#Ephemeral Iridescence

[shibaraki]

TO BUILD A HOME ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

synopsis: todoroki shouto is the ideal roommate. he is tidy, quiet, considerate, and one of your dearest friends. you almost wished he were a tactless slob. it would certainly make navigating your feelings for him easier.

tags: GN reader, friends to lovers, pro hero shouto, quirk support engineer reader, living together (and they were roommates!), mutual pining, fluff, alcohol, other character interactions, domesticity, jealous shouto, a little angst, minor oc, love confessions, making out + frottage

wc: 14K+

a/n: I wrote a little bonus sequel for this au about their first date which you can read here !! [+4K]

Shouto’s home strikes a dissonant note with you.

You’re a statuesque centrepiece in his living room, staring out his tall standing windows, paneled wall to wall and making for a beautiful view of the city. There’s a soft shine to it, iridescent from corner to corner. A privacy film to block any view into the apartment from the outside, you’re guessing.

Despite your closeness you’ve never had reason to visit until now. There’s far too much space for one man, you think. Jarringly, it’s as if you’ve stepped into a studio display. A picture perfect bachelor pad— but really, what bachelor pad needed three family sized bedrooms?

It feels awfully lonely.

Shouto heaves the last of your boxes onto the kitchen island with ease. The muscles in his arms flex under his loose shirt, fabric briefly tightening. Unfair, you think. He hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Back straightening, you watch Shouto roll back his shoulder and rub at the joint. The movement causes the hem to lift and flash a pale swath of skin, his shorts hung low on his hips. The weight in your arms is somehow heavier with his eyes turned onto you.

“You can set it down,” he says, his tone full of warm mirth. The disbelief must be written plain on your face. Your fingers tighten on the corners as he walks over. Tilting his head, the red strands that have been haphazardly pushed back into white slip over his forehead. You watch his gaze dart over the label scribbled onto the card that reads ‘toiletries’.

“I know. I’m just…” your jaw shifts and you swallow, a frown etched into your brow. “I don’t know. Got a little lost in my thoughts”.

“Feel free to change whatever you like,” his mouth curls into a small smile, scar wrinkling by his eye. You are taken by just how happy he looks to have you here. Shouto seemed the type to appreciate his own space. “I want you to be comfortable”.

“Whatever I like?” you echo teasingly, shucking the box up in your embrace and bumping his shoulder. “Famous last words. Maybe I’ll decide to renovate your other guest room into a mini workshop”.

Shouto exhales a quiet laugh. The air around him is displaced by an ephemeral wave of heat that seeps through your sweater; it cools back to room temperature as quick as it came.

“I wouldn’t oppose it,” he says, and your breath catches. Reaching to poke at the box, he adds, “Do you want me to help you unpack?”

You begin to shake your head. “No, no. I can do all that, don’t worry,” you demurred nervously.

“It wouldn’t be a problem”.

Memories of all the things you managed to salvage in the wreck flicker across your mind's eye. Mugs and plates, a few clothes, oil stained tools and various other inappropriate things you’d rather die than have him accidentally discover.

But he’s staring at you like a restless puppy. You relent, “Maybe you can put away the kitchen stuff then”.

After Shouto retreats you are left adrift to navigate the narrow corridors. The room he directs you to has the biggest guest bed and it shares a wall with his own room. You shuffle in, processing your surroundings. Your linens are freshly washed, tucked in tight at the corners, and they smell like him.

You lower another box on top of the bed and sit by the headboard. The mattress yields. Admittedly it is much more comfortable than your old bed used to be. Soft, you sink into a foamy embrace, smoothing a hand over the matching pillowcases, then reaching up to the shared accent wall.

Reality has hardly set in for you yet. It’s been four days since you lost your home, most of your earthly possessions along with it, and the life you had spent years building. The villain that managed to frisbee a car through your living room had been apprehended but not before destroying half the city block.

Shouto immediately volunteered his own place. You have been close friends for years now, having met during your second year at UA as a support course student. You’d worked with Yaomomo on redesigning her costume for your portfolio and managed to worm your way into their quaint friend group.

Your initial crush on him all that time ago burgeoned into something you’re too anxious to put a name to. When he first suggested you live with him while the city fixed everything you’d wanted to refuse. So far lack of proximity has been your only saving grace.

But you really had nowhere else suitable to stay. A hotel would be too costly in the long run. Your other friends are scattered across different prefectures and those who are in the city are too far from work.

Shouto practically sparkled when you agreed, plucked right out of a shoujo manga.

You remember this as your fingers curled into a loose fist and gave the wall a quiet knock. All the tension accumulated in your shoulders relaxes at the dull sound. “Atleast it isn’t thin,” you mused.

There’s a large closet adjacent to the bed, deep enough that you could crawl inside comfortably. Windows that stretch above your head and overlook the busy streets. You notice that same iridescent sheen, alongside a large blind connected to the control pad fixed by your doorway. They roll down as you fiddle and remind you of those old school projectors from the pre quirk era.

The walls are almost entirely bare. Your imagination drifts to the countless books and photo albums you managed to bring, envisioning them taking up the empty space. It makes you wonder what Shouto’s room looks like. You squash that thought.

When you rejoin him he stands with his back to you, blades shifting under the material as he plays with a small round object held between his fingers. Closing the distance you realise it is one of your stress balls.

His expression is entirely relaxed, bright with a little child-like satisfaction. He pulls at the flexible rubber, rolling it under his thumbs, flattening in between his palms. Your novelty mugs are lined up in the open cupboard right beside his own, entirely forgotten.

As not to startle him you call out gently, “Hey”.

Your voice stalls his movement. Shouto pivots and meets your eyes; they widen as you laugh, amused by his forced nonchalance. He clears his throat, “Hi. Are you happy with the room?”

Humming an affirmative, you sidle up next to him and poke at the ball. “It’s fine, thank you. Nicer than my old place”.

Redirecting his attention to the ball, he squeezes it so hard the foamy rubber protrudes through the gaps in his fingers and lets go, smiling as it retains its original shape. “I liked your old apartment,” he murmurs. “It suited you”.

“Because I’m a mess, you mean?” drawn back into Shouto’s orbit, you lean against his left side. He mirrors your weight until you are like two pillars braced against one another, standing uselessly in the middle of his obviously unused kitchen. Your heart aches recalling all those nights he spent at the agency doing unnecessary overtime. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to come back here.

“No,” Shouto huffs lightly, passing the ball hand to hand. He doesn’t elaborate. Instead he bumps you with his hip, “Come with me. I’ll give you a tour so you know where everything is”.

You are guided back to the genkan; it’s gorgeous, modernised with a calligraphy feature wall that breaks up the light colours. There is a narrow door leading to a coat room and two white cabinets under a granite countertop housing a small decorative bowl painted in Deku’s colours. Inside are your keys and his, the chains entangled.

Very quickly you realise Shouto doesn’t even know where ‘everything’ is. He opens the cupboard doors hesitantly, in a way that suggests he had no idea what is in them. One filled by his shoes and slippers, the other left empty.

The coat closet holds a few jackets you only ever see him wear in winter. He pinches the waterproof puffy sleeve between finger and thumb with a curious sound. Quietly, “I forgot that I had this”.

“You wore it once and Bakugo said you looked like an ugly toasted marshmallow”.

“That’s right,” a smirk pulls at his lips, mouth thin to restrain his laughter. You dip your chin to hide how infectious it is. “He hated it. Maybe I should take it with me tomorrow and wear it around the agency”.

“Please don’t. He’s coming to see me later in the day and I need him in a good mood”.

Shouto glances at you from the corner of his eye, sunlight reflecting through the blue iris. You would recognise that air of mischief anywhere. “I mean it, Shouto!”

“The day after, then”.

“As long as I’m not in the line of fire,” you snort, itching absentmindedly at your forearm where the skin feels tender. Probably bruising after carrying everything up. “Antagonising Pro Heroes should be listed as a hobby on your wiki page”.

You fall in line with his footsteps once more and keep pace until he stops by another door. There’s a laundry room and a separate toilet by the genkan, first door to the right. Upon opening the door the white toilet lid lifts.

You gasp and clutch his bicep, far too excitable to register how firm it is. “You never told me you have a happy toilet. What the hell, Shouto?”

Still nestled in his palm, you notice Shouto squeezes the stress ball until the foam is straining under the stretchy skin but you say nothing of it. He swallows and echoes your words, “A happy toilet?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it's happy to see you! Isn’t it cute?”

He turns with his cheek between his teeth, exhaling a warm puff of air through his nose. “Yeah,” Shouto rasps. “It’s cute”.

The entrance leads to a hallway, opening at the end to an open plan living area and kitchen. A black and white palette, dark stained wood flooring from room to room. You stand by and watch fondly as he opens every half empty drawer. The sectional couch is a welcome splash of colour— deep royal blue, huge, L shaped and plush, facing a 60 inch TV held up by a cabinet with a few books and photographs inside.

You toe at the fluffy grey rug laid out under the coffee table. His place is spectacular, sure, but it isn’t Shouto. While left unspoken it seemed you both knew that. There’s an abashed pinch to his expression that’s endearing, yet sad; you thought he might be embarrassed by how threadbare his home life appeared to be.

“You ever use that thing?” you ask, pointing to the TV. Predictably, Shouto shakes his head.

“Not very much. These days it feels like I only come here to sleep,” he leans over to pick up the remote from between the cushions and balances it on the arm of the couch. “Every few months Uraraka and Midoriya will visit to order food and watch movies with me. You can use it whenever you want”.

The bathroom is opposite your bedroom doors. He taps his own in passing but does not open it. You step into a bright, white tiled room with a double vanity sink and murmur in awe. Above are ceiling lights that give a soft glow, giving it a warm toned hue. Behind a glass door is a bowl shaped bathtub, big enough to fit two.

“Damn…” you whisper, running your fingers over the control pad connected to the tub. There’s a big bath cover propped by the wall. “A sauna button, too?”

“Not that I need it,” he muses, standing by the doorway, hands loosely interlocked as he observes you navigating his space. Intuitively, you get the sense that this is the beginning of a true paradigm shift. His offer had been the fork in the road and your agreement took you down a path soon to be irreversible.

You could survive seeing him at work or out with the mutual friends you shared. You’re not sure how you’ll weather the domesticity that comes with living together.

The reflection in the mirror shifts awkwardly and you grimace at how hard you’re trying to act like a normal human being. This is just Shouto: your good friend and longtime supporter. Just the man you might possibly be in love with.

“We should probably talk about ground rules and stuff,” you begin, hoping it’ll wipe that gentle look off his face before you say something stupid.

“Ground rules?” Shouto pushes off from the door frame with his back straight. He tilts his head, sight following you closely as you scoot past him back into the hallway.

“Like a chore rota and stuff. Rules so we can live in harmony or something. And you still need to let me know how much I’m paying you”.

“But I don’t want you to”.

You pause mid step and turn to stare at him in soft incredulity. “Why not? It’s only right I contribute”.

Steadfast, he holds your gaze and bluntly says, “I have a higher income than you. There’s no need for you to pay me rent”.

“Way to rub it in”.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you laugh at the rare wobble to his voice and knock your hands together as a sign of forgiveness. His eyes squint into a smile. “It just feels unfair for me to ask that of you”.

The hallway falls dim as clouds gather, casting shadows that make the private bubble you’re in seem that much smaller. “But I want to,” you reassured him. “Come on— forty percent?”

“Thirty”.

You hold out three fingers up on the right and five on the left. You try again, “Thirty five?”

“Thirty,” he doubles down, covering the entirety of your left hand with his own. You feel his thumb skim your inner wrist and your resolve breaks.

“…Fine”.

Shouto grins boyishly and you do not acknowledge the flutter in your stomach.

The first few days are cautious despite your desire to behave as normal. At night you found yourself acutely aware of Shouto’s presence behind the bedroom wall. Your senses latched onto every muted bump and creak; the quiet drew thoughts you so valiantly avoided the surface and you could do nothing besides parse through them.

It made sleeping difficult.

You’d wondered if Shouto was having the same issue but the drowsy gait and hair plastered to one side of his head only ever spoke of a good night's rest. He wears loose silk pyjama pants to bed, low on his hips and an inch or so longer at the leg so they always caught under his heel as he walked.

Seeing him relaxed and fumbling like a fawn before his morning tea felt as if a big star was fizzing in your chest. It’s strange, in a tentative way, not an uncomfortable one.

The dust settles and a chore rota is scribbled out on a white board and pinned to the refrigerator with a worn All Might magnet. Your hours are less hectic so you offered to do the weekly shopping. Shouto volunteers for the laundry— his sister set the machines up for him when he first moved and he hasn’t moved the dials since— and taking out the garbage. Together you build a precariously clumsy peace, a mimicry of home.

Things started to change.

A kaleidoscope can take on an entirely new pattern with just the subtle turn of the lense. Weeks lapse. You stopped asking for permission and he no longer sought reassurance that you were happy. Existing parallel to one another, your lives fit seamlessly, though not without effort.

You’ve never known him to be a tactile type of guy— back when you rushed to hug him at graduation he’d brandished his diploma like a weapon before noticing it was you. Now, Shouto playfully hip checks you in the kitchen, he sits closer than he needs to on the couch and texts you at random throughout the day. He brings you a treat if his route overlaps your commute, keeping it hot in his left hand. He even greets you by the door on the rare occasion he finishes a shift first.

Your heart is fatter than ever and you aren’t quite sure what to do with it or where to put it down. After the city has rebuilt your apartment block and deemed it safe you’ll be returning to a normal you don’t recognise anymore.

You’re finalising the upgrade for Dynamite’s summer gauntlets when your phone buzzes on your bench. The vibration carries it closer to the edge and you scoop it up before the inevitable fall, cursing at the oil smeared around the case. The screen lights up.

shouto : 1 minute ago

There’s an image attached with no explanation. You are met with the open skyline, dense clouds of every shape and size dotted across a blue canvas. Shouto’s arm is in the shot, finger pointed towards one cloud in particular.

You squint at it. Zoom in on your phone, tilt it to the side, flip it in the editor and outline it— and nothing rings a bell. It’s a white blob. 

Another notification drops down at the top of your screen. You wipe your hand against your overalls and open it. 

shouto : just now 

ヾ(=^・ｪ・^)

Your nose wrinkles as you glance back to the photo. Granted, it does have two pointed edges that could be interpreted as cat ears if you squinted. Maybe. This isn’t new — he burned his toast three days ago and took a picture simply because it looked vaguely feline. 

you : delivered 

aren’t u supposed to be on patrol? 

The message turns to ‘read’ quicker than expected. You panic and click off the conversation, setting the phone face up on your workbench and reading from your locked screen. Lately, despite living together and seeing one another every day, Shouto seems to have more to say to you than ever. 

shouto : just now

Divine intervention. We should get a cat. 

The use of ‘we’ pings around your head like a pinball. Ever since the initial dubitation smoothed out he's become much more flippant about things— treating your situation as though it were permanent. 

An intern shuffles into the workshop with a thick binder. Not one of yours, you realise. One of Mei’s. They blink curiously as your phone buzzes again, loud where it clatters on the hard surface, and you bite down on your inner cheek, hard, keeping your feelings at bay. 

When handed the papers you breathe in recognition. They’ve been coordinated into two groups, and you’d know that logo anywhere. “The costume applications for the upcoming UA students! I wondered why they hadn’t come in yet”. 

“Yes, for 1A and 1B. Hatsume-san said these ended up on her desk,” they said, gesticulating nervously, “and that I— I should give them to you?”

“Well If not for you I’m sure these would’ve ended up buried under all her discarded prototypes,” you demurred, offering what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Thank you”. 

Abruptly, your phone gives another violent jerk and disrupts the moment. The intern squeaks, rigidity returning to her posture, and scurries out with a rushed goodbye. You sink into your arms, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Surely you aren’t that scary.

Turning the screen, you read the texts and sigh fondly.  

shouto : 4 minutes ago

An older cat would be nice. 

shouto : just now

Should we order tonight? 

My treat. 

Your gaze lifts to find the time at the top of the screen. It blinks back at you, the hour changing. Not long until you can head out. 

you : delivered 

it isn’t a treat for me if it’s more cold soba. give me variety or give me death (งಠ_ಠ)ง

The cursor flickers. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, hesitating on the final letter. Something so minor that feels bigger than it has any right to be. 

“Stop being ridiculous,” you mutter, sending it before your mind can change. 

you : read 

be safe ok? I’ll see you at home. 

When he doesn’t reply you figure he’s returned to his job, thus you return to yours. 

Dynamite was once again trusting you with his gear. Bakugo had been extraordinarily protective over his initial design in highschool. Great bulbous things strapped to each wrist, grenade-like appearance, so big that his arms became pendulous and swung away from his body as he walked. The shoulder strain was immense. 

You fought tooth and nail to get him to accept your adjustments. Now every summer you remodelled the gauntlets to be lighter and ventilated, and in winter you added in insulation and flexibility. 

Respectively, the gauntlets still weigh a lot without additional stored nitroglycerin. You lift, bending at the knees and groaning as you lower them both down into a protective case, slotting into foam padding for protection. No doubt they’d end up rough on the first day but you still wanted them to arrive without a scratch. 

Evening draws near. Closing the lid, it gives a satisfying click. You fiddle with the lock pad and calibrate it to open only for Bakugo’s thumb print before lugging the case to the built-in vault in your workshop, where it’ll be kept over the weekend. 

Mei’s lab is directly opposite your own. Despite the dense soundproofing and reinforced steel concrete the jarring screech of a saw echoes throughout the hallway. You press your hand to the towering door, muscle fibres wracked by vibrations. Bidding her goodbye would be futile— she’s been working on a new patent for months now. The rest of the world fell away when she got like this. 

Heading through to the main lobby, you greet those passing by with a nod, exchanging hurried words. It was always as though time didn’t exist here. People worked all hours, any hours. Flexibility was a point of pride for your company, and seeing someone eat breakfast after midnight wasn’t uncommon. 

You preferred a regular schedule. Routine keeps you moderately sane. A cool breeze gusts through the sliding doors as you duck into the street; you hiss at the immediate change in temperature. Patting down your coat pockets you dig out your phone, sending a one-handed text to Shouto while you slip in your earbuds. 

Cacophonous bustling of the streets now muffled, you scroll through a playlist and click at random. An upbeat melody carries you to the station, scooting through the throngs of people and tapping your card at the barriers. 

You pick up the pace, scurrying onto the train right before the doors close. A stranger glares, looking over your dishevelled state with judgement. You find a narrow corner, left standing on the far end of the carriage, squashed up against the window to make room for other passengers. 

Conscious about the volume. you turned down your music a tad and sank into the confines of your coat. Shouto’s apartment is miraculously closer than your old one, meaning the commute is much shorter, and your time spent in bed is much longer. Three stops pass and the sky begins to bruise. Purple hues blend gently into red, the sun a fiery hearth on the seam of the horizon that blinks abruptly between the passing buildings. 

When you reach home Shouto still hasn’t texted back. You bend to arrange your shoes, coat hung beside his terrible winter puffer. The floor is cold under socked feet, pottering through to the living room in search of the TV remote. 

You flinch as the newscaster's voice blurts out of the speakers. Shouto must have left it on the news channel this morning. Watching the scene unfold on the screen you feel your heart climb your throat. 

Shouto is a hero— a number of your friends are. Villain fights are not only inevitable, they’re a requirement. The truth of it doesn’t make reality any easier to swallow. Uravity is a welcome sight. She’s fighting diligently alongside Shouto, up against multiple villains seemingly working in tandem to destroy the area. 

You always thought villains were a good example of how versatile and powerful even the most innocuous quirks can be. Topspin can morph their limbs into a whirling top, and with years of training has gained the ability to form small tornados using momentum. Another you recognise is Cryo, a woman capable of making her body intangible similarly to Lemillion— though she is able to freeze you temporarily if she phases through your body. 

There are others, too. Criminals you don’t recognise. It’s been a long time since a big group tried to organise in this manner. You worry at your lip, bracing against the back of the couch for support. What you find most concerning is they don’t seem to have a goal. Just mass destruction, plain and simple. 

“Come on,” you think anxiously, nails digging into the cushion as you watch Shouto brace a falling building with his ice, creating an emergency slide for those left inside to escape. You’ve always marvelled at his parallel processing skills— Deku, too. Their thoughts must be running a million miles a second. 

The cameras switch to highlight the other heroes and you realise you’ve been holding your breath. You exhale, physically deflating, feeling the weight of your phone in your pants pocket. Clean up would take a while once the battle is won; curry night is off the table. 

That’s fine. You could forgive it as long as he came back in one piece. 

Evening sinks into night. Shouto comes home after you’ve retired to your bed, though you aren’t asleep yet; you took to staring at the ceiling, waiting for a call from the hospital that you hoped wouldn’t come. 

The distant sound of his boots hitting the floor has relief flooding through your system. You strain to listen as he makes his way through the apartment, deliberately quiet. You hear him head straight to the bathroom. The echo of running water muffles after the door closes with a soft click. 

You check your phone once more, scanning over the recent updates and not finding much. You consider leaving him alone. Villain fights are hard on the body and the heart. Shouto likes space to process things before he speaks on them, and so you don't want to overstep. 

That sentiment dissipates steadily. Five minute intervals that feel like hours. Shouto is in the bathroom for a long, long time. You are seated on the edge of your bed with the covers pulled back when he finally comes out. 

Warm light streams beneath your doorway. Muscles clenched, you daren’t move an inch as a stretch of shadow moves across. Shouto stands outside your room and you stare, silently urging him to knock and give you an excuse. 

After a beat, Shouto turns away. He flicks off the bathroom light and shuffles down the hallway, away from his own bedroom. Your feet tentatively touch the floor and you slide off the bed with hands held out, careful not to knock into any furniture on the way. 

Goose pimples raise across your forearms. You’re in sleep shorts and a ratty old shirt on a cool spring night. No wind and no clouds, the moon hung high and bright. You have never seen the city so eerily still at this hour. 

The air always retains the warmth of his body for a while, and you feel it lingering when you step into the hallway. 

Voice kept to a whisper, you softly called for him, “Shouto?” 

You find him sitting in the middle of the couch. The blinds are up, moonlight flooding in. Shouto is a solid silhouette outlined in white. 

“Did something happen?” 

The fight ended up dragging on for a while, so you’re in the dark. Details about casualties were steadily being released to news outlets as the heroes dug through the remaining rubble. You’ve yet to hear of any deaths, civilian or otherwise, which is a relief. 

He lifts his head, “I’m fine. Sorry if I woke you”. 

“You didn’t,” Shouto’s gaze follows as you shuffle towards him, footfalls loud on the hardwood floor. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

The silence is suffocating. Your vision adjusts to the darkness, stuck on the downturn of his mouth and pallid eyes. “We’re friends right? Friends share their burdens,” you try again, awkwardness leaking out with every syllable. “I’m here for you”. 

He looks away. There’s a dark, disquieting bruise blooming on his jaw. Subconsciously, Shouto presses a finger onto the bruise and the blood beneath it recedes, paling and returning like the tide. 

You don’t sit too close— worried proximity might be suffocating. The couch arm is firm under you, feet propped on the seat cushion. Shouto wets his lips, as if to alleviate the gravity of his words. 

“A group of school children were in the theatre when it collapsed,” he rasps. His hand curls into a tight fist, sparks of fire diminishing between his knuckles. “They were young. No older than ten”. 

“You blame yourself”. 

Turning to you, light casts softly across half of his face, pooling in his left eye. “I was a second too late and now—” he stops, the words caught in his throat. 

“Because of my mistakes those children are stuck with the traumatic memory of being trapped under all that rubble. I... I could hear them screaming”. 

You gulp and slide down onto the couch, guided by the urge to touch him, “Hey. But you got them out safely, yeah? They’re okay, Shouto”. 

His eyes crinkle a bit, if only a trick of your own, and you take it as permission to reach over. One by one you unfurl each finger, massaging your thumbs into his palm to smooth away the crescent marks. 

“We got them out,” he amends quietly, taking a brief pause to find the right words. You spend it appreciating the nicks in his skin, scars and rough edges, proof of his tenacity.

Shouto closes his hand around your own, staring dolefully at the point where your bodies meet. You see it for what it is— a request for comfort — and your palms kiss as you realign your fingers, holding on tight. 

“You know what I think?” 

He hums, curiously peering up through his damp bangs. 

“Those kids? They won’t just remember the bad stuff,” you smile, as tender as you feel, “I think they’ll remember how at ease they felt when Hero Shouto opened the way with his ice to save them. And now they know a hero will always come”. 

The strain bleeds from his bones and his expression opens up in quiet wonderment. “Really?” he asks, his voice small, mouth finally curling. Your heart gives a squeeze. 

“Really,” you affirm, knocking your knees together. Shouto’s smile widens, chin tucking to hide it. “Are you hurt anywhere?” 

“No. Just bruised up,” he says. An idea clicks into place. 

“Good. I’ve got something we can do to make you feel better,” you scramble to your feet, weight shifting as Shouto’s stare lingers on your bare legs. It feels as though the moon is casting a spotlight, and you resist the urge to pull your shorts down. 

“What is it?” 

“Mug cake!” you exclaim happily, bringing your hands together. Adding an afterthought, “and a movie, too. One you haven’t seen yet”. 

Shouto tilts his head, amused, but stands with you all the same. You notice then that he's changed into a pair of sweatpants, cuffed at the ankles. The t-shirt he’s wearing has a Pinky logo branded across his chest in bubble font. 

“Mug cake?” he repeats. 

“Cake in a mug,” you ribbed, poking at him. You start toward the kitchen. “Come on, it’ll only take like five minutes, tops!” 

“Do we have cake ingredients?” he muses, following close behind. You flick on the recessed light over the stove and root through the cupboards, trying to ignore the natural warmth of his body beside yours. 

“We have everything,” you insist. “I would know. I do the shopping, remember?” 

Hovering unnecessarily close by, Shouto leans back against the counter and observes you with fondness as you list off the ingredients under your breath. It shouldn’t be so magnetising— you can feel something in your chest being drawn in, as though you were two unlike poles meant to come together. 

Meeting his gaze, you look away and try to tame your giddiness. “Quit staring and find me two big mugs”. 

You breathe a little easier when he does as you ask. Two large ceramic mugs are placed on the counter— a hideously priced vintage All Might mug gifted by Midoriya, another with cat ears on the rim and a tail curled into the handle. 

“Will these do?” he murmurs. You startle at the closeness of his voice, nearly dropping the teaspoon in your hand. 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Yep. Thank you”.

He nods, satisfied. “Tell me what else to do”. 

You grab another teaspoon and hand it to him. The joy in his eyes gleams, so pleased at the opportunity to help. “First we need to put four teaspoons of flour and caster sugar in our mugs, then add two teaspoons of the cocoa powder. You follow?” 

Shouto mirrors each action, always glancing back to your movements to check he was doing so correctly. It is unbearably endearing. 

“Now we add an egg in each— one sec,” the fridge light bursts through the dimly lit kitchen, and you squint, grabbing two eggs from the tray. You give him an egg. “Now crack it into the mug and stir”. 

You’ve ended up with the All Might mug. Using it is nerve wracking; all you can think of is how expensive it was, but the cat mug is Shouto’s clear favourite. Gently, you tap the egg on the counter. A hairline fracture forms on the shell. You push your thumbs in, prying it apart over the mix, letting the whites drizzle. 

Shouto is… faring well enough. There’s clear viscous liquid all over his fingers, and his shell is broken in three, but the yolk made it in. 

You laugh quietly at his sheepish expression as you pass him some tissue. He wipes his hands, leaning to observe while you add three teaspoons of milk and vegetable oil. “Where did you learn to make these?” 

“During my apprenticeship,” you admit. Graduation hadn’t led to immediate incredible offers like it had for Shouto. You needed to get your foot in the door first, which meant working awful hours with shit pay and little recognition. “I was trying to save up back then, so I ate a lot of crap like this”. 

“I’ve never tried it,” he says, repeating the steps as you had shown him. Your fingers brush with a pass of the milk. “I wasn’t allowed treats as a child so I guess I didn’t develop much of a sweet tooth”. 

“That’s just like you,” you grin, tearing open the bag of chocolate chips and shaking them in his direction. “Always gotta drop depressing lore in the middle of a nice moment”. 

The truth about the Todoroki family had been outed during your first year, right before the war. It’s a subject Shouto can joke about now that time has mostly healed over those wounds. Granted, his relationship with his father was cautious at best, and his older brother was locked away in a private facility for a good few decades, but things were better. 

“Did you hear me?”

You blink, startled out of your reverie, “What?”

“I said I have plenty more material but you zoned out,” Shouto raised a brow, dipping into the bag of chocolate chips and sprinkling them over his cake mix, “Where did you go?”

“Ah…” you take his mug and set it beside yours inside the microwave, turning the dial to the two minute mark. “I was just thinking I kinda want to kick your dad’s ass”. 

Your heart leaps. You will never be sick of Shouto’s laugh; it’s like hearing his soul. The sound is rich and warm over the loud hum, glass plate turning, mixture bubbling. 

“Don’t worry about that,” the laughter tapers off into an affectionate murmur, body naturally leaning into you, “he’s been kicking himself for years now”. 

“Good—!” the microwave pings, and your soul jumps out of your skin. “Jesus. Why is it always so much louder at night?” 

The mugs are still hot. You press a kiss to your stinging fingertips and step aside; Shouto takes each cake out one at a time with this left hand wrapped around the mug. “Show off,” you pout. 

A sweet aroma fills your senses. They’ve risen well. You lightly scratch the top with your spoon, pleased by the firmness. “We did pretty good,” you chirped. 

“Smells good,” Shouto notes, cradling his mugcake to his chest as though something precious. “Are we watching a movie?”

“Yeah. Let’s pick while it’s still hot”. 

You cast a fleeting look at the counter before you walk around the kitchen island, putting the minor mess to the back of your mind. Bouncing back onto the couch, you run your free hand down the cushions in search of the remote. 

“Where’s the—” Shouto sits to your right and passes it to you. “Did you pull that out of thin air?” 

“Yes. I have a third quirk called ‘remembering where I put things’,” he grins, dodging the half hearted swat you send his way.  

“You’re a real comedian. Just for that I’m picking what I want to watch”. 

Infuriatingly, Shouto looks happy about that, “You know what I’d like anyway”. 

In the end you choose Ponyo because he had not yet watched it— a fact you deemed criminal. You watch his expressions soften at the vibrant scenery, idly pushing the tip of his spoon into the cake. He scoops out a piece and brings it to his lips. 

You try not to beam when he visibly freezes, eyes widening with his spoon held in his mouth. Slowly, Shouto starts to chew. He makes a happy little hum. Three words crossed your mind, travelled down to your heart and diffused throughout your body. You feel them restless in the tips of your fingers. You don’t say them. 

Only then do you let yourself eat yours. The spoon sinks into the sponge, a faint waft of heat bursting from the centre where the chocolate chips have melted. It’s just the right side of fluffy. 

Comfortable silence hung over your heads, masked under the clinking of your spoons against the mugs. 

After the soft thud of an empty mug meeting the table, breaking through the quiet, Shouto speaks. 

“Bakugo mentioned you today,” he says. “Asked me to pass on a message”. 

You hum to indicate that you’re listening. “He said ‘hurry the fuck up or kiss my sponsorship goodbye’, verbatim”. 

“I’m not sure I like those words coming out of your mouth,” you laugh, shoulders shaking with it. Shouto tips his head back, lips twisted to hold laughter of his own. “What a bullshitter”. 

Bakugo liked working with you too much to pull out. Even if he didn’t, the man was a hard nut to crack and refused to trust anyone else with his gear. 

“Are you almost done? Working on his gauntlets, I mean”. 

“They’re finished,” you responded, cheek resting on the heel of your hand. Shouto repositions his hips, turning his body to face you in your periphery while you watch Sousuke and Ponyo eat ramen. “Good and ready for the summer. Now he won’t level half the city when he sneezes”. 

“Thank you for your hard work,” comes his mirthful reply. “Oh, and Uraraka says hello. She wants you to go to the get together tomorrow night”. 

“You know I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, right?” 

He huffed a laugh through his nose. A soft sound that has satisfaction singing through your veins. “I wasn’t planning on going so I forgot to mention it”. 

You run your tongue along your molars. There’s still a lingering chocolate taste. “You aren’t going to go?” you ask, tone trended downwards, plainly implying your disappointment. It wouldn’t be so odd. While you’d befriended Momo and some of class B before ever meeting Shouto, you’re not sure you want to be there without him. 

“I will go if you do,” he eyes the way your shoulders relax at that, attentive to a fault. “They can pick on you instead of me”. 

You roll your eyes with exasperated affection and arms crossed over your middle. “Tomorrow?” mhm. “Is it at that place Denki likes?” mhm. “Thought it might be. Guess I can be your buffer for a few hours”. 

“I’ll let them know,” Shouto murmurs. Colour dances across his skin, shadows moving with the picture on the screen. Ponyo dunks her head into the depths alongside Sosuke and the room is suddenly awash with vibrant blue, and you witness an unwelcome epiphany cross his mind. 

Stated like a huffy accusation, he says, “You know, you’ve worked on most of my friends gear, but never mine”. 

“You never asked,” you reminded him. “And you had connections in my industry already because of your… Endeavor. But I would’a jumped at the chance to get rid of that first costume you designed”. 

Cheek pressed to the cushion, he smiles. “What, was the glacier too much?” 

“It was so ugly Shouto,” you bemoan, leaning closer with your dramatic outburst. “The worst part was it covered up half of your pretty face. Now that’s just bad for branding”.

A soft intake of breath. Shouto’s lips part and you are caught in his awestruck stare. His voice deepens as he asks, “You think I’m… pretty?” 

You swallow and muster up an easy grin, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Everyone thinks you’re pretty, you goof”. 

His eyes lower, pensive for a moment, and then flicker back to the movie. Ponyo is sleepy, and the boat has shrunk, and Sousuke has big tears rolling down his cheeks. 

You can’t help thinking it was the wrong thing to say. 

Eventually the noise settles into static; the kind that makes the shadows seem a little darker, dense branches spreading across the ceilings and walls into a daunting canopy. You burrow into your hoodie, pulling the collar up over the bridge of your nose as Sosuke and Ponyo are reunited with his mother in a vast underwater paradise. 

The earlier exchange weighs on you. Stealing a quick glance at Shouto, you feel your anxiety chip at the expression on his face. Somewhere there, beneath the scar tissue and laughter lines and eye bags, is a small boy watching in awe. 

Neither of you speak until the film comes to an end. Your head bobs along to the final song, drawn into a bubble of nostalgia. Through the thick of it, you hear a whisper. Shouto says your name and there’s barely any strength behind it, uncharacteristically timid. Blinking away the haze, your eyes adjust. You can see an inviting, wide open embrace, his left arm now outstretched, the intention clear. 

Shouto looks right back. Your vision has sharpened enough to make out the small smile on his face. You crawl across the couch cushions and curl under his arm, turning your cheek to watch the credits play out.  

“You looked cold,” he belatedly adds. “Is this ok?”

You hum in agreement. Compared to his body heat, you’d say it had been freezing. Despite all the hard earned muscle over the years Shouto is pliable when he’s relaxed, doughy, and he yields when you begin to adjust your shared position. 

Swallowed by warmth, you guide his arm down to cinch around your waist and nestle against his chest. You can feel his heart beating like a wing beneath your palm. 

“Better?” he murmurs, breath tickling your ear. A final shiver dances the length of your spine as the faint tremors dwindle and your bones thaw. Fatigue creeps up, making your eyelids heavy. 

Quietly, “Better”. Then you mumble, “And I do think you’re pretty, Shouto”. 

“Hm?”

“Was bein’ a bit of a coward earlier,” you continue, a sleepy drawl to your words. A yawn pulls at your jaw, nose flaring with it. You think you could sink right into him, like a hot bath. “Shouto’s pretty… all… all the time…”

Your weary eyes gave in to the rhythmic stroke of his hand, consciousness drifting away. Soft dreams undulate, drawing you in, pushing you out. There’s a familiar face. They turn into your palms when you cradle them. Your stomach clenches at the sudden weightlessness and you grasp at their shirt, worried you might float away. 

When you wake up you are in your own bed again. It returns to you in fragments— Shouto’s arms around you, his rumbling laugh, the tangible intimacy that had hung over your heads. Realising he must have carried you to bed you turn over to groan into your pillow. 

Eventually, what draws you out into the open is the smell. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you pad out into the living room, searching for Shouto. Leggings, your mind whispers. He’s milling about the kitchen in his workout clothes; a little pair of shorts overtop and a green hoodie. 

“Morning,” he says, placing a small plate onto a tray. You notice two bowls have already been prepared. “I made breakfast”. 

The greeting dies in your throat when he looks up. A stream of dewy morning light illuminates the room, reflecting on the pale surfaces, creating an ethereal view. He combs his hair back with his fingers, tucking the longer strands behind his ears. Your gaze strays from the bruise on his jaw— now turning a sickly shade of green— to the food on his tray. 

“Wow,” you mumble, feeling hunger twist in your stomach. “This actually looks edible. What’s the occasion?” 

It’s a traditional breakfast. A bowl of rice, miso soup with some vegetables, a rolled egg and a plate of grilled fish. Shouto sets a pair of chopsticks down. “No special occasion. I just wanted to cook for you”. 

“God. You are so…” you wave your hands at him, too overwhelmed by the sudden flush of tenderness. 

He blinks, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “You just gestured to all of me”. 

“I just woke up and there’s a prince using my shitty old rice cooker. Forgive me,” you remarked groggily. It feels as if your entire being is a soft spot that he won’t stop prodding at. 

Gathering the tray in your grasp you avoid his stare and make way to the dining table, his quiet chuckle close behind. You sit, unnerved by his presence and fighting off dregs of sleep. The seat is cold under your thighs. “Thank you for the food,” you murmur. 

Chopsticks tucked in the crook of your thumb and finger, you pick up a rolled omelette. The egg tastes sweeter than expected— mixed with more sugar than required, you think, but it’s good, and you finish in the next bite. 

“Are you not leaving for work?”

Shouto hovers across from you; his hands rested on the back of another chair, and stood silently. “How is it?” he deflects. 

Your teeth sink into a tofu cube, umami flavours bursting on your tongue. You hum your approval, making a show of it. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Shouto. Really”. 

Over the years you’ve come to learn that Shouto reacts to praise in subtle ways, and often smiles without his mouth. You can hear it in the lilt of his voice and see it in his spirited stride. You watch as his shoulders straighten. He’s alight, peacocking his pride, and you’re not sure he realises it. 

“There’s a secret ingredient”. 

You pause mid chew, swallowing thickly. “If you say love I’m moving out”. 

Shouto tempers his amusement with a shake of his head. Stray hair falls forward to frame his cheeks.  The chair reclines back on two legs as he leans. “My mother told me that making a meal for someone is a simple way to show gratitude,” he continued. “Thank you for taking care of me last night”. 

Heat simmers under your skin, all buzzing energy and jitters. The sincerity is disarming. Had this been a dream you would’ve kissed him. 

Shoving another tofu cube in your mouth you chew it down to fine paste, vying for time to formulate a coherent sentence. “Don’t thank me for that,” your initial playfulness softened to reciprocate some of his vulnerability. “I know I’m not a hero but I’ll always be there for you in whatever way I can”. 

Whatever his response is, you don’t hear it. Shouto murmurs inaudibly, eyes falling closed with a long exhale. Your only respite is the warmth in his gaze when he looks back at you. “I need to leave now if I don’t want to be late. But I’ll see you tonight?”

You hum an affirmative, nodding around the white rice pinched between your chopsticks. It falls apart gently on your tongue. Covering your mouth, you say, “I’ll be there”.  

Shouto steps away with some finality, readjusting the hem of his shirt. The fabric hangs loose around his hips, emphasising how tight his shorts are. You mentally kick yourself. 

“I’ll text you, then”. 

The day passes frustratingly slowly after Shouto leaves. You technically could be sifting through the new student’s designs, but all you can think about is how charged the atmosphere had been this morning. Retiring back to your room to scream into a pillow or two, you eventually find yourself getting ready. 

Shouto let you know he would be going straight from the agency. He had clothes in a locker here— casual, some jeans and a sweater, which at least allayed the fear of being underdressed.  

You pull on one of your nicer jackets, holding the lapels close to your chest as you step out into the cold evening. Dark cumuli gather in sparse clumps across the darkening sky; as mercy has it, the wind is pushing them in the opposite direction.

The place isn’t far. You don’t frequent it very often but liked it well enough despite management being a bunch of rich guys playing dive-bar dress up. The low ceilings, vintage mismatched furniture and dim red lights created an intimate atmosphere. 

People loved the idea of finding a hole in the wall that nobody else knew about. The catch was everybody knows, but not everybody can get in. 

Flashing above the door in green neon lights is a sign grimly reading ‘The Love Shack’. The first thing you notice is the strong woodsy smell masking the faint scent of alcohol. There’s a floral tinge to it that you have trouble pinpointing. 

You head inside and greet the bouncer standing by the entrance. He’s a big guy, standing around 6 feet 9, mutton chops swallowing a great deal of his face. Resting on his bald crown are a pair of comically small sunglasses. 

Before he can ask for your name it is being hollered across the bar. A few heads turn and you dip your chin to shield from prying eyes. Uraraka is bounding over, Mina hot on her coattails. The pair topple into you with canorous laughter clear over the music. 

“You’re here!” Uraraka effused, grabbing at your shoulders and shaking them. “I haven’t seen you in so long! Shouto has been keeping you all to himself”. 

Mina slumps against you, echoing Ursraka’s words with a slurred whine. “Holy shit. Are you guys already tipsy?” unsteady on your feet you try to keep them upright. 

“No,” Mina tittered, pink lips jutting into a pout. She pokes at your cheek. “You’re just too sober!”

You startle. Another hand, large and hot, splays at the small of your back. The bouncer grunts and encourages you in the direction which they came from. That appears to spur the girls on— you’re dragged to the far end of the bar, a wide booth nestled just around the corner, hidden from view. 

You’re met with a chorus of cheers. Kirishima, Jirou and Shinsou beckon you forward. Bakugo is nursing a pint, offering you a wordless nod. Momo shakes her head as Denki attempts to climb out and greet you despite being trapped by the table, patting his back when the effort is fruitless. 

“Alright, alright. I missed you too,” you grin, helplessly charmed by your friend's excitement. Uraraka ushers you into the booth. You scoot up beside Momo, the group packed in like sardines to make room. 

Mina bends to press a wet kiss to your hairline. It leaves behind a sticky impression of her lips. “Let me go grab you a drink, babe!” she chirps, skipping off toward the bar and immediately draping her upper body over the black countertop to wave the bartender over. 

The conversations resume, an easy atmosphere settling over your group. Though you aren’t entirely from their world they do well to involve you, asking for your thoughts, trying to make you laugh. Jirou blushes under the red lights when you bring up her latest album, sending you an appreciative grin. Mina returns holding an impressive amount of drinks, her fingers slipping dangerously on the condensation. 

You are one strawberry daiquiri in. There’s a muted yet pleasant buzz under your skin, no doubt aided by the good company. Still, you cast an anxious glance around the room, curious about Shouto’s absence. A soft tap to the knee draws your attention. 

Momo turns to whisper in your ear, “Shouto said  he’ll be here on the hour,” answering that unspoken question. Your cheeks fill with an indignant breath, embarrassed by your own transparency. 

“We aren’t attached at the hip, you know,” you rasp childishly. It’s a lie— you’ve lived with Shouto for only three weeks and you have already forgotten where he ends and you begin. Momo laughs, hiding it behind the back of her hand. 

“Could’a had me fooled,” Bakugo interjects, scoffing behind his drink. The glass tips and he drains the last of it. “Your name is all I hear outta his mouth these days. Starting to think he doesn’t know any other words”. 

You hold up an accusing finger, “Quit reading our lips, dickhead”. 

The other bares his teeth, gums and all. He moves his hands in recognisable patterns at a deliberately slow pace, as if talking down to you. ‘Fuck you’ he signs. 

“Oh!” Kirishima claps abruptly. You startle, almost knocking over your drink. He’s so big that it rocked the table. “Check this, Bakugo. I’ve been learning more signs, you gotta tell me if I’m doing ‘em right!”

“Fuck do I look like to you?”

“Like my handsome best bro,” is his smooth reply. Cheeks red as his hair, a cocksure grin flashing his sharp teeth; Bakugo softens, clicking his tongue in feigned annoyance, betrayed by the twitch by the corner of his mouth. You think Kirishima is like an overgrown stray that manipulated Bakugo into being his human. 

Whatever he clumsily signs must have been obscene, because Bakugo roars with laughter.

“Who the hell taught you that, shitty hair?” 

The hour comes and goes. Rings of water collect under the glasses. Shouto is five minutes late. You displace the group, accepting Uraraka’s loose lipped complaints as she is forced to scoot back out the booth. Pinching the fat of her pink cheek, she’s placated by the promise of another round on you. 

“I’ll come with,” Shinsou offered with a lazy wave. 

“Thanks,” waiting for him to get to his feet, you smile. You liked Shinsou well enough. Working as an underground hero meant you didn’t get to see him too often. 

You approach the bar. The man working behind it has gossamer insectoid wings on his back, sprouting from two long slits in his fitted shirt. They glint in the light, colours refracting iridescent, reminding you somewhat of a church window. 

He comes over as he catches your eye, wiping down the sticky surface. You’re honest enough to admit he’s handsome. Rugged with a baby face, hair falling over his forehead in loose curls. There’s an easy air about him, and when he flashes a crooked grin you feel the alcohol a little too thick in your veins. 

Tattooed forearms brace against the bar and he leans into your magnetism, “What can I get ya?”

“They’ll have the same as last time,” you reply. “I think the tab should be under Kaminari’s name?” 

He nods, eyes skimming over your form, “Won’t be long”. 

You turn to find that Shinsou is staring, kissed by a reddish glow. His mouth downturns into a smirk. “I don’t think he even noticed I was here,” he drawls. 

Defensiveness prickles over you. “Don’t think anyone has,” you lightly knock your arms together. “You’ve been quiet tonight”. 

“Not my scene,” Shinsou sinks forward, propped up by his elbow, and rests his chin in the cradle of his hand. His heavy lidded eyes never stray. “But I can’t say no to free drinks”.

The barman works the taps in your periphery but you remain focused on Shinsou. There’s a new scar across his cheekbone, right where his persona mask ends. Another over his mouth, a thin line of rough tissue that cuts through his five o’clock shadow. The mass untameable hair on his head has been cut shorter, tapering around his neck. 

“Leech”. 

“Look who’s talking,” his smirk widens. You watch his gaze slide over your head and dread swirls in your stomach at the gleam in his eye. “I think your nepo baby boyfriend just got here”. 

“Not my boyfriend,” you hiss under your breath. He holds his laughter between his teeth. “And don’t call him that!” 

Shinsou laughs into his palm, low and rumbling. You hear the fond invocation of your name as the heat of another body appears at your back. Met with brilliant teal and stormy grey, Shouto greets you both apologetically. 

Perking up self consciously, you say, “You made it!”

“Hi. Sorry, I got caught up and lost track of time”. 

You’re happy to see him. He’s in fitted jeans and a dark button up shirt over an old black turtleneck. Heterochromatic eyes slide from your smiling face to Shinsou’s own disinterest, then drawn to the drinks that have steadily begun to accumulate on the bar counter. 

“Ah, let me get you a drink—” you wave over the guy who served you, though it is hardly necessary when he’s already observing. He saunters over with a pint of lager, setting it beside Mina’s garish rainbow concoction. 

“Everything alright?” 

Squinting at the messy kanji on his name tag, you think you can make it out. Kei, it reads. “Would we be able to add another to the tab? Our friend just made it”. 

For some reason Shouto crowds in closer, the cool press of his left side seeping through your shirt. Kei barely pays him any mind. “No problem,” a cold flush crawls across your back when he winks. “Anything for you. What’ll it be?” 

“I’ll have a highball,” Shouto interjects. You frown at his sudden sharp demeanour, and lean your weight back in hopes of comforting him. The air warms up. 

Kei’s enthusiasm fractures imperceptibly, “Alright. Let me get started on that for ya”. Shinsou snorted, his head dipped to his chest and shaking; you think you aren’t nearly drunk enough for whatever this is.

“Shit. You really are petty,” Shinsou speaks up after Kei departs to the other end of the bar. “I always thought Midoriya was exaggerating”. 

“Petty?” you echo, squinting at your roommate with a soft pout. Shouto fixes his gaze to the bottles lined across the wall and looks as though he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“Highballs are tedious to make,” Shinsou turns his back to the bar, leaning against it with his drink in hand. “You definitely chose that on purpose”. 

“I didn’t,” Shouto monotoned. “I like whisky”. 

“I’ve never seen you drink whisky,” your voice lilts into suspicion. Shouto narrows his eyes, pointedly avoiding yours. A terse beat passes, and you inhale with defeat. “Oh, whatever. Go say hi to the others while we bring the drinks”. 

Shouto blanched. “I can help—”

“I’ve already got a big strong man here to help me,” Shinsou scoffed. There’s an umbrella resting on the lip and a purple straw in his mouth. You put a hand on Shouto’s bicep and squeeze, “You need to let Momo know you’re here before she sends out a search party”. 

The contact visibly placates him. You watch after him as he makes his way to the booth. Slurred over the low music, he turns the short corner to be met with a cheer in much the same way you had. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Shinsou murmurs, amused exasperation clear in his tone. Splitting the drinks into two groups to carry, you ignore his remark and the fondness swirling in your chest. 

Kei appears and sets the highball down. A tall glass of liquid gold, three carved ice cubes fizzing at the bottom, a lemon garnish on the rim. “Thank you,” you tell him, pleased when he reciprocates your sheepish grin. 

You let Shinsou take it— your hands are already full and slipping. The others have pulled Shouto into the booth and sandwiched him between Denki and Mina, whose distinct voices are overlapping as they try to get a word in. 

Denki stops mid sentence as Shinsou slams the drinks onto the table. You do the same, albeit much more carefully. He lists them off one by one, sliding the glasses over to their persons. Shouto’s comes last. 

“And in a surprising turn of events we have Todoroki with a japanese highball”. 

Shouto accepts the drink with his right hand and a straight face, ignoring the harmonious ‘ooh’ that reverberates around the booth. 

Bakugo points his pinky at him, “And since when do you drink whisky?” 

Petulantly, Shouto mutters, “Since now”. 

Ultimately deciding to pull up a chair, Shinsou sits at the head of the table while you are squeezed on the end beside Bakugo; he side glances, raising his brow in acknowledgement. 

“Dude, now that we’re all here, let's have a toast!” Denki exclaims, literal sparks of joy bouncing from his crown. Everybody groans. 

“I’ll hear your toast bro,” Kirishima lifts his pint, the wonderful enabler that he is. Shouto meets your gaze across the table and raises his own with a shrug. 

“I, uh…” Denki shrinks under the pressure. “I dunno what I was gonna say”. 

“To a quick death,” Shinsou proposed, halfheartedly holding his sake in the air. 

“Hear hear,” muttered from beside you, Bakugo’s eyes fell closed. You snickered, alcohol weakening your inhibitions as you hook your chin over his shoulder. He allows it. 

Momo voices her disapproval and tips her glass, “To good health”. 

“To Chargebolt,” Jirou adds, a grin splitting her cheeks, laughter already bleeding into her words. “Seen him at his best, seen him at his worst, and still can’t tell the difference”. 

“Oi!” 

“To a livable minimum wage!” Uraraka hiccups. All the blood in her body seems to have rushed to her face; expression comically determined, betrayed by her spasming diaphragm. Everyone lifts a glass. 

The night crawls on. Another round, then two. Kei refills your glass, never without a flirty comment. You feel thawed from the inside out, a silly smile fixed to your lips. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, from the too-forceful kisses given by Mina, the rough pinch of explosive fingers. 

You might as well be engaged in a game of musical chairs; the only one refusing to surrender his spot is Bakugo. Jirou and Momo slink away somewhere private— ‘private’ being behind the vintage jukebox right by the bathrooms— and Kirishima scoots over to wrap you up in a side hug and pushes all the air from your lungs. Uraraka drapes herself across your front. Shinsou surrenders as Mina sits in his lap. Being with them is as innate as breathing. 

Maybe you didn’t fight a war together but they still embraced you as their own. And Shouto watches with that terrible, awful, shoujo twinkle in his eyes; you flush hot whenever you catch him, inundated by the desire to reach across and kiss him.

Your pulse is quick and movements slowed. A pleasant buzz circulates around your body. After the third round Shouto begins insisting that you stay put. “Okay,” you conceded tipsily. “Tell Kei I said hi”. 

Shouto leaves with a vaguely constipated frown. 

Bakugo cackles and refuses to tell you what was so funny. Momo returns to the sight of you clinging to the stubborn hero’s arm, cursing his name. “What are we laughing at?” she muses. You notice a few things first: there’s a fresh bruise on her neck, a button on her dress undone, and a glass of water in her grasp. 

Disheveled Momo is a rare treat. You’d tease her about it, if Bakugo did not immediately jump at the opportunity to tease you first. “Just gearhead and halfie being oblivious idiots,” he surmised. Another snort bursts from his nose. “‘Tell Kei I said hi’. Shit. Should’a seen his face”. 

“Bakugo,” Momo chides, attempting to disguise her own amusement. “Go easy on them”. 

He clicks his tongue, shaking you with a rough shrug of his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel and fuck already”. 

Your mood tumbles, dampening as you sulk, “Shouto doesn’t want me like that”. 

“Yeah, right. And vice prez didn’t just get fingered by the jukebox”. 

“Bakugo!” Momo’s voice is stronger this time. She whips her head toward the other patrons and back, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “I did not get… fingered,” she protested with a sharp whisper. 

“What’s that?” you feign ignorance, drowsy and loose lipped. “Momo got fingered?!”

Making Bakugo laugh feels a little like winning the lottery; having him throw an arm around you as he does it leaves you dizzy with accomplishment. You curl into his side, shoulders shaking. You mouth an apology across the booth and Momo stretches to take your hand, stressing her forgiveness. 

Shouto shatters the jovial atmosphere. He returns stiffly, his glare set in stone, and places a drink you did not order in front of you. After a quick sniff you realise that it’s water. 

“Once you’ve drunk that we should head home,” he says. It’s posed as a suggestion but you hear the instruction. Not wanting to irritate him any further, you begin to sip. 

Momo’s brow pinches with worry. “Is everything alright, Shouto?” 

He breathes harshly through his nose, coming out in a puff of cold air. ”Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry to cut the night short, Momo,” his face softens. “It was good to see you”. 

Astonishingly, Bakugo says nothing. His arm snakes from around your back. You finish the water with a big gulp, resurfacing for air. “Done,” you wipe the back of your hand across your lips. 

Shouto steadies you while you awkwardly scoot around the booth. Momo gathers you both into a hug, her kind hand stroking the length of your spine. “Text us when you get home”. 

“We will,” you promise, saluting as you’re gently pulled away. “See ya on Monday, great explosion murder god dynamite, sir!” 

The others have dispersed amongst the small crowd. You mourn not being able to say goodbye to them all. Shouto cinches around your waist and guides you to the door. You can’t complain— instinctively sinking into the embrace, surrounded by his cologne— but you do wonder what the hurry is. 

You waded through the mass of people until you both finally made your way out into the open air. The breeze encourages you closer to his front, cold and refreshing in your lungs. Already you feel as if some of your drunken enthusiasm is dissolving. 

“Shouto?” his pace slows mercifully, coming to a stop underneath a streetlight. The bulb blinks in five second intervals, dousing him in sickly orange. “Are you mad?” 

A warm hand hooks your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye only to avoid looking back. His lips part to speak, and when nothing comes they close. “I’m not mad,” he intoned quietly, thumb skimming over the line of your jaw. Your breath catches. 

He seems so… guilty. 

“I think you are,” you observe, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You bring his hand down and intertwine it with yours. The alcohol must be making you brave. “But if you’re not ready you don’t need to tell me”. 

Some colour returns to his skin. Shouto huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You’re so—” cutting off that train of thought, he tugs you forward and wraps you into a hug. The crook of his neck shields you from the cold, and for a few short moments all you can hear is your heart beating in your ears. 

“…Have you ever felt like there are things you want to say but there’s something that always stops you from expressing them?” 

You take note of how his grip tightens, warm nose squished into your cheek as if he thought you might run. Shouto is nervous— rather, he’s making himself vulnerable to you. “I have,” you murmur. 

He bows his head to burrow into your shoulder, “Then, would you give me the chance to say them?” 

What you hear is: will you be patient with me? 

“Now?” you ask gently. The light overhead flickers again and your vision swims. You’re realising now that his impulsivity might simply be because he’s drunk. “Don’t you want to talk at home?”

Shouto shakes his head. “If I say it now you can change your mind and go back”. 

That’s worrying. You chew nervously on your bottom lip, “…Okay”. 

You expect him to let go but he doesn’t, though he does loosen his hold, as if giving you the chance to leave. Following a deep inhale, Shouto solemnly admits, “That guy at the bar. Kei. He asked me to give you his phone number”.  

“He did?” 

“Yes,” he says. 

“So where is it?” 

Dread and fatigue curdled in your stomach. You hear the moment Shouto swallows his caution. The atmosphere sours as he admits, “I burned it”. 

You step back, leaving his arms limp at his sides. He looks betrayed. Like you’re testing the strength of a promise you don’t recall making. This was not a good time nor place to talk about this. 

“My feet hurt,” his eyes widened in confusion. “I’m cold and I’m drunk and my feet hurt, Shouto. I want to go home”. 

The request registers slowly. You watch his face fall, gathering a facsimile of a smile. “Okay. Then let’s go home”. 

Your chest aches. You want to cry. You scramble for his hand and squeeze it tight, hating the despondent tone in his voice. “We’re too drunk. We’ll talk about this in the morning,” and that seems to lessen the rigidity in his bones. 

From then on, the walk is done in heavy silence. Your thoughts are muddied and loud, emotions bouncing back and forth between resentment and uncertainty. 

Underneath all of it is a seedling of hope that you daren’t nurture. 

The atmosphere clings, following you all the way home, suffocating as you stand a metre apart in front of your respective bedrooms. You bid him goodnight, hand lingering on the handle. Anticipation sits like a stone in your chest. 

You lie in bed waiting for him to knock. 

He doesn’t. 

Next time you open your eyes you wince at the throb behind them; it pings around the inside of your skull and you groan into your pillow. 

There’s movement in the apartment. Shouto had always been an early riser. Cold relief washes over you at the confirmation that he was here. Last night filters through your mind. One scene after another you try to make sense of it all. 

Kei had been genuinely flirting— you didn’t really think to take it seriously at the time. It was harmless fun, and you figured he was just the type that enjoyed teasing. 

Shouto must’ve realised it early on. That was the reason he stepped in and kept you away from the bar. But that didn’t line up right with the reality you knew, because the only reasonable explanation for his behaviour would be that— 

You shoot upright, kicking off your covers, and immediately feel it rebound. Thumbs pressed to your temples, you massage firm circles into your skin until the pain dulled. 

Holy shit. Shouto was jealous. 

A strange blanket of exhaustion settles back over you, as though your muscles have atrophied. You slide down the headboard and stare up at the marks on the ceiling, all sprawled out like dropped skeins of yarn. Suddenly your bedroom was a refuge from an inevitable relationship altering conversation. 

Shouto had been jealous of a man vying for your affection. Your Shouto: gentle, placid, considerate, patient, funny, beautiful Shouto. 

“Fuck,” you whisper into the emptiness. You can hear the coffee machine brewing in the distance. You’re torn between screaming into your hands and jumping on the bed. 

You settle on getting up. Slowly. It’s clear you had been drunker than you thought; your pyjamas are on back to front. You tremble as you slip your arms through the sleeves and right the collar, padding over to the door. 

Shouto wanted to talk last night and you stopped him. Guilt gnaws away at you. All that courage was shot down. Pretending to forget about it isn’t an option— you had to do this. 

The plan to be stealthy is squandered by the hinge on your door. A harsh squeak reverberates through the apartment. You huff, lowering from your tip toes, and walk towards the kitchen. 

Another body enters the hallway. Shouto turns on his heel and nearly drops his mug as you almost collide. Reflexes hammered into him, he catches it in one hand and manoeuvres you away from the hot splash with the other. 

“Shit. Did it burn you?” he breathes, bringing your hand up to his mouth. A chilly puff of air blows over your skin and you shiver. 

You clear your throat and try to find your voice. “I think you got it. Thank you, Shouto”. 

The sound of his name pulls him out of his reverie. You try not to feel hurt when he drops your hand like hot coal. “Sorry,” casting a forlorn look at the half empty mug and the small coffee puddle at his feet. Lips pressed into a thin line, he says, “I was bringing you some coffee. Thought you might need it”. 

Delicate tendrils of steam dance and dissipate into the air. You gently cup your hands around his and receive the mug, a small smile pulling at your mouth. His eyes are keen and searching as you take a drink. 

“I definitely needed it,” you tell him between sips. The coffee paves a hot path down your throat to your stomach— the warmth spreads, seeking to fill the spaces between. All the earlier fear is washed away.

The time you spend observing one another feels like a short eternity. You watch hope visibly thread into his features, brighter; the way he always should be. 

Softly, you ask, “Do you think we could talk about last night?”

“Yeah,” the word comes in a whisper. Head inclining, Shouto nods in one slow motion. Then, louder, “I should clean up, first. Where do you want to…?”

“Where?” you repeat. The thoughts in his head are written plainly across his forehead and you longed to rid him of them. Tilting and raising your brows suggestively, you tease, “Bedroom?” 

Shouto gives an amused huff and the remnants of caution are blown away like seeds in a dandelion clock. His steps are lighter, a subtle bounce to them. Light filters into the living room and your spirit is buoyed by giddiness and wonder. 

What had you been so afraid of? 

You wait in the crook of the L shaped couch, legs curled beneath your body, facing the tall standing windows that overlook the city. Your headache has lessened into a quiet echo. 

While he mops up the coffee you finish off the last drops in your cup. You take a moment to appreciate your surroundings. The emptiness you once felt in this room no longer exists. Blankets strewn across the cushions, small crochet coasters, pictures put into frames, books left face down to save the page, things out of place— it felt so lived in. 

It felt like home. 

You sit up when footfalls approach. Shouto is pretty in the late morning light, under eye shadows and all. “Did you even sleep last night?”

“Not much,” he confesses. His weight shifts before he finally decides on sitting beside you, turning to mirror your posture. “I thought I might’ve messed things up”. 

You stretch to put your mug on the coffee table and his eyes follow attentively. “Shouto, you didn’t mess anything up,” he wrings his hands together in his lap, searching your face for dishonesty and finding none. “Though you probably shouldn’t have burned up that guy's number”. 

“Probably,” he affirmed. The hair on his left side is pressed flat to his head. You count the creases on his cheek, stopping at the healing bruise on his jaw. The movement of his full mouth draws you back, “I am sorry for that. It was childish of me and I took away your choice”. 

You hum, shuffling closer on your knees. Shouto’s expression is beautifully open, and you understand it, because your heart beat is thrumming just the same. “Next time, give me the number so I can ask you to burn it myself”. 

Shouto’s fiddling halts. It’s a relief. You thought if he pulled at that hangnail any more he might unravel in front of you. A crease forms between his brows, “What?” 

“I don’t want anyone else’s number. I…” losing some of your strength, you close your eyes for a second. Inhale deeply, continuing on an exhale, “Last night, you were jealous”. 

It’s not a question. Shouto nods, his hand making an aborted reach for your own but thinking better of it. 

You slide your palm against his. Your fingers fill the spaces between his knuckles. Shouto holds on tight and you ask,  “…Why?” 

A nail traces random shapes into his skin. You watch him watching your finger, mouth curled into a small, wobbly smile. He steels his resolve, an internal monologue you aren’t privy to. With spine tingling cadence, he says, “Because I’m in love with you”. 

You’re not sure what you anticipated. There isn’t much that could prepare you for such a long awaited admission— for something you’d only daydreamed about hearing. The hunger in your heart rears its head, seeing his words as permission to want. To take. 

Shouto carries on, incognisant to your plight. “I made peace with my feelings a long time ago. It’s not something I wanted you to worry about”. 

“You’re doing it again,” you tell him. “Deciding things for me”. 

“I don’t want you to make peace with them. I want you to share them. With me,” Your eyes meet as he peers up. There’s a stray kiss curl by his temple, white and soaking up the sun. He shudders when you twist it gently around your finger. “I love you too, dummy”.  

Heat prickles at the back of your neck, feeling the shift in atmosphere. “Oh,” is his eloquent reply. A slow blooming grin pulls at his mouth as the reality sets in. 

“Yeah. Oh”. Giddiness bubbles in your chest like water in a wellspring and you let go to cup his face. Shouto leans into the cradle your hands form, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb skims over the scar tissue. His ears are warm. 

Guided by fleeting impulses you press a quick kiss to his left eyelid, and he sucks in a shaky breath. You move lower, nose bumping his cheek, to press another to the corner of his mouth. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper, feeling like you were on the delicate precipice of something incredible. His mouth turns to chase yours, bicoloured eyes peeking beneath his lashes. 

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and it comes like a puff of steam. “On the mouth this time”. 

Your lips tremble as you try not to laugh, aligning with his. You kiss him, petal soft and gentle, and feel it when he smiles. Tentative, derived from uncertainty and unfamiliarity. 

Shouto’s cool fingers slide around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. Don’t go anywhere. You answer in kind— hands sliding down to his chest to guide him back into the cushions and feel his heart racing as you settle your knees either side of his hips. You barely part for air, and Shouto follows your lead. 

“Again,” he mumbles. 

The intensity grows. Shouto kisses like it’s his last. Strong arms wrap around your waist, wandering hands mapping out the topography of your body. Somewhere between, your tongue dips into the seam, biting his bottom lip and plucking a whine right from his mouth. Heat flutters low in your abdomen; hips squirm between your thighs, his chest pressed to your own. 

“Shouto,” you groan, pushing harder, needing to be closer, threading into the soft hair at the back of his head. Fingers curl into the fat by your hips, they pull, rocking you into his lap. Invigorated, Shouto nips at your lips. Arousal spikes through you at the cool exhale— his tongue slides over your own and along the grooves in your teeth, wet and cold. 

“Fuck, is that—” you pant, head falling back as he begins to leave a trail of hot kisses down your throat. “S’that your quirk?” 

He hums an affirmative. The sound is resonant, deep in his chest and satisfied. Smug. You feel the impression of his smile against your jugular. Static fills your brain. Your thighs clench, rutting forward to relieve the ache between your legs, imagining all the things his mouth could do. 

At some point you part to catch your breath. Your foreheads come together, sharing awed laughter. Shouto cheeks are pink and there’s a soft smile on his swollen, kiss-bitten lips.  His hand moves to cup your jaw, rubbing small circles into the cheekbone.

“We should… slow down…” his chest heaves, eyes swallowed by his pupils. They fall to his lap, right where you’re pressed to his cock. You file away the lazy slur in his voice and wonder if that’s where all his blood went. “…I want to do this properly”. 

Figures that he would have more willpower than you; though you get the sense if you pushed, he’d give, and every surface in the apartment would see you laid out. Gathering your thoughts is made much more difficult as he kneads at your thigh, heedless to your struggle. 

“Okay baby,” you murmur, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to his brow bone. His ears turn red and you’re alight, “You like that?” 

Shouto tucks his grin against your shoulder. Like before, he locks both arms around your back and holds you close. You comb your fingers through his hair, overlapping white and red, a long tender moment passing. 

“You love me,” he whispered apprehensively. Then again, thick with wonderment. “You love me”.  

It’s unbelievable to him— and that’s unbelievable to you. Shouto is easy to love, moreso than anyone you have ever met. All clandestine glances, soft spoken words and inside jokes; a book of every witty little thing you’ve said, keeping your words close, giving importance to the things you enjoy; he’s gag gifts and thoughtfulness and open arms, the reason all your hot drinks never go cold, he’s the cream that never melts. He’s home. 

You cradle him to your chest with no intention of letting go. The sun crawls higher, casting a warm blanket over your shoulders. 

“I do,” you reply. “How could I not?” 

[wulfhalls]

the most effervescent ephemeral iridescent queen <3

[baphometsgirlcock]

I need to have inhuman sex immediately.

I need to be a mess of sweat-matted fur and scrabbling claws, rutting desperately into a whimpering breeding bitch, covering them in bite-mark hickeys and panting and growling as I fill them up, knock them up.

I need to be many careful hands at the end of too-long limbs, fingers wrapping around wrists, grabbing their hips, holding their legs to spread them open or pin them down, my iridescent eyes tracing their body in reverent light, making them squirm into my ever-present touch.

I need to be an ephemeral impossible touch, undressing them with tugs of cloth, longing touch felt but never seen, my hot and needy breath like a distant wind whistling past their eat, something intangible but thick and distinctly throbbing pushing carefully past their lips, their hair lifting in every direction as I fuck their face from beyond the grave.

I need to be heat so pervasive that it soaks into their throat from the tip of my forked tongue, that a simple kiss is enough to make them feel as though I’ve entered them somehow, and the pinch of my tracing talon fingers feels so much sharper and vivid, in a daze watching the hellfire behind my enrapturing eyes.

[timperi-fan]

"Are you alright?"

A calm voice broke through Timmy's panic, and he blinked. He always thought that if he ever found himself being mugged or attacked, he would stay calm and handle himself with dignity.

Instead, when his walk home from his shitty fast food job had been interrupted by a knife pointed at his face, Timmy had froze.

He still felt frozen now, sitting on the asphalt (when had he gotten on the ground?) with the night chill biting into his palms and leaking through his jeans. His heart was still slamming in his chest, even though the threat was gone.

The threat was gone?

The figure standing over him moved, and Timmy flinched. His wide eyes darted up, absorbing the stranger's concerned gaze and his mask and God, that was so much purple—

"Hey, hey, it's okay... You're in shock," the masked man said gently, like he was trying to settle a spooked animal.

Timmy worked his jaw a couple of times. He swallowed; squinted up at the man. "...Sídhe?"

It was. Sídhe — Dimmsdale's resident superhero — stood over Timmy, bending over to be closer to his height. The wings on his back cast scattered light over Timmy's prone form. The sound of his name made the hero grin in relief.

"You're okay. I'm so glad." He offered Timmy his hand. "Can you stand?"

Timmy nodded. He still felt shaky, but he was calming down some, now. He took Sídhe's hand on autopilot, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

He always thought that Sídhe would be taller in person, but the TV had a way of making things seem bigger than reality. He never thought he would be meeting Sídhe in person at all.

"It's a good thing that I was doing a late patrol today — I saw that man try to mug you," Sídhe explained, his voice tight with fury. Despite that, his grip on Timmy's hand remained gentle. "Are you injured at all?"

Somehow, Timmy found it within himself to shake his head. "No, I'm— I'm fine," he mumbled. "Just tired."

Sídhe leaned in. His other hand settled on Timmy's cheek, and he had the ludicrous thought that he was about to be kissed. Instead, Sídhe swiped his thumb over Timmy's cheek. His hand came away with blood on it.

It almost seemed like Sídhe's golden pupils flaired brighter still. "You're hurt."

Timmy reached out and caught Sídhe's hand. "It's just a cut. I..." He struggled to speak evenly. "I just want to go home. Really."

They stood still like that for a moment more. Sídhe's inhuman eyes scanned his face, like he was peeling away Timmy's skin to gaze at his soul. Could he do that? Maybe. He was magic, right?

Timmy was a little surprised to find that he wasn't bothered. He felt at ease around Sídhe.

Their hands were still entwined. He didn't feel any desire to change that.

Finally, Sídhe nodded. "I'll walk you home," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Timmy wouldn't have refuted even if it was.

He turned and started walking.

In his mind, Timmy always thought that if he did get to meet Sídhe, for whatever reason, he would ask a bunch of questions that he wanted to know the answer to. Like, where did he get his powers from? Why did he choose to be a hero? Were his wings as delicate as they looked? Was he born with them?

Was being a superhero lonely?

Instead, they walked in silence. Timmy stole glances at Sídhe as they walked, just to ensure that he wasn't dreaming. His wings were iridescent and looked as thin as air, like the details were spun from spider's silk and would fall apart at a touch. His clothing choice didn't seem to include any armor — Sídhe was dressed in flowing, loose fabric. The effect was that he looked ephemeral. Timmy kept thinking that he was going to blink and Sídhe would be gone.

For some reason, he stayed. He stayed all the way down the street, to Timmy's shitty little apartment just two blocks from his college campus.

"This is my stop," Timmy said.

Sídhe glanced appraisingly at the run-down brick building. "Are you safe here?" He asked.

"Uh." Timmy wasn't sure how to answer that. He wasn't sure why Sídhe cared. He shrugged one shoulder. "More or less."

Sídhe hummed. He set a hand on Timmy's shoulder, leaning in — so close that their breaths mingled and Timmy could count the flecks of gold burning in his irises.

This time, the last thing that Timmy expected was to be kissed. And that was exactly what Sídhe did.

His lips brushed the cut on Timmy's cheek, and it felt like time stopped. Timmy's fingers curled, clenching around nothing. He wanted time to freeze again; wanted this moment to last just a little bit longer.

Instead, Sídhe pulled back. The corner of his mouth was quirked up in a smile. "I have healing magic," he said by way of an explanation. Timmy could feel the place where he'd kissed tingling but, honestly, it would have felt that way even without magic.

"T-Thanks," Timmy managed. He cleared his throat. "I really, um, appreciate you, helping me out and walking me home... You didn't have to do all of that," he said awkwardly.

It was easier to make conversation when he'd been frozen. Now that he was thawed, all Timmy could focus on was the way that Sídhe's purple curls were hanging in front of his eyes, just begging to be brushed away from his face.

"Of course I didn't 'have to.' I wanted to," Sídhe said warmly. And he smiled, like there was no where in the world he'd rather be than on Timmy Turner's doorstep, with blood on his glove and fondness in his eyes. "Get some sleep, Timmy."

His wings fluttered as Sídhe became airborne. Timmy watched, amazed that something so pretty was actually functional. He wanted to memorize those swooping swirls and careful curves. He wanted to duck his head along Sídhe's bare back, lips brushing down his spine, while his fingers traced the patterns on his wings from memory.

Instead, Timmy stood there like an idiot, staring at the night sky until long after Sídhe was out of sight.

His cut had been healed, but his cheek still burned.

All Timmy could think was that he wanted Sídhe to stare at him like that again — like he was the most important thing in the universe.

(It didn't occur to him until the next morning that he had never told Sídhe his name.)

[ginoeh]

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

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

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

To The Edge of Night

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

Part One Part Two

*** *** ***

Chapter One

It is quiet beneath the water’s surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, he is spat out.

It feels like waking up, only in reverse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** *** 

It all started by chance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** *** 

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

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

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

Looking at it hurt. 

The thought of getting rid of it hurt more.

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

*** *** ***

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

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

This is a dream.

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

How odd a dream this turns out to be.

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

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

He doesn’t get an answer. 

*** *** ***

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

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

Hob didn't mind. 

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

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

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

*** *** ***

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

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

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

So eventually, Hob starts walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob walks on.

*** *** *** 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's up, Emily?”

There was an exasperated silence.

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

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

“Forgot what?”

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

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

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

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

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

It made him feel truly unhinged for one disconnected moment. 

“Okay. Order away.”

At the other end, there was silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to make some friends again.

*** *** *** 

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

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

*** *** ***

Chapter Two

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

It’s familiar.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah… I can absolutely see it.”

“You can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are, little bugger.”

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

“Thanks for doing this, Martin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 What the hell was that. 

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

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

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

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

“There. The ale I promised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** *** 

Interlude:

Dream of the Endless startles. 

Something has changed.

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

*** *** *** 

“Oh. My. God.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily stopped twisting the poor bottle. 

“What?”

She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emily, please.”

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

Hob winced and held up his hands in surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. It’s creepy.”

“I’m creepy?”

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

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

“I swear I won’t.”

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

She stomped her cigarette out and got up again.

“See you later?”

“Of course.” 

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

“Nightmares, huh.” 

*** *** ***

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

Perpetual twilight falls and fog lies over everything.

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

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

It feels like-

It feels like home to Hob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the faith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** ***        

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

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

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

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

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

Then, his reflection wavers, shudders - and vanishes. 

“What…”

The rain sounds like waves crashing onto the shore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is impossible.” 

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

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

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

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

“Are you the real thing then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** *** *** 

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

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

*** *** ***

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

The forest is dark and still. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 He shows off the finished crown to his companion.

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

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

Hob doesn’t need to think before he follows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, he throws it into the pond.

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

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

“What was that.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then it’s gone and Hob rears back.

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

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

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

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

The nightmare forest, it seems, welcomes him wholly. 

*** *** ***

Interlude:

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

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

They would have been wrong.

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

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

It feels like gentle care beneath his crafted skin.

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

He is endless, after all.

He can wait.

*** *** ***

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

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

[asukiess]

find the words

thank you @bittersweetresilience for the tag!! <3 sunny provided us with the following words: water, shadow, and yesterday. I believe we were just to find these in WIPs, so...!

water, from the loveywalker fic:

The skyline behind Loveybug is a roulette of colors, bokeh yellow streetlights and office harsh white fluorescence and flurries of red tail lights passing by this unassuming scene. Water laps at her smirk as she peers up at him, half-way beneath the iridescent pool waves. Each one overlapping the other, throwing rippled refractions of her pink suit across the pool. Oddly, Cat Walker remembers the first day he met her, how her suit seemed to him like cotton candy. Irrationally, he fears the more she swims, the more the water might dissolve her completely like candy, too, leaving him all alone on the roof.

shadow, from my flower is ephemeral (adrien dies!):

Protecting her for the last time. Chest heaving. His eyes fluttering like butterfly wings, persisting against that creeping shadow of death, until they submit under the weight and close, finally. “Alix,” she croaks, eyes glossed over, “Please let me forget.”

rose (reserve word!!! ty sunny), also from the loveywalker fic:

“What’s in a name?” she giggles, drinking in his stunned reaction. “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”  Hooking her arms around him as he hoists them up, she leans into him.  “You can call me anything you want,” she croons. “Your partner, your girlfriend, the love of your life.” She arches herself to say into the blushing shell of his ear, “But the name’s Loveybug.”

I'll tag @coffeebanana & @blur0se & @monpetitchattriste if'n you want to do it :)

words: new, sunrise, cuddle

reserve words: father, sobbed, exhausted

[wingedjewels]

White-necked Jacobin by Adam Rainoff Via Flickr: Capturing the White-necked Jacobin (Florisuga mellivora) in its natural habitat at Birdwatch La Conchita near Cali, Colombia, provided a remarkable opportunity to explore and document the vibrant dynamics of avian life. The photograph showcases this striking bird in mid-flight, its deep blue hood and green upperparts set against a softly blurred green background. Utilizing a shallow depth of field, I was able to isolate the bird from the surrounding foliage, emphasizing the brilliant coloration and intricate feather details that make the White-necked Jacobin a subject of endless fascination. From a technical standpoint, shooting this image required patience and a high shutter speed to freeze the rapid wing movement, capturing a moment of pure, ephemeral grace. Lighting played a crucial role, enhancing the iridescent quality of the bird's plumage. This image not only reflects my passion for avian photography but also underscores the importance of precision and timing in wildlife photography. It's a testament to the serene moments of nature that are often hidden in plain sight, waiting to be immortalized through the lens. ©2021 Adam Rainoff Photographer

[victoriantreecat]

The wind made fuzzy patterns in the ever falling rain. The gentle shower tossed about before it came down to settle on the crop fields. The wooden parapets and walkways atop the cobbled-together walls were soaked through, water dripping down in dismal rivulets.

Martyn let out a heaving sigh. It was not bad weather, per se, just a little, well, cold and damp. And their little hut with its lattice roof was already full of water pooling in the enchanting well, as he could so clearly see from his perch by the door- the only really dry part in all of Dogwarts today.

The rain started getting a little heavier.

He sighed again, ran his thumb over the engraved blade of his axe, worried at the smeared dried blood that seemed to be sunk into the iridescent blue crystal even days after the test, glanced up at the rain trickling in through the roof, considered going down to the basement, dismissed that idea (the floor must be flooded down there, and the villagers complain like nobody's business when their feet get wet). Better he stayed up here , the drizzle wouldnt stop enemies, much as he would have loved it to. Yes, keep watch up here, protect his home. So he stretched his back and surveyed the misty air of the fort.

A gentle splash sounded beside him, the pattering of paws through a puddle, and he glanced through the latticed wall to see Ren coming up from the basement. Ren was glancing around, seeming to search for something within the rain-soaked walls. A brief smile of affection allowed itself onto Martyn's lips before he schooled himself and called out, accented,

"My liege, where are ye going?"

Ren's ear flicked up, and his shroud swirled around his shoulders as he turned towards the hut's entrance.

"Me hand!" He replied in the same lofty brogue. "I was comin' to find ye, me friend. May I come in?"

Something in his cadence was hesitating, Martyn thought, easily leaning over to lift the door latch.

Ren came around the corner, chill drops of rain starting to dust his crown- the water and the blood starting to flow mingled down. And as they came face to face across the threshold, Martyn felt a dread that he would see his king pierced by an arrow from an archer he had missed in the deepening shadow of this rain. But the king now passed bloodlessly through the doors Martyn held open, to stand cramped in the entry, between the gentle flood on either side. His boots were damp, the basement had indeed been flooded- Ren remarked as such, dropping the accent to a hardly audible burr. Still, that slight awkwardness peeked through.

"Well, me lord, what were you looking for me for then?" He gazed up, waited patiently, silently probed his king's countenance.

"Well uh, so I, I've been setting this up for about a week now, and, um, well I thought that today would be the best day to, well, show it to you…" He trailed off, all traces of his thick accent gone now. This was him honest, then, unreserved and unhidden. And he reached into his belt pocket and brought forth a few tiny pinkish crystals, each with an iridescent blue core.

Martyn stared down at them, poised and curious, as Ren stuttered on.

"They're uh, they're my first time making, like, rock candy." The sticky crystals glinted in the dull rainy light as Ren continued. "With a sugar kinda syrup and some roses I found. Err, yeah."

"Milord, thats genius!" Martyn chuckled, eyebrows raised.

"Er, would you like to try one?" Ren's tail was wagging just slightly. "I uhm, I used little chips of diamond to start them, so dont break your teeth!" His lopsided grin showed a little peek of his canines. Martyn reached out to take one of the tiny grains, marvelling at their ephemeral beauty as he plucked one from Ren's calloused palm.

"They just came out of the syrup, my dude, so they're still a bit, er, sticky." Ren looked a bit sheepish, and at this distance, Martyn could see the pinkish residue pooling on his hands. His own fingers had the stuff on them too.

"Yeah, they sure are," he agreed, before popping the little sweet into his mouth.

It was a starburst of sweetness, rosy and round. It bloomed on his tongue, tasting of spring and sunsets, a gentle reprieve from the cold. It was bliss.

Martyn opened his eyes, let the corners of his mouth relax to a contented smile. He met Ren's eyes through his sunglasses.

"Thank you," he said, quiet as the rain that seemed to soften, falling on the fields. "Thank you, Ren."

[screamingiminlovewithyou]

Words I hope taylor uses on ttpd:

(Any form of the word is acceptable)

Melancholy

Effervescent

Extrapolate

Iridescent

Diabolical

Nefarious

Flippant

Bespoke

Acquiesce

Quintessential

Besotted

Enigmatic

Ephemeral

Egregious

Proverbial

Impropriety

Pernicious

Unequivocally

Monochrome

Egocentric

Lucrative

Erudite

Pulverize

Penultimate

Despondent

Lucid

Diatribe

Vitriolic

Morose

Incendiary

Sycophant

Surreptitious

Demure

Elixir

[septembersghost]

maybe it's because i'm melancholic, maybe it's because i'm a Romantic romantic, maybe it's some innate jewishness latched onto the DNA of remembrance, but noting "lasts" to me is valuable, even if there's a sorrow in it, in the finality. the wisp of fear and grief. it makes me think a bit of that mary oliver quote (and i know i'm giving it different meaning in saying this) - someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness. it took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. it makes me think of why, in death, we say: may their memory be a blessing. it's the hope that we keep and lift up the flame. moments are precious because they end.

the thing about a last is no one ever knows when they're having one until long after the fact, and if you're here to recognize it, then it becomes a treasure. if someone isn't here to understand, then we hold it for them. you can only see it looking back at it. almost no one knows when the very last is going to be, but there are so many other little pearls of them before that. they stopped making something that was your favorite, but you had it one last time. lovers parting not knowing they've had a last kiss. a friendship that drifts apart and they didn't realize they were sharing a last laugh. a writer unwittingly penning their last word. a singer doesn't know when they've given an audience their last song.

except. someone new takes a hand, reads the passage, puts on the last song decades later and sways in their room, and then it's neverending. i think that's why i hold onto dates, look back at memories, even final ones, sad ones. it's not closing the door forever, it's reverent. they may take on a gloom or an iridescence, depending on the view, but if we don't remember they were the last, it steals something. tight hugs, hand-written letters, tail wags, cups of tea, sunrises, melodies. these are the ephemeral things that make up a life, and the more we think they don't linger forever is the more they actually do. there are things which are lasts, and there are things which last. for always. sometimes they're the same.

[yumejo]

what form of love do you seek?

「general lilia x mana // lilimana」 ↳ general lilia save me from myself cw: violence mention

As the sensation of her rapid pulse engulfing her chest resonated with potent consternation, Mana felt the festering anxieties burst from her throat upon swerving a corner and discerning another multitude of enemies clustering around her. She clenched the hem of her skirt tautly, sweat dribbling down the nape of her neck.

Armed with a plethora of swords, the entities clad in silver relinquished them from their holsters and pointed them directly at the unfortunate girl. Being hunted because she was interwoven with the fae exacerbated the danger her daily survival possessed, yet she didn’t particularly ‘care’ for it.

Because there was a certain someone she’d rather be in danger with—than be safe without.

Once that thought crossed her mind, the clamor of flesh tearing apart resounded. Grotesque splotches of blood scattered across the floor as iridescent emerald skewered the malicious foes, and Mana became patently relieved as she witnessed the sight of it all.

 While the gore wrenched her stomach cavity with bile, the fact that she was graced with solace heaved a boundless effect on her. "Lilia-san, you came⋯!" Mana cried out, screwing her eyes shut for an ephemeral second as the corpses came billowing to the ground in a mess. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get caught up in all this."

The aforementioned male sauntered forward, his silhouette immaculate without a trace of blood on him, before his hands gripped Mana's cheeks. "You're not hurt, are you?" Lilia questioned rather staidly, albeit the concern was threaded through his eyes. "Stop apologizing for things out of your control. It’s annoyingly unnecessary."

Bringing her hands up to cover his own, Mana weakly nodded her head in acknowledgement. "I’m fine, you came just in time⋯" she divulged, her voice soft and euphonious in spite of the harrowing situation she endured moments before.

Perusing her countenance and overall being, Lilia felt sated that she wasn’t handled erroneously in any way. Lilia pinched her cheek before dropping his hands down, recoiling to seize up her petite hands once more. "Let’s go back to camp," he murmured, scrutinizing as Mana’s mien brightened substantially at his articulation.

For whatever reason, Lilia pleaded that she’d just be safe—he’d withstand an infinite amount of danger if it meant this one, singular wish could be granted.

[arthistoryanimalia]

Louis Comfort Tiffany was born #OTD (18 Feb 1848 – 17 Jan 1933).

Here is his extraordinary Art Nouveau dragonfly and dandelion hair ornament:

Hair ornament, c. 1904 Gold, silver, platinum, black opals, boulder opals, demantoid garnets, rubies, and enamel H. 3 1/4 in. (8.3 cm) The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

"This hair ornament is one of the most remarkable works by Louis C. Tiffany, an artist who worked in virtually every media and is especially known for his leaded-glass windows and floral lampshades. Tiffany embarked on the design and fabrication of artistic jewelry just after the turn of the century and debuted it at the Pan-American Exposition in St. Louis in 1904. His earliest works are extraordinary evocations of nature, the artist’s muse throughout his long and productive career. Here, capturing an ephemeral moment, two dragonflies alight on dandelion seed balls, one of which is partially blown away. Tiffany found beauty in one of the most common plants, seen not at the height of bloom but in a natural fading state, just before the seeds are scattered. The dragonflies feature shimmering black opals along their backs and dazzling pink opals as the heads, their coloristic properties evoking Tiffany’s famed iridescent glass. Their delicate, gossamer-like filigree wings were likely intended to have slight movement—en tremblant—when the wearer turned her head. The hair ornament was originally owned by and descended in the family of Louisine Havemeyer, one of Tiffany's most ardent patrons and a noted avant-garde collector of modern French painting."

[bakuliwrites]

500 Follower Celebration Timeline

So, since people voted to have me post the schedule for this event, here it is! I wanted to take another moment to thank all of you wonderful people for your support and many kindnesses 💜 I appreciate all of you so much!

Gale (BG3), Relic, Tender, Petrichor

Portia (The Arcana), Parchment, Toothsome, Bergamot

Muriel (The Arcana), Silk, Glacial, Citrus

Prince Sidon (LOZ), Blood, Vivid, Cardamom

Xander (FE: Fates), Theatre, Burnished, Cinnamon (*18+)

Sypha (Castlevania), Bottles, Coarse, Whiskey

Camilla (FE: Fates), Oil, Radiant, Peach

Geto (JJK), Starlight, Hazy, Musk

Zevlor (BG3), Grass, Pallid, Brown Sugar (18+)

Astarion (BG3), Embers, Mellifluous, Coconut

Gojo (JJK), Lamplight, Iridescent, Linen

Tauriel (LOTR), Fossils, Ephemeral, Lavender

Thranduil (LOTR), Ink, Dulcet, Bonfire

Halsin (BG3), Feathers, Rapturous, Vanilla

Shadowheart (BG3), Library, Ebullient, Amber

Shoko (JJK), Gloves, Crestfallen, Mint

Choso (JJK), Gossamer, Discreet, Teakwood

Alucard (Castlevania), Masquerade, Luxurious, Leather

Lae'zel (BG3), Sapphires, Faded, Old Books

Gortash (BG3), Meadow, Scintillating, Patchouli

Karlach (BG3), Crystal, Labyrinthine, Fir

Wyll (BG3), Winter, Enchanting, Rose

Trevor (Castlevania), Train, Crisp, Dirt

Link (LOZ), Cobblestone, Earthy, Rosemary

Lucio (The Arcana), Puddles, Dreamy, Cumin

Nadia (The Arcana), Sunset, Ardent, Sandalwood

Legolas (LOTR), Honey, Wistful, Jasmine

Julian (The Arcana), Bubbles, Mossy, Sea Salt

Nanami (JJK), Necklace, Mercurial, Coffee

Asra (The Arcana), Goldleaf, Velvety, Metal

*This can also be a sort of table of contents for the event, too :) Also, everything was randomized, down to which characters went with which prompts and on which days. Some worked out really well, others are definitely going to be a challenge haha.

[mantrabay]

Far Beyond Hereafter 2

Sumptuous feasts enchanted float on by,

as I peer into an opulent expanse,

garnet clad entrance aglow,

imagine august beauty at its mise en scène peak,

ingress to celestial nirvana’s Laurel-ridden charm,

iridescent veil of cirrus nebula,

window blind ephemeral in situ,

rapid inkling’s meteoric shower,

harvest for the milk and honey bard,

goes beyond elysium horizons,

flight of fancy totem, utter breathless oath,

unearthly surreal lustrous cache,

burst of universal zenith trumpeting,

exalted plot as moonbeam step stair,

just imagine for a spell psalmodic Meccas,

to a hue-laden whirlpool vortex,

that sequesters sun-drenched harbours,

gurgling stream meanders, moss-fleck tides,

mesmerizing shroud of lambent bayou,

hazy plume on silver waterfall,

scarab mountain chain at sapphire dawn,

whose jewel-rich seams glisten enigmatically,

indigo blue species, bold passerine upsweep,

wayfarer halcyon Xanadu bound,

urban forest blackcap’s luscious throb,

snowbird glee club ear chant for

sprightly day-peep first rank,

amber leaf cascade a sequined duvet on barren playground,

rainbow eucalyptus but a foil for sylvan zephyr,

crystal ball elixir knows no quench or glut,

imagine life eternal in my wonder world cocoon,

“Awash with swath of astral luminescence.”

Photographs and piece all my own creation

Thanks in advance for reading and considering this post

Extra line bonus feature at the bottom

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Mushrooms

My dear friend @cilil was good enough to send me this one! It was very fun to write! Thank you endlessly, babe!

Characters: Irmo x Estë

Words: 175

Warnings: Drug use, nudity

Estë was wandering along the hidden paths of her garden leisurely when she heard the familiar hum of a happy although sleepy voice.

Lying in the embrace of fragrant, soft grasses, her husband dozed—heavy-lidded and entirely naked—by the iridescent pond of restful dreams he so loved.

“My darling,” she called softly. “How many times do I have to chide you for overindulging in the powers of the purple mushrooms?”

“They’re my favourite,” Irmo replied in a sweet, slightly lisping mumble and gave her a vague smile that mellowed her heart.

Whisps of visions and reveries swirled around his radiant head like fireflies—it seemed to her that her beloved wore a flickering, ephemeral halo which only heightened his otherworldly beauty.

“Come, you old fool,” she laughed and lifted him into her strong, enduring arms as if he weighed nought more than his whimsical moth-form.

“I had a wonderful dream,” Irmo whispered, nuzzling against the smooth expanse of her slender throat. “You were there.”

“And so I am,” she agreed, “and always shall be.”

@fellowshipofthefics here we go with the next one!

-> Masterlist

𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 <3

[biboocat]

Vladimir Nabokov’s Brutally Honest Opinions on 63 of the “Greatest” Writers to Ever Write (1973). I got this from a literature FB group; I can’t verify its authenticity. Even if the source is authentic, it seems to me a very subjective exercise, so take it in that spirit.

Auden, W. H. Not familiar with his poetry, but his translations contain deplorable blunders.

Austen, Jane. Great.

Balzac, Honoré de. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes.

Barbusse, Henri. Second-rate. A tense-looking but really very loose type of writing.

Beckett, Samuel. Author of lovely novellas and wretched plays.

Bergson, Henri. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

Borges, Jorge Luis. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. A man of infinite talent.

Brecht, Bertolt. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Brooke, Rupert. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, but no longer.

Camus, Albert. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me. Awful.

Carroll, Lewis. Have always been fond of him. One would like to have filmed his picnics. The greatest children's story writer of all time.

Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote. A cruel and crude old book.

Cheever, John. “The Country Husband.” A particular favorite. Satisfying coherence.

Chekhov, Anton. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Talent, but not genius. Love him dearly, but cannot rationalize that feeling.

Chesterton, G. K. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conan Doyle, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14, but no longer. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conrad, Joseph. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Certainly inferior to Hemingway and Wells. Intolerable souvenir-shop style, romanticist clichés. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Romantic in the large sense. Slightly bogus.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Dislike him. A cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. A prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. Some of his scenes are extraordinarily amusing. Nobody takes his reactionary journalism seriously.

Dreiser, Theodore. Dislike him. A formidable mediocrity.

Eliot, T. S. Not quite first-rate.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. His poetry is delightful.

Faulkner, William. Dislike him. Writer of corncobby chronicles. To consider them masterpieces is an absurd delusion. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Flaubert, Gustave. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15.

Forster, E. M. Only read one of his novels (possibly A Passage to India?) and disliked it.

Freud, Sigmund. A figure of fun. Loathe him. Vile deceit. Freudian interpretation of dreams is charlatanic, and satanic, nonsense.

García Lorca, Federico. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Gogol, Nikolai. Nobody takes his mystical didacticism seriously. At his worst, as in his Ukrainian stuff, he is a worthless writer; at his best, he is incomparable and inimitable. Loathe his moralistic slant, am depressed and puzzled by his inability to describe young women, deplore his obsession with religion.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. A splendid writer.

Hemingway, Ernest. A writer of books for boys. Certainly better than Conrad. Has at least a voice of his own. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Loathe his works about bells, balls, and bulls. The Killers. Delightful, highly artistic. Admirable. The Old Man and the Sea. Wonderful. The description of the iridescent fish and rhythmic urination is superb.

Housman, A. E. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

James, Henry. Dislike him rather intensely, but now and then his wording causes a kind of electric tingle. Certainly not a genius.

Joyce, James. Great. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. Let people compare me to Joyce by all means, but my English is patball to Joyce's champion game. A genius.

I. Ulysses. A divine work of art. Greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose. Towers above the rest of Joyce's writing. Noble originality, unique lucidity of thought and style. Molly's monologue is the weakest chapter in the book. Love it for its lucidity and precision.

II. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Never liked it. A feeble and garrulous book.

III. Finnegans Wake. A formless and dull mass of phony folklore, a cold pudding of a book. Conventional and drab, redeemed from utter insipidity only by infrequent snatches of heavenly intonations. Detest it. A cancerous growth of fancy word-tissue hardly redeems the dreadful joviality of the folklore and the easy, too easy, allegory. Indifferent to it, as to all regional literature written in dialect. A tragic failure and a frightful bore.

Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Second-greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose.

Kazantzakis, Nikos. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Keats, John. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Kipling, Rudyard. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Lawrence, D. H. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Execrable.

Lowell, Robert. Not a good translator. A greater offender than Auden.

Mandelshtam, Osip. A wonderful poet, the greatest in Soviet Russia. His poems are admirable specimens of the human mind at its deepest and highest. Not as good as Blok. His tragic fate makes his poetry seem greater than it actually is.

Mann, Thomas. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Maupassant, Guy de. Certainly not a genius.

Maugham, W. Somerset. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Certainly not a genius.

Melville, Herman. Love him. One would like to have filmed him at breakfast, feeding a sardine to his cat.

Marx, Karl. Loathe him.

Milton, John. A genius.

Pasternak, Boris. An excellent poet, but a poor novelist. Doctor Zhivago. Detest it. Melodramatic and vilely written. To consider it a masterpiece is an absurd delusion. Pro-Bolshevist, historically false. A sorry thing, clumsy, trivial, melodramatic, with stock situations and trite coincidences.

Pirandello, Luigi. Never cared for him.

Plato. Not particularly fond of him.

Poe, Edgar Allan. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, but no longer. One would like to have filmed his wedding.

Pound, Ezra. Definitely second-rate. A total fake. A venerable fraud.

Proust, Marcel. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. In Search of Lost Time. The first half is the fourth-greatest masterpiece of 20th-century prose.

Pushkin, Alexander. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. A genius.

Rimbaud, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Great. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. Magnificently poetical and original.

Salinger, J. D. By far one of the finest artists in recent years.

Sartre, Jean-Paul. Even more awful than Camus.

Shakespeare, William. Read complete works between 14 and 15. One would like to have filmed him in the role of the King's Ghost. His verbal poetic texture is the greatest the world has ever known, and immensely superior to the structure of his plays as plays. It is the metaphor that is the thing, not the play. A genius.

Sterne, Laurence. Love him.

Tolstoy, Leo. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15. Nobody takes his utilitarian moralism seriously. A genius.

I. Anna Karenina. Incomparable prose artistry. The supreme masterpiece of 19th-century literature.

II. The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A close second to Anna Karenina.

III. War and Peace. A little too long. A rollicking historical novel written for the general reader, specifically for the young. Artistically unsatisfying. Cumbersome messages, didactic interludes, artificial coincidences. Uncritical of its historical sources.

Turgenev, Ivan. Talent, but not genius.

Updike, John. By far one of the finest artists in recent years. Like so many of his stories that it is difficult to choose one.

Wells, H. G. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. A great artist, my favorite writer when I was a boy. His sociological cogitations can be safely ignored, but his romances and fantasies are superb. A far greater artist than Conrad. A writer for whom I have the deepest admiration.

Wilde, Oscar. Rank moralist and didacticist. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Wolfe, Thomas. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

https://twitter.com/Essayful/status/1729559047102153008?