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silverwhittlingknife · 4 months

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hi Silver! o/ because that fanart made me wonder - would you happen to know when/where Dick's stuffed elephant plush Zitka turns up in the comics?

GREETINGS CAM <3333 THAT ART WAS SO CUTE

Yeah, I think your instincts are right - it's a truly adorable bit of transformative fandom, but I'm 95% percent sure it's not comics canon. Barbara has canon plushies, but I don't think anyone else does.

I got kinda invested in the investigation (it's hard to prove a negative!) and I ended up typing out an entire History of Elinore/Zitka, so, uh, if you're curious, meet me below the cut for:

Where does Elinore / Zitka - the animal - appear in comics?

Did Dick ever have a stuffed elephant toy in comics?

Where does Elinore / Zitka appear in comics?

We're gonna go in chronological order!

Dick's circus elephant friend was first created for practical reasons: in Batman 436, Marv Wolfman does a big expanded flashback to Dick's circus backstory as a way to subtly show us Tim before officially introducing him (so that we can have a technically-solvable mystery-of-Tim's-identity in LPoD). In this comic, there's an elephant named Elinore who loves Dick:

Aww. Such a cute elephant!

Batman 436 comes out in August 1989. New Titans 60 comes out a few months later, in November, and guess what? When Dick visits the circus, he is suddenly surprised by an unexpected blast from the past! It turns out that even though it's been years, Elinore still remembers him!

Here's the part where Elinore remembers Dick:

SUCH a cute elephant. I love her.

(Guess who else still remembers Dick even though it was so long ago. Guess which other character is about to be an unexpected blast from the past. Guess which character Elinore is directly paralleling guess guess guess sorry everything is about Dick and Tim in my mind but I can focus I swear)

Four years later, in 1993, Batman: The Animated Series retells Dick's origin story. They like and keep Wolfman's elephant, but they change her name to Zitka:

Wolfman doesn't return to the elephant beyond those two appearances, and a few years down the line, New Titans gets cancelled and Wolfman's not writing Dick anymore anyway. So the animal gets abandoned for a while, until Devin Grayson, a fan of both Wolfman and B:tAS, revives the Wolfman-era Titans team in JLA/Titans and then the ongoing series Titans 1999.

Grayson then brings back the elephant in a flashback to Dick's past in Titans 16 (Jun 2000), where she imports the B:tAS name. Sometimes I'm skeptical of TV-to-comics imports, but honestly, I endorse this one. You lose the alliteration, which is a shame, but IMO Zitka is a better elephant name than Elinore.

Here's Dick with the newly-christened Zitka in Titans 16:

Grayson also briefly references the elephant in Gotham Knights 20 and - in a final angsty callback - in Nightwing 88 (Feb 2004), where Zitka tries futilely to comfort Dick in the midst of his trauma conga line:

... And... honestly, I think that's it for comic appearances? The two Wolfman comics plus the three Grayson comics.

Both Wolfman and Grayson are writing multiple titles - Batman, New Titans, Titans, Gotham Knights, and Nightwing between the two of them, spanning a big chunk of Dick's post-Crisis canon - and both writers use the elephant for heartwarming moments of nostalgia, which means if you're doing a post-Crisis readthrough for Dick, Elinore/Zitka feels memorable. But I don't think she actually shows up that much.

For post-2011, I am not as well-informed - throwing this out to the dash? anyone know? - but I feel like Zitka the heartwarming symbol of Dick's heartwarming circus past is, uh, thematically very at odds with the Court of Owls evil!circus vibes, so my instinct is that this story element was almost certainly dropped in the reboot.

Did Dick ever have a stuffed elephant toy in comics?

In WFA, yes; in main comics continuity, no. Technically, I have not read every comic ever published, so I could be wrong!! But I don't think so.

Below, find my rambling reasoning on the tonal vibes of pre-Crisis, post-Crisis, and post-2011, and why this particular story element doesn't seem right to me for the first two.

Pre-Crisis (...okay, mostly the Silver Age): stuffed animal, yes or no?

tl;dr no, requires too much background knowledge on the part of the reader, plus the elephant wasn't a thing until later

Elinore doesn't get created until post-Crisis, but also just generally, pre-Crisis callbacks are more along the lines of this reference in Batman 129 (published in 1960), where, wow, Batman and Robin are hunting jewel thieves - and it turns out Robin recognized this strongman! BUT HOW?!

The comic goes on to recap Dick's entire origin story in flashback, on the assumption that you may not know it.

(BTW, if you'd like to know more about Haly's Circus throughout the years, nightwingology has a great post here summarizing a lot of fun plotlines and characters!)

Basically: Silver Age comics are very self-consciously episodic and kid-friendly; they're not generally gonna do overly-elaborate callbacks because they don't know what comics their kid readers may have randomly picked up or remember.

By the time of post-Crisis, comic books were being written for an adult audience buying from the direct market, i.e. readers who are collecting whole runs & don't need or want Dick's origin story to be recapped to us in full every time it's referenced. That's why in post-Crisis, we get stuff like "hey, neat, this particular soda brand is getting mentioned in several different books!!" or "in order to understand this story arc, buy SIXTEEN DIFFERENT COMICS in FIVE DIFFERENT RUNS and read them ALL ACCORDING TO A NUMBERED ORDER and also you better be following the individual plotlines and recognize these five minor characters who we don't bother to introduce!! Good luck!!" But the elaborate post-Crisis plotlines - and subtler worldbuilding like a stuffed animal callback to Dick's backstory - don't make a lot of story sense UNLESS you're imagining your readers as completionist adult fans.

So IMO a stuffed animal wouldn't be a pre-Crisis thing unless it was The Episodic Story Of the Week, and I don't think a stuffed animal is action-adventure-y enough for the fast-paced storytelling of the Silver Age. (Unless it, like, came to life and tried to eat you or something.)

Post-Crisis: stuffed animals, yes or no?

tl;dr: no, Dick's a manly tough guy, he's not gonna have a stuffed animal, that'd be lame, like something Tim might do

Part of the edgy grimdark adult vibes in 80s/90s comics is that some characters who used to be kinda silly & goofy & lighthearted - like Batman and Robin - get reimagined as Serious and Angsty and Edgy in a Tough Cool Manly Brooding Way. This massively affects characterization for Bruce, Dick, and Bruce and Dick's relationship.

(I obviously love this change & love the tense Bruce-and-Dick interactions, but plenty of fans of the earlier fluffy comics really disliked the edgy retcons of Miller / Wolfman / Starlin / et al.)

The upshot is that post-Crisis is a period when you could have a recurring reference like a stuffed elephant, but you wouldn't have a stuffed elephant, not for Dick. I think a toy like that would be too cutesy / childish / effeminate to give a male character in post-Crisis, unless you were poking fun at him.

Now, you could probably let Tim have a stuffed animal, because Tim is sometimes cool but also sometimes a tryhard loser who is faking being cool and not entirely pulling it off (see e.g. the Robin comic where he practices tough-guy faces in the mirror, or the Teen Titans comic where Conner discovers his cringy Enya CD, or when he's fanboying over Connor and it's awkward, etc etc.). A stuffed animal would be deeply embarrassing, and you'd have to be careful to compensate by having Tim do something cool afterward - but Tim's character concept allows for "he's kind of a loser sometimes."

But Dick isn't!! In post-Crisis, Dick's a tough / impressive / "cool guy" character, the kind of guy anyone would want to be, even in the flashbacks where he's Robin, and even in the stories where he's more lighthearted than angsty. It'd be kinda lame for Dick to have a stuffed elephant, so he wouldn't. I feel like Dick would be more likely to poke fun at it if someone had one, like when he's making fun of Wally for liking the Hardy Boys. Dick could have a Batman action figure, at most, and if he had one he would have it ironically.

Basically: in post-Crisis, a male character hugging a stuffed elephant feels more likely to be a punchline to me, not something poignant. (Even with Tim, Tim could have an embarrassing stuffed animal, but he couldn't hug it when sad - that's too far. Maybe Booster Gold might do this. Probably he wouldn't, but spiritually, he would. Sorry Booster ilu! <3)

Instead, Dick instinctively deals with his inner turmoil like the TORTURED ACTION HERO he is: by punching things and brooding and yelling and joining the mob and sleeping on rooftops and going on obsessive secret missions and acquiring Angsty Stubble!! Just like Batman!

(Technically I don't know if Bruce ever joined the mob but you know he would.)

Anyway as you know this is my favorite continuity and I am poking fun affectionately, but uh, yeah sdfsfdsfs. No stuffed animals.

Post-2011 / Infinite Frontier / Wayne Family Adventures: stuffed animals, yes or no?

tl;dr it's in WFA! Probably not anywhere else, but it could be.

Post-2011 stuff tends to be cutesier overall, most of all in the current Infinite Frontier era. So I don't feel like this would be tonally out-of-line with IF comics. Taylor tends to go for more meme-y references rather than fanfic references, though.

So the obvious best fit is WFA, which is aiming for a rough approximation of Silver Age family-friendly vibes - wholesome, episodic plots, Teaching Good Moral Lessons For The Youth, etc. - plus lots of Easter eggs for fanfic readers and some comic references.

And look, here we are:

Aww.

Whew - that's everything I could find!

Anyway as you can probably tell, I LOVE the elephant, so this was a very entertaining rabbit hole to go down, thank you <3

#dick grayson #anyone with more info feel free to chime in & we can crowdsource <3 #i do think the toy elephant is awfully cute though <3 #total digression but i was thinking about it as i was writing:#i'm fascinated by the ways that the post-crisis batboys & their stories can intersect with 90s masculinity and all its issues with stoicism #and i'm pro-queering and gender-bending - 90s comics were a total boys' club so i think it's neat that transformative fandom isn't #but i do love 90s masculinity and All Its Issues too & one of the things i find compelling about the dick-tim-bruce trio #& especially dick's place in it - is the unspoken hierarchy whereby bruce is manlier than dick & dick is manlier than tim #and so dick's in the middle as this somewhat softer-character who aspires to be a harsher & more stoic & ultimate manly-man character #caught in the middle between robin & batman & what each role represents #and like. batman is both manhood & the only desirable thing to be AND ALSO it represents this immense narrowing of possibility #because so much of stereotypical masculinity is about reducing the range of emotions you're allowed to have or express #and dick is both incredibly conflicted about bruce AND wants to be just like him & by extension is conflicted about masculinity writ large #so a lot of dick's interactions with tim veer between trying on a frat-boy-ish 'I'm The Manly Guy' persona vs. giving up on it #or trying on imitations of Bruce's Batman persona but also trying to backtrack out of it bc he doesn't like how it feels etc etc #ANYWAY i think what i am trying to say is that if tim had a stuffed animal dick would be entertained & poke mild fun at him #and call him 'teddy' for the next hour or something while tim got increasingly defensive about how the teddy bear was steph's #and/or about how the teddy bear was OLD and tim doesn't even care about it and also WHATEVEr i'm above this #and to an uninformed observer this might look like bullying BUT ACTUALLY #this ritual would IN FACT be very reassuring to both of them + tim would feel WAY better afterward than if dick had ignored it #because by poking fun at him dick shows he still respects tim enough to tease him thus subtextually exorcising the threat of wimpiness #plus allowing tim to defend himself & demonstrate that he can take a joke so they've both reaffirmed their masculinity to each other #& they don't have to be scared of the teddy bear and all it represents anymore #however also afterward dick would have a brief nostalgic flashback to when he was a kid & had a teddy bear & feel weird about the memory #because he would be unable to articulate to himself that what he misses is a past when he allowed himself to be vulnerable #anyway this wouldn't actually happen in comics but it's what would happen in my soul. you know.#ask tag #zitka

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obae-me · 2 months

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Don’t mind me it’s really late at night and I’m in a bit of a yearning mood… This ended up being more angsty then I intended that’s my bad-

Do you think Lucifer dreams of loving MC? That nearly every night he dreams of holding them in his arms to unwind after a harsh day of work, of soft kisses by candlelight, of inviting them to the music room so they can listen to one of his beloved records and dance together, of sharing hushed moments of a type of vulnerability he can’t remember the last time he felt?

Do you think he wakes up from his dreams too soon to a cold half empty bed and remembers that he’s here all on his own with the human he loves far away and blissfully unaware of his predicament? He gets a harsh reality check when he remembers that despite all his dreams and fantasies he’s still alone simply because he’s too scared to say his true feelings? How ironic, the embodiment of confidence and pride, scared to talk about insignificant emotions. Are they even insignificant though? They certainly don’t feel like it to Lucifer, how trivial…

I want my men YEARNING and CONFLICTED-

(Sorry I answered this late, life has been super hectic and I've been taking a social media break but I'm semi back now! We're battling that burnout!) I LOVE yearning! SO MUCH! Especially when it involves Lucifer because it feels so much more complex and impactful (but I'm probably just biased). So, I hope you don't mind me using this ask as an excuse to do a writing warmup since I haven't done anything creative for a while.

Warning for angst and some hurt/no comfort (I'm sorry!)

A tiny seed, thriving and new, ready to be cultivated. Its creation a mystery. Filled with life, hope, and the promise of a forbidden fruit. And what did he do? Crushed it. Destroyed it as soon as the hint of it reared its ugly head.

At first, he wasn't quite sure what it was. So, foolishly, he allowed it to stay, to plant itself in the recesses of his chest where it could rest safe for a while. Just until he figured out what this anomaly meant. Where did it come from? Why? What was it that kept him up at night and stole his focus from his work?

It wasn't till he and the human had found themselves in a quiet moment alone. All he had done was head to their room to inform them of... He can't even remember the details. Can't even recall if there had been an original purpose in the first place. Lucifer had caught them getting ready for the night, sitting in their bed with a pillow held against their chest as they slouched forward, scrolling through their D.D.D.. Immediately, he found himself giving them a mini-lecture on how being glued to a device right before bed would keep them from sleeping properly. It was their duty to-- the usual gist. In the midst of the lecture, his words caught in his own throat as he noticed them hugging the pillow sleepily- albeit a little annoyed with him- staring at his face with their head tilted off to the side.

The seedling was beginning to sprout.

All the pieces clicked into place, a deafening rattle in his head. The lecture ended unfinished, the details he had wished to share with them ignored. He simply bid them a good night before leaving their room. When he returned to his own space, he examined the sprout that had grown. Gentle, just a weak little thing. Plucked. Ripped from the roots, he pressed the heel of his boot against it and wasn't satisfied till it turned to dust.

Feelings? Affection? And for a human? Unacceptable. It had been a mistake to keep it so close to his heart when he had been unaware of its origins.

And he went about his days like normal, feeling colder than he had in weeks.

It was a sigh of relief really. Keeping a plant like that around would only serve him trouble. It required care and attention he did not have the time to give. It was best for everyone involved to nip it in the bud before it had the chance to bloom. After a few days of settling back into normalcy, he found the courage to approach the human again without the pesky irrationalities attached.

A pain. Stabbing. A random tug in his chest and a grip on his throat. The very sight of them now caused him this new affliction. The plant had propagated, wormed an offshoot in the shadows of his marrow and spread throughout his body like a vile invasive weed. It was choking him. It felt like it was killing him.

He tore. He razed. He dug at it with his very fingertips as the thorns his scorn and bitterness had cultured shredded the skin of his hands.

It would not go away so easily.

Madness began to plague his mind. The more he desperately tried to free himself, the deeper the thing embedded. He couldn't stand at the human's side without imagining the warmth of their hand against his. Couldn't walk past the kitchen without checking if they were in their bedroom. Couldn't listen to his favorite records without imagining slowly rocking back and forth with them, their heads resting against each other. Several nights now, he'd awoken from a dream about them. Typically starting out as nightmares, either swamped with work, inprisioned in isolation, or burnt by betrayal. But before his mind could spiral into darkness in those drowsy tragedies, they would come. Lucifer would always hold them in their arms, his face buried in their hair or their clothes, kissing their cheeks, their hands, their shoulders. It was peace. Bliss.

Until he would wake up.

The loneliness was more torturous than he ever imagined it would be. If this was love, he didn't want it. But he did. Sins alive, he did. He wanted to scream till his lungs burst. He wanted the demon in him to run rampant and rebuild everything in his own perfect image. He begged this plant to sprout the poisoned apple so he could bring it to his lips and drown in its tempting flavor.

And the thought of that terrified him.

But what was he to do? Tell them? No...surely not. He'd already seen some of the ways they looked at him. This plant was already vindictive, tangling around his raw vulnerabilities. If he were to be rejected...he doubted it would die. More than likely, it would fester, ruining him completely.

Lucifer, Pride, the Morningstar, see what he'd been reduced to now. Fearful over telling a human his own thoughts. Losing control over something as simple as a basic juvenile feeling.

Ignoring it was hurting him. Feeding it was anguishing him. No matter what he did, it all resulted in the same endless suffering.

And every day he would wake up, nod curtly towards them at breakfast, and go through the same personal hell all over again.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x mc #angst #hurt/no comfort

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mickandmusings · 3 months

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ii. crash my party

part two of the 'hangman & honey' series!

summary: when his original plans to bring honey to homecoming fall flat, jake thinks he's secured a fail-safe plan for honey to still have the night she deserves. when that too comes crumbling to pieces, jake, like always, is there to patch it back up. because jake is always the one to take care of her. they knew everything about each other...right?

word count: 5.6k

warnings: angsty -> fluffy, shitty homecoming dates, unbearable tension, i'm aware jake would only have a learner's permit but we don't follow the laws in small towns

It had started with one simple conversation.

"Jake, humor me," she'd started, finally closing her hardback book, looking up at him from across the table they'd been sharing in the school cafeteria. "A school dance? What part of that seems like a place I'd want to spend my Saturday?"

Jake smiled. "Hm, because I'll be there."

He gave her a shit-eating grin before shoveling fries into his mouth. Honey had rolled her eyes, forcing herself not to break into a grin as well. She stole a fry from his tray and swallowed before shaking her head and giving her retort.

"You're going to be there with Katie, and I highly doubt she'd want me hangin' around all night. She's like, majorly in love with you. I'm not going to be your third wheel, people already think I'm weird because I'm always taggin' along with you. I don't need to give them more fuel for the fire."

Ignoring the jab Honey gave herself, Jake tried to think of another approach. He hadn't wanted to go to this dance with Katie at all. He internally scolded himself-Katie was a sweet girl, pretty too, but as Honey had mentioned, Katie was in love with Jake. He just simply didn't feel the same. Suddenly, as if a light bulb had flickered above his head, Jake perked up.

"What if someone asks you to homecoming? Would you double date with me?"

Honey cut her eyes to his forest-green ones, looking away briefly before chewing on her bottom lip. She looked down at her hands, twisting the garnet ring adorning her right ring finger.

"That's sweet, Jake, but you and I both know that won't happen." She pauses, placing the ring back in position. "But, metaphorically speaking, if some random guy decided it wouldn't be social suicide to go with me, then, yeah, I'd double date."

Honey could feel the blush rising to her cheeks, she was positive Jake was the only guy in the entire school that had ever talked to her, much less look at her in any romantic nature.

Her confirmation was all Jake had needed, and he was already on a mission that he was sure he'd succeed in. As the lunch bell rang and he parted ways with Honey, he put his plan into action. Sitting in his fifth period Biology class, he turned to the seat behind him, a good-natured smile on his face. Hayden Wright, Jake's football teammate and friend, stared back at him. The teenage boy raised an eyebrow and gave Jake a look.

"What do you want, Seresin? You've got that stupid look on your face."

Jake scoffed, "First off, fuck you. Second, I've come to cash in my favor, Wright."

Jake had done Hayden a solid nearly a month ago, helping him in cleaning up his family's trashed barn from one of their post-game parties (to save him an ass-whooping from his father), and Hayden had agreed to owing Jake one, he'd just never thought Jake would actually ask him for one.

"What'd ya want?" Hayden's face had been neutral, figuring Jake wanted him to put in a good word with one of the cheerleaders, or to get Hayden's older brother to buy him alcohol.

"You know my friend, Honey?"

Hayden's eyebrow raised at Jake's word.

"The one that sits with you at lunch? I mean, yeah I know of her, why?"

"You're going to take her to homecoming." Jake said the statement plainly, so there would be no question.

Hayden audibly laughed. "Good one, Jake."

"I'm not joking, Wright," Jake's voice had taken a different tone. There was no more lighthearted humor to it, only a sense of seriousness. "I was already planning to take her, but Katie asked me before I could ask Honey myself. The only way she'll go is if she thinks she's not someone's tag-along. I'm not asking you to wine and dine her, asshole, I'm asking you to pick her up, give her a corsage, just-just fuckin' talk to her. Treat her like you would anyone else. She's not going to fall in love with you because you gave her an ounce of your precious attention. You owe me, man."

"Seresin, I already planned on asking Sam Van-"

"Be real, Wright," Jake's eyes were sharp, now daggers. "No shot in hell Sam Vance is going to say yes to you. Honestly, in my opinion, Honey is too good for you, way too good for you, but I'm desperate at this point. You'll ask her-in person-today, after practice. You'll ride with me and Katie, wear a nice suit and bring a corsage. She likes magnolias." Jake's statement left no room for leeway. It was set in stone, Hayden would ask her, be there with bells on, or else. Even as an underclassmen, Jake was easily on the taller side of his teammates, with the muscle to match-his daily farmwork had aided him in that department. Combined with his family's influence, you simply didn't want to be on his bad side.

Hayden sighs, his face drawn in a tight line.

"Fine, but consider my debt paid indefinitely, won't pull this shit again. If I'm going to have to take this girl, what the fuck am I supposed to talk to her about? I don't know the first thing about 'er."

Jake chuckles.

"Lucky for you, she's not much of a talker. Won't be to you, anyways. She likes to read, a lot. Ask her about literally any book. She's funny, just talk about whatever, she'll find a way to make you laugh. Just because she's not a cheerleader doesn't mean she isn't worth your time. Just for once in your life, just one night, don't be a dickhead."

Honey had been foolishly naive in thinking someone like Hayden Wright would actually be interested in someone like her. She'd felt the sinking feeling enter her chest the day he'd asked her to go to homecoming with him, starting small at first, but growing large enough to fill her anxiety-ridden torso. She'd felt the feeling lingering in her gut when she'd tried on and bought the flowing white dress that adorned her frame. She'd swallowed it down, buried it deep, told her internal insecurities that maybe, for once in her life, something good would happen to her. When that looming feeling had festered forward again that afternoon, as she meticulously curled her hair in Jake's bathroom, she had plastered on a smile and kept going, telling herself it was only a feeling.

But now, as she sat horribly mistaken on the steps of the Seresin farmhouse, she no longer stomached the feeling. Hayden was supposed to be here over an hour and half ago, and he had yet to show. Honey knew he wouldn’t, she’d expected it. She swallowed thickly and looked on as the sun made Katie look radiant in a way Honey knew she would never be-girls like Honey simply didn't shine like that. She let that aching feeling fester forward as she watched Katie laugh next to Jake in front of Janet's rosebushes, tears lining her lashes. The ridiculous eye makeup she'd spent an hour on had gone to waste, along with the heels she'd splurged on. She had almost unbuckled them and tossed them to the side when Janet's voice sounded.

"Honey, sweetheart, c'mon over, I want some pictures of you and Jake."

Honey had smiled and wiped her eyes, standing as tall as she could next to Jake in front of the Seresin's towering magnolia tree. She'd painted on her best smile, avoiding Jake's gaze that was staring holes into the side of her head. He hadn't said anything, and she didn't expect him to. Just because her night turned out to be miserable didn't mean his had to. He and Katie would go to the dance, and she'd stay with Seresin's, probably watch westerns with Jacob Sr. until he fell asleep in his recliner, then she'd take herself up to Jake's room and read until he came back. Maybe she'd just go home, despite hating being there because of the loneliness, so she wasn't a bother to anyone at all. The Seresin family was too kind to her, and she'd never want to overstay her welcome.

"Well, it's a quarter til', you young folk should be headin' along," Jacob Sr.'s voice sounded. Honey smiled as Katie hung off of Jake's arm, and Honey turned back towards the porch of the house, sitting back down on the stairs and started to unbuckle her shoes. Jacob Sr.'s eyes cut to her frame, and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Honey, what are you doin', girl? Not too sure on the dress code at this function, but I imagine shoes are required."

Jake's eyes looked at the figure of his best friend sitting on his grandparents' porch, and a feeling he had never felt seeped completely down to his bones. He hadn't even bothered to take her in completely since she'd gotten dressed, too focused on getting himself ready. Honey was dazzling as the sunset framed her figure. The color of her dress brought out her skin, and her hair had been styled lightly, but just enough to frame her face. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. But when he finally braved looking into her eyes, his heart ached. Sadness pooled behind her irises, water forming in her waterline. Her smile contradicted all of the feelings he knew were stirring inside of her, and every cell in his body wanted to shed his dress clothes, pile into his truck and hunt Hayden Wright down to beat the shit out of him.

"Oh, um," Honey started, as if she couldn't find the words to say. "My date isn't comin', I-I don't think I'll go. I'm just gonna go home." She smiled a smile that would appear unbothered by anyone else, but Jake knew that smile. It was entirely fake, an action to keep herself from bursting into tears. She was often so quiet and so good at saving face that it was hard to see her suffering, but Jake saw through her completely, he knew her 'strong' look. Jake jumps into action, without even thinking of how it may make the girl on his arm feel.

"Not a chance, Honey," Jake started, walking across the yard. "Just because Hayden is a jerk, doesn't mean you don't deserve to go. You look beautiful, can't let that go to waste. C'mon, you can hang out with us."

He sticks a hand out and looks down at her. She sighs heavily, taking it, and Jake feels his skin light up. His hairs stand on end, and after all these years, he notices every color in Honey's eyes. He notes the curves of her cheeks, the beauty of her entire figure. He finds himself feeling an overwhelming urge to press his lips into hers. How had he never seen her before? She had spent half of their lives by his side. She knew everything about him, from his favorite foods to the things that kept him up at night. Jake's eyes dart between her own as his heart races in his chest. Jake Seresin was in love with his best friend- head over heels, jumping into the deep end, full force in love. He stands stock still, her hand on his own, for a moment too long.

"Well, we're going to be late if we don't come on." Honey's voice is small, not quiet like usual, but small. She tears her hand away as she makes it down the stairs, giving Katie a curt smile as Katie's arm links around Jake's. He helps Katie into his passenger side, feeling a bit odd that Honey wouldn't be just to his right. Honey climbs into the backseat, her bottom lip tucked in-between her teeth, hands mindlessly rotating the rings on her hands. As Katie chatted animatedly in the truck, Honey only smiled politely, speaking when only necessary. She was utterly miserable, and Jake could see it. It was written across her face so plainly. For most of the night, that look never left her face.

Loud music, the sounds of their classmates yelling at one another to talk, and flashing lights filled the small high school gym, a basketball court full of underclassmen couples swaying to a song Honey didn't recognize. She was wishing she'd brought her current read with her, not that she'd be able to see it in the dark room. Instead, she sat in her metal folding chair at the table Jake and his friends had claimed, watching all the other girls' shoes and purses. As she looked out at the group, she couldn't quell the hurt in her heart that she'd tried swallowing down a million times that night. Katie threw her head back laughing at something Jake had said, though Jake didn't look nearly as amused as her. Her eyes focused on Katie alone-she danced barefoot in front of Jake, her turquoise colored dress shimmering under the lights. She wore a wide smile, one that lit up her whole face. Honey burned with envy. Of course that was the type of girl Jake went to dances with. Katie practically glowed-everyone loved her. The type of girl that guys would never stand up, the girl that guys stopped and stared when she walked by. And no matter how Honey yearned and prayed at night, begging to God to be that kind of girl-the girl that lights up a room, one that makes everyone's head turn-she would never be that. She'd always be bookish, timid, she shook with nerves when she had to give presentations in class, much less in a room full of her entire student body. Without much further thought, she suddenly realized it wasn't the fact she wanted to be loved by everyone, she just wanted to be the kind of girl Jake loved. Jake would never see her as anything more than a sort of quasi-sister, someone to give him advice on how to treat another type of girl right. Even without malice, Jake would hurt her too, and she knew it would leave her empty. Honey felt a tear slip down her face, she hadn't even realized she was crying. She wiped it away hastily, refusing to be the rejected girl that cried at a school dance. She might be a loser, but she wouldn't become a cliche. She found herself picking at the skin around her nails, biting her bottom lip, trying to distract herself from the oncoming round of tears pushing through her eyes.

Back on the dance floor, Jake let out a breath as Katie ran off to dance with some of her girlfriends. The girl was sweet, but he could hardly keep his mind focused on anything but the girl sitting at the table he'd left twenty minutes ago. He'd thought about just dropping Katie off and turning around to take Honey home, but his grandparents would've never let him hear the end of that. Instead he watched from the dance floor as Honey became more and more drawn in on herself. He clocked her fidgeting first-the once pristine white polish on her nails now chipped, her bottom lip red and peeling. Her shoulders were slumped and she hadn't smiled once since they'd arrived. He knew she was trying to let Hayden's rejection roll off her shoulders, he knew she would've already expected it, but when it actually happened, it left her devastated. Not that she cared much about Hayden, but her years worth of abandonment had flared. She was reeling in her own mind, and in a room like this, there were no distractions, no book to escape to, so she simply sat and drowned.

Jake plopped down in the chair next to her, his feet aching in his new dress shoes. The air was thick, and even knowing Honey so well, he wasn't sure how to comfort her. He simply went on instinct. His voice had a rough edge as he shouted over the music.

"You wanna dance?"

They'd danced before, a thousand different times. They'd dance to old country songs as kids, in the barn on the Seresin farm. They'd danced to the radio in his grandparents' kitchen, just friendly dances. It wouldn't be any different, right?

"No."

Jake's head whipped to her. She was never short with him, always layering her rejection softly. Jake didn't think too much about it, she was already feeling vulnerable.

"You sure, Hon? You love this song."

He wasn't wrong-she did love this song. It was a country ballad at least a decade old, but she'd loved it anyway.

"I'm fine, Jake. You should dance with Katie."

"Don't want to dance with her, want to dance with you."

Honey bit her lip to keep it from wobbling, shaking her head.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me. I already knew he wouldn't show, I expected it. It's not your fault, you have nothin' to make up for, okay? I'm not going to be the girl you give a slow dance to because she’s a loser who thought someone like Hayden Wright would actually want to go with her. I don’t need that kind of pity, Jake, especially not from you.” Her tone was fiery, but she hadn’t intended to come across as angry towards Jake, he hadn’t done anything, she was just growing tired of being completely visible and simultaneously invisible to him. “I'm sorry-I just, I don't feel much for dancing at the moment."

She swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Then let's get out of here."

Her head now whipped around to Jake.

"No, no. I'll just wait until you and Katie leave, o-or I'll call your Grandma, I'm sure she wouldn't mind coming to get me so you can keep having fun.” She looks out into the crowd and spots Katie moving through the large crowd of the football boys and cheerleader girls. “You're having fun, Jake, with your friends, and just because I'm miserable doesn't mean you have to be."

"I shouldn't have dragged you here, Honey. I convinced you to come, and you're miserable. I should've realized this isn't your scene, and I'm just making it worse. You shouldn't have to sit here and be miserable and watch as everyone else has a good time. That's like some sick form of torture."

Honey wanted to scream, to grab him by the shoulders and make him realize that she lived it every single day, she was always watching from the sidelines as everyone else lived. It wasn't any different now that she was in an uncomfortable dress in a cold metal chair.

Honey musters a smile and turns to face the boy who held her heart in his hands. Jake couldn’t pull his eyes away as the white satin dress adorned her freckled skin, falling perfectly on her curves. "Jake, look, Katie is out there and she's beautiful and she adores you, and she's been nothing but kind to me, even for being her date's weird third wheel. My night is already miserable, hers doesn't have to be. She deserves to have the night she dreamed of. I sort of already imagined my night to look this way, so, not that big of a disappointment, really."

She swallowed thickly, her vision blurring with the tears she couldn't keep pushing down. Jake blinked, crouching across to rest his elbows on his knees to turn himself closer to her. He caught her eyes, but she couldn’t meet his, afraid of the sympathy she’d find in them.

"Honey, how clueless do you think I am? You say that, that you already knew you’d be disappointed, but I watched you. I sat on the tub while you got ready, and I've seen that look before, the same look you get when somethin’ unexpected happens in your book, or a stupid meet-cute moment on a movie. You’re not some mutant, you may not care about the stupid social part of a school dance, but you were excited, Hon. I’m sorry he put out your fire, believe me I want nothin’ more than to take him behind the barn.” Honey now braves a glance at him, and finds herself staring at a pair of warm green eyes. No sympathy, no pity, just Jake. “You say you're fine with disappointment, but you're not Wonder Woman, darlin'. You're human, and no one can take that amount of sadness without breaking. You suffer in silence because you think no one cares about your happiness, but, Honey, I care. You deserve your own happy night. So please for the love of God, let me get you out of here, we'll do whatever you want. I can't sit and watch you suffer."

Honey shook her head.

"As wonderful as that sounds, Jake, I won't do that to another girl. It's not fair to Katie for you to just leave her here. It's already-"

"I don't think we'll have that to worry about." Jake points to the general direction of a crowd of people, where Katie is laughing as she hangs off the arm of another member of the football team. "I don't think Katie's 'obsessed' with me, I think it's more of anyone who wears the jersey."

Honey shook her head silently, looking up at Jake. His arm was stuck out for her to take, and she gave him a small but genuine smile. Her head rested on his bicep as they walked through the parking lot. As he opened her door and let her in, she almost let herself imagine that she was the girl he’d asked, that he’d decided the dance was lame, and they’d have more fun doing something else. She shut down those thoughts, knowing they’d only disappoint her later when he showed up with another pretty girl at his side. She let the thought float away as the high school faded in the rearview mirror, Jake’s country music filling the cab of the truck.

“What’d you wanna do, Hon? It’s kind of late, everything’s probably closed, but we could swing into Greenville, catch a fast food place.”

Honey shivered, Greenville was nearly twenty minutes out, and she was already itching to get out of this dress and into bed.

“Uh, don’t think I’m cuttin’ you short, J, I just, I really want to get out of this dress, and I want to shower. I-I think I just want to go to bed. I told you not to leave, your night is gonna be-“

Jake’s clouded mind filled with a particularly lewd thought as she spoke about getting out of her dress, one he shoved down quickly.

“My night’s gonna be just fine, because you’ll be in bed and not in that gym miserable.”

Honey simply smiled and continued to watch their small town pass by out her window. It wasn’t long until Jake parked in her driveway, her heart heavy. She stared at the dark house, the empty garage, and the feeling of emptiness she knew she’d find. She smiled half-heartedly as she turned to Jake. He smiled back as he cut the truck off and crawled out of his seat, opening her door and helping her out. He walked her up the steps and to her front door, they looked at each other in the darkness of night, illuminated only by the moonlight.

“Thanks, seriously, Jake, for everything. You’re the best friend I could ask for.”

Her heart cracked at the word ‘friend’, and so did his, not that either of them knew about each other’s feelings.

“No need to thank me, Honey. You can always crash my party.” He winked, looking up at the dark porch light. “Forget to leave the porch light on again?”

Honey shrugged, fetching her house keys from behind a plotted plant. She opened the door to turn the porch light on, and when she flicked the switch, nothing came on. Her eyebrows furrowed, trying the switch for the living room light, and nothing. She shakes her head, her shoulders slumping.

“That’s just rich,” she mumbles under her breath.

“What’s up? Light bulb blow?” Jake’s mind wandered aloud.

“No, uh,” Honey flushed red, feeling embarrassed. “My mother didn’t pay the light company, again. S-She forgets about this place sometimes. I’ll just call her tomorrow, it’s fine. I’ll see you Monday, Jake.”

Jake pauses, placing his palm on the front door she was trying to hastily shut. He takes in her slumped figure, his anger flaring at her neglectful mother.

“Hey, don’t shut me out. You say she forgot again? She’s done this before? Honey I’m not letting you sit down here in the dark, pack a bag, you can stay with us.”

As much as she wanted to protest, as much as her brain said she’d be an imposition at the Seresin’s, her heart was lonely and heavy, and she didn’t want to be alone tonight. She didn’t fight it, only grabbing the flashlight by the door and stomping up the stairs as Jake stood watch. She packed a duffel hastily, throwing in pajamas and casual clothes, and even a set for Monday at school. She never wanted to overstay her welcome, but she would stay as long as the Seresin’s would let her. She hated this house, she hated the empty rooms and she hated her mother. She stomped back down the stairs and locked the door back, sliding back into Jake’s truck and peeling down Seresin Farm Road.

Late that night, with wet hair and Jake’s Dallas Cowboys hoodie over her frame, she sat across from him atop his plaid comforter, snorting and heaving with laughter over Jake’s spot-on impressions of his football coach and teammates. He’s traded his formal wear for basketball shorts and an old rodeo t-shirt, appearing much more like the Jake she felt most comfortable with. For the first time that entire night, she’d felt light, filled with happiness. Hayden Wright never crossed her mind, nor the beautiful girls she held her standards to, not even her elusive mother who Honey felt hated her most. None of it mattered, because she was safe, comfortable, feeling perfectly content enough to curl under Jake’s sheets and fall asleep on his spare pillows. She slept soundly, not feeling Jake’s hands push hair out of her face, or his green eyes unable to look away from her sleeping frame until he too collapsed in sleep. Most importantly, she hadn’t heard Jake’s mumbles of how beautiful she’d looked tonight, things he’d only say when he knew she wasn’t listening. At least for now.

When Janet woke early the next morning, she relaxed seeing Jake’s truck parked in the drive. She stumbled up the stairs to find his bedroom door ajar, a pair of black high-top converse keeping it open. They were Honey’s-she wore them everywhere. Janet’s blue eyes peered into the room illuminated by morning sunshine.

Jake and Honey both slept soundly in Jake’s queen bed, facing one another, none of their limbs touching. To any other parent, this would lead to a sharp lashing and a loud wake-up, but Janet knew her grandson well. He held Honey in such high esteem he’d never try anything of a clandestine romance. Janet loved Honey, and, while never audibly saying it, she silently hoped her boy would open his eyes soon and see the diamond of a girl in front of him. She simply kicked Honey’s shoes out of the way, closing the door to leave them undisturbed.

When the pair woke, nothing had changed. Jake and Honey still sat at the breakfast table like any other weekend, Jake stealing bacon off of Honey’s plate, and Honey stealing strawberries off of his. There was no great fanfare of Honey all but moving into Jake’s room. Janet and Jacob Sr. had no objections when they found out the reasons why. They treated Honey as if she was another Seresin. The only thing that had changed is that Janet no longer had to pick her up for school. So when Honey and Jake walked into school together on Monday, no one seemed to bat an eye. When Hayden Wright walked into the courtyard Monday morning, however, it seemed every single eye was on him, or, more likely, the double black eyes he sported.

Jake had passed off his busted knuckles on some farm work, and Honey had believed him. When she noted that his closest football buddies, Brett and Willie, also had the same markings, she’d passed it off as a football tussle Jake hadn’t wanted to tell her about. Jake had smiled and kept the conversation topic away from Hayden at all costs, which struck Honey as weird, but she chalked it up to Jake’s protective nature. She only started to wonder when Willie turned to her in their shared third period and asked her about the book she’d been reading, or when Brett had caught her attention in the hallway.

“Honey!” The tall boy’s voice had boomed over the crowd of people in the hallway. “What’s up?!” He’d high-fived her as she simply responded with a quiet “nothing much” and headed towards her locker.

When the two boys joined her and Jake at lunch, she’d been nervous at first, as she always was around new people, but quickly fell into a more comfortable state as the weeks passed. Jake’s friends, his true friends it seemed, found her funny, doubling over in laughter at her witty retorts to Jake’s comments, and her jabs at particularly disliked teachers. She no longer cowered behind Jake as he spoke to his teammates, because Brett or Willie were always around, actively roping her into easy conversation. For the first time in her life, Honey had friends, well, besides Jake, but she'd always had Jake.

That Friday night, after the game, as Jake slung off his shoulder pads and tossed them into his designated cubby, Brett’s voice sounded over the bustle of the loud locker room.

“Yo, Jake, are you and Honey going to The Basket after this? I’m fucking starving, man, and she always lets me have her fries she doesn’t eat.”

Jake felt a weird sort of flutter erupt in his chest, knowing that he wasn’t the only person to see Honey’s personality, that she had made an impression on his closest friends too. It almost made him burn with jealousy, but then he’d realized that he quite literally slept next to Honey each night-platonically, of course.

“Uh, yeah, as long as she’s down,” came Jake’s reply as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Fuck yeah!” Willie’s voice came into the circle of conversation. “Tell your girl to come to the after party at Junior’s too! I just finished that book she let me borrow, and that party’s gonna be ass, so we’ll have plenty of time to talk about it.”

Jake’s blood ran cold, his girl? When had his friends decided that Honey was his girl? He didn’t correct the boy’s words, only nodding as he chuckled, thinking of Honey’s frame sitting on the bales of hay at Junior’s barn as Willie’s towering linebacker frame chatted animatedly about the copy of The Outsiders she’d lent him.

“Yeah, I’ll see if she wants to come. You might have to catch her later, though, she’s not really big on parties. She’s not one to be social or drink, so people give her shit about it.”

Brett’s scoff filled the air.

“She’s wearing your numbers, Seresin.” Brett referred to Jake’s old jersey Honey often wore to the game. “And me and Willie’ll be there, nobody’s gonna mess with ‘er.”

That night, Honey and Jake sat on one side of a sticky red booth at the local diner with Willie and Brett across from them, opting to spend their night over dinner instead of at a party the law would likely bust. Jake had hardly spoken to Honey at all since they’d arrived, she was deep in a conversation with Willie over greasers and poems about gold. It made Jake happy that she and his friends got along, but as Honey flashed Willie a smile she’d only given him, he felt his fists tighten at his side, the burning jealousy returning. As Brett chattered on and on, Jake tried to focus, but his eyes kept lingering on the other side of him, seeing Honey laugh or her eyes sparkle as she divulged in literary talk. His mood had turned sour, and she hadn’t even noticed. So when Willie and Brett parted for the night, and they’d made their way to Jake’s truck, she’d clocked his frown as he opened her door for her.

“You alright, J?” Her voice was sweet, laced with sympathy.

“M’fine, Hon,” came his reply as he shut the door, walking around to his side and sliding in before starting the truck. Silence filled the truck, and Honey found her happiness deflating. She must’ve done something to upset him, that must be why he was acting this way. She pulled her knees to her chest, feeling small. Jake caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing’s your fault. I swear.” His green eyes were more warm than before.

“Then why are you acting like this? I-I’m sorry if you thought I was ignoring you, I just got caught up in talking to Willie about the book that I didn’t think about it.”

“It’s not that, you haven’t done anything, I promise. Just, thinking about a lot up here.” His pointer finger tapped against his temple.

“You can always talk to me. You can tell me anything, Jake.”

He smiled at her and nodded, but he knew he couldn’t. He could tell her anything except that he was in love with her.

taglist:

@djs8891

#jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman imagine #top gun imagine #top gun maverick #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #request #tgm #tgm fanfiction

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sweeneydino · 4 months

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I love love LOVE your Spikeangelo AU it’s so funny and so good!!

TBH I’m foaming @ the mouth to hear more about it. I wanna see more stuff with Titan and Raph cause Raph was already so close to Spike and making him Ronin Mikey adds a whole nother layer to it all and it’s so JUICY and ANGSTY!! Would Titan’s pewpaw nature make him act as more of an older brother figure to Raph? How attached would Titan be over Raph and the 2012 Turtles in general? The 2012 Turtles go through so much trauma ( even without Splinter’s second and final death being canon to your story ) so I can’t imagine that Titan would be pleased with seeing these alternate young versions of he and his brothers go through the fucking WRINGER when he ( probably ) had a strong desire to protect them from the horrors that he himself faced in his original universe.

I’ve been curious too… Raph Brainworm Arc in the Spikeangelo AU….. how does that work out? Especially when in canon it was Slash who kidnapped Raph and held his head in place for the brainworm to drill into his eye / head…….

I can only imagine how Titan would’ve felt about the events of the Fourfold Trap too. Karai ( under the control of a brainworm ) capturing the family and torturing the Turtles individually??? Bruh that must’ve been a NIGHTMARE for him.

Thank you Thank you! I'm glad people enjoy this silly au so much hsbsnwush it makes me feel so proud UvU

I can assure it will get juicer and angstier :))

For the questions, ahem

He lets his Peepaw nature slip out A LOT, lol. He'd def act more as an older brother despite Raph taking care of him as Spike. Spirit of an old man.

He already adopted them gsbsjsu. As soon as he realized how much Raph love him as spike, he was doomed. Also, doomed to get gray scales. 2012 is not nice to these boys 💀

Oh yeah... I definitely got something 😏

It's a bit(huge understatement) different from the canon as Titan is way more experienced than Slash, and more prominent, but the 2012 boys are gonna discover that Splinter isn't the only one holding back >:)

You have to wonder what will this guy has to not kill the shredder immediately, but it might be because someone is still on the fence.

For Karai, I'm not sure if she'd be brainwormed or not, mostly cause I have a few different ideas for how each path goes out... maybe I'll write it out, who knows. Probably not.

This peepaw is not having a good time 😩

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #art #crossover #tmnt crossover #vinny asks #asks #tmnt 2012 #spikeangelo au #spikangelo au #tmnt last ronin #tmnt the last ronin #the last ronin #last ronin #sketch #eyestrain #angst #some other asks asked about the brainworms too so ill expand on it more in them >:3c

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chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter · 10 months

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This drabble is born from a really angsty brain riot with Bonten's origins, that happened to me after reading this words from @just-sp-in-inginthevoid :

"Bonten is a memorial for Izana, its symbol, its members’ tattoo come from Izana’s earrings and the (天) ten of Bonten 梵天 from Tenjiku 天竺, the (梵) bon of Bonten 梵天 comes from Brahman 梵. (...) There’s no need for Senju to have the same role as Izana in Bonten if she’s not dead."

(I always pictured Senju being death in that timeline, but the reality of the kanjis being literally THAT... ajfshgsjgejgrjg, the pain of this. Wakui, you know how to break us every timeline! 😭)

Bonten was born from pain.

(drabble of the day that Bonten was created)

Warnings: I'm so sorry, this is just angst and hurt/no comfort. I wrote it as an attempt of coping with canon and how painful is Bonten timeline when you actually look closer to it. It's from Koko's POV and everyone is just broke and devastated in their own way. Again, I'm so sorry :(

(English is not my first language, so be nice please 🙈)

Most people think Bonten is synonymous with fear.

But they are all wrong. Kokonoi knows better.

Bonten is synonymous with pain, it was born in it.

He still remembers the day that Bonten was created, even if it wasn't the official date, any of the executives would pinpoint the exact same moment.

Probably, only Koko could actually offer a coherent narrative of that night. The only outsider of all the chaos unraveling in front of him.

He still has nightmares of what he saw. But is not what happened what haunts him, no. Is the voices, the faces surrounding him.

Wakasa covered in blood, his eyes looking completely empty. His blank stare, like he couldn't believe who this blood belonged to. Benkei's hand on his friend shoulder, tearing up like a baby.

Takeomi curled up in the floor, sobbing next to his sister's body. Saying “it should've been me” over and over, the older man stuck in a loop of guilt and denial.

The former members of Tenjiku looking shocked, not moving a finger for what was supposed to be their gang, their leader. Koko spent enough time with them to know that, even if they were ruthless, seeing the leader of another gang being shot like that... Was too familiar.

Anyone who looked at them could see they never agreed with that. The ghost of Izana Kurokawa still lingered over them.

Kakucho was shaking, his lips trembling. The rain and the blood mixing with red snow in the scarred boy's mind.

The Haitani brothers unconsciously getting closer to each other. Ran pulling his arm around Rindou in a protective way, the younger one allowing it without complains. Both of them staring at Sanzu, terrified with the possibility of being on the pinkette boy place.

Sanzu's screams were the worst of it. The excruciating pain in his voice while he was holding Senju's body. His little sister's body. How he looked at Takeomi, tears rolling down his cheeks, his gaze filled with hate when he spoke to his older brother “I agree, it should've been you.”

Mikey standing there, the void in his eyes while his knuckles kept dripping with South blood. The man's body at his feet.

That gaze, dark and lacking of any emotion. Pure void that swallowed everything around.

(That swallowed them, trapped them like moths that flied too close to the sun)

Bonten was born from pain.

Bonten grew in pain, thrived with it.

And, Kokonoi is sure that whatever destiny awaits for them...

Bonten will die in pain.

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itsclydebitches · 10 months

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Though I adore the dynamic myself, it struck me as odd a few months back that fans were taking a "Monster loved for the first time" approach to Astarion. Part of the allure of a vampire (for me anyway) is the act of transformation; the horror and tragedy of having lost who you were before—including all those everyday, human experiences. There were debates about precisely how old Astarion was when he died and at the same time fans were screaming over him having his first hug, his first real romance, this is the first time someone has helped him without ulterior motives, etc. and I'm going, "How is that possible?" This is an elf who lived a life before being turned, even if it was short compared to what his race would normally experience. Astarion had a family. He had a job! Yet the fandom (and to an extent the game as well) treats Astarion as more of a Phantom-esque character: deemed monstrous from birth and blindsided by the simplest acts of love because he was denied them from the get-go.

Of course, it's easy enough to read everything through the lens of slavery and torture. Sure, Astarion had all this at one point but it's been so long and his life as a vampire has been so unimaginably torturous that it's eclipsed those earlier experiences. I get that... but time as the answer still didn't fully convince me.

Not until I started romancing him and hit this line:

"I... I don't know. I can't remember."

This is in response to asking Astarion what color his eyes were before they turned red. Can we just sit with that for a moment? He doesn't remember the color of his eyes. This line was a game changer for me because I can't even CONCEPTUALIZE that. Mirrors appear to be pretty common in Faerûn—it's not like this is a setting devoid of all modern inventions and Astarion, as a member of the upper class, absolutely would have had access to various ornate mirrors like the one he starts this scene with—so what does it take to make you completely forget such an ingrained bit of knowledge about yourself? 200 years as a dehumanized slave, obviously. Still, my mind continues to trip over the idea. I have blue eyes. That's a fact I've known since I had any real sense of self. If my eyes were to suddenly change tomorrow I can't imagine forgetting that they were originally blue. Even if I'd put it from my mind for an extended period of time I'd expect the very pointed question, "What color were they before?" would fire some old synapses and drag the information back. Obviously none of us have any idea what 200 years would do to a human brain (or, you know, an elf's) but it still feels firmly in the real of impossibility that I could ever completely forget something like that.

Yet Astarion has and this line more than anything else has sold me on his Baby Monster Loved For The First Time characterization, both in-game and in the fandom. He acts like he's never been hugged before? Of course he does! The guy can't remember his eye color and you think he's going to recall any probably-treated-as-casual-and-thus-didn't-solidify-as-significant-memories hugs while alive? When was the last time you were hugged? I'm not sure. I know I HAVE hugged recently but was the last one with family over Thanksgiving? Did I give my friend a brief side-hug before we parted? I'm lucky in that hugs are such a normalized part of my life that I don't give them much thought... which means that if you were to suddenly enslave me and keep me isolated for 200 years, yeah, I'd probably forget what they feel like too. Or that I ever had any at all.

(Self-hatred is going to play hell with memory too. Once you feel like you don't deserve something and it's continually denied to you it's easier to convince yourself you never had it to begin with.)

So yeah, Astarion acts like someone who was always the monster because he has, on a literal canonical level, forgotten what it was like to be anything else. Which just sets his relationship with Tav into such angsty, terrifying focus. Here's someone who has lost his previous identity. He (rightfully) despises the identity Cazador forced on him. Even if he didn't, Astarion is now miles away, the tattered remains of his self threatened by ceremorphosis. He stares into a mirror knowing he'll never see anything, but doing it anyway because he needs to figure out who he is—and that's precisely where most of us would start. What do I look like? What do others see when they see me? Is that the person I want to be?

Then Tav offers to be his mirror, just like they offered to sketch out the poem on his back. How exquisitely horrible for Astarion. He's being given precisely what he wants but he's in NO position to take it. All his sense of self placed in the hands of another? Asking, "Who am I?" and hearing, "I'll tell you. I'll be the keeper of that knowledge"? That's a far more intimate, potentially destructive power than anything else Astarion is looking to get his hands on AND he's trying to manipulate YOU at this point in the story! It just makes me crazy because Astarion is desperate to figure out who he is, but circumstances have ensured that, at this point in time, he needs to put his trust in someone else to begin answering that question... and the one thing he does know about himself is that he's a manipulative, mistrustful rogue who's only out to keep himself safe. Allowing someone else to take the reins with his identity (again) is probably the least safe thing he could possibly think of.

It's this messy tragic loop that yes, Astarion is working to break by the end of the game (depending on your choices) but in Act 1? Goddamn. No wonder he's trying desperately to maintain control of this relationship. No wonder—despite his best efforts—he's still undone by the simplest acts of kindness.

#BG3 #Astarion #mymetas

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misc-obeyme · 10 months

Note

OKAY So I've had an idea that could be either funny, angsty, or smutty depending on your mood. So imagine Mammon and MC had sex before Mammon became invested in them back when he was kind of a shit to them (I'm imagining the in original Obey Me timeline, not NB). Mammon didn't care much abt them so he was pretty selfish and it was kind of shit for MC... but imagine if it was MC's first time!

It could be funny if later they don't hold it against them and use it to tease him, could be angsty if they're upset abt it or it just kinda leads to them being uninterested in him, or could be smutty if they tell him he can have a second chance :D)

I just like to imagine all the ways this scenario could go lmao

NSFW MDNI

I feel like my response to this depends on whether or not Mammon knew it was MC's first time. Like to be fair, I'm pretty sure most first times aren't exactly a transcendent experience, but if he was aware of it and still didn't care, that's pretty bad. I could only go with angst for that scenario because any MC who would forgive him for that is a bigger person than I lol.

BUT I think the other two options could work if Mammon found out it was MC's first time later. Like he didn't know at the time, but then MC tells him in order to tease him and then also possibly elicit a second try? I think Mammon can be kind of oblivious in general, so it makes sense to me that he wouldn't even be aware of the fact that it was MC's first time. Uh oh. I actually like that idea. Oh what have you done, anon? Fine, fine, here's a drabble. I had to work really hard to keep it under 500 words and it's only missing that number by two.

It was a quiet night in the House of Lamentation while you watched Mammon counting the Grimm he had earned from his latest modeling gig. You were sitting next to him on the couch in his room and he seemed to almost forget that you were there. This gave you the chance to observe him, to watch how serious he became as he calculated his finances. A look that said he was focused only on his task.

It was a look you wished he had given you back then, when you found yourself beneath him.

You smirked, nudging him. "Hey. Remember that time we had sex?"

Mammon froze for a moment as a blush exploded across his face. He frowned and put down the Grimm he'd been counting.

"'Course I remember," he said, not looking at you.

You leaned toward him. "Did you know you're my first man in more ways than one?"

Mammon's eyes snapped to you. "W-what-? MC!"

You laughed at his dumbfounded expression.

"Why didn't ya tell me?!" he demanded, covering his face with his hands. "Damn it, I was such a jerk. How can ya even stand to be around me?"

You pulled his hands away from his face. "Don't say stuff like that. You sound like Levi."

Mammon still wouldn't look at you.

You turned his face so he would meet your eyes. "How about I give you a second chance?"

His expression became determined and he grabbed your hand in both of his. "You'd let me make it up to ya?"

You answered him with a kiss.

Mammon wrapped his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap, his hands already beneath your shirt.

The kiss became hot and heavy so fast your head began to spin. You pulled away with a gasp and Mammon's lips fell to your neck. Then you felt yourself being lifted. He carried you over to his bed where he wasted no time removing your clothes and his.

Here you were again, beneath the Avatar of Greed. You looked up at him and your heart swelled when you saw that look of concentration, the glimmer of feeling in his eyes. You saw a demon who wanted nothing more than to take care of you, to do what he should have done back then.

That night, Mammon fucked you gentle and slow, taking his time and savoring every moment. You would never forget the sound of his moans mingled with yours, the way he listened to whatever you asked for, how he couldn't stop saying your name.

When you woke up in his arms, Mammon was watching your sleeping face. You blushed a little at the memory of the night you spent together.

"I'm sorry about back then, MC," he said quietly. "Did I… did I make it up to ya?"

You smiled at him. "Don't worry. I don't regret that you were my first man."

Mammon blushed furiously and then tried to hide it by kissing you.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗.]

summary: "I heard you."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 9.2k+

warnings: angsty, they're truly pining in this one ngl, Dream is still Dream (trying, but lowkey failing) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: whose ready for that reunion, huh? Ngl, I struggled with writing this chapter if only because I'm so used to writing original content. It was weird trying to adapt the show timeline without bogging down the pace or doing a beat-for-beat recount (which would have been tedious), so I hope you liked the uneasy medium I chose instead.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART TEN: YEAR 1021 II

His realm. Ruins.

Everywhere Morpheus turns his attention, decay and ash greet him on his traipse to the castle. Time is cruel. What he has built over the years—with devotion, care, and contentment—has broken down to nothing in a hundred years he was gone.

These walls, physical and otherwise, keeping so many unassailable, have stood for thousands of years. Since the dawn of all creation, the Dreaming had been a haven.

Now, it is barely standing.

Crumbled stone and dust. Grey, drab surroundings devoid of colour, gutted of resplendence that once coursed so freely here. His Dreaming, his home, his beautiful treasure. The weight inside his chest is unbearable. Scratchy and thorned, each image bites into his mind, snagging and burrowing there. He will carry this weight until his end. This is a failure; fundamental, wretched, inescapable.

His subjects have fled. Abandoned the Dreaming—and him—in droves. Not even his siblings have sought him out.

You love them, but you don’t see them.

“You may be correct about your siblings not arriving to your aid, Lord. But someone else did. Someone searched for you. Rather ardently, I might add.”

Morpheus raises his head, pain knotting his throat, his hands clasped while he perches on a fragmented staircase.

“Who?”

Lucienne’s expression pinches, eyeing him over her glasses as if it should be obvious. But if not his family, then—

“My Lord, surely you can think of someone who cares for you enough to do so?” Hearing no response, his librarian persists, “Someone who has stood by your side no matter what. I confess it was most perplexing to hear your tale, for I had assumed your return was thanks to—”

“Lucienne. This lead is different. I can feel—”

That voice.

A figure clad in black rounds the corner, and instinct, pulsing and devastating, jerks his body upwards. Morpheus stands, but his knees hold a mortal’s frailty. Had he not surmised you lost to him? Gone forever?

Wanderer.

Hello, stardust.

So long—it had been so long. Not two centuries have passed since he’d last seen you—a mere drop to an Endless such as him, yet it feels like lifetimes have flown by. All those years, wasted. Some foolishly given away, others stolen. Just once, the passage of time is devastating. Because this time, Morpheus bears the full brunt of his loss.

I call upon Dream of the Endless. Answer my call, Dream Lord, for you are sworn.

There had been a call, a plea, a dream echoing inside his barren, shadowed prison. And he failed—he failed to answer. What is he if not Lord of unanswered dreams and hopes? What is his purpose if the one whose call he’s waited for centuries does not receive an answer?

You teeter to a sudden stop, gawking; it’s as if your body has transformed into an obelisk. Midnight flows and encloses your figure and—

It is but a coat now, his power long since faded, but it is his. Sown into being from nothing, shaped by his will, by his hand alone, tailored to fit a different form now. Repurposed for holding, touching, lingering on your skin—

A star erupts inside his chest, boiling through him, and the sheer, scalding power steals his breath.

Thousand words tangle on his tongue; a thousand stories, reasons, curses and pleas. Yet, only one word leaves Morpheus, his hand seeking, even if his tongue would not verbalise the want, the need:

“Wanderer.”

Hot, treacherous power sparks through the air, igniting from within you where that pesky curse dwells, and then you’re gone with a thunderous crack. Fragments once more. Continuously slipping through his grasp.

His breath escapes short and tight. His hand lowers back to his side. His skin itches and an invisible tremor shakes his fingers—one Lucienne would miss, but Morpheus senses with shameful intimacy.

Undone by sight alone. Broken apart into no more than sand and sea foam.

Raw instinct exhorts him to go after you, but he cannot. Unlike other mortals, you do not dream. There are no photographs for him to use for locating you, and his pebble—

Is it still in your possession? Or have you cast it aside? Forgotten your bond? He could place no blame if you had. But the need to know is blistering. He permits no shadow of irresolution to show. This is to be an exercise in patience, duty over impulse.

“Lucienne, why was Wanderer here?” he questions softly instead.

His librarian gapes for a second before composing herself, her mouth pressing into a tight line.

“Shortly after you vanished, Wanderer returned.” Lucienne’s account washes over him while his stare remains glued to the vacant spot where the residue of dark power lingers. “For decades, she searched for you. For decades she helped to hold the realm together in your absence. Scoured the waking world and all the realms in between and at a great personal cost.”

Oh.

Morpheus’ head sinks to the side, half-turning.

Lucienne strides several steps closer, resolute and wonderfully brave despite her subdued nature. “I implore you to reconsider further punishment, Lord.”

A soft sound bubbles in his throat. “Punishment?” The word is dark silk blanketing damage. His damage. “Do you believe I seek to punish? No, Lucienne.”

With a breath, his shoulders straighten, and his fingers uncurl. The steadiness with which Morpheus has stood for centuries makes a much-welcomed return. “I must recover my tools. Then, I shall seek out Wanderer once more. There is much that remains unsaid between us.”

Everything. Too much.

But first, he must convalesce. Retrieve what was once stolen from him. Just moments prior, Morpheus had been too weak to sense your entry into the Dreaming. He could once do it without conscious thought.

Lucienne bows her head. “Yes, Lord.”

Restless, he calls, “Lucienne?” A beat. Perhaps it would be kinder not to ask. “Wanderer looked…”

The librarian might not be in direct sight, but Morpheus senses how deeply his uncharacteristic falter startles her.

Lucienne’s hands clasp behind her back. “Sick, yes.” There is grim verity about her tone, her bearing. “I’m afraid such is the price for devotion, sir. Wanderer was not afraid to pay it on your behalf. Not even after the banishment.”

The shores of the Dreaming have transformed in his absence. It would seem nothing in his kingdom remains untouched. Lifeless, desolate, no longer comforting. Once encompassing dark has become devouring, lonely darkness.

“I do not require a minder,” he reminds stiffly. “I’m Dream of the Endless.”

Lucienne is ever loyal and present at his back, and Morpheus hears her concern. He understands the reluctance to permit solo travel after what transpired, but he is the Endless. What happened with Burgess will never be allowed to happen again.

“Yes, and Dream of the Endless always has a raven,” Lucienne insists.

Morpheus halts, hesitance locking him in place before he finds his voice, “Jessamy was the last.”

It is then, on distant shores, that a realisation strikes Morpheus. Or, rather, an absence. Something he should be able to view even from his location, unfailingly visible from the docks.

“The Wanderer Island.” The name drags from his throat with hoarse reluctance because, deep down, the answer is already evident. “What happened?”

Where once he could see the island piercing the horizon, there’s now nothing but hollow blackness. A place where so many had journeyed in their dreams—with increasing frequency over the centuries—is gone.

Lucienne’s words come out tired and heavy, and in them, Morpheus hears further proof of how terribly he’s failed them. “Much like the rest of the realm, in your absence, the island broke apart and sunk, sir. It was the last to go.”

“Did Wanderer witness it?”

His inquiry is barely audible. So much so that Morpheus figures Lucienne did not hear him at all, but when her answer does reach him, it’s worse than he expected: “Yes. Mervyn and I discovered her here one evening, crying. The island was gone. I know not why, but Wanderer would come to the pier every evening and watch the sunset alone.”

Because we used to sit side by side, she and I, and speak no words, for we had no need for them. Only her breath and mine. Because the island sunk while Wanderer waited for me to return to her.

And it is my fault.

“I need your help.”

Hob’s reaction is instantaneous, “Anything.”

He adjusts the strap of his leather satchel as he heads towards you, carefully noting your shaken, fidgety demeanour. The university hallways are quiet this evening, and Hob gently grasps your elbow in his, leading you with him.

“Can I stay with you?” you blurt out, hot and cold all over. Sweat soaks your clothes, but you manage to form words, wobbly as they are. “Just for a day or—”

“However long you need,” Hob interjects placidly. He guides you outside, adding a thoughtful, “Or however long the curse allows you, but yes, you can always stay. Are you alright?”

The chilly wind bites your cheeks, storm clouds brewing in the distance. No stars or moon tonight, only charged heaviness. Your mouth is so dry your tongue is little more than paper.

“He’s back.” Your words come out as a croak. Words jumble inside your head, but Hob patiently nudges you towards a lamplit street. “Dream. I… I don’t know how, but… he might come after me. I broke his law and…”

Hob tenses.

“You’re joking, right? Because ha ha ha.” His timbre bleeds with urgency and solemn disbelief all at once. When you don’t laugh, only stare at him, unblinking and trembling, Hob exhales. “Oh God, you’re serious. Well, he certainly has swell timing, doesn’t he?”

Your chuckle sounds strangled in your ears. “Consider me a Faerie right now. I can’t lie.”

“And fae are real.” A muffled huff leaves Hob. The immortal shrugs, accepting this new knowledge as quickly as he did your curse. “Because, of course, they are. Next, you’ll tell me leprechauns are real, too.”

You could hug him for what he’s doing. Gratitude twines through your heart as you lean into him, solid and warm, settling your quaking knees. “Well—”

“No,” Hob cuts off, dismayed. “Don’t. I don’t want to know.”

He asks you on the way back to his flat anyway.

By late evening the weather takes a turn for the worst. Rain falls in deafening, heavy sheets, drenching every available surface. Gutters overflow as you cut through bleak London streets. Despite horrid weather, people bustle around, and it’s an effort to avoid them. You lower the umbrella Hob had allowed you to borrow, stepping under a carved stone arch. The apartment complex is mainly blackened windows and no visible movement at an hour this late, but it doesn't deter you.

You’re certain Johanna is not going to mind a late-night visit. You tried calling multiple times. But at her failure to answer, you had set out to her office despite Hob’s instance that you should wait till morning. Your friend had been inaudible mutters and a deep-set frown since you trudged back to his flat above the pub. Something about annoying Endless, and no one is hurting you in my flat. He can bugger off.

Your finger digs into the door buzzer until there’s a crack on the other side, “What?”

“It’s me, Constantine.”

A pause. “Now’s not a great time. Come back tomorrow.”

Is she with someone? You buzz her again, leaning closer to the speaker.

“Let me in.” Something flutters in your peripheral, and instinctively, you turn towards it, “We need to… never mind.”

A shape steps from the shadows, mouth parted, devouring you where you stand. Dream of the Endless dons a shorter version of your coat, his raven hair as dishevelled and wild as you remember it, his skin pale and translucent, his features ethereal and powerful despite their gentleness. Nearly two centuries have done nothing to dampen his distinctive handsomeness.

“Wanderer.”

The curse consolidates inside your chest, and you jerk—

Dream’s hand snaps around your wrist, shackling you to him. At once, the curse buckles, frizzling under the presence and will of an Endless. Dream’s body brushes against yours, and you suck in a pained breath, your wide-eyed stare snapping to him. Dream pours over your features with such burning intent even his searing touch on your chilled skin is slow to register.

“How—”

His response is instant, knowing. “You always move your body left when you are about to jump.” He tilts closer, his voice so achingly familiar, the deep rumble holds you close, embraces you. Each hushed word kisses you all over. “A thousand years, do you truly believe I do not know you?”

Indignation wells in your chest. “That goes both ways, Lord Morpheus. How did you find me?”

You tug your hand back, but it takes two attempts before he relinquishes his hold. Needle stab your heart. There’s horror at what he might do for your waywardness, but cutting through the terror is…

You’ve missed him. So dearly, so fiercely—that having him this close, unchanged in his imposing presence and dour countenance, melts something inside you. You’ve spent decades searching for his face in everybody. Seeking him in crowds and alleys, in each corner of this world. You bled and suffered to get him back. It’s surreal to have him this close again.

A dream; a cruel, horrible, seductive dream.

“It would seem Fates keep drawing us together, you and I.” There is no wrath on Dream’s face, not unlike the last time you spoke, not unlike you expected. He’s drinking you in, and against your better judgement, you do the same. “I needed not to search for you. We found each other.”

What are the chances? In this fathomless cosmos, between hundreds of dimensions, to find each other here. In a rainy, sleepy city. Destiny is no doubt sitting somewhere in his realm, mutely delighting at seeing this written in his book. All things pass as they are meant to pass.

“I prefer my mind intact, so I’ll make this short,” you speak before he can say anything else, rushing over your thudding heart. “It was a mistake coming to the Dreaming in your absence. I recognise it as much. You banished me; I shouldn’t have used your absence for my gain. I won’t bother you again. You have my word.”

“I heard you.”

Your heart stutters, all thoughts and rehearsed sentences evaporating.

A breath slips past your lips with a quiet, “What?”

Your back brushes against the concrete wall, yet he seems closer and closer with each blink.

“I heard you call for me. Yet I could not answer your plea. I was imprisoned. You sounded in pain and then nothing.” Each word comes out fainter and fainter. Each sentence chosen with the same circumspect care you’ve come to associate with him. “For decades, I knew no peace, wondering what might have befallen you to call for me finally. Only to learn, upon my return, that you alone searched for me. Aided my realm when no one else would. Yet, your conclusion upon our reunion is to fear punishment? Do you honestly believe me so cruel?”

Does he need to ask?

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Dream shrinks backwards, his expression stuttering at your pained, breathy reply. “Was it not you who banished me? All because I disagreed with you? You threw away eight hundred and fifty years of us without hearing my side. Where was your trust in me?”

Dream moves back a step, turning away from you. For a moment, there’s nothing but his proud profile, inky shadows, and roaring downpour. Pain bleeds fresh, and your features crumple. You tuck your face in the collar of your black coat—his black coat, you correct yourself immediately. Even this isn’t yours. Neither is he.

“I was… wrong to do what I did.”

Your head jerks towards him. Dream Lord hesitates, visibly holding himself back, searching for words you know all too well after a thousand years, are all but unknown to him.

“I accept that now,” he continues tightly, uncomfortable and stiff. “I should have paid closer attention. Centuries ago, I assumed Desire chose Prodigal and you for their little game to spite me, but I never considered Desire picked my younger brother for a reason. Perhaps I was too blind to see how true your feelings for him were. To defend his whereabouts so fiercely, you must care for him a great deal.”

I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.

A dumbfounded grimace contorts your mouth. Your clenched fists tremble at your sides from the urge to hit him.

“Oh, Maker. I don’t believe it.” You stagger several strides to the right, breathing hard. “You think I didn't tell you because I’m in love with Destruction?”

“It would be logical—”

You pivot on your heels, nostrils flaring.

“Yes, I love Destruction. I love him a great deal.” Something flashes through Dream’s eyes at your controlled exclamation; crushed glass and ice, distant and… hurt. “But not romantically. Don’t you get it? No, you don't, do you? You look, but you still don’t see.”

Your feet carry you towards him. Dream straightens at your proximity. Bracing for more lashing words, perhaps, but you’re simply too jaded. From this existence, from him. “Over a thousand years cursed. Humiliated, maimed, haunted, stuck in Hell, Delirium’s realm, Despair’s realm. Before you, there was no hope for me. I told you what I… but what you did… what you did hurt the most.”

Briefly, you see something close to despair paint his striking features; too fleeting, then hidden.

“What you took from me…” Your words splinter, cracking around each syllable, an agony laid bare at the altar of your relationship. Your hand settles gently on his chest. Captured. For a hundred years. What did he go through? Right now, he’s real. Tangible beneath your hand. There’s an inordinate urge to grab his coat in your hands, pull him close, and breathe him in. Your hand drops away. “I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.”

Dream’s features are unreadable; all emotion wiped clean. His glassy gaze scorches into you, but you encounter no answers or comfort there. You rotate your head away from him, licking your wobbling lips once.

He edges closer, cautious. “Let me make this right.”

Ignoring the deep, low request, you bite out, “Why are you here?”

“Because my tools were stolen from me when I was captured. My helm, my ruby, and my sand. Without them, I cannot rebuild the Dreaming.”

You watch the rain while he watches you.

Shoving your hands in your pockets, you hunch your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll help you find them if I can.”

“I did not ask for aid.”

Is he trying to insult you by implying he would need to beg for help? Does he assume the Dreaming means so little to you?

“You never needed to,” you say, shifting back to face him, your jaw set. “I’m not doing this for you, Lord Morpheus, but for them. All those dreams and nightmares without a home because they feared you abandoned them.”

Dream’s gaze drops to the ground. Is it guilt? Shame? You’re not sure. It’s an unfamiliar shade on him.

Not waiting for a response, you head for the door, buzzing the button twice more.

“But not you.”

You stop dead at his assertion. Your back remains to him. Yet Dream Lord’s words hold their power; a chain around your foot, an anchor in the bed of your heart.

“You stayed,” Dream continues. “You searched even after I banished you. Why?”

Why indeed. Is he hopeful or too blind to see? You no longer care to find out which.

“If you need to ask, you don’t deserve the answer.”

You pull on the door, and this time it opens.

Johanna’s glower is fierce enough to make you bite back a grin. You’ve glimpsed plenty of such expressions mirrored on Edward’s face in the past. The similarities are difficult to overlook. Though they’re undoubtedly distinct, they are eerily alike in certain aspects.

“I can’t believe you were right,” she mutters peevishly.

She’s said it twice in the past ten minutes.

“Just keep searching,” you say instead.

You've got 99 problems, and all of them dreams—

This time, you’re the one left scowling, pointedly ignoring the silent Endless lingering in the corner of the room and the droning radio. Johanna turned it on accidentally while searching for a light switch, and it hasn’t stopped playing songs that prickle your neck since.

“I’ll check the other room,” Johanna declares, straightening. Her dark stare slides to you briefly. Whether it’s because she senses the suffocating tension between you and the other occupant in the room or simply because she’s more caring than she lets on, she asks, “Are you gonna be alright?”

We all are living in a dream, but life ain’t what it seems—

Grinding your teeth until your temples throb, you offer her a jerky nod. Johanna chews on her inner cheek for a moment, casting a warning glare Dream’s way before she heads for the adjoined room.

How Dream’s sand pouch came into her possession, you don’t know or care to know. All you care about is locating it.

Johanna’s departure leaves behind a silence that borders on unbearable. Rifling through papers, you consider your options. Bite the bullet and talk, or wait and see how long until Dream notices the radio acting up.

Forcing an exhale between clenched teeth, you venture, “Over a hundred years in captivity is a lot. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Lovely. You’re not sure what you envisioned. A heartfelt conversation where you share your woes? Right.

“I’m sorry about Jessamy.” This attempt is more subdued, more sorrowful. “I was trying to locate her when I heard the news.”

Johanna’s office remains quiet and dimly lit. If you couldn’t sense him in the room, you would assume you were once more alone. You haven’t realised you ceased your search until you’re left staring at your hands flat on the table.

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper, pushing yourself away and turning to face him. “No one can be captured for so long without being affected, not even you. That’s a lot of time to think.”

Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over—

Grimacing, you march towards the other table across the cramped room.

“I did,” comes Dream Lord’s low declaration. “Think.”

Documents and notes smear together. “Yeah? And what did great Lord Morpheus think about during his captivity?”

“You.” A beat. “Every day.”

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream—

An invisible hand wraps around your throat, strangling you. Oxygen escapes your lungs but it’s no better than knives dragging down your windpipe. Your knuckles bulge beneath your skin, your grip on the table’s edge unsteady.

“The radio is broken,” you choke out, veering towards it.

You press the off button, glaring when stations instead flip repeatedly.

Sweet dreams are made of this—

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream—

I spend these waking hours looking for the Sandman—we're waiting for the Sandman, but he never hears the call—

Anger blinds you. You reach for the capable, yanking on it. Once, twice.

We'll begin… with a spin, travelling in the world of my creation. What we'll see will defy explanation—

You tear the cable out, panting, hiding your shaking hands. The cord falls to the ground, and you gasp loudly in the now too silent office.

“Wanderer.”

You hold back a cringe at the deliberate way Dream Lord articulates your title.

“Don’t bother,” you snip back.

This time, Dream moves physically in your direction. Not through the fabric of the Worlds but physically announcing his arrival. “Those songs.”

You could lie. It’s the first and most overpowering instinct. Spin him a tale, convince him it’s chance, coincidence.

Shutting your eyes, you heave the heaviest sigh you’ve mustered up in decades.

“When you disappeared, I tried everything. I know you’re not a God.” Dream pauses before you, his black coat skimming against yours, listening intently. “Your existence doesn't depend on worship or prayer. But you’re the King of Dreams. I thought—I figured if I inspired stories and songs about you, the word would spread. Maybe you’d be able to sense that you’re not forgotten. Maybe all that inspiration would reach you somehow. Help you. I couldn’t do it myself because the curse would destroy them, but I could inspire others to do it for me.”

Dream speaks no words or shows any outwards reactions—he simply reaches forward until the back of his fingers brush over your cheek. One knuckle, two, the featherlight touch skims over your skin, burning and mangling your insides. Those cold, ancient eyes shine with some potent emotion you’ve only caught traces of in the past. Never there long enough for you to examine closer. This time, he doesn’t hide. This time it’s his fingers on your cheek.

The door rips open behind you, and Dream’s touch vanishes.

“I know where the pouch is. You two ready to go?” Johanna asks.

Neither of you replies.

Leaning into the cold, coarse stone wall, you survey the raging storm. Better than acknowledging the man standing opposite to you. Johanna had served as an excellent buffer between you on your journey here, snarky and unafraid to throw barbed words or sass back at the Endless.

She’s bold in a way most Constantines you’ve met tend to be. Commendable trait, but a dangerous one. You’ve learned it’s about choosing when and how to present yourself. There are beings out there who make torture into a game. Delight in it, too. It’s always wiser to err on the side of caution until limits arise.

Yet you would welcome Johanna’s presence now. While she went upstairs to visit her ex-girlfriend to make amends and hopefully retrieve Dream’s pouch, you can’t imagine a worse situation she could have left you in.

“I must recover my tools first but return to the Dreaming, Wanderer. You belong there.”

You contemplate not answering. But what would it achieve? You’re not children. How far would this silent act take you?

Instead, you choose to remind him of your stark reality: “You banished me, Lord.”

“I void the banishment.”

You blink at his rapid edict. As if those words had been sitting behind his teeth this entire time.

You cast a dubious glance Dream’s way, your arms crossing over your chest. “Just like that?”

He exhales but one word over the rushing rain, “Yes.”

That somehow makes it worse. No relief or happiness accompanies this pardon. How many times had you desperately wished for him to lift his merciless decree? Only a tiny, pained whisper remains deep in the recess of your mind, calling out a weak why did you do it in the first place?

“Whims of the Endless,” you conclude. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

It’s not fair to say such a thing. The Endless have been the closest you’ve come to an actual family in the last millennium. Even when you’re intimately aware it’s not sentiment returned. There is a divide between you and the Endless that can never be traversed. They exist outside the bounds of mortal comprehension, and you’re still a cursed mortal.

Perhaps Dream reads this defeat in you, pulls it from the weary slant of your mouth or the despondent creases around your eyes. In the way shadows prop you up rather than you standing inside them.

It’s been a long night, a long century. It will take time to learn how to relax around him again and stop yourself from instinctively flinching whenever he reaches for you.

“I do not wish to be parted from you. Not due to my past actions.”

Utter, uncrackable steel rings through every carefully punctuated vowel. Dream peers at you, unblinking, his hands in his pockets. “Things are different now. I am different. If you allow me, I would like to prove it to you.”

Goosebumps skitter across your flesh. You’re uncertain how to react, what to say, if anything. He is different just in this single night, but…

It doesn’t erase his past actions.

Rustling wings interrupt your charged eye contact. A raven slants its head in your direction, hopping on its feet.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss. Uh, Lady Dream.”

That jolt you. “I’m not—”

“Wanderer is—”

You both look at each other, both falling silent. Uneasy seconds slither past, and you peer down at the raven, who slides his attention from Dream to you and then back again.

“I’m not Lady of anything. I’m the Wanderer.”

The raven ruffles his feathers, bobbing his head.

“Oh.” Caw. “Well, this is awkward. I’m Matthew.”

Lowering yourself to ground level, you smile at him, inclining your head. “I greet you, Matthew. It’s an honour to meet Dream of the Endless’ raven.”

Caw. Matthew hops towards Dream. “I like her. Can we keep her?”

Dream appears as if he’s fighting back a sigh. “What is it, Matthew?”

“Listen, boss. As once human-now-turned-raven, I just figured I’d warn you. Whatever your friend is doing up there. It’s sure as hell not worrying about your pouch. You’re better off going up there and getting back your stuff personally.”

“He might have a point,” you agree. “You said the helm is in Hell. It’s probably better if I go my way for now. I’ll try to search for leads on the ruby in the meanwhile. Save time.”

“Will you return? Back to the Dreaming?” Dream prompts. Mutely, you rise back to your feet, your smile long since dwindled. “If not for me, then for them.”

Clever, brilliant man. Quite ingenious addition. You’ve refused him plenty in the past, but never them.

“Fine.”

Adjusting the collar, you step towards the awaiting night. Inside, you ball the curse, ripping it by force to obey your will. Pain rakes through your limbs, inflaming your nerves. The more you demand, the steeper the physical toll is each time. At least your pain tolerance after a thousand years of suffering is top-notch.

You’re one foot between dimensions when Dream’s voice snags you. “Wanderer?” Your head slants marginally towards him. “Whatever it is you are doing to control your curse. Cease it. It is hurting you.”

Since when do you care?

You let yourself ripple away without a response.

The Dreaming is rebuilding. But it’s a slow, meticulous process. Dream had returned triumphant from his mission to retrieve his tools, as you had anticipated he would. He’s Dream of the Endless. Even without his instruments, his power is far beyond your ken. Or those foolish enough to assume they can procure it for themselves.

You’ve hardly left the Dreaming since, occupied with nonstop repairs and helping returning dreams and nightmares to readjust. Great numbers began returning unannounced once the news spread about Dream’s return. The caste was the first to be repaired and one with the most noticeable reconstructions. The remainder will require a great deal more work. But Morpheus has been relentless about mending the damage his absence had evoked.

Including you two.

He’s been giving you much-needed space. Indeed more breathing room than you had anticipated, but you’ve made it clear you’re only here to help the Dreaming. With no long-term plans to stay or return the next time you depart.

I do not wish to be parted from you.

No matter how sweetly those words make you ache, you can’t be lulled into forgetting the undeniable reality. And the truth is that while you can forgive Dream, there is no denying it will take time to forget how he once stripped you of choice due to his bruised pride.

“So, you’re a bird who was once mortal.”

“So, you’re a mortal cursed to wander for eternity between realms.”

Your mouth curves into a reluctant grin. “Fair point. How did you become a raven?”

You’ve grown rather fond of Dream’s new raven in the short weeks you’ve known one another. After Jessamy, you hadn’t expected Dream to permit another raven close so soon.

Matthew rustles his feathers, expertly clinching his talons into your shoulder. Your coat is dense enough to void pain, leaving nothing more than passable pressure behind. While Dream has made no comments about your new apparel, you’ve felt his prickling stares on you multiple times in the passing weeks. You’ve debated removing it now that he’s back, but… you couldn’t quite bear to be parted from it.

“Eh, not sure, to be fair. Just kinda did. Flying is handy. The rest is… weird. But I wasn’t a very good person in my previous life, so this isn’t so bad. Protecting dreamers out there. Caw.”

Your eyebrows come together. “How can you be so certain you weren’t a good person?”

The castle corridors smear past you while your feet carry you towards the throne room.

Matthew mulls it over. “Oh, y’know, call it a hunch. How about you? Why were you cursed?”

His curiosity is innocent, but you, too, think over your answer for several paces. You’ve been a complete unknown even to yourself. There are no glimpses into your past, no before. As if it had been so thoroughly wiped, not even a shadow remains. Whatever or whoever you were before assuming your title is lost. You’ve constructed yourself from nothing. Cracked, riddled with human impulses and weakness, driven by emotion, but not all bad.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” It’s the truth. Except for that stray moment in Johanna’s office, there’s been no inkling for centuries. “But I don’t think I was a very good person, either.”

Matthew readjusts himself on your shoulder, and you hold your hand over him so he can brace himself. “Well, you’ve changed,” he says conversationally. “We all do. Second chance and all that.”

A certain Dream Lord springs to mind at the raven’s words. Are we cemented into who we’re destined to be, or is there room for permanent and meaningful change? Dream is trying. Those years locked away have altered something. You want to believe him again, but it’s not so straightforward.

Eventually, you settle on a halfhearted, “You’re right.”

You’re nearly at the throne room when Dream’s throaty words slice through you, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“—The Corinthian.”

Your heart catapults to your throat. Dream’s head slants in your direction. Lucienne follows suit. They both eye you closely, but you don’t let anything show coming to a gradual stop between them.

“Are you aware he is out there?” Dream wonders. Ice lingers in his mild tone. “Feeding on the dreamers he was meant to serve.”

You’ve never stopped being aware of the Corinthian.

“Yes. I tried to seek him out in the waking world,” you say, swallowing thickly. Searching for more words, you further admit, “To bring him back. But I didn’t have much luck tracking him down.”

Over a century. All those people. You don’t dare to admit the true extent of Corinthian’s cruelty. Dream would spare no mercy to his nightmare if he knew. And all these years—all those lonely, painful years—you’ve been stuck one step behind, unable to save those Corinthian has unjustly slaughtered. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was sending a message. One you couldn’t bare to examine closer.

You’ve failed to stop him. Somehow Corinthian keeps finding ways to stay ahead, and blood coats your hands as much as his.

Your nightmare. The initial realisation had torn you asunder. Corinthian had never been kind or gracious, had never expressed anything more than finely laced contempt for humanity but ripping eyes out? Exhibiting bodies as if he were decorating his surroundings? This wasn’t accidental or self-defence; it was deliberate cruelty. Blood savoured and shed with clear intent.

Once Corinthian had been a part of you as much as Dream, if not more so. The one who has been steadfast by your side. You and I, together. He’s the one you trusted the most and relied on the most. Who knew you, arguably, the best.

You were there to see him come into existence. Smiled at him and guiding his first steps, heard his name being spoken aloud for the first time. He was the first creation Dream ever shared with you. Corinthian would always be the first and most precious. He built a house inside you. A space no one could ever touch or destroy where you house your memories together.

And now he’s painting that house with the blood of innocents.

If you don’t uncover some way to locate the nightmare first, and soon, Dream will find him instead. There will be no mercy then, no second chances. Dream Lord has already taken everything from you once. You’re no longer scared to lose it again. Not if it’s for Corinthian.

“This is my fault. Had I been here, fulfilling my function—”

Dream’s voice rips you from your thoughts, leaving you squinting at his profile.

Lucienne frowns at once. “It was not your fault, my Lord.”

Dream closes the census, his words unusually subdued, “No? Then whose?”

“You didn’t ask to be captured.” Dream stills at your words, nudging his chin slightly in your direction. Guarded hope gazes back at you, so you continue, “Or be held captive for over a century. It wasn’t your fault.”

His shoulders droop slightly, then hoist upwards, less unburdened than moments prior.

Lucienne clears her throat.

“There is yet more news, Lord. There are rumours among the dream folk… of a vortex.”

You’ve heard rumours about vortexes in the past. Unprecedented phenomenon no one had an explanation for—not even Dream himself.

A mortal capable of lucid dreaming so powerful they could cross dreams of others, thin and bring down walls between Worlds and eventually destroy the Dreaming. The final part wasn’t particularly comforting to consider, especially when a vortex—the first of this age—has manifested in a young woman called Rose Walker.

While Dream is happy to allow Rose to be, for now, hoping it would attract his missing Major Arcana—Gault, Fiddler’s Green and the Corinthian—to her, you more than share in Lucienne’s concern about the current state of matters.

“Why would Gault sever Jed Walker from the Dreaming?”

Lucienne meets your question with a blunt answer, “He is no ordinary child, is he? He’s Rose Walker’s brother.”

Dream rests seated on the staircase, listening to your confab. You’ve been trying to discover Jed Walker’s whereabouts. Gault was the last nightmare to haunt Jed, after which he had all but vanished both from the waking world but, more unusually, the Dreaming as well.

Muffled footsteps sound behind you, then, “Excuse me. I’m Rose Walker. What do you know about my brother Jed?”

Your attention snaps towards a young, unfamiliar woman standing in the throne room. She leans on the shorter side with smooth, dark skin and round, pleasant features. Rainbow kisses her hair, colours loud and bold across each individual dreadlock. Delirium would love it is your first thought. Your second is that you love it just as much.

Lucienne, who stands beside you, appears utterly baffled by the newcomer's presence. Understandably so, aside from you, she’s likely never witnessed anyone simply stroll into the heart of Dreaming this way. Even you, more often than not, enter the Dreaming on the bridge or close by and enter the castle via the entrance.

Dream stretches to his feet, focusing on the young mortal woman.

“You are welcome here, Rose Walker,” he greets, his voice reverberating.

Rose, in return, looks just as confused as you all do. “Who are you?”

Lucienne straightens. “You have somehow dreamed your way into an audience with Lord Morpheus. The King of Dreams. And now you must go.”

“Lucienne,” Dream cautions.

A small, disgruntled sound leaves Lucienne. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Dream all but glides down the staircase, his curiosity about Rose’s presence piqued. “But I should like her to stay.”

Noting how mutely freaked out Rose appears, you venture closer, bridging the gap with placating slowness.

“I’m Wanderer,” you introduce yourself with a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.”

Rose relaxes slightly, but her confusion persists. “Nice to meet you, too. I think. What is this place?”

“It’s called the Dreaming,” you explain smoothly, taking another step closer. You gesture around yourself. “This is where you come when you fall asleep.”

Immediate hope ignites in her dark eyes. “Is my brother here?”

Your smile dims. “No, but we can help. I can help find Jed. In the waking world.”

Rose examines you for a tense beat, searching for something that goes beyond skin deep. They do it often, humans you offer your help to. In some vain hope they can see into your motives, perhaps. Ages have made the populace more chary and unwilling to trust strangers. After witnessing the horrors humanity is prone to unleashing on one another, you don’t blame her. Or anyone else.

“How does that work?” Rose poses. “I thought I was dreaming?”

A faint smile ghosts over your face. “I can travel between dimensions.”

Rose waits for the laugh, for the expected I’m joking, silly, but it doesn’t come. She ducks her head, processing. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense, I guess. It totally doesn't, but…”

Dream’s deep voice is a hook from behind you, “Much still needs to be done here, Wanderer.”

You don’t look his way.

“You’re the ruler of the realm, Lord Morpheus. Nothing here can’t be done without me.”

His following silence speaks volumes, him choosing to plan with Rose on how to locate her brother, even more so.

Dreaming walking is a rare and powerful ability. While realms and dimensions are your domain, dreams remain closed off to you. Therefore, the situation evolves swiftly into a waiting game, anticipating how quickly Rose will be able to navigate to her brother’s dreams under Dream’s guidance.

It also becomes a race on your end. Desperation drives you. Your task is singular and relatively simple: locate Corinthian first. There are spells, Johanna had informed you, leaning over a book written entirely in Latin, Hob by your side. Spells, she insists, that can cloak you, guide you, and locate things or people.

If only you offer something in return.

For the first time in a century, you have a sorcerer on your side you can trust. Once Gault is found, Dream’s attention will inevitably shift towards Corinthian and Fiddler’s Green.

So when you catch sight of the rippling, purple-blue form of Gault in the throne room one afternoon, it stops you dead in your tracks. You’ve spent the day working with Abel and Cain, ignoring their ceaseless arguments, only coming back to the castle to check in with Lucienne on your progress.

Dream brushes past the nightmare silently, heading towards his throne.

“Gault,” you choke out, quelling your unease. “It’s good to see you.”

It’s not contempt Gault regards you with, but something closer to disappointment.

“Is it, Wanderer?” she questions in a half-hiss. “You are more blind than I feared. You have returned to a man who cares not for others. Not even you.”

“Silence.”

The castle trembles at the foundation from the utter, horrible power that rings through Dream’s low baritone. Lucienne winces mutely.

But Gault is as audacious as you recall, stubbornly fierce in her drive. “Do you have any idea what his life is like in the waking world?”

Jed Walker. Your stomach sinks.

“Humans cannot live in dreams,” Dream bites out, nothing but a cutting velvet behind you. “As long as he stayed there, the child had no life nor hope for one.”

“The boy is being abused. He’s suffering.”

Pained understanding sinks its roots into you, already morphing your objectives. Once more, you’ve been selfish, focused only on Corinthian, when Jed Walker, a boy you promised to find, is being hurt somewhere.

“You abused that suffering to build a Dreaming you could rule,” Dream accuses quietly, his words brittle.

Is this what the nightmare did? Controlled Jed’s dreams, separated him from the Dreaming to what?

“I had no wish to rule,” Gault rebukes. “I merely wish to be a Dream and not a Nightmare. To inspire, rather than to frighten.”

Gault was helping. In Jed’s dreams, he could taste happiness, brief as it may be. She could make sure no nightmares haunted the boy. Spare him more misery and dread. Lucienne draws a deep, understanding breath, mutely arriving at the same conclusion.

“That choice is not yours to make,” Dream states icily. “We do not choose to be created. Nor do we choose how we are made.”

Your stomach cramps.

The nightmare nods; muted, swirling lights dancing beneath the shapechanger’s skin. “That is true. But we can change.”

“No.” The Endless speaks, and in that lone word, time is near undone. It is you in Gault’s place, hearing Dream banish you again. “We are, each of us, born with responsibilities. Even I am not free to choose to be other than I am. Nor is anyone.”

An invisible knife slips between your ribs, twisting.

“If that were true,” Gault challenges softly, unbowed. “Why did the other dreams and nightmares choose to leave this place when you had gone away?”

Lucienne cuts in before Dream can react, “Not all of us left, and nearly all have returned. Some believed even when no one else would.”

With the wilful reminder, the nightmare’s attention goes to you. Despite being far older, you feel small under Gault’s percipient gaze. She’s strong and proud and will not plead for clemency, but you almost wished she did. If only to ease the wrath brewing at your back.

“You say you love humanity, Wanderer,” Gault begins purposefully. “You are one of them, yet you choose to be here. Serve blindly to one who has treated you like nothing. You will not be any different than his other lovers. Discarded when he is finished with you. You may have returned out of love, but not others. They came back from fear. They saw what he did to you. What would he do to them? But I am no longer afraid.”

The silence is suffocating. Even Lucienne has frozen in shock at Gault’s bold declaration.

Love. Yes, maybe you did return for love. But it goes so much further than just Dream. It always has.

Your nape tingles. Something dark and insidious brushes past your ankles, a feline weaving between your limbs. Your eyes widen at Dream’s shadow slithering across the pale marble and towards the nightmare. The atmosphere crumples, pulsing, cooling. Each crevice of darkness seems to accentuate, growing in magnitude.

“You should be afraid.” Dream’s words are blacker than deepest night, colder than bleakest winter. “A nightmare’s purpose is to reveal the dreamer’s fears so they might face them.”

Your body half turns towards him. “Morpheus.”

“Perhaps a few thousand years in the darkness will reveal your fears,” he continues, stony.

Gault’s legs disintegrate before your eyes, devoured by Dream’s shadow. The Darkness; an endless prison crafted by an Endless being. “Dream.”

He pays you no heed. There’s no mercy, no softness to be found on his face, only something ancient and cold that cannot be reasoned with. You’ve seen this look once, tasted the poisonous cruelty he can inflict so effortlessly.

“Better that than to make others afraid,” Gault affirms shakily. Her torso goes next, ripping, flaking— “Even a nightmare can dream, my Lord.”

Your vocal cords hurt. “Dream, stop.”

And then Gault is gone. The shadow vanishes immediately, and the throne room instantly lightens. Lucienne hangs her head, hiding her unhappy expression. You gape, fixating on the spot Gault once stood.

“I have disappointed you.”

Those words are directed at you, but you say nothing.

This. This is what will happen to Corinthian if Dream uncovers him first. If you can’t convince Corinthian to come back, cease doing what he’s doing.

“Wait.”

It takes several moments for awareness to sink back in, to realise you’re stalking away, your muscles rigid beneath your skin.

Dream’s gait is unwavering behind you.

“For what?” you call back, strangled.

“I did what I must,” he says.

Who is he trying to convince? You or himself?

Your footsteps beat on the marble. Even your pace betrays your emotions, the bubbling agitation streaming through your veins.

Not considering consequences, you halt abruptly, posing a biting, “You mean being obtuse?”

You spin to face him just as your words sink in, watching those distant stars spark to life at once. Dream’s features harden.

“You dare—”

“Yes, I dare.” Each word escapes from behind clenched teeth. You close the distance between you in two strides. “I respect you, Dream. I’ve always respected what you are and what you do. I respect your purpose and your duty. How hard this responsibility is. I’m saying this not because of disrespect but because of that respect. Because you need to hear it.”

Your hand flies back towards the throne room, your index finger stabbing at empty air, “That was cruel. Gault only wanted to be something more, something better—to change.”

“Gault severed a child from the Dreaming,” Dream reminds coolly. “She broke my laws.”

“She did it to give that boy hope. An escape. No matter how brief.” You suck in a shaky breath, your fingernails biting into your palms. Your following words flow quieter, fragile, “Do you know how many times I wished for sleep? For dreams? To escape my misery, if only for a moment? You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.”

For the first time since his return, Dream’s features soften, his self-righteousness draining. His arms jerk at his sides, and then he settles again. You’re not sure why you foolishly hoped he would reach for you, pull you to him, and promise you would never again experience such pain.

“You said you changed, but what I just witnessed was the exact same man who banished me without hesitation.” As you verbalise your thoughts, another certitude becomes abundantly clear. “The same man who would do it again,” you add tightly, upset.

Dream catches your elbow, each finger folding delicately around your arm, drawing you nearer. “No. Never.”

“Oh, Dream. My Dream.” Your palm settles gently on his cheek, skin warming when connected with his. Something visibly crumples in him at the touch, the fondness in your hushed call, his eyelids fluttering. “I wish I believed that.”

You let him go, pulling away from his hold. He doesn’t impede you. You wish he did. You wish he held on so tightly you could forget everything else.

“Where are you going?”

His controlled question nips at your heels as you walk away.

“To the waking world,” you reply, pivoting on your heels. “I’m going to do the thing this damn curse has ever been good for: help people. And it begins with finding and saving Jed Walker.”

“Wanderer, stop—”

Your smile is grim. “I am not your subject. I wander where I please, Dream Lord.”

And then you’re gone.

The Library of Dreams is silent apart from rustling parchment. He can will things into being, but Morpheus discovers there’s little desire in him for an easy solution. Instead, he searches manually, walking through each bookshelf separately. It gives him time to mull matters over and search for reasons why things keep cracking. Just when things were starting to return to normal, this.

It was going so well. Now you’re gone once more. The weight sitting on his chest is intolerable. He has to move, occupy himself with something lest he goes mad.

You may have returned out of love, but not others.

Could it be? You came back, you searched, even after all he’s done. Hope—foolish and undoubtedly mislaid—kindles in his heart.

I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.

He could hope for nothing more, but it is not so simple. Or is it? Could it be? If you both fought for this, would any outside circumstances even matter? Morpheus could search for a way to undo the curse. There must be a way to do it without resulting in your death. Without shattering your destiny. Could he not write you a new future? One by his side?

Phantom heat lingers on his cheek.

“Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne’s nonplussed acknowledgement ushers him back to the present. She stands at the sight of him. “I was not expecting you here.”

“Continue with your duties, Lucienne. I do not require you at this time.”

The cool command, their own… disagreement, suffuses the air between them.

“As you wish.”

Did he lash out? After you disappeared, he can scarcely recall what words left his mouth. All he knows is how, at that moment, everything felt terribly out of touch. Unreachable to him. Never had he felt a century pass more acutely. Things once familiar and dear to him have altered shape in the time away. And Morpheus no longer knows how to hold them or care for them. He knows not how to exist in a world that seemingly no longer needs him.

What is his purpose if they have found ways to live without him?

His kingdom is bare bones. His subjects are distrusting.

And in the torrent of questions, he spies the subject of his search. Always coming to him in a time of need.

Morpheus heads towards a shelf to his right, picking up the thickest volume on the rack. Not many can challenge this book in size and density. He foresaw no less.

“My Lord, is that—”

“Yes.”

Lucienne loosens a shallow breath. “Are you quite certain?”

He holds the tome closer to him. “More than.”

You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.

You were right to say it. He’s been avoiding your book for a thousand years. At first, Morpheus did not care to dwell deeper. Later because he started fearing what he might learn from those pages.

Lucienne steeples her fingers, eyeing him over her round glasses. “Sir, I must warn you, what you will discover between those pages will not be kind.”

“That’s precisely why I must do it,” he admits softly, avoiding her shrewd appraisal. “So I may, at long last, understand.”

Morpheus doesn’t linger, stepping from one shadow into the next, appearing directly in his throne room. He journeys up the stairs one at a time, the thick tome tucked under his arm. There is a voice deep down that mocks his hesitancy. What has he to fear from bound pages? Yet another story when he is the king of them?

But it is no ordinary tale, belonging to no ordinary individual.

Oh, Dream. My Dream. I wish I believed that.

Even seated on his throne, Morpheus lets the velvety, black leather book rest in his lap for long, hesitant minutes. On the supple cover, engraved in bold, golden letters, sits not a name but instead a title.

The Wanderer

His thumb kisses delicately over the title, then again. Again. Again. Again.

Morpheus draws a muted breath, the sound all but lost in the raging cosmos, and cracks open the only book he’s stayed away from for over a thousand years.

an: Just the home stretch to go, eh?

Thank you, everyone. For being here and reading and just being absolutely wonderful, talented, and unfailingly kind. Look forward to hearing your thoughts : )

#the sandman #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #dream of the endless #the sandman netflix #sandman x reader #sandman fic #morpheus x fem!reader #dream x fem!reader #sandman netflix #sandman dream #sandman imagine #dream imagine #fanfiction #fic: today i bury you in me

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foli-vora · 1 year

Note

First of all

(I am sure I started following for the Dave/Marcus series)

With Javier Peña can I get F reader and

“If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” and “You’re so fucking cute.”

A medium amount of filth if possible

Ah my love! Thank you so much! You're such an amazing light in this fandom, and we love and appreciate you so much! Thank you for sending in a request! I don't know what happened but it got a bit out of hand and super soft and a bit angsty lmao, but I hope you still enjoy and the medium amount of filth still hits right! ❤️

before my eyes

javier pena x f!reader

word count: 3k warnings: idk i feel like this is a mess but i'm going with it, neighbour!javi, swearing, smoking, SOFTNESS, smidgen of angst, mention of injury/gunshot wounds/surgery, SMUT 18+ ONLY: oral sex (f), unprotected p in v

“Shit,” you curse, watching the box in your hands give way to the contents within.

The bottom gives out, your belongings spilling down the stairway, and you heave a sigh of impatience. Sweat slicks your skin, causing the flow of your dress to cling to you as you bend to try and find some semblance of organisation to the unexpected chaos thrust upon you.

“Let me help,” a voice says from the top of the stairs, and you turn to watch the newcomer jog softly down the steps and duck to gather some of your things.

“Thanks,” you murmur, heat washing under your cheeks, “this is just what I need.”

Of course the attractive man living in your building has to catch you in a moment of mayhem. Javier, as he had previously introduced himself the day before, gives you a small smile, the yellow tinted sunglasses covering his eyes sliding down the curved bridge of his nose.

“Not having the best day?”

“It could be better,” you reply dryly.

The plumbing in your apartment is weak at best, with a few leaks springing from the pipes beneath the sink in your kitchen and bathroom. Not to mention the shot to shit AC unit, leaving the humid Colombian air to fill every inch of every room.

“I could come and take a look,” Javier says, making a neat pile of books before sweeping them up into his arms and following you the rest of the way to your door. “I’m no plumber, but I could fiddle around with the pipes at least. I know a guy who could come out for the AC.”

“You don’t seem like the type of guy to have a tool set laying around,” you tease lightly, shifting the barely fixed box onto your hip to push open your door.

Javier grins, “You’re right—I don’t, but I have been taught a thing or two. I’m sure the Hillbilly’ll have something I could use. I can come tonight, if you want?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble—”

“You’re not—I offered.”

It may not have been any trouble for him to come over, but he certainly was trouble himself, you had quickly come to learn. The feelings he invokes in you is something you hadn’t quite felt before. He makes his desire obvious, unashamed with his light flirtations that never fail to bring butterflies flying right up your throat.

As a thank you for fixing your leaky pipes, you cook. Your first proper meal in your new apartment, and in wonderful company, too. Who'd have thought your new move would bring you here?

Dinner is filled with easy conversation, and he expertly dodges any and all questions relating to his work. You know that he works with Steve, your new neighbour Connie’s husband, and you know by her that Steve works for the DEA.

You don’t mention work again for the night. He stays longer than you had originally expected, content to share a glass of bourbon on your couch and listen to the soft music falling from your record player.

The evening ends with no more than a kiss to your cheek, dangerously close to the corner of your lips, and your heart thunders in your chest when he remains close enough to feel his breath wash over your lips.

For a second, you find yourself wanting, hoping that he’d close those last few centimetres and grace you with the feeling of his lips over yours…

… but no.

Instead, he turns, leaving with a dangerously charming, almost teasing, smile and a quiet goodnight.

Trouble, indeed.

Weeks pass before you see him again for more than a few seconds alone or without the company of Steve and Connie, striding into the building late at night and running an anxious hand through his hair. A tough day, you assume. He would have plenty with his line of work.

You make your presence known and smile softly at him, still clad in your party dress from a night out with new friends.

“Not having the best day?” You ask gently, leaning against the railing of the stairs as the effects of the alcohol in your system bring a hazy swirl to the edges of your vision.

He stops, playing with his keys between his fingers before giving a shrug, “It could be better.”

Your stomach tightens and flips with his low rasp. The attraction is undeniable, and you’d been questioned viciously by Connie in regards to the looks you and Javier would share, or the energy that would fill the room whenever you two were close. You’d had no answers at the time, putting it down to merely a simple crush that would pass soon.

Something in your mind said differently though, that this felt like more, deeper than a silly little crush that would fade away after a few months. You hope he shares the same sentiment, but with the choices and certain circumstances he would put himself in for his job and gathering intel, you started to doubt more and more that that would happen.

“Want me to help with that?”

It’s the remnants of various fruity cocktails bringing forth a small wave of flirty confidence. Usually you would never be so upfront, but you don’t find yourself regretting the words as soon as they pierce the air. You want it, with every inch of you.

He thinks it over for a long moment, his eyes dragging over your body with an obvious shine of desire and admiring your flattering choice of attire, but instead a slight curl pulls at the corners of his lips and your heart thuds harder and faster in your chest.

“Maybe another night, when you can actually remember me in the morning,” he teases deeply, smiling wider when you give a breathy chuckle. “You need help getting in?”

“No, I’ve got it. Goodnight, Javier.”

“Goodnight, corazón.”

That's new.

You struggle to get rid of the smile curling your lips, even long after you wave him goodbye and tuck yourself into bed. His voice lingers, images flash behind your lids as you try to sleep.

He drives you crazy.

He fills your thoughts every moment of the day—his face, his eyes, his smile. His voice would linger in your ears, the low rasp of it keeping your nerves electrified.

You look for him in the entryway coming home, you listen out for his comings and goings through your thin front door. Sometimes you even catch yourself having a little peek through your peephole when you hear him and Steve, watching as he runs a hand through his hair and ever so slightly looks towards your door before vanishing.

It’s one night you both happen to arrive home at the same time, the humidity of Colombia sticking to your skin but relieved with the breeze that blows through the streets. He lingers, seemingly happy to chat while you fiddle with the straps of your handbag.

“You want a drink?”

The question is a welcome surprise, and you merely nod in answer, unable to quite force the words out your mouth.

His apartment is… Javier. It’s minimal, no signs of being truly lived in with photographs and knick knacks like the ones that fill your walls and tables, but the air filling it is comfortable and cosy, the music that falls from his record player familiar and calming.

Conversation flows easily.

He’s tired, the bags hanging softly beneath his eyes showing that work has been extra hard on him the last few weeks. You love that he looks relaxed with you, sinking into his couch with his head leaning comfortably on the back as it rolls to face you.

He smiles at your ramblings, laughs quietly at your stories, the crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes hitting somewhere deep in your chest.

You don’t even realise you fall asleep until later in the night.

You wake only a few hours later, hazy and slightly confused by your surroundings, but instantly soften at the heavy breaths that fall into your ears. He’s asleep next to you, still cradling the half nursed glass of whiskey in his hands. His head rests just beside yours, his lips barely parted and breath washing past your face as you watch him for a long minute.

He needs rest. Carefully, you extract yourself from the couch and gently place your own glass on the coffee table before draping him in the coloured crochet blanket hanging just beside him and pressing a tender kiss of goodnight to his forehead.

It wakes him, his eyes half open when you pull away to leave and the sheer force of his gaze keeps you from moving away any further. He watches you quietly, his dark sleep filled eyes roaming your face before he leans up and catches your lips with his own and steals the breath from your lungs.

He moves slowly, hands roaming your legs and hips before cupping your ass and pulling you down until your knees sink into the cushions beside his hips. You settle in his lap easily, muscles loosening with each curl of his tongue along yours until you’re practically melting at his touch.

Everything feels right.

Every moment, every kiss, every touch… God, he knows what he’s doing. He devotes his energy to you, uncaring about meeting his own end and instead selfish with the time he spends on your body. He studies it all—what makes your breath hitch, what makes your legs shake, what makes your fingers tighten and tug at his hair.

You savour every sharp exhale and groan that falls from his lips. It's not long until you're spread out on his couch, watching with wide eyes as he tugs at your underwear and throws the soaked cotton over his shoulder with a lazy smirk that radiates trouble.

He loses himself between your thighs, dress haphazardly shoved up and out of the way so he’s free to devour you as he wishes, his tongue rolling and circling over your clit and diving into the weeping entrance of your cunt until you’re breathless and incoherent.

He brings you up and over the edge again and again, until you physically think you can’t possibly give him any more, only to have him force yet another out of your system with his low rumble sinking into your ears.

So good for me, look at you. Let me feel you, so fucking good. Give it to me, come on now, corazón—

You’re bent over the arm of the couch when he finally gets sick of the dress still clinging to your frame, fingers unforgiving as they wrench the dress up and off your body, freeing your skin to his hungry touch.

They roam at their leisure, cupping the soft swell of your tits and pinching your hardened nipples until you squirm against the solid feel of him pressed up against your ass.

He ruts into you without abandon, cock hitting just that bit too far and blessing you with the sharp twinge of pain alongside the blissful feel of him dragging against your walls and you're seeing stars, clinging to the cushions as a means to keep your head straight and not lose yourself to the overwhelming ecstasy threatening to have you passing out.

He cums with his lips on your neck, mouth hot and heavy against your sweat slicked skin as he pants into the curve on your shoulder, before pressing one simple final kiss there. He lingers, pressed tightly against you and crowding you into the firm arm of the couch as he softens within you, his cum trailing a slow, hot path down the inside of your thigh.

You curl into the reassuring hand to rub along your back as you sink shakily back to sit down. You smile shyly when he reappears with a warm cloth, lazily sliding it across your skin and softly cupping it against your tender cunt to calm the ache there.

It’s intimate, the sheer closeness of the action bringing your heart to beat at the base of your throat.

Surprisingly, he asks you to stay, and your heart doesn’t calm until exhaustion claims you after your head meets his pillow, the familiar scent of his cologne and the faint traces of cigarettes clinging to the soft cotton.

It’s a slow development.

The next time, he comes to you, knocking on your door in the middle of the night and you let him in without a word. You cuddle into the leftover warmth on your bed long after he leaves for his own apartment to head to work, the ghost of his lips moving over your body following you for the rest of the day.

The time after, it’s his place again, but this time, he cooks. It’s the first time it feels like something more than sex, but it goes unaddressed.

You talk and talk, you learn about his father, his life before Colombia. You admit to finding your life lacking, forever wishing for something more than the mundane ‘find a husband and settle down’ expectations struck upon you.

There’s something there, lingering behind the way you take each other apart.

It follows his touch, oozes from the kisses you pepper each other with. It feels nice, it feels so right. You feel comfortable in his bed, completely nude and not at all bothering to hide any part of you. It feels normal, natural even, when he lays beside you and throws out random topics of conversation with his lips around a cigarette, occasionally offering it to you and chuckling warmly when you’d attempt to inhale the harsh tobacco. You’re both unperturbed by the silence that would sometimes follow.

And that feeling never disappears, it only grows as the weeks go on.

You know you have strong feelings for him one morning when you feel him press a tender kiss of goodbye to your forehead while you’re still half asleep. It has your heart quickening, something soft and sweet and warm curling around your chest. You bathe in the glow of it.

But it would be addressed later—you’d hate to potentially ruin whatever you have building with him by speaking on your feelings too quickly.

And then, one fateful day, it happens. It all comes crashing down around you and for the first time, you worry you'll never be able to speak the words to him.

The steady beep of the machine is somewhat comforting in the chill of the room. You barely notice it, too consumed with watching the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the light blanket covering his body. Steady, they had said, after the surgery they had rushed him into.

It hadn’t been expected, the phone call during the morning of another seemingly normal work day. Steve had sounded nervous, a first for your neighbour. He hadn’t been able to give you all the details, all you knew was that it was bad.

Shot. A bullet in his side and one in his chest.

You had flown to the hospital, rushed in with his name falling in rushed pleas and they had shown you to the waiting room to await a doctor for more information. Steve was there, Connie, too. She had doted on you, guided you to a close seat and ordered her husband to get you a drink, a snack, anything.

Hours went by, and soon a man appeared, kindly reassuring you he had made it through with minimal issues, and was now in recovery. You were beside him within an hour.

He was warm to the touch, his pulse thrumming softly under your fingers as you had gently cradled his hand. He had remained motionless at the tender kiss you had pressed to his forehead, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he remained in the bliss of a hopefully painless sleep.

And you hadn’t moved since. Steve had left after some gentle pressing from Connie, and you had reassured him you’d call the moment he awoke. He had gripped Javi’s fingers softly, giving him one final look of worry, before turning and leaving under the arm of his wife.

Nurses come and go, checking his IV and doing their routine of observations, never worrying about their findings and erasing any of your lingering fear with a warm smile. They bring you coffee as the day bleeds into night, keeping you fed with cold hospital sandwiches and the occasional packet of sweet biscuits.

You just want him to wake.

It’s normal, they say. Just give him time.

“Javi,” you murmur softly, leaning forward to brush his hair back for the thousandth time, “I know you need some time to get your strength back, and that’s fine, but just so you know—if you don’t wake up, and you die? I will kill you.”

As you expected, he stays silent, but you still smile, lingering to brush your fingers down his cheek softly before settling back in your seat. Your hands wrap around the arm resting in front of you, and you rest to press your cheek on his warm skin, content to watch him sleeping and losing yourself to dreams sometime into the night, too.

It’s a slight pressure on your temple that gently pries you out of dreamy darkness. It moves, sliding along your skin softly before disappearing and returning to where you’d first felt it. Fingers, you realise hazily, recognising the feel of someone stroking your face.

Your eyes flutter open, immediately to be met with a pair of tired dark eyes seemingly content in watching you. Javi.

Startled, you sit up and reach to call for the nurse, only to stop at the raspy voice that tells you to calm down.

“They already know,” Javi says quietly, throat dry and raw. “They just didn’t want to wake you.”

You turn for the jug of water and pour some into the little plastic cup, carefully plucking the straw from the table and holding it at his lips. He drinks slowly, humming from the relief of the cool liquid filling his mouth.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” he replies dryly, lips twitching at the corners.

“Idiot,” you snark around a grin, returning the cup to the table and linking your fingers through his. “No, really, how are you?”

He sighs, head rolling on the pillow so he can look at you better, “I’m doing okay, corazón.”

You nod, tongue running along your lips as you take reassurance from his words. He’s okay.

You tighten your fingers through his and take a small breath to calm the anxiety in your system, unaware you’re crying until you hear him breathe your name. You mumble an apology, almost embarrassed by the stream of tears, but it’s soon muffled by his hospital gown as he gently pulls you to him.

Carefully, you rest your head on one side of his chest, mindful of the thick bandaging on the other and warm at the arms that come to rest over your back.

Admitting feelings can wait. For now, you’re content to just rest in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

“You know,” Javi murmurs against the top of your head, “you’re really fucking cute when you snore.”

“I do not snore!”

Yeah this was a mess but I'm into it nonetheless lmao.

I haven't updated my taglists yet soz x

taglist 1: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld

#foli's 3k #javier pena x reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x you #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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