#i recognize it from nightmares but its so strange that i now have to recognize it from a real event that happened to me

[poughkeepsies]

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[dilatorywriting]

59 Leona, it'd take a lot for him to admit but he would say it eventually. (Also I know you'd recognize me but I'm shy, so anon it is)

Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar Word Count: 1.5k

Prompt 59: "People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you, I think fate was being harsh on you."

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

You are nice, and you are stupid. And those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Sometimes you’re nice because you’re stupid, and sometimes you do stupid things because you’re too nice for your own stupid, stupid good. And it drives Leona half insane.

Which it shouldn’t, because nice, stupid people like you are just as annoying as his brother. Goody-two-shoes with buttoned vests and sparkly, star-shaped stickers on their term papers.

“Did you remember your homework?”

Leona flicked his tail in your face and you scrunched your nose over your notebook.

“Well?”

“Of course I remembered,” he scoffed, lazing back against the roots of one of his favorite trees. This spot used to be so much quieter, so much more peaceful, before you decided to trail after him like a duck quacking for its mother.

“Did you do the homework?” you clarified, and Leona rolled his eyes.

You sighed and starting ruffling around in your bookbag. “I brought a spare copy of the worksheet. You’re going to drive Ruggie insane, y’know. If he winds up stuck with you for another year because you failed for not turning in assignments.”

“Yeah. Sure. Another three-hundred-and-sixty-five days to rifle through my wallet. Worst news of his life.”

You huffed good naturedly and handed him the sheet of crisp, white copy paper and a pen. “Get to work, Kingscholar.”

“Oh?” he drawled, closing his eyes and settling back, loose limbed and all long, lean leisure, against the tree trunk. Clearly ready for an afternoon snooze. “Make me.”

You sighed again and reached over to flick your own well-used pen against his ear. It twitched under your fingers—soft, and tufted. The finest of the pale, tan fur brushing up against your fingertips. “Fine. Be that way. See if I bring you lunch tomorrow.”

“You will,” he scoffed.

“Yeah,” you sighed, sounding resigned and foolishly fond. “I probably will.”

See? Stupid. So easy to manipulate. So willing to let yourself be squashed under his clawed thumb. It was a wonder you’d managed to survive in this school at all. Nevertheless by clinging onto the coattails of someone like him. He’d never made anyone’s existence easier a day in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, just because you were too soft-hearted and slow to see a looming predator for what it was.

“Just give me that stupid fucking paper,” he snapped, sitting upright and swatting away your poking pen with a sneer. You laughed into your palms like a secret—bright, and merry, and dumb as a fucking rock.

“Whatever you say, Leona.”

.

.

You’d handled his Overblot with a strange sort of aplomb that at first Leona had attributed to perhaps a lingering, hidden confidence that he’d just never bothered to unearth. You were just some herbivore, and even the littlest rabbits could bite back when you put them in a corner. But then he’d come to the decision that that easy conviction was just another symptom of your rampant stupidity.

“I know you guys don’t want to hurt me, or any of us. Not really,” you shrugged around a wad of cotton—the blood dripping from your nose slowly drying up to a tacky, sticky dribble. Leona gaped at you outright.

That was your grand explanation. For why you’d been so eager to charge forward when he’d collapsed in a pool of inky nightmares and self-loathing. And the very same reason apparently thatyou’d felt so comfortable rushing forward to treat Azul Ashengrotto’s blubbering, hysterical, breakdown with the same urgency.

“That octo-prick would have ripped you in half,” he sneered, fingers twitching a nervous rhythm against his palms as he watched the nurse wrap another layer or bandages around your head.

You shrugged. “Not on purpose.”

You were going to give him an aneurism.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snarled, ignoring the horrible, twisty thing curling like bile through his chest. “And I’m not going to bother paying for some self-sacrificing idiot’s funeral.”

Another shrug.

“That’s alright,” you hummed, a soft sort of crooked smile on your mouth. “Would’ve been a waste of money anyways.”

Leona didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Surely because your stupidity had reached such a fever pitch that it was no doubt contagious, and he needed to protect his far superior and more valuable brain. Not because the image of you smiling and nodding along to his declarations that he wouldn’t put the effort into mourning your death had soured something so deep in his gut that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to scrape it out.

.

.

When he received a letter from home asking him to return for some shitty coronation nonsense for his equally shitty brother, Leona had debated just skipping it outright. Who was going to stop him? You?

Well. Yes, apparently.

“It sounds important,” you hummed, peering over his shoulder at the neat, formal scrawl of the summons. “You should go.”

He snorted. “I don’t want to be there, they don’t want me to be there. What’s the point.”

You frowned, brow crinkling in the middle.

“Well, that’s not true,” you said, perplexed. “They wouldn’t write to you if that was the case.”

Leona snorted, eyes darting away to glare bitterly off into the corner. “Not like they have a choice.”

“Well then you don’t have a choice either,” you argued, firm. “I’ll go with you. See? It says you can have a plus one. You can camp out in your fancy, princey, bedroom. And I can siphon you snacks from the fancy, princey hors d'oeuvres tables. That way we both win. You get to be a reclusive asshole and rub the fact that that you still went in everyone’s faces, and I can get access to some tasty, royal food that I’ll probably never be able to afford again for the rest of my life.”

“Should’ve known you’d be like Ruggie—only using me for the free food,” he sighed, melodramatic and obviously put on.

“Well, also because I thought you could use the emotional support,” you added, a touch too soft and far too genuine. “But I didn’t think you wanted to hear that bit.”

“You’re right,” he scoffed, turning onto his side to hide the strange, miserable heat pricking at his skin. “Don’t ever say corny shit like that again.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you grinned, flicking at his ear, and Leona added another mental tab to his never-ending list of reasons that you were really far too brainless to keep functioning at all.

.

.

You were nice, and you were stupid. And Seven, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“My brother hasn’t ever brought someone to one of these events before,” Falena had said, to your face. Idiot to idiot communication.  

“I didn’t give him much of an option,” you’d chirped, perfectly pleasant. “I don’t think he wants me anywhere near here, to be fair. Or around him in general. But I’m like a cockroach. Can’t get rid of me.”

And Falena had laughed. Because he was terrible. And said, “I’m sure he must care about you very much, little cockroach.”

And then because you were more terrible, you laughed back and said very assuredly, “Oh, not at all.”

Which was—was—

“Do you really think that?” he snapped, once the two of you were alone. And you blinked back at him with wide, owlish eyes.

“Think what?”

Think at all,he wanted to sneer, but just glared silently and bitterly into the middle distance—fighting the nonsensical, irritated swishing of his tail.

But you just kept staring at him. Like he was the moron here. Which was unacceptable.

“Look,” he frowned, sharp and miserable. “I get it. People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you. Whatever gods exist out there were playing a shitty fucking joke on you when they dropped you in my lap. But you’re stuck with me. So stop—” he bit out, fighting that awful, twisty thing in his gut that never seemed to fully go away. “Stop talking like I can’t stand you.”

“…oh,” you mumbled, whisper quiet—that wide, startled gaze flicking away in embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed, sharp, and you snorted a laugh that seemed to surprise even you.

“You’re stuck with me too then, y’know,” you said after a long moment. “Even when I make you grumpy.”

“You don’t make me grumpy. I am grumpy. You make me—” he cut off quick, eyes darting away petulantly and an absolutely unfair heat rising along his cheekbones.  

“Itchy,” you piped in, and he gaped at you in shock.

“What?”

“You know,” you shrugged, awkward, and reached up to wiggle your fingers. “Cockroach. Many legs. Squirming. Itchy.”

“Never say any of those words again.”

You laughed into your palm—inelegant and a touch too loud. Leona felt his lips quirk.

“Thank you,” you said after a moment, once your giggles were a bit more under control. And leaned forward quick as a whip to press a nervous peck against his cheek. “For being kind to me.”

Kind.

Leona reached up to press a hand against the too-warm skin with a terrible, unfamiliar sensation in his head not unlike the fuzzy, white drone of TV static. And a horrible thought managed to filter its way through the floating, buzzing sensation curling through the whole of him.

Oh, fuck. It is contagious.

.

.

[drabblesandimagines]

I absolutely love how you write Halsin, can I request a fic with a fem Tav having a nightmare sometime after Orin's kidnapping. The possession scene still haunts me to this day and keep imagining Tav seeing that over n over on top of struggling to rescue him. It ends with him waking and comforting her. Keep up the great work!

Thank you, lovely anon! I hope you enjoy - please let me know! xxx

Nightmares

Your limbs feel heavy, vision somewhat blurred around the edges as you walk past strangely empty tents in the camp on the outskirts of Rivington.

There’s an overpowering smell of rust in the air as you approach the barn, the dirt soon growing damp under your boots and it isn’t long before a squelch accompanies every step.

A sinking feeling in your stomach as a large figure emerged from the shadows.

Halsin – your sweet, caring druid - looms over the lifeless bodies of Gale, Astarion and Shadowheart. They’re splayed out almost atop of one another, arms and legs at unnatural angles, gruesome tears in their flesh, the straw sodden with red that matches the splatters across Halsin’s bare chest.

“What…?”

“Go,” Halsin growls between gritted teeth. There’s a look in his eye you haven’t seen before, his muscles shuddering with exertion as he tries to catch his breath. “Go - now - before I do the same to you.”

“No.” You shake your head, furiously, as if it might change the scene. “This isn’t real. it can’t be. You wouldn’t, Halsin-”

“It’s this city,” he grunts, thumping his chest with his fist as he glares at you. “The corruption, I cannot hold it back any longer. Why did you bring me here? I said-“

His eyes flash gold for a split second before the light engulfs his entire body – fur swiftly taking its place as he transforms and emits a mighty roar.

You take a step back in retreat and immediately trip over something – an arm or a leg – falling and knocking the back of your head upon stone. Above is no longer the ceiling of the drafty barn but what appears to an endless chasm. You sit up, scrambling back on your hands, heart pounding as you recognize your surroundings.

The Temple of Bhaal.

Halsin lies on the altar, his knuckles grazing the floor as his arm hangs off the side. You stumble up to your feet without further thought, not even checking for any Bhaal cultists or Orin herself, only focused on reaching him.

His eyes, once so full of warmth and love, stare blankly skyward - lifeless and bloodshot.

You’re too late.

There’s a scroll clenched in the fist resting upon his still chest. You tug it out with gentle fingers and unfurl it, only for to burn into ash immediately, only allowing you a glimpse of what was written at the top.

Speak with the dead.

Halsin’s body is illuminated in an eerie green glow. Not the greens of nature that he so adored, but something entirely unwordly. His neck cracks as he turns his head to face you, a hollow, foreign voice emitting from his mouth.

“You did not come for me.”

“No, I did. We did. We were just-” Cold fingers encircle your wrist, keeping you in place by the altar.

“No.” He cuts across, emotionless. “You left me here to die – alone.”

“No, Halsin. No, I swear. I don’t know what happened. We were just in camp and-“

“I called out for you.” His fingers squeeze your wrist so hard you swear the bones are about to break. “I called your name over and over and over, until my voice grew hoarse.” He places his other hand at the base of your throat, fingers splayed out over your collarbones. “I called for you, the one who lay with me, claimed to love me… yet still you did not come.”

“Halsin, please, listen-”

“You killed me.” He trails his fingers up your neck, pausing to cup your chin. “And, now, with the Oak Father as my witness, I will reset the balance of nature.”

With one powerful squeeze around your throat, your breath is cut off.

--

Whilst most elves favour four or so hours of trance, Halsin has proved to be quite the heavy sleeper in comparison – most likely due to the time he has spent in his ursine form – though a whimper from your lips is enough to wake him immediately, concerned.

He releases you from his spooned embrace, laid upon the pile of furs upon the ground, in fear that he’d somehow caused you pain, perhaps squeezed a little too tight in his dreams as he sought your warmth.

The furrowed brow, twitching limbs and mumbled, somewhat frantic protests, however, suggest you are in the throes of a nightmare. The druid swears his heart breaks, knowing it is best that you wake under your own steam rather than him call or shake you.

Mercifully, he does not have to wait long. You sit bolt upright with a desperate, gasping breath, drenched in a cold sweat, eyes flitting furiously side to side as you try and work out where you are now.

Your heart is pounding dangerously loud in your ears, so much so you can’t hear how hard you’re trying to gulp down mouthfuls of air, but it’s as if it stagnates at the top of your lungs, never truly getting deep enough.

Tears burn at your eyes at the effort and Halsin cannot hold himself back any longer. He places a large hand against the small of your back, hoping his gentle touch would help ground you.

You flinch at the contact, eyes widening as you finally see him in the dim light of the tent. There is a momentary flicker of fear across your face that Halsin prays to Silvanus that he will never see again.

It’s a short, gasp of a breath in and out and the colour now drained entirely from your cheeks that drives him to act. He pulls you onto his lap in a smooth motion, pressing your back snug up against his chest, ignoring another flinch as he places a palm between your collarbones.

“Forgive me, my heart,” he bends his head to speak directly into your ear, too aware of how hard your heart is beating and wanting to be sure you’ll hear – he can feel the dull thud against his own chest. “I need you to breathe with me.”

His body feels warm. You twitch, trying to turn to face him, check his face over for injuries, feel his heart beat beneath your fingertips, but he has you nestled perfectly between his thighs, keeping you still.

“I have you, petal. I promise you are safe.” His breath dances across your neck. “Close your eyes, focus on my touch and breathe as deep as you can. Please.”

Dark spots are dancing around your vision now, so it’s easy to close your eyes. Halsin is breathing deliberately slowly - exaggerating his inhales and exhales so your body shifts with each of his breaths in the hopes that you’ll mimic the movement.

It is trial and error - more than a few resulting in short, sharp gasps and spluttering breaths – but, slowly and surely, your heart beat slows and your breaths grow more productive.

The scent of moss, wood smoke, various herbs and flowers permeate through the panic and you finally recognize where you are in – in your dwelling in the commune.

It has been four months since the fall of the Nether Brain.

You twist in his lap again, desperate to see his face, to check if his eyes are still lifeless. Halsin permits it this time and it is with a sigh of relief that you see your druid whole and alive.

“My love?” His tone is so cautious that you break into a sob.

Halsin pulls you back against his bare chest in an instant, maneuvering you into a more comfortable position with ease as you cry. He does not make to hush you, or ask you what is wrong, only rocks you back and forth in his arms, pressing periodic kisses to your crown as he does.

Even when your sobs eventually cease into teary, pathetic hiccups, he does not press for details, remaining in silence until you build up the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, unsure if he has even heard.

Halsin presses a final kiss to your crown. “There is nothing to apologise for, petal.”

You look up at him, shaking your head. “No, there is. I was too late. T-the Bhaal Temple. I was too late. You-”

“You were having a nightmare. Please”, he lifts a hand to your cheek, stroking away a stray tear with his thumb, “do not torment yourself with recollection of such dark dreams. All is well – we are both safe.”

His other hand leaves your side for a moment, grabbing something you can’t see. You make to protest – it’s not safe, it’ll never be safe, Bhaal still exists, what if it was a message, or a threat? – but it dies on your tongue as he holds up a small bouquet of dried flowers under your nose, the scent calming you almost instantly.

“Humour me a moment, do you recognize the scents?”

“Mm-hm.” You take them from his hand, twirling them between your thumb and forefinger. “Lavender, roses, daisies…”

“Very good. I feared I had been somewhat distracting during our lessons.”

Lessons – that coaxes a soft, breathy laugh from you. Long, leisurely walks around the lands surrounding the commune, all with the intention of Halsin imparting his knowledge of the natural world had often turned into anything but.

Of course, he had always started off with pure intentions, he’d even keep his hands behind his back in an attempt to give focus, but all that seemed to break it was you bending down to inspect a sapling, or take in the perfume of a flower he’d pointed towards and then somehow you’d find yourself pinned against a nearby trunk or tackled oh so gently down into a flower bed, hot open-mouthed kisses pressed across your throat and collarbone…

“Mm, a little. But not enough that I don’t recall what you’ve taught me,” you look down at the dried bouquet. “For I do know that these are all known for their calming properties.”

“Indeed.” He chuckles. “I find placed under the pillow works wonders for troubled sleep, as well as keeping bad dreams at bay.”

You look up at him then, brow furrowed. “You have trouble sleeping?”

“I did – not for a while now. I find that having you nestled in my arms, my heart, is more soothing than any of the Oak Father’s creations.”

You feel the warmth prickle across your cheeks – Halsin’s compliments never fail to leave you a little flustered. He chuckles again as you drop your eyes back into your lap, a tell he has come to know well during your time together. He tilts your chin back up and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep again, petal? Dawn is still a way off.”

Tomorrow will be another long day. Though the commune continues to fall into place more and more each day, there is always so much to be done.

“I can try.” You concede.

“Here,” he plucks the dried bouquet from your hand and slips it inside your pillow, giving it a firm pat to make sure it remained comfortable. “With the hopes that it makes your dreams as sweet as you are.”

Halsin coaxes you to lie down wordlessly, spooning you against his chest and draping an arm around your waist with a light squeeze.

“Comfortable?”

You inhale deeply, the bouquet of dried flowers seeping out from the pillow, the warmth of Halsin behind you, the way his hand begins to rub gently up and down your side.

“Mm.” You mumble, closing your eyes. “I love you, Halsin.”

Halsin smiles as he feels the tension leave your body fully at last – he hated seeing you in any sort of distress, whether it be minor or major.

“I love you too, my heart.” He bends his head down and starts to kiss your neck slowly and softly -  a favourite spot of both his and yours for a few moments before he retreats.

“Now, sleep, petal. Regain your energy so that I can show you precisely how much I love you in the morning, hm?”

He is unsure you have heard for sleep seems to have claimed you once more...

..but that doesn't mean he won't keep his word when dawn breaks.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[aesterblaster]

Sleepin Demons

How Blue Lock characters wake up from nightmares/How you can comfort them [Gender neutral reader]

Tropes: Reverse Comfort, Fluff/Angst, Established Relationship, and general warnings for some gore and mentions of flashbacks along with implied sexual harassment

Characters: Almost All Of Them Lol

Songs: Insecure - Bren Joy // Coffee for Dinner - Orion Sun // Broken Clocks - SZA

The Silent Type + Actual Memories

It's the same one again. He's right back where he started. Unloved, unknown, left out of everything. The pangs of hunger run through him like a freight train as he desperately runs from room to room in his childhood home...But there's no nourishment. Someone calls his name but all he feels is fear at being recognized, he cowers as a figure rounds the corner and says his name again. "You think you could get away from me? Huh?" It could be anyone, a parent, someone he used to owe money to, an old abusive coach, all he knows is what comes next is going to hurt. "Are you fucking crying? You're so pathetic, soon everyone else will see that just like I always have!" The floor begins to sag and give way, everything creases in on itself. His brain feels like it's going to explode.

When he wakes up- his brain still feels as if it's too big for his skull, pushing against the edges like it's trying to find its way out. But he doesn't groan in pain, and he doesn't move. You're next to him after all, breathing softly. The moonlight grounds him, your hand against his side grounds him, he is safe now. The best thing you can do is stay asleep. He isn't ready to talk and admit that he's weak (or even worse...the fact that it is okay to be weak sometimes), not yet. For now he just snuggles against you and quietly brushes away any residual tears, thanking everything he believes in that he's here with you now.

Kaiser, Hiori, Naruhaya, Noa, Lorenzo

The Silent Type + More Abstract Fears

Slow. Everything was moving so fucking slow around him. His body was falling apart. Every sinew, every cell, every fucking atom of his being was breaking down and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Was this what he was truly destined for, dust to dust? Strangely enough, it didn't hurt, everything was calm. He was dying, so what? Every star burns out. And then, as sharp as a clap of thunder, the pain arrived. In his heart, not his body. Images of friends, family, trophies, all the things he hadn't done yet and you surged through his head. No, he couldn't die, not yet! He gripped his arm, but it was already turning to dust. Irrelevant and forgotten.

He's almost surprised when he wakes up, remembers that that would be impossible. Wants to scoff at himself for being afraid of something that could never happen. But the truth is, he is going to die someday, no matter how big of a star he is. He watches you twitch in your sleep, obviously disturbed by how he jerked awake, and curls his arms around you. He presses his face to the top of your head and breathes you in, silently begging you to drift back into a deeper sleep. He just needs to savor every moment with you and stop worrying, he tells himself.

Snuffy, Nagi, Ego, Aryu, Reo, Kuon, Chris, Jin

Wakes Up Screaming + Needs Reassurance

Why was this happening? You were in his arms, covered in blood, he was covered in blood; It was everywhere. The cheering from the fans turned into screaming, that's when he should've stopped and had the damn sense to look around. Instead, he kept running and dribbling down the field, confused why nobody was stopping him. He didn't see you falling from the stands until you were right in front of him. Your arm twisted first, then your neck, the rest of you followed. Why was this happening? "No, no, no, no...(Y/N). Get help! What the fuck are you all standing around for?!" He took off his jersey and tried to stop the bleeding but it wasn't enough, you were already going cold. He was powerless.

"I said get help-!!" he roared. "Oh..oh fuck." He suddenly wasn't holding your limp body anymore, he was in his- your room. The smell of blood disappeared. He glanced over and made eye contact with you. "Are you okay? You're shaking like a leaf!" "No..can you, can you just come here?" He crushes you in a bear hug as soon as you do. Even when he lets up, he opts to hold your hand instead. He makes you tell him about your day, because he got in late when you were already asleep. He tells you how much he loves you and recounts the day you two met just to stop his heart from bursting. "S-sorry I woke you up, I just- I needed that."

Ness, Niko, Aoshi, Sendo, Gagumaru, Igaguri, Kurona

Wakes Up Screaming + Needs Some Space

The first thing he notices is that he can't breathe. The second thing he notices is that he is in a hospital. "No, I don't think he will ever be able to speak or move again." a voice he doesn't recognize claims. Someone is choking him and he can't stop them. It's himself, rabid, foaming at the mouth. The doppelganger realizes he's been caught and tightens his grip. "That's right, that's what you fucking get for ignoring yourself. You don't even fucking eat enough and you want to be a star, huh? You keep betraying yourself." His neck is lifted from the cold pillow. "And betraying yourself!" It's slammed back down. He wants to tell him to stop, to say anything, but he can't.

He wakes up like he's been jolted back to life by electricity, doesn't even realize he's screaming. "Baby, baby you're okay! It's okay." He feels your hands around him and feels ashamed instead of relieved. What the fuck was that?! "Just go back to sleep, I'll be back." You open your mouth to argue but he shakes his head. "Please." This is nothing you can help him with, he needs to take care of himself and he knows it. Can't keep relying on others to pull him out. He takes a cold shower and comes back to bed hours later, slipping next to you. "I'm sorry I scared you." is all he says as his hands glide over your back. It's best if you just accept his apology, you'll never fully understand the war he's having with himself.

Chigiri, Kenyu, Kunigami, Kira, Sae, Barou

You Wake Him Up + It's Not Okay

Of course he knows this is a fucking dream, how could it not be? The overwhelming lights, the strange woman putting her hands on his chest. He knows exactly what this is about too. The paparazzi have gotten way too comfortable following both you and him around, they keep asking invasive questions and posting up outside of your house. The lack of privacy should be illegal. "You're famous now, you should like this you ungrateful piece of shit." a voice hisses in his ear as another pair of hands massages his shoulders. He tenses and struggles, but more hands appear, grabbing at his clothes. They tear pieces away from him with no remorse and something deep inside of him wishes it could end- Scratch that, every part of him wishes this would end, the violation, the rumors, the-

"Hey! Are you alright? I think..I think that you were having a nightmare." He gasps, so the feeling of hands on his chest were yours. Everything that was tensed relaxes, it was just you. That doesn't stop all his feelings from welling up along with tears. "Can you not touch me right now?" God, he wishes you wouldn't look at him like that. "Are you crying?" "No." He slips out of bed and checks the curtains, he can't shake the feeling of foreign hands on every part of him, not just his chest. Disgust curls and uncurls in his stomach. Why couldn't he just fight back on his own in his own damn head? "There's no one out there-" "How do you know!? Huh?" he demands, a whole lot louder than he meant to. "Fuck wait..I'm sorry. This week has just been a lot." You two end up having a long and needed talk that night.

Lavinho, Reo, Oliver, Rin, Raichi, Tabito

You Wake Him Up + It's Okay

He has been walking in circles for hours. Each loop, though, something changes. At first it was funny, (someone's head would balloon to an impossible size or a sign would read a curse word instead of an actual street name, for example) but now he was just tired. He couldn't sit down though or this burning pain would shoot through him...Just like in the real world, if he ever stopped shining, if he ever stopped moving forward, he'd get this feeling like he wasn't doing enough. Even on vacations there would be a gnawing sense that he was running from his rightful title. All he needed was the spotlight, even if it took so much fucking effort to get there. Practicing the same kicks over and over again, walking in circles, looking for what would excite him next-

"Please stop kicking me..." you groan and he wakes up instantly. Honestly, he didn't realize how terrifying his dream was until he's lucid. "Was I kicking you? Sorry... I just had the weirdest dream, it was like I kept walking in circles and I couldn't stop." "Maybe that's your brain telling you to take a break and stop treating my shin like a soccer ball." You two continue to make light of it and the more he talks about it with you, the more relaxed he gets. He's going to be just fine, especially with you by his side. "Mnh, good night." you finally whisper, cuddling up against him and tangling your leg with his in a final attempt to prevent any future attacks. "Good night." He watches you fall asleep with love in his eyes and wonders how a job obsessed weirdo like him managed to land someone as perfect as you.

Bachira, Loki, Isagi, Shidou, Nanase, Otoya, Zantetsu,

[lalunanymph]

i feel like rin's prone to nightmares considering his daily stress and bottled emotions from his childhood :(( like u see him sleeping with furrowed eyebrows and heavy breathing :(( oh the urge to suck him off while sleeping orz

im so sick for him he makes me crazy, you're so real for this nonnie thank you for letting me play w your big brain idea 🫶🏼

tw. somno, nightmares, established relationship, female!reader, oral s*x, rin and reader are gooey for each other

Silk sheets pressed in between two breathing bodies splayed across the deepening of a velvet night.

Wedged close to your boyfriend, sleep was slowly dissipating, the feeling of him stirring hard enough to pry your eyes wide open. 

You slowly blinked the fog from your mind and rubbed the crust from your eyes.

In the dim slate of the city lights spilling onto your dark sheets, you eased up onto your elbow, recognizing the cadence of his breath; the twitch of his arms.

Rin’s dark green hair was dyed the deepest shade of night, pale lids scrunching and relaxing in stuttering stops and starts—intermittently followed by a pout which tugged on your heartstrings.

“Rin-Rin?” you cooed quietly. When he didn’t stir, you sat up, on alert. “Rin?” 

A whimper answered your inquiring inflection of his name. Seeing Rin now, without the glaring stadium lights and the pressure of Japan’s growing sports industry constantly looming over him like an ash cloud, you thought he looked more like a boy than the man you fell in love with. 

His forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat, fists clenched at his side. The black shirt he wore to sleep stuck to his broad chest that rose and fell with staccato pants.  

“Rin?” 

Another nightmare.

This was the third time in the month.

If you could trace back this strange occurrence, you thought it might’ve been because of his recent match in Spain. 

Through your woozy memories, you recalled another pair of flinty teal eyes. A frigid glare. How Rin hadn’t spoken a word since he boarded the flight from Madrid back to Tokyo, according to Isagi. 

You were worried for him, teeth catching on your lower lip. 

“Rin?” 

Your voice was weak. Hesitant. Afraid of waking up old ghosts.

The rational thought of waking him up was replaced by hesitating contradiction. Rin would get mad if you interrupted his sleep, his mood cranky and uncommunicative for the whole morning. On the other hand, he didn’t look like he was exactly enjoying his dreams, and the thought made your heart twist in a dichotomy of care and crippling worry. 

Trying hard not to wake him up, you pressed your head onto his chest, slowly rubbing his belly. 

It was a trick your mother had taught you—when she had to soothe your own night terrors back in the days. 

Instantly, Rin’s breathing grew deeper, and he stopped twitching. Chancing a peek up at him through your lashes, you drank in the stubborn scowl still etched onto his mouth. 

Even in sleep he was so gorgeous it hurt to even look at him. Those thick eyelashes framing closed eyes, the perfect chiselled cheekbones.

You thought you might’ve saved an entire busload of orphans from deep diving down a cliff in your past life to be able to call Itoshi Rin yours in this lifetime. 

Exhaling softly, the air was fragmented with the thickening of your heart, full to bursting. You swallowed hard, once, then twice—and inched your hand past the waistband of his joggers.

He was warm in your palm, all skin and velvet softness which lost its doughy pliancy the more you stroked along your favourite vein. You felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, his breathing giving a little hitch.

Worried that you might have woken him up, you stopped.

But, Rin didn’t make a move to break your hold on him. Stuck in sleep, you hoped his dreams were taking a turn for the better now that you were here to help.

You just wanted to help, you reiterated in your mind firmly. Your boyfriend needed you, and this was what you were good at; giving him a piece of heaven when he was constantly surrounded by the embers of his draining career and hidden secrets.

A sticky drop was smeared between your thumb and forefinger, Rin’s body responding to yours in kind. Even locked in unconsciousness, he was still sensitive, and you cooed at his reaction. 

Gaining more courage, you dared to lift your head, pecking a gentle kiss to his left pec, as you trailed your way down between his thighs. Tossing the blanket aside, you shivered from the sudden brush of cold air on your exposed cleavage, keeping your eyes steady on him if he should wake up.

Rin and you had discussed this a million times before—the line toeing pleasure and coercion.

You adored it whenever he refused to listen to your whimpers of overstimulation, much like how he would get hard enough to cut through steel whenever you played with his cock at the most inopportune of times.

The memory of him crowding you against a plane’s bathroom door shone in your mind. It was a holiday or another—his monthiversary gift to you. Rin had somehow managed to coerce you to join him in the cramped toilet where he had hooked your thighs under his elbows and fucked into you until you came hard enough to almost sprain your hamstring; both titillated and terrified at the thought of being caught.

This time was no different. Your heart was a pumping mess, beating twice as hard at the thought of what you were about to do.

Grabbing the elastic band of joggers, you tugged it down, enough for his cock to spring up, half-hard and already drooling.

The taste of him coated your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks, docilely taking him down your throat. You moaned, enjoying clean musk saturating your tastebuds. Bobbing your head, you were dedicated to your cause, freeing Rin from his nightmares and replacing it with nothing but heated sensations and deepening valleys of adoration for his girlfriend who would give him the world.

Feeling his abs constrict under your palm, you sucked on the flushed mushroom tip, the plump nib throbbing hot and insistent, pinning your tongue down. 

Sucking your boyfriend off was your favourite pastime, and if anyone asked, you were happy to spend hours on your knees worshipping his cock. That didn’t mean Rin didn’t show you the same amount of devotion. He was equally as insane for your taste as you were for his, and fate couldn’t have created a more perfect pair. 

His breathy moan filled your ears, and you put in more work to try and get him off; using your throat as a fuck sleeve. What you couldn’t fit down your throat, you used your hands to squeeze and tug.

Massaging his balls, slotting your face closer to his taint to kiss and lick circles on the soft flesh. You were so deep into your act of pure love that you didn’t feel his hand in your hair until a sharp tug pulled you off his cock.

Those beautiful teal eyes were ablaze, nostrils flaring. Seeing him from your angle below, Rin could easily overpower you; using his defined and hefty muscles to pin you down and make you pay for ever waking him up. 

But, he grunted, eyes fluttering shut and opening again, lucidity evading those aquamarine pupils.

“What’re you doing?” he slurred, nose scrunched adorably.

In answer, you smiled and kissed his tip. Angelic and filthy like a devil in disguise.

“You had a nightmare so I was helping you.”

Rin’s exhausted growl rang through the room. He tugged you up towards him, lips crashing insistently on yours with sloppy, heated kisses.

You poured all your devotion and love into his mouth, sweet moans filling him up. 

Neither of you cared for morning breath or anything else but devouring each other; egoist to enabler, predator to prey.

You felt him push your babydoll nightie to the side, exposing your bare pussy which was already soaked for him. Rin never allowed you to wear underwear while you slept next to him for one reason and one only.

He toyed with your soaked entrance using the rough pads of his index and middle finger, strands of dark hair tinged with the faintest hue of dark green in the weak light sticking to his forehead.

“Well, you did more than help,” he started, sinking two thick fingers easily into your willing cunt. Your mewl was lost in his shoulder, tiny fingernails digging into his broad back. 

“So, I suggest you put that slutty pussy to good use and finish what that pretty mouth started.”

screams i need to munch him 😭

©️lalunanynph

[pigeonstab]

Okay so!! This is my first time doing creative writing since middle school basically, I did my best and I had fun so, hope you enjoy! (It's under the cut bc I don't want to have it be too long of a post) Also. English is not my first language, (lmao ik) if some sentences are wack it's because I tried to do something cool and it didn't work.

It's about my college AU and I tried to give enough context for it to be understandable even if you haven't looked through the tags but this is meant to be middle of the story kind of stuff so I do recommend that you check it out before reading..

Also @somegrumpynerd

Killer shivered from the cold in the apartment building. 142, Cross’s door number had been hard to find as the 2 had fallen off, leaving only a lighter imprint on the grimy gray walls.

He probably shouldn’t be here, but when else would he get an opportunity like this? The full moon was the only time he could evade Horror’s suffocating sheltering, the others were suspicious, he knew, and with him being out more and more often Nightmare was getting antsy…

He held his breath, finally finding the courage to knock on the door.

He waited a beat but was met with silence, budding worry tightened around his soul, trying the handle he found it slid open easily and with a strange snap, like the lock had been broken and never replaced.

Peering inside the apartment, Killer was shocked to see how cramped Cross’s living space was, a far cry from his own place, and taking his first steps inside he found it was nearly impracticable, the mess he encountered was more akin to rubble than untidiness and testified of an obvious struggle: kitchen appliances and rags strewn around the floor, broken glass, the counters scratched and one of the cupboards ripped off its hinges, these marks an echo of a wild animal’s rampage. This chaos was so unlike Cross, his uneasiness only grew.

Killer carried on with his exploration, turning his attention to the beat up cupboard, it only took a quick glance for him to recognize a small inconspicuous vial, among the cumin, the parsley and the other insignificant spices; there it was, Wolvesbane.

Killer didn’t get the time to dwell on how or why Cross would even own what was essentially Werewolf poison as a loud thud ripped through the heavy silence.

Killer’s non-existent stomach roiled, he left the cupboard behind, now far from his mind as he set to investigate the noise, following the dried blood trail past the torn couch (he did his best to ignore the smell. Now was not the time. Though he could tell it was Cross’s. A fact which worried him as much as it enticed him)

His shoulders were tense as he got close to yet another door, this one already ajar, he pushed it further, the room must’ve been Cross’s bedroom, it was dark and had he not been a vampire he most likely would not have been able to see, the copper smell was only stronger in here.

Killer froze as he spotted the dark mass near the end of the room. Its breathing rocked its hulking form. It had spotted him. Two white reflections pierced through the darkness and in seconds the wolf lunged.

Killer struggled against it as it clawed and snarled at him with a recklessness Killer did not expect from it. The beast had him pinned under its weight and Killer had to seize its jaws. Pushing the snapping and snarling muzzle away from him, his arms burning with the effort, his soul pounding and adrenaline coursing through him. The fight was constant movement. instinct alone permitted Killer to grab a hold of the thing’s maw and force it shut, pressing from top and bottom while it growled and tried to pull away from him. Killer slammed it onto the floor, to which it stilled with a pained whine.

Killer’s chest was heaving, he kept his hands where they were, unsure if the beast would get back up. When it became obvious it wouldn’t his shoulders dropped and he sighed. His eyes roamed the large wolf’s figure, a flannel Killer instantly recognized as Cross’s was still hanging to it, ripped to hell and back but Cross’s. Killer confirmed his suspicion, turning the wolf’s face to find a jagged scar under its right eye.

“Fucking hell Cross. You couldn’t just tell me these thing could you?”

Killer (despite his semi-serious words and lighthearted remark) felt lost. Why hadn’t Cross told him? He banished the thought from his mind. After all he’d never told Cross about his vampirism either. Why would Cross ever tell him about this?

Focusing on Cross he looked him over, his eyes were hazy and unfocused, a purple tint to them that Killer had never seen in them. Well. He’d unpack that later. For now.. “Up we go” Killer picked up the wolf with a grunt of effort, pulling Cross over his arm and heaving the mass of fur over his shoulder, he got to his feet unsteadily, balancing with the extra weight (a lot of extra weight) and started to long trek back home, starting with getting out of the apartment as inconspicuously as he could with a 120 pound Werewolf on his back…

[nc-vb]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧?

originally a commission, repurposed for readervision! writing about the ladies is fun and i should really do it more often, mhm.

notes -> pls i always forget she's 6'1", that's so frickin hot, my gawd

pairing -> quanxi x afab!time-traveler!reader*

warnings -> nsfw (18+, mdni), praise/nicknames used (*good girl), thigh riding, oral sex (reader receiving), orgasm denial, scissoring/tribbing; partial inebriation (alcohol consumption); light editing.

wc -> 4.5k

The modes of transportation in this place are… dated.

So used to seeing the various Tesla models zipping about, or the suddenly extremely common Honda Civic models, you found yourself staring a little harder at the ones that lined the street. All too obviously, the dilapidated street signs around you indicated your new location being somewhere in China. Still, there’d been an aged familiarity about the place, about all of it, from the specific way the splits in the sidewalk crackle from one end to the other, to how the trees willow overtop of them like old, gnarled hands. The glow from the street lights are all equally dull, and do little to highlight the filth the asphalt roads hold. The houses, in their decaying, years left untouched glory, are still cookie cutter enough to say that it once might’ve been a place that people both lived and thrived in— if anything, they might just exist there now. The bare minimum for any species.

But then you look in the distance, past the caved-in roofs, past the loose, swaying electrical lines and through the smog, find the fluorescent lights of the city resting just outside the horizon of this dystopian suburbia, and find that you feel at home, your own having been bright just like that. 

You suppose that being at arms with a stranger in the middle of what you can only deem some kind of cacotopia must not be real. A dream or a hallucination— a nightmare, perhaps. The fact that you’ve never been to this place, this time or era, and yet, it’d been familiar. This partial hell scape with its scarred roads and patchwork housing, stuck in its darkened stasis of a temporary ceasefire? Wondering what kind of dream beasts this realm holds was unavoidable from the start, but at the very least, it still includes those in human form.

Your foe is formidable-- or, your predator, you should say. Armed thrice and practically naked in consideration for their lack of armour, wearing a thin shirt that exposes her midriff and tight black trousers, and with their one eye obscured by an eyepatch, they’re still as swift as a shadow when they charge forward, one blade extended, the other held in reverse against their forearm— usually a predictability. But they’re enough of a threat to you that you don’t bother to analyze much else any further.

If not for obeying modern physics, the stone at your feet would’ve split from the impact of your own harsh landing— without a weapon or defense of your own, you scamper out of the way of the woman’s sword, gasping at the close call. If anything, being in this strange place for so long, and being targeted by strange looking creatures and even stranger humans, has made you adept at avoiding harm.

You’re not entirely sure you can avoid it any further. You watch the attacker sheathe their defending sword and reach up toward their one exposed eye to— to… extract an arrow from within her skull, so easily as if it’d been normal to “store” it there.

“Don’t lose focus now,” they call — she calls, you finally learn, from your own language; she’d recognized it when you’d cursed at her earlier. A couple of obvious tonal sounds and inflections double down on you being somewhere in China. “I’ll be disappointed if you suddenly let me kill you, stranger.”

Slim, yet muscular. Long blonde hair. A gaze most distant, yet she still smiles, even in the middle of battle. Human? With that ability of hers, it’s unlikely; you’ve learned to differentiate that much, as short a time as you’ve spent here.

Amidst their game of cat and mouse, you can’t help but wonder if the area had been evacuated prior to Quanxi’s arrival, as if she’d been prepared to give chase, or even worse, as if she’d been prepared to fight. You don’t doubt the possibility of the woman having some kind of pull or authority in this time; as perhaps unprepared and bare as she appears, her skillset had quickly been proven. Being locked in at a coward’s stalemate for as long as you’d been, Can’t this end already?

“Please,” you pant, a hand poised in a pleading gesture. “Please stop.” The woman’s one visible eyebrow raises, her expression remaining placid. A moment later, she’s sheathing her blades.

“That’s fine with me,” she says, straightening up. “I’m pretty fond of this outfit and I’ve already scuffed the knees; it would be a shame if I tore anything else. You seem like… the civilized type, when you’re not running away. And if that’s the case, we should introduce ourselves.”

You give yours first, eager to catch your breath. The woman smiles.

“I am Quanxi. Now, tell me. The name of the Devil you’ve contracted with.”

Your expression hardens. “Devil?” you repeat. 

Quanxi does not doubt further the woman’s seemingly earnest confusion. She already looks like she’s not from the area, and certainly not necessarily a native from China, either. In fact, it’d been more like she’s stepped out of one of those futuristic, science fiction movies. Your entire existence did not belong here.

Your tired vision sweeps along the street before rising to stare at Quanxi. “Where is this place?”

Testing, “Do you mean this street? This… neighbourhood? Or this world?” You don’t answer, unable. The silence, accompanied with the difficult read on the foreigner’s partial expression, is an answer enough. “It’s called Earth.” 

“I know this is Earth.”

Quanxi’s lip quirks. “Then this place that you’re currently standing in, is in China. And this street, well… I’m not sure the name matters anymore. No one’s lived here in years.”

She watches you, a silence spread taut like a fishing line through the middle of your conversation as you ponder, before cutting it. 

“Listen. I’m glad you decided to stop running away,” your lip curls slightly at the curtness in her words, but you don't interrupt, “but since we’ve established that you’re not from the area, and since I don’t see a… spaceship… parked anywhere… you’re probably not an alien. But, you’ve also probably got nowhere to go, hm?”

“… that’s, unfortunately, correct,” you murmur, sighing. What a headache…

“And it doesn’t seem like you’re looking to cause any trouble. Right?”

“I’m kind of in some trouble of my own, if you haven’t noticed,” you point out.

“Fair enough. Then, I’ll do you a favour. If you’d be reasonable enough to not do something as stupid as try to murder me in my sleep, I’ll invite you into my home.”

Try? I could barely run away from you. 

“I’ll have to attend to some business in the morning outside the country, but, if you’re a good girl tonight, you’re welcome to stay there while I’m gone.” Your lips part to speak at the woman’s condescension, but by the absurdity of your situation, you find yourself unable to spit the words dancing behind your teeth back at her. Good girl?

“Do you need a physical invitation?” Quanxi says; you hadn’t realized she’d already begun to walk, and soundlessly trails after her. “Good.” Again? “I’ve parked several blocks north of here; it’s about a five minute walk if you’re fast about it.”

“Okay.” True to her estimation, once they’d picked up their pace, they found a sleek black automobile awaiting them only four blocks away. Compared to the older modeled cars you’ve passed, this one is at least twenty years ahead of their design.

Quanxi enters on her side before you can even open the passenger side door, and by the time you sit and shut the door behind you, the car has already belted to life, a soft rumbling heard from within its metal shell. A gear shifts, and they move.

The drive out of the dark neighbourhood where you first appeared, and into the glowing city you’d seen from afar is about three times as long as the walk had been. The luminance of the artificial light happens to be intense enough to make you squint so hard that your eyes become slits.

“Depending on how long you’re here for, you might end up getting used to it,” Quanxi says. You turn your head toward her. “Ah, well, I shouldn’t assume you don’t have these in your own home; apologies. Just, don’t stare at these ones directly. They’re definitely not up to code.”

You nod, glancing forward again.

“You aren’t very… chatty, are you,” Quanxi speculates, lowering one of her hands from the wheel to rest in her own lap.

“It’s… hard to think of something to talk about in my situation,” you say, wringing your wrists a little. “Small talk and idle conversations… is even harder.”

“You could always ask more questions.”

“I… can’t think of any.”

“Or ask if I know of a way to return you to your home.”

“And do you?”

“No. I can do a lot, but time travel?” Quanxi scoffs lightly. “Science fiction, for now. Maybe there’s a Devil out there that can do that. But, you could still have bothered to begin that conversation to see if I did.”

You pause. “Is this all a condition of me staying with you? Talking, asking questions…”

“Not at all. Simply makes for better company.”

You scoff, too, and fold your arms over your chest. “Aren’t you worried I’ll destroy your home while you’re gone? Or rob you?”

Quanxi chuckles. “Not at all. You might be lonely when I do, however. By how you greeted me earlier tonight, I should at least make sure my housekeeper doesn’t spook you away into, I don’t know, jumping out the window.”

“If I didn’t value my life, I wouldn’t have run away from you like I did. Why would I jump out the window…” The question hangs in the air, apparently a rhetorical quip.

The rest of the drive is completed in one-sided silence, Quanxi filling it with her own voice when she explains, unwarranted, the existence of Devils and what she’d meant when she’d asked you about a “contract”. It does make sense (and perhaps your interest in the subject did prove that you did have some curiosities), but you still had found yourself verily unwilling to engage in conversation, leaving your thoughts to race wildly beneath your skull.

In contrast to the surrounding buildings, Quanxi’s is not nearly as vibrant. The only lights come from the large fixed windows pressed tight between the dark brickwork; signs of life that neighbourhood from before had sorely been missing. Even the streets, despite the time, are flooded with chattering humans.

“We’re here, get out,” Quanxi says, putting the car into park and exiting it, herself. You join her on the sidewalk, where she’d just given a man a set of keys. In the corner of her vision, you watch him replace where Quanxi once sat, and drive off with her car, while the two of you enter the building.

“I’m on the penthouse level,” she tells you after pressing a button on the wall of the elevator. “It’s nothing fancy. Comfortable enough when I come home from an assignment, and for my—” Quanxi goes silent. You notice, but don’t press. The elevator chimes, announcing their arrival to the topmost level, and the doors open. “This way.”

There’s a keypad on the door, for which Quanxi types a particularly long code into before it beeps at them to enter. Whereas you take off your own boots and set them aside, Quanxi toes hers off and kicks them to the side, knocking yours over.

“A drink?” Quanxi offers.

“… water is fine.”

The penthouse is minimalist and simple, as its owner mentioned it would be. A simple living area full of couches and irregularly shaped chairs; a simple bedroom, raised up, across the room in a loft space. The bathroom and kitchen end up being the fanciest of the space, full of shining metal appliances and smooth surfaces, as white as the moon, itself.

There are but a few adornments and decorations, and you find that across the apartment, there are only a handful of photographs framed and sitting atop a long cabinet, two of which had been turned down— you recall Quanxi doing so as she’d entered ahead of you. Not one to pry — you know just as well as anyone what dredging up old memories does to a person — and with Quanxi busying herself in her kitchen, you cross over to them and quickly tip them up. Both have the woman pressed between four other girls, all with varyingly unexplainable appearances — why are her brains exposed? — but they all easily express their fondness for Quanxi.

“It’s like you’ve never been invited into someone’s home before,” Quanxi suddenly calls from around the corner. You flinch, and without making eye contact, set the frames back down with care. “It should go without me having to say the words “don’t touch anything unnecessary”.”

“Sorry,” you say.

Quanxi sighs, and extends her arm to hand the stranger a glass of clear liquid. “It’s fine. Just don’t touch them again. And try not to get curious enough that you want to ask about… them.”

You accept the glass, nodding, and take a generous gulp from it, immediately reeling.

“This isn’t water,” you say, swallowing thickly, your throat catching from the burn.

“It’s baijiu. Figured you could probably use some to relax while you’re here.” You instantly cough.

“Relax?”

“It’s not like you’ll be able to figure anything out tonight, not this late. And, not if you’re still wired into fight or flight mode. Drink this. If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge you can help yourself to. The bathroom is around the corner. Go and shower. I’ll grab you a change of clothing.”

Not that it’d been so severely important to, but you silently admit to her observations. Being sent stuck here and almost immediately thrust into one-sided combat against this strange woman, to being invited to her home for reprieve, has kept you tiptoeing on a jagged edge, teetering more to one side than the other. It’s discomforting. Unfamiliar.

You down the clear liquid in the glass before stalking into Quanxi’s bathroom, quick to strip yourself of your clothing before stepping into the shower. Beginning to scrub away the day’s grime from your body with a sudsy cloth, you realize you’ve yet to feel this calm thus far— must be the baijiu, you assume.

With the glass of the shower all fogged up from the steam, you don’t notice Quanxi standing in the doorway when you finally exit it. Unfocused, you jump, the towel in your hand almost slipping out of your grasp.

“I’m beginning to think,” you start, huffing out a flustered breath, “that you’re the lonely one between us.”

“Perhaps I am.” The ice in her own glass clinks against it when she takes a sip, watching you start to pat yourself dry. “I won’t argue with you. I never thought I would feel like this, even after losing them. They were only Fiends, after all. Not entirely human.”

“... does one have to be “entirely human” for someone to love them?”

“… I forgot who I was saying this to,” Quanxi muses, mostly to herself. “You’re young, after all. Insightfulness comes easier to each new generation of life.”

“Something like that,” you halfheartedly confirm, dragging the towel down each of your legs. You sigh— avoiding certain conversations may not be as easy as you’d once thought with this woman, the involvement of alcohol perhaps making it even more of a difficult probability. “Where I’m from… in my time… in my version of Earth, we don’t have different species of humans. But to be loved by anyone, by anything, even by someone non-human, is a joy, and an honour. Don’t justify them being Fiends so you don’t have to grieve over them. And… just be glad you can remember everything about them.”

She smiles back, but it’s distant; spurious. You know full well what the look is for, and decide it’s unfair to call the woman the only lonely one between them, after all.

Quanxi pushes herself off the door’s frame, stumbling very slightly out of her awkward stance.

“I was only in here for ten minutes. How did you manage to get drunk so quickly?”

“Oh, I’m not drunk,” Quanxi swears. “This is my first glass… and I’m a bit of a heavyweight. I just figure I should share some of my vulnerability with you since you’re naked in my home right now. Seems like a fair trade to me.”

You look up at her, having wrapped your head in the towel, and around the washroom.

“Your clothes. Right. I forgot to bring them in. They’re out here.”

“Could you go and grab them?”

“You’re coming back out here anyway, right? Just come and change out here.”

Your eyes narrow. The woman’s already seen her as nude as the day she’d been born, and from her own words, she now lives alone, the existence of those four girls in the photos seemingly otherwise erased from the apartment save for those photos. Being on the penthouse level on one of the tallest buildings around, it’d be unlikely for any of the neighbouring buildings to see—

“You’re overthinking it,” Quanxi calls out. “Is that something you do when you drink alcohol?”

Your attempt at sliding past her in the doorway fails, the taller of the two having lifted her arm to stop you.

“Is it?”

You sigh. Quanxi’s lip lifts into a small smile, and she drops her arm to let you pass and enter the kitchen.

“Is this where you assert yourself on me, and I lower myself into showing you my “gratitude”?” You slip on the folded burgundy tee from the counter, mentally cursing at the woman for supplying you with such a useless piece of fabric, the offending material barely reaching your navel; you shiver. “I’ve read enough fiction in my lifetime to recognize this cliché.”

“Then you must’ve read a crazy amount of sapphic erotica throughout your journey across the stars.” You shake your head and reach for the pants, ignoring Quanxi’s presence at your side. “No,” she answers, “though, I’m glad my intentions go without me having to say anything. A harmless, wordless invitation to share in a little bit of skinship with me. I won’t force you into it, but…”

In still being bare from the hips down, Quanxi dares to smooth a hand across your waist that curls an arm around your middle, and you freeze, your cool skin quick to grow warm under her touch.

“Quanxi—””It’s not lowering yourself to enjoy yourself,” she muses, right next to your ear. You blame your immodesty for the chill that sweeps down your spine. “Let me take your mind out of the stars for the night.”

It’s the alcohol. You’re drunk, too. That’s the only reason. Trying to rationalize your acceptance of the situation with false realities only embarrasses you further— you aren’t drunk. You can’t even call yourself slightly inebriated, not yet. 

Then perhaps it’s your subconscious telling you to cave to Quanxi’s suggestion. To give into the strange offer of reprieve this Earth finds itself willing to give to you.

Her hands travel, soft and featherlight, across your now scalding flesh, and beneath the waistband of the sweats she’d intended on giving you. Loosening them from around your hips, she pushes them down until they slip around your ankles, and with a hand poised at the toned sculpt of her abdomen, she presses you into leaning against the counter behind you.

“Just stand there and stay pretty for me.”

Quanxi doesn’t waste another moment; not particularly keen to stop her, you lean into the hand that cups your jaw, allows her to fit her lips between yours, tries to remember the last time you’d ever kissed or had ever been kissed, and fails. With no other thoughts to keep you tethered to creating distractions for yourself, you keen forward and shift your weight onto a single foot. A small laugh huffs against your lips.

“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you,” she murmurs. You’re about to argue the opposite, that you’d only been acting agreeable for their best interest, and open your mouth; ever the opportunist, Quanxi is quick to curl her tongue to sweep along the inside of your lips before you get the chance to utter a single word. You flinch, but your own hand stays holding Quanxi’s hips against your own.

Her thighs are thick, discovering them to be more muscular than you’d first presumed when one of them press between your own and shift upward. You gasp, a soft sound, when the coarse material of Quanxi’s denim begins sliding back and forth along your bare clit; you tremble, and grips her sides just a little firmer.

“Ah, see? You don’t have to use your words to show it.”

A hand slips around to hold your neck, Quanxi pulling her mouth hard against yours, and you moan, your breaths shared with each tilt of their head and each swirl of their tongues around the other dense, purposeful. Was it the alcohol making your mind fuzzier? Making your judgment clouded? You hadn’t yearned for something this hard in much too long a time, though it did go without saying— yes, I’m enjoying myself.

You shiver at the sudden soft pecks and harsher licks at the curve of your neck, and Quanxi grinds your crotch against her bouncing thigh a little more insistently when you’d begun to shudder.

“You’re close, right? So soon?” Reluctantly, you find yourself nodding. Quanxi hums. “Not here.” She lowers her knee almost too abruptly, and releases. Your head snaps her way, frowning.

“This isn’t how I want you to come,” she explains, decidedly tugging down her own pants and kicking them away. “Too simple.”

“Why did you stop?”

“It’s only for a moment,” Quanxi assures you. She takes one of your hands and begins pulling you toward the staircase to the loft, quick to guide you along to sitting at the edge of her plush bedding. “Don’t look so frustrated, hm?”

You scoff, but it’s choked, heart still racing from your formerly impending, now lost, orgasm.

“More condescending words of yours,” you mutter, “just like earlier.”

“Condescending words from earlier…” Quanxi pauses. “Do you mean when I called you a “good girl”?”

“Yes. It was patronizing.”

“And… if I were to call you a good girl now?” Quanxi releases her hold around your wrist and, before you can pull them back (whether you were going to or not), fits her fingers through both of yours and kneels between your legs, spreading them further apart with her shoulders. Your entire body flinches, and your arms both jerk upwards with nowhere to go. “Is that still me being condescending? Or…” Quanxi tilts her head forward once more, and licks a stripe upward against your quiver. “… maybe it’s patronizing now?”

“Y-You’ve… well surpassed the definition of both of those words,” you groan.

“Maybe.” Quanxi’s tongue curls, catching on the hood of your clit. You gasp. “But look at you, my little time-traveling friend, behaving so well for me. I think this deserves a little bit of praise; a small reward.”

“Stop talking about it and give it to me, then.”

Quanxi doesn’t speak again, having suddenly busied herself with the wet kisses she supplied to your cunt. Your eyes fly upward to meet hers, tongue flicking so frustratingly calculated between your folds. You stir, arms twitching impatiently in her hold with nowhere to go— until she releases them again. Unable to help herself, you lurch forward, one hand pressing the woman between your thighs deeper into you, the other clawing at the sheets beneath you. When Quanxi goes to mumble something, not bothering to remove her tongue from against you, you send a hazy glare her way.

“Don’t talk, j-just—!” Quanxi’s grip shifts, instead to wind her arms around your thighs when your squirming becomes too uncontrolled. You cry out, a sharp noise that ends up startling you back into biting down on your own lip, as Quanxi suckles on your swollen bud. It’s impossible to stop her, to want to stop her; your hold on her head lessens, though it’s only when your legs begin to tremble in their attempt to fold shut, and when your voice catches in her throat that Quanxi finally pulls away, lips and chin glistening under the moonlight and hair slightly disheveled, and you groan again, a noise that grows progressively louder and more frustrated as the blonde rises back onto her feet.

“I never specified if you’d be the only one getting rewarded,” Quanxi points out, chuckling. “Keep your legs open.”

You manage a frown, but still hold your thighs apart for Quanxi to straddle you. Your hips buck, feeling the sudden pressure, the sudden heat and slick press against her; Quanxi doesn’t waste another moment, having been denying even herself the pleasure she’d now twice ripped away from you— punishment for the frustratingly short answers you’d provided throughout the evening.

Hands falling next to your head to grip the blanket, she rocks forward, lower back instinctively arching upon the friction finally reaching her— Quanxi moans, and you, impatient and shuddering once more, reach behind Quanxi to grab at her ass to pull her tighter into you.

“So eager,” Quanxi groans. Jerkily, she forces your shirt up over your breasts, nipples pert from your arousal, and dips her head down to wrap her lips around one, tongue swirling.

“Quanxi, I—” she pops away, gasping, hips still gyrating and pelvis grinding into yours with such a desperate fervour; she suddenly swivels herself and takes hold of your leg from under her knee, bringing it upwards. “Quanxi—”

“Go on, then,” Quanxi pants. Both mouths dripping, she takes her tongue and drags it up your calf. “Come for me, my little time-traveler.”

You choke on your breath, and your hands seize for Quanxi to hold her in position while you suddenly flip her around, grinding down on her, instead. Teeth gritted, Quanxi pulls and tugs at the sheets, moaning with the sweet relief of her own orgasm, and you tremble, crying out soft and low from the washing over of — finally, finally — your own pleasure.

Spent, you huff at the one-eyed woman when you lower herself down fully onto her pelvis. “Don’t… call me that ever again.”

Quanxi’s laugh is one of disbelief, and has you reddening above her.

“I was supposed to have an early night… I can always sleep on the plane.”

© nc-vb 2024 please don’t repost! reblogs & comments are always appreciated.

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Ned I

Previous part, Bran I, here.

NED 1

Ned was embroiled in discussions with Vayon regarding the additional food stores that would need to be procured to feast the king’s party in accordance with his expectations—and Robert’s expectations certainly tended toward the lavish—when Jory burst into his solar, looking so rattled that Ned rose in alarm, convinced that something had happened to one of the children.

“My lord,” he said. “There are—that is, your son, Bran—”

Before Ned could fear the worst, he caught motion beyond the door frame, and his gaze fell upon the auburn hair of his second-youngest as he poked his head in the door. Robb and Jon had also accompanied Jory, trailing just behind, and they looked as perturbed as his captain of the guard. Robb’s mouth was a hard, harsh line that recalled Cat when she was in full fury, and Jon looked as pale as the direwolf pup he’d named Ghost.

His nerves settled on mild apprehension. “What is it, Jory?”

Jory cast a hesitant look at Vayon. “It is a matter that my lord may wish to discuss in private.”

Ned frowned. Jory and Vayon had known one another for several years now. Enough for his captain and steward to know that he held both of them in high esteem. He was unsure what it meant that Jory should be wary of the man now, but it could be nothing good.

“We can finish attending to the feast preparations later, Vayon,” Ned said. “It seems my sons have found themselves a spot of mischief.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, further mystifying Ned. His steward inclined his head, then took his leave, and the children crowded into his solar. But rather than just the three he had expected, two more entered behind Robb and Jon, furs wrapped around either of them, and Jory’s own cloak atop that.

Ned’s mouth, which had opened to demand answers of his captain and his son, snapped shut as his gaze fell upon the two strange children, his wits abandoning him for several blank seconds. One, with hair but a shade or two lighter than his own, returned his stare with a wariness that wavered as it went on, taking on the faint sheen of tears. His face was as familiar as his own, as alike to Jon’s as a brother’s would be.

It cannot be.

It was the other child’s appearance, however, that lanced through his shock, turning it icy with dread. Rhaegar Targaryen was fourteen years dead, but Ned had known the prince’s face well, for it had haunted more than a few nightmares since, he and Lyanna both. This child could be the prince’s son—a comparison driven home as Ned glanced from one to the other, finding as many similarities between them as they shared with Jon.

Brothers. They must be, of nearly identical height and build. Twins, perhaps, except that one could be his son, while the other—

How? The children looked to be of an age with his daughters, meaning Rhaegar would have been four or five years dead by the time they were born. Ned himself had seen the mangled skull of his infant son, Aegon, and had the boy lived, he would have been Jon’s age.

And yet that is what they look like. Rhaegar’s sons, four years too young. The son whose death Robert celebrated, and the son whose death he would seek, if he only knew.

As he studied the dark-haired child more closely, subtle differences presented themselves between him and Jon. His eyes were a lighter grey that took on a tinge of purple the longer Ned stared into them, recalling the terror of the first few months of Jon’s life, before his own had darkened to a deep grey. His hair was a shade lighter, its dark brown slightly warmer.

And yet none of that mattered. The Valyrian coloring that House Targaryen had been known for was not uncommon in the Free Cities, but anyone who had ever seen the mad king or his wife and son would recognize their blood in these children. The other child’s coloring would all but invite such comparisons, and there was no greater danger. They could easily be siblings, the three of them.

It cannot be Aerys, nor can it be Rhaegar. Could Rhaella have lived after all to follow her children into hiding? Her remains had been cremated in accordance with Targaryen tradition by the time Dragonstone had been taken. Died in childbed, they had been told. Any whispers of the exiled queen’s survival surely would have made it to their shores.

Yet it was the only possible explanation. Any child of Rhaella’s would look like her slain son. But why would they be here? Why now, as Robert openly travels to Winterfell?

“We found them on the outskirts of the wolfswood, half frozen,” Jory said, breaking the tense silence. “Young Bran spotted them.”

The children were both shivering, Ned realized at last. He managed a smile at his youngest. “Bran, lad, go see if Gage has any soup on—something hot for our guests.”

Disappointment flashed across his son’s face, his curiosity readily apparent, but he cast the two boys a sympathetic look and swallowed his protest. “Yes, Father. I shall bring it myself!”

Once he had gone, Ned turned back to the children. “I am Lord Stark,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “And you are in Castle Winterfell. Who might you be?”

“Is it not plain, Father?” Robb snapped, tensed as though for a fight. “There is no need to make a farce of it, now that you’ve sent Bran away.”

Ned sucked in a breath, feeling a fool as comprehension struck. Jory’s obvious discomfort, Robb’s fury, Jon’s quiet shock—

They think that I…?

Ned stared into his son’s eyes, finding shock and betrayal beneath the anger. A mirthless chuckle rose in his chest and he forced it down. Why should they not, after all? He had soiled his honor once in claiming Jon as his son. The appearance of two children on the outskirts of Winterfell who looked to be his bastard son’s younger brothers offered one obvious explanation.

Denial followed his stalled laughter, smothered just as quickly in the wake of another realization. Deny their relation, and Jon’s apparent kinship to two children of Targaryen features would invite all the questions Ned had feared in the first few years of his son’s life. Why would a boy with no relation to House Targaryen look like one of their long-dead scions?

Suspicious minds would turn to his sister and the man who had kidnapped her. The timing of Jon’s appearance, the fact that Ned had been the one to find her in the Tower of Joy, it would all point to a deadly truth—a treason that Robert would never forgive.

Unless there was another explanation. One that Jory and both of his sons had clearly seized upon, one that would all but guarantee Jon’s safety.

If they were my own bastard sons, Jon’s brothers…

Then there was no possible relation between Jon and Rhaegar Targaryen. How could there be? His brothers would have been born years after the prince’s death, their mother some woman from Lys, perhaps, with the silver-blond hair and purple eyes of Valyria that were so prized in that city. No one would look for House Targaryen in them, if House Stark offered an excuse for their shared resemblance.

To protect Jon, his only option might be to stain his honor beyond recognition. To flaunt these children, as though he had nothing to hide.

“Leave us,” Ned said. “I would speak to these children alone.”

Robb’s face reddened, his son’s outrage whipped to a frenzy. “I will not—”

“That is your lord’s command,” Ned said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “Go. I will speak to you later.”

His son’s fists clenched, the hurt swimming beneath his anger plain, but he gave a stiff nod. “Come, Snow,” he said to his brother.

Stark, Snow. Names that his sons had taken to calling one another in the past year as they neared manhood, the growing understanding of their differing circumstances wedging itself between them. The names were not spoken unkindly, but Ned caught the barest flinch on Jon’s face this time.

Jory was the last to leave, pausing by the door. “We returned through the Hunter’s Gate, my lord, but we ran across Theon on our way to the keep.”

Ned nodded tersely in understanding. His ward was loud of mouth and held no fondness for Jon. If he too had concluded that the boys were Jon’s bastard brothers, then word would spread quickly through Winterfell. It would reach Cat soon enough, if Robb had not gone to tell her himself, and Ned’s heart clenched. As keen as Robb’s pain and betrayal had been, his wife’s suffering would be far worse.

But the children in the room with him now were a more immediate concern. Ned approached them slowly, testing their reaction. Jon’s young twin had lost none of his earlier wariness, though he did not appear to be frightened of him. And the other child regarded him with a quiet curiosity that was entirely Jon’s.

They are so like him. 

“I am Lord Eddard Stark,” he said again. “What are your names?”

“I am Jon,” said the dark-haired one, and it was all Ned could do not to react. “And this is my twin brother, Raymar.”

Jon and Raymar. Vale names, both, which was no less puzzling than anything else about them. Ned doubted that Rhaella Targaryen had been hiding herself or her sons in the Vale, which had practically served as the heart of the rebellion against her family’s rule.

“We thank you for your house’s kindness, Lord Stark,” Raymar said with a bow of his head.

Neither seemed uncomfortable in the presence of a lord, let alone the Warden of the North. Their composure spoke to an upbringing a highborn child would have.

“And to which house do you belong?” Ned asked, curious if they would answer plainly.

Young Jon shifted slightly to put himself between his brother and Ned, and the twins exchanged an uneasy look that as good as answered his question.

“I would know your true names,” Ned said, keeping his voice gentle. “No harm will come to you.”

Even the way this Jon bit at the inside of his lip was so reminiscent of his own Jon that Ned felt freshly unnerved. “I am Baelon,” he said finally. “And he is Aemon.”

It took him a moment to place the names. Sons of Jaehaerys I. Perhaps Rhaella had wanted to cling to a time in her family’s history when they had been at the height of their power, though these names in particular bore an ill omen. Two heirs to the Iron Throne, both of whom had died before they could claim it—not unlike her firstborn.

Good men, though. That had been their legacy, the princes who should have ruled, rather than the king whose reign had ultimately led to the Targaryens turning on one another, dooming their dragons.

“Why have you come here?”

That was the question upon which everything hinged. Were they a message to Ned? A threat? Had Rhaella learned of her grandson’s fate? But he could not imagine what madness could have taken her to send two young children here to deliver such a message, especially when it could so easily be interpreted as a threat.

“We did not come here by choice, my lord,” Aemon said. “We were taken from our father.”

Ned had been so focused upon their Targaryen heritage that he had not even considered who their father might be. “What is your father’s name?”

The children exchanged another glance, and it was Baelon who spoke. “Daemon.”

Ned could not hide his reaction this time. With Maelys the Monstrous’s death, the Blackfyre line had been thought to be ended at last. The male line, at least. Could there have been a descendent willing to tie himself to the exiled House Targaryen? The benefit for Rhaella Targaryen was plain: the Golden Company was said to be ten-thousand strong and of impeccable discipline—the closest to an army one could hope to hire, as sellswords went.

Rhaella Targaryen gives them the legitimacy they desire, and they offer her the start of an army. And yet—could such an alliance have been formed without whispers eventually reaching Robert’s ears?

And if someone had kidnapped her two sons, the joining of House Blackfyre and Targaryen, then that spoke to yet another plot. Someone who opposed their ambitions?

Someone who also knew, or had guessed, the true circumstances of Jon’s birth?

I am as much a pawn in this game as these children are, Ned thought grimly. As Jon now was.

“What can you tell me about your captors?” he asked.

“We were bound and blinded at first,” Aemon said. “And later made to drink a concoction that ushered us to sleep.”

Dreamwine, mostly like. Or even milk of the poppy. “You remember nothing at all?”

The child shook his head, distress creeping into his voice. “We were with our father and then we were here, alone in the cold and snow.”

“And your mother?” Ned asked, because he had to be sure.

Sorrow settled over them, keenest in Aemon, whose brother answered for them. “Dead.”

Ned watched them carefully. “Rhaella?”

Aemon’s gaze snapped to his, widening in surprise before the child could compose himself. His brother squeezed his hand and gave a silent nod.

Dead. That both simplified and complicated matters, though Ned was not certain precisely how. It made their kidnapping all the more mysterious in its purpose. A power struggle between the queen’s surviving children, perhaps? If her eldest, Viserys, feared that the Golden Company would support their claim over his, due to whatever Blackfyre blood might flow in their veins, then sending them away might have been his answer.

Sending them here could yet be a threat against Jon, or simple coincidence.

A rap at the door startled all three of them, and Ned gestured at them to remain still as he answered it. It was Jory once more, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Apparently Bran had insisted on bringing it himself, but the captain had intercepted the heavy load, judging it best that he take it up instead. Ned nodded his thanks, and brought the tray back into his solar.

“Here,” Ned said, setting it down on the table and beckoning the children over. “You must be hungry.”

Baelon broke off a piece of the bread, handing it to his brother first, then taking a bite of his own. He seemed to relax then. They have been raised to know our customs, at least, Ned thought. Though it pained him that the child had feared they might have been harmed.

Stolen away from their family and abandoned in the snow-covered fields outside the wolfswood, in the heart of a kingdom loyal to the man who had killed their kin, and would gladly see their house erased, down to the last child. That they had remained this composed in his presence was a sign of either great bravery or misunderstanding of the danger they were in.

And given how wary Baelon had been since their arrival, Ned suspected they both knew precisely how much danger they were in—to the point of fabricating names for themselves.

The stew put some color in their cheeks, and the fire had warmed them enough that they were no longer shivering. Ned, who had taken a seat opposite them, fought the urge to sag back against his chair as the throbbing pressure of a headache formed at his temples.

“You seem to understand that you cannot be Baelon and Aemon here,” Ned said once they’d finished their stew and sopped up the remnants with the last of the bread. Both children nodded. “I can protect you until I have found a way to return you home, but until then, I shall require your cooperation.”

They looked to one another once more, but seemed in agreement. “What do you require of us?” Aemon asked.

“You are Raymar,” Ned said. He glanced at Baelon, unnerved yet again at how like his son he looked as he studied Ned back. “You cannot be Jon, as I already have a son named Jon.”

The children blinked in twin surprise, seeming to immediately grasp his intention. “Willam,” Baelon said. “I can be Willam, my lord.”

Another name favored in the Vale, though not uncommon elsewhere. “That is acceptable,” Ned said. Then he took a deep breath. “And you must call me Father.”

x~x~x

Okay but my favorite thing is that Ned giving two more of his bastards Vale names is so very recognizably him, even though he didn't suggest either name to them!

Which POV to write next? Decisions, decisions...

[tomionefinds]

Spooky/Creepy Fics

h/t to mod @april-17-rose for the graphic!

For Spooky Season (mind the tags on all fics listed below)

Check out our list of Halloween/Samhain themed fics

Apple of My Eye by MrMxLemons

E | One-shot| 18k

Hermione wants to help the boy. The boy who has nothing to offer but an apple. - “I do not ask for much: I only want you to take a bite of my apple. Is that truly such a large favor to request? Have you no heart, Hermione?” She did have a heart, but when her gaze flickered back up to his it stopped in her chest.

Revenant by quinault

E | One-shot | 2k

“Hermione” he whispered into her cool, pale skin, crushing her mouth against his. She tasted exactly how he remembered, like raspberries and mint and something slightly tart, something that made him want to take her into his very pores. The wind picked up, rustling through the grasses of the wood, rushing through the trees. The whole world sighing in recognition. — Submitted for the tomione smut fest 2021. Object prompt: resurrection stone

Damned by Meowmers

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The sound is so faint it almost doesn’t register at first.

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After a slew of miserable dates, including being stood up four times in a row, Hermione can't believe her luck when she gets the attention of a man like Tom Riddle. He’s brilliant, gorgeous, and absolutely devoted to her. He’s perfect for her in every way, and her life is so much better with him in it. Everything is perfect with Tom. Completely perfect. Except… Except he knows things he shouldn't. Except there are four missing Quidditch players who stood her up and then vanished. Except Tom has a closet door that’s only sometimes there. Except he lies to her about the door when it’s not. Except Hermione wants to know. What’s in the closet?

[muffinsin]

well hello there 👋🏼

I'm wondering if you could do a hc on the sisters.

after a long and frustrating day they just want to relax and sleep with their S/O so they go into their room...annnnnnd...

They are meet with their S/O asleep wearing a FLIE ONESIE!!!!!! With some of their flies curled up in their arms!!

(unfortunately I don't think flies onesies exist.... BUT let's just image one 💭)

Just think how adorable it would be!!

This has me hella curious whether such a onesie exists!👀 And awh, my cold little heart. How adorable XP

Using this as an opportunity to make an occasional reaction post again🙌

Let’s get into it! :)

Masterlists

Bela

She doesn’t believe what she’s seeing, at first

In fact, she barely makes out that it’s you in the beginning, rather than some…bug pile with the occasional limb

She is careful as she steps closer, as though to inspect the strange pile on her bed

When she sees your face poking out, and hears her own flies buzzing back at her, she feels as though she melts and her heart aches with the love she feels

You look adorable!

Carefully, she pulls the blanket up to your shoulders

She giggles when she spots the fly wings at the back of the onesie. How cute, indeed

All her worries melt away instantly

No more annoying sisters

No more incompetent staff members

No more screaming prisoners

No more expectations from Mother

No more

In this moment, she exists with you, only the two of you

As she moves on the bed, you stir and whine in your sleep. For a moment, she worries she woke you up

Then, you keep sleeping, but are not entirely unaware of the cold nose pressing into your neck and the long arms wrapping around you protectively

She smiles, and with this smile, she falls asleep and rests at last

Cassandra

Truly- she doesn’t quite recognize the figure sleeping on her bed as you, at first

Her first thought? A mutt, a lycan, that somehow found its way into her room

For a few seconds, a wide grin spreads on her lips at the prospect of gutting the creature on her bed, of taking it out and crafting with its skin

It excites her so much, she forgets about her awful day in an instant!

She no longer thinks of Bela scolding her, of Daniela annoying and teasing her over small mistakes and clumsiness

She no longer thinks of Mother’s loudly spoken- yelled- words when she intentionally failed to catch the intruder

Then, however, just as she is about to pounce..she stops herself

Lucky you, and your perfect damn face, she thinks, as it sticks out from the onesie

Her own flies buzz at her aggressively, as though protecting you from her

She merely rolls her eyes at the little bugs

“Scoot!”, she snaps at them, a satisfied smirk spreading on dark painted lips when they follow her command and she is able to slip into bed with you instead

She chuckles a bit to herself, eager to scold you lightly for this in the morning

This, and the stupidly cute wings at the back of your onesie. She doesn’t even look like that!!

Huffing, she decides to curl against you for now. She supposes , she will have to kill you another day for another dangerous idea of yours

Daniela

She huffs and whines as she swarms into the room, positively riled up and overwhelmed from the day she’s had

Not only did she get scolded by her Mother! Of all people

But even Bela wouldn’t see her side of the story,

and Cassandra refused to break Mother’s rules for her this time! She just wanted to go hunting too!

Her sister never cared that she was technically grounded!

Until today, it seems…Daniela groans at the mere thought

Then, on top of that, she lost her sickle!

And displaced her favorite book!

Ugh! What a nightmare of a day!

Still, all her annoyance and trouble is thrown out the window when she swarms into her room and finds you like this

Your knees tucked to your chest, your face partly covered by the hood of your fly onesie

She definitely gushes over you. You look so adorable! Like a mini-her!

She loves it!

And her flies, all over you? Adorable!

She pets them gently and presses kisses to your face lovingly

Maybe, she’ll wake you up

She doesn’t quite mean to, she’s just excited!

Really, she can’t help jumping on the bed!

Or squeezing your cheeks

Or straddling you and turning you to get a good look at the onesie!

When you do eventually wake up, she merely giggles shyly and rubs her cheek against yours

“I’m sorry, love, go back to sleep”, she whispers with a smile

You aren’t about to fight this in the slightest

[deliverred]

Griss finds an easy target, he thinks. This guy's just standing there, kind of stiff, dressed mostly normal except for - as far as Griss can tell from behind - some hood with ears. This is the kind of person who's probably never seen a dead body before, right? Right. So this soon-to-be-fake-dead body sneaks up behind him, close enough so that when he starts to SCREAM like a man possessed, it scares the guy right out of his skin.

"wwaaUGH WHAT THE HELL?!"

Griss leaps backwards when it's not a boring, regular guy that turns around, but some grinning, dog-faced demon, the shadows from the flickering lamplight distorting it into something straight out of a nightmare. For a split second, Griss is completely frozen, eyes stretched wide, mouth gaping, as he tries to understand who - or what - he's looking at. That horrible face doesn't change. Not even when it speaks.

Slowly, Griss lowers the knife he'd brandished and the tension tumbles from his shoulders with one loose shake.

"You got cursed, right? Y'know, I always suspected whatsherface - Poe - was a witch." Yeah, that has to be the explanation. Why on earth would someone wear that? he is oblivious to the fact that the same could be said about him

"Listen, I've got an idea: I know how to fix your face," he says with all the confidence of someone who definitely doesn't, "but in exchange, you've gotta help me get some of that candy."

As far as he'd seen so far, there hadn't been too many pranksters about -- people were socializing or pairing up to collect candy -- but if there'd been any overt mischief, Lukas hadn't seen it in his casual observation of the other participants. With so many people milling about, it really wasn't that strange to hear someone walking behind him, and so Lukas didn't think much of it.

Until there's a sound like someone gearing up for an absolutely horrendous shout, and he turns around to see--

What appears to be a walking corpse. Or, well, a reeling corpse, if he were to get more technical about it. The man is dressed in stained robes and a generous application of blood. And from the smell of it, Lukas knows this isn't the faux blood Matthias was using, but actual blood from something that had once been living. Likely not that long ago, to get such...good application and coverage.

Still, it seems that Lukas had unintentionally taken the man by surprise when it was clear that was supposed to be reversed.

He's about to apologize for giving the man a fright and ruining his own scare, but then Lukas notices the knife and his eyes search the man's face. Underneath the blood and the wounds, he recognizes piercings and tattoos from the man he had faced off with on the archipelago in that fiend battle.

The costume suited him.

Lukas blinks behind the mask, an amused smile making its way to his face. A curse, hm? Well, he was about to be the victim of a little mischief just now, so why not play into this and have a bit of fun himself?

"It is quite horrible, isn't it? To be cursed with the face of a beast," he sighs, hanging his head slightly. He perks up at the offer, the mask's unnerving grin hiding his own small smile. "Oh? You would be so kind as to aid one such as myself? Hm, I'm sure we can't use the standard methods of collection -- my affliction might scare people away, and their treats along with them."

He hums thoughtfully, leaning in closer to Griss, unfazed by the stench of blood.

"Are you willing to get devilish with me in order to obtain this candy? If so, then this pact is sealed and we are partners in this endeavor."

[aegon-targaryen]

Ghosts That We Knew

Zelink Week Day 2: Fading | TP Zelink | read on AO3) | @zelinkcommunity

Link dreamed of a golden wolf.

He bounded through a forest of mist, weaving through the towering trees that stood guard over this ancient place. Link’s paws kicked up leaves as he raced to catch up. Snatches of sound caught his attention from time to time—music, voices, a child’s giggle—but he kept to his course.

Yet the bright coat of his quarry disappeared from view, and when he slowed to a halt, he found himself in a clearing he would recognize anywhere. A sword waited at its center. He was padding forward to answer its call when the golden wolf emerged from the fog, his single eye glowing with crimson sorrow.

Turn back, he said with all the terrible gravity of time. Go and do not falter, my child.

Link sat up sharply, grasping his surroundings with the speed of someone shaped by deadly times: Ordon, safety, a sword within reach, Zelda in his bed.

Zelda in his bed. A foolish grin tugged at his lips. They’d spent plenty of nights together in the castle, but something about having her here was so enthralling. She was stirring now, rolling over to face him, and he tried to wipe the stupid look off his face.

“Link?” she mumbled sleepily. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Just a weird dream,” he assured her, laying back down under the dark oaken ceiling of his treehouse. Dawn and the journey back to Castle Town were still a few hours away. As always, a part of him longed to stay, but at least he would take with him the memory of Zelda dancing under the harvest festival lanterns, of Ordon welcoming her the same way they’d welcomed Link when he was only a lost little boy.

“I had one too,” Zelda said. “The scribe’s meeting minutes transformed into a Chu that terrorized my Council.”

He laughed. “You would dream about meeting minutes.”

“Now tell me about yours. It’s only fair.”

Go and do not falter, my child. Those words had been with Link when he dealt Ganondorf the ending blow, the final mercy, just like he’d been taught. “Well…did I ever tell you about the Hero’s Shade?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“He was a spirit, I guess. Sometimes a wolf, sometimes a skeleton in armor. He brought me into some…other realm and taught me some of his techniques.”

“The Hero’s Shade,” Zelda mused. “He called himself that?”

Link frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure. But it felt right to me.”

She was quiet for some time, though he could practically hear the gears of her mind turning. Eventually she reached through the darkness to touch his cheek and said, “Can you go back to sleep? Or shall we take a walk?”

Wide awake now, he followed her outside, where the harvest moon bathed the sleeping village in its silver glow. Other than the crickets singing in the tall grass, Ordon was quiet in a way Castle Town never was. Link loved his tiny room above Telma’s bar and his work in the Resistance; he’d even grown to love Hyrule Castle, because Zelda was there. But coming home was always like drawing his first breath after days underwater.

They passed by their sleeping horses and continued on to the Light Spirit’s spring. This place always felt different at night, cast in a strange glow unlike either the sun’s heat or the moon’s gleam. Zelda’s boots sank into the white sand as she wandered along the water’s edge.

“I know you don’t like to be called Hero,” she said quietly. “But—you are aware there was one before you?”

“Yeah.” Link had worn his tunic, carried his weapons, walked in his footsteps. “I figured the Shade had something to do with him.”

“He lived hundreds of years ago, but perhaps some part of him…lingered, as ghosts sometimes do.”

He’d seen plenty of ghosts as a wolf, but only one had spoken to him. Without asking a single question, the Shade understood who Link was and what he needed to learn. He’d understood the enemy, too. “He faced Ganondorf, didn’t he? Before the Sages sent him to the Twilight Realm?”

“Yes. The hero’s story is largely forgotten across Hyrule, but he was close with an ancestor of mine. She kept a journal, if you’d like to know more.”

Link couldn’t help but remember the curse Ganondorf had uttered with his last breath: The history of light and shadow will be written in blood. There had been so much weight to those words, a sense of that history reaching back further than Link could conceive, a sense that it would continue long past his lifetime.

The full force of it felt suddenly awful here in this spring, where fate had come roaring out of the forest to claim him last year, where he’d returned as a wolf and killed his first shadow beast in the same spot where Ilia used to bathe Epona. His predecessor had been hurt in the same way. All that sorrow had been evident in his rusted armor, his heavy sword, his single crimson eye.

Yet he hadn’t been alone. Link looked at Zelda and remembered hearing her name in passing as a child, thinking to himself: I know her. Remembered meeting her eyes in that tower, feeling like the sun had broken through stifling twilight to clear away any doubt: I know her.

“There was another you,” he breathed. “And there was another me.”

Her brow creased thoughtfully, such a familiar expression that his heart twisted in his chest. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but…yes.”

“It happened before. Will it happen again?”

Zelda drew closer, glowing like magic in the spring’s unearthly light, her dark hair spilling loose over her white nightgown. She touched the scar on Link’s cheek and said softly, “Not for a long time, I hope. But if it does, we will face it together.”

.

.

.

After breakfast came the hardest part of home: saying goodbye. While Uli stuffed Link’s saddlebags with as many snacks as possible, Beth tried to convince Zelda to bring her back to the castle and make her a princess. Rusl lost the battle with his wriggling toddler and handed her to Link, who was happy to bounce her up and down on his hip until she settled.

“She likes you more than me,” Rusl grumbled.

“Hey,” Link said, tapping the Triforce on the back of his left hand. “I already had this when you found me in Faron, right?”

Rusl raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Are you wondering about your birth parents?”

“It’s all right if you are,” Uli said, pausing her struggle with the saddlebags. “I only wish we were able to find you some answers.”

Link was wondering more about the wheels of time, the Goddesses who spun them, and an ancient ghost who called him my child. “No,” he answered, ruffling his little sister’s hair before he handed her back to Rusl. “You gave me everything I needed.”

Uli inspected his face with a smile, then turned to hug Zelda, who accepted the embrace with her slow smile—the kind that bloomed so uncertainly across her face, as though she was afraid someone would come and take it away. But she held onto it this time, beaming at Link over Uli’s shoulder, and the sight made him happy enough to lessen the pain of leaving.

.

.

.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of Hyrule Castle was a graveyard accessible only to those who knew its secrets—at least, that was what Zelda said as she waved the illusory entrance away. It felt like stepping into a different realm blanketed by silence and thick grey mist, where there had just been sunlight and clear skies on the other side of the wall.

Since the Twilight, the crooked headstones had been straightened and the rubble cleared away. The thought of her coming here alone to weave her magic through her family’s resting place made Link proud and sad in equal measure.

“I’ve…actually been here,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was looking for a key to get me inside the castle, so…I burrowed under the wall. Sorry.”

Zelda’s mouth twitched. “Don’t be. My mother, at least, would have found that amusing.”

She halted under an enormous oak tree, its branches reaching far enough to brush the courtyard’s stone walls. Link still remembered the words inscribed on the tombstone, because they’d itched at the back of his mind on his first visit: The cursed swordsman sleeps beneath the sacred tree.

“He’s buried here?”

“I don’t believe so,” Zelda replied, pulling a weathered book from the pocket of her cloak and flipping through until she found a certain page and handed it over. “This is what my ancestor wrote.”

All they found were broken pieces of his armor, the journal said. People keep telling me he could have survived. But I am old enough to prefer hard truths over false hope. He’s gone. I know it in my soul. 

Tears sprang to Link’s eyes. “Where did he die, then?”

Far away, said a voice that creaked like the branches of the old oak, and they turned to find the golden wolf behind them, his image blurring and reforming into the spectral skeleton who had trained Link. Too far.

“It’s you,” Zelda breathed.

The Shade’s gaze snagged on her face as she drew closer, and he went still, his sword hanging loosely from his ruined fingers. His translucent form pulsed in and out of being with every breath. Princess, he said in a faint whisper.

Zelda had been queen for some time now, but she just smiled at him sadly. “Have you been here all this time?”

His red eye shifted to Link. I returned when the beast did. It should never have fallen on anyone else.

“No, that’s…” Link’s throat was tightening. When Zelda touched his arm, he swallowed hard and continued. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You made me strong enough to win.”

And now you have won. Stay the course. Leave the sword where it lies. Do not falter as I did.

“I—I never do, thanks to you.”

Stay with her, the Shade insisted. Treasure her. Be there long enough to say goodbye.

Zelda raised her head suddenly, digging around in her cloak pocket. Link only caught a brief glimpse of what she produced—a painted miniature of a golden-haired woman—before the Shade choked out a sound that was undoubtedly, devastatingly human.

“She treasured you too,” Zelda promised. “She felt you go, and knew it wasn’t your fault. She…she wrote…” Her free hand brushed Link’s, tilting the journal towards her so she could read aloud. “I buried those pieces of armor in a garden we both loved. The cursed swordsman and all the weight he carried will rest here. But the rest of him is free. I can feel him in the earth, in the wind’s song, in the beat of my heart.”

“She was right,” Link realized. “You’re what he left behind. But the beast is dead, and we’re—we’re going to be okay. You can rest now. Is that why you’re here? Because you’re ready to rest?”

The Shade stared at him in wordless disbelief.

Zelda wiped her eyes and kept reading. “Neither of us were strangers to regret—how could it be otherwise with the lives we’ve led? But we had so much sweetness, too. It was worth the sorrow. I hope he remembered that at the end.”

I did, the Shade whispered. Of course I did.

“She would want you to find peace,” Zelda told him gently.

She…she would. Yes. I believe it’s time.

His form was blurring around the edges. Link blinked hard, finally allowing his tears to fall, and searched himself for the right words to give the spirit of his predecessor, who had fought so hard and lost so much, who had returned to help him take down their common enemy.

In the end, all he could say was, “Thank you.”

The Shade looked down at the portrait, then at Link and Zelda, huddled together in the graveyard with tears in their eyes. Write a happier story, he told them as he faded slowly into the mist, replaced by a golden wolf that bounded towards freedom.

Wind gusted through the courtyard, so sudden and so strong that Link wrapped his arms around Zelda to keep them both anchored to the earth. When he raised his head, the tears had dried on his cheeks, and the Hero’s Shade was gone.

Zelda brought the portrait closer, turning it around to study the golden-haired woman. Though the only crown she wore was a simple circlet of rubies, there was something in her proud shoulders that made it clear she was a queen. Her forehead was creased with worry lines, but her smile was bright, and her eyes…

Link took Zelda’s face in his scarred hands, meeting her gaze: the color of an early morning sky, after the dawn dwindles and a new day begins. No wonder he’d known her so instantly, so naturally. And that was before he understood what it was like to love her, to be graced with the trust she found so hard to bestow, to unravel the parts of himself only she could understand.

Maybe she was thinking the same thing, for she pressed a soft kiss to the scar on his cheek.

“I wouldn’t choose anything else,” Link breathed when he finally found his voice. “I—no matter what happened before, or what happens next…”

“I wouldn’t either.” Zelda held the portrait close to her heart, and though her eyes were her ancestor’s, that small, precious smile he’d first fallen in love with was all her own. “She was right. It was worth the sorrow.”

.

.

.

[derangedanomaly]

AHHH GOING TO SCREAM yugioh anon back cuz its the weekend and oh my heart i adore horror stuff sm <333 now bc i am obsessed with blade and need to kiss him on his little forehead ya get some deadly obsessive blade :3 (blade is vv jd “meant to be yours” inspired)

tw: murder !! vv unhealthy relationship !! angsty as hell !! putting eyes in jars level of gore !! you still love him in the end but uhm. hm.

Making a sound here would be death. Calling for Chaos wouldn’t fix anything either, he’s out and you made the mistake of staying. The others made it clear they’re neutral with whatever he wants with you. Despite your mental scolding, tears well up in your eyes. Your hands shoot up to your mouth, roughly grasping your cheeks to distract your fear with pain. Only instinct fills your thoughts as you hear him.

“C’mon baby! You SAID you wanted to stay and I can make that happen! And! And! Because you’re so special, I’ll even give you a kiss as I steal your heart!” He offers, talking with his hands as he scans the area for you. He’s not found where you are yet but he’s not moved from the area, he knows exactly where you stopped when you dodged him throwing knives at you. You know he isn’t being metaphorical about the heart thing either, judging by the grotesque doodles you found in his room when you went to show him a cute cat game you installed.

A deer. You feel like a deer in headlights, a prey animal. If you move, you’re dead. If you don’t, you’re dead. Distracting him with a rock won’t work, he’s been a murderer for years surrounded by OTHER murderers! You feel sick. You loved him, heard him out, defended him and you get a tragedy in return. He’s coming closer, you hear his clock-like steps crush leaves.

Tick. Tock. Tick. You desperately hope he’ll just go. Tick. Tock. Tick. Would running here even help? He’d just grab you! What are you thinking! Tick. Tock.

“Time’s up, baby!” He gleefully calls, stabbing a knife decorated with glittery hearts directly in your shoulder. You screech in pain, trying to move back but groaning as it only sinks deeper into your flesh. As you look up at him, he smiles wide. He always loved it when you had your eyes on him. Was it strange to still care for him? Blade, your former beloved, answers with running another knife (this time decorated with a photograph of you alone in your room, smiling while watching a comforting show) through the side of your stomach. You don’t have the energy to scream anymore.

“Do you even KNOW how cute you are when you just look so scared? Don’t worry, baby, I’m here for you!” He reassures you. You’re unsure if he actually thinks he’s helpful.

You’ve decided your last move. Reaching up weakly, wincing as the blades cut through you more, you hold the side of his skull in your hands. Funny how you’d be a skeleton in a while. He stills. You always did this when you wanted to comfort him and the first time you ever kissed him. He would always pause like that, as if he wondered if it even happened. You couldn’t speak, but it was your way of telling him you still believed in those times. That maybe not everything was a lie. He drops the new knife he was holding (you recognize it as the first knife he showed you when you saw his collection) and turns his skull to kiss you on the hand. He then leans in and kisses you on the forehead. As he does so, you feel that knife he dropped run directly through your chest. In your last thoughts, you pray Chaos will help them and are glad.. you’re glad that he at least loved you back.

(STORY BONUS: Blade preserves your eyes in jars and literally begs Nightmare to make a doll of you. Blade decorates it with a wedding dress and tears the eyes out of it to place yours in it. It feels fake. He doesn’t get why it doesn’t feel good this time when he stares you in your eyes.)

AHHHHH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!!

You know how I said I'd draw you something the next time you'll grace me with an imagine? IT'S HERE! :D

Masterlist

[freyjas-musings]

For Day 7 of @gwynrielweeksofficial I have something different , this is a drabble from Gwyns POV ... it was a concept that was in my head and it's inspired from a movie I saw years back ( I don't remember the name or language sorry!!! )

@aldbooks thank you for making this possible and presentable.... without her I wouldn't even have posted it... its my first attempt at creative writing (Please be kind 🤗)

You can read it on AO3 here

Lone leaf in the Autumn 🍂 Wind

The autumn wind howled outside while Gwyn sat by, staring out the window. She had been here two months they said, but she hardly realized- time didn’t matter to her anymore. If she was being honest nothing mattered to her anymore.

The days had bled together and the only emotions she felt were swinging between excruciating pain at the loss of her sister, or numbness out of fatigue; she existed and that’s all she had the strength for. Only one question was on her mind- why her? Why was she still here while so many others, more worthy, more deserving even, had not made it.

As Gwyn stared out the window all she could see was the lone leaf on a tree outside of her dormitory holding tight to the tree while all of its other companions had succumbed to the wind. How long would the leaf hold on, she thought. How long would it last against the onslaught of the roaring wind? Did the leaf want that? To hold on? Would it be easier for it to give up and join the rest, fly away with the wind. Stop struggling, stop fighting, stop feeling …

Everyday, Gwyn went about the same routine. She was yet to say a word apart from the initial conversation with Mor, Clotho and Rhysand- she couldn’t get herself to. Everytime she sat in front of the counselling priestess all she could do was cry and scream, rage at her failure. At her inability to save her sister. Clotho had offered her a position to work under one of her head researchers. Gwyn hadn’t accepted it, nor had she rejected the offer. The truth was she didn’t know- didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She was lost. Except going to the counsellors chamber she never went out. When she wouldn’t turn up in the communal dining hall, food was sent to her. All Gwyn did was sit at the window staring at the lone leaf wondering how much longer.

And, more importantly, why? Why hang on?

Nights weren’t much better, the bloody memory and her sister accusing her of failing her plagued her mind. She couldn’t sleep and if she did for a brief minute, she would wake up with a nightmare. One such night she woke up, body covered in cold sweat and heart pounding, and her entire being trembled. All she could do was sob, she went to the window and the lone leaf fluttered, struggled, yet stayed put; and Gwyn asked the mother why? Why not end the struggle?

Days later, Gwyn stared at the leaf still valiantly fighting, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where did the leaf find the strength, she thought. What motivated it to stay put, she wondered. Was it simply in its nature to never give up on life? Or was there a reason, a purpose greater than what it realized.

It was then that she felt it. She jolted as she felt a cool whisp of air caressing her cheek, as though in comfort. As she looked at the source, she realized what it was; a shadow. Strangely enough, she recognized it like her very being responded to it. She somehow knew who the shadow belonged to- its master. The Shadowsinger.

He was the one who had pulled her out of the wreckage of Sangravah, her temple now in rubble. He had looked like an angel of death sent by the mother herself to avenge the loss of her children. Gwyn had seen him cut through them within minutes. They died too quickly, she thought, but he made sure it wasn’t painless.

What, she did not expect, was the life altering snap she felt when their eyes met, the bond now permanently tying them together. He seemed oblivious to the bond- a small mercy, given being shackled to her was a punishment. She had nothing to offer. She hated herself and hated that she survived. So, she kept silent.

When Mor healed her and spoke to her, she had confessed to her. Perhaps it was Mor’s magic, the power of truth that had pulled that confession from her. Thankfully she had promised Gwyn to keep the secret; to let her decide. To never betray her trust.

The shadow caressed her cheek again and Gwyn, for the first time since arriving, whispered, “did he send you?” Her heart was pounding. She couldn’t think of why he would, but the shadow moved sideways seemingly bobbing its head as if to say no.

She then whispered, “does he know?” Again, the same answer, which she assumed was no. Relief washed through her. She looked at the shadow now and asked, “why are you here then?” The shadow zoomed to the window, as if pulling her attention to something.

As Gwyn looked to where the shadow was pointing, her heart almost gave out, because the shadow was pointing to the lone leaf. And, as she looked closer, she realized there was another little shadow circling the stem of the leaf, holding it to the tree. It had protected the leaf from falling off. Had held it for Gods knew how long. She wondered how the shadows knew?

Had the wind whispered to them? How they had known, she could never guess. Yet something restless settled in her, knowing the shadows, his shadows, had gone to those lengths for her. For the first time since arriving Gwyn thought, maybe … Maybe it wasn’t so bad to just try. Just try to fight, find a purpose. If not for her, then for her mate.

She looked at the shadow and smiled.

The next day, Gwyn went up to Clotho and accepted the offer to work. Thanks to the lone leaf in the autumn wind, she found a reason to at least try ……

[ginoeh]

Welcome to my entry for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang 2024! Art was done by the amazing @lalaithquetzallicaresi ! You can find her over at Deviant Art as well!

Biggest thanks go to @tharkuun for tackling the task of pruning the purple out of my prose 💜! Thank you so much, friend!

Special thanks go to @chaosheadspace for allowing me to annex parts of her idea and doing my own thing with it! Without you this would be a different story altogeher...

To The Edge of Night

Explicit | Hob Gadling/Dream of the Endless | Part 1 of 3 | 11k

Part One Part Two

*** *** ***

Chapter One

It is quiet beneath the water’s surface.

Hob hangs there, suspended and weightless, beams of light filtering down through the cool liquid and refracting on ascending bubbles. In the back of his mind, there is the animal fear of nonono you need to breathe and no not again I don’t want to drown, but it is a muted, sizzling static barely more than white noise and easily disregarded. It is only the well-known echo of an old nightmare, so familiar by now that it is almost a friend. 

He should probably breathe soon, a sluggish and strangely calm part of his brain remarks, more out of obligation to observe the usual human behavioural pattern that is tattooed into everyone at birth and less because he feels he needs air. The larger part of Hob’s brain is preoccupied with becoming self-aware enough to recognize that he is dreaming. 

Below him, in the unseen black depth of whatever body of water his unconscious mind has made up, Hob detects a pressure change. More bubbles rise towards the vaguely defined surface, each of them carrying a world in them, a scene, a mind. Hob rips his eyes away from them; they are ephemeral, they’ll pop upon reaching the surface, like iridescent soap bubbles releasing their dreams into the ether once the dreamer awoke.

He frowns, vaguely aware that he shouldn’t know this, even as he observes the unknowable blackness underneath him. He knows what will happen next. This isn’t the first time he has this dream, after all. As if on schedule, the cold currents that swirl around his toes and bare calves grip tighter, sneaking up his thighs, then hips, grabbing and tugging until they find purchase. 

The first time, Hob had struggled, the old drowning nightmare trying to reassert itself. He’d woken gasping and in cold sweat with the uncomfortable feeling of having done an injustice to some nameless, pleading thing. In hindsight - if such a concept can be applied to something as illogical as dreams - he hadn’t felt threatened by the odd dream, per se. He’d been feeling vaguely guilty about it for days even when the actual dream had started to fade in the daylight hours. Dreaming in and of itself had become such an unusual concept to him over the 20th century that feeling like he had rejected one out of such an old fear had nearly made him want to apologise.

Hob had laughed at himself at that and made it a point to openly anticipate the still, black waters and cold undercurrent. He’d felt like a child, pretending the monster under his bed was actually a nice fellow and just wanted some company. 

The same dream had come again and again after that, not often but insistently, over weeks and months. He’s become strangely protective and appreciative of his only recurring and lucid dream. 

The worlds glinting in the air bubbles are a new addition, though.

Intrigued, Hob casts one more look at them before reaching with his hands into the tugging cold water, trying to bend down towards the depths where the emerging bubbles shimmer like silvery pearls before they rise. Then he is gripped - by fingers belonging to something like a hand, emerging from a body that was like his own but not, a dark mirror with sharp teeth in its smile - and ripped downwards, head first. 

The current tosses him like a ragdoll, down down down, buffeting him from all sides until Hob is twisted and bent in a way no human could possibly survive, were they in the real world. The humanoid shape that has gripped him is long gone, replaced by a cold riptide that carries him along more bubbles and dreams and worlds - over there is a glimpse of a candy coloured sky, here the view of a breathtakingly impossible mountain range, there an impression of creeping horror in a run-of-the-mill office setting -  

Curiously, with his waking mind lurking at the back like an observer behind a screen, Hob takes stock of the images and scenes he is drawn past. Different dreams, he acknowledges with the certainty of the sleeping, not his own but contained in these waters with him anyway. Suffusing them all, there is an emptiness; a yearning and a barren longing for something absent, something alien and all-encompassing. It is an empty night sky missing stars; cracked-dry earth missing the rain; a vibrant picture bled of all colours; a gaping maw of undirected wild dreams that threatens to swallow everything in its path - 

Then, Hob is sucked upwards, the dream bubbles becoming indistinct blurs of colour and sound until only the impenetrable dark of the deep sea remains. 

Finally, he is spat out.

It feels like waking up, only in reverse. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, or if time even has any significance in this strange place at all. He isn’t wet, for all that he thinks he’s travelled through water. Underneath his fingertips he feel the grain of age-worn wood, a solid surface that dugs into his back reassuringly.

Suddenly, in the way of dreams, there is someone standing over him. Dark skinned with close cropped hair that shows off elfin-like tipped ears. The being observs him over its glasses, curious and mistrusting.

“You are not my Lord.” The voice is female.

Hob can’t really fault the assertion. This has to be the most interesting dream he’s ever had. 

“No, I’m not,” he says, and doesn’t make a move to sit up. It doesn’t feel prudent to try seeing as he is, in reality, laying in his bed fast asleep. “But if you see him, tell him that his dreaming waters are really pretty turbulent, won’t you?”

Hob isn't particularly sure why it is those specific words that want to be said but it tracks with the whole knowledge that this is, in the end, a dream and therefore he’d better go along with the script. The curious woman’s lips twitch and something a bit warmer than perfunctory curiosity enters her eyes. It might be amusement. 

“I will, dreamer. As soon as my Lord is finally back again.”

Hob frowns, sinking further into the wooden plank beneath him that suddenly feels much too soft and comfortable and warm. He thinks of the insistent pull of the currents, of the uncanny knowledge that the waters are too rough, of the insistent yearning.

“That’s not good though, is it? Him - not here, missing.” He casts his eyes into the sky - grey and drab, but is that the edge of his wardrobe emerging over there? - before trying to focus again on the woman. “Who’re you, anyway? And why am I here?” 

“I am Lucienne, the Palace Librarian.” She sounds far away. ”And you, dreamer, need to wake up.”          

*** *** *** 

It all started by chance. 

At least, that was what Hob would reconstruct much later. He'd been a morose, pathetic bastard in the mid-nineties, so he was loath to call it something as trite as luck, or even bad luck.

He'd nearly cancelled his plans in favour of going on another drug-fuelled bender dose of inadvisable substances the night before, nearly took a right turn to get home faster. But then, entirely on a whim he’d decided to stick to his vague plan and turned left despite it all. However unlikely it was, he'd ended up at the rundown storage unit in The Middle of Nowhere, USA, when night was falling. There was a single light on in the manager's container, but instead of the old and brusque guy he'd talked with on the phone a week prior, a stressed-out twenty-something sat at the desk. 

The office itself was a dump and the person manning not in a largely better state.  

The air was heavy with too sweet perfume, but not enough to completely disguise the smell of mould and sweat. Mismatched boxes littered most of the floorspace and heaps of paperwork nearly swallowed the flimsy plastic desk as well as the androgynous tween behind it. Shadows burrowed grooves along their premature stress lines. They was staring blankly at a stack of folders. Hob thought they might possibly be a woman. Or - might have been born a woman, in any case. 

“I'm sorry, I don't know what Da’ was thinking. This is a fu- a freakin’ mess.” They shoved strands of shortish black hair behind pierced ears and nervously tapped a pen against a page of unreadable handwriting. 

Hob regretted not cancelling his plans. His head pounded something fierce and he thought longingly of the plastic bag of white powder underneath his passenger seat. He could have had a date with sweet delirium instead of standing here in the dark, trying to organize his next life. Mildew stared at him from the upper corner of the office container. 

“Look, it doesn't matter. We can just pretend I was never here-”

They looked up, panicked and pleading, and interrupted him.  

“No! I - we can make this work! I can-”

“Kid, if it doesn't work, then it doesn't work.” Hob sighed and started to turn around. The smell of the perfume itched at the back of his throat. He felt wretched. This whole damn decade was wretched.

“Please, wait. We- we …” They trailed off and Hob had to strain his ears to catch the despondent rest of the sentence. “...We need the money. Da’... Dad had an accident and - there's the hospital bills and… and the funeral bills now and…”

Hob pinched his nose, suppressing the rising nausea, and cursed his bleeding heart. He just hoped to every god that the actual storage units were in better shape than this office.

“I need three storage units at the very least, kid. Can you get me those?” He needed four or five to store all the debris of his past lives, to be honest, but he could be nice about this, just once. 

“I, um. I have two that are empty.” They sounded so carefully optimistic and thankful that Hob felt nearly wretched at his uncharitable thoughts. “And… there's one you can… just have anyway?”

“What?”

The kid worried at their chapped lips and looked up at Hob with a grimace. 

“Like, there's one where the owner is a… kind of a felon? And it's like, we're overdue rent by about three months.” They frowned. “Da’ has a phone number here about payment and stuff but, like, it's disconnected.”

And so it was by pure chance that Hob, on an all around awful and rainy night, hungover and itching for a fix, gained the keys to the storage unit of a convicted felon and found something that would change his life. 

The kid fiddled with the keys before finally just handing them over to Hob and showed him the way. It wasn’t far from the office at all. They hung back as Hob ducked inside, coughing at the wave of dust kicked up by the fresh air.

“I c'n have someone trash all this stuff next week, if you want!” the kid yelled from the entrance of the musty storage unit stuffed with shelves.  

Hob, though, didn't hear any of it. At the back of the cluttered space, on a heavy duty shelf at about chest height, there was a small metal box that drew his eyes. A deep red light spilled from between its hinges and from underneath the lid like beckoning fingers. The weirdest feeling of familiarity tickled his memories.

When he prised the box open, he found in it a red gemstone that looked very familiar.

*** *** *** 

The ruby - though Hob didn't know if it actually was a ruby, and he had no intention of having it checked - got a place of honour in Hob's bedroom. It was a sad state of affairs, if Hob was to be honest with himself, to cling to something just because it reminded him of the stranger that had been his only constant for nearly 600 years.

He wasn’t even Hob’s friend after all. 

Still, he couldn't free himself of the notion that the ruby needed to be kept close. It was pathetic - this couldn’t be the same gemstone his stranger wore to all of their meetings - and yet… he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. It exerted a hypnotic pull over Hob at times, scrambling his thoughts and dreams even when he was otherwise completely sober, and when the nineties segued into the noughties and Hob found sobriety a not quite so unappealing prospect anymore, he decidedly closed the metal lid on its box. 

Looking at it hurt. 

The thought of getting rid of it hurt more.

Out of sight, out of mind, he thought. As it turned out, it wasn’t quite that easy.

*** *** ***

Hob wakes up on wooden planks beneath a slate grey sky. 

Or maybe those are the wrong words. He certainly becomes aware there, with water that isn’t actually wet caressing his hair and strangely indistinct clothes. It whispers as it runs down in rivulets to join with the darkly opaque waters below the walkway Hob sits upon. As far as Hob can see, the wooden bridge extends over the softly lapping waves until it vanishes into the distance. Thunder rumbles overhead.

This is a dream.

Slowly, he stands, cupping the last drops of dry water carefully in his hands. It swirls in glittering strands, reflecting shadows and muffled screams. Hob recognizes something of the old nightmare that kept visiting him faithfully. 

How odd a dream this turns out to be.

Behind him, the sea of dreams and nightmares stretches infinitely until it melts into the horizon. 

“Where did you bring me, little nightmare,” Hob whispers as he lets the droplets join with the body of water below. 

He doesn’t get an answer. 

*** *** ***

His new life, back in London again, greeted Robert Grant with the enthusiasm afforded to any post-graduate student of the Humanities, which was to say, with depressingly little. 

It didn't matter all that much, really, because Bob, as his fellow students found out, wasn’t one for overt enthusiasm either - at least when the matter at hand didn't concern his immediate interest, which anything rarely did. Who in their right mind would voluntarily make ‘The peasants’ life - agency and social standing in late 14th century Europe’ their thesis subject, after all. 

Hob didn't mind. 

After the drug-fuelled mind-fuck he’d made of the prior decade, he could do with a bit of academic solitude. Most of the people he had associated with were dead - or by now old and ill enough to soon be close enough - and sometimes he thought melancholy hung around him like a heavy cloak of shadows that he didn't know how to take off. Hob tried, though, he really did. Not meeting his… his stranger, suddenly becoming a truly unknown particle in an ever-expanding world will not be as world-ending as his 17th century had been, surely.

Hob only had to get a grip on himself again. It couldn't be that hard.

If he sometimes found himself suddenly awake at night, mindlessly caressing the scratched metal box with the ruby lookalike, then that was between himself and his well-loved nightmares.

*** *** ***

The wooden walkway looks the same every time Hobs comes-to on its planks. He's always alone at first, the feeling of travelling through turbulent waters still rushing in his ears while he gets his bearings. Some of the water likes to linger on him, in the folds of his clothes or in the hollow of his collarbone. Hob thinks it might be his nightmare, the one he's had on and off since the early sixteen hundreds, of drowning again and again. He smiles a little and pretends he doesn't see the not-wet water sluicing off and dripping back into the sea of nightmares below the walkway. 

Sometimes the sky above him is grey and stormy, sometimes it's the blackest night Hob has ever seen, without one star to be found in the endless expanse above. It makes him uncomfortable, because something is missing. 

The woman that had greeted him on his first arrival in this surrealist landscape, Lucienne, doesn’t turn up again. He's alone, except for the nightmare that clings for longer and longer each time before joining back with the rest of the dark waters. 

So eventually, Hob starts walking.

It's not easy, seeing as how there are patches of planks that are loose or broken. Sometimes, he takes the time to try and put the boards back into place and fix them so they don't slip off again. But he has no nails or hammer or any other tool on him whenever he wakes on the walkway. All he ever has with him are the clothes on his back; rarely his pyjamas, thankfully, but the truly horrible amalgamation of different styles - leeched of every colour except for the washed out remnants of greys, blacks, and sometimes a hint of red - aren’t much better.  

But Hob persists, and every time he puts another plank back into place, he thinks they feel eager to get back to where they belong. Next to him, the liquid pre-form of his little nightmare lingers and watches and gains consistency.

“Am I doing this right, then?” he asks, not quite looking at the slowly undulating form of the watery nightmare creature beside him. Beneath his fingers, the bleached and worn grains of wood are soft and nearly warm. The plank that he holds wants to be set back into its frame, after beingn loosened and having gone askew with time and weather. 

Carefully, Hob slips it back where it belongs and does his best to press it down into the supporting structure without the aid of any tools. It fits nearly too perfectly.

Then again, this is a dream. So of course it would. 

“How long does this path go on, then?” he asks next, and the tiny, misshapen creature shivers at his side. Hob looks behind him, over the endless stretch of the meandering walkway. It's so long that the farthest reaches of it, the place where Hob once got spewed up and out of the dreaming waters, are lost in the twilit dark.

It's in much better shape now than when he started this journey. 

“As long as it takes, huh? Well. That’s not really helping me much, little nightmare,” he mutters, and then turns back around again, facing the mirroring path before him. Above, grey clouds start to skitter across the depthless black sky.

Hob has no idea how often he has visited this strange strange place - time is a curious thing in dreams, after all. 

“Let’s go on then. No use waiting forever. Someone clearly needs to make sure this road is safe. Wouldn’t want that Lady Lucienne falling and drowning after all, would we?” 

Hob walks on.

*** *** *** 

Robert Grant was having a bit of a shite time of it, if he was being honest. He wasn’t, of course, but there was no one around to tell him off for it. Martin the barkeep might, but the old chap thought that old Bertholt Grant, Hob's supposed uncle, was somewhere off gallivanting in the US and doing nothing more than forking over loads and loads of pounds to keep up the lawsuit against the demolition of the White Horse. 

Martin the barkeep, therefore, had no idea at all about Robert Grant, who was very much not in the US but rather squarely in London, and his current troubles. For if Rob - or Hob to his closest friends, of whom there existed exactly none at this particular early time in his new life - hadn’t been absolutely sure that his last substance-fuelled descent into delirium had been more than half a decade ago, he'd think he was maybe on a particularly long and weird trip. 

He was of course vaguely aware of the arcane - of the supernatural and the magical - in the same way any immortal who had taken part in a few (more or less) genuine seances, spirit walks, and summonings would be. Apart from the whole being-immortal business, which all in all had surprisingly few magical components to it, as far as Hob had seen. Nothing in his vast spectrum of experiences offered an explanation for his recent troubles. 

At times, the reality Hob found himself in felt strangely transient. As though there were an iridescent veil of rippling water behind which other things waited - things that had no business existing in a world where Hob was very much awake. Whenever he closed his eyes on the odd feeling, the shadowy depths of the sea of dreams and nightmares lapped eagerly at his consciousness. His frequent lucid dreams were a curiously consistent comfort as well as a source of mystery.

Thoughtfully, Hob traced patterns on the small, plain box that held the ruby pendant he'd found in the storage more than a decade ago. It was the only thing that had followed him into this new life from his last. Outside, early autumn rain pattered against the windows of his cheap two-bedroom apartment. On days like this, he really didn’t feel like going out at all. 

As if in admonishment, the annoying ringtone of his Philips flip phone rang through the flat. 

Groaning, he set the worn box back on his bedside table and went to grab the blasted thing from the faded linoleum kitchen counter. The cartoon sound of a rubber band grated on his nerves when he flipped the casing open and looked at the caller id on the greenish screen. 

“What's up, Emily?”

There was an exasperated silence.

“You forgot, didn’t you? A-gain. Oswin was right.”

Hob stared blankly at the garish novelty clock on top of the microwave and wracked his brain about deadlines his deskmate in the library would call him up about. He drew a complete blank.

“Forgot what?”

“Ohmygod Bobbie. How are you even- “ She paused and took a deep breath that sounded tinny over the warbling connection. “We're at the Red Lion. The quiz is starting soon. You promised by all that's holy you'd come this week.”

Hob could hear the quotation marks in her words. And he still drew a blank on what - and more importantly why - he'd promised.

“Which Red Lion?” he dared to ask after a pause in which he could hear Emily silently despair.

“Are you shitting me? The one across the street behind the old archives building, of course!” She sighed. “Will you still come? Please? We can order something for you already. You’re not gonna be that late, Bobbie.” 

It was the undertone of resignation that finally convinced him to give in against the lethargy and dissociation that had been creeping up on him again. He cast one last frown at the unassuming box that hid the ruby and ascertained once more that the rain-washed windows were truly only looking out into equally rainy London and not, for example, into the depths of an ocean he had only ever dreamed of. 

It made him feel truly unhinged for one disconnected moment. 

“Okay. Order away.”

At the other end, there was silence.

“I- really? I mean. Yeah, sure, Bobbie! You want anything in particular?” Emily sounded equally as surprised as happy. Hob immediately felt guilty about rebuffing so many of her previous attempts to get him to socialise. 

“Not really. I don’t know, some fish and chips will do. And a lager.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Emily was scribbling down his order religiously as he spoke. Dependable note-taking was something he knew her to be really good at. They’d spent the better part of the last semester sharing lectures and a library table, so he was pretty sure he had her quirks memorised well enough.

“Though I’d rather skip on the apples and chocolate digestives, if you don’t mind too much,” he added, careful and with an exaggerated playfulness in his voice. She’d plied him with both for many months now, keeping up a constant litany of how she never saw him eat. 

It was… endearing, in a way. Even if it made him uncomfortably aware that there was something wrong with him that extended beyond his lucid dreams and the vague sense that there was something hiding behind the reality he perceived. He rarely felt hunger, these days.

Maybe immortality was finally catching up with him, after all this time. Mad Hettie hadn’t gotten her nickname for being entirely sane, after all, and she was many times his junior.

On the other end of the line, Emily laughed a startled breath.

“I don’t think this dump serves anything as uppity as apples, Bobbie,” she joked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with salty chips and oily fish. I’ll get you some apples on Monday, though.”

“See you in a bit, Emily. I’m on my way.”

“Yeah, laters!” She sounded happy, and Hob stared at the phone after disconnecting the call. He hadn’t realised she cared that much.  

Beyond the window, evening started falling, and the water running down the glass panes looked like waves on the sea of dreams. Hob threw one more look back at the ruby in the box. For a second, he imagined a shimmer of red light spilling through the cracks. It was only an illusion, of course.

He shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his umbrella, keys, and wallet on the way out, and braved the English weather. 

It was time to make some friends again.

*** *** *** 

Then, one night, he reaches the end of the walkway. 

Before Hob, a landscape of sandy hills, scraggly shrubs, and dark moors rises from the silvery mists.

*** *** ***

Chapter Two

Hob sits, feet dangling close to the water's surface, at the edge of the dock. The sea below his feet is silent; breathless. Above, clouds whip past in jarringly fast swirls. The sight mirrors the uncomfortable feeling lodged in Hob's stomach. Behind him is the way he came, with the sea made of dreams and nightmares and the endless path beneath an empty sky.

It’s familiar.  

Hob’s nightmare creature slinks around at his periphery, its form still not quite stable. Its surface is rippling as though agitated, and sometimes it has eight long legs, sometimes only four. A few of them look like tentacles, or nets, if Hob looks as closely as he can. It dips in and out of the still water, equally unable to commit to leaving the sea behind as Hob himself. Or maybe it’s just mirroring Hob’s own indecision.

On one hand, he’s always keen on exploring the new. The landscape beyond the dunes that block Hob’s view beckons him with mystery and intrigue - where would the next path take him in this dreamland? On the other hand, he’s grown pretty appreciative of what he’s seen so far. There’s something tranquil about being alone, held between the sky and the sea, caught at the interface between a mirror and its image.

But maybe he’ll like the rest of this odd country, too. Maybe he’ll meet more strange creatures, like the one that’s been travelling with him so far. 

On the horizon, far behind the dunes, the dark storm clouds gain a lighter edge.

Sighing, Hob pushes himself off the wooden boards and splashes into the water up to his calves. He leaves no ripples in his wake. The water looks and feels as though it's a blanket cocooning him. He gives a perfunctory pat to the walkway.

“Okay then, ‘t was nice having your support,” he jokes before making for the shore.

He wades out of the water’s hold. It laps at his feet when he leaves, sluices off him as smoothly as real water doesn’t and drips into the opaque black sand in shimmering impressions of faces and fears, screams and dreams. The sea starts churning suddenly, as if remembering that it’s actually supposed to be moved by the winds that still whip past them, and not by its own alien design.

Behind him, his little nightmare slinks along, trailing water and legs and fur and a hundred other things that vanish into puddles. It still doesn’t have a form, Hob thinks as he wiggles his toes into the cool and dark sand, observing it covertly. Maybe it’s trying to find one. Hob thinks it should be something sleek and small; agile.

Slowly, they trek across the beach toward the dunes. They are made of the same forebodingly black sand as the beach. Hob stays close to the shore for as long as he can. The ever-growing waves try to lap at his feet. His nightmare gamboles in the surf but doesn't ever actually go back into the sea. 

The walkway behind them is never out of sight. Like one of those portraits whose eyes seem to follow the watcher, the path Hob once walked seems always to be staring at him. But even so, the draw to explore the land beyond never lets him go, either.

*** *** ***

Hob’s new life was slowly starting to lose its alien feel. It didn’t quite fit yet - like a new coat that was too stiff at the collar and too tight at the elbows until it got properly worn in. Hob recognized the crisp feeling of newness even though, usually, it came with the shine and sparkle of beginnings and promises. This time, he kept fighting against a feeling of constriction that sometimes veered concerningly close to panic.

He fought against it, of course. He just needed a bit more time to settle into a new routine, without the constancy of regular centennial meetings. That was all.

“This is it,” he said one uncommonly sunny September evening.

“What. This ramshackle hut? It looks like it’s gonna topple over if I look at it wrong.” 

Oswin, an archetypal Humanities post-grad, took a deep drag of his cigarette - self-rolled, of course - and settled his other hand into his hip. His patterned shirt made Hob dizzy just from looking at it - it should probably have stayed safely hidden in someone’s forgotten 70’s wardrobe. 

“I dunno, mate.” Hob shrugged and hoped it looked casual enough. He couldn’t quite look at the sad sight the White Horse made without nearly breaking into tears. “My uncle’s totally gone on the history of this pub. Anyway, that’s not the main point I’m trying to make.”

“C’mon Bobbie, you promised us a pub and good ale!” 

“That’s all you’re here for, Ossi? I’m hurt.” 

Oswin just rolled his eyes and handed another cigarette to Emily. 

“Anyway, that’s not really what we’re here for. Come on!” Hob turned his back on the crumbling skeleton of his past and took down the street, his friends behind him. “I just came here to show you the why. I’ve still gotta show you the what..”

Emily groaned. “You’re terrible, Bobbie. You’re such an old man, the way you try to lead us on.”

“Me? Leading you on? Never in my life!” The more he had made himself brave the company of others, the easier it became to fit in. Right now, he was only maybe forty percent pretending and already sixty percent genuinely enjoying himself. 

They trekked across an overgrown meadow until they arrived at a quaint two-storey building. It wasn’t even half as old as the White Horse, but it did have some history lined in its timber-framed construction. 

“It’s another old and closed pub,” Oswin said.

“I think I stepped ‘nto dogshit,” Emily muttered around the smoke between her lips.

Hob couldn’t stop the laugh even if he’d wanted to.

“It’s my old and closed pub, if you wanna know.”

That shut them up at once. Property didn’t come cheap these days, after all. And Hob hadn’t exactly pretended to be well-off.

Emily abandoned her attempts to scratch the suspected dog poop off her combat boots with a twig and leaned on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. She nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah… I can absolutely see it.”

“You can?”

“Sure, Ossi. It’s at least as old as Bobbie’s soul, can’t you tell?”

Hob summarily abandoned the shit-talking couple as soon as another figure turned the corner and made straight for the steps of the old building.

“Hey, Martin!” Hob jogged up to meet him. “It’s me!”

Martin Ross was someone whom Hob had taken great care to avoid so far. He’d been ‘Berthold Grant’s’ most staid friend, after all, and he’d been careful to let a decade and a severe makeover pass before even considering taking this particular course of action.

“Dinn’ae think you’d recognize me that easily, Bobbie.” The man gave him a pat with one large hand where Hob was bent over in exaggerated exhaustion after running across the street. It was a calculated move - Hob didn’t feel entirely secure in managing his expression at first, and having a healthily glowing face with wild hair was the opposite of what Martin knew his friend Berti to look like.

As soon as he straightened again, the bartender gave him a thorough lookover.

“How’s your uncle doing? My god, ye’re his spitting image at that age…”

“Thanks! Well so far, I guess. But you know how he is…” Hob trailed off and offered an awkward shrug, letting Martin fill in his own conclusions. 

“Aye, don’t I ever,” the man muttered. “Give me a mo’, Bobbie. I got your keys right here somewhere.” 

Martin had gotten terribly old. He hadn’t been young by any means back in 1989 but now, fifteen years later, Hob again realised that very soon, he’d be mourning another friend. He’d known of course that Martin had celebrated his 71st birthday just months prior. Now, his age slapped him in the face with all the soft wrinkles, liver spots, and his head of gleaming white hair.    

“There you are, little bugger.”

With a self-deprecating grin, Martin handed Hob a set of four keys. 

“Thanks for doing this, Martin.”

And Hob was really, awfully thankful to the old man. He’d taken to Hob as ‘Bert’s’ representative as jovially and earnestly as he’d taken to being ‘Bert’s’ friend in the first place. It wasn’t a good feeling to deceive his friends -past and present - like this. But it was getting harder and harder to come back to the same area within less than a generation and take over for his past self. So this was a good solution, even if he knew it was going to hurt him and his friend for a while. 

Hob wasn’t ready to let the White Horse and everything it stood for simply vanish into the mists of time and so here he was again, barely one generation later, still hoping that his Stranger would one day find him here. The last time he’d clung to a place and its memories this recklessly, it had gotten him drowned as a witch.  

Something must have shown on his face, because Martin’s smile dimmed a bit.

“Ye’re a good lad, Bobbie. I ‘ppreciate what ye’re doing for Bertie here.”

There was a ripple somewhere in Hob’s mind, like a pebble thrown into a mirror-smooth lake, and in that disturbance, Hob thought he saw his own face as it was in the nineties: sunken eyes, bloodshot with too little sleep and too much crack, something resembling a grin on bloodred lips, an unhealthy sweat on his brows. 

“I just hope ye’re not planning on walking the same road as ye’re uncle in other matters.”

Hob resurfaced, confused, and realised he was staring. The rip in reality reflected in Martin’s eyes and refused to vanish no matter how much Hob blinked.

“Uh. Yeah. I mean, of course, Martin.”

 What the hell was that. 

Martin left soon after, promising to keep in touch concerning staffing and management questions and Hob mutely opened the door to his new, old, pub. The image of Hob’s own ravaged face reflected in Martin’s eyes stayed in Hob’s mind. Was that what Martin feared? Dreamed about?

“Ohhhh, look at that!” Oswin crooned into his ear and sashayed into the dusty, empty taproom. “Our Bobbie got himself his own little kingdom!”

“Kind of. I’m supposed to fix it up for my uncle and get a cut of the revenue. It’s supposed to become - a friendly space. For everyone. It’s… kinda personal.”

Emily shot him a look he had trouble interpreting. There was maybe something like hope there. He let his messenger bag flop to the truly awfully dirty floor and rummaged through it until he had unearthed the three bottles of the cheapest ale he could find for sale. 

“There. The ale I promised.”

Emily took hers with disgust written in her face but unclipped the bottle opener from her dangling keychain obligingly.

“You’re actually a terrible cheapskate, you know that? I hate you.”

Oswin simply opened the bottle and made a show of taking an obscenely deep swallow.

“Yep,” he said, settling cross-legged in the dust. “This is exactly as disgusting as the state of this dump. I love it.”

“It doesn’t taste like goat piss,” Hob offered, and opened his own.

“And on that concerning revelation, let us speak a toast!”

They clinked their cans and Hob couldn’t help the smile when it all devolved into more friendly bickering. There were so many possibilities held in smiles and new beginnings.  

*** *** ***

The dunes, when he finally reaches them, are barren except for scraggly grass and thistles. Overhead, the stormwinds rage on. Behind, the vast churning sea, dangerous and beautiful, dips out of sight at last.

Immediately, the world grows silent but for the shifting grains of sand.

Hob kneels and burrows his fingers in the cool dampness. The grains are lighter here, less black and more whitish opaque - a bit like ground glass. They stick to his fingers and underneath his nails like cold and sharp glitter. In between the dunes and the thistles and yellowed stalks of grass, there are the signs of a long neglected pathway. 

“Oh, we're not in Kansas anymore, are we?” 

Hob chuckles, and the sound falls strangely onto the remnants of the white pebbled road. It slips between the cracks and soaks into the egg-white rocks. Maybe here, each step and every stone will bring him closer to his goal as well, whatever that might be. He doesn't think there's an emerald city at the end of this road, though. 

Something sleek and black moves at the corner of his eyes. 

“Are you coming with me, then? I'd be grateful for the company, if you'd care to join me.”   

The shape moves closer and stays still, as if daring Hob to finally take a look. So he does.

The nightmare is small on its four paws and elongated body. It looks nearly emaciated, but its fur is sleek and glimmers wetly, more black in colour than the brown of its earthly brethren. Otters, in Hob's limited experience, don't usually sport such iridescent, nearly oily looking fur. Its too large eyes are an unnerving black from corner to corner and Hob can feel its intent gaze on him like the caress of cold water.

Hob stays quiet, sitting still on his knees with sand between his fingers, and slowly stretches out one hand as he would in the waking world when trying not to spook an animal. He's not sure if the same principles apply here, though.

“There you are,” he murmurs as the creature comes closer, not shyly but cautiously; assessing him, Hob thinks. “Have you decided how you want to look?”

It cocks its head and Hob gets the impression that it's meant mockingly. He doesn't really know why. It swerves around Hob's hand and hops onto the white pebbled path that promises to wind through the dunes and further into this strange, strange land.

It looks straight at him and bares needle-sharp teeth that are much too long. 

“Yeesh, I got you. You want to come along. No need to be so impatient, little nightmare.”

In answer, it twitches its tail and scrapes long and obsidian black claws across the pebbles.

Sighing, Hob acquiesces to the demand and, with his hands, sweeps the mounds of sand away from where the path begins. He rights the edges where the round stones, no larger than his fist, have become loose and pats the restored section of the path obligingly. 

Something like a small shock travels up his arms right then, a warm, static zing that races through him and lodges behind his sternum and tints his vision red for the blink of an eye. He rubs his chest, today clad in something like a fading beige jacket with frayed sleeves, but there is nothing there.

The otter grins with black lips, its teeth glimmering forebodingly. 

“Oh, you're a real nightmare, aren't you.”

He laughs a little at the thin otter-lookalike and follows it into the dunes between the thistles and thorny brambles.      

*** *** *** 

Interlude:

Dream of the Endless startles. 

Something has changed.

The cold of the glass sphere is as inconsequential as ever beneath him; the basement with its mockery of the night sky and badly hewn stones is as ephemeral as it always was - only to human minds these walls seem insurmountable and timeless. 

A guard, Dream cares not which of the several that man the post, shuffles her feet and turns the pages of her paperback book. 

There is a tiny grain of loss at the knowledge that he does not know this book, nor its creator. 

Everything is as he is accustomed to, in Burgess’ paltry fortress.

And yet.

He slowly lays his fingers across his chest, where usually his ruby would rest. It is not there, it has been taken and hidden from him many decades ago.  

He lets the hand fall away again, presses the pads of his fingers against the unforgiving glass, thinking. Someone is using a part of his power for the Dreaming’s benefit. 

He wonders which of his creations has faithfully brought his stolen power home. They are one and the same, after all, Dream of the Endless and the Dreaming. To strengthen one, is to give loyalty to the other. 

There is a smile tilting his lips when he returns to watching the guards. 

*** *** *** 

“Oh. My. God.”

Emily’s voice cut through the background of the radio’s quiet blaring and Hob straightened from where he was bent over the side of the bar counter. 

“Oh my god,” she repeated and picked her way between tools and boxes towards him, “this looks absolutely fab, Bobbie! Where have you learned to do this? I wish I could learn to become a carpenter.”

Hob stepped away from the freshly sanded and glazed wood of the White Horse’s old and saved bar counter and pushed his safety goggles up. Instantly, his eyes started watering at the sharp chemical tang that hung in the air.

“Ah damn it, can you open a window please?”

Emily gingerly edged around some precariously stacked tables and leaned over to quickly push one of the creaking windows wide open. 

“Good thing you’re wearing a mask.” She laughed and pulled up the collar of her red turtleneck to hide her nose behind. “You’d prob’ly be high as a kite otherwise.”

Hob threw the brush into the designated painting can and managed to squeeze through the assembled detritus of the unfurnished New Inn towards Emily. 

“Let’s sit outside. I could do with a breather, to be honest.” 

He grabs a couple of lemonade bottles out of a nearly empty case. They settled on the porch steps where the late winter sun did its level best to make them feel like it was early spring already. 

“Cheers!” 

The silence was nice, companionable. Until, of course, Hob made the mistake of watching his friend from the corner of his eyes. He shouldn't, he knew that. He’d learned better over the last few months than to look too closely when these strange wisps of whimsy and water started to peek through into reality. Martin had been only the first of many instances where he’d… seen things. 

He was going crazy. He was just going round the bend that was all there was to it.

Emily turned her green glass bottle, hands compulsively tightening. There was a frown caught between her brows. He'd noticed it often, for a couple of months now; there was doubt in the way her eyes had lingered on him and Oswin, indecision and apprehension in the set of her shoulders. 

He'd noticed then, too, the little thoughts that shimmered around her, the little fears she nurtured. He'd chosen to ignore them, at the time. It was nothing, surely. He was just - seeing impossible things.

But Hob wasn’t ever good at simply letting things go once they had caught his interest. He’d never been one to back down. But maybe…maybe there was a way to find out, after all, if any of it was - real. 

He cast a sideways glance at her and laid a hand over hers where it gripped the bottle too tightly. All or nothing.

“Hey there’s no need to worry, Emily. Oswin won’t care. Neither do I, by the way.”

Emily stopped twisting the poor bottle. 

“What?”

She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 

There was his chance to take it back, a way out. He could just laugh it all off. Then again, Hob had seen those same fears and thoughts crowding around Emily day after day for so long now - more in impressions than in visual images, a bone deep knowledge when he looked at her that she was afraid. Emily feared what her best friends would do and say when she’d finally dare to tell them.

Still, he was tempted to back out. He could still pretend nothing was wrong; tell himself that his dreams were just dreams and those visions and insight were nothing more than the product of a too old mind.

All or nothing, he thought again and forged forward, as always.

“Love is love, Emily. I don’t care if you’re not into guys. I won’t abandon you. Or judge you.”

Emily froze and Hob was immediately sure that what he knew, what he’d learned of her by whatever strange kind of magic this was, was the truth of her fears and nightmares. It sisn’t feel like the good kind of validation at all. 

“How did you-” She stood, aghast, and stepped neatly out of the range of his hands.

“Emily, please.”

“No Bobbie. What the- how did you kn- How can you just throw this at me like that?!”

Hob winced and held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Em!”

“Uncomfortable?! You just - You just outed me without even-” She violently scrubbed a hand through her short bob. “I haven’t told anyone, ever! There is no possible way you could have simply-”

She gestured wildly and if it weren’t for the tears that she was furiously blinking away, he’d be counting on getting slapped and summarily left. Instead, she calmed down by herself. She was still tense when she settled back down next to him and shakily lit herself a smoke. There was a cautious distance between them, now.

“Thanks for trying to support me. However ass-backwards you went about it.” 

Her voice remained clipped and she didn’t really look at him but something in the set of her shoulders had relaxed all the same. The impressions of fear around her became lighter, nearly see-through if they had been visible in the first place, their substance more ephemeral mist than dark water. 

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. It’s creepy.”

“I’m creepy?”

“Oh god Bobbie. Yes you are,” She laughed and it sounded a little less warm than what Hob was used to hearing from her. He’d earned that, most likely.

“It’s really no wonder you’ve got a hard time making friends,” she said, “I did notice that you’re.. strange, sometimes. Too intense, I guess. But it’s all part of your charm. At least as long as you don’t overdo it.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Sure thing. Just - do me a favour and don’t randomly out people without a by-your-leave. There are a lot of us that have actual nightmares about that kind of thing.”

She stomped her cigarette out and got up again.

“See you later?”

“Of course.” 

He watched her go, steps surer and shoulders straighter than when she’d come. 

“Nightmares, huh.” 

*** *** ***

Beyond the dunes, the land transforms into an inhospitable moor. White sand, each particle hard and cold like glass, becomes earthy and deceptively soft. Dead plant matter clings wetly in little slippery clumps and squelches uncomfortably loamy underneath each of Hob's steps. 

Perpetual twilight falls and fog lies over everything.

It caresses the black pools of brackish water, winds around spindly plants and dying trees and stretches its cold, translucent fingers into Hob’s face. His nightmare nearly vanishes, its black fur becoming one with the waters of the ponds when Hob doesn’t look. 

The path of white pebbled stones has long since melted into a footpath that winds around and around. Sometimes, there are the remnants of old bridges that cross softly murmuring streams and little pools. Other times, wooden walkways cross over soft peat. 

It feels like-

It feels like home to Hob.

He kneels, neglected and decomposing wooden slates in hand, at the edge of one bridge. The dampness creeps through his trousers - this time some ludicrous, wrapped things of fading black. The handrailing is long gone and Hob doesn’t know if it will support his weight if he tries to cross it. Carefully, he fits the slates back into place.

“When I was a kid,” he murmurs, “there was a place just like this a few miles behind our village. We used to go and cut peat there, my Da’ and I and my older brother.”

In the pond next to him, the Otter floats with its head barely above the surface. There is a red shine to its eyes as it keeps them focussed intently on Hob.

“After, we’d sit at the fire and the men would tell stories. Of wicked souls and lost children. Of the little ghost lamps they’d light up at night to lead wanderers astray and drown them.”

Hob looks back at the bridge, and as he had thought - as had happened so many times now - the part he has repaired, the whole of the bridge even, has regained a structural integrity that’s most certainly not due to the few slats Hob has put back into place. 

He smiles a little, content. The path already knows what it is supposed to look like, he thinks. Hob is just providing the material.

And the faith.

“We were told to always trust the paths, and to never leave them.”

He stands and pats down his sorry excuse for trousers. The wet dirt clings stubbornly to his clothes and hands, though.

In the distance, barely visible, the dark shade of a treeline rises. There is yet a sea of mist and bog to wade through before he can reach it and as he takes his first step onto the new bridge, trusting that it will hold him, a light blinks into existence, an eerie yellow shine distorted through the fog.

Hob can’t help the grin that steals across his face. It’s been a while since he felt so young. There aren’t any moors like this left in England - precious few across the world and none that feel as familiar as this one. He takes a deep breath, then another. 

“Let’s go,” he says in the direction of his nightmarish companion, “Let’s see where these paths want to lead us.”

Another light blinks on, and then more and more shine through the mist. They follow him, he thinks. Overhead, the perpetually setting sun throws pale red light against the cloud cover. It looks exactly as Hob remembers from a world long lost to time. 

*** *** ***        

The morning dawns with the unrelentingly gentle insistence of early spring. Rain drums a beat against the window panes of Hob’s bedroom and gurgles down into the earth through too old pipes. Hob blinks away the lights of the ghostly lanterns in the moor and tries to hush the quietly bubbling brooks that he thinks he hears echoed in the rainfall.

He sits up slowly, not really sleepy at all but still caught in the tail ends of his dream all the same. The old and drafty floor to ceiling windows show nothing but his own reflection, distorted through the water washed glass. 

Soft thunder rumbles over the skies and a flicker of red flits across the smooth glass panes.

Hob frowns and straightens. It's not really bright, despite the daylight outside but he can't discern at all where the eerie glow comes from. He stares at himself, distorted and see-through, with red light hollowing his throat and cheeks and reflecting in little pinpricks from his eyes.

His breathing is too loud in between the bouts of thunder.

Then, his reflection wavers, shudders - and vanishes. 

“What…”

The rain sounds like waves crashing onto the shore. 

Hob stands, drawn upright by invisible strings, and stumbles towards the offending window. 

This is a dream, he thinks, half-delirious. It must be, even though it feels neither as present and sharp as his recent bouts of lucid dreams, nor as soft-edged and fuzzy as the ones that came before.

No matter how often he blinks, the vision doesn't change. Hesitatingly, he presses his palm against the flat and cold glass, comes closer and closer until his too-fast breath fogs over the panes and smears the edges of the impossible view.   

There is a world behind his windows that has no business existing outside of his dreaming mind - an endless sea as deep and unfathomable as the depth of space, and beyond, if he looks closer, there rises a vast landscape in gentle hills and slopes until it bends towards its centre. For a mere moment, he glimpses an impossible palace.

“Just a dream.” He lets his sweaty forehead thump against the fogged-up window and screws his eyes shut hard. When he opens them again, the window is simply a window into London’s dreary weather again. He turns, feeling oddly wrung out and disappointed.

It's only when he slumps back onto his bed, that he notices the other incongruity. The box with the ruby is open on his nightstand. The stone is glittering invitingly. It's the same shade as the smattering of colour before. Carefully, he reaches for the precious stone. 

He freezes half-way; there is dirt in the groves of his hands and underneath his nails. 

“This is impossible.” 

He scrubs at the smears and wracks his brain for another explanation - any explanation really, other than the one that’s staring at his face in invitingly gentle, red reflections. There are none, if he’s being honest. He hasn’t left his flat for more than a day and he hasn’t owned any plants since one life over. 

The dirt and mud are still there, despite all rationality assuring Hob that it should not be so. 

“Did you do this,” he whispers to the inanimate stone. 

It’s surprisingly warm in his palms when he finally dares to take it out of the box. It draws his eyes and mind and it feels like he’s slowly slipping into the centre of a dizzying vortex. Still, he can’t stop looking. In its facets there is the same landscape that pretended to exist beyond his windows. 

“Are you the real thing then?”

If this is a magical jewel - more, if this is truly the ruby his Stranger has worn on each of their meetings, then what does this mean for him? How did it come to be in a run-down storage unit of a convicted felon? Is this… a test? A task? Or just coincidence? There’s really no way to tell, for now.

He presses the ruby against his chest, where he remembers the Stranger wearing it. It feels like it’s pulsing slowly in time with his heartbeat. 

“You’re the thing that makes me see people’s fears, aren’t you. Even when I’m not in your vicinity.”

And isn't that a dismaying revelation. Hob doesn’t think he has the will to get rid of the ruby, now that he’s nearly sure that it is the real thing, the Ruby. He hasn’t even managed that before he knew, after all. And yet… he doesn’t want his new … skills to isolate him. He’s aware that his inborn sociable nature clashes horribly with them. 

After the near disaster with Emily, it hadn’t gotten easier. Hob knows he thrives on friends and laughter and love but -  currently, he keeps making people uncomfortable because he gets too close and personal too fast. 

He knows too much about them, after all, while they don’t know him at all.

Slowly, he sets the stone back into its lacklustre housing. It’s probably not a good idea to carry it on him. For now, at least.

“Looks like we have to learn to get along somehow, doesn’t it?” 

*** *** ***

Hob doesn’t know how often his dreams have brought him into the moors, how many paths he’s tread and repaired, how often he’s been turned around and beckoned to another part of the twilit landscape. As with the sea of dreams and nightmares, he’s not sure if he wants to leave - and he feels like the moors don’t want him to leave them either. It’s in the caress of the fog, the soft murmurs of the brooks and the faithful light of the soul lamps. 

His Otter moves swiftly through the dark pools alongside Hob and sometimes he thinks he sees other shapes with him - skinny and scrawny things of spindly limbs and crooked spines. Nightmares, Hob hazards a guess, all of them and perfectly at home here.

“If they want to, they can come with us,” Hob says during one night, not quite looking at the crawling shadows that populate the twilit mists. His Otter lies a few metres from Hob’s bare legs, his dirty linen breeches sensibly tied up around his knees. 

He’s doing the whole middle ages peasant thing this time and wears a matching threadbare tunic above it. He thinks there might be a pendant or something hanging at about chest level but whenever he checks, there’s nothing there. It’s a confusing sensation, akin to what he thinks feeling a missing limb might be like. Hob rubs his hands across the empty space again before snatching the hand away. 

The Otter lifts its head. It’s gotten less emaciated, Hob thinks, even though he’s never seen it eat. He doesn’t know if dreams and nightmares even need to eat, in any case. 

It leers at Hob with its needle sharp teeth and Hob feels he knows the answer. 

“Okay then. But they can, if they decide to change their mind, okay?” 

The nightmare lies down again and doesn’t turn his stare from Hob. Hob doesn’t know what to make of it.

“D’you think we’ll get to the forest next time?” 

He thinks of the Ruby lying in its box and of the unanswered questions about his Stranger. Hob doesn’t get to find out his nightmare’s response, though, because the next time he blinks, he’s lying in his bed again.

*** *** *** 

Waking up isn’t disorienting or jarring at all. It is, if Hob had to put words to it, almost disconcertingly natural and smooth - nothing more unusual than stepping from one room into the next. While one might be surprised by a new piece of furniture or disproportionate chaos, it isn’t anything that really defies any fundamental expectations or perceptions. 

And in this normalcy, exactly, it feels significant in a way that waking up really shouldn’t be. Sometimes, there is no dividing line between his dreamworld and his waking one any longer.  

*** *** ***

Then, finally, the muddy ground of the bog makes way for a firmer ground, the land rises out of the water logged plains that had started behind the dunes of the nightmare sea. Hob’s steps resound on springy earth, covered in the debris of old leafs and fragrant pine needles. 

The forest is dark and still. 

The tall trees enclose Hob in a hall of shadows as rich and teeming with possibilities as he remembers from his youth. If he looks closely enough into the underbrush,he thinks there are eyes staring back at him. Screams live underneath these branches, and things with too many teeth. 

At times he thinks that underneath the quiet murmur of the forest, he hears the rumble of the sea of all dreams and nightmares. There are nightmares in these woods as well, after all.

The path his Otter treads with him is narrow. The trees and bushes reach into and over it with long and arching fingers, man high ferns brush cooly along his arms and hide the sight of spiderwebs that seem entirely too malicious to be anything other than an amalgamation of subconscious fears. Hob never sees any spiders, though, not outright at least. But sometimes he thinks they scurry along in his shadow. 

When they pass the first small clearing, Hob stops and stares, old memories rising unbidden. There are flowers strewn across the clearing, all of them unknown to Hob. All of them,  he thinks, might be nightmares of poison and danger.

In the middle of the clearing, there is a ring of white and yellow flowers.

“We were warned about the fae circles, did you know? People have all but forgotten about them, these days.” 

He bends and takes a single flower between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a small blue thing, with fragile petals that make for a deep calyx with an oddly glistening stem. 

His nightmare looks - not really out of place with his black coat and black eyes but in contrast to the nearly natural habitat it had in the bog, the field of flowers makes it look oddly incongruent. Still, it stays still and watches Hob intently. 

More flowers join the first, in reds and whites and all of them make Hob think of poison and pain and disregarded warnings spoken in soft voices. The flower crown comes together easily underneath his nimble fingers; no matter that he hasn’t made one in longer than a century. 

The flowers are preening under his attention, twisting easily together despite their thorny stems and tissue thin petals.

“My mam - I got a little sister when she was already too old to safely bear children, I know that now. But back then, we didn’t. So my mam had one last daughter. She was a sickly child from the first second, too quiet, didn’t drink right. My ma got down with fever alongside her after giving birth.”

He can’t quite recall the colour of his mothers hair or the shape of her face any longer, but he’s never forgotten the sound of her voice. He’d been barely ten when she’d passed in childbed. He turns the flower crown thoughtfully in his hands. This is a story he hasn’t remembered in so very long, hasn’t told anyone about, ever. The Otter at his side stares at him attentively as if it’s absorbing his stories. The forest is quietly listening as well.

“The little one died within a week. Ma was so sad but - then she sent us others off to gather flowers. Made little flower crowns out of all of them and told us to leave them at the large stone at the fairy gate. Where we usually weren’t allowed to go.”

He had quite thoroughly forgotten how he’d left flower crowns for all his brothers and sisters when they’d been taken by the plague, uncaring of any fae or fairies. He’d done that, on and off, for decades even long after the hurt had faded. He bends and picks a few leafy greens - weeds he thinks most would call the delicate plants - and winds them around the flowers. 

“She said that if her daughter had been switched with a changeling that had died, she at least wants to give her real daughter something beautiful to wear for Queen Mab’s court.“

 He shows off the finished crown to his companion.

“There, what do you think? Is this something that’s worthy of the royal court of the Queen of Dreams?”

The otter levels a long long look at him and Hob gets the impression that it’s equal parts amused and ravenous for some unnamed thing. There is a decision that Hob feels but doesn’t see being made and then the nightmare springs into action, swerving off the overgrown footpath and into the darkness of the looming trees. There it waits, expectantly.

Hob doesn’t need to think before he follows. 

There are the nightmares of old lingering where he runs, the cursed clearings, the ever-twisting paths, the ominous sounds that are too close behind. There are also the fears of the fairy tales: malicious wishing-wells, the howling of were-creatures and forebodingly shadowed shrines.

His Otter slips between trees and shadows like a ghost. Hob has no trouble following; they’ve been travelling together for so long now, that Hob can nearly feel his little nightmare. He feels the other creatures in the dark as well, their interest, their hunger and their hope. 

They pass fae circles, shinto trees and little shrines, fairy gates and cursed ponds. Hob slows down to build up a trollstone who’s upper layers had toppled down with time and neglect, sets a forlorn bucket back onto the encasement of a wishing well. In his wake, he thinks he sees them gaining substance and presence.

They slow down, finally, at the edge of a dark pond. 

The conifers and ferns crowd close around it and reach over its blank and empty surface like a protective cocoon. His Otter doesn’t make a single move to step into it. Instead it waits at the water’s edge, clearly expectant. Hob looks down at the crown of deadly flowers and thorns he holds, then back to the pond. 

“You’re asking me… to make an offering, aren’t you?”

The Otter does a curious mix of a wiggle and the shivering of a shadow. It looks completely unholy and is probably the closest it can get to the equivalent of an enthusiastic nod. It’s a bit endearing, really.

The pond looks like nothing so much as a reflective door into the depths of space. No matter how close Hob comes, the water stays entirely still. Hob contemplates the flower crown again. While he doesn’t understand most of this world, he thinks he recognizes some of it from times long before the modern age; where wishes were magical, faith the most powerful and dangerous thing, and where one never offered a name to the creatures of the forests. 

What he’s asked to offer now is made of his past, lost stories and preserved love. It would be… powerful, most likely, in this world. And he wouldn’t mind giving it. He looks around himself, takes in the pervading sense of wear and neglect that has been following him ever since he arrived, thinks back to the eager ease with which each stone he set and each plank he righted transformed back into what they were supposed to be.   

This world is magical and Hob is - fond of it. He wants to see what it would look like, whole and restored. 

“For you then, my Monarch of Dreams. May you wear it or bestow upon someone worthy.” 

He gives a wry grin to the Otter, who has his eyes so wide open that Hob thinks he ought to be able to see their whites, and lays a careful kiss on one of the poisonous flowers. He knows his courtly manners, after all.

Then, he throws it into the pond.

It would have landed smack dab in the middle, too, if two arms made of water and smoke hadn’t reached out and up and caught the crown securely in their clawed hands. The flowers shimmer in the dark, suspended, before they are swallowed into the water. 

Within seconds, the pond is entirely black and still again. 

“What was that.”

His Otter doesn’t move. It’s pressed to its belly and doesn’t look at Hob at all. Carefully, he braves the shore of the pond. Where water meets the springy earth, he hesitates before discarding his fear and stepping into the water despite the tattoo his heart beats against his chest. 

There are no ripples in the water. It feels exactly like the sea of nightmares and dreams had. It’s then that he becomes aware of his reflection below him. It’s nearly familiar.

It wears his face and his body but it’s too lean, too tall. Where his eyes are brown, these eyes are as black as the ones his little nightmare has. There is a red sheen to them, a refraction of light that shines from underneath the shadows his other self wears for clothes. It pulses in time with an unheard heartbeat. Hob thinks it looks like the Ruby. 

On its head rests the crown he has just thrown into the pond.

In the second before Hob gathers his wits enough to stumble back, a ripple shivers across its face and he thinks he sees his stranger, thin, pale and naked behind glass, the crown on his wild hair. 

Then it’s gone and Hob rears back.

“What,” he repeats, wheezing, “was that?!”

Around him, there are creatures scuttling about the edges of the small clearing. His nightmare Otter sidles up to him, calm and expectant. It looks healthier than Hob has ever seen it, all shining fur and gleaming eyes. Instead of providing an answer, no matter whether it’s entirely nonverbal as always, it scurries up onto Hob’s shoulders and drapes across them like an unholy sable fur of sharp teeth and sharper claws. It’s a strangely comforting weight.

Slowly, Hob gathers himself. His heart hurts. Why had he seen his Stranger; why now, like this. At long last, he starts walking again, uncaring of where he sets his feet. It doesn’t matter anyway, as he discovers quickly. 

Because the forest is different now. The shadows aren’t any less deep, the screams are still eerie but Hob still thinks he sees - more, for lack of a better word. Where before, there was only one path bordered by sinister wilderness only traversable in the wake of his nightmare companion, now there is a way wherever he sets his feet. 

The nightmare forest, it seems, welcomes him wholly. 

*** *** ***

Interlude:

Dream sits motionless in his cage of glass and steel. The painted Stars are dulled in the flat glow of the yellow light bulbs. The tinny sound of a radio echoes uninvitingly from the stone walls. His guards, two men this time, make no move to look up from their card game. 

If they had, they would not have seen any change and gone back to their game, not caring to spend one more second on observing the naked entity in the glass sphere than is absolutely necessary. The devil does not change, after all.

They would have been wrong.

Dream sits, cross legged and still, and feels the warmth of stories flowing through his limbs. He sees, in the distorted reflection of the molten sand that keeps him captive, the uncommon blush that colours his lips and his cheeks. There rests a weight on his brow that feels like a crown of petals and memories.

Slowly, he lets his eyelids flutter shut and cradles the unexpected touch of his realm and power and condenses it where a human heart would reside. It tastes like faith and vibrates like hope. An offer to Morpheus, to Dream and the Dreaming.

It feels like gentle care beneath his crafted skin.

Where usually stories and dreams sing in his ears, there is only the nightmare scream of vengeance. In time, he will leave this prison of ambition and greed. In time, he'll find his way back into his realm and reward the one who so staidly attends to a duty above and beyond expectations.  

He is endless, after all.

He can wait.

*** *** ***

When Hob finally reaches the treeline, he sees the first well-tended landscape unfolding before him. The valley that lies to his feet holds several tilled fields that cluster around two houses. They are old and crooked but smoke curls from their chimneys and Hob spies movement behind one window.

Above it all, a shape circles in the air that looks like something out of - well, of a dream. Hob chuckles quietly.There is a golden shimmering Gargoyle flitting through the air like an overgrown hummingbird. 

[dyns33]

The Ruby

Morpheus x Female reader 

Happy valentine day in advance for everyone, taken or single. 

The ruby was on a bench, in the middle of a park, as if someone had left it there for Y/N to find.

Or that someone just lost it, since Y/N didn't believe in destiny or that sort of thing.

There was a strange light when she took the ruby, but she thought it must be the sun. Then, as she walked home, she wondered if she should take it to the police, to make sure the owner wasn't looking for it everywhere.

     "No. Keep me with you. I want to stay with you."

That little voice in her head should have scared her, but Y/N was too tired to think straight. Ever since she was born, the world had suffered from the sleeping sickness, and she had been no exception.

She managed to fall asleep, sometimes, and she was lucky to always wake up, but her sleep was not calm, not restful, and these nights were terribly agitated by nightmares.

So she took the ruby home, laying it by her bed and watching it before falling asleep.

Y/N had never had such a magnificent object, and she thought that she would never dare to wear it, for fear of breaking it, losing it or having it stolen. It was fine in her bedroom, where she could admire it before she closed her eyes for several hours, and it  would the first thing she would see when she woke up.

The first night with the ruby was the best night of her life. She slept for nine hours, without interruption, without nightmares, without the slightest problem. Even though she didn't believe in destiny and that sort of thing, she considered the ruby to be a lucky charm, which she kissed when she got up.

     "Thank you for this good night." she said before going to wash up and get ready for her long day.

It became a ritual. She spokea bit to the ruby, because it seemed stupid, but she wished it a good night in the evening, she said hello to it when she woke up, and above all she thanked it for having watched over her during her sleep.

Because for several months, her nights were all perfect. She even started having dreams. In any case, what she had imagined as good dreams. Never having had a good dream, she had been daydreaming since her childhood, soaking up books, films, music, to forget the cruelty of the world, and those equally painful nights.

Now she had the chance to dream for real. Which seemed unfair, because the rest of the world continued to suffer from the sleeping sickness.

To tell the truth, she hadn't really asked for sweet dreams, and no doubt it offered them to her in thanks, for not having abandoned it on the bench. So she thanked the ruby for all that, without ever asking anything else. Sometimes she felt like a small voice was answering her, but she wasn't paying attention.

This lasted, until its rightful owner appeared in her living room, in a whirlwind of sand.

     "Y/N Y/L/N, you have in your possession something that belongs to me that was stolen and then lost."

     "... What ?" was the only thing she managed to utter, as she hid behind her couch.

     "Hmm. I see you haven't used it. Not really. Surprisingly, most mortals would have taken its power to make their dreams come true, but you... You only asked for access to my kingdom, not to rule it, but to sleep normally, like before I was imprisoned."

     "I don't understand at all what you are talking about."

Without saying a word, the dark stranger went into the bedroom, approaching the ruby, which he touched with one of his long white fingers. But he didn't take it.

     "I see. Don't you recognize me ? I am your master. Yes, I understand. She treated you well, didn't corrupt you and fed you her dreams, but it's time to go home."

     "The ruby... It's yours ?" Y/N asked shyly while standing near the door.

     "Yes. Part of me, part of my power. It seems to have attached itself to you. Will you give it to me, or will you fight to keep it ? I'm warning you, I just punished nightmares to get my sand, and I I fought Lucifer in the Underworld for my helmet, you can't do anything against me."

     "Oh. No, no, if that's your ruby, you can take it. I didn't know... I'm sorry."

     "Hmm. Yes, I can see. No, you can't stay with her, I need you to rebuild my kingdom. Very well. Y/N Y/L/N, thank you for your kindness and your intelligence. As a reward, you will continue to have calm and sweet nights."

Before she could answer, he was gone, taking the ruby with him. Y/N thought she had a dream, but the absence of her lucky charm forced her to admit that something weird had happened.

The sleeping sickness abruptly ceased, but as the stranger had promised, she had no more nightmares, ever.

Y/N didn't think she would ever see him and his ruby again.

Then, when she was sure she had fallen asleep in her bed, she opened her eyes in a cold, damp place, in the company of a raven, which began to speak after jumping up and turning towards her.

     "Boss ? No, you're not the boss. But you have his ruby ! Thief !"

     "What ? Boss ? His ruby ? No, I haven't..." Y/N said before feeling a weight on hier chest and discovering the ruby hanging from her neck. "... How ? I don't understand, I gave it back to that funny guy."

     "Dream of the Endless is not a funny guy. Well, okay, he's not good with people and he can be a little scary, but show some respect !"

     "Dream, is that his name ?"

     "You don't listen much, do you ?" sighed the raven. "So you're the human who found the ruby and gave it back to the boss ? Weird. He's supposed to come here for a fight, against a demon. Again. It's a verbal game, but that's quite violent. I don't understand why you're here, they said the master of the... Oh. Ooooooh."

     "Ooooooh, what ?"

     "He said the ruby wanted to stay with you. It seems like he still considers you its master, and so… You're the one who has to face the demon. Shit."

     "Shit, indeed. This is my first nightmare in weeks and it's really weird."

The little raven continued to speak to her, repeating that it was not a nightmare, that it was real, that it was dangerous and that she could die if she was not careful, but Y/N no longer heard him, touching the ruby and watching it closely, its blush reflecting in her eyes and the voice whispering in her head that everything would be fine, he wouldn't let anyone hurt her, he was happy to see her again, he had missed her.

     "You don't listen to me at all." muttered the raven, landing on her shoulder. "Just like the boss."

     "What? Oh, sorry. I think it's talking to me. But that's impossible, it's a ruby."

     “It's not just a ruby, it's Lord Morpheus's ruby. He put a part of himself and his powers into this artifact, and so he's sentient. And I think he likes you."

Not knowing what to make of this information, Y/N simply nodded, looking back at the sparkling ruby.

A frightening noise then echoed in the cave, indicating that the demon was waiting for them, for his famous fight. Except Y/N wasn't a fighter, even with words. She had no chance of winning.

     "I can try to go get the boss. Or say there was a mistake and the fight needs to be postponed." proposed the raven. "But I don't think that's possible, and if you lose, not only will you die, but the Dreaming will be lost."

     "I’m scared."

     "I know. I'm sorry."

     "Thank you, little raven."

     "Matthew. My name is Matthew, I'm not little, and I will stay with you. Everything will be fine. You have to have hope, nothing can kill hope."

Except that the demon was truly the ugliest, scariest creature Y/N had ever had, and even with the ruby whispering reassuring words in her mind, and Matthew trying to help her with answers, she ended up on her knees, crying, moaning and trying to catch her breath.

     "It'll be OK." repeated Matthew who didn't seem to believe what he was saying at all. "He said he was the Sun. There are plenty of things to beat the sun, like sunscreen, or an umbrella !"

     "I am tired..."

     “No, we have to fight !"

     "My love. Leave it to me. Don't be afraid."

     "Yes, alright."

     "I'll miss you."

A strange, but pleasant, loving warmth then took hold of her whole being and Y/N suddenly stood up, stopping to breathe for a few seconds, while her eyes went black and her voice changed.

     "I am Time." growled the voice from the back of her throat. "First creation of the creator, father of the beings of this world, and passing for everything, even you, warm, tiny, dull sun, who was not when I arrived, and who will not be after I'm gone, from dust to nothingness, and nothing more, nothing, ever, always, ME ! Because there is only me to move the universe, to give birth and death, and nothing, nothing can stop me !"

Seeming to be scared, seeing that he could not answer, the demon began to tremble with rage, before throwing himself on Y/N with a blade, probably thinking that if he killed her, he would win unworthily.

The ruby then began to glow, vibrating, before emitting a shrill sound and glowing, pushing the creature back and sending it far, far away, into a nightmare world.

As Y/N coughed and tried to come to her senses, the raven let out a cross before curtsying.

     "Boss... She won ! But she's in bad shape, and... Your ruby... I don't have good news."

     "I know, Matthew. I felt it, I felt that part of me coming back. I had forgotten all that I had put in this ruby, and I did not know what had been born there. Breathe, Y/N Y/L/N. Be proud of your victory."

     "It's not my victory." she said harshly, rubbing her throat.

     "Maybe not. But I would never have dared to mention my father's name, and Destiny had warned me, saying that I couldn't win this battle, only the master of the ruby could. He was talking about you, who took and cherished it, asking nothing of it and returning it to me without hesitation. I understand why he loved you. I feel what he felt. My love, it is time for you to return home. The power of my ruby was not for mortals, you must be exhausted. I promised you quiet nights, forgive me for this. I won't let anything happen to you again, I swear."

Y/N felt lips land on her forehead, and when she opened her eyes again, she was in her bed, as if nothing had happened. So a dream. A simple nightmare with a beautiful ending.

Turning her head, she saw that the ruby was still gone, and sadly she got up to go shower, have breakfast and follow her day.

But as she was making tea, she heard a tapping against her window. It was strange to see a raven staring at her, tapping again when she didn't approach and continuing until she opened.

     "Hi kid."

      "... Hello. Matthew ?"

     "You remember me, cool. The boss said you might not remember, humans forget things sometimes. You okay ? I was worried, wanted to check on you. The boss said that was fine, but he didn't seem sure. I think he's worried too. And that he misses you. He was already intrigued when he met you, but now that he has the feelings of his ruby, he has eyes that sparkle and he's smiling. That's a bit scary. I think he likes you. Anyway. You're really okay ?"

     "I believe so. Was it real ?"

     "Yes, I told you, but you weren't listening to me."

      "And the man... Dream... You say he likes me ?"

     "You cared for his ruby, you're close to his kingdom, you're kinda cute, you fought on his behalf, and his ruby now destroyed to protect you was obviously head over heels in love with you. Yes, he likes you. More than likes. I'm new, I've never seen him in love, but Lucienne and Mervyn say it doesn't bode well for us. Be careful. Maybe everything will be fine, maybe not, only Destin knows, and he won't let me read his stupid book. Selfish."

After more or less stealing a cookie from her, Matthew walked away, leaving her with more questions than answers, and feeling like she was losing her mind. But Y/N finished her tea, spent her day normally, and went to bed like every night.

The only difference was that she turned to the window, watching the starry sky, and whispering goodnight as she did with the ruby.

And in the dark, as she drifted off to sleep, she heard a voice answer her.

     "Good night my love. I'm waiting for you."