#hypothermic ao3

[solcorvidae]

Modern Witcher AU: My Headcanons (part 2 of ?)

Jaskier was put in a ton of winter sports as a kid. He knows how to ski and ice skate very well. He can snowboard but prefers skiing.

Geralt, on the other hand, never learned to skate. He and Eskel have not been able to find skates that fit their boot size since they were teenagers.

Geralt likes yard work more than other household chores. He likes maintaining the garden and arranging a nice living space to hangout in and Jaskier is very appreciative.

Jaskier is usually super busy in the winter months. He attends get togethers, dinners, parties, etc. Geralt does the opposite. He and his family head home for some time to relax and catch up with one another after being on the road. They don’t often do big activities or social events, mostly staying in the house with each other for the duration of their stay.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert shared a room until Geralt started to get into his teen years. Their childhood room had a bunk bed for the two oldest boys and a single bed for Lambert. Lambert eventually took over Vesemir’s office and it was converted to his new room. Now, they each have normal bed frames that sit on the floor.

Geralt wears a dark brown, felt, pinch front cowboy hat. He is very attuned to the etiquette and superstitious beliefs around wearing one.

Eskel and Jaskier are the same height (6’0)

Geralt is 6’3 but often people assume he’s shorter. He slouches when he sits and tries to take up as little metaphorical space in the room as he can. When he stands up, his posture is straight as a board and this adds to the surprise many people feel when they see how tall he really is.

Eskel is the opposite. He has a large but warm and inviting presence when he enters a room. He makes himself known and takes up a lot of space with his big personality. People often assume he must be taller than he really is and are often surprised when they stand next to him and see eye to eye.

Lambert is 5’11 and bitter about it.

Eskel has textured, somewhat oily skin but shockingly left his acne struggles in his teen years.

Geralt was blessed with little to no acne most of his life—including as a teenager.

Lambert hasn’t quite grown out of it and still gets the occasional (relatively mild) blemish. They usually appear when his disposable razor starts to get dull and begins to irritate the skin--Geralt tries to get him to invest in a safety razor, to no avail.

All three boys share a bathroom at Vesemir's house and Vesemir has his own tiny ensuite bathroom. He doesn't care if they trash their own space as long as it doesn't start growing mysterious molds…

Everyone having different hair colours (especially Geralt) meant that it was difficult to blame each other for hair left in the bottom of the tub/sink. But oh did Lambert try.

They are banned from using Vesemir's bathroom unless they absolutely have to. The shower however, is non negotiable. It is off limits altogether.

The only exception to this rule is when any of the boys are sick. When one of them is ill, Vesemir sets them up on the floor with blankets and a pillow so they don't have to keep running to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It also helps that he can keep an eye on them and monitor if they start getting worse or need to go to urgent care—Eskel was particularly bad for lying about not being sick for a long time.

As a child Geralt would wake up every night in the middle of the night from the dead of sleep and be afraid to fall back asleep on his own. He always climbed to the top bunk where Eskel slept and he felt safe. If Eskel wasn't there or he didn't want to wake him, Geralt would walk to Vesemir's room to fall asleep in his dads bed where he felt just as safe. It took him a long time to grow out of this habit.

Even though his boys are all grown up, Vesemir would never turn them away from any sort of "childish" comfort, especially when they're going through a particularly hard time. If they ever needed a hug or wanted to fall asleep in his room, all they had to do was ask.

[Modern AU Headcanon Masterpost]

[solcorvidae]

There’s not many Trucker AU’s as far as I can find but all the ones I have seen are SO good. Fulfilling my duty and adding to the pile >:]

I’d read this AU like crazy. Mines a no magic/regular modern world but a love a good fic where they age into modernity. The world building is always immaculate. 🖤

Modern au but instead of them being born in the time period they aged to it all of them still look young (jaskier still this way due to potions) and geralt has turned his story from being a witcher into comedy and is now a famous comedian jaskier who he never saw after the mountain and yennefer who he slowly grew apart from and hasent seen for 3 centuries start going to his shows and throwing red roses and sometimes dandelions at him geralt slowly becoming more and more perplexed ciri who watches her dad's show and is now a truck driver (bc she likes to travel also geralt owns a ranch with a horse named roach) is also confused at this

@0dde11eth @help-help-i-need-an-adult @fandom-junk-drawer @everything-but-the-not-natural

[january-scribe]

under no circumstances should the rocking chair be mentioned

[doomreedweek]

DoomReed Week 2024 Prompts:

Oct 27, Sun: Victor kidnaps Reed *see below! (Alt: Secret hookup)

Oct 28, Mon: 2005-07 F4 movie, scene continuation *any scene - see below (Alt: "You're mine.")

Oct 29, Tues: Master! Victor & Slave! Reed (Alt: Enemies to Lovers)

Oct 30, Wed: "Strip. You heard me. I don't like repeating myself." (Alt: Hypothermia trope (see below))

Oct 31, Thur: Victor forcing Reed to kneel (Alt: A demonic entity wants Reed's soul, Victor has to save him.)

Nov 1, Fri: Love confession during a fight/battle (Alt: Choking)

Nov 2, Sat: Freeform!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

We got some very detailed prompts this year, and I try to keep things broad for maximum utility, but don't want to leave these on the cutting room floor, so here's the expanded versions:

For Oct 27: "2005-07 Movieverse continuation where Victor comes back and kidnaps Reed (for revenge, etc), what happens when they're alone together is up to the author"

For Oct 28: "That famous scene from the 2005 movie where Victor froze Reed, but what if Sue never showed up and Victor got to do whatever he wanted to Reed? Can either be angsty or kinky."

For Oct 30: "Hypothermia trope -- if Reed is hypothermic then Victor has to keep him warm (skin against skin method), or if Victor is hypothermic then Reed has to keep him warm"

Also new this year: a lot of nsfw prompts. I've tried to keep things balanced, and of course any "nsfw" prompt can be applied numorously instead, one of them losing a bet or the dialogue happens in a different setting than the reader might expect.

To participate:

Just follow the prompt to create a fan work of some kind (art, fic, drabble, video, themed playlist, anything featuring this ship and that prompt, or whatever prompt you like for the Freeform day) - and post here, on Twitter, or on Instagram with the tag #DoomReedWeek2024

We also have a collection for this year's set up on ao3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/doomreedweek2024/profile

This is year #5 and I'm really hyped about it 🤭 see everybody in October!

[murphy-kitt]

Ectober Day 7 - Unearth

Word Count: 3,082

Tags: Corpse AU, Description of Corpse, Mention of Blood & Violence

AO3

Coming to the conclusion that Phantom is the reason for Danny’s withdrawn behaviour, Maddie is forced to face the truth. Her son is dead—and it’s all their fault.

Something is very wrong with her son.

Maddie has observed it for months now, the way that something is not quite right. The frigid air that seems to be radiating from him, the pallid skin, his unblinking blue eyes. At first she thought he might’ve been overshadowed, but that ended up being dismissed as his eyes were still blue.

So, she doesn’t know what it could be. And she supposed the only way to find out is to confront him. She and Jack have given him plenty of months to say something, but to no avail.

“Danny?” Maddie’s breath hitches as she stands outside his bedroom door, her hand resting on the wood. There’s a faint rustling noise and the sound of something slamming.

“Yeah, mom?” Danny’s strained voice.

“Can I come in?” She asks, worried that she’s woken him up. He never seems to get much sleep these days, perpetual layers under his eyes.

“Uh…sure.” Danny’s voice trails off, developing into a hoarse cough. Not just tiredness, but he’s always fatigued and ill.

Maddie yanks the door open, preventing herself from the doubt beginning to form in her mind. She will confront him and she will do it now. Jazz’s voice of ‘giving Danny space’ rings in her head as she shuts the door, facing her son.

Danny is splayed out on his bed, his skin so pale she can even feel the cold radiating from him. A fever, but the opposite?

No.

“Good grief, Danny. You’re hypothermic!” Maddie reaches to press her hand to his forehead. The sudden icy contact makes a chill prickle down her spine.

“Mom! I-” He flinches back, holding his hands up defensively and blinking owlishly. This is the closest she’s gotten to him in months. Have his eyes always had the subtle greeness to them?

“What’s happened to you?” her voice trails off. None of this makes sense. Signs of ghostliness, the cold, the pale skin…yet he is still Danny. He consumes food, grows, goes to school. Doesn’t haunt Amity, or fly, or glow or show any signs of an obsession.

“I–” Danny grimaces, his hand resting on his neck, “I can’t tell you. Not now.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me?! You won’t? Or is someone forcing you to stay silent?”

“A bit of both, I suppose.” He shrugs haplessly, and Maddie swears she sees a flicker of neon green. “I want to tell you. So bad. I don’t want to be lik– living like this anymore. It’s not fair. But I don’t know what else to do. Until yo– they see past their beliefs and realise the truth, then I’m stuck.”

“Danny, you need to tell me. Now.” her eyes narrow and Maddie nearly reaches out to shake him by the shoulders. What sort of trouble is he in? Someone’s threatening him to stay silent. She can see the desperation in his eyes. He’s trapped. Her baby boy desperately wants to say something, but is scared to silence.

“Who is it? Who’s threatening you like this? Did you see something?” Maybe he was witness to a crime. Murder? Drugs?

“No, Mom, it’s not like that.” Danny shakes his head, hopping off his bed and trawling across the room. The teen seems almost…dejected? Disappointed?

“Then what is it?” It’s like talking to a wall.

“Until they realise the truth and see how blind they’ve been, I won’t budge.”

“Realise the truth–what do you mean? Who needs to realise they’ve done wrong?” Maddie pleads, the confusion rattling even her scientific brain. The more he talks, the more questions arise and become more enigmatic.

“You, Mom. You and Dad are the ones who are blind.” Danny stares at her with a harshness she didn’t think he was capable of. “And until you see past your beliefs, I won’t tell you anything.”

He turns and walks out the door.

Maddie’s heart shatters.

What have we done?

—

“Get down and face us ghost!” Jack’s shout echoes through the streets of Amity Park, a shot of the bazooka following.

Phantom easily dances away from the shot, which lands and destroys a nearby building. The ghost twists to look at them, green eyes glaring with such ferocity that makes Maddie grip her gun tighter.

“Well I’m sorry that I’d rather not be shot at!” The ghost retorts, slugging a stolen thermos onto its belt. Her and Jack had been patrolling the streets, when in a rare chance, Phantom had been finishing up after another fight. Probably for territory.

“You’ve no other choice!” Maddie shouts back, strengthening her resolve as she surges forward. A green dot reflects on him as she takes perfect aim.

This is it, Maddie. This is all she’s ever wanted. To capture Phantom and stop the ghosts from terrorising Amity Park. At least by doing this, it might offer Danny some respite. He’s terrified of ghosts.

Danny… her prior helplessness returns in waves, making Maddie’s aim on the ghost falter. He stares at her with glowing green eyes, and she stares right back.

Just like Danny, even with a mischievous glower, deep down she can see the tiredness in Phantom’s eyes. That he’s sick of this too.

All the more reason to be rid of him. Her eyes narrow.

“Mads, what’s up?” Jack shouts, distracted from his shot as he turns to look at her and simultaneously fires. The shot veers off into a building, far off kilter from the intended target.

“I’m fine.” Maddie inhales, eyes narrowed. Since when did the air smell so strongly of decay? The stench is sweet and stings the back of her throat.

Holding her breath, Maddie points her ectogun at Phantom again. He’s not done anything, not tried to escape or make stupid remarks. He just remains there.

Floating. Staring.

Staring with those tired eyes.

Phantom floats down a little closer, maybe a foot or so infront of her. The aim on his chest is bright and burning, but Phantom doesn’t seem to care. Bile roses up Maddie’s throat as the smell becomes stronger.

The street is eerily silent, so much so that even Jack has put his gun down, letting it remain useless by his side.

Phantom stares.

“You need to see the truth.”

Just like Danny had said. Rage consumes her. How has he—how does he know what Danny said? She doesn’t know, she doesn’t care.

But now it makes sense. Why has Danny been like this.

Phantom’s been controlling him. Of course Danny wouldn’t say anything when Amity Park’s strongest ghost was threatening him to silence.

She looks at those eyes again. The tired green eyes. Almost pleading.

It’s just a ploy, and you know it.

Without hesitating, she points.

And shoots blankly in the chest.

Green and red everywhere.

—

She goes out at night, the full intention of finding Phantom. He’s downed and weak, lurking somewhere in Amity. It’s unlikely he has any sort of teleportation powers that can send him back to the ghost zone.

Her shot had surely been in close proximity.

In the dark, Maddie stalks the streets, trying best to blend in with the surroundings. She notes the scene of earlier that day, with the ectoplasm dully shining in the night. And then some darker patches, which make her stomach turn.

Ectoplasm and red. Ectoplasm and blood.

It shouldn’t be possible. Is it a trait carried over? If Phantom overshadows Danny for so long does Phantom get Danny’s traits too?

Danny’s got the cold, the tiredness, the green sheen to his eyes.

So Phantom would get blue eyes, warmth, perhaps a heartbeat and red ectoplasm?

Yes. That’s what it is. Phantom’s simply got red ectoplasm. It’s not blood, and the citrusy smell indicates so.

She recalls dinner time, what Danny had said. He’d been strangely reserved this time, much more than usual. He’d clenched a hand to his chest, and eaten very little.

“You deny and deny. It won’t help you. All the signs are laid out for you.”

He’d put his hand on his chest, and it’d been then that Maddie had noticed the branching scar on his left palm, disappearing down his long sleeved shirt.

A lichtenberg figure.

How’d he even get that? She thinks again, wracking her mind. There’s nothing jumping out at her, no accident or event where Danny got injured.

No. Maybe it’s not.

Rethink. Recoup.

Danny isn’t overshadowed. Why would Phantom tell you the exact same thing Danny said if he was overshadowing Danny? That would and did expose his whole scheme—and even for a ghost he’s smarter than that.

Moving away from the scene, she brings out the ghost tracker to try and find where Phantom is. There’s a trace of a powerful ectosignature up in the park.

Bingo. She thinks.

When she arrives at the park, it’s a haunting sight. The skeletons of trees are barely visible by the outline of the moon, and birds and critters chirrup in the distance. And there, on the top of the hill in the midst of the park, is a beacon of a figure.

Phantom. Careful not to bring attention to herself, Maddie puts the ectotracker into a compartment in her jumpsuit, watching the ghost’s every move.

Phantom’s hunched over, his knees tucked up to his chest. His green eyes are the brightest she’s ever seen, gazing up to the stars above. No fighting. No other ghosts.

Just Phantom, the silence and the stars.

“Have you ever thought about what's up there?” Phantom’s voice is just a whisper, yet it fractures the silence of the night.

Maddie freezes, instinctively reaching for an ectogun on her hip. She can’t do that though, not when she’s in the midst of research. What good would it be destroying the ghost that might have a connection her her son?

“You saw me?” The woman instead inquires.

“Of course I did.” Phantom narrows his green eyes before turning to look back at the sky. “Now if you’re gonna shoot me, can you at least get it out of the way or leave? I’m trying to stargaze here.”

“You enjoy stargazing?” She blurts without thinking. A ghost having hobbies? It should be impossible. All ghosts are driven by their obsessions.

Yet, here Phantom is. No other ghosts to fight and now crowds of people to cheer his heroics on.

“Of course I do.” The ghost hmphs , shooting her another fleeting look. Maddie guesses he’s getting testy about her being out of his line of vision.

Fine. She’ll bite just this once.

She’s about to talk when Phantom interrupts.

”You still haven’t realised, have you?” The ghost tilts his head in such a passive way it makes Maddie instinctively go for the ectogun. His smarmy, know-it-all attitude.

”What don’t I know?” She grits, playing along. It’s about Danny, it has to be. How they’re connected.

“You need to figure that one out yourself.” Phantom says dully, expression almost disappointed. “I can’t tell you.”

Clenching her fists, Maddie holds back the instinct to fire her ectogun again. She can’t go destroying Phantom a second time.

Is it just like Danny? That he wants to tell her, but can’t?

“I know my son is too terrified to even speak to me anymore! He was too scared because you’re threatening him.” Maddie narrows her eyes.

Phantom has the audacity to scoff, “You keep telling yourself that, then. You’ll not get anywhere if you think I’m to blame for the reason Danny doesn’t talk.”

Danny said that, too. That her and Jack were to blame for his withdrawal, that they needed to see the truth.

Maddie lets herself slump to the grass, grip on ectogun loosening. For the first time in years, she feels completely stumped.

Phantom hasn’t controlled Danny. He’s not threatened him. So what is Danny’s secret? Why the injuries, the constant absences?

“I just—“ she takes an intake of breath, trying to hold back the tears stinging the corners of her eyes, “I want to know what happened to him. It’s been so long. Danny’s so distant now, and I feel like I can never reach him.”

Out of the corner of her bleary vision, she notices Phantom watching. His posture stiffens, as if in shock.

She supposes such talk of Danny may come as a surprise to his system. After all, Phantom had to have parents once. Perhaps they were the reason for his…early demise.

There’s no doubt Phantom is a similar age to Danny. Perhaps recently dead, even.

“What about your parents?” She finds herself asking.

“Mine?” Phantom blinks, then considers. “Wasn’t one of your main theories that ghosts can’t remember their past lives?”

“Well..” Maddie feels her cheeks flush, before steeling herself, “This is your time to prove me wrong, isn’t it? Do you remember them?”

“Touché. I do.” The ghost pulls his knees up to his chest. “They were kind for the most part. Very aloof, though. Got so carried away with work that sometimes I slipped as their priority.”

And that’s just what she and Jack have done, isn’t it?

“That’s what me and Jack have done to Danny, I think.” The moment the words are out in the night, Maddie feels a sense of relief. She’s admitted it.

Never putting him first, and when she did finally notice it was too far gone. Of course Danny won’t open up to her now, given ghosts have prioritised over the past months.

“Yeah. I think so too.”

“I’m sorry Phantom. That you had to go through that, I mean. And your parents should’ve cared for you. Just like me and Jack should’ve for Danny.” She replies. “I’ll apologise to him tonight.”

The ghost gives her a crooked smile, strangely familiar. “I think he’ll know already that you mean well.”

And with that, Phantom looks back up at the stars, green eyes glimmering with reflections of galaxies. Maddie, feeling intrusive, stands up.

Hesitantly, she backs away, trying not to disturb the ghost.

But then Phantom looks at her over his shoulder. The expression is so strikingly familiar but she doesn’t know why, and stifles it down.

The starry glimmer in his eyes, the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks.

“Have you ever thought about what’s behind the portal?” His voice is gentle, steady. His aura flickers at the edges, brighter and fuzzier.

“No. We’ve never gone into the Ghost Zone.”

“Imagine it’s like the galaxy. There’s like, infinite galaxies. Just going on and on. There’s little pieces too. Sure you know that the ghost zone is through the portal, but have you ever wondered how it worked?”

She doesn’t know if she’s hearing things, but Phantom’s voice is getting weaker. His aura fizzling away like a candle on the last of its wick.

“—did you ever wonder how it switched on? What’s at the end of the endless tunnel?”

She’s not sure what’s going on. Or maybe she does. Phantoms drawling about the portal and she’s sure he’s fading—it doesn’t make sense.

“Why would we need to? We’ve never needed to know what’s behind the portal!” She responds, frazzled, “It’s just a wall.”

The strong scent of decay hits her again, making her stomach flip. It makes her nose burn, head clammy. Maddie presses her hands to her face, spluttering.

The portal. Electricity.

The decay.

“Are you sure?” Phantom's voice is echoey now, distant. “Or have you been so blind that you never saw the truth rotting behind the green?”

When Maddie uncovers her hands, the overpowering smell is gone. As is Phantom.

Only her and the glimmering stars.

—

The litchenberg. Of course.

The portal is the only damned thing in that lab with a voltage strong enough to cause such damage.

Maddie doesn’t even process coming back from the park until she yanks open the house door and runs into the kitchen.

”Mads!” Jack says in surprise, halfway through a packet of fudge, “Where’ve you been?”

Danny. Danny.

He’s in his room, has to be. She ignores Jack, dashing up the stairs, pleading that she won’t find what she thinks.

It can’t be true. None of this is right. Danny’s just...troubled. Sure, something is not right. But it’s none of this mess.

Behind her, Jack’s footsteps thump up the stairs, calling out for her in concern.

She rips the door open. Empty.

No unmade bed, or small lump of Danny under the sheets. No trash on the floor, strewn clothes.

”Is this about Danny?” Jack chatters, paling when he notices the absence, “Maybe he’s just ran off again?”

Maddie feels numb, heart sinking to her stomach. Her legs are heavy, weighted down by invisible anchors, chest feeling as fried as the portals shock.

God. The portal. That did this.

Their fault.

“Jack—it—it was the portal!” She finally manages to gasp out.

And then they’re in the lab, facing the green swirling vortex which reflects off of the tiles. Once a workplace, a sanctuary for her and Jack to make their weapons and research ghosts. Countless hours put into the Fenton brand.

How many of those are structured on lies?

Something catches her throat. There it is again, the putrid sweetness that claws into her lungs, makes her eyes water.

”Switch it off.” Maddie splutters, stumbling forward towards the green door. Once their pride and joy.

Now…

Jack presses the button. Sirens wail in her ears from the deployment.

And then they are in darkness. For the first time since initiation, the portal is still. No undertones of humming or neon green reflecting the walls.

Just stillness.

Maddie gulps, trying hold the bile rising in her throat.

”Mads…there’s something…” Jack whispers behind her, pointing directly at the back of the portal. Something small, a heap.

How long has it been here? Since the start? Just months?

Waiting. Decaying more by the day, desperately wanting them to set aside their blindness to realise what was lying infront of them the whole time.

Legs trembling, she traverses forward. The tang hits the back of her throat again, almost sickly sweet. Pasted into her memory for eternity.

And there something white juts up like a gnarled branch, gleaning slightly from the rubber material.

It’s irrefutable. HAZMAT.

And then the other, gnarled arm, withered and blackened, crisped like a branch in a bonfire. Black hair upon its head, once downy, now stiff as straw, inky as raven feathers. Skin—or what was, withered and twisted.

Eyes neither blue nor green.

Yet unmistakably Danny.

[solcorvidae]

No way!! Thank you so much and I'm sooo glad youre enjoying it so far! It's a small world!

I love a good Modern AU as much as the next person :]

thinking about Geralt and Jaskier being best friends in highschool and neither of them exactly knows what their orientation is, but they both know that if the other was interested in them they would go for it, but since neither of them is 'out' neither of them says anything. and after graduation they go to separate colleges and drift apart.

Then years later they meet at a pride event and they're both wearing bi flags and as soon as they see each other, all their old feelings come rushing back. They go home together that night, move in together the next month and are engaged by the end of the year.

[cuubism]

Rock Paper Scissors

Dreamling | Pre-Slash | 5.7k | AO3

Dream suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead." "Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me." "I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds." "Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

Hob gets challenged to a duel. Too bad his opponent has it out for Dream, and has no intention of playing fair.

--

the first fic I ever started writing for Dreamling a year and a half ago, then forgot about! 😂 then randomly decided to finish.

--

“ROBERT GADLING,” yelled an individual Hob had never met before in his life, “I hereby challenge you to a duel!”

Hob squinted at him. Said individual was standing across the darkened street, dressed strangely in a white tunic flecked with gold. Then again, Hob’s barometer for strange was a bit different than what was normal, so who was he to say, really.

“What?” he said.

Suddenly this person was much closer to him. Hob flinched back, but couldn’t move much, close as he was to the pub door. “We have business,” hissed his pale-suited challenger. It was a masculine figure, blond hair swished to one side, eyes like fire. 

Hob wasn’t impressed. He’d seen worse. Better, too.

“Listen, mate,” he said, “I don’t really have time for this. I’ve already got something on the books tonight. Come back tomorrow.”

He started to walk through the doorway, but the… creature?—he didn’t think it was human—grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “We have business,” it repeated.

Hob tried to shake off its hand, but its grip was like hot iron. It seared through his jacket and burned his skin. 

“What business?” he snapped. “I’m certain we’ve never met before, and my memory is actually pretty good, long as it is.”

The creature smiled, more like a baring of teeth. “You have courted those who have harmed me—and my ilk.”

“Not clearing it up at all.”

There was a sound like the swishing of a thousand ghosts, and then Dream was beside him.

Dream. How strange, still, to have a name, a history—well, sort of—to put to the face he’d circled back to over and over again for all these years. The name cut his friend into sharp relief—Hob’s shadow, finally united with the being who cast it. 

Where the pale stranger burned white-hot, Dream emanated cold. Hob had always found his friend’s cold aura strangely comforting. It didn’t feel dangerous and biting like the winter wind. Instead, it was the cold of lake water when one dove deep enough, a subtle and quiet draw to the otherworldly. 

Well. Usually it didn’t feel dangerous. Right now, it felt positively hypothermic.

Dream’s presence chilled the air until the stranger was forced to yank his hand away from Hob’s arm, shaking it out with a hiss. Hob’s breath fogged the air in front of his face, never mind that it was summer.

“Phaethon,” Dream hissed on one long, cold breath. “You are not wanted here.”

Phaethon pulled himself up haughtily. “I can go as I please. Night, or no night.”

“You may test that theory if you wish.”

Phaethon faltered, just a bit, before recovering himself. “I am here only to deliver a message. I challenge you, Robert Gadling, to a duel.” His blazing eyes flickered over to Hob, then back to Dream. “I did not believe you were one to violate the old rules of challenge, Lord of Dreams.” 

He bowed slightly. It felt mocking, which rankled Hob, who’d otherwise been keeping his cool. 

“Are you going to explain what this is about?” he said, for the third time. “I don’t appreciate being accused of things I haven’t done.”

Instead of answering, Phaethon said, “I’ve uncovered your history. There’s quite a lot of it, isn’t there? I wager it could make quite a bit of trouble for you, having all of that information turned over to certain parties. Human authorities. Occultists. Vampire hunters, they’ll love you–”

“I’m not a vampire,” Hob snapped.

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we can do that, or, you can choose to face me directly.”

“What do you seek to gain from the challenge?” demanded Dream. He seemed to know more about what was going on here than Hob, which wasn’t comforting. Hob didn’t particularly want to get drawn into some kind of immortal creature game with obscure rules he’d end up tripping over.

Phaethon’s grin emerged one tooth at a time. “I want… your dreams.”

Hob probably should have been more troubled by this. Instead, he just frowned in confusion. “Not sure that’s in your power, mate. You’re aware who you’re talking to?”

He didn’t need to gesture to Dream looming over his shoulder.

“If you agree to the terms,” said Phaethon, a hiss like lava dripping over stone, “then the magic will bind us.” 

Dream didn’t contradict him, but his anger cooled the air until Hob felt like he was standing atop a glacier.

“I think I’ll pass,” Hob told Phaethon. “Feel free to try to reveal me. I’m good at disappearing.” 

He turned to go—

“Lord Morpheus.” Phaethon turned the beam of his gaze on him, sunlight ricocheting off ice. “Will you stand in his stead?”

Hob grit his teeth and, against his better judgment, turned back around. “Don’t bring him into this. Look, if I win your challenge, what do I get in return?”

“You may request whatever you like,” said Dream. “Such are the terms of the agreement.”

“Fine. If I win, then I want this: you never speak to or of me again. That means no threatening me, no using me to threaten anyone else, no telling anyone about me—nothing. Got it?” God, Hob just wanted to go inside and have a beer.

Phaethon gave him a little bow. “Fair enough. I accept the terms of this challenge.” 

Dream seemed aggravated; a trickle of energy, like black lightning, scurried up the back of his neck and disappeared into his hair. But he didn’t intervene.

Hob and Phaethon shook on it. Then Phaethon retreated into the shadows again, calling, “Tomorrow at midnight, Robert Gadling. I will see you then.” Then his eyes blinked out and he was gone.

Hob shuddered. Good riddance. He rather preferred his eldritch creature to that one, thanks very much.

“What was that?” he said.

Dream’s presence was warming again by small degrees. The atmosphere was now more like an industrial freezer than Antarctica. “A minor demigod.”

“Oh, minor. Alright then.” 

“They are occupied by petty troubles,” said Dream.

Hob looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but elected not to comment. 

“Come on,” he said instead, leading the way back toward the pub. “We’re supposed to be having an easy night of it, dammit!” He wasn’t about to let some minor demigod ruin his night. He never knew how many of them he would get with his friend.

Dream’s gaze lingered on the spot where Phaethon had disappeared, but eventually, like the sweeping of a long coat tail, he followed.

---

"So, a duel," Hob remarked as they sat down across from each other in the pub booth. "I admit, I haven't dueled anyone in a few centuries, but I can't imagine it'll be—”

"It is not what you are thinking of," Dream interrupted. He had folded himself into the booth seat like a stick insect trying to cram itself in a jar. It was an absurd image, the long black coat, the spindly arms on the tabletop. "It is not a fight of the physical form. It is a battle of the mind and will."

"You're going to have to elaborate."

"In such a challenge—” Dream began, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress, there to take their order.

"So, what can I get for you chaps?" she said brightly.

The idea of Dream being a chap was so hilarious Hob had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, maybe he wasn't taking the whole duel thing seriously enough. Oh well.

Hob ordered a beer and a plate of chips. When Dream showed no sign of speaking, he ordered for him, too.

“You can order whatever you like,” Hob told him, when the waitress had gone. “It is my pub and all.”

Dream picked up the laminated menu gingerly. It wobbled in his hands. He looked down at it with a flat expression.

Hob realized belatedly that he probably didn’t know what to order. How much had pub food changed since— God, 1910 or so? And it wasn’t like his friend would have had much time to peruse menus since, what with all he’d been up to.

“Just try the chips,” Hob said, taking the menu away from him. “We’ll see how far that gets you.” 

"I have no need of human food," Dream said, folding his hands back on the table.

“Sure, and I technically don’t need my left leg, either, but I do rather like having it.”

“You say strange things,” Dream murmured. “As I was telling you. In such a challenge—” 

The waitress returned with their drinks. Dream glowered at her. Hob thanked her brightly.

"So, you were saying?" he said, sipping his beer. "In such a challenge…?"

"In such a challenge—”

The waitress arrived again with their chips. Dream slammed his hands on the table, shaking the chips in their basket and making the waitress jump. 

"Sorry," Hob apologized, "we've had a bit of a day." Wasn't it always.

"In such a challenge," Dream continued when she had gone, in a tone that suggested he would not be stopped this time, "one must suggest a mind-form, which one's opponent will attempt to surmount and defeat. Then you attempt to defeat their new form, and so on until one challenger is victorious. It is… a predictive game, of sorts. If one can predict what one's opponent’s moves might be, one can choose forms to foil them. This can easily become complicated."

"So, it's like chess," Hob summarized.

Dream stiffened, lips pressing into an offended line. "It is not so simple as chess."

"Checkers?"

"It will not help you to think of it so." Dream took a chip and bit into it in irritation. "You just— oh." He stared at the chip. "These are quite pleasant."

"Can never go wrong with a good chip," said Hob, then furrowed his brows. "Haven't you had them in dreams before or something?"

"Presumably. It has been at least a century." 

Ah, yeah. That. "Well, they're frying them in veg oil instead of lard nowadays anyway. Kind of a different experience." 

Dream stared at him as if Hob made no sense whatsoever.

"Anyway," Hob continued, "am I even going to be able to create these mind-forms? I'm not exactly an otherworldly being." 

"The power is in you, though it may be more challenging to harness. And easier to let slip from your grasp. It is imagination, after all. Humans are good at imagination, though perhaps not so good at holding onto it."

"Hmm." Hob munched on a chip. "Okay. I'll work on my imagination." After seven hundred years or so of life, it was possibly a tool that needed some sharpening. 

"I admit it offends me greatly that Phaethon would presume to ask a human to fight in this way," said Dream. He suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead."

"Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me."

"I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds."

"Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

"Do not joke," Dream growled. Actually, he never truly growled. It was more like his voice dropped into a lower register than usual. Which was saying something. Hob interpreted it as a growl, though. "Do not joke when your existence is at stake. Your immortality cannot protect you from this." 

"Are you saying I'd be unmade if I lost?" Hob asked. It was a concerning thought, to say the least. It had been a long time since he'd had to concern himself with his own mortality.

Dream’s tongue ran over his lower lip. "Potentially. The terms of the fight do not state so, but I do not know how such a duel will affect a human. The strain of it may simply tear you to shreds. It nearly drained me, the last time I fought."

"Wait, you had a fight like this? Recently?"

Dream tilted his head, gaze paling in confusion. "I told you that I went to Hell to retrieve my helm." 

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me you had to mind-battle– who'd you mind-battle anyway?"

"The demon chose Lucifer Morningstar as his representative." Dream’s lip curled in distaste. "Hence, the near loss."

Hob looked at him in concern. "Are you alright, though?"

"Of course I am all right." He spoke it as two words, like the phrase had never before graced his tongue. Hob wanted to let out a long-suffering sigh, but managed to restrain himself. "I am Dream of the Endless."

"Mmhmm. Yep. Okay."

"You do not have to worry about me," Dream said stiffly, parroting Hob's words from before.

Hob thought that was evidently untrue, but decided not to mention the century of imprisonment or the multiple near-death experiences— could he die? Maybe it was more like multiple near-misses with eternal agony— since then. To preserve the relative peace of the moment. 

"So how'd you beat the devil, then?" he asked.

"I had everything to lose. Lucifer had nothing to lose, and only a paltry amusement to gain."

Was that an answer? Hob wasn't sure. 

"Okay," he said. "Well, I do have all of my dreams to lose, apparently. Plenty of incentive to win."

Ice crystallized along the rim of Dream’s glass, spreading from where his fingers pressed. “You speak as if you think I would ever allow this to happen.”

Hob raised an eyebrow. “I thought the magic was binding?”

“Only by honor.”

“And so… what would happen if you violated that honor?”

The words trickled out of Dream reluctantly. “One’s word would not be trusted again.”

“Right. Exactly. I can’t let you do that, love. There’s a whole eternity of words needing to be trusted after this.” It was tempting, honestly, to let his more powerful friend step in and handle this—especially as Hob still hadn’t gleaned what the hell he’d even done to piss off Phaethon—but ultimately, it wouldn’t be right. He’d never used Dream as a clean-up tool for any of his problems in the past, and he wasn’t about to start just because he now knew he was the Lord of Dreams.

Dream’s expression darkened further. He truly was capable of embodying shadow when he was annoyed; Hob didn’t know how he hadn’t figured out the extent of his supernaturalness sooner, honestly. “You would not let.”

“Hey. Come on. I’ve solved plenty of my own problems, haven’t I? Have a little faith.” Hob kind of wanted to pat his hand, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “You don’t think I can win a duel against this Phaethon guy?” 

Dream seemed uncertain about it, and Hob couldn’t help but feel a little offended. Sure, he wasn’t a supernatural entity, but Hob had gotten himself out of a fair number of scrapes, and without the help of any Endless, thanks very much! 

“His rancor disturbs me,” Dream said at last. “I do not know what you have done to offend him.”

“Nor I. Never met the guy.”

Dream seemed lost in contemplation. Hob let him, and kept eating the chips.

Eventually, Dream said, “Even if this loss did come to pass… you would always have a place in the Dreaming.”

Hob’s breathing stuttered. “With you?” he said, sounding much smaller than he’d expected. It was… an ill-considered response, to say the least. 

Dream shifted in his seat. “I am the Dreaming,” he said. “It is part of me, and I it.”

“I see,” said Hob. But the thought kept turning within him.

---

No more was said on the matter until their beers were drunk and their chips polished off and they were strolling out the door of the pub. 

As they crossed the threshold, Hob was struck by a realization. He slapped Dream on the breast of his coat, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'm an idiot! Of course it's not like chess. It's metaphysical rock-paper-scissors!"

"Are you intoxicated?" Dream asked wearily.

"Nope. Just happy to have my old friend around again."

Dream’s form, unbreakable as the darkness between stars, stuttered. Behind him, his shadow wavered.

Then he swept away, leaving Hob to catch up. 

---

They met again on the field of battle, so to speak.

Phaethon was there before them, melodramatic in his white-and-gold cape. Not as melodramatic as Dream, though, whose eyeliner seemed darker than usual, somehow, and whose cloak swept all the way to the ground, pooling more like liquid than fabric. He was very displeased about these events, Hob could tell.

Hob shook Phaethon’s hand formally. Once again, the touch burned him, but he resisted the urge to shake his hand out in pain. Then they stood across from each other. Hob wished he had a sword, but that was not this game.

"As the challenged party, you commence the duel," Dream told him, standing not far from Hob’s side as Phaethon paced before them, grinning. "You may choose your form and begin."

Hob had thought long and hard about how he would start. He didn't want to go too big, else the fight escalate beyond his control. Obviously, he didn't want to pick something weak either.

What was out there that had tormented mankind, sowing destruction, breeding fear and illness and death, while barely reaching higher than an ankle? 

Hob had lived through it. The choice was obvious.

"I am a plague rat," he started, and saw Dream’s eyebrows twitch. Impressed. Ha! "Hiding in shadows. Letting sickness into our food, homes, blood."

He saw the rats in his mind. Scurrying through tunnels, climbing into grain stores, unaware of what they carried. A seething mass of tails and slick fur and beady eyes, churning, churning, churning. 

Phaethon curled in on himself, limbs creaking, boils popping on his skin and pus leaking from his eyes. Hob flinched at the reminder of those times. Horrible, horrible times.

Mentally, Hob prepared for the counterattack. Paper beats rock. What beats rat? Dog beats rat. Cat beats rat. Famine, extermination fumes, plague doctors, modern medicine—

"I," Phaethon ground out, through the contortions of his body, "am a flood."

Oof. Good one.

"A swelling, raging river, decimating any town in my path. Washing rats down to their deaths." 

A phantom wave smacked Hob in the face and hurled him to the ground. It crashed over him, gallons and gallons of water, surging up his nose, into his eyes, down his throat. He choked on it. He drowned in it. Debris in the floodwaters bruised him till he felt like a branch spinning out in the current, rather than a human.

Then. He managed to take in a breath.

He staggered to his feet.

Dream was standing a step closer, like he'd lurched forward, but he forced himself back into stillness.

"I," Hob said on a gasping breath, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, "am a drought." Phaethon had taken it to another level? Fine. Hob would go scorched earth. "Whisking away all your water. Turning everything into dust."

Phaethon choked, throat suddenly dry. His eyes went bloodshot. His skin flaked and peeled, his lips bled. He clutched at his stomach as it heaved for water.

He could go rain again, Hob thought. Or ice age. Asteroid. Biblical flood—does that count if he already did a regular flood?

"I am famine," said Phaethon, when he'd recovered himself, though he was still rasping. "I wither crops without water. I starve everything that walks."

Hob's stomach caved in on itself. He fell to his knees, retching nothing but bile. His mind flashed back to his decades on the streets, so long without food he'd thought his stomach would start eating itself—and then it had. 

His arms shook. His body felt thin and liable to crack. 

"I," he croaked, still on all fours, "am an oasis. Rising from the desert, real, not a mirage. Offering reprieve." 

Too late, he realized this might restore his opponent. 

But instead, Phaethon creased and cracked, like he was the famine, persecuted by salvation. He clasped his stomach as if it was overfull; water poured from his mouth.

Water filled Hob's mouth, too, but it restored him. He climbed back to his feet.

Dream was definitely closer now. He wasn't imagining it. Still, he didn't intervene.

Phaethon was visibly weakened, but still he said, "I am selfishness. Infighting over limited resources. Society destroying its oasis."

Hob's limbs were torn in opposite directions. He yelled, but the invisible hands on him didn't let up, yanking at him like he was the final piece of food before everlasting deprivation. He pulled at them, but it was no use.

One of his shoulders dislocated with a loud pop, and he bit down on his tongue so as not to scream. Blood exploded in his mouth.

"I am generosity!" he yelled, blood dripping over his lips. "I am brother sharing with brother. Stranger sharing with stranger."

Dream was looking at him now like he didn't know what to make of him. Phaethon, too, was staring at him, but with a look of disgust. 

"High-minded idealist, are you?" he sneered. "What the hell is generosity going to—”

His expression broke in half. His hands shook; he picked at his nail beds until they peeled and started bleeding. His lip wavered and his eyes beaded with tears.

Hob didn't know what was happening to him.

"Shame," Dream breathed from behind him. "So clever, Hob."

Hob hadn't actually known what generosity would do, but he appreciated the compliment nonetheless.

"I," croaked Phaethon, through tears, "am memory. History and anger curdled to a resentment which no generosity can overcome."

He felt Dream’s eyes on him, as he no doubt feared the anger, the resentment he so believed that Hob held over his absence would surge forth again. But it did not, for Hob had never been angry with Dream. Angry with himself, yes, and that he felt acutely, along with the fear and hurt of Dream walking away, the stewing guilt of it.

Memory held more than anger. Mostly, for Hob, it held grief. Grief for his friend who'd been imprisoned for so long, while Hob went about his life, imagining him lonely, isolated perhaps, but never knowing the truth. Grief for himself, too, for he knew that to always blame himself for Dream’s behavior had also been unfair. 

Tears slipped from his eyes. He looked over at Dream, who was still watching him warily.

Memory had far too many facets for Phaethon to use it as an effective weapon.

"I am forgiveness," Hob said, closing his eyes against a fresh welling of tears. He didn't know who he was forgiving. Himself, or Dream, who still seemed to need absolution from Hob, no matter how Hob told him he didn’t.

"I am hatred!" Phaethon snarled. His voice had gone animalistic in a last ditch effort to come out on top. But forgiveness clanged around him, pulling tears from his eyes, undermining his viciousness. "I am division even forgiveness cannot mend."

Just like that, he opened up the path for Hob to take his king. Checkmate. Game over. Rock paper scissors shoot.

"I am love," Hob said quietly, even as a sob caught in his throat as the memory of all the hate he'd witnessed in his life, the hate he'd participated in, and the fear, long-held, that even Dream might hate him, for his wrongs, or for overstepping, pulsed back to the forefront. He could never hate Dream, though. No matter what.

"Love can be easily destroyed," snapped Phaethon, but he was wavering. 

"But it always comes back," said Hob. Unwitting, he looked over his shoulder at Dream.

His friend was already looking directly at him. That tinge of red, so terrible and familiar now, was back along his eyes. He didn't speak, not to Hob. Hob followed his gaze as he looked over Hob's shoulder and spoke to Phaethon.

"Do you have a counter?"

"Love?" Phaethon laughed hysterically. "You brought love to a duel?"

"I believe Hob brings love everywhere he goes," said Dream, and Hob whipped back around to look at him, eyes wide. The tiniest smile was dancing on Dream’s lips.

Then a blade erupted from Hob's chest.

Blood sprayed. His heart stopped beating—actually stopped, he felt it. The sword had pierced right through it. He scrabbled for it with clumsy hands, but the blade shiiiinged back out before he could grab it. 

Blood spattered Dream’s face. Those pretty lips parted, eyes widened, the lordly bearing wiped from his expression leaving only a person, shocked and wounded. Hob would never forget that look of startled horror for as long as he lived. 

Which wasn't looking to be that long.

He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. No use trying to stop it. It would mend itself, in time, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the instinctive rush of fear. He was dying. He was dying.

He fell on his side. Blood soaked his shirt. All told, it took maybe ten seconds after getting speared like a wild hog—

—for the world to completely blink out.

---

Hob's chest ached like a bitch when he woke. 

He was still on the ground, bloody mud around him, soaking his clothes. Oh. That was mud made from his blood. How horrifying. 

He opened his eyes in time to see Dream lifting Phaethon from the ground by his neck. His hand was a vice grip and Phaethon choked, scrabbling at his fingers for breath.

"TREACHERY," Dream snarled, louder than Hob had ever heard him. His voice boomed across the empty park. "I will unmake you."

"I'm not one of your creatures, you can do nothing to me," said Phaethon, but his assuredness flickered.

Dream’s being was a black hole eating light. "Watch it happen."

Hob coughed, dirt trapped in his throat, and shoved himself up on his forearms. Dream froze, and turned slowly to look at him, Phaethon still clasped in his hand like he weighed nothing. Dream’s attention was like being in the path of a comet.

"Hob," he said. "Are you alright?"

Hob knew, in that moment, that if he asked Dream to spare Phaethon from whatever fate he had in mind for him, he would comply. And what power that was. Hob didn't want to be the one doling out mercy or punishment, like a judge at the gates of Hell. But damn if it wasn't a thrill to have Dream look at him like that.

"Of course I'm all right," he said, with a bloody grin. "I'm Hob Gadling."

Dream smiled too, a ferocious smile, like that of a wolf.

Hob didn't tell him to spare Phaethon.

Apparently, they both had some savagery in them.

---

"So why did he kill me?" Hob asked later, when he'd showered all the blood off—God he loved modern showers—and they were both sitting at the kitchen table in his flat, drinking tea. Well, Hob was drinking tea. Dream was just kind of staring at it. "I mean, the cost of losing wasn't even that high. Not on his end, anyway."

"He was not interested in you at all," said Dream, still not looking at him. "I dragged the truth from him while you were… gone. This was all a ploy to get to me. To hurt me—indirectly, of course. Such a lower being could never hurt me directly."

"Wait." Hob tried to grapple with this. "You— are you saying I was like a kidnapped princess?" 

Dream frowned. "If you insist. The point is, he did not plan to let you walk away. By winning, or by killing you, whichever he could accomplish." 

"Damn. Maybe I should have let you fight for me."

"No. You represented yourself admirably. More than admirably. You won the challenge, fairly, and did not try to kill your opponent to do it." 

Praise from Dream always hit Hob somewhere deep. Possibly because Dream only said such things when he meant them. Possibly just because it was Dream saying them.

“Well, thanks for handling him in the end,” Hob said, instead of voicing that sentiment.

Dream nodded solemnly. “I would not allow such harm to befall you without interfering,” he said.

Hob took a sip of his tea to avoid showing how he felt about that quite so obviously on his face.

“Why did he want to hurt you, then?” he asked instead.

“He is the child of a sun deity,” said Dream.

“And… that… means…?”

“Sunlight chases away dreams. We are natural enemies.”

Hob frowned. “What about daydreams?” 

“Daydreams may take place during the daytime, but they exist in the darkness of the inner mind,” said Dream.

“Ahhhh.” Hob nodded sagely. Yeah, sure, that made sense. One hundred percent. Absolutely. “I don’t know, I feel like some dreams can survive in the daylight. Thrive, even.”

“Perhaps next time I have an altercation with a sun deity, I will call upon you,” Dream said, a bite of sarcasm in it. “To see if you can banish them with this mindset.”

“Don’t give me that cheek,” Hob admonished. Dream’s mouth popped open in offense, but Hob plowed on, “Just have an open mind about it, that’s all I’m saying. Who knows, maybe you guys are in a symbiotic relationship or something, instead of enemies. You help people see what could be possible, and they balance it with reality.”

Dream was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But I do not think approaching them in this manner will serve me well, at the moment.”

“Maybe not if they’re going around attacking you,” Hob conceded, and Dream cracked a small smile.

Sun deities, Hob thought. Really, life was full of such strange and interesting things.

“So when you went to Hell,” Hob started. Dream tilted his head, but didn’t seem thrown by the change in subject. “What did you wager in exchange for your helm? The game makes you wager something, right?”

“It was the demon who chose the other side of the wager,” said Dream. “He demanded I remain in Hell and serve him for eternity, if I lost.”

Hob was glad he’d put down his tea, as he’d probably have dropped it. “What? Was the helm really worth that risk?”

Dream leaned back in his chair, lips pressed tight in offense. Or maybe hurt. “I am nothing without my tools of office,” he said.

“That is not true,” said Hob, surprised by his own vehemence. Nothing? He thought he was nothing?

“I could not have restored the Dreaming without them,” Dream insisted.

“Okay, fine. They’re important for your job. But that doesn’t mean you’re nothing without them.” Hob went to lay his hand over Dream’s on the table, hesitated, then decided, fuck it. Dream started when their skin touched, but didn’t move away. Hob repeated his words, with even more emphasis this time. “You’re not nothing.”

Dream met his gaze, challenging. Hob didn’t back down.

“As you wish,” Dream finally said. Which wasn’t actually an agreement. “I can concede that the ruby breaking was ultimately beneficial to my power. But the helm is my symbol of office. To leave it in the possession of a demon is a continual humiliation to my realm and station.”

“Okay, I’m hearing you,” Hob said. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Dream should be able to get his helm back. But he didn’t want Dream to risk horrible punishment for the sake of his pride. Better to slink away alive to try again another day, or so Hob felt. That wasn’t Dream, though.

“Just be careful, okay?” he said. “Even if you lost your helm and everything, and everyone in Hell thought you were pathetic—which, by the way, not sure Hell’s opinion is worth much anyway? but that aside—I’d still rather have you here than the alternative.” He threw Dream a smile, hoping he didn’t take offense to the idea that he could possibly be pathetic. “It wasn’t ‘The King of Dreams and Nightmares, et cetera’ that I missed for all those years, you know?”

“You did not know who I was, then,” Dream pointed out, but he seemed contemplative.

“I liked who I did know,” Hob said. “My friend.”

“Your friend,” repeated Dream slowly. Finally, he did pick up his tea, and took a sip. “A powerful title indeed, if you would have me when it is the only one I carry.”

“If you say so,” Hob said, which brought a small smile to Dream’s lips. If Dream wanted to think of it as a title akin to his kingship and endlessness and whatnot, then Hob would bestow it on him with gladness, and with a warm sense of honor that nestled right in his heart.

“It is…” Dream added, at length, “a meaningful title. To me.”

Rare, those expressions of feeling from Dream. Hob couldn’t help but to bask in them like a cat in a sunbeam. He remembered how Dream had looked at him during the duel. Love always comes back. Worth it, all the strife, to see Dream look at him like that, he thought.

“You defended me,” Dream said. “To prevent me taking the duel in your place. To protect me when it was not warranted.”

Wasn’t warranted. Hob really wished Dream would just learn to let Hob care for him.

"Would have even if I'd known it was you he truly wanted," he said. “I missed my friend for long enough. Wasn’t going to let something happen again when I could get in the way of it.”

“Your friend,” Dream said again. As if savoring the words. His lips tipped up again in a small smile. One just for himself.

Hob squeezed his hand on the table. A grounding touch, a reminder. “And don’t forget it.”

Dream turned his hand over on the table, and squeezed back.

[polyamships]

[ID: “Polyam Shipping Day / 14th of every month”. Next to the text is a red infinity sign that finishes in a heart on top. Above the text are rows of stylized hearts in the colors of both versions of the polyam pride flag (black, red, bright blue, light green, dark green, light blue, navy). /end ID]

February 14th 2024 is our 36th Polyam Shipping Day.

The optional theme for it is: 🌦️ Weather 🌨️

This could be weather literally, such as: characters enjoying the sun, dealing with rainy days and having to cancel plans, gleeful dancing in the rain, being snowed in, snowballs fights, or more dangerous forms of weather like blizzards, hurricanes, tornados! What kind of weather do they prefer, and what do they like to wear or do to prepare for different types of weather? For whump, characters getting sopping wet, hypothermic, having sunburn or sunstroke, and so on. Do they weather something, either physically like skin weathered by being outside, or mentally with getting through a difficult time? Something else, like a monument, location or item, they frequent or care about could be worn by exposure outside. Perhaps a ship they are on weathering a storm or taking advantage of the weather to get ahead. AUs with a weather related career like meteorologist, or they could have abilities to predict/control the weather. There's also many phrases with it in, such as fair-weather friend, under the weather, or to make heavy weather of something.

…

We’ll be tracking #PolyamShippingDay, and keeping an eye out for any @polyamships mentions too. We will reblog any polyam-positive fanworks featuring polyamorous ships of any configuration/type from any fandom. All ratings are welcome but anything nsfw/triggery should be warned for and behind a read more, as should very long tumblr fic.

You can also submit works directly to the blog or send us asks to let us know to check your blog for a post. If you’re posting on AO3, our collection name is ‘PolyamShippingDay‘ and you can post to the collection here. Only fanworks submitted/@ us on tumblr or in the official AO3 collection, or fanworks posted to our Dreamwidth community, are guaranteed to be included in our roundup. Please also let us know what prompt you created for, if any - people are always welcome to create for past prompts instead.

We have a Discord - invite here - if you want a place to chat about your ships or what you’re creating for them.

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[watchyourbuck]

Fifteen First Kisses

prompt done for @buddiedrabbles <3

buddie | 1,6k | G | chapter 5/15

“Hey!” Eddie whined, swatting Buck’s arm weakly. “I fight fires. I’m useless in the snow.”

“Yes, I also fight fires, but I’m not hypothermic.”

“That’s because you knew what you were getting us into! I didn’t! I’m the helpless victim here!”

Buck laughed again, rubbing his gloved thumb over Eddie’s elbow absentmindedly, as if that would help the matter somehow. “Maybe I wanted you cold and defenseless.”

Eddie’s eyes widened slightly, their pace slowing. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

OR: a first kiss in the snow.

Read on ao3

[itsohh]

Cold

A/N: G/N reader, so I ended up writing out that idea I had in that one ask I mentioned.

Summary: After being separated from Price during a mission you're left to fend off the freezing cold by yourself. Finally reunited with him, he does everything he can to help warm you up from your hypothermic state.

Word count: 1073

Warnings: Angst

AO3 Masterlist

Radio silent. All he received back was static. The winds howled outside while the snow continued its assault. The pair of you had been separated with the agreement to regroup back at the safe house. A small cabin.

Yet you never came.

John wanted to go out to look for you, to find you and ease the torment in his worried heart. He knew better. With the thick storm around him, it would be pointless. The likelihood of him seeing something even a few metres in front of him was slim to none let alone being able to conduct a proper search.

So, with the fire set up, he stayed at the window. The thermal scope was his only way to see through the thick billowing weather. His hand found the radio once again. "Sergeant, do you read me?" Once again his ears were only met with static. Then he saw something. Almost impossible to see but it was a higher temperature than everything else. Not particularly high but enough for him to notice.

The shape came over the horizon and he could better see it. A person. He had no way of knowing whether or not it was you but that didn't stop him. John slung his gun over his shoulder and headed out into the snow. It made it hard to move, each step slow but he continued on. For the sake of his own safety, he held a pistol in one hand. Just in case.

A breath left his mouth when he finally got close. It was you, that was for sure. He paused only for a second and saw your form. Blood had drained from your face and gave it a rather lifeless blue undertone. Your eyes were hazy, unfocused when they settled on him. What was the most concerning was the fact you had stripped away almost all your clothing only left in your underwear. Gear, guns, all of it gone. "Shit." He swore and holstered his pistol before he took off the gun on his back and then his jacket.

He slung the gun back on and quickly put his long jack over you. Yes, it was cold but he would live. That wasn't a certainty for you at that moment. A whine protested from your lips as he secured the jacket around you. "Stop I don't want it." Your voice slurred out as you made weak attempts to push it away. "It's too hot." Each touch you made against John's skin was like ice and slowly you stopped. No energy to fight.

"Your freezing cold, we need to warm you up." You let out a whine at his voice and slumped against him. How you had managed to walk this far in such a state amazed him and he picked you up in a bridal carry. John knew he had to get you inside as quickly as possible.

John pushed through the snow, you in his arms until he slammed open the cabin door. He closed it behind him with his foot and immediately brought you down in front of the fire. You were still awake and let out a little protest at the fire's warmth. John let go of you for a moment and went to go snatch all the blankets from the bedrooms.

When he came back you had managed to undo part of the jacket and move away from the fire. He came down next to you. "Stop. You need to warm up, that's an order."

"Don't give a fuck 'bout your stupid orders." Almost like it came from a child, your speech barely came out of your mouth and continued your disruptive behaviour. The beanie on his head was ripped off and he put it over your head to try and stop any warmth you gained from leaving your head. John pulled you in-between in legs so that your back made contact with his chest. With you secured, he pulled the blankets around the pair of you and he felt your body go limp against him.

John whispered out your name and your head rolled against his chest. Over your shoulder, he lightly tapped your cheek with his hand. "Hey, hey, hey. Wake up. Don't fall asleep on me." Prices' voice pleaded, begging you. Yet, you gave him no response.

"Bloody fucking hell, don't do this to me. Come on." He held you tighter with one arm. John put his free hand just in front of your mouth and nose where he could only feel the faintest of breaths. "Stay with me, don't stop breathing. Your safe now, just warm up for me. Warm up for me." He spoke to your unconscious body, desperately trying to get keep it together. He knew he had to have a clear mind. To think straight, you were relying on him to do so.

His hand went to your neck to search for a pulse. It was still there but so incredibly slow. John kept his fingers there, a small relief each time he felt that pulse. "If you stay with me here I'll do anything. Just… keep breathing for me." His voice was quiet. John knew you couldn't hear him but hoped perhaps deep down in your unconscious state that it would encourage you to keep fighting.

"I'll force Laswell to finally let us have that time off for our wedding. You wanted the boys there, I'll make sure they can make it. We can go wherever you want, Love." He swallowed and stayed silent for a second when he couldn't feel your pulse. Every second felt like a lifetime and he was just about to move for CPR when he felt that faint pulse. He let out the breath he had been holding and continued.

"Get a month off for a honeymoon. How does that sound? I'm sure you will be sick of me by then." John let out a pained laugh. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, you were still like ice. "I'd never get sick of you. Best thing to ever happen to me. Don't deserve someone like you." He pressed a kiss against your head. "But I'm a selfish man. Let me have this one thing, let me have you by my side. Stay with me."

"I'm a selfish old bastard but don't you go dying on me." John shut his eyes and mentally counted every second between your heartbeats.

"Please."

[a-killer-obsession]

Snow [Law x OC]

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Lost, separated from his crew, and near death in the middle of a snow storm, a chance encounter saves Law.

CW: fluff & smut, near death, oral sex, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, afab oc

WC: 5414

Masterlist || AO3

The horizon was nonexistent, completely obscured by the white out caused by the snowstorm, the flurries coming in almost horizontal as the wind howled and swirled them. Law shook with the chill, one hand pushed deep into his pocket, the other numb with cold as it held his sword close to his body. The snow crunched under his boots as he made slow progress through the sparse woodland, the dead trees doing little to protect him from the storm. He cursed himself for getting separated from his crew. He knew Bepo could brave the storm with his vivre card to search for him, but he'd need to find shelter if the mink was going to find him alive. He was grateful for his warm hat, but his face was windburnt and painful, and the hand that held his sword was numb, he would likely have to abandon his sword all together soon if he wanted to keep his fingers. 

His breathing was starting to become shallow and strained, his heart felt slow, and he stumbled in his step. Hypothermia was starting to set in, and there was no shelter in sight, not even a single evergreen tree to hide under. Another stumbled step and he fell to his knees, the snow soaking into his pants and sending a harsh shiver through his body. Try as he might, he could not stand, his body was too weak. He resigned himself to trying to do what he could here to protect himself, leaving his sword where it fell and pulling his arms inside his coat, slipping them from the sleeves and crossing them tight over his chest underneath. Not much could be done for his legs, but he pulled his knees up into the coat as best he could. He curled up in a ball on his side, doing whatever he could to trap his own body heat. 

A flash in the corner of the eye caught his attention, but when he looked to where it had been, nothing was there. Another flash, another tilt of his head, another empty space. There was definitely something hiding in the flurry, something that stalked silently and camouflaged in the snow, something unbothered by the cold. He laughed to himself, maybe it'd be a snow leopard, how nice that would be to see his favourite animal before he died. But it was a passing thought, there were no large cats in this area. It was no doubt a wolf, and he was no doubt dinner. 

He heard it stalk behind him, the crunch of the snow under its paws almost undetectable, if not for observation haki he likely wouldn't have even known it was there. At least he wouldn't have to face the beast before it took his life, he didn't even have the strength to roll over. He closed his eyes, anticipating the end. What a shit way to go, hypothermic on some shitty winter island, separated from his crew. Not even in the middle of a battle, his only fight was with nature, and nature was surely winning. Pathetic, really. He was a man of technology, a man with a powerful devil fruit who had helped bring down warlords and emperors, but a little bit of wind and snow would be what killed him in the end. 

A huff of warm air pressed to his cheek, but surprisingly did not have the rancid smell of death he expected of a wolf. Ah, his nose must be completely fucked from the cold. No bother, his death would be momentary. A cold, wet nose pressed against his face, and he couldn't help but let out a small whimper. He was a strong man, but deep down he didn't want to die, he was scared in anticipation of the end, and this wolf seemed to be taking its sweet time. 

As soon as the sound left his mouth, he heard the crunch of snow and the warm breaths on his face ceased. The wolf had pulled away. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, had it decided he wasn't worth the effort? Or was it toying with him? More crunches of snow indicated its movement as it paced slowly around his body, and he shifted his eyes to see where it would likely appear near his feet. At first he saw nothing, the wind still carried its flurries and created a void around him, he could barely see past his own chest. 

His breath hitched in surprise when its head slowly came into view, hung low as if curiously inspecting him, approaching him with caution as though it was nervous. He laughed under his breath, was this some sort of cruel cosmic joke? Because it wasn't a wolf at all - it was a snow leopard. Plain as day. It shouldn't exist here, and yet it did, like his own personal angel here to take him from this plain of existence to the next. Well, at least he got to see at least one before he died. 

He felt its warm breaths on his face as it came close again, hovering its head in front of his own. Curiosity got the better of him, hell he was going to die anyway, and he slipped an arm out from his coat and reached for it with a shaky hand. It didn't move, only shifting its eyes to watch the movement as his hand pressed into its soft fur. It closed its eyes like it was relishing the touch, and he intertwined his fingers with the fur, burying his hand in it. When its eyes opened it looked right at him, with golden eyes that matched his own. His breath hitched and he cursed himself for not releasing earlier - snow leopards don't have golden eyes. 

“You're human?” He breathed shakily. 

The leopard shifted its head as though to nod, and he breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn't a wild animal after all, it was human. A zoan type devil fruit user. Likely, a friendly one, if his current predicament was anything to show as his hand slid through its fur. 

“Help..” he mumbled. The leopard nodded again, and couched low to its front next to him. It tugged at the collar of his jacket with gentle teeth, as though urging him to move. He mustered every last ounce of strength he had and half crawled to it, pulling himself onto its back and holding its fur tight as it stood. It took his sword carefully in its teeth and began to walk. Its back was warm and soft, it felt like a sunkissed cloud from heaven against his frozen body as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

He was greeted with a small, dimly lit room when his eyes finally fluttered open. He tried to sit up, but there was no strength in him. He concentrated on what he could feel, trying to assess his current condition. He was in a bed, definitely, covered in a heavy set of blankets. His limbs were weak and hard to move, but it felt like all his fingers and toes were there. He was sure he was in only his underwear, but it was hard to tell without looking. Above all, he felt warm. Too warm, infact. He likely had a fever. 

Soft footsteps approached the bed, accompanied by a sweet melodic hum, and the mattress dipped as they sat. The face of a woman appeared over him, soft and kind looking, despite the obvious burn scar over the right side of her face. Her hair was almost entirely white, though judging by her youthful face it was likely not from old age. There was a section of hair missing near the burn where the hair follicles had been damaged. 

He didn't say anything, just watching her closely as she placed a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. It gave him relief from his fever, and he sighed as cool drops of water slid down his face. Her eyes met his, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she pressed a soft finger to his lips to hush him. 

“Don't try to speak,” she whispered, “save your strength for now” 

He closed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as her finger left his lips, her hand now smoothing over his cheek before returning to the cool cloth on his forehead. The relief from it combined with his exhaustion quickly lulled him back to sleep, feeling now a sense of safety despite the stranger. 

Dim light was streaming through a small window over the bed when he awoke again. He tried to sit up, and this time he was successful, though it took a lot out of him and he quickly laid back down. The short glance had been enough though to assitane his surroundings. He was in a small cabin of some sort, with not much more than the bed he laid in, a small kitchen with a fireplace, and a simple table with two wooden chairs. There was also some sort of large chest and a small bookcase with various trickets spread across the top. 

The howling of wind and the dull natural light told him the storm was likely still raging outside. There was a crackle from the wood in the fireplace, which was lit and providing the room a welcomed warmth. The room only had two doors, he assumed one must be the bathroom while the other must be the entry. The heavy door creaked as it opened with a flurry of snow, and the woman slipped inside carrying a handful of cut wood. She quickly shut the door behind her and set down the wood next to the fireplace before shaking the snow off her coat and removing it, as well as her hat, gloves, and heavy boots.

She immediately noticed he was awake, and the mattress dipped as she sat next to him. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. 

“Your fever seems to be coming down,” she said softly with a gentle smile, “thought I was going to lose you for a while there” 

She pulled the blanket back up closer to his face, it had fallen slightly when he sat up, and moved quietly to the small kitchen. He heard the familiar clanging of kitchenware as she prepared something, and the room dimmed slightly as she knelt in front of the fire, the light being blocked slightly by her body as she positioned a pot over the flame to boil. She hummed quietly to herself and moved back to the kitchen, pulling a glass from a cabinet and filling it from the facet. The mattress dipped, directly next to his head this time, as she sat. She placed the glass on the small side table and slid an arm under his shoulders, lifting him carefully to sit up and supporting his weight. She took the cup of water and held it to his lips, and he opened his mouth willingly as she tilted it for him. His eyes closed in relief as the water slid down his throat, and he drank the whole glass greedily. 

She laid him back down, but propped up by pillows so he could see around him. He was grateful for it, he could only stare at the ceiling for so much longer before he went insane. 

“Do you think you can manage food?” she asked as she retuned to her pot and stirred it with a long handled wooden spoon. “I'm making a thin soup, something that shouldn't be too hard on your stomach. You're not allergic to anything right?”

“No allergies, just hate bread,” he replied. His voice was huskier than normal, his throat hurt a little but the water had definitely helped, as would a hot soup. She chuckled lightly at his comment as she filled a bowl with soup and brought it to the bedside. It was clear to her that he was too weak to feed himself, so she filled a spoon with soup and blew on it, then brought it to his mouth. The hot liquid was savory and pleasant on his tongue, and soothed his throat as it slid down. It warmed his insides and he sighed contently as she filled the next spoonful. He couldn't remember the last time someone cared for him with such softness, usually he would hate being coddled, but there was a gentle familiarity with her that put him at ease and made him pliable to her care. 

She fed him the entire bowl, followed by another at his request, then sat at the edge of the bed to eat her own fill, dipping bread in to the liquid and letting it soak up the broth. He cringed at the sight, and her eyes crinkled with a smile as she noted his frown. He really didn't like bread. He looked away from her, and noticed now his clothes hung on a small rack made of thin branches near the fireplace. She must have removed them when she brought him in since they were wet with snow. He felt like he should be uncomfortable about being in a strange woman's bed in only his underwear, but he knew it was entirely practical and staying in the wet clothes could have been the death of him. 

She placed both of their bowls in the sink when she was done, and sat cross legged at the foot of the bed, inspecting him closely with her golden eyes, curiosity written on her face. She clearly had a million questions she wanted to ask, and to be fair, so did he. He didn't want to seem like he was interrogating her after all her help, so he stayed quiet. 

“What's your name?” she finally said. 

“Law. Yours?” he replied. 

“Lynx,” there was a short silence and she furrowed he brow in slight annoyance, “what the hell were you doing out in the snow without proper clothing? Do you have a death wish?” 

He sighed, he was annoyed at himself too, he'd made a stupid choice and it had almost killed him. “I got separated from my crew, we didn't expect the storm” 

“Pirate?” she asked. There was no malice in it. Most strangers he encountered were scared of pirates, but she didn't even seem to blink at the word. 

“Yeah, captain of Heart Pirates”

She wrinkled her nose. “Trafalgar Law, one of the worst generation?” He nodded. “I've heard about you. Would have been real embarrassing if you'd died out there”

“Yeah, you're not wrong,” he smirked. She smiled back at him, there was a light energy in the air despite the discussion of his near death. There was a easy silence as they looked at each other in the warm orange light from the fireplace. He couldn't help but wonder about her scar, and why she was out here alone when he knew the island held several decent sized towns. She caught him staring at the burn mark, and a light blush crossed her face as she looked away, turning her marred side away from him. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, “I was just curious about it. I'm a doctor, you see”

“Yes I know, Surgeon of Death,” she chuckled a little to herself, “ironic nickname given how I found you”

He couldn't help but smile at the dark joke. She sighed and turned back to him. “There's no other devil fruit users here, so people don't treat me kindly for it. They call me a witch, the burn is a result of them forcing me out of town. I survive okay out here on my own, there's a few kind souls in the town that let me trade wolf pelts for food and resources, but other than that I've been on my own for a while now. To be honest, you're the first person I've even had in here” 

There was a sadness to her voice, he could feel how lonely she was. He knew how it felt to be alone in the world, to be pushed away by scared people. He had his crew now to keep the loneliness away, but it hadn't always been like that. He felt sad for her, that she was forced to live like this because of something as simple as a zoan devil fruit. How barbaric the villagers must be, to push her away and call her witch, when they should be embracing her talents. She was clearly a kind soul, she had saved him without even knowing who he was or asking for anything in return, giving her help willingly without hesitation. It hurt his heart to think about such a sweet girl being forced in to isolation, she can't have been much younger than he was based on her appearance. 

“Will your crew come for you?” she asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice. 

“Yeah, my first mate is a polar bear mink, he should have no trouble with the weather” Law told her. He saw the twinge of anxiety in her expression. “My crew won't hurt you, you're safe.” Her expression softened at his words. 

“You should sleep,” she sighed, climbing off the bed and settling in front of the fire where a wolf pelt lay on the floor. She laid on it and pulled a thin blanket over herself. Law realised with a startle that there was only one bed, and he was selfishly making her sleep on the floor after all her kindness. 

“You can sleep in the bed with me, if you want,” he said hesitantly. She sat up slowly, looking at him quizzically. “I won't touch you, unless you want me to” 

She paused in thought for a moment before she decided to stand and join him. The bed wasn't overly large, barely enough for the two of them, and he shuffled over to make space for her. She slid under the blanket and settled in next to him, pulling the blanket back up over them. She turned away from him, pressing her back against his front, and pulling his arm to rest over her waist. 

“Is this okay?” she asked. 

“Yeah, it's nice,” he replied softly, pressing his face against her shoulder and holding her gently, “you're so warm” 

“It's the devil fruit,” she replied, “but I figured if I'm sharing the bed with you then I may as well lend you my warmth, it'll help you recover” 

He hummed in agreement and made himself comfortable. It had been a long while since he'd slept holding a woman, and she smelt pleasantly of pine and rosemary. Given her situation it was likely that she hadn't been held in a long time, so this was the least he could do to return her kindness. 

He was still wrapped around her when he woke up the next day. She was facing him now, her face nestled against his chest and hidden under her hair, one of his legs wedged between hers. Both of his arms had found their way around her, and they held her warm body tight against his bare chest. She was sleeping soundly, one of her hands around his shoulders, the other resting on his waist. The closeness would have usually put him at unease, but it was comfortable and felt natural. She stirred as she woke slowly, sighing a soft yawn against his skin and looking up at him. Their golden eyes met, and without thinking he pressed a kiss to her mouth.

She startled, pulling away from him and scrambling out of the bed, standing against the wall and watching him with fearful eyes. He cursed himself for being so stupid and invasive. Why did he do that? Stupid! 

“Fuck,” he muttered, trying to sit up, “I'm sorry, I don't know why I did that, fuck, sorry” 

She observed him silently as he laid back on the bed with a heavy plop, running his hands down his face and groaning at himself. The blanket had fallen to his waist, and she eyed his tattooed, muscular chest hungrily. The kiss had scared her because she didn't expect it, she'd been alone for so long she'd forgotten how it felt to be kissed. But his lips had been soft and tender against hers, and she pressed her fingertips to her mouth as she remembered the feeling. It made sparks flow through her, and made her heart race. 

Without questioning it any further she closed the distance between them, climbing on to the bed and pushing the blanket off him, straddling his waist. He pulled his hands away from his face as he felt her weight settle on him, and saw her looking down at him with eyes that showed no anger for his previous actions. Just curiosity. 

She bent down and kissed him, a fire reaching out and connecting to him through their lips, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her hips, urging him to hold her and support her movements as she started to roll against him. He was already half hard with morning wood, and it didn't take much of her pressure against him to finish the job. His tongue pressed against the seam of her lips, begging for entry, and she let him in willingly, her own tongue fighting against his for dominance as she moaned into his mouth. 

Her arousal pooled between her legs as she felt his hard length against her center, and she trailed her kisses down his jaw, tracing the bone to his ear where she tugged and sucked at his earlobe, making him grunt and tighten his hold on her. Her kisses journeyed further, making small nips and sucking at his neck as she moved down to his chest, tracing his tattoos with her tongue and flicking his nipple with the tip. He bucked under her and watched her carefully, her darkened eyes never leaving his as she moved further down, nuzzling against his happy trail with her nose as her fingers found the waistband of his briefs and freed his hard cock from them. He shivered as the cool air touched him, the fire from last night long since burnt out. 

He moaned as she took him in her hands, running her tongue over the tip and flattening it to stroke up the underside of his cock, before finally taking him in her mouth. Her head bobbed as she took what she could fit of him, her hands stroking firmly at the base to service what she couldn't reach. He balled the sheets in his hands and grunted as she went down on him, before one hand found her hair and held it tight, eliciting a needy whimper from her that vibrated on his cock. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, “I'm gonna cum if you keep doing that”

She looked at him with a glimmer in her eyes, and increased her speed, he could feel her smiling around him before she took him deeper, gagging a little as his cock hit the back of her throat. It put him over the edge and he came with a shudder and a heavy grunt, releasing hot ropes of cum that slid straight down her throat, her eyes still never leaving his. When she was satisfied that she'd completely milked him, she let him go with a pop and smirked, climbing up his body again and making a show of licking her lips. 

“My turn,” Law growled, grabbing her waist and flipping her on to her back. 

He hovered over her, his hands sliding under her shirt to find her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, and his fingers toyed with her nipples as she squirmed under him. He pushed up her shirt to reveal her perky tits and put his mouth to one of the buds, sucking and tugging at it gently, making her moan and writhe under him. One of his hands supported his body weight, while the other slid down the front of her pants and inside her panties. She was soaking wet, and he moaned against her breast at the slick on his fingers as he explored her. 

He pulled out his hand, much to her dismay, and held up his fingers between their faces, looking her in the eye as he slid them in his mouth and sucked her arousal off them. Her eyes widened with lust at the lewd display and her hips bucked instinctually. 

“So sweet,” he cooed, “I want more.”

She whimpered as he slid off her pants, throwing them to the floor, followed quickly by her shirt. He rubbed a thumb against her clothed center, saving to memory the image of the wet spot that had formed on the panties, before hooking the waistband and pulling them off. He flattened himself against the bed, nuzzling into her mound and letting his tongue slide out to run between her folds. Her head fell back against the pillow as she took in the pleasure he was giving her, and he curled his hands around her thighs to hold her open for him. 

He ran a fat stripe up her pussy before finally settling on her clit, running circles around it and sucking on it. She moaned so sweetly, it made his cock twitch to hear. He let go of one thigh to slide his hand under his chin, toying with her entrance before sliding a single digit inside and exploring her. Her hands both rested in his hair, pulling hard and making him grunt into her. He slid in a second finger, and made slow, deep thrusts, curling to find the spot that would bring her the most pleasure while his tongue continued its work on her sensitive bud. 

He increased his pace slowly, building up her orgasm till she keened and her walls squeezed his fingers, cumming on his face. He continued his ministrations as he worked her through it, her hips rolling off the bed as she shook and moaned. When she finally stilled he let her go, sliding his fingers out and climbing up to hover over her. Her arousal dripped from his chin, coating his goatee, and he wiped his mouth with the back off his hand then licked it off. 

Her legs came up and wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me, please,” she begged. 

He didn't need to hear anything else, his cock was already fully erect and throbbing with want for her. He lined himself up, sliding in just the first few inches as she moaned and sunk her fingertips into his back. She simultaneously pushed her hips up, and tightened her hold with her legs, pulling him deep inside her. He let out a deep moan as he bottomed out. 

“Fuck, you're so tight and wet,” he moaned. 

“Law, move, please,” she mewled. 

He began a slow roll of his hips, grunting every time he met his base again, her sweet moans sending electricity through him. He wanted to be slow and gentle with her, but he couldn't help but fuck her harder when her fingernails threatened to break the skin on his back. One of her hands found his hair and pulled him to her, capturing his mouth in a feverish kiss that left them both panting and breathless as he fucked her hard into the mattress. 

She arched and screamed his name as she came again, and her tight walls around him pulled him with her as he released his load deep inside her, shaking as his orgasm rocked through him. They stayed connected for a few more minutes, catching their breaths, as her legs fell limply from where they had been wound tight around him, and he collapsed on top of her. His face was buried in her neck, and her scent was thick in his nostrils, prolonging his afterglow. Eventually he slowly pulled out and rolled off her, laying on his back next to her as she curled up beside him, resting her head on his chest and curling her leg over his. His arm wrapped around her and rested on the small of her waist, while his other hand ran through his dark hair in mild disbelief at what had just happened. 

“Sorry,” she panted, “was that too forward?” 

“No that was, fuck, that was incredible,” he replied. She grinned against his skin and nuzzled against him. She pulled the blanket up to cover them both, embracing his warm body as she came down from her high, enjoying being close to another human and relishing the feel of his bare skin against hers. She didn't know when she'd ever get this again. Soon his crew would come for him, and he would be gone, never to be seen again. Maybe she'd get lucky and fall pregnant from this chance encounter, so she could at least not be entirely alone in the world. 

“You shouldn't stay out here on your own,” he whispered, “you should come with me, to my ship”

“You want me to join your crew?” she asked hesitantly. A sparkle of hope made her heart flutter. Nobody had wanted her around for so long, and now this stranger was asking her to go with him. 

“I can't guarantee you'll be safe all the time,” he explained, “but you'll have friends, and I can show you the world. It has to be better than this lonely shack. And your devil fruit would be useful to my crew, nobody would taunt you for it”

She sat quietly in contemplation for only a moment, it didn't take her long to weigh the options and make up her mind. “Yes,” she told him, “I- I think I'd like that.” 

He smiled at the ceiling and stroked her hair, happy he could do one small thing to make her existence a little better, and knowing he wouldn't have to feel like he'd abandoned her. His crew would accept her, he knew that much for sure, and would celebrate her for saving his life. Not to mention the idea of having a snow leopard roaming around the submarine sounded immensely cool, he struggled to not giggle like an excited schoolboy at the thought. 

They slept a little longer, then he helped her pack what few belongings she actually cared about. His fever had well and truly passed, and obviously given his earlier activities he was feeling a lot stronger. They ate, and talked, and fucked again, before finally, as they ate a late lunch, the crunching of soft freshly fallen snow outside alerted them to the presence of someone else. 

A fluffy white face peered in through the window, making the glass fog with its hot breath, and its face brightened with a smile as it spotted Law. 

“CAPTAIN!!!!” Bepo shouted as he practically broke down the door. Lynx watched with wide eyes, paused mid bite, as the polar bear mink tackled Law, nuzzling his face against Law's and crying all over him. Law smiled and offered a comforting hand to Bepo's fluffy cheek. 

“I'm okay Bepo,” he laughed, pushing the mink away, “get off me you lump” 

Lynx laughed and Bepo finally realised someone else was in the room. He looked at her curiously. She smelt like Law, that much was clear to him. 

“This is Lynx,” Law explained, “she saved my life. We're taking her with us to join the crew”

Bepo's fur raised with excitement and he charged at her, her bowl of soup spilling on the bed as he tackled her in a big, heavy hug. “Welcome to the crew!” he exclaimed before Law managed to pry him off the poor girl. 

There was no need to clean up the mess that had been made, and after a short chat to catch Law up on what had happened to everyone else, they picked up her bags and his sword, and stood outside the cabin. With no regrets she set it alight, and they watched as the symbol of her loneliness was engulfed with flames, fire licking at every surface and lighting the three of them in a warm glow as they watched it collapse. Finally, Law took her hand, and they followed Bepo to the Polar Tang to start her new life. 

[solcorvidae]

Modern Witcher AU: My Headcanons (part 4)

Jaskier’s full legal name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. His parents have called him Jaskier since he was a baby and it stuck. He is their little buttercup to this day. Jaskier will not respond to ‘Julian’ unless it is painfully obvious it’s him who’s being spoken to. Jaskier has never truly been ‘Julian’ but for whatever reason his parents never got his name legally changed. He has lived his whole life as Jaskier despite his paperwork, ID, passport, and medications all having PANKRATZ, Julian Alfred written on them. He will probably never do it himself either, leaving him stuck with a legal name he has never gone by.

Jaskier sizes down his base layer clothes to be slim-fitting and Geralt sizes up. They very easy could share most clothes (both ways) with no issue if they both wore clothes that actually fit how they are supposed to. However, since they don't, they run the risk of having Jaskier's T-shirts becoming stretched out.

Jaskier sticks to stealing Geralt's clothes. Geralt lets him.

Cats loathe Aiden. (Yes, he will be appearing at some point.)

Eskel’s voice carries through walls even when he is speaking quietly. It can be felt more than heard because it emanates so strongly from his chest.

Jaskier can do a scarily accurate impression of Geralt and can easily fool people over the CB radio.

Jaskier was a loud kid. Like the type of kid that will go up to a stranger, basically yell “DO YOU LIKE MY SHOES?” and then start aggressively stomping around in his light-up sketchers.

Jaskier’s family was initially unsure of Geralt when they first met. It only took twenty minutes for his mom and dad to decide they adored him. They think that he is the most polite young man and a pleasure to be around. They spend hours talking (having a friendly and enthusiastic interrogation) with him, asking Geralt a billion questions about himself and his relationship with their son… how they met, what they’ve been up to, where Geralt is from, etc. Geralt is overwhelmed but feels welcomed by the end of the night, no longer feeling the judgement boring into the back of his skull like he did when he’d first arrived.

Jaskier’s mom has plenty of embarrassing scrapbook photos of him throughout his life. Geralt half-jokingly asks to see them and she shows him every single one. Jaskier groans and hides behind his hands the whole time but finds the scene in front of him endearing… so he tolerates it.

Eskel makes tea for people. People he loves, people he’s comforting, his friends, his family, his lover, strangers, people who he’s just meeting for the first time… there’s tea for every occasion.

While Geralt’s creative outlet is painting, Eskel crochets. He makes his friends and family warm clothes to bundle up in during the winter months. He sews a custom made tag into each of his pieces. The tag reads: ‘Handmade with Love by Eskel Bellegarde’

Vesemir has three giant boxes of all the boys’ school work, projects, and art work. He vows to never get rid of any of it.

Vesemir drinks his morning coffee from a mug that is practically illegible at this point but had once upon a time said “World’s Best Dad!” across the front.

Geralt knows how to ride a motorcycle... he just doesn’t have one anymore. He bought a used one for a wicked deal in highschool but sold it for his old pickup when he realized how impractical it was only a few years later. He will probably let his license expire because he can’t be arsed to retake the test.

Geralt walks on his toes. His heels hardly ever touch the ground unless he is wearing supportive shoes. He walks near-silently when donning bare-feet or socks. However, he walks heel-to-toe when he wears his boots. He has custom insoles to prevent knee pain and the shoes really do help his aches and pains... but he can be heard for miles--especially when wearing his favourite cowboy boots. Think: a set of heels on an office building floor.

Lambert gets sympathy pains and feels ill when his loved ones are in pain or sick. This, along with the guilt he feels causes him to isolate and distance himself from them when he is not needed/wanted in the room. He is still very present and loving when he is around (even more than he usually is) but he feels tremendous guilt that leads him to spend far more time in his room/at a friends house than usual.

[Modern AU Headcanon Masterpost]

[themculibrary]

Tony Takes Care Of Sick Peter Masterlist

Am I A Dying Man? (ao3) - Odd_I G, 5k

Summary: Peter Parker didn’t get sick, not any more. He hadn’t been really sick since before the bite, and that was what? Three years ago?

He was pretty sure it had something to do with his super healing, but he wasn’t completely sure. They never really had to test it out, after all. But he healed fast, so it generally made sense that his weird radioactive spider system also fought off any infections and illnesses.

— OR —

Peter gets sick, is a dramatic little shit, and Tony is just done with everything.

Appendicitis (ao3) - tommyparkerr T, 15k

Summary: In which Peter doesn't realize until too late that the flu shouldn't be this painful, and Tony Stark is right there to both lecture and comfort him (and accidentally call him his kid in the process).

Blankets (ao3) - kiwifeather G, 1k

Summary: Tony cares for an under-the-weather Peter the best way he knows how (which is pretty good, because he's a Dad™ now).

et tu, brute? (ao3) - turtle_bean G, 3k

Summary: Peter rounds the corner and gives a half-hearted hop. “All ready for the mission, Mr. Stark!”

Yeah, no.

“FRI, give me a read.”

“What -”

“101.7 degrees Fahrenheit, Mr. Stark,” Karen announces from Peter’s suit.

--

or, peter is sick, ned’s worried, and tony is... well, tony.

Extra Noodles (ao3) - duskblue G, 4k

Summary: Peter is staying with Tony while May is out of town. Unfortunately, Peter doesn't feel the best, so Tony is on a mission to figure out what's wrong so he can take the best possible care of him. He enlists his good friend, Bruce Banner in this task.

flushed away (ao3) - underpassgraffiti G, 2k

Summary: "I'm dying," he decides, flushing the toilet and resting his forehead against the rim. He feels disgusting. "I'm dying, I'm gonna die. Spider-Man dies to ravioli."

"Should I alert Boss?" Friday chirps, and Peter groans, waving a hand uselessly.

"No, m'fine," he grumbles. "WebMD will save me."

or: peter gets food poisoning & tony takes care of him.

Into the West (ao3) - ChocolateAndRedbull G, 1k

Summary: When a feverish Peter lets himself dwell on the past, Tony makes sure that he’s there to talk him through it

it's in the job description (ao3) - iron_spider_suit G, 8k

Summary: Peter gets sick just in time for movie night with the team. Tony does his best.

lessons in the metric system (ao3) - akapeterman G, 2k

Summary: “Pete,” Tony said slowly, “You’re sick.”

“No!” Peter said more urgently. “I’m hyp’thermic.”

“Trust me, you are the opposite of hypothermic right now, kiddo.”

or; Peter and Tony decide to road trip to Canada. Unfortunately, a peppermint air freshener happens to be Spider-Man's kryptonite. Confusion ensues. And honestly, Peter blames the American school system. They really should be more clear about the difference between Celsius and Farenheight.

Of Chicken Soup and Brooklyn-99 (ao3) - AnnabelleBlack20 G, 2k

Summary: Peter hadn’t gotten sick since the spider bite. But then again, his rotten Parker luck had a mind of its own. Lucky for him, he’s got a superhero in his corner. Nothing but pure fluff between IRONDAD and his SPIDERSON!

shaken up realities (shaking up reality) (ao3) - lemonlillybee M, 5k

Summary: This takes place after Endgame, and it’s a bit angsty, but everyone lives!

Written for the following Sicktember 2022 prompt: Cold Sweat

Sick Puppies (ao3) - OllieCollie G, 7k

Summary: Tony has been through a lot in his lifetime—from being kidnapped by terrorists to saving the world multiple times and just about everything in between—but he may be facing his toughest challenge yet: taking care of two kids with the flu.

Since I Have You (ao3) - lunasquared G, 2k

Summary: He didn’t register the fact that he started falling until he was caught by a pair of arms right before he hit the floor.

“Whoa there kiddo,” Tony said, helping Peter over to the couch. “What’s going on?”

“‘s hot.” Peter mumbled as he laid down on the couch thankful to finally be off his feet.

OR

Peter gets sick and Tony helps take care of him.

we all have a hunger (ao3) - MotherKarizma G, 6k

Summary: “Morgan,” he croaked, throat afire, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey – hey, it’s okay, I’m just…”

“You’re sick.” She mustered up something like bravery, using it to straighten her back and plaster a very grown-up look on her face. “I’ll get Daddy!”

“No!” Morgan jumped, eyes wide. Peter fought to calm his voice. He offered her a smile that couldn’t have been convincing, not even to a five year old. “No, you don’t have to. I feel better now. You don’t have to tell him.”

Morgan’s lips wobbled. Peter knew what her fake pout looked like well enough to know this wasn’t it. “Petey…”

Peter had a lot of reasons to feel guilty. He felt guilty for scaring her. He felt guilty for forgetting to lock his bedroom door, for making scaring her a possibility. He kind of, in a way, felt guilty for doing it in the first place, though not nearly enough to stop.

But more than anything, he felt guilty for this: “Morgan, promise me you won’t tell him. He…he won’t let us swim anymore if you do. And I’m not sick, my tummy just hurt a little bit, but I’m all better now. Promise me you won’t tell him, okay?”

“But…”

“Morgan. Promise.”

When I'm Sick Or Suffering (I'll Still Call You) (ao3) - l_u_c_k_y_c_l_o_v_e_r G, 2k

Summary: Peter comes down with the flu, but a certain superhero makes sure he doesn't have to deal with it on his own.

Wingman (ao3) - Sahiya G, 4k

Summary: Holy shit, Rhodey thought. Tony’s a dad.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 3: "Bite down on this" (Legend & Time)

Ao3

CW for blood and injury

-----------------------------------------

The more of it that he sees, the more Legend is confident that he really, really hates blood. Sure, he’s a hero, and being exposed to the stuff is part of the job description. And he can deal with it when it's coming out of him, and he has no choice but to do something about it. But a situation like this? He would be completely happy to not experience. 

Yet, here he is. Experiencing it.

Lucky him.

“I-I can handle this, vet,” comes the gravelly voice of the hero he is currently trying not throw up on to save. Time sits shivering against the rock wall, pale as the snow surrounding them. His eye is still sharp as ever, however. Which makes it a bit difficult to send him as heated a glare as Legend wants to.

Not impossible though. Never impossible.

“No, you can’t, old man, and you know it.” 

He chances a glance at the wound, unable to keep from visibly cringing. It’s not every day you see a couple of ice arrows skewered in someone’s tricep. 

“Let me just think for a minute. I’ve gotta figure out how to get these things out.”

“Pull them,” Time says as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. This time Legend has no problem glaring at him. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, your arm is frozen,” he snaps, gesturing to the frostbitten flesh visible past the tatters of armor and tunic. “And has been for the better part of the last five minutes.” 

Time looks relatively unperturbed for someone dripping icicles of blood and likely getting more hypothermic by the minute. 

“I’ve dealt with things like this before,” he says, even as Legend practically dives into his pouch, searching for his fire rod. “I know what…what to do. It will only take me a moment.”

Fire rod acquired, Legend sets it aside and grabs for a pocket knife.   

Oh, this is gonna be so pleasant.

Time tilts his head, a knowing look in his eye. “This is making you uncomfortable.”

“Good to know it’s not bothering you.”

“Like I said, I’ve…done this before. Many times. There is n-no need for you to suffer for…for my sake.”

Bandages, fire rod, pocket knife, heart potion, a scrap of sturdy cloth torn from his outer tunic – Legend’s eyes roam over the objects he has placed beside him, checking to ensure he has everything he needs. Yup, time to dive in. 

Yipee. 

“Here.” He folds the cloth in half and hands it to Time. “You’re gonna need something to bite down on.”

“Legend…” There is something vulnerable in Time’s gaze now, vulnerable and almost pleading. “I’ll be alright. Just allow me to – ”

He cuts off, letting out a series of tiny – and frankly, adorable – sneezes. Legend hardly fights back a playful grin. So, he’s not the only one with “bunny sneezes.” Thank the Golden Three.

Oh, he’s gonna tease him about that later.

As Time finishes his sneezing fit, Legend picks up the fire rod. Mentally steeling himself, he moves closer to the affected arm.

“Look, old man, I’m sure you have done this yourself. Countless times. But that doesn’t mean you have to do that now.” 

Time is looking at him out of the corner of his eye and Legend meets his gaze. 

“You’re not alone anymore.”

For a moment, it is quiet. Then, the hero’s shoulders slump defeatedly. With a decisive nod, Legend leans forward.

“Alright, then. Take a deep breath and bite down on that thing. This is gonna hurt and I’d rather you not, you know, bite off your tongue or alert every monster in the vicinity of our location.”

Or causing an avalanche, he thinks, drily. Wild’s Hyrule is almost as bad as Rulie’s. Anything can happen here. Especially when you factor in miserable, below-zero temperatures. 

If he hadn’t found the outcropping they are sheltering under now, he is certain they would’ve frozen to death from the wind alone. 

Time sighs. But he obediently sets the cloth between his teeth. Legend ignites the rod. 

“Ready?”

Time tenses, obviously steeling himself. He nods once, determined and resigned. 

Gritting his teeth against the rising tide of nausea, Legend begins. 

It’s difficult melting away the ice without scalding Time’s skin, especially with how violently the older hero is shivering. His fingers aren’t the steadiest right now either. More than once he hears Time inhale sharply as flames meet tender, abused skin. But for the most part, he is silent, save for his stuttering breaths. 

Then, once the ice is thawed, the worst part comes.

Legend moves the rod to a one-handed grin to keep the ravenous ice at bay. In the other, he grasps his pocket knife. In two swift strokes, he slices the arrows in half. 

Now, a low groan makes its way out between Time’s tightly closed lips. Legend tries his best to ignore it. It’s nothing compared to what is coming, he’s certain.

“I’m gonna pull these out now,” he says, a frigid arrowhead already in hand. He can only pray that the rod was enough to melt any internal ice. If not, then this is going to hurt far worse than it would otherwise.

Time nods again. And Legend wastes no more time. With a deep breath, he pulls. 

The first one comes free with little resistance, wood slipping free from bloodied, frostbitten skin. Time tenses further as though struggling against the cries he undoubtedly wants to let loose. A low whine is the only thing that makes it out of him. 

The second one, however, is stubborn. It is more eager about its ice production, actively fighting the attempts of Legend’s fire rod. No doubt, the very blood in Time’s veins is crystallizing, becoming more frozen by the second. An excruciating experience to be sure. The fact that the old man hasn’t begun screaming yet is either admirable or disturbing. Right now? Legend feels a bit of both.

He brings the rod closer, slowly coaxing the arrow forward with the other hand. This time an audible cry comes from Time, shattering the eerie near-quiet of their little hideout. Legend winces.

“Sorry,” he grits out, voice sharp with worry. 

He pulls a little harder. The arrow slides a little farther. And Time’s fingers fist in the cloth of his tunic, knuckles whiter even than his frigid flesh. A tear trickles from beneath his closed eyelid and slithers down his cheek.

More ice melts away, showcasing blue-black skin beneath. Bile rises in Legend’s throat at the sight. But he drags more of the arrow out. It is nearly free now. 

“Almost there,” he promises, steeling himself for the final stretch. Time’s only response is a muffled scream when he yanks the projectile free. 

With a sigh of relief, Legend hurls the thing away, wincing at the ache in his hands. More than likely, he has frostbite now. 

Oh, joy.

But he doesn’t allow himself a moment to gaze at his swollen fingers. Setting the fire rod aside, he places a potion in Time’s trembling hand.

“Here, drink,” he orders, already reaching for the bandages. The bleeding is faster now that it’s no longer impaired by ice. He’d rather like to put a stop to it before Time loses too much.

As he weaves the strips of gauze around him, Time knocks back half of the potion. Then, he offers the bottle to Legend.

“Oh no.” Legend shoves it back at the older hero, shaking his head. “You need all of that. I don’t want to see your arm rot off.”

“And I don’t want to see the same happen to your fingers,” Time croaks. “You have helped me and I’m thankful for it. But you cannot afford to remain in this condition.” 

Legend looks from him to the bottle and back again. Then, slowly, he glances down at his hands. They are the same angry shades of blacks and purples and blues as Time’s arm. And though adrenaline had saved him from feeling the worst of it, he certainly feels them now. The ache has grown into a pulsing, tingling burn. 

He sighs. As much as he wants to argue, Time has a point. 

“Fine,” he grumbles and snatches the bottle away.

The bittersweetness of the potion is pungent and almost nauseating. But as soon as it has begun to heal him, he feels a wave of sweet relief. He hadn’t realized just how much pain he was in. And though this amount can’t soothe all of his wounds, it makes an awfully good effort.

He places the empty bottle back into his pouch, following it with the fire rod and remaining bandages. Then, he scoots over to Time, shoulder bumping against the older hero’s.

Soon, they will have to rise and walk, looking for the path that Wild had mentioned leading down the mountain. But for now, he thinks they are allowed just a little rest.

That ordeal has left him exhausted.

“Are you alright?” Time rumbles, his voice gentle. 

Legend huffs a laugh. “I’m living. You?”

Time chuckles and lets his head fall back against the wall. He is still much too pale for Legend’s liking and exhaustion drags at his features. Tear streaks gleam on his ashen skin. 

“Living,” he murmurs, “thanks to you.”

He places his uninjured arm around Legend’s shoulders and pulls him close. And for once, the veteran allows himself to lean in. After all, a little warmth is welcome in a place like this. And if he finds comfort in the at last steady rhythm of Time’s breathing, well, that’s just a bonus.

[january-scribe]

with zach never beating jesus allegations ive just realised that matt is not judas but the penitent thief

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

He replied to him, “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

[doomreedweek]

(banner by @rizahmad )

DoomReed Week 2024 starts in 7 days!

Prompts:

Oct 27, Sun: Victor kidnaps Reed *see below! (Alt: Secret hookup)

Oct 28, Mon: 2005-07 F4 movie, scene continuation *any scene - see below (Alt: "You're mine.")

Oct 29, Tues: Master! Victor & Slave! Reed (Alt: Enemies to Lovers)

Oct 30, Wed: "Strip. You heard me. I don't like repeating myself." (Alt: Hypothermia trope (see below))

Oct 31, Thur: Victor forcing Reed to kneel (Alt: A demonic entity wants Reed's soul, Victor has to save him.)

Nov 1, Fri: Love confession during a fight/battle (Alt: Choking)

Nov 2, Sat: Freeform!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

We got some very detailed prompts this year, and I try to keep things broad for maximum utility, but don't want to leave these on the cutting room floor, so here's the expanded versions:

For Oct 27: "2005-07 Movieverse continuation where Victor comes back and kidnaps Reed (for revenge, etc), what happens when they're alone together is up to the author"

For Oct 28: "That famous scene from the 2005 movie where Victor froze Reed, but what if Sue never showed up and Victor got to do whatever he wanted to Reed? Can either be angsty or kinky."

For Oct 30: "Hypothermia trope -- if Reed is hypothermic then Victor has to keep him warm (skin against skin method), or if Victor is hypothermic then Reed has to keep him warm"

Also new this year: a lot of nsfw prompts. I've tried to keep things balanced, and of course any "nsfw" prompt can be applied numorously instead, one of them losing a bet or the dialogue happens in a different setting than the reader might expect.

To participate:

Just follow the prompt to create a fan work of some kind (art, fic, drabble, video, themed playlist, anything featuring this ship and that prompt, or whatever prompt you like for the Freeform day) - and post here, on Twitter, or on Instagram with the tag #DoomReedWeek2024

We also have a collection for this year's set up on ao3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/doomreedweek2024/profile