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five-and-dimes · 7 months ago

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Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

Finally get to share my fic for the Spring Exchange! I got assigned @im-not-corrupted, and it's my first time writing a knight au, but I'm really happy with how t turned out, so I hope you like it too! <3

AO3

If you had asked Sir Robert Gadling just a few years ago, he would have told you that he had no plans of settling in any kingdom. Ever since the loss of his dear Eleanor, he had found himself most content in traveling. A sword for hire making his way through the lands, throwing himself into new adventures before inevitably moving on. He escorted nobles and adventurers, he protected priceless treasures, he fought in tournaments for gold and glory, and then he carried on. Each new place brought their own unique experiences and joys, but none so great as to convince him to stay.

Then he entered the kingdom of the Endless.

He had heard rumors of the turmoil the kingdom had gone through in recent times. One of their main allies and trade partners had been brought low by their king’s death and near fatal wounding of the only prince, leaving the prince’s consort to struggle to hold the land together. The loss of protection and major imports left the Endless kingdom vulnerable, and they fell into a period of famine and darkness. However, a few years later saw one of the princes staging a coup, exiling the king and queen as well as a few other members of the royal family, taking the throne for himself.

And King Morpheus brought the realm back to prosperity.

Hob found the land intriguing in a way he hadn’t experienced before. The landscape was lush and vibrant, the kingdom built within the forest as opposed to clearing it away, and even the homes of the lower class were adorned with intricate artwork carved into the door and window frames. When he made his way into a boisterous tavern, he was greeted as though he was coming home, not a newcomer. As the ale flowed, he had tried to learn more about the history of the realm, especially the years when the crown had been taken. What he learned was that, for all the drama that a grab for power like that must have been, to those outside the palace, it had all been very quiet.

“Went to bed one night the same as ever. Next day we woke up, and there was an assembly being called,” An older man explained, leaning heavily on the table, “Standing on the balcony like some angel of death, there was King Morpheus, wearing the crown.” He shook his head, lost in the memory of his astonishment, “The King and Queen have so many kids I never could keep track of ‘em. But I coulda sworn that one was dead,” he shrugged, taking another long swig of his ale, “Guess I was wrong.”

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Hob was more eager than ever to join an upcoming tournament. As always he enjoyed buddying up with the kingdom’s knights, sharing tales of his travels, learning more about the land he was visiting, placing bets and engaging in friendly banter. He was excited to join the festivities, and to get a closer look at the mysterious king.

As he entered the arena, looking up to the stands, he understood why his drinking companion had called the king an angel. King Morpheus was a spot of darkness amongst the colors of the crowd. The royals and advisors sitting beside him wore rich, deep colored fabrics that shone in the sunlight, but the king himself was garbed all in black. His robes flowed around him, draping over his form and concealing his figure. His collar was buttoned up his neck all the way to his chin, and gloves covered his hands where they lay primly in his lap. Long black hair was braided elegantly and made his face look even paler, as though he had never seen the sun before. The gold circlet with ruby accents on his head was the only color Hob could make out on his figure.

He was beautiful.

Hob was never one to deny his ego, and he always aimed to impress when he competed, but on this day he forgot about the crowd. There was only one person he hoped to impress with each swing of his weapon or shot of his bow. The days of the tournament passed, and he couldn’t help but glance up up up to the King after each success, hoping desperately to be noticed. And his pride clearly paid off, because when the tournament ended, as Hob collected his winnings and made his way towards the feast, he was approached by an elegant figure. Her waistcoat was perfectly tailored and a deep purple which made her dark skin seem to glow. But her poise and demeanor gave away her station far more than the richness of her clothing. Delicate spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose, and her posture was proud and sure, looking down on Hob without seeming to look down on him.

“You performed very admirably, Sir…” she stated, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Robert Gadling,” he bowed in greeting, grinning.

“You are new to these parts, yes?”

“Aye, I am a traveler.”

“Just passing through, then?”

“Unless I am given a reason to stay.”

She gave him a reason.

The King had in fact noticed him, had been pleased by his performance, and was looking to grow the order of knights protecting the castle grounds. Though a few years had passed, he was still new enough to the throne to be vulnerable to attempts to usurp him. And he wanted Hob to join. Hob had no intention of turning down an opportunity to be closer to the dark shadow of a king.

It did not occur to him until much later that he hadn’t even needed to think about it before deciding to settle here, in the Endless Kingdom. He moved onto the castle grounds, and he kneeled before King Morpheus and swore an oath, and the king looked down at him with glittering eyes. Hob felt like a madman for all the things he wanted, but he felt a little less mad when, before the season even had a chance to change, he was selected as the King’s personal guard.

“If I may ask,” Hob could not help but inquire, standing watch as the King worked in his study, “Why me? There must be knights whom you are more familiar with.” He was one of the newest in the order, and yet it was he who stood at the king’s side.

The King barely glanced at him, continuing his elegant penmanship, “I am interested.”

“In me?” Hob felt his traitorous heart flutter.

Here, King Morpheus did look at him, something sly and mischievous in his eyes, “In your experience.” Slowly and deliberately, he put his quill down, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands in his lap, “Tell me, sir Gadling,” Hob shivered every time he heard his name on those lips, “of your travels. Tell me of your life.”

And, well. Hob would never deny a command from his king.

Although he would not deny… editing, occasionally. Never lying, of course, he wouldn’t dare. But he saw no harm in skipping the less flattering parts- the years lost to drinking his grief away, the times he tripped over his own feet learning to charge in heavy armor- and only slightly embellishing his victories. Morpheus always listened with rapt attention, as though Hob’s tales were the most interesting things he had ever heard. Perhaps, Hob considered, they were.

“It seems you have always been a capable warrior, Sir Gadling,” Morpheus smiled as he delicately ate his breakfast, Hob leaning against the wall beside him as he finished the most recent recounting of his exploits.

“Had to learn fast,” he grinned, “Some of us have to get roughed up if we want to keep you royals so soft and pretty.”

At first, he thinks he has said something wrong, because Morpheus’ head snaps up to look at him, eyes sharp and calculating. But a moment later, his body softens, like an exhale, and there is a pleased smile on his face, and Hob knows that he has said something right.

“I do not remember that part of your oath,” he says teasingly, “a vow to keep me soft and pretty.”

“It was unspoken,” Hob replies immediately, “Took one look at you and knew a delicate thing like you needed a skilled sword and shield at your side.”

“And it seems I chose well,” he sits up a little straighter, almost preening, “I trust a knight of your strength and… stature,” Hob felt his cheeks warm as Morpheus blatantly looked him up and down, “will have no trouble protecting my integrity.”

“With my life, my lord,” he gives a half bow, and when their eyes meet he is certain that something is there.

It became a regular part of their time together, after that. Time passes with Hob telling his stories, and Morpheus fluttering his eyelashes at what a rough and adventurous life he’s led, and Hob gently teasing about the soft and cushioned life he’s led. The contrast between them was exhilarating, and each time the king leaned into it was a bolt of excitement to Hob’s bloodstream. If Hob had his way, King Morpheus would never have to lift a finger. As he accompanied him through the castle, from his chambers to the throne room to the dining hall and back again, he opened every door for him with a deep bow. He would lift the king’s fork to his lips if allowed.

Morpheus does not seem to mind. For all that he is known as a stoic and cold king to those outside of the palace, each day Hob sees his little smiles, and the laughter in his eyes as Hob bends over backwards for him.

On this day, Hob thinks he might be the first knight tasked to pick blackberries for his king. Morpheus sits on a stone bench in the shade of the garden as Hob diligently fills a bowl with the ripe fruit, occasionally glancing back to see Morpheus’ warm, amused smile.

“It would be a shame to stain such finary,” he had claimed, eyes crinkling slightly in restrained mirth, turning to show off the glimmer within the fabric of his clothes.

“Oh of course,” Hob teased in return, “We wouldn’t want our precious king to get his hands dirty.” He bowed, taking the king’s gloved hand to kiss his knuckles. His skin was covered by such fine leather, he could only imagine how butter soft the skin beneath it must be.

King Morpheus smirked down at him, “You earn your keep well, my knight.”

“Anything to be kept by you,” he winked.

The only response is a silent huff of laughter, but Hob cherishes it all the same. As he stands, he holds a berry out between his fingers, “Perhaps you should test them. Make sure they are up to your standards.”

His eyelashes flutter, a coy smile on his lips as he leans forward, and Hob may have started it but he was unprepared for the feeling of his king’s mouth wrapping around his fingers, plucking the fruit from his hand before pulling back with a soft swipe of his tongue. Hob feels himself shudder as Morpheus hums in pleasure.

“Yes,” he purrs, “delightful.”

“Is that so?” Hob feels his heart beating wildly in his chest, but he feels confident and daring as he leans in closer, “Perhaps I should get a taste myself.” He thinks that no fruit on earth would compare to being able to lick the taste from Morpheus’ lips.

But he will never know if he is right. Before he has a chance, he lays his hand on Morpheus’ waist, only to have his wrist gripped tightly and torn away.

“Do not-” The hissed words are cut off so abruptly that Hob can hear the click of Morpheus’ teeth as his mouth snaps shut. His eyes are steely, stepping back to put himself out of Hob’s reach. It is so far and away from any interaction they have had before that Hob feels as though he has whiplash.

There is a moment's pause where Morpheus seems to be waiting for him to speak, and it is only then that Hob remembers their respective ranks, “I apologize, my liege,” he bows deeply, the formality feeling wrong. This is not who they are to each other. Or so he thought.

He glances up just in time to catch the way Morpheus’ throat bobs as he swallows thickly, “I have been away from my work long enough. Deliver what you have harvested to the kitchens and then rejoin me in my study.” He leaves no room for a response, turning on his heels and stalking away, heedless of the fact that they are not meant to be separated this way. Hob’s job is to watch over him. But, after watching his king’s back disappear back into the castle, he does as he is told.

His thoughts are a storm as he passes the fruit off to the kitchen staff, dragging his feet to delay his return to Morpheus’ side. King Morpheus has always been vocal about fighting tradition- about making a better realm, even if it meant going against the “old ways”- and Hob had, foolishly perhaps, assumed that meant that Morpheus would not be against marrying outside his station.

Apparently he was wrong.

Arriving outside the study door, Hob feels his heart burn. With rejection, yes, and grief, certainly, but also with anger. Anger at the king’s hypocrisy, his arrogance and conceit, to think so lowly of Hob as to toy with his feelings and then snub his touch. As though Hob’s hands would somehow taint his royal figure.

Well, Hob refused to be ashamed. He was proud of his rank and status, he was proud of his life, and no man or king would make him feel lesser. So when he walked into the room, he held his head high, and kept his eyes cold.

Morpheus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but did not say anything.

The weeks following are tense. At first, Morpheus seemed to try to restart their flirtatious banter, but Hob refused to engage. He was not a toy for the king to play with as he pleased and then shove away when he got too bold. In another kingdom, Hob thinks he might have been executed for the glare he sent the lord’s way. But Morpheus only sighed and looked away, and eventually stopped trying. Their days were now filled with tense silences as they walked together.

Hob is seriously considering leaving Morpheus’ order to continue his travels on the day the assassination attempt happens. He is overseeing a trial between two nobles, something about one of them infringing on the other's land, Hob hadn’t really been paying attention. In hindsight, the two seem more amicable with each other than one would expect for a dispute to reach the point of coming before the king, but at the time Hob had just been grateful that it was a quiet day.

“My King, I have some evidence that I believe may sway you in my favor,” one of them announced.

Morpheus, with varying success, did try to keep from being too far above his people. As such, it was not unusual for him to stand and approach the noble when he gestured him forward, presumably to show or explain something to win his case. Hob, as usual, is only a step behind him. It is because of that that he catches the glint of metal in the noble’s hand within his robe.

With a wordless cry, Hob lunges forward, shoving Morpheus roughly to the ground to step in front of him. There is a loud clang as the noble’s dagger connects with Hob’s gauntlet. His eyes are wide at Hob’s speed, and he has no time to react before Hob’s fist makes contact with his nose, blood spraying as he collapses. Around them, the rest of the knights in the room rush into action, restraining both nobles and sweeping the room for any hidden danger.

With the threat so swiftly taken care of, Hob is free to look down at where the king was sprawled, dark fabric pooling around him as he pushes himself up, dark hair concealing half his face. They look at each other, the adrenalin of the moment still rushing through both of them.

“Are you alright, my liege?” Hob asks softly, holding a hand out.

Morpheus nods slowly, taking his hand and allowing Hob to pull him to his feet, “I am. Thanks to you.”

As they stand, hands still clasped for a moment longer than necessary, Hob realizes that he has missed Morpheus. Perhaps he cannot have everything that he wants so desperately. But if this is all he can have, well. At least he can have this.

“Of course,” he smirks, “I did swear to keep you soft and pretty, remember?”

He means it as an olive branch, a remembered joke between them to show that they can still be more than simply knight and king, even if they cannot be more. He does not mean to make Morpheus’ eyes fill with tears.

“Yes,” his voice cracks, “Of course.”

Hob is not given a chance to respond- not that he knows how to respond at all- before the king is turning away, calling for his advisor, Lady Lucienne, the one who had first approached Hob about his position within the court. The two convene quietly for a moment before Morpheus orders the knights present, including Hob, to take the two traitors away to be questioned and search the grounds for any other suspects.

It feels wrong to leave the king’s side. Hob feels a desperate need to watch over him, to keep him safe and protected, to wipe away the tears that look so perilously close to falling. But he has been given his orders, and the king and lady are already moving to sequester themselves somewhere private to discuss what to do with the situation. So, with one last look back, he goes to fulfill his duty.

Hours later, when the palace is confidently secure and the traitors are under lock and key, Hob feels no less anxious to be at his king’s side. He was told to return to his own quarters, to rest for the night, and he did try at first, setting his armor aside and laying in bed to try to calm the burning in his heart. But there is no rest to be found here, and soon he finds himself walking purposefully through the halls in his casual clothing, a decision he only regrets when he finds himself faced unexpectedly with the king’s advisor.

Lady Lucienne is exiting the room just as he approaches the king’s chambers. Still half in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow at the clearly off-duty knight before her, and Hob freezes, feeling like a child caught stealing sweets.

“Sir Gadling,” she greets cooly, “I did not expect to see you so late. I thought you were resting,” she raised an eyebrow at him pointedly.

“Yes, m’lady,” he bows his head, but tries to continue awkwardly, “I simply could not rest, and wished to check to ensure the king was well after the attack today.”

“He is well,” she answers shortly, “so you may-“

“Lucienne,” a deep voice calls out from within the room, “he may enter.”

Frowning, Lucienne gives Hob a quick narrow-eyed look before re-entering the room, closing the door behind her and leaving the knight alone in the hallway. He waits awkwardly as a hushed conversation happens behind the door. Finally, Lucienne emerges once more, still eying him warily, but opening the door wider to allow him entry into the king’s chamber. As he enters, he is surprised when she exits, closing the door again to leave him alone in the room with Morpheus.

The room is grand, as expected for a king, and Morpheus sits primly on the edge of the large, ornate bed in the center. He is no longer wearing the extravagant, heavy garb that he dons in public. His current night robe, while as dark and elegant as all of his attire, is also thinner and more lightweight. It is also… revealing. The silky fabric contrasts sharply with his pale, nearly white skin, and for the first time, Hob is granted the sight of his king’s forearms, his neck, the jut of his collar bones, his calves. And with it, he is granted the sight of countless scars.

Dark, rough scar tissue circles both his wrists like bracelets, a matching ring around his neck. There are some marks that Hob recognizes as blade wounds, and others that he thinks might be burns. They criss-cross over each other and dip below his robe, suggesting that what he is seeing is only a fraction of what exists. All of the marks look old. It does not make them look any less painful.

Hob feels his mouth open, the breath rushing out of him as though he has been struck. He can tell, he knows, that the scars are old enough to have been made long before Hob ever met Morpheus. Still, he feels a strange sense of failure. As though it is his fault for not meeting Morpheus in time to protect him.

When he finally raises his gaze, he finds Morpheus looking at him, patiently waiting for Hob to finish his inspection. Hob opens his mouth, but cannot find any words that might soften whatever is happening right now.

Finally, Morpheus speaks, “Once, I was a prince. And now, I am a king.” His voice holds the gravity of an execution, and the sorrow of bowing his own neck beneath the blade, “But there was a time, in between, when I was neither.”

Hob takes another shaking step into the room. There is something dreamlike in the situation, an anticipation, a feeling of falling. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Morpheus turns his eyes forward to stare at one of the large landscape paintings he’d commissioned from a local artist, “I was sixteen when I was taken,” he states plainly, as though his words don’t gut Hob to the core, “It was… easy. For them to steal me away. Far too easy, even for an unloved spare like myself. As if it had been allowed.” He pauses, but keeps his face carefully smooth and neutral, “I still do not know for certain. Whether I was stolen or given away.” His next words are spoken more to himself than to Hob, “Perhaps it does not matter.”

Everything in Hob wants to move closer, to hold his king and shield him with his body, as though the past was an arrow aimed for his heart that Hob could stand in the way of. And yet, he feels frozen. Feet rooted to the ground by a pain so great even his strong and stoic king cannot keep it from his voice.

“When my blindfold was removed, I found myself brought before King Burgess.”

And now, Hob gasps, a too-loud inhale in the heavy tension of the room. Morpheus looks at him, his body stiff and his face still carefully empty.

Hob feels like he can’t breathe, “How…” his voice cracks desperately, “How long were you there?” He might be making a mistake by asking, by speaking at all during this tale, but he has to know. He has to.

“I was kept as a secret treasure for ten years,” Morpheus reveals bluntly. “I escaped my imprisonment roughly six years ago.”

The timeline stretches before Hob’s eyes, and he wants to weep.

“I was there,” Hob exhales in horror. Morpheus’ blinks, eyes blank and not understanding. “I… Ten years ago, I…” his throat feels like it is closing, but he forces the words out, “Burgess’ kingdom was one of the first I traveled to after I lost Eleanor. I was raised in the land neighboring it. I was there for nearly a year, drinking and fighting and participating in tournaments to distract myself from grief. I was offered a place in his court but I. Declined.” He takes half a step back, and then a full step forward when he sees the way the motion makes his king’s face fall. “I was right there,” he whispers.

“I doubt you could have done much,” Morpheus replied, turning his face to look at the wall again, “I was not flaunted before his people, or even the rest of his court. Only a select few knew of my presence beneath his castle. He…” his voice trailed off, and his eyes glimmered as tears began to well. But he stubbornly blinked them back, “It does not matter,” he says again, even softer.

Hob wants to scream that it does matter, of course it matters. But his king looks so wounded right now, and it has nothing to do with the scars. So for now he waits, and lets Morpheus tell him no more than what he is ready to share.

“Eventually,” he continues, his voice steady once more, “the prince’s consort grew pitying. I am sure when he released me he expected me to simply run. But I had more than earned my right to vengeance.” His hands clenched into fists in his lap, “Burgess was almost too easy. He had grown old and careless. He was not so powerful as he thought himself when I was in chains. I spared his son the killing blow only out of gratitude to his consort.”

The stories of the fall of the Burgess Kingdom make much more sense now, with this information, and even the decline of the Endless kingdom who had for so long been allies with them.

“It took me some time to return to my home kingdom. I was weak, and needed to heal and regain my strength. I also gathered allies. Lady Lucienne, Sir Matthew, among others. My family was not expecting my return, and so it was easy to claim the throne for myself. My parents I exiled, along with their supporters. My siblings I allowed the freedom to do as they wished. And what they wished was to leave.”

A few of the king’s siblings had visited in Hob’s time at his side, but never for long. Hob ached at the pain he saw now. The pain of being abandoned so quickly after his return.

“And a few years later…” Morpheus’ gaze was heavy as he looked at Hob once more, “a traveling knight competed in a tournament, and caught my eye.”

Hob still remembers that day so vividly, the dark shadow of the king, the way he was too far for Hob to see his eyes and yet he fantasized about them looking at him. His heart swells in his chest to know that they were. And now he is here, stepping towards his king, his friend, the man he has stood beside for nearly two years now, and he cannot help but ask, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

When Morpheus sighs, it is heavy, and Hob thinks that a lesser man would have crumpled under the weight of the despair in that single breath.

“The parts of me that appeal to you…” he explains slowly, “being… soft. And pretty, and delicate, and pure…” he keeps his head high and shoulders back and it does not make him look any less ashamed, “they are all a fantasy. The reality is that I have long been. Damaged. And sullied.” Almost unconsciously, he brought one hand up to clutch at his robe, holding it closed just a little tighter, “Perhaps it was cruel of me to deceive you in such a way, but our games… brought me comfort. I could pretend, even if just for the briefest times, that it was true. That I was someone you could want.”

Eyes fluttering closed, he sighed, “I thought. If I could have nothing else. I could at least have that.”

His voice is so even, despite how soft it has grown, barely audible in the expansive room. He speaks as though reciting history- something that has already passed and cannot be altered. A tragedy that cannot be changed.

When Hob moves towards him, it is barely conscious. It is like floating down a river, like gravity, a force of nature that perhaps he could fight against if he wanted to. But he does not want to. And so he moves to his king and he kneels, and he did not know it was possible, but it feels even more right now than it has every time he has kneeled before. Morpheus looks at him, the slightest furrow in his brow, confused, surprised, strangely lost. Hob takes his hand, as he has countless times before, and for the first time feels the rough calluses on his fingers. He kisses his knuckles, and his lips brush his bare skin for the very first time. Morpheus gasps, silent, and Hob would have missed it had his eyes not been fixed on his king’s face.

And then he continues. He brings his lips to the ring of scar tissue around his bony wrist, kissing first the outside, then the inside, leaning forward to continue kissing up his arm. There is a part of him that is appalled at his daring- this is his king, he has no right to take such liberties. But there is a much larger part that is desperate to prove him wrong. He has sworn an oath to protect this man. In this moment, he wants to protect him from his own expectations.

And so he pushes himself up, still holding Morpheus’ hand as his lips trail over the landscape of texture across his skin. He kisses over the fabric of his robe, not pushing it aside, not asking Morpheus to reveal any more than he already has. He stands until he is, like blasphemy, looming over his king, leaning down to kiss along the rope of scarring along his neck. He feels, more than hears, the way Morpheus gasps as his lips caress his skin.

“No game could compare to the reality of you,” Hob breathes against his skin, letting his tongue lightly trace the texture of him, “You do not need to pretend that you are wanted.” Leaning back, he finds his king staring at him with wide, watery eyes, and Hob allows himself a moment to sweep his gaze down his figure in appreciation, “Look at you,” he whispers, “Look at how much you’ve survived.”

He brings his free hand up to cup Morpheus’ cheek, and his king still looks disbelieving, and so what can he do but lean in and kiss him. When their lips meet, it feels like the inevitability of dawn after a long dark night, like everything was meant to lead them here. They move their lips together slowly, softly, until the taste of salt blooms between them. Hob pulls back, and Morpheus drifts after him, tears streaming down his face. And for all that he has been through, he looks at Hob as though this, this love and wanting, is what will finally undo him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hob kisses the tears from his cheeks, even as Morpheus shakes his head.

“I am not.”

Hob tuts softly, “You are.”

Feeling emboldened by his love, by a love he now understands is returned, he pushes gently at Morpheus’ shoulder, guiding him down to lay on the soft, rich fabric of his bed. Morpheus’ eyes are wide when he moves to straddle him, but he does not push him away. His hands hover over his hips hesitantly, and that is the moment Hob stops worrying about this being his king. Right now, this is just Morpheus, who has been torn apart, and pieced himself back together, and pushed Hob away because he was so certain he would not be wanted as he is. And Hob wants him, and so there is nothing more important than leaning down to kiss every inch of exposed skin.

“You are so strong,” Hob whispers, pressing his lips to the rough skin of his neck again, “but you have protected yourself for long enough. Let me, now.”

“Hob,” Morpheus’ voice is breathless, his hands finally come to clutch at his tunic, “I…”

“I have sworn an oath to you, my king,” he kisses the burns along his collar bones, “And I would swear another to you, my friend,” he kisses the raised scars on his chest, “and yet another for you, my love.”

Slowly he kisses down to his stomach, where he feels Morpheus tense and shudder even through his robe. Morpheus is breathing heavily beneath him, gasps and sobs and moans as Hob touches him all over. He tugs at Hob’s tunic and Hob obliges, tugging it over his head and reveling in the way Morpheus stares up at him, his tears slowing and his throat bobbing as he swallows at the sight of Hob’s muscled chest, his body hair broken up by ropes of scars from his years of knighthood.

Hob takes Morpheus’ hand, calluses caressing calluses, and leans down to settle his weight on top of him. He pressed their chests together, pale and scarred against tan and scarred. “See?” Hob whispered against his ear, “We match.”

Morpheus’ breath hitches, and his hand clings tighter to Hob’s. He does not let go for the rest of the night, even after they have finished their gentle rutting and have both stained the insides of their clothes. He allows Hob to use his own shirt to clean them both, and to wipe his tears away, and to curl around him beneath the covers, but he does not let go.

In the dark, Hob kisses each of his fingers, “Would that I could protect you from the things that have already happened,” he whispers, “But I swear to you, my beautiful Morpheus, that no new scars shall adorn your skin while I am here to prevent it.”

He feels fresh tears fall against his skin, and he knows it will take time for Morpheus to truly believe his words. Hob will slowly reveal the parts of his past that he had edited out, and Morpheus will do the same, and eventually they will lay together with no fabric between them, and Morpheus will still cry at the kindness and the love and the want in Hob’s eyes, and that will be okay. For now, they sleep in the safety of each other's arms.

And in the morning, Hob will help Morpheus dress, kissing up his body as he buttons his robe until he is once more fully covered, kissing his lips as he fastens the last button.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #spring exchange #knight au

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gabessquishytum · 11 months ago

Note

I’ve been fighting with this for ages when that other Cinderella ask popped up, how serendipitous that we’re all thinking about messing with fairy tales 😁 here’s my take:

Dream is what is commonly known as a fairy godfather, a matchmaker of worthy souls to create long-lasting stories. Everyone knows that a match facilitated by a fairy will supersede any objections due to class or circumstance.

His latest project involves the three-day festival being thrown to find a consort for the prince, who he plans to match with the handsome and kind but beleaguered Hob Gadling, who so dearly deserves a happily ever after.

The first night of the ball, Dream appears before Hob—who looks appropriately stunned and awed—and declares his intention to help him attend. He’s not entirely sure how he came to be personally escorting Hob to the ball soon thereafter, but as he sits in the transformed carriage next to a magically decked out Hob, who is charmingly clutching Dream’s arm in shy excitement, Dream reasons that it couldn’t hurt to be a little more hands-on this time, and give Hob the support he clearly needs to meet his Prince Charming.

Except when they arrive at the ball, the prince gave Hob one curious glance when they entered, and then proceeded to completely ignore him the rest of the night. How dare he?? When Dream specifically chose him for this treasure of a man, as the other half of one of Dream’s stories!! He’s utterly offended on both his own and Hob’s behalf. Luckily Hob doesn’t seem to have noticed, too busy staring at everything and curling himself into Dream’s arm, probably out of bashfulness, poor thing.

Well, the fairy tale romance may be a bust tonight, but at least Dream can still make sure Hob has a magical time for the rest of the festival while Dream regroups and makes new plans. So he spends the rest of the ball by Hob’s side, plying him with food and drink and attention, and whisking him off to the dance floor whenever he wishes, and plans to do so again on the second and third night. He even extends the magic on Hob’s clothes past the midnight deadline, now that there’s no more call for a dramatic and mysterious vanishing into the night to further entice that waste of space of a prince. (Dream is also vaguely keeping an eye on the rest of the attendees on the off-chance that he comes across a hidden diamond worthy of Hob’s heart and Dream’s story, though he doubts the likelihood of that considering how much of a disappointment the literal prince turned out to be. Best to keep the most of his attention on Hob’s enjoyment, and return to finding him a match worthy of a fairy tale after the festival)

—

Hob knows exactly what he’s been doing from the moment Dream appeared to him; literally everyone knows what’s meant to happen when a fairy calls themself your godparent, and had any other fairy done so, Hob probably would’ve been quite pleased to go along with it. But he fell in love at first sight with Dream, and knew then and there that no Prince Charming would supplant him from Hob’s heart.

So he manages to convince Dream to escort him, all but glues himself to his fairy patron’s side for the entire ball, and (when Dream isn’t looking) glares at anyone who appears interested in him to scare them off, especially the prince. He plans to make the most of the festival to woo and seduce Dream until the fairy understands that the best fairy tale match for Hob is Dream himself. (Worst-case scenario he’ll climb onto Dream’s lap in the carriage at the end of the last night and present his case more directly)

-🪽anon (I tried to find a place to make a “fairy god-dilf” joke but it never quite worked ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Fairy cockfather perhaps? Fairy godDADDY??

Look, Hob has had a shitty life. Everyone he's ever loved is dead, his remaining family suck, he's miserable and he wants more from life. And he is NOT about the bet all his chances on some snooty prince, when he could have a literal fairy!! Dream is everything that Hob has ever wanted, and he's not going to let this opportunity slide.

So yes, maybe he pretends to be a bit more helpless than he actually is. He blushes and flutters his lashes and keeps asking Dream to help him with little things, like lacing up his beautiful glass shoes. By the third day of the festival, he's convinced that Dream is feeling some sort of spark between them. Hob is certainly at the end of his patience. He's danced, flirted ("shyly"), talked and laughed with the most beautiful magical being in the whole world, and he is very much losing his patience. He wants to kiss Dream!! And maybe suck his dick!!! He's got a lot of feelings!!!

And as the hours pass Dream sees less and less candidates around who he deems worthy of Hob’s hand. There's always something wrong, none of them are good enough for his Hob... how could Dream even have thought that the Prince was a good match?! He's clearly nowhere near as handsome, clever or delightful as the kind of spouse that Hob deserves. All of the people around them are too boring to make a good story. Hob needs someone... unique.

And when Hob pulls him to a private balcony at midnight on the third night of the festival... and slowly guides Dream’s hands to his hips... and leans in so their lips brush together.... the light bulb moment finally happens. Its going to be a wonderful story.

(Incidentally one of Hob’s lovely shoes does get left behind. Yes, it's because they were fucking on the balcony and Hob was so cock-struck he didn't even notice his lack of shoe. No, he's not even a little bit sorry.)

#🪽anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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valiantstarlights · 1 year ago

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[Dreamling Week Day 7: AUs or Crossovers] Of Surviving

This is a Dreamling Hunger Games AU oneshot. I finished writing it on May 27, but then I saw @mr-sadman 's prompt list for dreamling week 2023 and thought, 'Oooh 🖤 This is going to be perfect for Day 7!'

And here we are 2 weeks later. I hope you guys like it! 😊

CW: I mean...it's The Hunger Games. That's a warning all by itself.

"And why should we bet that you would win?" The host asks, fake teeth gleaming under the harsh stage lights. The same question, the same maddening smile directed at all the tributes.

"Because," Dream says, feeling bile rise up his throat, "I am better than the two who came before me."

The crowd gasps, but he could see a couple of audience members, the rough-looking shark-like types, nodding in consideration.

He hopes his siblings aren't watching.

"And why should we bet that you would win?"

"You shouldn't," the smiling boy from District 9 says. "But do it anyway for spite. Who knows, in the unlikely event that I win, you'll have me to thank for getting you at least a dozen new mansions."

The crowd laughs. Dream watches from backstage and immediately dismisses the boy as someone who would die an hour into the games.

The next time Dream sees the boy from District 9 is when he was aiming a javelin right at Dream. The first words the boy ever says to him is, "Duck!"

Dream ducks, and watches as the boy's javelin strikes true, right in the chest of District 2's career tribute.

"I thank you for saving my life, but I hope you are not expecting me to save you back."

The boy looks at him like he's a weird seven-legged fish. "Sure. You're welcome, District 4."

They part ways.

"Thought you said you wouldn't be saving my life," the boy from District 9 says, hand still holding Dream's as the two of them run away from the trap Dream has sprung, which caught a couple of other tributes who had been chasing him. Them both.

It was a coincidence that they were even in the same place at the same time.

Dream should really shake the boy's hand off.

"I am saving mine in the process of saving yours," he says. "Having an ally means surviving longer."

"An ally, huh? Well in that case, the name's Hob. Well, Robert Gadling, actually. I'm from District 9."

'I know,' Dream doesn't say. 'I thought you would be one of the first ones to die.'

"My name is Dream."

Dream wouldn't have volunteered this information, or really, anything about himself, but Hob has earned his trust by being an incredibly resourceful partner. He hasn't killed anyone else aside from that one career tribute, but he makes up for his lack of kill count by helping Dream (who grew up near the sea) survive in the arena the gamemakers have fashioned for them, which was part dense forest and part prairie.

"It suits you," Hob says, eyes on Dream's when he says it, his smile soft.

Dream looks away.

The faces of the day's dead have just finished being shown in the sky. Five more dead tributes. He imagines how their family back home would react to the news of their death. Would they be angry? Would they be disappointed?

Would they be relieved that there will be less mouths to feed from now on?

Dream wants to scream. He wants to think about anything else, so he turns to Hob, sitting beside him, face still turned upwards, contemplative. Dream wonders if they're thinking the same thing.

"Tell me about your family," Dream says.

Hob shrugs. "Not much to tell, really. We're poor like the rest, work hard like the rest, and try our best to live a life like the rest."

Dream sees his hands balled up into fists by his sides, knuckles white.

"What did Johanna mean, when she said you'll share the same fate as your siblings if you cross her path?"

It was early the next day. Hob is talking about a conversation between Dream and Johanna that took place in the morning of the previous day.

"I had six siblings," Dream says. They were gathering firewood now, for another trap that Dream is planning to spring. "Two of them were both reaped last year."

Hob stops in his tracks. "Oh," he says, sadness coloring his tone and setting Dream's teeth on edge. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Dream says simply. He clutches his bundle tighter in his arms so Hob wouldn't see how his hands have began to shake. "You did not pick their names at random."

"Their names were Destruction and Delirium," Dream tells him later that night in their little camp, hidden deep within the forest. "Sometimes I wish I had volunteered in my brother's place and managed to save my sister."

"Oh, love."

"Why did you call me 'love' yesterday?" Dream does not look at Hob when he asks this.

"Why do you think?"

He wonders if Hob is looking at him when he answered.

"You should eat more."

Dream ignores him and curls up more in his tattered sleeping bag. The trap succeeded, but the gamemakers fucked around with the weather and Dream had been soaked to the bone. And now it seems that he has caught a fever.

"Please," Hob begs, warm hand on Dream's freezing arm. He has cooked a meager amount of watery vegetable soup from the plants they had foraged. "For me."

"You will be better off without me," Dream says, because it's true. "There are only a few tributes left."

Hob sighs. "Look, if you don't eat by yourself, then I'm going to feed you like a baby bird, and then we'll both feel awkward."

Dream imagines Hob sipping the soup and keeping it in his mouth, then pressing his lips against Dream's and feeding him in this manner, just to make sure that Dream has something warm and healing in his stomach. He reddens even more despite his raging fever.

He still has some good sense remaining, however, so he sits up and shakily accepts the small bowl from Hob's hands, unable to look directly at him.

Dream tilts his face away. "We shouldn't."

"Why not?" Hob has not moved, body still close and face a breath away from Dream's. "What are you so afraid of?"

Dream pushes him away with both hands, but he does so gently and with a lingering touch to Hob's clothed chest that his hands were immediately engulfed by Hob's larger ones.

Dream is becoming a hedonist under the boy's influence. It is apparent when their fingers tangled together almost automatically.

"Because if we share a kiss," Dream says, "then we would cease to be vigilant for a few precious seconds, and that could mean the difference between life and death."

Hob says nothing for a moment, before he inhales deeply and nods. "You're right."

"I almost always am."

Hob rolls his eyes at him. "I mean that you're right in that we should always be vigilant. Not that when I kiss you, I would only want it to last for a few seconds."

'When,' Hob says. Not 'if.'

Dream tries not to obsess about his wording.

He fails.

"I apologize. You should not have seen that."

"What, you killing Johanna by drowning her in quicksand?"

"I did not mean to! It was just the easiest way to do it." Dream looks down at Hob coldly, willing his anger to overtake the fear that this would be the thing that would make Hob betray him.

"You're afraid of me now."

Hob shakes his head. He still has not looked at Dream in the eye again, but his tone is as kind as always. Dream wants to hold his hand and ask for reassurance that Hob does not hate him. He doesn't, because he has always been a coward.

"I'm afraid of dying," Hob says. "Totally not the same thing."

"Dream?"

Dream is pretending to be asleep. He has to. He dares not show Hob his tear-streaked cheeks.

Hob sighs.

"Okay, here's the plan." Hob's eyes are looking furtively behind them, body tense. They are almost at the end. There are only a couple more tributes left other than the two of them. "You run right, I run left, then we lead whoever is following us to your traps."

Dream looks at Hob's handsome, dirt-streaked face and wants more than anything to survive with him. But there can only be one victor, and he has already failed two of the people he loves.

He leans forward and kisses Hob for the first and probably the last time. Then, he stands up and runs as fast as his feet can carry him towards the traps, ignoring Hob's panicked shout behind him.

"I don't want to survive if you don't survive with me," Hob tells the stars when Dream is pretending to be asleep. "I can't. I wouldn't be able to."

"Who says you're dying?" Dream replies just after dawn, when Hob is sound asleep beside him, snoring softly. "You are not allowed to die under my watch, Hob Gadling."

"No! Dream!"

"I'm...I'm sorry," Dream says, voice soft and weak. There was way too much red surrounding him. Hob is losing his mind. "I love you. I'm sorry."

"You cheated." Hob's hands are shaking as he takes his jacket off and bunches it up, pressing it hard against the wound on the other boy's stomach. "You're supposed to be the one that survives!"

"I don't want to go back," Dream tells him, eyes turning glassy with unshed tears. "Not without you."

"Shit, you're losing too much blood."

"I would have liked to show you the place where I like to read in secret..."

"Gods, shut up, shut up, shut up--" Hob looks around frantically, trying to find something, anything, that could save Dream.

He is handed a knife by a bloodied, trembling hand, so pale it was almost white. "Here," Dream says. He points to an area under his own jaw. "Put the knife... Slash deep here. A little diagonally. Most effective..." His eyes were already blinking slower, movements growing sluggish.

"No," Hob says fiercely. The knife's handle is digging into his palm from how tight he's gripping it. "No, I'm not killing you. Fuck you for even--"

"Love you..." Dream's lips mouth at him, his striking blue eyes still looking at Hob's, as if he wants Hob's face to be the last thing he sees.

"No," Hob spits in denial. "Fuck this--"

Hob has always been a quick learner. His mother had always told him so. When his older brother was reaped six years ago and died within the hour of the games starting, Hob marched out of their house and immediately learned how to handle all the farming equipment from the older men, so his family could continue to eat.

He now places the knife Dream gave him against his own neck--

Dream gasps awake and clutches at the shape beside him desperately. Hob startles awake at the frantic touch, then pulls Dream towards him, holding him tight and steady, a fortress against a howling storm.

He murmurs soft words next to Dream's ear, one hand rubbing his back gently, while the other partially covers the large jagged scar on Dream's side. Dream presses his face closer to Hob's neck, his nose right where Hob's own scar is. It's small and looks insignificant compared to the one on Dream's body, but it proved more effective in getting the gamemakers to panic. They needed to have a victor, after all.

That year, they had two.

That had been ten years ago.

"We made it, my love," Hob says against his hair. It smells like the very sea that is only a short walk away from their home. Hob can hear the waves lapping peacefully at the shore. "We made it. It's all over now. We made it."

#dreamling hunger games AU #idk why clips from the hunger games movies keep popping up on my youtube feed #but we're taking it as a sign and rolling with it #hello my loves I come bearing pain 😊#dreamling #DreamlingWeek #DreamlingWeek2023 #the sandman #my writing #good job my thumbs #wahoo i managed to complete an entire week's worth of stories! 😭🙏 🎉🎉🎉

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fleabagoftheendless · 1 year ago

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Yes we're lovers, and that is a fact

Hob figures out what he feels about the beautiful stranger he meets every six months, while also handling a gay bar and holding onto people around him.

Dreamling, AIDS Crises, 80s au, Queer History, Minor Character Death, Human au

~~~

It was in 1985 when Hob saw him for the first time at the White Horse. But he never learnt that strange man’s name. Only that he was supposedly from a well-known family and that he couldn’t risk getting his identity out lest the news gets out about him visiting gay bars. Hob never questioned it either then. Many families still weren't accepting of their gay children.

Hob eventually bonded with him over a bet.

A simple question asked by him over the bar counter:

How can one be willing to live in today's time when things are so dire?

Well, Hob had promised him that he was willing to live in such a dire situation, that he would be here every time the man visited the White Horse. And it's not like Hob didn’t know the risk of making that promise, but still. He started referring to that man as his stranger. One who looked like some angel in this realm of mortals. Of course, Hob tried his best to find out who his stranger was but he came up with nothing. Only that they kept meeting every six months.

Then one day, when Hob was setting up the shelves behind the bar counter, his fellow bartender, Mike, decided to poke him with questions.

“Hey mate, have a date tonight with your boy?” Mike asked as he wiped the bar counter with a cleaning cloth

Hob narrowed his eyes at him, “No, Mike, we are not dating.”

“Aww come on, you two have something going on, and please don’t start with the ‘just friends’ bullshit, have you seen the way you look at that man?” Mike stood up and rested his hand on his hip, like an old lady chastising his child. Hob stood up straight too, now that he was finished setting up the bottles on the glass shelves.

“There is nothing in between us,” he said. Mike shook his head.

“Come on man, give yourself a chance. I am sure Ellie would’ve wanted you to.” Mike picked up the cleaning bucket and went to the staff room, not wanting to wait for Hob’s reaction.

Hob just stood there, frozen. He thought about his late wife sometimes; she would have wanted him to move on.

It was during the New Year's of 1987 when he fought with his stranger. Hob wasn’t sure if it was even a fight because it was mostly one-sided. And no matter what, Hob knew deep in his bones that his stranger didn’t have anyone he could rely on. In these trying times everyone needed someone. A companion, a friend they could rely on. So he had simply asked the other man for his hand in friendship, saying:

“I think you’re here for something else.”

“And what might that be?”

“Friendship. I think you are lonely.”

“You dare…”

Hob could be a bit too forward sometimes.

Well, whatever it was, it made his stranger walk out of the bar in anger and he didn’t visit again for the next meeting.

As the media raged about the AIDS crisis, Hob’s anxiety didn’t help him. The news was not good; the government was doing fuck all for the ongoing AIDS crises.

Mike sometimes helped him at the bar. The events and the parties went on in the club. More and more people were finding solace in places like the White Horse, where they were welcomed wholeheartedly.

Then, on a particularly late night, Hob was seated on the bonnet of his car, where it was parked near the white horse. The moonlight reflected on the river beneath the railing of the open parking spot. The buildings in the distance were aglow from the inside with yellow lights, like some lamps with fireflies. He took a sip from his glass, the whiskey warming its way down his throat. On nights like these, when he was a bit melancholy, he missed the people he had lost over the years. His dear Eleanor and then his stranger. The situation around them wasn’t helping either; none of them deserved all of this.

Sometime later Mike joined him, carrying his glass of the same drink.

“Alright, mate?” he asked, staring at the view ahead. He leaned back a little so that he was almost lying on the bonnet with his back against the windshield.

Hob nodded, “Yeah.”

Mike sighed, “Well, you know where to find me.”

Hob nodded yet again. Mike became his friend some years back when he had come to London for the first time just so he could be himself. He made the White Horse his home and Hob was proud of him for coming this far. He had been through hell with Mike and he hoped they could make it out of this hell too.

A month later they opened up the flats above the White Horse for rent since many kids were being kicked out of their flats by the landlords or their roommates. Soon enough this bar became one of the safest spots for the queer people in London and Hob couldn’t be prouder.

~~~

Mike died in 1989. Thankfully not alone since his nurse was kind enough to form a friendship with him. But Hob wasn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital, even till the end. He shut down the White Horse during Mike’s funeral, holding his service in the back garden because his parents refused to do it in the church.

His stranger hadn’t visited him since that fateful meeting in 1987 and Hob wasn’t sure he ever will. The thought that he was out there when the world was being too cruel, devastated Hob and he prayed to all the gods above that his stranger was safe, that he didn’t end up in a hospital somewhere like Mike.

It was bleak outside, pictures were hanging on one wall of the White Horse and it was sad that some of those people would never visit the bar again. Hob picked up photography, just to click pictures of various couples at the bar and also to distract himself from his grief. People around him had stories, and Hob would be damned if they were not told as it was intended.

It was in the summer of 1990. The government wasn’t doing much for the ongoing AIDS crisis. The funds allocated for it were being used in other places. People were angry of course, there should be more sex education and more research so that people don’t end up dying every other day.

But life went on as it always did.

It was Karaoke Night at the white horse and Hob was doing another photography session in one small room in the corner. Everything was set. The camera, the lights. The couple, John and George were seated on the leather sofa; the wall behind them was covered in fairy lights.

The camera went off, blinding flash reflecting off the walls. The couple looked at each other with a wide grin. Hob smiled, getting ready to click another picture of them. The flash bathed the room in a white light for the second time, the click sound matching the sound of the door opening.

Hob grumbled. He didn’t like it when someone interrupted his photography sessions. He wanted everything to be perfect and professional, except for the couple he clicked the pictures for. He figured it was Mason, the new bartender, who didn't like to miss out on things and he was about to tell him to fuck off when his eyes fell on the familiar unruly hair and the pale skin. It wasn’t Mason.

His stranger just stood there and Hob looked at him. Just taking him in, whole and hail, after worrying for him for three years. His stranger was dressed in a proper goth fashion, the black t-shirt and pants, with eyeliner, black overcoat and those damned leather gloves. The ear piercings suited him. And he was expressionless, except for that little frown.

Hob smiled, regardless, "You're late."

His stranger finally smiled, huffing a bit, "It seems I owe you an apology. I've always heard it's impolite to keep one's friend waiting."

And Hob, well, he knew he deserved an apology. He knew he had been right and it had hurt when his stranger rejected his friendship so cruelly.

"You dare? You dare suggest one such as I might need your friendship?"

But Hob couldn’t bring himself to be angry right at this moment, especially not when he had not known if his stranger was even alive in the past as many years. So Hob grinned.

"Oh come on you two, get a room!" It was John who interrupted them and George chuckled at that. He stood up from the couch and extended his hand to John, who took it and stood up too.

Hob’s stranger glared at the men before he realized it was not good manners, after which he was back to his neutral expression.

The couple gave a mischievous look to Hob and then they left the room. Hob sighed.

"Want to get a drink?" He asked.

His stranger nodded.

~~~

They were sitting at a table in the corner, Hob nursing a pint and Morpheus with his untouched glass of wine.

"So, how have you been?" Hob asked. He was aware that other people were looking at him. John and George were nasty about the gossip whenever there was a new couple in the club.

If Hob only wished.

His stranger looked at him, "fine."

Hob shook his head. He had been resisting the urge to be direct, because the last time he did it, his stranger had stormed out on him. But he also couldn’t think of anything else.

"You know, I still don't know your name." He said and looked at the other man just in time to see how he neutralised his annoyed expression. Hob decided to push, "I mean since you have acknowledged our friendship, I thought a name is the least I deserve."

His stranger stared at him, not at all letting on what he was feeling. And Hob's heart picked up, already bracing himself for another rejection.

Then–

"Morpheus."

Hob’s eyes widened, "what?"

"Morpheus. My name. Not the most known one, though." Hob's stranger, Morpheus, said. And even though he was not exactly smiling, Hob could see his lip twitch and his eyes were also crinkled.

Hob took five whole seconds to internalize that information, "Morpheus. Not the most known name?"

Morpheus nodded, "Yes."

A smile slowly spread across Hob's face, "Morpheus. Like the Greek God of sleep and dreams? It suits you, to be honest." He didn’t want to say that Morpheus had appeared in his dreams so many times.

Morpheus nodded, as if in thanks.

They sat there for some time, and it was only when the sun was setting that Hob realized they had been there for almost three hours. Well, Hob had a lot of stories to tell in his defence.

Morpheus glanced at the clock above the bar counter and then looked back at Hob.

"I should be leaving." He said, his voice not giving away anything.

Hob nodded.

It was only when Morpheus stood up that he added, "Hob, I didn’t miss our meetings by choice."

Hob looked at him, at his sombre expression. If anything, he wanted to know if Morpheus had been petty to miss their meetings. But the way Morpheus stood there, with a look of quiet devastation on his face, Hob knew that something else was at play.

And he didn’t want to question it during such trying times.

~~~

It was a month later that the weather outside started getting pleasant. It was cloudy but no signs of rain or storm. Just a little soothing wind. Hob was happily wiping the bar counter. He had met Morpheus six times in the past four weeks and he couldn’t be happier. He also suspected something between them, not that he wanted to read too much into small things, but sometimes, when they were sitting in silence, he would catch Morpheus looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Whereas Hob couldn’t deny his feelings anymore, he liked Morpheus, more than a friend. He just wished Morpheus liked him back.

When he was done cleaning the counter, he heard the familiar bell ring, which indicated someone entering the pub.

"Hello Hob." Came the same sonorous voice, followed by heavy footsteps.

Hob smiled, looking up, "Hello stranger." He gestured for Morpheus to sit at one of the barstools and asked what he wanted. The pub was mostly empty given that it was a weekday.

Morpheus shook his head and Hob frowned, "Nothing?"

Morpheus shook his head again. Something was up. Even though Morpheus was like this, sullen, most of the time, today he seemed like something was weighing on his shoulder. He was hunched over the bar counter as if wishing the counter would open up and swallow him.

And by experience, Hob knew that no amount of coaxing was going to push Morpheus to say what was on his mind. So he just did what he did best.

"Do you want to go for a drive?" He inquired.

Morpheus looked at him, his eyes widened just a little. Of course, why wouldn't they be? This was the first time they had decided to meet outside the pub. He stood up then and Hob clapped his hands loudly.

"Okay! Let me get the car keys."

~~~

They were sitting in Hob’s ‘82 Fiat convertible, and Morpheus was marvelling at the view of the city, with the river Thames on their right. It was fairly late, almost 9 p.m. Hob started his car, the wind was blowing but thankfully no sign of rain. He took the car out of the parking, taking it down the road. The streets weren’t empty yet, but there was still a form of peace.

“I suspect you haven’t eaten anything?” Hob looked at Morpheus, who looked back at him before rolling his eyes.

“No.”

Hob smirked. He took a left, to a crossroad where he knew the best fish and chips were sold. When Hob presented the food laid on the newspaper, Morpheus made a face. Still, as if he was a king being kind to his subject, he picked up one fry from the heap of food and dipped it in the tartar sauce.

Hob eyed him with mirth in his eyes as he took the bite. At his nod, Hob grinned.

“You should try this now,” he said and tore a small piece of the fried fish and held it out for Morpheus. He took it a bit reluctantly, again dipping it in the sauce and then putting it in his mouth.

The quiet but satisfied hum that followed made Hob chuckle.

“Knew you would like it,” he said before himself eating the fried fish.

After finishing the food, Hob started driving again, and Morpheus still looked moody.

“Okay, I am going to be pushy and the car’s locked so you can’t run off; what’s the matter?” he inquired, pulling the car on a highway. He would take a U-turn after some distance, not wanting to be too late on a weekday. He could see Morpheus look at him from his peripheral vision. Maybe he was offended again or maybe he was thinking of a reply.

Thankfully he answered.

“I am leaving for New York next week.” He said, his voice was neutral but somehow still sounded sad.

Hob glanced at him and when he turned his eyes to the road, frowned at his statement, “New York? Why?”

Something in him stung, like a nurse pricking him with an injection.

Morpheus looked at the road too, looking more worried as the minutes passed.

“I don’t think I can live here in London anymore.” he sounded so broken that Hob almost left the steering wheel. He wanted to know what happened to his friend to make him this sorrowful.

“Is it your family?” he asked finally. Even though his parents were not interested in his life, Hob was grateful they were not outright homophobes. He had met several people whose parents made them forcefully recant their homosexuality in fear of going to hell after death. Then there were others whose parents left them to die on the streets. If Morpheus’ family turned out to be that way, Hob wouldn’t even hesitate to give him space in his own home.

Morpheus didn’t speak for a whole minute and Hob got worried, “Look, if it's your family, you can come live with me.” When he glanced at the other man, he was smiling a small smile. Hob looked back at the road, before adding, “I mean there is an empty flat above the white horse, you can live there.”

Morpheus looked out the window, at the night sky, before sighing, “I cannot. It’s not just my family, but this city.”

Hob realised then that they had driven too far from the city, so he turned back around. Morpheus was going away. Something had happened to him big enough for him to want to leave and Hob wished he could help him, he could fix whatever was hurting him.

“Will you remember me?” he asked suddenly, without thinking it for a second. He cringed internally at how the question even sounded.

Morpheus didn’t reply immediately and Hob thought he offended him again, but then:

“Yes.”

Hob was so surprised that he almost hit the brakes, but he kept driving. “Well, for what it's worth, I will remember you too. Hope you do not move there forever.”

“I won’t.”

“Hope you remember your way back to the white horse. Don’t be late for our meeting whenever you visit London next time.” Hob added, hoping the mirth was clear in his voice, even though deep down he was far from feeling happy.

“I appreciate your friendship Hob, truly.” Morpheus looked at him again, something in his expression similar to fondness.

Hob smiled, “Well, we have come a long way since you are admitting our friendship now. It’s a good sign.” he joked.

By the time they reached the city, it had started drizzling, which turned into a downpour once they were deep in London. Hob checked the time, it was 11 p.m. Not too late, since he was opening the bar tomorrow morning. He still sometimes forgot that Mike wouldn’t be doing it now.

“Should I drop you home?” Hob asked as he drove towards the White Horse.

Morpheus shook his head, “I have my car. Thank you.”

Hob pulled in towards his bar, the rain wasn’t heavy, but it was enough that both of them would get partially wet while making their way inside the bar. He turned off the ignition and looked at Morpheus.

And that was the moment something clicked in him. Like some lost part of his heart found the right place. Morpheus was looking out the windshield, sometimes averting his eyes towards the window, as if entranced by the summer rain. The street light outside and the lights from the bar entrance bathed his pale skin in a yellowish glow. Hob didn’t waste any time. He fetched a small Kodak film camera from the dashboard and positioned the viewfinder in front of his right eye.

Morpheus, hearing the ruckus, looked at him and widened his eyes in shock.

“Hob what–”

“Just stay still, please. Just for this once.”

Morpheus looked confused for a second, but he did oblige, looking directly at the camera.

“You can smile, you know,” Hob added, chuckling. Morpheus gave him a tired look, but he smiled his small smile. Hob clicked the shutter release button and the car was filled with the flash of the camera before it filled with a kind of anticipatory silence.

“Brilliant, now I will not forget your face, while you are away,” Hob exclaimed, smiling brightly at Morpheus.

The other man raised a sharp eyebrow at him, “Oh that is what this is. Then what about me?” he said, in his posh accent, making Hob blush. He handed him the camera and Morpheus’ smile widened just a little bit more. He brought the camera up, holding it between both his hands. Once he focused on Hob through the viewfinder, Hob leaned against the door and grinned. Morpheus pressed down on the shutter release button, the flash going off.

“We will remember this time,” Hob announced, taking the camera back from Morpheus and keeping it safe in the dashboard. He will get the pictures developed first thing the next morning. The rain had slowed down to a drizzle again and Hob pointed towards the windshield.

“We should get out now,” he said, nodding at the other man. They both got out of the car at the same time and ran towards the bar. It was at the last second that Morpheus’ foot slipped and he would’ve fallen on the ground if not for Hob catching him and pulling him inside the bar. Morpheus ended up against the wall as Hob checked on him. Having both of their clothes slightly wet.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding onto Morpheus’ forearm.

“Yes,” Morpheus whispered. It was only when the adrenaline wore off that Hob realized he was too close to Morpheus and he still didn’t leave his arm. Morpheus was looking at him with an unreadable expression and Hob debated for a second if he should kiss those pouty lips and ruin this friendship forever. But then he saw Morpheus eyeing his own and he simply leaned forward to kiss him softly. When he pulled back, Morpheus didn’t look offended for even a second. His pupils were blown wide as a single curl fell over his right eye. Hob couldn’t resist anymore; he kissed Morpheus again, gently cradling his face in his hands now, meanwhile, Morpheus fisted his hands into Hob’s shirt.

Hob was on cloud nine. The kiss was even better than how he had imagined it, Morpheus had soft and inviting lips and Hob would be damned if he didn’t give them proper attention. Morpheus opened the first two buttons of his shirt, meanwhile, he lifted the hem of Morpheus's black T-shirt, his hands exploring the narrow waist.

It was the stuff dreams were made of.

Later that night they ended up at Hob’s flat above the New Inn since the kiss convinced Morpheus to stay the night. They quickly changed out of their wet clothes, Morpheus wearing one of Hob’s olive green pyjama sets, which looked baggy on him.

On Hob’s bed, they both lay down, facing each other and cuddling. Telling each other random facts about History and English Literature. Morpheus laughed sharply when Hob passionately ranted about how Marlow was much better than Shakespeare and Hob groaned when Morpheus recited one of Shakespeare's sonnets. And finally, when both of them were tired enough, Morpheus turned around so now Hob was holding him from behind. He covered Hob’s hand with his, which was resting on his chest. Hob nuzzled against his clothed shoulder, breathing in his scent.

“I have liked you since we first met, you know?” he said, his voice muffled.

Morpheus exhaled, “That’s good to know. So desperate for me.”

Hob rolled his eyes, although Morpheus couldn’t see him, “It was your cue to say you like me back.” He tightened his hold on Morpheus, now nuzzling against his soft curly hair.

“And inflate your ego?” Morpheus asked, feigning surprise.

“Hey, who was the one who got offended at the prospect of friendship with me?”

Morpheus sighed, “Of course, I like you Hob. Wasn’t the kiss downstairs enough indication?”

Hob grinned, “it was. Just wanted to hear it from you.” He yawned then, “Just promise me you will come back.”

Morpheus tensed in his hold for a second, but eventually replied, “Of course. I am not going permanently, I just need some…space from this city.”

Hob breathed in his ear, “I am here to help with whatever happened.”

Morpheus smiled, “Good night Hob Gadling.”

Hob buried his face in Morpheus’ neck.

“Good night.”

#the sandman netflix #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #morpheus #dreamling #the sandman comics #dreamling fanfic #dreamling au #the sandman fanfiction #sadrumihoursfics

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windsweptinred · 2 years ago

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@ibrithir-was-here I remembered this fabulous human Dreamling au post of yours today and the more I thought on it the more this teeny weeny twist on your idea stuck in my brain. 😅

Retired Dreaming AU. Hob and Dream have started a new life together as immortal human husbands. Hob still has that RPG gameshop (cause the guy deserves a chill life once in a while) and Dream the used book store next door (his happy place).

Every month, Hob makes.. Yes 'makes' the Endless siblings come together as a family (for healthy bonding purposes and so Dream has regular contact) and play a D&D campaign... At some point you know this is going to get moved to the Dreaming for the funsies. 😅

Presenting:

The Endless taking a D&D campaign faaaaar to seriously and all the chaos that ensues.

Dream gets to see everyone in the Dreaming. Who get dragged in to play supporting cast members in the campaign

Bonding/mentor time between Daniel and Morpheus

The Corinthian getting to play the most arch big bad and loving every second... Cause he was born for this baby! Spends most of his time trying to kidnap Daniel. 😏

Am I now going to sit and think of D&D characters for the Endless siblings? ... You bet your ass I am. 😆

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #daniel hall #desire of the endless #death of the endless #destruction of the endless #despair of the endless #destiny of the endless #delerium of the endless #the sandman #The Endless play d&d #The universe is doomed

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coryosmin · 10 months ago

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I’m just here to give you ideas atp tbh but I’m okay with that. So anyway, I have an apparently surprisingly detailed one-shot idea. Hear me out:

Peacekeeper!Sejanus with a Capitol!bsf!reader. Reader’s parents want to marry her off to someone in the Capitol now that she’s graduated the Academy but the reader is hopelessly in love with Sejanus. She goes to the Plinths and is like “hey, I wanna go marry your son” and they give her some cash because his ma knows how much Sejanus loves the reader. So in the middle of the night, reader sneaks out with only like two bags of her things and hops on the train to District 12. She didn’t even have a real plan other than find Sejanus so girl struggles. She also forgot that she’s clearly a Capitol citizen because of her fancy bags and clothes, so the people there are aggressive with her, and now it’s getting dark. She heard Lucy Gray plays at the hob and figured that was her best bet to find Sejanus.

But just outside the hob, she gets cornered and is about to be robbed or something but someone saves her. And guess what. It’s Sejanus. Shocker. Anyways, she happily calls out his name and hugs him so tightly and her head is resting on his chest and she probably starts crying. They find a quiet, peaceful place to talk and the reader explains that she ran away because her parents were going to force her to marry someone she didn’t love (and also that she admittedly wasn’t thinking ahead and that now she has no place to stay). But she basically accidentally reveals that she’s in love with him by saying that she didn’t want to marry anyone *else* or have anyone *else’s* kids and Sejanus is all like “woah woah woah hold tf up bestie, you wanna run that by me again?” And reader gets all flustered and embarrassed and she starts to try and backpedal her way out of it but she’s interrupted because Sejanus just cups her face in his hands and kisses her. And then he’s just like “I love you, too” and the reader just smiles and pulls him in for another kiss. And then they’re making out and Sejanus is feeling cocky because his gorgeous best friend just fled the Capitol to come be with him in the districts because she loves him. Because she wants to marry him and have a family with him. And then they probably end up having sex for the first time or smth idk

- 💋

please this is such a good idea omg.

#💋 anon #💋#minsasks

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superbattrash · 2 years ago

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I finally saw the infamous 6th episode and let me tell you. WORTH IT

Sandy ep6

The entire reason I started watching this show, let’s gooooo

Oh if depression had a face

Niiiiice. I’m liking you better and better these days, sandy

Franklin noticed the hottie, that’s what

Oh my god he’s answering like a child would

Glaring at a child, nice

Oh my god are we finally seeing more of his actual feelings??

Powerful, maybe, but you’re also sad. You had a purpose. Oh sorry, “quest”, excuse my lacking language

Oh honey. You instantly put those walls back up, it’s so clear in the narrowing of the eyes and the “you asked” like you didn’t wanna share in the first place. Like you didn’t need to share. Well that’s awfully relatable 🥲

Oh she is tearing him a new one, nice going lady. I like her

Lord he is. Such a sulky brother.

Ohhh no. “Soon”, that can’t be good if this girlie is an endless

Oh she’s so sweet, I love her??? Sandy, you need to lighten up.

SHE MADE HIM SMIIIILE. or yaknow. Dream equivalent of smiling

Death. Of course she is. Of course Death is kind and nice.

OH WAIT I FORGOT. THEY WANTED HER, NOT HIM. oh noooo, do you have to tell her? Maybe she’ll feel bad :(

She. She knew. She KNEW???? Damn

Oh nooo, why do we have to see the awful unfair deaths 😭😭

Okay their banter is super cute, not gonna lie

Oh god no, is she taking the baby???? It hasn’t even lived yet :(

You exist for the humans? Huh. Alright. Makes sense

Aw man THAT soon?? Poor Franklin

There’s the smiling!!!! Oh. I thought you did good, Morph, next time will be better <3

LORD THAT HAIR

his “are you serious” face is so good

So THIS is Hob, okay

Oh he’s a little bet of theirs, that’s nice

YOU wanna talk to a human?? This will be interesting

The hair is growing on me, he looks softer somehow and IS THAT A REAL SMILE, nice

He really loves living, doesn’t he? And it’s the little things. Okay, I like him, Hob’s officially on the fav list

Oh no, this hair is worse

He’s got a family!!!! Awwww :’)

Will. Is- is that Shakespeare?? Ohhh, you’re so interested in this guy, just because he said something about dreams, huh? You little baby boy, aw, you found yourself a duckling

Is that jealousy I spot in your eyes Hobby?

Oh wow. That is uh. Some hair, sandy, very Lordly of you.

So this is a bad 100 year for you. Oh no, the family 🥺 That’s so depressing, you have such a hard life. Do you still want to live, baby?

Oh wow, that is crazy.

First sign of trouble is already here, love. That can’t be Death, can it?

Listen to him, Hob. Slaves, really? Yuck

You haven’t introduced yourself in 400 years?? Damn, morph, that’s kinda rude

What an eye roll 😂😂😂

“You look worse”, perfection I tell you

He doesn’t talk to assholes, lady. Oh WHAT. I forgot about Jo. That’s why I recognized her face.

Oh, Hob 👁️ I see you

The sand thing is creepy, babe, but it’s okay this time, you did good

Ohhhhh, is that flirting I hear, boys? And THAT IS WORRY, I SEE YOU, SANDY

….does he look good in this hat or am I just getting used to his face?

Oh god no, don’t make me feel so sorry for a person who won’t be here for long

Because you’re in love, right

Oh, sorry, that’s not the reason? Huh

Friendship. Well that’s a start

Oh COME ON. Stop glaring, he’s totally right, you idiot

WAIT NO THIS IS THE LAST TIME THEY SEE EACH OTHER BECAUSE HE GOT TRAPPED NOOOOOO FUCK THAT IS SAD

oh poor Hob, you think he got angry and didn’t wanna be boyfriends anymore :(

Don’t blame yourself, baby, you were right!! Oh you poor man :/

WHAT!!! NO!!!! BUY THE PLACE, BUY IT!!!!

Oh no. Oh noooo, it’s not even a place anymore :( please tell me he’s there, please please please

Oh that smile 🥺🥺🥺

HE CALLED HIM A FRIEND OH MY GOD AM I CRYING?????? and a REAL SMILE TOO, KILL ME

oh they’re desire?? WAIT THEY’RE THE BAD GUY??? Damn son

10/10, would watch 7 seasons of this episode alone

#mish watches sandman #holy shit #okay I see where we’re all coming from ok #I see you

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kirkenovak · 2 years ago

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How much you wanna bet that the fist time Dream strolled into Hob’s lacture or was spotted with Hob by Hob’s students outside the classes, the general consensus emerged that Dream is, in fact, a sugar baby. Everyone knows Professor Gadling (or Gadlen, Gadleen, Gadlow - let’s face it, Hob is not very inventive with surnames) is loaded AF. Oh, sure, he’s not ostentatious about being rich, he dresses like your dad and doesn’t do brands but damn, have you seen the stuff he’s got in his flat? The flat that is in the inn he owns. The casual way in which he talks about buying the first edition of some obscure book (someone checked, it’s worth ~£25k)? Dude’s got money. So when this gorgeous man starts hanging out with him, when they become a couple, the conclusion is one: well, the guy ain’t sticking around for Hob’s personality (which is lovely, don’t get them wrong, Hob is amazing, and he is good looking but good looking enough to pull this? Nah).

And then Hob has to go to the university gala and he’s wearing a nice suit, very appropriate for the occasion, but then Dream strolls in wearing a clearly tailored all-black Dolce & Gabbana outfit that makes him look like he literally arrived straight from a fashion show he was walking the catwalk at, walking about like he owns the place but being here is still beneath him, and that theory gets squashed in an instant.

The students are devastated. This ain’t Pretty Woman, this is two wealthy men who either met at some tuition-a-year-more-than-your-parents-house-is-worth public school (ain’t no way Dream went to a state school, just listen to him) or, worse, met at some Richdudes Place, like Alpine Skiing Resort or members-only golf club, one that doesn’t admit women.

Oh god. Oh god. What if their families introduced them to one another to make sure neither commits an act of disgusting mésalliance by getting together with someone poor or middle class.

Money speaks for money, the devil for his own. Sad.

#dreamling #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless

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mega-aulover · 3 years ago

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A Guy's night Out

Okay, so I wrote this on the fly - for my insane head cannon that Peeta's birthday is on 3/14.

All Peeta wants is to celebrate his birthday at the bar with his friends a harmless night, of male bonding and shenanigans. All Mistakes Are mine

"Hey, happy birthday Peet," Finnick greeted as he approached the booth with a present.

"Thanks, Finn," Peeta said taking the brightly wrapped package, the paper was light blue with large rose gold dots. He hadn't been expecting gifts, to be honest.

Gale rolled his eyes at the brightly packaged gift. "Not you too?" He pointed to the bags with little flying birthday cakes. "They chose the gift and didn't listen to any of my suggestions."

"I didn't even know there was a gift. Annie thrust the gift in my hand, said give it to Peeta, and pushed me out the door. " Finn said turning to the bar to flag a server. "She was excited about the girls coming over to our place tonight."

This year all Peeta wanted was a night out with the boys, at the Slag Heap, much to his wife's relief. He was turning thirty tonight and he didn't want a huge party. He wanted to hang out with his friends, go home and make love to his wife. Peeta didn't even want to spend time with his family, he didn't need the aggravation. Now that he was turning thirty he was prioritizing the things that meant the most to him. His friends were more like his family than the people he shared DNA with. There would be time for the formal awkward family dinner when his mother finally found time in her schedule.

Katniss thankfully helped arrange tonight for him. It was a miracle his friend could all be here with their busy schedules. Thresh owned his own brewery. Darius was a detective and kept all manner of hours. Gale was an architect. Finnick was a model/actor. But Finn was well off because of an aunt who left him a sizeable trust. Peeta opened his own artisanry bakery. Oddly enough he came from a long line of reputable house painters, but Peeta wanted to bake like his father's grandfather.

Thankfully his birthday landed on a Friday night this year. He'd chosen the Slag Heap because this was the place they'd all met and formed their small group. They were all in need of cash flow as they were in various stages of their lives.

One night they were put together on the same shift. After the shift, they all realized they ended up at the Hob, a diner located a couple of blocks away. From then on whenever they were placed on the same rotation they always ended their shift with a trip to the Hob. Katniss was their waitress each and every time at the diner. She was courteous but never smiled and more often than not scowled at them. Peeta suspected it was because of their stupidity. Somehow a bet began between them, to be the first to make Katniss smile. Peeta not only won the bet, but he also married Katniss.

"How is Katniss?" Thresh asked. "I didn't get to talk to her, someone hogged the phone when she called."

"She's great actually, she loves teaching gym to the kids. She and Delly have lunch almost every day."

"How's Annie?" Thresh asked.

One of the servers caught Finnick's look and sauntered over to him. Ripper still had all her bartenders wearing tight black t-shirts and even tighter skinny jeans. It was an eye-feast for all the genders, Ripper always hired the hottest people. Peeta shook his head, as the blonde woman flirted openly with Finnick. She didn't have a chance. Finnick was deeply in love with his shy reserved wife Annie.

"Annie is doing wonderful," Finnick took out his phone and showed them pictures of the latest sonogram.

"Any kids in your future?"

Peeta took a sip of his beer and shrugged, "Katniss isn't ready."

"I want kids…" Gale blurted.

"Have you brought this up?" Peeta asked.

Gale opened his mouth to speak but Thresh cut him off. The server brought Finnick his drink.

"You in the doghouse again?" Thresh grinned. Gale was always in the doghouse. "Who is it, Madge or Delly?"

"It's none of your business," Gale muttered taking a sip of his beer.

"You're the one in a threesome," Finn said wiggling his eyebrows.

"It isn't a threesome. I've explained it to you before. We are in a mutually committed relationship between three people, they're like sister wives…but we're not legally married," Gale defended.

"It's cause you couldn't choose..." Darius blurted. He'd lifted his head from arms, his eyes were blurry. "I chose my partner…" he mumbled something else as his head fell on his folded arms.

Gale's scowl intensified.

"Did he already guzzle his one beer?" Finn asked frowning.

"Yup," Thresh said laughter in his voice. "You know D has always been a lightweight. Isn't that right honey."

"Fu...U" Darius replied from his folded arms.

"He'll be alright...he had a bad week." Thresh shared, "Johanna Mason was assigned to him as his new partner and she's been making his life miserable." Thresh patted Darius's back.

"As in the woman, who a few years back was so piss drunk Darius arrested because she was showing her boobs to everyone and started a brawl here!" Peeta said in shock.

"Yup, that Johanna Mason," Thresh confirmed.

"Ripper still won't let her in the bar," Gale said.

"Turns out she thought what happened to her was a breakdown of the judicial system and went to the academy," Thresh said.

Peeta whistled. Life was funny that way, it never made sense, and it always had a funny way of looping.

Finnick laughed.

"Don't laf Finn she's whiff your wife," Darius said to Finnick.

"Oh, I forgot, she met Delly early this week." Thresh said, "Delly invited her to go over to your house tonight."

At that moment Finn's phone went off. Finnick immediately took out his phone and sent a quick text to his wife. "All is well. Annie was showing off the pie Katniss brought over." He turned to Peeta, "I never realized your birthday landed on Pi Day."

"Pie day?" Thresh asked frowning.

"As in the mathematical number, 3.14, not only is Peeta a baker but his birthday is on Pi day."

"I've made it a special week at the bakery. I baked all sorts of pies, savory and sweet ones, it was a big hit with my customers." Peeta knew he was showing off, but it had been a stellar sales week. It was actually Katniss's idea for him to create the savory pies.

"Everyone loves a good pie," Thresh said rubbing his stomach.

"Especially Katniss," Finn said, referring to the way Peeta won the bet. He baked her a pie.

There was a loud snort from the booth behind them but they didn't pay attention to it, the bar was filling up with the locals. Another round of beers was brought to the table courtesy of the server who slipped Finnick her number despite Finnick telling her was happily married with a kid on the way.

"To PEETA," Darius said popping up his head. Smiling Darius reached for another drink. Thresh stopped Darius, he took his near-empty bottle and gave it to Darius. Before all of them joined Darius' drunken cheer.

"To PEETA!"

Some of the patrons who knew Peeta joined in. When they were done with the celebratory well-wishing, they went back to talking amongst themselves.

"So how about baseball being back!" Gale said clasping his hands.

Peeta sat back before speaking, "You mean the Yankees because the Mets really don't play baseball."

"You know you're a fu-" Gale stopped in the middle of speaking and quickly said, "Flippen twerp."

"Why are you talking like that?" Thresh asked.

Peeta couldn't hide his grin as he took a sip of his beer, of course, Thresh would be the one to pick up on Gale's quick switch.

"Delly and Madge have Gale on a swear jar," Peeta laughed.

Gale turned red as they all laughed at Gale.

"Man, they got you on a leash!" Thresh laughed openly.

"It was Delly's idea and she said Madge can have the money to shop and of course, both of them are watching me. They've got spies everywhere," Gale pointed to Peeta. "Including this moron."

"What about our man code," Finnick argued.

"I have to break it, Finn…I love seeing Galey-poo squirm." Peeta grinned wiggling his eyebrows. It wasn't often Gale was the butt of everyone's joke.

Finn got that evil look of his. And for the rest of the evening, it became a game to try to make Gale curse. Besides Finnick, Gale made the most money, was involved with two women, living in peaceful harmony. When people met Gale everyone understood why Gale would be attracted to Madge she was beautiful, slender, tall, and the Mayor's daughter. But when they met Delly who was smaller, with a curvier body and wild blond hair that had a mind of its own, they couldn't understand the attraction. Peeta could see why Gale would be attracted to Delly, she was intensely loyal and nurturing. She was the sunshine that both Madge and Gale needed.

"I hate all of you," Gale said with far less venom in his voice than what his face conveyed as he took another swig of his beer.

There were multiple bottles on the table, and they were having a good time. Darius fell asleep at one point as they talked about sports, their newest hobbies, catching up, and just being goofballs. They all enjoyed gaming, so they were speaking about setting up a time for all of them to join in on the Chronicles of Mockingjay. It was another thing that they bonded over. It was their mission to help the heroine, the Mockingjay, rescue the mild-mannered prince from the evil clutches of the Snow King. The game had many different adventures, different levels, and they were pitted against others who played for the Snow King.

"Okay let's make this official," Finnick said when the topic of conversation looped back to the adventures they led with their significant others. Darius was soundly snoring. "Who here has the most sex during the week. Darius isn't included because he's drunk off his arse."

At that moment Darius popped his head mid snore off and wiped the drool off his face, his eyes narrowed on Gale before he pointed and said, "Gale."

"Annnnd he's back," Thresh said.

They laughed, Darius always had the ability to pull it together when a bet was being made. Like he had an internal clock set to, 'betting time.'

"My money is on Thresh," Finn said.

"What about you?" Gale said pointing his chin toward Thresh.

"My money is on Fin," Thresh shrugged, "His wife is pregnant. What about you Gale?"

"My money is on you and Darius," Gale responded.

Peeta sat up, he caught Darius and Thresh exchanging a secret communication. "How much are we betting?"

"50," Finn said.

Peeta nodded, taking into consideration his sex life with Katniss, before saying. "Me."

"No fucking way," Darius said swaying. Thresh gave him a glass of water, which Darius gulped down.

"I'm betting on me." Peeta grinned. He took out his money and put it on the table.

"You sure baker boy?" Gale asked as everyone put their cash on the table.

"I'm sure." Peeta nodded.

"Okay spill," Finn said. Everyone's eyes turned to Gale.

"Fudging Popsicles, why me?" Gale grumbled.

"Because yours the won with the two," Darius said holding up two fingers, "girlssss."

"Three, but I'm not telling with who or how," Gale grumbled.

"Three as in the number!" Finnick exclaimed. "Come on Gale, since Sunday? I thought with two you would have more chances…"

Gale put his hand up. "Listen there are logistics involved…they're not…okay…Madge doesn't like sharing her bed when she's. And Delly…" he flushed when he mentioned Delly then he proceeded to stumble over his words, "…well she's so…I mean she doesn't…I messed up this week…oh hell…and last week." Gale rubbed his face. "It's complicated but we make it work."

Thresh grinned, "Told you he was in the doghouse." He turned to Finnick, "Ok fess up!"

"Seven," Finnick shrugged, "Annie hasn't been feeling well this week."

All eyes turned to Thresh and Darius, they grinned and simultaneously said, "Ten."

Darius slyly grinned at Gale, "I thought for sure you would have us beat."

Gale opened as if to retort, then he sighed, "I have to be a good little soldier tonight."

Everyone laughed.

"Well, I guess they won," Finnick said.

Thresh leaned forward to take the money.

"Wait! What about me," Peeta said sitting up. He looked at his friends.

"Oh, please Peeta we love Katniss but she's…" Thresh said wrinkling his nose.

"A puritan," Darius said.

Another large snort was heard from the booth that was behind them, followed by a familiar laugh. Haymitch Abernathy, Darius's chief, stood up and grumbled, "The kid is getting more action, than all of you. His window faces mine and no matter how many times I yell at them to close the damn thing, he and sweetheart never do. I hear them going at it all the time, like rabbits they are. At four they went at it at least three times…this week alone they've at least gone at it 18 times. She loves his…" Haymitch stopped to look at Peeta and muttered, "pies…she loves his pies."

Haymitch muttered that his uber was there and left.

All eyes turned to him. Peeta felt his face turn a bright red. He was going to say eleven, but Haymitch crudely ratted him out.

"It's always the quiet ones," Finnick muttered pushing his money toward Peeta.

"It's the pie boys, it's all about the pie," Peeta said grinning.

#ficlet #Peeta's birthday #a guys night out #by mega aulover

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years ago

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Romanticise Yourself (Spencer Reid x Male! Reader) NSFW

Summary: Y/N spends a little time affirming his love for his boyfriend Spencer. Spencer returns the favour

AN: Part Two of Get A Hairband or Get A Haircut but can be read as a oneshot! This is smut so do not read if you aren’t 18+!

Word count: 1.8k

Content warnings: Blowjobs, hair pulling, praise kink, minor face fucking

Part 1 // Masterlist

Y/N set the sauce to simmer and leant with his back to the counter in favour of watching Spencer reading at the dinner table. His middle and ring finger stroked down the page of the book. It had just been bought for him, by Y/N at the museum gift shop, after a long day of thoroughly enjoying the new geology exhibit. The rest of the fingers hovered slightly above the paper.

“Spencer, how do you see yourself?”

“With my eyes and a mirror.”

“Har har,” Y/N threw his head back to emphasise his sarcasm, “Tell me, go on. What do you think of yourself?”

Spencer took his eyes off the book, “What do you mean?”

“When you think about yourself, what do you think of? How do you describe yourself?” Y/N explained, and Spencer closed the book over, his middle finger trapped in the pages as he gave his attention instead to this question.

“I see an agent in the FBI’s BAU. I have an eidetic memory, three PhD's in Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics. I see someone with a tie that is never straight but then again neither am I-”

He paused for Y/N to let out a snort.

“-I see someone who probably should get a haircut. Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to compare some data.”

Raising an eyebrow and the left corner of his mouth, Spencer asked amused, “And this data, is it what you think of me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind sharing your findings with me?”

“Of course,” Y/N’s chin sat on Spencer’s hair, the short stray ones tickling his neck. Suddenly inspired, he began a three-strand braid along the side of Spencer’s head while he delivered his findings.

“I see an agent with unyielding loyalty for his team, his family, with incredible abilities he uses every day to save lives. A son who makes his mother more than proud. A wonderful godfather who’s going to be there for his godson for whatever he needs. A brilliant boyfriend who’s drop dead gorgeous.”

“That’s how you see me?” Spencer looked up at Y/N. His bashful expression only endeared Y/N to use his words more often.

“There’s more but I’d need some time to put them into words, and even then, I couldn’t promise to capture the true extent of how much I love you.”

“You should have been a poet,” Spencer hummed as Y/N brushed a few hairs from his face, “I would have enjoyed listening to my mom read them to me.”

The sauce bubbling finally succeeded in tearing Y/N’s attention away from Spencer. The twisted braid was already falling out, Spencer’s hair stretching out of it. Y/N kissed it before heading back to check on dinner. It wasn’t even a minute before he heard Spencer walk up behind him, free arm around his waist, kissing his cheek

“What do you want?” Y/N asked with playful suspicion.

“I want,” Spencer paused to kiss below Y/N’s ear, “To show you the same appreciation you show me.”

“I’m already feeling it, the way you tore yourself from that book.”

“You’re so much more important than any book.”

“Thanks, baby.” There was not an ounce of sarcasm in that statement, just affection in Spencer’s compliment, and Y/N received another kiss on the cheek as reward. It was a spot lower than before, at the corner of his jaw.

Y/N’s grin widened as he said in a sing-song voice, “Spencer, I’m cooking.”

“You’re nearly finished,” Spencer mumbled into their ear, and Y/N felt him lean his weight on his good leg, “I bet you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Shrugging, Y/N turned off the hob’s gas.

“So, you’re not denying it then?”

“Why would I? You love being praised; I love praising you,” and Y/N turned in Spencer’s arm, “Like two pieces of a puzzle.”

He kissed Spencer’s lips. Paprika tickled his nose, blending with the memory of the mint imperial he’d crunched down on upon their return home. Spencer cradled his face and his waist with those long delicate fingers of his stretching across to touch as much of Y/N as possible. Y/N felt those fingers meet in his back to nimbly untie his apron. Breaking the kiss only to pull it over Y/N’s head, the apron was abandoned on the way to the bedroom.

Spencer’s heart sang out as Y/N moaned against his lips. His cane clattered on the tiles, forgotten. Stripping each other down, so caught in each other’s reckless abandon, they didn’t care where their clothes ended up.

Swiping a scrunchie – the green one - from the chest of drawers, Spencer quickly knotted his hair half up half down. His hand readily returned to Y/N’s body and brought him down onto their bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Spencer.”

“Now, now, This isn’t about me.”

Little liar, but Y/N didn’t let on, his mind already distracted by the hint of scruff scratching his thigh, “God!”

“It’s just me.”

“You’ve said that so many times!”

Y/N giggled, breaking up his sighs. It didn’t matter how many times Spencer made that joke. It was still funny. Between that and the giddy sensation of Spencer’s lips, Y/N was helpless. He spared a glance down, immediately rewarded with the sight of Spencer’s tongue lapping at the dark head of his cock. Then his lips wrapped around his cock, sliding up and down in their pink plumpness.

Y/N grabbed Spencer’s bun, his pinky finger catching the loose hair that fell down his neck, and he tugged it in his fist. He was rewarded with a deep groan from Spencer that buzzed through his body.

God, this was so just as much about him as it was about Y/N.

“Stop profiling me.” Spencer warned as his mouth came away from Y/N, “That’s my job.”

“I was just thinking,” Y/N defended quickly, his breath erratic as he continued with his so-called tough talk, “Clearly you’re not doing a good enough job if I can think and speak while you’re sucking me off.”

“Is that right?”

The moment Spencer returned to his boyfriend’s cock, he was sucking harder, like he’d been saving his energy for a twist in their usual routine. His new method of torture was deepthroating and not in the way Y/N would often fuck his face. He would stop and just hold Y/N’s cock entirely in his mouth, keeping him on edge with his nose pressed against the base where tiny hairs coiled, before releasing him. In the shadow of their room, Spencer’s eyes watered, but he craved that burn that came with Y/N’s taste.

“Fuck, Spencer.”

His body writhed in the unbearable heat. Instinctively, his hand grabbed at the scrunchie in Spencer’s and pulled it, slipped onto his wrist before he fisted at the curls now set loose. Tiny stray hairs tickle at his thighs, his hips jerking or trying to under Spencer’s firm grip.

“Baby, you’re so good to me,” and both Spencer and Y/N were caught off guard by the sudden change in volume and pitch as Y/N’s voice caught in his throat.

Spencer turned his head and his cheek swelled as the head of Y/N’s cock pressed against it. Y/N hands grabbed tighter at Spencer’s hair, his legs clamping around him, humping his head and pushing his cock further into Spencer’s willing mouth. Finally, he came with a long sigh and his fingers twisting in Spencer’s hair. Spencer, ever the diligent lover, kept his mouth on Y/N’s cock until after he was twitching with overstimulation.

Spit and semen glistened around Spencer’s lips. His tongue dipped against his bottom lips and dragged it into his mouth. From the bedside table’s drawer, Spencer grabbed the packet of tissues. He mopped up Y/N’s stomach while he lay still – besides the occasional twitch when Spencer brushed past his cock.

Spencer dropped his head onto Y/N’s chest and kissed the spot where his lips had landed. That kiss brought Y/N back to his body. With a contented hum, he dragged his fingers through Spencer’s hair, eventually beginning a braid. He slipped the green scrunchie off his wrist and tied up Spencer’s hair. The braid stayed intact, little baby hairs sticking out around his head in a fuzzy mane.

“You look pretty as a princess.”

“Not sure I’m the princess in this situation.”

With a snort, Y/N pouted and slapped Spencer pathetically on the shoulder, knowing full well Spencer was right. Then he pushed himself up onto his elbow to ask:

“Are you going to let me take care of you?”

“Uh,” Spencer licked his lips and glanced down to the end of the bed, “No need.”

Following his boyfriend’s gaze, Y/N tilted his head to the right at the sight of the stains on the crumpled duvet, then he looked back up.

“I didn’t even have to touch you. Oh, baby.”

Spencer let out a little giggle that was crafted of pure embarrassment, but it cut off with a grunt. Y/N instantly had Spencer lay down on his back, all the pressure off his leg despite Spencer insisting that he was fine. Ever the distraction, Y/N leant over and kissed his boyfriend’s lips silly, over and over, short and sweet, punctuating each one with an “I love you”. Y/N crossed over Spencer’s face and kissed as he went. When he reached his neck, laughter caught up to him, drowning his confessions of love with Spencer’s mirth in return.

“Oh, I love you!” Y/N cried out joyfully, pulling away to see Spencer’s face creased with the most gorgeous smile.

Spencer exhaled, “I love you too.”

They lay down next to each other again, Spencer’s head turned to the right to make way for the new bun,. Y/N wrapped around Spencer, put him at the centre of their attention. He closed his hand apart from his forefinger, which he drew down Spencer’s braid, along the line of his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.

“I wish I was more eloquent like you,” Spencer spoke quietly. The inside of his bottom lip caught on Y/N’s finger

“Did you not just hear me say only three words for the last minute?”

He huffed, “You have your way with them. You always know what to say to make me feel right.”

He kissed Y/N’s fingertip and watched it as Y/N placed it between his eyebrows before he dragged it down his nose, tapping the end lightly. As if to transfer the kiss back to Y/N, Spencer bumped his nose against Y/N’s.

“We should probably have dinner soon, right?” Y/N mumbled, his breath warm against Spencer’s face.

“Let me have you here for a bit longer.”

Spencer spoke with a soft lilt, the energy he’d put into their time together wearing him down. Y/N knew the risks with staying in bed at this point. If they didn’t get up soon, they’d never leave. Spencer would stay at his side for the next twelve hours, they would fuck when they had recharged, and they would maybe rise if nature called – returning to each other’s arms shortly thereafter.

Y/N pecked Spencer’s lips one more time before snuggling up to his side, “I’ll give you anything you want, Spencer.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #my writing #wc: 1k+#smut #r: male

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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years ago

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Okay, onto my liveblog for chapter two of The Hunger Games :

Katniss’ flashback to falling out of a tree and being unable to breathe is such a good analogy, I steal it all the time in my own fics.

I wish the boy who held her up so she didn’t fall was given a name? Katniss just can’t provide names very easily, can she? 😅

“The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn’t mattered” is actually an amazing quotable moment, someone make an edit pronto 👏

No one’s happy when a twelve year old is chosen but ya know. As soon as that kid turns thirteen, off with them! Fair game! 😭😂😅🙃

Hmmm how many of these kids knew immediately Katniss would volunteer for her sister? The way there was a boy ready to catch her before she fell and the way they all just cleared a path for her...

Katniss’ love for Prim had to be prominent because the other kids all seemed to be aware she would volunteer and Katniss claims this is a completely radical, unheard of thing to do. Sooo yeah. Her school peers probably noticed her a lot more than she realized.

Ooo. I just noticed the word choice in “district twelve hasn’t had a volunteer in decades”

Was there a point in time when Twelve had volunteers?

Awww the mayor being sad that Katniss is probably gonna die because he knows her as Madge’s friend 😭😩🤧.

Awww Katniss got presented a medal when her father died, I forgot 🥺🥺🥺

“Bet my buttons” is the worst phrase in history 🤨😐🤭

I like that Katniss’ dead father still has a reputation around these parts 🤧

Helps my fic writing brain to clock it for future reference

Maybe I’m just not nice but I don’t see how Prim is so wonderful that no one can help but love her. Like idk. I feel like this is just Katniss’ bias leaking through. Which is fine it’s better than some clinically detached narrator I hate those FYI

Omg everyone is saluting Katniss and she’s realizing people adore her 🥰🥰

Also ... does this mean Peeta did the three finger salute to her just before being called himself? Idk random thoughts, ignore me.

Katniss is in danger of crying. If this was me, I’d just be sobbing on the ground already.

Haymitch , the og rebel. Looking right into the cameras and calling the Capitol out.

Also ironic how the first thing Haymitch says to / about Katniss is “I like her!” when he spends the rest of the series pretending he, in fact, does not.

“Oh no, not him” is such a love interest introduction, y’all. Gale never stood a chance.

I like how Katniss considers it bad luck for her that Peeta was called 😅. Like... already taking ownership of the boy, sweetheart?

I feel like this is a good time to remind people that medium height is like 5’10. Stop headcanoning Peeta short. Poor Joshy though.

I like how she has never spoken to Peeta but describes the way his hair falls in waves over his forehead 😭🤧

Seems like Katniss thinks Peeta took being called relatively well.

“He has two older brothers, I know, I’ve seen them in the bakery” why is she already trying to defend herself to the audience like “I wasn’t really paying any attention to Peeta Mellark I just happened to notice he had brothers because I saw them once okay?”

Omg Katniss just outright asserting that Peeta’s middle brother definitively won’t volunteer for him. Girl, you just said you don’t know him or his family 😅😅😅.

“Why him?” Still has such a destined, soulmates feel to it. I know they weren’t destined and that’s what a lot of people admire about their relationship but the writing here has always had such a “this guy right here is her soulmate” slant to it, I’m sorry.

“He’s probably forgotten our only interaction. But I haven’t. And I know I never will.” Still continuing with the soulmate-y narration here, Suz Suz, I see.

Oh my god I don’t even remember this line but it’s so sad 🥺🥺🥺🥺🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧😩😩😩😩😩

“The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. ‘Where are you?’ I would cry out in my mind. ‘Where have you gone?’”

I’m so sad now. 😭😭😭

I like that Katniss said “no amount of pleading from Prim” would affect her mother’s depression, as if Katniss easily believes that her own pleas don’t matter but her sister’s are what’s impossible to ignore.

She really needs to stop putting Primmy on this pedestal though it’s not as cute the second or third read around.

“I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well.” I feel like this is just criminally undiscussed. Katniss didn’t know or understand or grasp what depression even was. Like it’s hard enough for kids to forgive parents who abandon them to mental illness when they’re aware what mental illness is. Let alone if you’re just stuck for months / years, not knowing that your mother was sick, instead thinking she just stopped caring for you.

Omg Katniss saying she couldn’t let Prim go to a community home 🤧. Selfless of her. But also sister worry about yourself.

I’m just kidding, I know it’s her character to only be concerned with her little sister above all else.

Mr. Everdeen hating how coal dust settled on everything in the Seam is such a small but interesting detail.

Omg so the meadow is a common place to find corpses of those who starved to death? We maybe should stop romanticizing it.

I like that Mr. Everdeen took Katniss places with him but was like “Hmm, imma leave Prim home, she isn’t cut out for the hunting life”

Idk Katniss being too afraid and shy to go to the Hob without her dad is such a little kid thing though.

Katniss explaining that she was essentially in the merchants backyard

She was essentially dying in Peeta’s backyard 🤧

Wow, I forgot how blatantly violent Peeta’s mother was

Maybe it’s just Katniss’ perspective but every interaction is just her screaming

Aww, his mother called him a stupid creature, why don’t I remember this.

This is so sad omg.

Poor both of them.

One’s starving to death, the other’s utterly abused mentally, verbally and physically.

What’s a weal?

I always read that word as a welt.

Ok I googled it, it’s a big red swollen mark.

So same thing.

Omg now Katniss is saying Mrs. Mellark hit him with an object weapon. This just keeps getting more and more.... sad.

Honestly I haven’t read the books cover to cover since I was a teenager, some of this is a surprise to me.

I always wondered though how that bread was any good, it literally fell onto the wet ground. 😟🤢

Aww, Katniss saying Peeta would get a full beat down if discovered that he burned the breads to feed her 🥵🥵🥵

Okay but if his mother hit him with an object and his eye swoll up and blackened the next day, that could be another reason why he tossed the bread in her general direction and didn’t look at her. I know it was so he wouldn’t be caught by his mother but also he probably couldn’t even see clearly where she was.

The dandelion symbolism 🤧😅😭🥳

Her sarcasm 🤣🤣🤣

Katniss just keeps comparing Peeta to the loaves of bread 😅😅😅

Also she keeps calling him warm and solid and steady

I’m starting to think unconsciously she was already finding herself attracted to him even here.

Him squeezing her hand reassuringly and her chalking it up to a nervous spasm 🙃

I hope when they got married they got a nice screencap of this shot of them on TV facing the crowd, shaking hands.

Make a nice anniversary photo.

Okay, that’s all for my thoughts on chapter two! 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

#thgagain #also yes I used a Jen gif leave me be

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

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I ADORE THAT ESKEL AND LIL BLEATER IN THE SHELTER FIC OH MY F U C K.

And I adore you for your messages and asks! You’re an absolute gem and I love seeing you crop up in my notes and all the other places. Plus, now I can’t get a silly idea out of my head thanks to a couple of goat videos. So...here’s some more goat shenanigans for you!

It was the shelter’s policy to check up on all adoptions. The whole goat incident hadn’t been standard by any means and technically it wasn’t even an adoption so Jaskier wasn’t exactly planning on making a follow-up, especially not to Geralt’s brothers. However, he was surprised to get a phone call, inviting him (and Geralt) to dinner. It was a mixture of checking that Lil Bleater had a good home as well as the official ‘meeting the family’ because he and Geralt had been together for a while. To say it was nerve-wracking was a bit of an understatement.

Thankfully, Geralt offered to drive them so Jaskier didn’t have to worry about getting there before his boyfriend of anything like that. The house looked quite lovely from the outside, set back from the road with some trees dotted around. A tall fence surrounded it and Jaskier wondered whether it was to keep something in or the curious gaze out. With Geralt, they walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. Given how Geralt rocked back on his heels, hands jammed into his pockets, he was used to waiting. From inside, there was a muffled yell of “they’re here” and, soon after, Eskel was pulling the door open and ushering them in.

“Keep your shoes on,” he said as Jaskier made to undo his shoelaces. “Your toes will be safer.”

Mystified, Jaskier straightened up and followed as Eskel and Geralt headed deeper into the house. The first thing that struck him was how the flooring throughout was either laminate or tiles - definitely an unusual choice. They arrived at a closed door and, strangely, Eskel knocked with a call of “is it safe?” before opening it.

They stepped into a kitchen where Cahir was stirring a pot on the hob while Lambert was rummaging in the fridge. Both of them were wearing shoes.

“Welcome,” Lambert waved and pulled a jug of what looked like milk out and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel like he had walked into the middle of some domestic madness.

A yell of “inbound” from Eskel was the only warning and there was the sound of little hooves on tile. Turning, Jaskier watched as two tiny goats thundered into the kitchen, bucking and jumping as they played. It was endearing but neither of them were Lil Bleater from what Jaskier could remember. Mesmerised, he watched the two play, heedless of their surroundings. The table leg was bumped into, Geralt’s toes trod on as they raced past, only to collide into the back of Lambert’s knee and almost took him out.

“Where’s Bleats?” Eskel asked, looking round. “She’s not in the garden.”

Without saying anything, Cahir stepped away from the hob and gestured to it. Eskel called again and Jaskier watched, almost speechless as, from the small gap under the stove, came a soft bleat, followed by a goat’s head squeezing out. Lil Bleater emerged and gave herself a solid shake before trotting up to Eskel who scooped her up with practised ease.

“I’m fairly certain I only had one goat. And Geralt didn’t mention you already had some.” Jaskier scratched his head and watched as Lambert put three feeding bottles into a pan of warm water.

“You did,” Eskel replied but his eyes were firmly on Lil Bleater. “But Bleats needed friends. And, it turns out that Lamb and Cahir had already made arrangements for the terrible two as a surprise before Geralt called about Bleats.”

Looking around, Jaskier had to admit, he couldn’t think of a better place the goat could have ended up. Especially when Lambert fished the bottles out of the pan, dried them off and passed one to Eskel and one to Cahir.

“You spoil that goat already,” Geralt muttered as he watched Eskel bottle feed Lil Bleater.

“She’s only a little older than the other two. And she got jealous.”

Jaskier watched and admired the domesticity of the scene. Three large guys, each bottle feeding a goat like it was the most natural thing on earth. To them, it probably was.

“I don’t suppose you ever want to foster kittens or puppies that need to be bottle fed?” he asked, thinking of the spring when unwanted litters were dumped on the shelter.

The growl of “no” from Lambert was lost under Eskel’s thoughtful hum and Cahir’s “yes” as his head whipped up to look hopefully at Jaskier. It was Geralt’s laughter that was the loudest though.

“You give them any babies, you’re not getting them back,” Geralt warned. “Don’t let looks fool you. These three will fall in love and will cry when you try and take their babies away.”

In other words, they would absolutely fail at fostering because they would adopt every animal, Jaskier was familiar with the type. But Geralt was right, looks would be very deceiving because he would never have guessed any of the three would be like that.

As the bottles emptied, the goats were put down on the ground and Eskel shooed them out towards the garden. Curious, Jaskier followed.

“If you do need foster families for young ones, feel free to give us a shout,” Eskel said as they stepped into the garden. It was big, had tyres, ramps and hay bales strewn through it, along with a large area that seemed to house some grumpy chicken. “We’ve got the space and the time between the three of us to keep them socialised and fed. Just be prepared that if you give us a very poorly or needy one, or if it’s a litter, Cahir will definitely sweet talk us into not giving the runt back.”

The fond resignation in Eskel’s voice had Jaskier smiling. It only grew when the other three bundled out into the garden, carrying dishes and cutlery, settling them on the table by the open backdoor.

Getting to know Geralt’s brothers was most definitely a brilliant idea, Jaskier decided. Especially when one or the other of them was always getting up and running after the goats as they got into more and more creative messes. Looking around, there was just one question Jaskier had.

“This is a lovely set up you have for them but where do they sleep?”

Geralt hid his laughter into his drink but it fooled nobody. Lambert muttered something under his breath but Jaskier didn’t quite catch it while Cahir seemed terribly interested in his plate, hair not hiding his grin in the slightest.

“I said they sleep in the bed,” Lambert barked, cheeks bright red as Geralt kicked him under the table. It had Jaskier laughing until Geralt looked at him with dark eyes.

“I win,” he said simply and Jaskier nodded. This was a bet he was all too happy to lose.

#geraskier #eskel/lambert/cahir #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #animal shelter au #tldr: jaskier checks up on lil bleater's new home

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xiueryn · 5 years ago

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I'm weak so 86 and 97

eighty-six: “i didn’t mean to turn you on” and ninety-seven: “time-travel”

It happened little and often.

Marinette had learned to deal with it; adapt to situation, pretend that nothing had happened, but the small jumps in time were disorientating, to say the least.

When she’d been too young to understand what had happened, it had been even worse. She’d cried and sniffed loudly, asking what was wrong with her, and her father had taken her into his arms, assuring her that she was perfect.

And while the kindness was still appreciated, she was irked by the power inherited from that side of her family.

It was useless, really. She jumped into the same spot forward in time; if she was cooking in her kitchen, idly stirring the food in the pan, she could move forwards hours in time to be standing in front of an empty hob, the spatula still in her hand while the actual dirty plate was in the dishwasher.

It was hard to get used to.

But she’d learned to deal with it—the jumps were never more than an hour, the shortest being five minutes, and barely anything really changed.

The worst thing that had happened was that she’d gotten her time cut short on a mock exam once.

She didn’t understand how it worked, not at all.

From what she’d been told by others, her body still moved, still interacted and did things without much emotion, but she—she just didn’t have any recollection of that happening. Her consciousness was from over twenty minutes ago,reappearing with her body only when she was in the same spot as before.

But none of them ever called her out for anything supernatural, anything strange and terrifying; they just thought that she’d been distracted the whole time, and had only just became engaged again.

It was weird.

The secret wasn’t necessary to share with anyone until she was actually living with them.

Adrien, who looked at her with such a soft expression when she messed up and tried to do something a second time, not realising that she’d already done it, had thought that she had memory problems at first.

It could’ve been an easy excuse, one that she could’ve agreed with, but they’d been dating for two years at that point, and she didn’t want to keep up the lie forever.

“Not quite,” Marinette quietly admitted.

He was bewildered.

And he would be, of course.

She’d expected that.

However, in her impromptu plan of telling him all about her strange power, she’d forgotten the key detail that she couldn’t actually control it. There wasn’t any proof to her words, and she surely seemed a little insane as she tried to explain it, moving her hands in time with her words, but he didn’t walk out.

Adrien asked if she was okay.

She smiled at that.

It took a few months for him to believe her, but when she reappeared half an hour later, standing across the room with half an onion in her hands because she’d been cooking dinner, he was a bit more agreeable.

“But we ate this,” Adrien said, awed as he held the vegetable in his hands. “It’s—does this count as a clone?”

She snorted. “Fuck if I know.”

“You’re not very into this,” he accused, going as far as to point a finger in her direction. “This is, like, destroying the rules of the universe, and you don’t care about this duplicate. What if I store money on you endlessly?”

“You’d have to spend it and hope it’ll work,” she pointed out. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Once, it took me a whole month for any jump to happen.”

He looked intrigued. “Jump?”

“Skip, whatever,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Time-travel seems a bit too fancy for it, don’t you think? It’s kind of pathetic compared to the movies.”

He protested, “You cloned an onion.”

“Yeah, and it’s going dry because you won’t stop touching it.”

Adrien’s enthusiasm for the most mundane things to her was one of the reasons she liked him so much. From his obsession for a trashy television show, how he marvelled and adored anyone that cooked for him, to how passionate he was about defending his beliefs, they were all qualities about him that she was fond of.

Even if he was terribly wrong at times about fictional characters.

“I really don’t want to listen to this,” Marinette said through her laughter, putting her hands over her ears. “You can’t do this to me!”

Adrien spoke fast with his reply of, “But you’re the only one who will listen!”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” she retorted.

He made a wounded noise, falling back against the cushions of their sofa, looking dramatically defeated as he stared up at the ceiling.

She reached over and patted his head. “There, there.”

He slapped her hand away lightly. “That’s not sincere at all.”

“It’s not my fault you’re an idiot,” Marinette replied fondly. Then, as she hopped up onto her feet, she announced, “I’m going to shower, and if you even think about trying to talk to me in there, I really will drown myself.”

He sniffed. “You’re so mean.”

She winked at him.

They didn’t have a lock on their bathroom.

Her jumps weren’t ridiculous enough to have her body somehow go through locked doors, but she had been told that her body in the parts she forgot about seemed to be on auto-pilot, not really there, but still performing normal functions; opening doors, going up the stairs, and making it easy for her to get back to where she’d been previously.

It was like a rewind button was hit for her to appear back in her body, suddenly conscious and appear of what was happening.

Their shower was also a bathtub, so there was room for the two of them in there together, if they felt like being in a cramped space together, but it didn’t come up often; there were others places to be more comfortable, after all.

When she felt the tell-tale feeling of her stomach tightening, the way her chest felt heavy out of nowhere, Marinette wobbled on the spot, trying to keep her balance in the slippery bathtub.

But instead of being able to take a step back, she connected with something solid.

She shrieked.

Adrien had much the same reaction, but he really did slip over, flailing and ending up half on the bottom of the tub, while Marinette managed to grab onto their shower curtain to keep herself upright.

They stared at each other in surprised. “Why are you naked?”

“Because—” Adrien started, looking a bit dazed. “Wait, were you not—”

The clothes that were suddenly sticking to her skin were telling.

He stood upright, the two of them almost squished together from the lack of space, he mused, “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

She squinted. “Really?”

“You were really silent when you came in,” he said, gesturing to the curtain (where she’d accidentally ripped off half of it from preventing her fall). “I thought you were feeling, you know, a little saucy—”

Marinette choked out a laugh. “Saucy?”

“Sorry, spontaneous,” he corrected, clearly trying to hold back his own laughter. “Seductive? Or maybe just flirty would be a good word? You can pick whichever you want.”

“And you just…” Marinette pushed her suddenly wet hair away from her face. “You let me walk in here, fully dressed?”

“I mean, you don’t have socks on.”

She looked down to her feet. “Great, thanks.”

“That’s always a sign that you’re ready to get down—”

“Don’t say that,” she protested, cringing. “My bare feet aren’t a green flag to get naked with you, Adrien.”

“Are you sure, though?” he replied. “Because the evidence is stacking up against you.”

For a moment, she only stared at him.

Then, she announced, “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, really?” he asked, reaching out and taking her hand into his. “We could have a little fun because you’re already wet for me—”

She laughed. “No.”

“Tease,” he said, but his smile was reaching his eyes. “My heart’s broken because you led me on.”

“You’re the one that let me get in the shower fully-clothed,” she pointed out. “Plus, I didn’t mean to turn you on with my zombie-walk.”

With a laugh, he said, “But you’re such a cute zombie.”

“Yeah, but now I’m soaking wet,” she replied, pulling the curtain open. “Enjoy your shower.”

It was only when she’d reached up to grab a towel from the rack that he called out, “Will I see bare feet when I’m out?”

Laughing, Marinette answered back, “I’ll think about it.”

pick two prompts from here and i’ll write a small(?) adrien/mari drabble for it

#replies #valiantlyjollynightmare #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #drabble

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years ago

Text

Chasing Tornadoes {1/6}

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Series Warnings: poorly written medical procedural, mild delving into spirituality, language, overbearing egos, graphic descriptions of medical procedures. more warnings to be added.

A/N: Quick change to the fic, the reader is actually a Fellow not a Resident, Nurse or Physician

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3

Taglist is open -comment or send an ask!

<< Previously ○ Next >>

Four hours, that's how long you’d been on your feet running from one patient's room to the next.

During your short coffee break, you had heard one of the interns say that the doctors sent in from Metro General had arrived and were making their rounds. You kept an ear open in the hopes you'd hear Christine's name, but you had no such luck. After the day you were having, a friendly face would be a welcoming sight.

Mike, the newest fellow at Grace Fields Memorial burst through the lounge doors and grabbed your half-finished coffee out of your hands and into his. In one shot, he downed all the contents in the styrofoam cup and sighed deeply -hand stretched out to you for a top-up once the cup was empty.

You shook your head and let out a sigh, grabbing the metal coffee pot from the hot plate, "How many hours are you running on?"

Mike stretched and nodded a thank you after his cup was refilled. You placed the pot back on the hob and poured yourself a fresh cup. He glanced down at his watch and counted backwards, "You've been here what? Three, four hours? That makes it close to six hours for me." He moaned something unintelligible into his cup as he chugged the bitter coffee.

You rubbed his shoulder and his body swayed with your motion as if he was a ragdoll, "It's not that bad. Remember the collapsed scaffolding incident last fall?"

Mike groaned into his cup again as he remembered what you spoke of, "Yeah, that was a disaster, but still nowhere near as intense as this. We had more on-call then too. Damned tornado hit at the worst time. Most of the senior staff were at the medical conference at the university in the next town over."

Mike rubbed his eyes and then stretched out of the couch. He placed his cup on the coffee table, dark liquid sloshing out over the rim.

"Hey, you're doing good," you reassured him as you finished your own cup of coffee. You glanced up at the wall clock and rotated your shoulder cuff to work a tense muscle. "I gotta get back out there. Any news on Doctor Weisz?"

"Uh-uh, still dead as a doornail on that front. I've met our relief team though. One of them is a right prick," Mike sucked in air through his teeth.

You bit your lip and cooed out in a teasing tone, "Aww, is Mikey not getting along with the other doctors?"

Mike frowned, "Just the one, actually."

"There's plenty of sand for all of us in this sandbox, you gotta learn to play nice sooner or later."

With a frown, he whipped his head in your direction, "That's not even a saying!"

You ignored his comment, "Who's got you all wound up anywa--"

"Code blue, ICU. Code blue, ICU," the PA system blared with a siren ringing at a lower pitch than the feminine voice coming from the speakers.

"Shit, that's one of mine," Mike darted out of the door and raced passed the crowds of doctors, patients, paramedics and family members cramping the halls.

You were about to follow after him when one of the interns you were supervising today -Arlene- jogged to your side and handed you a chart, "Jan sent me over, said she's got a walk-in. A regular of yours."

You read the name on the top of the chart, "Marcy? Shit… What’s her condition?"

The intern fumbled, too squirrely to admit she didn't have the answer to that question.

Seeing Arlene stand on jittery legs and sweat anxiously next to you made you uneasy, her stressed energies were sapping onto you and you didn't need any more stress as it was, "Arlene, head down to Trauma Two, one of my patients is down there, check his vitals and bandages. Then head over to ICU and see if Mike needs a hand."

Arlene nodded skittishly before jogging away from you, her maroon coloured scrubs melting together with the others.

After looking over Marcy’s chart briefly, you clicked your tongue. You had hoped you wouldn't be seeing her so soon after her last discharge.

You stepped into Treatment Four and pulled your mouth muscles in a forced smile as you pumped the sanitiser bottle and smeared the colourless, alcohol smelling disinfectant all over your hands.

Marcy pulled the breathing apparatus off her face, the elastic stretching around her full cheeks, "Bet you thought you wouldn't be seeing me so soon." she coughed out in a raspy voice, the grinding of her lungs sounding out prominently through each laboured breath. That wasn't a good sign.

You pretended to be looking over her chart with scalpel sharp focus as you pleasantly replied, "For my favourite patient, I'm always happy for an impromptu visit."

You tucked the chart under your shoulder and checked Marcy's vitals and body temperature. Her skin was pasty and moist, sweat causing her hair to stick to her face.

You made with some small talk to keep the mood light despite finding her fever and shivering lip alarming, "How are you feeling champ -Isn't it mid-terms soon? All those mid-night cramming sessions got the best of you huh?"

"Yeah," Marcy laughed, but that caused her to start coughing even more violently, "Mid-terms are hell."

"You still on the albuterol we prescribed?" You asked her while using the stethoscope to hear her lungs better.

Marcy nodded.

"Good, deep breath," you ordered.

After the chest examination, you looked up to regard one of the fellows in the room with you, "Get a CBP and a chest X-Ray set up. Oh and get some blood work drawn up too."

"Yes, doctor," the intern said before rushing out of the room.

"I think I caught a cold," Marcy guessed, her lip sinking into a disappointed pout.

You swivelled round to grab the fellow’s attention before she left, "Oh and uh, can we prep her for intubation just to be on the safe side."

"No!" Marcy shot up, fear in her eyes. "I've been intubated two times before. I'm not gonna go through it a third time.” When she placed her head back on the pillow, she mumbled out: “It won't make a difference anyhow."

You tried to reason with the young woman, "Marcy if it is pneumonia..."

"I know what that means," she placed the breathing mask back on her face. She was done with this conversation.

"Cancel the intubation," you told the fellow and moved on to check the swelling of Marcy's tonsils under her rounded jaw, "Don't worry, it's probably not pneumonia."

Even you didn’t believe your words. A strain in your face meant your smile was beginning to feel painful.

"Hey Marcy, new hair cut?" Arlene swiftly walked into the room and moved over to your ear so she could quietly whisper, "Uh, Y/N, you may want to head to the break-room."

You looked up at her, waiting for something more elaborative, but Arlene just scrunched her face in a weird manner.

"Alright, Marcy I'm going to leave you with Arlene here," you patted Marcy's knee under the blanket, her shivers ran up your arm.

You handed Arlene the charts and draped your stethoscope around your neck before heading down to the break-room.

Walking down the hallway, you heard the same group of EMT’s you bumped into when you arrived at the hospital a few hours ago push in a new patient whose leg’s were covered by a thin sheet. A blotch of stark red soaking at the material in the spot where a whole leg used to be, "36. Male. Right leg amputation!"

"Go to Treatment Six!" Jan ordered them as a resident pushed past you to get to the gurney.

Elroy, the hospital administrator frowned, his hand covering over his cell phone speaker, "Jan, how are all these walk-ins making it through? Set up a perimeter." He said hurriedly before disappearing into another area to bark orders at someone on the other line: "I don't care what your policy is. You get Doctor Weisz and the rest of my staff stuck on the other side of that bridge on a damn chopper and you do it now!"

Through the large glass windows of the break-room, you caught sight of Mike, hand slamming into his palm over and over again as he talked to someone in a less than civil manner. Next to him stood a taller, older and less ruffled looking man. He wore a long-coat, his slender fingers hooked around his pockets as he simply stood there and took Mike's aggressive shouts. He held himself with an air of sophistication that, you thought, made him seem pompous. You tried your best not to judge him by the highbrow he wore.

When you pushed open the door, you could hear Mike's words more clearly, "What gives you the right to waltz in here--"

The tall man smirked, "I'd hardly call performing a stellar tracheostomy a waltz."

Mike scrapped his scalp with his blunt nails, "That's what I'm talking about! You come in here, bark orders around, take over everyone else’s patients and then, on top of that, you have the audacity to challenge my expertise! This isn't Metro Gen pal, you aren't some superstar neurologist here! You're just a guy on loan."

“I believe the defining term in being a relief team is that your job is to relieve other doctors of their stressful workload and take on the cases they are not qualified to handle,” The man remarked matter-of-factly before cocking his head to the side. "Maybe if you were a resident instead of a fellow, your hospital wouldn't feel the need to call in more qualified personnel to aid with relief efforts."

Mike was turning a tomato shade of red and you had to drag him out of the break-room by his lanyard to prevent the argument from escalating.

However, before Mike was all the way out of the room, the tall man added: "Oh and it's neurosurgeon. Neurologists wouldn't know the right end of a scalpel if it hit them in the face."

"Can you believe that guy?" Mike whispered as he took several breaths through flaring nostrils.

"Don't mind him, he seems like a stick in the mud," you said. "Besides, you've been working nonstop going on--" you glanced up at the digital clock at the far side of the room. "Eight hours now. Take a walk, clear your head, then jump back into it."

Mike pressed his frame against the glass window, his chin pointed to the ceiling as he ran his hands over his face, "Feels like a never-ending nightmare. They just keep coming in and we're stretched so thin out here. Then that arrogant ass-hat came into my space and talked back at me like I was still a doe-eyed med student!"

"Arrogant huh?" You bit down on your lip as you tried to not find irony in his complaint.

"Don't give me that look," Mike whined as you held back a bubbly laugh. "I'm not arrogant. He's arrogant. There’s a difference."

"Hmm, you're just what? A walking encyclopaedia?"

"It's not my fault that I tend to know more than any Tom, Dick or Harry in any room at any given time."

“The picture of humility,” You snorted before shoving Mike, "Go walk it off."

"Yeah, yeah," he said as he dragged his feet away from you.

With one crisis averted, you made your way back into the break-room, retying your hair so any of the stray strands that got loose would be swept back.

"Y/N," you held out your hand for the tall, strange man to shake. He regarded you coolly. Not with distaste, but not with any interest either. That got on your nerves. He really was a whole other calibre of arrogant. You bet he boasted the ego of an entire planet too.

"Stephen Strange, on loan from Metro-Gen," he shook your hand lazily.

"Ahhh," you winced as soon as you recognised the name. He was the ex Christine constantly complained about. So all your assumptions had been correct.

Drats!

Stephen noticed your reaction and craned a brow high, "I take it you're familiar with my reputation?"

You pressed your lips together, "Oh, I am. Just maybe, not the reputation you're most known for."

Stephen's eyes darted about as he tried to connect the dots, "I don't follow..."

"I was Christine Palmer's roommate in college," you revealed.

"Ah, the hippie…" he said with distaste.

"I prefer the term non-denominational spiritualist if you insist on assigning titles," you said firmly. “But yes, the very same.”

Stephen couldn't tell if you were being serious or snarky, and honestly, neither could you, but the look on his face was worth it.

Before he could say anything else, the PA system called out: "Doctor Strange to the OR. Doctor Strange to the OR."

At the drop of a hat, Stephen was out of the break-room and striding down the hallway in a speedy gait. Seeing as how Marcy's tests hadn't come back yet, you decided to follow after him to prevent your idle mind from wondering.

The EEG's readings were all over the place. The usual rhythmic beeping of the machines were too quick, irregular. You watched from the theatre while Stephen was being dressed up in his surgical suit by the other attendings.

"What have we got?" He asked through his mask.

The attending sped him through the details, "Patient showed signs of cerebral oedema. Swelling near the hippocampus area. We administered manadol for pain and increased her dopamine drip but there was no change. We prepped her for surgery as soon as we were told we had a neurosurgeon on sight."

Mike walked in, fully prepped and determined.

Stephen turned to Mike, eyes narrowing in distaste, "I don't remember giving you an invite to my OR." The latex blue gloves smacked against his palms before he asked the room, "Where's the resident I was working with?"

Mike wheeled the tray of instruments closer to the operating table, "She clocked out. Did her twelve hours. I'm filing in."

"Fantastic," Stephen retorted laconically before positioning himself in front of the patient's shaved head. "Bet you're glad you had a neurosurgeon on loan after all?"

Mike's jaw tensed as he turned to give you a knowing look and you exhaled in exasperation for him.

The beeping and sound of metal instruments being dropped into the emesis basin was nearly muted by the classical music playing through the speakers. With hot, bright lights surrounding him, Stephen did his best to reduce the pressure around the swollen areas of the patient’s brain.

“What’s your policy on switching up that Bach to some Chuck Berry?” he asked in a breezy manner even though he was in the middle of a very delicate and arduous procedure. Some of the attendings laughed low at his odd question.

Mike sighed, “Unconventional, but then again no one’s ever made a music request during intra cranial surgery.”

Stephen chuckled, “There’s a first time for everything.”

The respirator whined while everyone in the operating room held themselves so stiffly that you almost thought them to be store mannequins.

"Swelling is alarmingly pronounced. I'm surprised she hasn't herniated," Stephen tossed his instruments into a clean emesis basin and the camera's placed close to the brain projected the fleshy pink image onto a TV screen next to Mike.

"Can I have some suction," Stephen instructed Mike. "Right here and here. More."

The patient's BP began to rise and Stephen quickly said, "I'll cauterise this before we go deeper."

Mike's eyes went large with worry as the patient's BP continued to rise. He tried to protest but was cut short, “We’ve gotta stabilise before—“

“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask… fellow,” Stephen silenced him and focused on his work.

During the whole ordeal, Stephen's hands stayed remarkably steady. You’d be lying if you didn’t see some merit to his unpleasant behaviour. He’d earned his right to be arrogant and rude, most people were simply raised that way. And even though that side of his personality didn’t sit well with you, you couldn’t deny that his skill was unparalleled to any you’d ever seen before. You worried that you’d soon find another reason to think him admirable.

After the surgery, you and Mike took solace in an empty corridor, wiping sweat off your brows with a relieved groan. You had been so on edge, you hadn't realised how accelerated your heart-rate was until you were in a quiet setting.

"I knew I should have specialised in pathology," Mike joked as he held his knees.

"I need a sedative," you sighed.

Mike laughed forcefully.

Right then, Stephen walked around the corner with a pep in his step, "Self-medicating while on duty, I know a particular doctor who would give me quite the tongue lashing in ethics if she heard me make that joke."

Mike straightened up, his pride set aside for a bear moment, "Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I'm not averse to setting aside my differences and my opinions of you -no matter how low they are- to admit that you were right… earlier. I'm sorry I pulled rank."

"I usually am," Stephen replied nonchalantly.

"What I'm trying to say is… thank you," Mike held out his hand in a show of good faith.

Stephen looked down at it and wiggled his bloody, gloved digits at him, "Wouldn't want to bloody your hands." His words sounded more mocking than sincere.

You narrowed your eyes at Stephen and he simply winked back at you. Mike’s ears started turning pink.

"My work here is done, she's your patient again," Stephen informed him. "Make sure to keep her stable. I don't want to have to get called back into OR over your incompetence." Having had the last word, he walked away, leaving you and Mike dumbfounded.

"Lord give me strength not to strangle him with his stethoscope!" Mike looked up at the ceiling with his palms pressed together in mock prayer.

“If you don’t, I just might,” You shook your head and kneed Mike’s thigh, "Come on, coffee is on me."

"We work in a hospital, there's no such thing as coffee. Never mind that, the coffee’s free!"

You tittered with no humour, dragging Mike by his lanyard, "Fine, then let me buy you a free cup of whatever stands-in for real coffee in this hospital."

Arlene had found you with your mouth full of a blueberry scone you had bought from a vending machine in the lounge. She handed you Marcy's test results with a downcast face.

"Dammit," you barely managed to enunciate the whole word accurately from all the dry pastry stuffed in your cheeks. You pointed to a sealed bottle of water and Arlene unscrewed the cap and handed the metallic bottle to you. After a few swigs, you concentrated on analysing the test results.

Disgruntled, you walked over to the computers in the lab to have a glance at Marcy’s medical file. There was no logical reason for doing this, you just didn’t have the heart to face Marcy just yet and you thought slaving away over computer files was a better alternative.

Out of your peripheral, a pair of slender, long fingers grabbed Marcy's clipboard off the desk. You didn’t need to turn to see who it was, you knew it was Stephen from the sight of his hands.

He mouthed out the important factoids like he was reading over a shopping list, "Cystic fibrosis. Contracted pneumonia. Hasn't been intubated?" his pitch went high as he craned his head to the side to gawk at you. "I don't think I need to tell you why intubation is paramount in these cases."

"No you don't," you said sharply, ignoring his searching gaze.

"Then why hasn't the patient been intubated?"

"Her name is Marcy and she refused."

Stephen was in a snit, “Is Marcy the name of a new gospel all of a sudden? What does it matter what her name is?”

You fingers rubbed at your eyes under your glasses, “A person’s name matters. Hers is Marcy and she refused.” You repeated yourself.

He rolled his eyes in frustration, "I wouldn’t care if it was Cher in there who refused to be intubated. You don’t take ‘No’ for an answer in these cases! It's your duty to inform the patient of what the best decision for their well being is. And then you're supposed to help them make that decision, despite what they do or don't want."

“I see your stint at Metro Gen taught you nothing, huh?”

“There was never any stint. I was just doing my job. As you should be.”

You took off your reading glasses, the bluish haze that once filtered your vision was taken away with them. "Marcy is entitled to her choice. She's been robbed of so much else in her life, she deserves that much."

"How old is this patient anyway? 20, 22?" He asked.

You nodded, "Just about."

"Right, so you're telling me you were capable of making such important, life-altering decisions at that age?"

You tucked your glasses into your pocket and stood from the chair, "It doesn't matter how I feel about this decision. It's hers. She's made it."

The pads of Stephen’s fingers dug at his forehead to ease the throbbing. With that simple action, you felt the need to explain Marcy's situation further.

"Look, I met Marcy when I was still an intern. She's been in and out of here for years. She's been on the waiting list for half that time. All her life, she’s been waiting for a miracle -we all have- but it just hasn't come… Waiting that long, fighting that long, it can wear down even the strongest resolves. Not that you'd know what that's like. I’m assuming you make it a habit not to know your patient’s names."

“I’m not paid by the hour to be nice and to memorise names. I don’t prioritize relying on hopes and prayers to save someone. I save them with my skills. Science saves them. There’s no reason for me to do more than is needed of me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with leaving a bit of room in your life for faith, Doctor. So far, science hasn’t been enough to get Marcy a viable donor. Unless you’re about to tell me you’ve got a compatible lung you aren’t using, since I’m pretty sure your cardio-vascular system isn’t in use either.”

He leaned in closer to whisper coldly, "You know you'll be forced to put her on a ventilator, though, I suspect, when that time comes, you'll have missed your window to make a difference. Unless you’re about to tell me you can heal the dying by praying the sickness away."

He smacked the back of the medical clipboard on the desk and you jumped, a soft gasp fluttering out of your mouth.

You fisted your hair and shut your eyes for a moment, the sound of Stephen's footsteps receding into nothingness.

You rapped your knuckles on Marcy's door out of politeness. She was half asleep when you sat down next to her.

Marcy removed her breathing mask, her breaths even more strained than before, "H-hey..."

"How are you feeling?" You checked her forehead, but you knew nothing had changed in her state. Maybe you simply wanted to be physically close to her, to let your strength flow through her.

"Like I could win a marathon," she joked. After a beat of silence, she said the words you’d been dreading to say in your stead, "It's bad, isn't it."

"You've got pneumonia," you said with a glum countenance.

"It's okay, we all knew it was a fifty-fifty shot, right," she struggled to whisper out her words.

You squeezed your jaw with your free hand, "Look, Marcy… I'm not promising things will change. And after a day like today, there probably doesn't seem like much reason to want to stick around and keep fighting the good fight, but… you gotta have faith kiddo."

Marcy chuckled, "Faith? Isn't science your religion?"

"A person can believe in more than one thing and I’m confident things will turn around. I feel it in my bones." you tucked Marcy's hair away from her face. "I've watched you fight CF far longer than I've been wearing this maroon monstrosity."

You both laughed.

You took her hand and looked her in the eye, "If I believe in anything, it's that you can beat this… but only if you consent to be intubated."

Marcy mulled over your words, conflict tightening her facial muscles. After a constricted breath that made you shudder, she replied: "Okay."

You felt a presence behind your shoulder, but you were too overwhelmed by the joy of hearing Marcy consent that you didn't bother turning around.

You all but flopped onto Jan's desk after punching out.

"Long day?" she deadpanned while her fingers clacked away at the keyboard.

You simply groaned in response.

"Here you go," Jan placed your bag over the counter and you groaned again, head still resting on your folded arms. She huffed before continuing: "A guy named Teddy kept sending you messages. He says he enjoyed your time together and he would like to see you again. He also invited you out for drinks but I took the liberty of cancelling for you.”

You groaned even louder.

“On a less depressing note, I took the liberty of calling your favourite Greek place and telling Mr Elio- Eliptopo- Eliopto..."

"Eliopoulos," you corrected her, lifting your chin onto your arms. “I keep telling you, there’s no T.”

"Yeah, that guy. He'll have your regular all packed and ready to go. You just gotta swing over on the way back."

"I don't suppose you got me an Uber too?"

Jan smiled warmly before pulling her lips into a half-moon, "Unfortunately not, hon. But… I did get a call back from my neighbour, Ed -the guy who’s selling his Prius. He’s willing to lower the asking price after I buttered him up with some cornbread."

“How?” You blinked excitedly.

“Everybody loves my cornbread. Except you… you weird creature.”

"Jan, Jan, Jan, Jan..." you stroked her arm appreciatively. "Tell me why we aren't married again?"

She wiggled her ring finger, "I mean we could, but I don't know how my husband of thirteen years would take that."

"We could share?" you jabbed.

"Because that always works out," Jan chortled. "Get some rest, you look worse off than the people in the morgue."

"Ouch," you snapped your fingers. "Stay those claws."

Interrupting your moment, Stephen rushed out of the swinging doors with a tablet in his hand, he called after you with one arm raised in the air, "Hey Y/N, glad I caught you."

You looped your earrings back into your piercing holes, "If you're about to ask me to go back in--"

"I'm not here to boss you around, I promise," He held up his hands to calm you, Jan scooted closer with her desk chair to listen in better.

You popped your neck by accident as you tried to undo a knot in your back muscles, "Then?"

"A patient in Trauma Two didn't make it. He was a registered organ donor… and a match with your CF patient."

Light sparked in your eyes as water began to fill in your tear ducts, "Marcy got a match?"

Stephen nodded, "We put the donor on ice and we're waiting to prep Marcy for a transplant once all the legal red tape has been cut. I just thought you'd like to know."

A laugh rippled out from your chest as you flung your arms around Stephen's body. It was an awkward and ill-thought-out thing to do, but it had already happened. You could tell how uncomfortable Stephen was from how stiff his lean frame felt wrapped under your arms, he didn’t even try to hug you back. You pulled away and straightened your clothes as you cleared your throat.

"Sorry, that was unprofessional," you bit your bottom lip. "It's just… Marcy's been on the waiting list for so long, I- I… Thank you. I really needed some good news after the day we've had."

"It's a good thing you had faith in her, then," Stephen tucked his arms around his chest and hummed curtly. You could tell he wasn't comfortable with evoking faith into his conversational vocabulary. "I've got to get back in there before everything plummets into chaos. I'll see you tomorrow."

“Yeah, sure.” You stared at nothing in particular for a long pause.

Jan peeked over her computer screen monitor to watch Stephen stride away, "Hmm, if I wasn't happily married to some good dick..."

That brought you back down to earth.

You scrunched your face and tossed a pen at Jan, "Down girl."

Thunder and lightning had abated, leaving the dark sky peaceful and starless. The climb up the steps felt harrowing for your sore feet, but you kept going because sleeping on the step wasn't an option and Spike needed feeding.

"Honey, I'm home!" you called out for Spike while trying to jimmy the keys out of the keyhole. After a few tries, it came loose, but not before your knuckles slammed into your nose. "Ouch!"

You felt the urge to sneeze, to your chagrin, it wouldn't come. With a rustled of brown paper bags, you set your take-out onto the table and grabbed a plate and glass from the cupboard to dish out. Next, you rinsed Spike's bowl and scraped in some cut-up browning banana you had left out for too long and a few leaves of spinach and half a stalk of broccoli.

You carried both your plates to the living room and turned on the CD player. An old audio-book Mike had burned onto a CD for you had resumed from the last scene you'd listened to.

"Spike, you big fat lizard, get in here, you're missing it!" you called out for the large reptile. Through the chiming of bamboo sticks, you could just about make out his trademark growl sounding out from behind your vine infested arbour on your balcony.

You sighed, placed your plate on the coffee table and walked around your couch to pick Spike up, making sure to close the sliding door to your balcony shut. You set Spike down next to his bowl and continued idly munching on your yoghurt heavy meal while listening absentmindedly to the story unfolding over the CD player.

Before Spike finished half of his plate, you had passed out on the couch.

To be continued...

Tags: @raindancer2004

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange imagine #marvel #avengers #medical drama #medical fic #doctor strange imagine

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theateared · 5 years ago

Text

I Hope Your Days Get Better. ❜

Summary: He’s always had a soft spot for children.

“Son of a bitch…” he muttered as he tried to undo his laces in the dark. He wasn’t sure why he never switched the light on after coming home from work. It just seemed wrong-- as if the house was the thing he didn’t want to disturb as opposed to his sleeping family.

After wrestling his shoes off, he headed into the kitchen, flipping the light on only when the door to the room was shut. There was most definitely something left from dinner for him to pick at. Brielle always left him something when he was working late. After deducing that there was leftover stew in a pot, Edgar took to heating the hob and collapsing into the nearest chair, loosening his bow-tie almost immediately.

Work is amping up lately, he mused, staring at the ceiling with an unfocused look in his eyes All these extra hours are being sprung on me out of nowhere. I suppose it’s good for the bills, but…

But he missed Brielle and Augustus terribly. His wife was the kindest woman he had ever seen. Even when he’d originally met her with his typical standoffish front, she had shown him her smile and thawed the ice surrounding his heart. It wasn’t even that he was incredibly jaded… he just didn’t trust people easily. Being from Huron, it was easy to believe that everybody had his back, but he knew that wasn’t true. Nobody cared about him personally. Nobody really knew him as anything other than the talented broker down the road. He was fine with that.

His thoughts were derailed by a creak of the door. When he turned his head, he knew immediately who had come to greet him, a pair of round eyes peering at him through the crack.

“Gus?”

The door seemed to ease closed somewhat, as if he was trying to hide from him, before he gave in and stepped into the room properly. He was a dear looking child, only five* years old, one with dark hair from his mother and blue eyes from his father. Stood there in his pinstripe pyjamas, hands clasped behind his back, he looked up at him with his infamous puppy-dog eyes-- the infamous choice when trying to diffuse a situation.

Edgar’s gaze flitted momentarily to the clock. “What’re you doing up? You know it’s past midnight.”

The small boy hovered in place for a moment before bridging the distance between them, running to him with his arms outstretched, and Edgar didn’t have the heart to refuse him. I haven’t seen you all day. It feels like I haven’t seen you all month at the rate I’ve been called into the office. When he pulled him into his lap, Augustus immediately laid his head on his shoulder, burying his face into his hair before pulling back to look at him.

“Hi, daddy,” he said with a wide smile, one arm moving to reveal that he was holding something; a single white flower that Edgar presumed had been picked from the garden. “For you.”

It was nothing but a weed, the kind of thing that most people dug up immediately in order to stop them from spreading, but Edgar took it as if he’d been handed gold. “For me?”

“To go with your shirt,” his son replied with an eager nod.

That earned a smile - and when he smiled, Augustus smiled too. He never really saw him smile. He wasn’t mean at all, just scary-looking on the outside sometimes. The flower that was now tucked into his breast pocket helped alleviate that imagery a little bit.

When Edgar put him down atop the table, the boy did not fuss. He sat there swinging his legs, waiting for his father to finish filling a bowl with stew. Expectantly, he opened his mouth when Edgar took his seat once more, knowing he’d get at least one bite of something.

“So,” he started, spooning half of a potato into his son’s mouth. “What did you get up to today, hm? You didn’t get in any trouble, did you?”

Augustus grinned with his mouth full of potato, shaking his head in a way that made him look mischievous. “No! I helped mama in the garden!”

“Good lad,” Edgar said with a chuckle, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah! I de-weedied,” he continued, voice full of triumph.

He had to bite back a laugh at that, trying to keep a mouthful of vegetables from being sprayed everywhere. No matter how mundane the task he’d done was, he always found a way to entertain him with it, to spin some colourful story about how he was a good, heroic boy. As far as Edgar was concerned, he really was. He didn’t ever want his son to lose that sense of mysticism. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as excited to de-weed the garden in a century’s time but he would be excited for other things; better things.

“Did you?” he asked, putting on his best surprised voice. “That’s a big job. I bet mama couldn’t have done it.”

“Yeah! What did you do today?”

“Lots of math.”

Augustus’ nose wrinkled. “I hope daddy’s days get better.”

The man chuckled quietly. “As soon as I get home, they get better.”

The child beamed from ear to ear, opening his mouth again, only closing it when his father put some more potato into it. It was no secret that he missed his father often. Though he was a good dad-- the best, Augustus would argue-- work often kept him busy. It saw the youngster staying up way past his bedtime in the hope that he’d catch a glimpse of him every now and then. Weekends used to be his favourite before his job started to call him in then too; they’d always fly his kite together in the pastures, the wind carrying his paper vessel higher than the clouds. Not long now, kiddo, Edgar would tell him before leaving, ruffling his hair and telling him to ‘’be a good boy for mama’’. In an effort to make his dad happy, he’d always be on his very best behaviour. He was a good kid anyway, having been raised well, but he tried harder than most.

How long is ‘’not long now’’, daddy? Are you going to come home soon?

He whined as his father shifted, hands clutching onto his shoulders.

“Le’me wash up. Then I’ll take you to bed.”

“Nooo… don’t wanna go bed…”

Edgar chuckled softly, standing up with his boy in his arms. He clung to him very much like a koala would as he washed his plate, setting it aside on the drying rack before he regained a firm grip on him, head turned towards him. Augustus was pouting.

“I’ll read you a story,” he wagered, watching as the boy attempted to turn his head further away. “C’mon. I know you love stories. What do you want me to read?” One hand let go of him to tickle his tummy gently, causing him to laugh loudly. “Shhh…” he said with a giggle of his own, listening for a disturbance upstairs. When Brielle didn’t come stumbling down with her grump-face on, he determined it safe to begin the ascent to Augustus’ bedroom. The sign on his door always made him smile. While most childrens’ donned a comical ‘Do not enter’, Augustus’ sported a charming ‘Wipe your feet!’, a small dinosaur mat placed directly in front of his bedroom door. Even with no shoes on, Edgar made a point of doing so.

Putting him down on the bed, he pointed to the bookshelf beside it. “Choose a story while I get ready for bed.”

As his father left the room, Augustus knelt on the floor and began to search for his favourite book. He skimmed over titles like, ‘The Ugly Mew-Mew’ and ‘The Little Nebby’ before finally locating the title he was after. Blunder the Kayag: The Goldfish Fair. It had been his favourite since he was a baby. Even though Augustus would attest to the fact that he had ‘grown a lot!’, he’d wholeheartedly admit that this book had a special place in his big heart. It had a lot of room for a lot of things, but his family and his favourite books occupied the most space. Naturally, the story followed the misadventures of a canine creature that was appropriately named ‘Blunder’. Augustus had always wanted a Kayag because of this book, but his mother claimed they were ‘not pets’.

When Edgar returned, he took one look at the book and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I read this to you just last week?”

“I like this one,” the boy replied softly, a hand curling around his toes as he stared imploringly up at his father. There was a beat of silence before he raised his hands in defeat, a quiet ‘o-kay’ released before he plucked the book from his son’s hands, filing into bed with him. The youngster squirmed until he was comfortable, small body flat against his dad’s torso as he began to read.

Though he knew the tale inside and out ( all of them in fact, there were several instalments in the series that he was equally as familiar with ), whenever it was read to him, it felt like a new story. The words flowed like a song he once recalled; lyrics springing to mind while still sounding alien and new, and soon enough he began to feel tired. Eyes were slowly drooping closed, small fingers playing with the collar of his father’s shirt absentmindedly, and as Edgar reached the end of the story, he’d already fallen asleep.

Quietly, Edgar closed the book and placed it on the nightstand, right beside his clock and his crudely-shaped dinosaur lamp. He turned off the light with a soft click, though when he went to get up, Augustus whimpered, clinging even in his sleep.

The poor thing, Edgar thought as he settled back down. My work schedule must be frying his nerves. He must think I’m going to disappear for good one day. He isn’t like Brielle - he doesn’t know I’m coming home.

A hand stroked through his son’s thick hair tenderly, brain whirring. His birthday’s coming soon… I can use the extra cash to get him something nice. Perhaps a new kite. Or some more books. And then I can dump these extra shifts. The last thing I want to do is make my family unhappy.

He fell asleep thinking about how best to decline calls once Augustus’ special day had passed.

#🞮 — if i could i'd trade my heart for a second brain. ❜ ( edgar. )#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ HOH W OW #I LOVE GOING INTO EDGAR'S PAST WHOHHHHHWHEEE

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