the-hobgoblins

[the-hobgoblins]

SHEEHALLOWEEN 2022 🔮 Day Five: Free Space

#face #oz #your honor i love him

[the-hobgoblins]

“Imagine that? Reckless is my middle name, innit,” Oz overheard Rue say, from where he was lurking out of sight and eavesdropping.

Of course, he’d heard all about Gryffindor House—where Maeko had faced scrutiny from her peers who did not believe she belonged with them, until Katie came along.

Oz peered into the room from his hiding place, watching the hedge witch and auror captain continue to converse, circling round each other with magnetic push and pull—a little song and dance that Oz knew well. It was rather beautiful, really. Oz thought Paxton might have said something about their auras tangling.

Rue paced the length of the small space like a caged animal, restless, tossing a small sphere of flame between her hands like a ball. Even from here, Oz could see the way her eyes seemed to gleam like emeralds in a cave illuminated by the torchfire of a wandering explorer as Katie sent her mind spinning with terrifying possibilities. She hummed, pondering their predicament, then said, “The Free Trader haunts are out, I reckon. There’s heat on us—our safehouse got shaken down a beat ago, word is some a your Comrades in Arms are trackin’ ambient spikes and unsanctioned magic signatures all over England.”

Katie made a thoughtful noise as she processed this information, one hand scratching through the scruffy, loose curls at the crown of her head. After a moment, she asked, “I don’t suppose your coven has friends elsewhere on this island? Scotland…Ireland?”

Rue gave a snort and her cheeky reply was lost to the sudden rush of dread that washed through Oz. He knew exactly what fate would befall anyone who dared to trespass in that territory unannounced, who tried conducting magical business without attaining the right permission from the right people—the right person. His palms itched.

Ah, shite…

By the time Oz had settled enough to peek into the room again, Rue and Katie had been blessedly, momentarily sidetracked by Katie’s pet salamander Chickadee seemingly launching itself from its napping place in the ash of the fireplace at the ball of flame between Rue’s hands, and she was cooing and laughing in adoration over the tittering fire sprite as it crawled along her arms and nestled down the front of her shirt, with Katie jumping up to snap photos with her phone.

It was enough of a distraction that Oz hoped they’d forget about the trap they were walking into with this foolhardy revenge mission. But soon enough, the two women settled on the couch, angled toward each other, with Rue stroking Chickadee as he snoozed atop her chest. Picking up the thread of thought, Katie mused, “The Department’s got boots on the ground in Scotland, and I can’t risk this getting traced back to me…”

“Ireland it is, then,” Rue replied decisively, almost gleefully, and Oz swallowed. 

Katie again opened the journal Rue had brought and studied a few pages, muttering to herself. Then she reached out to pop the cap off the whiskey bottle and took a long swig before passing it off to Rue, scurrying over to the chalkboard to scribble out complex symbols and equations, deep in her own thoughts. 

The board was half-full by the time Katie turned, dusting her forehead and hairline with chalk from her fingers as she said, “Your girl was thinking in terms of huge power reserves—spirit magic, combined with the unstable source you all use—the ambient. We’d need a boost like that to contain the bitch’s spirit in a vessel, and…” She drew a small diagram on the chalkboard with exes and dashed lines and arrows, like a football coach mapping a play. “…we would also need a way to stabilize all the ambient magic in a small, contained area, so that when we actually get her in the damn thing, matter doesn’t collapse in on itself and combust and—"

Rue mimicked the sound of an explosion with her mouth, and even summoned a little miniature mushroom cloud in the air for further illustration.

Katie grinned, gesturing with the chalk. “—exactly. Not the kind of mess that would look good on you, darlin’…”

Rue snickered in response, and then added, “Might be there’s a local coven could negotiate some extra ambient with…?”

Double, triple shite…

And that’s when Oz finally stepped into the room, resigned in what he knew he had to do—but really not wanting to do it. “I know who ya need ta talk to, if it’s Ireland ya need ta go…”

Katie raised a curious brow at him, too deep into her scheming to be annoyed that he’d deliberately disobeyed her request to stay out of their way, today. And Rue, who was used to the way things were run in a safehouse, was not startled whatsoever by Oz showing up unannounced. 

Their eyes met, impish blue against smoldering green, and all Oz could think was, I chose you, that day, over my own blood. And Mae won’t ever forget it. His heart throbbed in his chest; that was the last time Oz had seen or spoken to Maeko, that day after Halloween at the FTB safehouse. When he’d put himself in front of her wand to protect some hedges that he barely knew. 

Oz hadn’t been able to get that wail of betrayal that Maeko had shrieked at him out of his head these long weeks. He’d disappointed her, and she’d abandoned him in the company of hedges—just like his father had done. 

So they’d chosen their sides, both shown their true colors when their backs were up against a wall. And though he ached without Maeko’s company every single day, looking back, Oz didn’t think he would have made a different choice. Self-sacrifice was the way he was wired. 

But now, as he’d resigned himself to willingly jump into harm’s way yet again, but on a whole different scale, Oz did feel regret that he wouldn’t get to see Maeko one last time. Because he knew, deep down, that when Morrigan got her hands on him again, he likely wouldn’t be coming back.

He looked over at Katie and gave her a sad, wincing smile, holding up his palms to flash HELLO and GOODBYE. “…an’ I know how ta get ya that power boost, too.”

@katiethxrne @outterridge

.

Katie had almost forgotten how refreshing it was to be around folk who didn't attend Hogwarts. There were a handful within the Department who attended other legacy institutions such as Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. Thus, they didn't exactly follow House Politics and also knew nothing of Katie during her years at Hogwarts.

It was nice to not be immediately spotted as the Gryffindor with more detentions than sense and could avoid the scrutiny of her previous reputation. It made it easier for Rue to simply trust that Katie knew what she was doing (she did), without being questioned of her intelligence or ability for having not been a Ravenclaw or Slytherin (the Hat offered Slytherin - she didn't look good in green). So as Katie clocked Rue's questions and comments, she wasn't expected to look up from the notebook in hand to answer, as if Katie had to try and multitask - her brain was hardwired to move fast, and she got bored if she had to do things one at a time, it's why class at Hogwarts was numbing.

"Gryffindor - brave, bold, and exceedingly reckless."

Ashworth could see through the veneer Katie had positioned around her and challenged her in those early days of mentorship to keep her mind sharp and moving, her hands working, her mouth on a constant stream. Three tasks at once, fighting and painting runes, brewing and plotting an attack on the blackboard, and paperwork while also writing alchemy papers and keeping a conversation going. All things that mattered in the field, in the laboratories, all the things that had moved Katie from lowly lab rat to dangerous Captain.

So, as she flicked through Yvonne's work, her fingers still making signs, and occasionally stopping to paint a rune in the air between herself and Rue, Katie could listen to how the Hedges worked and figure out their magic.

"...molecular manipulation, a regular scanning at work; it's too bad I never saw it in action. I'll bet it was something - energy and magic manipulation on this kind of level with a brain rivaling my own," Katie closed the journal with a smile, "I would have been terrified of her abilities."

Spirits - goddamn, it always came back to the dead with Katie, didn't it? Always came back around to those who fuck around with the River Styx, and Katie had dipped her toes in and was yanked out fasted than a tick on a July Tuesday. Blood Magic. Spirit Magic. Necromancy. Blood bonds. Katie knew this magic; she'd dabbled, studied, and knifed it in the cradle of a few dark magicians in her career. But Voodoo was a different breed.

"Anyone can be killed - no one is immortal, and Spirit Work is delicate but also incredibly strange. There are tales of souls being bottled into jars, genies in lamps using their magic to grant wishes to muggles, of trapping spirits in gems and locking them into caverns until their final resting place is forgotten and they are kept on the mortal plane." Katie could think of no worse fate than an eternity trapped in anonymity, used like a battery cell, fated to never truly die until the heat death of the universe or until the main character of a manga needs your power to reach their goals for Love and Friendship.

"Voodoo Smoodoo," Katie crowned, kicking up her feet, "I can trap a soul better than these swamp fucks - cut them off from the sacrificial lambs they used as a battery, and they'll cook."

Dimensional pockets, Genie Lamps, soul renting, and Spirit Trapping—it wasn't easy magical working, but then again, Katie hated being bored.

"We just need a place where we can't get... interrupted."

#p: katie #p: rue #better have conviction #december 2020 #katie's flat

[the-hobgoblins]

The Gentlemen | costume appreciation: 3/∞

Kaya Scodelario as Susie Glass in S1.E3 ∙ Where's My Weed At?

#y'all...this SHOW i can't stop thinking about it #so much muse big things are in the works over here just wait #face #maeko

[the-hobgoblins]

What’s your ideal meal?

"All I know is everything tastes pretty fuckin' fab when you burn as much spliff as I do."

#answered #anon night #maeko #drug mention cw

[the-hobgoblins]

Who in your family do you view as a role model?

"Now, what is that big fancy word your lot like to use in the Department for tosh like this...? Entrapment? Come on—you can do better than that."

#answered #anon night #maeko

[the-hobgoblins]

Oz: have you considered that your disgustingly putrid allure might be because you're part Veela?

"Awh! Are ya sayin' I'm as pretty as my sweet Peach? That's sweet."

#answered #anon night #oz #FUNNY because if we're going deep lore here...veela are technically like a distant fae cousin #piper #also 'disgustingly putrid allure' lmaooo

[the-hobgoblins]

Before they had even set foot in the opulent ballroom, Maeko decided that she’d been delusional to believe it would be a laugh to come here. 

She’d laughed out loud, when the invitation had arrived, with the pristine white of the thick envelope and parchment concealed inside clashing dreadfully against the grimy cobblestone of Borgin and Burkes’ front stoop upon which the invitation had been unceremoniously tossed. The dust and dirt that clung hungrily to the envelope had blackened Maeko’s fingers as she callously ripped it open, snorting at the idea that her actual presence would be at all desired at a posh soiree for purebloods; she’d be tolerated because of her lineage—her blood—at best.

Good breeding and bloodlines—that’s all that mattered to the antiquated elite who ran the wizarding world from its darkest corners. Money and blood—blood that Maeko was asked to spill at the door in order to prove its purity, that she was who she said she was. The brazen bigotry, the crude and archaic vulgarity of it, turned Maeko’s stomach so much that she couldn’t even think of anything cheeky and mocking to whisper to Justin about it as she grasped the gilded golden dagger that a house elf proffered up toward her, sliced a shallow cut along the meat of her palm, and smeared it disgustedly into the frozen stone maw of the gargoyle guarding the steps—a gargantuan beast with a sea creature’s tail coiled around its body and a lion-like head, its jaws open and waiting. Maeko thought vaguely that perhaps it was the same creature she’d seen printed in ink on the invitation, flanking the Saint Family crest. The gargoyle assessed her blood for an appraising moment before nodding its head, the heavy groan of stone and ancient magic reverberating through the still winter air. It barely glanced at Justin, Maeko’s ‘guest’ who would be seen as little more than her plaything for the evening, as it admitted them in from the cold.

Then came the whispers, almost immediately. It’d been long enough since Maeko had been dragged to one of these things that she’d somehow managed to forget the way her reputation preceded her. How it didn't matter that she’d actually washed and untangled her mane of curls, for once, and styled them into slick cascading ringlets over one shoulder. That she’d dug up a dress from a storage closet in Borgin and Burkes, which had somehow evaded confiscation by Max’s DMLE lapdogs when they tore the place apart from top to bottom, and it was cut in elegant draping of midnight blue silk and chiffon and woven through with Acromantula silk thread that glistened as Maeko moved, like a galaxy of stars. It didn’t matter how nicely she cleaned up, what a perfect gentleman her date was, or how diligently she’d endeavored to keep away from the movements and dealings and alliances of the criminal players in Knockturn Alley, while they grumbled and resented and plotted against her from the shadows, biding their time. 

All anyone saw when she walked into a place like this was Maeko Burke, delinquent, daughter of darkness. Inheritor of the underground world that all of these laced-up socialites from the society pages wanted—no, needed—to keep close, but refused to dirty their hands by associating with openly. A reminder of debts owed that had yet to be collected, and damning deals made in back alleys and under tables, and corruption and greed that lurked close to home. Of the grime that oozed beneath the over-polished exterior of it all. Maeko Burke walked in the door and people hissed under their breath, and glared.

Except for two women with dark hair, who’d been eyeing Maeko with curiosity rather than contempt from the outer edges of the room for the better part of an hour, as if waiting to catch her alone. Maeko didn’t recognize the pair, but couldn’t shake the prickling sensation that they were somehow familiar. The taller and sharper-featured one had a birthmark on her brow and a glint like that of a hawk in her dark eyes, while the daintier one looked born to wear lipstick and heels, but had an unsettlingly unpredictable, almost manic quality about her, like she might break into delirium at any given moment.

Maeko had done her utmost to dodge them, dipping out for a quick smoke on the fairy-lit veranda, but had accidentally bumped into a bumbling French peacock who was taking up far too much space while trying to pull off a tricky evasive maneuver on her way back in. There was champagne all over them both, but of course it was Maeko who was the clumsy whore and not this veritable preening cunt that didn’t know how to breathe without being in the way.

She rounded on him and had her fingers wrapped around her wand when yet another unwelcome prick shoved himself into a situation where he was neither wanted nor needed. She glared daggers at Roland, and very nearly snarled when she heard the words my flower come out of his mouth as a means of, apparently, referring to her.

Maeko was mentally parsing through which curse she could cast that would inflict maximum pain and humiliation on both men in one go, when the French wizard sputtered with affront while he squirmed and reddened in Roland’s grasp, “I beg your pardon, you gumshoe, but I believe it’s her you should be arresting! Don't they teach you dimwits how to recognize criminals in the academy in this country, or don’t you know who in seven hells that bitch is? I should have your badge and demand you be cited for so much as suggesting that I—”

It was very lucky for the man indeed that their conflict was interrupted by a swell of commotion when someone’s entrance to the ballroom caused a sudden fuss, distracting the poison-tipped daggers of magic that pricked at Maeko’s skin from within, itching to be unleashed so that she might slash out his tongue, and distracting Roland from simply strangling the life from his eyes where he stood. In the split second that Maeko and Roland’s gazes darted to the source of all the ruckus, the Frenchman managed to wriggle free of Roland’s grip and disappear into the crowd. 

Maeko took a breath, quieting the sulfurous magic within her until it returned to the low smoldering of resentment that she kept simmering low in her belly, that she’d been painstakingly keeping a lid on ever since her outburst with the Free Traders, after which she’d quarantined herself in isolation in Borgin and Burkes while she tried to contain what she feared might be happening with her magic—again. That was too close… Maeko thought with sickening unease, her insides churning with that thick coagulated dread like black tar, which Maeko had been weighed down by for the past month as it tried to pull her under. She would not let the darkness submerge her again—she was stronger than that, she had to be…

She snatched the champagne flute from Roland’s hand and forced a smirk upon her face as she sipped it, grabbing at the first distraction she could find. “Any particular reason you know that much about fucking shoes, Sidewinder?” she said in a mocking, condescending drawl.

She glanced again at the commotion toward the door, and finally noted the telling figures of a tall wizard with brown curls and a blonde in a figure-hugging champagne dress that Maeko would recognize from a kilometer away (as probably anyone would)—Xiomara Winters and Nathaniel Pinnock had decided to grace them all with an appearance. 

Maeko snorted, gulped down the rest of the champagne and then commented more to herself than Roland, “Fuckin’ hell, imagine every shit you took somehow turned out gold…” True, Maeko had developed a modicum more respect for Nathaniel Pinnock since getting to know and understand him better, and even more for Xiomara after the bullshit with Mathis and the crooked Knockturn cops, but even so—it was baffling to think how people like Maeko Burke and Roland Sidewinder would always be looked down on by these people, while a Pinnock could probably commit murder and still be fawned over by the high society sheep.

"Don't tell me you're bringing the toad," Holly Lockwood-Sidewinder stared at Roland, who fixed his tie in the mirror of the foyer. Ash was sitting on the small shelf beside the mirror, his familiar glaring up at his Aunt and ripping out a large croak of dissatisfaction. Aunt Holly nearly snarled at the magical amphibian.

"Steady on Auntie, Ash isn't going to be coming; he wouldn't like the spinning on the dancefloor."

Holly turned Roland around, fingers going to fix his tie before pinning it with the crossed lance and wizard's staff representing the Sidewinder family. "Best behavior, boy; we're here to make connections tonight and maybe find you a wife. You're well past the age for marriage." She tugged at his curls, tutting, "Enough with the whores and pitter-pattering around the Auror Offices, get your ass in gear, get some children, and a promotion."

So here Roland was, wanting a wife, wanting a new step in his Auror career, sipping on his third flute of champagne and wishing desperately that he had brought the damned toad. Ash was better company than half of the fuckers in the room. He'd already been forced into several over-perfumed arms and had washed his cheeks of their lipstick. None of them cared about Roland. They wanted the rich, pureblood Auror Captain. None of them knew they'd likely bury half the kids they bore him. Would likely bury him six feet under only a few years into their marriage. None of them knew he'd keep them knocked up and pregnant within seconds of giving birth.

Being a Sidewinder wasn't some gift; it was a death wish, and sometimes Roland wishes he was the squib between himself and Axel.

There was a rumpus beside the dance floor, some flouncy French wizard with his dress robes splashed with the fizzy champagne and soaking under his feet.

"You stupid cunt!" Roland almost turned away until he saw the dark curls and those damning blue eyes and moved through the crowd, which parted for him. "Do you even know how much these robes cost me, you trollop, you whore --"

"You're done," Roland grabbed the back of his neck with a grin. Finally, the night was getting interesting, "Also, your shoes are knockoffs anyway, Arragio Leathers only uses hippocampus scales on their boots, and anyone who took Care of Magical Creatures can tell that's grindylow scales. Honestly, your Family ought to be ashamed by your conduct. Now apologize to my flower before I decide to expel you and your frilly accent from my country."

Maeko looked ready to expel him off the planet, and Roland winked at her.

"What is your wish Mistress Burke. Shall I duel him in your honor or perhaps arrest him for unseemly conduct. Mayhaps you'd like him to bow and kiss your feet. Your wish is my command." He kept hold of the man, and wandlessly accioed another flute of champagne to his hand, taking a lazy sip.

@the-hobgoblins

#p: roland #shall we dance? #december 2020 #saint ball #elspeth owens #edwina owens #brief cameos #justin

[the-hobgoblins]

Yes, she had asked for it—demanded it, even. Yet still, Maeko was not fully prepared for what the onslaught of Penny’s senseless babbling, beautiful and desperate as the words were whined into Maeko’s ear, did to her body. She felt a rush of hot air like helium fill her up from the tips of her toes to the end of each coiled spring of black hair on her head, lifting her up up up to the crest of the horizon; the same rush she’d chased atop her broom as she careened like a comet in a blur of red and gold after the Golden Snitch, the same high she’d reached for as she climbed to the rooftop of the Gryffindor Tower and stood at the very edge of the world, like she might kiss the clouds. 

Penny’s supple thighs strained against Maeko’s hold, and Maeko tightened her grip and stretched her calf, holding the halfwolf open despite her struggle for release. “I know you do, pretty girl…” Maeko cooed, consolatory, as she nosed along Penny’s neck, nuzzling, intoxicated by the sweet sylvan musk that overtook her senses like wild-growing flora. It opened up Maeko’s synapses like a nicotine high, and she opened her mouth at the juncture of Penny’s neck and shoulder, sucking a lovebite beneath the press of her lips and teeth. “…and you will, soon, I promise…” 

Maeko stroked her fingers along the plush wet crease at the center of Penny’s spread legs, invigorated by the way her body spasmed every time Maeko so much as lightly grazed her sensitive clit, like touching an exposed wire, as she labored at the edge of release. Maeko traced a path in the opposite direction until she could curl two fingers inside of the blonde, stroking those soft inner walls just deep enough to still Penny’s incessant squirming. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Maeko praised in a low drawl, thrusting her fingers in just a few centimeters farther, “But I need you to hold on just a little bit longer, for me. Do you think you can do that?”

Penny let out an anguished sound, but gave a shaky nod, and Maeko slowly pulled her fingers out from inside of Penny and helped her to stand upright despite her wobbling knees. Maeko followed, scooting her ass off the edge of the desk to stand on solid ground, and was about to wipe her hand on her own denim-clad thighs when she noticed the way Penny’s eyes were locked on where the moonlight caught in the slick that coated Maeko’s fingers and palm, wide and wanting. Mae’s head lilted to one side and she smirked, holding up two fingers in offering. “Go on, then—see how good you taste.” 

The halfwolf’s eyes flashed hungrily and without hesitation, she opened up her mouth and swallowed around Maeko’s fingers, eliciting a low breathy moan from Maeko’s own throat. “Fuck…” Maeko practically growled as a surge of adrenaline pulsed through her body. She’d wanted to take this slow, to not get caught up in the frenzy like she always did and to make every moment count, but fuuuckin’ hell—Maeko needed to be fucking buried deep inside the tight wet heat of Penny Hawkins, and she needed it now. 

She felt fucking mad with ravenous desire as she pulled her fingers from Penny’s throat and crashed their mouths together, claiming, maneuvering them both back several clumsy steps across the tiny room until Penny’s back was at the arm of the long-suffering leather couch that listlessly sat guarding their space like an old junkyard dog. She pulled Penny’s blouse up and over her head and tossed it off to one side, then yanked off her own tee shirt and discarded it as well, for good measure. Penny reached between them to undo Maeko’s jeans, and Mae allowed her to get as far as unfastening the button before she grasped the Ravenclaw firmly by the arms and spun her around again, gently but decidedly coaxing her body to bend forward over the arm of the couch.

Penny’s back arched by some unspoken instinct, her ass poised up in the air to give Maeko the most enticing view right up her skirt. “Merlin, you are so fucking sexy, Penny—you know that, right? So good, such a perfect pretty girl…” She slid Penny’s white knickers down her legs, and then she couldn’t help herself—Maeko caressed her palm over the curve of one silky round cheek that was presented so beautifully before her, while the other hand she teased along Penny’s still-sopping slit. Penny mewled and writhed beneath Maeko needily, and Mae held her hand still long enough to ask, “Is this what you want, then? You want me to fuck you hard and fill you up?” Some choked-out words of insistent consent, and then, looking and sounding every bit a true domme, Maeko said, “Good. Then whenever you’re ready, I want you to come,” before plunging three fingers deep inside of Penny’s waiting cunt.

When Penny met Maeko’s eyes, her eyelids damp with sudden tears from the sheer need balling up in her belly she froze. These weren’t the eyes of a girl shoving Penny into a wall, not those of a man hauling her ass up on the bed, both their eyes betrayed a need for her body. But never that hunger that shone between the lust and possession, when their partner became a feast for them to consume. For a moment Penny forgot Maeko was pure wix, and instead found only the eyes of a dominate alpha staring down at her, and out of instinct averted her eyes and bared her throat with a whimper letting Maeko move her arouud, letting her skirt and shirt hike up to bare the soft pudge of her belly and the lace of her bra, corduroy skirt tucked into the waistband and her white panties practically sheer and clinging to her sopping cunt. She widened her legs, wanting nothing more than present herself to Maeko, show off how wet she was, how willing, how obedient - all that any alpha wolf would want from Penny.

Penny let out a sob as Maeko opened her up, like a flower blooming in the spring, petal soft and ripe to be picked by someone who found her pretty enough. The blonde let Maeko move her legs and body, how could she do anything but listen? Maeko’s voice dropped a few octaves, it rang with command and surety. Something at this moment Penny lacked - control. Her entire body a nerve, her chest fluttering, cunt flexing at the sheer emptiness it felt. Penny’s partner was here, she was around her, ordering her - Maeko’s orders rang true like a bell. Penny was a ball of desperation and wonton lust, Maeko’s taunts struck her brain like an ice-pick and caused her to pose herself so nicely. She would contort herself as Maeko asked, thrusting her chest out, widening her knees so Maeko could take whatever she wanted from her body. Penny just needed her hands, and her orders.

The wolfgirl whimpered as Maeko called her pretty, focusing on that single word until it became a mantra in her brain - pretty, pretty begging, pretty voice, pretty girl, pretty. Whatever amount of shame or nervousness, or hell even brains that may have been left, melted out of her ears when she heard Maeko’s voice rough voice, head lolling back so her nose could inhale the scent of Maeko’s hair. Penny felt no shame in the way her mouth opened, her tongue licking up the salty sweat building on her partner’s skin, wishing for a moment that Maeko had three hands - one to hold her open, one to touch her pussy, and one to shove into her mouth.

So when Maeko asked Penny to beg, she answered, begging and panting and whining and praying she was pretty enough, good enough, sweet enough for Maeko. The reward of Maeko’s fingers on her clit was enough to make Penny arch, squirming in Maeko’s iron grip, thrusting against the touch. There were actual tears building in Penny’s eyes from the sudden onslaught of pleasure, a rush of wetness dripping from her slit. 

“Oh fuck- fuck...” she pressed up against the continued pressure on her clit,  Maeko ple-please,” Penny humped the fingers pressed against her clit, eyes closing, stars forming behind her darkened eyelids as her voice broke around the syllabes of Maeko’s name as she circled her clit. “Maeko... please fuck me, fuck me please.” She needed to be filled, legs widening as she tried to show Maeko how good she’d be, how flexible she was, that hindbrain turned on that ordered Penny present like a good girl. “Maeko I need you. Don’t tease me, I need you to use me, please Mae -- fuck me miss, I wanna cum please fuck me I wanna cum for you so bad.” Penny was babbling now, riding on prayers and Maeko’s fingers.

In an act of desperation Penny grabbed Maeko’s hand, slick and sticky and attempted to press her down into her hole, “Please fuck me I wanna cum miss, lemme cum, fuck me.” a tear slipped from her eye as she searched for a release only Maeko could order or give.

#p: penny #lights out follow the noise #nsfw #sex cw #slight dom/sub cw #september 2020 #station sunbeam #den of magic #wet tunnel #VERY FKN WET

[the-hobgoblins]

Phoebe Waller-Bridge in FLEABAG | 2.01

#blood cw #this is relevant i swear #family #about #elspeth owens #god i loveeee pwb

[the-hobgoblins]

Rose Byrne in Physical | “Don’t You Want Me”

#family #about #edwina owens

[the-hobgoblins]

paxton-aeterna​:

“More fun now you’re here,” Pax managed to say in what just about passed as a normal voice. He was only lightly pink.

Pax crossed the room in one long-legged step, setting Oz carefully back to rights so he didn’t fall on his face as he moved to greet Maeko, fingers twining in her hair to reel her in like a slinky cat. It was too fucking perfect, the tight, brief little smacking sound of dropping a kiss on her head. Once, and then twice, of course, and then a third time, lingering, and finally a fourth, because who could resist, anyway.

“Forgotten m’always handsy,” he breathed right into her ear, grinning as she cringed away. She smelled like smoke and the dankness of the Alley, but Pax was used to both, used to the hand that lightly pushed at him when she’d had enough and used to the threatening gestures she made with her cigarette when he harassed her a few seconds longer. He relented, backing away, eyes all bright and dancing with a fond slyness.

Of course, this was when Maeko noticed the song on loop. Pax reached up to scratch at his nose awkwardly, conveniently avoiding her eyebrows to rifle through the food bags. “Er, I think I sort of mucked up your soundboard—thing, Maeko. It won’t stop.“ Over the squeak of styrofoam and plastic, he said, “I think it’s possessed.” He got in half a thought about just how unclean his hands were before it slid clean away from him. “Like your painting,” Paxton said, glancing at Oz. His hair was sticking up on one side in a truly bizarre arrangement of sweat and frizz.

With chopsticks, Pax tucked happily into the containers marked specially with a little V, as both Maeko and Oz talked over each other to explain again how every piece of furniture they had was actually haunted, and he said well yes but that’s not quite the same thing as possessed though is it, and they rehashed new-old arguments with a patter that was still surprising but becoming steadily more familiar. He wasn’t quick enough to keep up with the two of them, sometimes, but that was alright. It was easy to let his thoughts drift warm and surface-content, and carefully not think about how he instinctively left half the food in his containers for someone else.

FIN

[end]

#an historic para thanks jer <3 #p: pax #old places make spaces #september 2020 #station sunbeam #wet tunnel #den of magic

[the-hobgoblins]

paxton-aeterna​:

Oz hemmed and hawed, making a performance of it. Paxton waited, taking the spliff and turning it between his fingers. There wasn’t a lot left, and he didn’t even think to share. It only let him inhale and exhale twice before it burned down to a useless stub, but it was just enough to sate him. Enough to slow his thoughts and keep him floating in this moment instead of returning to the real world and its consequences. Oz had already sucked his brain clear out of his head, and now he could feel his bones lose their sharp edges in real time.

Oz began literally climbing the furniture, cagey at the question, moving away from him. Paxton watched indulgently, waiting for Oz to stop talking before he drifted closer again. He flicked the stub away and grasped Oz’s hands in his, drawing back to toy with Oz’s balance. He grinned as Oz listed towards him and pulled harder, stepping forward to catch Oz tilting into his arms.

“Maybe I like it,” Pax exhaled smoke into his hair. “Maybe I like you.”

He looked down at Oz. His blue eyes were big, and maybe it’s how young that made him look, but Paxton felt strong, in control enough to be the one to lean down and kiss him. This thing, the sex, the intoxication and the rush of connecting with someone so quickly and completely, it could be another way of avoiding real life. He’d never done a particularly good job at avoiding the other ways. But it didn’t feel wrong. Not consuming and frightening, not like—

“Your aura, it’s like meeting a vortex,” Paxton said, thinking then of the tassels and chains he’d seen lurking underneath Oz’s sigils on their first meeting. “Maybe nothing functions how it’s supposed to, but that’s only because you make your own gravity. And I like it. It’s nice. S’not bad—it feels good to just…” He leaned away, stroked a hand down the side of Oz’s neck. He had a vague sense that he wasn’t saying the nicest things, but they were honest truths. “Feels really strong today.” And right—he needed to do something about that. Eventually he’d go home and take care of a cleansing, but he wasn’t ready to be without Oz yet. Or—he frowned. “I’m famished. D’you think Maeko’s forgotten?”

If Oz had something coy and flirtatious to quip back, it was lost with the press of Pax’s lips to his. The world-off-its-axis feeling of tumbling, falling. The stuttered double-thump of his heartbeat in his chest.

You like this too much.

But there was something to be said for that intoxicating rush, that masochistic thrill, of doing something you knew you shouldn’t. Things that were foolish, or dangerous, or indulgent. Things that could hurt you.

And it’s not like Oz had ever been all that good at control.

He leaned into Paxton’s touch like a reflex. “‘Ya make your own gravity’—I like the sound a that…” And okay—Oz may not have really understood what Pax was getting at, he was unschooled on concepts like auras and kindness and vortexes and truth. But it was the first time someone had talked about the strange magic that clamored inside of him without making it sound like a mistake, or a weapon, or a liability.

Just a thing that existed, like anything else.

Oz smiled, and opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could get there—

“Forgotten how handsy you get when you’ve got munchies, Earth Child? How could I ever…” said Maeko from where she’d apparated in, two large plastic bags filled with cartons of carry-out dangling from each hand, like a demon summoned by their own name.

Oz, who was well-used to Maeko frequently, silently appearing from the shadows at Borgin and Burkes and interjecting in the middle of conversations as if she’d been there the whole time, was not startled or thrown by this entrance, and he merely craned half his body around to smirk at her and say, “Smells good, Mae.”

She gave a tiny twitch of a shrug and said, “S’not Janice’s dandelion soup, but it’ll do…” She stepped forward two paces and dropped the bags unceremoniously onto the table that Oz was still half-on, before sliding up onto a corner of it and waiting not one single additional second to light a cigarette and take a drag. The smoke made Oz’s mouth water even more than the food, and Maeko gave him a knowing smirk before handing it over and ripping into the carefully-tied-up bags. “You two have fun, then?” she said, hardly even trying to mask the tease in her tone nor her amusement at their expense.

And yet. There was something so…unselfish, about how Maeko was with Pax. Morrigan had liked to possess people, to own them entirely—their lust and attention and fear and affection, every drop of what they had to give was hers and hers alone.

But Maeko didn’t act like there was some line being crossed, with any of this. No tug-of-war, no pissing contest with those she loved. What’s mine is yours seemed to be how Maeko and Paxton’s relationship was built—a dynamic that was, perhaps, acquired with time and experience. It made Oz wonder, not for the first time, what they’d been like before.

Maeko was halfway through a bite of food when she made a face, her head cocking to one side and black curls cascading downward. She swallowed, gesturing toward the sound booth with a plastic fork. “Why d’you have The Sundays on a loop?”

#p: pax #old places make spaces #september 2020 #station sunbeam #wet tunnel #den of magic

[the-hobgoblins]

katiethxrne·:

…

“I’ve always been told I’d look fetching in green.” Katie drawled, her grin splitting across her face like a crack in the sky, Oz had that same feeling that Mae did, that light shadowy sparkle - they crackled with a joyous electicity Katie soaked in. Katie always thrived off of love - platonic, romantic, complicated. She was lustful for connection, catching it with her hands and wringing them tight not unlike a child unaware of their own strength with a beloved pet they didn’t know could die. “Didja know that the Sorting Hat was a hung jury on where I’d go? Slytherin or Gryffindor, stayed on my head longer than anyone in my year. So long I think my classmates worried they’d gotten a muggle inside our stone walls or Minnie had otherwise fucked up. That lump of fabric has hated me ever since.”

‘Vindictive. Self-serving. Ambitious. Starving.’ 

The Gryffindor tilted her head to the side, green locks falling in front of her eyes, fingers tingling and curling as if ready to start throwing punches as the next man in leather straps. “That comrade got his ass thrashed by me Sunday last,” she sniffed, flicking her hair away, “broke his cheekbone with my heel. His master wasn’t pleased with his showing, I’m surprised he’s been allowed off her short leash. “ Seren had given Ashworth a compliment on Katie’s skill, even if she had fallen to some bitch in the Combat Department. But the bruises were kissed better by Max which always made a loss feel like a proper war won.

“Between you and me,” Katie pulled Oz down, cupping his ear as if to tell a secret, “I do need a bit of help. Always good to keep my street liaisons fresh even if I don’t do much street walking these days.” Not that she ran many patrols when she was a young officers, sequestered in morgues and laboratories. Taught to pick apart a brain with a scalpel and wand while their criminal breathed. Learned how to taste the magic in the air, sealed into blood and bone, find the scars of murder on a shattered soul-heart. Patrols and streetwork was beneath Ashworth’s girl.

“How about you and me talk a walk around Mr. Pryce, and you tell me what the latest gossip is within the Alley… I can make it worth your while of course, all official and the like.” Her voice lilted up, making obvious who was under her banner. With her name and titles and face all over the news in recent days it wouldn’t be hard for the rumor to spread Katie was Hunting on the cobblestone. Their Media Liaison was going to have a whole litter of hippogriffs over the matter - just the rating boost the Aurors needed with the killings and attacks and bodies piling higher than several Katie’s standing atop each other. 

Falling into easy banter with Katie was as natural as breathing, like they’d known each other all their lives; it was a testament to the depth and tenacity of Maeko’s bond with the auror that Oz was able to meld himself so seamlessly into the women’s existing relationship, so much like siblings in all but actual blood.

And if he understood virtually none of Katie’s confession about her Hogwarts days (he didn’t), you’d never know it as he raspberried a dismissive stream of air through this lips and breezily volleyed back, “Pfff, that ol’ demoted earmuff? As far as accessories go I’d say it’s got about as much insight as the Queen’s flossiest unmentionables, and only half as much dignity…” Oz had always found that if you gave off the impression of knowing exactly what you were talking about, it rarely mattered whether or not you actually did. But while Oz may not have known much about talking hats and Hogwarts houses, he had heard the story of Maeko’s sorting into an unfriendly house—and how there’d been but one person who’d welcomed her.

He hung a fraternal arm over Katie’s shoulders and added, “…besides, I know of at least one wiry young thing who’da been lost without ya. Stunnin’ good looks, so’s I’ve been told. Runs in her family, they say…” He winked down at Katie, and then drawled a brassy good afternoon ta ya, lovely day isn’t it? to a scowling, buttoned-up witch walking by pushing a pram; she gave an indignant huff of insult and walked faster, which made Oz smirk with amusement.

“Well, I suppose that explains why he’s on the prowl for some easy prey…” Oz said, even more glad now that he’d managed to dodge Pierce before taking the brunt of the auror’s wounded pride. He leaned down to listen eagerly to Katie’s proposition, intrigued. He grinned brightly, “I’d be delighted, a’course! Should make for a glowing addition ta my already substantial resume of scandal, betrayal an’ intrigue…” With a flourish, Oz gestured for Katie to lead the way, and then fell into step with her. “Now then, where ta begin?”

#c: katie #september 2020 #pre-serial killer attack #diagon alley #the most extra person

[the-hobgoblins]

paxton-aeterna​:

“Yeah,” Pax breathed. “I’d like that.” He bit his lip in renewed concentration as he closed his slick hand back around Oz’s cock, jacking it in an almost-even rhythm this time. Oz just melted and writhed under his hands, eyes closed. Paxton pushed closer, nuzzled at Oz’s jaw until he tilted his mouth to meet Paxton’s. Soon enough, Oz was muttering against his mouth in warning with the same something—it was something small, some inflection—in his voice as last time, and Pax sped up his strokes until Oz arched into his grip and came in Paxton’s hand. Again! His brain cheered. Oz magic—because that was definitely what it was, Paxton was sure now—sparked through Pax’s entire body like an current, lifting the hair on his arms. It sent the lights on the fritz again.

The flavor of his own come still lingered in Pax mouth. When Pax had been younger and uselessly crushing on everyone who passed him by in the hall, driven insane by hormones and horny all the time but too polite to do anything about it, his fantasies had been full of the heat and throes of passion: snippets focused squarely on the mid-action part of sex. Now he’d found that there was a whole other realm of intimacy in the aftermath that he’d never realized was part of the deal. Watching Oz accidentally smear come through his stomach hair while the sweat dried on his chest and his face went from reddish to light, rosy pink was simultaneously sort of gross but also adorable. It made Paxton want to mess him up again. Gently.

He let go of Oz’s cock and gingerly touched Oz stomach, spreading his fingers through the splatter, resting his palm on Oz’s belly and feeling him breathe. “This is,” Pax said, only betraying himself with a flicker of tongue over his lips.“That was—literally one of the best things that’s ever happened,” Pax eventually got out, rubbing over his thighs with shaky fingers.

In the background, the song abruptly came to an end in the middle of a chorus. Then it started up at the top again, with that wobbly, vaguely porny intro. And again. Had the same song been playing this whole time? Hrm. That didn’t seem right.

Paxton twisted and reached up behind him, slapping at a few buttons hopefully. Nothing happened. He blew out a breath and bit his lip. Honestly, everyone liked The Sundays, but it couldn’t play forever. Right? “Er…do you know how to work this?” Oz started to pull away and Paxton quickly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, transparently desperate to keep him where he was a moment longer. “S’ok, nevermind, I, I’ll—” Paxton produced his wand from where it had been digging into the underside of his thigh and lazily sent a spell behind him. The music came to a halt. “There, see? That—”

The song started playing again. They both stared at the table with dubious expressions.

“Huh,” Pax said after a moment. “Well. D’you think it’s possessed?“ Paxton asked, looking up at him playfully. "You know, like the painting in your flat?” He’d had a stoned argument with Maeko about it once. We do actually have haunted paintings, Pax, and that one is not haunted, it’s just animated. No, no, I really think it is. It feels terribly upset. Maybe you should call a wizard exorcist or something.

Sighing, Paxton relented enough to allowed Oz to move off him so that they could inspect the table. Together, they tried a few buttons with no result. The disc was stuck. It continued playing, repeating the same song, cutting out at odd times. Oz suggested turning the power off, but Pax insisted that no, compact discs were extremely fragile and would disintegrate under the slightest amount of stress. Or even worse, it might scratch. And Piper would know it was him. Eventually, they turned the volume down so that Maeko might not notice and left the booth quite innocently.

The tiny common room smelled even more strongly of smoke. Pax mouth and chin were warm and buzzy, his thoughts jumbled. He craved a joint now so badly he was liable to start rummaging through drawers. “Oz.” As Paxton closed the door behind them, he turned his head slowly, met Oz’s eyes. “Your magic just do that sometimes?”

“Am I meant ta believe you think only one a them ghastly artworks in Mae’s Olde Ancestral Home is possessed?” Oz drawled with lackadaisical, post-coital cheek. Gods, but he was really disinclined to move. Or for Pax to stop touching him.

But alas, all good things must come to an end. Their disheveled clothes were wistfully righted and haphazardly smoothed, sticking in places that would be a sweetly clandestine reminder, later. And Oz’s rudimentary knowledge of the sound booth equipment meant they had to leave the track a little bit sticky, too—metaphorically speaking, of course.

There was a half-smoked spliff—very obviously rolled by Maeko’s expert hand—that had been miraculously abandoned in an ashtray, and that Oz felt like he’d earned. He plucked it up and offered it politely to Paxton as he said facetiously, brows waggling, “Do what?” But he held onto the act for only a moment before relenting, and adding with a smirk, “Oh, ya mean go all wonky? Cause things around me ta fritz ’n frazzle? Wreak general havoc on earthly order?” He hopped up onto a table like a stray cat on a fence, folding up his legs so that his knees stuck out at acute angles. “M’afraid so, yeah—kinda my calling card, actually…” Oz held out his hands, palms facing up, the matte black of the inked tattoos absorbing the light. “…these’re meant ta help—sigils, we call ‘em. Lotsa hedges have ‘em, ta help with certain spells—though I’d wager most a them didn’t get theirs at eleven…”

Oz flashed Pax a playfully woe is me expression, indulging in the story’s inherently confessional quality. “And they do help, mostly. Ta keep a lid on the chaos…except when there’s a particularly ravishing knob in front a my face, evidently.” He winked—wicked, affectionate, teasing. 

Then, after a moment, he asked, “Does it freak you out? S’alright if it does—can’t say I’ve met many who’ve known what ta make of someone like me…”

#p: pax #old places make spaces #september 2020 #station sunbeam #wet tunnel #den of magic

[the-hobgoblins]

I love dressing up, but I do find the red carpet thing quite stressful. When I went to Venice Film Festival last month to promote ‘Wuthering Heights,’ I told my boyfriend beforehand ‘I will be a nightmare, I will cry, I will be nervous.’ Actually once I was there, it was fine.

#face #maeko #i am UNWELL

[the-hobgoblins]

halfbreedhawkins​:

Penny could not help the tiniest of whimpers that exited her lips when Maeko took a hold of her chin,  moving the young woman like a pliant thing. The halfbreed was focused on how Maeko’s curls felt against her cheek, the sharp lines of her shoulders and the coolness of her palms. Even tucking her cheek against the sudden familiar touch.

The Hawkins girl had always been a touch easy in bed, easy to tease, easy to make blush, easy to get her squirming. Helle said it was a product of her ‘blatant self esteem issues considering how much of an ugly duck you were’ while Iris would snap spells at their shared cousins brain for saying something Penny always believed - she was the least pretty of the Hawkins girls and boys. Something about Penny always so awkward and flushed, always unpolished in the most social situations, always unsure where to put her hands or how to act outside of a fit of political passion or werewolf gathering. She never fit, her clothes, her skin, her bloodline, even Hogwarts. Penny was always a bit too much, a bit too loud, too angry, too proud - take your pick and Penny always had been. 

As Helle said, ‘you’re such fucking bottom cause you can’t help but be the loudest bitch in the room so someone has to fill your mouth’ which always got her dumped in a river. But goddamnit, sometimes her terrible cousin was right, and Maeko’s hand winding her hair was enough to stop her brain and let herself be steered.

Her legs over Maeko’s lap, her blue corduroy skirt hiking up around Penny’s thighs as she was pulled closer, hot breath wafting over her mouth before being plundered by the Gryffindor. She fell easy into her arms, letting one hand knot the front of Maeko’s shirt in a desperate gasping hold and the other found itself pressed against the wall for balance.

Until Maeko pulled her fucking hair and Penny obediently opened her mouth, Mae swiping her tongue along hers fingers grasping. Penny couldn’t help arching into the hard touch, enough to bruise, enough to leave proof of their encounter. The Ravenclaw let out a sharp moan as Maeko’s hips jerked up and she couldn’t help her own hip roll, the gentle brush of Maeko’s jean against her cotton underwear making her head grow fuzzy as she chased that feeling.

“Mae…” Penny panted as they parted, but her eyes were growing hazy as Maeko’s fingers continued to hold her hips steady and rough, “…Mae,” it was just her name. Should she move her hands now? Should she continue this desperate grind?  Was she being too obvious, not obvious enough? What if she was too heavy? Was Maeko grabbing her so tight because she put too much pressure on her thighs? Her brain flashing between a lovely haze of arousal and the sharp understanding that Penny might be mucking up, and it was too much to bear. She didn’t want to be too much or too little, just right, she needed to be just right. Penny, still matching the movements of Mae’s hips, let out a pitiful moan before kissed up Maeko’s wonderfully slender neck and sucking a tiny hickey into a lovely pulsepoint that fluttered like a rabbit’s heart beneath Maeko’s jaw.

“…please,” Penny finally asked, hoping for some level of guidance as she rutted against Maeko’s lap, “Mae please… tell me…” the sharp pain from the hand tangled in her hair made Penny’s eyes roll back as she continued her desperate grind, her panties soaked through and sticking. 

As Maeko hummed in pleasure, the pale column of her throat stretched and vibrated beneath where Penny’s mouth was opened over it, the halfwolf’s tongue stroking long, wet stripes along the skin that seemed to draw the rhythmic thumping of Maeko’s pulse. Her fingers tightened over the curve of Penny’s hips as she pulled the girl’s body against her own, the ache for skin-to-skin contact heightened by the few layers of fabric between them, the grooves of the corduroy and the top hem of Penny’s skirt digging angry creases into Maeko’s palms with the strength of her grip.

Maeko was so caught up in the heated fervor that Penny’s moaning of her name didn’t immediately register as something requiring a response. ‘Please…’ Penny was pleading, asking her something, and Maeko eased out of the fever-lust slightly, her grip on Penny loosening as she reached back to press a hand against a crumpled airing schedule on the table and sit up a little. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve…”  Maeko began, thinking that perhaps she’d gotten some wires crossed, read a few signals wrong and gotten carried away.

But Penny was gazing at her, flushed and keen and wanting; there was no mistaking that look, as she hung off of Maeko’s every breath. What are you asking me? Maeko wondered as Penny squirmed in her lap, her ears turning red.

‘Please, tell me…’ Penny said, and at last some slow-grinding cogs slotted into place inside of Maeko’s head.

Maeko was plenty used to being in control during sexual encounters, but it wasn’t ever something that she consciously, actively thought about. More often than not, a maddening buildup of well-laid teasing smirks and grazing touches would crescendo into a frantic tussle, a madcap release of passion and hormones wherein clothes were torn off and skin was scraped and bruised in their frenzy to fuck fast and hard, like some feral depraved beasts. That’s the way Maeko always drove it, when she and Justin would chase each other through the woods and tumble for dominance like animals in the dirt; when Tucker would press her up against the wall and she’d rip her own stockings into scraps in her haste to wrap her legs around his back and ride; when she’d pull a stranger by their shirt scruff into the darkest, dankest corner of the club so they could shove their hands gracelessly down Maeko’s pants while their teeth clacked together over the heavy thumping of the bass.

So to some degree, Maeko enjoyed driving people crazy with wanting her, and she was quite good at it. But as she looked at Penny watching her, waiting and so willing to be commanded at a single word from Mae, a new sensation stretched and warmed deep within her belly. Something hot and fierce and powerful spread through Maeko’s body, stalking like a lion and in no hurry. Her pupils dilated, and a feline expression crossed over her face; it felt intuitive, rising to the occasion of being truly dominant, like it was something that had always been dwelling within Maeko in hibernation, lying in wait until the right person called it forth.

“Oh, I know what you want…” Maeko drawled, her voice a low and raspy, commanding thrum. She dragged her fingers along the curve of Penny’s flushed jaw, over her glistening pink lips. “You’re pretty when you beg…” she said, and then, “…turn around.” Maeko shifted on the desk and let her legs hang over the edge of it before maneuvering Penny flush into her lap, her back pressed to Maeko’s chest this time. She trailed her fingers feather-light around Penny’s kneecaps, up and into the crease between her soft inner thighs before she coaxed the halfwolf’s legs wide open.

She wrapped one hand around Penny’s thigh, just above the knee, and held it back in place, while Penny’s opposite leg Maeko held still by pressing her ankle to Penny’s calf. Her other hand Maeko traced further up still, until it circled over the fabric of Penny’s knickers, which was damp beneath Maeko’s fingertips. “You’re so wet…” Maeko muttered; at first she was just making an observation, but at the way Penny whined and shuddered in her lap, she felt desire dripping through her, pooling low in her body, and a smirk spread over her lips. Intentional and sultry, Maeko said, “…did you get all wet thinking about me, Penny?” She held Penny’s legs open while she spoke, her fingers teasing along the inner edges of the underwear that clung to the highest points of Penny’s thighs. “…about how badly you want me to touch you?”

Penny let out another whimpering sound, and Maeko moved her lips to the Ravenclaw’s ear and said, “…then let me hear that pretty beg again.” Immediately, without a second’s hesitation, Penny cried out, “Please touch me, Maeko—” and the rush that flooded through Maeko was so satisfying and intense that she exhaled hot, heavy breath over Penny’s neck in her haste to acquiesce the girl’s plea, shoving the knickers to one side and dipping into the sweet, slick crease of Penny’s lips, pressing her middle finger to Penny’s swollen clit and radiating with want as Penny yelped and rutted against her hand in response.

#WE HAVE MADE IT FOLKS #p: penny #lights out follow the noise #nsfw #sex cw #september 2020 #station sunbeam #den of magic #wet tunnel

[the-hobgoblins]

paxton-aeterna​:

At the first touch of Oz lips, Pax made a soft noise and curled up, kind of, his hands flexing on Oz’s shoulders—not like he was trying to get away, more like he didn’t know what to do with how it felt. “Oh, fuck,” Paxton gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and then Oz took his dick all the way into his mouth. Paxton shifted a bit closer, getting Oz’s mouth in a good position to sink into, oh fuck that felt so incredible, the way Oz’s throat spasmed and rolled with contractions.

Pax felt static thrill over his arms, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as magic coiled around and inside him. It wasn’t his. It was whipping around him, like air rushing in his ears. The lights flickered as Pax canted his hips up again on instinct, chasing Oz’s mouth down again only to feel him pulling away. He opened his eyes to see little orbs corkscrewing wildly in midair. Ah, hang on, Paxton thought, and felt some ideas connect in his brain, like a daisy chain finally coming together, so he down looked to Oz—

Oz looked back up at him. Breathing hard and uneven, Pax looked down to see that Oz’s face was flushed, his eyes nearly closed, lips red and puffy. The deep, gasping breaths Oz sucked in only served to get Pax hotter, just like the flush of his lips. But nothing hit him harder than when Oz pulled away to give himself a bit of space, trailing a line of spit that quickly broke and fell. Oz’s brows were drawn together, and his lips and chin were wet. It was the most beautiful thing Pax had ever seen, and he just wanted to touch so badly, he literally couldn’t think of anything else—

Paxton’s stomach jumped at the touch of Oz’s warm hand, so much that he knocked his own tailbone against the edge of the desk, just that keyed up. The shade of red that Paxton turned as Oz spoke to him, petting him soothingly, was almost alarming. It embarrassed him, now that he had a moment to realize—how quickly he seemed to lose his sense of, well, sense, and how Oz could clearly see that too. It felt unkind of him, somehow, and not at all how he meant to be, but all sense of what he meant to be just seemed to pack up and leave in the face of having Oz infront of him. Paxton wondered if Oz had also gentled him this way last time, but he couldn’t recall. You’re really lovely. He could feel his cheeks get hot and the small of his back break out in sweat, flushing with embarrassed and pleased warmth. Oz’s face was pinked too, wetness beading in his dark eyelashes, in the corners of his hazy eyes, gleaming in the low light as Oz gazed at him with such blatant adoration it made Pax’s heart stop.

Determinedly avoiding Oz’s messy mouth, which he knew would likely shut down all his willpower again in moments, Paxton carded his fingers instead hesitantly through his stubble and Oz’s hair, then rested them at his nape. At Oz’s soft sigh, he rubbed over the spot. Words, he thought. He needed to find at least a few them; they clearly proved no trouble for Oz, but for him, somehow, they vanished. “S’this—is this alright, is this what you like?” he asked, incredulity running through him, voice probably not even loud enough over the music. He tried to keep his eyes on Oz’s, but his mouth was a wet and shining red mess, and Paxton couldn’t stop fucking looking.

Oz, of course, noticed. He did that thing with his eyebrows that he liked to do which made Paxton’s nose wrinkle in a little laugh, and sort of nuzzled into Paxton’s hand silently, and smirked—which, again, Paxton thought weakly to himself: he didn’t have an inch of forcefulness or cruelty in him, really he didn’t, he’d rather die than make anyone do anything—but when Oz smirked it only made him want to haul Oz bodily away and take those edges off it slowly and methodically until it was just a smile, a slow and tired and honest and sated thing. These people, the whole family, Tucker, Katie, Ains even, honestly, it drove him batty that he couldn’t just hold them—where he wanted—Pax’s hand slid up into the back of Oz’s hair, clutching at it, needing the grounding contact, grateful that Oz let him take it.

Wanted him to, even. It wasn’t long before Oz was bobbing his head again, deep and steady, except for when Paxton held him back, and then he was working his tongue against Pax until the messy, spit-slick glide of his flushed lips was almost too good. The tight clutch of his throat was maddening to begin with, and Paxton had to work to stay standing when Oz pressed deeper, so he had to hold him back occasionally. Now that Pax had his head on, it was impossible to not notice how much Oz seemed to be enjoying himself. All his little noises were muffled by the music and his mouthful, but his pace never faltered, like eager clockwork. He wasn’t shy either, his tongue working around at the end of every steady suck. It was so good, Paxton couldn’t help but groan, his head tipping back as his hips kicked.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore; he wanted to see, but he was just too overwhelmed again too quickly with how it felt. Moments ago he’d felt selfish, but now didn’t think he’d ever felt quite this helpless, or at least not quite in this way—he curled his fingers in Oz’s hair, two fistfuls, and tugged. The events of the past few hours were completely forgotten, tension gone from his body. The sensory overload now was a sweet one, just what he needed. He was used to getting lost in the sensations of kissing another person, was even sort of aware of how nonverbal and amazingly stupid it made him, but the lure of this was different: it’s a sinking sand, nowhere to find a purchase and every movement dragging him deeper.

Desperate to show his appreciation, unsure how, he combed his fingers through Oz’s dark curls and thumbed Oz’s sideburns, gasped out, “Yeah, good, how’s it—so good when you do it,” encouraging and mindless, laughing breathlessly. It was barely a fraction of the feedback Oz deserved for everything—Paxton was realizing just how out of his league he was here—but specifically for how unbelievably good Oz’s throat felt working around the head of Pax’s cock.

Paxton opened his mouth to say something more, but Oz kept moving down and he stuttered out a low moan instead–he tipped his head back again and breathed raggedly, hair sliding over his shoulders and down his back. “Don’t move, don’t move,” Pax stammered, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. He felt as if he had no control over the sounds leaving him, letting them go as easy as any breath. His hands were shaking. “I’m–please just stay still—” Oz mouth was pulling the words right out of him and all Pax could do was moan, sliding further down to get him deeper. “Oz, I’m—” and he gave up his struggle and pitched forward, bracing himself against Oz’s shoulders only to pull away too slowly and come with a shudder and a snap of his hips.

Oz let him pull back but didn’t move away, didn’t stop looking at him once while Pax was coming. He’d moved his hands to Pax’s thighs, more clinging to him than trying to hold him still. Oz looked halfway to drunk, a little satisfied and vacant, chin marked with drool and shining wet with his own cum. Paxton did this time what he’d wanted to before and wiped at it gently with a sweaty thumb, smearing more than cleaning, and Oz only looked up at him.

His stomach dropped; that was both gross and so fucking hot Paxton thought he was genuinely in danger of keeling over. His vision swam and he groaned, using the desk to lever himself down to his knees. He dragged a sweaty Oz into him by the wrist, the texture of a brand of a bird under his fingers. Pax shuffled between his legs, and set about rucking up Oz’s shirt so that he could see the tattoo he’d caught glimpses of before. He sat back on his heels, feeling his legs still twitching, and pulled Oz over him by the hips so that he could rest weight somewhat on Pax’s thighs. Even after two seconds on the floor, Paxton flinched to realize Oz’s knees had to have been screaming. “There you go. There—c’mere—” He panted, opened his mouth a little, letting Oz in, and then he could taste it, slick and bitter and so dirty. “You’re gonna—mmfgh, let me—” Pax couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel his feet, couldn’t tell if he was sorry for anything, couldn’t believe Oz just kept letting him, just—"you’re gonna kill me, that was, you’re so good at that, I can’t even believe—”

He was doubly sure now, compared to last time, that everything he could do next would be hopelessly clumsy and unimpressive to Oz, but he did his best not to worry. It’d turned out fine before, after all, but if this thing with Oz kept happening, then Pax was floundering around without a map here, and it bothered him. If he could get a real handle on what he was supposed to be doing, how this all was supposed to work, the technique that Oz had, then he could probably keep this whole arrangement going. So, well, not to put too fine a point on it, but he would have to download some porn about it later, or talk to someone.

He kissed at Oz’s chin and the stray droplets on his neck, on autopilot, licking his lips and shoving a hand down to, belatedly, undo buttons and zipper, hearing his own voice gasp ragged when he twisted his wrist around Oz. It felt good in his hand, after feeling so overwhelmed. Heavy and real. “What can I do?” he asked, voice feeling more hoarse than he anticipated. “Tell me.” He kept his other hand supporting the arch of Oz’s back, pushing his shirt up just to see his stomach muscles shifting, face slowly migrating into Oz’s armpit as he watched his hand work up and down, Oz’s hips chasing Pax’s hand as it moved up, like he wanted to stay completely inside. “Yeah? That alright?” His restlessness and general trembling lack of coordination put a hitch in Oz’s otherwise steady rhythm, but Oz didn’t seem to mind much based on the noises he made, which did weird things to Pax’s already way too soft dick.

‘Is this what you like?’

That question echoed over and over and over again in the back of Oz’s mind like a song stuck on repeat as he lavished his tongue all over Paxton’s cock, drew it deep into his throat and swallowed around the head of it, which made Pax blurt out beautiful breathy expletives and tug on Oz’s hair in a way that stung so delightfully, each little burst of pain a jolt of dopamine that zipped down from his scalp to Oz’s own stiffening erection between his legs like little electric shocks.

Is this what you like?

Yes, he did like this—everything in Oz’s body was communicating that pretty fucking enthusiastically. He liked watching Pax get lost in feeling. He liked working Pax up to the point he was babbling and desperate and then simmering back, ebb and flow, rinse and repeat. He liked feeling Pax’s slightly trembling thighs beneath Oz’s hands and the pubic hair that tickled his nose. He liked looking up and watching Paxton’s face twist up as Pax tried in vain to outrun his own release nipping at his heels.

And yet, it wasn’t a question Oz was accustomed to hearing very often. What he liked and what he wanted were generally the least important considerations in any given scenario.

There was gratification, obviously, in doing something that was asked of him, and doing it, like—mind-blowingly well. There was relief, too, in turning another human being into just as much of a needy, indecent mess as Oz had often been told he himself was; it was impossible to truly be alone in the world, if you could prove that everyone—at their core—was just like you were, and you knew exactly how to draw it out of them.

And so the satisfaction of a job well done, a temporary reprieve from loneliness—those were the associations Oz had always had with doing this. But as for what he liked?

That question was still circling around his mind like a shark in the water when Paxton started begging Oz to stay still, before burying himself in the wet depths of Oz’s mouth and emptying an oil spill of warm cum down the back of his throat, making Oz feel soaked and saturated by that heady satisfied good job feeling.

But it wasn’t until Paxton reached down to so fucking sweetly press the pad of his thumb against Oz’s cum-slick, swollen lips—genuinely the most romantic thing anyone had ever done to him, it made him want to melt into a fucking puddle all over the ground—that Oz actually started to realize how totally fucked he was. The salty-sweet taste of Paxton’s pleasure on his tongue, that eager awestruck look in Pax’s eyes, the tingly warm feeling that radiated out from where Paxton's hand was cupping his stretched-sore, spit-stained jaw—all of these were things Oz liked. In fact, he liked all of this way too fucking much that he was at risk of drowning in it.

(He did not notice how the air around them seemed to vibrate oddly for a prolonged moment, like a plucked guitar string, buzzing like a meadow teeming with honey bees—)

His head was still lagging when Pax maneuvered to the ground and pulled their bodies together again, and Oz drifted along with the motions like tides. Pax was all rambling praise and wandering hands and Oz didn't know what he was laughing about, just that it felt warm and giddy and good as it bubbled effervescent up from his chest and out of him. The kiss was half to shut Paxton up so that Oz could think for a moment, to snap out of the daze by doing something easy and mindless; he forgot there'd be residue from Paxton’s release still coating his tongue and inner cheeks—until Pax tasted it, and his whole body went still and shuddered and he made the most obscene sound into Oz’s mouth. Which did clear away some of the lingering fog, and gave Oz a thrilling little tidbit to file away for another time.

“S’not all that, really—I’ve had a bit a practice…” he managed to say amidst panting for breath, the pressurized pockets inside his head popping like an airplane’s descent. And his immediate instinct, just like last time, when Paxton’s fingers started to fiddle with his zipper was to say that the whole reciprocation thing wasn't really necessary—that he was fine, that this wasn’t supposed to be about him, anyway.

But Oz was once again finding it difficult to deny Pax anything, especially not when he was so adorably eager and seemed to still, for some reason, genuinely care to figure out what it was that Oz liked (too much you like this too much what if he finds out how much you like—).

And Oz still didn't know how to begin unpacking that, so the easiest immediate alternative was to just enjoy it and not let himself think too much about it. Besides, the hand that was resting on the bare, sweat-soaked divot of his lower back was solid and grounding and real, and Oz relaxed back into it as his hips canted forward into Paxton’s grip, which was warm and pleasantly clammy. “Yah, just—fuck, don’t stop…” His voice was gravelly and raw, and he groaned as he watched Paxton’s fingers tighten and squeeze. Watching himself thrusting into Pax’s hand felt wicked and somehow voyeuristic, and Oz smirked at the indulgence of it, while the music warped again, slowing down and speeding up in a manner that seemed correlated with the movement of Oz’s hips and Pax’s wrist, if you were actually listening to it—which right now, Oz wasn’t.

The sweat that coated Pax’s hand felt nice, but Oz wanted more. If Paxton had been a hedge witch, it would have been an easy fix; sex spells were among the most commonly practiced in safehouse circuits, and Oz was fairly certain that every hedge knew the basic spell to summon lubricant.

But Pax wasn’t a hedge, which meant Oz would need to do some things himself. Oz ran his hand over the back of Pax's neck, carding his fingers through some stuck-together strands of hair at the nape until they pulled apart, and said gently, “Feels so good, really good, but maybe just, like—a tad slipperier?” He gave Pax’s neck an affectionate squeeze before pulling his hand back and twisting both his hands into the shape of a simple tut. He muttered a phrase in an Ancient Greek dialect and then held up his palm, where a wet gelatinous substance pooled over the word HELLO.

Paxton drew in a breath, his eyes widening and his mouth forming into a very precious, very kissable o shape, and Oz said, “I’ll teach it ta ya sometime, if ya like?” The thought of which sent Oz off on a whole new mental spiral as he watched Paxton drag his long, lovely fingers through the thick pool and rub them together curiously, and Oz could not help but to imagine what those hands and fingers would look like contorting into various tut positions, what they would feel like stretching inside of him…

It was way too fucking hot a notion to dwell on, so that by the time Pax’s hand was stroking him again Oz couldn’t bear to watch him doing it anymore without turning fully feral; instead he just let his eyes close and listened to the sounds of slick, steady friction, grunting out nonsensical words and colorful expletives between hitches of breath.

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