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pretzel-box · 2 months ago

Text

MDNI | TW: Body Horror, Detailed Graphic Description of Gore. Mention of Needles

Tags: Established Relationship, Devotion, Obsession, TW Tags above

Words: 2,2k

Sebastian Solace could hear your faint breathing in the silence, another form of melody that graced his ears. It was calming and invited him to pause from the burden of the daily life and dream instead. He was sure, your presence alone is like a bright shimmer at the edge of his void world, not blinding but so unbelievable radiant, a glow that pulls him towards your existence like the moon that beckons the tides.

His gaze lingers a bit longer than intended and yet not long enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul. He traced the curve of your form, with a fleeting glance, as you sit at the desk, lost in the pages that stretched out before you. Each turn of the paper is a soft whisper, a delicate flutter that harmonizes with the quiet rhythm of your breath. You are unaware, absorbed in the world between the lines, stories and memories, yet your every movement feels choreographed by the stars themselves—effortless, graceful, like a long lost dream.

Sebastian watches, mesmerized by the way your fingers brush the edges of the book, gentle as if you hold something precious. The faint light spills across your skin, casting a soft halo that wraps around you, an ethereal glow that seems to exist for his eyes alone. In the stillness, you are his celestial body, his guiding star, unknowingly illuminating the vast, shadowed corners of his heart.

Even the way you tilt your head, lost in thought, feels like the subtle pull of gravity, drawing him closer, though he remains in the quiet distance. He wonders if you can feel the way the air shifts around him, how it hums with the silent longing he tries to contain deep inside him. You are his solace, his steady beacon in a sea of darkness, and though you are unaware of his gaze, every part of you seems to call to him, softly and irresistibly.

The way your voice wrapped around his name sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation as delicate as the brush of sunlight after a long storm. "Oh, Sebastian," you had said, and it was as if the very air he breathed had shifted, softened, warmed. There was a tenderness in your words, a gentleness that seemed to cradle him, filling the empty spaces inside his chest.

Your voice, like the wind, swept through the quiet room, curling around him in invisible tendrils, soothing, comforting, and undeniably real. If sound could embrace, then surely this was the closest he'd ever come to feeling human warmth drenched in love. It enveloped him, like the gentle embrace of arms he longed to know. Each syllable lingered in the air, thick with sweetness, as though the very essence of your being flowed through the sound, leaving a trail of honey in its wake.

"Dreaming as always," you teased, your words lilting in a way that felt like a dance. "You surely got your head in the clouds." And oh, how right you were. He was far beyond the realm of mortals, his thoughts soaring high, lost among the stars you unknowingly filled his world with. His heart, caught in the sheer comfort of your presence, was suspended somewhere between the heavens and earth, weightless, adrift. You were not just the pull that grounded him, but the entire sky he yearned to float within, a cosmic force that kept him both dreaming and awake at the very same time.

He smiled faintly, helpless under your spell, for every word you spoke was like stardust falling gently into his soul, filling the dark spaces with light. You had no idea of the gravity you held over him, how your voice alone shaped his universe, a melody that kept him tethered to you, even as his mind wandered through galaxies made entirely of you.

Time passed, yet not a single day saw Sebastian’s love fade or waver. It flowed endlessly, like the ceaseless currents of the ocean, drenching you with his quiet, unwavering devotion. His love became a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, shaping every thought and action. He was ready to forsake even the simplest of pleasures, content to immerse himself entirely in the depths of your existence. Every movement, every breath, every word he spoke seemed to carry your name, a silent vow of his love that coursed through him like water through the veins of the sea.

"Hold still," he mumbled softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, soothing and gentle. There was no command in it, just a quiet reminder as he held the sharp silver needle between his large, grey fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the light of his glowing lure, casting soft reflections across the water. He carefully threaded a piece of red string through the needle’s eye, makeshift and fragile, yet it was all he had. The first aid kits he’d scavenged from the Blacksite over time had long run dry, leaving him with no choice but to use whatever he could find.

Your arm lay before him, a deep gash marring the skin, crimson blood flowing down in slow rivulets, like rain sliding down a windowpane. It pooled on the floor below, dark and heavy in the water. Sebastian’s chest tightened as he worked with quiet precision, his fingers moving deftly, though the sight of your blood filled him with a deep ache.

He wished for better tools, for a world where you would never be hurt, where his hands wouldn't have to stitch your wounds with makeshift threads. But this was the Blacksite, where even tenderness had to survive in the cold, unforgiving depths.

His focus was entirely on you, though he remained silent. He didn’t want you to feel the weight of his worry, the way his heart clenched with every drop of blood that spilled. His touch was steady, careful, as if you were more precious than anything else in this forsaken place. And to him, you were.

Painter’s digital face flickered on the nearby navipath screen, his expression shifting to something indescribable—an emotion too complex for mere pixels to convey, especially on this tiny screen next to the door. He observed Sebastian with a silent intensity, studying the careful way his grey fingers moved as he worked on you. His glowing eyes flickered, tracing the delicate thread being pulled through decaying skin, before his gaze settled on you—on what was left of you.

Sebastian had become a creature of instinct, driven by something darker, something primal. He had torn through the dark halls of the Blacksite with a violence so raw, so brutal, that it left no room for mercy. Mere Limbs were shredded, layers of soft flesh ripped apart as if it were nothing more than paper beneath his hands. Deep crimson blood had flowed like rivers, drenching the cold metallic floors in a sea of red. The stench of rotting bodies clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He had bathed the Blacksite in death, and yet it was never enough.

He needed more.

Your body, once divine, had begun to rot so long ago. The soft skin of your face, once untouched by time, had long since withered away. Maggots crawled through what remained, eating away at your remaining existing flesh that had shriveled up and lost its radiant color, but Sebastian couldn't see it. Or perhaps he refused to. His eyes, dark and hollow in that shade of blue, only saw the memory of you—the beauty you once held, the light you once gave him. He couldn't bear to lose it.

So, he had followed in Urbanshade’s footsteps. He had learned, in the most twisted way, to preserve you. Piece by piece, he replaced what decayed, ripping parts from the bodies he’d slaughtered, stitching them together with thread, with force, with desperation so solid that it became the foundation of his delusion. He practiced, over and over, perfecting the art of sewing until murder became a ritual, a divine act of art in his mind in the name of creation.

Sebastian Solace had turned the Blacksite into his own cathedral of carnage, a place where death and love were inseparable. He had twisted his devotion into something monstrous, into a grotesque form of art where your body, patched and stitched together from the remains of his victims, was his only masterpiece. His love for you had become a relentless hunger, one that consumed him as completely as it had consumed the bodies he tore apart to keep you whole.

And still, he sat by your side, gently stitching, as if he were mending something sacred.

„Sebastian. They are gone.“

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, taking in your once delicate features, trying to grasp at the fading remnants of what you had been. But the longer he bathed in your presence, the more your appearance twisted and warped, a grotesque distortion of the memory he clung to. The rosy tint that had once colored your cheeks was gone, replaced by the sickly pallor of decaying flesh. Your skin, that soft, precious surface he had adored, was now peeling, hanging in ragged strips from your bones, exposing raw, festering meat underneath.

His heart quickened, the rhythm erratic as his mind scrambled for answers that weren't there. Where was the gentle glow in your eyes, the light that had once held him captive? Instead, hollow, sunken sockets stared back at him, their emptiness filled only with the dull sheen of rot. The stench of death clung to you, thick and nauseating, wrapping itself around him, filling his lungs with each breath until the taste of it settled heavy on his tongue.

The skin he had so tenderly sewn was slipping, the stitches frayed and torn, unable to hold together the decomposing mass that had once been you. His hands twitched, instinctively reaching for the needle and thread, desperate to fix it, to make you whole again. But no matter how many times he stitched, how many bodies he tore apart to replace the rotting parts, it was never enough. Your flesh, his precious masterpiece, was slipping away from him.

He could see the maggots now, squirming and writhing beneath the layers of your skin, feasting on what remained. The sight turned his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. He needed to save you—needed to preserve what little of you was left. Yet, the more he tried, the more your body melted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque nightmare that mocked his every attempt at salvation.

He broke like glass and died inside from a pain that couldn't be described with words. In the endless blue eyes were a deep reflection of total confusion as all traces of emotional warmth has left his body. Seconds passed, then minutes and somehow he wasn't sure if life really continued in that moment.

“I tried to eat them,” Sebastian whispered, his voice hollow, as if the confession carried no weight anymore, just a haunting echo in the stagnant air. He hovered above the floor, eyes tracing the dark puddle of blood mixed with filthy water beneath him. His reflection stared back, twisted and ghostly in a liquid that wasn’t even yours.

“After they died... I tried to eat their flesh to preserve them,” he continued, almost as if speaking to himself, his words barely audible. His gaze remained fixed on the pool as if searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or absolution. “I started with their neck... I remember, they loved it when I kissed their neck.”

His hand drifted to his mouth, his voice trembling, though his face remained eerily calm. “I sunk my teeth into the cold flesh... tasted the first drop of blood. I pulled at it, gently tearing away the skin, chewing it like it was some delicate meal. But all I tasted was metal—cold, bitter metal.”

His fingers twitched, reaching out to stroke the grotesque, rotting leg of the decaying mass that sat slumped in the chair, a body that barely resembled what it once had been. Painter, from his place on the screen, watched in silent horror as Sebastian caressed the flesh with disturbing tenderness, as if even now he could find traces of the beauty he once loved.

“It wasn’t like them," he muttered, his voice growing softer, more distant. "It wasn’t what they were. All I could taste was death. Cold, tasteless, soulless death.”

His hand trembled as it slid down the decayed limb, his eyes glazed over, lost in the memory. “But I kept eating... trying to find them in the flesh, in the blood. I devoured piece after piece, convinced that somewhere in the rot, they still existed. And then I woke up.”

His voice cracked, the weight of his confession finally settling in. “And I realized, I had tainted their beauty.”

He paused, staring at the ruin before him, his body still, his mind racing. “I wanted them back. So I began sewing. Stitching them together piece by piece. Everything I ate, I replaced. Everything I destroyed, I repaired. I cut away what was lost, what had withered. And everything that was them... everything that had been theirs... I loved.”

His fingers traced the jagged edges of the sewn flesh, a twisted mockery of the love he once held for you. In his mind, he had preserved you, kept you alive, bound to him through his grotesque ritual. But in the quiet shadows of the Blacksite, all that remained was a macabre testament to his obsession—a reflection of the madness that had consumed him.

And Painter realized, Sebastian is still utterly in love with you.

#roblox pressure #sebastian solace #pressure #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader #tw:gore #tw: blood #tw: needles #tw: body horror

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saturnville · 1 month ago

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more jude fics I beggg

where do we go?

pairing: jude bellingham x black oc warning: angst content: she finds her way to his house after midnight with no other thought besides where they move forward from here. reference: where do we go by andra day an: engagement is always appreciated, and highly encouraged. I hope you enjoy <3 tags: @mauvecherie-writes @emjayewrites @neewrites @saintslewis @boujiestpoet @vile-harlot @greedyjudge2 @cocobutterqwueen @cosmic-parker @blueaetherr + let me know if you want to be added/removed!

It was past midnight. The dark sky cried bitterly, its tears streaming down in sheets, drenching the earth below. Loud wails and heavy sobs shook the ground. Who was she missing? Perhaps the sun, her lover who disappeared for hours at a time. Warming her atmosphere for a few short hours before abandoning her for the light sky, leaving her cold and lonely in his absence,

Evelyn Alena watched the winding road intently. Her bright headlights cut through the blanket of rain. The storm's weight felt so heavy, so consuming, that it was suffocating. Her hands twisted around the steering wheel. Her knuckles turned white as she focused on an unknown destination; her eyes narrowed against the glare of the rain.

While consciously, she had no destination, her heart had directed her brain to follow its created roadmap. It had driven her there, through familiar pathways and past streets with cars against the shoulder. It pulled her with a force she couldn’t name but couldn’t resist.

The rhythm of the windshield wipers played a steady beat against the haunting melody of the storm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Clashing thunderclaps caused a sudden dissonance in the rhythm of nature. She jumped in her seat. She should go home, she told herself. There was still time to turn around and go home before it got too dangerous. But she kept driving. Her car moved slowly and steadily through the rain, hissing as it passed the large puddles at the road's edge.

Then she saw it. At the corner of the street, where it’d always been. Sitting pretty, strong in stature. An inanimate memory, holding safe the love she had wrapped in flesh. She hesitated, foot hovering over the brake, heart pounding in her ears. She made the turn.

Woodman Ave.

Familiar ground. Echoes of old footsteps. Laughter still lingered in the corners. She could almost see her and Jude walking those sidewalks, playing ball in the backyard (though she wasn’t very good), and throwing water balloons at each other during family cookouts. She could see the love between them. She blinked, and the ghosts disappeared.

She pulled into the driveway slowly. Her fingers switched the light, which let the house rest in darkness. Her breath hitched. Had she made a mistake? She couldn’t get in her head too much. She’d already made it this far.

She got out of the car and closed the door quietly. Within seconds, she was drenched. Yet, she didn’t move with urgency. One foot after another, she counted how many footsteps it took to get from the driveway to the front door. 15.

She lifted her hand to knock but hesitated. What was she so afraid of? She’d already driven to his house during a storm, soaked her clothes like a child, and stood in front of his home. What more was there to be afraid of?

She gulped. One knock, two knows, three knocks. Silence.

The knock was quiet. Soft. Like whispers of the leaves during autumn. The door opens slowly. Her former lover, groggy from sleep, caught her silhouette through blurred vision. He blinked a few times. Evie. No words followed. She stood before him as her body shook, shivered, and quaked, evidence of walking in the rain. His eyes met hers—a moment of true recognition and understanding.

Jude stepped aside, inviting her in. She stepped into the house slowly, water leaving her wake. There were no words to say. He stood behind her, his bare feet damp with rainwater, and peeled the wet coat off her shoulders. He tapped her hip twice, nodding toward the bedroom.

She shuddered as she stripped out of her clothes. Each article hit the floor with a plop. She stared at herself in the mirror--bare-bodied, bare-faced, and bare-souled. What was she doing? A soft knock caught her attention.

Without much thought, Jude cracked the door. She didn’t mind it. “Some clothes. Towel for your hair. Another towel for your body...” He handed her a pile of neatly folded clothes. They were hers. Her favorite was an oversized Avengers shirt and old college sweatpants. The towel was a gift from him. Black and microfiber to protect her hair. She wanted to smile. He never got rid of her stuff.

Her eyes met his. He was tired, but so many emotions were swirling in his chocolate eyes. He was saying something, but she couldn’t make it out.

“Can you…I’m so cold,” she finally spoke through chattering teeth. Jude stepped into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him as if someone would follow. The black towel was thick and heavy in his hands as he wrapped it around her body. She let out a deep breath at the warmth.

He took the head towel next. He wrapped it around her head, securing it with the string and button. He nodded once. “You okay?” She nodded back. “I’ll leave you to it.” With her damp clothes in his hands, he turned.

He said nothing further when he left. She slid the shirt over her body and shoved her feet into the pant legs. She sighed heavily.

Her movements were slow as she opened the bathroom door and retreated downstairs. There were perks of living in a small home. Everything was easily accessible, and anyone could be easily found. His body was still against the couch. His finger drew circles around the rim of the pristine water glass, but not once did he pick it up.

“Feel better?” He asked without turning around. She gulped. Her head bobbed as if she was seen. Her feet shuffled against the tile floor as she circled the couch and stood off.

Burning ahead was the fireplace. Snap. Crackle. Pop. It warmed the living room and brought light to the desolate atmosphere. “Uh, yeah. Thank you. Room for another?” He lifted his arm, and she slipped under it; she was in her rightful place.

Silence consumed them. There was much to say, but neither knew where to begin. Evelyn lay on his chest, her eyelids heavy and her vision blurred. Her body shook as it tried to regain its equilibrium from being chilled by the rain. Anxiety-ridden, she was. Nervous and unsure. Yet, the sound of his heartbeat, strong and steady, grounded her.

Evelyn missed being so close to him. It felt like years, but it had only been a few months. There was a familiarity in how he held her near. Close and comfortable like she’d never left. Her mind raced with questions. Why was she here? Why’d her heart guide her to him?

Jude’s fingers traced absent-minded patterns on her arm. She wanted to ask if he missed her if he thought about her as much as she did him. But the words caught in her throat, held back by an unspoken agreement to simply exist, kept her from complicating it.

The storm began to die down. Violent winds and heavy rainpour tapered into a soft drizzle. It mirrored the quiet between them, a peace settling over the room, though the quiet tension lingered beneath it all. The fire continued to crackle in front of them.

“Jude...” she finally whispered, her voice hardly audible above the fading storm. But she didn’t know what else to say even as she said his name. There was no need. He responded with a quiet hum, his fingers pausing briefly before resuming their familiar dance on her skin.

They lay there like that for what felt like hours. The weight of everything unspoken hung between them, but neither felt the need to break the silence. It was a moment of comfort in confusion. Neither was sure where they would go, but basking in each other’s presence was enough.

#saturnville #saturnville writes #black!reader #black reader #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham x black!reader #jude bellingham x black oc #real madrid #real madrid x reader

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rachalixie · 1 year ago

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a/n: @cosmic-railwayxo mentioned that minho is sweet nothing by taylor swift coded and then send me a bunch of soft shit so i had no choice

you’re tired.

it’s the kind of bone-deep tiredness that only comes with weeks of exhaustion, countless interactions with people you never wanted to see again, work that seemed endless despite the pile you had accomplished, rainy days and windy nights that were equally unbearable. demands and demands of your time and attention and energy that you felt used up and thrown out.

and you had to go home and make dinner for yourself, having maxed out your take-out funds for the third week in a row. living on your own was it’s own haven in a way, but there were times where you dreamed of coming home to a warm, candle scented living room and a personal chef waiting with your favorite meal cooked and warm for you.

your hands feel like lead as you open your door, your body sags against the wall as you kick off your shoes, your mind feels so muddled that you don’t even notice the soft melody fading out from the kitchen until you’re stepping into it.

the room fades out, as do all the senses in your body except for the ones that sense him. minho, wearing your silly frilly apron, bent over a bit as he takes something that smells divine out of the oven. there’s a small smile on his face, closed lips humming a tune that you’ve heard time and time again - the one he sings to his cats, the one he sings to his mom, the one he sings to you when he thinks that you’re asleep. the one that has no real rhythm, the one that doesn’t make sense, the one that’s just so him that you feel tears pricking at your eyes just hearing it.

he looks up at you after he places the baking dish on the stovetop, all crinkly eyed and scrunched nose and it feels like you’re hit with a physical wave of affection. he looks like he belongs there, safe and sound in your kitchen as if it is his home too. the room lights up, soft glowing waves bouncing off the walls centered around him, and you move towards him like a firefly towards a glow.

“long day?” he says, soft voice twirling through the air. he presses a smooth palm to your cheek in a caress, letting his thumb run across the bone there. “i let myself in and made dinner.”

“you didn’t have to,” you choke out a bit, leaning into his touch. you glance at the dish he made - not your favorite, but you’re thankful for that. it grounds you, reminds you that this is not a dream and that he is actually real. actually this thoughtful. “thank you.”

he just hums in response, resting his chin on your head as he wraps his arms around you fully, pressing you into his body. he makes you feel so small in a way you never expected to love so much, you feel protected and cared for and he never asks for anything in return. his love for you is unconditional, as unwavering as the sun in the sky or the mountains painting the earth.

and though he had stopped, his song was still playing in your head.

outside, they're push and shoving

you're in the kitchen humming

all that you ever wanted from me was nothing

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #lee know fluff #lee know imagines #minho fluff #minho imagines

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eternalstarlitwonderland · 1 month ago

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Cosmic Songtress

The distance separating her from the stars faded into a shimmering haze, a mere backdrop to the magic of her performance

When she sang, her voice transformed into a vivid tapestry of storytelling, weaving tales that danced among the celestial spheres

An astral songstress had emerged in the cosmos, captivated by the stars in their untamed glory

They responded to her, their brilliance igniting the night sky, casting a mesmerizing glow that reached deep into her being, overwhelming her senses with their radiant embrace

As she aligned herself with their dazzling shimmer, her lips parted, releasing notes that soared like ethereal whispers

Her voice, clear as crystal and infused with a soothing balm, called out to the stars and their celestial neighbors, drawing them closer

Each melodic phrase rolled like waves across an ocean, enhanced by the starlit glint that amplified her gentle sound

With infectious joy, she sang her ethereal melody, a harmonious engagement that stirred the very fabric of the universe

So enchanted was she by her voice that she hardly noticed the Milky Way joining in, a tapestry of stars weaving their song alongside hers

She sparkled, bathed in a silvery light that seemed to connect her with everything above

COSMIC SONGSTRESS

(Her love for singing cuts through the obscuring shadows, illuminating the path for wandering souls, leading them safely into the silvery embrace of dawn)

COSMIC SONGSTRESS

(Her voice weaves seamlessly with the celestial beauty of Orion and its radiant belt)

As she continued her cosmic serenade, her vocals grew richer, layered with an additional wave of soothing rhythm that enveloped her audience in a starlit lullaby

Each note acted like a balm, easing the burdens they carried and washing away their uncertainties

Her serene melodies took away the doubts and pains of wandering souls, extending a gift that transcended her fears

Though the act of singing tormented her spirit at times, her voice remained the spellbinding allure that enchanted stars across the galaxy

The radiant beings were captivated not just by her vocal prowess, but also by the ethereal beauty she emanated

As she drifted through the vastness of space, her song approached its climax, gradually enveloping the stars in a soft twilight

The brilliance around her began to dim slightly, a gentle indicator of the concluding crescendo

With a deep inhale followed by a sharp exhale, she summoned her powerful vocals for a resounding bridge that resonated through the heavens, transforming her song into a melody that beckoned all who wished to listen

COSMIC SONGSTRESS

(Her passion for singing pierces through the thickest shadows, Her voice illuminating the path for wandering souls as they seek the warmth of light during the enchanting starlit hour)

COSMIC SONGSTRESS

(Her passionate melodies slice through the deepest shadows, echoing through the stellar tapestry, each note sparkling like the stars in its brilliant belt)

The notes flowed serenely from her lips, a beautiful tapestry of sound that resonated in harmony with the night

Despite the weight of the astral pressure upon her form, her unwavering passion for song conquered every physical strain

The air was thick with the lovely effluvium of her vibrations, filling the night with an enchanting aura

The night felt intimate as if she were tethered to the stars themselves

And in this moment, it was her night—a time for her voice to be heard, unmatched, and unshared

She’s the enchanting songstress of the cosmos, weaving melodies that resonate through the starry expanse and capturing the essence of cosmic beauty

She will eternally be celebrated among the stars, her voice is like a shimmering beacon of light, and her light shining brilliantly will forever illuminate the night sky with her timeless essence with a brilliance that touches the hearts of all who look up, a lasting tribute to a remarkable spirit

#my writting #written by me #astronomy #stars #my words #words #starry writes #starry songwriting #starry songwriter #starry songs #starry song lyrics

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druidwolf21 · 1 day ago

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Angron/f!reader

Soft touches

For the wonderful @thisuserislilsilly

CW: details of gore, violence, sexual content beneath the 😈

Can be read with or without the smut

Angron is probably a little OC, but I tried to make him a bit more human before the nails really f-ed him up.

But now I wanna write him being meeeeaaaannn 👀

Anyways let me know what you think!!

@jaghatai-khock @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Rage

Slaughter

Blood, sweet on his tongue

He swung his axe, again and again and again and again.

Bodies fell and the scent of iron and fear hung in the air, an intoxicating perfume flooding his brain with joy and rolling waves of endorphins as warriors turned to meat before his blows.

He hurled his blade, laughing as it cleaved a marine in two. Reveling in the gore as it spurted from the slowing parting carcass.

Angron stood, arms raised in glorious triumph as the red mist showered him, laughing at the sky as around him, the world fell to ruin.

Soft hands found the primarch's face, caressing his cheek as they ripped him from his dark thoughts. The screams faded, smoke and blood vanishing like a bad thought and replaced with the flickering embers of the fire casting dying light onto the dark walls of the office, the oak desk before him became tangible as his mind gripped onto reality. He felt the hard chair beneath him and Fingers ran along his sweat soaked skin as they stroked along his jawline, trailing up the sides of his face with a gentle touch. His eyes squeezed shut as he lent into the touch, allowing the feel of your skin to drown the horrors in his mind.

"my warrior" you whisper as you pull him forward to your breast, holding the man close as his staggered gulps for air slowed to match your own steady rhythm. You gradually felt the tension leave his body and the sweat cooled on his pale skin as he surrendered himself into your embrace.

Angron sank into your chest as you stood before him, pressing his face into your warmth and inhaling your scent deeply as the hunger of the nails was quelled. The metal bit deep into his body and mind as he nuzzled into your soft dress and pressed the rage into the back of his thoughts. He sighed as you traced your fingers gently along his head, dancing along his skin to the thick cables embedded in his head.

"my lord, there is no battlefield here, only me" you hummed softly as you stroked the crown of his head. You smiled as he pulled back from you and leaned back in his chair, his loose tabard shifting against his muscular chest as he took your small hand in his giant one. The red stripes of inked skin across his head furrowed as he frowned and Copper eyes, strained from pain met your own as a rare smile worked itself across his face whilst his thumb traced idle circles onto the back of your hand.

"sweet thing, were it so easy to leave the fight behind" he grumbled, grinding his teeth and scowling as another wave of pain fought to overcome him. He pulled you to him, seating you on his lap and petting your thigh softly as you saw his mind begin to wander. "War has raised me, it was bred into me and now..." he paused to tap the cortical implants coiling into his head.

"Now it consumes me"

You sighed and lent against his chest, pushing your head into his neck as his hands wandered across your shoulders and your thigh. Closing your eyes you listened to his hearts as they beat in his chest, vibrating through you like an engine, offering solace as they thrummed life through his body. You sat in comfortable silence for a while, your gladiator stroking patterns into your soft flesh as you perched on his thighs and traced the scars and lines of his biceps with your index finger.

"maybe. But for now, you're here and you're you"

Angron paused, his hand stilling against you at your words, and you could feel him shifting beneath as he gently pulled you away from him to look at your face. "I could kill you" he states bluntly, cocking his head to the side slightly as he gauged your reaction. You blinked up at him, confused eyes picking him apart and he felt the weight of his plight come crashing down on him.

"the emperor, xenos, the whole damn imperium, I would crush it all beneath my heel, but if I hurt you..."

Images of you flashed through his thoughts; you sitting at his desk stretching in the morning light, the laugh that rung through the halls as you fed his war dogs. You, splayed on his bed, singing his name so sweetly as he touched you, as he

Ran his blade through your soft flesh, the sheets soaked with your blood as he ground the axe into your gut, pulling it free to lick the drips from the metal

"angron?"

"angron"

Your voice hung like a rope in his mind, reaching for it, clawing himself forwards, ripping himself free from the mire of the archeotech as it threatened to rip all sense of control from his hands he fought to return to reality.

"my love"

Your forehead was pressed against the warriors as you straddled him, hands pressed to the side of his face as you grounded him with soft whispers and gentle promises to guide his back to the moment. You laughed nervously as his eyes refocused, letting out the breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. "Don't think about it, my lord" you hushed, nuzzling your nose against his. "We'll take this moment, right now and worry about the rest later"

Callused hands held you as Angron, lord of the red sands, butcher, murderer, most feared of the primarchs, allowed himself to be human.

For just a little longer.

😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈

You buried your face into your primarch's collar as he held you like a drowning man, craning your head slightly as you felt his lips meet the soft skin by your jugular. His kiss was feather light, brushing softly across the line of your neck as his hands wandered from your back to squeeze your thighs, still splayed as you straddled him. Another kiss, this time hungrier as he nipped at your flesh, tasting you as he trailed a line up to your jaw. You turned your head, meeting his lips hungrily as you looped your hands around his neck to hold him and you moaned into his touch as you felt his tongue run across your lower lip. He deepened his kiss, exploring your mouth as he tasted you, his fingers sighing almost painfully into the fat of your legs as he lost himself in you.

Breaking the kiss you gasped at a sudden grip on your ass. Angron growled at the sudden loss of contact and grasping both hips, pushed you down into his lap, grinding his growing erection against you as he mouthed at your collar bone, purple bruises blossomed across your skin as he bit and sucked at every exposed part of you he could find.

"p please" you gasped as you wiggled in his firm hold, desperate for more as you tried to slide yourself against his thigh for any form of friction. 'please I need it"

Dark eyes met yours, pupils huge and glowing as he continued to grind into your clothes core. A smirk spread across his pale face as he released you, only to rip the thin fabric of your dress over your head to bite at your breast, humming as you whined at the touch. His thumb slid down your stomach, brushing against the wet spot of your pants. "So desperate for me, despite everything" he mused, releasing your tender nipple with a wet pop "do you want me that badly"

Before you could answer, the fabric was pulled to the side and a calloused finger rubbed against your wet cunt, circling your clit slowly as he watched your face contort at his touch. Your eyes flickered shut as you focused on his fingers, slowly running back and forth over you, dragging you slowly towards your peak.

"Angron" you whimpered, mouth popping into a O shape as he slid a thick digit inside you, curling it up into that spot he knew drove you crazy. He slowly slid in and out, peppering kisses along your chest and face as he fucked his finger into you, relishing the whines that escaped you as you neared your peak.

Suddenly he withdrew and the knot in your stomach, achingly close to snapping and pushing you over the edge, was slowly dying back.

"no please, I'm so close" you whispered, desperately clutching his hand. You were silenced when he pushed his finger into your mouth, running the tip along your tongue to quiet you.

"you've made a mess of my hand, clean it up" he hissed, gritting his teeth as he felt your tongue lap at him, swirling around the tip of his finger and sucking. You glanced back at him, doe eyes wet and pricked with tears as you sucked your slick off him. With a groan, he ripped his hand from your face and fumbled with his trousers. Dragging the waistband low enough to free his dick, he raised you up slightly, before slowly helping you slide down his length, his breath catching in his chest in hiccuping breaths as your pussy slowly stretched around his girth.

Panting you lent forward, hands clawing at the giants shirt to balance you lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch taking your lover. He was so deliciously big, filling every part of you as he bottomed out inside you, you took only a moment to adjust before you began slowly sliding up and down his length. Angron growled your name as you rode him, tracing the curves of your body with his hands as you bounced. His eyes narrowed as your own hands moved to your body, trailing light touches over your hips and breasts, you sighed as you teased your body for his enjoyment, snaking a finger down between your breasts, down your stomach towards your clit as you fucked him.

Suddenly hands were on your thighs, lifting you up as your lover stood, before planting you down on his desk and wrapping your thighs around his muscular hips. You looked up at where you perched, leaning back slightly as Angron hovered over you, one arm placed to the side of your body and the other still grasping your leg as he rutted into you, his stare flitting between your tear streaked face and your pussy, watching him slide in and out of you.

"look how you take me, little thing" he grunted as his thrusts became erratic, "if the nails don't take my sanity, this little cunt will"

Drooled slicked your chin and your eyes rolled back at his words, your insides twitching and spasming around him as your climax crept towards you.

"so...so close" you pleaded, knuckles white as you clutched at his arms, nails racking over his stomach, clutching for any part of him as your brain was overloaded, his filling you, the sound of his skin on yours, his low mutters and cusses as he reached his peak.

You came as you felt him finish inside you, hot ribbons of cum filling you as you sang out his name, finally feeling the rope in your gut snap and euphoria flooding over you. The room fell silent save for soft panting and deep heaving breaths. You lay against the cold wood sucking in jagged breaths until the primarch pulled away from you, stunning you momentarily from the sudden emptiness you felt.

Propping yourself up on your elbows you watched as the world eater tidied himself up before tossing your dress back at you with a rare and genuine smile.

"I can't hear them" he laughed, planting a kiss on your head "the nails are silent and the voices are mute"

You grinned up at him, face and body still flushed as you gingerly slid the silken fabric over your tender body.

"then I guess we'll need to do this more often"

#warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer x reader #warhammer #angron #angron x reader #angron/reader

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serpentface · 11 days ago

Note

Can we hear about some Wardi funerary practices? (and possibly Yotici as well, if you’re in the mood to talk abt them)

Okay I got some for both

Wardi:

The key function of a funeral is to ensure that the deceased has their soul fully detached from their dead body and sent away from the earth, allowing them to move into the afterlife rather than being trapped as an earthbound spirit. The soul remains attached to its body and the earth after death and needs the help of the living to guide it away. Funerary practices can be very complex and are effectively a series of failsafes to prevent the soul from being stuck behind. Technically the only Hard requirement is cremation, but if you want to ensure your loved one (or a politically important person) finds rest and rebirth in the afterlife, you go above and beyond to help them on their journey.

I'll describe the fullest extent of funerary practices here, though keep in mind that completion of All these rites does not necessarily occur for every funeral. This is also describing the standard funeral to the core doctrine of the Faith of the Seven Faced God, and you'll see variance in Wardi folk-religion funeral practices (as well as slight regional variation within the core faith).

---

Core dogma holds that the body should not be allowed to rot or be eaten, with cremation being the only option for respectful treatment of the dead. The body being destroyed by these forces without a proper funeral will cause the spirit to linger trapped to the earth, which is a miserable afterlife. A body that has been found rotten, mutilated, or partly consumed by animals will still be given a cremation, but they will require additional and more extensive rites wherein their wandering spirit is guided back to the body so it can be properly sent off.

People are bound by filial piety and social obligation to care for their dead kin and see that they get a proper funeral (at absolute LEAST ensuring that they are cremated). This is especially an obligation of children to their parents (as is supporting them in old age). It's a matter of personal and familial honor, and failing to fulfill these obligations is regarded as a severe betrayal of your kin and is grounds for the family's current patriarch to disown you and strip you of your name. Priests to the face Kusomache can assist in funerary rites (and preside over most major funerals of public figures), but most of the work comes down to the family members of the deceased.

Cremation can be a challenging practice in a region that is mostly grassland, scrub, and savannah. In practice, fully wood fueled pyres tend to be the domain of the wealthy (the main exception is within the province of Lobera, which has a great swath of intact woodlands). Dry dung fires (the most common source of fuel in the region in general) are appropriate for cremation, but only the dung of cattle and khait is considered ritually pure for this use.

((SLIGHT TANGENT: Cremation has some specific philosophical justification in the Wardi model of primordial cosmic dualism (though note- the practice of cremating dead almost certainly predates this, and this philosophy is also not significant to lay religious practice and most people are not thinking about this during funerals). The universe is composed of extremes of primordial sky (hot/dry/bright/male) and primordial sea (cold/wet/dark/female), reflected in a rhythm of dualism in life and its cycles. During birth, the body is formed in the extreme of primordial sea (manifested in a human body as the womb) and the soul must struggle out of it to reach life. In death, the body is broken apart in the extreme of primordial sky (fire is an example of such an extreme in physical form), and the soul must struggle out of it to reach rebirth in the afterlife. Non-crematory funeral methods return the body to sea-elements (the earth is considered to be mostly Sea in nature), thus not forming a complete cycle. Both primordial forces are challenging and deadly in of themselves, but life itself is sustained via cycling through both))

Upon death, the body will (ideally) be packed in salt to slow obvious signs of decay while the funeral can be prepared. It is otherwise wrapped tightly head to toe in cloth and stored in a cool, dry place. When funeral preparations are completed, the body will be cleaned and prepared, ideally by blood kin (usually the adult children of a dead parent, the parents of a dead child, or the deceased's spouse). If the person was killed by a wound, the wounds will be treated like that of a living person- the soul is still in there and capable of feeling pain, leaving wounds untreated strengthens unwanted ties to its now non-functional body. The body is washed thoroughly and anointed head to toe with a sanctified oil. The oil both assists in cremation and intends to prevent the deceased from feeling the pain of burning. A priest (if present) gives the dead one last blessing with white amenchalme, which is smeared across the entire forehead (as is the case in other blessings of transitional periods- birth, the formal naming of a survived year old infant, marriage).

The body is then clothed as finely as possible and wrapped in a blanket. Protective amulets to safeguard their journey to the afterlife, and shed snakeskins (both evocative of the Face Kusomache and a reminder to the dead of the necessity to leave their body) are wrapped in with them. This process is the last time anyone is allowed to touch the skin of the body, doing so afterwords risks the soul being tempted to remain attached, to its detriment (it can feel the touch, and may miss it).

The pyre is built at the same time as the body's processing (usually in close proximity), and a funeral space is designated. When possible, this space is bound with amenchil rope wound right to left, designating the space inside as sacred and preventing harmful outside agents from entering. Attendants are ideally blessed before entering the funeral space, or should at least self-purify with the gesture against evil.

The funeral should ideally commence in the late afternoon, and the cremation must commence during the hour of sunset. If this cannot occur, it is delayed until the next evening (minimal decomposition of the body within the first few days is acceptable, disintegrating rot is not).

The wealthy dead will have at Least one khait and hunting dog (most often their own) killed to accompany them- the khait will carry them on their journey and the dog will act as a guide. Poorer families will often use clay effigies of khait and dogs instead (or sometimes captured feral dogs). A third component in some funerals is a guardian lion (this tradition is newer and the guardian role is filled by the dog in other circumstances). Typically only kings or Odonii(-kin) are able to get an actual lion killed for them, and it will be an effigy in most other cases. This lion will take the role of the Patriarch Odomache who protects Its family (the entire people) from harm, and will defend the soul of the deceased from threats during its journey.

During funerals of slain soldiers, captured prisoners of war may additionally be killed, which is in part seen as a means of soothing the dead's spirit by taking vengeance for them, preventing the honored dead from becoming stuck earthbound out of anger for their demise. In this case, the prisoners are killed prior to the pyre being built, with their blood being used to consecrate the ground beneath it. The prisoner's bodies will be removed from the funeral space and bound in amenchil rope wound left to right to contain their spirits and prevent them from doing harm to the honored dead (they will typically be cremated (usually without honors) or given back to a defeated foe for funeral rites afterwords).

Offerings are made of items to help the dead on their journey (food, water, wine, clothing, weapons, armor) and as sacrifices to the Face Kusomache, who will ultimately enable the soul to reach its final resting place. Everyone in attendance should offer something (these are nonfatal offerings of food, flowers, and drink), and ideally the family will be able to provide an animal sacrifice to be slain (the best of which for funerals is a cow that has never been bred or yoked). The deceased's kin will bloodlet from the palms of their hands, both in offering and so that Kusomache will recognize the dead by blood and be able to find them, even if the deceased's connection to God was somehow severed. The offerings to the dead are placed on the funeral pyre, while the offerings to Kusomache are burnt separately by an attendant priest.

The women in attendance lead a song when the funeral pyre is lit, the lyrics direct the dead on how to leave their body and undertake their journey, and are sung on repeat. All members will eventually join in. By convention, the song must continue for the duration of the cremation (which may take many hours), usually accomplished by attendants taking breaks and filling the silence when another member goes quiet. (Professional mourners are also available for hire to assist in this process). It is not sung beautifully, it is shrill and often wailed and screamed, which serves to frighten off evil spirits that may harass the dead in their journey (also providing a measure of physical catharsis for grievers).

When the body is fully cremated, a much softer prayer is sung (as best as the attendants vocal cords can handle after the ordeal) as an additional appeal for the dead to be brought safely to their place of rest.

The person's spirit is now undergoing a perilous journey to the lunar lands that will last until sunrise, but from the perspective of the dead it takes a full month. This journey is perilous, it begins in complete darkness within the realm of the earth in which evil spirits live and can potentially harm the deceased. If the dead has had their connection with God badly severed in life (this can be by curses, possession, or very severe spiritual pollution), they may lose their way and remain trapped upon the earth (this is why care for the body and the purity of its living spirit is important during life as well). The living have, however, done their best to give the dead a very good chance. The chant has guided them out of their body and gone a long ways to scare off evil spirits that may harm the traveling soul. The offerings to Kusomache intend to restore any severed connections to God's greater living spirit, bringing the dead back under Its protection. The khait (or khait effigy) will give the deceased speed and ease the duress of their journey, and the dog (or dog effigy) will guide their way by scent even through darkness, and guard the dead from further harm (the lion/effigy will fill the guardian role instead if used).

The rest of the night is spent in vigil. Upon sunrise when the dead has reached their destination, the pyre will be broken down. The deceased's ashes and bones are stored in an urn and will be interred in a family tomb (the spirit should have no more connection to the body at this point, and these tombs are squarely conceptualized as a place for the living to honor and remember the dead, and as personal familial shrines to Kusomache). The mourners break off for a period of rest, and will reconvene at noon for a funeral feast. Funeral feasts are very special occasions, and warrant the slaughter of livestock (even among the poor). The spirit of this feast is to celebrate the rebirth of the dead into the lunar lands, and to honor the living left behind. Lavish funerals of kings and noblemen may involve funerary games during this feasting period (races, bull leaping, mock combat, etc) and performances by singers, dancers, and poetry reciters. The celebratory period lasts until the following sundown, at which point the funeral is over.

It's customary to cut the hair in mourning when the deceased is a parent, child, spouse, or sibling (and can be done by choice for other relations). The exact logistics vary- the South Wardi tradition is for men to enter the funeral with their hair in a topknot, and for women to enter with their hair bound in one long braid in the back. The men will slice through their hair under the knot, the women will cut their braid at the halfway point. Traditions on when this haircut occurs also vary, usually it is either just before the pyre is lit or just after it is extinguished. The cut locks of hair will be interred in the family tomb in a small urn along with the cremains.

A mourning period is observed for these close relations, lasting a full lunar month in recognition of the duration of the dead's journey. Women are generally expected to wear tight formal veils, while men will display their shorn hair unadorned. The blood family is considered ritually impure throughout this mourning period via contact with the dead, and cannot enter temples, participate in festivals, or bloodlet in prayer until its completion, and ideally should not touch other people. It's customary at the end of the month to undergo a full purification (which includes, or at the very least consists of, full body submergence in water and thorough bathing) before returning to their regular life.

---

Preexisting sketch I had of the remaining Haidamane family at their mother's funeral, watching the cremains being interned in an urn. 2/3 of them are displaying attire appropriate for a funeral, in which nice clothing and formal veils are generally an expectation.

Janeys' hair has been cut in mourning. He's got a very fancy cloak and a formal khattanocuy (South Wardi traditional khaitsmane belt ornament) Faiza's hair has been cut too but isn't visible. She's wearing a tight formal veil and has kept her Odonii regalia to the bare minimum lionsmane band and armament in favor of a nice dress and cloak. Couya has refused to dress up at all, save for being persuaded to braid her hair. Her hair has not been cut. She doesn't technically Have to since Livya Haidamane was not her blood mother, and she doesn't Want to because she fucking hates her and is glad that she's dead. She can get away with all this because she's an Odonii and wearing full vestment is justified but it's not a great look.

---

Yotici:

Yotici are an entire species so you're going to see a broad variety of funerary practices. The main variants of funeral practices are:

Cairn burials, in which the deceased is weighed down to the seafloor and a rock cairn is built over them. Practices will vary tremendously whether or not it's appropriate to bury dead within a Garden (an engineered ecosystem in which they maintain their egg masses). Some groups will have designated cemeteries outside of the Garden, others might bury their dead within the Garden and even build up its features on top of them, such as planting corals upon the rocks, making the mounds into nests for their shark eggs, or laying their own eggs on top of them.

Shipwreck burial, in which a body is stored inside or beneath wrecked boats, which are ascribed significance in some Yotici cultures (merely as shelters, as homes for valued animals, as the conquered vessels of malicious hunters, etc).

Sea burials, in which the deceased is weighed down but intentionally allowed to be consumed by wildlife. This will often be valued animals within the garden's ecosystem, or other significant or sacred wildlife.

Sky/sea burials, in which the deceased is allowed to float at the surface to be fed upon by seabirds and marine scavengers.

In both of these instances, there can be variation on what is allowed to consume the dead. In a majority of cases, there will be little attempt to restrict this consumption, but some may involve guarding the body for weeks on end and chasing unwanted animals away.

Land burials, in which the body is deliberately made to be beached. In some cases the significance of this act is wrapped up in the body being on land in of itself, in others it might extend more deeply- the body's direct exposure to the sun, favoring consumption by land animals, or consumption/other use of the dead by other sophonts (who may or may not be recognized by the yotici in question as sapient or notably distinct from other animals, and are commonly considered magical animals or a form of spirit rather than People) (the exact same tends to apply in reverse).

There are a few isolated cases in which a mutualistic relationship between yotici and a neighboring landdwelling people plays directly into funeral rites. Cases where mutually comprehensible languages have developed that can communicate abstract and complex ideas are very rare, so in most circumstances these practices involve both parties ascribing different meanings to their actions while being mutually satisfied with the outcome.

Deepwater burials, in which the body is brought into open ocean (where yotici cannot survive and do not typically travel) and left in this place, usually due to specific meaning being ascribed to this territory.

Kelp burials, in which the body is purposefully suspended by being tightly wrapped and tied in strands of kelp (usually in combination with other practices), which may have significance to some yotici groups, especially as a common staple food.

Abandonment, in which the body is brought far outside of the Garden's domain (or the surrounding seagrass altogether) and left to be treated as it will with no particular concern of its eventual fate. This may be a matter of simple disposal, there may be significance ascribed to bringing the body outside of the Garden's space, or the body may be considered a polluting element.

Enshrinement, in which access is maintained to the body in order to eventually remove its bones and place them in areas of significance. The body may be actively dismembered in some circumstances.

Funerary cannibalism, in which parts of the body are consumed by other members of the pod (usually in conjunction with other practices). As in other sophonts, instances where consumption is an aspect of honoring or treating the dead may occur. Yotici are primarily herbivorous and their beaks are unsuited to tear flesh, but can digest some animal matter.

#imperial wardin #yotici #couya haidamane #faiza haidamane #janeys haidamane

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 1 month ago

Text

🎃 Kinktober 2024: Eyes on Me

Eyes on Me: You have issues with eye contact, Morpheus doesn’t like that.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: Eye Contact

Word Count: ~6.3k

You wander through Morpheus' private chambers, your nightgown brushing softly against your skin. The room breathes magic, each corner whispering tales of dreams and reality intertwined. The ceiling above isn't just a ceiling but an endless night sky, constellations twinkling and shifting in patterns that seem to dance to some cosmic rhythm only they understand.

Planets drift lazily across the expanse, their orbits serene and purposeful. One moment, Saturn's rings glow a soft gold; the next, Jupiter's stormy bands pulse with an ancient energy. A comet streaks by, leaving a trail of sparkling stardust that seems almost tangible. You reach out a hand, almost expecting to feel its icy touch.

The floor beneath you feels like walking on a bed of clouds, each step cushioned and silent. Soft glows emanate from corners where clusters of stars gather, shifting and swirling like captured bits of nebulae. A large window opens to a landscape of shifting sands and surreal landscapes—places that exist only in the farthest reaches of the subconscious mind.

You miss Morpheus. The weight of his absence presses on you like a heavy cloak. You understand the necessity of his duties, the importance of his work in maintaining the delicate balance of the Dreaming. Still, the ache remains, a quiet yearning that hums beneath your skin.

You wander to a nearby side table where a small galaxy hovers, spinning slowly in midair. It's a delicate thing, no larger than a melon, but within it swirls the infinite complexity of stars, planets, and cosmic dust. The sight mesmerizes you.

You reach out, fingers grazing the edges of the tiny universe. Stars wink in response to your touch, twinkling like mischievous fireflies. Planets orbit with purpose, their paths intersecting in ways that seem almost intentional, as if they acknowledge your presence.

One star burns brighter than the rest. You coax it closer with gentle movements, feeling its warmth without the burn. It flares and dims as if breathing, its light reflecting off your skin in silvery patterns.

"Come closer," you murmur to yourself, leaning in to inspect a nebula forming at the galaxy's edge. The colors are vibrant—emerald greens blending into deep purples and blues. They swirl and twist as if alive, dancing to an unseen melody.

The beauty distracts you momentarily from your longing for Morpheus. You immerse yourself in this tiny cosmos, finding solace in its miniature grandeur. A comet shoots across its expanse, leaving behind a shimmering tail that slowly dissipates into nothingness.

You trace its path with your finger, feeling the ghostly trail of stardust lingering on your skin. Each touch sends ripples through the galaxy, stars shifting slightly as if adjusting to your presence.

"You're more than just stardust," you whisper to the swirling mass. "You're dreams and possibilities."

A planet catches your eye next—a small one with rings like Saturn's but colored in hues of violet and gold. It spins slowly, casting shadows across its neighboring celestial bodies. You imagine what life might be like on such a world—dreamscapes filled with endless wonder and potential.

You lose yourself in the swirling cosmos, marveling at the intricate dance of celestial bodies. Colors blend and morph, creating patterns that are both chaotic and harmonious. You trace constellations with your fingertips, each star twinkling in response to your touch. It's a moment of pure wonder, a brief escape from your longing.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you—familiar and comforting. Before you can turn around, arms encircle your waist, pulling you gently but firmly against a solid chest. A shiver runs down your spine as soft lips press against the nape of your neck.

"Morpheus," you breathe, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Did I startle you?" His voice is a low murmur, sending vibrations through your skin.

You lean back into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours. "A little," you admit, tilting your head to give him better access.

His lips move to the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of kisses that make your skin tingle. His hands roam over your waist and hips, their touch light yet possessive. You close your eyes, savoring the sensation of his closeness.

"I missed you," he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing.

"I missed you too," you reply, feeling the words resonate deep within you.

He turns you around to face him, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. The stars in his eyes seem to shine brighter, reflecting the galaxy still hovering beside you. You feel a pang of embarrassment and look away, unable to hold his gaze for long.

His hand cups your chin gently, lifting your face so you're forced to meet his eyes again. "Don't hide from me," he says softly, but there's an underlying command in his tone.

You swallow hard but manage to keep eye contact this time. His eyes are mesmerizing—endless depths of silver and blue that seem to pull you in. He leans down and captures your lips in a kiss that makes time stand still. It's soft at first but grows more passionate, more demanding.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as if afraid he'll disappear again. His arms tighten around you in response, anchoring you both in this moment.

As the kiss deepens, you can feel the warmth spreading throughout your body. His hands wander over you, tracing the lines of your figure with an almost reverent touch, each movement igniting little sparks of pleasure. You can't help but respond with soft, needy sounds that escape from deep within your chest. His fingers dance over the small of your back, sliding lower to the curve of your hips.

Morpheus breaks the kiss, his breath ragged and eyes a tempest of desire. Without a word, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, holding you close as he walks towards the bed. You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he navigates the room, your bodies still entwined.

When he reaches the bed, he gently sets you back on your feet, his hands lingering on your waist. You're eager for more, so you take the initiative and reach up to push his jacket off his shoulders. The fabric slips down his arms and falls to the ground, forgotten.

Your lips meet his once more, insistent and hungry. Your hands explore the planes of his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt, the contours familiar yet always exciting. He tastes like a distant star—cold and fiery all at once—a flavor you find yourself craving more and more.

You slide your hands up Morpheus' chest, feeling the cool, silken texture of his skin beneath your fingers. As you pull his shirt over his head, the fabric catches momentarily on his chin, then gives way, revealing the full expanse of his torso—a landscape of form and shadow sculpted by the very essence of dreams.

Your breath hitches at the sight, a mixture of awe and a painfully shy desire washing over you. You lean forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat. His skin is like the night itself, cool and infinite, and you can't help but marvel at the contrast between the ethereal being before you and the very mortal pounding of your heart.

Your lips trace a path along the contours of his chest, each kiss a silent whisper of your adoration. The rhythm of his breathing changes, quickening to match the fluttering pace of your own. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, a silent encouragement for you to continue your exploration.

Morpheus' gaze upon you is intense, yet there's a tenderness there that makes the corners of your mouth lift in a shy smile. You feel his fingers deftly working at the ties of your nightgown, the fabric loosening around you. With a simple thought from him, the garment dissolves into a fine mist, leaving you standing naked before him.

A flush creeps across your skin, the heat of your embarrassment clashing with the cool air of the Dreaming. But there's no time to feel self-conscious as Morpheus pulls you against him, his body a solid, comforting presence against your own.

His mouth dips to your neck, igniting a trail of fire wherever his lips touch. You tilt your head back, granting him better access as you surrender to the sensation of his kisses. His hands roam your now-bare back, the pads of his fingers tracing the delicate lines of your spine.

A soft moan escapes you as he nips lightly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. The sound seems to spur him on, his touch growing more insistent, more demanding. You feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip, thick, hot, throbbing.

The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming, yet you find yourself craving more—more of his touch, more of his kisses, more of him. You slide your hands down his back, feeling the subtle shift of muscle as he moves against you.

With another swift, yet gentle motion, Morpheus lifts you once more, his arms cradling your body as if you weighed nothing at all. You feel the softness of the bed beneath you as he sets you down, your legs dangling off the edge. The cool sheets against your skin send a shiver through you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around your torso in a feeble attempt at modesty.

He gives you a knowing look, one that tells you he understands your shyness but also finds it endearing. It's a look that sends a jolt of warmth straight to your core. Then, with a tenderness that belies his often stoic demeanor, he leans down and captures a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The sudden sensation makes you gasp, your hands instinctively reaching up to tangle in his dark hair.

His lips and tongue continue their exploration, leaving a trail of heat and desire as he kisses his way down your stomach. Each touch, each caress, sends waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in anticipation.

When he reaches the band of your underwear, he hooks his fingers beneath the fabric, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a question in his gaze, one that he already knows the answer to. In one fluid motion, he pulls the garment down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to his gaze.

A rush of embarrassment floods through you, and you can't help but avert your eyes, staring up at the swirling stars on the ceiling above as heat burns up your neck. The vulnerability of the moment is almost too much to bear, the intensity of his gaze a tangible thing against your bare skin.

But Morpheus is not content to let you hide. With a soft pinch to your inner thigh, he commands your attention. "Eyes on me, beloved," he says firmly, the words a low growl that resonates deep within your soul. "Or I stop."

The threat—if it can be called that—is enough to make you comply. Reluctantly, you let your gaze drift back down to meet his, the stars in his eyes reflecting the ones above. There's no room for embarrassment in his presence, no place for shy glances and downcast eyes. He wants—no, needs—to see you, all of you, and the raw honesty in his gaze leaves you with no choice but to surrender to his wishes.

As your eyes lock with his, a new wave of desire washes over you. There's something incredibly erotic about being so completely bare before him, about the way he looks at you as if you're the most precious thing in all of existence. You feel a flush creep across your skin, the heat of your arousal painting your cheeks with nearly unbearable fire.

Morpheus rewards your obedience with a smile, one that promises pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. His fingers trail up your thigh, the soft touch contrasting with the firm command he issued just moments before. You can feel the anticipation building within you, a tightly coiled spring waiting to be released.

With a tender look that conveys both adoration and unbridled desire, Morpheus positions himself between your legs, his gaze drinking in the sight of your naked body. The intensity of his stare leaves you feeling both vulnerable and powerful, a paradox that only adds to the overwhelming intensity of the moment. But then he makes no further movements and you blink in confusion.

Morpheus remains where he is, between your legs, his gaze unwavering as he sees the confusion in your eyes. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do, beloved," he urges, his voice laced with desire and determination.

The request takes you by surprise, and you flush even deeper, your heart pounding in your chest. It's one thing to be naked and exposed before your lover, but it's quite another to voice your deepest desires, especially when you're so shy.

But Morpheus is patient, his eyes holding yours as he waits for your response. He understands your reticence, your need for time to gather your thoughts and find the courage to speak up. And so, he waits, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your thigh as you search for the words to express yourself.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart and still your trembling voice. "I want you to... to touch me," you finally manage to say, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Morpheus nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "And how do you want me to touch you, beloved?" he asks, his voice low and soothing, as if he knows that every word you speak takes tremendous effort.

You swallow hard, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as you struggle to find the courage to continue. "I... I want you to touch me here," you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you gesture towards the most intimate part of your body.

A flicker of pleasure passes through Morpheus' eyes, but he remains patient, waiting for you to continue. "And how do you want me to touch you there?" he asks, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin.

You take another deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you muster the strength to voice your desire. "I want you to... to put your fingers inside me," you say, your words barely audible, your face flushed with embarrassment.

Morpheus' smile widens, and he leans up to press a gentle kiss to your lips, rewarding your bravery with sweet affection. "As you wish, beloved," he says, his voice a soft caress that echoes the tender touch of his lips.

He shifts his position, his fingers now trailing up your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to the place where your desire burns brightest. Your heart races as you feel his touch grow closer, your body tense with anticipation.

And then, finally, his fingers reach their destination, gently probing your entrance. You gasp, your eyes flying open as you feel the first tentative touch, your body reacting instinctively to the sensation.

Morpheus watches your face closely, gauging your reaction as he slowly begins to insert a finger inside you. You can't help but moan, the feeling of fullness and pleasure causing your hips to instinctively rock forward, seeking more of his touch.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently as he explores your depths. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can't help but cry out, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your head momentarily drops back, your eyes leaving his.

You feel his fingers still inside you, the sudden absence of movement jolting you back to reality. Your eyes flutter open to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze is a stark reminder of his earlier command.

"I will not continue if you aren't looking at me," he murmurs, his voice a blend of tenderness and firm resolve.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, the vulnerability of the moment heightening your awareness of every sensation. His eyes, those endless pools of silver and blue, seem to draw you in, making it impossible to look away.

His fingers begin to move again, slowly at first, each stroke sending ripples of pleasure through your body. The connection between your eyes deepens the intimacy, making every touch feel more profound. You can't help but moan softly, your body reacting instinctively to his expert ministrations.

Morpheus watches your face closely, a small smile playing on his lips as he reads every flicker of emotion. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to the heat building within you. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath away.

The rhythm of his fingers quickens, each movement precise and deliberate. You can feel the tension coiling tighter within you, a spring ready to snap. Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white as you fight to maintain eye contact.

"Good," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. "Keep looking at me."

You nod slightly, unable to form words as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak. His fingers curl inside you just right, hitting that perfect spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. With each stroke, you feel yourself growing closer to the precipice, your body thrumming with desire and anticipation. You can't help but wonder if Morpheus will ever tire, if he will ever stop pushing you higher and higher, bringing you closer and closer to the ultimate release.

You are lost in the deep expanse of his gaze, feeling as though you're falling into those distant stars. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm, each stroke carrying you closer to the edge of ecstasy. The intensity of his touch is mirrored in his eyes, a tempest of silver and blue raging in their depths.

Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, each one a plea for release from the exquisite torment. But Morpheus holds you there, suspended in a state of almost unbearable pleasure, his gaze never wavering from yours.

He adds a third finger, stretching you further, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, and a low moan escapes your lips, your body trembling with the effort of holding his gaze.

"Come for me, beloved," Morpheus murmurs, the command in his voice undeniable.

The words shatter the last of your restraint. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. You cry out, your eyes locked on his as the pleasure tears through you, obliterating everything else.

His fingers slow but do not stop, drawing out the waves of your release. You're vaguely aware of his voice, whispering words of affection and praise, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears.

As the intensity of your orgasm begins to fade, you collapse back onto the bed, your body spent and trembling. Morpheus withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips and tasting you there. The sight sends a fresh jolt of desire through you, even as you struggle to catch your breath.

"Beautiful," he says, his voice filled with awe and satisfaction. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips, the taste of yourself on his tongue a potent reminder of the pleasure he's just given you.

You lay there, a boneless heap of satisfaction, your chest heaving as you try to regain control of your senses. Morpheus' gaze is soft, a smile playing on his lips as he watches you come down from the high of your release. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a lingering kiss that leaves you breathless all over again.

When he finally pulls away, your lips feel swollen and sensitive, and you can't help but chase after his mouth for more. He chuckles softly, the sound a low vibration that resonates deep within your core.

"Tell me, beloved," he murmurs, his voice a silken caress against your ear, "what do you desire next?"

Your face flames with renewed embarrassment, the heat creeping up your neck and painting your cheeks with embarrassment. You know what you want—what you've been longing for since this all began—but the words stick in your throat, too shy to voice your deepest desires.

Morpheus waits patiently, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent encouragement for you to speak up. You take a deep breath, gathering your courage as you prepare to voice the words that have been hovering on the tip of your tongue.

"I... I want you to..." you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. You close your eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze as you force yourself to continue. "I want you to... eat me out."

The words hang in the air between you, a tangible testament to your boldness. When you finally muster the courage to open your eyes, you find Morpheus regarding you with a pleased smile, his eyes gleaming with approval and desire.

He shifts his position, his body moving lower on the bed until he's nestled between your legs once more. You feel the heat of his breath against your sensitive flesh, and you can't help but squirm, a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly.

Morpheus places a single kiss on the inside of your thigh, the soft press of his lips sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You gasp, your body arching off the bed as you desperately seek more of his touch.

But he pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting yours as a playful smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. "And where are your manners, my love?" he chides gently, his voice a low purr that makes your heart skip a beat. "Say please for me."

Your face flames even hotter than before, the embarrassment of the request adding fuel to the fire of your arousal. Your practically whimper. You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you force the words out.

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible. But it's enough for Morpheus. His smirk widens into a full-blown grin, and he dips his head once more, his lips tracing a path towards the apex of your thighs. You hold your breath, your entire body tensing in anticipation of what's to come.

You feel Morpheus' breath, hot and heavy against your most sensitive parts, the anticipation building within you as his lips hover just millimeters away from your flesh. His eyes, a tempest of silver and blue, hold yours captive, and you know better than to look away.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue tracing a path from your entrance to your clit. A low moan escapes your lips as you feel the first touch of his mouth on your skin, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. He laps at you with slow, languid strokes, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through your veins.

Your eyes flutter closed as the pleasure builds, your body arching off the bed in a silent plea for more. But the moment your gaze leaves his, Morpheus pulls back, his tongue pausing in its ministrations. Your eyes fly open, a protest on your lips, but the stern look in his eyes silences you.

"Eyes on me, beloved," he reminds you, his voice muffled but firm. "Or I stop."

The threat is clear, and you nod in understanding, forcing yourself to keep your gaze locked with his as he returns to his task. This time, he sucks your clit into his mouth, the sudden pressure making your hips buck off the bed. You can feel the tension coiling tighter within you, a spring ready to snap.

His eyes never leave yours as he works you closer and closer to the edge. You can see the pleasure reflected in his gaze, the knowledge that he's the one bringing you such exquisite ecstasy. It's intoxicating, the way he looks at you—like you're the only thing in the world that matters to him.

Just when you think you can't take it anymore, he slips a finger inside you, curling it just right to hit that perfect spot. You cry out, your body convulsing as the added sensation sends you hurtling towards the precipice.

But still, he does not relent, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to drive you wild. You can feel the heat building within you, a fire that threatens to consume you whole. And through it all, his eyes hold yours, a silent command that you dare not disobey.

"Morpheus, please," you beg, the words torn from your throat as the pleasure becomes too much to bear. You're so close, so achingly close, and all you need is that final push to send you over the edge.

He understands, for he redoubles his efforts, his fingers pumping in and out of you with renewed vigor as his mouth continues its sweet torment. And when you finally reach the peak, it's with your eyes locked on his, the intensity of your orgasm magnified by the connection between you.

Your body shakes with the force of your release, your vision blurring as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. You cry out his name, a desperate prayer falling from your lips as you surrender to the ecstasy.

He crawls up your body, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he gazes down at you. "You are magnificent," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a potent reminder of the pleasure he's just given you. His hand, cool against your flushed skin, moves to cup your breast, his fingers deftly teasing your nipple into a taut peak.

The sensation sends a jolt of electricity straight to your cunt, rekindling the embers of your desire. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling gently to deepen the kiss. You're lost in the sensation, the world around you fading into insignificance as Morpheus worships your body with his hands and mouth.

His touch is both soothing and a catalyst, soothing the lingering tremors of your release while stoking the fires of your need. You can feel the wetness pooling between your legs, a testament to the effect he has on you. He breaks the kiss, his lips tracing a path down your neck as his hand continues its ministrations on your breast.

You squirm beneath him, your body aching for more of his touch. His name is a whispered plea on your lips, a prayer for the pleasure only he can give you. He chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble that resonates deep within your core.

"Patience, beloved," he murmurs, his breath a warm caress against your skin. "We have all the time in the world."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the eternity you will spend in his arms. You relax into the bed, surrendering yourself to the sensations coursing through your body. His fingers continue to tease your nipple, each touch sending ripples of pleasure through you.

His mouth moves lower, his lips closing around your other nipple. The sensation of his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud makes you gasp, your back arching off the bed. His hand leaves your hair, moving to join the other at your breast. He kneads and massages the soft flesh, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to drive you wild.

You can feel the heat building within you once more, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that leaves you breathless. His eyes meet yours, the silver and blue darkened with desire. The intensity of his gaze sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body aching for his touch. He releases your nipple with a wet pop and his eyes blazing with unrestrained desire.

You lay panting beneath him, your body still trembling from the force of your orgasm. Morpheus hovers over you, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you come down from the high of your release. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, sending aftershocks of pleasure through you.

"Tell me, beloved," he murmurs, his voice a silken caress against your ear, "what do you desire from me next?"

Your face flames with renewed embarrassment, the heat creeping up your neck and painting your cheeks with a rosy hue. Must he make you voice it every time? You know what you want, but the words stick in your throat, your shyness threatening to silence you.

Morpheus waits patiently, his gaze soft and encouraging. You take a deep breath, gathering your courage as you prepare to voice the words that have been hovering on the tip of your tongue.

"I... I want you to... make love to me," you whisper, the words barely audible. But they hang in the air between you, lingering sweetly.

A slow smile spreads across Morpheus' face, his eyes gleaming with approval and desire. "As my beloved wishes," he says, his voice low and husky.

He shifts his weight, pressing a tender kiss to your lips as he positions himself between your legs. You can feel the heat of his erection against your thigh.

His hand slips between your legs, his fingers teasing your sensitive flesh as he lines himself up with your entrance. You hold your breath, your entire body tensing in anticipation of the moment he will fill you completely.

Morpheus' gaze meets yours, the silver and blue of his eyes swirling with emotion. "I love you," he whispers, the sincerity in his voice making your heart skip a beat.

And with that, he pushes into you, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, the sensation bordering on discomfort but quickly giving way to pleasure as he begins to move within you.

His strokes are slow and deliberate, each one a testament to his love and desire for you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as you meet him thrust for thrust.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of his movements, the pleasure building within you with each passing second. His hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pins it above your head. The position is possessive, dominant, and you find yourself clinging to him even tighter.

His lips find yours once more, the kiss deep and passionate as he continues to make love to you. You can feel the tension coiling tighter within you, a spring ready to snap as you edge closer and closer to the precipice of unadulterated pleasure.

Morpheus' strokes become more insistent, his body moving against yours with an urgency that matches your own. You can feel the heat building within you, a fire that threatens to consume you whole. Your heels dig into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper, while your wrists twist in his grasp, a silent plea for release.

His eyes, a tempest of silver and blue, hold yours captive, and you know better than to look away. "You are only allowed to find release if you look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

The words hang in the air between you, a challenge and a promise rolled into one. You whimper, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you struggle to maintain eye contact. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, but you hold on, your body aching for the release that only he can give you.

He increases his pace, his hips pistoning against yours as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. Your body arches off the bed, your back bowing as you chase the elusive wave of pleasure that beckons just out of reach.

You feel Morpheus' rhythm falter for a moment, his hips stuttering against yours as he registers your lapse in maintaining eye contact. His hand releases yours, moving instead to cup your cheek, his fingers gently urging your gaze back to his.

"Look at me," he murmurs, his voice a soothing against the intensity of the moment. You drag your eyes open, meeting his gaze once more. The silver and blue swirls are tempestuous, but there's a tenderness there that takes your breath away. Always.

With your eyes locked onto his, Morpheus resumes his pace, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating from your core. You can feel the tension building within you, a crescendo that threatens to overwhelm your senses.

His hand leaves your cheek, trailing down your body to find that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. His fingers circle your clit, the pressure and rhythm in perfect sync with his movements inside you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, the dual sensations pushing you ever closer to the brink. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the slick sheen of sweat that binds you together in this intimate dance.

Morpheus' gaze never wavers from yours, the connection between you as deep and profound as the physical pleasure that courses through your veins. His strokes become more demanding, his body driving into yours with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Come for me, beloved," he commands, his voice a low growl that resonates deep within your soul. The words act as a catalyst, the tension within you snapping like a taut string.

Your body convulses around him, the force of your orgasm ripping a cry from your throat. You feel yourself clenching around his length, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Stars explode behind your eyelids, your vision momentarily blurring as you ride the waves of ecstasy.

Morpheus continues to move within you, drawing out your pleasure until you're left a boneless, panting mess beneath him. Only then does he allow himself to follow you over the edge, his body shuddering against yours as he finds his own release, his seed spilling into your cunt in a hot rush.

As the tremors of your shared climax subside, Morpheus gently withdraws from you, his gaze lingering on your face with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter. He collapses onto the bed beside you, gathering you in his arms and pulling you close against his chest. His skin is cool against your flushed body, a stark contrast that sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine.

His lips find yours in a series of soft, lingering kisses, each one a testament to the depth of his affection for you. "You did wonderfully, beloved," he murmurs between kisses, his voice a low rumble that resonates through your chest. "I am so proud of you."

His words fill you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the heat still coursing through your veins. You snuggle closer to him, burying your face in the curve of his neck as you breathe in his unique scent—a blend of night-blooming flowers and stars. His arms tighten around you, holding you as though he never intends to let you go.

For several long moments, you lay there in silence, content to simply exist in the afterglow of your lovemaking. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, the sensation both soothing and arousing.

Eventually, Morpheus shifts beneath you, leaning up on one elbow as he gazes down at you with those impossibly beautiful eyes. "You please me more than you can possibly imagine," he says, his voice soft but firm. "Not just with your body, but with your heart, your soul, you eyes. You are everything to me, beloved and I want to see it."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, emotion welling up within you at his heartfelt words. You reach up to cup his cheek, your fingers brushing against the soft stubble that lines his jaw. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, the gesture both sweet and intimate.

"I love you, Morpheus," you whisper, the words falling from your lips with ease. You know without a shadow of a doubt that your love for him is unshakeable, a constant in a world that is ever-changing.

He smiles at you, the expression filled with genuine affection and warmth. "And I love you, beloved," he replies, his voice laced with a sincerity that leaves no room for doubt. "From this moment until the end of time, I am yours."

With that, he lowers his head to kiss you once more, a deep and passionate kiss that leaves you breathless and yearning for more. Even if it means eye contact.

Date Published: 10/29/24

Last Edit: 10/29/24

Morpheus Masterlist

Kinktober 2024

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #lord morpheus #the sandman netflix #dream the endless #sandman x reader #dream the endless x reader #morpheus #dream of the endless #the sandman #kinktober 2024

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danika-redgrave124 · 12 days ago

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Astralis Geography and Environment

Fauna

Starflame Phoenix

A majestic bird with feathers that shimmer like a night sky filled with stars. The Starflame Phoenix can emit bursts of cosmic fire that glows with a blue and violet hue. Its song is said to be soothing, capable of calming even the most turbulent emotions. These phoenixes are known to regenerate from their ashes, making them symbols of rebirth and immortality.

Habitat: Found in the Astral Mountains and floating islands of Astralis, they nest in high, secluded areas close to the stars.

Luminal Deer

Elegant, graceful deer with antlers that glow faintly, like the light of the moon. Their fur is silvery-white, and they move silently, blending seamlessly with the light and shadows of their surroundings. The Luminal Deer are gentle creatures, often associated with serenity and peace.

Habitat: These deer inhabit the Moonlit Meadows and Starfall Forests, where they graze on glowing grass and stardust-infused plants.

Nebula Wolves

Large, powerful wolves with fur that resembles swirling nebulae, shifting in color and pattern as they move. Their eyes are bright and piercing, glowing with the intensity of stars. Nebula Wolves are known for their intelligence and strong pack bonds. They are also capable of short bursts of teleportation, leaving trails of stardust in their wake.

Habitat: They roam the Ethereal Plains and Stardust Canyons, hunting in packs and often guiding travelers who are lost.

Astral Jellyfish

Ethereal, transparent jellyfish that float through the air as if swimming in water. Their tendrils are long and delicate, glowing with a soft light that pulses in rhythm with their movements. These jellyfish are harmless and often travel in large groups, creating mesmerizing displays of light in the skies of Astralis.

Habitat: They drift above the Starfall Seas and the floating islands, sometimes seen near the Dreamgate where they are believed to feed on residual dream energy.

Stardust Butterflies

Small, delicate butterflies with wings that sparkle like glittering stardust. Each butterfly's wings display a unique pattern resembling constellations. These creatures are symbols of transformation and are often seen fluttering around during celestial events, drawn to the energy of the stars.

Habitat: They are commonly found in the Celestial Gardens and Starlight Groves, where they help pollinate the cosmic flowers that bloom there.

Comet Foxes

Agile and cunning foxes with fur that shimmers in shades of orange, red, and gold, like the tail of a comet. These creatures are known for their speed and stealth, often moving so quickly they appear as streaks of light. Comet Foxes are playful and curious, but also fiercely protective of their territory.

Habitat: They dwell in the Firefly Fields and the rocky outcrops of the Astral Mountains, where they build dens illuminated by bioluminescent moss.

Cosmic Whales

Enormous, gentle creatures that glide through the skies of Astralis, resembling whales in appearance. Their bodies are covered in star-like markings that pulse with a calming blue light. Cosmic Whales are peaceful, often traveling in pods and singing hauntingly beautiful songs that can be heard across great distances.

Habitat: These magnificent beings traverse the skies over the Astral Seas and the higher altitudes of the floating islands, often associated with deep wisdom and the mysteries of the cosmos.

Celestial Serpents

Long, sinuous serpents with scales that glimmer like polished gemstones. Their eyes are luminous, and they can blend into their surroundings with ease, making them nearly invisible. Celestial Serpents are revered as guardians of ancient knowledge and are often found in the temples and sacred sites of Astralis.

Habitat: They are usually found coiled around the pillars of the Temple of the Eternal Night or within the Crystal Caverns, where they guard hidden treasures and ancient texts.

Radiant Fireflies

Tiny insects that emit a soft, warm light. Unlike ordinary fireflies, Radiant Fireflies can change the color of their glow, creating a dazzling display of lights that can be seen from miles away. They are often used by the Starborn as natural lanterns and are considered a symbol of hope and guidance.

Habitat: These fireflies are abundant in the Starfall Forests and Luminous Marshlands, where they create mesmerizing light shows at night.

Dreamweaver Moths

Large, ethereal moths with wings that appear to be woven from dreams themselves, shifting and changing colors based on the dreams of nearby beings. These moths are believed to influence the dreams of those they touch, often leaving behind trails of dream dust that can induce visions or lucid dreaming.

Habitat: They are most commonly found near the Dreamgate and in the Veilwood, a mystical forest where the boundary between reality and dreams is thin.

Flora

Starblossom Trees

Towering trees with silver bark that sparkles faintly in the light. Their leaves are shaped like stars and emit a soft, ethereal glow, especially during the night. The flowers of the Starblossom Tree are luminescent, opening only under the light of the stars and releasing a sweet, calming fragrance.

Habitat: These trees are commonly found in the Starfall Forests and around the Temple of the Eternal Night. They are revered as sacred trees, often used in rituals and ceremonies.

Moonvine

A delicate, climbing vine with silver leaves and flowers that resemble small, crescent moons. Moonvine blooms only at night, and its flowers reflect the light of the moon, creating a shimmering effect. The plant is known for its healing properties, particularly in calming and soothing spells.

Habitat: Moonvine thrives in shaded areas like the Luminous Marshlands and along the walls of ancient ruins. It is often cultivated in the gardens of healers and within the Temple of the Eternal Night.

Aurora Blossoms

These flowers bloom in clusters and display a mesmerizing array of colors that shift and change, much like the auroras in the skies of Astralis. The petals are soft to the touch and are known to emit a gentle warmth. Aurora Blossoms are often used in crafting potions and elixirs that grant temporary enhancements to magical abilities.

Habitat: Aurora Blossoms are found in the Celestial Gardens and the Ethereal Plains, where they add bursts of color to the landscape. They are prized for their beauty and magical properties.

Stardew Lilies

Elegant, water-loving lilies that bloom on the surface of Astralis' many lakes and ponds. Their petals are a deep indigo, speckled with tiny, silver spots that resemble a starry night sky. Stardew Lilies are known to absorb starlight, and their nectar is used in various potions and spells related to dreams and visions.

Habitat: These lilies are abundant in the Starfall Seas and the serene waters of the Veilwood, where they create a peaceful, reflective atmosphere.

Comet Ferns

Ferns with fronds that glow softly in the dark, each leaf tipped with a small, comet-like flare. These ferns are resilient and can grow in both light and dark environments, often seen in areas where other plants struggle to survive. The fronds of Comet Ferns are often used in protective charms and spells.

Habitat: Comet Ferns thrive in the Stardust Canyons and the rocky outcrops of the Astral Mountains, often found near the dens of Comet Foxes.

Lumina Orchids

Rare, bioluminescent orchids with petals that emit a soft, cool light. The flowers of the Lumina Orchid are highly sought after for their beauty and the calming energy they radiate. The orchids have a delicate, sweet scent that is often used in perfumes and potions for relaxation and mental clarity.

Habitat: Lumina Orchids grow in the Moonlit Meadows and the hidden corners of the Crystal Caverns, where they are carefully protected by the Starborn who cultivate them.

Celestial Clover

A type of clover with leaves that shimmer with a faint silver hue. Each leaf has a unique pattern that resembles a constellation, and the plant is considered a symbol of good luck and fortune. Celestial Clover is often used in crafting talismans and good luck charms.

Habitat: This clover is commonly found in the Firefly Fields and the open plains of Astralis, where it is often gathered by those seeking to bring good fortune into their lives.

Nebula Moss

A soft, velvety moss that glows with a gentle, multicolored light, resembling a nebula in miniature. The moss is often found covering rocks and tree trunks, creating a mystical ambiance wherever it grows. Nebula Moss is used in various magical practices, particularly those involving protection and concealment.

Habitat: Nebula Moss thrives in the Veilwood and the Crystal Caverns, where it creates an otherworldly glow in the dim light.

Dreamweaver Vines

Enchanted vines that seem to pulse with a gentle, dreamlike energy. The vines have leaves that are deep blue with silver veining, and they are known to influence dreams and visions of those who come into contact with them. Dreamweaver Vines are used in the creation of dreamcatchers and other items meant to protect and enhance dreams.

Habitat: These vines are commonly found near the Dreamgate and in the Veilwood, where they drape over ancient structures and trees, creating a sense of mystery and magic.

Starfruit Trees

These trees bear fruits shaped like stars, which are highly nutritious and have a sweet, slightly tart flavor. The fruits are often used in various dishes and potions, known for their energizing properties. Starfruit Trees have glossy, dark green leaves that glisten under the light of the stars.

Habitat: Starfruit Trees are found in the Starfall Forests and are a key part of the diet in Astralis, often used in the popular Starfruit Salad.

Radiant Roses

Roses that bloom in the dark, their petals glowing with a soft, radiant light. The Radiant Rose is a symbol of love and beauty in Astralis, often given as a gift to express deep emotions. The petals of these roses are used in love potions and spells, believed to enhance feelings of affection and connection.

Habitat: Radiant Roses are cultivated in the Celestial Gardens and are also found in wild groves scattered across the Moonlit Meadows.

Cosmic Cacti

Cacti with spines that sparkle like tiny stars. These plants store cosmic energy within their thick, fleshy stems, and their flowers bloom only once a year, releasing a burst of stardust when they open. Cosmic Cacti are known for their resilience and are often used in spells of endurance and strength.

Habitat: These cacti grow in the arid regions of the Stardust Canyons and on the floating islands of Astralis, where they withstand the harshest conditions.

@cosmichoney22 The Nebula Mist Blue Rose

A beautiful flower with the colorful array of the most vibrant nebula. They’re also the rarest and most sought after rose because they bloom every 500 years, and is incredibly volatile for many things ranging from food, to drinks, even medicine.

Habitat: The hidden corners of Crystal Caverns since the flower is sio rare, the likelihood of it popping up anywhere else in Astralis is very slim.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #disney twisted wonderland #winx yuu #winx club x twst #winx club x twisted wonderland #winx club

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mcondance · 4 months ago

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in the low lamp light feat. luke alvez can you tell i’m in love with this guy? title from “work song” by hozier

his soft pink lips move slowly against yours. you feel like you’re floating through honey, the world around you painted gold as you lose yourself in one kiss after another. really, it’s just one long kiss, with only a few breaths of air separating them. his heart beats a calm rhythm under your hand, where you’re curled onto him. it’s the rhythm of home, of comfort and serenity.

a warm hand comes up to push a bit of your hair behind your ear, and every nerve there fires. still, you keep your lips on his, the low sounds of kissing filling your dimly-lit bedroom. he glows in the tranquil orange light, the image of what you think is an angel, right under you.

perhaps he is an angel, earth-side, and you were lucky enough to find his favor. mutually, he thinks the same of you. he thinks the world of you, something you know unequivocally, and so does he. the words don’t have to be said, as they’re felt with every smooth slide of your lips on his, his lips on yours.

maybe, your home has shaken free from the earth and began a descent into the sky. you’d be none the wiser, because you and luke have entered that pocket where nothing outside gets in. a blissful bubble of cosmic importance, in which nothing else takes precedence.

your fingers thread delicately through loose black curls and the woody scent of his shampoo wafts through the air. higher still it brings you, because it’s the shampoo you picked for him a while ago when he asked what smell you prefer. at your touch, he inhales sharply, beautifully stirred up.

he smiles against your lips. you kiss him again. it’s soft and sweet, heavenly so.

#luke alvez fluff #luke alvez x reader #luke alvez x you #mcondance 2024 #— 🪽

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whositmcwhatsit · 10 months ago

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Enjoyable Slide to Oblivion

Like a lot of girls, Chancy Crawford had once been able to call herself one of Elvis's girlfriends, but that was long time ago. Now, she called herself his friend, or his 'cousin' if any of his girlfriends asked. It was just easier that way. And their relationship was all about being comfortable and easy. Until she gets asked to come and join a tour that seems endless and cursed.

AN: I'm not sure if anyone remembers I used to write silly stories, but here's the next installment of one I have neglected for too long. Thank you to everyone who continued to patiently message and let me know how much they liked the characters and very politely ask for the next chapter.

Thanks to @thatbanditqueen for injuring herself in order to give me motivation. And reading to check that I still remembered how to type words. You might need to remind yourself what happened before: Chapter 11 Chapter 12- Move Across the night sky, with those anonymous lights.

Pulling up to the gate of one of Elvis’ homes always invoked a strange combination of emotions in Chancy no matter how often she visited. Maybe it was the fact that there was always, always, at least a few people standing around ogling her curiously, but there was also the insecurity that this might be the time that the gates would not open for her, and the pride she felt at how much he had achieved, as well as an undeserved sense of personal achievement that she knew someone who had so much. That last one always made her feel guilty.

Harold kept her waiting, pretending that he needed to come to the window of her Chevrolet to see who she was and then saying he would have to call up to the house to check it was okay.

“Can’t be letting in just anyone, you know.” He went to the gatehouse and the gate began to open immediately. She smiled and pretended to be amused by his trick as she rolled past.

Chancy pulled up around the back near to the fence where the staff parked. Her car fit in better there than next to the limo and the Lincolns and the cadillacs. She glanced in the rear view mirror and checked her make-up hadn’t slid off her face in the humidity. Her air conditioning was busted, again- it only ever seemed to happen in the summer, a cosmic joke or a punishment.

Grabbing her two small, yellow travel cases, she swung the door shut with her hip and sighed, trying to force her heart to slow down by denying it oxygen. Just a visit, just a visit, she focused on the words and willed her heart to follow their rhythm.

“Well, hello there, Chancy.” She started and dropped one of her cases as Mr Presley approached her from the office, a smile on his plump face. He had that end of the day twinkle in his eye and Chancy mused how, between his twinkle and Mrs Presley’s dancing glow in her brown eyes when she was laughing, it was no wonder Elvis could incapacitate people with just a glance.

“Hi, Sir, it’s good to see you again!” She went to grab her fallen luggage, but Vernon reached it first and picked it up, adjusting his grip and miming like the case was heavy.

“My Lord, what do you have in here?!”

“Well, you know now a girl can’t give away the secrets needed to make her presentable, it’d spoil the magic, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess it would,” he agreed, still smiling slightly. “Though I reckon I need some magic to help this ole mug.”

“Nonsense! I was just about to ask you for your secret!”

Chancy could do this all day. In fact, she did do this all day; most of her job was buttering up clients and making them feel good about themselves. The fact that there was a slight ache to her cheeks as she smiled now was proof of how hard she worked.

“Well, you always were a sweet girl,” he returned, glancing over his shoulder at the house and tightening his lips. “Let me walk you in, I know Elvis is expecting you.” He reached out for her other case and she let him take it, puzzled since Vernon didn’t usually go out of his way to be helpful or even really acknowledge her much past a short, pleasant greeting.

On the way, they made small talk about the weather, which was the law in civilised society. One of them remarking on the heat, the other saying that it had to break soon. Debating whether it was hotter or cooler than previous years and then exchanging stories of the most extreme heat they had ever encountered. He told her about a time when he was a young man down in Mississippi and he was doing some work for a man who wore a hairpiece. The day got so hot that the glue melted and the hair started slipping when he spoke. No one was brave enough to tell him and lose the job. He mimed the man’s hair flying back and forth and how they had to all fight to keep their eyes from flicking from side to side with it. His laughter at his own story was infectious.

As they came in through the back door, he paused in the dim back hallway. Somewhere nearby she could hear a football game being played on television and men’s voices rising and falling as they questioned plays and commiserated.

“You know, it sure is good to see you, Chancy. Elvis’ mother always used to speak so highly of you and how well you took care of him.” He left the rest unspoken, looking behind him to the stairs to the basement, and then turning back and nodding at her.

“Thank you, Mr Presley,” she smiled, a little puzzled. She awkwardly fished back her cases and wondered if he was working up to something, and if she should wait.

Instead, he opened the door to the kitchen and motioned her in, wishing her a good night.

In the kitchen, Elvis’ aunt Delta was complaining about trying to buy something and how they had raised the price when she gave them the delivery address.

“Shouldn’t matter if it’s Tom, Dick or Elvis, if it’s fifty dollars it should stay fifty damn dollars. The nerve of people!” Her little dog was yipping and bouncing around her feet, excited by the heightened emotion in her voice. Mary, Elvis’ cook, her coat on like she had been trying to leave for some time, agreed with her, nodding her head wholeheartedly.

They both turned to look at Chancy as she paused by the counter with a faint smile of anticipation. It was always a roll of the dice which side of Delta you would get, but that evening was a good day, because they exchanged greetings and Chancy was invited into the story of the new chair that had started out as fifty dollars and became one hundred once it was destined for Graceland.

“One hundred dollars, my ass! I said, it’s for me, not Elvis and we both of us have enough sense not to waste another fifty dollars on some piece of-”

The phone rang on the wall by where Delta was sitting at the breakfast bar and she snatched it up, listened for a minute, and then nodded to her.

“Elvis said to go ahead and go on up.”

Chancy had to temper her speed as she moved through the kitchen, heading towards the back stairs.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your chair,” she shrugged, stepping onto the first tread.

“Oh honey, I got the chair, and a little table to boot. Soon’s I told ‘em that I’d go home and say what a rat-infested flea-ridden store they had and how we ain’t never gonna shop there again, we got the friends and family discount too.”

“Well, they’ll know better than to mess with you next time, Mrs Biggs. I might need to get some tips from you for when I have to negotiate with my suppliers.”

As she was climbing the stairs, she heard Delta say:

“Honey, I don’t think you need any help from anybody trying to get anything.”

Her foot momentarily faltered as her body wanted her to stop and march back down, but her brain won out just barely and forced her to continue her climb. By the time she had opened and closed all the doors that marked her journey, she was pretty sure she had knocked her case into her left shin enough times to leave a bruise, and she paused just inside Elvis’ office to run a finger under each eye to catch the slowly dripping mascara. She tapped on the door and waited to hear a low murmur of assent before she pushed the slightly ajar door open.

Elvis was sitting on his enormous bed with the newspaper laid out before him, apparently deeply engrossed in it, though she knew he had to have been watching the monitors at least a couple of minutes ago to know that she had arrived.

“Oh no! I think there’s been some mistake!” she lisped in a high voice. “The man at the reception desk said that this was my room.” She whirled around, wide-eyed, in the doorway. “This is room 385631.6 and half, right?”

Elvis smirked, his lips and cheekbones all curves as his eyes narrowed. His voice was a little thick like his tongue was still waking up.

“Damn, they must’ve double booked the rooms again, and, you know, I heard the clerk say that they were full up, no vacancies.” He clenched his jaw and shook his head like he was genuinely upset and disappointed in the ‘hotel’.

“Right,” she responded. “I guess that’ll be because of the convention?”

He nodded, rising slowly and stepping closer to her, his fingertips tickling her wrist.

“Uh huh, right, the, uh, One-eyed Albino Python Lovers of America convention,” he nodded, turning away as he almost broke.

“Oh, yeah, that’s a popular one,” she murmured, hearing him snort over his shoulder, and fighting to keep her face straight.

“Well,” he sighed with a sense of inevitability, turning back to her. “I guess there’s only one thing for it.” He shrugged with his whole body, throwing up his arms. “We’ll just have to share the room.”

“That seems like that’s all there is to it,” she agreed in her ditsy high voice.

“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind, uh, Miss…?”

“Tallulah-Wanda, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You don’t, huh. Well, I guess I’m just fixing problems all over the place tonight.” He pulled her into a clinch worthy of one of his movies, dipping her down so that she dropped her cases and grabbed his shoulders for safety. They broke apart and smiled breathlessly at each other for a minute.

“One-eyed Albino Python Lovers,” she muttered, slapping his shoulder. He smirked and pulled her back up.

“What? I’m telling ya, Tallulah baby, it’s a real group.”

“Uh huh, and I bet you’ve met quite a few members.”

“I meet a lot of people,” he replied evasively. He grabbed her jaw and kissed her hard on the mouth. “How was your day?”

She paused, surprised by the question. “Uh, it was fine, thank you for asking. How was yours?”

“Honey, I woke up less than two hours ago,” he pointed out, with a wry lift of his eyebrow.

“Right, right, I’m in the Elvis time zone now. Gotta adjust my clock accordingly. How was your breakfast?” He rolled his eyes and tugged her towards him, cradling the back of her head as he kissed her.

“That’s enough of that,” he murmured, though he didn’t elaborate on what ‘that’ was, just steered her around and nudged her backwards towards the bed. “Gotta unwrap my present here.” He tugged on her pale pink pussycat bow, teasing the ends out from where they were tucked into her low scooped waistcoat and pulling the loose knot free.

“You want me to give you my scarf?” she murmured, keeping her voice low to hide how affected she was. “Hmm, that’s a twist.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, but he seemed absorbed in his task, letting her silky scarf flutter off to the side as he studied her. She returned the favour, noting how fair his lashes looked in the daylight. His face was fuller, maybe because he hadn’t been well, but his colour was better than when she had last seen him at her house.

Biting his lip slightly, he unbuttoned her waistcoat, but there was nothing seductive or gentle about his movements. She genuinely felt like a gift given to an overexcited six year old. The waistcoat went in the other direction to her scarf, quickly followed by her heels.

“I’ll show you where your things are,” he said, pulling away and holding out a hand. She had to tamp down a smile as she let him lead her, padding behind him in her stockinged feet.

That morning, she had deliberately dressed up in her most businesslike outfit, stopping just short of wearing pants, because she knew he wouldn’t like it. Not to antagonise him exactly, but there had definitely been something pointed in her choice. Some barbed reminder that she was a whole person with a successful, fulfilling life that went on out of his sight line. She wasn’t one of the no doubt many girls around the country just waiting for his call, their life outside of him just filler that happened between their time with him.

In the ‘guest’ dressing room off his office, he showed her the row of plastic covered outfits that he had bought her on tour as if they had been there ever since he returned and not, as was more likely, hastily moved in that day after the last girl had left.

“You don’t like what I’m wearing?” she asked as he hovered in the doorway. He shifted uncomfortably and opened his mouth, clearly still formulating his reply. “I’m teasing you. Go on now, let me change.”

“Oughta tan your hide,” he muttered, giving her a sideways look as he retreated from the door. “Don’t change your hair.”

“Saying please don’t hurt you know!” she called out the door.

“I know!” he hollered back from presumably the bedroom.

In the small dusky pink dressing room, Chancy deliberately did not touch any drawers, no matter how painfully her curiosity niggled at her. She tried to be as dispassionate as she would be in a communal dressing room, which, essentially, it was. She made sure not to make a mess and folded her own clothes neatly, putting them back into her case.

There were a few toiletries sitting on top of the dressing table and she leant over them in order to apply more make up to her eyes, appreciating the good lighting. When she had finished, she checked that she had not left a trace and came back out into the office.

Elvis was sat at his desk with Joe standing over him and murmuring into his ear, his arms spanning the desk and the back of Elvis’ chair. His broad back blocked Elvis from her view. The body language could not have been clearer.

Without stopping, she tiptoed past them towards the bedroom, still holding her bags.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Elvis snapped over the top of Joe’s low mumbling. Chancy glanced over her shoulder almost guiltily.

“Going in there? I got changed like you said.” Elvis visibly relaxed, his face smoothing and shoulders dropping.

“I thought you were ducking out on me. What you got your bags there for?”

“I didn’t want to leave all my things lying about. I’m trying to change my messy ways, you know.” He shook his head and waved his hand back towards the dressing room.

“No, go ahead and put everything in there, honey, that’s yours.” She hesitated, but Joe had already resumed his whispering and Elvis was frowning at the console of his desk with its screen and knobs and switches. So, she tucked her cases inside the door of the dressing room and speed-walked past them back into the bedroom.

The curtains were closed and, though the lamps were lit, the room still felt dark to Chancy. This was not helped by the enormous bed that was clad in black every way from the headboard to the bedcovers. She perched on it primly, her feet barely skimming the floor. She didn’t like that, being reminded that she was short. It made her feel like the room was patting her on the head somehow.

Instead, she pushed off the bed and scanned the shelves of the units, smiling a little at the framed photos of a blond little girl and running her finger over the ornaments, some of them clearly from fans.

There were a few records scattered around the record player, their labels a mess of scrawled handwriting that revealed them to be demos. And there were books, piles and piles of books with fuzzy, slightly scary titles like ‘The search for…’, ‘A Study of…’, ‘Explore the world of…’

One caught her eye, a small, slim volume with exotic gold patterns etched into the worn covers. She glanced up at the door before she opened it to the foreword. It was Sufi poetry translated from the original Persian. Chancy pressed her fingers to the pages in wonder, trying to make it fit into the already complex and contradictory picture of Elvis she held in her mind.

The man himself burst into the room, slamming the door shut behind him, but he stopped short when he saw her standing by the shelves as if he had forgotten she was in there. She could see him biting down and breathing hard, his nostrils flaring, like he was trying to change gears while still accelerating.

She didn’t say anything, looking back down at the book and reading the first poem silently to herself, giving him time to collect himself without being observed, to leave without feeling obligated or ask her to leave. She felt him as he drew close to her, his chest brushing her shoulder.

“It’s good, you should borrow it when I’m done,” he said quietly, calmly. She smiled as she took her hand away from the page and turned towards him.

“What’s it about?”

“I- I can’t exactly say,” he shrugged. “It makes me feel like words and ideas, even sermons and laws, they’re just getting in the way and confusing people, distracting them from the truth and the real essence of God, you know. I-I-I ain’t saying it right, but the guys in this book, they pull back the curtain, you know, and you feel like you’ve caught a glimpse of something, just for a moment, that’s greater and truer than anything else.”

Chancy tilted her head, letting that sink in.

“I do think I’d like to read it after you, thank you.” He leant past her and picked it up.

“Here, take it, honey. I can get another. Ignore the scribbling though, sometimes I just gotta work things out in my head. Try and get things straight, you know.”

“No, Elvis, I can’t, not if you’re enjoying it! I can wait until you’re done.”

“Baby, I want you to. Like I said, I can get another. And we can talk about it when you’re done reading it. I don’t- I don’t have no one I can discuss these things with. They all just get this damn pie-eyed look on their faces like ole Elvis’s gone nuts and they don’t know who to call to fix it.” He crossed his eyes and pulled a silly face while he pushed the book into her chest until she took hold of it.

“That’s dumb,” she murmured, cradling the book to her chest. “Everyone knows you already went crazy years ago.”

“Yeah, well whose fault was that,” he returned, gritting his teeth and pushing his forehead against hers, smushing the tip of her nose. She wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him closer, simultaneously loving and resenting the almost painful wave of relief that rolled over her as she nestled into his arms and felt his soft lips brush against hers. The big sigh he let out as he squeezed her in tighter at least let her know that she wasn’t alone in this comfort trap.

“I missed this silly little face,” he murmured, one hand gripping her jaw playfully but gently.

“Really? This one?” She crossed her eyes and scrunched up her nose, tightening her lips so that it looked like she had buck teeth.

In response, he wrapped one big hand over her face and put a little pressure into it, nudging her backwards. She went with it, trusting him not to have her tumbling on her butt down the stairs. The side of the bed pressed into the back of her legs and she grabbed him by the biceps to stop herself from falling backwards.

“You missed me too, right?” he almost whispered, leaning down to kiss her again. “Tell me you missed me, Cha Cha.”

Chancy heard her own voice as if it came from far away, muffled and almost whiny with longing.

“I missed you, Elvis.” She continued to kiss him even as he turned his head slightly. She could feel his cheek bunch beneath her lips as he smiled, enjoying her affection. “I missed you, I missed you.” She felt his faint stubble grazed against her lips as she let them trail down his cheek and under his jaw. He was bent slightly at the knees so that she could reach, rubbing his thumb around in little circles on her back. Her awareness narrowed to only those points of sensation, the thumb circles on her back, the tingle on her lips, the warmth down her front.

The phone started trilling. They both looked at it blankly for a second, before Elvis straightened and sighed, going to answer.

Whatever was being said on the other end of the line irritated Elvis, he mumbled one word answers until he slammed the receiver back onto the hook.

Without a word, he disappeared into his bathroom and left her yet again wandering around his room, running her fingers over his belongings and trying to pretend that she belonged there. She opened her new book at a random page and let her eyes trip across the words:

“That’s how you came here, like a star,

Without a name…”

She had no idea what it meant, but it sounded beautiful. She murmured it under her breath, finishing with a sharp inhale as Elvis stormed back out of his bathroom clad in a long leather coat, gloves and carrying a police flashlight.

“C’mon, we’re getting out of here.”

Billy was waiting at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, hands shoved into his jeans pockets. He grinned, reflecting Elvis’ smirk as they converged in the kitchen.

“They fell for it, huh?” Elvis remarked, knocking Billy’s shoulder with his knuckles.

“Uh huh, I told ‘em we’d meet ‘em on up ahead.” “Joe bitchin’ and whining about it, I bet,” Elvis remarked gleefully, heading towards the back door with Billy beside him. Chancy trailed them, wondering what the hell was going on.

The wall of wet heat hit as soon as they stepped outside and Chancy shook her head as she stared at Elvis’ broad back wrapped in black leather even as she was peeling tendrils of her hair away from her damp neck and face.

Elvis was too busy crowing over his ability to fool everyone to notice the temperature. He and Billy were joking and laughing about it as they passed the car port and continued on down towards the back gate near where Chancy had parked her car. On the road was a white Cadillac coupe with an old, black truck behind it.

Billy tossed some keys to Elvis, who was still laughing as he got into the truck, but Billy’s smile faded as he turned away and he looked at Chancy with something close to reproach. She couldn’t think why he would be mad with her or blame her when she had no idea what was going on. He was the one going along with whatever crazy plan Elvis had come up with.

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked nobody in particular.

“Shh, we’re being sneaky!” Elvis whispered in an Elmer Fudd voice, leaning out the window. “C’mon, Cha Cha, get in!”

She looked to Billy again, hoping for something that made more sense, but he had already climbed into the Cadillac and the back gate was opening. Elvis beckoned her and she hurriedly circled the truck and jumped in.

As they pulled out into the narrow road that ran down the side of the church next door, Elvis accelerated slightly and gave the Cadillac in front a little nudge on the bumper, grinning so wide that his dimples made an appearance.

“Uh, shouldn’t you have your lights on?” Chancy asked, goosebumps of anticipation nonetheless breaking out over her arms as she caught his infectious excitement.

“Now that wouldn’t be very sneaky of little old us, would it.”

“Billy’s got his on.”

“Exactly!”

Ahead of them, Billy pulled out onto the highway and faintly they could hear a few people shouting. Elvis waited, engine idling with his lights off. Chancy watched him expectantly as he tapped his thumbs on the top of the steering wheel, humming quietly under his breath. He seemed to become aware of her eyes and glanced towards her, eyes narrow and cheekbones brimming with mirth.

“Being bad feels good, don’t it?”

“It might, if I knew what we were doing.” He didn’t reply, just flew out onto the highway, switching on his lights at the last minute and swerving around the oncoming traffic.

Eyes on the rear view mirror, he murmured, “I bet they’re shitting a brick right about now, man. Serves ‘em right, serves ‘em right. I tell you, boy…”

“So we’re not going to the recording studio?” Chancy asked, mainly to remind him that she was in the car too and he didn’t need to talk to himself.

“You catch on fast, don’t you,” he remarked, shooting her a sideways look. “Baby, what are you doing all the way over there?” He reached blindly across the bench seat and clamped a hand on her thigh, trying to drag her closer to him. She made a series of unladylike noises as she left behind half of the skin from the back of thighs on the warm leather.

“Where are we going then?” she inquired, once she was flush against him, her forearm resting on his thigh and her cheek stuck to his coat.

“Well…” He tailed off. “Where would you like to go?” She bit down on her lip as he made himself sound very magnanimous and not at all like he hadn’t thought his great escape plan all the way through.

“I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch,” she reasoned. “Maybe we could-” He took a sharp turn that almost sent her sprawling. “Or maybe we could not die, Elvis, how about that?!”

He snorted and glanced at her with his eyebrow quirked playfully. She swatted at him, because he knew exactly what to do to take the heat out of her irritation, leaving her with just the intellectual understanding that she should feel annoyed.

“Poor widdle Cha Cha, all moody and mad cos she’s hungry,” he murmured in that damn baby voice again. She was about to swat him a little harder when he did a double take out of his side window. “Hey, you know, I ran out of gas there one time.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, back when I was starting out. It was one of the first times it got really crazy, boy. The cops had to come out and everything. It was wild.”

“Uh huh, getting a ride in the back of a police car to the gas station is not something you ever forget. Especially after I got back and some girl called me your whore.”

Chancy watched his face as his brain worked overtime, recalling the little details that he usually airbrushed from the patter he gave his dates as he took them on a personal tour of his home town, like who else had been there.

“They called you a whore?” he echoed finally, focusing on the detail where he had no culpability. “I didn't know that.”

“Well, it wasn't something I would've wanted to repeat.”

It had been the first time she had been the victim of jealous, spiteful resentment, but not nearly the last. She shook her head like she could dislodge the echoes of embarrassment, hurt and outrage she had felt.

“Besides, you didn’t even remember I was there!” She smacked his leg and turned away slightly, playing at being mad.

“Honey, I did! I-I remember, I was just testing you!”

“Uh huh,” she murmured. “Well, I guess I passed.”

“With flying colours,” He hit her with a poorly aimed kiss on the ear as he steered the truck into a parking lot. Chancy glanced around and realised he had pulled into Dairy Queen.

“You do take me to the fanciest places,” she teased, already moving to climb out.

“Well, I only know of two ways to get you out of this mood you’re in,” he returned with irritating insight. “One’s food and the other… Well, we’re in public, honey, you know.” She felt so much better about the shiver she had to fight back when she saw that, despite the naughty look on his face, he had gone pink.

“You are terrible,” she informed him. “Hey, where are you going?” He paused as he pushed open his door.

“There’s only one way out,” he replied, looking bemused.

“You can’t go in there!” she exclaimed, then wanted to rewind time and roll her tongue back in, because the one way to guarantee Elvis would do something was to tell him that he couldn’t. “Baby, you don’t have any of the guys with you. It’s not safe.”

“It’s late, Cha Cha, I’m not letting you go in there by yourself,” he returned. Then, she witnessed the exact same expression of regret cover his face that must have shone from hers moments before. Because telling her that she wasn’t allowed to do something was like firing a starting pistol.

“It’s not exactly Times Square.”

“I don’t give a damn. Cha Cha, honey, you got all kinds of characters out there now, crazy sonsofbitches and losers strung out on all these fucking drugs they’re pushing on the streets. Baby- Baby, you don’t understand because you don’t know what it’s really like.” She bristled at the condescending tone and folded her arms over her grumbling stomach.

“Well, then it’s not safe for either of us.”

After ten minutes of silent sulking and hunger, they came to a compromise. Chancy would go in and order the food, and Elvis would park as close as possible with his gun ready just in case.

As silly as she knew all that was, Chancy still felt tingles of apprehension as she pulled on the metal bar and opened the door.

At that time of the evening, the place was full of teenagers hanging out and families grabbing a treat on the way home from the movies. None of them really spared her a look apart from a few pleasant smiles as she made her way to the counter.

Not long later, she was juggling a sack and two milkshakes and stopped to thank a man who had jumped up to hold the door for her. He smiled back, nodding at her chest rather than her face.

Turning towards the truck, she let out a little gasp as she saw a small knot of people standing by the driver’s door. Her heart hammering, she glanced towards the phone booth at the front of the parking lot, wondering if she would have to make a call to Graceland to get someone out to help.

As she drew closer, she saw that it was just an older couple and their children. As long as they made a getaway before they attracted any more attention they would be okay.

When she climbed in the cab, Elvis was signing a scrap of paper, what looked like a receipt, and he handed it over, ruffling the young son on the head. Chancy kept her head down so as not to attract notice. The only problem was that the family did not seem satisfied with the autograph and small talk and lingered, forcing Elvis to say that they had to leave. They even took a few steps forward as he backed out, like they were going to follow them on foot.

“Just can’t stay out of trouble for a minute, can you,” she remarked, handing him his milkshake.

“Well, you were gone so damn long,” he complained, spilling a little of the shake on his pants as he tried to negotiate the road. “Goddamn it! She quickly retrieved the paper cup before it was thrown, possibly at her. He was still swearing as he pulled into a rest area, the frosty drink slowly trickling into uncomfortable places.

Seeing his mood souring, she grabbed a napkin from the sack but hid it at her side.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” she exclaimed brightly, ducking her head down towards his lap.

“Chancy, no!” His voice went impossibly high, breathless and panicked.

She burst out laughing, she couldn’t help it, and tossed the napkin at him as she collapsed against the back of the seat, gasping and giggling, wiping her eyes. She tried to get herself under control as he irritably wiped at his pants with the napkin, muttering under his breath, but every time she looked at him, all kitted out in his flashy badass outfit, she kept hearing his panicked protest like he was a sweet virgin being propositioned by an over amorous date.

“Don’t see what’s so goddamn funny,” he snapped. “My fucking pants are ruined.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice quivering very slightly as she bit on the inside of her cheek. “I…” She started laughing again and he smacked the steering wheel and started the engine, shaking his head. “No, baby, no, I’m sorry!” She lifted her milkshake and tipped it slightly as if she was going to dump the whole thing in her own lap. “Look, you give me the word and we’ll match. Want me to?”

A fast diesel truck rattling by startled her and she jerked slightly, causing a large drop to splat onto her bare leg.

“Damn, that’s cold!” she hissed. His eyes twinkled and a slow smile crept across his face. She realised that there was a very real possibility that he was about to knock the cup over her and almost resigned herself to it.

“You’re crazy, you know that,” he remarked, before very slowly and deliberately leaning down and licking the milkshake from her thigh. He punctuated that by opening his mouth and pretending to take a bite of her, his teeth leaving a faint imprint in her pale skin under the light of the cab. Holding her breath, Chancy now understood how fish felt drowning on dry land.

They ate their food at the rest stop without much chat. Elvis was still mad at her for laughing at him. It was always a sore point for him, and she sensed that he was embarrassed by his unfiltered reaction to the idea of her going down on him in public. He always loved to give off the impression that he was unflappable, that there was no boundary that he would not push and no impulse he would not indulge, but that wasn’t true. Not really.

Licking the salt from her fingers, she leant up and kissed his cheek as he chewed the last of his third burger. He didn’t reciprocate, but nor did he move away, just looked out the window at the shadowy brush. She stuffed the wrappers into the empty sack and slid a little closer to him, her bent knees knocking into his thigh.

Rising on her knees, she nudged her nose into the hair at his temple, pressing butterfly kisses into his skin, catching her lip on the arm of his sunglasses. His fingers tapped on the ledge of his open window, almost like she was keeping him from a more pressing appointment, and she wondered if his mood had sunk too low to be recovered. She started to draw back, but the firm line of his arm just behind her shoulders stopped her retreat.

She studied him, looking down from his turned cheek to where the tendon in his neck was just visible above his turned-up collar as he craned his head away from her. Almost tentatively, she pressed her lips against it, feeling his pulse pounding beneath the salty skin. She lapped at it with tiny kitten licks until he jerked away, trying to hide his smile.

Leaning forward, he started the engine and pulled back out onto the road, executing a neat u-turn so that they were heading north.

“Where are we going now?”

“Gotta get you back to the nuthouse before they send out the guys with straitjackets,” he replied, shooting her a sly grin.

“Uh huh, I’m sure it’d be me they were looking for,” she replied, settling herself down at his side. He just kept smiling, dropping his hand into her lap and entwining their fingers. That didn’t last long, because he had to keep twiddling the dial of the radio every time the deejay started talking.

“Wasn’t that George?” she asked, as he abruptly twisted the knob again, muttering a curse word. “I don’t care who it was,” he snapped. “Don’t talk over the goddamn song. What’s the point of them even playing songs if they’re gonna-” He let out some high pitched gibberish that sounded like an irate chipmunk after sucking helium.

“So, where’s next on the famous Elvis’ hometown tour?” “Aw, honey, there’s no…” He didn’t even bother finishing his lie. “There ain’t no point showing you, you know more about it than I do. I ever end up writing that book about my life, you’ll be there…’No, Elvis, it didn’t happen like that, I was there.’” She shook her head at his usual high-pitched impression of her.

“The two of us in rocking chairs, me trying to edit every story,” she added. “In my head, you’re old when you’re writing this life story.”

She felt her cheeks heat as she had basically admitted that she pictured them together when they were old. That was giving away too much and also trying to take too little.

If he noticed her embarrassment or thought that the idea of them being together when they were old was far-fetched, he didn’t show it, huffing a laugh as he guided them back through more familiar streets. “We’re going back? So soon?” She thought of all the people back at the house, likely some annoyed employees and some tense phone calls to be made. She wondered if they would get to sneak out like this again during her stay, and considered that plans would probably be put in place to stop that happening.

“Well,” he bounced a closed fist against the inside of the truck door. “I gotta change my damn pants and… It seems like you might still be in a bad mood, honey. I think it might be time to try the second thing.”

Tag lIst: @richardslady121, @dkayfixates, @fallinlovewithurlove, @notstefaniepresley, @heartbrake-hotel , @freudianslumber , @bbrtt777, @18lkpeters , @prompted-wordsmith, @literally-just-elvis-fics , @eliseinmemphis @lookingforrainbows , @stylespresleyhearted , @amydarcimarie , @returntopresley, @savedrebelcreation, @lettersfromvenus , @littlehoneyposts, @joshuntildawn13, @i-r-i-n-a-a, @from-memphis-with-love, @ellie-24, @be-my-ally, @vintageshanny

#elvis presley #70s elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis x oc #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #enjoyable slide to oblivion #whositmcwhatsit #Consider this my dessicated zombie hand breaking through the ground and finding the world above has changed beyond recognition

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numinousmysteries · 9 months ago

Text

Handfesta

He wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God.

MSR/S7ish/Explicit

@today-in-fic [on Ao3]

Although they’d been involved, entwined, inseparable, cosmically linked (take your pick, really) for years, he feared actually being with her would mean making promises he couldn’t keep. He’d want to give her the world: A husband who didn’t feel the urge to drive across the country at the mere suggestion of strange lights in the sky. A home to fill with as many blue-eyed babies as she wanted. Or, at the very least, a dog.

But he can’t marry her. They can’t live together. The babies are a moot point—an especially painful one after their failed IVF attempt. And look what happened to poor Queequeg.

In the end, though, pretending he didn’t love her proved more painful than admitting that he did.

***

If the world didn’t end in the early hours of the new millennium, it certainly shifted on its axis. The sun had yet to rise on the first day of the year and Dana Scully had already let him kiss her, insisted on staying the night at his apartment on the flimsiest of pretenses (to look over his barely fractured radius), and is now—assuming he isn’t hallucinating—naked, astride him, and riding his cock.

He isn’t ready to rule out a drug-fueled hallucination quite yet, although this feels pretty fucking real. Underneath the fingers of his one useful hand, the delicate skin on her hip feels soft and warm. Her scent envelopes him like a halo. Moving his thumb to the wet bud of her clit elicits more of the breathy moans that he could listen to for the rest of his life.

She throws her head back, exposing her pearlescent neck. Earlier on his couch, he lavished the skin there with hungry kisses as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She pulled away briefly to put him out of his misery by freeing herself from her clothing. Then she dragged him by his good arm into the bedroom. She helped him out of his jeans but they didn’t bother getting his t-shirt off with his sling in the way so he kept it on as she got on top of him. The thin gray fabric covering his chest makes him feel oddly chaste like an actress who kept her bra on during sex scenes.

There’s nothing chaste about the way Scully is writhing above him, though. She’s so wet that he’d be nervous she'd slip off of him on each upstroke if she wasn’t also clinging to him so tightly. They shouldn’t fit together this well—fuck, they shouldn’t even get along—but they’ve seen phenomena far more difficult to explain than this, so why not?

She folds forward to kiss him and he sucks greedily at her mouth. Her lips are plump, swollen from the barrage of kisses he assailed her with the moment the apartment door shut behind them. Their New Year’s kiss at the hospital had been restrained, but it was enough to crack open the floodgates between them. They barely spoke on the drive back to his place, both sharply attuned to the new dimension of their partnership. He’d become an expert at reading her moods from across a car’s center console. He knew when she was angry or tired or hungry. Now he knew how it felt to sit beside her and feel raw need emanating off of her. And he knew she sensed it from him as well.

He wants this to last forever, to live in an endless time loop of watching her perfect breasts bounce in sync with the rhythm of her hips and her face contorting in pleasure. He wants to take up permanent residence here and have all his mail forwarded in care of Dana Scully’s glistening, velvety vise of a vagina (although she’d certainly shoot him again if she heard him say anything of the sort out loud). But they’re both so close now and when she arches her pale belly toward him and reaches back to stroke the seam between his rigid balls, he lets go. Seven years of pent up desire rush out of him in desperate hot spurts. She comes in stride, squeezing him dry as her inner walls frantically contract in pleasure.

Once he feels all of her muscles surrounding him relax, he half-expects she’ll disappear like a phantom in the night, the delirium of a love-starved man. She lifts up her hips and rolls over next to him. With her chest flush against his side he can feel the hammering of her heart. Alive, alive, alive is all he hears with each beat. He’s come too close to losing her too many times. The simple mechanism of blood pumping through her body is a holy sound to him. A prayer, an incantation, a vow.

“Let’s get married,” he says, testing his luck.

He suspects she’ll blame it on the painkillers, the orgasm-induced euphoria, the sudden rush of blood away from his brain, but instead she says, “Okay.” Her voice is quiet yet resolute and he questions if he’s been propelled into an alternate reality.

“Okay?” he asks, turning to her and squinting in disbelief.

“That surprises you?”

“Scully, I’ve seen you take more time deciding what you want from a vending machine.”

She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. The only person I’d want to spend every day of my life with. We’ve already made it through the sickness and health part more times than I’d like to count. And we love each other.”

She ticks off the reasons with the same confidence she’d use to explain why a pair of tracks in the woods couldn’t possibly belong to a sasquatch. She loves him. In the first two hours of the new millennium Dana Scully has kissed him, fucked him, and said she loved him. Now he’s even less sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“You know we can’t…really…” he trails off, feeling the heft of reality settle back over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain.

“I know,” she says. She bites her lips and glances down. “But we can be married in all the ways that count.”

“You don’t want a big church wedding? A cake with fondant flowers? A taffeta gown?”

“Taffeta, Mulder? Really?” she smirks.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t been to a wedding in at least a decade. I suppose bridal fashion has evolved.”

“Clearly.” She smiles. “But I’m serious. Marriage is a union based on love, companionship, and trust. We have all of that. I don’t care about the window dressings.”

“We’ve even consummated that union,” he says, trailing his fingertips along her upper arm.

“Yes, we have,” she responds. She rests her palm on the flat of his abdomen just below his t-shirt hem. “For what, I hope, will be the first of many, many times.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I can do with two hands.”

“You were married before,” she says, somewhere on an empty stretch of highway. Of course she brings it up when he’s stuck behind the wheel and can’t escape.

“How did you—”

“The Gunmen told me.” She’s staring shyly at her hands. It’s the first time they’re speaking about Diana since her death.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Scully. I should’ve told you. But it only lasted a few months. I was young and stupid. I convinced her to go down to the courthouse mostly because I was terrified she would leave me. Not that it made a difference. I only told my parents after she fled to Berlin and I needed help from their lawyers to get an annulment. They were scared she’d try to get a big settlement, but I just wanted to forget about it.”

“It’s okay,” she says, still examining her lap and not looking at him. “We met as adults. We’ve been in serious relationships before. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Honestly,” she turns to face him now. “Not as much as I thought it would.”

“Scully, what we have is so much more—” he pauses to find the words but comes up short.

“I know,” she says, bringing her hand to rest on his thigh. “I know.”

After a few miles of silence she asks slyly, the corners of her mouth arcing into a smile, “Did she wear taffeta?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, and it’s true. An eidetic memory and you’d think he’d remember what his bride wore on what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, but he draws a blank. All he can picture is staring at the gold band she slipped on his finger and trying to convince himself it meant he’d never be alone again.

She has to know he’s up to something when he starts applying his Socratic style to global wedding traditions instead of astral projection or lizard-eyed cryptids.

“Did you know the bouquet toss originated in medieval times and was meant to serve as a distraction so the bride and groom could slip off to their private chambers unnoticed after the ceremony?” He asks her on an airplane on the way back from Chicago.

“I know my cousin Nora once elbowed Missy in the gut to push her out of the way so she could catch one.”

“Ouch,” he winces. “How’d that work out for Nora?”

“She actually did get married the following year to some guy she met on a singles’ cruise. Last I heard, though, he ran away with his secretary and left her with reams of credit card debt,” she says. “And he went bald.”

“You win some, you lose some,” he says. “Did you know wedding rings are traditionally worn on the fourth finger because of the belief that a vein in that finger ran directly to the heart?”

“Well, that’s just inaccurate,” she asserts with a smug smile.

“Did you know that Congolese newlyweds aren’t allowed to smile for the entirety of their wedding day? Or that brides in ancient Rome used to paint their faces red?”

“I did not,” she says, scooting closer to him.

“In the Chinese Yugur culture, the groom shoots his bride with three headless arrows before the ceremony then breaks the arrows in half to symbolize unbroken love.”

“I already shot you once, I don’t think you need to return the favor.”

He playfully reaches for his shoulder and winks at her. “Jews, of course, break a glass for the same reason, while the Greeks smash plates. Did your parents do the whole full Catholic mass hoopla?”

She shakes her head. “My father’s commanding officer married them on base in Norfolk. We pretend not to do the math, but it was only six months before Bill was born.”

Mulder whistles. “Oh, Maggie. Remind me to thank her again the next time I see her.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For you.”

“What about your parents?” She asks.

“Oh, the Kuipers-Mulder wedding was the social event of the summer of ‘59. I think some distant Kennedy cousin even showed up. My mother’s parents didn’t like that he was nearly two decades older than her, and my father’s parents didn’t like that she was Jewish but they had enough money to throw a nice party so it all evened out. Not that any of that pomp and circumstance did them any good when the shit hit the fan.”

“And yet you still believe in marriage,” she ponders.

“I believe in marrying you.”

Even though they have a row to themselves on the plane and everyone around them seems to be asleep or absorbed in a book, he’s still surprised when she leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s a quick, close-mouthed peck but still more than she’d typically allow in public. They interlock their fingers under the arm rest and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her.

They’re curled toward each other on the motel bed like a pair of parentheses, too wired to sleep. He tells her about seeing the spirit of his sister in a field of dead children. She kisses his brow and pulls his head into her chest. She thankfully doesn’t suggest his vision is the result of a mind warped by grief and stress. The silk collar of her pajama top darkens with his tears and she holds him closer. He’s been cold for so long and her touch is thawing him.

He first told her about his sister in a motel room not unlike this one. Even then, Samantha had already been dead. She’d already been dead when Scully embraced his quest as her own. She’d already been dead when Scully was abducted, when Scully lost her chance at motherhood, when Scully nearly died in a hospital bed from a cancer that had been given to her. He finds it’s this that stings the most—that he made her suffer for nothing.

“She’s been gone this whole time,” he whispers into the hollow of her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder.” She presses her warm lips to the crown of his head, her words muffled in his hair.

It’s been a long day and he can smell her skin and sweat through faded layers of powdery deodorant and woodsy perfume. He likes that she chooses to smell like a forest and not a flower. He likes her natural scent even more.

He’s an orphan now. The last of his kind. And yet, cradled in her arms, this moment feels like a beginning and not an ending. The ties that held him to this earth have been severed and it’s only her firm grasp that’s keeping him from floating away.

“Be my family, Scully,” he says, raising his head up to the pillow so he can meet her gaze.

“Always,” she swears. Her lower lip is quivering and her eyelids are heavy. New tendrils extend, stretching between them, twisting around and around each other, serpentine. They’re interwoven and he never wants to break away. He can stand to lose anything except her.

He kisses her lips softly and feels her starting to cry. Tears stream down their cheeks and it’s impossible to tell which are hers and which are his. She is his home and everything about her feels right. Deepening the kiss, he rolls on top of her.

She brings one small hand to his chest to stop him. “Are you sure, Mulder?”

She asked him the same question in his apartment after autopsying his mother. That night he was seeking numbness and she, rightfully so, wouldn’t give it to him. She bore witness to his pain, holding him as he wept and slipped into a fitful sleep. Tonight, though, he is sure. He’s coming to her purely out of love, to rededicate himself to her.

He nods solemnly and she brings her hands to either side of his face, pulling him in so she can probe his mouth with her tongue. The taste of diner coffee lingers under the artificial mint of her toothpaste.

He takes his time unbuttoning her pajama shirt, revealing the milky skin of her chest. Tracing a trail down the valley between her breasts with his tongue, he pauses at the scar on her abdomen. It’s a reminder of her fragility and her strength. He kisses it to pay tribute to the duality of her nature.

She gasps when he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. Lifting her hips up, she lets him ease the silk down her legs and slim ankles. Her presence feels so powerful and all-encompassing that he sometimes forgets how small her actual physical form is. Her feet are so delicate he can’t believe they have the endurance to carry her to crime scenes and autopsy bays and wherever he asks her to follow him. He kisses the arch of each one in gratitude and then lets her pajama pants drop to the floor.

As he works his way back up, she starts spreading her thighs apart in anticipation. He can feel the heat of her sex radiating on his face like the sun before he even reaches the space between her legs. He inhales deeply and takes in her intoxicating essence before dragging his tongue up from the folds of her labia to the nub of her clit. Her thighs tighten around him and she rakes her nails through his hair.

“Mulder,” she begs of him quietly, his name an invitation on her lips.

He answers by latching onto her sex with his mouth, sucking and releasing her clit with increasing speed and intensity. Breathing feels unnecessary when he’s devouring her like this. He can’t be sure if the swirl of dizziness in his head stems from a lack of oxygen or a surge of adrenaline. Either way, he doesn’t come up for air until he sees her clenching the sheets between her fists in his peripheral vision and hears the high-pitched whimper from the back of her throat that lets him know she’s close. He loves making her come this way, knowing he’s able to give her this much-needed release, but now she’s tugging on the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling him up to meet her.

Rising to his knees, he sheds his shirt and peels off his boxers, freeing the erection that’s been throbbing to the beat of her moans. He pulls a pillow from the other side of the bed and slides it under her hips.

She reaches down between them, taking his length in her hand and confidently guiding him inside her. They’ve done this 12 times in his bed, nine times in hers, thrice on his couch, and now in their sixth motel room (the eidetic memory works when it counts) and yet each time feels like a new discovery.

Tonight feels endowed with a singular significance. He has finally laid his sister, and therefore his quest for her, to rest, and can give himself to Scully fully. The rules feel like loose suggestions now. Why not quit the bureau and run away with her? Why not stake his claim to her in the light of day and marry her in front of everyone they know?

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Right now, there is only this moment—only their bodies gliding together in this timeless dance. They are prehistoric cave dwellers mating on a pelt of wolf fur. They are medieval peasants copulating under the thatched roof of their cottage. They are federal agents making love on the polyester duvet of a budget motel room in Sacramento, California. Plunging into her, he knows he has loved her in every lifetime.

Their bodies find a rhythm that feels as natural as their age-old verbal tête-à-tête. Perhaps after all this time it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re so good at this.

“What?” she asks, breathily, and it tears him from his stream of consciousness.

“Hmm?”

“What are you smiling about?”

He must’ve had a shit-eating grin on his face by the way she’s staring at him. It makes him laugh and he collapses on top of her and chuckles into the side of her neck.

“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” he whispers into her ear.

“We finally found something you don’t believe in,” she says.

He doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry or keep thrusting into her. Somehow, he manages to do all three and soon they’re both coming hard and likely earning a noise complaint in the process. Fuck it, he thinks, let everyone hear.

After he slides out of her, they’re too mentally and physically exhausted to move so they stay lying atop the covers side by side. The window air conditioning unit kicks on, cooling the damp sweat that coats their skin. Feeling the goose pimples rise on her skin, he maneuvers them onto their sides so he can hold her from behind.

“I officiated a wedding for two of Sam’s Barbie dolls once,” he tells her. The scene surfaces from the hazy sea of his memory. It was months before her disappearance. They’d heard their parents fighting nearly every night that summer and he imagined Sam’s precocious mind grappling with the knowledge that marital bonds could be so brittle.

“Yeah?” she asks hesitantly.

He wants her to know that it’s alright, that talking about his sister feels lighter now.

“Well, I started anyway but I wasn’t taking it seriously so she made me stop and kicked me out of her room.”

“She couldn’t have asked for a better big brother,” she says. He wraps his arms around her and chooses to believe.

His lungs are mostly healed, although he isn’t cleared for active duty yet, when he insists they head back to North Carolina for a “personal mission” over the weekend. She doesn’t want him to risk flying so she agrees to let him pick her up early on Saturday morning for the long drive. They’re on the road before the sun rises.

“I know you’re feeling better, Mulder, but you’re really not up for anything too vigorous,” she says as he steers the car south.

“Well, it’s up to you how vigorous you plan on being on our wedding night.”

He looks over to find her eyebrows predictably raised.

“Open the glove compartment, Scully.”

He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to watch her remove the pamphlet for the Irish-themed bed and breakfast in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the braided ivory rope he’d sent away for.

“What is this, Mulder?” Her skeptical tone is replaced by a light, hopeful voice as she examines the rope.

“It’s for our handfasting ceremony.”

Looking over at her again, he sees even more questions in her eyes.

He doesn’t tell her he’s chosen this because their bond is so pure and elemental that he wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God; that he wants to tie his soul to hers like the stars are tethered to the sky; that he needs to know that even when their bodies have long decayed and reverted back to base matter, even when the sun has burned out and the universe has collapsed back within itself, that their essences will still be bound together.

He only shrugs and says, “It’s Celtic. Like your ancestors.”

Her smile breaks his heart wide open and he knows she understands.

“We missed May Day—you know, the feast of Beltane, the lusty month, and all of that—but Ewan says the old Neolithic hunter gatherers weren’t too picky about auspicious dates.”

“Ewan?”

“Byers’ cousin. He owns the B&B and does these things from time to time” he says. “But don’t worry, the other two Stooges don’t know anything. I didn’t want to hear Langly’s spiel about the evil capitalist roots of marriage—nor did I have the heart to let Frohike know you’re officially off the market.”

“I appreciate that,” she says with a toothy grin.

“I hope you’re not upset I sprung it on you like this,” he says.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. “A pagan ceremony preceded by a mysterious seven-hour road trip with a 5 a.m. wakeup call is the only way I would ever expect to marry you. Truly, if you got down on one knee with a diamond ring after a candlelit dinner I’d probably immediately order a CT scan to check you for a cerebral hemorrhage.”

The old stone home that houses the B&B looks straight out of a fairy tale. It’s drizzling when they pull up and he starts humming a few bars of Alanis Morisette. She catches his eye and he winks at her.

“Rain is considered good luck in Italy and India,” he says.

He fetches their luggage from the trunk of the car and follows her inside. There’s no check-in desk, just a cozy living room with overstuffed floral furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, and Ewan waiting for them.

He’s only a little disappointed when Byers’ cousin turns out to be a gentle-looking older man dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots and not a bearded druid priest clad in white robes and a crown of antlers.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” he says, shaking their hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. I’m honored to be a part of your sacred day. Why don’t I show you to your room and give you some time to freshen up before the ceremony?”

He leads them up a creaky flight of stairs to their room. It isn’t much larger than their standard roadside motel room but has far more character. A linen bedspread with Celtic knots woven in emerald thread covers the four-poster bed and there’s a wooden rocking chair in the corner that looks like it’d made the journey from the old country.

“Take your time,” Ewan says as he heads out. “You can meet me downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

After he closes the door behind him, Scully crosses the room to envelope Mulder in an embrace, resting her head under his chin.

“This is perfect,” she mumbles against the fabric of his sweater. “Thank you.”

They take turns using the bathroom and then head back downstairs. Ewan leads them through the B&B’s tidy eat-in kitchen and out the back door.

“Did any ancient mystics speak of the significance of a bride wearing jeans?” Scully whispers to Mulder as they follow Ewan to a clearing in the woods.

“I’m sure if any of them ever got a chance to see what your ass looked like in that pair, white dresses never would’ve made the cut.”

They’re walking hand-in-hand and she gently nudges his upper arm with her shoulder. After months of playing platonic in public, getting to touch her out in the open like this—even with the woods and John Byers’ cousin as their only witnesses—feels like taking a deep breath after being submerged underwater for too long.

“We’ve made it,” Ewan says, leading them to the center of a circle made from small stones. He guides them to stand face to face and take each other’s right hand.

Mulder recalls the first time they touched—shaking her hand on the morning she entered his office. He remembers her fresh-faced energy and how she met all his theories and hunches with fully formed counterarguments; how they improvised the steps of a dance that would become second nature over the years. Locking eyes over their hands, she smiles at him and he knows she’s reliving the same moment.

Despite whatever attempts she made to tame her hair into submission back in DC, the humidity and light drizzle in the woods bring out the soft frizz he loves to run his fingers through. He thinks of a downpour in an Oregon graveyard, the first time the peal of her laugh struck a chord in his soul.

He hands the rope over to Ewan who starts wrapping it around their linked hands and explaining the meaning of the ceremony. The words—commitment, love, intention—wash over him. He knows he could spend years studying the OED, the works of Byron or Neruda, and still never find a combination of letters that describe how much he loves the woman standing in front of him. For two people who rely on words to explain, argue, dispute, and affirm, they’re shockingly bad at expressing what they mean to one another using language. Or perhaps they’d reached as far as words could take them and only stumbled when they had to take the next step without any.

Ewan has looped the cord around their wrists and tied it in a string of nautical-looking knots that make Mulder wonder if Scully is reminded of her father. Ewan has them repeat a series of vows to each other. The words echo through their lips but Mulder knows they can only begin to encapsulate the commitment they’ve already made to each other. There’s no point in the ceremony where they’re instructed to kiss, but he does it anyway when Ewan stops speaking, leaning in to open her lips with his and feel the slick warmth of her mouth. Does it feel different now that they’re married (at least in some spiritual sense)? He isn’t sure, but he plans on conducting more experiments once they’re back in their room alone.

They break apart and Ewan looks up from the ground where he’d been staring in respectful silence.

“A first handfasting represents an engagement or a trial marriage. The ceremony is repeated in a year and a day to formalize the union,” Ewan says. “It’s tradition, I promise. Not just a way to stir up repeat business.”

“Well, same time next year, I suppose. Put us in the books,” Mulder says, looking down at their bound hands and then up at Scully’s wet eyes. She gives him the softest smile and a gentle laugh. A year, a day, and a millennium from now and, he knows, they will still be tied together.

They wear no rings. They sign no papers. Their union isn’t documented in any official records. By the time they get back inside and warm up with cups of coffee, the faint lines left on their wrists by the cord have faded. The interstitial fluid under the skin has redistributed itself, restoring equilibrium, but their internal balance has been forever recalibrated.

***

A year and a day passes. He dies and she brings him back to life. She gives birth to their son and then begs him to leave.

Their anniversary does not find him reunited with her in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains but alone in the desert of New Mexico. Of the few personal belongings he took when he fled, the one he holds most dear is the braided ivory rope she pressed into his hands on their last day together. I’ll bring it back, he vowed.

The cord is yellowed from the oils of his fingertips constantly worrying over it and the dust of the desert, but he holds it tighter on this day. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to safely return to her and to William, but he intends to keep this promise.

#xfiles #txf #the x files #msr #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #x files

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julesofnature · 2 years ago

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THE FAWN (After Mary Oliver’s ‘Wild Geese’) You do not have to win at a crisis. You do not have to push yourself to learn a new language or write a book or take up an instrument. Nothing will come of forcing yourself to compete your way out of trauma. Take this time to look at the stars. Take this time to look at how the sky still holds clouds that are the shape of hope. How the dawn begins at the tips of dewy grass, for this is where the horizon begins. Somewhere the dappled fawn raises her soft neck to watch the sun rise over her meadow. Somewhere else monarch butterflies begin their long migration, knowing many of them will not make it home. Remember that you do not need to earn your right to the precious minutes you have on this planet. They are already yours, like the fawn and the butterflies. The universe beckons you to enjoy this life it has given you through a heart that beats to the rhythm of its very own cosmic song.

Nikita Gill, from ‘Where Hope Comes From: Poems of Resilience, Healing and Light,’ Trapeze, part of The Orion Publishing Group, 2021

#Nikita Gill

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from-memphis-with-love · 1 month ago

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Phantom Frequency

🚛 "Phantom Frequency" - A Halloween Short Story

On a rain-slicked highway in 1969, lonely trucker Elvis Presley nearly dies in a collision with a mysterious red car. Seeking refuge at a remote truck stop diner, he meets Grace—a hauntingly beautiful waitress with a gap-toothed smile and eyes like sea glass. Their connection is instant, electric, and impossible... because Grace died exactly one year ago, killed by a driver who never stopped.

CW: car accidents, death, supernatural themes

Later—much later—Elvis would remember that night and think: That's when everything went to hell. That's when I learned some roads don't wanna let you go.

But on that Halloween night in 1969, he was just trying to keep his rig between the lines while Merle Haggard fought with static on the radio. The windshield wipers beat a rhythm that reminded him of his mother's old metronome: you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die.

(He was right about that, of course. Everyone dies eventually. But some folks—like the pretty waitress he was about to meet—were already well ahead of him.)

His hands gripped the big wheel of the Peterbilt, those same hands that had once strummed a Gibson guitar in Beale Street dive bars, back when he still believed he might be the next Johnny Cash. Now they just guided eighteen wheels through the dark, counting off the miles between nowhere and nothing much.

The cab of the truck smelled like every long-haul ride since the dawn of diesel: cigarette smoke, coffee gone cold in a plastic thermos, and that peculiar mixture of loneliness and diesel fuel that seems to seep into a trucker's bones after enough years on the road. Elvis had been driving for Yankee-Lines Transport for going on ten years now, and he figured he'd probably die behind this wheel.

(He didn't know how close he'd come to being right about that, too.)

The radio crackled, and through the static came Hank Williams singing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." Elvis reached for the dial, but something made him hesitate. Later, he'd wonder if that hesitation saved his life. Or maybe it had already been too late by then. Maybe it had been too late the moment he'd pointed his truck down Highway 61 on Halloween night.

That's when he saw the headlights in his mirror.

The red Chevrolet came out of nowhere, moving like a bullet with Satan's name on it. Elvis had just enough time to think Jesus Christ on a bicycle before everything went sideways. Literally.

The truck slid like it was auditioning for the Ice Capades, trailer swinging wide in a move that would've scored a perfect ten from the Russian judges. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Elvis had a crazy thought about that old Roy Orbison song—pretty woman, walking down the street—before physics finally called it a night and let everything settle into silence.

When his heart stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest like something from an Alien movie (not that those existed yet in 1969, but Elvis would think of that comparison later), he keyed the CB radio with shaking fingers.

"Breaker one-nine, this is Hound Dog," he said, and wasn't that a laugh? He'd picked that handle years ago, back when he still thought he might make it as a singer. Now it just felt like God's own cosmic joke. "Nearly got sent to the big truck stop in the sky by some maniac in a red Chevy. Anyone copy?"

The radio crackled—everything seemed to crackle that night, like the whole world was sitting on a bed of breaking bones—and a woman's voice came through: "Hound Dog, this is Grizzly Bear. Get yourself to Bud's Chalet at exit 117. Ain't safe out there tonight."

(Ain't safe. No ma'am, it surely wasn't. Ask Grace Maxwell about that. Oh wait, you can't. She's been dead a year. But don't worry, you'll meet her anyway.)

Elvis found the exit and pulled into what had to be the saddest excuse for a truck stop this side of the Mason-Dixon. Bud's Chalet looked like something that had fallen off the back of a Swiss tourist's postcard and landed in Arkansas by mistake. The kind of place where the coffee's always burnt and the pie's always old and the waitress is always named Flo.

Except the waitress wasn't named Flo.

She was standing behind the counter when he walked in, and for a moment Elvis forgot how to breathe. She was beautiful in that small-town way that breaks hearts and pens a thousand country songs. Strawberry blonde hair piled up in a beehive that would've made the B-52s proud (another reference that wouldn't make sense until years later), eyes green as summer lawn grass, and a gap between her front teeth that would've made Madonna jealous (there he went again, getting ahead of himself).

Her name tag said GRACE.

(And that's when the cosmic joke really got rolling. Because Grace had been dead exactly one year, killed by a red Chevy that didn't bother to stop after it sent her on her way to the ultimate coffee break. But Elvis didn't know that yet. He was still living in the world where pretty waitresses were alive and coffee got cold and clocks actually moved forward.)

"What'll it be?" she asked, and her voice was like warm honey over cornbread.

Elvis ordered coffee, black as midnight in a mine shaft. She poured it and steam rose from the cup like spirits escaping purgatory. He couldn't help noticing that she moved without making a sound, that the fluorescent lights dimmed when she passed under them, that her touch when she handed him the cup was cold as November rain.

They talked. Lord, how they talked. About roads and dreams and loneliness. About his failed music career and her daddy's trucking days. The coffee never got cold. The clock on the wall never moved. And outside, in the Arkansas night, something that drove a red Chevrolet waited patiently for its next victim.

When Elvis came back a year later—because of course he did, that's how these things work—the truth hit him like a load of concrete blocks. The photo on the wall. The brass plaque. Grace Maxwell, dead one year before he'd met her, killed by a hit-and-run driver in a red Chevy.

The same red Chevy that had almost sent him to join her.

Elvis ran out of that diner like his ass was on fire and his hair was catching. But as he reached his truck, the radio came to life all on its own. Through the static came "Peace in the Valley," and the smell of apple pie drifted on the wind.

He never drove that stretch of Highway 61 again. Some roads, he learned, have their own stories. Some roads keep their dead. And sometimes, if you're lucky (or maybe if you're not), those dead reach out to save the living from joining their lonely highway vigil.

But on quiet nights, when the moon is full and the radio won't quite tune in, Elvis thinks about Grace. He wonders if she's still there at Bud's Chalet, serving coffee that never gets cold to truckers who don't know they're being saved.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he finds himself humming "Peace in the Valley" and thinking about a pretty waitress with a gap-toothed smile who died on Halloween night but stuck around just long enough to keep him from joining her on the other side of the veil.

(Ain't that always the way? The dead looking out for the living, keeping us from stumbling too soon into their dark territory. And if you don't believe it, just take a drive down Highway 61 on Halloween night. Stop in at Bud's Chalet. Order some coffee and apple pie. But whatever you do, watch out for that red Chevy. It's still out there, waiting. Always waiting.)

THE END

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fans #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #halloween fanfiction #halloween #happy halloweeeeeeen

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grey-sorcery · 1 year ago

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Title: Nature Vs. Natue