#cage sconce

[warnerism]

Bathroom - Farmhouse Bathroom

Inspiration for a small farmhouse kids' white tile and ceramic tile ceramic tile bathroom remodel with a drop-in sink, white cabinets, wood countertops and gray walls

[hellaplastic]

Bathroom - Kids Inspiration for a small cottage kids' white tile and ceramic tile ceramic tile bathroom remodel with a drop-in sink, white cabinets, wood countertops and gray walls

[severeavenuefestival]

Contemporary Basement Calgary Mid-sized modern idea for a carpeted basement with beige walls and a ribbon fireplace

[mary1in]

Contemporary Basement in Calgary

Inspiration for a mid-sized contemporary underground carpeted basement remodel with beige walls

[changegamescom]

Beach Style Living Room - Loft-Style Example of a formal, white-floored, mid-sized living room with white walls, no fireplace, and no television in a beachy loft style.

[chloeeruby]

Beach Style Powder Room - Bathroom Inspiration for a small coastal marble floor and white floor powder room remodel with blue walls and a wall-mount sink

[rh-photo]

Underground - Contemporary Basement a large, modern image of a carpeted basement in the underground with beige walls and a ribbon fireplace.

[markruffalove]

Contemporary Basement - Basement Mid-sized modern idea for a carpeted basement with beige walls and a ribbon fireplace

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

"Please stop asking how I got in here," the white haired kid said, annoyance laced in his voice, "All I want to know is if any of you can do detective work in the supernatural world!"

Constantine just barely opened his mouth before the kid turned on him, "Not you! You have terrible reviews!"

Bruce tensed as Lazarus green eyes locked on him, "How about you? You're the worlds greatest detective, right? I know you probably won't take gold as payment since Bruce Wayne is your sugar daddy, but I can offer up information on the Infinite Realms instead!"

Batman, calm and collected even as Green Arrow and Flash snickered from across the room, "Infinite Realms?"

Phantom grinned, "Is that an agreement? Cause Prince Psaro could really use your help. He has so many questions, and the answers may save his life. You want to save the life of a teenage boy surrounded by demons and monsters, don't you?"

Bruce stared at the teen, not looking away even with Constantine motioning not to agree, Bruce nodded.

And in a moment, they were gone. They reappeared in a grand hall with a ruby eyed teenager looking impossibly small from his place on the massive throne. Silver hair shined oddly in the light of the purples flames that danced in the sconces, making the boy seem more ethereal.

"Hey Psaro!" The white haired kid from before greeted, "I brought you a detective like you asked. Don't forget you have to teach me magic now!" The first teen vanished without a trace leaving Batman and what he now recognized as an angsty goth alone together.

As it turns out Psaro had many questions and offered to pay him a generous amount in gold each day.

Some of his questions include:

What kingdom was my human mother a princess of?

Why can't I remember key information from my childhood, such as my brothers very existence?

I was framed for the murder of all of the "Chosen Heros" loved ones. How do I prove im innocent before he comes to take off my head?

Why do Rose's tears shatter?

Is there a way to stop his younger brother from destroying the world without caging him or killing him?

Ect.

Bruce has his work cut out for him, but between the mysterious white haired kid popping in now and then to give him cryptic conversations, the team on litteral monsters he was given to defend himself with, and his access to royal libraries and vaults this might not be so bad

[photo1030]

Heyyy I have a suggestion to make it’s kinda stupid whatever so it takes place at the mayor’s party where Arthur Morgan and Dutch is meeting mr Bronte and reader come running to Mr Bronte for some random reason and sense she’s wearing a corset she can’t get all the air in her lungs AND SHE PAST OUT so Arthur or Dutch (I LUV THEM BOTH teehee) gotta RIPS her out the corset.. that’s all I got LOVE YOUR WRITING BTWW MWAH! ❤️❤️❤️

Hi there @lizzie2980 So sorry this has taken me forever. Thank you for being so kind and patient (and hopefully still interested?) This was a great prompt, had a lot of fun with this one.

This is a bit out of the canon story, hopefully that is OK. This is a little bit of flirty and protective Arthur, with a smidge of charming Dutch in there...lovely combo, if you ask me....which you did...(This is not part of my existing fic, Leather and Lace, btw)

(The images used here were found on a lovely blog that is apparently designed to help fanworks. Check it out! Thank you to whoever put that together. https://reddeadreference.tumblr.com/post/679731317406072832/the-gilded-cage )

*Special thanks to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

DON’T MAKE A SCENE 

Summary:  You are at Angelo Bronte’s house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.

Your hands clamp down tighter as the plump elderly matron apologetically yanks the strings of the restrictive corset. Nails of already shaky fingers dig into the wooden bedpost that you use to support yourself with as you stand on wavering feet. You wince on the verge of painful tears as Bridget stands behind you and pulls the threads of the already too tight garment even tighter still, testing the limits of its stitching and causing a gasp to quickly get sucked into your folded-up lungs with each pull.

Sunset has already begun, the brilliant orange disc settling itself softly behind the horizon line for the day, and your room slowly dims to a pastel dusk as you get ready, the wall sconces glowing against the ivory painted walls of your lavish private quarters inside Angelo Bronte’s mansion. The garden party below will be starting any minute, and the shadows that dance along the walls inside the house mask the dread inside your chest. It is as if your hope and spirit are diminishing with the quickly-fading sun. You are hoping that Bridget doesn’t see the trepidation creeping into your expression as she flits about you, but the older woman is too shrewd for that. 

“You know...Mr. Bronte…he isn’t going to wait much longer for you”, she murmurs as her weathered fingers begin to run over your frame, smoothing out the fabric of your dress, picking at errant threads. “He will eventually want what he feels he is due.”

The obvious statement hits your gut like a prize-fighter’s punch. “I know,” you utter with a dejected sigh, your voice almost a whimper in the air.

The thought of the man’s pock-marked, oily skin against your own makes you sick to your stomach. It would be like a vile lizard rubbing up against you. 

But Bridget is not unsympathetic to your situation. She is definitely a woman of experienced years, as the graying hair of her loosely tied-up bun gives testament to. And she knows a thing or two from her twenty-some years in service to upper-society households. 

“You know, sometimes when you’re a woman, you just have to do what you have to do. Close your eyes and let your mind go somewhere else when it’s happening.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air as if speaking about the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “Just tune it all out, let the man have his way, and then it will all be over quickly. In fact, it’s usually over quicker than you think.” She gives you a whimsical wink as a sharp cackle snaps out of her throat at her own joke. Whether Bridget is speaking specifically about Bronte, or any man for that matter, you are not sure, as this seems to have the feel of a rehearsed speech she has given many times over.

When Bridget sees the distaste of such a thing clearly coating your face as you silently stand there with your hands fidgeting over themselves, she continues.

“If you’re clever enough, you could let him have what he wants, but then have something for yourself on the side, you know.” 

Your eyes immediately shoot up to hers to find that knowing twinkle in her eye. The thought causes a humorless huff from your lips. 

“I can barely manage to look after myself, Bridget. I couldn’t manage that cat-and-mouse game.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and continues to primp and preen your outfit. 

Despite the odd advice, you are grateful for Bridget’s counsel. She is the only friend you have here in Angelo Bronte’s mansion. You are not a hostage per se, but he has made his opinions very clear on how he feels about a woman, especially one indebted to him, leaving the premises to socialize without him as your escort and chaperone; so improper, so ungrateful. 

It is especially warm tonight on the evening of the garden party that Mr. Bronte has been planning for weeks now. The whole household buzzes with excitement and anticipation for the fancy event, despite the sweltering weather. St. Denis is dreadfully hot and muggy, making it difficult to breathe on a good day. You’re not used to such heat. You come from the northern state of Massachusetts, which is much cooler. The heat here is bad enough, but the humidity clings to the air like a wet blanket. 

And this damn dress doesn’t help in the slightest. 

The dress that Angelo Bronte hand-picked for you to wear tonight is way too tight, making you lightheaded already. You watch in the full-length mirror as the constricting fabric pulls your body into shape under Bridget’s strong, able fingers, transforming your voluptuous figure into an hourglass. A deep midnight blue hued fabric that shimmers in the light is cut to hug and accent your physique, leaving little to the imagination of the observer. 

If the origins of the dress weren’t so distasteful, you may have very well liked the beautiful gown that currently clings to your form and drapes over your hips in a cascade of silk. But you know Bronte did not provide this gown to please you. No, he did it for his own inflated ego. Bronte will parade you around tonight like a prized horse out of his stable, showing you off to all in tonight’s attendance. And he’ll treat you as such too - like something he’s purchased and owns outright.

You curse yourself for letting yourself get into this situation. You hate that you have to rely on this man for a place to live. You arrived new to St. Denis a month ago and were promptly robbed upon arrival, leaving you with nothing. So much for civilization. 

Bronte noticed you at the train station, frazzled and lost, and totally beside yourself as to what you would do now. You came here with no relatives, no contacts, just the promise of jobs and new adventure out West from an ad you saw in the newspaper back home. The man quickly made your acquaintance, preying like a vulture on your vulnerable situation. He was charming with a note of authority, like he knew exactly what to do and where to go. But it quickly became apparent that he offered you his home as a sanctuary in hopes to win your affections. You’ve managed to play coy for awhile, however, agreeing to be on his arm and accompany him to various social functions in town in exchange for residency in his home. But you have denied the man what he wants most - you in his bed. 

An involuntary sigh passes your cherry lips as Bridget takes your hand in hers, patting it in the same way a grandmother comforts her troubled grandchild, and leads you to the vanity along the opposite wall so she can set your hair. Your body mindlessly drifts to the tapestry-padded stool, like a lost flower petal in the wind, void of any energy or enthusiasm. 

Bridget’s nimble fingers curl your hair and pin it back to showcase your pretty face, adding in beautiful crystal clips for decoration and she even weaves a few flower buds from the garden into your locks. You sit silently in front of the vanity mirror with a blank stare, a melancholy overtaking your soul as you watch her prepare you to be the perfect accessory to the rich man’s life. The motherly woman’s presence comforts you, but she is also serving you up to the master of the house like a slice of beef on a silver platter for him to devour. 

“There, now. Don’t you just look breathtaking?” she breaths in awe. The deep-set lines around Bridget’s hazel-colored eyes crinkle as she admires her masterpiece. Your eyes refocus to catch the old woman’s proud gaze in the mirror, and then back over your own reflection.

“Yes, Bridget,” you whisper with a sad smile, your lower lip quivering just slightly. “You did a fine job. Thank you for your help tonight.” She catches the reluctance in your fluttering eyes and can only nod in agreement. She lovingly pats your arm in an attempt to comfort your growing uneasiness. 

“Well, I had better get downstairs and tend to the kitchen, then. Don’t hide up here too long, miss.” And she wipes her hands on her apron as her wide hips carry her to the bedroom door before she slips out and you are alone with your thoughts once again. 

With a deep sigh, you haul yourself up to stand. You swish the heavy fabric of your dress-skirts to the side to allow you to amble over to the balcony doors of your private room. Pulling the double-doors open wide with both hands, you step out onto the freshly painted wood as a rush of humid air hits you like a wall, causing you to take a brief pause to try to catch your breath. Your hands eventually find their place upon the smooth railing as you step up to the edge to look out over the balcony at the garden party below. 

Jovial music floats up to your ears from the string quartet that is playing on the patio beneath you. String lights delicately criss-cross over the open garden area, resembling a net that has caught a thousand fire-flies. Bronte’s guests have already started to arrive and their chatter fills the air, alternating with the clinks of champagne flutes. You casually observe as greedy fingers grab at the delectable food and free alcohol that is meticulously displayed along elegant tables that dot across the property, the delicious aromas wafting through the evening air. 

The scene laid out before you is like a page out of the society section of the newspapers. Always over-the-top, always impressive, Angelo Bronte spares no expense in his functions. Decadent food, expensive wines, extravagant decor. Always to impress the upper echelon of society. And yet, you have no desire to mingle with the high-society of St. Denis. From what you’ve seen, it’s hardly impressive to you. 

You watch with disinterest over the crowd, observing from the elevated vantage point as people collect in small groups, then turn to whisper to each other like conniving socal piranhas the moment one of the fold turns to leave to join another circle. With a scornful roll of your eyes, you have no idea how you are going to make it through this evening unscathed. 

And then, a collection of unknown men catch your eye. You’ve never seen them in Bronte’s circle before. And they clearly don’t belong. Under closer observation, this is an assembly of rugged looking gentlemen, a sharp contrast to the other guests in attendance tonight. Though they may have donned fancy tuxedos and hats, the way they carry themselves indicates they are not used to wearing such garb. Their eyes nervously shift all around instead of at whoever is addressing them as if more interested in what is happening around them rather than trying to assert social connections. Your bottom lip gets pulled between your teeth as your curious gaze lingers on them, trying to determine if they were invited or snuck in with the crowd.

As if he can feel your eye on him with the sixth sense of a trained outlaw, Arthur instinctively looks away from the men he is standing with and looks up towards the balcony of the great house and notices you. He doesn’t smile or even move for that matter, other than a single eyebrow lift as if in confusion. Your breath catches a bit at being caught staring. But yet you cannot bring yourself to break eye contact with the startling blue eyes gazing back at you from across the garden. And you can’t help the soft smile that blooms across your blushing cheeks at the ruggedly handsome man. 

When the mystery man eventually turns his attention back to his companions, you shake your head back to reality and decide you’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to begin to make your way down to the garden party and get this over with. You leisurely stroll along the length of the wrap-around balcony of the house to the stairs that will carry you down to the patio. Your hand has to grip the railing of the staircase as you walk, as your dress is so tight that descending the stairs makes you out of breath. The boning of the corset digs painfully into your ribs and hipbones as you move. Such a dreadful, masochistic thing, you wonder why on earth women put themselves through such torture for the sake of fashion. Once at the bottom, you attempt to take a deep breath, bringing your fingertips to your temples before bracing yourself to join the guests. 

First order of business, you scan the crowd to locate your host. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually lock-in on him when you hear his boisterous, condescending laugh echoing over the throng of people. Angelo Bronte really is a toad of a man. And despite his money and power, he is rather socially inept. Maybe it’s the fact that he's not from this country. Or maybe society is held differently in Italy. But either way, the elite here in St. Denis have mixed feelings about the wealthy man. Mixed as in, they like his wealth but do not care for the man. And that is where you come in. 

Bronte’s idea is that having a beautiful, refined and charming woman on his arm will make him appear more distinguished. Your role in this little arrangement with him is to be the doting young paramore, helping him to navigate the social circles. No one needs to be the wiser that the two of you sleep in separate rooms on completely different ends of the house. But for appearances sake, Angelo Bronte has acquired himself quite the crown jewel with your presence. 

As you meander through the crowd, you keep getting intercepted by random party guests, each one handing you a new glass of champagne. Your eye catches Bronte’s a few times as you mingle, as he checks to make sure you are performing as expected. Of course, the witty jokes, effervescent laughing and demure little smiles that emanate from you work according to plan. You can see Bronte pointing you out to guests from across the garden, a crude grin of approval splitting across the faces of the men he leans into, all chattering with hushed tones and hungry eyes. It’s enough to make your corset-restricted stomach turn. 

After about forty five minutes of false chuckles and empty smiles, you are desperate for fresh air and peace and quiet, so you discreetly head to the rose garden which is off to the right side of the party, hoping to find less people there.

Wandering aimlessly through the maze of hedges and rose bushes, you manage to find a quiet little corner away from prattling visitors and raise your tired eyes to the heavens above. The smog of St. Denis covers the night sky and it leaves you with a heavy feeling of disappointment that even the vast galaxy of stars is being kept from you in this dreadful place. With a dispirited sigh, your tear-misted eyes slowly roll shut, attempting to find some sort of solitude from this hell on earth. 

“Is this a safe place to hide?”

The sound of a deep, gravelly voice suddenly cuts into your mind, causing your eyes to snap open as you spin to see who is speaking to you. 

And there he is. The handsome fellow who you were staring at from the balcony. He stands quietly, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. It takes you a few moments to realize that he is indeed real, no fantasy apparition to come to stand before you. Confused blinks skitter across your face as you take in the sight of him. Now that you are up close to him, you can see just how tall and broad-shouldered he is. 

“Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offers when you hesitate to answer, his simple apology carrying little fanfare or bravado. Just a simple statement with no malice, no ill-content and no agenda towards you. 

“Oh…no…you didn’t startle me,” you manage to stammer as you try to regain your composure.

The stranger’s ocean-blue eyes float across your frame, head to toe, assessing you with a slight tilt of his head.  “You sure about that?” he jokes as he gives you a deeper smirk now.

Picking up on his genuine humor, you release the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “No, you’re fine,” you assure him. “I just needed a minute, is all. I didn’t expect anyone to be back here.” 

When you lob a smile back at him in return, Arthur takes a gamble and begins to move slightly closer to you, specifically intent on maintaining this conversation. “Hmm, needing to get away from the herd? Is that it?”

The term causes a chuckle to erupt out of your throat. “Yeah, something like that.” You begin to step towards him as well, both of you moving slowly yet purposefully towards the other to close the gap between you until you are about three feet from each other. The air surrounding the garden is like that before a thunderstorm, exhilarating because it could be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time. The two of you stand quietly, simply staring at the other like a couple of clumsy teenagers not knowing what to say. 

“No offense, but you don’t seem like you belong here,” you finally break the amorous spell with a raised eyebrow. As your words hover like a butterfly in his ears, you note the faded scars along the man’s chin, embedded into his tanned skin and nestled beneath his rugged beard that you can see was probably hastily groomed for this evening.

He doesn’t deny it, but counters almost playfully with “I could say the same for you.”

You flirtatiously narrow your eyes at him. “What makes you say that?”

He waves his large finger towards you. “You carry the same disdain for this place on your face that I do.”

Well, you have to admit, he’s got you there and all you can do is nod in agreement. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pinch his fingers together to accent his point. “It's ok, though. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.” And he tosses a perturbed glace back over his shoulder towards the noise of the party. 

“I guess that makes us two peas in a pod, then, doesn’t it?” you muse with a glittering smile that makes his chest tight.

A grin pulls at the corner of the stranger’s plump lips, causing his scarred chin to wrinkle. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?” 

“My name is Y/F&LN”. You extend your hand out and his large hand completely engulfs yours, dwarfing your delicate fingers with his own. You immediately notice how his skin is rough, yet warm to the touch, his hand strong in a comfortingly protective way. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

And the two of you hold each other’s gaze like a spark of electricity pulsing through the air to connect you. You can feel your fingertips go numb as your heart beats faster within your perfume-dusted chest. And Arthur hopes that you do not notice how he thickly swallows, flexing his now-sweaty hands before awkwardly kneading his thumb into the opposite palm. 

But your beautiful little moment together is short-lived when you hear your name being called out into the night, snapping you back to the real world. And before you know it, a very anxious-looking Bridget appears from around the hedges, her eyes darting around, her lips pressed tightly together in worry. 

“Miss Y/N, there you are! Mr. Bronte is asking for you.” She gives you a sharp wave in her direction before her eyes quickly slip to the burly gentleman to your right.

An embarrassed school-girl blush dusts your cheeks as you clear your throat. “Yes, of course, Bridget, thank you. I’ll be right there.” You turn back to Arthur. “Well, Mr. Morgan, it was very nice to meet you. If you will excuse me, please.”

“‘Course.” Arthur dips his head with a respectful nod as you float past him, your fingertips nervously tucking a few tendrils of hair behind your ear. 

Bridget gives Arthur a good look up and down before she turns and follows behind you back towards the music of the garden party with a sly, smug smile drawn on her lips. “Maybe you’re more clever than you think,” she whispers impishly in your ear. You shoot her a cautionary look as you smooth your hands over the fabric of your dress, making sure that you are presentation-ready before you make your way to your host. 

As you navigate the crowd to approach Bronte, you take notice that he is talking to the other men that came with Mr. Morgan. The moment he catches sight of you, Bronte’s face lights up.

“Ah, Miss Y/N! There you are! Come, Come!” He waves you over to stand next to him. “I’d like you to meet some special guests.” Bronte crudely clutches your hand, bringing it to his saliva-slick lips before eagerly wrapping it around his arm. “This is Mr. Van der Linde, and his associates, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Matthews. Gentleman, this is my…’companion’, Miss Y/LN.”

You force down the bile in the back of your throat that the toad conjures up as a graceful nod and accompanying smile adorns your pretty face when you turn towards the men you are being presented to. “Gentleman, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mr. Van Der Linde greets you as he flashes a sultry grin in your direction, boldly reaching his ringed hand to take ahold of yours that sits tucked in Bronte’s elbow. He brazenly brings your digits to his warm mouth to place a tender kiss along your knuckles. “Call me Dutch.” His dark eyes fully take you in with a glitter of mischief behind them. “Mr. Bronte is indeed a lucky man.”

Unlike Angelo Bronte, you find this new social contact of his to be quite charismatic and charming. And while most of the attendees of this event carry some level of bravado, this man standing in front of you seems to be quite different, the type to put his money where his mouth is. 

Interest flashes through your eyes at this dark-haired stranger. And Bronte is quick to notice. With a deep scowl of disapproval, his arm quickly snakes around your waist, holding you possessively against him in the presence of these men, so tight that it makes you squirm against his grip. You are about to protest the moderately painful discomfort when Mr. Morgan suddenly joins the circle, his azure eyes immediately targeting the meaty hand that grips your hip before lifting to meet your grimacing expression. The sight makes his face turn dark with a menacing presence to it. It almost shocks you to see the stark contrast to his demeanor from your encounter a few moments ago. 

“Quite the shindig you got goin’ here, Bronte,” Mr. Morgan says cooly, his statement breaking the tension of the social circle. “You always run things like this?”

The disapproval in your new friend’s voice causes one of the other men in his group (Mr. Matthews, is it?) to shoot him a glare of warning, to which Mr. Morgan shrugs off. 

Bronte lifts his nose at the rub, but he will not be made a fool of so easily at the challenge. “Ah, I’m sure you country folk are not used to such luxury, yes?”  

“Personally, I don’t care for it,” snarks Arthur with a snort of derision. “Hard to enjoy myself like a gluttonous pig when there’s people right outside the gate starvin’”

As you stand there next to Bronte listening to these men throw thinly veiled contempt at one another, you begin to feel dizzy. Your head starts to swim, spots dancing before your eyes, making your stomach lurch. But no one notices at first, except for Mr. Van Der Linde.

“You alright, miss?” Mr. Van Der Linde questions you with concern skipping across his dark features. 

“Oh, yes,” you wave him off. “It’s just…just this heat…” You begin to fan yourself, desperate for some cool air to caress your face. 

And suddenly the world around you starts to spin and your knees give way underneath you as if they move of their own accord. You begin to crumple in front of everyone and Dutch is quick to catch you just before you hit the ground, his strong arms shooting out to enfold you and ease you into the grass. The moment Arthur sees that you are in trouble, he promptly hovers over you as well, catching your hand into his own and placing himself between you and Bronte as things go dark in front of your eyes.

A collection of curious guests begins to gather around the spectacle, whispers and fingers discreetly pointing in your direction.

“The lady needs some air,” asserts Dutch as he kneels behind you.

Arthur is at a loss on what to do at first, but is quick to notice how restrictive the corset of your dress is, as your chest can barely move as you desperately gasp for air, your face turning red from the heat of the evening.

With a look of determination, Arthur’s rough hands wrap around your biceps and carefully lift the upper part of your limp body to lean against Dutch, who cradles you into his chest for support. Without a word, Arthur grabs at the fabric of your dress and quickly rips the corseted area wide open, easily tearing the seams under his hands, to release your lungs, exposing the delicate silk undergarments and bare skin hidden beneath. Shock slaps Angelo Bronte in the face as he stands behind Arthur, helplessly watching this embarrassing little scene unfold before his eyes. 

Ignoring the judgemental gasps of the partygoers, Arthur then proceeds to snatch a glass of champagne out of the hands of one of the nosey women craning her neck to see the spectacle and tosses the liquid into your face. The moment the bubbly fluid hits your skin, your eyes instantly pop open as you deeply gasp, desperate to expand your lungs to draw in fresh air. 

Arthur cautiously watches your face in anticipation as you rapidly blink the sweet nectar out of your lashes. Your eyes land on Arthur in confusion as to what has just happened before looking down at yourself and realize that you are now exposed to the whole party. But Arthur immediately takes off his jacket and lays it overtop of you as you sit nestled safely against Dutch who is still behind you. And Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the threads of alertness brightening your features once again. 

“Get the hell outta here,” Arthur orders the crowd, waving them away with a wide arc of his long arm. “Nothing to see here, just a woman needing some air, is all.”

“Can you stand, miss?” Dutch’s deep voice carries softly over your shoulder and into your ear, anchoring you back to consciousness. 

“I think so,” you venture, although the wavering in your voice is not entirely convincing. Your head is still swimming with confusion, but at least you can breathe now and the pounding in your temples has started to recede. 

Arthur takes your hand again, his other slipping under your arm to guide you to your feet as Dutch carefully steadies you from behind. 

“I don’t know what to say,” you say sheepishly looking up into Arthur’s worried face. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bronte suddenly bellows, finally finding his voice of outrage. “Thank you?! You make a scene in my house and you say ‘thank you?!”

“Easy, leave her be,” Arthur growls out, turning his threatening gaze to the party’s host. “Can’t you see the lady isn’t well?”

“No, she most certainly is not!” Bronte spits back in anger. His heartless, burning eyes now land back on you, his nostrils flaring wildly with impatience as his expression screws up into a hateful scowl. “Nuisance! I knew it was a mistake to bring you here” he hollers at you, flecks of spittle flying in your direction. “Should’ve left you at the station where I found you!” His finger thrown in your face causes you to shrink backwards, leaning your back into Dutch yet again, where the man’s hands protectively come up to cradle your arms. 

But Arthur is not having any of it, protectively placing his large bear-like frame between you and Bronte, towering over the other man and desperately trying to refrain from landing his massive fist into his face. “You best keep that finger to yourself, Mr. Bronte, else I'll break it clean off.” Arthur’s tone is low and deep, his threat making a shutter cascade down your spine as you watch with baited breath for what is to happen next. 

“Get out! All of you! Get! Out!” Bronte screams, waving at the group of newcomers. “And take that bitch with you, too!”

Your heart sinks as you watch the Italian spin on his heels and storm off towards the house, his arms flailing wildly as he vents his frustrations and anger out into the ether. The party has clearly ended now, as the guests murmur and whisper amongst themselves about the outrageous scene and begin to file out of the garden to leave. 

Your head hangs a bit in shame as you nibble nervously on your pink bottom lip, holding Arthur's jacket over your chest like armor. You have no love lost for Angelo Bronte, but the idea that you now have nowhere to go is a little terrifying. You have no money, no provisions. Nothing. 

Arthur turns to look at you, seeing your soft face frozen in stunned silence. His own countenance turns sheepish as he now realizes that he has cost you your home. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rub behind his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to get you tossed out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” You shake your head and place a grateful hand along Arthur’s arm. “You probably did me a favor.” Your smile is warm and forgiving, but it doesn’t make him feel any less responsible for your new predicament. “But I meant what I said, Mr. Morgan. Thank you,” you whisper emphatically. Your gentle voice causes butterflies to flutter in his belly. 

“You have anywhere to go now?” Arthur asks, his blue eyes burning into your own. God, how you could get lost in those eyes for hours. 

Sadly, you shake your head, confirming his suspicions. 

“Well, then,” interrupts Dutch from where he still stands behind you, “If that is the case, you are welcome to come with us, Miss Y/L/N.” He offers you another of his charming smiles as he holds open Arthur’s jacket as you slide your arms in, and he pulls the oversized garment protectively over your shoulders. He then offers you his arm to escort you away from the party, with his entourage in tow. 

Arthur gives a lofty eye-roll to the heavens at Dutch’s attempt to swoon you, causing Mr. Matthews to chuckle at the interaction. But you smile graciously at Mr. Van der Linde’s offer as you gladly accept his arm and begin to walk with him. You look back over your shoulder and give Arthur a demure little grin, which he returns as he follows you and Dutch out to the front of the property towards the awaiting carriages with Mr. Matthews and Mr. Williamson close behind. 

“Thank you, Mr. Van Der Linde,” you smile brightly up at him. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.” 

Masterlist for more Arthur goodness

Taglist: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4

[shirefantasies]

This is gonna be a weird one..

Azog and a human reader?

It can be smut or fluff.

Not weird, I like the challenge 😎 This is a fascinating concept to me I love human x non-human (as long as it’s still humanoid, I’m not a furry 😂) I’m sorry I don’t think this is very good though 😅😆 hope you still can enjoy!

Chains of Flesh- Azog the Defiler x Human!Reader

Warnings: minor language, implied past abuse

You had to be a liability. You suspected that from the moment they took you. That you could not fight well must mean little more than ill in your favor. Fighting was the last thing on your mind anyway as your body, consciousness fading fast, was slung onto the sloped back of a warg like a doll. You had fought enough in your days. Such was your last memory before you awoke.

Vines crept up stone walls. You had no memory of that place, no recognition as you clambered up from the battered cot frame. There was a haze in the air, a feeling like an unseen fog had drifted somehow inside and survived even the torch burning on a bent sconce outside the rusty bars. A prison cell?

Shuffling to the edge of the bars- though you dared not touch their jagged, soiled edges- availed you a greater view of your surroundings. A stone fortress of some kind, desolate and abandoned as it was, one hung with tight cages skeletons swung in. Clearly you didn’t have it so bad.

But why? What set you apart from men deemed little more than beasts? Greater importance or so stark a lack of threat?

Pounding footsteps had you straightening, stepping back again from the bars as boots echoed upon stone. Soon a pair of orcs stood before you and the first one, tall, dark, and broad, spoke slowly and intensely. His tongue was unknown to you, yet you knew it was the Black Speech; vile as it was said to be, the sound of it fascinated you.

The second, a shorter, leaner figure with scarred tan skin and an empty socket where his left eye once was, hissed in a quicker voice to you. “Information. You have it. Azog will deal with you.”

You’d heard that name before. Azog the Defiler was the sworn enemy of that dwarf named king, the one who’d brought destruction and strife to the town you unfortunately had called home. The bastard that called himself Mayor needed only one word of the riches beneath the mountain to change his tune completely on letting the town burn. If they wanted dirt on that villain and his filthy underling, they could have it and gladly.

The bars were wrest open and your upper arms seized by a leering orc on either side. Tempted as you were to smack the looks off their faces, you knew that would be a death sentence; instead, you bid them drag you up spiraling steps and toss you humiliatingly at the boots of the Pale Orc. His lip curled at the pair of underlings, then he looked at you with interest crossing his carved features. More Black Speech in a deep, richly imposing voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Tell us everything you know about the mountain,” the one translating demanded, “and tell us fast if you know what's good for you." Just to hammer his point in further, he pointed a quite redundant blade at your chest.

Even though it spiked your heart rate, you couldn't help rolling your eyes- you had yet to do anything but comply. Stepping forward as far as you could without impaling yourself, you ignored the faint pressure that jabbed you and spoke.

"They are only granted reentry on the one day. The one who calls himself king has the key. First priority goes to the main treasure room where the dragon is keeping his prize. After that, they reclaim the kingdom. It sounded like there were lower entries that may be blocked, so they have to go in right by where the dragon is, but I could be wrong.”

For what seemed like far longer than it had taken you, the shorter orc relayed his message to the Defiler, whose piercing blue gaze kept sliding to you. Azog spoke back as his eyes practically bore holes in your head, giving some command that sparked shock across the tan orc’s face.

“You show great promise and you seem like good fun… someone like you could be the perfect addition. A spy, even, too if you swear to us. What say you?” He bared his teeth as he spoke, rows of sharp, dark points. From behind him, Azog smiled, a look of smug curiosity that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t exactly want to find out what their methods were at answering denial, and besides… something told you they were not opposed to letting Laketown fall. And, if you were lucky, taking the men who mistreated you down with it. Swallowing, you shakily mirrored their dark smiles. “I’ll do it. I have enemies at the foot of the mountain. Lay waste to them.”

The tan orc spoke again. Moonlight shone upon them both. In one sudden motion the Pale Orc took hold of your arm in his one flesh hand, wrest it such that you were pulled into him. Somehow, though, he’d done it without hurting you. Pressed against him as you were, you may have been trapped, but as you felt the rapid beat of his large heart against the back of your head all you could feel was a rush. Azog’s hand ran up and down your arm.

The shorter, darker servant tilted his head. “Those Laketown scum have not been kind to you, have they?”

Heartbeat still thrumming against you, you just shook your head. Warmth coursed through your body. Azog’s metal hand traced gently along the curve of your neck, scratching the skin lightly. It brought a gasp to your lips, the cold sensation of metal upon skin. As soon as the air left you, though, he stopped.

He stopped. Let go slightly. Something Alfrid never would have done if you hadn’t punched him so hard he saw-

“Swear your allegiance to us, then,” Azog’s servant demanded with a grin, his harsh voice cutting through the stab of memories that had your chest heaving.

Shakily, you inhaled, breathing in time with the one who held you close. “What will you have me do?”

“Let the Pale Orc decide that. He’s the one who wants you,” he chuckled, smacking the shoulder of the taller, broader servant as they stomped away toward the door they’d hauled you through.

Only when they disappeared, door slamming at their backs, did Azog loosen his hold upon you all the way, fully releasing his chains of flesh as he watched you step back. He could have broken your neck, kept you at blade’s edge, but instead he just peered at you like a rare treasure he dare not break, lest his time of admiration then cease. You weren’t used to such a look- did he…?

“I am not the strongest servant you could have. But I think you know that, do you not? What is it you want? Is it my hate? I am tired of being downtrodden!” Your voice raised with each word, but you didn’t care. “I will fight to live, but only if I can do so with my dignity. What is it you want from me?”

Smiling again in that way that tingled your spine, the Pale Orc stepped forward once more to meet you, reaching out his hand. At first you flinched back, but heaving another breath you steeled your body and met his eyes again. No fear. If allegiance they desired, with courage you would offer it.

To your surprise, all the motion brought you was a new rush of warmth as he took hold of your cheek, thumb tracing the outline of the bone therein thoughtfully. His blue eyes glanced up, searched yours, and your heart lurched.

Why you could not say, perhaps the relief that flooded your very heart and soul at the question in his eyes, the chilling stab to your chest of realization that an orc could possess better manner than men, the sheer desire you felt to seal the waste of the place that harmed you so, but you found yourself nodding.

Moonlight shone off of that infamous glistening white skin, illuminating every scar carved deeply into its tone. Surprise colored Azog’s scarred face, then triumph once more as he surged forward. His lips were rough and you could feel the cut of his scars upon them as they moved to dominate yours. Fighting back, you found your own lips moving faster, your own stance straightening, though you dared not move your hands or loosen the Pale Orc’s grip upon your cheek. Best not have him changing his mind, after all.

Moments of warmth and shocking passion passed before Azog pulled away, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your head. Keeping your foreheads pressed together, he gazed intently once more into your eyes.

You understood. From the high towers of his smote-out ruins the Pale Orc had sought one not just to do his will, but to stand at his side.

Now all you needed to do was pass the test.

[janksfatass]

Pt 2

Smut 18+

F!Reader x OC, F!Reader x Jake

Word count: 1400

Warnings under the cut

Warnings: tumultuous marriage, adultery, cursing, 0ral f!rec, f!ngering, kind of dom!jake

The elevator dings as you reach the bottom floor and the doors slide open to reveal a hallway lined with sconces and a metal door at the end of it.

“You ready?” He asks you.

“I guess ready as I’ll ever be.”

He walks you towards the door and stops to press his thumb against a fingerprint scanner.

“What is this? Some secret evil lair?” You joke.

“It is secret, that part is true. But it’s not entirely evil.”

He then opens the door and your jaw drops. It is a dungeon. A sex dungeon. There’s a spanking table, a St. Andrew’s cross, a sex swing, chains, whips, paddles, and a similar bed to the one upstairs only this one seems to be sitting on top of a cage of some sort.

You turn to face him. He must have removed his mask while you were distracted. The man standing before you is absolute perfection. Which makes you more nervous than you already were (if that was even possible).

“So tell me, love. Have you ever experimented in the bedroom? Maybe your husband smacking that perfect ass of yours? Handcuff you to the bed while he eats away at your soul from the outside in?” He draws closer to you and his eyes begin to darken.

You find yourself nearly speechless, looking up at him with doe eyes.

“N-no, I can’t say that he has done any of that.” You meekly respond.

He lifts up your mask and traces his pointer finger along your jawline. “Fuck, you are truly gorgeous. Did you know that? Does he tell you that?”

You simply shake your head.

“What a shame. You know, I could show you what it’s like to be worshipped. I could introduce you to a whole new world of pleasure. In ways that he couldn’t in a million years. All you have to do is say the word.”

“He pleases me just fine, thank you!”

He gives you a look that you can only describe as pity. “No he doesn’t. Because if he did, you would be with him right now. Not down here with me.” He pulls your bottom lip down with his thumb as the last sentence leaves his lips.

He smirks and spins you to face the wall, placing his hands on your hips and leaning over your shoulder to whisper directly in your ear, “Let me in little lamb.” He slides his right hand to the front of your dress and begins lowering it closer and closer to your center. You let out a soft moan which he takes as the go ahead to continue his path. When he reaches your heat, you inhale sharply. He unzips the back of your dress and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

He slides his hand under the band of your panties and breathes in your ear once again, “You’re already soaking wet.” His voice changes into almost a mocking tone. “Is the little lamb needy? Does she need someone to take care of this sweet pussy?”

“Yes. Yes please.” You breathe out shakily. With that he starts moving his middle finger in gentle circles around your clit.

“Mmm that’s it lamb. So wet and ready for me.” He drops to his knees and loops his thumbs into your panties. He pulls them down around your ankles and you lift your leg to help slide them off. Then he pushes your legs further apart and starts nipping the backs of your thighs, alternating between them and soothing each bite with his tongue. He places one hand on each of your cheeks and uses his thumbs to spread you wide for him.

“Fuck. You’re even prettier than I imagined. So wet, so pink, so perfect.” Suddenly he licks a stripe from your clit to your ass, stopping to swirl his tongue around your untouched hole.

“Oh fuck!” You cry out, closing your eyes and involuntarily arch back into his face.

“Oh she liked that didn’t she? Dirty little thing aren’t you? We will have to come back to that later. First, I need more of that divine pussy.” He turns you to face him and pulls your right leg over his shoulder then places a soft kiss to your clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks it into his mouth, causing your hand to fly to the back of his head. It’s impossible for him to be any closer to you but that won’t stop you from trying. He then begins to flick his tongue over you as you feel him insert one finger. After a few pumps he adds another and starts working them inside you.

“Oh fuck! Oh god!” You wail as he devours you like a man starved.

“Cum for me. I need it. That’s it little lamb. I know you can do it. Almost there. Cum for me love.” He quickens his movements as your vision starts to blur and the knot inside you grows tighter… and tighter… until it quickly snaps and your knee buckles. He doesn’t miss a beat as he wraps his arm around your thigh to keep you from dropping straight to the ground.

Gradually, he slows his fingers letting you come down gently from euphoria. The feeling is something you’ve never experienced. No man has ever touched you like this. Like they weren’t just doing a chore. Like they wanted, no… Needed you to cum. This man that you had never met before, did exactly what he said. He just ate your soul from the outside in.

He gives one last kiss to your clit before he stands to place another on the side of your neck. Then your lips.

“So. Fucking. Sweet. Like fucking peaches. The most ripe, juicy fucking peach.” He lands a firm smack to your ass that makes you jump. Then starts kissing and biting your neck, repeating the same soothing motion with his tongue after each one.

“I need to feel you from the inside.” He grinds himself into you and he is much bigger than you had anticipated in both length and girth.

A soft moan escapes your lips as you feel the clothed tip brush against your clit.

“I’m gonna need you to use your words lamb. Either tell me you want it or tell me to stop.”

This gives you a moment to think about what’s about to happen right now.

‘What on earth am I doing? Here with a stranger that’s about to fuck me in his sex dungeon?

“Stop. I’m sorry I can’t do this.” You place your hands to his chest to move him away from you and quickly pull your dress back up. You run out of the room back to the elevator, and frantically press the button. Once inside, you zip up your dress (as much as you can).

Upon reaching his bedroom, you try to gather yourself and then walk back down the stairs and start looking for Steven. You see him sitting at the bar and make a beeline straight to him.

“Hi honey, sorry I took so long. This place is easy to get lost in!”

“Oh, I didn’t even realize you left!” He says with a laugh.

‘Shocker.’

“When will we be leaving?” You ask while trying to subtly keep an eye out for the masked stranger.

“Here pretty soon. There is one person I’d like to speak with before we leave but I haven’t seen him yet. Oh, speak of the devil, here he comes now.” Steven stands to shake the hand of someone. You reluctantly raise your head to meet the eyes of none other than the man who just had that same hand in your pussy not even 10 minutes ago.

He smirks and extends an open palm to you, “Pleasure to meet you, my name is Jacob Kiszka, the owner of Sinergy Consulting.”

“Nice to meet you Jacob.” You place your hand in his and he brings it gently to his lips.

“Please, call me Jake.” He looks back over to your husband. “Steven, who is this stunning woman on your arm?”

“Oh, my apologies sir. This is y/n, my wife.” Steven says with a somewhat confused expression.

“Y/n. What a delicious name. Leaves a delightful taste in the mouth doesn’t it?” Jake says as he looks back at you with a wink.

“Well sir, I think we’re going to call it a night. Thank you so much for having us but we must be going.” Steven shakes Jake’s hand once more and starts heading for the door.

Jake leans into your ear, “Have a good evening y/n. Hope to see you again soon. Also, you might need these.” Jake whispers as he places something in your hands.

Your panties.

You quickly shove them into your clutch and rush out the door.

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[xstarkillerx]

Anakin and a Muzzle

Based on this artist’s work

Warning: CNC elements, Primal play, implied sex but not necessarily NSFW

Hear me out about Anakin asking to get muzzled, ok.

When he asks for it, it wouldn’t be as an act of submission. With all the power coursing through his veins, with the secrets he harbors of his violent tendencies and slaughter he committed on Tatooine, Anakin already feels like a rabid animal next to you at the best of times, why not wear it on the outside? Why not muzzle himself like a beast and hunt you through some god forsaken city on the outer rim? He wants to feel the fear pumping through your veins when he corners you in a dark backend off the street, where no one bats an eye at some pretty, helpless thing screaming from an unlit alley. He wants to feel your thoughts pulse with it, this is just a game this is just a game, he won’t hurt me; he wants to feel the thought get weaker, diluted with fear and doubt, as you both fall deeper into the characters of predator and prey. 

There’s something different about the way he walks, less care with his posture, a slow rise and fall to his shoulders, as if scouring a city to find you was child’s fodder. Your heart is clawing at your rib cage, throat raw from running. There is nowhere else to go and it’s getting dark out here; 30 minutes of daylight left and nothing more than a single, measly sconce on a brick wall to illuminate his figure. You can’t see his face with the setting sun behind him, but the muzzle makes its form unfamiliar. Anakin is a proud creature, one to make it known when you’ve been beat, but he is silent now, having crossed the distance between you two on the feet of a hunter. Only now, with your wrists secured between his fingers, with the bars of the muzzle pressed against your lips can you see his wild smile. He’s going to eat you alive.

[dingbatnix]

Deity

Rest (part 2)

I was vibin hard with some DreamXD is actually Dream, so this kinda just spawned :D

It was supposed to be shorter, but somehow it just...exploded into a very long word monster.

Anyway, have some sketchy reference art for Dream and Karl’s god forms. (pending till when I feel like it ;D)

Oh yeah thanks to @local-squishmallow for proofreading! : )

Word Count: 8,164

Warnings: Alludations to Fatal Vore, Fearplay, Ect. Pretty mild on the violence this time, actually :D

Also, y’know, my autocorrect says that ‘alludations’ isn’t a word. But it also says ‘vore’ isn’t a word, so screw grammar, I make my own words and rules >:}

Dream was trapped in an incredibly boring gathering. Again. For what seemed to be the millionth time for this century, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Dream hated gatherings. Now, don’t get him wrong, he was a people person, and he actually liked catching up with old friends and meeting the newly-formed gods and goddesses, but in a gathering like this, everything was too formal. He didn’t want to be stuck in a stiff, fancy environment with little to no humor and no fun. He couldn’t even crack a joke without breaking some social rule or something equally stupid.

Now, as both the God of the End and the Overworld, he was one of the most powerful gods to exist (below the Gods of Prime, of course.) As such, it was his duty to keep the peace between the others by hosting such events, but Prime, if it wasn't the most dry, soul-sucking kind of event he'd ever had to participate in. He couldn’t even chat with any of his friends because he was stuck at the head of the room in a gilded seat in case anybody needed to speak to him, or if any of the new godlings needed to meet him. It was so boring.

If he could, he’d ditch the gathering and go hang out with the two mortals he had recently befriended, but for one, the Gods of Prime would chew him out for ‘abandoning his ever-so-important post’ at such an big event, and two, if they found out he was in contact with mortals, the humans would be killed, and he would be stripped of his powers and position for interacting with them.

He stretched his secondary pair of wings out absently, iridescent white feathers glittering beautifully in the amber light of the magicked sconces. A few appreciative humms purred through the room, but he didn't much care for what the others thought of his wings. He would love to be flying right now, or even sprinting through the trees in the overworld, but no, he had to stay here and look important. He held down an irritated scoff and leaned back in his fancy, slightly uncomfortable, seat.

One of the other gods, (and Dream knew their name, he definitely did, absolutely) sidled up to his side and snapped their fingers, a small, fancy cage appearing in the air next to them. Dream perked up a little at the sight, knowing what it meant. Usually, whenever this particular god approached someone (they were a courier of sorts, for between the worlds), it meant that the mortals of the overworld or netherworld had sacrificed an animal or another mortal in that god's name.

Dream’s currently nonexistent mouth watered. Sacrifices and offerings, particularly human sacrifices and offerings, were delicious. There wasn’t another taste quite like it, at least, not that anybody had found. Dream greeted the other god warmly and leaned forward in his seat.

"You've been given two mortal sacrifices, End." They murmured, letting the small enclosure drift into two of Dream’s awaiting hands. He quietly thanked the god, who nodded and moved away, then looked down through the bars to inspect the two mortals that he had been offered. Being the God of the Overworld and the End did have its benefits, he supposed.

And there, smack dab in the center of the cage, cowering down against one another, were the two human mortals Dream had befriended. His stomach dropped, and if he didn’t have such an excellent grasp over his appearance, his body would have fizzled out in shock.

They were terrified, that much he could tell from how they were pressed up against each other, tiny eyes darting from the large, gilded gathering hall around them to the mingling mass of inhumanely-shaped gods to Dream himself. The dual-colored eyes of the older mortal, George, the one Dream often gave pretty gifts and anything else he asked for, eyed him suspiciously. The one with dark hair and fiery bright irises, Sapnap, who Dream enjoyed fighting and competing with, glared at everything, a dark, angry scowl plastered over his fanged lips. Their hands were twined together, and they had their backs pressed against one another in a horribly defensive position.

The probability that they knew why they were there was very, very unlikely, as the language of the gods, the one they had all been speaking, was indecipherable to mortals. The most they probably knew was that they had been left at an altar, and were then brought to someplace that was too bright, stuffed in a cage, and given to some random giant creature.

The two wouldn't recognize Dream, of course, not when he was in his true body. The size, for one, would make it impossible for him to be the Dream they knew. The true forms of the gods were always massive in comparison to humans and mortal creatures. It was a difference that Dream had never truly thought about until just now, when he was presently aware of how tiny his two human friends were compared to himself. His fingers were longer than they were tall.

Then the white mask over his face, one with an 'XD' marked delicately onto the surface. It was a small shorthand for who he was, as the End and Overworld god, though the distinction was hardly needed. Anyone who could feel his aura would know who he was. The mask was similar to the one he wore in his human body, but there was no way they would know it was him. That, plus the dual halos that orbited over his head to form a spherical 'X.'

The four arms his body hosted, two to each of his shoulders, separated him further from the supposed ‘mortal’ they knew, and the six great white wings that sprouted out from his shoulder blades, an eye of ender floating near the wrist of each, threw that distinction even further.

Dream had always taken his human form when he visited them out in the overworld, unwilling to reveal his godly status to them lest they grow afraid and leave him, and to shield his own actions from the Gods of Prime. He didn’t want word of his mortal interaction to get back to them, lest he be cast out and his two friends killed.

It was customary to consume human sacrifices when you received them, but Dream didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to kill his two human friends! He valued them too much, he was too close to them. He liked hanging out with them and joking with them, and he liked doing the little chase game the three of them had devised, the one they dubbed ‘Manhunts.’

Dream fluffed up the primary pair of his wings, expertly hiding his discomfort, and frowned. He didn’t want to lose that relationship. Not even to have the ambrosiac treat of a mortal.

There was, of course, a way he could safely consume them, but…but that would be terrifying for them. As a God who had the ability to shapeshift, he could do whatever he wanted with his current body. That meant he could form a safe little pocket within himself, to store them for an indefinite amount of time. The best way to get them there, though, would be to act as though he was actually going to eat them, and he didn’t want to be the cause of such fear and panic that they would surely experience.

He decided to leave the cage floating by his side, planning to discreetly release George and Sapnap back to the overworld once the gathering was over, and hoping that nobody would look too closely at the occupied cage, but not too long after he had received the ‘offerings,’ one of the other gods approached him.

The God of Time neared, eyeing the cage curiously. At least, Dream figured he was looking at the cage. Time wore a blindfold around his eyes, a cool lilac-grey that changed color depending on his emotions, that had a dark lemniscate, the symbol for infinity, stitched into the soft-looking fabric.

Dream muttered a small greeting to Time, who returned it absently. He seemed more focused on the two mortals in the cage than anything else, which worried Dream to no end. What was he wanting…?

“Are you going to…?” Time finally asked, gesturing towards the cage in an obvious question. The two tiny mortals flinched away from his hand. Dream thought fast, knowing it would seem suspicious if he outright refused to eat them.

"I'm not in the mood," He grumbled, leaning against his high-backed seat. "The last sacrifice I had gave me indigestion for days." The other god gave him a small, absent nod, fingers tangling in the multitude of chains, trinkets, and time-keeping instruments strung around his neck and shoulders.

"If you don't want them, I'll take them," the God of Time offered, hidden eyes nearly glued to the two humans as he fidgeted with his bangles and watches.

Dream immediately bristled. Oh hell no! Did he want George and Sapnap for himself? Did he want to eat them for keeps?! Dream knew that Time rarely got sacrifices, as most of the mortals didn’t see him as an actual deity. Dream could sympathize for the other god, but like hell would he give his two fragile human friends to someone else to kill.

A few of the eyes that floated about his wings swiveled to glare at Time, and Dream let a low rumble emanate from his chest. It was too quiet for anyone but himself and Time to hear, which was what Dream wanted. He didn’t need to create a spectacle over this, especially not when George and Sapnap were at risk.

"No. They weren't sacrificed to you, now were they?" Dream grouched, maybe a bit too sharply.

The God of Time averted his gaze and raised his long arms in surrender, splaying his hands out apologetically. One of the many ribbons of golden sand that flowed around his body flickered and twisted strangely under Dream's harsh gaze before stabilizing itself.

“What are you going to do with them, then?” He queried, an odd tone bleeding into his voice. He bit at his lip, seemingly nervous, and shifted his footing.

“I don’t know, feed them to the dragon or something?” Dream flared his secondary wings up in a facsimile of a shrug, feigning indifference. He wouldn’t actually feed them to the ender dragon, but it would be a good excuse for why they had suddenly disappeared, and it would back up his unwillingness to eat them.

“That’s such a waste, though!” Time exclaimed, blindfold shifting colors from lilac to a pale fuchsia. “I’ll gladly take them off your hands, End. You wouldn’t have to make the trip to see the dragon if you gave them to me.” The other god pressed, inching closer to the floating container.

Dream hooked a clawed finger through the cage bars and pulled it away from Time, slightly concerned that the other god would snatch it and bolt. He raised his tertiary wings defensively, leaning forward and staring Time down.

“What if I like visiting the dragon? She always enjoys it when I bring her gifts, and she loves the attention. What is with you, Time? You're not usually like this.” Dream snapped defensively, primary wings fluffing up to twice their size.

Time’s shoulders shrunk in, but he pressed on, strangely persistent. Dream was more than a little annoyed and concerned, now. “Please, End? I hardly ever get offerings! None of the mortals really believe in me,” he pushed, seemingly more desperate. Dream brought one of his tertiary wings between them, and, more importantly, between the other god and the two mortals, growing slightly uncomfortable at the God of Time’s intensity.

He realized that Time probably wouldn’t give up on pestering him for the two mortals anytime soon. With a small internal sigh, he came to the conclusion that he would have to take care of the problem in the best way he could think of; ‘eating’ Sapnap and George. Maybe then Time would get off his back about it.

“Actually,” Dream said slowly, tugging the cage in front of him and further away from the other god. “I think I will eat them. I suddenly have an appetite.” The color of Time’s blindfold drained to a pale greenish-yellow, and his fingers tightened in his pendant chains. He tried to protest, but Dream ignored him in favor of focusing on his two mortal friends.

He'd have to do Sapnap first, and get him over with. The fireborn-mortal would fight the most, and probably be the most difficult to get down.

Dream let a jagged black maw form and split the lower half of his mask, testing it a few times by opening and closing his jaw. He didn’t form any teeth, as he didn’t want to accidentally bite either of his fragile friends, but he did shape a soft, pliant tongue, to make the landing into his mouth not as harsh, and allowed saliva to pool over and underneath it so that he could slicken them up and make the journey down easier on all of them. For the faux stomach, he simply opened up a small pocket of flesh between his lungs, just below his heart, and attached it to his esophagus via a small opening near the top of this new space. He supplied air through small connections to his lungs, knowing that his two mortal friends couldn't last as long as he could without breathing.

Fake stomach prepared, he braced the cage with two of his hands and reached into it with a third hand, intent on grabbing the dark-haired human. The bars yielded to his touch, automatically bending around his wrist as he stuck his hand through them.

He moved quickly, surrounding Sapnap in his fist before the tiny mortal could scramble away, pulling him from George’s desperately grabbing hands, and lifting him from the solid metal floor, then up through the bars, out of the cage.

Dream did his best to ignore both of their cries of fear, as well as Time's strangled gasp, as he lightly tossed Sapnap into his newly-formed mouth and closed it. The tiny mortal cursed, shoving at the roof of Dream’s mouth and kicking violently at his tongue. He held his wince and squashed the human against the roof of his mouth, soaking his clothes in saliva. He then pushed Sapnap to the entrance of his throat and swallowed, ignoring the clawed fingers that drew blood and the furious shriek Sapnap let loose.

The sound of tiny screaming drew a few curious glances from the other gods, but they soon looked away. The consuming of mortal sacrifices was normal for them all, so the screeching humans were nothing interesting to watch.

As Sapnap slid down to the safe stomach, Dream turned his gaze down to his brunette friend. George had actual tears in his eyes, and his breath was coming in such short, harsh pants that it was a small miracle that he hadn’t passed out already. Dream felt a pang of regret ring through his chest, but he pushed it down. He had already made his decision. It would look incredibly suspicious if he backed out now.

Holding back another sigh, he stuck his hand back through the cage bars and moved to grab the little mortal. George pressed against the bars of the cage, chest heaving, then tried to lunge underneath Dream's clawed hand as it approached. Instinctively, Dream slapped his hand down on top of the human, slamming him to the floor of the cage and trapping him underneath his palm. Dream winced at George's strangled cry of pain, and resolved to apologize for that later. As well as for everything else. Profusely.

Carefully, he scooped the struggling man up and pressed him between his fingers and palm, negating his struggling. “Fuck off, you monster!” George screeched as Dream brought him out of the cage. The spoken English was a jarring difference from the language spoken in the godly realm, and usually Dream enjoyed hearing it. Now, though? It hurt.

Gently, he shoved the now definitely crying, cursing mortal into his mouth and closed it. Dream ignored the saltine taste of the human’s tears as he ran his tongue over George’s body, and when he finally swallowed, it was a relief to no longer have to endure the flavor of his fear and anguish.

They both tasted amazing, aside from the fact that it was his two closest friends he was eating. Of course, mortals always were like the sweetest ambrosia, and usually Dream really would enjoy it. Not now though. Not this time, not when it was George and Sapnap. He held back a shudder and straightened his shoulders. Now he just needed to wait for the end of the gathering, so that he could explain everything and let them go.

Through everything, Time's gaze never left him. He couldn’t see the other god’s eyes, but something about his aura felt desperate, felt heart-broken. Dream forced himself to brush it off. If Time wanted human sacrifices that bad, he could work harder to make himself known to the mortals. These two, he could not have.

Dream could hear them crying from inside of him, and though the sound never left his body, it haunted him. It tore at his heart, and he wanted to reassure them so badly, but he couldn’t. If any of the other gods knew that he was friends with mortals…

Something sharp spiked into his flesh from the inside, but the wound healed almost immediately. Dream held his winces, and eventually, the two mortals gave up and stopped stabbing at his guts.

Eventually, Time wandered away, a sickening green wash coloring his blindfold. Dream didn’t watch him for too long after he left. He was more focused on the no-longer struggling contents of his gut. They were scared, that was for certain, but maybe it had been long enough that they had realized they weren’t going to die?

Death shot him a knowing look near the end of the gathering. Dream held back a wince. Of course she'd know that he didn't actually eat the two mortals...their lives were her domain, after all.

He raised his primary set of wings at her, daring her to say anything, but she only quirked her lips in a serene smile and turned away. Uncertainly, Dream folded his wings back down and settled back into his chair. Death wasn’t one to call someone out on something, and she was actually quite nice. Maybe she wouldn’t report him to the Prime Gods? He hoped not. He’d have to talk to her when he next got the chance, as soon as he could. He didn’t want to risk anything, even if she didn’t plan to turn him in for breaking one of the Gods of Prime’s laws.

After the gathering, Dream swept from the hall, regally declining any sort of accompaniment from all of his godly friends. He couldn't run through the halls of the citadel without arousing confusion and concern, but he damn sure wished he could. His two mortal friends had spent too much time already being scared for their lives, and he wanted to reassure them as soon as he could.

Before he could enter his chambers, the God of Time intercepted him, stepping out from behind one of the thick, decorative sconces that bordered the door. Dream stopped, reflexively puffing up his feathers and crossing all of his arms. What did Time want now…?

Usually, he and Time were on pretty good terms. They weren't close enough to know each other’s chosen names, but they got along very well. He liked Time, but right now, his behavior was starting to freak Dream out.

"The mortals, you didn't kill them, did you?" Time blurted before Dream could say anything. Dream froze for half a second before forcing himself to look composed. How did he know…? Should he be worried? He didn’t think Time would turn him over to the Gods of Prime over such a small thing as refusing to give him his sacrifices, but…

Dream looked over Time. The other god’s shoulders were pushed out bravely, but his hands were shaking. His multitude of necklaces and pendants jingled with the movement, and his blindfold was still that same sickening shade of greenish-yellow as before. The golden streams of sand that drifted around his body, usually quite smooth and tranquil, seemed more scattered, frantic, even, and were swirling much faster than usual. His face was pale, and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing at his bottom lip.

Dream cocked his head and flared out his secondary wings. "What would make you say that?" His mind was racing, already coming up with possible excuses to toss out at the slightest hint of suspicion. If that didn’t work, he was already mapping out ways to subdue Time, maybe knock him unconscious, and after that…well, the God of Memory still owed him that favor…

"I asked Death, if–if I could have their souls back from her. She said that she didn't have them. So that means you still have them.” The other god blurted, shoulders hitching down just the slightest bit. “That means that they’re still alive…" Time’s chin dipped down briefly, and quickly rose up again. Dream realized with an unsettled jolt that the other god had glanced at his abdomen, where the two mortals currently were.

Dream froze for a moment, then mentally shook himself. He was on equal ground with Time, as they were just about the same in power, so he couldn’t just attack him straight out. He’d either have to bluff his way out of this, or distract Time long enough to catch him unawares.

"What if I do? What does it matter to you?" Dream blustered, straightening up to his full height. The fact that Time was pretty much as tall as he was gave him little pause, but he pushed past it and stared the other god down. “I already told you before, I’m not going to give them to you. They’re mine.”

The God of Time flinched back at the intensity in Dream’s voice, and he seemed internally conflicted. He opened his mouth to say something, blindfold flushing to a pale blue-green, then closed his jaw. The sand around his body fluctuated as his internal debate raged, but finally, he managed to speak.

"I–" Time wavered for a moment longer, then sighed a long, resigned sigh, hands tangling up in his clock chains again. "I know the black-haired one. I–he–. We're good fr-…acquaintances. I don't want him dead." He mumbled, casting his head down and away from Dream.

He perked up suddenly, a fierce hardness solidifying in his aura. The sands around his body condensed into more solid trails, and the color of the cloth around his eyes twisted up into a violent reddish-orange.

"I know I broke the rules, but I don't care. The Prime Gods can stuff it. I’ll even fight you over this, End, I will. Just give them to me, and I’ll leave you alone, okay?” Despite his strong words, his hands were still distinctly trembling. Between Time’s fingers, Dream could feel the unmistakable pressure of the other god’s magic coalescing. He was obviously ready for a fight, even with his visible anxiety.

Dream himself was left speechless at this new revelation. Time knew the black-haired one, knew Sapnap…? He was thrown off-balance by this information, and didn’t know how to react. That, and the fact that Time had basically just insulted the Gods of Prime! He was lucky there was no one else in the corridor. He could be excommunicated for that!

His higher thinking finally kicked up into gear. If Time already knew Sapnap…that meant that Time was in the same boat as Dream was. That meant that he could tell time of his own involvement, and, more importantly, avoid a fight while he still had his fragile mortal friends inside of him.

Dream sagged inwardly at this final thought, and made up his mind. He would, could tell Time, and this whole unfortunate mess would be resolved.

Outwardly, he showed no emotion other than his wings folding down against his back and his feathers smoothing down once more. "Come on, then," he finally said, beckoning the God of Time towards his chamber door. Time faltered, blindfold melting into a strained brown, and a befuddled twist curled over his lips. He didn’t immediately move to follow Dream, so the End God flicked a tertiary wing out and waved him forward again. “We…we have to talk, and I don’t want to do it out here.”

Cautiously, the other god followed him as he pushed open the heavy chamber door and entered his rooms proper. Dream could feel Time’s suspicious yet hopeful gaze on the backs of his wings, but he ignored it for the moment.

Once the varnished door was closed and firmly barred, Dream slumped and let all six of his wings droop down until most of his primary feathers brushed the polished floor. Normally, he wouldn't be one to let the other gods see him be anything but strong and in control, but…well. This wasn't a normal situation. Plus, he and Time were already fairly good acquaintances, so he didn’t much care.

Quietly, he flicked out a wing and cast a privacy ward over the room. No word of the upcoming conversation would ever reach any ears other than the occupants of his chambers.

Time looked at him oddly as he set up another charm to warn if someone was approaching the entrance of Dream’s chambers, but otherwise said not a word. He was waiting for Dream to speak first, it seemed.

"I know them both." Dream finally sighed, making his way to the doorway that led to his, in mortal terms, ‘living room.’ Time made a strangled, surprised noise as he followed Dream into the room. “You–ah–what? You know them?” Out of the corner of his vision, Dream saw Time’s blindfold flush up to a bright, startled yellow, and his sand seemed to poof out in a spastic burst.

“Yeah.” Dream wearily eased himself down onto one of the low-backed burgundy chesterfields surrounding a short, gilded glass table, mindful of jostling his tiny passengers, and gestured for Time to do the same. The other god sank down onto the cushions opposite of Dream, confusion still twisting up on his features.

“I…I hang out with them, in a human form, when I don’t have any duties to attend to.” He started to explain, leaning forward to clasp two of his hands together. “I thought…I thought you just wanted to actually eat them. Sorry.” He gave Time a small, apologetic smile with his still-present mouth, and waited for the other god to reply.

Time stared at him for a long moment, before letting loose a long, heavy breath. He ran a hand through his curled hair and glanced at the baroque-styled ceiling. “Ohhh, thank Prime. Thank Prime. Ohhh, you have no idea how scared I was, that you had actually…actually killed him.” He looked back at Dream, then tilted his head down towards the End God’s abdomen. “So…Sapnap’s okay? Err, they both are?” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’ll admit, I don’t know the other one.”

Dream nodded, straightening up a little and glancing down at where the two mortals were. “They’re both fine. I formed a separate, safe pocket of air to hold them in for the time being.” He jolted, then, at a sudden realization that flooded his body with guilt.

“They don’t know that it’s safe!” He blurted, six wings flaring up in alarm. “I…I didn’t tell them.” Time’s lips creased in concern as well, at his words, and he leaned towards Dream. “You can get them out, right? Or at least tell them?”

Dream sucked in a short breath with another nod. “Yeah, but they probably won’t trust my words. I’m gonna let them out.”

Gently, he touched at the area of the faux stomach, readying to push at it and squish its contents up, but paused. He had to prepare himself for whatever confrontation came in the next few seconds. Whatever happened, he knew it was not going to be pretty. Neither human was someone to be trifled with when they were upset.

Finally ready, he dug his fingers into his abdomen, squashing the bottom of the faux stomach flat and forcing the two small bodies up into the tube that connected to his esophagus. They cried out, startled, as Dream’s muscles tugged them upwards towards the outside world.

He closed the flesh up behind them as they rose, no longer needing the faux stomach, and not wanting them to fall back down into it.

They passed up into his throat, and slid into his mouth. One, and then two small weights rested on his tongue once more. He could feel them clinging to one another, the flavor of their desperation and fear absolutely pooling against his taste buds, and it made him feel awful.

He cupped two of his hands together and brought them up to his mouth. Very gently, he opened his jaw and slid the two trembling bodies onto his palms with his tongue. Saliva clung to his skin wherever the two mortals touched, but it was fine. He could clean everything up later.

When he lowered his hands to get a good look at them, George let loose a small cry, scrambling back in his palm and pressing up against the barrier his curled fingers made, while Sapnap lunged in front of the other man, trying to block him from Dream's view.

Dream shot a small, worried glance towards Time, then looked back down at the two soggy mortals he held in his hands. He…He was unsure of what to say, of where to start. Seeing them here, now, in the godly realm, in his hands, it really hit him, how much power he had over them, how truly insignificant they were to the grand scheme of the Prime Gods.

Dream pushed that thought away with a special kind of dislike and settled on apologizing, first and foremost.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn't mean to scare you guys.” He apologized, speaking in English, the most common language down in the overworld. The two of them wouldn’t understand the speech of the gods. Time leaned forward, probably trying to catch a glimpse of them, so Dream lowered his hands down even more and waited for the two mortals to say something.

At the sound of his voice, George had frozen. His bi-colored eyes were wide with shock and a large dose of fear, and his lips were slightly parted. Sapnap, meanwhile, jolted out of his frightened stupor and exploded.

“Who the fuck do you think you are–what even are you, you bastard? What kind of jackass decides it’s okay to–to fucking eat somebody?! What’s fucking wrong with you?!” Dream could feel the human’s ire in the form of heat as he snarled forward over his palms, and it was only George’s restraining hand on the fireborn’s bicep that kept him from trying to lunge for something vital on Dream’s immense body. “Fucking—why are we even here?! Let us go, before I shred you into pieces, who the fuck even are you–”

One of Time’s hands was covering his mouth. Dream couldn’t tell if he was shocked at the mortal’s outburst, or amused. From the way Time’s blindfold had shifted to a pale grey-green, he’d say surprised and worried. Dream himself didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t bother trying to shut the mortal up. Once Sapnap got started, there was no stopping him. He’d have to work himself out first, before Dream would be able to get a word in edgewise.

A thought drifted into Dream’s head, and he decided to follow it. If it could get Sapnap to stop ranting…

Without a word, Dream let his godly form start melting away. His wings shivered and sank into his back with the slightest sound of shifting of feathers, eyes of ender popping quietly out of existence, while his two free arms merged into the ones holding George and Sapnap. He let the little jewelry and bangles he wore disperse, as well as the dual halos orbiting his skull, and he even went so far as to change his long, flowing robes into the usual attire he wore in his human form. A cropped, bright green hoodie over a tight black undershirt, and baggy, tan cargo pants. Finally, the markings on his mask changed from an ‘XD” to a simple dot-eyed smiley face.

Despite the immense size his body still held, Dream looked, for all intents and purposes, human. He even used his shoulder to push his mask up to the side, finally allowing him to see the two tiny mortals eye-to-eye.

Sapnap’s rant faltered at the sudden sight before him. “—and…Dream…?” The man’s mouth went slack in shock. George, meanwhile, had tightened his grip on the other man’s arm, and had gone as white as a sheet.

“Hey,” Dream greeted hesitantly, keeping his voice low, only now realizing that speaking at full volume around their weak human ears may be a bad idea.

“What the fuck,” Sapnap hissed, stumbling away the few steps he had taken and pressing his back up against George, who wrapped an arm around Sapnap’s chest and stared agape over the fireborn’s shoulder. Dream could feel both of their heartbeats hike up significantly against his fingertips, and he winced. He didn’t know if that had helped at all, but at least it had gotten Sapnap to stop cussing him out.

“I…” He started, then paused, slowly gathering what he wanted to say. Time had leaned forward so far that he was practically on top of the glass center table so that he could see the two humans, but neither of them had noticed the other god. Their eyes were focused on Dream, and Dream alone. “I guess I have a lot of explaining to do,” he finally mumbled, glancing away to look at Time. The other god met his gaze and gave a small noise of uncertainty, one that Dream definitely felt. What did one say, when you had lied to your best friends about your humanity, and especially when the truth had come out in such a way as this? Dream didn’t know.

At the noise Time had made, George had whipped around and let out a small cry of alarm when he caught sight of the other god, tumbling away to press against the heels of Dream’s palms. He dragged Sapnap with him, who only now caught sight of how close Time was. He let loose his own startled cry and shoved George back behind himself, now facing the God of Time with a violent, apprehensive expression on his face. It made Dream feel a little better, to know that they’d rather have him at their backs instead of Time, who was their current unknown, but he knew it was only because of circumstance. He didn’t know if they’d want to associate with either of them after this.

“Who–who’s that? Who are you?” George demanded, voice shaking. His minuscule fingers tightened in Sapnap’s shirt, and Dream was hit with the distinct desire to bundle them both up against his chest and hide them both away from the world, from everything. This was awful, seeing them so terrified of everything.

“It–it’s me,” Time blurted, directing his gaze at Sapnap. The fireborn’s eyes widened, shock coloring his features once more, and his tiny hands scrambled to grasp at George’s for support.

As if just the sound of his voice wasn’t confirmation enough, Time spoke again, more insistently. “It’s Karl,” he nearly pleaded, leaning back over the table just the slightest bit. His blindfold flared to a bright, hopeful-looking blue, and he bit at his lip nervously.

Dream jolted at the sudden drop of Time’s chosen name, and watched in mild shock as Time's form twisted and wavered until a human body emerged from the shifting sands. His wavy brown hair was the same, though now adorned with thick brass goggles, and now Dream could see his eyes, a warm amber in shade, blindfold gone. The majority of his clocks and pendants were gone as well, only a small golden hourglass with a delicate chain looped around his neck. Instead of deeply violet robes, he had a cropped multicolored hoodie, much like Dream's own green one, with a dark undershirt and simple dark cargo pants. Multiple thick belts were looped around his hips, and a simple brown book bag was strapped over his chest and hanging from his side.

A strangled croaking noise escaped from Sapnap’s throat, and he dropped most of his weight against George as his legs weakened on him. Dream moved a thumb to try and help steady him, but the way both of them flinched back stilled his movement. He retracted his silent offer of support. “What the fuck,” Sapnap whispered once more, reaching up to cover his mouth with a trembling hand. George grunted in concurrence, glancing uncertainly between the looming forms of both Dream and Time–Karl? Was he allowed to call him that? Since he hadn’t expressly given Dream his chosen name? Dream didn’t know.

“What…What are you two?” Sapnap muttered, looking up at the two of them and clutching at the pale arms wrapped around his chest. “Where the…where the hell are we?”

There was a long moment where neither he nor Ti–Karl, he decided, answered. “We’re…gods.” Dream finally stilted, killing the sudden silence that dropped over them all. “We–you’re uh, in the Void. The, the Realm of the Gods. You got…sacrificed.”

Another strangled noise came from them both this time, and Dream could see George’s legs shaking now, as well. Oh, End, how badly did they hate him now? Hate Karl?

“Can you—” George started suddenly, then stopped, swallowing to clear his throat. “Dream. Put us down. Please.” Dream nodded hurriedly, lowering his hands down to the surface of the glass table that Karl was rapidly scrambling off of, and flattened his fingers to allow for a ramp to the clear surface.

The two stumbled off of his hands onto the glass, supporting each other even as they sank down to the ground on account of their shaking legs. They eyed the translucent ground warily, and beyond that, the dark rug covering the smooth stone floor beneath them.

Later, Dream would have to clean the footprint-shaped spit trail from the glass, as well as the puddle where they were sitting, but for now it could wait.

For now, he wiped his saliva-sticky hands off on his pants and decided to apologize to them again.

"S-sorry. For scaring you guys. And–and slapping you so hard George." Dream cringed at the mention of the memory, and George winced. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, the brunette nodded, dual colored eyes glittering in the light of the enchanted sconces lining the room. "It's…it's fine. Just a few bruises, nothing that won't heal quickly."

Though he knew that the mortal was probably lying about the severity of the bruises (he had slammed him down pretty hard) Dream breathed a breath of relief. If George was in severe pain, he'd be tearing into Dream about stupidity and for hurting him.

“Why—why the hell did you eat us?” Sapnap suddenly demanded, sitting up straight and glaring over George's shoulder. "What the fuck was that about?!"

“I…” Dream faltered, glancing up at Karl for help. The other god’s eyes darted between the three of them, and he sucked in a heavy, preparatory breath before speaking. “He thought I wanted you two. To, um, to eat.”

Dream joined in, thoughts gathered enough to know what to say. “I…I thought that I only had three options. Err, keep, keep refusing and have somebody get suspicious and probably report me to the Prime Gods, give you to him,” Dream jerked his head at Karl, “to be, what I thought, actually eaten, or,” he paused again, sucking in a steadying breath. “Or just do it myself, where I knew you’d be safe.”

"It's also tradition," Karl butted in, face twisted in a way that made it seem like he wanted to be anywhere other than there. “Nobody–nobody’s ever rejected a sacrifice. There would be an upheaval if someone did.”

Dream noticed that he didn't mention that humans, especially those that had been sacrificed to the gods, were delicious. It was a tactful move, one that Dream would follow along with. There was no need to make the two mortals hate them both even more.

"It also breaks a lot of rules, one of us interacting with mortals." Dream added. "If the other gods had found out, you both would be dead, and Karl and I would probably lose our positions, or at the very least be cast out of the void."

He noticed Karl glance at him at the use of his chosen name, but he said nothing about it. Dream dipped his head at him, indicating that the other god could use his name as well, if he so chose.

"If it had been someone else, if somebody else had been sacrificed, would—would you have killed them?" George asked.

Dream fell silent and turned his head down. He…He did not want to admit to anything, even if it was true. The dead silence was deafening, other than the sound of Karl nervously shifting on the sofa opposite him.

"Have you–" Sapnap started, then stopped. He was silent for an incredibly long moment, and then said decisively, "Nevermind."

Neither Dream nor Karl needed to ask what his question was. Have you had sacrifices before? Have you killed before?

The answer was obvious. But they weren’t willing to say it.

"So…"George started, clear hesitance coloring his tone. "What's going to happen to us now?"

They were shivering. Dream didn't know if it was from fear, or from the saliva still soaking their clothes and the fact that the room was a little chilled.

"Do you guys–do you wanna wash off, or something…?" Dream ventured, pointing carefully at the slick dampness still dripping from their clothes. The two looked down in disgust, but shook their heads regardless. “Maybe later,” George muttered, reaching down to try and wring out his shirt a little bit. “I don’t know about Sapnap, but I really don’t want to be touched right now.” The by either of you went completely unsaid, but both Dream and Karl could read between the lines.

Sapnap was nodding, and it really, really did hurt, how neither of them seemed to be able to trust the gods, but after what had just been said…Dream didn’t blame them. He couldn’t blame them. He’d be scared, too.

"We'll take you two back to the overworld, then, when you’re ready,” Karl broke the choking quiet by answering George’s previously asked question. He wrung his hands together, biting at his lip as he carefully ventured forth his next words.

"If you ever feel like talking to either of us ever—ever again after this, or–or if you need help, just…just call to the God of Time, or the God of the Overworld, okay?" Karl implored hopefully, leaning forward from the cushions of the chesterfield. "We'll hear you, wherever you are."

"I think…" Sapnap trailed off, bisected orange eyes drifting down to rest on a smudge on the glass table. Dream held his breath, hoping against hope that the fireborn wouldn't reject them outright.

Sapnap looked up, first at Dream, then at Karl, where his gaze lingered. "I think I will. I just…I need time to process. Uh, all of this.” He then turned his eyes to George, who was looking contemplative as he wiped his damp hands on his damp pants. After a long, long beat, he finally glanced up and met Dream’s gaze. A whirlpool of emotions were swimming in his eyes, most indecipherable for the God of the End. What he could see, though, wasn’t promising. Apprehension, wariness, the gleam of calculation, tiny hints of lingering fear…Dream didn’t know if George would ever want to see him again. The human may feel like it was too dangerous, may feel like Dream had betrayed him…Dream wouldn’t argue, if that were the case and George wanted nothing to do with him, but…

Dream would be heartbroken, that was for certain.

“I…I don’t know, Dream.” The brunette finally spoke, turning his eyes away again. “I…you’re a god. How am I supposed to respond to that? You ate me, ate us, what do I say?! I’m going to have nightmares from this whole…everything, and now that I know it was you…” He trailed off, glancing at Dream’s chest, then quickly away. “Maybe in the future, I don’t know, but…not, not right now, okay?”

Dream’s heart pinged painfully at the human’s words, but he wouldn’t let himself be crushed. At least George hadn’t decided to completely cut himself off from Dream? The End God had to hold onto that, and hope that it would keep him afloat.

“Okay,” was all Dream said, even though his brain was screaming at him to plead and beg for George to accept him now, because he was still the same guy he knew, just bigger and more powerful than any mortal could possibly fathom.

A solemn moment imposed itself over them all as the four of them mulled over the events that had transpired. Karl was fairly happy with the outcome. Sapnap would…probably come around, eventually, and it’s not like mortal time would be very long to wait, for a god. As a bonus, he had learned that End, no, Dream, had broken the same rules as he had, and in that, he had found a new kinship with the other god. He did feel bad for Dream, though, because it seemed like his other mortal friend, the brunette, was rejecting him. He hoped that George wouldn’t hate Dream for any of this.

Sapnap was still processing. His…very close friend, Karl, had turned out to be a god, (of either time or of the overworld, he wasn’t sure which) and that scared him, but…he could get over it. Karl was still Karl, after all, no matter how big or scary or powerful. Same with Dream. He would get used to it, he was sure. He was just mostly happy that they weren’t going to die in the gut of some giant deity. Everything else? Piece of cake, a flat breeze. Sapnap could deal.

George…George didn’t want to believe any of this. Dream, his very favorite friend, was a god? Dream, the man who could make him laugh in almost any situation, had eaten him? Had eaten Sapnap? What was George supposed to think? Even if it was for their ‘safety’ or whatever, at least he could’ve given some sign, some warning? George knew that he’d be having night terrors after this awful experience. He’d already had trouble with sleep, but now? Oh, he was so screwed. A small part of him hoped, just maybe, he would be able to force himself to interact with Dream without freaking out, but every time the thought crossed his mind, uncontrollable shivers wracked up his spine, and he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t think he could do it. He didn’t want to. At least he still had Sapnap. At least they were both alive.

Dream wanted to cry. Or smite something. Maybe he could go fry a pillager outpost after this? Maybe. George…he didn’t think George wanted to be around him after this. He really, really hoped George would come around, but he doubted it. He knew the mortal wouldn’t. George was very, very stubborn, which meant that Dream had just lost him. He tried to cheer himself up by telling himself that he may still have Sapnap, and that he had just gained a closer relationship with Karl, but it didn’t help much, not when it was compared with the loss of George.

His thoughts turned to whose fault this all probably was, and a sudden realization that had a snarl crawling over his face passed through his head. He needed to know, so that he could smite them, for causing all of this mess. That, and the indignant anger over the fact that his two humans had been slated to die.

"Who the fuck had the gall to sacrifice you two?!" He abruptly growled, and Sapnap snorted at the sudden outburst. Soon, they were all cackling uncontrollably, and Dream felt just the littlest bit better about it all. Maybe things wouldn’t turn out so bad…maybe.

(End)

~~~~~~~~~~

So, a while later, like, several months or something, George runs into some trouble, alone at night being attacked by a hoard of mobs, and he’s desperate. His armor is gone, his sword is about to break, and he will die if he can’t think of anything. So, he does the only thing he thinks he can do: he screams for Dream, he calls for the overworld god to help him, please, and then suddenly the mobs are being mowed down, one by one, by a (thankfully human-sized) green clad man. Then there’s a terse, heartfelt moment between the two where Dream says that there isn’t much worth doing without George. A bunch of emotions are laid bare that night, but they reconnect, and grow very much closer to each other. 

Sapnap is elated by the news, as well as Karl.)

Taglist that I fucking forgot o~O

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu

[hedgiwithapen]

leverage & stargirl, any character of your choice, with “i’m not going to hurt you”

Rick stared up at the ceiling of the basement cell. Nurse Love called it his room, but he knew what it was. the lock was on the outside, and that made it no better than the barred holding cage he'd been stuck in last summer. 

He was here for the same reason, though, in a way. Matt. Matt and his temper. And just like last summer there wasn't anything Pat, or Beth, or anyone could do about it, not right away. So he was stuck here, with Nurse Love's saccharine, veiled threats and a locked door. 

No visitors, she'd told him. He was violent, very violent according to the forms Matt had filled out when he'd signed over custody to Helix's rehabilitation program. Not to be trusted.

"Look what you did to your own father," she'd said. "We can't run the risk of anyone else getting hurt because we weren't supervising you properly. Once you've settled, we'll see if anyone wants to visit you."

He'd glared and growled and not snapped that Matt wasn't his dad. He couldn't but the JSA in jeopardy like that. 

He got the feeling she already knew, though. It didn't matter. He wouldn't tell her anything.

There was a scraping at the door. He tensed, his whole body aching with it. She could ask again, anything she wanted, about the hourglass, about blue valley. He wouldn't tell her. 

The woman who peeked her head in wasn't Nurse Love, though, or any of her creepy orderlies. He'd never seen the Blonde lady before.  

"Hmm," She said. "Well, you're not Todd."  

Todd? That was... Jennie's brother, wasn't it? The one she and Courtney had saved. 

"Eh," she continued. "You know where he is?"

Rick shook his head. Whatever she wanted with Todd, he wasn't about to help her. 

The door creaked as she opened it wider. "Ok, c'mon."

He stared. He could see the hall behind her, remembered the route when they'd dragged him in. Two lefts, up the stairs, a right... He could run for it.

And then what? Helix had custody. They could drag him back. Get their pet cops to arrest anyone who tried to help him hide. The nurse had said so, had showed him the paperwork. He belonged to them for fifteen more months.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the woman said again. "C'mon. I've got other people to save, you know."

It was a risk. Rick took it anyways, stumbling into the hall, trying to dart past her. She let him go. 

He was trying to figure out why she'd let him run when he saw the trick. Her lookout was waiting at the top of the stairs, a hand on the arm of another boy. Rick may have been a loner at school, but Blue Valley was small. He recognized Alex Montez.

"And you're sure you haven't seen Todd here?" the guy asked. He was about Rick's height, long hair and an air around him that let Rick know he wasn't getting passed.

"No," Alex said. "I just want to go home. I know they've been hiding my letters--"

"We'll get you home, kid. We're looking for Todd to help him, that doesn't mean we're not going to help you. Can you tell me where home is?"

Rick thought of Yolanda. He drove his shoulder into the guy holding Alex. Without the hourglass, he wasn't super strong, but he'd use what he had. 

"Don't tell them," he warned Yolanda's cousin. "It's a trick."

"It's not a trick," the bodyguard guy said, rubbing his arm. "We're here to help."

"Why does no one ever believe we’re here to help?" the blond woman said, materializing behind him. "We're not that kind of criminal. We're basically vigilantes. I thought Nebraska liked vigilantes."

"What?" asked Alex. 

"You can't have them," Rick said, his anger rising. To Alex he said, "Get behind me."  

Alex stayed put. 

"Have who?" the man asked. "Easy, kid." He studied Rick in the dim light from the fancy sconces, and shook his head, an exasperated look. 

"We're not telling you anything," Rick said again, glaring, daring Alex to prove him wrong.

"You're a cape," the man said. "I can tell. Relax, would you? My name's Eliot. We came here to rescue Todd Rice. His boyfriend asked us to. This place had him last, right? They took you, too?" Rick hesitated, but Eliot seemed to see the nod in his face. "We're not going to hurt you, or your people, ok kid? We just want to be able to tell Danny that Todd's safe. Can you tell me that, if he's safe? Or if these people..."

Rick swallowed. Eliot looked like Pat, the way he said it. Like the idea of Todd being hurt was the worst thing he could imagine, and like he could imagine plenty of bad things. 

"Safe," he said, finally.  The Shade could keep him that way, and Jennie, too. It wasn't betraying anyone, he told himself. It wasn't.

"Good," Eliot said. "Then let’s get you and anyone else in danger out of here. We can talk more later." 

He had Alex's arm again, and Alex looked like he believed that. Like he trusted that. Rick reached for the hourglass he didn't have anymore and followed. Rescue or not, he didn't have a choice.