#Drop-in copper bathtubs

[made-to-order]

Copper bathtubs are up for sale with two standard color patinas. It can be dark or light. Those are the most often selected finishing options. The copper tub can be polished or supplied with antique as well as honey color which looks like a new penny. Some buyers decide to nickel-plate copper tubs on both sides or inside only. The choice of finishing patina depends entirely on the buyer and usually depends on the bathroom existing decor, type of floor and walls.

[rusticahouse]

The rustic style has a timeless appeal that resonates with many homeowners. A drop-in copper tub effortlessly complements the rustic aesthetic, adding a touch of old-world charm to your bathroom. Whether your bathroom is designed with exposed brick, reclaimed wood, or vintage fixtures, a handmade copper tub can tie the entire theme together, creating a cohesive and inviting space. While the initial investment in a drop-in copper tub may be higher than other bathtub options, the long-term benefits are worth it. Copper is a durable and corrosion-resistant material, making it an ideal choice for a fixture that comes into regular contact with water. Proper care and maintenance are minimal, and with time, the tub develops a unique patina, adding to its charm. In the realm of bathroom design, a drop-in copper tub stands out as a symbol of craftsmanship, luxury, and timeless beauty. Whether you’re looking to transform your bathroom into a rustic haven or seeking a unique, custom-made centerpiece, a handmade copper tub is a worthy investment.

[veilosdaigoa]

May DWC 2025 Day 4 - Dangerous

~ Last Year ~

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Veilos had just finished his shift at the Shielded Mind clinic in Silvermoon, a hell of a day and he couldn’t remember the last time he got to sit down and relax. He was exhausted, body heavy, brain fogged, longing for a stiff drink and ten uninterrupted minutes in the bathtub. He got neither.

He hadn’t made it out of the Bazaar before the ambush. Rough hands, a hood over his head, and cuffs locked tight around his wrists with runes etched deep to dampen magic. His body ached from where they’d struck him, but they hadn’t broken anything. Not yet at least. Amateurs, maybe, or just overconfident.

When they yanked the hood off, the dim flicker of torchlight revealed a damp cellar: stone walls, rusted chains, and three men who looked like they’d walked straight out of a mercenary crew with too much time and too few scruples. The one in front, lean and sneering with a scar across his cheek, paced slowly like a predator trying to look casual.

“You’re Veilos Dai’goa,” the man said flatly.

“I was hoping for a better fan club,” Veilos muttered.

The leader didn’t smile. “You helped someone who shouldn’t have survive. A smuggler with a burned arm. My employer paid for silence, not recovery.”

Veilos gave a small shrug, lips cracked and dry. “I don’t ask who they are. I just stop the bleeding and patch ‘em up.” A quick punch caught him across the cheek. His head snapped sideways, the copper taste of blood flooding his mouth, but he stayed quiet.

“You’re going to tell us what he said. Where he went.”

Another strike to his ribs this time, Veilos exhaled sharply, but otherwise remained silent. If they thought a few hits were going to make him talk, they hadn’t done their research, because Veilos wasn’t just a healer.

He had always known there was something different about him. Even as a child, his words could quiet arguments, shift opinions, and ease panic. As he grew, so did the power behind them, along with erasing the need to have to speak the words aloud. It was more than persuasion, it was dominance. Most days, he didn’t use it, he didn’t need to and he knew he shouldn’t. There were rules and regulations set in place. But he was born with this magic, and when the moment called for it, he did not shy away from what he was.

The cuffs dulled some of his magic, he could feel that within, but this ability? It wasn’t something runes could cage so easily. His golden eyes, dulled by fatigue and pain, began to glow brighter and brighter. The leader stepped forward again, ready for another hit, but paused. Veilos lifted his head slowly, fixing his gaze on the man with a calm steadiness that cut through the tension like a knife.

“You’re afraid,” Veilos said, voice low but steady. Not a guess, a fact. “You’ve been afraid since the moment you laid eyes on me. You just didn’t understand why.”

The thug blinked, his posture faltering.

“You’re going to walk away,” Veilos continued, his voice frayed into something dissonant and raspy. “You’re going to open these cuffs. And you’re going to forget why you were ever angry.” There was really no need to speak aloud, but he wanted the other men to hear, and to see his orders followed without resistance.

The man’s pupils dilated, his hand twitched once. Then, in silence, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the restraints, dropping them to the floor with a soft clink. Veilos stood slowly, breath shallow. The other two hesitated, but one reached for a dagger. Veilos turned his eyes on him next.

“҉N҉҉o!”

The second man froze, his mouth slack, hand hovering midair like a puppet caught in indecision.

“I don’t need to hurt you,” Veilos growled. “But I will, and I will make you hurt yourselves if I must. You’ll sit. You’ll shut up. You’ll stay here and pray to whatever gods still pity you that I didn’t decide to end your miserable lives tonight. And you'll leave me alone.”

There wasn’t always the need for violence. This magic was part of him, ancient and instinctive, and he respected and controlled it. Honed it like a scalpel instead of a sword. He didn’t linger after they backed away in silence, leaving them dazed and blank-eyed in the shadows of their own fractured thoughts. Whatever memories they retained would feel like a dream, or a nightmare they couldn’t quite grasp.

Outside, Silvermoon’s midnight sky greeted him with its usual indifference. Veilos straightened his coat, ignoring the bruises already forming along his ribs, those could be dealt with later. He was dangerous, yes, but only when the situation called for it. And tonight, it had called loud and clear.

@daily-writing-challenge

[thefandomdirtymind]

Opla!sanji and a siren/mermaid???

A/N IMPORTANT:  Hi anon ! Thank you for your request, as a big fan or mermaid/siren I was so thrill by the idea ! I had tried many things here and I hope you will like it !

The Mermaid Dream

OPLA - Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji series : SFW Shiny Offering - NSFW The Small Favor

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.  

---

The notorious floating restaurant The Baratie was, like every other night, completely full. At every table of the large dining room were sat the most famous and wanted Pirates. Adding to the hubbub of their conversation and squeaking of their utensils against their plates, the waiters, in a urge to offer the perfect service and then earn their tips, looked like a swarm of bees dancing around elegant honeycombs. 

The kitchen wasn't any more quiet. In every corner or the overheated room, the crew of cooks was running to prepare the many dishes ordered. Only stopping a millisecond to put the plates under the warming light and watch with nervous eyes if Zeff, the renowned chef and owner of the place, was preparing himself to punish somebody, hoping there wasn’t them.

Even the opened mouth of this unusual boat establishment, occupied by a respectable bar, was crowded and noisy. 

Nervously standing behind the luxurious burgundy velvet curtain, your palm sweaty, you briefly closed your eyes, trying to hear the sound of the wave crashing against the ship hull. It wasn't the first time you were performing for the Baratie. But, you knew that each time was risky. The mermaid folks weren’t still welcome everywhere, most of the population were scared of being bewitched by your voices and the others had used your people to commit crimes and atrocities.

It was why you always wore a long gown covering your temporary legs and politely declined any trace of liquid they would offer you. It only takes a drop of water or a stubborn scale and your life would be in immediate danger. Of course Zeff was aware of what you are and would never let nothing happen to you. But, you couldn’t only count on him to protect you, you had to be cautious.

“ Miss Y/N it’s time, everythings is okay ?“ A polite waiter asked you, the golden cord in his hand,ready to unveil you to the loaded room. Nodding of your head, opening your eyes, you let the noise of the water calm your last knocked nerve before lifting your head to face your public.

The first note of your song, played by the musicians behind you, starts to fill the now quiet hall. It was mostly for you a faceless audience, only a few were really counting : like his. 

Still dressed in his cook uniform, his back against the wall, arm crossed against his chest, Sanji was smiling, waiting for you to operate your tour de force. As you know, the blond sous chef had, so far, never missed one of your performances, even if it had meant being punished by his mentor.

Signing your song, your voice flowing like the water of a peaceful river to finish in a waterfall. You open your eyes under a thunder of applause. Still in his corner, Sanji was clapping his hand with fervor, his face radiant of joy like if he had just discovered a new method of cooking. 

Later that night, as you emerged yourself in the oversize bathtub of your personal dressing room, your fins resting on the copper border and the last scales on your breast taking his place. You smiled. You knew that you shouldn’t think of him, loving a human when you couldn’t keep a pair of legs longer than a few hours was ridiculous. However, you couldn’t stop yourself. Aside from Zeff, he was the only one knowing your secret and never made you feel uncomfortable about it.

Three knocks at the door extracted you from your thoughts followed by the sound of the key in the keyhole. You aren’t kept captive in the Baratie, but for your safety, Zeff had a long time ago asked you to lock the door, preventing anyone to simply walk on you as you were unable to freely move, stuck like a fish in a tank. Usually, your only visitor at these hours was the old chef coming to thank you for the show and often tell you stories about his time of piracy. 

But, it was Sanji who entered the room, this time dressed in a navy suit, a tray in his hand. 

“ Good evening Madam, I thought you should be famished after such an enchanting show “

“ I’m not really a Madam you know Sanji “ You smiled, amused even if the fact that you truly aren’t a human woman stung your heart a little.” I’m indeed hungry, thank you”  

“ Nonsense. You are more a lady than many that I had served in this crappy restaurant “ He replied, approaching the coffee table of the bath to put your plate and silverwares as he pulled himself a chair '' Salmon with his creamy lemon sauce, I prepared it myself with caution. “ 

“ It smells fantastique “ You smiled, lifting your upper body enough to be able to eat. “ Hmm, that's delicious, I truly had nothing like this in the whole sea” 

Here again, that proud smile was plastered on his face, making you regret your own nature as he looked at you eating his own kind of tour de force. The vicious cramps traveling your fins,was another. Trying to keep your expression blank, you couldn’t sadly stop the moan of pain you let escape after a particular strong one. 

“ What happened Miss Y/N, something wrong ?!” A concerned Sanji asked, his hand cripping the side of the tube, ready to take action and extract you of the water if needed. 

“ It's nothing, the side effect of being too long on two legs instead of…fins.” You confessed, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. “ It takes me a lot of energy and control to keep the form of my legs, i’m just exhausted, it will be over  when I will leave after the closing of the restaurant” You reassured him, touched by his worried tone. 

“ I see, then why are you pushing yourself to do those shows if it’s hurt you afterward ? Does Zeff know ? “ 

Eating your dinner, you slowly nod of the head, remembering the first time the old man discovered you crying of pain in the tube. He had at first, like Sanji, been worried,but, hearring you out he had finally accepted the fact that he couldn’t make you change your mind.  

“ It’s worth it. For the moment I can’t, people aren’t ready yet, but one day, I want to sit on this stage in this form. I want people to know that they don’t have to be afraid of us. We can sing without bewitching them, we don’t chase them if they fall in the water. when we shed tears, it’s from pain, not to make a profit of their medicinal effect. That’s my dream, that one day I will be able to show people that we are good, not monsters. “

“ It’s an admirable dream “ Sanji smiled, a tenderness in his eyes.” If somebody is capable of such a thing it’s you.  After all you didn’t have to talk or sing, I had been spellbound the minute I saw you and I'm sure that the audience could say the same. “

Looking at his sincere face, you felt the warm sensation of hope blooming in your scaly chest. 

“ I would never use my magic on you, you know Sanji aren’t you ? “ You replied, wishing you had not misunderstood his words. 

“ I know, Madam. The things I feel every time I'm near you aren't an illusion, no lies could be that strong…” 

Your heart racing like if you were hunted by a shark, you gently placed your hand on his, tangling them affectionately. 

“ Sanji, would you walk me to the deck tonight…” You demanded. The walk, situated at the tail of the building, wasn’t very long, but it would let you spend a lot of time in his company before having to go back in the water. 

“As you wish Y/N “ He promised, watching your tangled hand. “ I should go, the restaurant will close soon and the old man will probably look out for me.”

“ See you later, I will wait for you outside, near your usual smoking place” You confirm, gripping the side of the tub in excitement. 

“ I will be there, see you later “ He replied before going out, leaving you alone to realize what just happened.

--

The half moon was high when Sanji got out of the closed Baratie.Without realizing it, he had replayed in his head every of your smile and phrases during your conversation, still amazed that you returned his affection.  But as he arrived at the meeting spot, his heart missed a beat. 

A hand against your mouth, flanked by two customers previously kicked out, you were fighting for your life, your fragile leg giving up under you as you tried to get yourself free.

“ Let her go now” He ordered, rage filling his veins. How could they dare touch your perfection and try to steal you from him.

“ Mate, go back inside mind your own business !” One of the pirates replied, trying to move you.  

“ I say, let her go. “ Sanji repeated, taking his fighting stance. The men were larger and heavier than him, but with his training and under your terrified gaze, he couldn’t lose. 

It didn’t take long to put them down. Sadly, you join them when your knees buckle due to the loss of energy. 

“ Y/N are you okay ? “ The blond jumped, catching you.

“ Yes I…need the water...I…I’m sorry” You said, tears filling your eyes. “ They said somebody saw me coming out of the water, they were waiting for me, Sanji…I can’t sing here anymore…” 

“ I will inform the old man, he will find the person and you will be able to sing here as long as you want.” He promised, caressing the side of your face. “ Let me put you in the water, your skin is cold and you shake of exhaustion  “ 

“ No wait I wanted...I wanted to…never mind” You said, avoiding his gaze as your legs disappeared. 

“ What ? Tell me  “ He insisted. 

“ I wanted to kiss you…during the time I have legs…like a normal girl but…they're gone…I’m sorry it’s stupid.”  You sigh, embarrassed. 

“ A normal girl…Madam, don’t lower yourself to that, you’re fantastic as you are and I would never want anything else. Now if you let me “ He reassured you, lifting you in his arms in a bridal style before gently putting his lips against yours.  

Kissing him was like breathing underwater :soft,warm and perfect. As he gently retreated his mouth, you could still see that something was in this thought. 

“ You can sing here as much as you want but…I think I have a proposition for you. Yesterday a guy offered me a place in his crew, the Old man pushed me to go for it…find the All blue.  Please, come with me…You could show people like you wanted that you not what they thought, I will protect you and these crew seem really good” 

The offer takes you by surprise, you never could imagine The Baratie without him. In fact, you couldn’t imagine yourself singing there anymore if he wasn’t even there to watch you perform, nor could you think of your life without him in it. 

“ Okay, if they accept me I will follow you” 

—

The straw hat crew didn’t just accept you, you became a member of the group. 

Swimming  along the boat, signaling at Sanji to be ready,you take some speed and jump grabbing the dangling rope, letting you perform Luffy's favorite number : The flying mermaid.

Helped by your previous momentum, you rise above the lower deck and fall in the arm of Sanji, always waiting to catch his precious mermaid.

[sashaisready]

Chapter Thirteen - You’re finally awake

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again

Warning: I’m sorry 🥺

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 14

Series Masterlist

Bucky pulls out of you and flops back onto the pillows as he catches his breath. You’re still half collapsed in front of him, the cool organic cotton of the sheet against your face grounding you and bringing you back down to earth.

You can feel his spend leaking from you, seeping down your inner thigh. He gets impatient with your recovery and grabs your waist like a ragdoll, pulling you upright against him. You sigh contentedly as two thick fingers grip your chin, turning you to face him. He carefully moves a strand hair out of your face as he studies you. He notices the flush of your cheeks, the faint layer of perspiration, the heavy breathing. Happiness and satisfaction rises within him.

“Still with me, Doll?” he whispers.

You nod weakly . “Just need a second…”

You turn and get to your feet but a metal hand clamps around your arm and pulls you back down into the bed with a thump. You roll your eyes as you bounce off the mattress.

“Bucky, I need the…”

“Not yet” he barks and wraps his arms around you protectively, kissing your crown. You’re locked in his embrace, your back against his chest and his arms across your torso. You lean back into him, letting him kiss your neck. You’re not a big post-coital cuddler normally but can’t deny it feels nice.

You both sit like that for a little while and you feel your eyelids grow heavy as sleep catches up with you. You don’t really want to fall asleep sitting upright covered in his release, so tap two of your fingers on his hand and try to move forward to show your intentions. He grunts with dissatisfaction but begrudgingly releases you, and you patter over to the ensuite bathroom to go pee and clean yourself up.

Of course the bathroom is enormous, you’ve seen Brooklyn apartments smaller than this. Everything is sleek and marble, with a deep copper bathtub to your left. You briefly wonder if you’d have time to try it out tomorrow, but aren’t sure if Bucky is a wham-bam thank-you-ma’am type likely to kick you out on your ass before his morning coffee. Only one way to find out…

After finishing up you venture back into the room. You can hear Bucky before you see him, the sound of gentle snoring filling the space and you know he’s no longer in the land of the living. As you get nearer to the bed you see him curled up under the sheets on his side facing away from you. You can’t resist leaning over and stealing a peek. The big, bad mob boss looks like an angel while he sleeps and you revel in this rare moment of vulnerability, unable to stop yourself moving a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. You stroke his cheek, feeling the stubble rough against your finger, before gifting him a light kiss on the forehead. The affection you feel for him is almost overwhelming.

You settle down on your side salvaging as much of the sheets as you can (of course Bucky is a bedspread hog). The bed is luxurious and soft, like sleeping on a marshmallow. It’s not long before you feel yourself drift off. But then the weight in the bed shifts and he’s awake again and rolling over to you right as you’re dropping off to sleep.

“Doll…” he whispers in your ear.

“Mmm…What?” you reply sharply, annoyed at having your soon-to-be sleep disturbed. Your eyes stay closed. He wore you out, you're an empty husk!

“How about that date then, huh?”

“Now? Buck, I am barely conscious…” you groan.

“No idiot…next week. When are you free? Wednesday night?”

“Don’t call me an idiot…” you mumble into the pillow.

“Don’t act like one, then. Wednesday?”

“Okay, Wednesday” you surrender.

“We won’t do Gambinos. I know a cute little bistro near your place”.

“Sounds perfect. If I say yes will you let me sleep?”

“Yes”.

“Then yes. I’ll be there with bells on” you tease.

“Good” he whispers with satisfaction.

You reach behind yourself to clutch his face and affectionately ruffle his hair. Then you wriggle into a comfier position, scooping your hand under your pillow as you settle on your side. It’s fruitless as Bucky wraps himself around you from behind, pulling your head into his chest and lifting his leg to rest over yours possessively. You’re practically pinned underneath him.

“Buck…” you whine impatiently.

“Mmm?”

“C’mon, it’s like a million degrees like this…”

“Sorry my bed, my rules. Besides, if there are any monsters under the bed they’ll get me first. I’m helping you out”.

“You’re rich but can’t afford a monster-less bed?” you snap grumpily.

He laughs and kisses your shoulder. You finally relent, your hand running along his and pliantly allow him to hold you any way he wants as you both drift off.

**

The next morning you have a tiny moment of panic when you wake up in a strange bed and don’t recognise your surroundings, how much did you drink at the club exactly?

But then you remember.

Bucky. The club. The alley. The office. The car…coming here.

You smile to yourself as you remember what unfolded; the feeling of Bucky’s lips against yours, his expert hands playing your body as if they already knew the song, the euphoria of your orgasm…well…orgasms.

You turn on your side to face him, suddenly desperate to cuddle up with him and touch him. You were somewhat prickly last night, not a natural cuddler any way and someone who has relished the luxury of sleeping in a bed by herself for years…but you craved his touch now you were no longer sleep deprived.

But he was gone from his side, the space he’d left was cool. Your eyes flicked to the bathroom but the door was wide open and you could see it was empty. 

No sign of him.

You wondered where he was as you found your purse on the floor and dug out your phone. No notifications, it was 10.34am. You used the bathroom and washed your face, catching yourself grinning in the mirror. You couldn’t believe you’d finally slept with Bucky, it had been everything you wanted and more.

You slipped back under the sheets and wondered if you should call his phone rather than wander around the house looking for him…you were still naked and God only knows which of his men you’d bump into.

Just as you pondered your next move, the door whipped open and he came striding in. Already dressed in a three piece suit, hair perfectly teased and looking like he’d been awake for hours. His handsomeness still caught you off guard when you saw him. You beamed at him.

“Morning gorgeo-” you started but he cut you off.

“You’re finally awake” he said, his voice monotonous. “I thought I was going to have to get a foghorn”.

You flinched at the hardness in his tone.

“I’m sorry, it’s just we went to sleep late and..” You found yourself babbling.

Something seemed to have shifted with him, he was tense, tetchy, short. Wanda would say he was giving off a bad energy. He seemed almost a different person from last night.

“Do you have all your stuff?” he asked impatiently. “Sorry to be a dick, but I have a lot of work to do today”. He looked at you expectantly.

“Oh!” you uttered in surprise, suddenly embarrassed at your nudity and holding the sheet close to your chest. “Uh...I’m sorry…one moment…”

You turned away from him as you wriggled back into yesterday’s underwear and dress. It felt silly to be shy in front of him after last night but he was being so…off…and it made you felt self-conscious in the cold light of day. He cleared his throat uncomfortably as you got dressed. You found your shoes and your purse and headed to the door.

He hovered his hand over your back as he walked you downstairs but it felt awkward and chaste, a stark contrast to his protective grip on your waist from last night. You passed several of his men who gave you acknowledging looks as you walked through the house. It suddenly hit you that you were one of many they must see do this walk of shame, all blurring into one faceless woman.

Sam gave you a warm smile and a wave as he passed you at the front door and attentively asked how you were. You nodded back at him and felt a pang of hurt that Sam was being nicer to you than Bucky was.

Bucky ushered you outside. “Nobody has time to drive you home. I’ll get you a cab” he said bluntly, tapping on his phone as he opened Uber.

You stood in silence at the entrance to the house, your eyes welling with tears. What had changed in the last few hours? Had you done something wrong?

“So I’ll see you on Wednesday night?” you ventured. “Looking forward to trying out that Bistro”.

Bucky grimaced without looking up from his phone. “Uh…sorry, might need a rain check for Wednesday. Just so much going on, y’know? Sorry babe. Another time”.

Babe? Since when did he call you babe?

You just nodded pathetically.

“Should be here in a few minutes” he told you as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

You nodded again.

“Sorry we didn’t have time for breakfast. I thought you’d be up before now” he sighed.

You felt a ripple of mortification as you imagined him irritated, pacing the house and waiting for you to get up while you snored away obliviously. So much for trying out that bath tub.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a fresh bill.

“Get yourself a coffee and some breakfast on me” he said, his voice deadpan as he handed you the money.

It was a fifty dollar bill.

You feel your face flush, hurt bubbled up within and you could feel it boiling into anger in real time.

“Please don’t try to give me money after you fuck me and kick me out your house” you snarl through gritted teeth as you bat his hand away.

“Excuse me…?” he replies incredulously.

“I get it. You were all sweetness and light last night and now you’ve got it out of your system and seen me naked you don’t need to be nice anymore. But don’t offer me money” you mutter.

Bucky scoffed, his Brooklyn drawl suddenly thicker. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“I’m a piece of work?” you snap.

“Yeah, you. Last night you practically tell me to fuck off so you could sleep as far away as you can and now you’re annoyed I can’t spend my entire workday waiting for you to get out of bed?”

You turn to him, your eyes wide in anger. “I was just tired, Bucky! I wanted to sleep. It was nothing to do with you! And if I remember rightly I fell asleep in your fuckin’ arms in the end so how does that work?”

“Don’t brush me off and then get annoyed when I don’t roll out the red carpet treatment” he snaps. “I’ve got other stuff to do”.

“You know what? Fuck your Uber, I’ll get my own” you storm off towards the gate as you suppress your tears.

“Thank-you for the kind hospitality, James!” you snipe back at him as you barge past the guards and out onto the street.

Bucky scoffs as he stands alone on his porch, sighing to himself.

**

When Bucky woke up this morning it was a bit after 8am. The sun was pouring in through the blinds but you hadn’t risen yet. Sometime in the night you’d rolled away from him and were back on your side at the edge of the bed, snoring lightly. He smiled at your sleeping form, then reached out and ran a finger along your exposed back. You were so lost in sleep that you didn’t even stir.

He wanted to reach out and pull you to him. He was so delighted that he’d finally got to this point with you. It had been weeks if not months of foreplay in the bakery and he’d dreamed of this moment for so long. Then there was the whole business with the tailing you which he can admit he fucked up…and the date, and he’d been so hurt. You had your revenge. But then you fell into his lap again at the club and it felt like fate. He’d been so angry when he’d seen that creep forcing himself on you at the bar, all he wanted to do was protect you and keep you safe. Show you who you should be with. Your lips on his in the upstairs office were like a fantasy coming true.

And then back at the house. Fuck, he’d never experienced anything quite like it. You were so beautiful and he’d never felt chemistry quite so intensely or innately before, he never wanted it to end. It was easily the best sex of his life. He’d become tired with the conveyer belt of girls he met at the club. They were nice, pretty of course, but aside from the fleeting pleasure it had become…boring. Uninspired. Generic.

Not like you. You who challenged him, who made him laugh, who had kissed his scars and caressed his prosthetic and told him he was beautiful. He wanted to hold you and never let you go. He often thought about the mischievous look you’d get in your eye when you were about to tease him. Now he would think about your face as you came, biting down on your lip as your eyes squeezed shut. You had him eating out the palm of your hand.

But a doubt niggled away at him. Last night after you went to sleep you seemed exasperated with him, brushing him off and putting physical space between the two of you. You were probably just tired and not a big hugger – nothing wrong with that. But part of him worried he’d overplayed his hand. Maybe you weren’t as into him as he was to you, maybe you just wanted to go home with someone last night and he just happened to be there.

Bucky Barnes always called the shots. He was always the one in control. He was rarely on the other side of that, and he didn’t like it one bit on the few occasions he found himself there. It’s how he got to the top.

Besides, the truth was that his feelings for you scared him. Despite how good they made him feel, they also made him feel weak, and he didn’t like weak. Didn’t do weak.

He also knew that his world wasn’t your world, he didn’t want to taint your life with the edges of violence and corruption. Deep down, somewhere, he knew he probably didn’t deserve you.

Maybe it would be best if he pulled back a bit, took back control from you and readdressed that balance. Remind you who is calling the shots here.

So he had been cold to you. And it was so hard at first, especially when he saw your big smile as he came back in, your face framed by the morning sun, happiness pouring out of you at the mere sight of him. 

He wasn’t worthy of that smile.

And so he continued, treating you like he would any girl from the club and throwing you out. It wasn’t that hard to tap into that part of him as he’d done it hundreds of times before, it was just muscle memory at this point.

But your face. His heart had ached when he saw the hurt in your expression, your utter disappointment in him. Your eyes wide and wounded. He wanted so badly to take it back, to tell you he’d made a mistake, tell you he wanted to spend the day in bed with you holding you hostage with intense orgasms. That he loved being with you, and that life seemed better when you were around.

Still, it was for the best.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

[inkformyblood]

just for a season (09Ghoap, YoOTP25)

Hanahaki Disease (non-fatal), Historical AU, Mer AU. 09Ghoap, minor John Price x John Soap MacTavish

MacTavish didn’t think he would stay for long at the lighthouse when he’d first arrived on the island. The village itself on the shore just beyond had been more familiar, a low-slung huddle of thatched cottages on the outskirts that congealed into brick and mortar, some storefronts and the bones of a marketplace, a few pubs and he could be content there for a time. The lighthouse had been a scar on the horizon, some artistic rendition of a wizard’s tower thrown on a drunkard’s pottery wheel, and MacTavish had staggered from the small boat sent to ferry him across to it wearing the remnants of his final pint splattered across his boots into the arms of one John Price. 

“Only need you to stay for a season, lad,” Price had said, one hand pressed to MacTavish’s forehead to keep him upright, the other resting above the keys at his waist. “Just a season and we’ll send you off to your nice soft bed with some coins in your pocket and a few hairs on your chest.” 

MacTavish couldn’t say what colour Price’s eyes had been, but he sketches them in charcoal on the corner of tattered sailcloth strung up along the side of his bunk that first night, the roar of lighthouse horn enough to pluck him from fitful sleep minutes before it sounds. He spends that first breakfast tipping forwards into his plate, a fry-up for the first day after a resupply, strips of bacon fried in their own fat and bread neatly hacked from the loaf and toasted in front of the fire, while Price chuckled, wreathed in smoke and salt like some deity of old. His fingers were crooked, weathered and pale as driftwood, but he’s fast with them, smacking across MacTavish’s knuckles with the flat of his knife to keep him awake, to keep him alert, and just because he could. 

He’d hated the man and adored him in equal desperate measure.

One season bled into two, to three, to one bitch of a winter when MacTavish curled up in Price’s bed to steal any memory of warmth from his sheets, and then another.

Then, there was war.

Two men left the lighthouse.

One man returned.

“They’ve asked me,” MacTavish begins, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his mug. It’s mostly paper and char by this stage of the month but he returns it to his mouth all the same, tastes the stale tang of damp tobacco. “If I want to stay on the rock for another season.”

He plucks two cards from his hand, their edges soft with age and warped by the salt in the air, holds them aloft before he adds another, laying them all down on the stool that sits between the two men. It’s a strange configuration; MacTavish slung in the low-backed armchair, the frame moulded to fit a different man’s shoulders, the angle of his hips. He sits forwards, legs spread wide and laces trailing from his boots, half-loosened as the evening stumbled onwards, and sinks back against protesting springs. Riley presses himself upright, the cloying scent of brackish water clouding the air like a lover’s perfume, and the water sloshes against the side of the copper bathtub he’s folded into. If Riley had been any other man, it would be a private affair, MacTavish busying himself with his sketchbook or the snarl of his thoughts. 

Riley blinks at him, first one set of lids — milky white like death’s first kiss — then the other, dark lashes spilling shadows across his cheeks. “What did you say to them?”

There’s dark indentations splashed across his forearms from the edge of the tub, harsh lines woven over the paler sheen of scale and skin. Riley leans closer with a slosh of water, three cards held between thumb and forefinger before he drops them on the stool. He has a way of looking up at MacTavish — a necessity given their seating arrangements but it runs deeper than that — like he’s studying him in the same way a religious man bleeds over his bible. 

“They’re not wrong for asking, there’s meant to be some new blood on the rock for years now.” MacTavish drags blunted fingers over his jaw, scratches at the line of his neck. “Could be a younger man for you to bite at over cards, with a pretty wife and a baby. More interesting company for you than an old man.”

Riley hums, his jaw tight. It doesn’t sit even, the scars at the corner of his mouth drawing his grin jagged, the curve of his teeth constantly on display. “No, you’re fine.”

“It’s like you’re trying t’make me blush.” MacTavish shifts his cards between his fingers, places them all flat on the stool, only to pick them back up again. The evening air is cool, a distant prickle against the nape of his neck, the edge of his wrists, and he considers rising from his seat and crossing the expanse of four steps to the huddle of the stove and throwing another piece of driftwood in. It would burn beautifully, a riot of purple flames devouring the pale sculpture, but that would be a step away from Riley, from the deliberate weight of his gaze.

MacTavish stays where he is.

“What would you do in town?” Riley asks, his teeth exposed in something more than common flesh healed jagged. There’s seaweed tangled in his hair, dark against the sodden curls, never able to fully dry but golden all the same. “Your own pretty wife, a baby?” 

MacTavish laughs then, really laughs with his head thrown back and chest aching from the effort. His ribs had never healed right from his first tumble into a foxhole, fresh blood on his palms (his, Price’s, the laughing lad next to them) and every breath sends a pang echoing through the memory, crashing into the swell of the present. Price had pulled him from the stinking mud, slapped him on the back before his hand rested on MacTavish’s shoulder, keeping him upright, keeping him steady. 

“No, lad.” MacTavish chucks down his cards, clearing his throat before he swallows down the mud of a foreign field he hopes to never see again. He draws another pull of his smoke, the dull glow burning steadily to his fingers, and breathes out through his nose. “No wife, though it wasn’t for a lack of them trying when I was younger. Must’ve told you this before—” He looks to Riley, tipping his head to one side in question. They’d spent countless nights together living in the same cramped quarters, the aging lighthouse keeper and the mermaid in his bathtub, and the details blur together in MacTavish’s memory, faded like an old photograph that’s been exposed too many times and the image beneath bleeds through. Riley shrugs, layering his arms over the edge of the bathtub and resting his chin upon them. Could be an oil painting of a cherub torn straight from the church walls and MacTavish abandons his cards on the stool without a second thought, reaching for the bloated curve of his sketchbook, pencil jammed between the pages. 

“Anyway,” he says, scratching out the blunt beginnings across an empty corner of a page. “When I was younger, back when I kept saying I was only staying on the rock for a season, I had a handful of girls trying to court me.” It had been a heady, if uncomfortable, sensation as a young man, giddy excitement of being craved warring with the bitter panic that something isn’t right, something with no shape or name but it existed all the same. His older sister had brought home an unbroken colt once and he’d felt the same as that beast; trying to flee a world that did nothing but exist. “Few of them were Heartsick over me, wore their flowers in their hair so I’d notice.”

He couldn’t remember their names, but he remembered their flowers, the same ones that would likely litter their pillows in the morning or be chewed and swallowed along with their food, a bouquet of red roses, some pink, daisies, primroses. Their scent hung heavy on the morning air, mixing with the smoke of the incense in church as MacTavish took one hand between his own, lowering his face to whisper a blessing that would be devoured in one starving blink. The affliction wasn’t fatal, a byproduct of God’s love for his creations or some quirk of human biology if the doctors were to be believed, but it could be inconvenient for the sufferers. The radio plays and serials would use it to raise the stakes in their romantic subplots, sending out the fresh-faced female leads with a wreath of roses woven into her hair or the plotting step-sisters with fresh blooms cut from the garden. 

“Although,” MacTavish tears himself free of the memory, the remnants of it clinging to his arms, his hands like dust. “If you’re asking because you’re a siren, Riley, then you’ll have a poor last meal from me.”

Riley chuckles, the sound closer to the scratch of a match than anything a human could produce. His tail shifts, the dark fins stretching above the water to counter his movement, a ripple of muscle down its surface as Riley lifts himself upright, seawater sloughing off his skin. He’s human from the waist up, the sharp concave line of his belly warring against the onslaught of pale scales, his navel blank except for the scars that stretched across it; one set over his hip, another straight up the centre of him, a handful more curving over shoulder and forearms, before the deliberate devastation of his throat and jaw. There’s a few tattoos visible on his upper arms, the edges of one on his collarbone, and another on his ribs, and MacTavish marks them quickly on his sketch, smudges his thumb over the hurried outlines. Riley doesn’t move when MacTavish isn’t watching him, dark eyes catching the embers, the faint glow of MacTavish’s smoke. He holds out one webbed hand expectantly, and MacTavish hands the cigarette over with a rueful sigh. He doesn’t mind, not truly. The end glows a pittance in Riley’s hold, the smoke barely more than a wisp as he breathes it in, the memory of it rolling from the gills in his neck like morning mist inland, pale and barely there. 

“I don’t think I’d see much of you if I left the rock,” MacTavish says, returning his gaze to the cards spread out in front of them, his sketchbook balanced on his lap, his pencil tucked behind his ear. There’d be grey lines over his temple later, dark against the silver shot through his hair. 

Riley drops his set of cards down, nudging them into place before he returns the cigarette to his mouth. It’s down to the paper now, grey ash falling free over Riley’s fingers, floating on the surface of the water like soap scum. “I could go with you.”

MacTavish first met Riley the night after a storm. It had been his second or third season at the lighthouse, his legs growing steady with every step over the slick rocks, the salt crystallising down to his bones. Price had dropped a basket onto his chest, mercifully empty, and sent him out with a smack to the back of his head, Price’s jumper sitting wide on his shoulders and long on his hips. Seagulls wheeled high overhead, shrieking to each other and dropping out of the slate-grey sky to pick at something on the ground, barely visible at first as MacTavish made his way over. He’d expected some fish, their eyes already glassy or missing, just empty husks staring up at a sky they were never meant to see; but what he found was a man, his skin scraped raw and bright over his hip, his elbows, blood and feathers clinging to his palms, his mouth. 

“Fuck off,” Riley had snarled, his voice barely louder than a rasp behind the display of his teeth, and MacTavish only laughed, a mixture of disbelief and wonder rattling through the empty spaces between his bones, the universe reshaping itself because of one chance encounter.

“You’d go with me?” MacTavish asks, leaning back in his chair and letting his legs slide wider. He’s got a small cottage back on the mainland, it had been Price’s like so many things that MacTavish owns now, just another thing folded into his hands alongside a black-edged telegram that was too small to contain the full breadth of the man it trapped in dark typeface, the man who would be forgotten as just another name amongst the war dead. 

It’s big enough for two.

MacTavish hums quietly, reaching for a smoke he no longer holds. He pushes himself up from the chair, the creaking of the springs only masked by the cracking of his knees, a line of pressure caught tight in his back. He staggers his first step towards the low slung cabinet, but catches himself on the second, the third. Another wail of the horn high overhead, the carrion call of some enormous bird, and MacTavish pulls fresh rolling papers, a folded paper package of tobacco. “Another?” he asks over his shoulder, drinking down the shadowed lines of Riley’s features as he slouches against the line of the bathtub, his fingers twisted in the seaweed caught in his hair. 

“No,” Riley murmurs, far gentler than he has any right to be. Drawing him wouldn’t be enough, MacTavish could fill every inch of the lighthouse with his visage, carve the smooth curve of his form into the rock itself so someone, somewhere can dig it out of the ruins and marvel, and it still wouldn’t be enough. MacTavish is stubborn and sullen, a ruined husk of a ship from a bygone age left to rot in the sun, with salt on his hands and an anchor looped around his neck, never more than a handspan away from the terrified lad who breathed in the thick scent of blooming roses and wondered why he didn’t feel anything.

MacTavish dampens one edge of the paper, tapping out a thin line of tobacco, rolls, and lights it. Riley wins the game, his grin sharp behind his facade of indifference, blood scented in the water and leapt upon, and MacTavish blackens his lungs with every inhale, the taste sharp across his tongue. 

“Going to be a storm tonight,” Riley murmurs. The fire has long since burnt to embers, the room cast in pale shadows, and his eyes gleam strangely in the low light, dual eyelids shimmering with every blink. “You should sleep.”

“Aye.” MacTavish stands, presses his hands into the small of his back as he leans against it. Riley lifts himself partially from the tub to sit on the edge of it, the sharp bite of the sea ever present. 

He’s solid in MacTavish’s arms as he lifts him, Riley’s arms locked around his neck and the curving tattoo on one bicep the point of MacTavish’s focus as they breathe in tandem, for a moment, a single entity. The lighthouse howls above them, around them, and Riley twitches, his tail fin flaring wide in a ripple of muscle down the length of it, his jaw clenched tight as he turns his face into MacTavish’s neck, his breath damp against his skin, the fall of his crucifix. 

“You alright, Riley?” MacTavish murmurs as he makes his halting way down the stairs, his shoulders turned to keep Riley’s tail clear of the narrow stone walls. 

“Yes,” Riley answers, his voice thick. His hands twine in the loose strands at the nape of MacTavish’s neck, the sharp edge of his claws scratching delicately at his scalp. 

Their parting is inevitable, the roar of the sea against the edge of the broken sluice gate louder than the lighthouse overhead, the marrying of their two worlds. MacTavish kneels, the stone damp and soaking into the light fabric of his trousers, matching the ocean already emblazoned across his chest and belly, the rivulets slipping over the edges of his spine, and he hasn’t been inside a church in years but here is sacred enough for him to worship. Riley slides from his hold, catching himself on the edge. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, his words almost lost beneath the roar of the water, and then he is gone. 

MacTavish returns to the huddle of his rooms, a thin trail of smoke fluttering behind his every step like a bridal veil. His thoughts are muffled, echoing through shattered bone and tangling around the snarl of his ribs, the stagnant cling of his heart, and he thinks of Riley, Riley in the old-wheeled chair gathering dust in the corner of Price’s, of his front room; the double bed that always felt too big for him so he spent his nights stretched out in front of the fireplace, seeking salvation from cool stone and the distant hiss of the ocean. He sleeps but he doesn’t dream, and wakes with a rose petal between his teeth. 

It tastes like his ma’s perfume, a deliberate steeping of the fresh spring cuttings, and he spits it out into the trembling cup of his palm. Dark enough that he can barely make out of the shape of it in the gloom, the air trembling with the aftermath of the lighthouse’s call, but he knows it by the musky tang coating his tongue, the scent heavy in the air and the space behind his teeth. MacTavish brushes his fingertips over the gentle crush of it and tucks the petal behind his ear, blinking out into the darkness. 

In the distance, inside the emptiness of his thoughts, he hears the roar of the ocean. 

[aphroditestummyrolls]

/slams fist on table

ENGAGEMENT SERIES

It’s been too long 🥹

MY FRIENDDDDDD it has been too long— I’m so happy to be back ❤️ here’s some engagement series just for you— a little horny, a lot in love, perfect for our boys.

There was still steam curling out from their bathroom threshold as Wylan pulled back the covers. His curls were still slightly damp as he sat up against the headboard, his limbs loose and warm from the bath. Toes wiggling between the fresh sheets, the merchling took a deep breath.

Jesper whistled from the bathroom— the tune was a raunchy jig of a thing from The Barrel, one of Nina’s favourites. At least, he thought that was what it was supposed to be. Jes was miserably out of tune, every third note going squeaky. He must’ve been singing Nina’s personal version. Wylan listened, a smile tucked into his cheek, as the tap stopped running. He watched his sharpshooter’s lanky silhouette flitting and flickering in the last of the light as he darkened the lamps.

When he emerged from the steamy darkness, it was with his arms full of the day’s laundry and a silk scarf tied around his freshly washed and moisturised curls. The flat, wiry planes of his chest glistened with the last of their bath’s humidity, and his sleep pants barely clung to his sharp hips. Wylan drank in the sight like he could sketch out every bump and angle— as if he could paint Jesper Fahey’s endless motion with nothing but his eyes.

Sometimes, it still gave him whiplash to think that— somehow, against all odds— this had become his life. This cheery song and dance. Long baths in a copper tub; dropping the laundry by the door for Agatha in the morning; feeling fresh sheets as he wiggled his toes; watching Jesper Fahey’s nightly ballet from bathtub to bedside.

“And, what d’you think you’re looking at, merchling?”

A dance hall performance, he thought, or maybe some type of dream.

A miracle.

“You, Jes.” He said instead.

Jesper grinned, haloed in amber light as he leaned against the headboard. His warm grey eyes didn’t leave Wylan’s for a moment. It was the merchling who dropped his gaze first, but not from shyness. They were far past shyness with each other.

No, Wylan wanted to watch those long-fingered hands as Jes slipped off each of his rings for the night. Plink, plink, plink— they dropped into the little dish on their bedside table. Mesmerising, as he slipped each finger free and flexed his hands.

“Like what you see?”

Wylan felt himself flush, heat rushing to the tips of his ears. Like being caught out in a secret.

“Always.”

Wylan had been thinking a lot about Jesper’s hands lately. About the rings on his fingers.

Thanks for playing!! ❤️❤️❤️

[aralezinspace]

Summer Knight Part 6

When Crown Prince Morpheus is summoned to his father's court for the summer, he expects it to be just as tedious and aggravating as any other season spent in the Dreaming's capitol. What he doesn't expect is an attempted kidnapping, a successful kidnapping, uncovering designs on the Dreaming's throne, and a handsome esquire he really isn't supposed to fall in love with. How can he not, when Hob Gadling sees him for who he is, and not just his station? How can he not, when Hob is willing to burn down the world for him? Or: Prince!Morpheus/Commoner!Hob Gadling medieval/fantasy AU

~~Masterlist~~

Dividers by cafekitsune

Chapter 10

Hob’s fever finally broke just after breakfast time. Lucienne had brought Morpheus his meal on a tray, along with some bread and water for when Hob woke. She gave the Prince a knowing look as he took the tray- Lucienne always knew. She could tell the Prince had stayed awake all night and had not left Hob’s side for a moment. 

The Prince watched over Hob while nibbling on his breakfast. Some of the color was coming back to his cheeks, and he looked much more at ease. He had even started to snore softly; Morpheus laughed the first time he heard the sound. With all their close proximity, how had he never noticed? 

Hob’s eyes finally cracked open around mid day. Morpheus had been doing his level best to stay awake, but found himself nodding off, his head hanging and eyes heavy. Adrenaline jolted him awake when he heard the drawn out, whining groan coming from his bed, followed by several choice swear words as Hob tried to sit up.

“Hob!” He placed a gentle hand on Hob’s good shoulder and applied the slightest pressure to encourage him to lay back down. 

“Fuck… Morpheus?” Hob rasped, throat dry and scratchy. “Water?” 

Morpheus quickly poured some water into a small tankard and held it up to Hob’s lips. His other hand cradled Hob’s head so he could swallow more easily, and Hob drank the entire thing down in a few seconds. 

“Fuck,” Hob swore again as he lay back down. He turned to Morpheus, and this time his mind fully registered where he was, who he was with: he was in the Prince’s bed, and Morpheus was at his side. A big, dopey grin spread across his face, like he had never seen something so beautiful nor had been so happily blessed. “Feels like I’ve been kicked by a horse,” he slurred, “But this is worth it.” 

Morpheus chuckled and took Hob’s hand in his again. He kissed the back as Hob weakly squeezed his fingers. After a few breaths, the Prince became serious again. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 

Hob’s grin faded as he tried to concentrate through the fog in his mind and the insistent aches in his body. “Um… We got to the palace, I fell out of the saddle… That’s all.” 

Morpheus nodded and adjusted Hob’s cloak around his shoulders. “That is the long and short of it. The healer treated your wound and you had a fever in the night.” A pause, his voice dropping to nearly a mumble. “You’ve been asleep for almost a full day. I.. I was worried.” 

“A whole day?” Hob repeated incredulously, his uninjured hand flying to his forehead. “No wonder I’m starving.” He flashed Morpheus a roguish grin. “Think you could help me with that?” 

Morpheus rolled his eyes affectionately as he ripped off a chunk of bread and handed it to him. It was a massive relief that Hob seemed so much like his old self just moments after waking up. That pleasant warmth began to bloom in the Prince’s chest, staving off just a little more of the cold that still lingered in his core.

Hob spent the next three days in the Prince’s chambers recovering. Morpheus had Lucienne and Matthew bring all his work and letters, as well as their meals. He finally convinced Morpheus to call for a bath, and the Prince had agreed, but only if Hob would join him. They spent several hours scrunched up in the copper bathtub, gently washing away the dirt and last drops of blood until the water was cold and smoky. Afterwards, they lay in front of the fire on furs taken from their beds in their nightclothes, continuing to caress and talk quietly. 

Hob couldn’t reach back to braid his hair, so he talked Morpheus through it. The first few attempts resulted in knots and tangles that the Prince had to then unravel, gently working his antler comb through the brown and gold and amber strands, but eventually he mastered it. He may have intentionally tangled the sections once or twice just to spend more time combing it, once he heard the contented, purring hum that rumbled low in Hob’s chest.

Cain and Abel paid a visit on the second day, finding Hob seated in an armchair in front of the fire, reading a book. “Hob Gadling,” Cain cried in greeting as they entered the sitting room, “As I live and breathe, you’re actually alive.” He gave Hob a once over, taking in his generally worn and exhausted appearance. “You look awful.” 

Hob chuckled as he closed his book. “You should see the other guys.” 

The brothers joined him in front of the fire, and Hob immediately launched into the tale of what had happened. Their eyes widened when he got to his duel with Randall, both impressed and apprehensive. Abel actually gasped when he tugged at the collar of his shirt to show them the wound that was slowly but surely healing into a pink scar. As he finished his story, a little thorn burrowed into his mind: Chronos had sworn he’d be banished from the Dreaming if he survived rescuing Morpheus. Would he follow through on that threat?

“Holy hell fire…” Abel swore under his breath, armor clinking softly as he sat back in his chair. He shook his head with an incredulous grin. “The gods must have some big plans for you!” Hob just chuckled and shrugged non-committedly. 

The brothers stayed for another hour chatting with Hob while Morpheus worked in the study. The Prince smiled to himself every time he heard Hob’s laugh from the sitting room, glad that his spirits were recovering quickly, even if his body was a bit slower on the uptake. 

By the third day, Hob was starting to get restless. He paced the sitting room, gently swinging his arms back and forth, trying to stretch the healing skin and get some strength back without tearing the stitches- the day Lyta removed them couldn’t come soon enough. He grimaced and let out a little pained noise as one motion strained the skin and pressed his good hand over it, trying to keep the fire of pain contained. 

Morpheus heard the sound from his study where he was once again working, or at least trying to focus on work. He immediately put down his quill and half sprinted to the sitting room, trying not to panic at the thought of Hob injuring himself further. The sight that greeted him had him chuckling as well as rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Hob was in a ready stance, a fire poker held in his left hand like a sword. He did a few advances and retreats before going through the basic attacks- low left, low right, high right, high left, overhead. He moved slowly, but the flow of the iron rod was smooth and controlled. 

He took a breath and settled back into his ready stance for a moment before lunging and thrusting the poker into an imaginary opponent. He held the poker there, strained grunts mixed with deep breaths as the effort of holding its weight aloft pulled and tugged at barely healed skin and muscle.

“Hob,” Morpheus chided with a little smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, finally stepping into his space and gently easing the poker out of his hands. “I’m not sure Lyta would approve of this as resting and recovering.” 

Hob sighed and ran his good hand through his hair. “I’ve been resting and recovering for two days, I need to do something.” Morpheus returned the poker to the rack next to the fireplace. 

“I know,” the Prince replied in a sad murmur. The cracks in Morpheus’ being were starting to deepen. He had put on a brave face, shorn up the supports so that Hob could lean on him while he recovered. Now that Hob was out of danger, those supports were starting to crumble under their own weight, and the weight of all Morpheus had been through and had not started to heal from. The Prince’s limbs trembled as he braced a forearm on the wall above the mantle and leaned heavily on it.

Hob’s agitation immediately warped into concern when he saw how the Prince seemed to collapse in on himself. It occurred to him in a bright spark what he could do while his wound finished healing: pour everything he had into caring for his Prince, into helping him heal the wounds that may not be visible, but were just as deep and ugly, if not more so. Wounds that would leave scars as gnarled as his own.

Hob padded slowly to Morpheus and wrapped his arms around that slender waist, pulling him into a tender, protective embrace. He let his forehead rest on the Prince’s bony shoulder. “Thank you for taking care of me, Highness,” he murmured into his neck. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.” 

Morpheus’ trembling grew more intense, now full body shudders and shakes. “I’m so cold,” he rasped into the stone of the mantle. “I can’t get warm. My mind thinks I am still in that cell, still waiting for Burgess and Randall to make their demands. Waiting for Randall to…” 

Hob tensed. “Did he touch you?” He tried to keep the growl of cold anger out of his voice, knowing that his rage wouldn’t be of any help or comfort. Morpheus shook his head. 

“No. He did not. He did tell me in great detail what he would do to me once we were wed. It was… disturbing.” Hob snarled under his breath; he definitely should have killed the bastard. Or at least made him suffer. 

Hob held him closer and kissed the delicate exposed slope where his neck met his shoulder. “I’ll keep you warm, I’ll keep you safe.” The promise was whispered into pale skin that was indeed still chilled, despite standing in front of the fire. “Morpheus.” Hob gently turned the Prince around in his arms and pulled him back into his chest so that Morpheus could hear his heartbeat, ignoring the burn of the Prince’s head pressing into his wound. One arm stayed wrapped around his waist while the other threaded fingers into hair that was once more soft and silky with a wave of relief. 

“I, Robert Gadling, vow to defend Prince Morpheus from any and all that would do him harm, from this moment forth. I vow to stand by his side, in the light and the dark.” Hob paused, the unspoken declaration of love sitting heavy on his tongue. No, not yet. Morpheus was still crumbling under the weight of his ordeal. “My life and my body are his blade and shield, until his Highness release me, or death claim me. By all the gods, this I swear.” 

He could feel Morpheus struggle to keep the cries contained in his chest, caged by ribs and lungs. He closed his eyes and felt the moment that struggle was given up, heard the weak but deeply pained sobs. The Prince trembled and shook, only the strength of Hob’s embrace keeping him upright as he finally broke.

They stayed in the Prince’s chambers for another day, curled in each other’s arms. Just before midday, while they were resting on a sofa in front of the fire with Morpheus seated across Hob’s lap, Lucienne let herself into the sitting room, her ledger held to her chest. “Good day Highness, Master Gadling,” she murmured as she closed and locked the door behind her. They both replied just as softly, the Prince’s slightly more despondent and spoken into Hob’s chest. 

Lucienne’s heart ached. The two had been through something dreadful, and obviously cared very deeply for each other, but they were past the point where staying cooped up would help their recovery. “I trust you’re feeling better?” she asked with a knowing quirk of a brow. Hob nodded as he stroked the Prince’s hair. Lucienne sighed.

“Highness, may I speak freely?” she asked, clipped yet not unkind. 

“You may,” Morpheus replied, flat and nearly dead.

Lucienne let out a breath through her nose as she gathered her words. “It’s been four days since either of you left these rooms, you must get out. Even if it’s just to the library, or the gardens. A change of scenery would do you good. And, it would put rumors to rest.” 

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Lucienne,” Hob responded with a wry smile as he pulled Morpheus closer. “I’m banished.” 

Those words shook Morpheus out of the stupor he had found himself in. “Banished?” he whispered, “What for?”

Hob kissed his forehead. “Nothing you need worry about. I’ll handle it.” Morpheus frowned, but let it drop, curling back into Hob’s chest. Hob turned back to the Prince’s right hand. “Thank you Lucienne.” The librarian knew a dismissal when she heard it. Her face fell, but she quietly left the room. 

“Morpheus?” Hob murmured, giving the dozing Prince a little shake. “I’m sure you know this, but she’s right. We should at least walk around, let others see we’re alive and somewhat well.” The Prince just hummed softly snuggled further into Hob’s chest. Hob smiled softly and kissed the top of his head. “Alright, later then.” 

Morpheus awoke from his nap roughly an hour later, limbs creaking and cracking as he stretched like a cat. When he found himself still draped across Hob’s lap and curled against his chest, bleary eyes looked up, and dear gods Hob was like the sun- warm eyes and a gentle smile lighting up his face, golden skin glowing in the firelight and midmorning light. If only he could wake up to that sight every time he fell asleep. 

Morpheus groaned as he sat up and rubbed his forehead. Hob stretched his own limbs, sore and stiff from sitting in one place. “Not sure if you were fully awake, but Lucienne stopped by, said we should get out for a bit. Get some fresh air, let people know we’re still alive.”

“I thought you were banished.” Morpheus was now sitting up and staring intensely, anger and worry competing on his face. “Why?” Hob sighed and ran a hand through his hair. So he had been awake. 

“I told you I’d handle it, you shouldn’t be worrying about anything other than getting well-” he held up a hand to stop the Prince interrupting him, “-and absolutely necessary business from Fiddler’s Green.” 

“Tell me,” Morpheus demanded. So far, anger was winning. Hob sighed again and averted his gaze.

“Chronos didn’t want me going after Burgess to rescue you. He said that if I went and survived, I’d be banished. I don’t know for sure, but… I think Chronos wanted to try to bargain with him.” 

Even the normally cheerful crackling of the fire sounded ominous in the silence that followed. Morpheus was dumbstruck, barely blinking as his eyes filled with violent rage. “My father banished you,” he repeated, voice shaking with incredulous anger stronger than an earthquake, “for coming to my rescue.” Hob nodded. The Prince started to crumble again.

“Yes. Morpheus.” He held the Prince’s face in his hands, the gesture tender even as his eyes blazed. “I would do it again in an instant. How could I regret saving the best thing that’s ever happened to me? Hey, look at me, please?” Morpheus had tried to avert his gaze and pull away, but Hob wouldn’t let him. “Morpheus.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “None of this, is your fault. Not Burgess, not your father, and no, not me agreeing to be banished for rescuing you.” He paused and gathered his words. “I swore an oath, I promised to protect you, and I failed. No force in this realm or any other could have stopped me from getting you out of there.”  

More tears welled in the Prince’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “I do not want to remain here if you are not by my side,” he growled, watery and weak but insistent. “I will speak to my father, and he will rescind your banishment.” He spoke the words with such assurance that Hob was sure his banishment had been lifted in that very moment. 

“Oh Morpheus,” he gasped. “You incredible man.” He pulled Morpheus into a loving kiss, hot and wet with tears. Once again the impassioned declaration of his love sat heavy on his tongue, just barely restrained. Instead of speaking them, he wrote the words into Morpheus’ mouth once his tongue slipped past rosy lips. One day, he swore to himself as they continued to kiss and caress, One day I will tell him.

They found themselves occupied with each other for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, and so didn’t follow Lucienne’s advice of getting out until the following day. They took breakfast in the sitting room again, but once they were bathed and dressed, they took a stroll through the halls of the palace. Morpheus held tightly onto Hob’s arm, more than happy to play up his weakness and exhaustion if it meant being this close to him. 

Everyone they met smiled and expressed their gratitude that Morpheus had returned unharmed. But it was once they started to walk away that the rumors and gossip began to air: brief retellings of Hob’s heroism, some more accurate than others. Rumors that he had been banished, ‘why is he still here’ phrased in a dozen different ways. Rumors that Morpheus was abdicating the title of Crown Prince. Hushed whispers that Chronos had wanted to bargain with Burgess for Morpheus and strategic parts of Fawney Rigg.

Even quieter whispers that Hob and Morpheus were in love.

Those were the hardest not to react to. Hob could choose not to respond with words or expressions, but he couldn’t stop the flush that rose to his cheeks, and just barely restrained the urge to gaze adoringly at the Prince every time they heard said rumor. 

Morpheus didn’t fare much better at keeping his reaction contained: every time the whisper of love between them reached their ears, the Prince immediately became tongue tied, stumbling over his words in a way that was clumsy and adorable, but unusual for the normally articulate and eloquent Prince. Not to mention how he would repeatedly glance bashfully at Hob from under feathery lashes. 

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but a glimmer of light had taken hold in Hob’s breast, fuelled by the thought that maybe, just maybe, the Prince loved him in return. 

Life slowly returned to normal for the Prince and his guard, or at least adopted a thin veneer of normalcy. Morpheus attended council meetings every now and then, but most days he requested a summary from one of the advisors taking notes. Most times the Prince felt numb inside, hollowed out and filled back up with ice. However, the thought of sitting across the table from his father and discussing matters of state made him boil with rage. 

Meals were a thrice daily, almost impossible trial. Morpheus was expected to sit at the high table with his parents and whatever suitors or delegates from other realms were visiting. He could only muster the strength to go through the motions- carry on conversation even when his tongue turned to cotton, pick at his food even if he didn’t taste any of it, smile even if it didn’t reach his eyes.

Meanwhile, at the table closest to the dais, Hob was so frantic with anger and concern he could barely keep his food down. He hated seeing Morpheus drift through his days with flat, dull eyes, to continue on as if nothing had happened. He may have been breathing, his heart may have been beating, but the spark of life had left him, or was frozen deep in his core.

Hob wanted to stand atop the dinner table and bare his chest to show the fresh scar from Randall’s sword, physical proof he kept his oath to his Prince and his realm despite the threat of banishment. He wanted the King and Queen to rub the salve into Morpheus’ still healing wrists every morning and night, to confront the light but very present scarring that was a result of their inaction. To bend the knee and grovel and beg their son’s forgiveness. 

He wanted to wrap Morpheus in all the love and warmth he could provide, then furiously brandish his sword at the entire world and decimate anyone and anything that dared touch his Prince.   

At least the King and Queen had enough of a conscience to look deeply uneasy, every time they shared space with their son for more than a few moments. Hob glared at the King every time they crossed paths, and Chronos had at least enough shame to not meet his gaze. Nocturna seemed like she wanted to reach out, to offer what comfort she could, but hesitated every time.

Cowards, Hob thought venomously, Every one of them.

Hob had not slept in his own bed since their return; indeed he barely slept at all. Most nights he merely closed his eyes and rested, somewhere between dozing and sleep, ready to face whatever lurked in the dark that dared disturb Morpheus’ sleep.

Hob’s stitches were finally removed- Lyta had been stunned when she told him that while it would certainly pain him from time to time, he would likely regain full use of his arm and shoulder. Almost miraculous, she had said, for a wound like that. Hob’s first question was when he could start training again. Lyta frowned and pursed her lips, but told him he could start the following day if he took it easy. The eagerness on his face was reminiscent of when he had first become Morpheus’ guard, seemingly a lifetime ago- the Prince felt his core thaw just a little bit more.

Of course, Morpheus awoke the next day to find Hob once again practicing his forms with his fire poker sword, face set in a ragged, determined grin.

Winter settled in to stay over the next few weeks, thick drifts of snow blanketing the palace grounds. The paths through the gardens had been cleared, but all the plants were covered in sheets of white. Normally, Morpheus would have found it exceedingly beautiful; the sun reflecting off the snow, the crispness of the air. Now, it only reminded him of all he endured in that freezing cell.

Despite this, every other day or so, Hob would maneuver the Prince’s reluctant limbs into layers of wool and furs, thick socks and gloves, a cloak with a thick hood, and they would take a walk through the gardens. Hob let him take his arm, or would wrap his arm around the Prince’s waist if he needed extra support as they walked. And every time Morpheus was overcome by tremors and shivers that weren’t from the cold, Hob would press his lips to a pale temple and softly recite his oath in the Prince’s ear, along with reassurances that he was there, that he would keep him safe. 

Most days were too cold to go riding, but some days they went to see Jessamy and Gregory in the stables rather than walk the gardens. Hob had never known horses to be so expressive: on their first visit, both animals both expressed unbounded delight at seeing them, but then promptly turned a cold shoulder, leaving Hob and Morpheus to grovel and plead and bribe with pets and treats. 

That day was the first time something other than Hob had brought a smile to the Prince’s face. 

Another blizzard hit not even a week after that first snowfall. The snow came down in sheets, whipped about by biting gusts of wind. Even with the heat of the fire from the sitting room as well as the heavy drapes around his bed, there was a distinct chill in the Prince’s room. Shivering slightly, Hob got out of bed and padded to the sitting room. 

The fire was low, but still burning. Hob tied his hair back into a low tail as he knelt before the fireplace. He placed two new logs atop the charred remains of the old ones and gently blew on the base of the flames, coaxing them back to life.

It took the better part of an hour, but he got the fire roaring again, and the sitting room quickly warmed. Pleased with his work, Hob went back to the bedroom to get Morpheus- if he didn’t wake, Hob would gladly carry him to the settee. 

“Morpheus?” he whispered as he pulled back the drapes. 

The Prince was laying on his back, his right hand tucked under his pillow, the left draped over his stomach. Hob could see the outline of his casually splayed legs under the sheets. He smiled tenderly at the Prince’s peaceful slumber; it almost seemed a shame to wake him. 

Just as Hob was debating the best way to pick him up, the Prince’s brow furrowed, accompanied by a choked out whimper. Hob paused and waited. After a few moments, dark brows relaxed with a slightly heavier exhale. Hob relaxed as well and slowly peeled back the covers. “Morpheus?” 

Hob put a hand on his shoulder, and the next few seconds happened in a blur. Morpheus sat up in a rush of pale skin and wild black hair, a deadly glint of silver in his hand flashed toward Hob- holy shit where and when had he gotten a dagger- snarling as the dagger came down-

Hob shouted as he caught the Prince’s wrist in his hand, just inches away from creating an identical puncture in his unwounded shoulder. “Highness, it’s me!” The blue eyes that stared back were crazed and frantic and unseeing. The dagger shook in his grip as he continued to try forcing it into his perceived enemy. “Morpheus! Morpheus, it’s Hob!” 

Morpheus blinked. Some of the clarity returned to his eyes and Hob felt the pressure struggling towards him ease up just a tad. “Hob…?” he breathed, just barely awake and frightened to his bones. 

“Yes,” Hob replied as he gently pried the dagger out of the Prince’s hand. “It’s alright, it’s me. You’re safe.” All the tension flooded out of his muscles in a gasp of horror. 

“I…” he stared at his shaking hands in disbelief. “I almost stabbed you. I tried to kill you, oh gods-” 

“No no no!” Hob immediately dropped the dagger and firmly held the Prince’s hands in his. “You were clearly having a nightmare and I tried to wake you, you did nothing wrong, it’s okay.” 

Morpheus didn’t register Hob’s words and burst into anguished, panicked sobs. “Oh gods I’m so sorry, Hob-!” 

Hob quickly folded the distraught Prince in his arms and held him tight. Morpheus was nearly screaming into his shoulder, Hob could feel the tears soaking through the linen of his sleep shirt. He rocked them back and forth, trying to soothe the Prince, or at least reduce his screams. 

It took what seemed like an eternity for Morpheus’ cries to lower in volume and for his fingers to unclaw themselves from Hob’s back. Another eternity later, his cries were reduced to whimpers and he was slumped against Hob’s chest. Hob continued to rock them and whisper soothing nonsense until the whimpers faded into watery little hiccups. 

Biting his lip against the strain and pain in his body, Hob slowly shifted the Prince to gather him in his arms and carry him out to the sitting room. He gently placed the tangle of trembling limbs onto the furs and pillows he had laid out in front of the fireplace and with a murmured assurance he’d be back, snatched every blanket from both his and Morpheus’ beds. 

Hob laid down next to the Prince and covered their bodies with the pile of blankets before pulling the frightened, shivering creature that just barely resembled Morpheus into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his lank frame. Even through their nightclothes, he could feel the chill that clung to the underside of Morpheus’ skin and wouldn’t let go. 

Morpheus finally came back to himself just as the witching hour started to settle over the palace. Hob had only gotten up once in that time to add more wood to the fire, to keep the flames burning bright in what seemed to be a losing battle to keep the Prince warm. 

“...Hob?” 

Hob’s name spoken in that low, flat tone devoid of any life violently twisted at his heart. With the Prince’s head pillowed on his chest just above the aching organ, he hoped Morpheus couldn’t feel it. “I’m here, darling,” he choked back. “I’m here.” 

Bony fingers curled into the worn-soft fabric of Hob’s nightshirt. “I’m so sorry,” Morpheus whimpered, high and vulnerable and desperate. “I could have hurt you, or even killed you.” 

Hob gently shushed him and carded his fingers through silky, feather-soft hair. “You don’t need to be sorry, Highness.” He paused to gather his words, and the strength to make his tongue work. “It was an understandable reaction, considering what you’ve been through. I’m not hurt, and I’m not upset. It’s alright.” 

For a moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. When Morpheus spoke again, the words still sounded hollowed out like a long dead tree. “When they first ambushed us on the road, I tried to fight them off.” Hob didn’t say anything while Morhpeus went down the harrowing, brambled path of his memories. “I tried to fight them, as you taught me. I tried…” 

“I know you did, love.” Hob’s words flared with his conviction as the fire cracked and popped. He may not have been there, he may not know all the details, but he knew deep in his bones that Morpheus Aeterna was not one to give in without a fight. He knew.  

He took one of Morpheus’ hands in his and kissed the remaining scabs of chafed skin and light scarring from the manacles ever so delicately, as if afraid that touch alone could tear the skin open again. A shiver slid down the Prince’s spine at that tender touch. Hob searched his eyes for any sign that such affection was unwelcome- finding none, he repeated the gesture, letting his lips drag all the way around the circumference of the joint. 

“You’re safe, Highness.” Hob’s voice shook with the strength of his emotion. “You’re safe here, with me. I won’t let anything hurt you, and if you’re afraid you’ll hurt someone else, or yourself, I’ll be there to stop you.” 

Morpheus stilled, barely breathing. A stone statue would have had more give. Once again, Hob Gadling had proved himself a better than any other man who had wanted to take up this duty of care. Once again, Hob had shown without hesitation that his care extended all the way to Morpheus the man, not just the current Crown Prince. He shivered again, stronger than the first. 

Hob watched his eyes flutter shut, tentative at first, as if afraid of what awaited him behind his eyelids, but soon it was clear he wouldn’t be able to keep them open. As he drifted off, his cracked whisper settled into the void just beneath Hob’s breastbone: 

“Thank you, my love.”

The following morning dawned bright and clear. The sky was almost as blue as Morpheus’ eyes, the sun gleaming and reflecting off the mounds of freshly fallen snow. The fire was somehow still burning, even if it was closer to embers than actual flames, and sunlight beamed in through the windows, warming the nest of furs and blankets the two were still wrapped in.  

Hob groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, his every muscle sore and protesting spending the night on the floor. Every ache was worth it to see the serenity on Morpheus’ face, still pillowed on Hob’s chest: his skin had some color back in it, the muscles were no longer crunched with tension. Lips that were once again plump and pink were parted slightly, the soft breaths coming from behind them warm and steady. 

A tender heat so intense it made him shake settled between Hob’s breastbone and his spine before making a home just below his stomach and expanding. If he hadn’t been certain before, he sure was now: Hob was in love with Morpheus. Beyond his duty of care, beyond his obligations to the royal family and the realm. Beyond anything he had ever thought possible. 

A giddy little grin split his face open. Hob let his nose rest in the tufts of the Prince’s hair and took a deep breath, unable to smell any remnants of their ordeal. Just herbal soap, and Morpheus. “I love you,” he whispered into the strands- gentle, amorous, besotted. 

Despite his happiness, Hob’s muscles continued to ache, now starting to cramp. He winced; they should probably get up, or at least move to a softer surface, but once again Hob was loathe to wake his sleeping beauty, especially after what had happened in the night. Instead, he focused on his breathing, trying to find that almost-dozing place where he could just drift and not focus on his sore body. 

He had just found his way there when Morpheus stirred. Just the slightest twitch of muscles at first, then elegantly limp fingers curling into Hob’s nightshirt. The Prince let out the tiniest, whining groan, and oh if that didn’t make Hob’s morning erection perk up even more. Hob tried to shift his hips so he wasn’t grinding into Morpheus’ thigh without waking him, but eventually failed.

Morpheus started awake in bits and pieces. First the aching soreness behind his dry eyes from crying. Then the warmth surrounding him from the blankets and fire and sun. Then the shape and heat of Hob beneath and around him and… oh. 

He made a little sound in the back of his mouth when he realized just what was jabbing into his thigh, and his entire abdomen clenched. He froze, tensed, caught between cringing away and tentatively pressing forward for more.  

“Good morning,” Hob greeted, the words thick and scratchy with sleep. Morpheus hummed in response, shifting slightly. His thigh rubbed up into Hob’s crotch, and the esquire shivered as tiny lightning bolts of pleasure shot down his legs. He felt the Prince tense against him, and canted his hips back as far as they could as he brushed his lips over Morpheus’ sleep-sweaty forehead. “You’re safe, Highness,” he reminded him in a rasp. 

Morpheus relaxed ever so slightly and leaned into the kiss, forcing Hob’s lips to linger against his skin. He gathered the hazy, half asleep courage before it was fully lost to consciousness and tilted his head to meet Hob’s lips in a sweet kiss, no less so for the lingering scent of tears on his breath. 

Hob hummed into the Prince’s mouth and let him take the lead, slowly and carefully moving his lips as he was directed. He pulled Morpheus closer, calloused hands lightly catching the threads of the Prince’s shirt as he ran them up and down the expanse of his back. 

Morpheus pulled away to take a gasping breath and whispered, “Hob, I… I want…” Hob could tell how Morpheus had to force his lips to form the words ‘I want.’ 

“Anything,” he reassured the Prince as he brushed wild strands of hair away from shining blue eyes. “Anything at all, my Prince.” 

Tentative fingers shaking with the slightest tremor caressed the bristles of Hob’s beard, carefully pulling free the long strands of hair that had gotten caught and pulled from his braid. “I want…” He swallowed hard. “I want to make love to you, Hob Gadling. I- love you.” 

Hob stared dumbly at Morpheus for the several moments it took his mind to process the Prince’s words. “Love… me?” he repeated with giddy incredulity. Morpheus nodded, resolutely meeting Hob’s gaze as if he were staring down a dragon. 

Hob couldn’t help himself: he laughed. Joyous and pealing and stretching the corners of his mouth. Morpheus’ face fell just a hair; Hob noticed and immediately forced the Prince to meet his gaze. “I’m not laughing at you, darling,” he assured him through his chuckles. “I’m just… amazed, and surprised, and so incredibly happy, because…” He stared adoringly at his Prince, committing every detail of his face in that moment to memory. “Because I love you, Morpheus, my Prince. Have done, I think since the moment I met you that day in the woods.” 

Morpheus blinked, stunned into a stupor. He hadn’t quite thought of what he would do or say if Hob returned his feelings; he was so focused on getting the words out that the after didn’t occur to him. He gaped a bit then finally choked out, “You… do?” 

Hob laughed again; Morpheus was just so beautifully adorable on the rare occasion he couldn’t string two words together. “Yes darling, I do.” The giddy incredulity passed on to Morpheus, until a shadow fell over his face. Hob immediately took the Prince’s face in his hands and brought him back to the present. 

“Morpheus, love. Whatever is troubling you, let it go for now.” He pressed their foreheads together, the strength with which he held them there almost stinging. “Right now it’s just you and me in here. No duties, no realm to worry about. Just be here with me.” He lowered his voice to a delicate whisper. “Make love to me?”

Morpheus’ cheeks instantly flushed a glowing red; such tender words coming from Hob’s mouth shouldn’t have sounded so filthy, and yet… He attacked Hob’s lips with passioned desperation, kissing and biting and licking like he was afraid Hob would vanish if he stopped. Morpheus slowly positioned himself atop his guard, straddling his pelvis, hands braced on the floor to avoid putting pressure on his wounded shoulder. Hob groaned when he felt Morpheus’ erection starting to tent his undergarments and nightshirt. 

Morpheus shivered- it was nervousness, it was excitement, it was residual weakness. “It’s alright,” Hob rasped as his fingers gently bit into the Prince’s hips. “I’m alright, you won’t hurt me.” Morpheus nodded and bit his lip, eager and wanting, but still clearly nervous. 

It took some doing, but eventually Morpheus was able to help Hob wriggle and writhe out of his nightclothes, leaving him beautifully bare atop the blankets and furs. He once again straddled Hob’s hips, carefully supporting most of his weight on his knees as he drew his own nightshirt over his head.  

Hob couldn’t help noticing the Prince’s shiver. “You don’t have to undress if you’re cold or uncomfortable.” His words were thready, breathy and gentle. 

“I’m fine,” Morpheus immediately assured him. “I want to, like this.” Hob tentatively placed his hands on the Prince’s hips, carefully wrapping his fingers around the sharp protrusions of his hip bones. Morpheus was still too thin, the contours of his ribs and clavicles visible in bright highlight and deep shadow in the morning sun. 

Hob’s throat closed up with emotion as he reverently glided his hands up and down Morpheus’ sides, letting his fingers stumble over each bump of rib. Even like this, cold and vulnerable, Morpheus was beautiful. “My Prince, my Morpheus” he whispered as his good arm reached up to draw Morpheus into a kiss, “Make love to me.” 

Morpheus easily followed the direction of Hob’s touch and let him draw him into the kiss, languid and sticky-sweet in the sun’s warmth. Hob’s tongue lovingly traced the words of his oath into every corner of the Prince’s mouth. He pulled away just enough to worry that plush bottom lip between his teeth until it turned red, then dove back in to inscribe his love as deep as he could reach.

When his lungs cried for air, Hob kept the Prince close as he pulled in just enough breath to speak. “I swore my life and my body to you, my Prince. My Morpheus. They’re yours, to do as you will. As is my heart.” 

Morpheus gaped at the man lying open and pliant beneath him. Hearing Hob give voice to the sentiments Morpheus could feel deep in his chest somehow made them all the more real. Not to mention the heated, besotted way Hob had been staring at him for the past ten minutes, like Morpheus had hung the moon and stars and for some unknown reason, had decided to gift such beautiful creations to Hob. 

“Hob…” he breathed, tenderly brushing a few wisps of hair out of Hob’s face. He bit his lip against near desperate tears. “I… You know I cannot offer you the same. My life belongs to the realm-”

“I know,” Hob breathed back. “I know you have duties, and I will be beside you through all of it. All I ever wanted-” he swallowed hard, mustering up the strength to voice the desires he had kept close to his heart for the whole summer and longer. “All I ever wanted, was your heart.” 

Morpheus let out a choked noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You have it, Hob Gadling.” He leaned over and passionately kissed Hob into the floor, letting Hob’s hips fully take the weight of his own. They gasped into each other’s lips when their erections rubbed together through the Prince’s loose linen trousers.

“Morpheus,” Hob pleaded in a breathless gasp. “Gods I want you.” 

The Prince nodded, understanding what Hob was asking of him. He wriggled out of his trousers and tossed them aside. Now equally bare, he shivered slightly and curled in on himself, gooseflesh pebbling his limbs as he tried to make himself seem bigger and smaller at the same time. 

“Hey-” Hob gently coaxed as he sat up with a slight grimace. He drew Morpheus even further into his lap and tenderly held his face in his hands. “You’re safe, my love. You’re safe, and-” his eyes raked over the Prince’s bare form. “-gods you’re beautiful, and I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” 

Hob could see Morpheus process his words, see the wheels in his mind turning behind those icy eyes. The only warning he had was the slight twitch of his mouth into a devilish smirk before he was once again lying on the floor, Morpheus’ hands pinning his wrists next to his head as the Prince hovered over him. He wasn’t exerting a lot of force out of concern for Hob’s wound, just enough to set Hob’s blood on fire with the idea. 

A groan was punched out of Hob’s chest upon impact, and he swore he could feel the blood in his veins rushing south. Morpheus let his hands slide from Hob’s wrists to his chest, avoiding the fragile pink flesh of his scar. Thumbs dusted over dusky nipples, and it was Hob’s turn to shiver. Morpheus repeated the motion, and this time he caught the twitch of Hob’s prick in response. 

Morpheus continued to explore by touch, trying to pull Hob’s warmth into his body through his fingertips. He pressed into the muscles of golden flanks and watched with fascination as the flesh sprang back when he let up. He ran his fingers through the dark hair on his chest, and down the trail of hair to his groin, stopping just shy of where Hob wanted his hands. 

“Morpheus,” he breathed, “I’m more than happy with you taking the lead, but for the love of all the gods, touch me.” 

“Have I not been doing just that?” the Prince quipped back, the ghost of a smile briefly appearing on his face. “If you want something more, you will have to be specific.” His words were warm like caramel, breathy around a core of playful vulnerability. 

Hob chuckled and intertwined the fingers of one hand with his. “Touch me?” he asked softly, guiding the Prince’s hand to his prick. “Please?” 

Morpheus unlaced their fingers and ghosted his palm over the shaft. “How could I refuse such a request,” he rasped as his grip firmed and Hob bucked his hips. “Be still.” The coaxing order was breathless with desire. 

Hob forced himself to release the breath trapped in his lungs and relax the muscles coiled in eager anticipation. Morpheus gave him a pleased little smile and continued his exploration. His free hand caressed Hob’s side while the one wrapped around his prick began to move slowly, the whisper of skin on skin mingling with the low crackling of the embers in the hearth. 

Hob groaned as a thumb spread a bead of precome over the head of his prick then dug slightly under the ridge where tip met shaft. “Please,” he rasped, his hips writhing squirming towards and away from that delicious pressure. “My Prince-” Hob hissed and cried out when Morpheus let go of his cock.

When he was able to open his eyes again, Morpheus was sucking and licking around two of his fingers the way he would lick the glaze off a pastry, and Hob was unable to contain his groan of desperate want. Morpheus smirked around his fingers, thin strands of saliva starting to drip down them. 

He released them with a pop as his free hand blindly felt around for a pillow or two to place under Hob’s hips. “I do not want to hurt you,” the Prince choked as his wet fingers tentatively hovered above Hob’s entrance, close enough that Hob could feel the residual chill. “Tell me if it does not feel good.” If Hob didn’t know better, he’d say the Prince was pleading with him.

“Of course,” he reassured him with a gentle smile. Morpheus took a breath as he slowly twisted and worked two slender fingers past Hob’s rim. 

Hob hissed- his fingers were freezing against the heat of his insides, but he couldn’t deny it felt incredible. He swore low in his throat and Morpheus immediately stilled. “Don’t stop-!” Hob choked. “Gods love, don’t stop.” 

Morpheus smiled, a quick, fleeting thing of bashful delight. He continued to press his fingers deeper, watching Hob’s face as he twisted and spread and curled, observing what reactions each motion elicited with the meticulous curiosity of a scholar. It gave him a rush of power like nothing he had ever experienced in his role of Crown Prince, seeing a man as capable and dangerous as Hob Gadling falling apart at his touch, and he practically shook with it. 

He could feel the muscles of Hob’s inner walls loosening and contracting around his fingers as if trying to pull them deeper. Hob writhed and squirmed beneath him, holding on to the Prince’s bony shoulders for dear life as the pleasure continued to mount. 

Morpheus stared in wonder as Hob eventually started doing most of the work, thrusting his hips into the Prince’s hand with more and more force. Morpheus could almost swear he felt the bones of his fingers start to thaw from the heat that surrounded them. If only he could slide his whole being into that heat and drive away the chill that refused to leave. 

Morpheus removed his fingers when Hob started to whimper in desperation. He cried out at the loss, his muscles clenching around nothing, hips twitching as they chased the Prince’s hand, begging for more of that frozen heat. Morpheus took his cock in hand and gave it a few strokes, wincing slightly at the dry friction. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasped uncertainly. 

Hob jerked his head toward the washroom. “Get one of your bath oils. I’ll be here.” Morpheus nodded and scrambled to his feet. Hob’s eyes were reverently glued to the small mounds of the Prince’s ass as he strode briskly into the washroom. Hob panted for breath as he listened to the crackling of the fire and the clinking of glass jars as Morpheus rummaged through the cabinet. When he returned, a small flask of oil was clenched tightly in his fist. 

He uncorked it as he straddled Hob’s hips again, and the smell of sandalwood mingled with the scent of the fire. He poured a little into the palm of his hand and set the vial aside before slathering it over his cock. 

Morpheus braced himself above Hob’s body that was practically vibrating with eagerness and anticipation, taking a moment to appreciate the beautiful strength of the man beneath him. 

“Morpheus…” Hob invoked his Prince’s name in a breathless whisper, and Morpheus hummed when he felt the ghost of air kiss the tip of his nose. He took a deep breath, letting that warm feeling expand and settle in his chest, and gently pushed himself inside. Hob hissed when the head of Morpheus’ prick half forced itself past the rim of muscle, and Morpheus had a jolt of fear that he had hurt him, but then Hob let out a long, decadent moan that could only be described as obscene.

Morpheus beamed, pleased that he had brought Hob to such a state, as well as from the pleasure coursing through him at the feeling of Hob’s heat surrounding some of his most sensitive flesh. He could feel the blood in his cock being warmed, then trickles of that warmth tracing his veins and slowly continuing to thaw the rest of him. He gasped at the small but sudden waves of warmth spreading through his body, a high, short, breathless sound of surprise, but then sighed in absolute joy and relief. 

“Darling,” Hob half wheezed, “This feels incredible, but must I beg you, to make love to me like you said you wanted?” He couldn’t help a playful smirk, even as the rest of his face went slack from bliss. 

Morpheus smiled, warm and loving, and gently pressed his lips to Hob’s. Once he had thoroughly kissed him, the Prince murmured, “You will never need to beg for my love, my Hob.” The weight of his promise would have felt solemn in any other circumstance, but as the Prince began to pull his hips back and gently guide them forward again, all Hob could feel was the warmth of his love. “As Prince, and eventually as King, my love will always be freely given.” 

As if to seal his vow, Morpheus began to move with more speed and strength, driving into Hob as deeply as he could. They both knew that neither of them would last very long this morn, but that was alright, they had all the time in the world to savor each other. Hob could feel it in the air; they had fucked many times before, but this time they were making love, and that made the caramel-warm pleasure all the sweeter. 

“Gods I love you, Morpheus-” Hob’s words were so breathless as to almost be a wheeze; his Prince had stolen the very air from his lungs. 

“And I you,” the Prince gasped back, his normally deep and resonant voice high and watery with tears. “Hob, I’m so close-” 

Hob cried out as his fingers bit into the Prince’s hips, deep enough to leave crescent shaped imprints in the pale skin. The coil of heat deep in his core was twisting tighter and tighter, ready to spring apart at any moment. Morpheus furrowed his brow and bit his lip in concentration as he slowed down just enough to experiment with the angle of his thrusts. Hob knew exactly what he was trying to do, and he squeezed those bony hips even harder. 

When Morpheus found the spot he was looking for, Hob bucked his hips up and screamed as the bolt of hot pleasure slammed through him like lightning. He clenched hard around the Prince’s cock, and Morpheus almost came then and there. 

Any tenderness from before was put aside in favor of ruthlessly chasing that hot ecstasy. Breathy sighs became punched out grunts, loving caresses became hard grips and red scratches, and it was Morpheus who snapped first. Three frantic thrusts saw him buried as deep within Hob’s body as mortally possible, and he would have gone deeper if he could; he would have sank all the way beneath Hob’s skin if he were allowed. 

Morpheus kept jerking his hips into Hob even when it started to hurt, desperate to see him fall apart. Hob guided the Prince’s hand to his cock, straining and red and leaking. Morpheus quickly understood what Hob needed; he wrapped his fingers around the shaft and gave a slight squeeze before stroking firmly. Hob bucked his hips and clenched down even harder on Morpheus’ softening prick as he came, splattering the Prince’s chest in his spend. 

It took longer than either of them were willing to admit to regain their breath and feeling in their limbs. When they could finally move, Morpheus purred, “Let me take care of you.” He heaved himself to his feet and once again went into the washroom, returning a few moments later with a warm towel. He gently cleaned around Hob’s groin before wiping the spend from his own chest and throwing the towel aside. 

Long limbs folded in on themselves as the Prince laid down next to his still panting guard and curled up around him. After a few moments, he whispered in Hob’s ear as if sharing a secret, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Thoroughly ravished?” Hob teased back, “I thought we achieved that in the forest.” 

Morpheus gave him an affectionate shove. “No, you menace. I meant… thoroughly loved. And safe. That all of me, is loved and safe.” 

Hob felt tears burning at the backs of his eyes at the Prince’s confession, but these were tears of joy, and so he made no effort to hold them back. One of the Prince’s thumbs tenderly brushed over his cheekbones to divert their paths. “You will never need to ask,” Hob choked, “for my love will always be freely given. My love, my care, my devotion, every last bit of me is yours.” He pulled Morpheus close to his chest and placed a gentle kiss in his hair. 

Morpheus hummed with a soft smile. “As I am yours. My love, I feel… warm.” 

Chapter 12

It took until roughly midwinter, but both Hob and Morpheus recovered from their trials at the hands of Burgess. The body healed faster than the mind, but both were undoubtedly on the mend. As Lyta had predicted, Hob’s wound pained him from time to time, the muscles cramping and seizing if he moved a certain way. Thankfully, it had yet to cripple him at an inopportune moment, such as during official business, or in the bedroom. 

Morpheus returned to Fiddler’s Green once the snows began to melt, and this time Hob returned with him. He showed his esquire around his shire and immediately had Hob’s things moved into his rooms- they had no need to fear the kind of gossip that would circulate at court in Istoria. In fact, everyone seemed both happy and relieved the Prince had finally found a partner to share in the joys and hardships of life.

And so it came to pass that the realm of the Dreaming was thrown into a time of upheaval. 

It was tradition and practice in the Dreaming since the dawn of the realm for the heir to assume the throne once married, at which time the previous monarchs would abdicate and serve as advisors. After his ordeal, Morpheus decided that was a practice that needed to be done away with. 

He returned to Istoria with Hob and spent a full day locked in Chronos’ study with his mother and father. When they finally emerged in the late hours of the night, it was decided that Chronos and Nocturna would abdicate at the end of spring, and Morpheus would take the title of Dream King, despite not being married. No one knows exactly what the terms were, but Hob was convinced it was at least in part because Chronos had indeed intended to use Morpheus as a bargaining chip with Burgess. 

One of Morpheus’ first edicts as Dream King was to declare Hob a knight of the Dreaming. It was a short, understated ceremony, despite the King’s desire for a much more lavish affair and disdain for much of courtly tradition. After dinner that night, Morpheus thoroughly worshiped and revered his sworn Knight. 

Around the summer solstice, almost a year to the day the King and the Knight first met, whispers and murmurs began to trickle in to the Dreaming from Fawney Rigg and other surrounding realms. Rumors and rumblings that King Roderick was more desperate than ever to get his hands on the Dreaming’s crown- desperate enough to seek out dark sorcerers that most didn’t believe existed. 

These rumors made Morpheus deeply uneasy. He knew that his break with tradition would leave the realm fragile and shaken; so he very strongly and publicly decreed that any action taken against himself or the realm would be taken as a declaration of war, and responded to accordingly. In private, he worked with Hob, Cain, and Abel to fortify the Dreaming’s defenses and increase the number of scouting companies that traveled the realm keeping an eye out for incursions and reporting back to Istoria. 

Morpheus and Hob were married that autumn, in another private ceremony, this one at the lake where they first met, witnessed by Cain, Abel, Lucienne, and Matthew. They couldn’t have a honeymoon, not with war potentially brewing on the horizon, but they did take several days to set down and step away from their duties. 

A veneer of normalcy fell over the Dreaming in the following months, but everyone could feel deep in their bones and the roots of the land that a storm was brewing, a siege was coming. Tensions were mounting between friends and families as they waited for the storm to break and hell to descend. And sure enough, hell would descend on the Dream King and his sworn Knight, with the fate of the realm in the balance. 

This tale may be over, but the story never ends.

As you can probably tell by the ending, there is a sequel in the works! Not sure exactly when it will come, but I’ll be working on it along with my fic for the Dreamling History fest, Infinitas, and PDD

If this story inspires you to create something of your own, please share with me so I can keysmash and gush over what you make!

[relleytrots]

Room for the OC of your choice :3c

For background's sake, Penny's Sabbat pack are known (never to their faces) as the Slaughterhouse Three. Their haven's an abandoned abattoir, converted into a haunted house attraction, and abandoned again after three ghastly Cainites decided they wanted to squat there.

Penny's quarters are in and around the largest of the meat lockers. This is largely because of her field of study and feeding habits - your girl needs somewhere to hang her corpses for dissection, and if you've ever heard her talking to them, no you haven't. The lights still work, but little miss Oblivion likes to work in the dark. The result is a maze of hanging... things, that were once people, in various arrested states of decay.

Her actual rooms are on the other side of that little lot, and are quite nice. No mirrors, but a copper bathtub and a few rails of clothes - all vintage, and I'd love to tell you they're all thrifted, but I'd be lying. In one corner, a server rack and associated PC, which she built herself.

(I should add at this point that since the Player's Guide dropped, Penny has been on the alternate Bane for Lasombra, to keep up her cryptographer concept and make her online activities a little more believable. Callousness suits her so much more anyway.)

[maree-go-round]

Under the Heng Gate - Chapter 06

Chapter 6 : What kind of man is he, unable to utter a single gentle word?

As Qichi walked away, Luo Xiaoyi quickly turned and darted into the room. The warm air enveloped him in comfort, but he had no time to enjoy it. He hurried to the bed and whispered, "Third Brother, how can you be so generous? I've noticed that everything in this residence has changed. Sister-in-law's expenses are substantial. How are you going to manage this?"

Instead of answering, Fu Ting countered with a question, "Did you use military funds to give her gifts?"

Luo Xiaoyi defended himself, "What military funds? Those are your rightful taxes, which you’ve entirely allocated to military expenses. What's wrong with me setting aside some for your family?"

Fu Ting thought this was nonsense. Without military funds to fend off external enemies, they'd be dead. What family would there be to discuss? He sat silently for a while, then took out his personal seal from his robe and tossed it to Luo Xiaoyi.

Holding the seal, Luo Xiaoyi understood his brother's intent even before he spoke. His eyes widened like copper bells, "Third Brother, are you planning to use your military savings for Sister-in-law?"

Fu Ting said, "If not my money, whose money should she use?"

Luo Xiaoyi mulled it over. Knowing his third brother wasn't one to hoard money, this savings must have been for something important, so he hesitated to touch it. At that moment, Xinlu's voice came from outside, saying the charcoal brazier in his room was ready, inviting him to rest. Fu Ting said, "Get lost."

Clenching his teeth, Luo Xiaoyi thought, fine, since the money is already spent, he might as well sleep until the charcoal burns out to get the money’s worth! With that thought, he turned and left. Outside, Xinlu carefully closed the door.

Fu Ting dropped the long sword by his side to the floor, took off his military uniform and boots, and collapsed onto the bed. The bed had changed too; it was now padded with thick cashmere, soft beneath him. The pillow emitted a faint fragrance, and his fingers found a long, thin strand of hair. More signs of a woman’s presence.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　※

He slept straight through until nightfall. He awoke because the room had become too hot. Sitting up, he found himself covered in sweat.

He got out of bed and walked to the desk, where an exquisite tea set was placed. Lifting the lid of the kettle on the cold stove, he took a swig of cold water. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

Two maids entered with bowed heads, greeting him, "Grand Protector, you are awake. By the order of the head of the house, we have prepared a hot bath for you."

With that, Xinlu went to light the lamps, and Qiushuang set up the screen.

With a dozen lamps lit, the room was bright as day. Hot water was poured into the bathtub, and the two maids left.

Fu Ting noticed how they entered as soon as he moved, clearly having been waiting. He glanced at the Hu chair, where his wife had previously sat so properly. Perhaps all royal women were this impeccable.

Undressing, he entered the bath. Beside the tub was a golden tray filled with dozens of bath beans[1], pure white like snow and fragrant. This kind of luxury was favored by aristocrats in Chang'an and Luoyang, something a soldier like him never used. Each bean was priced like gold, something even the palace might rarely enjoy. Li Qichi, it seemed, was even more pampered than he thought.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　※

When Luo Xiaoyi returned, Fu Ting had finished his bath, and the servants had just cleaned the room.

"Third Brother, this kind of luxury is like a god's life. I don’t want to leave." Luo Xiaoyi, having slept and bathed, smelled heavily of the fragrant bath beans as he used a lot of bath beans, unlike Fu Ting..

Xinlu and Qiushuang entered, suppressing smiles at his remark. They were there to serve food, so they brought the dishes directly to the Grand Protector’s room.

The table was set. Fu Ting and Luo Xiaoyi each sat at a table. Fu Ting, in his outer robe, sat with his arm resting on his knee, exuding a relaxed demeanor no one dared to stare at.

As dishes were brought out, Luo Xiaoyi's eyes widened. The saying goes that food is valued for its quality and refinement, not quantity. These dishes were ones he had never tasted, even as a general. Seeing the servants waiting outside with more dishes, he realized what he had seen before was just a glimpse of the extravagance.

Unable to hold back, he leaned over and said, "Third Brother, why don’t I talk to Sister-in-law and ask her to be more frugal?"

"Cut the crap," Fu Ting said, picking up his chopsticks, indicating that Luo Xiaoyi should either eat or get lost.

Luo Xiaoyi touched his face, thinking his third brother was an iron-blooded man, but Princess of Qingliu was a delicate woman. If this goes on, how can they live?

After finally getting through dinner, Luo Xiaoyi, having had enough, prepared to leave. At the door, he forced a smile and joked, "Third Brother, you spent too much today. You should get it back from Sister-in-law. I won't interrupt your couple's time."

Fu Ting ignored him, his mind flashing to the image of her fair toes. Luo Xiaoyi saw his brother's dark eyes glinting like a wolf’s in the lamplight as he left with a sly grin.

As he turned around the corridor, he encountered Qiushuang, who told him that her master wanted to speak with him. Luo Xiaoyi turned this over in his mind, thinking: it must be about the expenses. Could it be that she was in a hurry to get the money?

Qichi was at Li Yan's residence. While Fu Ting and Luo Xiaoyi rested and ate, she practiced calligraphy with her nephew. Hearing that Luo Xiaoyi had arrived, she stopped. Li Yan neatly put away the calligraphy books, giving Luo Xiaoyi a glance and a slight sneer, then stood by his aunt's side.

Seeing the young lord he had offended, Luo Xiaoyi awkwardly smiled and saluted, "I wonder why Sister-in-law called me?"

Qichi, sitting in the shadows, raised her hand slightly, and Xinlu brought over a wooden box. Luo Xiaoyi, puzzled, opened it. Inside was a dagger, its sheath entirely made of gold, heavy in his hand.

He looked surprised, "What is this?"

Qichi said, "To thank you for your previous gifts."

Luo Xiaoyi's heart sank. According to his third brother, he had to cover these expenses. Why did he take his third brother's things? What a mess.

He was about to find an excuse to decline when Qichi said, "I called you here to tell you that the Grand Protector doesn't have to cover my expenses. We are husband and wife. If we were to bicker over money, it would be too petty."

Luo Xiaoyi was stunned, not expecting her to be so considerate and generous. She didn't ask for money, but rather gave it to him. He tentatively said, "This is not a small expense."

Qichi laughed, "Don't worry. I managed the household of the Prince of Guang Residence for many years. If I were extravagant and wasteful, there would be no me and the prince's son before you."

Luo Xiaoyi understood. She was saying she could afford it. Mother of God, what kind of wife did his third brother marry? Were all royal women so wealthy?

In the quiet of the night, Qichi couldn't linger with a male guest for too long, sparing him little room for idle thoughts. She straightforwardly revealed the purpose of summoning him: "I simply want to know, how has the prestigious Protectorate General to Pacify the North come to its current state?"

Spending money is a small matter; she needed clarity.

As far as she knew, the major frontier protectorates were not required to pay tribute to the court. The taxes collected could be used for military purposes. Without a valid reason, such a situation should not have arisen.

With a wooden box in one hand and Fu Ting's seal in the other, Luo Xiaoyi initially hesitated out of consideration for his dignity. But upon reflection, he realized that the truth would surface sooner or later. It was better to be forthright about it. He sighed and began, "Sister-in-law, you might not be aware. But it wasn’t always like this…”

The northern lands are vast, with many tribes. In the past, taxes were never a concern. Unfortunately, a plague had swept through in recent years, causing massive losses in livestock and crops. Without taxes coming in for several years and with incursions from the Turks in the north, the situation had worsened.

Warfare consumed funds rapidly, and after a few battles, the treasury was depleted. Driving out external enemies required continuous reinforcement of military strength, leading to financial deficits over time.

If a noble family were in charge of the Protectorate General to Pacify the North, perhaps they would have their family support, but Fu Ting had started from scratch. Who could assist him?

Li Yan listened in astonishment, unconsciously clutching his aunt's sleeve. Qichi held his hand in hers and asked, “Has there been no intervention from the court?”

Luo Xiaoyi laughed bitterly, "The court did intervene, but after some initial support, other protectorates also began to claim poverty. With the six major protectorates in the empire struggling, even the Emperor would shake his head. Not to mention that our Protectorate General to Pacify the North still has a strong military presence...”

Realizing he was speaking to a member of the royal family, he quickly stopped, scratching his philtrum.

Qichi understood that while the court had vigorously promoted individuals from humble backgrounds, their growing power had sparked suspicions. The Emperor wanted to use Fu Ting but also to guard against him. Otherwise, why would there be a marriage decree involving her and him?

"Thank you for explaining," she nodded slightly and asked Xinlu to see him out.

As Luo Xiaoyi stepped outside, he remembered the gold dagger and wanted to return it, but Xinlu refused to take it. She explained that anything given by their master was not to be taken back. The implication was that the money spent on his third brother would not be taken back either?

As he walked, he pondered over his earlier words, realizing he had tried to be as gentle as possible. He wondered how the delicate princess had felt upon hearing them. Would she despise his third brother and decide to return to Guang Prefecture?

“What do you think?”

Inside the room, the group was still stunned by the revelation, and Li Yan was the first to speak.

Qichi moved to sit where the light was brighter, showing little reaction on her face. "What else can I think? Since we're here, we can't just turn back," she replied calmly.

Li Yan said earnestly, "It's a helpless situation. If we leave now, it'll make us seem heartless and ungrateful."

Qichi teased him, "You're wise beyond your years."

Seeing it was late, Xinlu stepped forward to remind them it was time to rest. As she spoke, her expression was quite subtle. Qichi's eyelashes fluttered slightly, casting two shadows below. The implication was that the Grand Protector was still waiting.

She gently stroked her chin, recalling the cold touch of his sword. This man, apart from recognizing her, didn’t seem to hold her in his heart at all. She raised her head, saying, "Go tell the Grand Protector."

Xinlu leaned in to listen, furrowing her brows and looking at her in hesitation, but ultimately complied.

Fu Ting stood by the window.

Finding the room too warm, he thought it was too troublesome to extinguish the charcoal brazier and start a new one later, so he simply opened the window to let in the cold air. He held the remaining half pouch of fiery liquor from his military uniform..

He took two swigs, feeling chilled outside but burning like fire inside his stomach. As he lifted the bottle for the third swig, he reconsidered. The strong smell of alcohol might be unpleasant to her. He wiped his mouth and corked the bottle.

In fact, he had no idea what such a delicate woman might like. If she enjoyed this lavish lifestyle, he couldn't provide it for her now.

There were footsteps coming in.

He turned his head and only saw a maid. Xinlu bowed, “My master ordered me to come to apologize to you. She was still shocked from the disturbance at the guesthouse before and is not feeling well. She has been accommodated elsewhere. Please make your own arrangements.”

Fu Ting played with the liquor pouch in his hand, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. She had shown no signs of discomfort before, even when he held her in his arms. Yet now, she brought up the old matter again. Was she deliberately retaliating now?

“Where is she?”

Xinlu was already a little trembling in front of him, and she was stunned when she heard the question.

Fu Ting said without waiting for her answer: "Please ask her to come over."

Xinlu left in a hurry.

Qichi had anticipated his reaction but hadn't expected him to ask her to come over. Did he intend to confront her directly? Calming her worried nephew, she rose and went over.

As she approached the door, she heard faint noises from within. Lifting her hem, she stepped inside to see the man dressed in his military attire with boots on, sword in hand, striding toward her. When he reached her, he halted and looked at her.

Qichi had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His jawline was sharp like a carved blade.

“You sleep here,” he said abruptly, his eyes lingering on her before he turned and left.

Qichi watched him leave, and Xinlu followed. Soon after, Xinlu returned and whispered that the Grand Protector had gone to the study hall to sleep.

"He's as taciturn as ever..." Qichi muttered softly. Xinlu and Qiushuang whispered to each other. The Grand Protector seemed taciturn; he had barely spoken earlier. He even called General Luo to pass the message before, like a mute, indeed.

Qichi pinched her fingers lightly, casting a glance in the direction he had left. What kind of man is he, unable to utter a single gentle word?

Notes: [1] 澡豆 Bath bean: A delicate type of soap that came from ground beans or peas mixed with spices, such as cloves, eaglewood, various flowers, and even powdered jade. It is often used by aristocrats. For commoners, the bath bean is usually only made from ground peas without spices added.

[rusticahouse]

Drop-In Copper Tub

When renovating a bathroom, the choice of a bathtub can significantly influence the overall ambiance and aesthetic appeal of the space. For those seeking a touch of rustic elegance and a nod to traditional craftsmanship, a drop-in copper tub is an excellent alternative to the conventional options. Let’s delve into the craftsmanship behind these custom-made, handmade treasures that can transform…

[holly-fixation]

Sprouting

Summary: It started when he was young, soon after Professor Gast left. Sephiroth tried desperately to hide it. But it hurt, and like everything in the lab, nothing hid from Hojo’s gaze.

Please enjoy.

…

Sephiroth had not left his room. He was three minutes late, three minutes Hojo would rectify through more rigorous training. This was completely unnecessary and disrespectful. 

That boy would learn obedience no matter the circumstances. He had two minutes before the scientist broke the door down. 

“Sephiroth,” Hojo spat with two bangs on the metal door, “get out here.”

“I can't!” The boy's response came much faster than it should have if the boy was telling the truth. 

“Sephiroth.”

“I can't! I really can't!”

“Then unlock the door so we can treat this ailment properly.”

“No!” The child rapidly denied. “No no no- I'll be okay! I just need to stay here until I'm okay! I'll work twice as hard tomorrow! Promise!”

“'I promise', you insufferable child,” The scientist corrected. “And my answer is still no. Stop being so annoying.” Then Hojo heard sobbing. Low, attempted, quiet sobbing, but sobbing nonetheless. 

“I don't wanna be bad… I don’t- I really don’t… Just let me be bad today and I'll be really really really good tomorrow…”

“You will be perfect even if I need to rip out all your worthless imperfections myself, boy!” This bang stung his hand, but he felt no pain. “Open. This. Door. Now!” 

“NO!”

These fruitless minutes already irritated the scientist, but this childish temper tantrum filled him with rage. He slipped his key into the lock and opened the door himself.

Every object was thrown or shoved to every section of the room. Books from the fallen shelf were ripped and open faced on the floor. The mattress rested against the far wall, the bed frame dented and splintering. All loose folders and papers littered the ground, but some were stained with drops of blood. Claw marks marred every wall and surface, some even stained red with bleeding fingertips. But the deepest crimson led to the bathroom.

Still no sign of the boy. 

Hojo grabbed the inner door and tried to jerk it open. A metallic clatter responded from the lock. He didn't warn or ask, inserting a separate key. 

The smell of copper hit him like a wall. 

A ruby explosion soiled every surface, heavy drops running down the mirror as rain does a window. Flecks of beige and white freckled every inch, some even dyed pink with time. The toilet, the sink, the mirror, all were subjected to the same fate. Except for the shower. 

The curtain rod fractured in two, its steel speared points without any red. In the resulting bathtub laid the cardinal sullied curtain that trembled over the boy, blocking and protecting him from sight. However, nothing could muffle his petering sobs.

Only one theory ran through Hojo's mind: did this boy harm himself? Did he try to kill himself? This psychotic break could shut down the program completely, and the boy's life would be terminated to confirm no possibility of continuation outside of Shinra's sight. No. Word could not spread, no matter what. This was unacceptable. 

The scientist clutched the tip of the white plastic curtain, but the boy yelped sharply in pain and jerked him off, twisting and writhing and clenching away but not touching the wall.

“Hojo, please! I-I can stop this! I-I just need time!”

“Let me see it.” He would assess the boy's injuries himself.

The boy shook his head vigorously, and only then did Hojo realize something else was wrong. 

The curtain moved from the bottom of the tub near the drain. Two lumps pinning the curtain remained by his head, obviously his hands, and two others remained at the end of the tub, his bare feet. The single position that could justify the boy's orientation was simply laying down, so what was this large mass sticking above the walls of the tub, tenting the curtain to its limits?

“Let me see it so we can get you the care you clearly need. This isn't up for debate, Sephiroth.”

“It still hurts too much! Please!”

Hojo reached for it again, this time with a bit more caution.

The boy screamed, “WAIT!” 

The voracity in the child's voice made the scientist delay for a moment but only with a very good reason. 

“H-here…” Sephiroth hesitantly released his death grip on the fabric and handed a single corner to his caretaker. “Please… please be careful…”

Hojo took the offering and yanked the fabric up, allowing the boy to suffer the least from its removal as Hojo came face to face with a massive gray wing. 

The wing was proportional to Sephiroth's entire body, at least the span that he was tall. Each feather was perfect down, soft and fuzzy and useless for flight even if the boy had two wings. No, he only had one rooted in his right shoulder blade, somehow connected with a ball in socket joint just as a shoulder itself. It was folded but upward, not touching any obstacles or objects in the room. Sephiroth, however, was face down, trembling, as he carved more scratches in the porcelain like a kneading cat, reaching futility for any kind of relief. Both the wing and the boy were covered in blood and bone debris, but the elbow of the wing also held torn skin.

Hojo scanned and scanned, conflicted deep in his chest. On one hand, this was an incredible discovery, Jenova's cells mimicking even creatures he had not seen out of books. On the other, the child before him was deathly pale, the lost blood and unhealed damage actually threatening the boy’s life. The project itself was threatened.

“Get up,” Hojo grabbed the boy's hand and pulled him to his feet, genuinely avoiding any contact with the newborn wing. He grabbed the child by the waist and hoisted the boy over the tub. 

“I can't train today…” The boy begged as he was pulled out of his cell.

“We're going to the exam room.”

“No- wait- Hojo, please don't touch it-”

“I’ll take X-rays first and determine where to go from there. If it’s still uselessly sensitive, an orderly will bring you pain medication.”

“Th-There’s medicine for pain?”

“Only for absolute emergencies, so don’t ask for any.” They entered the room, and Sephiroth climbed up and laid face down on the cot. Hojo’s black eyes analyzed the growth. “A surgical procedure is necessary.”

“What will a procedure do?”

“We'll find connections between the wing and your body. Muscles, tendons, veins, arteries. Possibly gain some answers as to how it appeared. Now stop asking questions and stay perfectly still.”

Sephiroth nodded, looking down. “Yes, sir…”

.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!

[made-to-order]

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[profile-234]

The Best Tools for DIY Leak Repairs

Leaks can be a homeowner’s worst nightmare. A small drip can quickly turn into a major headache if left unattended. While some leaks require professional help, many minor ones can be tackled with the right tools and a bit of know-how. If you're a DIY enthusiast looking to fix a leak, having the right equipment is essential. In this guide, we’ll go over the best tools for DIY leak repairs and when it’s time to call in the experts—like Silva Plumbing and Heating in Bayonne, NJ, who offer top-notch leak repair services.

1. Pipe Wrench

A sturdy pipe wrench is a must-have for any plumbing task. It provides a strong grip, making it easier to tighten or loosen pipe fittings. If you're working with metal pipes, having two pipe wrenches—one to hold the pipe steady and the other to twist—can be incredibly helpful.

2. Adjustable Wrench

Unlike a pipe wrench, which is designed for rounded pipes, an adjustable wrench works best for nuts and bolts. This tool comes in handy when dealing with plumbing connections under sinks or behind appliances.

3. Plumber’s Tape (Teflon Tape)

This inexpensive yet effective tape is essential for sealing threaded pipe joints. Wrapping plumber’s tape around the threads of a pipe before connecting it can help prevent leaks and improve the seal.

4. Pipe Cutter

A pipe cutter allows you to make clean, precise cuts when replacing damaged sections of pipe. Whether you’re working with copper, PVC, or PEX pipes, having the right pipe cutter makes the job much easier.

5. Plumber’s Putty

Plumber’s putty is a soft, moldable material used to seal small leaks around drains, faucets, and sink connections. While it’s not a permanent solution, it’s great for quick fixes.

6. Epoxy Putty

If you’re dealing with a small leak in a pipe and need a temporary fix, epoxy putty is a lifesaver. Simply knead it together, apply it over the leak, and let it harden. It’s not a permanent fix, but it can hold things together until a professional repair is done.

7. Silicone Sealant

For leaks around bathtubs, sinks, and windows, silicone sealant is an excellent waterproofing solution. It helps prevent water from seeping into cracks and causing damage.

8. Plumbing Snake (Drain Auger)

Sometimes, a leak may be due to a clogged drain putting pressure on the pipes. A plumbing snake can clear out blockages and restore proper water flow.

9. Compression Couplings

These fittings are great for quick pipe repairs. If you discover a leaky section of pipe, a compression coupling allows you to cut out the damaged area and replace it without the need for soldering.

10. Leak Detection Dye Tablets

If you suspect a hidden leak in your toilet or plumbing system, dye tablets can help. Drop one into the tank, and if you see color seeping into the bowl without flushing, you’ve got a leak that needs fixing.

When to Call the Experts

While these tools can help you tackle minor leaks, some plumbing issues require professional expertise. If you have a major pipe burst, water damage, or recurring leaks that DIY methods aren’t fixing, it’s time to call Silva Plumbing and Heating in Bayonne, NJ. Their skilled team provides reliable leak repair services, ensuring your home stays dry and damage-free.

Don’t let a small leak turn into a big problem—contact Silva Plumbing and Heating today for expert leak repair!

[pimlicobathrooms]

How to choose the right bathtub

Bathroom refurb on the cards? Avoid some common mistakes!

A bath can make or break your bathroom and change your daily relaxation on several levels. With a vast number of materials, shapes and sizes available, finding the right one requires careful consideration. Here’s a guide to help you choose the right one for you.

1. Assess your space and layout

Start by measuring your bathroom and evaluating the layout to determine the most suitable bathtub size and style. For smaller spaces, a compact alcove or corner tub can save room while still offering a comfortable soak. In more spacious bathrooms, consider a freestanding or drop-in tub to create a striking focal point. Always ensure there’s enough space around the tub for access and cleaning.

2. Choose the right material

The material of your bathtub affects durability, comfort, and maintenance. Acrylic and fiberglass tubs are lightweight, affordable, and easy to install, making them ideal for many households. Cast iron tubs, though heavier, are incredibly durable and retain heat longer, perfect for those who love long baths. For a luxurious look, consider a stone or copper tub, both of which offer durability and elegance but may require additional support due to their weight.

3. Consider your comfort and bathing preferences

Think about how you’ll use the tub. If relaxation is your priority, consider a deep-soaking tub, which is designed for full immersion. Jetted tubs provide a spa-like experience with massaging jets and bubbles, ideal for easing sore muscles. For those who prioritise functionality, a standard bathtub with a showerhead offers versatility and is practical for families.

4. Evaluate installation options

Bathtubs come in various installation styles, each with unique benefits. An alcove tub fits between three walls and is a practical choice for smaller spaces. A freestanding tub can be positioned anywhere in the room, making it a statement piece, while drop-in tubs are built into a frame, allowing for additional ledge space for toiletries. Choose an installation type that best suits your bathroom’s layout and design vision.

5. Factor in budget and maintenance

The cost and maintenance requirements of a tub vary by material and style. Acrylic and fiberglass are generally affordable and easy to maintain, while high-end materials like stone and copper are more expensive but durable and long-lasting. Keep in mind that tubs with jets or advanced features may require additional upkeep, so choose one that fits your budget and maintenance preferences.

Are you considering a refurb? Chat to Pimlico Bathrooms, the leader in luxury bathroom design and installation situated in the heart of London. We specialise in creating new or refurbishing bespoke, high-end bathroom spaces that combine elegance, innovation, and functionality.

Our comprehensive services include bathroom design, supply, and installation, ensuring a seamless experience from concept to completion.

Use our wide experience and insight into the latest bathroom trends, materials and accessories to make your vision a reality while ensuring every detail reflects your unique style and exceeds your expectations. 

For a free quote, or to discuss your ideas, please contact us — we’d love to help make your dream bathroom a reality. info@pimlicobathrooms.co.uk  www.pimlicobathrooms.com

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kate smiled at jorah as he stood up to prepare the bath for them. she noticed him putting a few drops of essential oil, biting her lip as she just relaxed on the bed. she had to fight not to fall asleep. she wanted to enter this bed all clean, without the sweat or sore muscles that the journey caused. "it smells divine..." she whispered as she saw him now inviting her to join.

slowly standing up, kate felt her whole body ache. the exhaustion won her as she walked slowly to the bathtub. she was thankful that her husband helped her get into the hot water, otherwise, she would've probably fallen. "thank you.."

slowly lying into the water, kate rested her back on jorah's chest and hummed of pleasure. it was warm, her whole body now sinking into steamy water. she had never felt that feeling in her whole life. the bath she had at the inn on the previous night was decent, warm. but this luxury? this copper bath tub with steamy water? this was heaven to her. she smiled as she closed her eyes and rested in jorah's arms.

"better..." kate whispered as she just caressed his arms and opened her eyes again to look at him sweetly. "i never thought that this could be heaven. the bed seemed also very comfortable. have you seen how thick the blankets are? i have never seen this before. it looks so comfortable and warm..." she mused, looking at the whole room and discovering a world of luxury. "i never knew rooms like this existed before."

her green hues watched the fireplace. it was the biggest she had ever seen in her life. the four thick logs set into it, burning slowly, would insure at least a nice fire until the middle of the night. when both would be asleep under those thick and comfortable blankets.

"this journey has worn me out." kate muttered, her eyes slowly shutting as the lavender oils started relaxing her completely. her nipples were pointing out of the water as she just hummed. her whole muscles were sore but still relaxing in her husband's arms. "i can't wait to move to our bed."

Jorah gazed into her eyes, finding himself lost in their depths. How had he been so fortunate? Just days ago, he had been a solitary man, hardened by duty and the burden of command. Now, this beautiful woman lay before him, calling him husband, looking at him as though he were something precious.

"My desires?" he whispered, his voice husky. His hand trembled slightly as he traced the delicate curve of her jawline. "My desires are simple now, Kate. To make you happy. To cherish every moment with you but if you ask for my other desires - well, there’s no reason we can’t do both at the same time” he suggested, a knowing smile and look at his wife that he suggested they enjoy themselves in the bath together.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips gently against her forehead. The scent of her—wildflowers and something uniquely her—filled his senses. Even with the dust of travel clinging to her skin, she was intoxicating.

"Let me care for you," he murmured against her skin. "You've had a long journey. And, I suspect that you're not used to long rides like these. The water temperature should help those sore muscles you have”

Before she could protest, Jorah rose from the bed, his movements reluctant as he pulled away from her warmth as he stripped the rest of his clothing away. She had seen all of him already and didn’t mind her eyes wandering to him. In fact, he encouraged it.. He moved to the large copper tub in the corner of their chamber, pouring in water from the pitchers that had been left warming by the fire. Steam rose in delicate wisps as he added a few drops of lavender oil—a small luxury he had purchased in anticipation of their arrival.

As he worked, he stole glances at Kate, his wife, still finding it difficult to believe she was truly his. "Come," he said, extending his hand to her. With gentle hands, he helped her toward the steaming bath.  Jorah stepped in first, lowering himself inside the bath as he gave her a hand to step in to join him and guided her to lean against his chest. “Better?” He asked simply, lowering his head to kiss her shoulder and neck.