#personally obsessed with this concept

[medievalwife]

pretty little liars x yellowjackets au 💋🥩

in which the liars begin receiving mysterious messages, seemingly from alison dilaurentis. the only problem? they cannibalized her in the wilderness 25 years ago…

[qiinamii]

crown swap

[hijackalx]

i feel like we as a fandom sleep on the fact that a majority of bg3 is a bunch of city people and foreigners being thrown into an unfamiliar environment and having to live there/navigate it for like a month LMAO

long treks through rain, wind, heavy sun

biting bugs

baths in freezing cold creek water

boots getting stuck in the mud

someone waking up with a snake in their tent

failed attempts at learning to hunt or locate food and everyone getting hangry

accidentally eating poisonous plants

slipping/tripping/falling over various terrains

walking through spider webs

being sticky and sweaty from the humidity

aching backs and feet

taking a wrong turn and getting lost

scary animal noises in the middle of the night

everyone smelling like mildew, B.O, and dirt (a.k.a ten cans of BOUNCE THAT ASS)

i just feel like there’s some potential here

[draconic-desire]

A Dance With the Dragon II — Mates

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I] [Part II — You are here] [Part III] [Part IV]

Neuvillette brings you to your new “home”, which also comes with new challenges.

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, forced imprisonment, Neuvillette accidentally goes a little feral here, brief non-con at the end

One of the first things Neuvillette did was move you from the apartment at the Palais Mermonia (your prison for the past four centuries) to his personal residence. Securing his palms to your waist, he teleported you directly into the foyer of the massive home.

The interior was splashed with blues and whites that matched the Chief Justice’s own color palette. The upper walls were decorated with friezes depicting various marine creatures, from floating otters (how ironic) to bobbing seahorses. A grand spiral staircase led to the upper floor, while a set of double French doors connected the foyer to a massive living room adorned with plush love seats and armchairs, tasteful artwork of Fontainian landscapes, and enormous windows that overlooked the sea. It appeared the house was set into a cliffside, with the waves battering the rocks far beneath you.

You paced into the living room, running your hand along the blue silk couch cushions. To your left, a door led out to what appeared to be an inclosed courtyard with a miniature fountain. To the right was a closed door, a familiar dragon carved into its exterior. Your arm burned in resonance.

Though you were loathe to admit it, the place was beautiful.

“Do you like it?”

Shifting your gaze to him, it was clear that Neuvillette was desperate for your approval. Ever since he let you outside to discover the true length of your imprisonment, you had rarely spoken a word to him. Clearly, your silence had done a number on him, as the normally composed man was fidgeting nervously.

When you kept quiet, Neuvillette cleared his throat. “I admit, part of why things took so long was due to my insistence that everything be perfect for your arrival. I rearranged our bedroom perhaps a dozen times, and I couldn’t for the life of me decide what your personal room should entail.” When you glanced out towards the fountain, he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, that was a…sentimental addition. It makes me think of how we met.”

You’d never forget that Archons-damned fountain. If only you hadn’t been so naive. Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, go away.

Neuvillette extended his palm towards you in what appeared to be both a peace offering and an order. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Suddenly your feet appeared very interesting. What were you supposed to say? This technically was your home now, like it or not. You’d become painstakingly familiar with it with time. Although you weren’t imprisoned within the Palais as before, your new life still promised shackles nonetheless.

“Could you just show me my personal room?” You sighed. “I’d prefer to just rest after that.”

Neuvillette smiled softly, relishing the sound of your voice. “Of course.”

Twisting his fingers through your own, he led you towards the dragon door. Once again, your hidden tattoo pulsed with energy. It felt like a pull forward, a welcoming embrace. You realized then that there must be some sort of warding spell on this room, likely meaning only you and your captor could enter.

Marvelous.

Pushing the door open, Neuvillette swept his arm gracefully through the entrance. “After you, my love.”

You stepped in and immediately went still.

For in every direction around you was rows upon shelves upon stories of books.

Neuvillette had build you your own personal library.

And not just that. You noticed that entire sections pertained to your personal interests—marine biology, photography, even your personal favorite genres of novels. A separate door labeled Dark Room promised an avenue for you to pick up photography again. Similar couches and chairs as the living room were arranged around a huge coffee table, and a cracking hearth added to the cozy atmosphere.

Your throat bobbed. You had always dreamed of owning a room like this, a place where all your passions converged. But to have it under these circumstances…you didn’t know how to react, torn between frustration and a grateful little voice in the back of your head that you buried at once. No, I didn’t earn this. I don’t want this. It was forced on me.

All you could choke out was, “This is…mine?”

“Down to the last book.” You could hear the pride in his voice. “I spent the most time on this room. Over a century to get it right.”

You startled. A century? Your heart stumbled, but your hands fisted by your sides. So much given, yet what had it cost you?

Shaking your head, you simply said, “I’d like to be alone.” Connecting your eyes with his, you could see his hurt, the expectation of a grand reaction on your part that you refused to indulge.

However, the look was quickly wiped from his face, for he must have seen something broken in your facade. A muscle in his jaw feathered as he approached you, a gloved hand stroking your cheek. “I understand you must be overwhelmed. I’ll leave you to explore,” Neuvillette said, placing a kiss on your forehead before heading for the exit.

“Neuvillette?”

Said man turned back towards you, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Why me?” You grabbed your arm where the shadow of your draconic tattoo hid. “Why…all this?”

His gaze immediately softened. “My dear, we have centuries for me to show you.”

~*~

It was times when Neuvillette was vulnerable that it was hardest to hate him.

He had returned home after a long day at court to find you sitting in the courtyard on the edge of the fountain, peering up at the night sky as if the stars held some answers. Moonlight bathed you in an ethereal glow, and if he didn’t already think you a goddess, he would have pledged himself to you then and there.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, too involved in your own thoughts. True to his word, Neuvillette had given you time and space to enjoy your new (cage) home. You had to admit, it was a major upgrade from the Palais, and you knew the Iudex would continue to let you explore Fontaine, if you tolerated his presence beside you. However, you knew this dance wouldn’t last—it was only a matter of time before Neuvillette expected something in return. It was abundantly clear that he desired your affections, but how far would he go in order to sway you? To fully make you his?

A sea breeze whipped around you, eliciting an involuntary shiver to rip up your spine.

A sudden warmth enveloping your form brought you back to reality. Blinking in surprise, you peered up to see the Chief Justice smiling softly at you, his purple irises sparking with longing and care. His elaborate attire was gone, leaving only his pale undershirt.

He’d given you this coat.

“I…thank you,” you mumbled, averting your eyes from the man.

“Do my ears deceive me? Did my dear (Y/n) actually acknowledge me?”

Your grip on his robes tightened. “Don’t mistake my words for kindness. I haven’t forgotten what you are.”

A sigh. “Despite what you may believe, I’m not a monster.”

You deadpanned. “You’re quite literally the Hydro dragon.”

“Archons above,” Neuvillette whispered, glancing up at the sky as if it held the key to winning your heart. “I was referring to a monster in the definition you humans use.”

“What? You mean like a man who would kidnap and imprison an innocent person—”

“Considering you are not in the Fortress of Meropide, I’d hardly consider this imprisonment.”

“What, have I offended you?” A scoff left escaped you. “If you want to play house, at least own up to your actions. Don’t pretend you’re some sort of gentleman.”

Neuvillette was silent for a beat, his mouth a thin line. Unexpectedly, his muscles relaxed as he released his tension. He lowered his large frame, taking a seat next to you. “You’re right.”

You sketched a brow in surprise.

Neuvillette trained his eyes on his palms, facing upwards in his lap. “I understand neither what it means to be human, nor what it means to be a god. I was given this duty to protect and uphold the laws of Fontaine, and yet I cannot save those who need it most.” His fingers formed fists, and his lids closed solemnly. “Carole, Vautrin…all of the others I have failed…”

You worried your lower lip. Although he had already informed you of his friends’ fate in your absence, it was still a raw wound for the both of you. Yet the anguish in Neuvillette’s eyes twisted your heart. How could a man be so duplicitous, so capable of both justice and blind obsession?

As if sensing your conflict, Neuvillette gently took your face in his hands, tilting your chin so that your eyes locked once again. His eyes danced with silver sparks of emotion, like cracks of lighting across a dark sea. A thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“So if I can protect but one thing, one person, I will do it.”

~.~

You often noticed that Neuvillette’s horns got stuck in his robes.

Honestly, it was kind of humorous. In the beginning, watching him struggle gave you a sick sense of satisfaction. You’d take any circumstance that inconvenienced him, however petty that might be.

But today, seeing the Chief Justice pouring over a case regarding the protection of Fontaine’s sea life at an ungodly hour, head propped on a fist to keep him awake, you couldn’t help but feel sympathetic when he emitted a low hiss as his horns tangled into the ornamentation of his attire once again. “Damned human attire,” he cursed.

Neuvillette wasn’t an inherently bad man. In fact, your own case aside, he had invoked significant and positive change in Fontaine’s legal system. He judged cases fairly and prudently, working himself ragged each day to ensure the nation’s safety. It would have been admirable to you in any other circumstance.

You didn’t know what possessed you when you stepped behind him and carefully untangled his twin blue horns.

At your touch, Neuvillette immediately froze. His heart rate skyrocketed and his mind went blank because you were touching him.

And not just anywhere, but his horns. Unbeknownst to you, a dragon’s horns were the most sensitive part of its body, only to be handled by itself or its mate. One brush was akin to a lovers embrace, the whisper of a kiss, the hot breath shared between partners in the thralls of passion. Not only was the touch intensely intimate, it was also an acknowledgement—an acceptance of the male’s advances onto his partner.

Oh, if only you knew how many times he had fantasized about this, your acknowledgement of him and his love for you. Although his rational, human side knew your touch as unintentional, the dragon within Neuvillette reared and roared against his skin, demanding to be set free upon its mate.

“Your horns were caught,” was all you said as you settled back into the sofa, flipping to the marked page of your novel.

If you had looked up, you would have witnessed the Iudex gently touching his horns in awe. He swore he could still feel the brush of your palm against him, shivering delightfully at the mere memory of your touch.

Little did you know that your simple act of kindness would unleash the storm.

~*~

The one unfortunate deviation of your current accommodations from the Palais Mermonia was Neuvillette’s unyielding insistence on sharing a bed.

You had foolishly thought escaping him, even if just within the confines of your shared home, would be simple. You believed the library, what he even referred to as your room, would be your bedroom as well. Despite the lack of an actual bed, the plush couches and ever-lit fire provided more than enough comfort to lull you to sleep.

But when you had opened your eyes, you were mere inches away from Neuvillette’s shirtless, sleeping form.

You had assumed it was due to the draconic symbol guarding the room; perhaps it linked you to him more than you had thought. So, the next night, you decided to sleep in the parlor instead.

Only for your hopes to be shattered the next morning when you awoke not only in bed with your captor, but with your limbs entwined.

Anger, shame, and a touch of something you couldn’t quite place—something not entirely unpleasant—flooded you as you tore yourself out of his embrace. How was he doing this? Was it magic, or would he physically carry you to bed each night?

This pattern repeated itself. You would pick various places around the huge house to retire for the night. However, you would wake up in bed next to Neuvillette each morning without fail.

You had even reverted to your previous stubbornness and slept on the ground a few nights, but to no avail. It seemed you were bound to his bed.

Tonight, you decided to face the issue head-on. You stormed up the stairway and into the spacious bedroom, ignoring the pain in your lower back due to all the errant surfaces you had tried to sleep on. The downy pillows and lush, cream comforter practically begged you to surrender to the king-sized bed and its occupant.

Instead, you halted at the foot of the bed and crossed your arms. “You have to stop this.”

Neuvillette immediately looked up from the tome in his lap, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He hadn’t yet changed out of his white dress shirt, and the buttons revealed a hint of his toned chest as he set the book down. “And what exactly are you demanding I stop?”

You huffed a laugh. “I wish I could say all of this,” you waved your hands around, as if that would convey the entirety of the situation, “but I mean putting me in your bed each morning.”

“Our bed,” he corrected, as if that were the issue.

“No, your bed. Are you really telling me that with all this space, you can’t just let me sleep alone?”

He removed his glasses with a sigh, setting them on the nightstand. “I could, but I don’t want to.”

You seethed. “Well, I do.”

Neuvillette’s violet gaze pinned you with something like hurt. “Have I truly done something to upset you? It seemed as if you were settling into our new home quite nicely. Our conversation and touches were…” His throat bobbed. “Pleasant.”

You narrowed your eyes and bit out, “Don’t take any of that as complacency. You’re still a monster.”

Neuvillette flinched in response and, for just a moment, you felt a piece your heart falter. That is, until he whispered, “Mates don’t sleep apart.”

The room went utterly still.

Your voice came out as a breath of air, but the words were clear: “I am not your mate.”

It was then that you noticed the claws emerging from his fingertips, piercing into the sheets under his form. His eyes flashed silver, dangerous as knives. You could have sworn you saw a pair of elongated canines as he grit his teeth. “You have no idea how difficult it has been,” he breathed, voice tight, desperate.

On instinct, you took a pace back. You suddenly felt like a cornered animal, unable to avert your gaze from those claws that looked ready to tear into you. Clearly you had misjudged the situation—the Hydro Dragon was a starved, deadly predator, and you were practically served on a silver platter as its next meal.

Icy panic raced through your veins. You’ve never seen him like this, so out of control and inhuman. Trying to mediate the situation, you put your hands up in surrender. “Neuvillette, listen to me. Just calm down.”

You had hoped that saying his name would do just that, but it seemed to only rile him up further. The Chief Justice of Fontaine actually growled in response. You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a plea. “You deny your mate, and now you’re telling me to simply calm down?”

Another step back. Just put out the fire and deal with the consequences later. “I apologize for being confrontational. I think it’s best if I just go—”

Before you could react, Neuvillette pounced forward and grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you onto the bed. You released a cry and tried to scramble away, but he spun you around and pinned your back against the mattress with his muscular frame. He loomed above you on all fours, his hands gripping your arms and applying just enough pressure to hold you still without hurting you. The glint in his eyes, however, promised pain that was yet to come. You were the prey about to get its throat torn out.

“Wh-what are you doing?” You struggled, heart skyrocketing at the feel of his arousal pressing against your core.

"Something I’ve needed to do for four hundred years," he growled huskily, his breath fanning your lips moments before they slammed against yours.

The kiss was hungry, predatory. Obsessive. You could feel the release of each year, each century, as his mouth devoured yours. You arched your back in an attempt to get away, but Neuvillette was quicker. He lifted your form easily and slammed your back against the bed once again. At your gasp of shock, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You fumbled around for something, anything that you could take purchase of. Your arms were pinned, but you were just barely able to grab onto the first thing and tug: his horns.

Neuvillette moaned, a deep, throaty sound that sent heat flooding through you.

It was in that moment you realized your mistake. You recalled how some marine animals with horns had millions of nerves within them, making these appendages a source of sensory stimulation. When you had started adjusting his horns after they were getting stuck, it must have been like touching his—

Oh, fuck.

Neuvillette released you arms, grinding against your thigh. “Do that again,” he begged, though it came out as more of a growled order.

“Neuvillette, stop—” An involuntary whine escaped your lips.

Your lewd noises only instigated him. His movements became more erratic as he slid a clawed hand up your leg and to your core, which was protected by only a nightgown. You jerked as his finger pinched your clit, eliciting another whine.

Neuvillette’s eyes sparked with heat, dual purple flames that devoured your form. “That’s it, my dear. Let me take care of you.” He bit down on your neck, causing you to cry out. He was marking you before he took you fully.

“Tonight, you become more than my wife. You become my mate.”

~*~

You laid there limply in Neuvillette’s arms. He peppered you with kisses and whispered words of protecting you and lofty dreams of your future together, but it fell on deaf ears. None of it made you forget about the bites along your neck or your throbbing core.

You couldn’t believe you had let his kindness fool you for even a second.

You had to escape this prison.

[yourmoonie]

GET THEM OBSESSED WITH YOU

My energy is magnetic

I am irresistible irreplaceable and unforgettable. My energy and personality are addicting. It's a privilege to experience my presence.

I am on the highest pedestal. They worship the ground I walk on because I am a Goddess. I always get treated like a royalty because I am a QUEEN.

I have the body, the appearance, the brains, and everything. I am ME, and that's my superpower.

I am so seductive. They can never get enough of me. They are always craving my love and validation. I am their source of inspiration and motivation.

I shine brighter than the world's shinest gemstones. My presence lights up any room I enter to.

I am worthy of all the success, love, and abundance that this universe has to offer.

I believe in myself because I am capable of achieving anything I set my mind to. My positive energy radiates outwards, inspiring others and becoming a magnet for endless blessings into my life.

I AM UNSTOPPABLE AND THE WORLD IS UNDER MY FEET.

[penn-dragon]

I think Zoro should get mind-controlled more often it's a good look for him

[daily-hanamura]

[cuubism]

Like the Foxglove to the Hummingbird

Dreamling, E rated, Fertility Rituals, Sex Magic, Canon-verse, Soulmates-of-sorts Theirs was a long love affair, Hob and the concept of dreaming.

--

Children were born dreamers. Naturals at seeing what could be instead of what was, at touching the innate fantasy and magic of the world, finding it and building it in their play and in their stories. They lost the knack for it as they aged, as the harsh realities and responsibilities of the world intruded—but in their youths, they were looking towards the sky.

Not Hob Gadling.

Hob never had the knack for it. He saw too much, too young: neighbor boys cut down by swords, and just-born babes starving in the winter cold, and good people who tried to help the sick struck down by the same plague. Family, friends, whole villages. Muck was what it was, muck it would stay, and no use harping on dreams when one had to survive.

But survive Hob did, when so many others did not. Hob hit adulthood, and the world still lay before him in all its wasted glory. Hob did not know hope, had no acquaintance with some high fantasy life somewhere far away from here. But Hob did know good ale, good friends, the warmth of a fireplace on a cold night; the rush of stepping off a battlefield with all his limbs intact, and the sweet moans of a lass as he plumbed her secret places for the first time. Hob knew the turning of the sun, and the gentle nicker of a horse that had given him its trust— and heaven might have been a crap shot, Hell not even worth thinking of, but there were dreams down there in the muck, if one was willing to trust in life. 

Hob believed not in progress or a better world, or a grand arc of history that bent toward justice. He only believed that there would be a tomorrow, and that something there would be worth sticking around for. 

Hob Gadling was not born a dreamer, but he chose to become one. And later, Hob would think that someone out there must have had a sense of humor—for they saw fit to send this scrappy, self-made dreamer, of all people, an actual dream.

—

The creature that stopped before Hob could have stepped out of a dream. Only later would Hob know how right he had been in that thought. For now, all he knew was that the most ethereal thing was standing over him, querying him, challenging him. And Hob was inclined to meet that challenge, to push onwards, he always was.

Besides, his dream creature was so pretty. And he looked at Hob with such fixation. Like Hob had plucked some string within him he hadn’t known was there, and he was trying to pick out the notes of that song.

Hob was challenged to return, to meet him again. And he would. Hob wanted to meet him again. To touch this being that had come down off its cloud. He felt like he was meant to.

In truth, he wanted to have him now. To lure this strange creature who was challenging him not to die out behind the tavern and— no, that certainly wasn’t good enough for this dream of a thing, he would have to find a proper room, he would want to do this properly.

Hob would make him feel so good if only he wanted. It struck him like a blow, that wanting. A peek at something he wasn’t yet meant to touch.

But he could be patient. Hob wasn’t often patient, but he could be, for this. He would meet this stranger again, and find out why. Get a proper look at what he had only glimpsed.

He told his dream creature as much. Grinned at the self-satisfied smile that was returned to him. His strange creature might not believe him, that he would come back, that he wouldn’t give up. But Hob had made his choice long before they had met, and wasn’t inclined to change it.

—

That night Hob’s dreams were a swirl of hands and skin and wet kisses. Of his stranger’s dark hair and sharp eyes, teeth set to his inner thighs, the tang of his spend in Hob’s mouth. The contortion of his stranger’s body under his, and his long fingers, and his soft moans. Pain and pleasure. Taking and being taken. The hook of joined bodies.

Hob disrobed a thin frame and unveiled a marvel, wrapped his arms around a narrow waist and kissed soft hair, murmured words he wouldn’t remember, had his stranger in the room above the tavern, in his seat at the table, in a great bed he couldn’t identify, held him, ravished him, again and again, wet lips, aching thighs, his stranger’s cries dragged from deep within him.

Hob woke feeling ruined. If that was what dreaming was like, well. Maybe he would keep to it.

—

Choice being made, dreaming came naturally to Hob after that—in his own fashion. He was no writer, no artist, though he did come to enjoy stories. He was no particular believer in divinity or magic. And Hob did not dwell on fantasies or powers beyond what was attainable to him in this life—a way out of soldiering for a living, a proper trade, then simple riches and social stability, and finally a family to call his own again. No use dwelling on the unreal, when there was such to be had here, if only one persisted long enough.

(Only occasionally did Hob mull on the unreal. The unreal of his stranger. Only when his life brushed up against his stranger’s did Hob’s dreams spiral out briefly into the cosmos, for something about his stranger inferred the fantastical, the unnatural, the darkest darks and lightest lights reachable or unreachable to the human mind. He thought that his stranger had seen things on this earth that would be unimaginable to a man like him who had spent all his life in one certain corner of the world. They were discovering new corners every day, and his stranger had been to all of them, Hob thought. Had touched every fantastical creature spoken of in stories, dragons and unicorns and great beasts under the sea. If the moon was travel-able, he had been there, too.

But this was a flight of fancy, a little story; Hob had no ambitions, no hopes, of touching any such things himself—strange enough already, for his life to touch his stranger’s.)

And when their paths parted again, diverging along the counterpointed sound waves of their lives to intersect again only a century hence, said fancies faded again to the background and Hob’s dreams returned to their mundane heights.

— 

The first time Hob actually longed for his stranger, his dream, longed rather than just wanted him, was in the mid-1600s. Broken, filthy, lying in a gutter somewhere starving, he would think of his mysterious stranger swooping in to rescue him. Materializing from the very shadows Hob languished in, sweeping his imperial coat from his shoulders and draping it over Hob’s rags. Coming to him as some awesome beast, a great black unicorn, perhaps, for their touch was said to heal—and resting the tip of his horn on Hob’s head like a strange knighting, banishing the many bruises from his skin. Appearing, even, as the night itself, and softening the sharp edges of the darkness. Whisking him away, maybe, to some faraway land. Just for a little while.

Hob’s hallucinations brought him to many strange places. Made him long for a touch he had never felt.

Looking back on this later, from a time when he knew who his dream truly was, Hob would wonder if it wasn't the ability to dream itself that he had truly been missing. He never gave up on life, but dreams felt distant from him then, even the modest ones he had been accustomed to. And Hob’s chosen love affair with dreaming had been long by now, and he missed the press of it along his side like a lover’s warm body, a bed gone cold.

It was only when he saw his dream again that he touched it once again—the presence of dreams. It was so easy, then, when his dream asked if he wished to live.

—

A century later, Hob’s longing somehow brought him here—a borrowed bed in a particular inn, his borrowed stranger bobbing between his legs. His fine fingers wrapped around Hob’s thighs, his fine lips around his cock, swallowing him down like ambrosia. Hob couldn’t quite replay the steps that had gotten him here in this state, but he knew he was on borrowed time, that he would soon have to give his stranger back to whatever unfathomable business he came from—so he decided not to overthink it and just let the dream of it all wrap around him. A memory to carry until next time, a brilliant fantasy brought to earth.

He spilled in his stranger’s mouth, half-delirious with the heat of it and the shift of his throat as he swallowed, and scrabbled blindly for his stranger’s arms, drawing him up into a mashing kiss before he’d even had a chance to wipe his mouth.

His dear stranger whined into his mouth, composure broken, and Hob only hoped he knew that this was a sacred space, that nothing would leave these walls, that Hob knew how dearly he held his armor and wouldn’t take it away from him—that he felt blessed to touch such a thing at all—

“Hob,” breathed his stranger, voice all cracked stone, and Hob wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, held him close, slipped his other hand between them to take him in hand.

“Shh,” he hushed, stroking him in quick twisting motions, not meaning to leave him in suspense any longer. “I have you, s’alright.”

“I would have been fine without your intervention,” panted his stranger, face pressed to Hob’s throat now as he squirmed so beautifully in Hob’s grasp. “I would have—”

“Oh, don’t I know it, dearling,” Hob consoled. “I’m sure you could have wiped the whole inn off the map if you wanted, hm?”

“Yes. I—” He let out a strangled sort of whimper, muffled into Hob’s neck, as Hob twisted his hand just so. And when Hob finally made him come, he stumbled over the edge of it with a surprised sound, like Hob had caught him off guard, and pressed his face even further into Hob’s neck, fingers grasping restlessly at Hob’s sides.

Hob soothed him through it. “Shh, sweet thing.”

His stranger grumbled against his skin. “You need not placate me so.”

“Want to, though. So pretty, you are, it makes a man say terrible things.” Dangerous things.

“Hmm.” His stranger subsided, and they lay there for a time, loosely entwined. Finally, he said, “I cannot stay long.”

Hob couldn’t hide the disappointed note in his reply. “I figured as much.”

“My responsibilities are great,” said his stranger.

Hob wondered what those responsibilities might be. He still didn’t know who his stranger was. He hadn’t even gotten a name.

“I know,” he said, voice tight.

Not long after that, his stranger was gone again, though for the first time, he seemed genuinely reluctant to leave.

Hob held the memory of that night close in the coming years. He didn’t know exactly what it meant yet, him and his stranger, his dream, but he knew it was something more than a casual tangle of bodies. He knew their paths had collided for a reason, even if that reason was only that it gave them both comfort, something to cling to.

He came back to that night again and again, mulled on the memory of his stranger in the years before they met again. Perhaps, when that day came, Hob would find a way to express even a small fraction of what he thought they could be to each other.

That day did come, and Hob said so. Gave his stranger a small window into his feelings since their union—since they had met, really. Called him friend, called him dear one, expressed how he wanted to care for him.

These sentiments were not taken well by the strange creature Hob had bedded. He recoiled from the name friend, from Hob’s insinuation that there might be anything real there, something more than fleeting. He fled from it, nearly in tears, leaving Hob bereft and wondering what he was supposed to do when his heart was increasingly captured by a being that did not want him back, did not want even to hear of it.

Hob was hardly going to ask for his hand in marriage. He wouldn’t even ask him to stay. All he wanted was the slightest acknowledgement that there was anything there between them.

But how dare he, to ask him to say that it meant something. 

—

Many stopped dreaming in the 20th century, but not Hob. Later he would learn it was because of Dream’s absence, this collective loss in the ability to dream. But Hob kept dreaming, because his dreams were never tied to sleep anyway—always to the real world, the one he properly lived in. Nor were his dreams tied to his stranger, not truly, for all that he usually left their meetings feeling a bizarre mix of devastating loss and unique excitement for the years ahead. 

When his stranger walked out at their last meeting, all he felt was the devastating loss. It lodged in his chest and kept him company through the years, like a bullet that had stuck in him and couldn’t be carved out. But he didn’t stop dreaming, of his stranger’s return that he so fervently hoped for, of new inventions across the century whose stories he could share, of the end of each war, of change, always so invigorating to watch happen around him. Hob was still dreaming, pain didn’t stop it, hadn’t since that terrifying period three hundred years ago, and even if his stranger never returned—he wouldn’t give it up.

He might nurse the wound forever like a longing widower, but he wouldn’t give up.

And Hob would be glad he didn’t, for, cliche as it felt, not giving up on his dreams got him his dream back.

—

“I missed you,” Hob said, not for the first time, on the night his dream returned. He’d managed to lure his just-returned friend, his Dream, he now knew, upstairs with him, despite their parting, and now had Dream lying across the couch with his head in Hob’s lap. So much more than he’d thought he would be allowed, this tenderness. But Dream had explained, somewhat reluctantly, that he was tired, that his realm was tired, desolate, damaged—and perhaps that was all this was. Seeking sanctuary, rest, nourishment.

“I am missing you more the longer I lie here,” Dream said, his low voice a purr against Hob’s thighs. “It seems that. My time away was… illustrative of more than one misstep.”

“Oh?” That unexpected admission lodged itself in Hob’s heart, piercing right between his ribs. To think that such a thing as Dream might want him back…

“Stay, then,” he said, and ran a hand through Dream’s feathersoft hair. “And get tangled up. If you want to.”

“And miss this more when I must go?”

“And come back,” Hob said. “Yeah.”

Dream let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world in it. “Very well. I will come back, then.”

And Hob drew a blanket over him, and kept petting his hair, offering what comfort he could as his heart leapt and sang.

—

Hob no longer quite knew what dreaming was, because every day merged the real and imaginary. His stranger, his Dream, once only in the stories in the back of his head, walked beside him now. Drank tea in his kitchen and shared his bed. And in his dreams, too, they walked, through strange vistas and sentimental places. It was the culmination of a long, twining pathway, the both of theirs, where Hob stepped through the Dreaming like a second home he had always known he was meant to walk. Met Dream, daily, at that turnstile between sleeping and waking, where things blurred and slid and he felt, sometimes, he might be able to pull dreamstuff right through into the waking world.

And one day, hovering on those cloudy crossroads, Dream said, “There are some particularly strong dreamers in this world.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hob drifted back to wakefulness from where he was falling asleep against Dream’s side, fingers lazily combing his hair.

Dream was lying beside him on his back, stilled in thought. Hob wished he would relax. Though Dream’s manners of relaxing could be strange. “You are one of them.”

Hob pushed himself up on sleep-heavy arms. Dream’s expression was considered, but he was staring off into his own thoughts, or into an echo of the Dreaming perhaps, rather than at Hob. “Huh?” Hob said eloquently. “But I’m not like. An artist or anything. You have no idea how unfantastical I am.” 

“Art is only one manner of dreaming,” Dream said. He looped his arm around Hob’s shoulders and started rubbing there, though he still seemed lost in thought. “Though admittedly I have focused much on creating inspiration in that realm in the past. An oversight on my part, perhaps.” 

“What are other types of dreaming?” Hob asked, rather than asking what Dream meant about him being a strong dreamer.

“Much of dreaming is passive, and all sentient beings have the right to a place in the Dreaming when they sleep,” said Dream. “But there are also those who bring dreams to the waking world. Enact my power here, as it were. Art, literature, theater, storytelling, these are forms of strong dreaming, of course. But striving to enact positive change in the world against great opposition and the pull of Despair is also a form of dreaming. Invention is a form of dreaming. Love is a form of dreaming.” He smirked. “Perhaps I will reclaim it from Desire.”

Dreams and Desire fighting over the concept of Love, Hob thought, head spinning. That was a tussle that had been happening for a long time with no end in sight, he thought.

Still, he didn’t know what this had to do with him, unless Dream meant the way that Hob loved Dream, but he didn’t think that was all of it. 

“I have recently been reminded that living is also a form of dreaming,” Dream explained, sensing Hob’s question. “Persistence. Stubbornness. You love life, Hob. No matter how it tries to prove it is undeserving.”

“That counts as dreaming in your book?” Hob said, dumbstruck. 

Dream ran a hand through his hair with a tiny smile. “Very much so. And the Dreaming loves you. It feeds off your presence.”

“Feeds,” Hob repeated. “That’s. Um. A lot. Wait, does that mean you ‘feed off my presence’?”

“You nourish me in many ways,” Dream said. “As friend, lover. As dreamer, as well, yes.”

“Like a battery,” Hob said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him.

Dream wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“Like a good meal?”

“You are well aware that I meant it metaphorically—”

Hob kissed him halfway through that line, and Dream’s words melted into a comfortable hum. Hob settled over him, giving up on sleep in favor of the pleasure of touching Dream, again. His own dream on earth.

He was going to have to mentally unpack this whole you are a strong dreamer thing later, and properly mull over the fact that his mere stubbornness to keep living was apparently enough to nourish all of dreaming. And his lover most of all.

For now, he just grinned cheekily and said, eyebrows raised innocently, “I could feed you again?”

Dream grumbled. “Must you make everything innuendo?”

“You handed it to me,” Hob pointed out.

“So I did,” Dream admitted, aggrieved. And Hob smiled and went back in to nourish him, figuratively or literally or all ways between.

—

“There is, in fact, a ritual,” Dream said.

They were sitting on a couch in the Dreaming library, Hob’s legs draped over Dream’s lap. Dream had a book open in one hand, and his other loosely holding Hob’s ankle, half tender half possessive—but he was now just looking at Hob expectantly. 

“A ritual for what?” Hob asked, feeling very much like he was about to be dropped off the edge of a cliff. He often got premonitions like that when talking to Dream in the Dreaming, for Dream’s feelings and intentions were everywhere in the space and the Dreaming seemed determined for Hob to understand them.

And Dream actually blushed and looked away. 

“Wait,” Hob said, realizing, nudging Dream’s thigh with his toes until Dream looked back at him. “Are you somehow talking about sex?”

Dream plucked at the hem of Hob’s trousers. “The Dreaming loves you,” he said, instead of answering, and almost in a way that suggested this was no longer a source of joy to him, rather an incursion.

“Okay,” Hob said, and scooted closer until he could rest a hand on Dream’s arm, concerned, now, by whatever this was. “Aren’t you also the Dreaming?”

Dream nodded. And finally he said, “Answer me this, dreamer. Is it me that you love, or is it dreaming?”

Hob’s heart lurched at the flat, guarded tone of Dream’s voice. There was very much a wrong answer to this, he knew, but he wasn’t even sure he understood the question. He knew what was in his heart, but he didn’t know what would assuage Dream’s uncertainties.

“I fell in love with you a very long time ago,” Hob told him gently. “My mysterious, mystical stranger.”

“That is not as long as you have been dreaming.”

“Can’t I love both?” Hob asked. “Can’t I love all of you?”

Dream stayed silent.

“What answer were you hoping to hear, Dream?”

“I do not know,” Dream admitted, with a pained breath. “No one has loved… all that I am. I am dreams, and the Dreaming, and people have loved the Dreaming. But.”

“You are also Morpheus,” Hob supplied, and Dream nodded.

“I suppose I… have been loved, as such.”

He didn’t sound wholly convinced of it. Hob took his hand, kissed it, held it close to his face. “Has truly no one loved both?”

Dream shook his head, his gaze on his own hand pressed to Hob’s cheek. He twisted it to cradle Hob’s jaw, thumb to the corner of his mouth. “Not the way you have.”

With aching slowness, Hob pulled his strange, unfathomable, hurt creature into a hug. Dream tucked his face into Hob’s shoulder. “Let yourself have it, then, yeah?” he urged. “Will you trust me?”

“Yes,” Dream vowed. “Only beware of the power you hold, Hob Gadling.”

For Dream to even admit such a thing was a power placed in Hob’s hands, he thought. 

He squeezed Dream’s shoulders again and then pulled away far enough to look at him. “What’s this ‘ritual,’ then? Is this a good thing, or a you sacrificing yourself upon the altar of my apparent greater love for the Dreaming kind of thing?”

“There are no sacrifices and no altars,” Dream said, with an eye roll that Hob thought meant he was feeling slightly more at ease about the whole thing now, which Hob was glad for. “I am not a god.” 

“So what is it for, then?” 

“I shepherd all dreaming minds,” Dream said, starting his explanation several steps away from what Hob had asked as per usual. “Particularly strong dreamers can oblige me to take certain actions. Namely, vortexes, whom I must kill for the sake of the rest of the Dreaming. But most powerful dreamers present not a threat, but an opportunity. It is a symbiotic relationship, you understand. I created the landscape you see here, the dreams and nightmares who inhabit it, but the Dreaming would not exist at all if there were no dreamers. There is a ritual one can perform, to remember their importance to one another—dreamer and Dreaming.”

“And… this involves sex, somehow?” It was the impression Hob had gotten from Dream’s reaction before, and he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that.

“It can,” said Dream, carefully. “It is mostly about love. And devotion. And union.”

This was starting to sound to Hob rather like marriage. Or at least, a wedding.

“And… you want to do that? With me?” Hob couldn’t help but feel shaken by the thought. That Dream felt them so important to each other, their love so true, that he would use it to symbolize the power of his entire realm.

“I would explore it,” said Dream. “If you are amenable.”

“I mean, obviously I would—“ Another thought occurred to Hob halfway through that sentiment. “Wait. You don’t have to do this, do you?”

“It is not a necessary part of my function, the way dealing with dream vortexes is,” Dream stressed. “It is merely. An opportunity. To strengthen the bond between dreamer and Dreaming.”

“Between dreamers and you?” Hob added, voice tipped up in a question.

Dream shook his head. “I am but a conduit.”

“You are dreaming,” Hob said. “That sounds pretty damn central to it, to me. Besides, Dream—“ he took Dream’s hand and squeezed “—I’m not really interested in using you as a bridge for some ceremony. But if you want to do it with me, and the Dreaming, then we can talk.”

Dream smiled, a tiny, surprised thing. “This is why it has not happened before. Because no one would see it the way you do.”

“Never?”

Dream shook his head. “No one has… loved me quite the way you do.”

And if that didn’t hurt and make Hob feel more special to Dream in equal measure.

He wrapped his arms around Dream and pulled him close, kissing his temple. “Well, if you want to do it, then fill me in on what it entails and let’s see, hm?”

Dream hummed, a pleased, purring sound, and let Hob hold him close.

—

This was how Hob found himself, one night, in one of the great forests of the Dreaming, just before dawn. Dream had brought them to a small clearing covered in grass, where old growth trees leaned in above them and framed a cloudless sky, scattered with stars.

It was a uniquely quiet part of the Dreaming. Not a properly sentient dreamspace like Fiddler’s Green, but something older and wilder, a place that still grew only out of Dream himself. No other beings around, only Dream sitting across from him, a loose robe around his shoulders and pooling in his lap.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice deep and old as the shifting of the trees around them. Hob was reminded of the moment he had first seen him, and the bolt of realization that this was an ancient thing, a wild and magical thing.

“Why, could something go wrong?”

Dream shook his head. “If we are not committed, it may not achieve its intended effect. But there will be no adverse results, no.”

Something could go very wrong indeed, then. If Hob wasn’t committed—in whatever way that manifested—he was certain it would break Dream’s heart.

Still, if there was anything he had been forever tied to, it was his Dream, and his dreaming. So he took both of Dream’s hands in his own. “Okay. Then I’m ready if you are, dear heart.”

“Dear heart,” Dream echoed, a hint of a smile on his lips. A tentative, hopeful glow in his eyes. He was so beautiful.

“Dear,” Hob repeated, and kissed his cheek. “Dear,” he said again, and leaned down to kiss the grass between them.

When he looked back up, Dream’s cheeks were colored with the slightest blush. “Truly, you are singular, Hob Gadling.”

Hob kissed him again, on the lips this time. Dream leaned into it with a hum, and Hob tangled a hand in his hair, holding him there, holding him close. “Nah,” he said, when they parted for a breath, lips still brushing Dream’s. “I just love you.”

“Yes,” Dream breathed, an exhalation of great weight. He pulled Hob close by the front of his shirt, hands fisted tightly in the fabric, and fell back onto the grass, Hob following to land on top of him. He cradled the back of Dream’s head in his hand to protect him from hitting the ground, though he suspected the soil of the Dreaming would be soft and kind to its creator, even this old forest, with its tangle of hard roots under every patch of ground.

Indeed, a flurry of flower petals swirled up from where they’d landed, carried on the wind of Dream’s power. Hob knew not where they came from, but they circled around Dream’s head and then disappeared into the woods as Dream’s hair fanned out over the grass, robe slipping open in a deep vee over his chest.

Hob raised an eyebrow. “You doing that?”

“Not… consciously. I—“ Dream ran his thumb over Hob’s cheek, a steadying motion. “I must… let my power merge more with the Dreaming’s, for this. Give it agency over me in a way that I normally would not.”

“Just be safe, yeah?”

“The Dreaming is me. It is safe,” said Dream.

“Only you usually keep yourself more separate,” Hob guessed, and Dream nodded.

“I do not usually relinquish such direct power to the broader Dreaming, like so,” he confirmed.

Dream didn’t usually relinquish any power ever, Hob thought. “Well, just relax,” he told him, and Dream huffed.

“I was under the impression that I was leading this.”

“Well, maybe I wanna. You’re supposed to give up control, aren’t you?”

Before Dream could answer, Hob kissed him again, pressing him down into the grass with both hands in his hair. Dream tipped his head back, baring his throat with a little whimper, and Hob took the hint, kissing under his jaw and sucking a mark into the skin.

“Very well,” Dream breathed. “Take the lead, then, dreamer.”

So Hob did, pulling his loose shirt over his head and tossing it off into the grass. Despite the relative chill of the night air, and the darkness, he wasn’t cold. He supposed that was the Dreaming, already building magic up between them.

Dream pet at his bare arms and shoulders, clearly pleased, as Hob guided his legs apart, slotting himself between them. Dream folded his legs around Hob’s waist, hands in his hair now, running through the strands with actual sparks following his fingertips.

“I think I like this wild magic,” Hob told him as he kissed Dream’s throat again, then his sternum between the lapels of his robe. “I think I like seeing all your feelings like that.”

Dream grumbled, “You would,” but didn’t stop touching. His fingertips tingled against Hob’s skin. Hob thought about having those hands all over him, and groaned.

“Yeah, I like it a lot,” he confirmed, and tugged on the tie of Dream’s robe. It fell open around his body, and oh, he was so gorgeous in the dark, almost glowing from within with power, deep shadows in every corner of him. “You’re beautiful,” he added, and the air shimmered around them. Hob grinned in delight at the reaction. “Ha!”

Dream squirmed uneasily under him. “You have much influence here.”

Hob laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “Oh, yeah? Is this thing making you uncomfortable?”

“I trust you,” Dream said, which wasn’t quite an answer. Hob waited, and he added, “I want this.”

“Okay,” Hob said, offering a reassuring smile. “Let’s have it, then, yeah?”

The reassurance didn’t land as solidly as he had hoped. “Can I?” Dream whispered, and Hob didn’t think it was something he would have vocalized if it wasn’t just them, alone here in the grass. It was so important to Hob to catch that feeling, to not leave him holding it in empty air. “Would you, truly, love me? The King of Dreams, of Nightmares? The landscape of the unconscious? Hope and fear, persistence and uncertainty, creation, story, ambition, art and terror all?”

“I already do,” Hob murmured, kissing his lips, his cheek, his forehead, lingering there in benediction. “I already have. I’m no artist or visionary with one foot born in the Dreaming. I chose to love you, you know.” 

“Oh,” Dream breathed, hands framing his face. “You did, yes.”

“Would choose it again until the end of time, my Dream,” Hob vowed. “Love for you carried me through every hardship. And now. Maybe my love can carry you in return.”

“It does.” Dream’s eyes were shut now, and Hob watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the air wavering around him as his composure slipped. The tightening of his expression as he fought it.

“Don’t,” Hob said, as Dream’s hands fell from his face to grip his shoulders, fingertips sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hold onto yourself so tightly like that. Isn’t the point to let go? Let me catch you.” 

“I—” A tremor ran through Dream’s body, echoing out into the ground around them. “I. Yes.” Incrementally, he relaxed, opening his eyes again, and they were rimmed red. Hob ran his thumbs across Dream’s cheeks as tears slipped out one by one, water breaking its surface tension and spilling over. 

“Do you want to stop?” Hob asked.

Dream shook his head. “It simply feels… more than I expected.”

“Okay.” Hob kissed the corner of his eye, catching a tear on his lip. “Stop me whenever you need, okay? But otherwise, let me take care of you. Will you let me take care of you?”

“You are good to me,” Dream breathed, eyes falling shut again, “my dreamer.”

The word shimmered something through Hob’s being, a title, a calling, a naming. The Dreaming reaching out to its other half. A magnified version of what he had felt in the Dreaming recently—a comfort, a closeness, a sense of belonging.

Breathing hard now, he kissed down Dream’s collarbone, then his sternum, peppered kisses over each of his ribs, wrapped his hands around Dream’s thighs. He pressed his nose into Dream’s stomach, felt the tension in all of his muscles and their gradual loosening as Hob kept kissing him.

“Relax, Dream. You have got to let go.” Dream’s fingers wound into his hair again, gripping tight. “Easy, my love.”

“I—” Dream blew out another shuddering breath, warm wind whipped around them, caressing Hob’s shoulders like a phantom touch— and he felt the moment Dream finally turned the Dreaming over to his hands. The diffusion of power into the clearing around them, the way the stars shined brighter, the loosening of Dream’s grip in his hair. Dream’s chest heaved like he was truly breathing, like he truly needed to, and Hob surged back up to catch his mouth in a kiss.

He felt so connected to the Dreaming now. He could feel the raw dream power in him, what he could usually only just barely touch by touching Dream. And he knew then that if he wanted to bring the Dreaming’s power to bear against Dream, he could—and that Dream was trusting him not to.

I am but a conduit, Dream had said. Hob shivered. The swirl of emotions was almost overwhelming—honor that Dream would trust him with this, that he even wanted to; and pride that Dream had been able to take that step; and horror at the thought of it ever being abused.

It’s safe, Dream had also assured him, and Hob was about say something to the effect of this not being safe at all, actually—before realizing that Dream meant it was safe with Hob. That the thought of Hob being the danger in this scenario had never crossed his mind.

Dream’s love for him was a terrifying thing sometimes. And a great gift.

“C’mere.” Getting choked up, he gathered Dream close to his chest, pressing his face into his neck. “I love you, you know?”

A tremor ran through Dream’s body, and he hummed, wrapping his arms around Hob’s shoulders. “Hob, I—” his voice rumbled unevenly through Hob’s chest. The powerful thrum of it that usually echoed through the Dreaming whenever he spoke was brought down to normal volume, a human sound Hob could hold within him. “I need—”

“Shh, shh, I’ll give you everything, don’t worry. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Hob dragged his fingers through the soft grass at their sides, and Dream shivered. “All of you.”

Dream plucked at the waistband of his trousers. His voice was a whisper in the night. “You are still clothed.”

Hob laughed. “In a rush, now?” But he obediently tugged off his trousers, throwing those to the side as well, and then they were skin to skin, only Dream’s thin robe between their bodies and the ground. Dream was bared to Hob in all his beauty, familiar now but so special when he could feel the energy of dreams in him, the power and vitality of them.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” he said. Dream made a quiet, rough sound in his throat.

“You are incomparable with the Dreaming’s raiment upon you,” he said, hands running up and over Hob’s shoulders, up his neck to frame his face. Hob leaned in to kiss him and finally pressed their bodies together properly, grinding against him. Dream gasped, already so on edge, hiking his legs up to allow better access. Hob took one narrow thigh in his hand and bent him back further, hooking Dream’s leg over his shoulder. He had Dream physically at his mercy now, too, twisted and pressed into the ground, and he felt this was what was supposed to happen. That Dream was supposed to trust, and Hob was supposed to be deserving of it.

He would be deserving of it.

“Going to make you feel so good,” he promised. “Trust.”

“I trust,” said Dream. He was moving needily against Hob now, and pink dawn was peeking over the horizon, the darkness of early morning slipping away, and Hob reached between them to press his fingertips to Dream’s entrance, finding him already loose and slick. Dream magic. Wanting made manifest.

Hob swallowed hard, throat tight, heat building in his groin, aching in his thighs. He slipped two fingers into Dream, relishing in Dream’s groan, the line of his throat as he tipped his head back. Hob worked him open carefully. Normally, it wasn’t possible to hurt Dream during sex in the Dreaming unless he allowed it, but Hob wasn’t sure that was true in this particular moment. All the power was in his hands, and he wanted it to be right, and good, and easy.

Dream’s hands grasped the back of his neck, buried in his hair. His groan was long and dragged with the agony of wanting, and Hob kissed at his jaw to appease him, nipped along the shell of his ear. “Hob, I am ready.”

“Alright, love. You know me. Got to be sure.” He lined himself up and pushed in, one long, smooth motion, breath trembling as Dream’s heat enveloped him. Dream whined, grip tightening in his hair. And Hob braced himself over him, starting to fuck him in long, slow rolls, each point where they touched a bright spark of dream power. So much of it, in his chest, in Dream’s body, in Hob’s hands where they brushed Dream’s sides. As far as Hob had learned, there was no inherent incantation of this ritual—it came only from them, and their transfer of power, and their trust and devotion. And he could feel it, that connection, and the conduit Dream had made of himself, though Hob would never see him that way. For him it was Dream first. Always had been.

There were words, though. Dream had said he would know them, that he would find them within the Dreaming. And find them he did. He kept his pace slow and dragging as he spoke, fitting the soft, solemn lines.

“I take thee as my lover, all world’s dreaming.” His voice felt rough, torn, and it sounded like marriage rites.

“And I take you, dreamer,” Dream replied, hushed. His breath hitched with each of Hob’s thrusts. His eyes were midnight blue in the shadows, and Hob couldn’t look away.

“To hold you from within and without," Hob continued. “To make you stronger.”

“To never forget you and your power,” said Dream, and the Dreaming flared around them in reminder.

“To help you grow,” said Hob.

“To help you rest,” said Dream.

“To help you rest,” Hob added, kissing his forehead, and Dream huffed.

“Not the words.”

“Still.”

Dream sighed again, and Hob kissed his lips, quick and light. “To inspire you.”

“To inspire you,” Dream echoed. Met Hob’s eyes again, a hopeful, vulnerable little look. “Kiss me again?”

Hob could never say no to that. He kissed him deep, plumbing his mouth with his tongue. Dream groaned, surrendering to it. Hob increased his pace, just a bit, and Dream’s groan stuttered out into a drawn out moan. Hob kissed him deeper, kissed it out of him, pressing Dream’s hiked up leg to his chest until he whined from the angle. Until he was hitting Dream right where he wanted and each thrust drew him a punched out gasp.

“The words?” Hob prompted, grinning against his cheek, and Dream just groaned.

“Hob—”

But he gathered himself, breathed out, wonderfully affected— “I will be a haven for you.”

“I’ll be your custodian,” promised Hob.

“You will plant in me.”

“You’ll help me bloom.”

“You will…” Dream swallowed, throat bobbing, trembling under him, “love me.”

Hob kissed his forehead, and Dream closed his eyes. “I will love you.” Those were the end of the set words, but Hob continued, pressing kisses over Dream’s face: “I’ll adore you, I’ll worship you, I’ll love you fore—”

Dream pulled Hob’s lips back to his. Kissed him deep as he pulled Hob’s body into his, encouraged Hob to thrust harder, clenching around him, and Hob did, bringing them closer and closer until the heat peaked and his orgasm washed over him.

Dream followed him over the edge with a cry, a rush of dreaming power going with him. Hob felt it his hands, over his skin, in Dream’s fingertips where he clutched at his hair. He could feel the entire Dreaming now, the infinite expanse of it. The long history of hope, of curiosity that had curled around him on dark nights; invention and newness, the reshaping of hands and thoughts; change and memory, the shadow that had cloaked and warmed him all his life. Companion, haven, challenge. A shape too big for comprehension. And all of it localized within his lover. Within his heart.

Hob kissed him hard as the power shimmered through them. Waves of pleasure through Dream, through the Dreaming. He held Dream close to him, body and soul, every moment a deeper connection.

When he pulled back from the kiss, Dream’s eyes had slipped to their natural starry darkness. Hob rested his hand on his cheek. Swam in the pleasure he could see in that look. Pressed his forehead against Dream’s.

“Did it work?” he murmured, voice thick.

“I should probably tell you.” Dream was still twined around him. “It is not binary, where the ritual works or does not. It is a degree of power. Of. Connection.” His voice was more solemn than Hob would usually have expected in the aftermath of sex. “You felt it, did you not?”

Hob could still feel it, Dream running through him, and the vastness of him at the edges of his vision. “Yeah. I did.”

Finally, Dream slipped away, just far enough to separate them. Curled up against Hob’s chest, resting his head over Hob’s heart. “I did not imagine,” he started at a whisper, “how it would feel. To give over the Dreaming.”

Hob wrapped his arms around him. “How did it feel?”

Dream’s voice was still a whisper. “Terrifying. But. Freeing. And you held it so beautifully.”

“I’m proud of you,” Hob murmured. “For even being willing to try that.”

“I have wanted to for a long time," said Dream, "but did not always know it was what I wanted. I would have rejected the idea until recently. But always. There was an itch in me. Something with teeth, biting.”

“What changed?”

Dream’s lips curled up in a tiny smile. “You. I knew there was something to you that I needed, even when I first saw you. Only I did not know what. Not until. My escape. When I saw you again.”

“Couldn’t have imagined anything like this, but I wanted you the second you challenged me,” Hob told him. "I felt like I was supposed to. Like. I'd been watching the horizon for you. Still can’t believe my own patience about it.”

Dream chuckled. “Not so patient. My return was not the first time we had each other.”

“I don’t get any credit for four hundred years?”

“I was speaking of your dream.”

It took Hob a moment to think back. He dreamt of Dream quite a lot, nowadays, and had in the past, too. Then it clicked. He had had really quite a vivid dream the night they had met, hadn’t he? Vivid enough that he could still remember it, when he had forgotten whole eras of his long past. He pushed himself up to look Dream in the eye. “That was actually you? Dream.”

“As I said.” Dream’s voice held a tinge of guilt now, though he didn’t look away from Hob. “I was… compelled by you.”

“You’re a little nightmare, you know that?” Possibly he should have been upset over it, but wasn’t. Dream had that effect on him. And he had known, already, that Dream had hooked something sharp into him, long before they had acknowledged it. “I did wish it was you at the time, although I was imagining you in my bed, not the real you in my dreams.” He swept his thumb over Dream’s lip, and Dream’s tongue dipped out to wet it. “Hottest dream I ever had. Left me wanting for days, you did.”

“Good.” Dream tipped his head back as Hob kissed his throat. If they weren’t careful, this was going to tip right back over into sex, but as much as Hob wanted to make Dream come again, make him cry from overstimulation, he wanted this more right now: touching and lying quietly in the aftermath of their lovemaking. And baring long-held truths, apparently. “I imagined you wanting me, and satiated myself on that for a long time.”

“Could have had me any time you wanted,” Hob murmured. “Only had to say.”

“I see that now. I worried what it meant that I wanted to. And. I understand now that I was sensing something… true and dangerous that really was there, only I needn’t have been worried about it.”

“Dangerous?” Hob asked, but he knew what charge Dream spoke of. He still felt the echo of the Dreaming held in his hands. Union was safety and comfort but also a collision of power.

“Most dangerous,” Dream agreed. He ran his thumb along the hollow of Hob’s eye. “Most kind. Most lovely.”

“Keep me, then,” Hob said, though it was almost a plea, his face still held in Dream’s palm. The perennial fear that Dream would flit away again was always within him, even now, in the wake of all that power, that sharing. Dreaming was so immense. And Hob loved it, loved him, but it was a terrifying thing, to love something so much greater than you, even if doing so felt right.

“Can you not feel it?” said Dream. He took Hob’s hand and a spark jumped between their fingers. “The Dreaming would not let you go now. And nor would I. Even when you return to the waking world, there is always a place for you here. Beside me.”

“Dream…” Hob kissed his hand, then leaned back in to kiss his cheek. Lingered there, with their faces pressed together, his heart soothed of a raw wound he had almost forgotten had once been carved. Wedding vows, Hob had thought of the words they had spoken. He thought now that he had been married to dreaming for a very long time, and being able to give that devotion to Dream himself was only a solidification. It did not, truly, need words. It needed only their hands tangled together, and Dream tucked in his chest, where he had always, truly, resided.

Hob was not made for dreaming. But he chose it. And he intended to keep it.

[amethyst-halo]

ok here's a full proper pangolin style goron sheet!! i was inspired by @ezlo-x to try my hand at a new interpretation of gorons and i really like how they came out!!!

[straylaughs]

the eye of judgement

[hephaestuscrew]

“This has both our names on it”: Viewing Fleet and Clara’s relationship in Victoriocity through a queerplatonic lens

TL;DR: By Season 3 of Victoriocity, Fleet and Clara have developed a committed emotional partnership that certainly moves beyond the purely professional. Whilst very much operating as a duo, they can be interpreted as often rejecting or subverting romance-coded elements in their relationship, instead embracing a unique dynamic that can be read as resonating with the concept of a queerplatonic relationship (QPR).

Buckle up because this is over 2,500 words long! If you'd rather read it as a document, you can access it here: Fleet & Clara QPR Google Doc

Disclaimer: I'm not making any claims about creator intent, nor about how anyone else ought to interpret Fleet and Clara's dynamic. It's also worth acknowledging that queerplatonic relationships are inherently defined by the people in them and any attempt to apply such terminology to a story set in 1887 is obviously anachronistic (although whether that should matter when said story also contains a cyborg Queen Victoria is up for debate). 

With that said, if we define a QPR as a committed personal partnership which is not entirely captured by the typical expectations of either friendship or romance but may contain some elements typically associated with either (other definitions of QPRs are available), I enjoy viewing Fleet and Clara's relationship through a QPR lens, and I want to talk about some of the reasons why I think this reading works.

***Spoilers for all three seasons of Victoriocity and the novel High Vaultage***

Detective duos

Even before we actually get into Fleet and Clara's particular bond, detective / crime-solving duos as a general concept have QPR energy to me (which probably predisposed me to this interpretation). It's the Holmes-and-Watson legacy. It's the use of the word 'partner' in a non-romantic context (‘associate’ or ‘companion’ can also serve a similar purpose). It's the intense trust and reliance on each other. It's the sense of being a recognisable pair, always appearing together, known as a duo, with skills and attributes that complement each other. 

Romantic assumptions

Moving on to Fleet and Clara specifically, one aspect of their relationship that can be read through a QPR lens is how they are often in situations where other people believe or imply that there is a romantic relationship between them. Sometimes this is a deliberate strategy of theirs, and sometimes it’s imposed upon them by others. But I’d argue that there’s never a point where they both simultaneously seem entirely comfortable with that romantic narrative for their relationship. Usually one of them will actively deny the assumption or react negatively to the implication:

When Mrs Hampshire interprets Clara and Fleet as a couple experiencing “young love”, Clara might be happy to adopt this as an effective cover story, but Fleet seems unsettled and keen for them not to be perceived this way: “No. No. You’ve misunderstood, we are not, that is to say I am…” (S1E2)

When Warden Hughes assumes Fleet is the new Warden and Clara is the new Warden’s wife, Clara says “I am certainly not”, with emphasis on the ‘certainly’. (S2E2)

Fleet definitely doesn’t sound enthused when he realises Clara has gone for a married couple as their cover story at the Grand Salcombe: “I am sure I’ll regret asking, but by any chance am I [Mr. Theasby?]” (S2E2)

When Titus Byrne tells the pair “I take it you're happy sharing [a room]”, Clara responds with a horrified “What?” (S3E4) (Obviously sleeping in the same room isn’t inherently romantic, but it is often perceived that way.)

Of course, fake dating and external assumptions of romance are very common tropes in romantic will-they-won't-they dynamics, and these moments could definitely be interpreted that way for Fleet and Clara. But I prefer to read these instances as reflecting a different kind of closeness between these two characters. They have a sense of emotional partnership that allows a marriage cover story to seem plausible to others and that other people sometimes automatically assume to be romantic (obviously with some period-typical heteronormativity at play). But to me, it doesn't seem like either of them are fully comfortable with their relationship being perceived in a directly romantic way. Perhaps they are a couple in a different sense…

Proposal via door plate 

The way that Fleet asks Clara to be his business partner has always seemed to me like a platonic version of when people find personal ways to surprise their romantic partner with a proposal:

CLARA: You bought me a door plate for your office? [...] This has both our names on it. FLEET: What do you think? CLARA: I like it. (S2E7)

Fleet could have just asked Clara outright, without going to the trouble of buying a sign that would have been useless if she’d said no. If it was purely a professional business proposition with no emotional meaning behind it, I think he would have just asked verbally. But instead, he gifts her a sign with their two names paired together: Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. There's something so intimate about that to me: about Fleet asking Clara whether she would like to be a duo with him in a more formally-defined but still non-romantic way; about him choosing to present this offer in the form of a gift; about the way he presents her with their two names joined together etched into metal and asks what she thinks; about the significance that this gesture attaches to their partnership; about him having enough trust that she'll say yes that the effort and vulnerability of presenting her with that sign seem worth it for him. And the gesture means an awful lot to Clara:

She thought about the door plaque he’d had engraved with both their names on it as his way of inviting her to be his business partner – typical Fleet, refusing to tell her so much as his favourite breakfast food and then to go and do something like that. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. (High Vaultage, p187). 

Anniversaries

In the special episode ‘Murder in the Pharaoh's Tomb', Clara says “And you know what else is a big occasion Fleet? It's our one-month anniversary.” She wants to celebrate the anniversary of Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. Their partnership holds a significance for her that means key dates associated with it are worth remembering and remarking upon. 

When Clara first mentions their anniversary, Fleet nearly chokes on his drink, which seems like an instinctive reaction to the usually romantic connotations of an anniversary (see my point above about Fleet not being comfortable with their dynamic being perceived as romantic). But when Clara clarifies what she means, Fleet seems much more cheerful about the notion of their anniversary: “Ah, so it has.”

“Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner”

I get extremely strong QPR vibes from this moment, when Fleet introduces Clara to the sailors at Grave End:

FLEET: This is Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner - in business, my business partner. CLARA: I'm also his friend, but he doesn't like to say it. (S3 E3)

Fleet and Clara are partners, but not in the way the average person might assume from that word, which Fleet realises mid-sentence here. This is another instance of Fleet reacting negatively to the idea that their relationship might be interpreted romantically (see above). And yet, 'partner' (rather than, say, ‘colleague’) is the word that comes naturally to him in this moment to describe who Clara is to him. He then frantically emphasises the professional element of their relationship so as to avoid the romantic implication, but Clara is keen to proudly assert that there is a personal, emotional aspect to their dynamic too. They are first-and-foremost partners, and they are friends, and they do not want to be seen in a romantic light - this post basically writes itself... 

“Her ridiculous detective.”

When Clara fears for her life at the display of the Lanterns, the narration tells us:

“she thought of her brother, her sister, her parents... Her ridiculous detective.” (High Vaultage, p172) 

The fact that Clara thinks of Fleet in this moment of fear clearly indicates his importance to her, but I think the phrasing of this quote is particularly interesting. The narration lists Clara's immediate family: two of whom are dead (her sister and father), one of whom is publically mourning Clara's life choices (her mother), and only one of whom we have any real evidence of her having a positive relationship with (her brother). And then, separated from these complicated familial relationships by an ellipsis, the narration tells Clara also thinks of Fleet, “her ridiculous detective”. 

Parents and siblings are familial relationships that tend to come with established expectations, in which the use of a possessive pronoun (i.e. her brother) to indicate the relationship is a norm. ‘Detective’ does not fall into this category; unlike ‘brother’, ‘sister’, ‘parent’, ‘friend’, ‘partner’ etc., ‘detective’ is not a word that inherently implies a relationship or that we'd usually expect to see preceded by a possessive pronoun. The idea of ‘her detective’ therefore stands out, giving the sense that there is a unique relationship being indicated here. The way in which Fleet is ‘hers’ is something that Clara has chosen for herself, something that they have shaped together. Who they are to each other can't necessarily be fully expressed using standard phrases that traditionally describe relationships between people. But Fleet is Clara's detective, of which she only has one, and who she'll think of in the midst of “the screaming of the heavens at the end of the world”.

Fleet is also the only one in this list of Clara's loved ones who gets an adjective - her love for him has detail. And while “ridiculous” might often be perceived as negative (it's certainly not a classic romantic endearment), it seems to me like there's such fondness in it in this context: the recognition of and affection for eccentricities, the idea that his importance to her is not (purely) based on his professional strengths but on Fleet as a whole - perhaps at times ridiculous - person.

“Settled”

When Clara and Fleet talk about Clara's mother’s expectations for her, they have this exchange:

"She's still living in hope that one day I'll settle down."  "You're not settled?" asked Fleet. "I am." (High Vaultage, p259) 

By ‘settle down’, Clara's mother of course means ‘marry’, ideally into “at least a minor baronetcy”. But Clara already considers herself "settled", just not in a way her mother would understand or appreciate. She's not looking to "settle down" into a lifestyle other than her current one. She is settled in a situation where Fleet is certainly her closest personal connection in London (and perhaps anywhere), and where the two of them work closely together, operate as a duo, and then go back to their separate homes. And this partnership with Fleet is a comfortable set-up that feels right for Clara exactly as it is, rather than being a precursor to, or a distraction from, the marriage ambitions that her mother wants for her.

I think this exchange also contains an implicit sense of the commitment between the two of them. Fleet wants to check that Clara is ‘settled’ in her current situation, of which working closely - and platonically - with Fleet is obviously a major element; Clara confirms she is. There's a subtle indication of their shared intention to be in this for the long haul.

As a sidenote, Fleet and Clara’s implicit assumption that their partnership is a long-term one can manifest itself in joking contexts as well as serious ones. Look at this exchange from S3E5: 

FLEET: We're not bandits, we're just going to flag it down. CLARA: We'd be terrific bandits! FLEET: Let's just see how our current line of work goes.

I think it’s notable that, in this joking speculation, both Fleet and Clara use ‘we’ and ‘our’. The joke could have been phrased just as effectively if they were imagining only Clara becoming a bandit. But the suggestion is that, if either of them was a bandit, they’d be bandits together. Even if they changed their lives entirely, they'd still approach life together.

Inseparable 

Fleet and Clara have become a nearly inseparable duo in a way which is noticed by others. For example, after Clara and Fleet fall out in High Vaultage, Fleet meets with Keller, who says: 

"You're here with me instead of barrelling across town with her, so I'm just assuming there is some thickheaded puffinry for which you need to apologise to Miss Entwhistle" (p335)

Keller, hardly the most emotionally perceptive man in Even Greater London, automatically infers from the fact that Fleet is on his own that he has had a falling out with Clara, rather than that they just happen to be in different places. When all is well, Keller expects to see the two of them together, whether or not they are in a position to be actively working a case.

Going back earlier in their partnership, Keller makes a similar assumption about Fleet and Clara being inseparable in S2E6. When Clara shouts her name amidst Keller's anti-Vidoc booby traps, Keller asks "Entwhistle? Which means… Fleet?" Again, there's this idea that if one of them is there, the other is likely to be there too - they come as a pair. (It's worth noting that this scene takes place less than two weeks after they first met.)

“Like a friend might?”

At the end of S3E7, Fleet suggests that he and Clara go to the theatre together. It would have been easy for this invitation to have been explicitly framed as a romantic proposition, or even for the nature of the offer to have been left more ambiguous. But Clara says "Archibald Fleet, are you inviting me to a social activity? Like a friend might?" The use of the word 'friend' directly labels this as a platonic interaction. And it's with that platonic lens on it that Clara is extremely excited to spend non-work-related social time with Fleet.

“Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.”

CLARA: My grandmother's ring, I don't suppose you managed to hold on to it? [...] FLEET: Oh, it's been crushed.. I'm sorry Clara [...] CLARA: No, you keep it. FLEET: What? No... CLARA: Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you not to run towards trains. FLEET: Maybe. Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.

In S3E7, Clara gives Fleet a ring, which - as a gift from one person to another - is traditionally a symbol of a particular, legally recognised, kind of personal commitment. But when Clara tells Fleet to keep the damaged ring, down in the Underground tunnels after the destruction of the beast and Fleet's latest brush with death, it is quite a different situation to a wedding or a proposal. A married man would traditionally wear his wedding ring on his finger for all to see, but Fleet won't ever wear this ring like that. The ring itself has been bent into a different shape between the wheels of their misadventures, subverting the usual associations of a ring given from one person to another. (In a heteronormative world, those associations are particularly strong when the two people in question are a woman and a man.) 

That ring is not an engagement ring, but it is Clara’s grandmother's ring, an inheritance from the blood family she never really felt she belonged in, now given to the man who might be a very different kind of family for her in London. That ring - with which Clara saved Fleet's life - is a symbol of their bond. And it therefore serves as a reminder for Fleet “not to run towards trains" and as a “good luck charm”. I like to think he'll carry that ring with him, perhaps in his jacket pocket - a little piece of his partner, kept close to his ticking heart…

Thank you for reading all of this!

If you’ve read all of this, I'm assuming you also enjoy the concept of Fleet and Clara as a QPR (unless you're really a glutton for punishment) and that makes me very happy! This was long because there's so much to say about them… And I wrote all of the above without even getting into: the potential to headcanon Fleet and/or Clara as aspec (which I don't think is necessary for QPR headcanons, but which is also fun); Clara's baggage around and discomfort with marriage in general; the speed with which Fleet and Clara become a ride-or-die duo; and the many other demonstrations of care, understanding, trust, respect, and affection between them that didn't feel as directly QPR-coded to me but are nonetheless wonderful. Please do feel free to share your own thoughts!

[bleuarte]

feanor’s dark haired criminal sons

(maglor, moryo, curufin)

🔫, not allowed for personal use; reposting or using for other purpose.

[hijackmac]

WOAAAHH SOME SLAY THE PRINCESS INSPIRED IN-GAME SHOTS!!! Last one is drawn over the original 'It's You' scene I wasn't gonna draw allat 💔💔 BUT OTHERWISE THIS IS SOSOSOSOO FUN TO EXPERIMENT WITH OH MY LORD!! MAYBE EXPECT MORE???

More (mostly) Slay The Prince AU doodles and concepts below cut!! :]

[buggbuzz]

my gender is like meat leaf i think. boy materials in the structure of girl. like im a girl made out of boy things but not in a transman way like i like being female im just. a girl-leaning boygirl. maybe??

[roger-paladino]

🤠 Yeehaw Jam doodle?

Some Jam, for you

[jazzzzzzhands]

Paranoid much??

I kept thinking about the very obsessed and dilusional

Question-Answerer!!

His hands are always covered in that stuff! (Ink? Mold?)

(which btw was an absolute DELIGHT to draw!)

He keeps hearing/seeing things, and having strange dreams!

This infection has caused him to loose his mind and now he only cares about finding the answers, no matter the cost..