers, a sense of devotion and eagerness driving you forward.

"Lord Douma?" you called out happily as you opened the door to his chambers, but the room seemed empty, silent. Strange. Douma was usually there, a constant presence. Undeterred, you stepped inside, the soft rustle of your nemaki the only sound breaking the stillness.

As you ventured further into his chambers, a faint, metallic scent reached your nose, causing you to pause. Your heart began to race, a sense of foreboding settling over you. Pushing forward, you followed the scent until you heard the unmistakable sound of squelching and chewing.

Frozen in place, your eyes widened in horror as you came upon the gruesome scene. There, on the floor, lay your fiancée, her body ripped apart, bathed in a pool of her own blood. Douma was crouched over her, his mouth stained with crimson as he devoured her remains with a chillingly serene expression.

Time seemed to slow as you stood there, your mind struggling to process the sight before you. The warmth of the room felt like ice against your skin, the reality of the situation hitting you like a physical blow.

Douma looked up, meeting your eyes with a detached calmness that sent a shiver down your spine. "Ah, [Name]," he said, his voice disturbingly casual as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn't expect you to be up so late."

His eyes gleamed with a dark satisfaction, the earlier hatred now replaced with a twisted sense of possessiveness. "It seems I've taken care of a little… inconvenience," he continued, his tone devoid of remorse.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fear, shock, and betrayal swirling within you. "Why?" you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Douma's smile remained disturbingly serene as he stood, stepping over the remains of your fiancée with casual indifference. "She was getting in the way," he explained, his tone almost gentle. "She's in a better place now."

Tears welled up in your eyes, the horror of the scene overwhelming you. You turned to run, desperate to escape the nightmare, but before you could take more than a few steps, Douma's hand shot out with inhuman speed, gripping your arm and pulling you back to him. Panic surged through you as his iron grip held you in place, his eyes locking onto yours with an unsettling intensity.

"There's no need to be afraid," he murmured, his voice deceptively soothing. "I did this for us, [Name]. I learned what love is just for you. You should be grateful."

You struggled against him, your tears flowing freely now, but his hold was unyielding. "Let me go," you pleaded, your voice breaking.

Douma's expression darkened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "No, [Name]," he said firmly. "You need to understand. I did this out of love. Say thank you."

His words were a command, not a request. You felt his grip tighten, the pressure making your heart race even faster. "Say it," he insisted, his voice playful but strained.

Trembling, you forced the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Douma's smile returned, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Good," he said softly, releasing his grip slightly but not letting you go. "See? That wasn't so hard."

He pulled you closer, his other hand gently brushing away your tears. "Now, remember, [Name]," he whispered, his voice dripping with possessiveness. "You belong to me, and I will always take care of you. No one will ever come between us again."

Douma's eyes softened as he gently brushed a tear from your cheek. "Now, go back to sleep, [Name]," he instructed, his voice taking on a calming, almost hypnotic quality. Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the metallic taste of your fiancée's blood smearing against your mouth, making you shudder.

With a shaky breath, you nodded and slowly walked out of his chambers, your legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. Each step felt heavy, your mind struggling to process the horrors you'd witnessed. When you finally reached your room, you collapsed onto your futon, curling up in a ball as silent tears continued to stream down your face.

Meanwhile, back in his chambers, Douma returned to the remains of your fiancée. He crouched down beside her, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. With deliberate, almost reverent movements, he resumed his feast, tearing into her flesh with a disturbing ease.

The room filled with the sickening sounds of squelching and tearing as Douma devoured her piece by piece. His hands were slick with blood, his lips stained crimson as he chewed methodically, savoring every bite. He stripped the flesh from her bones, consuming it with a fervent hunger that bordered on ritualistic.

Douma's eyes flickered with satisfaction as he continued, his sharp teeth effortlessly ripping through muscle and sinew. He relished the metallic tang of her blood, the warmth of her flesh, the way her body yielded beneath his grasp. For him, this was more than sustenance—it was a declaration of the lengths he would go to ensure you remained his.

As he finished, Douma sat back on his heels, surveying the remnants of his meal with a satisfied smile. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his thoughts already returning to you and the twisted love that bound you to him.

"Sleep well, [Name]," he whispered to the empty room, his voice carrying a promise of both protection and possession. "Tomorrow is a new day for us."

—

A year had passed since that horrifying night when you discovered Douma's true nature. The memory of him devouring your fiancée haunted your dreams, but you had long since stopped trying to escape. Each attempt was met with swift retribution, either from Douma himself or one of his loyal followers. In the end, you surrendered to your fate, resigning yourself to the life Douma had crafted for you.

Now, you sat on the throne beside him, a symbol of your reluctant acceptance. Douma lounged comfortably, sitting cross-legged with an air of regal nonchalance, while you knelt next to him, holding onto his arm and leaning into his side. The weight of his presence was both a comfort and a chain, binding you to him in a way that was inescapable.

"Look at our paradise, [Name]," Douma said softly, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he gestured to the room filled with worshippers. "Isn't it beautiful?"

You nodded, your eyes distant as you gazed out at the devoted followers. "Yes, my lord," you replied, your voice subdued. The title of "lord" felt foreign on your tongue, a constant reminder of the twisted love that had ensnared you.

Douma smiled, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm. "You see, this is what true love is," he murmured, leaning closer to you. "A bond that cannot be broken, a connection that transcends all else."

You forced a smile, your heart heavy with the weight of your circumstances. "Yes, Douma," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tilted your chin up, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "You belong to me, [Name]," he reminded you, his voice a playful purr. "And I will protect what is mine."

The worshippers around you continued their adoration, oblivious to the dark undercurrents that flowed between you and Douma. To them, you were their new lord, the perfect partner for their divine leader. They couldn't see the fear and resignation that lurked beneath your surface, the silent cries for freedom that had long since faded into acceptance.

As you leaned into Douma's side, you felt the cold metal of his fan against your skin, a constant reminder of his power and control. You were bound to him, forever trapped in the eternal paradise he had created, a paradise that was nothing more than a gilded cage.

ahh, that was my first time writing for demon slayer !! Was it good ? Did I write Douma decently ? 😭 also, I am writing chap 2 for yan!fem!Toji story :3

requests are open. . . — made by zesty4zenin on tumblr only!!

#anime and manga #zesty4zenin #yandere x reader #demon slayer #kny x reader #demon slayer douma #douma x reader #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere douma x reader #yandere douma #male reader #douma X male reader

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birthedstars · 6 months

Text

A Legends Baby

“Ash, dude…You had to have been high or something,” Liam looked at Ash skeptically.

“I'm telling you, it was Bigfoot. The guy had to be almost eight feet tall, hung like a horse by the way, and had feet big as a Hobbits,” Ash threw up his hands for example.

“You expecting me to believe Bigfoot piped you on the ski trip AND no one else seemed to notice? No fucking shot,” Liam rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well, it happened. What? Did you want me to take a selfie while he was fucking me?

“Yes. If it was THE Bigfoot, I would have!”

Ash crossed his arms and went back to his room. “Fine, don’t believe me.”

~3 months later~

“Fuck, why am I gaining so much weight,” Ash struggled to button his pants.

Over the past few weeks Ash had been gaining weight. Particularly around his lower abdomen. His belly button has gotten slightly shallower.

Ash suddenly felt nauseous. In an instant he's bent over the toilet bowl, hurling last night's burrito into the water.

Liam dropped a pregnancy test on the table.

Ash blinked.

“I'm not pregnant,” Ash said.

“Oh, so you took a test already?” Liam cocked an eyebrow.

“No…”

“Uh huh. You're Bigfoot’s or some super lumberjacks baby daddy, I'm telling you,” Liam said.

“So you believe me now?” Ash laughed and shook his head. “Bigfoot is not even the same species as us, He couldn't get any regular human pregnant.”

Liam shrugged and walked out the bathroom. “Fine, remember me when you get a deal for ‘I didn't know I was pregnant’ episode.”

~7 months later~

Ash closed his apartment door and nearly fell to his knees. So much pain, so much pressure, drowned him as soon as he got away from prying eyes. He clung to the wall, face scrunched and sweat on His brow. Ash's gait was wide as if he was preparing to squat.

For the past few hours, the pressure and routine tightening of his belly had gotten so much worse than the days prior. Brief discomfort has become aggravating pain. The work day had been bad enough with all of the comments about his appearance and the sweltering summer heat.

He tossed off his sweatshirt to reveal the cause of his pain.

His stomach was huge, round, and taut. His belly button disappeared into the skin of it, replaced by stretch marks only slightly hidden by hair. It hung low, only being cradled by his palm. The waistband of his drenched sweat pants curved dramatically beneath it. He stumbled forward into the apartment, his gait wide and waddle slow.

“Fuck, this can't be real. Please no,” Ash grunted and held his tightening belly. “Just need to rest…”

He still denied the obvious conclusion, even after 7 months. There was no way, despite contractions, huge belly, and fluid as evidence.

At least the apartment was empty, so he could save some dignity. Liam was away on a vacation out of state. No help or snarky commentary from him was going to come.

Ash gripped the frame of his bedroom door. His mouth and eyes widened as a heavy weight dropped into the cradle of his open cervix. Something was dropping into his pussy. His eyes widened as he realized the shape of it was round, hard. He wanted to just get to his bed, lie on his back, and close his legs tight.

A strong contraction crashed into him in response to that thought. Ash cried out, digging his nails into the door frame. His stomach twisted. The instinct to bear down overwhelmed him. The huge object surged forward as he pushed unconsciously. It took everything in his power not to fall to his knees.

His vagina quickly filled tightly with what he was creating for weeks. Ash's toes curled in his shoes in pain. He couldn't walk to his bed with his hips so splayed out.

Ash's pussy bulged around the solid round object. The burn nearly drove him to tears, but then the contraction stopped. He dry heaved and looked down at the pool of fluid dripping from the bowled out crotch of his sweats.

The same pussy Bigfoot had cum in 10 months ago was now spread wide and bulging through his sweatpants. Ash trembled as he slowly accepted the truth he'd been denying.

Ash untied the drawstring and allowed his pants to fall to his ankles. He reached over his belly, towards his crotch, knowing and fearing exactly what he'd find. His fingers immediately felt the wet, hairy head of a baby between his fingers.

Ash clasped his other hand over his mouth as he felt the huge head spreading his pussy under his palm. His whole body trembled in disbelief.

He should have listened to Liam. He was pregnant and giving birth. His stomach and back seized, sending Ash into another chorus of crying. His pussy spread wide into a painful circle around the hair head.

“Fucking! Get out!” Ash screamed as he slid further down the doorway into a squat. His belly, hung between his thighs, seized in on itself. The pressure and power behind his push drove the baby forward and spurts of fluid gushing out onto the wood floor.

His body lurched as the head and shoulders rocketed out of his pussy with a rough gush of fluid.

He gasped in relief, but continued to push regardless. The body didn't budge and offered Ash nothing but a severe pain in his cervix.

Ash stood up painfully with a deep ragged breath, head and shoulders between his thighs. Why didn't he just fucking listen to Liam. He just had to have Bigfoot's cock, couldn't just snap a fuzzy pic of him and run like normal people.

Another contraction came, he pushed. Nothing happened. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't get the baby to descend any lower. Something was stopping the baby from moving lower. The pain was already infuriating.

Desperate, Ash carefully wrapped his hands around the body. His belly began tightening and his back started to lock up. With an almighty roar, Ash pushed and pulled. His body twisted, the muscles in his body rippled as whatever was making the baby stuck started to give. Ash could feel something big come out of his cervix and into his canal. He bit his lip, tugging Bigfoot's baby out of his pussy centimeter by centimeter.

“Fucking hell!” He screamed out.

He threw his head back as his pussy rapidly spread apart . The burn hit him hard and then left as quickly as it came. Ash's body finally released its grip on the baby, his stomach deflating instantly as his child slid out of him. Ash's legs gave out beneath him, leaving him to fall against the wall.

Ash tiredly stared down at the heavy baby in his hands. It had his dark black hair as a mane on its head. But what really caught Ash's attention were what was at the end of the kids legs. The hairy, already crying baby had larger than normal feet. Because of course it did. This is Bigfoot's Kid after all.

“Never fucking without a pill again…” Ash murmured, slumped against the wall.

#🧇!Anon #mpreg #birth fiction #labor fiction #maiesiophilia #birth kink #labor kink #preg kink #birth fic #labor fic #request #monster pregnancy #difficult birth

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nurse-floyd · 1 month

Text

The Right Spot - Chapter 1

Pairings: Bob Floyd x Reader 101 Dalmations AU

Warnings: some cursing and minor mentions of blood.

Taglist: @pretzelcat4-blog @adventuringblind (if you want to be added to my TGM or this masterlist please let me know)

Thank you @vivwritesfics for letting me endlessly bug you with this! As always please send me feedback, it fuels the writing!

Bob was out for his morning job at his local park, a routine he loved before he had to drive to his day job. It also meant he got to spend more time with his girl Sassy, the Dalmation he’d adopted as a puppy. She locally trotted beside him, her shiny spotted coat glistening as the sun began to rise and filter through the trees. The pair certainly stood out, Bob with his big round metal rimmed glasses and her with her spotty coat and shiny red leather collar. The park was quiet at that time of morning, the only sound was their feet against the pavement as they ran through the winding paths and the birds as they began to chirp their morning tunes. There were a few other people, a few joggers crazy enough to be up at this time and a few of the regular dog walkers he usually met on most mornings.

You were there with your dog Jimmy, a beautiful dalmation you’d adopted as a puppy from your colleague; being a vet really was the best job and certainly had its perks. He was playing fetch, sprinting after his tennis ball as you threw it and waited for him to run back and drop it at your feet to go again.

Bob hadn’t noticed the woman throwing the ball, or her matching dog. Sassy however had noticed and was instantly infatuated with the dalmation. Intrigued and wanting to meet the other dog, she suddenly perked up and without warning lunged forward. Before he could react, the lead wrapped around his wrist tugged him forward with such a force he lost his footing, slamming into the ground face first. The lead slipped from his grip and before he could grab it, Sassy was gone.

“Sassy! Wait!” Bob called out with a groan as he got up and ran, well more limped, after her.

On the other side of the park, you were laughing and blissfully unaware of the chaos as you and Jimmy continued to play fetch. Your amusement turned into surprise as you threw the ball once more and a loud bark sounded from behind you. You spun around and found yourself staring at another dalmation; but this wasn’t Jimmy. “Hi, gorgeous. Who’re you?” You asked as you looked at the name tag, “Sassy…that’s a funny name. Where’s your owner, huh?”

You stroked her head and she nuzzled into your hand, she was very affectionate. Just as you were about to spin the tag around to see if there was a number to call, you heard another bark. Your eyes widened in shock as you saw a man you didn’t know trying to wrangle your dog.

“Gotcha, very clever running off like that Sassy,” he grumbled as he grabbed the collar of the dog.

You ran over, Sassy trotting behind you to see what her dad was doing. “Let go of that dog!” You yelled, as the man tried to get control.

“It’s fine ma’am, she’s my dog and just got away from me there for a minute,” Bob explained. He probably looked slightly deranged, glasses crooked and broken, his knees scraped and bleeding as he limped and attempted to wrestle the dog.

“Let go of that dog, or I’ll call the cops!”

“Listen, I’ve not had a great morning and I’m gonna be late for work as is,” he began to explain as he pulled the Dalmation behind him.

“She is a he, and that is my dog. I said let him go or I’ll…I’ll hit you,” you don’t know where that threat came from, call it mothers instincts but you had your backpack raised and ready to follow through with the threat as you moved closer to him.

“Really ma’am it’s fine, she’s-”

Before Bob could say anything else, you smacked your bag hard into his shoulder causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. “Now, let go of my dog or I’ll hit you again!”

Now Bob really was confused, “your dog?”

“Yes, that’s my dog, can you please let him go?” You asked once more, the bag still raised.

“He?” Bob looked at her confused before he turned to the dog attached to his lead, “excuse me.” Bob looked down in between the dog's legs, and confirmed in fact, this was not his dog.

“She’s a he?” Now he really was confused, but maybe that was the bump to his head.

You nodded your reply and turned to look at the dalmation that was hiding behind your legs, seeming to know what she’d done.

“Sassy Margaret Floyd, come here,” he grumbled. “I’m really sorry ma’am, it was my mistake,” he apologized, feeling pretty stupid as you knelt down beside him and attached your lead to Pongo’s collar and handed the stranger back his. “What have you got in that bag anyway? Bricks?” He asked, rubbing his shoulder as he got up and went to retrieve his own dalmation.

“Just a few textbooks,” you replied sheepishly, “I’m sorry, when I thought you were stealing my dog, I got a bit protective.”

Bob laughed awkwardly… “No worries, ma’am. Sorry again for the confusion. I’m Bob by the way, you’ve already met Sassy.”

“She is gorgeous, Sassy, that’s a strange name. This is Jimmy, I guess it is easy to confuse two Dalmatians!” you laughed a little, embarrassed about smacking him so hard.

“Shit,” you exclaimed as you got a good look at him. He was handsome, there was no denying that, but what caught your attention was his bloody knees and his cracked glasses. “Do you know your knees are bleeding?” you asked, “and your glasses are broken.” Now you really did feel guilty for hitting him.

“Seems as though Sassy got a bit excited at the thought of meeting another dalmation and dragged me to the floor in a rush to meet him. Hurt my shoulder too, but I think that was more your combat skills than the fall,” he teased.

Your cheeks blushed as you looked away, “I’m really sorry about that…is there anything I can do to help?”

“Uh, no. It’s okay ma’am, really.” He looked at his watch as he realized the time, “Shit, I need to get going. It was really nice to meet you-“ it was then he realized he didn’t even know your name.

“Y/N,” you supplied as you held your hand out for him, “and yours is Robert? I saw it on Sassy’s name tag.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, “well it was lovely being assaulted by you this morning. Hope I didn’t scare you too much, you know, trying to steal your dog and please call my Bob,” he chuckled as he held out his hand to shake yours.

“It’s an honest mistake, really,” you reassured him, “seems as though we both have a certain fondness for Dalmatians.”

You both shared a glance before looking down to Jimmy and Sassy who were curiously sniffing each other and bumping noses, as if they didn’t just get their parents into trouble.

“Well…they seem to have a certain fondness for each other, he mirrored your comment before realizing he really did have to go. “Come on Sass, you’ve gotten me in enough trouble this morning, I can’t be late for work too.” The pair of you untangled your leashes before Bob started walking away.

“It was lovely meeting you Bob.”

“You too,” he called back.

You stared at him, Jimmy barking a few times as Bob and Sassy started off on their run again. “What a nice man, hey Jimmy?” You sighed. You really hoped you’d bump into him again.

With Sassy safe and settled at home, Bob cleaned up his knees and begrudgingly put in his uncomfortable contact lenses, making a note to put in a new prescription for his glasses. He hated wearing them, but on this short notice he had no choice.

The first person he saw was Rooster, checking over his F/A-18E. “Hey Bob, loving the new look,” he called out when he noticed the WSO wasn’t wearing his usual wire rimmed glasses.

Bob made something of a grumble back and continued. He saw Phoenix next, who’d noticed his limp and lack of glasses. “Woah, rough night?”

Bob shot her a look, “rough morning more like.”

She looked at him confused, “what happened?”

He explained about Sassy running off and the fact she’d made him hit the deck so hard his glasses broke and he’d skinned both knees. He also told her about the beautiful woman he met, with her matching dog and the fact she could take him down with just one swing of her bag (he made it known to Phoenix it was totally because he was injured and already off guard).

“Did you get her number?”

“Did I get her number? When do you think would have been a good time, after I nearly stole her dog or after she assaulted me?” He laughed.

She shook her head with a laugh, “do I need to teach you everything?”

He wished he did get your number now. Wished he’d somehow run into you again, hopefully next time without the injuries, almost theft or assault. He went about the rest of his day as usual but he couldn’t help feeling just that little bit disappointed he hadn’t taken a leap and asked you.

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick au #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #bob floyd fanfic #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #my writing #beth writes

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elsweetheart · 2 years

Note

no but like. dealer!ellie would be so loving and understanding with a really sensitive (crybaby) gf. like she’s at a party making great business and she gets a text from u saying that you miss her and you’re not feeling well and she drops everything to visit and make u feel better

:(((((

i’ll be your honey, if you’ll be sweet

🎀 dealer!ellie being a cutie, fem!reader being a crybaby, mentions of not feeling well, mentions of weed and alcohol. title is taken from mazzy star— give you my lovin

♡ ♡ ♡

Business was booming, as they said.

Another party at another frat house, where the guys knew nothing about the regular price of weed — and Ellie wasn’t above not pricing her stuff up to take advantage. Her stuff was good, she thought. They should be paying this much.

“How much you made so far?” Jesse yelled over the music to her, having made his way back over from doing shots. He was actually the one who got Ellie in, having friends from the house — that and the fact that no guy throwing a party was going to turn down a cool and discrete dealer with notoriously good product to keep the good vibes going.

“No idea, they keep handing me wads of cash — all I know is they’re way over paying me.” She chuckled, wiping her warm hands down her jeans. “Not complainin’.”

She’d usually be at these kind of ordeals with you on her arm, getting to watch over you having fun and dancing whilst she did her business. It made the evening go by faster, and the routine of the two of you going to grab greasy food from the nearest takeout joint was always something to look forward to. She pulled her phone out her pocket to text you, seeing you’d already left her a message.

‘how long until u come home?’

She glanced up, but she didn’t have to look to know that the party still in full swing with no signs of stopping.

‘Not for a while baby, you ok?’

Ellie watched the three bubbles on iMessage appear as you type, then disappear, then reappear, then disappear before you finally replied.

‘mhm’

A call came through on your end, Ellie walking out onto the porch with her cracked screen pressed to her ear, wandering away from all the noise for a moment to check on you.

“Hello?” You croaked, voice small and quiet.

“Tell me what’s wrong, babe.”

She wasn’t expecting you to start crying, not so soon anyways. Her stomach swirled in anxiety at the sound of you upset and her brows furrowed as she picked at her nail, waiting for you to tell her. “Why’re you crying?” Her voice was soft and sympathetic.

“S’nothin’ Els, just d’nt feel well and I tried everything but nothings making it better— n’I just miss you and I’m sorry cos I don’t wanna worry you whilst you’re out but—”

“Woah, hey hey hey.” She pacified you gently, trying to hide her concern. “Don’t stress. M’leaving now, gonna be with you soon okay?” She adjusted her backpack on her shoulders, leaning over to the window to see if she could flag Jesse down. The raven haired boy was too busy losing at beer pong so she turned away, spotting a back gate to leave out of.

“You don’t have to leave, I don’t want you to lose money.” You sniffled miserably, the sadness in your voice making her own frown deepen as she pushed open the creaky back gate onto the street, locating her car.

“Got plenty of money tonight babe. Hold tight okay? I’ll be with you soon.”

You were in her bed in her dorm when she arrived back, curled into a ball with a look of sleepy distress on your face. She shut the door behind her, slowly approaching you.

“Hey babe.” She whispered, her slender fingers pushing your hair back around your ear before placing the back of her hand on your forehead. Her hand was cold and it was soothing, blinking up at her in the dimly lit room.

“Think m’sick.” Your bottom lip wobbled and she shushed you gently, not wanting you to make yourself worse by crying. She perched down on the bed beside you, cold hand now stroking up your shirt (her shirt.) and rubbing circles on your back.

“Yeah, you’re burning up a little. Can you tell me what’s hurting?” She lilted, squinting a little in the low light to try and gauge how your face was looking.

“My head, and my throat too… and everything.” You groaned tearfully, rolling over to stuff your face into the bedsheets. She shuffled a little closer, hating seeing you in distress.

“Have you had any water?” Her hand moved up to stroke your hair, massaging your head slightly.

“Mm—mm.” You moaned into the sheets and she nodded, fetching your bottle.

“I’m gonna help you sit up, alright babe? C’mon, y’gotta help me out a little, yeah?” She scooped her hands beneath you, ignoring your whiney muffled protests. You used some of your energy to push yourself up with her help and she held you in her arms sat up. Burying your face into her, she held you letting you cry a little. “I know. Fuckin’ sucks huh, sweet girl.” Ellie sympathised before holding your pink water bottle to your lips. “Sip, don’t gulp it down.” She advised, her free hand that was wrapped around your shoulder stroking your arm. “Look, you got nothin’ to worry about okay? Not only am I the worlds best dealer… I’m also a nurse. And I’m gonna make you feel all better.” She smiled making you furrow your eyebrows, moving your mouth away from the bottle to cuddle her again.

“You’re not a nurse.” You accused and she blinked into space, continuing to hold you tight.

“Well. I am now.”

The night went on, and Ellie continued to soothe you well into the night, not being able to sleep or get comfortable — often bursting into tears and needing immediate assistance. “I just wanna sleep.” You sounded devastated, and she truly pitied you— nothing was making you feel better and she knew you were just going to have to ride it out.

“I know baby. We’ll get there… when we get there.” She huffed, almost frustrated with herself for not being able to help you more. “Y’want me to read to you, might help you get some sleep? Worth a try, right?” She leant down, persuading you in a hushed tone. You didn’t open your eyes, just nodded weakly giving her the green light to get up and grab one of her books from her desk. It was the Jurassic Park novel — always having it on her being one of her favourite books.

She settled down on her bed, letting you clamber up to lay your head in her lap. She had changed into her sweatpants around two hours ago, and you found comfort in the softness against your cheek. She began reading, book pulled close to her face to be able to read the words in the low light — not wanting to turn any lights on as to aggravate your headache. Halfway into Chapter 2, she finally heard the soft snore of your eventual sleep against her leg— and Ellie felt herself relax, knowing she’d completed her girlfriend duties for now to a satisfactory level. She knew you hated being sick, and that you were miserable — but Ellie would still choose to be here looking after you than dealing at some random party any day.

♡ ♡ ♡

#anon #dealer!ellie #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams prompt #ellie tlou2 fluff

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project-sonadow · 7 months

Text

happy hour drabble # 2

Sonic had been dragging his feet all day. It was Monday again, which meant there wasn't much to do at Speedy's. Count the change, polish his roller skates, clean the fryers. That was his routine. By the end of his shift, it felt like there were lead blocks stuffed in his socks.

One of his coworkers gave him a strange look when he hung up his hat. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," the girl replied. For some reason, her eyes looked sad. "Get some rest tonight, won't you, Arthur? We can't have you calling out; you're our best skater!"

Sonic raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask what she meant by that, she disappeared out the back door. Though her voice was muffled now, he could still make out her last request: "And don't forget to lock up!"

Rolling his eyes, Sonic twirled the keys in between his fingers and shook his head. This wasn't his first rodeo! After switching out his skates for his regular, non-wheeled shoes, he left the restaurant with his laces still untied. The door closed behind him, and he locked it with a soft click.

Shadow was waiting for him in his usual spot. The headlights on Shadow's motorcycle illuminated the dark parking lot with warm yellow light, and its engine filled the air with a weighty hum. Sonic hopped onto the back of the bike in one swift motion, and then wrapped his arms around Shadow’s waist like he'd been waiting to do it all day.

"No detours tonight," Sonic said. "I'm bushed!"

Shadow glanced back over his shoulder and was greeted by a mess of wild brown-and-blue quills. "Fine," he said. "That disaster you call a coat would give us away in an instant. Save your strength so I can fix it before bed."

If Sonic replied, it was drowned out by the sound of the motorcycle's engine as it roared to life. Sonic rested his head against Shadow's shoulder as the dark hedgehog drove them back to their apartment. The cool air felt nice against Sonic's fur as the wind whipped through it.

Soon, they arrived. Shadow parked the motorcycle in front of their apartment building before the two of them got off. Only then, under the bright white streetlights, did Shadow see the red flush on Sonic's cheeks. Without so much as a word, Shadow stepped forward and pressed the back of his hand against Sonic's forehead.

"Uh?" Sonic blinked. "Sh-- Lance? What're you...?"

Shadow dropped his hand from Sonic's forehead. "You're burning up," he said matter-of-factly. Then, he took Sonic's hand. "Come. Let's go inside."

Sonic let Shadow lead him up the stairs as he processed what he'd just said. "Wait," Sonic said as Shadow pushed open the door to their apartment. "I'm sick? But it's Monday!"

"Correct."

After both of them were inside the apartment, Shadow shut the door. Now, Sonic's face was screwed up like he was trying to solve a difficult math problem. "That doesn't make any sense," Sonic was saying. "I wasn't sick last Monday, or last last Monday, or--"

Shadow interrupted, "It's possible our minds aren't the only things that remain intact throughout time."

Sonic frowned, "So, someone's germs from the last loop are making me sick in this one?" He paused to think about that for a second. "That's not good, dude. That means..."

"Any consequences will persist regardless of our current place in time," Shadow finished. He was frowning now, too.

"Great," Sonic said, even though nothing about this was great. "Well, there goes my Plan A."

"And what was that?"

Sonic grinned, "'Run straight at the bad guy and hope for the best'!"

Shadow pursed his lips and sighed. Loudly. With agitation. "That's always your plan."

Sonic opened his mouth to reply, but a sneeze cut off whatever snarky remark he had prepared. His grin faded as he remembered how tired he was. Talk about a buzzkill! Next time he saw Tails, he'd have to ask him to make a shrink ray, so he could fight off germs with his fists.

Shadow shook his head as he watched Sonic's ears droop. "Go. Sit," he said. "I'll take it from here."

Sonic wanted to argue, but Shadow’s stern brown eyes made him feel funny. “Whatever,” Sonic muttered as he averted his gaze. “Just don’t take too long. I can’t promise I’ll stick around if you do!”

In truth, Sonic wasn’t going anywhere. Now that he was free from the constraints of his 9 to 5, and the horrors of capitalism were held back by the immutable strength of their apartment door, he was left with nothing to distract him from his fever. He shuffled into the bathroom and plopped down on the stool, waiting for Shadow to come in with the dye.

He sniffled. His bones hurt. He scratched his head, irritated. This never would’ve happened to world famous superhero, Sonic the Hedgehog. It was only because he was disguised as some random punk that he’d gotten sick.

“I seem to remember your fox friend recounting a tale to the contrary,” Shadow suddenly said. He’d appeared in the doorway, dye in hand. “Something about you and Arabian Nights…?”

Sonic waved his hand. “That was different,” he said.

Shadow popped the lid off a bottle of brown dye. “Oh? Is that so?”

Huffing indignantly, Sonic replied, “Yeah. That time, my worst enemy was a super powerful genie. This time, it’s customers!”

Shadow lowered his head. Sonic could’ve sworn he saw him smile. “Hold still,” Shadow said, his hands freshly gloved up and covered in dye. “I’ll be quick.”

Regardless of the truth of that statement, Sonic was physically, mentally, and emotionally incapable of holding still. He tried. Of course, he didn’t want to squirm around like a worm in the rain. But he couldn’t help it! Just like he couldn’t help but tap his foot against the linoleum, his claws clack-clack-clacking against the tile as he did so. That was, until one of Shadow’s hands moved to the back of Sonic’s left ear, and Sonic froze.

Sonic felt Shadow rub the dye into his fur. He felt his claws brush gently against the softest part of his ear. And Sonic stopped thinking about how lame it was to be sick. He didn’t worry about holding still. His heart fluttered in his chest and his eyes closed, totally focused on how good it felt to have Shadow’s fingers in his fur.

Shadow paused, having noticed the strange shift in Sonic’s behavior. But there was no time for him to lean forward and investigate, because a gentle pressure was now pushing against the palm of his hand, urging him to continue.

It was Sonic, leaning into Shadow’s touch.

Shadow nearly choked, but he managed to keep his composure. He isn’t feeling well, Shadow reminded himself. That’s all this was.

And yet, when Shadow resumed styling Sonic’s quills, he wasn’t thinking about covering up all the blue spots anymore. Instead, he focused his attention on just that one spot behind Sonic’s ear. He didn’t know why. Maybe he pitied Sonic. As the Ultimate Lifeform, he would never know how it felt to be ill.

Sonic leaned deeper into Shadow’s touch. His tense shoulders relaxed. His job, their mission, the time loop–none of that mattered anymore. Somewhere inside his chest, next to his heart, a soft rumbling began. Purring.

Sonic was purring.

Abruptly, Shadow stood. He turned away from Sonic, so he didn’t see him blink his eyes open sleepily.

“Shadow…?”

“That’s all for now,” Shadow said stiffly. “Count yourself lucky. If not for your… illness… you would’ve been sitting there for much longer.”

And then he exited the bathroom, leaving Sonic sitting there as the last of his purrs quietly faded away.

#project writes #sonadow #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgheog #happy hour au #hehe :)c

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reqxxyt · 1 year

Text

more than an arrangement

pairings: lando n. x f!reader

warnings: rushed ending, cursing, f!ckboy lando

masterlist requests are open!

[unedited] wc: 2.8k

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

The media flooded once again with pictures of Lando Norris leaving a bar with another girl, arm around her waist as they left to the nearest hotel. This became an almost weekly routine, fans trying to uncover who every girl that was lucky enough to leave with the Mclaren driver. His PR team at first didn’t mind it until this routine became regular, growing tired of having to try and cover for it every single time.

Until you came in. You were perfect, an innocent appearing model who came from humble beginnings that barely anyone knew about.

A loud door slam made Lando jult in his sheets, uncovering himself from the sheets as he sat up attemption to adjust the light of the window that was now shining the room. The girl next to him fiddled around in the sheets and his manager looked pissed, glaring daggers at him telling non verbally to get rid of the poor girl he’ll never see again.

But Lando pretended not to notice as he rubbed his eyes, beginning to get up only in boxers as he asked “whats up?”

“Whats up?” she practically wanted to kill him, she pulled out her phone showing her all the photos that appeared when searching up lando norris, scrolling through the entire thing to show up the explosion of tweets about last night. “Lando you need to get your shit together”

“It’s not a big deal” he shrugged, waking the girl up as she sat up noticing the other person in the room and taking in the information from last night before her cheeks become a crimson red.

His PR manager couldn’t believe the words being said, it was getting ridiculous, absurd how he didn’t care about his public image. “Lando, you’re becoming the manwhore of Formula 1” she attempted her best to not raise her voice any louder as the girl behind Lando gathered her things quickly and left.

Lando stood silent, very little guilt entering his emotions as he just sat back down still a little sore.

“It’s time you make an announcement” she said, walking forward handing him her phone with your picture on it. Lando furrowed his eyebrows as he looked upwards, about to ask her what she meant but she beat him to it. “I already contacted her team and they agreed to it. You’ll be in a fake relationship for the next couple of months until you figure your shit out and don’t even think about going behind my back and be with more girls because then you’ll just look like a cheater”

He was about to argue back, btiing his tongue to not further his irritation, sighing to himself knowing he did have to change at some point, lowering his head no longer making eye contact as he just silent agreed with a quiet “sure”.

The next week, you arrived at the Mclaren building with only your agent next to you as your heart kept wanting to pound out of your chest, wanting to be anywhere but here. But you entered anyways, you spoke to the front desk and they greeted you telling you Landos PR manager would be out shortly.

You weren’t quite sure why you agreed to this. Hell you didn’t agree to this, your agent did seeing this as an opportunity to have your name out there but you didn’t want that. It would be like cheating the world, you tried to tell her but she would only reply with ‘It’s how the world works sadly’.

Footsteps walking forward had interrupted your thoughts as you finally looked to see a women in her early thirties shine a bright smile as she waved you forward. You shook hands with her, trying to be as polite as possible knowing you would have to be dealing with how they described ‘man-whore’ for the next couple of months. This wasn’t how your mother would’ve wanted you to go to follow your dream, but you understood the entire thing being a press convenience.

“This is Lando” she introduced him as he stepped forward. You had already done your research, enough to know most of the sport he was in, what he looked like, and his interests. You wondered to yourself if he tried to the same, doubting by the way he pronounced your name.

“I’ll let you two talk while I discuss the arrangements with your agent” his manager spoke whisking away your only friend up until this point, leaving you two in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry they forced you into this” his hand rubbed behind his neck a bit embarrassed as they began walking to the front lobby, you were about to reassure him before he talked again “although this would probably be a dream for you”

“Excuse me?” you were baffled by his assumption. He gave you a questioning look, as if the reason were the most obvious. “Why would having been tied down to you ever be a dream?”

“You’re name will grow with my fame, isn’t that the reason you agreed to this?” he asked not understanding as to why you were confused. Every other girl would’ve loved to be in the spotlight with him.

“If I had the choice I would’ve not been here” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. Your attraction to him quickly disappearing. You wished your agent could just hurry up a bit faster as your nerves were about to lose their patience.

“Right, obviously” he sarcastically replied, slumping down onto the couch chair, leaning far back as he crossed his legs. If there was one thing you hated most in this world it was egotistical jerks and narcissists so you only looked at him with disgust you sat next to him putting a few feet between the two of you.

This would only end with one of you killing the other.

Your agent informed you the premise of the plan, outlining your public appearances and announcement, when you would ‘surprise’ him at races, and overall interactions in front of cameras. Not making it too affectionate between you two quickly gathering the tension as they walking in the room with you two not looking or talking to the one another.

This weekend you were going to one of the races, practically dressed in all of his merch. You looked ridiculous in your opinion but you obviously couldn’t state that out loud, only covering it up with an oversized jacket that apparently was well known to the fans as being Lando’s jacket.

The drive to the race wasn’t at all nerve racking it was having to finally see the crowd of people by the paddock awaiting the drivers who would soon arrive with their loved ones, not knowing about you showing up hand in hand with Lando. But once they spotted the two of you, the swarm of people arrived taking multiude of pictures as you only tightened your hand, feeling your heart run a mile from the attention.

Lando noticed your tight hold, caressing his free thumb over the back of your hand. You two finally arrived at the Mclaren garage, having to be introduced to practically everyone as you gave them a welcoming smile, trying to appear as approachable as possible.

They called lando, feeling the sense that it was about to begin with rushed people around you trying to get ready as Lando turned to you not sure if you were comfortable enough but leaned forward anyway. Your felt your heart leap when he leaned in closer before suddenly turning your head, meeting contact with his lips by your cheek.

It took you both by surprise but he brushed it off as he just left, leaving you in the garage to watch the practice secession from the monitors. After it ended, he walked in giving you a simple greeting as you just complimented him loud enough for passers to hear trying to make it as realistic as possible.

The hotel room you two stayed in had two beds, per your request so you immediately crashed on the side nearest the window, you’ve always preferred it that way but you could feel eyes trained on you so you turned to see Lando shuffle away, turning away. You wanted to laugh, having caught him looking at you before he suddenly turned with serious look,

“Are you going to start getting ready?” lando said, sounding suddenly imaptient. You furrowed your eyebrows a bit confused of his sudden irritation. You only entered the bathroom to not entice him more, even if you did nothing. You came out only half an hour later with freshly washed hair and pajamas with enough display to send Lando to feel a sort of unbalance in his stance as he was getting ready to enter the bathroom.

You missed the way he looked at you with a deep desire beginning to grow before he shook his head, refusing to think of you that way and quickly walking into the bathroom to get ready. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, drowsing in an out before you heard the bathroom door open. You ignored it as you heard further shuffling before hearing the creak and you dosed off into a another sleep.

The next day was unsatisfying for Mclaren, landing in P12 on the grid for Lando. You two didn’t talk much, wondering to yourself if you should try comforting him but with his quiet demeanor you decided not to, thinking it was best for him to be alone and have a quiet time to himself.

On race day, you wore his mclaren mclaren, wearing along with some sweats not trying too hard as you weren’t expecting much from this weekend with cameras slowly lessening as the weekend went by. But you noticed the amount of photographers in the Mclaren garage, standing in front of Lando as he was speaking to one of his engineers, getting ready to leave.

“Lando?” you said, getting his attention looking at you now. You glanced at the cameras, already gathering the idea before leaning in and catching him by surprise only reacting a second later but you pulled away. Your eyes looked back at the cameras and Lando noticed, jaw clenching as you only showed him a soft smile whispering “good luck”

He nodded, lips tightened in a smile as he headed to his position. The race didn’t go in his favor and your sympathetic smile didn’t help as he just passed you, by accident having shoved you a bit on his way to the drivers room. You sighed, biting the inside of your lip wondering if you should go follow him before you just walked not leaving any room for longer hesitation as you attempted looking for him, having to ask around if they had seen where he went.

It didn’t take long before arriving at the shut door, you softly knocked and it took longer than youd expected before seeing Lando open the door “I don’t want an interview ri-” he stopped in hsi tracks seeing you with an apologetic frown. He wasnt sure how to feel and only said “here to comfort me infront of the cameras again?”

“What?” your frown replaced by a confused look before remembering a couple of hours ago. You shook your head, inviting yourself inside as you just said “No, can’t a friend just help another friend”

“We’re friends now?” he asked, wanting to scoff. You understood that he was taking out his anger on you but it didn’t mean that question didn’t hurt you, but either way you attempted to brush it off.

“Why not? We’ll be stuck for a couple of months together” you shrugged, Lando shutting the door.

“Because its all arranged. You don’t actually care about me” his voice stern yet his eyes held hurt behind them, only able to look down.

“Do you see any cameras right now, Lando?” you tested him, stepping forward. You couldn’t believe you were willing to understand his perception, normally with anyone else you would lose your patience and allow them to close themselves out, but with the boy who stood only a few feet away you would’t allow that. “We may not be in a relationship but that doesn’t mean I don’t care”

Lando thought about you differently since that day, he no longer saw you as the model that was forced to be in his mess of a life but instead the girl that was willing to actually be friends with him even without cameras around. But if they were only friends, why did each others heart pulse a certain way when near each other?

These two didn’t realize this until a couple of months later, a race in Mexico City. You were originally not going to go seeing as your modeling gigs had increased and you held no more time for races as much but on that weekend one of your gigs had to reschedule and you made a last minute ticket purchase to actually surprise him this time. It was almost no longer an act, growing closer by the day as friends, building a bond that started a strange way.

So when he spotted you on race day, his smile brightened as he ran up to you giving you tightest hug sending a wave of photographers your way expecting a more intimate action but he only kissed your cheek before you two walked to the mclaren garage.

Your outfit didn’t consist of much mclaren merch just an orange beaded necklace and a jacket borrowed by Lando (a friendly gesture, of course). You watched intently, growing a certain liking for the sport your media boyfriend was in, beginning to grow a smile the closer he was to reaching the top places. You ended up on the edge of your seat quite literally before the garage erupted into cheers as Lando passed the finish line getting 3rd overall.

Your smile practically reached your eyes as people in the garage began congratulating each other, proud of their hard work. You stayed behind as they did the podium rewards, not exactly being a big fan of crowds but making sure to congratulate Lando later.

And later came quickly as cameras followed the mclaren driver whos only mission was to get to you, to give you the biggest hug. He finally found you, with a bright smile on each others faces as his hands wrapped around you before pulling you in before thinking himself, not even considering the amount of cameras around you two. Just allowing your lips to connect with his, feeling all of the adrenaline suddenly kicking in again.

You two pulled away and finally noticed the cameras around, your shy smile suddenly reappearing trying to tell yourself he just did this for the image. Lando just grabbed your hand and left the scene with you, attempting to lose the press realizing how it appeared to you.

You two arrived at the hotel Lando was staying in, remembering you had forgotten to book a hotel but either way he offered to sleep on the same bed and without much thought you agreed to it.

“Hey, y/n?” he asked, stepping out of the bathroom with disheveled freshly showered hair and only with some shorts on as you began to get comfortable yourself, shuffling the covers around before stopping once Lando walked out. You tried your best not to stare at his bare chest, just humming in response. He walked closer, still debating whether to mention the kiss. “Ths kiss, I-”

“Oh that? Its no big deal, it was just for press anyways” you brushed it off, sounded unsure of yourself, wondering if you wanted it to be the opposite. But he stayed quiet causing you to look up now noticing his debating look, asking yourself if he was unsure about it as well.

“What if I didn’t want it to be?” his voice a bit quiet as he started to sit down on the bed. You pretend to give a confused, secretly hoping this was were you thought it was going. His eyes flickered to your eyes, leaning a bit closer, “what if I could just” his breath was now almost fanning your lips as his hand began to hold the side of your face. His eyes once again looked at your own before flickering to your lips “once kiss you in private”

Before you could answer back he pulled you in, crashing your lips against his once more. Now whether that was for his own trial run or desire was a debate you would unravel later. But in the moment, you only responded by following along, practically melting in his hold. His hand began to travel to the sides of your neck, allowing little space for air.

“I would like that” you finally responded to him once you two separated, the curve of his lips curving upwards at your response.

#lando norris #f1 #f1 x you #f1 reader #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #reader insert #formula 1 #lando norris x reader #f1 fandom #f1 fanfic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #fluff

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multi-fxndom446 · 22 days

Text

Wherever you go

Gojo Satoru X Reader

Warning: Gojo may be a little ooc but I really don’t think that much, reincarnation, everyone’s alive. Best friend Tsumiki. Sukunas a professor, so is Nanami. Gojo and geto are students too.

Summary: After having the same nightmare almost every night everything comes to a head when you are met with his blue eyes and a whole life time of memories

Word count: 2.7k

Please don’t look to hard at particulars I wrote this immediately when I had the idea. Tsumiki and Megumi are still related.

I just woke up from a dream where you and I had to say goodbye and I don’t know what it all means.

The day started out like any normal day.

You woke up from the same nightmare, got dressed, did your regular morning routine then went outside to meet your friend, Tsumiki in the same spot you do every morning.

You passed by the same people every morning, most of them the owners of the small shops on the street. You said good morning as usual.

You went to the same cafe as you always did when you and tsumiki needed to work on an assignment, you usually picked the same seat every time but today there was already someone in your seat.

But other than that one hiccup, by all accounts this was just like any other day.

So why did you feel like your nerves were on end. Like you were missing something or like today was some important day.

You stopped in your tracks when you registered someone had taken your usual spot, your eyes staring holes into the back of the guys head. It wasn’t even like you were upset, you couldn’t claim a public table but something about him felt familiar.

His long dark hair tied up in a bun while he drank his drink seemingly waiting on another to join him if the drink waiting on the other side of the table was anything to go by.

“Hey come on, I see a table over there.” Your attention was brought back to Tsumiki who was tugging on your wrist and pointing to a table in the corner.

You could tell she was rushing you to the table since the cafe was starting to fill up so you let her drag you over and when you sat down your original table, along with the familiar man, was out of sight and you felt like you could breathe a sigh of relief.

But still you were on the edge of your seat. You were slow to pull out your laptop and by the time you did Tsumiki had already had hers open and was typing away.

It wasn’t until you set your laptop on the table and opened it did she sense that something was off with you. She watched you for a moment and you could feel her staring at you intensely so you put your hands on the keys acting as if you were about to type.

But your mind was blank and your fingers wouldn’t move. You glanced at her for a split second before looking away when you saw her leaning forward with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” She had finally asked after a few moments of you just staring at your computer that wasn’t even turned on. You just nodded slowly like you were also trying to convince yourself you were fine. “Y/n seriously what’s up? You look exhausted.” There was a moment of silence before she reached across the table to place her hand on your arm. “Did you have that nightmare again?”

The nightmare.

The same one you’d been having every night for the last year.

It started out simple enough, you could honestly barely tell what was happening and you completely forgot about it by morning like any other dream.

But over time it had gotten worse and worse. It became clearer to you every night until it reached the point of feeling like it was a distant memory.

It was almost as if you could see it happening like it was just yesterday. Like you were dying in the arms of someone just a moment ago. You could almost feel their warmth wrapped around you as they held on.

You could almost hear the trembling of their voice even though when you had this nightmare you could never hear a sound. You couldn’t hear the words being spoken to you or even see the face of the person who shook while they held you close.

Your gaze must’ve gone hazy as you recalled the nightmare because in the next moment you felt her hand shaking your arm slightly with a worried whisper of your name.

You looked up at her again and put on the best smile you could, waving her off with a slight laugh.

“No no, just this project is gonna run me into the ground.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie. The professor was known to be harsh in his grading and you more often than not stayed up late working on his assignments.

“Professor Sukuna?” You nodded and she gave you a grimace before leaning back into her chair, retracting her hand. You were glad she seemed to believe your lie. “I’m so glad I didn’t get him. Not like Professor Nanami is any better.”

You laughed when she let out a dejected sigh. “At least he gives you a little breathing room. Professor Sukuna has been non-stop assignments and projects.” You finally turned on your computer ready to move past the weird morning.

Just as you were about to start typing Tsumikis phone started vibrating with an incoming call. “Oh I gotta take this it’s Megumi. I’ll be back.” You nodded with a smile and told her to tell him you said hello.

Left alone, you finally started on your assignment and let everything else fall to the background. You needed a good grade on this, if you got one more bad grade in Professor Sukunas class…you shuddered just thinking about the malicious glare you had received more than you’d like to admit.

Just as you went to type something your hand stopped. A chill ran up your spine, an oddly familiar sensation like someone running their fingers lightly down your back.

You felt like your heart all of a sudden dropped or sped up to an ungodly speed that you felt like it was about to give out.

You realized belatedly that your hands were shaking. Out of the corner of your eye you saw someone outside the window walking by you. You saw the flash of white hair but it was enough to make you stop breathing.

You didn’t turn your head, you didn’t want to. You were scared all of a sudden. You felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest at the lack of oxygen.

A whisper of pain slid up your side and the familiarity of the feeling had you wanting to curl in a ball and cry and you didn’t know why.

You felt like you might pass out and you probably would’ve had Tsumiki not come back with a smile on her face, unaware of your current state.

“Sorry Megumi was asking me about-“ her question cut short and finally your body started moving again. Your eyes looked over to her in question, wondering why she stopped talking. “Y/n..what happened? Why are you crying?”

What?

Your hand that was previously stuck over your keyboard shaking, reached up to run a delicate finger across your cheek.

You pulled your hand away to see your friend was right. You were crying.

You went to open your mouth to reply, to tell her you were fine- that you didn’t know why you were crying when a voice across the cafe stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Suguru!” An eerily familiar voice sung out and the words you were about to say stuck in your throat and it genuinely felt like this time you couldn’t breathe.

“Satoru.” Another voice sighed and this time you felt the tears fall down your cheeks and watched as they clouded your vision. “You’re late.”

You couldn’t register anymore of the conversation. There was a ringing in your ears and your head felt like it was going to explode.

In front of you, you could see tsumikis mouth moving in what looked like her calling your name but you couldn’t hear and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe.

Tsumiki grabbed onto your arm again and forced you to look at her. She said your name again and this time you could faintly hear it. She motioned for you to take a deep breathe and you did and followed when she motioned to breathe out.

She stayed like that for a few more moments until she could see you came back to her. “What just happened?” She asked, rubbing your arm soothingly.

“I-I don’t know.” You wiped at your eyes. “I feel like there’s something I should remember but can’t.”

She looked between you and your computer before shutting it closed and doing the same to hers. You looked at her in confusion when she started packing up. “Let’s go somewhere. Our projects aren’t due yet, let’s get out of here.”

You watched her as she stood and she turned to you expectantly so you followed suit and packed up your things.

She grabbed your hand as she dragged you to the front of the cafe towards the door. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, thankful she was there.

Just as you got to the front door dead silence seemed to fill the cafe and you stopped in your tracks.

You looked to your usual table where the man with the bun was sitting waiting for his friend. Now though the friend was there, staring at you.

His bright blue eyes widened in shock and the sunglasses he had in his grasp fell to the table with a clatter. There was no one else in the cafe in that moment.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something but all at once everything came crashing down on you.

His eyes.

You can almost recall seeing his eyes somewhere…everywhere.

Your mind felt like it was splitting open as thoughts-as memories filled your head the longer you stared at him.

Nothing to clear but enough for you to be sure you know him or you should know him somehow. Like you knew him in some other lifetime.

Some other lifetime…

Your mind whispered back his name to you, Satoru. It came so softly as if you had heard it a thousand times and associated it with some kind of warm feeling.

As if you’ve stared into those blue eyes so many times you’ve lost count.

Tsumiki tugged you out the door before you could think anymore and by the time you were just down the street turning the corner you saw him run out of the cafe, looking both ways frantically.

But your voice wouldn’t let you call out to him so you let your friend pull you away from him.

It wouldn’t be until weeks later that you would see him again. It wasn’t like you had been avoiding trying to find him but he never seemed to be at the cafe the same time as you.

And with you finishing your project for Professor Sukuna your visits to the cafe became less frequent

The memory of him was always on your mind as well as some underlying feeling that you couldn’t seem to reach. Like something was on the tip of your tongue but it was gone from your mind when you thought too hard about it.

So you stopped thinking too hard and just let his memory sit there while you went on with your life.

Today though was different. Today you did go to the cafe and this time alone. Tsumiki was out with her brother getting him ready for a school trip.

You were sat at your usual table that was vacant this time around. The whole cafe seemed to be vacant today with only you and one other older lady sitting at the far end.

You were just finishing up some homework you had for another class, your laptop open and a pen and paper next to you as you jotted down notes.

The bell above the front door chimed but you paid it no mind, you were too focused on the notes to care who came in.

But then the chair in front of you scraped along the floor as someone pulled it out and sat down. Your hand froze mid sentence and your gaze stayed down as if scared to see who was in front of you, even though deep down you knew..

“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” Finally you glanced up and were met with bright blue eyes. Your breathe hitched as those prodding memories from before started to slip back into focus.

It felt like your brain had been dunked into ice water and pulled every memory into the forefront of your mind. Like you finally broke the barrier that held all of these old feelings from you.

You can see a memory, although blurry it was there. His face was slightly blurred but you’d never mistake those beautiful eyes and the striking white hair.

You could barely hear him talk, the words sounding too far away but you understood enough to know he was trying to convince you to stay where you were.

“Wherever you go, that's where I’ll follow.” You could hear yourself telling him. The phrase alone causing another pang of hurt to course through you.

He’d told you those words before when you were teenagers and you were about to go on a mission alone.

He’d never let you go alone and in turn you never let him go alone.

As more memories came to light the clearer they became. You could see the look on his face like he knew he wasn’t going to come out alive and he didn’t want to take you down with him.

You could almost feel the trace of his fingers down your jaw as he gazed at you almost like it was the last time.

You could see in your mind's eye now why your side hurt so much. It was because Sukuna had driven a hole through your side.

Sukuna

You could feel Satorus warmth wrap around you instantly. And finally finally you could see your nightmare clearly, you could finally see the person who was holding you while you died.

You could see the person who was trembling, you could feel as his tears fell onto your cheek, you could taste the metallic taste of your own blood and you could finally hear the words he spoke to you.

“This is why I told you not to come.” His voice trembled and you can almost feel yourself frown, not used to hearing him be so vulnerable. “I can’t lose you too. Please not you.”

You remember your bloodied hand coming up to caress his cheek. You didn’t respond, you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You just smiled at him and hoped your eyes conveyed all the love you held for him.

Then your eyes closed and you could feel his head drop down to your neck where he let a few quiet sobs go before he took a deep breathe and whispered against your skin. “Wherever you go, that's where I’ll follow. I promise.” Then he squeezed you tightly one more time then layed your body down.

He gave your forehead one last kiss before he went to fight knowing full and well he would be joining you in death soon enough.

So many memories. So many moments.

You watched as hundreds of shared kisses flitted through your mind. Thousands of hugs and gentle caresses.

You were never a firm believer on reincarnation but you know these memories you’ve lived these memories and there’s no denying that.

His touch brought you back, his cold hand softly cradling your cheek so he could wipe away the tears. He had a pained look in his eyes like he had waited for this moment for so long.

“Satoru-“

“Seven lifetimes.” He let out a small huff at the confusion that crossed your face. “That’s how long I’ve been trying to find you.”

“You-“ your words choked. He had waited for so long. Did he have these memories the whole time? Or was he like you and only had nightmares of when you were separated? “I’m sorry.”

He was quick to get to his feet and pull you into his arms while you cried. More and more memories came in slowly and it finally felt like you had found a missing puzzle piece to a forgotten puzzle.

“I promised I’d follow.” You nodded against his chest.

“Thank you.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you. You had a million questions but for now just being in his arms safe and sound again was all you needed.

Hope yall like it

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