#silvery dreams art

[milswrites]

The Sweetest Company

~ Azriel X Reader

Summary: When opening your new bakery doesn’t bring as much success as you’d have hoped, Azriel comes to save the day.

Warnings: Like the teeniest bit of angst but it's mainly just fluff :)

The day had finally arrived, one that had been weeks in the making. After long painstaking days filled with re-decorating the crumbling building you had purchased and perfecting the art of baking your recipes, the time had finally come for you to open the doors and share your passion with the rest of the world.

You'd poured your entire heart and soul into this project, spending the last of your savings to make sure that the final result would be everything you had ever dreamed of.

It wasn't just you, of course, who worked tiresomely at making sure that the bakery reflected your vision. After encouraging you to take the leap and pursue your childhood dream, Azriel had stepped up to help with the refurbishment. Spending the rare hours he had free from work with you getting things ready, reassuring you that this big change had been the right decision.

By no means was this an easy move to make. Whilst baking had always been a hobby of yours, you had never once done it in a professional setting, let alone own running your own business. But Azriel had been your guardian angel, never failing to let you know just how proud of you he was and how pleased the male felt at the fact you were finally sharing your joy with the world.

Which is why after the months of working together to create your dream, you were starting to panic over the fact Azriel had yet to arrive on what was perhaps the most important day of your life.

His absence was as difficult to miss as a hole in your heart. The cruel silence of your empty bakery tormenting you as you told yourself he would be here any minute now. That anyone would be here.

A tediously long two hours had passed without a single customer, and without Azriel there to comfort and reason with you, your anxious thoughts were running wild.

What if you forgot to send out the advertisements? Whilst you remember going round all the other shops in Velaris handing out flyers, what if the keepers laughed behind your back before disposing of them?

What if the one thing you had dreamed of since you were a child had always been destined to fail before it ever even got the chance to open?

It was difficult to keep your tears at bay as you patiently waited for a customer to arrive. Your eyes stinging with tears as you moved to sit down on a chair at one of the empty tables, anxious hands coming to rub together on your lap. Failing to hide the way your gaze filled with hope whenever you watched someone pass by, only for your stare to turn to disappointment as they walked away from your bakery without so much as a glance in your direction.

When three soul-crushing hours had passed still customer-free, and Azriel had yet to make an appearance, you decided enough was enough for one day.

There was only so much embarrassment you could take and with the exhaustion of waking up early to prepare the goods for the day starting to creep in, you made to lock the door and leave to go home and wallow in your defeat.

Turning your back to the window as you allowed your tears to finally fall at the prospect that maybe Azriel didn't turn up because he knew today was going to fail.

Though it was only when you began to pack away your things in the back room of the bakery that you heard a hurried knock at the door. Wiping the silvery tears from your cheeks you composed yourself, opting to take a moment to calm down and gather your wits before moving to answer the door.

However, luck didn't appear to be on your side today as another round of incessant banging broke the silence of the bakery. Frustrated at the rotten day you've had, the impatience of the person outside aggravated you. Curses spilled out from under your breath as you moved through the bakery to the door.

Only to be stunned into silence as you saw who it was waiting for you outside.

Azriel had come.

Tears released from your eyes once more at the joyous realization that Azriel hadn't come alone. No, the male was surrounded by his beaming family and friends, all craning to get a good luck at what was waiting for them inside the bakery.

Even as you turned the latch, your words still failed to come. Your lost ability to speak not returning even as Azriel swept you into his arms, the male pulling back to take in your reddened eyes and trembling lips.

"What happened?" he blurted in concern, cupping your face in his large hands as his searching gaze found your eyes, "Did something go wrong? Why weren't you open?"

You let out a teary chuckle at his worried flurry of questions, moving your shaky hands to grip his own. "I'm perfect. . .it's perfect Az" you promise, because it was impossible to be anything else when the male had brought his entire family along to share in this special day with you. Your heart pleasantly aching with the realisation that he cared enough about this to want to bring them with him.

"Great!" Azriel smiled so widely that his teeth were almost bared, "Better get to it then, we've got customers to serve!"

It was a beautiful chaos, serving Azriel's over eager family. The tables no longer sat empty and the creeping silence had dissipated. Instead the room was filled with satisfied groans and merry conversation. Each member of his family coming back again, and again, and again. All wanting to try a slice of everything you had to offer.

The presence of the High Lord visiting your establishment certainly didn't go unnoticed, pools of willing customers flooded into your shop all with the goal of trying the food that Rhysand was so openly enjoying. Taking their fill of your goods until all the tables were filled and all the evidence of your hard work this morning was gone. The only sign that anything was once there being the smiling face of satisfaction which was worn by everyone in the room.

A slightly red-cheeked Azriel approached you, the male almost panting with exhaustion after helping you with the final rush, that same charming smile taking its place on his face as he spoke, "I think we may need to find you a few new helpers."

"I think I'm going to need to bake more" you laughed in return. Your anxieties from earlier in the day having melted away, a warming smile had now settled on your face in its place.

"Damn" Azriel cursed, a pout forming on his lips as he stared at the empty displays which were once lush with pastries and cakes, "I forgot to put something to the side for me to try. . .If only Cassian didn't eat all the cookies."

"Actually," you grin up at the disappointed male, "I may have something for you!"

You reach under the counter, pulling out a cake which you had meticulously decorated with blueberries. Azriel's eyes grew wide, yet despite his surprise his lips grew into small smirk. "You made this especially for me?" he asked, carefully taking the cake from your waiting hands to admire it.

"A thank you, for helping me achieve my dream. Maybe now we can start working on one of yours instead" you replied, words failing to express just how grateful you were to the male before you. Overwhelmed by just how incredible this opening had turned out to be, all thanks to him.

"I already have everything I want" Azriel answered, hazel eyes locked onto your own, "why wish for more when I already have you."

A rosy blush dusted your cheeks at the shadowsingers words, his stare so intense you could have sworn you were melting.

Slowly leaning forwards, you move to place a gentle kiss on Azriel's equally blushing cheek, only for the hypnotic moment to be broken by the boisterous Lord of Bloodshed.

"Az, you didn't tell me there was some more cake!" he cheered, stealing the plate from Azriel's unsuspecting hands before whisking it away to the table where his family was sat, eyes hungrily staring down the cake made for their brother.

Azriel grabbed your arm to stop you from chasing after the male. His warm lips coming down to meet your cheek, softly kissing you before he moved his mouth to whisper in your ear, "Don't bother. There's something sweeter I've got my eyes on."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Anyone else picture Az in a cute pink frilly apron or was it just me?

#acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel #azriel oneshot #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

[valeskafics]

"Fortune & Glory" Chapter 1: Acquisition (Aemond Targaryen x Reader Treasure Hunt AU)

a/n: a new aemond enemies to lover series, here we goooo 🤭❤️

Series Masterlist HERE.

Summary: You sneak into the Citadel University to "borrow" something and meet Professor Aemond Targaryen.

TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, slight bodily injury

Word Count: 1,700 words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️

The year is 1925, the setting? The bustling streets of Oldtown. And the main player? You, daughter of the world’s most preeminent archaeologist and treasure hunter, Dr. Henry Jones. You’ve dreamed of following in your father’s footsteps for the longest time. He taught you everything there was to know about archaeology and the art of treasure hunting, that you should only claim that which has been completely abandoned and never steal. He educated you in history, languages, archaeology, taking you along on many expeditions and making sure you received the best education a lady could.

But your and his ultimate dream? Finding the Stone of Cold Fire, an ancient artifact lost at the foot of the volcano, Mount Zaldrīzes, in the ruins of Old Valyria. Five years ago, your father set off on his quest to find it, telling you he would send for you later on, once he got things started. Alas, the message from him never came. It’s been five long years, and you’re now a young woman, a treasure hunter and archaeologist in your own right building your own reputation, working on digs around the world. Your father is presumed dead by most, but in your heart of hearts? You know that it is simply not true. You’d have felt it if he was gone from this world.

Then, only yesterday, you received a package in the mail. Your father’s trusted diary, his name embossed on the well-worn leather binding. The diary contained all his notes on his search for the Stone of Cold Fire, and you immediately knew that it’s a sign from the Seven or Lord of Light or whatever gods may exist that you are meant to follow your father to Old Valyria and find the Stone alongside him.

His diary mentioned an old tome, kept at the Citadel University Library in Oldtown, that contains a map vital to finding the Stone. And so, here you are, in Oldtown, disguised as a young university student only here to attend a lecture. The lecture in question is being given by one Aemond Targaryen, a professor of history at the university, the youngest there. And, from what you’ve heard, the young scholar is in search of the same artifact you are. You’ve read his dissertation, claiming that as one of the last remaining descendants of the great families of Old Valyria that the artifact, and its alleged magical properties, are his by right. What a load of rubbish.

You attend the lecture, sitting in the front row, gazing up at the young professor. You’d be remiss not to mention how handsome he is, a jaw that seems as though it could cut glass, a sharp, strong nose like the Valyrian gods of old, high aristocratic cheekbones, long silvery blonde hair swept up in a bun, horn-rimmed glasses that he keeps nervously pushing up the bridge of his nose, and his eyes… One is a brilliant blue, one that you know is common to families of his heritage, while the other is covered by a scar and clouded over. From what you’ve heard, he lost sight in that eye due to an unfortunate childhood accident.

Aemond catches your eye as he lectures on the Doom of Old Valyria, giving you a nervous smile. You return it with an encouraging one of your own. The poor man looks as though he’s about to faint. You watch as he nervously brushes a loose strand of hair back and decide to raise your hand, pretending to ask a question.

“Yes, Miss…?” he asks, trailing off, giving you a chance to give your name, smiling at you.

You decide to give your mother’s last name instead, not wanting to give away the reason for your visit here, “Ravenwood, Professor,” you say in a sweet voice, “I was just curious as to what your opinion is on the myth regarding the Stone of Cold Fire still being in the ruins.”

His cheeks flush at the way you call him ‘Professor’, and he clears his throat before speaking, “An excellent question, Miss Ravenwood. I believe that it is much more than a myth. The Stone is there, waiting for the right person to come and seek it. That is the reason for this presentation today, in fact. The university board is observing this lecture to see if I am well-versed enough in Valyrian history to lead an expedition there.”

You bite back a bark of laughter at the absurdity of a man as inexperienced as him leading an expedition, but merely flutter your lashes and smile at him demurely, keeping up the pretense of being a smitten student, “Best of luck, Professor.”

Aemond blushes again and mumbles, “Thank you, Miss Ravenwood,” before continuing with the lecture, his eye wandering to you every so often.

You remain on the campus, loitering about, waiting for the students and faculty to go home before making your way to the Citadel’s library, more specifically, the restricted section of their archives. You stealthily climb up the ladder, searching for the book you need, and upon finding it, you quietly tear the map out, making your way back down, only to bump into Professor Aemond Targaryen, who has just left his board meeting and was on his way to grab the same exact book.

“Oh, Miss Ravenwood,” he blinks, that same pretty pink color dusting his cheeks again as you think how adorable the poor sap is, “May I ask exactly what it is you’re doing in the restricted section so late?”

You turn to Aemond, giving him your most dazzling smile, “Oh! Good evening, Professor! Professor Stark actually requested that I grab something for him,” you say, the lie easily rolling off your lips as you meet Aemond’s curious gaze.

“Oh, I can help you find it if you wish, what book did he need?” Aemond asks, eager to spend more time with you - gods, you almost pity the man, “Something on Northern mythology, I’d assume?”

“Yes, and, oh!” you grab a book on Bran the Builder, conveniently right next to you, “There it is! I’ll just make my way to Professor Stark’s office-”

Aemond furrows his brow, “Professor Stark is gone for the day, Miss Ravenwood.”

“Is he?” you feign ignorance, continuing to walk, only to be stopped by Aemond’s hand on your shoulder, now completely suspicious of your intentions.

“You seem in quite the hurry, Miss Ravenwood,” he points out, “And you have something poking out of your belt,” you panic, realizing that the map is showing, Aemond’s eye going wide with realization at what it is, “The map to the Stone! You, young lady, are a thief!”

“I’m only borrowing it,” you protest, ducking out from under his grip, “And don’t ‘young lady’ me, we’re the same bloody age! Professor Targaryen, the ‘prodigy’,” you scoff, dropping all pretense of being a shy little college girl.

“So that’s what you were doing here, sneaking around.”

“Who’s sneaking?” you ask, attempting to back away toward the door, “Certainly not me!”

Aemond weaves around you and cuts off your path, the light from the oil lamps in the library illuminating his almost too good to be true features, features that any lesser woman may have been enchanted and intimidated by, but not you, “Where do you think you’re going, Little Miss Thief?”

“Back to my home,” you retort saucily, deciding to put him on the defensive, “It’s getting rather late and it’s highly inappropriate for a young lady and a gentleman to be alone like this. In the dark. Together.”

Aemond scoffs, “Miss Ravenwood, I was born at night, but I was not born last night. Do not try to play the innocent young lady role with me. I’m no fool. Let’s be very clear. I know what you were doing. You were stealing the map I had come here to procure, no doubt to give to some grave robbing treasure hunter for a bit of money, yes?”

The two of you are so close that you can feel the heat from his body. You’ve always heard rumors that Targaryen blood runs hot, and you can almost feel it as he tries to cage you in against the door of the archives. You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes coquettishly, and of course, the poor man nearly forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I’m really sorry, Professor,” you say in a sweet, demure voice.

“As long as you give it back, Miss Ravenwood-”

“Oh,” you giggle playfully, “That’s not what I’m apologizing for.”

And, without the blond before you even expecting it, you grab a book from beside you and whack him over the head with it, watching him fall to the floor in an unconscious heap. You sigh, leaning down beside him, resting the book beneath his head along with a scrap of fabric from your dress to soften the hard edges.

“I am sorry about this,” you sigh, pressing your lips to his cheek in apology, the red lipstick you wear leaving a stain on his skin, “I don’t envy the headache you’ll have when you wake, but I really must thank you for such a fun evening.”

When Aemond wakes, it’s with a pounding headache. He groans as he rubs his temples, grabbing his glasses that are beside him, putting them back on. He stands up and immediately notices the red lipstick stain on his cheek when he looks in the mirror. And a note sticking out from the pocket of his shirt.

“Better luck next time, Professor.”

Beneath it?

A red lipstick stained kiss.

Aemond smacks his hand to his forehead, thinking to himself how, if his brothers ever found out about this, he’d never hear the end of it. How in the Seven bloody Hells is he supposed to find the Stone now? He’s got the research grant, but no way to find the damned artifact! Well, the board doesn’t know that… He’ll just have to improvise.

Back in your family’s home, you examine the map, comparing it to your father’s notes, and smile to yourself, making notes of your own as you send your butler to book your fare from Oldtown Port to Lys. From Lys, you’ll procure a guide and make your way by boat to Volantis, and onward from there on foot to the ruins themselves.

To Mount Zaldrīzes and to, you hope, your father.

Fic Specific Taglist (bold means you could not be tagged): @carriellie @julieeba @itsabby15

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond x fem!reader #modern!aemond x reader #modern!aemond targaryen x reader #modern!aemond targaryen x you #modern!aemond x you #prince aemond x reader #my writing #fortune & glory fic

[caerue]

Protecting yourself from danger !!

HE IS FURIOUS

HE IS ANGRY

Look! Some amazing lore of him! -> Furious den

This art piece is based of Crystalpostz's poem about Moonligt lament, a horrible event in Furious life that still haunts him.

Moonlight Dirge

by Frostanna aka Crystalpostz

Beneath the moon's soft, silvery glow. A dirge unfolds, a tale of woe. In shadows cast by the moon's cold light. A tragedy born in the still of night

My heart echoes with a somber song. As I grieve for dreams that have gone wrong. Tears cascade in the pale moonbeam. A requiem for a shattered dream

The moonlight weaves a tragic tale. Of sorrow's grip, of hopes impale. In the moonlit hours of profound despair. A tragedy unfolds, too heavy to bear

Yet, within the moonlight's tender grace. A glimmer of hope, a resilient trace. For even in tragedy's darkest domain. The moonlight whispers, healing shall reign.

#Gift bomb!! hehe #Crystalpostz's dragon Furious #myart #art #digital art #flight rising #fr art #dragon #pearlcatcher

[twistedamusement]

Moodboard for the Sterek Reverse Bang 2023 “[untitled - blue vibes]”

@keldjinfae was inspired by this art to create a fic which is available on AO3. :)

My Echo, My Shadow, and Me - keldjinfae

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: Underage

Category: M/M

Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)

Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Allison Argent, Peter Hale, Jackson Whittemore, Isaac Lahey, Vernon Boyd, Chris Argent, Ethan (Teen Wolf), Bobby Finstock, Danny Māhealani, Marin Morrell, Jennifer Blake (Teen Wolf), Sheriff Stilinski (Teen Wolf), Aiden (Teen Wolf), Alan Deaton, Melissa McCall, Kali (Teen Wolf), Deucalion (Teen Wolf), Nogitsune (Teen Wolf)

Additional Tags: Sterek Reverse Bang 2023 (Teen Wolf), Inspired by Fanart, Canon Divergence, More like Canon Revision of Season 3A, Then I chuck canon out the window entirely, Jackson was never shipped off to London, Dreams and Nightmares, Mind fuckery, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha Scott McCall, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Casual Pop Culture References, Unsafe Sex, Slow Burn, Peter Hale Ships Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Ships It (Teen Wolf), Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Summary:

What good is the moonlight-- the silvery moonlight--that shines above? I walk with my shadow, I talk with my echo, but where is the one I love?

* The summary is a quote from "We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, and Me)", by the Ink Spots

#linked fic #my artwork #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #sterek reverse bang #teen wolf

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FICLET] Before I Go

Rated: G Word Count: 849 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, sap, established relationship, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, kisses, parting is such sweet sorrow, flower symbolism

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 16 neighbor desire horse Day 17 magazine tactile curtains Alt prompts: evening, caress

Additional inspiration taken from a couple of these kisses

Title credit and musical accompaniment: Before I Go by Yanni (Spotify link)

Summary: Season-of-Mists-style visit, some time later in their relationship

On AO3

It is a lush and expansive garden where Hob finds himself on a beautiful summer evening—flowers climbing the trees and blooming in every direction, nocturnal birds twittering their songs in the branches overhead, crickets chirping accompaniment in the undergrowth. The stars twinkle brightly in the blue-velvet sky and the moon shines full and brilliant, a silvery wash of illumination over the landscape. The path under Hob's feet winds between flower beds and lovely stone borders, toward a burbling stream running musically beneath the trailing branches of a willow tree. He follows along to a little wooden bridge arching over the stream and across, to a decadent little bower of trellises wreathed in climbing ivy and dripping with twilight-purple wisteria.

There's a familiar figure waiting there for him, and he smiles as he draws near. "Hello, love."

"Hello, Hob." Dream's eyes glitter softly like the stars, just as dark and depthless as the sky, just as beautiful. The moonlight illuminates him like a work of art, pearlescent skin and raven-feather hair, smoke-shadow robes draping him in regal refinement. He looks ready to hold court, to receive an audience, and Hob is awestruck all over again that this unfathomably powerful otherworldly creature deigns to be his friend, to be so much more; to accept his affections, to return them. He is so very lucky, and he knows it.

He looks up at Dream, who is currently half a head taller than him, and he can feel the fondness shining in his own eyes. "I'm not awake, am I."

"No." Dream's tiny little smile is both affectionate and regretful. "I apologize for usurping your dream; there is something I must attend to that will keep me away for some time. I did not wish to leave without making you aware."

Hob furrows his brow. "It's not Hell again, is it?"

"No. Nor do I anticipate any danger or risk to myself, my realm, but there may be. Delays. In resolving the matter."

Hob knows better than to ask for specifics in this sort of thing when Dream has not given them, regardless of how curious he may be. "Will Matthew be with you?"

"Yes."

"Then I know you're in good company and I'll hear from you if needed." He wishes, in some deep fundamental part of himself, that he could accompany Dream on these sorts of errands, but in this also he knows better. There are so many things in existence that are far beyond what his immortal-but-still-mundane mind can comprehend.

Dream steps forward, closer. "Dearest Hob. I would bring you with me, were it advisable. But as it is not—" he lifts a hand to Hob's face, touches him in the gentlest caress "—I will bid you farewell, and promise to return as soon as is feasible."

Hob places his own hand over Dream's, holds it there as he leans into it. "I'll be waiting, dove. Be safe."

Dream makes no reply, just gazes at him tenderly, leans in until his forehead rests against Hob's. He tangles his fingers with Hob's, splays them behind his neck and tilts in slowly until their lips meet.

It is soft, sweet, short, this kiss; and then another, a gentle farewell before Dream draws back. His hand drops from Hob's face but Hob can't quite let go, following it down, clinging; he is full to the brim with a dozen different emotions and all he wants to do is kiss Dream again, so deeply and so thoroughly that Dream will still taste him long after they've parted, will carry his love with him on whatever this errand is and know that Hob is waiting faithfully for his return.

He's leaning back in already, helpless in the face of this desire, but redirects at the last second, planting a soft kiss on Dream's cheek instead. He won't demand more than was given, not when Dream has duty weighing heavy on his mind, not when Dream has shown such consideration in making sure to take his leave. He is respectful of Dream's time and Dream's responsibilities and he will not do anything to make Dream think otherwise.

But Dream's eyes flash as Hob draws back, and then Dream has seized Hob's bicep and yanked him back in, is kissing him soundly. Hob can't help a delighted smile, at that, but it's quickly lost in the fierce parting of Dream's lips, the yearning wanting lament of his fervent mouth, and Hob loses himself in returning the sentiment.

That. That is a proper kiss goodbye, Hob very carefully does not say aloud, blinking as Dream lets him go.

"Until I return, devoted mine," Dream breathes, the stars in his eyes blazing, and steps back.

"I'll be waiting," Hob says again, the 'as long as it takes' and 'I'll miss you' and 'I love you' unspoken.

Dream smiles, the tiny kitten-soft smile that Hob knows is just for him, and takes his leave.

Hob stays, beneath the twining ivy and the curtains of clinging wisteria, and watches him go, the music of the crickets rising gently in his wake.

= Drafted: 2/17/24 Posted: 2/17/24

Why did I pick wisteria? Gosh I'm so glad you asked! Because it's pretty, and it made for lovely visuals. BUT then I looked up meanings also, and serendipitously I found:

1. Purple wisteria symbolizes royalty and undying devotion or love that transcends time 2. Victorians would include a cluster of delicate purple blossoms in their bouquets when they wanted to send a message of overwhelming desire and passion. In particular, the Wisteria was considered to say “I cling to you” as it would cling to the branches of other trees. Wisteria sends such a strong message of romance in most cultures that they’re usually best used for declarations of devotion or for wedding arrangements. 3. Wisteria—Welcome; Meeting you means so much to me 4. Wisteria gives a symbolic representation of beauty, love, long life and immortality, grace, bliss, honour, patience, endurance, longevity, releasing burdens, victory over hardships.

(There are relevant meanings to the the ivy (fidelity, everlasting life) and the willow (flexibility, adaptation) as well)

Sources: 1 2 3 4

#TJs Fics #TJs Fluffbruary #Fluffbruary 2024 #Sandman #Dreamling

[aralezinspace]

Masquerade

Combining two requests, both from Anonymous: Morpheus and s/o doing each other's makeup, Morpheus and reader kissing, reader teases him until he's at their mercy

A/N: The inherent eroticism of a masquerade *chef's kiss* partly inspired by All Yours by @roguelov (I love your writing so much!) Enjoy! Tagging @fangirlmary - If you want to be tagged in any of my writing let me know!

~~Requests are open!~~

“Morpheus?” I called from my bathroom, “Are you almost ready for me?” I knew time passed differently in the Dreaming, I still couldn’t help worrying we were going to be late. The Faerie realm was hosting a huge masquerade ball in honor of Cluracan’s birthday, and as rulers of the Dreaming we had both been invited. I had never been to a faerie masquerade, so I was more than a little nervous- even newly immortal, I was still only human, about to be surrounded by beings with more power in their pinkies than I had in my entire body.

I heard Dream’s footsteps pad from our bedroom into the bathroom before I saw his reflection in the mirror. I applied the last touch to my lipstick before turning to get the full effect, and my heart stopped in my chest.

He was dressed in his usual black, but the material seemed to be deeper, darker, a void where even the brightest of stars diminished. Within that void there swirled sparkling lines of blues, greens, purples, and reds, dotted with large silvery sparkles I’d bet were diamonds sewn into the fabric. The shirt and pants seemed painted onto his form they fit him so well, moving with him, not even creasing when he walked or moved his arms. The shirt’s collar covered his neck, and his hands were wrapped in black silk gloves.

The cloak he wore when being Dream of the Endless, Ruler of the Dreaming and Nightmare Realms was attached to his shoulders with silver brooches, each cradling a sapphire the size of a walnut. A silver chain connected the two pieces, swaying gently when he moved. Flames still flickered at the bottom, but this cloak was made of the same living void as his shirt and pants. His hair was only slightly more tamed than usual, which only added to the affect. Black pointed boots with slight heels and soft soles were on his feet.

I needed to stop gaping, before a dream spider crawled into my mouth.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, taking it all in again and again, the words hardly doing my sentiments any justice. He was ancient and beautiful, distant and awe-inspiring. “You look incredible.” He smiled gently at me, and I could have sworn his chest puffed out just a little bit as he approached me.

“As do you, my star,” he replied in a murmur. His eyes roved up and down my body, taking it all in as one would a piece of art. I could feel the slight tremor in his hand as he brushed a stray piece of hair away from my face. “Although there are no words in any language to do justice to your beauty.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks and bashfully glanced at the floor. “Flatterer,” I teased, but did a little twirl anyway before going back to the mirror.

He was right though, I looked just as otherworldly as him in the clothes he fashioned me. If he was attending as a galaxy, then I was the star at the very center. The whole ensemble was silver-blue and shimmering, made of countless layers of a light, floaty material that swirled around me like mist when I moved. The gown had a sweetheart neckline, and sleeves of fine silver mesh covered my arms, making them appear longer and more graceful. Moonstones and diamonds dotted the dress and sleeves, catching the light and reflecting it back. Small diamond earrings went in my ears, and a strand of silver and moonstone was around my neck, with a large opal pendant hanging just below my collarbones.

I had a cape of my own, made of the same shimmering material and dotted with flecks of gold, flowing out behind me from my shoulders. My makeup had the same slight rainbow and silver shimmer, my eyes outlined in pale blue liner. I looked every inch a monarch.

“Just have to do your eyeliner,” I said as I gestured for Morpheus to sit on the stool in front of my vanity. He swept across the bathroom and sat on the stool as if it were a throne while I gathered my liquid and pencil eyeliners, along with a few shades of eyeshadow. “Close your eyes and hold still?”

Morpheus smiled and did as I asked. His lashes were long and dark and utterly gorgeous against his pale cheeks. He was holding still as he could for me, which was the equivalent of a marble statue. Leaning over him, I carefully lined his upper lash lines in black ink before buffing it out with a brush. “Open and look up?”

Tongue between my teeth as I concentrated, I did his lower lash line as well. The black liner made the blue of his eyes even more startling, and I just knew that his eyes would appear even more like bottomless pits if they shifted to their usual black and silver over the course of the night.

“Okay, look ahead?” Rather than look straight ahead, Dream decided to look up at me, stopping the breath in my lungs with his gaze. With slightly clumsy fingers, I put the eyeliner back in my makeup drawer and grabbed the two eye shadows I had picked for him: a slightly sparkling red, and a shimmering silver. Using my fingertip, I gently pressed some of the red into the outer corners of his eyes, and some of the silver into the inner corners.

If I thought he looked incredibly beautiful and powerful before, I was wrong. Just adding the eyeliner and colors around his eyes had made him arrestingly gorgeous, and I couldn’t look away. My eyes widened at the being before me, heat flooding my entire body. That hint of red and silver was the most beautiful mistake I had ever made. It added more than a hint of mischief to the blue of his eyes, gave the power of dreams the attitude of the devil.

Oh, I was going to have a very hard time keeping my hands off him for however long we stayed at this party.

~~

The fae had truly gone all out for Cluracan’s celebration in a dazzling display of magic, wealth, and the otherworldly beauty of nature. The giant ballroom hummed with life, my skin tingled from the strength of the collective vibes. Even as my eyes absorbed the vibrant colors and wondered at them until they burned, I felt distinctly out of place. Just a tiny human at the side of an Endless, almost like a pet. I wanted to shrink into a gilt corner and hope that none of these beings paid me any mind. But, I was a monarch of the Dreaming. If Morpheus couldn’t hide in a corner, neither could I.

I could tell from his slightly tense grip on my hand that he’d rather be anywhere else. Even with our masks covering the top halves of our faces, it was easy to see how much he detested being here. There were too many people, and wearing the face of a monarch for all of them was taxing. I gently rubbed circles into the back of his hand with my thumb as we waited in line to pay our respects to the king and queen, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

A beautifully haunting waltz came from the musicians on the modest stage at the back of the room. Fae and gods and other creatures of myth mingled and danced, their movements flickering like mirages. A shiver went down my spine.

The fae herald announced us to the waiting monarchs, and Cluracan sitting beside them: “Dream of the Endless and Lady Y/N, monarchs of the Dreaming, rulers of the Nightmare Realms.” I plastered a smile on my face as we approached the thrones. Morpheus gave a slight, respectful bow, and I dipped my knees in a little curtsy.

“Lord Morpheus!” Cluracan yelled with a beaming grin, extending his hand for Dream to shake. “I am so pleased you were able to attend! Both you and your beautiful wife.” Morpheus shook his hand with a strained smile. “Thank you for the invitation, we are honored to be here.”

Cluracan then extended his hand to me. I did what was expected of me, and placed my fingers in his waiting grasp. “Your visage this night is a true blessing,” he murmured against the skin before brushing his lips over my knuckles with a flirtatious smirk. I could feel Morpheus tense beside me.

Dream exchanged the necessary pleasantries with the king and queen, something I was content to let him handle. After the fae monarchs wished us well with the encouragement to enjoy their hospitality for as long as we wished, we were finally free from royal obligations to enjoy the party.

Morpheus was a wallflower at social engagements on the best of days, but I could tell that being in a ballroom surrounded by fae and magical creatures of every kind made him especially uneasy. His hand never left my lower back as we mingled with the other guests, sipping on sweet wine to take the edge off.

After we took our leave of some forest spirits, the orchestra struck up a tune I recognized as old Dreaming folk music. I gave Morpheus’ hand a squeeze and whispered excitedly in his ear, “I’ll bet you anything Cluracan asked them to play this for us. It’d be rude not to dance.” I gave him my best sparkling puppy dog eyes. “Please? May I have this dance?”

Dream sighed, but agreed with a small, loving smile. The image of a perfectly refined and dignified ruler, he led me to the dance floor, holding my one hand aloft while the other rested at my waist. We swept around the dance floor in time with the music, our garments flowing out behind and around us- a supernova and a black hole, swirling around each other in perfect harmony.

“They’re all staring,” I breathed, my eyes darting quickly to the assembled crowd.

“They cannot help but be entranced by you, my darling,” he purred back, “And neither can I.” My eyes flickered up to his, my heart stopping in my chest and lips tugging up into a smirk when I caught the expression on his face. There was no way he hadn’t noticed the hitch in my breath, or the flush in my cheeks, and his tiny smile became unbearably smug. Oh, so that’s how he wanted to entertain himself tonight. Well then, two could play at that game.

“They’re staring at you too, you know,” I breathed against his lips just before he twirled me out and then back in to his waiting arms. “You’re easily the most powerful being here, I bet they’re trying to decide whether they want to be your ally, or stab you in the back. Not that I’d let them.” The hand that was resting on his shoulder slid up, up, so that I was caressing his neck. “And I bet the women are just burning inside, aroused by your demeanor and aggravated their husbands could never hope to measure up.”

It was soft, but I could hear the growl that rumbled low in Dream’s chest. I could feel the way his fingers tensed into the flesh at my waist. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly- he now knew I had caught on to his game, and was not only willing to play, but playing to win.

When the song was over, I pulled away to bow to him, low and slow and graceful with a smile that was anything but submissive. Dream returned the gesture, a perfect gentleman, one who knew exactly what effect he was having on his partner. Rather than take his hand to leave the dance floor, I turned away from him, throwing a flirtatious smirk over my shoulder as I walked towards the buffet. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as he watched, intending to follow, but stopped by a fae lord wishing to speak with him.

I could sense Dream’s growing tension as the night wore on and I refused to stay by his side, rather flitting just out of reach. I made small talk with the other guests, even exchanged a few more words with Cluracan- that really got him going. It was only a matter of time before he came to sweep me away. I intended to beat him to it.

It was hard to evade the stare of an Endless, but I managed well enough. Just enough to catch Dream’s eye before leaving the ballroom and disappearing around a corner into a quieter hall. I could hear his footsteps following me, letting him catch the occasional glimpse of my skirt fluttering around a corner. Almost there…

I turned the next corner and hid in the darkened space between two stone columns encircled with vines. My heart pounded as Dream drew closer. When he was about to pass my hiding place, I reached out and snatched his arm, pulling him into the shadows with me and pressing him against the wall. The air left his lungs on impact in a breathy moan. I stepped in closer, pressing my nose into the hollow just below his ear and taking a deep breath. I was already warm and fuzzy from the wine and fae magic in the air; breathing Morpheus in only made it more so.

With a soft hum, I gently pressed my lips to his, moving them slowly, carefully, testing just how far I could push him. I teasingly ran my tongue over the seam of his sweet lips, and he immediately parted them for me. I flitted in for the slightest taste, the sweetness of the wine still lingering in the corners of his mouth. I pulled away the moment he tried to deepen the kiss, letting him lick beggingly at my closed lips.

One hand cradled his chin while the other slipped under the edge of his mask, mussing his hair slightly as I lifted it over his head and let it fall to the floor. He gasped against my lips and his breath immediately hitched, like he had been caught in the act of showing just how much I was affecting him.

His hands found their way to my hips, fingers digging in to soft fabric as he tugged me closer. My fingers threaded into his silky hair, gently caressing for a few moments before tightening around the strands and giving a gentle yank to expose his neck. Another gasp left him, his eyes fluttering.

I attached my lips to his jawline, kissing and nipping, just hard enough to sting. His fingers bit into my hips, holding me closer. I chuckled low in his ear, more than a little proud of how little it had taken to tease him into a gasping, trembling mess. “I think we’ve stayed long enough,” I cooed, “Unless you’d rather have another dance, or talk with Cluracan some more…”

Dream’s eyes flashed open, no longer ice blue, but deep black, and somehow still burning and sparkling. I had been right before: the eyeliner and colors at the corners of his eyes made me want to sink into those bottomless pits that looked as though they wanted to devour me whole. A breath shuddered out of my lungs and heat flooded my body. Dream smirked, smug and feral.

A hand left my waist to rip off my mask and cast it aside. Dream’s eyes raked over my face, eyes burning with desire. “My little star…” his low growl rumbled through me like thunder. “You are making it incredibly difficult to keep my composure.”

I slowly licked my lips, smooth and sultry. Dream’s eyes tracked every movement of my tongue. I stepped in even closer: “Then let it go.”

When I felt the vortex of sand carry us back to the Dreaming, I knew I had won this round, and also that Dream was more than alright with losing.

#The Sandman #The Sandman fanfic #Morpheus x reader #Dream of the endless x reader #Morpheus fanfic

[ginoeh]

Welcome to my entry for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang 2024! Art was done by the amazing @lalaithquetzallicaresi ! You can find her over at Deviant Art as well!

Biggest thanks go to @tharkuun for tackling the task of pruning the purple out of my prose 💜! Thank you so much, friend!

Special thanks go to @chaosheadspace for allowing me to annex parts of her idea and doing my own thing with it! Without you this would be a different story altogeher...

To The Edge of Night

Explicit | Hob Gadling/Dream of the Endless | Part 1 of 3 | 11k

Part One Part Two

*** *** ***

Chapter One

It is quiet beneath the water’s surface.

Hob hangs there, suspended and weightless, beams of light filtering down through the cool liquid and refracting on ascending bubbles. In the back of his mind, there is the animal fear of nonono you need to breathe and no not again I don’t want to drown, but it is a muted, sizzling static barely more than white noise and easily disregarded. It is only the well-known echo of an old nightmare, so familiar by now that it is almost a friend. 

He should probably breathe soon, a sluggish and strangely calm part of his brain remarks, more out of obligation to observe the usual human behavioural pattern that is tattooed into everyone at birth and less because he feels he needs air. The larger part of Hob’s brain is preoccupied with becoming self-aware enough to recognize that he is dreaming. 

Below him, in the unseen black depth of whatever body of water his unconscious mind has made up, Hob detects a pressure change. More bubbles rise towards the vaguely defined surface, each of them carrying a world in them, a scene, a mind. Hob rips his eyes away from them; they are ephemeral, they’ll pop upon reaching the surface, like iridescent soap bubbles releasing their dreams into the ether once the dreamer awoke.

He frowns, vaguely aware that he shouldn’t know this, even as he observes the unknowable blackness underneath him. He knows what will happen next. This isn’t the first time he has this dream, after all. As if on schedule, the cold currents that swirl around his toes and bare calves grip tighter, sneaking up his thighs, then hips, grabbing and tugging until they find purchase. 

The first time, Hob had struggled, the old drowning nightmare trying to reassert itself. He’d woken gasping and in cold sweat with the uncomfortable feeling of having done an injustice to some nameless, pleading thing. In hindsight - if such a concept can be applied to something as illogical as dreams - he hadn’t felt threatened by the odd dream, per se. He’d been feeling vaguely guilty about it for days even when the actual dream had started to fade in the daylight hours. Dreaming in and of itself had become such an unusual concept to him over the 20th century that feeling like he had rejected one out of such an old fear had nearly made him want to apologise.

Hob had laughed at himself at that and made it a point to openly anticipate the still, black waters and cold undercurrent. He’d felt like a child, pretending the monster under his bed was actually a nice fellow and just wanted some company. 

The same dream had come again and again after that, not often but insistently, over weeks and months. He’s become strangely protective and appreciative of his only recurring and lucid dream. 

The worlds glinting in the air bubbles are a new addition, though.

Intrigued, Hob casts one more look at them before reaching with his hands into the tugging cold water, trying to bend down towards the depths where the emerging bubbles shimmer like silvery pearls before they rise. Then he is gripped - by fingers belonging to something like a hand, emerging from a body that was like his own but not, a dark mirror with sharp teeth in its smile - and ripped downwards, head first. 

The current tosses him like a ragdoll, down down down, buffeting him from all sides until Hob is twisted and bent in a way no human could possibly survive, were they in the real world. The humanoid shape that has gripped him is long gone, replaced by a cold riptide that carries him along more bubbles and dreams and worlds - over there is a glimpse of a candy coloured sky, here the view of a breathtakingly impossible mountain range, there an impression of creeping horror in a run-of-the-mill office setting -  

Curiously, with his waking mind lurking at the back like an observer behind a screen, Hob takes stock of the images and scenes he is drawn past. Different dreams, he acknowledges with the certainty of the sleeping, not his own but contained in these waters with him anyway. Suffusing them all, there is an emptiness; a yearning and a barren longing for something absent, something alien and all-encompassing. It is an empty night sky missing stars; cracked-dry earth missing the rain; a vibrant picture bled of all colours; a gaping maw of undirected wild dreams that threatens to swallow everything in its path - 

Then, Hob is sucked upwards, the dream bubbles becoming indistinct blurs of colour and sound until only the impenetrable dark of the deep sea remains. 

Finally, he is spat out.

It feels like waking up, only in reverse. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, or if time even has any significance in this strange place at all. He isn’t wet, for all that he thinks he’s travelled through water. Underneath his fingertips he feel the grain of age-worn wood, a solid surface that dugs into his back reassuringly.

Suddenly, in the way of dreams, there is someone standing over him. Dark skinned with close cropped hair that shows off elfin-like tipped ears. The being observs him over its glasses, curious and mistrusting.

“You are not my Lord.” The voice is female.

Hob can’t really fault the assertion. This has to be the most interesting dream he’s ever had. 

“No, I’m not,” he says, and doesn’t make a move to sit up. It doesn’t feel prudent to try seeing as he is, in reality, laying in his bed fast asleep. “But if you see him, tell him that his dreaming waters are really pretty turbulent, won’t you?”

Hob isn't particularly sure why it is those specific words that want to be said but it tracks with the whole knowledge that this is, in the end, a dream and therefore he’d better go along with the script. The curious woman’s lips twitch and something a bit warmer than perfunctory curiosity enters her eyes. It might be amusement. 

“I will, dreamer. As soon as my Lord is finally back again.”

Hob frowns, sinking further into the wooden plank beneath him that suddenly feels much too soft and comfortable and warm. He thinks of the insistent pull of the currents, of the uncanny knowledge that the waters are too rough, of the insistent yearning.

“That’s not good though, is it? Him - not here, missing.” He casts his eyes into the sky - grey and drab, but is that the edge of his wardrobe emerging over there? - before trying to focus again on the woman. “Who’re you, anyway? And why am I here?” 

“I am Lucienne, the Palace Librarian.” She sounds far away. ”And you, dreamer, need to wake up.”          

*** *** *** 

It all started by chance. 

At least, that was what Hob would reconstruct much later. He'd been a morose, pathetic bastard in the mid-nineties, so he was loath to call it something as trite as luck, or even bad luck.

He'd nearly cancelled his plans in favour of going on another drug-fuelled bender dose of inadvisable substances the night before, nearly took a right turn to get home faster. But then, entirely on a whim he’d decided to stick to his vague plan and turned left despite it all. However unlikely it was, he'd ended up at the rundown storage unit in The Middle of Nowhere, USA, when night was falling. There was a single light on in the manager's container, but instead of the old and brusque guy he'd talked with on the phone a week prior, a stressed-out twenty-something sat at the desk. 

The office itself was a dump and the person manning not in a largely better state.  

The air was heavy with too sweet perfume, but not enough to completely disguise the smell of mould and sweat. Mismatched boxes littered most of the floorspace and heaps of paperwork nearly swallowed the flimsy plastic desk as well as the androgynous tween behind it. Shadows burrowed grooves along their premature stress lines. They was staring blankly at a stack of folders. Hob thought they might possibly be a woman. Or - might have been born a woman, in any case. 

“I'm sorry, I don't know what Da’ was thinking. This is a fu- a freakin’ mess.” They shoved strands of shortish black hair behind pierced ears and nervously tapped a pen against a page of unreadable handwriting. 

Hob regretted not cancelling his plans. His head pounded something fierce and he thought longingly of the plastic bag of white powder underneath his passenger seat. He could have had a date with sweet delirium instead of standing here in the dark, trying to organize his next life. Mildew stared at him from the upper corner of the office container. 

“Look, it doesn't matter. We can just pretend I was never here-”

They looked up, panicked and pleading, and interrupted him.  

“No! I - we can make this work! I can-”

“Kid, if it doesn't work, then it doesn't work.” Hob sighed and started to turn around. The smell of the perfume itched at the back of his throat. He felt wretched. This whole damn decade was wretched.

“Please, wait. We- we …” They trailed off and Hob had to strain his ears to catch the despondent rest of the sentence. “...We need the money. Da’... Dad had an accident and - there's the hospital bills and… and the funeral bills now and…”

Hob pinched his nose, suppressing the rising nausea, and cursed his bleeding heart. He just hoped to every god that the actual storage units were in better shape than this office.

“I need three storage units at the very least, kid. Can you get me those?” He needed four or five to store all the debris of his past lives, to be honest, but he could be nice about this, just once. 

“I, um. I have two that are empty.” They sounded so carefully optimistic and thankful that Hob felt nearly wretched at his uncharitable thoughts. “And… there's one you can… just have anyway?”

“What?”

The kid worried at their chapped lips and looked up at Hob with a grimace. 

“Like, there's one where the owner is a… kind of a felon? And it's like, we're overdue rent by about three months.” They frowned. “Da’ has a phone number here about payment and stuff but, like, it's disconnected.”

And so it was by pure chance that Hob, on an all around awful and rainy night, hungover and itching for a fix, gained the keys to the storage unit of a convicted felon and found something that would change his life. 

The kid fiddled with the keys before finally just handing them over to Hob and showed him the way. It wasn’t far from the office at all. They hung back as Hob ducked inside, coughing at the wave of dust kicked up by the fresh air.

“I c'n have someone trash all this stuff next week, if you want!” the kid yelled from the entrance of the musty storage unit stuffed with shelves.  

Hob, though, didn't hear any of it. At the back of the cluttered space, on a heavy duty shelf at about chest height, there was a small metal box that drew his eyes. A deep red light spilled from between its hinges and from underneath the lid like beckoning fingers. The weirdest feeling of familiarity tickled his memories.

When he prised the box open, he found in it a red gemstone that looked very familiar.

*** *** *** 

The ruby - though Hob didn't know if it actually was a ruby, and he had no intention of having it checked - got a place of honour in Hob's bedroom. It was a sad state of affairs, if Hob was to be honest with himself, to cling to something just because it reminded him of the stranger that had been his only constant for nearly 600 years.

He wasn’t even Hob’s friend after all. 

Still, he couldn't free himself of the notion that the ruby needed to be kept close. It was pathetic - this couldn’t be the same gemstone his stranger wore to all of their meetings - and yet… he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. It exerted a hypnotic pull over Hob at times, scrambling his thoughts and dreams even when he was otherwise completely sober, and when the nineties segued into the noughties and Hob found sobriety a not quite so unappealing prospect anymore, he decidedly closed the metal lid on its box. 

Looking at it hurt. 

The thought of getting rid of it hurt more.

Out of sight, out of mind, he thought. As it turned out, it wasn’t quite that easy.

*** *** ***

Hob wakes up on wooden planks beneath a slate grey sky. 

Or maybe those are the wrong words. He certainly becomes aware there, with water that isn’t actually wet caressing his hair and strangely indistinct clothes. It whispers as it runs down in rivulets to join with the darkly opaque waters below the walkway Hob sits upon. As far as Hob can see, the wooden bridge extends over the softly lapping waves until it vanishes into the distance. Thunder rumbles overhead.

This is a dream.

Slowly, he stands, cupping the last drops of dry water carefully in his hands. It swirls in glittering strands, reflecting shadows and muffled screams. Hob recognizes something of the old nightmare that kept visiting him faithfully. 

How odd a dream this turns out to be.

Behind him, the sea of dreams and nightmares stretches infinitely until it melts into the horizon. 

“Where did you bring me, little nightmare,” Hob whispers as he lets the droplets join with the body of water below. 

He doesn’t get an answer. 

*** *** ***

His new life, back in London again, greeted Robert Grant with the enthusiasm afforded to any post-graduate student of the Humanities, which was to say, with depressingly little. 

It didn't matter all that much, really, because Bob, as his fellow students found out, wasn’t one for overt enthusiasm either - at least when the matter at hand didn't concern his immediate interest, which anything rarely did. Who in their right mind would voluntarily make ‘The peasants’ life - agency and social standing in late 14th century Europe’ their thesis subject, after all. 

Hob didn't mind. 

After the drug-fuelled mind-fuck he’d made of the prior decade, he could do with a bit of academic solitude. Most of the people he had associated with were dead - or by now old and ill enough to soon be close enough - and sometimes he thought melancholy hung around him like a heavy cloak of shadows that he didn't know how to take off. Hob tried, though, he really did. Not meeting his… his stranger, suddenly becoming a truly unknown particle in an ever-expanding world will not be as world-ending as his 17th century had been, surely.

Hob only had to get a grip on himself again. It couldn't be that hard.

If he sometimes found himself suddenly awake at night, mindlessly caressing the scratched metal box with the ruby lookalike, then that was between himself and his well-loved nightmares.

*** *** ***

The wooden walkway looks the same every time Hobs comes-to on its planks. He's always alone at first, the feeling of travelling through turbulent waters still rushing in his ears while he gets his bearings. Some of the water likes to linger on him, in the folds of his clothes or in the hollow of his collarbone. Hob thinks it might be his nightmare, the one he's had on and off since the early sixteen hundreds, of drowning again and again. He smiles a little and pretends he doesn't see the not-wet water sluicing off and dripping back into the sea of nightmares below the walkway. 

Sometimes the sky above him is grey and stormy, sometimes it's the blackest night Hob has ever seen, without one star to be found in the endless expanse above. It makes him uncomfortable, because something is missing. 

The woman that had greeted him on his first arrival in this surrealist landscape, Lucienne, doesn’t turn up again. He's alone, except for the nightmare that clings for longer and longer each time before joining back with the rest of the dark waters. 

So eventually, Hob starts walking.

It's not easy, seeing as how there are patches of planks that are loose or broken. Sometimes, he takes the time to try and put the boards back into place and fix them so they don't slip off again. But he has no nails or hammer or any other tool on him whenever he wakes on the walkway. All he ever has with him are the clothes on his back; rarely his pyjamas, thankfully, but the truly horrible amalgamation of different styles - leeched of every colour except for the washed out remnants of greys, blacks, and sometimes a hint of red - aren’t much better.  

But Hob persists, and every time he puts another plank back into place, he thinks they feel eager to get back to where they belong. Next to him, the liquid pre-form of his little nightmare lingers and watches and gains consistency.

“Am I doing this right, then?” he asks, not quite looking at the slowly undulating form of the watery nightmare creature beside him. Beneath his fingers, the bleached and worn grains of wood are soft and nearly warm. The plank that he holds wants to be set back into its frame, after beingn loosened and having gone askew with time and weather. 

Carefully, Hob slips it back where it belongs and does his best to press it down into the supporting structure without the aid of any tools. It fits nearly too perfectly.

Then again, this is a dream. So of course it would. 

“How long does this path go on, then?” he asks next, and the tiny, misshapen creature shivers at his side. Hob looks behind him, over the endless stretch of the meandering walkway. It's so long that the farthest reaches of it, the place where Hob once got spewed up and out of the dreaming waters, are lost in the twilit dark.

It's in much better shape now than when he started this journey. 

“As long as it takes, huh? Well. That’s not really helping me much, little nightmare,” he mutters, and then turns back around again, facing the mirroring path before him. Above, grey clouds start to skitter across the depthless black sky.

Hob has no idea how often he has visited this strange strange place - time is a curious thing in dreams, after all. 

“Let’s go on then. No use waiting forever. Someone clearly needs to make sure this road is safe. Wouldn’t want that Lady Lucienne falling and drowning after all, would we?” 

Hob walks on.

*** *** *** 

Robert Grant was having a bit of a shite time of it, if he was being honest. He wasn’t, of course, but there was no one around to tell him off for it. Martin the barkeep might, but the old chap thought that old Bertholt Grant, Hob's supposed uncle, was somewhere off gallivanting in the US and doing nothing more than forking over loads and loads of pounds to keep up the lawsuit against the demolition of the White Horse. 

Martin the barkeep, therefore, had no idea at all about Robert Grant, who was very much not in the US but rather squarely in London, and his current troubles. For if Rob - or Hob to his closest friends, of whom there existed exactly none at this particular early time in his new life - hadn’t been absolutely sure that his last substance-fuelled descent into delirium had been more than half a decade ago, he'd think he was maybe on a particularly long and weird trip. 

He was of course vaguely aware of the arcane - of the supernatural and the magical - in the same way any immortal who had taken part in a few (more or less) genuine seances, spirit walks, and summonings would be. Apart from the whole being-immortal business, which all in all had surprisingly few magical components to it, as far as Hob had seen. Nothing in his vast spectrum of experiences offered an explanation for his recent troubles. 

At times, the reality Hob found himself in felt strangely transient. As though there were an iridescent veil of rippling water behind which other things waited - things that had no business existing in a world where Hob was very much awake. Whenever he closed his eyes on the odd feeling, the shadowy depths of the sea of dreams and nightmares lapped eagerly at his consciousness. His frequent lucid dreams were a curiously consistent comfort as well as a source of mystery.

Thoughtfully, Hob traced patterns on the small, plain box that held the ruby pendant he'd found in the storage more than a decade ago. It was the only thing that had followed him into this new life from his last. Outside, early autumn rain pattered against the windows of his cheap two-bedroom apartment. On days like this, he really didn’t feel like going out at all. 

As if in admonishment, the annoying ringtone of his Philips flip phone rang through the flat. 

Groaning, he set the worn box back on his bedside table and went to grab the blasted thing from the faded linoleum kitchen counter. The cartoon sound of a rubber band grated on his nerves when he flipped the casing open and looked at the caller id on the greenish screen. 

“What's up, Emily?”

There was an exasperated silence.

“You forgot, didn’t you? A-gain. Oswin was right.”

Hob stared blankly at the garish novelty clock on top of the microwave and wracked his brain about deadlines his deskmate in the library would call him up about. He drew a complete blank.

“Forgot what?”

“Ohmygod Bobbie. How are you even- “ She paused and took a deep breath that sounded tinny over the warbling connection. “We're at the Red Lion. The quiz is starting soon. You promised by all that's holy you'd come this week.”

Hob could hear the quotation marks in her words. And he still drew a blank on what - and more importantly why - he'd promised.

“Which Red Lion?” he dared to ask after a pause in which he could hear Emily silently despair.

“Are you shitting me? The one across the street behind the old archives building, of course!” She sighed. “Will you still come? Please? We can order something for you already. You’re not gonna be that late, Bobbie.” 

It was the undertone of resignation that finally convinced him to give in against the lethargy and dissociation that had been creeping up on him again. He cast one last frown at the unassuming box that hid the ruby and ascertained once more that the rain-washed windows were truly only looking out into equally rainy London and not, for example, into the depths of an ocean he had only ever dreamed of. 

It made him feel truly unhinged for one disconnected moment. 

“Okay. Order away.”

At the other end, there was silence.

“I- really? I mean. Yeah, sure, Bobbie! You want anything in particular?” Emily sounded equally as surprised as happy. Hob immediately felt guilty about rebuffing so many of her previous attempts to get him to socialise. 

“Not really. I don’t know, some fish and chips will do. And a lager.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Emily was scribbling down his order religiously as he spoke. Dependable note-taking was something he knew her to be really good at. They’d spent the better part of the last semester sharing lectures and a library table, so he was pretty sure he had her quirks memorised well enough.

“Though I’d rather skip on the apples and chocolate digestives, if you don’t mind too much,” he added, careful and with an exaggerated playfulness in his voice. She’d plied him with both for many months now, keeping up a constant litany of how she never saw him eat. 

It was… endearing, in a way. Even if it made him uncomfortably aware that there was something wrong with him that extended beyond his lucid dreams and the vague sense that there was something hiding behind the reality he perceived. He rarely felt hunger, these days.

Maybe immortality was finally catching up with him, after all this time. Mad Hettie hadn’t gotten her nickname for being entirely sane, after all, and she was many times his junior.

On the other end of the line, Emily laughed a startled breath.

“I don’t think this dump serves anything as uppity as apples, Bobbie,” she joked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with salty chips and oily fish. I’ll get you some apples on Monday, though.”

“See you in a bit, Emily. I’m on my way.”

“Yeah, laters!” She sounded happy, and Hob stared at the phone after disconnecting the call. He hadn’t realised she cared that much.  

Beyond the window, evening started falling, and the water running down the glass panes looked like waves on the sea of dreams. Hob threw one more look back at the ruby in the box. For a second, he imagined a shimmer of red light spilling through the cracks. It was only an illusion, of course.

He shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his umbrella, keys, and wallet on the way out, and braved the English weather. 

It was time to make some friends again.

*** *** *** 

Then, one night, he reaches the end of the walkway. 

Before Hob, a landscape of sandy hills, scraggly shrubs, and dark moors rises from the silvery mists.

*** *** ***

Chapter Two

Hob sits, feet dangling close to the water's surface, at the edge of the dock. The sea below his feet is silent; breathless. Above, clouds whip past in jarringly fast swirls. The sight mirrors the uncomfortable feeling lodged in Hob's stomach. Behind him is the way he came, with the sea made of dreams and nightmares and the endless path beneath an empty sky.

It’s familiar.  

Hob’s nightmare creature slinks around at his periphery, its form still not quite stable. Its surface is rippling as though agitated, and sometimes it has eight long legs, sometimes only four. A few of them look like tentacles, or nets, if Hob looks as closely as he can. It dips in and out of the still water, equally unable to commit to leaving the sea behind as Hob himself. Or maybe it’s just mirroring Hob’s own indecision.

On one hand, he’s always keen on exploring the new. The landscape beyond the dunes that block Hob’s view beckons him with mystery and intrigue - where would the next path take him in this dreamland? On the other hand, he’s grown pretty appreciative of what he’s seen so far. There’s something tranquil about being alone, held between the sky and the sea, caught at the interface between a mirror and its image.

But maybe he’ll like the rest of this odd country, too. Maybe he’ll meet more strange creatures, like the one that’s been travelling with him so far. 

On the horizon, far behind the dunes, the dark storm clouds gain a lighter edge.

Sighing, Hob pushes himself off the wooden boards and splashes into the water up to his calves. He leaves no ripples in his wake. The water looks and feels as though it's a blanket cocooning him. He gives a perfunctory pat to the walkway.

“Okay then, ‘t was nice having your support,” he jokes before making for the shore.

He wades out of the water’s hold. It laps at his feet when he leaves, sluices off him as smoothly as real water doesn’t and drips into the opaque black sand in shimmering impressions of faces and fears, screams and dreams. The sea starts churning suddenly, as if remembering that it’s actually supposed to be moved by the winds that still whip past them, and not by its own alien design.

Behind him, his little nightmare slinks along, trailing water and legs and fur and a hundred other things that vanish into puddles. It still doesn’t have a form, Hob thinks as he wiggles his toes into the cool and dark sand, observing it covertly. Maybe it’s trying to find one. Hob thinks it should be something sleek and small; agile.

Slowly, they trek across the beach toward the dunes. They are made of the same forebodingly black sand as the beach. Hob stays close to the shore for as long as he can. The ever-growing waves try to lap at his feet. His nightmare gamboles in the surf but doesn't ever actually go back into the sea. 

The walkway behind them is never out of sight. Like one of those portraits whose eyes seem to follow the watcher, the path Hob once walked seems always to be staring at him. But even so, the draw to explore the land beyond never lets him go, either.

*** *** ***

Hob’s new life was slowly starting to lose its alien feel. It didn’t quite fit yet - like a new coat that was too stiff at the collar and too tight at the elbows until it got properly worn in. Hob recognized the crisp feeling of newness even though, usually, it came with the shine and sparkle of beginnings and promises. This time, he kept fighting against a feeling of constriction that sometimes veered concerningly close to panic.

He fought against it, of course. He just needed a bit more time to settle into a new routine, without the constancy of regular centennial meetings. That was all.

“This is it,” he said one uncommonly sunny September evening.

“What. This ramshackle hut? It looks like it’s gonna topple over if I look at it wrong.” 

Oswin, an archetypal Humanities post-grad, took a deep drag of his cigarette - self-rolled, of course - and settled his other hand into his hip. His patterned shirt made Hob dizzy just from looking at it - it should probably have stayed safely hidden in someone’s forgotten 70’s wardrobe. 

“I dunno, mate.” Hob shrugged and hoped it looked casual enough. He couldn’t quite look at the sad sight the White Horse made without nearly breaking into tears. “My uncle’s totally gone on the history of this pub. Anyway, that’s not the main point I’m trying to make.”

“C’mon Bobbie, you promised us a pub and good ale!” 

“That’s all you’re here for, Ossi? I’m hurt.” 

Oswin just rolled his eyes and handed another cigarette to Emily. 

“Anyway, that’s not really what we’re here for. Come on!” Hob turned his back on the crumbling skeleton of his past and took down the street, his friends behind him. “I just came here to show you the why. I’ve still gotta show you the what..”

Emily groaned. “You’re terrible, Bobbie. You’re such an old man, the way you try to lead us on.”

“Me? Leading you on? Never in my life!” The more he had made himself brave the company of others, the easier it became to fit in. Right now, he was only maybe forty percent pretending and already sixty percent genuinely enjoying himself. 

They trekked across an overgrown meadow until they arrived at a quaint two-storey building. It wasn’t even half as old as the White Horse, but it did have some history lined in its timber-framed construction. 

“It’s another old and closed pub,” Oswin said.

“I think I stepped ‘nto dogshit,” Emily muttered around the smoke between her lips.

Hob couldn’t stop the laugh even if he’d wanted to.

“It’s my old and closed pub, if you wanna know.”

That shut them up at once. Property didn’t come cheap these days, after all. And Hob hadn’t exactly pretended to be well-off.

Emily abandoned her attempts to scratch the suspected dog poop off her combat boots with a twig and leaned on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. She nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah… I can absolutely see it.”

“You can?”

“Sure, Ossi. It’s at least as old as Bobbie’s soul, can’t you tell?”

Hob summarily abandoned the shit-talking couple as soon as another figure turned the corner and made straight for the steps of the old building.

“Hey, Martin!” Hob jogged up to meet him. “It’s me!”

Martin Ross was someone whom Hob had taken great care to avoid so far. He’d been ‘Berthold Grant’s’ most staid friend, after all, and he’d been careful to let a decade and a severe makeover pass before even considering taking this particular course of action.

“Dinn’ae think you’d recognize me that easily, Bobbie.” The man gave him a pat with one large hand where Hob was bent over in exaggerated exhaustion after running across the street. It was a calculated move - Hob didn’t feel entirely secure in managing his expression at first, and having a healthily glowing face with wild hair was the opposite of what Martin knew his friend Berti to look like.

As soon as he straightened again, the bartender gave him a thorough lookover.

“How’s your uncle doing? My god, ye’re his spitting image at that age…”

“Thanks! Well so far, I guess. But you know how he is…” Hob trailed off and offered an awkward shrug, letting Martin fill in his own conclusions. 

“Aye, don’t I ever,” the man muttered. “Give me a mo’, Bobbie. I got your keys right here somewhere.” 

Martin had gotten terribly old. He hadn’t been young by any means back in 1989 but now, fifteen years later, Hob again realised that very soon, he’d be mourning another friend. He’d known of course that Martin had celebrated his 71st birthday just months prior. Now, his age slapped him in the face with all the soft wrinkles, liver spots, and his head of gleaming white hair.    

“There you are, little bugger.”

With a self-deprecating grin, Martin handed Hob a set of four keys. 

“Thanks for doing this, Martin.”

And Hob was really, awfully thankful to the old man. He’d taken to Hob as ‘Bert’s’ representative as jovially and earnestly as he’d taken to being ‘Bert’s’ friend in the first place. It wasn’t a good feeling to deceive his friends -past and present - like this. But it was getting harder and harder to come back to the same area within less than a generation and take over for his past self. So this was a good solution, even if he knew it was going to hurt him and his friend for a while. 

Hob wasn’t ready to let the White Horse and everything it stood for simply vanish into the mists of time and so here he was again, barely one generation later, still hoping that his Stranger would one day find him here. The last time he’d clung to a place and its memories this recklessly, it had gotten him drowned as a witch.  

Something must have shown on his face, because Martin’s smile dimmed a bit.

“Ye’re a good lad, Bobbie. I ‘ppreciate what ye’re doing for Bertie here.”

There was a ripple somewhere in Hob’s mind, like a pebble thrown into a mirror-smooth lake, and in that disturbance, Hob thought he saw his own face as it was in the nineties: sunken eyes, bloodshot with too little sleep and too much crack, something resembling a grin on bloodred lips, an unhealthy sweat on his brows. 

“I just hope ye’re not planning on walking the same road as ye’re uncle in other matters.”

Hob resurfaced, confused, and realised he was staring. The rip in reality reflected in Martin’s eyes and refused to vanish no matter how much Hob blinked.

“Uh. Yeah. I mean, of course, Martin.”

 What the hell was that. 

Martin left soon after, promising to keep in touch concerning staffing and management questions and Hob mutely opened the door to his new, old, pub. The image of Hob’s own ravaged face reflected in Martin’s eyes stayed in Hob’s mind. Was that what Martin feared? Dreamed about?

“Ohhhh, look at that!” Oswin crooned into his ear and sashayed into the dusty, empty taproom. “Our Bobbie got himself his own little kingdom!”

“Kind of. I’m supposed to fix it up for my uncle and get a cut of the revenue. It’s supposed to become - a friendly space. For everyone. It’s… kinda personal.”

Emily shot him a look he had trouble interpreting. There was maybe something like hope there. He let his messenger bag flop to the truly awfully dirty floor and rummaged through it until he had unearthed the three bottles of the cheapest ale he could find for sale. 

“There. The ale I promised.”

Emily took hers with disgust written in her face but unclipped the bottle opener from her dangling keychain obligingly.

“You’re actually a terrible cheapskate, you know that? I hate you.”

Oswin simply opened the bottle and made a show of taking an obscenely deep swallow.

“Yep,” he said, settling cross-legged in the dust. “This is exactly as disgusting as the state of this dump. I love it.”

“It doesn’t taste like goat piss,” Hob offered, and opened his own.

“And on that concerning revelation, let us speak a toast!”

They clinked their cans and Hob couldn’t help the smile when it all devolved into more friendly bickering. There were so many possibilities held in smiles and new beginnings.  

*** *** ***

The dunes, when he finally reaches them, are barren except for scraggly grass and thistles. Overhead, the stormwinds rage on. Behind, the vast churning sea, dangerous and beautiful, dips out of sight at last.

Immediately, the world grows silent but for the shifting grains of sand.

Hob kneels and burrows his fingers in the cool dampness. The grains are lighter here, less black and more whitish opaque - a bit like ground glass. They stick to his fingers and underneath his nails like cold and sharp glitter. In between the dunes and the thistles and yellowed stalks of grass, there are the signs of a long neglected pathway. 

“Oh, we're not in Kansas anymore, are we?” 

Hob chuckles, and the sound falls strangely onto the remnants of the white pebbled road. It slips between the cracks and soaks into the egg-white rocks. Maybe here, each step and every stone will bring him closer to his goal as well, whatever that might be. He doesn't think there's an emerald city at the end of this road, though. 

Something sleek and black moves at the corner of his eyes. 

“Are you coming with me, then? I'd be grateful for the company, if you'd care to join me.”   

The shape moves closer and stays still, as if daring Hob to finally take a look. So he does.

The nightmare is small on its four paws and elongated body. It looks nearly emaciated, but its fur is sleek and glimmers wetly, more black in colour than the brown of its earthly brethren. Otters, in Hob's limited experience, don't usually sport such iridescent, nearly oily looking fur. Its too large eyes are an unnerving black from corner to corner and Hob can feel its intent gaze on him like the caress of cold water.

Hob stays quiet, sitting still on his knees with sand between his fingers, and slowly stretches out one hand as he would in the waking world when trying not to spook an animal. He's not sure if the same principles apply here, though.

“There you are,” he murmurs as the creature comes closer, not shyly but cautiously; assessing him, Hob thinks. “Have you decided how you want to look?”

It cocks its head and Hob gets the impression that it's meant mockingly. He doesn't really know why. It swerves around Hob's hand and hops onto the white pebbled path that promises to wind through the dunes and further into this strange, strange land.

It looks straight at him and bares needle-sharp teeth that are much too long. 

“Yeesh, I got you. You want to come along. No need to be so impatient, little nightmare.”

In answer, it twitches its tail and scrapes long and obsidian black claws across the pebbles.

Sighing, Hob acquiesces to the demand and, with his hands, sweeps the mounds of sand away from where the path begins. He rights the edges where the round stones, no larger than his fist, have become loose and pats the restored section of the path obligingly. 

Something like a small shock travels up his arms right then, a warm, static zing that races through him and lodges behind his sternum and tints his vision red for the blink of an eye. He rubs his chest, today clad in something like a fading beige jacket with frayed sleeves, but there is nothing there.

The otter grins with black lips, its teeth glimmering forebodingly. 

“Oh, you're a real nightmare, aren't you.”

He laughs a little at the thin otter-lookalike and follows it into the dunes between the thistles and thorny brambles.      

*** *** *** 

Interlude:

Dream of the Endless startles. 

Something has changed.

The cold of the glass sphere is as inconsequential as ever beneath him; the basement with its mockery of the night sky and badly hewn stones is as ephemeral as it always was - only to human minds these walls seem insurmountable and timeless. 

A guard, Dream cares not which of the several that man the post, shuffles her feet and turns the pages of her paperback book. 

There is a tiny grain of loss at the knowledge that he does not know this book, nor its creator. 

Everything is as he is accustomed to, in Burgess’ paltry fortress.

And yet.

He slowly lays his fingers across his chest, where usually his ruby would rest. It is not there, it has been taken and hidden from him many decades ago.  

He lets the hand fall away again, presses the pads of his fingers against the unforgiving glass, thinking. Someone is using a part of his power for the Dreaming’s benefit. 

He wonders which of his creations has faithfully brought his stolen power home. They are one and the same, after all, Dream of the Endless and the Dreaming. To strengthen one, is to give loyalty to the other. 

There is a smile tilting his lips when he returns to watching the guards. 

*** *** *** 

“Oh. My. God.”

Emily’s voice cut through the background of the radio’s quiet blaring and Hob straightened from where he was bent over the side of the bar counter. 

“Oh my god,” she repeated and picked her way between tools and boxes towards him, “this looks absolutely fab, Bobbie! Where have you learned to do this? I wish I could learn to become a carpenter.”

Hob stepped away from the freshly sanded and glazed wood of the White Horse’s old and saved bar counter and pushed his safety goggles up. Instantly, his eyes started watering at the sharp chemical tang that hung in the air.

“Ah damn it, can you open a window please?”

Emily gingerly edged around some precariously stacked tables and leaned over to quickly push one of the creaking windows wide open. 

“Good thing you’re wearing a mask.” She laughed and pulled up the collar of her red turtleneck to hide her nose behind. “You’d prob’ly be high as a kite otherwise.”

Hob threw the brush into the designated painting can and managed to squeeze through the assembled detritus of the unfurnished New Inn towards Emily. 

“Let’s sit outside. I could do with a breather, to be honest.” 

He grabs a couple of lemonade bottles out of a nearly empty case. They settled on the porch steps where the late winter sun did its level best to make them feel like it was early spring already. 

“Cheers!” 

The silence was nice, companionable. Until, of course, Hob made the mistake of watching his friend from the corner of his eyes. He shouldn't, he knew that. He’d learned better over the last few months than to look too closely when these strange wisps of whimsy and water started to peek through into reality. Martin had been only the first of many instances where he’d… seen things. 

He was going crazy. He was just going round the bend that was all there was to it.

Emily turned her green glass bottle, hands compulsively tightening. There was a frown caught between her brows. He'd noticed it often, for a couple of months now; there was doubt in the way her eyes had lingered on him and Oswin, indecision and apprehension in the set of her shoulders. 

He'd noticed then, too, the little thoughts that shimmered around her, the little fears she nurtured. He'd chosen to ignore them, at the time. It was nothing, surely. He was just - seeing impossible things.

But Hob wasn’t ever good at simply letting things go once they had caught his interest. He’d never been one to back down. But maybe…maybe there was a way to find out, after all, if any of it was - real. 

He cast a sideways glance at her and laid a hand over hers where it gripped the bottle too tightly. All or nothing.

“Hey there’s no need to worry, Emily. Oswin won’t care. Neither do I, by the way.”

Emily stopped twisting the poor bottle. 

“What?”

She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 

There was his chance to take it back, a way out. He could just laugh it all off. Then again, Hob had seen those same fears and thoughts crowding around Emily day after day for so long now - more in impressions than in visual images, a bone deep knowledge when he looked at her that she was afraid. Emily feared what her best friends would do and say when she’d finally dare to tell them.

Still, he was tempted to back out. He could still pretend nothing was wrong; tell himself that his dreams were just dreams and those visions and insight were nothing more than the product of a too old mind.

All or nothing, he thought again and forged forward, as always.

“Love is love, Emily. I don’t care if you’re not into guys. I won’t abandon you. Or judge you.”

Emily froze and Hob was immediately sure that what he knew, what he’d learned of her by whatever strange kind of magic this was, was the truth of her fears and nightmares. It sisn’t feel like the good kind of validation at all. 

“How did you-” She stood, aghast, and stepped neatly out of the range of his hands.

“Emily, please.”

“No Bobbie. What the- how did you kn- How can you just throw this at me like that?!”

Hob winced and held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Em!”

“Uncomfortable?! You just - You just outed me without even-” She violently scrubbed a hand through her short bob. “I haven’t told anyone, ever! There is no possible way you could have simply-”

She gestured wildly and if it weren’t for the tears that she was furiously blinking away, he’d be counting on getting slapped and summarily left. Instead, she calmed down by herself. She was still tense when she settled back down next to him and shakily lit herself a smoke. There was a cautious distance between them, now.

“Thanks for trying to support me. However ass-backwards you went about it.” 

Her voice remained clipped and she didn’t really look at him but something in the set of her shoulders had relaxed all the same. The impressions of fear around her became lighter, nearly see-through if they had been visible in the first place, their substance more ephemeral mist than dark water. 

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. It’s creepy.”

“I’m creepy?”

“Oh god Bobbie. Yes you are,” She laughed and it sounded a little less warm than what Hob was used to hearing from her. He’d earned that, most likely.

“It’s really no wonder you’ve got a hard time making friends,” she said, “I did notice that you’re.. strange, sometimes. Too intense, I guess. But it’s all part of your charm. At least as long as you don’t overdo it.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Sure thing. Just - do me a favour and don’t randomly out people without a by-your-leave. There are a lot of us that have actual nightmares about that kind of thing.”

She stomped her cigarette out and got up again.

“See you later?”

“Of course.” 

He watched her go, steps surer and shoulders straighter than when she’d come. 

“Nightmares, huh.” 

*** *** ***

Beyond the dunes, the land transforms into an inhospitable moor. White sand, each particle hard and cold like glass, becomes earthy and deceptively soft. Dead plant matter clings wetly in little slippery clumps and squelches uncomfortably loamy underneath each of Hob's steps. 

Perpetual twilight falls and fog lies over everything.

It caresses the black pools of brackish water, winds around spindly plants and dying trees and stretches its cold, translucent fingers into Hob’s face. His nightmare nearly vanishes, its black fur becoming one with the waters of the ponds when Hob doesn’t look. 

The path of white pebbled stones has long since melted into a footpath that winds around and around. Sometimes, there are the remnants of old bridges that cross softly murmuring streams and little pools. Other times, wooden walkways cross over soft peat. 

It feels like-

It feels like home to Hob.

He kneels, neglected and decomposing wooden slates in hand, at the edge of one bridge. The dampness creeps through his trousers - this time some ludicrous, wrapped things of fading black. The handrailing is long gone and Hob doesn’t know if it will support his weight if he tries to cross it. Carefully, he fits the slates back into place.

“When I was a kid,” he murmurs, “there was a place just like this a few miles behind our village. We used to go and cut peat there, my Da’ and I and my older brother.”

In the pond next to him, the Otter floats with its head barely above the surface. There is a red shine to its eyes as it keeps them focussed intently on Hob.

“After, we’d sit at the fire and the men would tell stories. Of wicked souls and lost children. Of the little ghost lamps they’d light up at night to lead wanderers astray and drown them.”

Hob looks back at the bridge, and as he had thought - as had happened so many times now - the part he has repaired, the whole of the bridge even, has regained a structural integrity that’s most certainly not due to the few slats Hob has put back into place. 

He smiles a little, content. The path already knows what it is supposed to look like, he thinks. Hob is just providing the material.

And the faith.

“We were told to always trust the paths, and to never leave them.”

He stands and pats down his sorry excuse for trousers. The wet dirt clings stubbornly to his clothes and hands, though.

In the distance, barely visible, the dark shade of a treeline rises. There is yet a sea of mist and bog to wade through before he can reach it and as he takes his first step onto the new bridge, trusting that it will hold him, a light blinks into existence, an eerie yellow shine distorted through the fog.

Hob can’t help the grin that steals across his face. It’s been a while since he felt so young. There aren’t any moors like this left in England - precious few across the world and none that feel as familiar as this one. He takes a deep breath, then another. 

“Let’s go,” he says in the direction of his nightmarish companion, “Let’s see where these paths want to lead us.”

Another light blinks on, and then more and more shine through the mist. They follow him, he thinks. Overhead, the perpetually setting sun throws pale red light against the cloud cover. It looks exactly as Hob remembers from a world long lost to time. 

*** *** ***        

The morning dawns with the unrelentingly gentle insistence of early spring. Rain drums a beat against the window panes of Hob’s bedroom and gurgles down into the earth through too old pipes. Hob blinks away the lights of the ghostly lanterns in the moor and tries to hush the quietly bubbling brooks that he thinks he hears echoed in the rainfall.

He sits up slowly, not really sleepy at all but still caught in the tail ends of his dream all the same. The old and drafty floor to ceiling windows show nothing but his own reflection, distorted through the water washed glass. 

Soft thunder rumbles over the skies and a flicker of red flits across the smooth glass panes.

Hob frowns and straightens. It's not really bright, despite the daylight outside but he can't discern at all where the eerie glow comes from. He stares at himself, distorted and see-through, with red light hollowing his throat and cheeks and reflecting in little pinpricks from his eyes.

His breathing is too loud in between the bouts of thunder.

Then, his reflection wavers, shudders - and vanishes. 

“What…”

The rain sounds like waves crashing onto the shore. 

Hob stands, drawn upright by invisible strings, and stumbles towards the offending window. 

This is a dream, he thinks, half-delirious. It must be, even though it feels neither as present and sharp as his recent bouts of lucid dreams, nor as soft-edged and fuzzy as the ones that came before.

No matter how often he blinks, the vision doesn't change. Hesitatingly, he presses his palm against the flat and cold glass, comes closer and closer until his too-fast breath fogs over the panes and smears the edges of the impossible view.   

There is a world behind his windows that has no business existing outside of his dreaming mind - an endless sea as deep and unfathomable as the depth of space, and beyond, if he looks closer, there rises a vast landscape in gentle hills and slopes until it bends towards its centre. For a mere moment, he glimpses an impossible palace.

“Just a dream.” He lets his sweaty forehead thump against the fogged-up window and screws his eyes shut hard. When he opens them again, the window is simply a window into London’s dreary weather again. He turns, feeling oddly wrung out and disappointed.

It's only when he slumps back onto his bed, that he notices the other incongruity. The box with the ruby is open on his nightstand. The stone is glittering invitingly. It's the same shade as the smattering of colour before. Carefully, he reaches for the precious stone. 

He freezes half-way; there is dirt in the groves of his hands and underneath his nails. 

“This is impossible.” 

He scrubs at the smears and wracks his brain for another explanation - any explanation really, other than the one that’s staring at his face in invitingly gentle, red reflections. There are none, if he’s being honest. He hasn’t left his flat for more than a day and he hasn’t owned any plants since one life over. 

The dirt and mud are still there, despite all rationality assuring Hob that it should not be so. 

“Did you do this,” he whispers to the inanimate stone. 

It’s surprisingly warm in his palms when he finally dares to take it out of the box. It draws his eyes and mind and it feels like he’s slowly slipping into the centre of a dizzying vortex. Still, he can’t stop looking. In its facets there is the same landscape that pretended to exist beyond his windows. 

“Are you the real thing then?”

If this is a magical jewel - more, if this is truly the ruby his Stranger has worn on each of their meetings, then what does this mean for him? How did it come to be in a run-down storage unit of a convicted felon? Is this… a test? A task? Or just coincidence? There’s really no way to tell, for now.

He presses the ruby against his chest, where he remembers the Stranger wearing it. It feels like it’s pulsing slowly in time with his heartbeat. 

“You’re the thing that makes me see people’s fears, aren’t you. Even when I’m not in your vicinity.”

And isn't that a dismaying revelation. Hob doesn’t think he has the will to get rid of the ruby, now that he’s nearly sure that it is the real thing, the Ruby. He hasn’t even managed that before he knew, after all. And yet… he doesn’t want his new … skills to isolate him. He’s aware that his inborn sociable nature clashes horribly with them. 

After the near disaster with Emily, it hadn’t gotten easier. Hob knows he thrives on friends and laughter and love but -  currently, he keeps making people uncomfortable because he gets too close and personal too fast. 

He knows too much about them, after all, while they don’t know him at all.

Slowly, he sets the stone back into its lacklustre housing. It’s probably not a good idea to carry it on him. For now, at least.

“Looks like we have to learn to get along somehow, doesn’t it?” 

*** *** ***

Hob doesn’t know how often his dreams have brought him into the moors, how many paths he’s tread and repaired, how often he’s been turned around and beckoned to another part of the twilit landscape. As with the sea of dreams and nightmares, he’s not sure if he wants to leave - and he feels like the moors don’t want him to leave them either. It’s in the caress of the fog, the soft murmurs of the brooks and the faithful light of the soul lamps. 

His Otter moves swiftly through the dark pools alongside Hob and sometimes he thinks he sees other shapes with him - skinny and scrawny things of spindly limbs and crooked spines. Nightmares, Hob hazards a guess, all of them and perfectly at home here.

“If they want to, they can come with us,” Hob says during one night, not quite looking at the crawling shadows that populate the twilit mists. His Otter lies a few metres from Hob’s bare legs, his dirty linen breeches sensibly tied up around his knees. 

He’s doing the whole middle ages peasant thing this time and wears a matching threadbare tunic above it. He thinks there might be a pendant or something hanging at about chest level but whenever he checks, there’s nothing there. It’s a confusing sensation, akin to what he thinks feeling a missing limb might be like. Hob rubs his hands across the empty space again before snatching the hand away. 

The Otter lifts its head. It’s gotten less emaciated, Hob thinks, even though he’s never seen it eat. He doesn’t know if dreams and nightmares even need to eat, in any case. 

It leers at Hob with its needle sharp teeth and Hob feels he knows the answer. 

“Okay then. But they can, if they decide to change their mind, okay?” 

The nightmare lies down again and doesn’t turn his stare from Hob. Hob doesn’t know what to make of it.

“D’you think we’ll get to the forest next time?” 

He thinks of the Ruby lying in its box and of the unanswered questions about his Stranger. Hob doesn’t get to find out his nightmare’s response, though, because the next time he blinks, he’s lying in his bed again.

*** *** *** 

Waking up isn’t disorienting or jarring at all. It is, if Hob had to put words to it, almost disconcertingly natural and smooth - nothing more unusual than stepping from one room into the next. While one might be surprised by a new piece of furniture or disproportionate chaos, it isn’t anything that really defies any fundamental expectations or perceptions. 

And in this normalcy, exactly, it feels significant in a way that waking up really shouldn’t be. Sometimes, there is no dividing line between his dreamworld and his waking one any longer.  

*** *** ***

Then, finally, the muddy ground of the bog makes way for a firmer ground, the land rises out of the water logged plains that had started behind the dunes of the nightmare sea. Hob’s steps resound on springy earth, covered in the debris of old leafs and fragrant pine needles. 

The forest is dark and still. 

The tall trees enclose Hob in a hall of shadows as rich and teeming with possibilities as he remembers from his youth. If he looks closely enough into the underbrush,he thinks there are eyes staring back at him. Screams live underneath these branches, and things with too many teeth. 

At times he thinks that underneath the quiet murmur of the forest, he hears the rumble of the sea of all dreams and nightmares. There are nightmares in these woods as well, after all.

The path his Otter treads with him is narrow. The trees and bushes reach into and over it with long and arching fingers, man high ferns brush cooly along his arms and hide the sight of spiderwebs that seem entirely too malicious to be anything other than an amalgamation of subconscious fears. Hob never sees any spiders, though, not outright at least. But sometimes he thinks they scurry along in his shadow. 

When they pass the first small clearing, Hob stops and stares, old memories rising unbidden. There are flowers strewn across the clearing, all of them unknown to Hob. All of them,  he thinks, might be nightmares of poison and danger.

In the middle of the clearing, there is a ring of white and yellow flowers.

“We were warned about the fae circles, did you know? People have all but forgotten about them, these days.” 

He bends and takes a single flower between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a small blue thing, with fragile petals that make for a deep calyx with an oddly glistening stem. 

His nightmare looks - not really out of place with his black coat and black eyes but in contrast to the nearly natural habitat it had in the bog, the field of flowers makes it look oddly incongruent. Still, it stays still and watches Hob intently. 

More flowers join the first, in reds and whites and all of them make Hob think of poison and pain and disregarded warnings spoken in soft voices. The flower crown comes together easily underneath his nimble fingers; no matter that he hasn’t made one in longer than a century. 

The flowers are preening under his attention, twisting easily together despite their thorny stems and tissue thin petals.

“My mam - I got a little sister when she was already too old to safely bear children, I know that now. But back then, we didn’t. So my mam had one last daughter. She was a sickly child from the first second, too quiet, didn’t drink right. My ma got down with fever alongside her after giving birth.”

He can’t quite recall the colour of his mothers hair or the shape of her face any longer, but he’s never forgotten the sound of her voice. He’d been barely ten when she’d passed in childbed. He turns the flower crown thoughtfully in his hands. This is a story he hasn’t remembered in so very long, hasn’t told anyone about, ever. The Otter at his side stares at him attentively as if it’s absorbing his stories. The forest is quietly listening as well.

“The little one died within a week. Ma was so sad but - then she sent us others off to gather flowers. Made little flower crowns out of all of them and told us to leave them at the large stone at the fairy gate. Where we usually weren’t allowed to go.”

He had quite thoroughly forgotten how he’d left flower crowns for all his brothers and sisters when they’d been taken by the plague, uncaring of any fae or fairies. He’d done that, on and off, for decades even long after the hurt had faded. He bends and picks a few leafy greens - weeds he thinks most would call the delicate plants - and winds them around the flowers. 

“She said that if her daughter had been switched with a changeling that had died, she at least wants to give her real daughter something beautiful to wear for Queen Mab’s court.“

 He shows off the finished crown to his companion.

“There, what do you think? Is this something that’s worthy of the royal court of the Queen of Dreams?”

The otter levels a long long look at him and Hob gets the impression that it’s equal parts amused and ravenous for some unnamed thing. There is a decision that Hob feels but doesn’t see being made and then the nightmare springs into action, swerving off the overgrown footpath and into the darkness of the looming trees. There it waits, expectantly.

Hob doesn’t need to think before he follows. 

There are the nightmares of old lingering where he runs, the cursed clearings, the ever-twisting paths, the ominous sounds that are too close behind. There are also the fears of the fairy tales: malicious wishing-wells, the howling of were-creatures and forebodingly shadowed shrines.

His Otter slips between trees and shadows like a ghost. Hob has no trouble following; they’ve been travelling together for so long now, that Hob can nearly feel his little nightmare. He feels the other creatures in the dark as well, their interest, their hunger and their hope. 

They pass fae circles, shinto trees and little shrines, fairy gates and cursed ponds. Hob slows down to build up a trollstone who’s upper layers had toppled down with time and neglect, sets a forlorn bucket back onto the encasement of a wishing well. In his wake, he thinks he sees them gaining substance and presence.

They slow down, finally, at the edge of a dark pond. 

The conifers and ferns crowd close around it and reach over its blank and empty surface like a protective cocoon. His Otter doesn’t make a single move to step into it. Instead it waits at the water’s edge, clearly expectant. Hob looks down at the crown of deadly flowers and thorns he holds, then back to the pond. 

“You’re asking me… to make an offering, aren’t you?”

The Otter does a curious mix of a wiggle and the shivering of a shadow. It looks completely unholy and is probably the closest it can get to the equivalent of an enthusiastic nod. It’s a bit endearing, really.

The pond looks like nothing so much as a reflective door into the depths of space. No matter how close Hob comes, the water stays entirely still. Hob contemplates the flower crown again. While he doesn’t understand most of this world, he thinks he recognizes some of it from times long before the modern age; where wishes were magical, faith the most powerful and dangerous thing, and where one never offered a name to the creatures of the forests. 

What he’s asked to offer now is made of his past, lost stories and preserved love. It would be… powerful, most likely, in this world. And he wouldn’t mind giving it. He looks around himself, takes in the pervading sense of wear and neglect that has been following him ever since he arrived, thinks back to the eager ease with which each stone he set and each plank he righted transformed back into what they were supposed to be.   

This world is magical and Hob is - fond of it. He wants to see what it would look like, whole and restored. 

“For you then, my Monarch of Dreams. May you wear it or bestow upon someone worthy.” 

He gives a wry grin to the Otter, who has his eyes so wide open that Hob thinks he ought to be able to see their whites, and lays a careful kiss on one of the poisonous flowers. He knows his courtly manners, after all.

Then, he throws it into the pond.

It would have landed smack dab in the middle, too, if two arms made of water and smoke hadn’t reached out and up and caught the crown securely in their clawed hands. The flowers shimmer in the dark, suspended, before they are swallowed into the water. 

Within seconds, the pond is entirely black and still again. 

“What was that.”

His Otter doesn’t move. It’s pressed to its belly and doesn’t look at Hob at all. Carefully, he braves the shore of the pond. Where water meets the springy earth, he hesitates before discarding his fear and stepping into the water despite the tattoo his heart beats against his chest. 

There are no ripples in the water. It feels exactly like the sea of nightmares and dreams had. It’s then that he becomes aware of his reflection below him. It’s nearly familiar.

It wears his face and his body but it’s too lean, too tall. Where his eyes are brown, these eyes are as black as the ones his little nightmare has. There is a red sheen to them, a refraction of light that shines from underneath the shadows his other self wears for clothes. It pulses in time with an unheard heartbeat. Hob thinks it looks like the Ruby. 

On its head rests the crown he has just thrown into the pond.

In the second before Hob gathers his wits enough to stumble back, a ripple shivers across its face and he thinks he sees his stranger, thin, pale and naked behind glass, the crown on his wild hair. 

Then it’s gone and Hob rears back.

“What,” he repeats, wheezing, “was that?!”

Around him, there are creatures scuttling about the edges of the small clearing. His nightmare Otter sidles up to him, calm and expectant. It looks healthier than Hob has ever seen it, all shining fur and gleaming eyes. Instead of providing an answer, no matter whether it’s entirely nonverbal as always, it scurries up onto Hob’s shoulders and drapes across them like an unholy sable fur of sharp teeth and sharper claws. It’s a strangely comforting weight.

Slowly, Hob gathers himself. His heart hurts. Why had he seen his Stranger; why now, like this. At long last, he starts walking again, uncaring of where he sets his feet. It doesn’t matter anyway, as he discovers quickly. 

Because the forest is different now. The shadows aren’t any less deep, the screams are still eerie but Hob still thinks he sees - more, for lack of a better word. Where before, there was only one path bordered by sinister wilderness only traversable in the wake of his nightmare companion, now there is a way wherever he sets his feet. 

The nightmare forest, it seems, welcomes him wholly. 

*** *** ***

Interlude:

Dream sits motionless in his cage of glass and steel. The painted Stars are dulled in the flat glow of the yellow light bulbs. The tinny sound of a radio echoes uninvitingly from the stone walls. His guards, two men this time, make no move to look up from their card game. 

If they had, they would not have seen any change and gone back to their game, not caring to spend one more second on observing the naked entity in the glass sphere than is absolutely necessary. The devil does not change, after all.

They would have been wrong.

Dream sits, cross legged and still, and feels the warmth of stories flowing through his limbs. He sees, in the distorted reflection of the molten sand that keeps him captive, the uncommon blush that colours his lips and his cheeks. There rests a weight on his brow that feels like a crown of petals and memories.

Slowly, he lets his eyelids flutter shut and cradles the unexpected touch of his realm and power and condenses it where a human heart would reside. It tastes like faith and vibrates like hope. An offer to Morpheus, to Dream and the Dreaming.

It feels like gentle care beneath his crafted skin.

Where usually stories and dreams sing in his ears, there is only the nightmare scream of vengeance. In time, he will leave this prison of ambition and greed. In time, he'll find his way back into his realm and reward the one who so staidly attends to a duty above and beyond expectations.  

He is endless, after all.

He can wait.

*** *** ***

When Hob finally reaches the treeline, he sees the first well-tended landscape unfolding before him. The valley that lies to his feet holds several tilled fields that cluster around two houses. They are old and crooked but smoke curls from their chimneys and Hob spies movement behind one window.

Above it all, a shape circles in the air that looks like something out of - well, of a dream. Hob chuckles quietly.There is a golden shimmering Gargoyle flitting through the air like an overgrown hummingbird. 

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #centennialhusbandsbigbang2024 #centennialhusbandsbigbang #ginoeh writes #the sandman fanfiction #tw mentions of drug use #tw implied drug use #tw implied depression

[anika-ann]

No Pressure - Pt.2 (S.R.)

Type: two-shot, early relationship, canon-ish (see A/N);  Part 1

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader (GG x Sparkles)     Word count: 12,5k

Summary:

Having gotten a sound advice from a friend, you and Steve try to work things out. And maybe, it will end up with you two working out; because Steve Rogers does nothing by halves - less so with you.

Warnings: 18+ for some serious FILTH, SMUT, unprotected piv, brief mention of a jerk from Sparkles’ past, fluff, language 

A/N: Standalone or a two-shot following Love on the Brain series and its oneshots - you might profit from checking the masterlist for characters; divider by firefly-graphics 😍

A/N: 6,8k of fluff done ✅it’s time for 12k of healthy communication and NSFW if you wanna spli the reading, look for  “let alone such small bump on the road” - underlined

“I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.”

- E.E. Cummings

Having decided to spend the night at a hotel instead of rushing back to New York – no matter how fast the Quinjet could get – you said your goodbyes around one a.m., retreating to your room. Steve reserved a classy and slightly overpriced hotel for you taste, but as you walked through the surprisingly still lively lobby, you understood his choice. Even as it was Captain America with you on his arm walking by, no one blinked an eye – or didn’t approach you at least.

Hand in hand, you got into the elevator and you found yourself truly grateful for the privacy. Relaxed, you leaned your head onto Steve’s shoulder, catching his soft smile in the mirror. He dropped a kiss to your forehead.

“I had a really good time tonight, Sparkles. Thank you for taking me… all of us,” he muttered, causing you to grin up at him.

You couldn’t but agree with his sentiment – you had the best time too, seeing your two lives merge together effortlessly, with banter and laughs having left you tipsier than the little alcohol you had drunk. The merry atmosphere of the evening had now turned into a serene one, a slightly hazy dream of sorts – but the lightness of your heart remained.

Standing to your tiptoes, you pecked Steve’s lips chastely, hand on his shoulder for balance.

“My pleasure. Thank you for coming with me.”

Face to face, he lifted your joined hands, caressing your cheek with the back of his, eyes bright and proud.

“Always.”

You didn’t get the chance to process the butterflies in your stomach at his simple declaration as the door behind your back slid open, revealing the corridor leading to your room. Steve simply beckoned with his chin, lightly tugging at your hand and walking you out.

Leave to it Steve Rogers he’d only release that hand to hold the door open for you; you exaggerated the ‘why thank you, Mr.Rogers’ as you made a little curtsey and only then stepped in, taking a brief moment to scan the room as you kicked off your shoes.

A queen-sized bed with burgundy and cream cushions dominated the room, complemented by dark-wood closet with matching nightstands. Cream-coloured sofa aligned with the silvery walls; it almost faced, a little absurdly, the bathroom door, as if the guests could choose whether to watch the TV or hypnotize the door until it opened. Peeking behind the corner, you were welcomed by large and no-doubt one-way window replacing one of the walls, offering the view of city lights. Your overnight bags Steve had had brought up there sat by a drawer, right under non-descript modern art painting.

Despite the strictly hotel-like look of the room big enough to mimic a junior suite, you could still sense an air of home; but perhaps that was only the person you’d share the space with.

The door clicked shut with a barely-there noise, causing you to look over your shoulder with an automatic smile – one that turned curious when you found Steve still by the door, posture stiff and face focused. It seemed he had observed your every step, every little movement and as you spun on your heels to face him fully, his gaze flickered down for barely a second. And the moment he met your eyes again, your throat went a little dry, your brain registering something new in the way he was looking at you.

“What?” you asked awkwardly, pulse thundering so loud in your ears that had Steve decided to answer, you probably wouldn’t have heard him anyway.

Luckily, he was a man of action more often than not; and the new emotion you deciphered in his blown pupils was pure fire, speaking louder than words.

In three long strides, he was on you, hand cradling your jaw, mouth latching onto yours just as his arm wrapped around your waist. That was good thinking – the force with which his body had slammed into yours, the way he knocked all air from your lungs and had your head spin, would have probably had you lose your balance. Not to mention the same fire you had seen in his gaze licking at your insides, having your body melt into his.

But he got your back. Always.

He never released the firm grip around your middle as his tongue easily gained access into your mouth, tasting every whimper he elicited from you as he walked you backwards to the couch, hard muscle of his thighs brushing against yours with every step, his semi-hard bulge pressing just above your pubic bone.

A breathless sound of his name escaped you as he freed your lips in favour of breathing, mouth never leaving your skin, trailing along your jaw.

Had you had the mental capacity, you’d have wondered whether his supersoldier ears had heard your conversation with JJ – but the fleeting thought flew out of the window the moment the world spun and you found yourself falling, Steve’s strong hands catching you, his thighs wedged between yours, having you naturally straddle him as he planted himself on the couch.

You had no damn idea what had gotten into him, but you weren’t about to question it.

The way his lips dominated yours had you tingle all over down to your fingertips, a crushing wave of heat stirring in your belly and flushing your core when his hips bucked just an inch up, his jeans-clad thighs meeting your own unwitting movements. Your hands found purchase of his shoulder and his hair, fingers sinking into his carefully combed silky strands. He sighed into your mouth contentedly as you did so, fingers flexing on your nape as he pulled you even closer, chest pressed to chest. When his hand inched lower, from the small of your back to the patch of skin just above the hem of your jeans, sliding under it and squeezing over the thin fabric of your panties, you were not proud of the sound that left your lips – but Steve didn’t seem to mind, his fingers flexing in your hair just enough to make you feel it and boost your confidence, but not enough to hurt.

Crumbling his shirt in a loose fist, you panted when his lips released you and his forehead lightly bumped into yours; his frantic breaths fanned over your face, hand moving back up again, drawing gentle circles on your back. Several pecks on your mouth, soft kisses peppered on your chin, on your cheek and along your jaw. You could feel his grip on you loosening, only making you grasp at him firmer, because it felt like whatever this had been was slipping from your fingers – as did he.

He gazed up at you and the sight of him – eyes wide with want, lips bruised, cheeks flushed – would be most precious hadn’t you sensed the lust slowly evaporating from between the two of you, Steve’s retreat drawing a thick line behind the outburst of passion. His lips traced a path down your throat, soft and soothing, warm, but not burning; he rested his forehead against your collarbone, having you tip your head back and nearly whine when his hnd respectively returned above the hem of your jeans.

As you gazed to the higher corner of the room, you felt tears of frustration and shame prickling your eyes. All the heat in your body morphed into embarrassment, the last drop to the figurative goblet of patience finally leading to an overflow.

“Why do we always do that?” you whispered soundlessly, your voice cracking on its edge.

Steve winced, head snapping up so quick he nearly knocked into your chin in the process; the lack of coordination spoke of just how taken aback he was by that question.

He stared at you, eyes wide, expression equally startled and pained. You gulped against the lump in your throat, squaring your shoulders to feign courage at least to yourself. Steve didn’t say a word, simply looking at you; at least he had the decency not to ask what you were talking about. That was both wonderful and awful, because on one hand, you were on the same page about something happening – on the other hand, you were on the same page about something happening.

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, painfully soft, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he heard you suck in a harsh breath.

“How do we always end up here? I don’t… I don’t want to push you, I don’t want to push me. But I- is there something- is this about crossing some line, that we- you--- fuck,” you cursed as three hot droplets rolled down your cheeks, causing you to grit your teeth as you stomach flipped in shame. You angrily wiped the tears away, unable to meet Steve’s no doubt panicked gaze. Stop. You’re being ridiculous. “God-dammit, I wanted to talk about this and not break into damn tears, I don’t want to be that person—sorry, just, please, forget about this-“

You made to stand up and step back to retain some sort of dignity, because being a soppy mess – on both your face and in your underwear because god damn, Steve was such a skilful kisser and you craved his hands on you so much it was absurd – on top of him felt like anything but. He never let you; his grasp was gentle but unrelenting, much like the trap of his gaze you vainly tried to escape.

“That’s a little hard to forget,” he said lowly, every syllable sitting heavy on your chest – and from the look of it, on his too.

“Well… try,” you pleaded, fighting to gather your composure back, because Jesus, why on Earth were you crying, who even did that, were you into emotional manipulation now? And were you truly crying because your relationship wasn’t moving fast enough for your taste? Alright, that was oversimplification, but still, to shed tears over this was ridiculous and vile.

You knew Steve hated seeing you like this, you hated seeing him losing his composure too, and you had the situation been reversed, you’d do anything to turn his frown upside down. Anything. And so would he. You were so not in for a pity fuck that would, in addition to being a pity fuck, ruin everything.

Why did you have to open your big stupid mouth instead of basking in the fact you were finally with the man you were pining after for two long years? Why couldn’t you keep marvelling at the luck, the privilege not many people had to be with your friend, your love, your GG?

You just had to go and open the pandora box, didn’t you?

Shaking your head, you pressed against Steve’s shoulders, causing him to frown harder – you could see the conflict on his face. He didn’t want to let you go, sensing you were truly upset and knowing his touch tended to ground you and him, but at the same time, he wanted to respect your need for space. Because he was a sweetheart. He’d never hurt you and if you just talked to him, explained your side of things, calmly, he’d hear you out and you’d work things out.

JJ had been right – you and Steve did need to talk. But now, with the chest of insecure thoughts unlocked in your brain, was absolutely not the time. Especially not with the scene you had just made.

Jesus, Sparkles, get a grip.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m being absolutely ridiculous,” you chuckled self-consciously, the sound tasting foreign on your lips. You didn’t even recognize the crazy person who burst in tears a minute ago. You wondered if any of your profiler friends would give you a scientific explanation for that. Probably Spence. Maybe Rossi, having had gone through three marriages. Then again Derek probably had the most experience with variety of relationships – though the reason for that was that they never lasted long. Maybe Emily would-

A tender touch on your jaw stopped the frantic train of your thoughts; you blinked, focusing your gaze back to Steve’s face.

“Hey… I doubt that, Sparkles. Tell me what’s wrong. Is this about earlier, at the bowling alley? When you and JJ disappeared for a bit and you were upset? What exactly do you mean by ending up here?”

The flicker of fiery anger in his irises had the corners of your lips twitch weakly, your heart fluttering. ‘Do I have a beef with someone for making my girl sad?’ he had said, his protective persona reappearing.

Steve would beat up anyone who’d try to touch you within the inch of their life and you loved that about him. The issue here, however, was that he’d need to beat up either you or himself.

You genuinely believed this wasn’t the best time to discuss this – but the sincerity in his voice had you make a U-turn. Perhaps there was no time like present; especially since whenever Steve encountered a problem, he was like a dog with a bone. He’d never let it go and even if he’d allow you to steer the conversation elsewhere, understanding you wanted more space to think about it first, he’d just lie awake all night, the gears in his head turning endlessly. That wasn’t fair; neither to you, nor to him.

You licked your lips, taking a wavering breath.

“I mean… us. This. Is it--- is it something I do? Something to make you uncomfortable?” you asked in a hushed whisper, Steve’s eyes now growing wide as saucers. “Or is it that we’ve been friends for too long? Do you—can you even--- see me as-“

Unsure how to finish your thought, you gestured vaguely along your body, nearly slapping his hand still resting on your hip in the process.

Steve’s watched you intently, clueless, seemingly wanting to ask twenty different questions about everything you just said, because you explained nothing. He settled at the most obvious thing.

“See you as…?” he raised his low voice into a question and you bit your cheek, embarrassment eating up all your words.

See you as a woman? Too vague. As an object of desire? Steve would not have it, you even implying you could be an object, even if that was just how the collocation went. A romantic partner wasn’t quite cutting it, a fuck buddy wasn’t the correct term and a set of holes, now that was just unnecessarily crude. Asking him if he ever wanted to sleep with you or have sex with you just sounded basic and blunt and his eyes was still roaming your face and-

Oh.

You could tell the exact millisecond the synapses in the beautiful brain of his sent the signal one to another to create the right image you were trying to paint so clumsily. You could tell because his eyebrows jumped high for a brief moment, before his expression changed into one of intense focus—oh god.

“Wait, so… let me clear something up. You are asking about why I don’t push further in our physical relationship?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, victorious and little desperate at once because there was no going back now. Courage, Jones. Like ripping off a band-aid. “Well… I guess I’m kinda asking—and this sounds awful, but is it you or is it me? Because I’m fine with slow!” Kinda. “I’m just--- we always start and then we stop and I… I can’t but wonder the stopping part is because of something I do, or something we are or have been, or if you feel… pressured into something you don’t want to do or… something…”

You trailed off, voice growing smaller and smaller under his searching gaze as did your vast vocabulary, until you couldn’t bear it and averted his eyes, pretending to find the way his navy-blue shirt contrasted against the creamy couch incredibly fascinating.

You were granted full five seconds before Steve decided – as you knew he eventually would – that he wouldn’t have it. The pads of his fingers applied the tinniest pressure to your chin, guiding you to look back at him; your eyes stubbornly stayed on the buttons of his shirt, until his thumb brushed over your swollen lower lip and your gaze met his at last.

“Sparkles… do you think that I don’t want you?” he asked slowly, so brilliantly baffled that your first instinct was to deny it.

“No! Of course not! It’s not that-- I mean--- I don’t- I don’t know…?”

His eyes softened, regret lacing the warm blue of his irises and you felt the suffocating weight in your lungs grow. Oh no. He pitied you. He thought you were an idiot and an oversensitive hysterical woman he had not signed up to date and you really needed to stop straddling him at least-

“Would you stop trying to get away from me, woman,” Steve huffed exasperatedly, his hands on your shoulder and hip growing firmer again. Not an unescapable cage, because your boyfriend was considerate to a fault, but tight enough to signal how much he wanted you to stay. Until he opened his mouth and made you want to climb out of his lap straight onto the floor in hopes for the carpet to swallow you. “Well, I admit, that is a little absurd--- stay where you are. Please. This is important, we need to talk about this.”

Fine. Fine. You stuck your chin up, crossing your arms on your chest, making Steve drop his hands to his sides. You only barely missed the way Steve’s lips twitched at your defiant gesture and sudden attitude.

You had to give it to him, however – you were much calmer. Somehow, he had managed to steer the tone of the conversation towards the way you usually communicated and despite the absolutely horrid topic of discussion, your insecurity and fear fell quiet, remaining nothing but a whisper in the very back of your mind.

“Okay, Mr. That Is A Little Absurd. Then how is it that you joked about leaving a mark just about anywhere almost a month ago and we didn’t make it past a hickey on my neck where marks are concerned and you never let me…” you paused, licking your lips, thinking about an appropriate way to address the issue of you having been the only to get off so far, “…touch you?”

A sad smile passed over his lips; this time, it was him who briefly lowered his gaze as if bashful.

“Well, you once said that my recklessness is in direct proportion with my ability to heal and… maybe you were a little right.” You couldn’t help it – your eyebrows arched, which didn’t seem to faze him, his hand finding its way to your thigh. “But not with you, Sparkles. I can’t afford to be reckless with you.”

You gulped, defiance leaving you in an instant, your heart touched by the display of vulnerability. But at the same time, you were completely at loss as to what on Earth he could mean by that.

He couldn’t be honestly afraid of accidentally getting you pregnant; for one, you knew for a fact Steve would handle the situation like a man and a champ, and for two, despite what Tony thought, the man out of time was well-aware of contraceptives, you were friends for long enough to know that. However, not being careful about that was about as far as your imagination went when associating the words reckless and sex.

“Reckless how?” you questioned softly, frowning as the gears in your brain turned and turned.

“I don’t want you to think I’m only after… that.”

Say what.

“GG, I would never think that of you,” you chuckled incredulously, thinking for a moment that he was making up a bullshit excuse – except his face was perfectly serious and he shrugged, nothing but sincerity written in his expression.

“Well, it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s not like that never happens, is it?”

Oh.

The memory hit you with surprising force and clarity – one of the rare off nights for the Avengers Steve insisted you should come for, maybe four, five months ago, plenty of alcohol and a silly game of truth or dare. It was Tony’s turn--- no Clint’s and you had picked a truth.

‘Aaalright, Johny-Jones, tell us about… your nemesis. Past or now—present. Go.’

It had taken you a minute and since you had apparently not been allowed to get philosophical and say that your nemesis was yourself at times, you picked Ryan. You both had been FBI in training and you had been an idiot, blinded by the fact a handsome guy whom you had sometimes competed against actually wanted you. You had thought it had been about passion; and in a way it had. Two weeks later, the night he had got his dick wet – you remembered now, that had been the exact phrase you used during the Avengers game night – he had been out of the door and then bragged about it, laughing in your face at any chance he had got. By the blessings of karma, he had had little to brag about when he had later failed psych eval necessary to sign up for the Profiling 101 course. You, on the other hand, had got in, never having to see that jerk again.

Only now when Steve indirectly pointed it out, you recalled that your GG had seemed to be particularly protective over you for the rest of the night and for the weeks that had followed.

Because he was always there, ready to defend you, to protect you from harm; should it be inflicted by others or himself.

Suddenly, your eyes burned for a different reason, your stomach tight with emotion as sweet as heavy. In the back of your mind, you cursed Ryan, the insignificant asshole of a man, for creeping into your life years later and adding to the small crisis in your current relationship. Relationship that was nothing like the one with him. It would have never even crossed your mind that Steve could be after getting his dick wet in your honey pot; the idea was more than just a little absurd considering the man you knew he was. But his supersoldier brain with eidetic memory worried it might have – because it had happened to you before.

He watched you for long moments, patiently letting you process. You didn’t know whether to kiss him senseless or smack some sense into him, because how could he even think that was an issue? Just about everything he had ever done for you without a promise of anything more than friendship solidified the notion of him being ridiculously virtuous long time ago. You knew in your very core that he was a good man.

Your man.

“Steve…”

“I don’t… I didn’t say that to be jerk. I just… I want to make you feel good and I want you to know you’re more to me than that. And I want to make sure I give before I take.”

Sweet mother of-

­“Oh GG, but you’re already doing that, always! And-” You gulped, unable to say the word sex for some reason. “And it’s not always that I, uhm, I give you one and you give me one back and vice versa. It’s about making each other feel good, giving what the other needs… right? Making them feel loved.”

Look at you, suddenly being a relationship expert when you couldn’t get your shit together for the past few days.

Steve’s fingers were gentle as they threaded through your hair, regret returning to his eyes.

“I never meant to make you feel like I don’t want you,” he whispered, fingertips brushing along your jaw, stopping an inch from your lips. “I do. You have no idea what you do to me, sweetheart. The things I’d do for you, to you. I just… and you’re you. You’re perfect.”

If your heart skipped a beat at the implication of what he wanted to do to you, heat filled your cheeks when he even suggested you might be perfect even as you barely held back a snort.

Perfect. Right.

“I am most definitely not.”

But Steve just tilted his head to side, the charming bastard, that expressive blue of his eyes telling you not to dare and argue about how he apparently saw you.

Perfect.

It was just a stupid word, but damn, talk about pressure. It was a little hard to live up to the image when you were on a pedestal and maybe you had felt that too. Just another reason for why you didn’t exactly push Steve into crossing the line – because if you were being honest with yourself, even though Steve wasn’t the perfect human being, he was perfect for you and you wouldn’t want him to be disappointed when you’d get to be together that way. It was entirely reasonable for him to feel the same.

You could understand if he was worried about living up to expectations. You could understand if he wanted to make it perfect for you too. You could understand why he latched onto the thought of some lowlife who had once made you feel like you were nothing but a piece of meat and wanted to make sure you never had to feel like that ever again.

Tears welled up in your eyes, your breathing wavering. If you weren’t feeling like suffocating under the devastating affection behind Steve’s words, you’d scream in frustration, because you could have got this out of the way weeks ago, if you just communicated like two adults.

“It doesn’t help that I’m strong and sometimes I fail to be in control of that hundred percent,” Steve added, quickly following up when he saw you wanted to protest. “And I know you know that, just like you know I’d never want to hurt you, but if I get lost in you… I might. I never felt the way about anyone, not like I do with you, Sparkles.”

Overwhelmed by the direction the conversation took, into a perhaps strange, but possibly one of the most thoughtful declarations of love, it slowly dawned to you – much to your brief annoyance – that JJ had been right, again.

‘And what do you think are the chances that he feels just the same? I’d bet he thinks you’re the best damn woman and he really really doesn’t want to fuck it up either…’

You were two peas in a pot who ultimately just wanted for the other to be happy and comfortable but somehow forgot to mention it.

“So you… basically, you don’t want me to feel pressured, just like I don’t want you to feel pressured and you don’t want to hurt me and I don’t want to hurt you?” you piped up, earning a lopsided sad smile. “You just don’t want to mess it up just like I do?”

“Looks like.”

You let your forehead hit his lightly and he met you halfway, your eyelids sliding shut. Relief flooded your system in equal measure with exasperation, wining over just by nose.

“God, GG, we’re both idiots.”

His breathy chuckle tickled your face, his hands cradling your head. “Yeah… but you’re my idiot. Beautiful, considerate idiot-- no, all but the idiot part. You’re brilliant, Sparkles.”

You huffed, opening your eyes, mesmerized by the way he looked at you – as if he meant every word.

“Beg to differ, but anyway. Pot, kettle.”

Steve smiled, his nose gently caressing yours before he retreated an inch. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And I do want you,” he emphasized, no farther than a breath from your lips. “So much.”

“Noted. And… ditto.”

“And I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, “that’d be nice, that sounds really-”

You never got to finish your sentence, silenced by his lips. You didn’t think you ever had been happier about someone not letting you say your part, never felt so calm despite excitement bursting in your chest. You were in Steve’s loving arms and he wanted you – there was nothing in the world you weren’t going to work through, let alone such small bump on the road.

You revelled in the taste of his smile and in the way his palm warmed your thigh even through your jeans. Parting your lips and yielding to his gentle advances with a sigh, all tension melted from your body, having you slide lower in his lap and catch yourself against his firm chest. A pleased rumble vibrated under your palms, large hand splaying over your back to press you closer to him even as the kiss grew more demanding, your pliant body bending backwards to accommodate Steve’s strength. His free hand gripped at the base of your neck to keep you still, a surge of arousal and confidence straight to your veins and muscles, nerves set on pleasant fire. You sunk your fingers into his hair again, body wrapping around his.

It had to be what he was waiting for, because a second later your found yourself in the air, clinging to Steve’s torso as his arm moved under your ass and hauled you up. The silent yelp of surprise was drowned in his mouth, your stomach flipping as you instinctively locked your ankles around his middle. You couldn’t care less where he carried you as long as he kept kissing you like that, but the direction he was heading was unmistakable.

At least you thought so until your back met the wall, eliciting a gasp from your lips, the bed flashing in the corner of your vision several feet too far. Your fingers dug into Steve’s bicep, clutching in his hair, heat pooling in your core. Oh god.

Oh the countless times you fantasized about this. Steve pinning you to the wall in a show of strength unmatched to another man, radiating heat and grabbing you like he couldn’t get close enough, tongue licking into your mouth as if he wished he could explore the depths of your soul and suck it right out of you.

The breathy ‘Steve’ when he retreated half an inch had to sound downright pornographic but you didn’t give a damn, because he wanted you, he wanted you just as much as you wanted him… right?

“You tell me if I do anything you don’t want or like?” he demanded, wording it like an order rather than a question, but your brain searched for a hidden meaning anyway, overanalysing even as you were slipping into kiss-drunken slumber.

You tell me. Anything you don’t like.

You shook your head, an echo of doubt guiding your fingers to cover Steve’s mouth and push him away.

Getting a first look on him ever since he lifted you, your mouth went positively dry despite the mouth-watering sight he made; his pupils were like smouldering coal and as much as you loved seeing soft affection in his eyes, you never wanted him to look at you any different that this ever again. He looked like he could eat you alive and have you begging for more. Even if his brows furrowed momentarily.

Focus, focus, Jones, you had an important thought.

“GG, wait. Don’t do this because you feel like you need to prove me something. We have time and we’ll figure it out, we… we can wait.”

HIs concern melted away, forehead narrowing, a sweet smile forming under your fingers before a kiss made you withdraw your hand and shut up.

His smile turned baffled – and then dangerous.

“That’s… really not why I want to do this,” he assured you, his voice dripping of amusement and something deliciously dark.

“Oh really?” you retorted, cheeky and unimpressed, ignoring (not) your position. “Because you never rise to a challenge.”

“Okay, that’s fair, but Sparkles…” he muttered, shaking his head and huffing a silent laugh that quickly turned devious when his body pressed against you so firmly that his hands completely released your body and you whimpered a silent oh my god because that was just his hips holding you against the wall and it should be scary but instead you just felt a shudder run up your spine knowing he would never drop you but that was the sheer weight of his body pinning you to the wall and you could probably let go of the death grip on his shoulders and waist and you still wouldn’t fall.

Those ridiculously warm hands of his cradled your face as you panted and licked your lips, Steve’s eyes flickering down to follow the movement and then stealing your breath altogether with a soft kiss that was everything you could want and yet not even close to what you needed. Your eyes slipped close but you could imagine what the scene looked like; you could feel his gaze on you, watching you with affection and heat, like something precious and his. And his you were, absolutely, he had no idea-

Wait, he was talking, he was trying to make a point--- what had you been talking about?

“Do you have any idea how long…“ he spoke directly to your mouth, one hand slipping lower, the pad of his thumb petting the hollow of your throat lovingly, leaving you unable to stiffen the moan bubbling right under his touch, “-how much I wanted this? Wanted you?”

“Steve-“

“I don’t want to ‘do this’ because it’s some challenge for me. Do you want to know why I do though?” he whispered, lips straying from yours, tracing the line of your jaw, hand sliding down your waist to your thigh as whoever was in control of your body had you nod frantically, earning a smile against your neck. “I want to do this to you because you loved being on the winning team today. So damn cheeky, enjoying getting one up on me.”

You giggled at the truth of his words, the sound turning breathy when Steve’s teeth nipped on your pulse point, your hips bucking forward despite having no space to do so in search for friction. Steve’s fingers flexed on your thigh at the futile attempt, a hiss escaping his lips when you tried to wiggle against his hard-on.

“I want you because there were so many guys just gawking at you tonight, but you were looking at me and you looked like you wanted me too.”

“I did—I do,“ you breathed out, all doubts and insecurities forgotten.

He was making very compelling arguments and the fleeting idea that this could have been some act of simply proving a point was long gone, poured down the drain of absurdity. Forget about that. You needed Steve. You needed him to do something, anything more than this and you needed it now.

“And then you kissed me like no one was watching, but I knew about every single jerk looking our direction wishing they were in my place.”

“Oh yeah, tons of them, I bet-“ you muttered sarcastically, but somehow, with his nimble fingers sneaking under the strap of your bra and letting it snap back lightly, your words sounded more like a confirmation when you whimpered.

When his fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, you were sure he was going to make you come just like that, with his words, his hands on your body and his tongue licking at your collarbone.

Jesus Christ-

“Uh-huh. I want you because these damn jeans leave nothing to imagination but I imagined what you’re wearing under them anyway. And my head is fuckin’ full of your perfume I want to taste it as it clings to your skin when you wear absolutely nothing and I want to still smell it when you wear my shirt the morning after.”

Yes, yes, you wanted that too, like yesterday was too late already-

“I want you because that little dance of yours had me so fucking hard I almost took you right there in front of everyone.”

“GG, stop talking and kiss me,” you begged him because truly, truly, you were convinced, utterly and unchangeably, now if he could just get to it and sooth the liquid fire your insides turned into, that would be just wonderful. A+ for his dirty talk, but-

He ignored your plea, glancing up, eyes hungry, lips swollen and impossibly red when he smirked.

“I want you because you make me imagine doing things that are everything but gentle,” he corrected you darkly, fingertips tracing the soft skin of your breast just under the cut of your shirt, tickly in the most delicious way. “Some punk kid at the bar tried to touch your ass today and I wanted to break his hand. Six days ago, at your first full training after recovery, Rodriguez held nothing back despite his instruction and I had to send Natasha to deal with him because I would have broken his hand, I’d rip it right fucking off because he hurt you.”

Through the fog of arousal, you recalled the training in question. Rodriguez had got you in the ribs good, even if you had barely felt it the next day. Steve had been furious, but he always was; even as your friend he had hated seeing you hurt, it was one of the things that both warmed your heart and made the butterflies in your stomach flip their wings like crazy, made your core throb long before you professed your love to each other, even if a completely different way than he was doing it now.

All his admissions made for a tremble in your muscles, a race in your heart; he was whispering his sins into your skin as if your body was a confessional and with every kiss he was asking for absolution. A thoroughly good man asking absolution for his wrath and lust and greed. Everyone who knew Steve Rogers even in passing knew all about his giving nature – and the way he had your body sing made him seem plenty generous. But his lips, tasting every inch of bare skin and marking his claim, his hands gripping you so hard it bordered on painful, these were nothing short of greedy, as were his words.

“No one touches you. No one hurts you. I want you and I want to do unthinkable things to you, over and over, just so all you know is my name and I want you to say it, whisper it or scream it until you can’t anymore.”

“Steve, please-“

“This is why I want to do this and I want it so much it’s driving me insane. You drive me insane,” he accused you fondly, lips detached from your skin at last as he levelled his face with yours. “It feels impossible to hold back sometimes.”

Here was the frustration joke: you didn’t want him to hold back. You were left breathless, speechless, molten lava coursing through your veins and the sight of him, face flushed, pupils blown wide, his breaths coming out short only fed your unbearable hunger. You could almost feel him tremble against you and you knew it wasn’t from the strain of holding you up against the wall – it was from the effort not to snap.

How he wasn’t fucking you six ways into Sunday already and managed to keep composure after everything he just confessed to was beyond you. And he was still talking, a raspy warning that had the opposite effect than intended – because instead of wanting to put the fire out, you wanted to pour gasoline all over it.

“This is how I want you and how much I want you. But I must not scare you away, Sparkles. You’re too important. I need you to say yes, I need you to tell me you want this too and I need you to promise me to tell me to stop if I go too far.”

Oh you could tell him yes and make all the promises he wanted. As soon as you’d find your voice. As soon as you’d figure where the gasoline and matches were.

“I don’t scare easily, Steve,” you whispered, a sound so choked one would think you he already had you scream his name over and over.

Licking your lips, you willed your fingers to pet the soft material of his shirt as it strained over his shoulders, a minute tremble in them as you undid the first button. Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he stood tall, endlessly patient. The self-control on the man. You couldn’t wait to push just a little more to see it burn to dust.

“And if I ever get afraid, I have you to protect me, don’t I?” you taunted, undoing the second button, then the third, leaning in to kiss the newly exposed skin, a faint taste of sweat on your tongue.

You barely bit back a smile as his chest expanded with a rapid inhale. You loved the effect you had on him, your words – however true – intentionally playing into the role of a protector you knew was important to him and made him preen.

“You’d never let anyone hurt me. I trust you.”

With the fourth button, you found yourself with not enough space to continue. That was fine. You kissed your way up his sternum over the hollow of his throat until you found his lips, parted, hot and eager to receive – a kiss, another compliment. You let your hands appreciate the expanse of his chest, his biceps, his broad shoulders; you weren’t sure if the moan came from you or him. Maybe both.

“I know you would never hurt me, not for a lack of strength… but you can use that strength too. I won’t break, unless it’s for you,” you promised, whispering straight to his lips, satisfied at the groan it drew from his throat. “I want you to do everything you want to do to me.”

“Sparkles…”

You withdrew as much as the wall behind you allowed, taking care to look directly in his dark eyes. You hoped you spoke with conviction – and enough of an innocent smile, even if on the inside, you were smirking.

“And I know I’m more to you than a piece of meat. You’re nothing like… them. You’re a good man, Steve, a smart man. My man… my Captain.”

The last one was a stretch, a bold guess based on loose observation; you held your breath in anticipation as three long seconds of silent stillness followed, your words sinking in.

But then, the effect was immediate.

Steve’s body slammed into yours with ferocity that knocked the wind out of you, a movement so fierce you were worried you might crash through the wall straight into the next room. His mouth slanted over yours with a beautiful animalistic sound, an unapologetic claim with no regard of giving before taking. A bruising grip on your thighs, a minute retreat of his hips just so he could rock them back against your drenched core, having you clench around nothing and wishing for a breath just so you could beg to have something in there instead.

Your futile attempt to speak up was cut off by a nip of teeth on your lower lip, Steve long fingers stretching over your ass to press mere inches from your lower lips and making you keen in relief and need.

“You just fucking love pushing my buttons, don’t you,” he grunted, his other hand sneaking under your blouse and squeezing your ribs on the side of your breast.

Not giving you a chance to confirm nor deny, he claimed dominance over your mouth again as soon as you breathed in.

The tips of his fingers were barely touching you where you craved him, but with every second you felt yourself climbing higher and higher, gasping when the pressure suddenly disappeared, a chuckle rambling in his chest pressing against your breasts.

“Oh no you don’t.”

His hands settled on your waist, firm, lips moving to your ear, nipping on your earlobe. “You know me so damn well, sweetheart. But guess what… if you think you can play me as you wish, think again.”

The sound you made couldn’t have been human, a frustrated whimper and a plea. Your whole body was on fire, melting like butter and sinking into his rich honey-like voice wrapping your senses in the delicious threat that followed.  

“‘Cause I don’t know you nearly well enough so I’m gonna take my sweet time learning about every inch of your body and every little thing that makes you sing before I give you what you need.”

Your head spun with a rapid movement – around and backwards you thought – the support behind your back gone for a moment and then suddenly there was no support at all. You couldn’t fly for longer than a second but you yelped anyway, the sound drowned in the cushions of the bed you safely landed in.

“GG!”

Vice-like grips on your ankles and you were being pulled until your legs hung down the bed and a hot wet kiss was pressed under your belly button, blouse racked up to your rapidly rising and falling chest.

Holy fucking shit, you weren’t sure what the hottest part of this was – the show of strength, the safety you felt despite the insanity he just pulled off, or the fact he was literally kneeling between your legs and his dextrous fingers already undid the button and the fly of your jeans and were working their way up your ribcage, exploring just as eagerly as his mouth. Your back arched under his touch when his teeth grazed just under the hem of your bra, providing him with the perfect opportunity to undo the clasps and push the offending piece of clothing out of the way.

You felt like you were about to explode any second, but Steve, while eager, was in no rush. He was like a reverent believer finally discovering the temple of the only god he ever worshipped for the first time. The way his hand supported your shoulder blades as he nuzzled your breast, nosing his way over the sensitive skin and licking at the peeked nipple filled you with impatience, pride and affection at once.

You had a non-selfish lover before, but you had never experienced something more sensual than this. You had never had a man make love to your body. Steve treated it as a piece of art and under his touch, you felt like a damn masterpiece.

He didn’t have to ask you to get rid of what stood in his way, but he appreciated the newly exposed skin with a pleased hum despite the clumsy way you managed to strip your tops with; pressing a little harder, sucking the flesh of your breast with enough fervour to leave a mark.

The oh my god, Steve- left your lips as a whine. Your limp hands found purchase of his hair, pulling him up to steal a kiss from those sinful lips. He followed willingly, stretching his body over yours, catching himself on his hand – but your felt the brush of his rock-hard cock against your core anyway and your hips tilted up, searching for the much-needed friction.

He groaned into the filthy kiss, his uncompromising hand pushing your hip back into the cushions.

“Steeve-“

Screw taking his sweet time. You felt like crying from how he worshipped you but some of the suffocating sensation most definitely stemmed from the sheer frustration of not being fucked into the mattress relentlessly yet. You released his hair in order to work the buttons of his damn shirt, barely managing to undo them with your shaky fingers, sighing in bliss when you got to touch the hot skin of his abdomen you drooled over for almost two years now.

“I want you so damn much-“ he whispered to your lips before he freed you, mouth tracing a hot path down your throat and sternum, lower and lower, fingertips trailing behind as the desperate words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“Then take me.”

The loveable bastard smiled, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above the hem of your jeans, nimble fingers slipping under the denim and finally ridding you of the atrocious piece of clothing you were sure must have been soaked through at this point too. Regretfully, his touch disappeared so he could strip the jeans fully but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make as long as it moved things forward.

Much like when he had helped you lose your shoes the day you were released form the med bay four weeks ago, his red-hot palm cradled your calf. Except this time, a kiss landed just above your knee, coaxing your legs apart with the lightest pressure, muttering into your skin as he torturously slowly made his way up.

“Loved you for so long, imagined having you in so many ways…” he groaned, almost pained, and you couldn’t but glance at him, all curses you ever known on your tongue but none on them making it out as you white-knuckled the sheets.

The sight of Steve between your spread legs was going to be the death of you. You couldn’t imagine a better way to go except maybe if he touched you where you needed him the most before you went.

“Anything-” you choked out. Everything. He was mere three inches from your dripping centre and you were ready to sell your soul to the Devil for him to just move.

You didn’t have any brain space left to be self-conscious about him inhaling the heady aroma of your sex, not when the burning gaze you had met settled on his prize with unabashed hunger.

“God, look at you, you’re dripping for me. Gonna love on you, Sparkles…”

“Yes, please-“

He chuckled, the huff of hot air teasing your core over the useless fabric of your underwear. “Look at you, you little tease, so polite all of sudden…”

You didn’t get as much as a second to call him a smug bastard; with one sharp tug, your panties were gone and the tip of his tongue dipped into your soaked lips. His moan vibrated through your whole body, echoing the cry of his name.

“Steve-”

“Fuck, sweetheart-“ was all he said before he dived in deep, pushing your legs further apart to accommodate his broad shoulders.

His nose bumped into your oversensitive clit, his tongue gathering your essence off your lips before pushing between them and making you back out from the sensual assault even as you didn’t know whether you wanted to escape or lean into it. The forearm suddenly laying over your hips prevented you from either and left you with no option but to take it – even if it should kill you.

So be it. You could make peace with such fate.

Grabbing after Steve’s hair, you reached the starry highs embarrassingly fast with no more than one finger in pressing just right and Steve’s lips sucking on your clit – and a sob vaguely resembling his name on your lips.

Your body shook with the aftershocks as your lover licked at every drop, easing the pressure on your belly to let you ride it out. Your ears were still ringing when the first of his whispers crept into your consciousness, a husky voice full of affection, pads of his thumbs drawing soothing circles above your hipbones.

“Beautiful, so beautiful… always so pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Your vision was blurry as you stared at the ceiling, panting, heart hammering as if you just fought off an army of mercenaries. Steve’s soft lips travelled up your body, leaving a sticky trail in their wake, lingering anywhere they deemed fit.

His messy hair appeared in your vision first, a kiss landing on your jaw. You still couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move, coming down from the most intense orgasm you had ever experienced.

Until a delighted chuckle reached your ears, your gaze focusing on Steve’s dark gaze shining with thousand stars.

“Oh, is this a way to shut your smart mouth, Sparkles?”

Shut my brain, more like, you wanted to say, but the only thing you managed was a small grumble, a blissed-out sound too tiny to have him believe you were mad. As if you could ever be mad at him for that.

“GG-“

He chuckled again, leaning in to kiss your lips, gentle at first, until you moaned at the bittersweet tang of your own juices and his fingers tangled in your damp hair, his warm weight covering you like a blanket. You were surprised when you felt two hot tears roll down your temples into your hair – and you weren’t the only one.

Steve freed your lips with a wet pop, his flushed face full of concern.

“You good?”

You huffed a laugh, blinking frantically as to stop more tears from coming.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s not that it was that bad it made me cry-” you teased him lightly, chest so full of feeling you were no longer surprised your body needed to release the pressure somehow. “But also don’t let it go into your head too much-“

Steve shut your smart mouth again, clearly reassured, his lips tasting of victory and pride this time. You couldn’t really hold it against him – he literally gave you an orgasm so good it made you cry.

And you still wanted more.

He already gave and now it was time to take, but he sure had made it feel like you weren’t the only one receiving when he was giving. It was sweet. It was empowering. It made you feel thoroughly loved, even if he was still being a little shit.

You grabbed the opportunity to finally appreciate his toned stomach, revelling in the sensation of his muscles shifting under your palms, one of your hands moving to give some attention to his pectorals too.

He liked that, if the small sound in the back of his throat and the breath of your name was anything to go by. It was the perfect prompt to explore further. And boy, you did.

His body was downright unreal. Yet never had anything felt so real as the warm humming power under your touch, smooth and slightly damp skin stretching over the delicious dips and valleys, rising with every inhale. You doubted you’d let you have your time with him now – he felt heavy and hard against your belly, so much it had to be painful, and his mouth kept your own busy enough – but soon, you’d trace the same lines your fingers were drawing on his chiselled torso with your tongue instead and then would move onto his biceps, grazing the prominent vein leading down his arm with your teeth.

The prospect fuelled your arousal, impatient hands sliding under the opened shirt into his sleeves, pushing at the fabric, whining upon feeling his bulging biceps. Those were the arms that held you against the wall. Those were the arms that tossed you around like you were nothing. Those were the arms that would rip apart anyone who’d try to hurt you.

“Get this damn thing off,” you cursed, for the first time realizing you were there lying completely naked and Steve had at least three pieces of unnecessary clothing still on.

He obliged with a hum, breaking your kiss as he balanced himself on his knees instead of his forearms. You took advantage of his momentary occupied hands and of the sudden space to take initiative, palming the prominent bulge straining the seams of his jeans. The most beautifully broken groan was your reward; you couldn’t wait to hear it again, making a quick work of unbuckling his belt before his infamous supersoldier reflexes could even kick in, his hands still tangled in his shirt. Once freed, he cradled your face and pressed your back to the bed with renewed eagerness.

You were fine with one hand on his bare skin and the other pushing his jeans down, all that while his tongue tangled with yours. You were still an agent; one feeling a little boneless after orgasmic high, but still a very efficient AI agent. You could multitask. If Steve overwhelmed all your senses, hot and throbbing in your hand, his cologne and the tang of sex and sweat filling your nostrils, his choked moan echoing in your ears once you freed him, you were more than able to process all that at once too.

In fact, the head of his cock nudging at your slit was the perfect cherry on top of it all the sensations and he seemed to agree. Until he realized it all felt all too good and retreated with a curse.

“Wait, love, I have to-“

You shook your head and pulled him back for another kiss. You were covered, so to speak and honestly you had no other protection at hand and the mere notion of stopping now was unthinkable. Honestly the fact he said I have to, taking the responsibility on himself, was the last touch to your decision.

“Pill. Clean. Please.” Just fill me.

His lust-filled eyes roamed your face for long seconds, whatever argument happening in his head cut off when you let your fingers curl around his length and pumped him, thumb stroking over the leaking head of his cock.

“Yeah, okay-- God- THAT.”

You grinned to yourself smugly, angling your hips for him to slide in. You were still so wet for him you knew it wouldn’t be an issue – even if his grith certainly would be a challenge and maybe you were going to regret your hastiness tomorrow… today.

Or not at all.

He went slow. Shallow languid thrusts, sweetened by deep kisses and praise spilling from his lips, giving way with a gently tightening knot in your belly instead of pain. Fingers interlaced with yours next to your head, drinking gasps and moans of pleasure from each other’s’ lips. A voiceless fuck give me a moment, you’re so tight, I can’t-, a glorious view of Steve’s face contorted in pleasure and reverence.

‘I love you’ whispered straight to your mouth once he settled all way in, filling you up to a point you thought you’d combust and thank him for it.

“Love you, GG. I didn’t mean to push you.”

You had no clue why you said that, but Steve didn’t give you a chance to panic, a breathy laugh shaking his chest, nose nudging yours. The image would be magnificent at any given time, but the circumstance gave the it an intimate aura of a secret thing shared between you two only.

“You only push my buttons all the time,” he hushed you, causing you to chuckle and whimper when he experimentally moved back and forth, clearly deeming you ready – and by lord, were you ready, every drag of his length nothing short of delicious, stoking the fire in your belly. “And please notice I participate pretty enthusiastically--- fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart.”

You noticed.

You appreciated the hell out of every ounce of self-control Steve had shown just a few minutes ago in order not to hurt you – but seeing the cracks in foundation opening and releasing the same man who pinned you to the wall was a hypnotic sight. His gentle touch morphing into grasps and squeezes, soft kisses and encouragement blending into claims and filthy praise. Arms having created a sense of safety wrapping around you tighter to keep you in place, fingers clutching at your hair not to hurt but to prevent you from escaping his advances. Flesh slapping flesh with every thrust, his pubic bone brushing your clit. The rubber band tightening in your belly threatening to snap with every word whispered gravely to your skin, to your mouth.

“It’s like you were made for me, made to be mine-”

“I am. Always yours,” you gasped, your voice cracking when his hand slipped under the small of your back, the change of angle making you stifle a moan, nails digging into his biceps.

“Damn right. Will keep you like this all night, take you over and over until you can’t think of anything else but my name and how it feels when I fill you up…”

As he rose to his knees, making you prop up on your heels, thighs shaky with exertion, you were more than grateful for his support; more so since your bones felt as if they have turned into molasses at this point.

“All night, every night. Every day, every fucking chance we get,” he promised feverishly.

The moan that spilled from your lips was obscene, but so were Steve’s words.

In a forgotten rational part of your brain, you understood what he had meant by scaring you off – thinking this would be too much. But damn, your lust-drunk mind had never heard a better idea in your life—this, this, you wanted more, you wanted everything he said. You needed him to break you just to put you together again, because you were his, his, his and you wanted him to claim you just like this, unapologetically, brushing the depths of you with every stroke, making you ache for him long before, during and long after--- you’d never get enough.

“Oh you want that?” he hummed with wicked glee as he felt you clench around him, fingers quick to gather your slick and circle your oversensitive bundle of nerves, rippling a mindless cry of please from your throat. “You really are mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Steve--- so close-”

“Yeah, I’m here, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

Never ceasing the attention to your clit or his frantic thrusts, Steve’s burning palm laid over your belly in a silent claim – and you were done for.

Chanting his name over and over as he rode it out with you, you almost missed the string of curses under his breath, his pace growing erratic, his hold on your turning bruising.

“Shit, doll, that’s it, that’s it--- fuck, look at you.”

Your walls fluttered around him again. Eyes snapping wide open, you caught him in a moment of utter bliss, crimson lips parted with a guttural moan of your name, messy hair sticking to his forehead, that unreal body having gone rigid as he spilled inside of you, nothing but small frantic motions of his hips as he prolonged his pleasure. With you. In you. You did that.

This was an image and feeling you’d remember forever – and planned to relive it many, many times to come.

A barely noticeable tremble to his muscles – you did that, the pleasure with you rendered a supersoldier boneless – he slowly, oh so slowly pulled out with a whimper on your part. You felt his seed spill down your sensitive lips as he lowered your almost limp body to the mattress, biting back another sound when the feeling sent a pleasant shudder up your spine.

Eyes fluttering open, Steve’s gaze trailed over your spent body before settling on your face, charming an exhausted but utterly satisfied smile for you. Stretching his warm body over yours, your hands instantly finding purchase of his broad shoulders, he graced you with a soft kiss to your lips, fingers carding through your hair. That was definitely a thing for him – and you couldn’t complain; you only catalogued it for a future reference, sighing contentedly into his mouth, appreciating the firm expanse of his back under your palms, the brush of rock-solid thighs against yours.

Your breath hitched when your brain registered another very solid part of his body, the small sound having Steve release your lips.

“Are you okay?” he fussed sweetly, your momentarily broken mind unable to appreciate the sentiment.

That’s not possible. That’s not how-

Your throat, already hoarse from crying Steve’s name repeatedly, turned sand-paper dry – or at least your choked voice sounded as if it did. You clenched your hand into fist to stop the urge to check what your mind had trouble to comprehend.

“GG, are you still…?“

Steve whole body radiated unnatural warmth more than usual already – but his face turned into a furnace as his forehead rested against yours, eyes closing.

“Serum. Not still… again,” he admitted reluctantly, having your racing heart skip a startled and giddy beat. Your body went stiff.

Oh. Okay. Right, right, right- That was fine. That realization didn’t feel like someone just rearranged your guts and had tingles run through your whole body. The prospect of this absolute god of a man ,who had got you off in ways all your past lovers combined could never, being able to do it all over again did not short-circuit all your rational thoughts. At all.

Steve most definitely misinterpreted your stunned silence as something else than positively horny.

“Just… give me a moment,” he muttered almost apologetically, loving lips pressing to your mouth, then your forehead. “I’ll get something to clean us up in a minute.”

Yeah, no.

Licking your lips, you feasted your eyes on Steve’s worn features, fingers sliding to down his hair to scratch soothingly at his nape. Bashful smile appeared on his lips, briefly brushing yours before he went to rise from the position on his elbows.

You were quick to wrap your leg around his gloriously pulp ass, his eyes snapping open in surprise.

“Stay a little longer?” you offered softly, heart racing against your ribcage as your plan to seduce him again slowly formed in your head. “If that’s okay… please?”

“I’m whipped, aren’t I,” he chuckled breathily, but obliged, earning a bright smile from you and kiss on his nose that made him laugh feebly, the lines of his abs and his hardness brushing against your stomach, enticing you to let your fingers wander.

Wander over the solid strings of muscle on his back, over his shoulders, that damn vein on his arm just calling out for you, over his ribcage expanding quicker and quicker with every passing second of your tender exploration.

“You’re a damn piece of art,” you whispered, biting back a moan when you reached the sinfully defined V-line, wrist accidentally skimming over his still very hard length.

A small shift of weight and Steve’s fingers locked firmly around your wrist, gentle warning written all over his face. You looked up at him, shuddering in excitement as you recognized he saw right through you. Yet, he didn’t protest when your free hand slid down his torso and you strained your neck to touch your lips where you could reach, to the sharp edge of his jaw.

“Sparkles…”

His chest rumbled with the single word, bringing a smile to your face as you used the hook you still had around his leg to push your hips up.  

“Yes, love?”

His fingers tightened around your hand, his expression hardening – but you could see it. You could see the absolute glee behind his irises, the dark satisfaction at the fact he was not the only one insatiable. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t had enough.

And some very, very primal part of his brain roared upon the realization. Conveniently precisely the part you wanted to unleash now that you had got a very thorough taste what Steve was like in bed. If he wanted to keep you there for the rest of your days, you were absolutely on board.

“Don’t start things you can’t finish,” he warned, having you licked your lips at the perfect opening for teasing.

“I don’t know, looks like it’s not me who needs to finish… something.”

The deliberately slow drag of your gaze down his body to the very evidence you were referring to was the last straw – or maybe it was the way your fingers stretched to touch the smooth skin of his cock again.

You didn’t even know how you ended up with both your hands pinned next to your head, but suddenly they were there. No pain in the movement – Steve was careful with that still, his thumbs even petting the insides of your wrists – but the glint in his eye was nothing short of dangerous. And it had your sensitive walls flutter around nothing, craving him filling you up again already.  

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it feels exactly like that,” you poked, chin pushed up defiantly, “Captain oh mine.”

The flash in his eyes spoke volumes.

Oh, you had done it now. And you loved it. But the reason why you could afford that, that you loved even more. The way Steve’s searching gaze roamed your face, checking, even if briefly, for any sign of discomfort and only then allowing himself to let loose, appealed more than anything to the last remnants of reason slipping from you. You had no doubt he would ruin your body in the best way; but you trusted him to rebuild it all the same. Playing with fire had never been so safe.

“Hm…” Steve pretended to muse, lips descending to yours, tenderly kissing your lower lip, before his teeth sunk into it and tugged at it, having your breath hitch. “Well, sweetheart, you know that sometimes I do rise to a challenge.”

One of your wrists released, your breathing quickened as Steve’s palm dragged down your side, cupping your ass, fingers dipping into between your tender lower lips again.

“We’ll see who’s gonna need what when I have one of my favourite fantasies played out right in front of me.”

Euphoria exploded behind your eyelids already as two of his fingers scooped his spent and entered you, slowly massaging your most sensitive spot before he scissored them.

“What’s that?” you humoured him, rocking your hips into his generous touch, a soundless oh god escaping you when his thumb flickered over your puffy bundle of nerves.

His mouth slanted over yours in a promise of pleasure, muffling your noise of protest when his thick fingers left you empty again, the smile forming against your previously preoccupied lips menacing.

“You writhing under me, senseless with need, desperate for what only I can give you… which I will… if you ask nicely enough.”

Three fingers slid into you with ease this time, making you cry out as the heel of Steve’s palm pushed against your clit. It was a touch of paradise, a surge of ecstasy to your veins – but you understood now that to truly seize it, you’d have to work and wait and plead. The premise had you trembling with need already.

“And you will, sweetheart. You will.”

Steve Rogers was a man of his word. Stubborn and determined, he delivered on his promise to the last detail. Pushing you right to the edge, only to stop and have you straddle him, have you work for it only to still your hips and steal your breathy cry, a taunting smile against your lips, his long fingers wrapped around wrist whenever you tried to cheat and touch yourself.  

“Anything you need from me, love?” whispered to your mouth, the crack in his voice the only indication he wasn’t all that composed as he wanted you to believe. “I’d love to help. I’d love to see you come undone… you want that too?”

“Was that… a please? I didn’t quite catch that, you know I’m of age…”

A shaky delighted laugh at your pathetic ‘fuck you’ turning into a whimper when you found yourself on your belly all of sudden, fingertips teasing your inner thighs, brushing your lower lips, heady kisses with a devious smile coaxing another plea from you as his weight over you reminded you of how much of an upper hand he had.

The ‘good girl’ sounding a little choked, a testimony of how no matter how delirious he had driven you with pleasure, this was his fantasy played out with in front of his eyes. The ‘I’ll give you anything you ask, Sparkles. Everything. Always.’, fingers interlaced with yours when he finally gave you what you begged for, a reminder that despite the mischief and the indulgent dominance, you were utterly loved.

Broken and rebuilt all at once, exhausted to the point of barely keeping conscious when Steve kissed your shoulder, covering you with the warmth of his body, gently angling your head and whispering to your lips how he loved you, how good you were for him, to him, as if you had just made a terrible sacrifice. Tenderly cleaning you up where you had been joint, a fresh trail of kisses up your spine, bringing a faint smile to your face.

“I’ll be right back. Can I bring you anything, love?”

You only grumbled, genuinely too tired to move anything, even your mouth. Steve’s soft laugh was but an echo. You didn’t want to know what time it was – too sated to really care.

“Water and jelly beans maybe?”

You forced to corner of your lips rise higher, willing your voice to form at least a murmur.

“You did not pack jelly beans into your overnight bag,” you hummed.

At Steve’s chuckle and something landing a foot from your face, you cracked an eye open. A goofy smile spread on your lips, even as snacking was the last thing on your mind. This man. You spied a bottle of water in his hand when he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching to push damp strand of hair from your face.

“You’re perfect,” you murmured, gazing up at him with tired fondness, which he wholeheartedly reciprocated. “I’m keeping you.”

His smile turned brighter than the sun, making you close your eyes.

“Yeah? I’d like that,” he said lowly, fingers carding through your hair lovingly, before stroking your cheek. “Come on, Sparkles, gotta get some water into you at least.”

With a huff, you opened your eyes again, trying to regain control of your heavy limbs. He was right, but leaving the soft mattress, more so when you had Steve was right there, didn’t sound appealing.

Brows furrowing, guilt peeking from under his content smile, Steve helped you sit up, cradling your head to his shoulder.

“I’m s-“

Your palm landed on his bare chest with a small smacking sound.

“Don’t you dare, keeper.”

He kissed the top of your head, letting you feel his smile again when you nuzzled into him – comfort, warmth and familiarity.

“Come on, Sparkles. Water, teeth and then sleep,” he negotiated, setting an example as he downed half the bottle, never easing his support to your body. A part of you wanted to complain it was easy for him to say with his serum-boosted stamina, but for one, you didn’t want to be a cry baby, second, you were too blissed out to even think to voice any complaint and third, how could you grumble when your GG was once again so effortlessly nurturing?

He dutifully supported your weight when he seated you on the bathtub to brush your teeth, carried you back to bed, settled you against his chest when you laid down and gave into the exhaustion before you managed to wish him goodnight and he didn’t say a single word of complaint – though maybe he snickered a bit once or twice. Fondly.

Tipping over the edge of consciousness, you thought you felt a kiss on your forehead, a gentle whisper covering you warmly just as you were slipping under. 

“I’m keeping you too.”  

Steve Rogers masterlist // Love on The Brain masterlist  

I’m imagining Sparkles’ phone ringing in the morning to get ready for their brunch with JJ, Will and the kids and Reid - Steve reluctantly picking up instead, when she sleeps like dead. I see him apologizing, claiming you had trouble sleeping. JJ muttering ‘you go girl’ under her breath, but responding with a motherly wannabe worried voice, offering to make it a lunch instead, and self-highfiving the second she ends the call😅 Steve being too content to worry about it and snuggling back to Sparkles 💕

ANYWAY. Thank you for reading and for your feedback!

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #former bau agent reader #agent reader #steve rogers fluff #criminal minds x mcu #mcu x criminal minds #love on the brain #no pressure #anika ann

[violettduchess]

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri cyran #cyran rose #fluff #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfiction #violettwrites

[yoga-onion]

Legends and myths about trees

Celtic beliefs in trees (14)

S for Saille (willow) - April 15th - May 12th

April 23 Saint George's Day 

May 1st Beltane (Gaelic May Day festival)

“Magical and witchcraft tree - Fifth month of the Celtic tree calendar (Ref)”

colour: silver; Gem: moonstone; Gender: female; Patrons: Persephone, Hekate, Ereshkigal, Artemis, Selene, Diana, Luna, Athena, Ceridwen, Orpheus, Baal, Yahweh; Symbols: dream + intuition, prophecy + divination, healing + magic, love

For the ancient Celts, the willow was a magical and mystical tree, as well as a feminine tree subject to the lunar rule, and was also thought to work subconsciously. The Celts believed that being near willow trees increased their spiritual powers and intuition, and as a result, the dreams they had were more realistic and detailed.

The wands used by the druids to ward off evil were made from the branches of the goat willow. The silvery hairs of the catkins hanging from this young male willow may have appeared to the ancients as if they were seeing magic as they were pollinated and transformed into a golden colour. The way the flowers spiralled open must have been astonishing. The source of art and creativity is still to be found in willow, and the thin, strong drawing charcoal used by artists is made from willow.

Willow has long been used in mourning rituals. Planting willow trees in cemeteries facilitated the passage of the souls of the dead, and the ancient Celts believed that the souls of the dead would enter and grow in young willow trees, and that the spirits would dwell in the trees intact.

The willow, which has a deep bond with water, tells you to cry with honesty if you are sad. If you are happy, you should rejoice from your heart. The willow teaches you that sometimes you need to leave reason and sense behind and weep to your heart's content.

木にまつわる伝説・神話

ケルト人の樹木の信仰 (14)

SはSaille (ﾔﾅｷﾞ) - 4月15日～5月12日

4月23日・聖ジョージの日

5月01日・ベルティネ祭

『魔法の木、妖術の木 〜 ケルトの木の暦（参照）の第5月』

色: 銀; 宝石: 月長石; 性: 女性; 守護神: ぺルセポネ、ヘカテ、エレシュキガル、アルテミス、セレネ、ディアナ、ルナ、アテナ、ゲリドウェン、オルフェウス、バアル、ヤハウェ; シンボル: 夢＋直感、予言＋占い、癒し＋魔法、愛

古代ケルト人にとってヤナギは魔法や神秘の木であるとともに、月の支配を受ける女性の木でもあり、また、意識下に働きかけるとも考えられていた。ヤナギのそばにいると霊力や直感が高まり、その結果、見る夢はよりリアルに、詳細なものになるとケルト人は信じていた。男女を問わず、詩人や、音楽家や、司祭たちがヤナギの林���こもって瞑想をすれば、霊感が高まり、雑念から開放されると考えていた。こうしてケルト人は、聖なる林にこもって内なる世界に向き合い、木の頂から霊感を得ていた。

ドルイドたちが、魔除けに使っていた杖は、ヤマネコヤナギ (ﾊﾞｯｺﾔﾅｷﾞ) の枝からつくられた。この若い雄木に垂れ下がった尾状花序の銀色にひかる和毛が、受粉して黄金色に変身していく様は、古代人には魔法を見ているように見えたのかもしれない。螺旋模様を描きながら花が開いていく様子にも、驚かされたことだろう。ヤナギに芸術や創造性の源を見て取ることは今も変わらず、芸術家が使う細くて丈夫なデッサン用の炭はヤナギからつくられている。

ヤナギは昔から弔いの儀式にもよく使われる。墓地にヤナギを植えると死者の魂が通りやすくなると言い、古代ケルト人は、死者の魂は若いヤナギの木に入り、育っていくと信じ、霊がそのまま木に宿ると信じていた。

水と深い絆で結ばれているヤナギは、悲しいことがあれば素直に泣きなさい、嬉しいことがあれば、心から喜びなさいという。時には理性も分別もを捨てて、心ゆくまで泣くことも必要だと、ヤナギは教えてくれる。

#trees #tree legend #tree myth #legend #mythology #folklore #willow tree #celtic tree calendar #celtic beliefe #5th month #magical tree #weeping willow #philosophy #nature #art

[knivestothroats]

ITWS/ProVic Crossover Event Of The Century (part 1)

This is a crossover of In The Woods Somewhere by me and Professional//Victim by @victimeyez. Part 2 is here. Content warnings: Captivity, discussion of torture, discussion of sex trafficking, drug and alcohol use

Fletcher owned one suit. It lived in the back of their closet next to their old lucky leather jacket. They figured they used up all the luck when they took a bullet to the chest and didn’t die, so it had been cleaned of blood and retired.

The suit only came out for dinner parties Fletcher grudgingly attended for networking purposes. This one was a business mixer someone had rented out a ballroom at a hotel for. Almost a two hour drive for Fletcher, but it’s not like events were being hosted in the woods.

They combed back their hair neatly. But they couldn’t stand to look at their reflection, so they tousled it again. Stylishly. 

Fletcher scanned the room for familiar faces when they walked in. Not wanting to make an immediate beeline for the bar, they walked to it casually instead and ordered an old fashioned. Something to hold and sip would help them look and feel more at ease, less awkward and out of place. They leaned against the bar for a moment, surveying the crowd again. Still, no one they knew. That meant it was time for cold introductions. 

It was what these events were for, but… ugh.

Fletcher’s eyes landed on an intriguing pair. One was on the taller side. He was wearing a blazer over a turtleneck, silver wire-frame glasses, and his hair in a half pony. One hand held a cocktail, and the other was planted firmly on the shoulder of a slightly shorter man. He had dark curls falling around a gaunt but pretty face. Shadows clung under his eyes, which drifted nervously around the room before returning to the floor. He was dressed in black slacks, a white button-down shirt that hung a bit loosely on his frame, and most notably, a red leather collar with gold details.

If nothing else, they were the most interesting.

Fletcher approached the pair. They held their hand out to the taller man. 

“The name’s Fletcher, nice to meet you.”

He took it gladly, with a firm but non-threatening grip. "I’m Caius, and my friend here is Tommy."

Fletcher managed to refrain from cringing at the name. They glanced in his direction in time to catch Tommy looking at them nervously before turning his head away. Fletcher hadn’t intended to offer their hand to him - the power dynamics were clear here - but now they barely wanted to look at him. 

It wasn’t an uncommon name, but it still struck a chord every time they heard it.

"What business venture are you two representing?" Fletcher asked, shifting their attention back towards Caius.

With practiced ease, Caius pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and held it out to Fletcher between two fingers. "We make dreams come true."

Oh, Jesus. Fletcher raised their eyebrows just briefly as they took the card. An almost velvety texture, sharp edges, silvery print. “Personalized entertainment,” followed by a phone number. Fletcher flipped it over to a blank back. 

"How very enlightening," they said dryly.

"You'll have to forgive me for being discreet. Tommy works for us as a private entertainer, of the torture fantasy variety. He's very responsive to direction, and… stimulus. He's less of a call boy, there are a lot of rules if you want to fuck him." Caius smirked on the word "fuck." He spoke with an even, telemarketer tone throughout.

Tommy wasn't facing Fletcher head-on, but his eyes were focused on them just to the side. He squinted slightly, as if trying to think of something.

"Hm." Responded Fletcher flatly. "So, torture is a free for all, but sex has conditions."

"We have ways of fixing most things, but penicillin can only do so much.” Caius said. “We have a state-of-the-art lab for flash healing and scar-free recoveries. He's a blank slate every time." 

To the side, Tommy's gaze lowered, filtered by long eyelashes. Fletcher turned their sights back on him, sizing him up from a new perspective. He was pretty, in a frail way. Timid, most likely beaten into submission. Collared, but not leashed; that meant he could be trusted to follow orders, at least to some extent. He had the allure of a prey animal to a predator like themself. Caius had chosen well. Or molded him well. 

“Which do you get more requests for?” Fletcher asked, returning their attention to Caius. “Torture or sex?”

Caius grinned wolfishly. "Torture - sex is cheaper from anyone else." He tipped back his drink for another sip, but did not take his eyes off of Fletcher for one long gulp. It was weird. He made it weird. "I'm sure customers like you get it for free."

"Customers like me?" Fletcher echoed. "What makes me so special?"

Caius cocked his head, shifting gears. "You tell me. Who are you, sharp stranger?"

Ok, so definitely the type who thinks flirting with customers will help him close deals. Fletcher answered unaffected. "I run a training operation. People send me new recruits or nepo babies that aren't living up to expectations and I teach them the skills to be productive members of criminal society. Mercs, mobs, murderers of all kinds. Done work with a lot of families and guilds, hoping to make some more connections tonight."

"Aren't we all." Caius looked around the room briefly. "We will be doing a demonstration later, hoping to drum up some noise for our service." Tommy was a statue at his side, staring off into space like he had drifted from his body. At least for now, while he didn’t have pain to pin him in place. "Maybe you could help me out - you see, I don't want to get this blazer stained... and you could use a bit of color."

"Mm," Fletcher took a sip of their drink. "People usually pay me for that kind of service. I come highly requested. Or I did, when that was my game."

"People usually pay me for that kind of service. Or at least… providing the body. But look at us - we could be here, right now, making a connection."

He was laying it on thick. Fletcher tried to retake control of the direction the conversation was heading. "Not sure if I should be surprised that there’s a market for it. Obviously this is a more major industry than people realize,” they gestured around the room, “but in my experience, not everyone wants to get their hands dirty. Not that dirty, anyway. Not everyone has the stomach for it, let alone the appetite. What's the going rate for something like this?"

"It depends on what you have in mind. Time, tools, location, severity. You could get a quote from my associate over there," Caius said, pointing to a neatly groomed salesman with short, ginger hair. The gesture caught the attention of said associate, whose eyes widened upon seeing Caius talking to a potential client. He rushed over, trying not to look panicked. 

"Hi, hello, I'm Rory." Slightly out of breath, he stuck out his hand for Fletcher. "I see you've...met Caius."

Fletcher shook his hand. "Fletcher. Pleasure. You handle the finances for this operation, then?"

He gave a short, biting laugh. His chill, easygoing sales persona was slightly tight on him at the moment. "Yes, I do, you don't have to give Caius any money, all the payments are processed through me."

Fletcher chuckled. "Caius wasn't trying to shake me down. I was just wondering what you charge for this sort of service. Although it sounds like it varies. You have a ballpark, or a range?”

"Well, it depends on a few factors, yeah. Tools, time, location, severity. But if you can tell me a little about what you have in mind, I can get you one right away." Rory flashed a winning smile. "And if I may, you might be interested in a special contraption my associate has made, which we'll also be demonstrating later today. Maximum pain for minimal effort sort of thing, if you don't want to get your hands dirty. Or if you do." He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow, leading the upsell with practiced charm.

"Mostly just asking out of curiosity," Fletcher said. "What's the contraption?"

"The Cradle," Caius easily volunteered. "Michelle is making toys now, and they're just so inspired." Whatever the contraption was, the mention of it seemed to snap Tommy out of his reverie. He promptly switched to a more refined look of abject misery.

Fletcher caught the change in demeanor. "It rocks them gently to sleep, I take it?"

"Something like that. You'll have to catch the whole spiel when we do the demonstration. Then maybe you can do a demonstration for me." 

Fletcher had been trying to be diplomatic, but that was a bit much. "Ok, slow your roll, bud. You’re laying it on way too thick right now and I’m gonna need you to tone it down.”

Rory very firmly stepped on Caius's foot, and he dropped his smile suddenly to a more neutral expression. "One hour, ballroom stage. See it for yourself. Come and join the fun, or don't."

He spoke matter-of-factly, betraying no emotion if he was insulted by Fletcher's rebuke. Rory gave Fletcher a tight smile and moved to pull Caius away by his arm. "Caius, come get a drink with me." 

Sweat was beginning to form on the ginger salesman’s forehead. Bags forming under his eyes, slight jitters in his hands - probably due for another bump. Caius resisted for a moment, seeming to consider. Tommy moved in to Caius's other side and subtly touched the sleeve by the man's relaxed arm. Caius turned at the touch and they met eyes, exchanging something wordless shared with just a look. Caius walked away amicably with Rory, but Tommy stood there, staring at Fletcher. Studying their face for a moment before telling them, with a defeated voice, "I know what you want."

Fletcher raised their eyebrows. "And what is that?"

Tommy did not keep a prideful look, he just looked experienced. Performing an unpleasant role that had long become old hat to him. "You like it when they squirm."

Fletcher smiled, flashing teeth. They took a step closer to Tommy. "How long have you been... doing this?"

"A while. Around five years, as far as I can tell. They don't let me put tallies on the walls."

Fletcher folded one arm across their chest and left the other loose to swirl their glass. They thought of a number of questions, but weren't sure if they wanted to know the answers. There was a certain level of detachment that made everything easier. Asking how he ended up in his position may be tempting, but hearing his story could create sympathetic feelings that Fletcher would inevitably have to smash down when they left him at the end of the night. Because they sure as fuck weren't going to rescue him like an abused dog. He could have been an enemy who crossed them and lost, he could be a random victim picked up off the street. It didn't make a difference. 

"Caius said you fulfill fantasies. You've gotten good at figuring out what people want, then."

"I had to."

"You're better at it than your owner." Fletcher glanced over their shoulder to the bar. Rory was leaning in a little too close to Caius and talking fast while Caius glowered at him. They turned back to Tommy. "Five years, huh? When did you give up?"

"Handler,” Tommy corrected. “I guess...it doesn't really matter." There was a low table off to the side of the crowd, flanked by two plush chairs. Tommy took a few deliberate steps towards it to check if Fletcher followed, and then eagerly claimed one of the seats. He seemed to enjoy sitting down in such luxury like a child might enjoy playing in a pool. Scant pleasures abound for him.

Fletcher pushed out the other chair with their foot and sat, somewhat poised on the edge as if they’d have to jump up at a moment’s notice.

"It's hard to place an exact moment, but...I would say, whenever it was when they had to reattach my hand." He smiled numbly.

Fletcher put their drink down on the table and studied his face. He seemed too aware of his situation to tell an easily refutable lie if he didn't need to. Still, Fletcher had been around the block, and that was extreme. They didn't want to seem gullible. "Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm five years in and just - just look at me," he gestured vaguely to himself. "No scars, no bumps. Experimental stuff. They gambled on the right guy. I say guy, because he's not a doctor any more."

Fletcher did look Tommy over. He was right. This was a person who had accepted his place in Hell, which means he'd been there long enough to get through all the stages of grief. He should be covered in scars. He should have a crooked nose and fingers. He should be in pain when he walks. All he really had to show was a sunken face and dead eyes. Fletcher leaned back in their chair and glanced over to Caius and Rory and again. There was a third person with them now, and they all seemed like they were trying not to make it obvious they were arguing. "Any chance your not-doctor is here tonight?"

Tommy opens his mouth with a wry grin and then seems to think better of it, closing his mouth to chew over his answer again. "No, he's not. I'm not sure Caius would share. That information."

"I saw the smirk,” Fletcher said playfully. “You have something you want to tell me."

Tommy chewed on his lip as he thought about it. "You're going to get me in trouble."

Fletcher put their hands up innocently. "How am I going to get you in trouble?"

"You almost talk to me like a person," Tommy said.

God, he was so pathetic. Part of Fletcher wanted to be nice to him and part of them wanted to grab his face and smash it into the table. Either could get a fun reaction. "Look," they leaned in conspiratorially. "This is your chance to get it all out. You probably don't get to talk shit with customers, right?"

Tommy's face was slightly flushed. He was practically bursting at the seams, but he swallowed down the desire and sat back, sinking into the seat. "You think you're the first to try this?"

Fletcher blew out a breath and rested their chin on their hand. "You are a professional, huh?" they said with a smile. "I may not convince you, but... I like you better than your handler, so far. I think it would be fun to know something he doesn't."

Tommy sighed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a long moment. "You're the type that needs a reaction. You like being feared. You've been doing the 'lone wolf' thing for a while now." He removes his hands from his face and his eyes stare at them in his lap. "You've convinced yourself you're comfortable with it."

The smile faded from Fletcher's face. They paused for a long time, staring Tommy down. He wouldn't look up to meet their gaze. "I wasn't asking for information about myself," they said coldly. "Look at me."

"I don't - I don't know why I said that." He kept his eyes down.

Fletcher reached out, put two fingers under Tommy's chin, and tilted his head up. They fixed him with a hard stare for a moment. Studying his face, thinking, but also... he wasn't wrong before. They wanted him to squirm. "That's quite a skill. I don't know if you're wasted in this role or if you're perfect for it."

Tommy closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again they met Fletcher's with focus and clarity.

"I'm perfect for it."

Fletcher put their chin back in their hand. They drummed their fingers against their lower lip. "I haven't talked to anyone else here yet," they said. "But I think you're probably the most interesting person in the room."

Tommy sat up suddenly, turning as Caius, Rory, and a third man joined them. Caius wore a grim smile. "Has he told you I'm evil yet? Made you sympathetic to his cause?"

"Um, no, but I can figure that out," Fletcher said. "We’re all at the evil convention." They finished off their drink and pointed to the newcomer. "Michelle, I take it?"

"You may take it," The other man said with a nervous laugh. His hair was divided into twists that nearly touched his shoulders. "And you're Fletcher in the Rye?"

Fletcher laughed. "That's pretty good." They stood to shake his hand. "You're the inventor?"

"Oh, more like tinkerer, but I suppose. Are you looking for any new toys for your collection?"

"Well, your associates keep alluding to your 'cradle,' trying to create an air of suspense to keep me interested, I'm sure. But, it's working enough that I want to know what it is."

He laughed. "Yeah, they're the ones that know how to sell. It's a curved brace that connects into nerves along the spine. Are you sticking around for the little demonstration we have planned?" 

Rory stood by as if waiting for one of the others to say something he would have to try to make up for, but held fast for now. Caius leaned over Tommy's chair and cupped his boy’s face with one hand, his thumb pressed to his lips while his other fingers supported underneath his chin. A peculiar touch, and an almost casual gesture, but some meaning was hidden there. He was touching Tommy where Fletcher had, in order to tip his head up. Caius dug his fingers into the hollows of his cheeks in an almost teasing squeeze before letting go.

Fletcher watched the interaction carefully, studying both their faces. "I'll stick around," they said. "I should work the room more, anyway. And I need another drink." They picked up their empty glass and raised it in a salute. "Gentlemen."

Rory and Michelle gave small, appropriate nods. Caius flashed them one last winning smile before turning suddenly and leaning into Tommy's space to whisper something in his ear.

Fletcher returned to the bar and opted for a whisky sour this time. 

“I’d prefer honey, if you have it,” they said as the bartender set to work. They glanced over their shoulder to scope out perspectives to chat up, but ended up turning back to the bartender. 

“So, do you work for the hotel, or do you work for the host of the event?” Fletcher asked.

“I’m employed by Ms. Hannowitz,” he said, referring to the host. 

Fletcher nodded. “Okay, so you know what’s going on.”

“Indeed I do,” he said, setting Fletcher’s drink on the bar in front of them. 

“Thanks.” They took a sip. “It’s great, thank you.” 

They turned towards the crowd… then back to the bartender. 

“So how does that work - are you solely employed as a bartender for Hannowitz, or do you do other stuff for her, or is there like a catering company specifically for illegal events?”

A pair of women approached the other end of the bar and waved the bartender over.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Fletcher before walking away. 

“Oh, sure, sure,” Fletcher muttered. Taking another sip of their drink, they surveyed the crowd. Finally, they saw someone they recognized - a capo in a family they’d done work for in the past, and trained a couple foot soldiers for. He was talking to a couple people Fletcher didn’t know; perfect opportunity for introductions. They made their way over.

~~

The troupe doesn't make a spectacle of it when they make their way to the stage. Caius and Rory each clasp a hand around Tommy's wrists and rush him up to prevent a last-minute escape attempt. Caius had slipped him a little something earlier, which was not pain meds as Tommy had hoped but instead a muscle relaxant. He wasn't running off anywhere any time soon.

Backstage, Michelle opened the suitcase they had loaded in earlier and started to fit together pieces stored inside. Rods interlocked into a surprisingly sturdy frame, and the suitcase was detached from the wheeled base. With a few turns of an allen wrench, the base unfolded into a longer, thinner platform that the metal frame fit into. It resembled a rolling clothing rack, but unusually tall and wide. 

Tommy was watching the construction, his stomach tight with fear. It had been a long time since he cried before the torture even started, but his eyes were prickling with unchecked emotion. Beside him, Caius fussed at the backstage vanity. He had pulled out a little doggy bag of cocaine and poured some onto the chalky desk. He dug in his wallet for a credit card and a crumpled receipt, which he smoothed out and rolled with ease. He cut the ivory with his credit card into two lines before wiping one off the edge into a vial. 

"Head back," He instructed Tommy, and when he didn't respond fast enough Caius wrenched his head back by his hair. He pressed the vial under his nose and tapped it gently, emptying the coke into Tommy's sinuses before pinching his nose shut. "If you sneeze, I'll leave you up for them all to use. Don't waste my shit." 

Tommy's eyes watered at the pain triggered all the way down his throat, but managed to nod. Caius let go and let him wipe his nose while he took the other line for himself. 

"Ready?" Michelle had a hand on one of the supporting polls, wheeling the rack along. 

Caius coughed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "Where's Rory?" 

"He's already out there, setting up the table." 

Caius sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, alright, let's do it." 

Tommy wondered what coke was like for Caius. He seemed energetic and focused and jolly. For Tommy, it just made his nervous heart pound harder. He felt like trapped prey, with an overwhelming urge to run, but nowhere to go. Mixed with the muscle relaxant, he felt caged inside of his weakened body. 

They walked on stage to see a sizable crowd already waiting for them - enough people had noticed the set-up begin, and plenty others had been invited to attend personally by a member of the team. Caius slunk off to go about some nefarious business while Michelle positioned the rack facing out towards the audience. He stopped at each of the four wheels to press a trigger down with his foot, the wheels locking stubbornly onto the stage with a rubber seal as each was fastened. Rory was laying the finishing touches on a folding table to the side, covered in a variety of implements to inflict pain. In the middle layed a long black piece of metal, curved and thin with an appearance reminiscent of a xenomorph's detached spine. Tommy’s heart hammered in his chest looking at it, and he took one step back towards the stairs. 

"Hey," a friendly voice said, as a hand gripped him by the arm. He turned and Michelle was looking at him with a curious smile. "Come here, this way." He was led towards the frame by Michelle's push, who gentled him like a wild animal backed into a corner. "Stand here, just like that, good. Strip down to your underwear, please." Tommy gave an anxious glance at the crowd formed in front of them. "Don't be shy. Here, I'll help." 

Tommy didn't resist as Michelle helped him undress, cooperating slowly in a daze. None of this felt real. His head throbbed in time with his heart. A moment later he was strung up to the frame, pulled taut up on the balls of his feet by his wrists chained above him. Michelle took his clothes, and Caius reappeared at his side, one cold hand spreading over his lower back. 

"Let's get started."

In another life Caius was some shithead Shakespearean actor. At least, he knew how to project to the room. 

"Friends among us, we are here to demonstrate a new and original design from our labs." He did not have to clap his hands or ring a bell, the people were intrigued enough by Tommy's public binding that the dull roar simmered to a quiet murmur among the crowd. Michelle stepped up to center stage and took a deep breath. 

"Pain is not evil. It is not inherently a punishment from our bodies. It is a part of our natural homeostasis system, our bodies' need to maintain good, working order. Our body tells us what we need through these systems. We feel thirst when we need water, tired when we need sleep, hot when we are overheating, cold when our body temperature is low. We even crave foods that satisfy nutritional needs - red meat when we are low on iron, maybe some popcorn when we need the salt." It got a very modest chuckle from the crowd. "We have built-in sensors throughout our bodies that tell us when we are injured or wounded. All of our sensitive nerves are there to alert us when the body has been damaged. The signal we receive that holds that information, is how we sense pain.

"Common methods of interrogation - or just play - manipulate the body to create pain. But sometimes, we need to generate a lot of pain without causing a lot of bodily harm. What if we used these nerves, these sensors, directly, to cause pain without unnecessary damage?" 

Caius fetched the Cradle from the table and brought it to Michelle, who held it up to the audience. 

“We are here today to introduce the Cradle, a device for not only generating pain, but immobilizing the subject by it, too. No more handcuff keys to lose. The Cradle conforms to the human spine, and when lined up correctly, slides pins directly into the shallow bundles of nerves along the subject's back. With physical damage no worse than a few pinpricks, you can latch this into a person's spine with an incapacitating amount of pain. The Cradle then locks in place with a simple mechanism that the victim physically cannot reach to unlock. "

There is an excited murmuring through the audience, and Michelle is received well when he holds it aloft. 

"As I began the build and manufacture process, I realized the Cradle could accomplish much more than I had planned. By wiring electrodes into the crest of the artificial spine and running copper filament through the pins, the Cradle is able to directly stimulate the nerves with electricity from the rechargeable battery pack located at the small of the back. Each charge is good for 250 hours of consecutive use, and can be stored without charge degradation nearly indefinitely. "

Caius and Michelle moved to Tommy then. He didn’t even register that Caius was telling him to turn around, but they guided him into it, twisting the rope suspending him so his back faced the audience. He felt distant from his body and his hands were already numb. 

"By lining the dial up with the top vertebrae, which you can feel at the base of the neck here - " A firm few fingers felt along the back of his neck for a moment before circling a low spot. "-minor adjustment to account for varying heights-" Something cold was pressed to his back, and then there was an intense pressure as the pins there threatened to pierce his skin. "-clamp to insert the pins at an angle, and lock in with a further series of hooks to secure the mechanism-"

Almost as soon as it breached his skin, the pain was unbearable. His back seized with the intrusion and he screamed until he had no air left. Dragging in another deep breath agitated the creature biting hard into his spine and he struggled to collect air.

They let him go and he was slowly turned back with the unwinding of the twisted cord. He was forced to face the audience as he trembled and seized, muscles clenching up into painful cramps, only driving the pins deeper. He kept waiting for the pain to plateau, to break, but it seemed to only heighten more and more. He dry heaved and his legs shuddered, his body spasming in some attempt to relieve the pain it only stoked. They let him dangle there, the monster on his back crushing his spine in shocking agony as he screamed himself hoarse. 

"As you can see, it is quite effective at its original purpose. The Cradle has two forms of charge to create different reactions." 

Fletcher watched intently. Tommy clearly knew what was coming. His movements were sluggish - either doped up or disassociating. Maybe both. The moment the device kicked on was clear. His face contorted and his legs gave out, bending awkwardly beneath him as his restraints kept him from collapsing. The screaming was loud, and long, interrupted only by gagging breaths. Michelle explained different settings for pain and immobilization. Fletcher figured they could adjust the settings to make it impossible to scream, hitting that sweet spot where the pain takes the breath from your body. At the very least, cause his muscles to seize enough that he can’t open his mouth, and the cries seep through muffled and broken. But these men were showing off - they wanted the screams. 

It looked like a good device. Sure, there were tasers and jumper cables that could cause similar effects. Paralytics, nerve agents. But the Cradle seemed more fine tuned, most versatile. Portability was a question - does it fold up? Still beats a car battery, but not the other options. And they’d be interested to see if it left any marks on his back when they were done. 

Michelle turned the device off. Tommy hung limp, jerking with aftershocks. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t sob. Just moaned with pain. Fletcher had wondered if they were going to feel conflicted about watching the demonstration. After all, they had enjoyed talking to Tommy more than they had any of his owners. But they ate up every moment. 

Tommy really was good at it - or good for it. Not much participation was required on his part. Maybe if he had gotten a chance to beg. He was probably really good at begging. Hell, he reads people so well, he probably had it down to a science. 

He would probably look good bleeding, too. The contrast of his pale skin and dark hair would pair so well with the rich red of fresh blood. 

The troupe on stage took a few more questions. Blah blah blah warranty, blah blah blah voltage, blah blah blah tetanus. One older woman up front piped up. 

"What is the lasting damage remaining after use? Have you studied the extent of the nerve damage left?" 

"Why don't we ask him?" Michelle and Rory had been fielding most of the questions, but Caius stepped up to address that one. He crossed over to Tommy, who was starting to recover enough to just barely keep himself up. Caius took his face between his hands and lifted his head to speak directly to him. They had a low, murmured conversation for a moment, before Caius dropped his head and turned again to face the crowd. 

"As you can see here, there is some bleeding from the punctures." Caius addressed the woman while he used Tommy's back like a prop, gesturing to his various parts like a ranger teaching children about some animal captured for their wildlife display. "The bleeding is little more than the amount shed for removing a simple IV, as the needles are only a wider gauge by two or three times. Immediate after-effects can include tingling, numbness of the extremities, muscle spasms, cramps, and a low-grade fever. Tommy here is doing quite well for having undergone our trials, though he has reported continuing nerve pain for up to three months at a time." 

Caius gripped Tommy's arm suddenly and pushed, spinning him around on his suspension a few times while he struggled to get his feet to support him. He slowed to a stop facing out to the audience. His dark curls stuck to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat from the pain, and his eyes were red from crying. He still had little drops of his tears down his chest, and he cowered in his near-nudity before the excited audience. Caius ran his fingers through Tommy's hair, smoothing his hair away from his face and adjusting his curls with a few sharp tugs.

"I'm afraid we did not properly introduce him before, but this is Tommy, and he's a very important part of our business. He's not just here to model Michelle's wicked inventions. See, he is our most requested product by far." Caius put a possessive hand on his clammy lower back, pushing Tommy slightly forwards towards the audience. 

Michelle and Rory stepped to the side to let Caius do his song and dance as they moved into a different part of their show-and-tell. Rory seemed to have given up on directing Caius, mollified by his drugs. The same drugs that kept Tommy awake as he already trembled from the strain. 

"What would you do if you had him to yourself for a few hours?” Caius asked the crowd. “Anyone?" 

There was some nervous shuffling before a young man called out, "Bull whip!" 

Caius cracked a grin. "Whipping, certainly. I'm partial to the cane, myself. What else?" 

“I'd make him walk on nails!" Another enthusiast called. More people were getting intrigued. 

“I'd use him like a punching bag." 

“I'll make him beg for his life." 

“I'd skin him to the bone." 

“He could clean my house in a thong." 

“I could use a car battery to make him dance." 

“I'd make him dig his own grave." 

Talk amongst the crowd grew as people began to brainstorm, and then to one-up each other. Caius laughed with mirth and called them off with the lazy wave of a hand. 

"So many good ideas! We use top of the line medical procedures that can't be found outside our labs to keep Tommy fresh for his next date. If you can host, we can come. Tommy is responsive, vocal, and sensitive." 

Caius turned and punched Tommy in the stomach. The wind was knocked out of him immediately with the well-placed strike and he struggled to curl in on himself as he wheezed. He could not shield himself with his arms tied above him, and he looked exceptionally vulnerable as he struggled. Mostly nude, strung up in front of a crowd eager to devour him. He had no recourse as Caius dug his fingernails into the tender flesh of his side, raking them across diaphragm and leaving angry red lines in their wake. Tommy flinched and wriggled, a fish caught upon a hook. 

"To demonstrate his uses tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, we will invite a very special guest on stage. Please give a round of applause for Fletcher!"

[continued]

@victimeyez @lonesome--hunter @desert-dyke @coldresolve @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @suspicious-whumping-egg @whatwasmyprevioususername @whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump @thatsthewhump @aqua-blogging  @utopian819 @bloodinthemud @pretty-face-breaker @cursedandtired @morning-star-whump If you changed your url or don't want to be in the taglist anymore lmk

#we wrote this mostly rp style #god even splitting into parts is long #pt1 is 11 pages and pt 2 is gonna be 7 #in the woods somewhere #professional//victim #hm when i link part two the post title says part 1 in the url so #hopefully it works #writings #original

[iamthecomet]

Murder ghoul fic in the works you say?! *grabby hands*

YES! It's Raindrop! I can give you a snippet to maybe make me work on it FASTER. No murder yet (I haven't gotten there). But I can give you some setup to entice you ♥♥♥

Dew can’t help but reach out. He doesn’t try to bully his way into Rain’s mind very often. Rain does it enough for the both of them. Dew’s gotten used to feeling those tendrils licking at the base of his spine, cool like lake water, while Rain knocks at his brainstem to be let in.  

But when he finds Rain’s consciousness, he’s met with silence, a solid wall. Rain’s never locked him out before. No matter how much Dew pushes at him, gently probing like he’s scratching at the door, there’s no answer, no change, no shift.

Dew might think Rain was asleep if he didn’t know better. Rain’s defenses are always the weakest when he’s asleep. He’ll let Dew in without a second thought then, their minds and bodies curling around each other with no resistance.

Dew takes the stairs two at a time. He stumbles over the last one, almost face plants into the hardwood at the top. He steadies himself on the newel post and tries to swallow the mounting worry rising in his gut. He knows Rain isn’t dead or dying—he’d have known both of those things the moment they happened.

He hadn’t felt a pack connection until he was summoned, didn’t even believe it was a thing until he could reach deep into his own chest and feel Ifrit’s beating there too. He dreams about that sometimes—about the moment Ifrit got sent back to the pit and Dew felt the connection sever, a hot knife through weak flesh.

Rain’s alive, he’s fine.

But he’s hurt.

Rain’s room is right in the middle of the ghoul wing. Third door down on the right, across from Cirrus. Dew doesn’t bother to knock, he just tries the knob. Locked.

He does knock then, pressing his ear to the heavy wood, the silvery name plate in the middle is cool against his skin as he listens. There’s no movement on the other side, but he can hear the shower running. Can smell more blood, and the soft jasmine scent of Rain’s shampoo.

He knocks again, harder.

Ever since he became a fire ghoul he hasn’t been good about personal space. As a water ghoul he’d perfected the art of disappearing. Just like Mist before him and Rain after him. Dew had gotten really good at sinking into the depths of the lake for hours while the entire Abbey searched for him.  And had Rain run off to the lake, Dew would have probably left him alone.

But he didn’t—he’s here, a handful of feet away in his shower. Bleeding.

#comet comments #comet writes #snippet #fruits #murder ghouls #no murder yet #but Dew's gonna get real mad about some stuff real quick

[sunflowerabyss]

Charms of Fate: Chapter 8

Paring: Remus Lupin x Fem!Professor!Reader

Series Masterlist

Plot: Amidst the echoes of a bygone era, you return to Hogwarts years after parting ways with Hogwarts. What begins as a journey fueled by nostalgia transforms into an unexpected reunion with Remus Lupin, now a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. As the past intertwines with the present, the two former classmates navigate the complexities of grief, the resurgence of friendship, and the unwritten chapters of their shared history in this tale of rediscovery and the magic that binds them together.

Warnings: none? idk. fluff

________________________________________________

In the quiet loneliness of his thoughts, Remus found himself consumed by your presence. Since that day in his cluttered office, the memory of your touch lingered like a gentle flame, a constant warmth that danced on the edges of his consciousness. The soft imprint of your lips on his skin became an indelible mark, a sweet reminder that traced his every waking moment.

The thought of you became a steady companion, accompanying him from the moment he opened his eyes until the time he surrendered to sleep. Even in the realm of dreams, you painted the canvas of his subconscious, integrating yourself into every corner of his mind.

As the days unfolded, Remus recognized a profound truth within himself—he was undeniably, irrevocably in love with you. It wasn't just a fleeting infatuation but a deep, soul-stirring affection that colored the world around him. Your laughter echoed in his mind; your smile etched into the very core of his being.

Yet, amidst the beauty of this newfound emotion, a quiet fear lingered. Remus knew the dangers that lurked within him, the potential for harm that his condition held. He longed for you, yearned to fully embrace what blossomed between you both, but the specter of his own perceived monstrosity held him back.

In the stillness of the night, as the moon cast its silvery glow over his thoughts, Remus couldn't escape the magnetic pull you held over him. Love had taken root, entwining its tendrils around his heart, leaving him to navigate the delicate dance between desire and restraint.

________________________________________

The air around the Hogwarts grounds held a crisp, autumnal chill as Harry and Professor Lupin strolled along the bridge, the gentle rustle of leaves accompanying their conversation. As Harry kicked a pebble along the path, he decided to broach a topic that had been lingering in his mind.

"Professor," Harry began tentatively, "can I ask you about my parents?"

Remus' features softened by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, nodded and offered a small smile. "Of course, Harry."

Harry took a deep breath before plunging into the inquiry. "What were my parents like? I mean, really like?"

Remus sighed, the weight of memories settling upon him. "Your parents were remarkable people, Harry. James was a bit of a troublemaker, always up for a prank or mischief. But beneath that exterior, he had a heart of gold. He was fiercely loyal and cared deeply for those he loved."

Harry's curiosity prompted him to ask, "What about my mum? Did you know her well?"

"Lily," Remus spoke her name with fondness. "She was an extraordinary witch, talented beyond measure. More than her magical prowess, though, Lily was an uncommonly kind woman. She was there for me, offering her support without judgment."

Harry's gaze dropped to the pebble he kicked along the path. "Did Professor (L/N) know my parents too?"

Remus nodded, a wistful smile playing on his lips. "Yes, she did. Lily was her best friend all throughout Hogwarts."

Remus's eyes softened with nostalgia as he continued to share tales of your and Lily's enduring friendship. They stopped, both leaning against the railing, looking out over the forest.

"Lily and Professor (L/N) were inseparable," Remus reminisced, a distant smile on his face. "They complemented each other in the most magical way. Lily's vivacity and warmth balanced (Y/N)'s quiet strength."

He paused, momentarily lost in the memories. "I remember seeing them together, often sitting by the fireplace, engrossed in discussions about magic, life, and everything in between. Lily's fiery spirit and (Y/N)'s calm wisdom created a dynamic that was a joy to witness. I'm sure if you asked, Professor (L/N) would love to tell you more about their friendship." Harry hummed, nodding his head slightly.

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves as if nature itself was eavesdropping on the tales of camaraderie. Remus's voice held a blend of gratitude and longing. "Your mother and father, Harry, were a steadfast friend to everyone. In times of trouble, they would face challenges with you, hand in hand. Their friendship was the kind that left an indelible mark on everyone lucky enough to witness it."

Harry, intrigued by the connections that existed between his parents' generation, couldn't help but wonder about the dynamics between his Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms teacher.

"Professor," Harry asked tentatively, "were you and Professor (L/N) friends?"

Remus's expression softened as he delved into the memories. "Yes, Harry, we were friends. We met during our time at Hogwarts. We belonged to the same house—Gryffindor."

"How did you know each other? For how long?" Harry asked.

He continued, "We were just acquaintances at first, at least until your mother finally let your father take her out. It wasn't until our last year at Hogwarts that I considered her a really good and close friend."

Harry's curiosity persisted, and he asked, "What happened after Hogwarts? Did you stay in touch?"

Remus's expression shifted, carrying a touch of melancholy. "After your parents… after that fateful night, things changed. The entire wizarding world was struggling with the aftermath, and each of us coped in our own way. Unfortunately, she and I lost touch over the years. Life took us in different directions."

He added, "I regret the distance that grew between us. I feel having her close would have made it easier."

Harry, the curious boy he was, pressed on. "Professor," he asked cautiously, "did you… love her?"

Remus sighed, his gaze distant as he weighed his words carefully. "Love is a difficult emotion, Harry. She was, and is, a remarkable person. She was my confidante, a dear friend." Someone I trust.

Harry, sensing there was more to the story, pressed on. "I mean, did you ever love her romantically, Professor?"

Yes. I have loved her since the day I met her. Nothing has changed.

Remus hesitated at Harry's more personal inquiries, glancing nervously as if questioning the appropriateness of the conversation. Harry, undeterred, waited for an answer.

With a sigh, Remus began, "Harry, should you really be asking such questions?" Harry, ever the inquisitive teenager, leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Well, I suppose I could say it this way--if I were to love her, it would span a thousand lifetimes, and even then, it wouldn't be enough."

#remus lupin #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #older!remus lupin #older!remus lupin x reader #professor!remus lupin x reader #professor!remus lupin #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #hogwarts #jk rowling

[quietly-by-myself]

Across the Silence of the Valley of Dreams - Chapter 1

New story! No Masterlist yet. Inspired by @demondamage and I's roleplay. Hi there, Az. You've now inspired two of my stories.

This isn't the best but it's self-indulgent nonsense so enjoy!

CW: nonhuman whumpee, shapeshifter whump, lab whump, fantasy whump, medical whump, prison system, trans whumpee, magical hierarchy, nonsexual nudity, noncon drugging, noncon exam (cavity search), referenced possible future noncon

===

“Are you happy with it?”

June looked in the mirror, eyes dull. He hardly recognized himself. His once long, pristine white hair was now a short, cropped thing. 

The man behind him, the one with wings and wolf-like eyes, was watching June carefully. 

“Yes, I am, sir.” June hoped that the insincerity wasn’t too obvious. He was lucky. He should’ve been thankful. 

The man considered him carefully. A noble, a full-blooded noble was scrutinizing him. June tried not to let his anxiety control his heart.

“You know your manners. Come, the Doctor will see you now.”

June could’ve breathed a sigh of relief. Down winding halls painted white with white tile, June might’ve felt at home, in some sick way. However, these white tiles weren’t snow. The building was too hot for his liking, too.

Eventually, on the eighth or ninth floor, June found himself in front of a single hall that led to a door. The man who’d cut his hair, shaved his face, and dressed him nicely didn’t exit the elevator with him. Instead, the doors closed with a silent finality as June was left to his fate.

He approached the doors carefully, focusing on calming himself. 

June didn’t even need to knock. A man with thick black hair and glasses opened the door with a smile on his face. The man’s silvery wings sat on his back.

“The half-blood of the Witch Queen. I never thought there’d be a day I’d get to meet you.”

Of course, June was caught a little off guard. Sure, his reputation was difficult to escape. However, after living alone, in solitary for so long, he never imagined arrest and a plea deal to be his escape.

“Hello, Doctor.”

The Doctor smiled, cutting June off. “Call me Linden. I insist, half-blood.”

June swallowed. Did Linden even know his name? “Linden, then, it’s my pleasure as well.”

Linden motioned for June to enter his office, where he found himself in a large, leather chair. It was nicer than anything June had seen since he’d been arrested. One of the other inmates’ warnings played in his head.

Sick bastard. Nobody lasts longer than three months with him.

When June had asked what he’d meant, the inmate was tight-lipped.

June hadn’t heeded his warning.

Linden circled June for a moment, then took a seat at his desk. “So, tell me the nature of your crime, half-blood.”

“Witchcraft.” June had rehearsed this part over and over again. “I was caught using the dark arts.”

Linden hummed a moment, thinking to himself with that same, eerie smile. It was a cookie-cutter question. Not one that tipped June off to anything.

“The dark arts, huh? And tell me, then, half-blood, why are you here before me? Surely my reputation precedes me.”

“It does, Linden. However, I find myself a fox amongst wolves. I do not fit into this country, much less the prison packs. I need to get out and I’m willing to do anything.”

That smile darkened. “Anything you say?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Even become my next experimental subject?”

The noble before him looked thrilled at the prospect. It unnerved June a bit, in all honesty. Nobody should be that excited about having another Shifter as a subject. An elf, maybe. A vampire, sure. But another one of his kind? That scared June for the first time, having met the man.

However, going back to the prison scared him more.

“Yes.”

Linden grabbed June’s arm, pulling him towards the elevator. It was all a blur and for a moment, June considered if he’d been drugged. There was a strange prick-like feeling in his neck.

Again, instead of many winding halls, June found himself in front of a hall with three doors. Linden pulled a languid June into one of the rooms, the last one at the end of the hallway. There laid a table with all sorts of restraints.

“You’re mine now, half-blood. I want you to remember that.” 

When June didn’t reply, a hand flew across his face. 

“Answer me when I speak to you, half-blood.”

“Yes, Linden.”

Linden smirked, ushering June onto the table. Maybe he had been drugged. He couldn’t remember much of the office anymore. 

“Now, strip for me.”

What?

Another backhand, this time harder. “I don’t want to have to get you a shock collar, but I’m not afraid to.”

“Linden-”

Linden grabbed June’s wrist and for the first time, June realized how much bigger Linden was than him. “Do not speak to me unless spoken to, half-blood. You’re not starting out on the right foot with me, you know.”

That, in and of itself, was a terrifying enough prospect. June didn’t want to be sent back to the prison, so he stripped, revealing the first of many secrets.

He’d changed his body with the dark arts, all except for that one part of him that he couldn’t seem to change with his relatively weak nobleborn magic.

“So, the rumors are true. You were born a woman.”

Magic has removed June’s chest, womb, dropped his voice, given him facial hair, and rearranged his body, but it hadn’t gotten rid of that one part of him.

“Yes, I was. What of it?”

Another backhand. 

“It… complicates things. Lie down.”

June knew the threat behind those words, so he laid back. Linden placed a thick anklet around June’s leg and immediately, June felt empty. His magic was gone. It was a piece of enchanted metal, June was sure of it.

Fingers probed June’s mouth, looking, feeling. Somehow, when Linden pulled up a stool, rolling up to June’s lower half, June knew what was about to happen.

Two gloved, lubed fingers entered him. They felt around, feeling everything, looking for hidden contraband. 

June froze. Worse could be happening and this was standard procedure, after all. However, something about it felt deeply violating, even as the gloves snapped off and a new pair snapped open. Two fingers entered his anus, searching for anything. Nothing. The gloves snapped off.

June broke out in a cold sweat, the wetness between his legs making him cringe. 

Panic heaved in his chest, but he couldn’t show it. What was wrong with this picture? Would Linden take it a step further?

Why couldn’t he react more? Why was every bone in his body tired? What was happening to him?

“Very good. Now, I think I’ll leave the bloodwork for tomorrow. I want you to get adjusted, half-blood.”

The wetness persisted. Was June just supposed to be used to this?

“Clothes are a privilege here. I do not see any sexuality in your nudity, do not fear. However, I see them as too… humanizing for scum like you.”

Scum. That was all June was now, right?

No. No. No. What the hell had he signed up for.

As Linden pulled June up, June fell to the ground. A steel-toed boot met his ribs, knocking June to his side. “Get up. Being pathetic won’t help you now.”

June found himself too weak to stand in his human form, so he took a breath and allowed the fur to sprout and his bones to compress into that small skeleton of an arctic fox.

Linden smiled. “Come now, little fox. I’ll let you get some rest. The medicine must be making you feel awfully sleepy by now.”

===

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert

#nonhuman whumpee #shapeshifter whump #lab whump #fantasy whump #medical whump #prison system #trans whumpee #magical hierarchy #nonsexual nudity #noncon drugging #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #whump community #noncon exam #referenced future noncon

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 23, 24, 25, 26

Feb 23 prompts: scrap snack ballet Feb 24 prompts: art needle slip Feb 25 prompts: breathe offer ignite Feb 26 prompts: ice beautiful night

This is fluff in the same way that a microwaved peep is technically still fluff, just. Heated up.

Thanks and shout-outs to @the-cloudy-dreamer for Dream's fashion and makeup inspiration, @lenreli for posting gifs of the exact ensemble I'd decided on for Hob, @quillingwords for a quick spot of Brit-picking re: underwear, @avelera for putting the Tom-Sturridge-kissing-men compilation in front of me again, and the entire Dreamling Nation server for inspirational thirsting over The Rug™️

On AO3 - 1800 words

===== Hob doesn't quite notice, right away, when he gets home.

He registers Dream's presence on the sofa, certainly, offers a cheery "Hello, love!" as he steps inside and shuts the door, slips off his shoes, sets down his messenger bag, but. He has failed to truly look, at first.

"I have been waiting for you, Hob," Dream says, and the languid sultry tone has Hob spinning back in a heartbeat, attention seized.

And then he forgets his own name, just for a second.

Dream is lounging on the sofa like a swooning maiden on her fainting couch, head tipped back along the arm, his own arm thrown artfully over his eyes. He's wearing a very sheer robe, black of course, shot through with glittering diamond-y bits that wink like stars in the overhead light; it's trimmed with iridescent black feathers all along the edges of the sleeves and skirt—and there is a lot of skirt to it, spilling over the sofa, trailing onto the floor, a cascade of see-through night-sky chiffon going everywhere. It hides absolutely nothing of Dream, except where it does, deliberately gathered layers and a belted silk tie draped over his groin as if by happenstance and the rest of his skin gleaming pale and alluring through the gauzy star-strewn fabric. The bony curves of his legs peek in and out among the winding feathery trim and his bare feet are just visible beneath it.

He looks tantalizing, tempting, debauchable and delectable, a veritable vision of carnal promise and Hob can't tear his eyes away.

Dream lowers his arm and raises his head when Hob continues to just stare, and then Hob's transfixed all over again by dramatic eyeliner and smoky eyeshadow, the beautiful silvery blending of the makeup against Dream's pale skin.

He is mouthwatering, and Hob wants.

"I wish to have sex," Dream says then, as if the extended silence means Hob may not have cottoned on to that fact just yet.

"Clearly," Hob croaks, finding his voice at last.

Dream regards him with a bird-like tilt of his head, then smiles, a slow and curling thing that goes straight to Hob's dick. "You are. Pleased, by my attire?" He preens, arching into his reclining posture in a way that makes the light catch every little rainbow thrown off by his robe, moving one knee up so that it just pokes out from the frothy feathery trim, bare and pale and inviting.

Vain creature. Hob loves him so much; he takes a breath, getting a handle on himself as his brain catches up. "Frankly darling, you look a veritable snack."

Okay, maybe the brain isn't quite caught up yet but. Just. Language is a marvelous and ever-evolving thing and he teaches kids, alright, he's gotta stay abreast of modern slang. And sometimes it just. Slips out.

There's a moment where Dream's fine pale brow creases slightly, and he makes the face that Hob has come to associate with sifting through the entirety of the collective subconscious before his expression smooths into understanding, and then slides into something both pleased and sultry. He flows upright and then off the sofa, approaching Hob with a voluptuous sway in his hips, the sheer robe trailing around and after him like smoke and water, like a bridal train. The silk tie still manages to just obscure his groin and the fluffy feathery edging swirls gracefully around his legs, and Hob's mouth has gone very dry as Dream steps right up into his personal space.

Dream lifts one hand, feathery sleeve pooling in the crook of his elbow, and draws a long black nail that's just the safe side of too sharp along Hob's collarbone, over his polo. "Very well," Dream purrs, pushing close, his entire body a hairsbreadth from touching Hob's, and Hob is standing stock still, vehemently turned on. "If I am a 'snack'"—his fingertip slides down, tracing under the edge of Hob's blazer, drawing it open, aside—"then you, Professor Gadling, are an entire. Meal."

His face is tipped up, mouth close enough to Hob's that he can taste the words as Dream finishes speaking; Dream's softly-wandering nail finds a nipple, pebbled up beneath his shirt, and drags over it, catching sweetly.

Pleasure sparks and Hob whines, a high bitten-off sound, listing forward until his mouth touches Dream's. Dream takes it in a wet, open kiss, pushing into him, hot and languid and insistent with his tongue. He's manifested himself a bit shorter than usual, shorter than Hob, and the resulting angle is absolutely exquisite.

Hob's hands settle on Dream's waist, squeeze gently, and the feel of that robe under his fingers is unlike anything he can readily describe. It's solid yet not, clingy yet slippery, sliding easily beneath his clumsy questing touch like water, if water was dry and solid—and he's making no sense, definitely not when most of his brain is occupied by the utterly filthy kissing that Dream is giving him. All the same, he has a brief but vivid flash of sense-imagery, of reclining in bed with Dream sinking down onto his cock and that robe whispering everywhere over his skin, of reaching underneath it to grasp Dream's hips and lift him just enough to thrust—

Dream hums approval of the inadvertently-projected daydream, a sultry drawn-out sound that barely breaks the kiss; his hands move to Hob's belt. He undoes it with sensual ease, and the soft jingle as it falls open ratchets Hob's arousal up another notch. Dream pulls back just a little, nipping at Hob's lower lip as he takes the belt buckle and pulls. The belt slips free with a soft whisper of leather against fabric and Dream tosses it lazily aside.

"Brilliant," Hob mutters, fully onboard with the notion of fewer clothes, shedding his blazer and flinging it aside as well. Dream stops him when he goes next for his polo shirt, lifts the hem himself and skims his long black nails up Hob's stomach, rucking the fabric higher. Hob grabs the back of his collar, pulls it off over his head, and Dream keeps skimming up along both arms until Hob pulls them free and throws the shirt aside.

"You too," Hob gasps, pawing at the front of Dream's robe, caught again by the otherwordly texture of the fabric over Dream's flawless skin before he gets it parted terribly much, and then Dream's nails are raking softly through the hair on his chest, his stomach, distracting him further.

Dream glides back a step, two, vaguely toward the bedroom, drawing Hob after him by hooking a finger in his empty belt loops on either side and tugging. Hob goes willingly, only to fetch up against Dream when he stops again suddenly. "Kiss me," Dream breathes, "as if you would. Consume me." Hob, pent up and aching, slides both hands into Dream's hair, around the back of his neck, and complies.

Dream's hands are at his fly now, slipping free the button and drawing down the zip. It's slow and deliberate, pressing just enough against the hard length within to make Hob's breath catch. Then Dream's pulling his trousers open and reaching in, not to free him any further but to touch, to gently squeeze, to draw one long nail along the length of him still confined in his pants.

Hob tears out of the kiss with a choked-off moan. "Oh—god's bloody wounds, Dream—!" His hands clench in Dream's hair involuntarily, trembling.

Dream's smile curls all around his voice, low and smoky. "You must be. Hungry, Hob, with such a 'snack' before you."

The way he teases is maddening, his hands and his words and his voice; Hob can barely breathe. "Famished. Absolutely ravenous," he gasps out, hips rocking helplessly as Dream strokes up the length of him again.

Dream makes a pleased humming sound and then removes his hand from Hob's trousers, much to Hob's dismay.

Which vanishes quickly, because now Dream is crowded up against him, arms around his neck and hoisting himself lightly up, climbing, bare legs wrapping around Hob and locking behind him, prick hard and distinct against Hob's belly above his open fly. The gauzy robe is falling open everywhere, barely held together by the silk belt anymore, feathers fluttering enticingly against Hob's bare skin as Dream gets a hand on his face; his long nails are careful as they thread into Hob's hair and turn his face up.

"I would not keep you from. Sating, your hunger—" Dream's lips are dancing along Hob's jaw as he speaks, punctuated here with a sharp pull of teeth on Hob's earlobe, and the intimate way he says 'hunger' makes something swoop low in Hob's belly. "Perhaps we should. Adjourn, to the 'dining' room."

"Agreed," Hob gasps, and then Dream is kissing him again. Hob's hands are solidly around Dream's thighs, supporting him while Dream's devouring his mouth, and carrying him to the bedroom even with that distraction will not be a problem except for the miles and miles of starry feathery fabric trailing over the floor ready to trip him up. He shifts his hold, one arm wrapped under Dream's hips and the other working to gather the copious skirts to drape in the crook of his elbow to avoid mishap. And then, just for fun, just to tease, he slips his hand underneath it all—strokes the bare skin of Dream's arse, delves inward, brushes a fingertip over the puckered bud in the center. Dream squirms appreciatively, makes a little wanton sound into Hob's mouth, but Hob—

Hob is losing his mind. Dream usually makes himself ready when he's in the mood he is tonight, manifests his body open and wet and ripe for the taking. Hob was fully expecting to sink a finger into the warm slickness of him, tease him briefly to try to gain back some semblance of an upper hand, but instead he's found him dry, closed, tight.

Waiting to be prepped.

Hob groans, tearing his mouth from Dream's, arousal skyrocketing; preparing Dream, opening him up with his fingers, with his tongue, is one of Hob's absolute favorite things to do to him and it's rare that he will indulge that particular pleasure when Dream is already this worked up. But this—this is an invitation.

"Oh love," he gets out, breathless, so hard it's making him dizzy, "I get to?"

"You named me edible," Dream says, kissing across his chin, abortively rutting the naked length of his prick against the hair on Hob's stomach and clenching his cheeks around Hob's finger still pressed between them. He brings his mouth back to Hob's, breathes into it, "I would have you. Feast."

And so Hob does.

===== Fashion references: Hob Dream

#Dreamling #TJs Fics #TJs Fluffbruary #Sandman #Fluffbruary 2023 #wip: snack

[daisy-mooon]

Moon

Whumptober Day 3: "Crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon"

-

That night, when Leo and Calypso are both asleep in the shelter they’ve scrapped together from the underside of Festus’ wing and a bundle of fabric and scrap metal he's pretty sure they stole from somewhere, Apollo wanders away from their encampment to sit beside himself.

The sky is astonishing. He'd never really had time to appreciate it as a god, always busy resting after driving the sun chariot, but he's come to appreciate his sisters domain as a mortal. Even with pollution, he can still look up and count an ocean of glittering stars, gaze at the soft wisps of dying clouds, and a shining, glossy moon.

Apollo spends a lot of time staring at the moon these nights.

He should sleep instead of staring at the moon. But if he sleeps, he'll dream. And if he dreams, then he'll dream of Python and Nero and Meg, trying her hardest not to collapse into an emotionless shell in her step fathers presence. He'll dream of failing her, because even though she had ran back to him, he should have convinced her to stay, should have begged and pleaded harder. He should have brought someone with him, to fight Nero whilst he soothed her. He was a god. He could have saved her.

But none of those things happened.

Apollo forces himself not to dwell on the terrified twelve year old that he's bound too, and tries to focus on the moon. It's not a full moon yet, but it's glorious and pretty. The type of moon that he, as the patron of arts, would delight at, staring down to earth and catching glimpses of all the new paintings and poems and songs some mortal would create, taking his sister for inspiration. The type of moon that his sisters followers would love to hunt under, racing through the forests to catch their prey and gather their vegetables. The type of moon that Zeus would encourage his sister to put on whenever something noteworthy happened, regardless of if she wanted to shine brightly or not.

He can't help but think of Artemis anymore than he can think of Meg.

After all, she was the protector of young girls. She's saved hundreds- thousands of girls from abusers and wicked stepfathers. The gods weren't supposed to help him, but she could help Meg. If there was any god that could help Meg, it would be her.

Apollo utters a prayer to the blinding, brilliant moon. His fathers thunder explodes in the distance. His sister shows no sign of responding.

If he cries, it's just a single, silvery tear that crawls down his cheek, with only a silent sister to keep him company.

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon” #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #the trials of apollo #toa #apollo pjo #lester papadopoulos #angst #oneshot #ao3 #archive of our own #pjo #rrverse #riordanverse #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo hoo toa #whump #emotional whump #whumptober #whumptober 2023