#cloud's fics

You find yourself drawn to the sheer size of them. The way his fingers are long and thick, his skin several shades lighter than your own warm, brown tone. You wonder about the weight of his palms. You imagine them pressing down on you, not with the violence the world expects from him, but with that crushing, desperate tenderness he only saves for the quiet hours.

You think of his hands on your face, cupping your jaw with a possessive strength that demands your focus, or sliding lower to settle around your throat. You crave that delicious, grounding pressure—the way he claims your breath as his own, reminding you that in his grip, you are safe, even if the world thinks you are in danger.

You want to be merged with him, a total collapse of the boundaries between your skin and his. It is simple, really: you could push and prod and sink into him until the world outside ceases to exist, leaving only a single, unified pulse. You want to be one creature, one breathing mass of devotion. And Dex? Dex has never had a problem with that. He craves it too, offering himself up to be dismantled by you, piece by piece, if it means he never has to be alone again.

You think of those hands in your hair, fingers absent-mindedly knotting through the strands, weaving himself into you until you can’t tell where your tangles end and his scarred knuckles begin. You think of them wiping your tears so tenderly like it doesn't take every ounce of strength in you to not break into tears all over again, his thumbs tracing the line of your lips as if he’s trying to memorize a prayer he’s forgotten how to speak, reaching for a grace he’s convinced he doesn't deserve.

Dex shifts, and the movement is like a magnetic pull. You watch the tendons in his wrists flex, sliding like steel cables under the skin.

"You're staring," he rasps.

You don't look up at his face. You can’t. You’re too busy watching his right hand slowly uncurl. His fingers are blunt-tipped and precise, the nails kept short and clean. It’s a hand built to take things apart, but as it reaches toward you, all you can think about is how it holds you together.

He doesn't touch you yet. He just hovers his palm an inch above your thigh, the heat radiating off him in waves.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I was just thinking," you whisper, finally reaching out. You don't grab him. You just lay your hand flat against his palm.

The contrast is dizzying. His skin is rough. Calloused from years of gripping cold metal and rough earth. But as your fingers slide between his, he closes his grip with a slow, agonizing deliberation.

He doesn't just hold your hand; he claims it.

He turns his hand over, his thumb dragging heavily across your pulse point, He traces the lines of your palm like he’s trying to memorize the map of you, his touch sparking a heat that makes your breath hitch.

"My hands are for work," he murmurs, his grip tightening just a fraction. "They aren't soft."

"I don't want soft," you breathe, your eyes still locked on the way his scarred knuckles contrast with your skin. "I want this."

You remember the nights he hurried home to you to preserve the last drop of sanity he had left. He told you he could feel his mind break, and you know that feeling in your marrow; a violent, internal cleaving, as though the brain has split beneath the weight of its own noise. You held his hands then, those lethal instruments trembling and raw, as he cried into your chest. "You will always have a home in me, Dex" was what you wanted to say. "It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” was all you could manage.

Dex’s jaw sets so hard you hear the faint click of his teeth, the muscles in his neck cording as he swallows back whatever raw admission is trying to climb its way out of his throat. Instead of pulling you closer, he turns his hand so your interlaced fingers are pressed hard against his own chest, right over his heart. He holds your hand there with a crushing pressure, forcing you to feel the frantic, heavy thudding against his ribs that contradicts his stony expression. It’s a silent command for you to feel exactly what you do to his composure.

Then over here you Asmo, Lust himself, the physical embodiment of sex and desire.

The reader/MC goes to him for help and is really anxious about the whole thing but they trust him. Asmo is super gentle with them. He's not mean or condescending at all. He's Softly touching them. Slowly working them up. Pausing for a moment to gaze into their eyes. Making sure that they're doing okay and this isn't too much for them. Caressing here... and there... coaxing them to touch him too.

He gives them pointers and softly teaches them this and that, how to make themselves and others feel good. He's so sweet with them, all the while fucking them out of their mind.

"My package!" she squeaked, reaching for it. "I’m so sorry, did the mailman drop it at your door again?"

He didn't hand it over immediately. He looked down at the plushie, his brow furrowing as the music reached a high-pitched, sparkly crescendo.

"It's been doing that for ten minutes" he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

"It’s a gift for myself" she explained, feeling her face heat up as she took the soft, singing mountain of pink from him. "It’s motion-activated. I hope it didn't... distract you from your work."

He looked at her then—a long, unreadable stare that made her want to hide behind the plushie's long pink ears. He stayed silent for a beat, the only sound being the toy chirping a final, upbeat melody.

"It's bright" he finally noted.

"I'll turn it off! I'm sorry."

He gave a single, stiff nod. He started to turn away toward his own door, but paused. He glanced back at the pink fluff in her arms, then at her.

"The music" he said, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. "It’s catchy."

Before she could respond, he was already stepping into his apartment. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone in the hall with her singing plushie.

You leaned back against the cool metal of the car, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like home.

"The North Star."

"It doesn't move" Dex murmured, almost to himself. "It’s a constant. No matter where you are in this hemisphere, if you can find that point, you can find your way home."

You looked at him. In the dim, silver starlight, the sharp angles of his face seemed less like a weapon and more like a map of someone who had spent his whole life trying not to get lost. He looked so solitary out here. A man built for shadows standing in a place where there was nowhere to hide.

"Is that why you like it out here?" you asked softly. "Because it’s predictable?"

Dex went quiet. He finally lowered his hand, turning his head to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark, reflecting the vastness above, but there was a flicker of something raw and exposed in them that made your heart ache.

"I like it because the noise stops" he admitted. It was a rare moment of honesty, a crack in the armor. "Up there... there’s no conflict. There’s just the grid. It makes sense."

He took a slow step toward you, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid the silence might shatter if he moved too fast. He stopped right in front of you, his presence grounding and heavy.

"Sometimes" he started, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I feel like if I don't have something to lock onto... I’ll just drift. I'll get pulled into the dark and I won't know how to find the way back."

You reached out from under the blanket, taking his hand. His fingers were stiff with cold, but he gripped yours with a desperate, grounding strength. You pulled him closer until his forehead rested against yours, the only warmth for miles.

"You aren't drifting, Dex," you whispered. "I've got you."

Dex let out a long, shuddering breath.

"The sky can go dark" he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "It doesn't matter anymore. As long as I can reach out and find you, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be."

He didn’t say he was yours to keep—he didn’t have the vocabulary for that kind of devotion yet. But as he stood there in the freezing dark, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him on the planet, it was the most profound confession he had ever surrendered.

Buck sat at the small desk in the corner, the lamplight carving deep shadows into his face. He was surrounded by heavy files and handwritten logs, his brow furrowed in that intense, focused way that usually meant do not disturb. You were propped up against the headboard, supposed to be reading your own book, but your brain was currently a prehistoric playground.

"Buck?"

A grunt. Not a "yes" but an acknowledgment that he knew you existed.

"If we were alive sixty-five million years ago, a Quetzalcoatlus could literally pick you up and eat you like a chicken nugget," you said. "They had a wingspan of thirty-five feet. Imagine a giraffe that flies."

Buck’s pen paused. He didn't look up. "I’m trying to balance these logistics, honey."

"Right, sorry. Logistics are important. It’s just... the Ankylosaurus had a tail club that could shatter a T. rex's ankle. It was basically a living tank with a bone crushing mallet. Kind of reminds me of you, actually."

The silence in the room stretched. Buck slowly lowered his pen and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "A tank with a mallet."

"A very handsome, grumpy tank" you added.

"Go to sleep" he rumbled, turning back to his papers.

"I’m trying! But it's hard when I'm thinking about how Spinosaurs were super smart hunters. They were highly adaptable. They could probably finish those logs and file your reports faster than you're doing right now."

Buck's shoulders hiked up toward his ears, but he remained silent for a moment before finally speaking. "I am reading reports on fuel consumption. I do not have the mental capacity to compete with the cognitive abilities of a prehistoric lizard."

"Technically, they’re archosaurs," you corrected. Your voice took on a sudden, dramatic weight. "And some of those dinos died feeling lonely and confused, wondering why they couldn't see the sun anymore. Have you ever thought of that, Buck? Have you? No, you only think about yourself."

He let out a long, weary sigh as he looked over at the pile of dinosaur plushies stacked neatly over your bed—your 'kids' as you’d call them. They seemed to be staring him down, demanding an apology for his lack of empathy for their ancestors.

You settled back into the pillows, hiding a smile. You knew he was done for the night when you heard him mutter "giraffe that flies" under his breath, followed by the distinct sound of him closing a heavy file folder. He didn’t get back to the logistics.

Ten minutes later, the light went out, and the mattress dipped as he climbed in beside you. He let out a long, defeated sigh but his hand found yours under the covers.

"Tell me about the sea ones" he grumbled into his pillow, pulling the blanket up over both of you, careful not to crush any of your kids as he settled in. He leaned over in the dark and kissed your forehead. "And then we're sleeping.”