#Rising Wind Novel Series | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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7.2k // pairing:dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: Joel whisks you away to Houston for the weekend under the guise of a work trip. You keep a secret from him to try and keep your fling undetected from your parents. warnings: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, dbf/neighbor!joel, smut, swearing, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel in his 40s), pet names, fingering, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (shower sex hehe), a little overstim if you squint

A/N: sorry not sorry this chapter took a month+, but I hope you like it! A little drammaaaa. and a reminder, they still have all day saturday and sunday together ;)

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You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-” “Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles. You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat. “There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,”

June 23rd 7:48 P.M.

I’ve had some time to think about Joel, and how much I like to think about him, and how things aren’t an accident.

Thinking about how unlikely it is that we sparked.

How Joel could have turned left, and I could have turned right. But we didn’t.

Instead of running away, I said yes, and so did he.

The impossibility of us seems so incredible, almost unbelievable.

I love that so many things had to happen for us to be where we are right now.

I saw the sun melt his eyes into amber, and he liked the way I smiled in the moonlight.

This feeling was radical, unnerving, scary.

I didn’t know why it was called falling or crashing into love. Perhaps I do now.

“You could sit there and read all day, huh?” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he starts to guide his truck off the freeway, passing a large aluminum Welcome to Houston! sign lit up by the truck’s headlights.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, cheeks squished from smiling as his hand settles on your upper thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on your sweet skin.

“I’m not reading anymore. Got too dark.” He’s referring to the novel you brought for the trip from your to-be-read pile that you started when you first got on the road.

The drive from Austin to Houston was two-and-a-half hours long, so you decided to saddle the passenger seat with different activities and snacks to keep yourself busy and out of Joel’s hair, much to his behest. He said he enjoyed letting you ramble on about whatever you were thinking about; said it was like listening to a podcast.

“But I am writing.” You hum quietly, penning in your last thought before it gets lost in the black of night.

“What’cha writin’, then?” Joel's curious eyes wander to the nest you had made for yourself in the passenger seat as he tilts his chin up to try and read beyond your journal cover.

You snap it closed and slip the pen in somewhere between the pages. “Keep your eyes on the road, old man.” Your tone is teasing, making you grin even more as he grumbles in annoyance under his breath as the truck slowly approaches a stop light.

Once off the freeway and down to the local roads, you roll the window down. You watch the moon start to rise in the sky, feeling goosebumps grow on your arms and exposed legs while the wind lazily flows through your hair. The gentle night breeze is welcome to air out Joel’s stuffy truck.

You were supposed to be his navigator once he got off the freeway, but you were a bit preoccupied looking around yourself.

You and Joel left Friday evening as soon as he was done with work, and now you were lightly coasting the streets of Houston as the sun finished setting. You could see the diverse architecture of downtown, the skyline of skyscrapers and high-rises were all crowded together. As you moved further into midtown, Joel drove past small businesses and parks. You let your hand float out the window, surfing the wind like a wave.

“Hey, space cadet, if you’re not gonna give me the directions to the motel, the least you can do is toss me a french fry.”

Your head cocks back to him, curiously smiling as you reach your hand aimlessly into the fast food bag, retrieving a fry and bringing it up to his lips. You settled on McDonald’s before you left Danbury, partially because Joel felt like being a little cheap, and you agreed they had the best, saltiest french fries.

You feed it to him, and he teasingly sucks the salt off your fingers.

“Gross, Joel.”

He sneers as he watches you wipe your hands on your thighs to rid yourself of his saliva. “You like it.”

He’s not wrong. You force yourself to look back out the window again to hide the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Joel smirks and squeezes your thigh to bring you back to him. When you look over to the handsome man donning his usual green flannel, the wind furles your hair in messy, unkempt streaks.

He hesitates for a moment, but now that you’re no longer preoccupied with reading or writing, he holds your hand. You feel him test the waters, settling for just lightly clasping it in your lap, but it’s not enough for him. His thick fingers and calloused hand meets the heart of your palm as his fingers weave with your own. He lets out a little sigh and settles himself there.

You feel like teasing him. You’re afraid to hold my hand but not to fuck my throat in your woodshed with a party right outside? But then you remember how difficult it was to kiss him. It still felt like a slip-up, you had to admit. Especially if this was supposed to be just a casual relationship. It felt intimate and emotionally charged. But it was just kissing, right? And this was just holding hands.

Your thoughts wrestle around your head a bit. Joel feels it. You’re not sure how he always seems to know what you’re thinking, but he does. His thumb strokes a gentle line up and down the muscle of your thumb, a silent way of saying stop thinking for once. It’s appreciated, the sense of care and thoughtfulness he provided without even speaking a word.

Ever since he took you to that bar, Past Lives, all you could think about was Joel. Joel on repeat. Joel taking you away from the distracted environment of the lakehouse. Joel showing you the map, saying there was more to the world than Texas. Joel kissing you. Joel touching you. Joel fucking you. Joel protecting you. Joel saving you.

As much as you’ve had time to reflect on Joel, you’ve also reflected on your parents. They were hardly bad people, but they didn’t respect your adult choices. You came to tearfully realize that your relationship with them had slowly deteriorated since leaving for university. You grew independent, and that was especially hard for them. Something you had trouble understanding, something Joel didn’t understand either.

You called Joel Thursday night before your trip under the guise of asking if you should pack any specifics, but the conversation ended up landing on his relationship and parenting with Sarah. You told him how you appreciated the way he let Sarah grow and experience things, that it was good for her.

“She’s a tough girl, and I trust’er. Nothin’ much left to say.”

“So, what-” you stumble and scoff over the phone. “My parents don’t trust me? Or think I’m not tough enough to tackle the world?”

“S’not what I’m sayin’, darlin’. I don’t know what’s up with your folks. But you don’t need their approval, you’re an adult. All you need is t’… t’ trust yourself. Sounds fuckin’ cheesy, but it’s true.”

You pause, twisting a strand of hair around your finger as your eyebrows furrow, thinking over his words. “Y’think if I act a little more confident about it, they’ll start believing it too?”

Joel’s chuckle is a little crackle-ey on the line as he wanders around his house talking to you, going in and out of good reception. “Gotta start somewhere, buttercup. At the end of the day, it’s about your happiness, not theirs. Don’t gotta be such a people pleaser all the time.”

Yes, I do, you think.

“Thanks, Joel.”

“Sure thing, hon’.”

Dusk on the outskirts of Houston. The houses become few and far between. There’s more green grass and flourished trees. Joel slowly pulls into a small driveway, a large blue neon-lit sign designated that you were at your motel for the weekend. The entire truck is highlighted in a pale blue from the illumination, you nearly have to squint. There were no more than two or three cars parked outside. It was a two-level motel, with an outside staircase to navigate the different floors.

“The Blue Swallow Motel.” Your attention strays to Joel with furrowed brows. “Why here?”

Joel shrugs and navigates himself into a parking spot with ease. “Don’t know. Like blue swallows.”

Curiosity sparks you.

“You like blue swallows? You’ve seen one in person?”

He shakes his head and says nothing for a moment, but it almost looks like he can’t help himself to dispel some information. “They’re native to Africa, only ever seen the North American variants ‘round here.” He lets the engine grumble down once he pulls the key from the ignition, but you’re still awestruck in his passenger seat.

“I’m sorry- Joel Miller Bird Enthusiast?” The eager tone in your voice gives away your excitement, and Joel seems to despise it when you get too excited about him. He has to close his eyes and hang his head, wishing he never said anything.

“Oh, Joel Miller, don’t even try to deny it, I’ve seen those bird guides on your bookshelf, you’re a birder.”

His neck swivels, eyes wide and defensive. “I am not a birder.��

You throw your head back in laughter, and eventually, he cracks a smile. “They’re interestin’, okay?”

You playfully pat his shoulder with reassurance, nodding in agreement. The two of you settle down from your fits of laughter and look over the exterior of the motel once more.

“Y’said you wanted somethin’ quaint? Small?”

Being with Joel and having no other distractions was your goal for this weekend. Since this trip was coming out of Joel’s pocket, you insisted you didn’t need some fancy hotel. You’ve traveled to Houston a handful of times before, and the last thing you wanted was for your view outside some high-rise hotel to be Danbury in the distance.

You squeeze his hand once more and nod, stars lighting up behind your eyes. “It’s perfect. Thanks for finding something simple.”

Joel teeters on your appreciation but ultimately ends up shaking his head. “Could’ve gotten something a little nicer for ya, maybe closer to downtown-”

You stop him right there and bring his rough knuckles to your plush lips, adding a kiss to each one. “I said it’s perfect, so it’s perfect. I like it, it’s got charm, chutzpah even. Plus, looks like we’ll have the pool to ourselves.” You hum with a devious little smirk. You hop out of the truck and open the backdoor to grab your things.

“Pool, you say?” He retorts, an eyebrow raised with narrow eyes on you. You lightly shrug as you grab your backpack.

“Might have forgotten my swimsuit, though. Shame.”

You brush past Joel, who is scoffing lightly under his breath in disbelief, duffel bag brushing against his calves as he walks with you towards the motel office. You would be the death of this man.

“Damn shame.” He mutters, a smirk hanging low on his lips.

---

Room 135 was marked on the dark chestnut door, a small white plate with black numbering decked on.

There wasn’t much to be said about the motel room itself. You tried to stifle a laugh when you and Joel both walked in to see two separate queen beds. The sheets were white, but the top cover was an extravagant red pattern that looked like it got lost in the 80s. A side table was resting against the wall towards the headboards with a beige telephone placed on top, resting over a few local restaurant menus. Two small lamps were attached to the wall above the beds, perfectly opposite of the television sat on top of a tall dresser.

“Is this your idea of a romantic getaway?” You teased as you walked further inside over the beige carpet. “Two beds don’t exactly scream romantic.” You set your backpack down on the foot of the bed furthest from the door and closest to the bathroom around the corner. You assume this bed will just be used to hold both of your luggage, not a person.

“No,” Joel said through a tight gruff as he strained to lift his bag of tools and luggage onto the edge of his own bed. “S’a work trip. Not a romantic getaway.”

Your smile falters as you purse your lips and fiddle with your hands behind your back.

“So, this really is a work trip?” You clarify, to which Joel looks at you a bit confused.

“Course it is.”

A light boil simmers through your chest. Maybe you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight. Joel could sense your flattened mood, and he quickly felt the need to sweep up the pieces of what he broke. He was bad with words, terrible really, but he tried to find the right ones for you.

“I said that wrong. It’s a work trip but,” he trails off and falters as he saddles his hands on his hips for a moment and sighs, your doe eyes looking up to his own. “But I brought you here to spend some real time with ya. Didn’t wanna,” he shrugs and rolls his eyes. A classic Joel Miller sign that he wants to say something a little personally emotional.

“What?” You probe him, a smile tickling your lips as you loop your hands to rest just above the ones on his hips. “You didn’t want to what, Joel?” You ask, setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him with a goofy grin.

He sighs and rolls his eyes again, having a hard time looking at you. “I didn’t wanna go on this trip alone. Didn’t want to leave you at home when I could bring ya with.”

Joel wasn’t a social man. In fact, if the world went to shit, you think he might really enjoy the solitude. But for him to admit that he would rather have you in his space than out of it, it’s quite endearing.

Now you’re the one who's hiding a blush. You settle your cheek against his chest and sigh, soaking in his scent and his warmth. Joel’s hand comes to rest on the side of your head, gently stroking your hair away from your face as the two of you relax into a gentle hug.

“Were you serious about that no bathin’ suit thing?” He asks after a moment of silence, causing you to roll your eyes and shove him a good distance away.

“As serious as a heart attack.” You sneer as you round the bed to the bathroom, needing desperately to relieve yourself after the drive. Of all colors, it’s a beautiful mint green. Incredibly retro, you think as you use the toilet and stare at the shower absentmindedly. You roll your phone around in your hands once you finish washing them, a lump rising in your throat.

Your mother’s words echoed in your ear.

“If it gets serious, we want to meet this young man.”

There was no young man. The young man your mother referred to was really Joel. Panic was spreading through your body just at the thought of trying to fix this situation. They figured out you were seeing someone, they just didn’t quite know who. A few heavy breaths labor out of you, anxiety nestling in your chest.

“You okay, buttercup? Been a minute.” Joel asks cautiously from the opposite side of the door, his knuckles offering a few polite knocks.

Your chest surges. You didn’t want him to know you’d slipped up, half-told your parents the truth. You didn’t want him to end things out of fear of them finding out. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, Joel. Just.. gimme a minute.”

His feet don’t move on the other side of the door. He doesn’t want to leave you, feeling something slightly wrong.

“Really, Joel, just- checking out the facilities.” God.

He sighs before you hear him back off. “Alright. Lemme know f’you need anythin’.”

You need to act, or else this feeling will eat you alive. Finally, with some accurate cell service, you text the first person you think of. Nathan. Remember that childhood crush of yours? You hadn’t seen him in years, and with how gorgeous he was growing up, there was a scary feeling that you might be texting a man who had a girlfriend. But he was your only hope to cover up the mess you had made.

Growing up with Nathan and his parents being friends with your own always felt like a setup. Your mothers always cooed that you two just might end up marrying one another. At the time, you wished it was true, that all this exposure with him would lead to something romantic. But then you grew up, saw each other a little less over the summers, and grew apart. You still kept in contact via social media, but not often. You saw his life in pictures. One from a homecoming dance, a group picture of him and his friends, an action shot of him playing basketball, a high school graduation picture, and a similar one for college graduation. He was still alive somewhere out there, you just didn’t know him like you used to.

Nathan was always kind, goofy, very golden retriever-like. Summers spent apart created a rift, but he was your childhood best friend and crush once upon a time. If he was willing to help you out, you owed him big time. So you shoot him a text and cross your fingers that this is still his number. The last thing logged in your messages was a silly conversation about cheetahs versus jaguars. You were team cheetahs, obviously.

You felt a slight sense of relief once you came up with a plan. Talk to Nathan. See if he can act as your fake boyfriend for your parents. See if he doesn’t think you’re damn crazy for concealing your forty-something-year-old fuck buddy.

You’re not really sure how to reignite the conversation, it’s been so damn long. You stare at the blank screen before you craft the brilliant message:

A sigh leaves your parted, anxious lips, and you shove your phone away.

---

You really did bring a bathing suit, much to Joel’s eagerness for the rumor to be true. You change into it with your back turned to him. You feel his eyes boring holes into you, sending a small dash of goosebumps up your arms. “I’m going for a dip before bed.” You say as you fiddle with the strings of your bikini top, struggling for a moment before you feel a warm presence step in behind you and fuss away with the strings himself.

You hum softly as he fastens the strings, making a bow at your midback. Joel’s lips brush against your shoulder before they start sponging gentle kisses up your neck. The hair you tied up into a loose bun tickles his nose.

“Such’a pretty girl.” He hums against your skin, a soft shiver trickling up your spine, lips parting in pleasure. “Too bad you’re not a very good girl.” Joel murmured as his hands slipped lower, past your hips, past the curve of your ass, until he was cupping both cheeks in his large palms. You gasp at the sensation, feeling his fingers squeeze at your flesh. A moan escapes your lips, you just can’t help it. You love it when Joel is handsy for you, the needy one.

You swallow the lump in your throat and turn in his arms, eagerly kissing him as you cup his cheeks. He fights for control instantly, pulling you in at your hips so your back arches backward out of habit. You let your head dip back, eyes dipping closed as his lips trail down your neck, then between the valley of your breasts, all while his wiry beard creates scratches in his wake.

“Do you have swim trunks?” You ask breathily, shoving him lightly by the top of the head further down your body. He drops to his knees and continues to trail kisses down your stomach.

The question catches him off guard.

“Do I- what?” He asks breathily, looking up at you as he sponges kisses over your clothed center.

“If you don’t have swim trunks,” you try to continue, “you can’t go swimming with me.” You say with a teasing smirk, stepping around Joel, who was awestruck kneeling on the ground, his hands still in place where he was cupping the backs of your thighs before he slaps them down on his own to show annoyance.

He was probably thinking how you just up and disappeared when you were just standing in front of him a moment ago. Joel grumbles something, but you’re already out the door of the motel room.

---

The pool is glowing in its blue hue, lit by dim lights around the perimeter and the silver moon in the sky.

In a world so vast, you couldn’t help but feel a little lost in wanting to explore it.

You take a breath in through your nose and test the water with a dip of your toe. A bit cold for your liking, but the warm Texas summers make your skin sticky and the air a bit stale. So you dive in.

The cool water is a shock to your system at first, with goosebumps growing on your skin like wildfire. Your face breaks the seal of the water, emerging over the light ripples you created upon diving in, catching your breath. You take a few leisurely laps along the outskirts, feeling weightless, free.

“Nice night.” Joel’s brassy voice breaks the gentle chorus of the summer cicadas. You hum as you carve your way through the water until you meet the pool’s edge. You rest your arms on the lip of the pool, bringing your breasts just above the surface of the water.

“Get. In.” You say with an authoritative voice, despite your eager smile.

He cocks his head a few degrees to the right, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No. You look like a shivering chihuahua.”

His joke elicits a giggle from you.

“It’s only cold for the first few minutes. You’ll warm up.” You’re only half-lying, the pool was so fucking cold.

Joel merely shakes his head. “You’re crazy, buttercup.”

You hum as you push off the edge of the pool, moving towards the center, letting the water dance around you as your arms glide back and forth to keep you afloat.

“Sounds like you need some motivation.” Your eyes lock on Joel’s as your fingers navigate to the back of your bikini strings, slowly pulling the tie loose, feeling the water aid you in floating the material off your upper half. The top strings around your neck are still tied, concealing the full reveal of your breasts.

Joel’s once secure face fizzled, eyes straying and lips parting. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he kneels down, pointer finger curling towards him impatiently. “Get over here.”

You shake your head disobediently. “Now.” His barking urgency makes you stifle a smirk.

“Joel Miller afraid of a little cold water.” You shrug and move your fingers to the strings tied behind your neck, slowly tugging loose the threads. The material falls limp into the water, floating in front of you free from your body.

Joel watches with impatience, the spill of your breasts making his cock twitch inside his swim trunks. The mesh material was forgiving, allowing him to swell at the sight of you. The cold water has your nipples taut, drawn into sweet peaks. You’re just out of his fucking reach, too far into the pool for him to grab you.

He grunts quietly, jaw tight as you slowly swim closer to him. You shiver at his glance alone.

“If you want me,” your voice drops innocently, doe eyes making their appearance to reel him in, “you’ll get in the pool, Mr. Miller.”

Just out of his reach once more, you swim back to the center and push your thumbs into the band of your bikini bottoms, down your legs, leaving you bare in the pool for anyone to see from the highway or their own motel rooms. You must admit, Joel’s desperate gaze filled with want makes you squirm with excitement. Disobeying him lights that explosive even more.

He offers you his hand, one final offer. “Last chance, angel, get out of the pool.”

“Why do you even have swim trunks on if you aren’t going to get in?” You ask, eyes gazing over the tangled hair he has scattered across his chest.

“I was hoping these would appease you alone. Now come here,” he juts his hand out as an offering one last time.

You roll your eyes and swim closer, your breasts lapping in the water as you take Joel’s hand. And tug with all your strength.

His feet skid to try and hold him back, but he ultimately summersaults into the pool. You cover your mouth with your hand, unable to conceal your laughs as Joel emerges, sopping wet, cold, angry.

“Y-You-” He chatters his teeth, eyes screwed tight on you as he pushes his hand back through his soaked curls and down his face, grazing his wiry beard. “You’re gonna get it.”

Joel’s threat makes you squeal. You attempt to doggy paddle away, but the grip he catches on your arm is iron. He pulls you back to him, and your body glides through the water, arms securing on his biceps once you’re locked in his hold. He’s threatening, but not as much so when you wrap your legs around his waist and feel his half-hard length.

You raise your eyebrow at him, and he half-chuckles.

“Such a fuckin’ piece of work you are.” He grunts out, hands searing the flesh of your hips as he skirts his hand down lower, cupping the globes of your ass.

A hum tickles your throat as you lean in and press your lips to his jawline in a tempting kiss, smiling as Joel’s nose playfully nudges yours, leaning in for more.

It’s stomach-twisting how you feel so comfortable with Joel, how you sink into his body, and how he warms your core. You kiss him until your lips feel bruised, and he grips your beautiful curves with eagerness. The two of you kiss like hungry teenagers, finally outside the watchful eyeline of your parents. Joel’s cock is hardening against your naked core.

He forces himself off of you, groaning lightly as he strays from your eyes. Cupping his jawline, you angle him back to you, resting your foreheads together.

“Makin’ me get all riled up like a damn teenager.” His warm breath puffs across your face, his words make your bundle of nerves tingle.

“I like that I’m the one causing it.”

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek before giving you a tight little nod. “Me too, buttercup.”

---

Joel decides pool play is over. He gets out first, snags your bikini pieces that floated to the edge of the pool and starts walking leisurely back into the motel room.

He only hears your cursing and belligerent rambling after he returns from turning on the shower, piping hot.

“Can’t hear ya when you’re chatterin’ your teeth.”

Joel returns to the bathroom and strips his swim trunks off, still half-hard. He tests the water with his hand, giving you an affirming nod it was okay to step in.

You’re still angry and seething, having to streak your way back to the room naked and freezing your bare ass off. He looks at your crossed arms and playfully tuts. “You’re the one that thought t’drag me in there with ya, princess.”

Joel follows you into the shower, the water splashing searing hot droplets. It only feels that hot because you’re readjusting from the pool’s temperature. You find yourself huddling into Joel’s warmth.

He finds it endearing, the way your head settles on his chest, your ear to his heart, too chilled to let him go. He angles the showerhead downwards, letting it focus on your body first. He could wait.

You gently release your crossed arms, letting them wrap low around his hips. He had a few extra pounds of flesh low on his tummy and on the sides of his waist. You gently pinch the area and smile.

“Stop that.” He hisses, eyebrows knitted together.

“But I like it. You’re my favorite person to hug.”

The sentiment splashed warmth on the back of his neck. Joel has picked up a few extra pounds from town barbeques, and beers tossed back during football games. He used to not like it, the way he had to loosen his belt after a big meal, or having to purchase his new t-shirts in a size up. He didn’t think about it much, but naked with you in the shower, feeling you admire his ever-changing body, was a comfort.

You look up after a few moments of silence, setting your chin on his chest and feeling his chest hair graze against your skin.

Joel wants to warm you up, get you to relax under the showerhead. He presses a nimble kiss to your lips, pitter-pattering kisses along the extent of your body before he is down on his knees, angling your back to rest against the shower wall.

Tired after your car ride and melting under the shower’s sprinkling water, you ache for a relief that will come from your head hitting a pillow. But Joel had other things in mind, things that would make you forget you were tired in an instant.

Now under his watchful eye, lips and wiry beard scratching at your soft skin, you lightly part your legs for his entrance. God, please don’t let me slip and embarrass myself right now. Let me have this one good thing, this man’s tongue against my pussy would make me a God-willing woman.

Joel can feel your exhausted body, begging to find a bed. But he had you where he wanted you, and his mouth was watering to taste your sweet musky arousal. His hands settle themselves on the backs of your thighs, supporting your weight as his head leans into your warmth.

He brings two fingers forward, parting your center, licking a slow draw up your core. His tongue flicks off your clit, your bundle of nerves twitches. Something flips in his stomach, and his cock grows heavy against his thigh.

You taste sweet and serene, something he’s grown an appetite for. With several days apart awaiting your weekend trip away, he often found himself at night, spilling into his hand thinking about your young, beautiful pussy flushed against his mouth. He takes this opportunity to relish in you moaning his name, without any curious ears.

His tongue sinks lower, swirling around your tense entrance. The swell of his tongue gushes more arousal from you, and he gets a proper taste that isn’t mixed with water from the shower.

Joel’s grip on your thigh tightens, and he laps at your clit like a famished man.

The constant flicks have you gasping for air in the all-too-warm shower. Your fingers weave into his soaking wet curls, still finding a grip as your thigh twitches against his hand.

Joel’s two fingers parting your center gently massage at your entrance, wiggling in gently as he suckles on your clit, and you mewl weakly.

His tongue and teeth lightly graze your sensitivity, feeling stars clouding your vision as his fingers set a gentle pace.

“Ooh,” you sigh weakly, feeling his fingers hit the perfect spot, one that makes you shake.

Joel knows that sound, knows the feeling. He looks up, admires the way your pretty lips are parted in bliss. The hand on your thigh is brought to your stomach, gently stroking over the flesh.

You watch him a little curiously, a little fucked. His mouth returns to your clit, but his hand still falters on your lower abdomen. You whimper as he adds a little pressure, and quickens his fingers. It’s jaw-dropping, the friction and pressure, piling on top of each other.

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-”

“Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles.

You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat.

“There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,” he grunts, jaw tight, and teeth clenched as he watches your cum-arousal mixture glide down his fingers in a sticky mess. He slowly stands, watching you pant for air, as he sucks his digits clean with an evil smirk.

The temperature in here is too much, heat consumes your body as you weakly grip his biceps.

“God damn, Mr. Miller.” You say breathlessly. You take him in a quick kiss, moaning weakly into his mouth at your taste. His tongue tangles with you, and he keeps his fingers on your core. His first two fingers start to slowly circle your clit again, but it’s entirely too soon.

You whimper weakly into his mouth, your clit aching and still recovering from your oral orgasm.

“Mmm- can’t do it, Joel.”

Joel snarls as he swiftly turns you around, his foot hitting the insides of both of your ankles to spread your legs. Your face is plastered against the shower wall, watching him out of the corner of your eye with your jaw dropped.

“Be good for me, baby girl, show how thankful you are.”

You whine at his raspy voice, feeling its timbre bounce against the walls.

“Please,” you beg in a whisper, inching your feet farther apart for him to take you in the shower.

Joel strokes his cock, seething through his teeth at the desperate relief he’s feeling. His swollen tip vies for your attention. He lines himself up, his other hand on your hip as he notches himself inside.

You visibly flinch away, Joel hushing you softly as he tries again.

“Gotta relax for me, pretty girl.”

You sigh weakly and let yourself melt with the warm water, fluttering your eyes closed as you gently jut your hips back into this, needing to be filled.

Joel tries again after lining his tip up and down your slit and gathering your arousal. He notches inside of you once more, causing your eyelashes to flutter. He slowly presses on.

The drinks must have really loosened you up since the last time the two of you fooled around in his truck. He wasn’t so hard to take then, but now he feels thicker, rounder. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of his cock as he ruts his hips into your ass.

Finally, you will yourself to breathe, moaning his name in desperation.

Joel’s trying to contract his lungs, but you’re gripping onto him so tight, the heat of the shower going to his head.

You hum and purposely grip your walls around him, squeezing for his last breath.

Joel snarls and smacks your ass from below, watching the fatty flesh jiggle. It stings, but you like it, thinking about his large handprint marking you red. He winds his hips back up and presses in, groaning lowly as he fills you to the brim.

He sets a decent pace, one that robs you of what air you have left in your lungs. Your entire body feels sensitive, your cheek growing sore from being fucked against the shower wall. But it feels entirely too good, a certain itch that only Joel Miller can scratch.

Every thrust he makes, you moan his name like a broken record. “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan and grunt it so much, that it starts to sound like it’s not a real word anymore.

You reach back an arm blindly, gripping his bicep and stitching your nails into his skin.

Joel grunts out weakly, the burning sensation you caused on his arm making him go wild. He reaches for both of your wrists and plants them at the base of your back, forcing your face to be your only weight to keep you up against the shower.

But it unlocks a new angle, one that has you crying out curses and his heavenly name.

“Fuck me, Joel, fuck- fuck your favorite little pussy,” you mewl out, feeling his cock twitch inside you.

“God dammit, fuck me good like that, like that,” your eyes clench close, panting heavily. “Right there, daddy, please, Mr. Miller, touch my clit, please,” you beg, the pet name rolling off your tongue.

It makes him snarl. He sets a hellish pace. His chest puffs up, his broad biceps locking around you as his fingers stroke over your pussy.

He loves the way you wind him up. Because you are his favorite young pussy, one he’s made his own, railing you so good that you forget about anyone else that may have had you before.

All you know is Joel Miller.

His thighs and lower tummy smack your ass cheeks, a distinct slapping sound filling the shower and pinging off the walls right back into your ears.

Stars flutter behind your eyes, you feel light-headed. The water splashes warm across your back, allowing Joel even more slip.

The harder he fucks you, the closer he moves in. Now he has his entire torso flushed against your back, flicking his hips up into you with precision.

Suddenly he’s grabbing your leg by the underside of your knee, hiking it up, and planting it against the shower wall as he exposes a whole new sensation.

You can’t last any longer. His fingers circle dangerously around your clit, and now he’s pounding you into the wall, forcing friction against his glorious thrusts. You whimper loudly as his tip kisses your cervix repeatedly, feeling your walls clench around him as you come.

It’s jaw-dropping, heart-surging, mind-fucking how good he feels coming inside of you. It’s warm, warmer than the water still raining over you. It’s comforting the way his seed spreads throughout your core, his grunts filling the shower as he drops his last load inside of you.

And goddamn, he loves how you milk him dry.

You weakly slide down the wall, tiredly dropping your leg once he pulls out.

“No ya’don’t.” Joel quickly says, snagging a strong arm around your waist and hauling you up. You whimper as he peels your face off the wall, blinking rapidly as he spins you to face him. “C’mere.” Joel embraces you, and you lean weakly into his front like a bear hug.

“Water,” you whisper against his pec. He turns the shower temperature down, a more comforting heat surrounding you now.

“You’re alright.” He assures.

After time to recuperate, Joel reaches for the shampoo bottle, squirting a small amount into his palm and lathering it between his hands. You feel a little better standing, but you still stay wrapped up in his arms, in his hug.

He massages the shampoo into your locks, gently massaging it against your scalp, before he gently washes the bubbles out. He gathers conditioner next, letting it soak into your ends.

You hide your smile against his chest, knowing that he probably had to learn this type of stuff for Sarah. Hair care, skin care, tampons and pads, all the sort of stuff single dads fear. You wonder whatever could have been in Sarah’s mother’s mind to leave a guy like Joel Miller. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed to fit into your life like a glove right now. For however long that perfect fit would be.

A weak sigh leaves your lips as he strokes your head sweetly, his fingers then grazing your cheek.

“Y’alright? Feel good?”

You nod weakly and smile, letting your arms drop gently as you pull away. “M’tired.”

Joel stifles a chuckle and nods. “Me too, baby. Sit tight.”

Once Joel is assured you’re not going to lose your strength standing up on your own, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, wrapping his towel low on his waist. You gaze at the lines around his hips, and how they dip down into his towel.

You clear your throat as you quickly look away once he approaches you with two towels. He wraps one around your shoulders, gently moving his warm hands up and down the sides of your arms.

You look so sweet, warm and cozy, cum-filled, at ease. The stress he usually sees you carrying around is wiped away. He hoped he had something to do with it.

Joel leans down and presses a light kiss to your lips. Not hungry, not desperate, not chasing. Delicate. Assuring.

You smile tiredly and shyly evade his eye contact, something that he hates to admit is goddamn adorable on you.

Both of you towel dry off any remaining droplets of water. Joel forces you to show him how you even get the towel you wrap around your hair on your head.

“This is girlhood, Joel Miller.” You say once you secure it on, watching him shake his head in disbelief.

“A mystery to me.” He says with a boyish grin.

You both exit the steamy bathroom and search your bags for pajamas. You packed a few comfy shirts for bed. And only one extra pair of panties. You better be damn careful with your one last sacred pair. You toss it back into your pack for now, deciding that they would probably be taken off in the morning anyway. You slip under the covers of Joel’s bed, saving him a space you hope he fills. Of course, he does.

Joel flips off the light switch, indulging the room in a black and blue hue. He grunts quietly as he slips into the covers. The both of you just melt into the mattress.

You nuzzle into his side, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He makes gentle circles into your back as your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You sigh and turn your back to Joel to retrieve it from the charger.

“Your parents askin’ if we made it okay?” Joel murmurs tiredly, eyes closed, waiting for you to return to his side.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a text message from Nathan.

Hey stranger

“Yeah,” you lie, your fingers gliding across the keyboard to configure a response. “They uh.. They’re tellin’ me to not bug you too much on the trip.” You awkwardly chuckle, your back still turned to him as you stare at Nathan’s message.

Joel dryly chuckles as he reaches a hand out and settles it on your hip. “Quite the opposite.”

You feel terrible concealing this from Joel. But you don’t want him to think you were young and foolish letting your secret fling slip. This was to make things work, to keep the secret buried from your parents.

Another message from Nathan makes your phone buzz in your hand.

Heard you’re in Danbury for the summer with your folks. Wanna catch up?

Your heart sits in your throat, shocked by his ask.

You flip over your phone, opting to reply in the morning. You’re beat. You sigh weakly and return to Joel’s side, hiding your face in his shoulder as you gently kiss along the muscle. He was already passed out.

As messy as this felt, being with Joel felt like being tossed a life jacket in open water. And you weren’t going to lose that safety, not if you could help it.

---

here's my masterlist!

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delicatebarness · 11 months ago

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i think he knows | chapter four

Summary: Tension rises for the youngest Rogers as she fears Steve knows.

Warnings: A use of 'Y/N' at the beginning. Wanda is a hopeless romantic.

Word Count: 1031

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A/N: I need to slow down, this series is now 4 weeks ahead of the schedule I made. And, I haven't even started writing the next chapter of Winter's Child yet. This chapter is a relatively small one as I'm planning to make chapter five the longest one yet.

Tags: @bigtreefest | @caplanbuckybarnes | @angelbabyyy99 | @mega-kittyglitter-1 | @cjand10

Wanda followed you around the library as you searched the shelves, her eyes widened with excitement as you recounted last night’s ride home with Bucky. She was hanging on your every word.

“You, Y/N Rogers, rode on a motorbike!” She exclaimed in a hushed tone, she could barely be contained. “Tell me everything! How was it? What did Bucky say?” She tried to get you to look her in the eye so she could read what your mouth wasn’t saying. “Wait, what did Steve do? Your dad?” She gasped.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her excitement, her infectious curiosity. “It was… exhilarating,” you admitted with a gentle sigh, the adrenaline and the way the wind rushed against your skin, you remembered every second of it. “He made me feel so safe, Wanda. He even made sure I was wearing his helmet.”

Her eyes widened further, you didn’t know she could do that. “He gave you his helmet? Oh my, ugh, that’s so romantic!” She let out a quiet squeal.

Shrugging her comment off, you tried to downplay the romantic aspect. “I think he was just being a good host, making sure I was safe.” You continued to recount the ride to your best friend, describing the thrill of the moment. How you felt having your arms wrapped around him, clenching his Henley shirt in your hands. You found yourself longing for that feeling again.

She did continue to ask about Steve and your dad, but you shrugged her off again explaining quickly that Bucky stopped at the corner of the street and watched you walk back from there.

“Sounds like something out of a romance novel,” She mused whilst leaning against the bookshelf you were searching through. She wore a dreamy smile on her lips as her mind wandered. You were positive that she was thinking about Vision. They had been crushing on each other from the second she moved here. Neither one was confident enough to make the first move, even though they were both aware of the other’s feelings.

You let out a huffed laugh as you shook your head. “I don’t know about that,” A hint of uncertainty crept into your voice. “It was just a ride home.”

As the day progressed, you found yourself sitting at your usual table in the cafeteria with Wanda and Peter. The chatter of your classmates filled the air but your attention was barely focused on your friend's conversation.

“Are you two going to the game on Friday?” Peter’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he nodded towards the banner reminding you and others of the date, time, and which school it was against.

“I heard it’s going to be a big one,” Wanda replied, picking at the sandwich that was placed on her tray. Her mood had shifted from joyful to disgust the second she realized she had forgotten her lunch and would have to eat the stale bread the cafeteria served.

“Yeah… Steve’s been practicing nonstop,” Your attention had been drawn to a tense moment at Steve’s usual table. Steve and Sam, his best friend and right-hand man for almost everything, stood in deep conversation. Their expressions were serious, Steve’s frown had his eyebrows knotted together tightly. Sam’s gestures were animated, he was trying to explain something to your brother while he listened intently. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Wanda and Peter’s attention snapped to where you had been looking, they both shrugged. “The game I’m guessing,” Wanda shrugged as she got back to the sandwich in front of her, ultimately deciding to push the tray away from her. “Yeah, it’s a pretty big one for the both of them,” Peter added.

“Yeah, could be,” you replied as your mind raced with possibilities. Deep down, you had a feeling that there was more to it than a football game.

You watched Steve and Sam, curiosity tugging at your thoughts. There’s no way this was about the football game, the way they were talking hinted at a deeper issue. Lost in speculation, you barely noticed both Wanda and Peter trying to get your attention. “You good?” Wanda’s voice finally snapped your focus back to them, she gave you an empathic look. She could only imagine what you were thinking after what you confessed to her only a few short hours ago.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” you replied with a weak smile. As you reassured your friends, your mind continued to race.

The unanswered questions played on your mind for the rest of the day, you debated on speaking to Steve about it on the drive home or after dinner. You decided against it, you feared the possibility of it being Bucky-related and worried about raising suspicion.

The final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. As you gathered your belongings from your locker, a movement that didn’t match the patterns of the rest of the hallway caught your attention. It was Bucky, he gestured for you to follow him once he noticed he had you. Blending into the crowd, you made your way down the hallway to the room that Bucky entered. It was empty, he closed the door when you reached him, pulling a blind down to cover the small window in the door.

“What’s going on?” you asked, as you turned to face him.

Bucky hesitated as he closed the distance between you, “I wanted to ask you something,” his voice was low, pushing a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “I was hoping you’d like to go for another ride with me on Friday night?”

Your heart skipped a beat, was that a date invite? Was he asking you on a date? As much as you wanted to say yes, even if it wasn’t as a date, you couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice filled with regret. “Steve’s playing on Friday, my whole family will be there.” You dropped your head as the glint in his eyes disappeared as disappointment filled them.

Bucky nodded. “I understand, Sunshine,” Using his finger, he lifted your chin so you were looking back at him. “You know where I’ll be if you change your mind.”

---

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theprissythumbelina · 1 year ago

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So you want to write about horses.

Specifically, you want to write about horses in your medieval-inspired fantasy novel, rpg, or daydream fantasy. Knights in shinning armor on noble steeds, damsels in distress(or not!) on fine prancing mount, or an evil sorcerer cackling on a fierce charger above your poor tandem MCs.

Whatever it is you're imagining, a medieval horse appears. But you know nothing about horses. I can help.

(If you would like to begin with my first basic Basics post, start here)

^ When thinking knight, you're probably imagining a horse like this.

Preface: When talking about fiction, there is always a question of historical accuracy. That is wholly up to you. But you will at least, after reading this, know more of the historical fact involving horses, and certainly know about some of the more commonly-complained about fallacies involving horses in media.

Now, the above still is from the film Ladyhawke (1985), which is often credited for popularizing the Friesian breed in the United States. I can almost guarantee you have see a Friesian in a film or on TV. The recent series Shadow and Bone had a central character ride a Friesian in one episode. They epitomize the romantic nobility and grace of knights. Except they don't.

The horse you see above came into existence in 1879, primarily as a harness and agricultural use horse. Horses known as Friesian horses have existed since the 11th century, but those horses were completely different from the breed created in the 19th century. The modern Friesian is a trotting breed, made to pull carriages and look beautiful doing it. They have a long back, short neck, and due to inbreeding, a host of nasty genetic problems including dwarfism, aortic rupture, hydrocephalus, and megaesophagus.

However, breeds that trace ancestry back to beyond the middle ages do exist, and they have been breed to look much the same for generations. Introducing:

The Barb/Berber Horse

^Kinda just looks like A Horse™

The Barb comes from North Africa, and was spread into Europe through the Muslim conquest of Spain, where the breed mixed with the native Andalusian breed to create the Spanish Jennet, which is possibly the most widely successful horse breed in all of history. The Jennet is currently extinct*, but due to its durability, it was the horse used by the Spanish AND the British to invade the Americas, and descendants of the Jennet survive in local breeds from Argentina to Canada.

*a revitalization breed does exist of the same name

The Andalusian/Lusitano/Pure Raza Espanol

^The true Fabio of horses, known for thick flowing locks and sweet dispositions

Possibly the horse that most strongly resembles the ancient knighly horse, this noble creature used to be the preferred horse of film, before the Friesian rise in popularity. Horses of Spanish bloodlines are Andalusian, horses of Portuguese bloodlines are Lusitano, but the characteristics of both breeds are nearly identical. They are also known for a fancy 'high stepping' movement, in which they raise their knees higher than other breeds naturally.

The Arabian

^Note the narrow, 'dished' face and raised tail, breed characteristics

The ancient horse of the desert, made famous through books such as The Black Stallion, King of the Wind, and films such as Hildago. These horses are known for their stamina and intelligence, and were traditionally used as war horses by the desert tribes of the Arabian Peninsula. The Arabian has descendants in almost all modern breeds, as it is used to add strength and stamina to the original stock, despite being a relatively small horse. During the Napoleonic wars, this horse became the prized war horse of Europe as well, with Napoleon himself preferring to ride Arabians into battle.

The Mongolian Horse

^Thick head, thick body, this horse is made to survive winter on the steppes

Introduced to Europe from the Hunnic invasions that ended the rule of Rome, the Mongolian horse is made to survive, thrive, and run in harsh cold weather. This horse allowed Ghengis Khan and his soldiers to conqure one of the largest empires to ever exist, from Korea to Poland. This compact horse would have mixed with the native stock of Russian, Eastern European, and Germanic tribes to help create the ancient northern horses, resulting in a thicker breed of horse in the north, and a lighter breed of horse in the south of Europe. Modern-day pony breeds such as the Exmoor, Fjord, Icelandic, and other have been found to have genetic ties to the Mongolian horse.

These horses do not exactly look like the modern image of knights on massive horses, but it is useful to remember that 1. people back then were a lot smaller and 2. horses back then were a lot smaller. Of course, there were hundreds of other local breeds during the middle ages, but many have been modernized and become today's sport, work, or pleasure horses.

During the middle ages, horses were not actually defined by breed. They were defined by the work the horse was suited and trained to preform. There were five main types of medieval horses.

The Destrier

Also called The Great Horse for its size, strength, and price, this horse was the renown mount of knights and kings in battle. These horses were highly trained for battle, and could be taught to do such things as striking out at soldiers in front, kicking at soldiers from the back, and even leaping all four feet in the air to protect it's rider. They would wear the most armor, and these horses would likely be closest in appearance to the modern Andalusian.

^Ornate heavy armor on a model horse. This armor was made for a horse not much more than 15hh, what today would be a small horse.

The Courser/The Charger

A lighter horse than the destrier, the courser is also a warhorse, highly trained and well-bred, but a little less expensive. A knight might not be able to afford a destrier, especially as a minor knight, but every knight should have a courser. The Spanish Jennet is the epitome of the medieval courser, and in fact was the horse used by Richard II. According to Shakespeare, the horse's name was White Surrey, although other sources claim the horse was Roan Barbary, and was a Barb or Berber horse*.

*Bought from Spain and likely a cross of Spanish and African blood, so a Jennet. But Jennet was also a classification of a horse type in those days, so, sources are muddled.

The Rouncey

The 'average' horse of the time, this horse was used mainly for riding, but could sometimes be ridden into battle if trained properly, and were the preferred horse for lower-class fighters such as archers or men-at-arms. As it described a riding horse, these horses came in all shapes and sizes, from all lineages, and in all colors. In peacetime they could be used to draw carriages or work fields. A proud and expensive destrier would never be caught pulling a plow.

The Palfrey

A highly-bred, highly trained horse, this horse is a high quality riding horse known for a specific gait, called an ambling gait. This horse had a special pattern of moving its feet that gave the rider a considerably more comfortable ride than the traditional 4 gaited horse. After the middle ages, these horses almost disappeared, only to be recovered in the Americas in the form of 'gaited' horses such as the Paso Fino, the Rocky Mountain Horse, the Missouri Foxtrotter, and the Tennessee Walking Horse. The Icelandic horse has also retained the special Tölt gait that may* be the exact gait of medieval ambling horses.

*may, I am not a gaited horse expert.

The Packhorse

This describes any kind of horse, usually a rouncey, that is used not for riding but to carry supplies. Packhorses could also be mules, donkeys, and ponies, so long as they could carry weight for long miles. These were supply horses, carrying food, weapons, tents, whatever else may be needed.

Knights, Horses, and the Battlefield

^ What an incredible creature of power and nobility. The man is fine too, I guess.

Now, if you have seen the above scene, you have probably seen The Hollow Crown, a historical drama with a few late Medieval battle scenes. In these scenes, knight clashes against knight in a furious charge, leading to pitched battles on horseback. I'm not going to say that never happened, but by and large cavalry was directed against infantry, not other cavalry, or used to conduct maneuvers requiring speed and surprise, such as a charge, a circling maneuver, a bluff retreat and most importantly, to chase down routing enemy soldiers. A knight on horseback was most effective in close quarters against unmounted and surprised soldiers. Lances were the primary weapon, allowing a mounted warrior length to spear and batter down at enemies, and a sword was secondary, as it had a shorter length, and would be used if a mounted warrior was surrounded by infantry or in battle against another knight. Throughout the medieval period, horses sometimes were removed from the fight all together due to unfavorable land, and kept in reserve to either help the army flee or to chase down the fleeing enemy.

Hungry for more?

There are many sources out there to learn more about the medieval period and knights in particular. I would highly recommend that you not look at Medieval Times sources, if only because better sources are out there. I enjoy the videos produce by Jason Kingsley CBE (Yes, that Jason Kingsley CBE) on his Modern History TV YouTube Channel, and find them to be accurate as far as I'm aware.

^ Jason Kingsley and his horse Warlord, in costume. I've sent marriage proposals but I've not yet received a reply.

That's all for this post. I'll have more when I feel like it, and send me questions if you want to know more about specific things or need a writing question answered

Reblogs welcome and encouraged

@jacqueswriteblrlibrary for wider reach

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waitmyturtles · 4 months ago

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Love In The Big City: Reflections on the Novel, and Episodes 1 and 2 of the Television Series

(Writing this with big ups to the LITBC Book Club, led by @lurkingshan and @bengiyo -- I only wish my mom life allowed me to have participated in real time in that project! I am taking the LITBC club's lead and watching two episodes a week of this series. SPOILERS from the novel that may make their way into the series are below -- read at your peril if you're pacing yourself on the series.)

In the midst of my reading the novel version of Love In The Big City over the last two weeks, I've been posting news updates (here, here, and here) about South Korean conservatives, many of them (maybe all of them) Christian, trying to censor and prevent the airing of the subsequent drama series, which dropped this week on TVING and Viki.

I want to note how important and ironic it is, macro-systemically, to note that Christianity has such a looming presence outside of the story itself, with "protestors" (bigots) leveraging "Christian values" as a means of trying to keep this already-brilliant show from being aired.

And if you're pacing on the series like I am, and you *haven't* read the novel, then you've only gotten a little taste for how Christian zealotry, among other issues, has and will affect Go Young throughout this story.

But I'm getting ahead of myself: when I picked up the novel, I was more familiar with the noise and drama associated with the television series than I was with the story itself. I'm going to talk a little about my reactions to the novel, and then offer thoughts on the first two episodes.

I read Proust's In Search of Lost Time (yep, all of it) in my freshman year of college, and Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises two years after. I felt the power of both of these stories strongly in Park Sang-young's novel, from the impact that memories and depression can have on a young man, to the permanence of medical conditions that can drive a young man's life towards otherwise unexplored cliffs of grief and pain.

Even reading a synopsis of In Search of Lost Time is a monumental feat, so let me just say that I felt Proust's madeleine-driven devices of memory, within the novel, from Young's frozen blueberries to the chill of the Marlboro Reds in the freezer. The impact of Young being really, really alone, as connected to the empty freezer and the dwindling blueberries after Jaehee's (Mi-ae in the series) wedding, caught me in a hole of loneliness that I felt for Young -- well before I knew enough of his backstory to be truly devastated.

I'm jumping ahead of myself vis à vis the series, but I also felt Proust even more heavily as I was reading about Philosopher Hipster Doofus Hyung, and I threw back to @lurkingshan as I was reading the book, "goddamn it, we are in yet another circle of hipster doom, huh," well before I learned about the medical turning point this story hinges on. Young's incessant attraction to that POS had me thinking about Proust's narrator's simultaneous incessant attraction and disdain for his companion, Albertine, who is a lesbian in early 20th-century France. While the story between the narrator and Albertine is ultimately a devastating one, Proust's narrator winds through the devastation with an equally devastating arm's-length distance, continually avoiding the true depth of pain that his obsessions would have otherwise rendered.

For me, it's such an apropos comparison to think about as we see Young, time and time again, rationalize the avoidance he has to commitment, all while throwing his energy into the relationships he's able to find himself in, ones that he essentially stumbled upon and never instigated.

The pain of his loneliness only grows as he grows into adulthood, and that, paired with his medical reveal, left me with a boulder in my stomach by the time I finished the novel.

Because I'm me (intergenerational trauma auntie), as soon as I finished the book, I couldn't help but think about Young's own boulders that he silently shouldered -- the thought that Young's medical Kylie would rear its head as a means of aiding Young in rationalizing his own assumptions about wanting vs. deserving long-lasting love, and his habit of taking commitment too lightly, even in the context of an already-established relationship with Gyu-ho.

But I also consider the lifelong trauma he suffered vis à vis his mother as an equally heavy boulder: the fact that Young absolutely internalized his mother's disdain for him as a gay man, his mother trying to "correct" his sexuality through conversion therapy, and then seemingly seeing past her son's reality, horrifically ignoring the emotional development of her son. Besides physical abuse, you couldn't do better than Young's mother in permanently psychologically traumatizing a young man who will already face obstacles as a queer individual in a highly conservative society.

All of this combined rendered me unsurprised -- but, of course, still equally devastated -- by Young's eventually pinball-style life, jumping from menial job to increasingly flippant flings.

What we are treated to in the novel are the thoughts that Young can put together as he steps back and assesses his life, especially at the crushing end of the novel. On the surface, someone on the street could absolutely write off Young as another aloof and aging hipster, disconnected with the world; but we know that that's not the case as Young assesses his dashed hopes for the kind of permanent love that he had once pooh-poohed.

Both Proust's narrator, and Hemingway's Jake Barnes in The Sun Also Rises, could join Young in that aloofness, and our own misreads of these men, to an extent. Not only is Barnes held back in life by a previous wartime injury (to me, this is screaming of inspiration to Park Sang Young's novel and the timing of Young's medical condition, but I'll never know if Park was directly inspired by Hemingway's book), but Barnes and Proust's narrator are also both young men growing into their adulthood, within circles of friends in impactful societies that seem to be full of intelligence and engagement, but are ultimately larded with loneliness and the pain of static ambition and conformity.

The last takeaway from the novel that I'll think about for now, one that I think is already leading beautifully into the television series, is the fallacy that we all have or had as young adults: that our youth would last forever. Young says, at the end of episode two,

"As I looked down at those blueberries, I realized that a time I had thought would last forever had come to an end."

Young has to reckon with the fact that his life, as it stands still in his early 30s, hasn't moved forward. It's only gone backwards, into deep habits of disconnection, despair, and loss. That youth itself could serve as a modality of movement for a young person to hopefully grow into a person with more potential is both heartening and brutal to consider -- especially as Young clearly could not take time in his life to take care of himself, as busy with his mother as he ends up being.

There's a lot more I'll likely say about the novel as the series unwinds, but I'm honestly still internally processing it. I'm also amazed to think that both In Search of Lost Time and The Sun Also Rises have significant connections to queer sexuality in both novels, and I just couldn't help going down this comparative literature brainrot cycle for a few minutes.

As to the first episodes of the series: what can I say? No one does it like South Korea. The acting, the cinematography, what Nam Yoon-su is bringing by way of his mere presence, let alone how he bodily channels Young's sexuality and personality. We're in prestige drama territory -- and already by episode 2, we've been taking into multiple facets of Young's internal strife, and his soon-to-be-revealed lifelong aloofness to commitment, while he still yearns for infinite love.

God, those internal contradictions, huh? In our real life, with our friends who are like that -- those friends drive us INSANE, RIGHT? Proust's narrator is SO THIS. A guy who sits in a chair and whines about what he wants, and complains even more when he HAS what he wants, because it's not perfect? He HAS Albertine at so many times, but he can't make her fully love him, because guess what, she's a lesbian, womp womp? Pick a battle, homey.

And yet. We're still devastated by Proust's narrator. Because one of his ultimate flaws is that he'll never remain still, he'll never be truly satisfied, and that conflict DOES keep him from being able to attain permanent happiness. At least we get to see him age, while we're left to wonder with Young and Jake Barnes.

I'm just too excited to see how Nam Yoon-su renders Young's own conflicts, as they simply grow, throughout his life in the series.

*****

I want to make one quick, totally unrelated note, about the airing of this series. At least to me, maybe only to me, the opening animated title cards of LITBC are really close to the imagery and symbolism of the title cards of Netflix Japan's The Boyfriend, a recent dating reality show featuring gay men in Japan trying to find permanent love. The ultimate pairing of DaiShun has been HUGE in Asia this year, with DaiShun doing fan meets across Asia, including in South Korea.

As @lurkingshan and others have emphasized: Love in the Big City is NOT a BL, it is NOT a romance. It is a deep exploration of the life of a gay man in the city of Seoul.

Inspired in part by Sex And The City? Probably. But LITBC is not nearly as flippant as SATC regarding social obstacles that its main characters face. LITBC delves painfully into the various obstacles that queer men face in Seoul, from social to medical discrimination.

The Boyfriend actually touched a lot on these obstacles as well. Some of the participants were out, but not all of them; one participant, Tae-heon, used the show itself as a means of coming out to his parents.

While some of us have seen the majority of queer content in Thailand turn very primarily towards BL romances, I still believe that Thailand can and will produce high-caliber media about queer life aside from romance, as it did in 2022's The Miracle of Teddy Bear (which I just finished this week, I'm fine, thanks for asking, devastated actually) and in other cinematic pieces. But I also want to note how incredibly refreshing it is to see Japan and South Korea also pick up this thread through The Boyfriend and LITBC, respectfully, producing content out of the usual romance loops that we've come to expect from BL media.

Anyway. If there's a connection between LITBC and The Boyfriend, with both entities talking MUCH more about holistic queer life in society, then I celebrate it, and I want more, more, more of it.

#love in the big city #love in the big city the series #litbc book club #what up book club members i didn't follow any prompts but i hope you enjoy this piece and that it made sense!#the boyfriend #park sang young

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evienyx · 3 months ago

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im not too sure how to ask this, but i'm reading the first book in the fractures series, and really enjoying it, and you said that you started it when you were 14. i'm 14 at the moment and am thinking of writing a fic and was wondering if you had any tips on how to plan a longfic or for writing in general

Oh my god this was asked back in August I'm so sorry anon.

As it is, I can still give a pointer or two, regardless of how late it is.

So, as much as anyone hates to hear it and I hate to say it, the best way to get better at prose (as in sentence-level writing) is just by writing. You gotta train it, develop your own style, figure out what works.

I have a tendency to be very flowy and long-winded, often to my own detriment, which is something I'm working on trimming down in the Fractures Rewrite without sacrificing the emotional weight from the scenes.

When it comes to planning a longfic, generally the most important first step (for me at least) is figuring out where you want to end it. Anyone can write a fic whose plot goes on and on for eternity, but if you want your fic to kinda be a classic, having an idea of where it's going to end up will immediately help you.

After the end, the hardest part for me tends to be the middle. It is just as important as anything, and you want it to stay just as interesting. The middle part of the story is the plot, the beginning and end are just vessels for it.

Oftentimes, the earliest form of my outline is literally just a document with the entire plot written out. I don't care for length or details, I just sit down, write the beginning, and then write how the story gets to the end. From there, I clean the outline up. I figure out what makes sense to use and what needs to be added or taken away. I start separating the stuff into possible chapters and outlining those chapters to figure out what they will include.

As I'm doing this, I also write out (smaller) outlines for the arcs of individual characters. Depending on the size of the fic and what the focus is, I might do this for dozens of characters or only for a handful. Regardless, I need to know where they start, where they end up, and how the plot changes them to get them from point A to point B.

If you're ever struggling with coming up with a plot that flows well with good tension, one that feels like it's building to something satisfying, you can always just use a plot template from online somewhere. Even if it feels rudimentary, Exposition-Rising Action-Climax-Falling Action-Resolution works for a reason. It's often how I outline stories of my own that aren't related to fanfiction.

One more tip: Read. And I don't just mean fanfiction. The best fics are often compared to published novels, with some even being considered better than them. One of the reasons these stories are so good is because they don't flow like many fanfictions do - rather they flow like published novels, with a proper plot, arcs, prose, and a satisfying ending.

#writing stuff #i suppose #i coudl call it #writing advice #but i honestly couldn't tell you how qualified i am to give advice lol #either way im going thru my inbox sorry to anyone who sent an ask literal months ago #but maybe ill get to it now #or you can resend it and itll be a lot easier for me to answer it #and less awkward #ask #ask away

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stormingfrost · 10 months ago

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guardians ages?

I have been a bit curious (and in desperate need of some fun facts about these characters) so have some canonical info about these characters ages and the frustrating inconsistencies in some of them (oh inconsistent lore, how I loathe you)

Sophie Bennett - she is 2 years old (rotg script and rotg movie novelization

Jamie Bennett - he is both 8 and 10 years old (the art of rotg and worlds of wonder)

Jack Frost - he is 14, 17, and 18 (and in the books, he can manipulate his age from 11 to 18) (William Joyce, Peter Ramsey, the rotg app, worlds of wonder, guide to the guardians, McDonalds profile card, book five of the Goc series, and William Joyce again)

Katherine - she grows up to be 25, and can manipulate her age from 12 to 25 (book five of the Goc series) she’s also dating Jack (which makes the scene of them arguing and him getting younger and her getting older just. So weird. Why, Joyce, why?)

Sandy - he is the oldest and wisest of the guardians (worlds of wonder, McDonald’s profile card, the art of rotg, and guide to the guardians)

North - in the goc books, he doesn’t know his age (book one in the goc series)

Tooth - younger than the wind but as old as the mountains and her implied age to be closer to whatever Jack is supposed to be (the rotg app, art of rise of the guardians, and the rotg script)

(Video description: a clip of the Filmmaker’s commentary. Peter Ramsey is talking over a clip of the movie when the Guardians collect teeth and Jack and Tooth interact. Peter Ramsey is saying ‘Jack and Tooth have a little semi flirtation, Guillermo Del Toro was always like, ‘come on, we got to give them a love story! Jack’s got to be a heartthrob, I urge you!’ End description)

#canon is a sandbox at this point. I just want consistent lore like why I do have to do mental gymnastics just to know the age of a character #I JUST WANT A FUN FACT COME ON #it’s frustrating. Anywayyy #Guillermo Del Toro being the biggest fairyfrost shipper is actually so funny to me #He’s all like: MAKE THOSE TWO KISS RN MAKE THEM HAVE A LOVE STORY #also bc i know that there’s some discourse around this topic even if i tend to stay away from discourse at all cost.#It’s not like another movie or a short/tv show will come out and prove an age anyway #If anyone starts arguing about this I will delete your comments.#sanderson mansnoozie #toothiana #Rotg #rise of the guardians #guardians of childhood #Character’s ages

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ninadove · 16 days ago

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HEY Nina nothing really prompted me to ask this but you seem to have really good taste in media like shows and games and musicals so ... top 5 you're already into + 3 you're interested in checking out?

You flatter me beloved!!! 💜

I hope this makes sense because I’m already half-asleep:

A show I love:

RWBY. Definitely absolutely 100% RWBY. It’s an action/adventure/fantasy/coming-of-age story inspired by fairy tales, myths and other cultural references, which starts off slowly then ramps up into this wonderful story about love and hope and every one of the themes I love. Its main cast is all girls, two of which are now finally dating, one of which is canonically physically disabled. It's the show nothing can kill and I can't wait for volume 10!!!

I also watched Silo over the holidays — in a not-so-distant future, the last survivors of an apocalyptic event of unknown nature all live in a silo underground, but tensions rise within their society as some start to question what truly lies on the surface… very intriguing and worth checking out!

Oh, and Bad Sisters — S2 has mixed reviews so I haven’t checked it out, but S1 is a fully contained story about siblings and murder set in Ireland and what more can a girlie want really.

A game I love:

You can never go wrong with Professor Layton! It’s a mystery & puzzle game series with a charming atmosphere, incredible music and characters that will haunt you forever. My favourite is Unwound Future, but you probably know that already.

A play I love:

My beloved @pegasusdrawnchariots has recently compiled a helpful masterpost of all the Cyrano de Bergerac productions available on YouTube, so everyone will be subjected to it again. It will change your life

A book I love:

CAN I GIVE SEVERAL. My favourite right now is East of Eden by John Steinbeck, which is a wonderful novel about humanity’s constant struggle to do good. But a lot of my favourite books are really treaties about what it means to be a writer disguised as murder mysteries: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Truth about the Harry Québert Affair by Joël Dicker, Hygiène de l’Assassin by Amélie Nothomb (where I took the name Nina from!).

I also think everyone should experience the train-wreck that is Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. What a book.

A movie I love:

Many many good ones but I’ll give you one that made me laugh so much: Death at a Funeral. An unexpected guest crashes a funeral and tries to blackmail the dead guy’s family using salacious pictures. Things get worse from there.

Some things I’m excited to check out:

The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick — I saw the first two seasons of the Amazon Prime series and while it is definitely flawed, there are some great ideas in here I really want to see in their original context.

Cain’s Jawbone by Torquemada! It’s a mystery book whose pages you have to put back in order to figure out who was murdered and by whom, and it is infamously hard. I might have stayed up a little bit too late yesterday night talking to my beloved @pegasusdrawnchariots about a single page she decoded. It sounds so so so fun though.

I re-read Vipère au poing by Hervé Bazin over the holidays, and learnt there is actually a second book where the hero slowly unlearns the lessons his abusive mother taught him? And no one told me??? Ninaphobic…

Thanks for the ask Mina! 💚

#I FORGOT THE FUCKING LINK #mina 💚#recs

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eclipsedserenity · 3 months ago

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BLOOD IN THE WINE [ sylus ]

— PROLOGUE

NOVEL MASTERLIST SERIES MASTERLIST

DARKNESS SWIRLS AROUND THE BASE OF the obsidian obelisk, ripples in the void stretching outward, as if the very fabric of reality trembled at the awakening of something ancient. The winged being had slept for eons, bound by the chains of time, forgotten by mortals who had once worshiped him, his name lost to the winds.

But now, something shifted.

The heart of the Vale Noir, where the ancient being had once ruled, began to churn, pulling at the edges of the world, drawing them into his realm. His essence, which had been fractured and forgotten, slowly began to recollect itself. Forgotten stars, long since extinguished, flickered weakly in the depths of his mind, and a surge of power — unrefined and raw — poured through his veins.

The air grew heavy as the entity shifted, the chains rattling with the slight twitch of his hand.

His first breath was a gasp of cold, seething hunger, the taste of something old, something familiar — his domain, his kingdom, slipping back into his control. He was no longer the primordial force of the deep, but something far darker, twisted by the passage of time. His once graceful form, now a distorted echo of its former self, surged with power as he began to rise from the abyss.

The veil between worlds had begun to fray, and with it, the entity's influence over the realms slowly trickled back into his control. But he was not the same as he had been before — the void had scarred him, twisted his purpose; he could feel the weight of centuries pressing down on him.

His eyes opened, glowing red with an eerie light, as if they reflected the collapse of stars. The ocean trembled beneath his gaze, and the sky itself seemed to darken in response. The world had forgotten him, cast him aside, but now, as he rose from the depths of their abandonment, weakened chains locked around his wrist snapping, falling to the ground, his return would not be met with the quiet reverence he once knew. Instead, it would be met with fear — because he had learned, in the long years of silence, that to be forgotten was to be free of the constraints of ancient purpose. And he would not return as a servant of the world, but as a harbinger of its end.

The time of mortals was over.

Sylus was out for blood.

omg here we go. y'all this is exciting (I say as I'm looking at all of the other books I said I'd be writing right now)

updates are not going to be consistent seeing as I'm really busy right now!

#sylus x reader #sylus x oc #love and deepspace #writeblr #writing #sylus fanfic #ao3 fanfic #abyssal sylus #novel #sylus angst #sylus l&ds

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unhinged-summer-fun · 3 months ago

Text

the foolish heart's guide to not repeating history - chapter 6

Pairing: Dream of the Endless "Morpheus" x F!Reader

series masterlist

chapter 6: the reflectory

Dream of the Endless despises being caught off-guard. Surprises, while they could be delightful, were a dime a dozen in his realm. Yet, the act of catching him off-guard was always an annoyance he would not tolerate, a breach of his carefully constructed composure.

He’d heard his brother’s voice on the wind, seen your eyes go wide and unfocused, and then you’d disappeared—just as your hand was going to touch his. Dream blinks several times, still seeing the outline of where you’d been just moments before.

The sense-memory of your touch on his skin, over the tattoos still sensitive after two hundred years, staves off the indignation rising in the back of his mind. He hadn’t meant to lock up as he had; he hadn’t meant to startle you or indicate your touch was unwelcome.

It had been a considerable time since he’d allowed someone to touch the tattoos. Your initial interest in the stars upon his hand at your first meeting had stirred a longing within him. In the moments he’d seen you between that day and this, he’d intentionally extended his arm in your field of vision, yearning to rekindle that same interest. Ask me, his heart silently pleaded, for your curiosity was a balm to his soul.

And now you know the story, as embarrassing as it had been. Your eyes had gone a little distant upon mentioning Paris and the Luxembourg. Whatever memory you had of the place in the other universe, it must not have been pleasant. He only hopes his tale does not touch any of the same darkness you’d possibly endured.

A nearby sentry, one of the myriad Knights of the Shining Armor oft-deployed to the frontlines of children’s dreams, asks if he is well.

“Yes, Ser Throckmorton. I am well.” He hides the rising embarrassment at having the rug pulled from beneath him and swallows, nods. “Good day.”

Undoubtedly, the gossip about his meeting with you on the city wall would have spread through the city by now. He stifles a groan and looks up to the skies, now a deep purple twilight. As the Dreaming day wanes, he knows the waking world where you have taken up residence is beginning to wake.

Destiny would not return you to his company when he finished his summons. With a flourish of his hand, sand pouring forth from his fingertip, he steps through a door and into London.

It’s daybreak in your flat in London, and Dream of the Endless is standing over your bed.

“I suppose a conversation is in order?”

He at least waits for you to make coffee before demanding any answers about your sudden departure. In the fantastical realms of Dream and Destiny, wakefulness and attention were a given, but back in the waking world, you’re still just waking up from maybe—oh, goodness—twelve hours of sleep.

You’re tempted to ask how long he waited for you to wake, but you know the answer would embarrass you further. You hadn’t picked up the mess from last night, takeout boxes on tables, and a bottle of whiskey still out on the coffee table.

With dogged determination, you ignore his presence until the coffee maker has finished brewing, but you’re certain no roast is strong enough to conquer this conversation.

Stars, what he’d said just before.

Darling, do you think I would have let you touch me if I did not want you to?

Were you meant to pick up the conversation from there like nothing happened? Like your world hadn’t been upended by what Destiny had told you?

You pour him a cup of coffee as a half-apology, and he raids your fridge and cabinets for sugar and cream, quite at home in your space.

You try to move the gigantic, unfolded pile of laundry into the bathroom as subtly as possible. What were you supposed to do? Say, welcome to my flat, Dream Lord. Please do not look at the bra hanging on that chair, the embarrassing amount of romance novels in that corner, or the hopeless tangle of my last attempt at crochet. In fact, please leave.

Well, now that you thought about it, that option was tempting.

He’s staring at your kitchen window when you slink back in, just looking at the dozen crystal suncatchers you’ve set up in the kitchen window. Being an east-facing apartment, this time of day is the only opportunity to see the display’s brilliance.

You’re glad you get to see his face lit up in the thousand rainbow flares. His hair swallows the light, but there are those grays again, marks of age and marks of life. They gleam brightly in the light. It makes the embarrassment almost worth it.

“Are you—”

“Good morning—”

You both stop in your tracks after speaking over one another. Nervously, you laugh and pick up your mug, taking a sip and motioning for him to continue.

“Are you hungry? I can get us breakfast if you… wished for privacy.”

Your laugh returns. A man who’d appeared in your bedroom, near-looming over you as his brother had done, offering you privacy. “No. No, I’m fine with this for now.”

“As you say,” he says with a nod that’s too formal for the hour displayed on your stove.

You curse Destiny for inviting this damnable silence back into the space between you and Dream.

“Have you—”

“Your home—”

The startled silence draws twin winces from the both of you. This time, he nods for you to speak. “Have you done the same with the other dreamstones?” you say, gesturing to where the tattoo of his ruby is.

“No.” He moves to sit at the small kitchen table before the window. “The rest reside in the reflectory.”

“Oh, I love the reflectory—” you stop short, but he takes it in stride.

“I’d guessed,” he says, gesturing to your adornment-heavy window. “A shame you’d only get to see this once a day. The reflectory never ceases to shine, even at night.”

“It was one of my favorite places in the Dreaming.”

“Why couldn’t it be now?” He takes a pointed sip of his coffee, one perfect eyebrow raised. Stars, that mug looks so tiny in his hands.

“Well, I’ve never seen this one, have I?” You sip your coffee as well, matching his attitude.

“That could change. Tonight. Or right now, if you prefer.” The look he gives you, followed by a deliberately slow swallow from his mug, fills your cheeks with more heat than the coffee.

You look down at your socked feet and pajamas, and the impact of his once-over is now more embarrassing than confidence-inspiring. “Tonight would be better.”

“You could come to the Dreaming through one of the doors I have here, in case you didn’t want to wait for sleep to take you.”

“That sounds even better.”

This time, the silence is comfortable, the two of you just sharing the quiet morning together over coffee. When you feel you’ve woken up enough (and what a novel feeling it is), you meet his gaze.

“Destiny told me I appeared in his book. The Fates confirmed it.”

He draws his posture taller, with seriousness in his expression. “Did he tell you of it? What your fate was to be?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” you shake your head. “It’s just another confirmation in the long line of confirmations I’ve been ignoring about my place here.”

“Did you believe him?”

“It’s hard not to believe what you’re told by Destiny of the Endless.”

“I’ll try my best not to be offended by that.”

“You do that,” you smirk.

“You’ll seek to insult Dream of the Endless, King of the Nightmare Realms?”

“You don’t scare me.”

A gleam in his eyes tells you he would like nothing more than to try and disprove that, but it’s playful, not predatory. You sip your coffee, feeling more flustered by the moment. He takes his victory and returns to silence. Questions build and break when the light from your window starts to disappear. With the sun rising higher, most of the rainbows are now on the table between you.

“How do you feel about it?”

“I am not sure. I think my mind has gradually accepted it a little at a time with every passing instance like this. The different Free Houses remembering me here, leaving footprints in sand, Hob calling back for me, being able to sign a lease without the ink lifting off the page. I’ve considered myself more of a ‘regular’ in this universe than someone living here.”

He nods, understanding your logic. “Do you ever think you’ll go back?”

“I’d hope not,” you laugh, but it’s hollow. You look in the reflection of your coffee and see only rainbows. “It’s been three thousand years. I don’t know that I’d like going back and being unable to recognize any of it. It’s cleaner to close that door behind me.”

He gives another hum of assent. “I’m envious of my brother, sometimes. He’s met himself from the other universe.”

“Of you lot, Destruction is the only one with a small enough ego to survive such a meeting.”

He almost looks offended again but instead shrugs. “That’s fair.”

He traces the edges of one of the shapes made by the crystals across your kitchen table, the stars on his hand catching the light in an aurelian glint.

“How long were you waiting before I woke up?”

“Not long,” he says, shifting a little.

“How long is not long?”

“No more than fifteen minutes.”

“You knew I’d wake up, not return to the Dreaming?”

“My brother is not subtle about his summons, nor is he with his dismissals.” The twist in his expression tells you all you need to know regarding his feelings on the matter. He must have been similarly yanked and thrown from the Garden.

You watch his fingers move a little longer before looking out the window at the still-dim street below. The apartment is across from a park bordered by a heavy thicket of trees that keep the sidewalks shaded and chilly until well past ten. This morning, two cats patrol along the route, walking in perfect sync with one another. They duck into the gap beneath the gate and disappear into the park beyond sight.

“Do you think I should return to the other universe? To visit, I mean.”

When you look back at him, he’s studying you with the same kind of soft interest with which you’d watched the cats.

“Your mother is there, is she not?”

“Dusk is not a mother, and certainly not my mother.” You refill your coffee to get some distance from the sharp souring of your emotions. “But yes, she is there, in the Starless Spaces.”

“What’s it like there?”

“Cold. Dark. Lonely. It’s where I was brought into existence and where I stayed until I broke out to find someone else to meet in the universe.”

“She is an Endless too, is she not?” he asks, a frown growing on his lips.

“No. She was made before the Endless existed and was not born of Night like they were. She was Dawn, then, and not even a daughter. She was simply the Dawn of Time. She tried considering the Endless to be her siblings, but when their apathy toward her existence waxed, she waned. She became Dusk, separate from what she was before and whatever else may have existed since.”

“Delirium was once Delight, yet she is still the same. Despair is not as she was born, but still is.”

“Some transformations eradicate all you were before.” In your mind’s eye, you see a pale face, white hair, and white robes—an emerald.

“What was she like?”

“Hopeless. She made me from what was left of Dawn’s hope and the starlight she’d taken with her when ending the universe she came from. She was left with no hope and no light to live by and despised me from the moment she held me in her palm.”

Pain creases his features. Not pity, nor sympathy—just pain. “You deserved better than that.”

“I know,” you say, putting a hand over his to assure him. He’s warm in the colorful light. Touching the magical sand in his tattoo feels like holding your hand over a glass of fresh champagne. “If I were to talk to her, she’d tell me I was rubbing it in her face to have found happiness, love, and belonging. I’d probably only go back to tell her she was wrong.” You roll your eyes quickly to gloss over exactly what you’d admitted.

But Dream wouldn’t let you. “What’d she be wrong about, exactly?” he asks, smelling out a truth like the hunter-poet he is.

Shit. Cornered.

But he shows you his palms, a peace offering, an out. He waits for what you’ll do or say.

“She’d… she’d tell me that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—find or feel any of those things because they were never meant for me. But I… I have found those things. And I have felt them.”

His eyes are kind, and you’re filled with the idea that he understands you slightly more.

“I would not fault you for wanting to tell someone off and disappear,” he says around the beginnings of a smirk. “I’ve had few opportunities to do the same, and not without trying.”

“Your father?” you guess.

He nods, sipping his coffee to tell you he didn’t want to elaborate.

“Would Dusk try to keep you there?” he asks.

“No. The only thing that ever trapped me with her was myself. I’ve got the Hob Gadling maxim going for me now.”

“You’ve got so much to live for?”

“Precisely. So it’d definitely be more of a, what did you say? Telling someone off and disappearing. It’s not worth the effort at the end of the day.” You wave your hand.

“And there’s nothing else in that universe which would tempt you to return forever?”

“I’ve got everything I want right here.”

A warm smile. “Is that so?”

“What’s not to love?”

The man with the flaming visage had never seen anybody enter the office in London before. His grandfather had told him about the dreams long before he had ever had one. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d fall asleep and find himself behind a desk in an office in London. He couldn’t tell where the office was in London, but he could almost make out familiar landmarks from his seat at the secretary’s desk. It’s his job to man the desk until his relief arrives, a man with a portcullis face.

In his waking life, Shaun Fleming had never worked a desk job. He’s part of the fire brigade like his father and grandfather had done, and as his son had just begun training for. Sometimes, Shaun would wonder: if his father hadn’t died in that car crash when he was 16, would he be the one stuck with these office dreams after his grandfather had passed? Shaun most likely would never know.

Still, once a month, on the 18th, he’d sit at a desk and know exactly what to do until his shift ended. In this dream, he was not Fire Captain Shaun Fleming; he was simply the man with a flaming visage. He knew he managed the London office for a tall, intimidating sort of fellow who never bothered to smile (or so the previous man with a flaming visage had told him) and was hardly ever in at all.

Others, of course, stopped in to see the unsmiling fellow from time to time, but he’d give the same answer to them as he had before—

“I am sorry, ma’am, he isn’t in today.”

“Oh, I know; I’m looking for the door to him.”

The strange woman smiles at him. Very infrequently does he see the people who come in… smile. But he tries to smile back, despite the flames that are his face having no mouth to do so.

“The door to him…?”

“Yes, I’ve got a date and can’t miss it.”

If there was one thing the man with the flaming visage knew, it was the importance of punctuality and making one’s meetings.

“I believe the door you’re looking for requires a key—oh.” The man with the flaming visage surprises himself by holding up said key, and the flames on his face flare blue in confusion. “This key.”

“Thank you!” she smiles again, and really, who in London smiles anymore? She takes the key from him and opens the door to a place too full of color and grand possibility for him to look at for too long. “Have a good night!” she calls, and the door shuts.

The man with the flaming visage wonders if he should tell his son about this tomorrow morning.

The Dreaming unfolds before your eyes, and there seems to be a party going on. Everyone in the bustling castle town is dressed to the nines, all classy gowns and coattails. The diamonds in the street gleam as your air taxi transports you to the castle gates. The skies are woefully free of any pirate battles.

That’s not to say there are no battles to face on the ground.

The Guardians above the door regard you thoughtfully.

“We have seen many walk through these doors with hearts intact and leave with them not so,” says the Winged Horse.

“Yet yours seems much broken already,” adds the Gryphon.

“Stay upon the path,” concludes the Wyvern, blowing a hot breath in your direction.

“You’re too kind,” you say, tone acidic. You roll your eyes only when you pass beneath them up the stairs.

Your feet protest the Wyvern’s advice, but this is not Destiny’s Garden, and you do not control what happens when you stray from the paths of the Dream King’s palace. You recall the weeping, lost souls trapped in a timeless, unending dream of wandering without relief.

“Why do you let them suffer?” you asked. Standing on a balcony with a glass of red wine from worlds away, you observed a young man glancing behind his shoulder every few seconds. “I didn’t think you shared the Morningstar’s predilection for punishment.”

Perhaps that wasn’t true. Maybe you were speaking for yourself, returning to the Dreaming repeatedly for a punishingly sweet taste of paradise and leaving long before any relief was found. Still, the question remained, and Dream answered.

“Nightmares convey lessons and messages to those who confront them.”

The man beat against the walls and shouted in frustration, tears coming in force.

“And what’s this lesson?”

“To listen to the rules of the house when you are a guest.”

The shouts of frustration turned into loud, unhinged weeping.

“Please, let him go.”

The Dream-King waved his hand, and the man woke up. The otherworldly wine tasted somewhat bitter after that.

“You disagree with how I fulfill my duties?”

You couldn’t look up at him. Phrased like that, his reproach was made clear. You drained the remaining wine and set it down on the railing. “I’d like a path to the gardens if you don’t mind.”

He made one for you on reflex, and you deliberately stepped off it the moment you could. You weren’t sure how long you walked or when your distaste turned to despair, but you continued walking.

“You’ve made your point.”

You walked right past Dream of the Endless without acknowledging him. He was there again when you rounded a random corner.

“This is not the point of the lesson taught. You weren’t—”

“I was, though. I was told upon coming in.”

You walked past him again. He next tried blocking your path with all his swirling flames and darkness.

“Yes, but you are not dreaming, are you?”

You stay on the path, excitement tempered somewhat.

The path ends in the reflectory. You’ve always liked this place. From your memory, it was always the tallest tower in the castle, so it could provide the best views of the realm. In that world, the tower it called home was only accessible to those who braved the three thousand steps to the top. The long walk up was its most assuring security feature, because after the first thousand steps you really don’t think whatever’s at the top is worth it anymore. By comparison, your jaunty walk from the Guardians to there takes about two minutes. Such is the nature of paths in the dreaming.

Along with the dreamstones, Dream keeps his glitteriest gifts and treasures up here. They each hang from lovely, intricate chandeliers displayed at eye level, like the universe’s most expensive crib mobile. In the light, the room itself ensnares the attention of every creature lucky enough to look upon it.

This must have been what drew your eye while he’d told the story of his tattoos.

Standing in the doorway, you sigh at the sight before you, unable to do much else. There is no official day or night in the Dreaming, but when the king allows it, there are blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sunrises, there are sunsets that last weeks. In this holy place (what else could it be than holy?), the waning golden light hits every facet within, and the overall effect is something more, as if the light of all days could be held within each gem to glow until morning.

“Delaying our appointment, or simply admiring?” a night-velvet voice comes from your right.

Looking up at Dream of the Endless, you smile even wider. “Adoration,” you explain, and revel in how he ducks his head to hide his grin. “I love this place.”

“You’ve said,” he murmurs. “I’m glad it lives up to your standards.”

You share the moment a little longer, smiling at each other as light reflects off your faces. “Delaying our appointment, or…?” you prompt.

Mischief sparks in his eyes. “Adoration as well, I’m afraid.”

A short, skinny man in a red coat, blue trousers, and a cream-colored turban clears his throat from a door nearby. “Your meal is ready, sire,” he says, navigating the small lisp from his fangs with practiced composure.

“Thank you, Taramis.” Dream smiles at his butler and offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

You take it and enter the reflectory at his side.

He takes you to a table in a nave containing a chandelier shaped like tree roots, glittering crystal teardrops dripping from the ends. On one root dangles an impossibly large diamond necklace you’re sure belongs at the bottom of the ocean, and on another hangs a row of twelve earrings shaped like butterflies. You’re so busy looking up that you don’t notice Dream holding your chair for you until one of the butterflies takes flight and flutters down to your hand.

The Hum wants to answer the question rattling around your head: what does that look mean? Any answer it provides is more foolish hope than fact.

You take your seat and shoo the butterfly back up to the chandelier, but it simply flutters up to land in your hair. A moment later, the other eleven do the same, their wings gently chiming together as they migrate. Dream’s hand lowers to the table, giving away his involvement. You grin at him and gently touch the butterflies arranged in a crown around your head. “Thank you.”

“They are becoming. You wear them well.”

Taramis appears again, removing the silver domes from atop your trays and offering a bottle of wine. In the grand satisfactory manner of the Dreaming, your meal is whatever you wanted most at the time, which you’re embarrassed to see is a rather large bowl of raspberry gelato. Taramis then bows out, closing the door behind him. The air from the door closing causes the other chandeliers to clink against one another, an echo to the butterfly wings around your head.

Dream has a plate of fish and chips. It smells suspiciously familiar.

“Is that Hob’s recipe?” you ask, taking a bite of your gelato. It’s sinfully delicious, and just what you needed.

“He’s one of the oldest Londoners still out there, so he’s had centuries to perfect it. I wouldn’t trust another.” He looks just as pleased with his meal as you feel.

Your eyes keep following the play of light as the sun moves further away on the horizon. Even as night falls, the crystals hold their gleam, some of them glowing on their own and others meant to pass along the light and little else. “It reminds me of the pocket dimension in your coat, I think.”

“You know about that?” He says, suddenly bashful for some reason.

“Yes.”

“The reflectory reminds you of it?”

“Yes.”

Dream looks around with you, surely not in an attempt to hide the blush creeping up his neck. Magnanimously, you assume he’s most likely trying to see it how you would, and not from his point of view. You wonder, not for the first time today, what Dream dreams about on his mortal days, and if he feels the same wonderment you do when looking upon this realm.

“I suppose I can see why you’d say that,” he concludes with a smile in your direction. “I don’t mean to pry or ask a potentially upsetting question, but… are they very similar? The Dreaming here, and there?”

“Like night and day seems the best description.” For once, you let go of the ghostly heartache of remembering where you came from. Somedays, homesickness is more a terminal condition than a state of mind.

“So, completely different, then?”

“No.”

He smirks. “I’m not sure we have the same definition of like night and day, then.”

“Night and day are similar in many regards. The light of the moon is still the light of the sun, and the light of the sun is still the light of a star. Some places that look friendly during the day are menacing at night, and some conversations are easier to have at night than during the day. It’s the same, from different points of view. In different lights, that’s all.”

“What would Cafe Terrace at Night be, were it Cafe Terrace at Midday?”

“I’m sure you’ve got that in a gallery somewhere,” you laugh. “Shapes of shadows do not make the items themselves change.”

“Plato would agree.”

You consider how else to describe the differences. “There, the palace was… isolated. It was often on the tops of mountains, behind impassable forests, or across vast seas and deserts. It sat at the center of a spiraling path of its own that started in Nightmare. I tried walking it once, and on foot, I never reached the center.”

“Paths through the Dreaming are more metaphorical than literal,” he points out.

“Both of these things can be true. The true heart of the Dreaming was metaphorically inaccessible at the best of times, and literally prohibited at all others.”

“I admit, there was a time here that resembles that statement.” Dream looks a little lost in thought, swirling his wine around in his glass. “Tear-floods would sweep away whole countries of the Dreaming, sigh-tempests would level cities. The realm would change itself to suit my isolationist needs when I was still pushing everybody away. The paths within the castle would never lead to me.”

You take a shuddering breath from his turns of phrase. I thought you loved John Donne.

“When was the last time that happened?” Since you’re asking personal questions and all.

“I can’t lie to you, but neither do I want to tell you.”

“Why, because I’ll judge you for it?”

“No. Because it’s an embarrassing answer.”

“All the better to tell me. We’d be even.”

“Even?” he laughs, the somber attitude shattering.

“I kind of cried all over you the first time we met.”

“Fine then, we’re even. Tell me about the reflectory there.”

You sit back, conceding the point to him. You stand from the table, taking your wine with you as you look around at the reflectory. The biggest difference, what you want least to say, is how you were never brought here on one of his paths through the palace. You’d had to climb all three thousand steps each time you wanted to see the splendor of this room you loved more than any other in the entire Dreaming.

No, that’s not what you want to say least. It’s that each time you’d been here before, you’d been alone.

“There’s a great deal more butterflies here,” you say, tilting your head toward the wings dotted about the room.

“They are the guardians of the reflectory. They blend in with that which they are protecting.”

“They’re dreams?” you smile, urging one of the crystalline insects onto your finger. You note the serrated edges of the delicate wings, visible only at a certain angle. Though the crystal is dainty enough to fly upon, the broken-glass wings seem incredibly sharp. You wouldn’t want to find out for yourself if they did as intended.

“Though there’s rarely call for a dream of crystal-warrior-butterflies, having them in abundance is a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“You should never feel guilty over your pleasures, Dream. Especially ones so beautiful as these.”

Quiet as a night breeze, he appears beside you, reaching a hand up and into your hair, disturbing the resting butterflies atop it. They flutter about the two of you, circling together like a murmuration of starlings. In the last seconds of daylight, free of gems and magic, Dream looks down at you with the revered wonderment you’d been wondering about. The corona of light and color catch on every resplendent part of him. He is as at home here as any of the glittering jewels.

“You’re right. Guilt has no place when admiring the beautiful.”

He steals your breath when he rests his hand upon your cheek. On instinct, you lean into the touch and close your eyes. This is so novel, knowing his touch. He’d offered you his arm earlier just to walk twenty feet, and now he’s caressing your face like he’d want nothing more than—

“Can I kiss you, darling?”

You open your eyes. The room has gone night-dark, save for the starlit radiance of the crystals and the glinting wings of butterflies. Save for the comet-tail strands of silver stretching past his temples. Save for his eyes, which shine the hints of a thousand more galaxies you’d love nothing more than to explore for eternity.

But he’d asked you a question. It’s a question the Hum desperately wishes to answer, precedent telling you no, he cannot, you will simply disappear from his arms like the last time—

You kiss him anyway just to shut it up.

CHAPTER 7

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