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#from Today Means Amen

rachel-614 · 1 year

Text

Okay, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was a prose translation of the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was wonderfully charming and lyrical and perfect for use in a high school, and so a clever English teacher (as one did in the 70s) made a scan of the book for her students, saved it as a pdf, and printed copies off for her students every year. In true teacher tradition, she shared the file with her colleagues, and so for many years the students of the high school all studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight from the same (very badly scanned) version of this wonderful prose translation.

In time, a new teacher became head of the English Department, and while he agreed that the prose translation was very wonderful he felt that the quality of the scan was much less so. Also in true teacher tradition, he then spent hours typing up the scan into a word processor, with a few typos here and there and a few places where he was genuinely just guessing wildly at what the scan actually said. This completed word document was much cleaner and easier for the students to read, and so of course he shared it with his colleagues, including his very new wide-eyed faculty member who was teaching British Literature for the first time (this was me).

As teachers sometimes do, he moved on for greener (ie, better paying) pastures, leaving behind the word document, but not the original pdf scan. This of course meant that as I was attempting to verify whether a weird word was a typo or a genuine artifact of the original translation, I had no other version to compare it to. Being a good card-holding gen zillenial I of course turned to google, making good use of the super secret plagiarism-checking teacher technique “Quotation Marks”, with an astonishing result:

By which I mean literally one result.

For my purposes, this was precisely what I needed: a very clean and crisp scan that allowed me to make corrections to my typed edition: a happily ever after, amen.

But beware, for deep within my soul a terrible Monster was stirring. Bane of procrastinators everywhere, my Curiosity had found a likely looking rabbit hole. See, this wonderfully clear and crisp scan was lacking in two rather important pieces of identifying information: the title of the book from which the scan was taken, and the name of the translator. The only identifying features were the section title “Precursors” (and no, that is not the title of the book, believe me I looked) and this little leaf-like motif by the page numbers:

(Remember the leaf. This will be important later.)

We shall not dwell at length on the hours of internet research that ensued—how the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, grading abandoned in shadows half-lit by the the blue glow of the computer screen—how google search after search racked up, until an email warning of “unusual activity on your account” flashed into momentary existence before being consigned immediately and with some prejudice to the digital void—how one third of the way through a “comprehensive but not exhaustive” list of Sir Gawain translators despair crept in until I was left in utter darkness, screen black and eyes staring dully at the wall.

Above all, let us not admit to the fact that such an afternoon occurred not once, not twice, but three times.

Suffice to say, many hours had been spent in fruitless pursuit before a new thought crept in: if this book was so mysterious, so obscure as to defeat the modern search engine, perhaps the answer lay not in the technologies of today, but the wisdom of the past. Fingers trembling, I pulled up the last blast email that had been sent to current and former faculty and staff, and began to compose an email to the timeless and indomitable woman who had taught English to me when I was a student, and who had, after nearly fifty years, retired from teaching just before I returned to my alma mater.

After staring at the email for approximately five or so minutes, I winced, pressed send, and let my plea sail out into the void. I cannot adequately describe for you the instinctive reverence I possess towards this teacher; suffice to say that Ms English was and is a woman of remarkable character, as much a legend as an institution as a woman of flesh and blood whose enduring influence inspired countless students. There is not a student taught by Ms. English who does not have a story to tell about her, and her decline in her last years of teaching and eventual retirement in the face of COVID was the end of an era. She still remembers me, and every couple months one of her contemporaries and dear friends who still works as a guidance counsellor stops me in the hall to tell me that Ms. English says hello and that she is thrilled that I am teaching here—thrilled that I am teaching honors students—thrilled that I am now teaching the AP students. “Tell her I said hello back,” I always say, and smile.

Ms. English is a legend, and one does not expect legends to respond to you immediately. Who knows when a woman of her generation would next think to check her email? Who knows if she would remember?

The day after I sent the email I got this response:

My friends, I was shaken. I was stunned. Imagine asking God a question and he turns to you and says, “Hold on one moment, let me check with my predecessor.”

The idea that even Ms. English had inherited this mysterious translation had never even occurred to me as a possibility, not when Ms. English had been a faculty member since the early days of the school. How wonderful, I thought to myself. What a great thing, that this translation is so obscure and mysterious that it defeats even Ms. English.

A few days later, Ms. English emailed me again:

(I had, in fact searched through both the English office and the Annex—a dark, weirdly shaped concrete storage area containing a great deal of dust and many aging copies of various books—a few days prior. I had no luck, sadly.)

At last, though, I had a title and a description! I returned to my internet search, only to find to my dismay that there was no book that exactly matched the title. I found THE BRITISH TRADITION: POETRY, PROSE, AND DRAMA (which was not black and the table of contents I found did not include Sir Gawain) and THE ENGLISH TRADITION, a super early edition of the Prentice Hall textbooks we use today, which did have a black cover but there were absolutely zero images I could find of the table of contents or the interior and so I had no way of determining if it was the correct book short of laying out an unfortunate amount of cold hard cash for a potential dead end.

So I sighed, and relinquished my dreams of solving the mystery. Perhaps someday 30 years from now, I thought, I’ll be wandering through one of those mysterious bookshops filled with out of print books and I’ll pick up a book and there will be the translation, found out last!

So I sighed, and told the whole story to my colleagues for a laugh. I sent screenshots of Ms. English’s emails to my siblings who were also taught by her. I told the story to my Dad over dinner as my Great Adventure of the Week.

…my friends. I come by my rabbit-hole curiosity honestly, but my Dad is of a different generation of computer literacy and knows a few Deep Secrets that I have never learned. He asked me the title that Ms. English gave me, pulled up some mysterious catalogue site, and within ten minutes found a title card. There are apparently two copies available in libraries worldwide, one in Philadelphia and the other in British Columbia. I said, “sure, Dad,” and went upstairs. He texted me a link. Rolling my eyes, I opened it and looked at the description.

Huh, I thought. Four volumes, just like Ms. English said. I wonder…

Armed with a slightly different title and a publisher, I looked up “The English Tradition: Fiction macmillan” and the first entry is an eBay sale that had picture of the interior and LO AND BEHOLD:

THE LEAF. LOOK AT THE LEAF.

My dad found it! He found the book!!

Except for one teensy tiny problem which is that the cover of the book is uh a very bright green and not at all black like Ms. English said. Alas, it was a case of mistaken identity, because The English Tradition: Poetry does have a black cover, although it is the fiction volume which contains Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

And so having found the book at last, I have decided to purchase it for the sum of $8, that ever after the origins of this translation may once more be known.

In this year of 2022 this adventure took place, as this post bears witness, the end, amen.

(Edit: See here for part 2!)

#sir gawain and the green knight #translations #internet research #english literature #teaching things #dads are the best #long post #story telling #I STILL don’t know the name of the translator but I WILL find out #obscure books

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sageandscorpiongrass · 7 months

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could you do a web about loving someone who doesn’t love you back

certainly!

I Wish That You Loved Me.

[text transcription in alt text]

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blingblong55 · 6 months

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Dear Father -John Price x F!Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley NSFW

A/N: If you're super religions and/or catholic...look away

Based on a request:

I am too sinning on this app so Ik that it isn't part of the list but what about a priest au? price and ghost having a threesome with a nun or sister (yk what I mean) its all innocent at first she helps around during mass and since both men cant break celibacy they try and stop the 'sinful' thoughts of sister/nun y/n one time they saw her curves and from then on after talking w the other they decided to corner her and fuck her ____ F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, dub-con, hierophilia, threesome, priest!Price, priest!Ghost, spit roast, some degrading, nun/sister!reader unprotected!sex, oral!sex, P-in-V, priest au, nun/sister au ____

A/N: personally, I love the idea of getting fucked by a priest...especially by these two. Also inspired by many of the band Ghost songs

You walked the halls of the holy temple, rosemary in hand as you made your way to mass. "Sister," Father John greeted. "Hello Father, having a great evening?" You and him walk the hall together. "It has been a delightful one, sister. And how is your evening this fine day?" The Bible by his hand. "Oh mine has been pleasant," you smile a little. "Have you spoken with Father Simon?" You nod, "I have, he seems excited for this evening, I heard we will have a larger group this holy day." You comment. As you walk inside you see the children help set up the mantle on the altar, the bible and wine carefully set up as well. You sit in one of the chairs by the altar, Father Simon comes out to make sure the temple looks well for when the townspeople arrive. "Ah..sister R/N, how are you today?" the holy man spoke. "I'm fine father, and yourself?"

"Couldn't be happier, now remember sister, you must make sure not to let that little head of yours get lost when I give the sermon." He pats your head and makes his merry way upstairs where he changes into his attire. You walk towards the door, helping the townspeople in, all in their best attire for this day. The sign of the cross is all done by them as they walk into the temple. The rosemary in hand as mass began. You sat neatly by the altar, praying and listening to Simon. He gave a couple of jokes to the people attending, much of which people laughed. It was communion when you were in line and his finger touched your lip, and you opened it. "The body of Christ," the way he said it, so alluring to the thoughts you once had as a young woman of the church. "Amen," you respond and eat the bread. You go back to your seat and pray.

After mass, all the people left, the cleaning crew and townspeople, it was just Father John and Simon with you. You stayed on your knees, praying for all the people that attended. In the candle-lit room, the two priests joining you. Kneeling beside you and letting you stay between them. They held your hand, praying with you. Once it was over, they returned to their room. "Amen," you whisper and try and forget about the sinful thoughts both priests gave you. You walked back to your room until you heard some moans. It had to be some of the people you let sleep for shelter but as you were about to knock on the door of Father Price, Simon walked into the hallway. "Sister?" his voice like a whisper. "Father, I think I heard a noise-"

"Go to bed, R/N, we'll discuss this in the morning, good night," he walked back into his room and as you walked past Father John's room, the moans continued. Could he be sick? No, that can't be, he is a very healthy man. Once in your room, you prayed and got into your nightgown. By morning, you walked the halls again and made sure the kitchen and offices were clean and ready for the day. It was a Monday, meaning a few people would show up to confess. "Father John will do confessionals today," you informed. People of all backgrounds nodded in delight, ready to have their sins forgiven.

By the evening, you were approached by Simon. "Are you confessing today?" an innocent question with ulterior motives. "Yes, father." A simple and short response, one that began the entire evening. As the doors to the public closed and you walked into the confessional booth, you sat down. "What are your sins, child," Johns's voice so soft. A confession that was meant to stay in between the walls. "I've been having unholy thoughts," your voice so small and full of embarrassment. "About what or who, child?" He knew who this was, and an excited smirk appeared on his face. "About the priests in this church, I don't know how it got to this point, I'm sorry, Father." You look down, the rosemary on your hands, playing with the beads out of nerves. He knew what the evening had planned for the three of them.

"On your knees child, pray to be forgiven." Words that would later be repeated during the night. You did so, prayed and prayed, hoping for forgiveness. To break celibacy, something the church penalised their holy men. The oath to be devoted to the man up above was now broken to worship the temptress that roamed the halls, dressed as a holy woman. A succubus that knew she was their weakness, clothed in holy clothes, to be undressed and fucked like the whore she is and wants to be.

You in Simon's ear, crying and confessing to him too. "I'm sorry Father, I know this is wrong, I'm sorry I didn't mean to think of this." He shakes his head, a lying motion to be proven soon. John walks in, holy water in a bowl in his hand, rosemary on the other. He and Simon look at each other, their plan to work. "Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness," Simon demands. Your teary eyes are now filled with confusion but you don't question this, you get on your knees, and begin to pray until he stops you. Thumb under your chin, making you look up. "Not like that, sister, open your mouth, be a good girl," John says. You open your mouth, and a sense of newfound arousal finds its way to you. If the heavens spoke, this would be the beginning of a long overdue sin. Two priests, three sinners and a saint, all in one room, ready to corrupt the one thing that began to crack under the very same roof they spoke holy words. Both men spit in your mouth, "Swallow," Simon commands this time and you nod. Their zippers undone, their hair pulled, their cocks ready to be pleased by the mouth of a saint.

Your mouth and body are about to become their temple. John is the first to begin to stroke his cock in front of your face. Simon followed right after. Worshipping the very thing they had sworn to never do, a woman and the sexual desire they so have needed. Let me have you, the devils spoke in a whisper. Your mouth being teased by John's tip, all red and swollen, letting the innocent nun look up with such a good girl stare, it melted their hearts. "Suck on it," he tells you, your lips wrapped around his thick shaft. His hand is on your hair, pushing your head further in. You gag and cry, trying to hold in all the noise the room could not listen to. Simon can't take it any longer. "Pray for us, R/N," the young priest says. A prayer that will send you three over the edge on a bed made for one holy man. Simon pulled you away from John, placing you on the bed on all fours, Simon massaging your ass before taking your clothes off. The a need to have this, already leaving your panties soaked. It was true what they said, to worship is to be devoted and in this moment, they are devoted to your body and you to theirs.

You mewl when you feel Simon slap your now bare ass, your shirt ripped from you as John teases your face with kisses. Your tits slapped before he cups your face with aggression, "You're nothing but a fucking slut, you know that, R/N?" Before you could even respond he slaps your face and smirks. Simon's thick and veiny cock, blessed your walls, and as your cunt was already dripping from just the thought of getting fucked he chuckled. "Our little nun here seems to be eager for this," he tells John. The moans you let out as he hungrily fucked himself into you, were too sinful for such holy men to listen to. It was food in ways no one could understand. John's cock in your mouth, your throat trying its best to accommodate a man his size. Their trousers on the floor, your body the temple for such noises and sins. Your cunt spread open for Simon's size.

You begin to let out whimpers, something so small that you get punished for your pleasure is not of importance in this Your body, like it was possessed by fools gold, making these hungry men fight for every part of it. Their breathing is heavy as your body gets used over and over again. "Just like that, fucking take it," Simon stuttered as he has found pleasure he was forbidden to feel. John touched your body only when the holy water was on his hands as if he were to burn if he didn't touch the water before touching the devil herself. "You're nothing but a slut, aren't you, hm…say it…say it you bitch," John slapped your face and pulled his cock out to let you breathe. Between heavy panting, you responded, "I'm…a slut, Father." Your voice is hoarse, barely above a loud whisper.

"That's fucking right," he forces your mouth open and spits on it again. His cock back in your mouth that thins at his size. Simon can't help but slap your ass, wanting to mark it as his. If this was how you received forgiveness, then the more sins you must commit. The devil grins this night, for he has made this night turn from holy to his own little game. To taunt all believers and worshippers. It was a night of ritual, one to commence when all-powerful and mythical mysteries went to roam the earth. Some call it adultery, some call it fun. You played with black magic, getting daddied by men who were never dad. Giving you things you never once had. Simon's cock twitching, begging for release. You kept swallowing the pre-cum that leaked from Johns cock. John's breathing escapes in short ones, not being able to contain his orgasm for any longer. You know he is close, his cock twitches and you can feel how it is pulsating in your mouth.

He groans, head thrown back as he fills your mouth with his cum. His movements were desperate, your face flushed as he held you in place. Simon let his cock sink into your greedy body, his hands holding you as in his head, he too asked for forgivenes. Your walls clench around Simon, your breathing getting heavier. And although it was never intended, he knew that with each thrust he was getting you closer to heaven as well. John pulls out, forces you to swallow his cum and he grins when your mascara stained face looks up at him as his mate continues to fuck you. "You like that, don't you?" he whispers and kisses you as he bends. His face cupping yours. Wet kisses and groans filled the room. No longer sacred by definition.

Simon filled you with his sticky seed, his groans turned to moans when he felt your cunt pulsating, your walls milking him for all he is worth. It was perfect, he turned you into his personal fleshlight. You let out whimpers as he pulls out, your cunt abused and leaking the seed of a holy man. What a great use for a whore that desguises herself as a nun. You clit sensitive, the men laid you on your back and between them. A secret amongst three people, to be repeated but never spoken of. A sin that will carry for as long as time. The holy water John brought it, used to clean your sweat, tears and the cum that displayed on your body. The rosemary, used to hang from your neck as they kissed it all night long. Two priests, three sinners and one former saint, a corruption well done.

Tags: @ghostslillady @mothcelestial @greatstormcat @pippylaune @liyanahelena @anonymuslydumb @kit-kats06 @quaritchscupquake @lisa-takeshi @ash-tarte @arithestrawberry @agent-oaklahoma @murarl @downbadformaskedmen @iamnotfinedaddy @woncloudie @lilahbunny

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writingstoraes · 1 year

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part two of charles leclerc/fem!verstappen!reader pls your first one was so good!!!

red vs red 🚥

pairing: charles leclerc/fem!verstappen!reader

type: instagram imagine/social media au

notes: thank u for loving the first, anon! hope u like this one 🤍 and thank u for requesting heheh, also formatting may look weird in ios devices idk this app wont let me fix the errors in bold letters 😭

summary: no peaceful race when there's banter between your boyfriend and your own brother, might as well just join the ruckus they cause!

reading the first part isn't necessary, just provides context! but if you want, read part 1 here!

ynverstappen

liked by lilymhe, charles_leclerc, pierregasly, and 870,445 others

ynverstappen happy race week, everybody! glad to be back in the paddock supporting my favorite driver ever ❤ goodluck, my baby love charles_leclerc! will be waiting for you after quali with lots of kisses and hugs :)

ps. spending quali in ferrari because i am on redbull duty tomorrow 🙏

charles_leclerc Always happy you're by my side, amoúr. Je táime 😘

maxverstappen Will never get used to this 🤮

ynverstappen we've literally been together for 3 years

maxverstappen And by favorite driver ever, you mean me, right?

charles_leclerc Are you the one in the picture? Then no 🙂

scuderiaferrari Red is your color, Y/N! ❤️

redbullracing Absolutely not, we do not think so!

scuderiaferrari Respectfully, no one asked you.

lestappen16 Love how even the team admins are in their own playful feud 😭

pierreluvr someone give y/n a break from dealing with charles and max lmaooowjwjsjsj

maxverstappen Why are you making it sound like supporting me at redbull is a responsibility and not something you want to do? 😔

charles_leclerc Because it's not.

ynverstappen jesus i just want one peaceful race is it so hard to ask for

ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen, arthurleclerc, isahernaez, and 780,223 others

ynverstappen watching today's race from the redbull garage! wishing my dearest brother the best today, please stop believing the rumors he spreads re: me hating red bull. he is overdramatic. anyway, here's a selfie of max and i at quali yesterday! 🤍

tagged: maxverstappen

charles_leclerc You're not in our garage? Okay that makes me sad then 💔

ynverstappen will still root for you, don't worry 😁

maxverstappen Not under my watch you're not

maxverstappen My own sister wearing a ferrari jacket beside her brother who races for red bull. The betrayal is just so.

charles_leclerc Deserved.

f1fann NOT CHARLES SAYING DESERVED?@?@*@*

redbullracing We love having you here, Y/N 🖤

scuderiaferrari 😒

ynverstappen

liked by pierregasly, redbullracing, scuderiaferrari, and 450,221 others

ynverstappen my boys have done it again! congratulations on the podium, men who continuously pester me at every race weekend ❤️

tagged: maxverstappen & charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc My biggest fan ❤️ Je tàime, baby!

maxverstappen That's literally my sister

charles_leclerc She's literally my girlfriend

maxverstappen #1 supporter! Love you to bits, sister 😄

ferraredbull LESTAPPEN WINS ONCE AGAIN

vers166 y/n should get an award for dealing w charles and max everyday

ynverstappen amen sister 🙏

landonorris Leave them and support me at McLaren!

charles_leclerc ??

maxverstappen No.

----------

tagging: @slytherheign

notes: ig imagines take sooo long 😭 lmk what u guys think!

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rainylana · 4 days

Text

“I’m not always bad.” Part two!

Eddie Munson x female reader

warnings: readers dad has cancer, enemies to lovers, (bullies reader in part one), language, mentions of religion and prayer, depression and anxiety. a lot of angst and fluff.

note: let me know if you want a third part!

Eddie backed off. Whatever class you shared, passing by each other in the hallway or the cafeteria, he backed off. He didn’t bother you, didn’t even look at you. Well, that wasn’t true. He looked, but only when you weren’t aware of it. It had been two weeks since you had broke down in front of him, and as each day passed, he could see you start to slip, start to deteriorate right in front of him. Everyone else was seeing it too.

You weren’t doing as much makeup like you normally did. Instead of putting on a full face, you applied some mascara. Instead of dressing up, you preferred sweats and a hoodie, your hair put up and away so you didn’t have to deal with it.

You weren’t bringing your lunch anymore, surviving off the snacks your friends would make you eat. You didn’t answer questions in class. You weren’t you, anymore. In just two weeks, you’d completely changed, and Eddie, most of all, didn’t like it.

He should talk to you. That’s what he should do, instead of staring at you all day. Over that time, he began to realize his feelings for you were not just hatred.

The day came when he decided he would say something. Say what, he didn’t know, but he needed to speak with you, needed to know that you were…okay, given the circumstances.

•

“And I don’t know if you can hear me, or…even care about what’s happening to my family, but please, God, please, I can’t watch him die. Mama can’t watch him die. Please make him better, I beg of you.” Your hands were folded above your knees, tears on your face and mascara smudged down your cheeks. You were at lovers lake, an isolated side of the park that was overgrown and lonely, much like yourself these days.

There was a singular picnic table, an old, rundown cabin that was falling apart. You’d only been through this area a few times, but the isolation made you feel welcome and at peace, hoping maybe that God could hear your prayers just a little louder here.

“Amen.” You sniffled, wiping your tears and sitting there emotionlessly. You stared at your hands in front of you, too scared to move, too scared to go home. You found yourself always scared, always anxious and alert. Your father was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer and was only given six months to live at best. You didn’t think you could go back to life before you’d been called down to the kitchen for a family meeting.

“Hey.”

You jumped, alert and alarmed at the voice that emerged through the wooded trail. You placed a hand over your heart, calming when you realized who it was.

“Eddie?” You asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” He held up a hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your…” He trailed off. “I walk here a lot.”

That wasn’t true. Eddie didn’t like to walk, or any form of exercise, for that matter. He’d followed you, listened to your entire prayer and cry for help, only to come out when your finished crying. It was hot out today, but that didn’t change his normal attire. Black jeans, ripped at the knees. White t-shirt with a little grease. His hair was extra shaggy due to the humidity. He had a bead of sweat forming above his lip.

“That’s okay.” You said meekly, looking back down at your fingers.

He stood their awkwardly, scratching the back of his sweaty neck. “Look, I can go-”

“No, no.” You waved a hand. “I should go. This isn’t my-”

“Don’t go!” He interrupted you, taking a step and stopping you from getting up off the picnic table. “I uh- sit.” He said to you, doing so himself, sitting across from you.

You weren’t aware just how much of a mess you looked, having forgotten about the tears and makeup mess on your face. He stared at you for a moment, watching you watch the lake. You were blushing—or, were you just red faced from crying?

Eddie gulped, not knowing what to say. A simple how are you would suffice, but he couldn’t seem to get it out.

“Do you need something?” Your eyes panned over to him, sunken and shallow. “I don’t have the homework done if that’s what you’re wanting.”

He hadn’t asked for it in weeks.

“How are you doing?” He bounced his knee, clasping his fingers together in front of him. “With…you know.”

You stared at him, and for a moment, you gave him that same look you did two weeks ago. Bewilderment, shock. But only for a moment, because you simply did not have the energy to put on a show, or care. Eddie noticed.

“I don’t know how to answer that.” You said honestly. “I guess I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t seem that way.” He was looking at you through thick lashes, analyzing your every move, like you were his prey. “Nobody knows yet, do they?”

You tried not to cry. You didn’t want to again, especially not in front of him. You’d already made a fool of yourself once.

“Just family.” You whispered.

You weren’t stupid. You knew Eddie felt bad for you. You’d cracked away at his hard shell and found some emotion inside of him. You just wished it wasn’t at your expense, and you didn’t need his pity.

“Do you need anything?” He found himself asking, quickly looking down to his own hands that he fiddled with, decorated in rings and cat scratches.

This was exactly what you didn’t need. You didn’t want a spotlight on you. You didn’t want him looking at you like you were going to break any second. You didn’t need Eddie Munson as your friend.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I do need to go.” He watched you stand up, and by your shaky hands, he knew you were still very upset. Had he upset you? Should he not have reached out to you.

“Y/n, wait!” He followed after you on the trail.

“What?” You whirled around. “God, Eddie, what is it?” Your eyes were round and wide, alarmed and scared.

He looked taken back, shooing a fly away from his face. “I just- I…I’m really sorry about your dad. I can see that it’s bothering you.” What a dumb thing to say! Of course it’s bothering her!

Don’t take it out on him. He didn’t do this. He didn’t cause it. He’s looking out for you. Him, of all people.

“Thank you, Eddie.” You gave him a smile mixed with a frown. “But I’m fine, I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

You left and he didn’t follow, and when he no longer could see you, he swore he heard the sound of someone sobbing.

•

Three days later and you still hadn’t told your friends. You knew you had to soon. They were concerned. Your teachers knew now, your mom had told the principal, after he had called your parents about your grades. You didn’t get in trouble, they all understood.

You were going in and out of listening to Chrissy talk about prom, your eyes filled with what felt like water and air. You felt like you were drowning. Your eyes burned and felt clouded, your vision was blurry. Your throat burned and you seemed to gasp for air, but you couldn’t. You sat there and listened, drowning inside.

But when you felt something sharp, piercing and full of concern fall upon your face, you looked over and found the hellfire table, their master, staring at you. Eddie was staring at you. You locked eyes with him briefly before turning back to Chrissy.

Two more days passed and everyone knew. You didn’t know how it got out, but you knew it would have sooner or later. You just wished it was later. Everyone was staring at you in class, including Eddie, and by lunch time, the cafeteria went completely silent when you entered. You could take the I’m sorry’s and the I’m here for you’s. You couldn’t take being watched, couldn’t take being talked about and whispered about behind someone else’s back.

You had turned quickly on your heal, flashing an angry emotion across your face that Eddie hadn’t seen in quite some time. You slammed open the doors and walked down the hall with a quick speed. Each step you took, your breathing got heavier and heavier, your head felt lighter and lighter.

You were gulping, choking on your sobs as you rounded the corner and ran down the stairwell.

I’ve gotta get out of here. I’ve got to get out of here.

When you tripped and fell flat on your face, that seemed to be the final straw. You screamed, cursing at the universe, god, whoever, as you stood back up.

“Y/n!” Eddie came running up behind you, panting just as quickly as you were. He widened his eyes at your state. “Hey, hey,” He rushed to you, and you couldn’t help it. You melted into his arms. You let him hold you.

Your limbs gripped his shirt tightly, pulling like he was a rope, and sobbed into his shoulder. You didn’t know why, but in that moment, there wasn’t anyone else you needed more than him.

•

“Thanks for the ride.” You said hoarsely.

It was only one o’clock, but Eddie offered to drive you home. You let him, not able to imagine going back to class after the scene you had made.

“Don’t mention it.” He out the van in park, arm stretched out to the wheel. “You gonna be alright?”

You nodded, tugging at your hoodie, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” You said quietly, excluded of emotion.

“Listen, about what happened at school,” He started, turning in his seat. “Everyone’s just surprised, that’s all. It’s like gossip to them. They’ll forget about it eventually.” He searched your eyes, hoping to make you feel better. “Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “I’m just…I don’t know. I might take a break for a few days. Maybe they’ll have dropped it by then.”

He didn’t want to go a day without seeing you. He was becoming more and more concerned, more and more attached, curious. You were becoming the very thing that kept him awake at night. He didn’t know why, but god, were you absolutely beautiful.

“Bye, Eddie,” You reached over and squeezed his knee. “Thanks for everything.”

He watched you walk inside, only seeing a small portion of your home on the inside. He hoped you would dream sweet things that night.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson blurb #part two #eddie munson angst

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queerprayers · 4 months

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Remembering the children killed by King Herod is traditional on December 28, and it's a story that has often been co-opted by anti-abortion activists who erase the context of the story—children killed out of fear by a ruling class. The holy innocents of Bethlehem take on new meaning for me today. I lift up this prayer in honor of all the recent holy innocents in that land and around the world, martyrs for the cause of existing, killed in fear that their witness will change the status quo.

We remember today, O God, the slaughter of the holy innocents of Bethlehem by King Herod. Receive, we pray, into the arms of your mercy all innocent victims; and by your great might frustrate the designs of evil tyrants and establish your rule of justice, love, and peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (from The Book of Common Prayer)

#empires will always feel threatened by life. and god being born as a child came down firmly on the side of life

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stevenose · 11 months

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tongue tied (18+)

summary: steve’s always gotta show you your place, doesn’t he?

contains: SMUT. gender unspecified reader; reader with a vagina; terms like slut/whore; mean!steve!!!!!; rimming (steve receiving); humiliation kink; degradation kink; copious amounts of dirty talk; polaroids; fluff/aftercare; probably ooc steve

author’s note: please let this idea take off amen 🙏🏻

this fic is intended for mature audiences. minors, do not interact!

You should have known better. Really.

Steve’s changed so much, but so many things have stayed the same. His near constant need to be on top, in charge, is one of them. He wants control of almost every situation he’s in. So when you embarrass him at work? Yeah, you’re getting it.

You know as much as when he comes to your house later that afternoon, practically slamming the front door shut. You have to bite your cheek to stop from smiling - getting Steve worked up like this was so fun. “Hi, honey. Good day at work?”

“Are you serious?” he asks, finding you in the kitchen, slicing up fruit. He’s had all day for his anger to fester, and your casualness, not an ounce of an apology - he’s rightfully pissed. He comes up behind you, but he isn’t sweet, wrapping his arms around your waist and doting. Instead, he shoves your hips into the counter, making you gasp and drop the paring knife.

“Do you think you’re fucking funny?” he spits.

“A little,” you admit. You’re still amused. “Want an apple?”

Steve’s big hand rests on the front of your neck, fingers grabbing your jaw. He forces your head back so you can look up at him.

“Here’s what I want,” he says smoothly. Confidently. “I want you on your knees upstairs. Is that something you can do?”

“Yes, Steve.” Something about your tone makes his blood boil.

“I’m checking your knees. Understand? I want you up there, naked, on the goddamn hardwood til I meet you there. Got that?”

You’re only struck now by how serious he is. He’s mad. Not that you’re upset about it, but you do want to make it up to him, and it doesn’t seem like an apology is going to cut it. You nod, feeling small under his gaze until he finally lets you go, mumbling something under his breath. You’re quick to hop up into your bedroom, throwing your clothes into your hamper and sitting on your knees in front of the door.

He’s had hours to think about this. Your demise. It has you a little nervous. You hear your shower start and your brows furrow. He’s usually not one to take his time when it came to things like this. You end up shrugging it off, certain he’ll be quick.

But Steve isn’t going to be quick. He wants to make you wait. He wants your knees sore when he walks in. He wants you teary eyed. And most of all, he wants you to feel just as humiliated as you made him feel with your big fucking mouth at Family Video today.

He really shouldn’t let himself get so worked up, but - how couldn’t he? When you were loudly telling Eddie Munson rather personal information about him that only you know about. Things only you are supposed to know about.

“He even likes getting tied up sometimes,” he heard you telling Eddie as he exited the back from his break. “Likes it when you make him feel pathetic. Should see how fucking red his cock gets.”

He has no idea what the hell possessed you to say that. It’s true, yes, but why on earth would you be telling Eddie right now? In the middle of his shift? Half eaten banana in his hand?

“Don’t worry,” you’d said, rolling your eyes at Steve’s incredulous - albeit pissed - expression. “He gets off on a little public humiliation.”

He spends rest of his shift with Eddie, there as a patron, completely grilling him on his personal, private sex life. And then he had to listen to Robin fake gag when Eddie was trying to fill her in when she arrived for her shift.

He thought about it for hours, what to do. How to get you back. How to make you feel just as embarrassed and humiliated. And, after a while of mulling it over, he’d found the perfect solution.

Steve’s known - for a while - that you would literally devour any part of him. He sees how your eyes go a little cross when he pushes you down to suck his balls. How your tongue glides right at the edge of his taint, how you moan and retreat. He knows you’re not opposed to it, but he’s also aware of how riled up it gets you. How your body heats up and you avoid looking up at him when your mouth is close to tasting him there. How you shift around on your knees, squeezing your thighs shut but not venturing any further.

He’ll let you live your slutty little fantasy out tonight.

Steve’s not bothering to wash his hair - it looks relatively fine, considering the amount of times his hand ran through it today - but he’s still taking his time. Lathering himself up in the body wash he’s left at your place. Exfoliating. Getting every single part of him clean so that you don’t bitch too much about what’ll come next.

When Steve enters your room, your knees are shaking. Your eyes immediately land on his half-hard cock and you almost giggle with excitement. He’s going to fuck you harder than he ever has, you’re so sure of it. You stay on your knees as he walks to your bed, grabbing a pillow and coming back. He throws it on the floor before you and beckons you onto it. You sigh in relief at the comfort, but you’re not totally relaxed just yet.

“Are you still mad, Stevie?” you coo, head cocked as you look up at him. Still teasing. “Didn’t get to blow off some steam in the shower, h-“

His hand grabs your jaw, tightening around your cheeks, shutting you up.

“I am so fucking sick of hearing you run your mouth,” he hisses. “So I’m gonna give it something to do.”

You’re elated. He’ll let you suck his cock, choke on it. Maybe if you’re lucky he can cum down your throat and in your cunt. You can hardly even wait.

But when he stands up, he turns around. And you freeze.

It’s his turn to laugh now, cruel and bitter. “You think I’m going to just let you taste my cock? That’s for good sluts. Good, pretty, quiet sluts get cock. Fuck, honey, you’re not even good enough for my balls.” He looks behind his shoulder so he can see how ruined you are - that deer in headlights expression, the hesitation. Fuck, it’s gorgeous. “Do exactly what I tell you. Understand?”

You nod slowly. His cock kicks.

“What do we say when we don’t like something?”

“I… we say ‘strawberry’.” You’re whispering, words caught in your throat.

“Mmhmm. But I know you’re going to love this, since you’ve got such a dirty little mouth. C’mere.”

You’re wrecked.

You do as you’re told, though, shifting forward with the pillow below you to get closer to him. You stare up at him, waiting.

“I’m going to be mean. Is that okay? Do you want that?”

“Yes,” you say, a little too quickly, and like he’s stupid for asking.

He smiles down at you, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s mean, it’s calculating. “Kiss my ass.”

You hate how much it makes you ache. You hesitantly lean forward and kiss the cleft of his left cheek, feather light. Steve chuckles above you.

“Aww,” he smirks, “look at you, honey. You love my ass?”

It feels like you can’t breathe. “N-no.”

“Hmm. You will. I’m sure of it. Do it again.”

You continue, kissing over the swell of his ass, cunt aching. It’s so dirty and humiliating, has your head spinning. You’re hardly listening to Steve’s remarks, a little lost until he’s gripping your hair in his hand.

“Did you hear me?”

You didn’t. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick.

He could fucking explode right now.

“I said to spread me open.”

You hesitate again and he scoffs. “Don’t act like you’re such a prude,” he spits. “Do it.”

You bite your lip as you do, spreading his ass open, facing the part of him you’d been too embarrassed to admit you wanted. Steve looks back at you again, laughing meanly. “You do love it, huh? Should see the fuckin’ hearts in your eyes. How about you give it a kiss, huh? Nice ‘n gentle, don’t wanna scare it off.”

You sigh and shiver, readjusting before leaning forward to gently place a kiss on his hole. Steve hisses, throwing his head back. “Oh, honey,” he sighs, hand finally finding his cock. “You’ve got the sweetest kisses for such a whore. Want you to make out with it, use some tongue.”

“Steve,” you groan. “Come on.”

“Oh, need some help?” His hand’s angling back to your hair again, pushing you between his cheeks. “I said to make out with it.”

So, you do. Forcing yourself to believe this is just something Steve wants. That it’s not making you ruin your pillow with how wet you are. That you haven’t touched yourself to the idea of doing this before. You make out with it as instructed, a little messy, letting your tongue dart out and taste the flesh. He just tastes clean, and a little bit like Steve.

“Wish you’d just listen,” he sighs, hand stroking his cock slowly, methodically, the other gripping tightly onto your hair. “Not s-sure why you want to be so difficult. Look where it gets you, huh? On your knees, worshipping my ass.”

His words fuel the mess between your legs and you really hope he doesn’t notice how wet you’re getting over this.

“Spit on it,” he moans. “Want it wet, make a mess of yourself.”

You pull back and spit, thighs clenching at the sight. You lean forward slowly and kiss the rim again, but Steve pulls on your hair. “Lick it,” he commands, “bet you’ve been craving to taste it, huh? Tell me.”

You have to swallow before answering. “I want to taste it,” you whisper, face hot, just an inch away from him. You lick him experimentally and, when nothing seems amiss, you lick a little harder.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, rutting his hips back slightly. “Tell me how it tastes.”

“Good,” you moan back.

“Details, honey. Do I have to fucking tell you everything?”

“It tastes like you,” you breathe. “It’s sweet.”

He laughs. “Christ, wish I had a video recorder. How about me telling everyone how you think my ass tastes like candy, huh? Keep licking.”

You’re not just getting off to the debauchery now - you’re getting off to his moans, his words, the way his hips chase the feeling of your tongue on his rim. “Suck,” he gasps, and he groans when you wrap your lips around his rim. “Have y-you done this b-before? Wouldn’t surprise me. Tongue fuck it, st-straighten your tongue and put it in.”

Steve cries out when you do, moaning a string of curses. “Christ, you’re so embarrassing,” he moans. “Sticking your tongue in my ass, obsessed with it, huh? Tell me.”

“I’m obsessed with your ass,” you whine, then continue your work, using your thumbs to keep him spread open.

“You’re too good at this,” he continues. “So eager to lick my ass. Dirty little slut. F-fucking ass drunk, huh? Bet your eyes are all crossed, b-bet - bet you’re dripping. Getting off on it, huh? Don’t you dare touch yourself.”

Christ, you want to. So bad. You’d do anything to alleviate the pain between your legs. It genuinely hurts, not being able to do anything about it. You try to focus your attention on Steve, on the movements of your tongue, listening to his whimpers so you know exactly what he likes. You’re a dirty slut, but you’re his, and you’ll be sure to know exactly how he likes this by the end.

“Should’ve made you do this right there,” he says. “Right in front of Eddie. Ma-made you fucking show him how much of a dirty whore you are. Would you have done it, sweetheart? Or would y-you be too shy?”

You’re close to tears just thinking about it. You’d literally never live this down, though it’s fair, considering the information you gave out. Steve won’t live his truth down, either. “Would’ve been shy,” you answer truthfully.

“That’s rich,” he laughs. “Fuck. Where’s your polaroid?”

You freeze again and Steve pulls on your hair, pushing you back. He turns around to look at you and has to pinch his cock to stop from busting at the sight. “Where’s your camera?”

“It’s - it’s out of film.” It’s a lie. But if there’s even a chance that he’ll show pictures to people, you’ll avoid it as much as you can.

“Is that what I asked?”

You want to bite him. “On my desk.”

He’s slow to go get it, picking it up and inspecting it. You wish he didn’t know how to work it. But it clicks, it flashes, it produces an image of the carpet he’d been aiming it at. He looks at you, half amused and half irritated. “Why’d you lie, honey? Don’t you want a souvenir of the first time you taste me? Don’t ya want to remember it? Or are you just that ungrateful?”

You’re going to explode. “I’m not ungrateful,” you say, shifting on your knees as he comes closer. He aims the camera at you, smiling when he looks through the view finder.

“Then thank me.”

He gets a picture of it, your teary eyes and spit-slicked face as you whimper a thank you for letting you eat his ass.

“I know you’ve wanted this.” Another click, another flash. “Doing you a favor, even after the hell you put me through at work.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He scoffs and beckons you towards the bed with a nod of his head. “I know. Come on.”

You’re relieved. He’s going to fuck you now. And you don’t care how many pictures he takes of it, as long as it’s not of your tongue in his ass.

So you really actually do tear up when he lays on his back, bringing his knees up towards his chest as he puts pillows under his shoulders. “You didn’t think you were done, did you?”

You’re practically pouring between your thighs when you join him on the bed, facing his hole again. You go for it this time, hoping that your enthusiasm will make up for things. It’s not even that you don’t enjoy this. You’d be his gutter whore any day of the week if he wanted. It’s more so how painful your arousal is, and how worried you are that he’ll actually stuff these polaroids in his worn leather wallet. And, above all, you really are sorry.

“Shit,” he laughs, running his fingers through your hair as you make out with his rim again. “You really love this, huh? Should’ve let you do this a long time ago.” Your eyes are closed, a little lost in him when the flash goes off again. “Oh, honey, that’ll be such a good one. Gonna make me cum when you’re not around.”

Steve’s trying so hard to last as long as possible. Until your tongue’s numb if that’s what it takes. But this new angle, being able to see you, it’s making him get worked up. His balls contract right on your nose and it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me,” he asks, though there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. You do, eyes wet as you gaze up at him through your lashes. He groans lowly and snaps another picture, throws the polaroid to the side so he can finally chase his high.

“Fuck it,” he moans, hands grabbing your hair and pulling you closer. “Oh, fuuuuuuuck yes. So fuckin’ - deep - you’re really sorry, huh?”

You moan around his rim. He can just barely make out the uh-huh you give. He gasps and arches his hips. “D-do - do that again - show me h-how fucking sorry y’are, stroke my cock too, baby.”

You’re quick to spit on your hand and stroke his cock while tonguing him and moaning. His eyes roll back and if he had any willpower, he’d take a picture. But he knows this won’t be the last time - you’re just as addicted to it as he is.

“Shit! Oh, honey,” he pants, fucking his ass up against your mouth, your nose, your face. He can’t even make sense of it anymore. He’s the one looking pathetic now, but he doesn’t care.

You pull off of him to gasp for air, kissing the area between his balls and asshole. “I’m sorry, Steve,” you whine, still stroking his cock. “I’m so so sorry. Thank you for giving me your ass, I fucking love it.”

Steve has to pull you back in, his stomach flipping and growing hot, cock pulsing and balls tensing up. “Sh-it!” he cries, throwing his head back as you milk him, your little tongue on his ass and hand stroking his cock. He’s getting cum in your hair. He forces his eyes open, chin tilting down, groaning low in his chest at the sight. So messy, so devoted. He weakly picks up the camera and takes one more picture before relaxing, pulling you off of him when it gets to be too much.

You rub his thighs, biting your lip. “Steve?” you whisper.

“Come here,” he whispers back. You climb up onto his lap and his hand immediately makes its way between your thighs. He smirks lazily at the feeling. “You’ve never been so wet, huh? Is this what you wanted when you came in today?” He’s easily working two fingers into your cunt, and you dig your fingers into his shoulders.

“Yes,” you whisper, nearly crying. “Wanted your attention, Steve.”

“Could’ve asked.” He crooks his fingers up just how he knows you like it, smiling when your back arches. “You know I’d give it to you.”

You nod and you push your tongue against the roof of your mouth. You’re so worked up and frustrated that the relief of his fingers inside of you has you about to cry. He notices and softens further, a hand resting on your hip. “I’m not mad at you anymore,” he says, almost pouting. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You did so good. Looked so fucking pretty and hot. I’m so god damn lucky, aren’t I?”

You cry, nodding. “You’re so lucky,” you sob. “Freak.”

You both laugh and he leans up to kiss your chest, slipping a third finger into you. “You gave me the idea,” he says. “Didn’t know how to ask, did you?”

You shake your head and hiccup. “Didn’t - mmm - want you to think I was weird.”

“Never,” Steve says. “But it’s not okay for you to tell people about us, is it?”

You shake your head again and cry a little harder. “I’m sorry. I just wanted - ah - to tease you a little. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” he coos. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

You moan and grind down on his fingers, hands reaching up to play with your nipples. You’re still crying, and it feels so good. The release of your emotions coupled with your growing orgasm is euphoric. Steve’s looking at you like you’re the universe and you cry even more, unsure how you got so lucky.

“I won’t do it again,” you continue.

“Shh, I know,” he comforts, thumb rubbing small circles into your hip. “Got these polaroids to remind us of that, huh?”

“Oh, can I have one?” you breathe. “Wanna get off to it.”

He grabs one - the best one, you between his legs while he’s reclined on the bed - and places it on his chest so you can see it. “Look how pretty you are, baby,” he says. “Look so pretty eating me out, huh?”

God, you really do. It sends shockwaves through you. It’s so dirty and disgusting and Steve’s three fingers are curling up against your sweet spot, and his thumb’s catching your clit, and you come hard with a cry. Your legs shake as you lean on Steve for support, shivering when he kisses your neck. “So pretty,” he whispers. “You’re so good, honey, so good for me.”

Steve gives you a minute to settle down, then pulls his fingers out. You’re in such a euphoric state of bliss and relaxation that you feel high. “I love you,” he whispers. He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “Can I get you cleaned up? I got us reservations at that Italian place you like at seven-thirty.”

“Huh?” you ask, brows furrowed. “When did you…?”

“Before I came home,” he smiles. “I’ll still take care of you even if I’m mad.”

#steve harrington smut #steve x reader #ns/fw #stevenose posts #mean!steve #running away now. hiding forever

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writing-in-glitter-pen · 5 months

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♡𖠣 patchwork♡𖠣 II childe x fem!reader II mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, cheery epilouge

Childe needs to see you before he meets his end; a precipice he is very near to by the time you find him miles from your home, crawling through the snow. To his confusion, you've taken him in and dedicated yourself to nursing him back to health. Little did you both know, your love for one another ran deep enough to heal all wounds.

content warnings: Childe is badly injured so there are descriptions of blood, broken ribs, aches and pains. Descriptions of applying medical stitches to close open wounds. Nothing too descriptive. I am not a doctor so do not try this at home. Mutually possessive themes. A suggestive comment in the epilouge. Let me know if I should add anything else!

Also, happy Thanksgiving everyone :) I am so grateful to each and every person who finds my work and enjoys it; these past six months of my blog being up and running has been so fulfilling and magical. I'm so lucky to have this community ♡ I'm sending all my love to you today ♡

“Blow.”

Childe puckered his split, dry lips and let out a weak breath---no power behind the gust at all. The hot steam that rose from the spoon you held to his lips mocked him; such a small opponent, unshaken and uncooled by his efforts.

You sighed; he wasn’t healing as fast as he should be...meaning, he most likely was ignoring your instructions and not adhering to his strict bed rest.

You were straddling him where he lied on the bed in your guest room, propped up by a mountain of pillows---including the ones from your own bed and the throw pillows from your couch; a desperate attempt to make him as comfortable as possible, which was a feat not easily achieved given his broken state. If you’d sat at his side, he wouldn’t be able to face you, since his cracked ribs made any movement excruciating. Even so, he refused to stay put, risking his health every time he got up in the middle of the night to use the shower or the bathroom. You told him you should be assisting him any time he had to exert himself, but he vehemently refused your help with his hygiene---it was simply humiliating that a grown man like him would need help washing himself, especially your help. “Save me my pride.”, he begged, the grim and embarrassed look on his face making you cave. You agreed to his demands as long as he’d let you walk him to and from the amenities, that way he wouldn't risk falling on his way and injuring himself further. But he’d still disobey and take himself there while you weren’t looking. You took to smelling his hair every time you came to check on him, smoothing it back and lifting your nose to his forehead to check if he showered without you getting him there safely. He always smelled clean, bringing that frustrated frown he loathed to be the cause of to your pretty face.

“You’ll kill yourself.”, you’d warn, “And I’ll have to bury you in the backyard.”.

He didn’t understand why you cared so much—why you, literally, dragged him back to your house after finding him beaten and bloody only a couple miles from your cabin, having crawled from a camp in a Snezhnayan forest he had been instructed to collect a debt from the residents of. They'd expected his visit and prepared an ambush of twenty. Normally, he could win a battle such as this with ease, but his exhuastion from the continuous missions he was assigned by the Fatui without breaks became too much for him. Thank Celestia you found him when you did, having fortunately been scavenging for snow berries in the very same forest.

He had been hauling himself in the direction of your cabin, trying to get as far as he could so that he might deliver you the letter he’d been saving in the breast pocket of his daily coat for years. One he’d carried with him always to ensure that, in the event he met his end, that his final confession would reach you.

A letter he’d been too cowardly to send to you in life—his one and only friend, the girl he grew up with in grade school, who he’d chosen to play make believe in the snow and ice-skate with, rather than hunting and roughhousing with the other boys in his class. It wasn’t that those boyish activities didn’t interest him, it was that his interest in you outweighed those hobbies by tons. You were everything, still were.

That’s why it was so mortifying that you had to nurse him back to health; shouldering the consequences of his deadly line of work.

Not only did he almost lose his life to his opponents, but for you to find him at his weakest made the shame burn all the worse.

You leaned over to where you brought the spoon a centimeter from his lips, nose nearly brushing his own as you gently blew on the sip of homemade chicken soup inside. He felt your warm breath on his lips, the feeling of you made his pale cheeks turn pink and weak heart sputter in his chest.

If his ribs weren't broken, if they were still in the healthy condition of a cage they once were, he might believe his chest housed a hummingbird; the pace of his heart mimicking the incessant beating of it's wings. The way just being close to you stirred and electrified him, you could bring him back to life with just a kiss.

Your eyes flicked back up to his, urging the spoon to his lips, indicating you wanted him to open them.

He did, his gaze not breaking from yours as he opened his mouth and let you feed him. It was such an intimate moment that you forgot to breathe, catching your breath as you watched him swallow the meal you'd prepared for him and him alone. Though you were both quiet, it felt like the room buzzed lowly around the both of you. He didn't know it, but the way he looked at you with such deep warmth made you shiver.

“You were up last night, weren’t you?”, you finally asked, already knowing the answer.

Indignity marred his face as he averted his eyes to the wooden floor of your house, but his break from your irritated gaze didn’t last long. You took his chin between your thumb and forefinger and redirected his attention back to your face.

“Tell me the truth.”

He had no choice now. You had him pinned.

“…Yes, I got up…sorry.”

Your disappointed face made him flinch—stinging more than your anger or scorn ever could.

You sighed, closing your eyes and moving your hand from his chin to cup his cheek, worried eyes boring into his and squeezing his heart.

“You’re delaying your healing process. Every time you get up without help—“

“I don’t need a walker like a decrepit, old man”, he spat, instant regret pailing him. He hated that he snapped at you, hated that he couldn't control himself. His embarrassment would overwhelm him---like it always did when you looked at him like a wounded animal. He turned his face away from you once again, but you pulled his attention right back.

“Stop it.”, your stern command sat like a rock in his stomach. Though, the heavy feeling dissipated when your gaze turned soft and fretting. “I’m sorry I’m playing 'demanding nurse', but I need you to work with me if you’re ever going to get better. I don’t want these wounds to be permanent; getting up without help will make your bones heal wrong, or open your stitches back up.".

He knew better than to take his eyes off of you at this point, but the guilt in his expression told you all you needed to know. His late night walk last night had come with consequences.

“You didn’t—"

Without warning, you threw the blankets off of him, only to find a bloody, crudely secured bandage over the deep laceration on his abdomen. He'd popped his stitches.

“Childe!”, your shriek made him wince. “Why didn’t you tell me!”.

“I’m sorry…”, he started, but you didn’t hear him. You were already running off to grab the first aid kit from the kitchen.

He was getting really sick and tired of disappointing you. He'd been in this room for weeks, been your constant source of anxiety and labor for weeks, and he wasn't getting any better.

...but you were never frustrated. Sure, he'd annoy you with his pride, but no amount of effort put into caring for him would ever be a waste, not to you, at least. He'd pop his stitches or worsen a crack in his ribs with a fall or sharp movement, you'd scold him, but no matter how many times it happened, you'd always redo them, always hold ice packs or heating pads over his aches; carefully, gently.

He watched your beautiful, soft hands work while they drew the needle and thread through him---and he wouldn't flinch. It didn't even hurt. It couldn't, when it was a mesmerizing sight; the way you left what would be permanent scars along his body---covering the old ones left by his enemy. Scars that were not made to wound, but to heal. Any mark you left upon him was gratefully accepted, knowing that he'd now carry evidence of you and your care with him at all times, all the way up until his last day in this world.

Like clockwork, the process was quick and painless. The first time you'd sewn him up, you had no clue what you were doing; fumbling and sobbing as you desperately tried to save his life. Tears clouded your view and your shaking hands couldn't safely find purchase on his abdomen. But Childe steadied you, held you close and whispered reassurances and apologies to you while talking you through every step. Now, he was like your personal patchwork doll. You'd sewn him up every time he went and hurt himself again, each stitch made with love and care.

When you were done, you wiped the area with a warm, firewater-soaked cloth, then applied an antibacterial ointment. He'd tried to take it from you, insisting he could apply it himself, but you smacked his hands away.

"You're my patient. Just sit back and let me take care of you.", you said it like it was nothing; a plain fact, your job. But it wasn't your job. He couldn't see why you were so compelled to shoulder this work yourself when you could've had him carted off to a Fatui infirmary the day you found him.

"They won't take care of you like I will.", was all you would say.

You knew the Fatui infirmary would prioritize getting their war machine in working order as soon as possible, rather than giving him quality treatment and time to heal. You also knew that, since visitors were not allowed into the Fatui headquarters, he would be all alone. And you wouldn't have that. You'd gotten letters to your residence that the Fatui knew you had their harbinger and were coming to collect him, but you used every one of them as kindling for the hearth in Childe's room. Soldiers had shown up at your front door, demanding entry or that you send their harbinger out to them, but to their surprise, you fought them like a wildcat. It was incredible how fierce you'd gotten over the subject of Childe's care, not allowing anyone but yourself to touch him. Your shouting startled the agents and they backed off as you swung the wooden spoon you'd been holding at them, warning them to get lost.

"He'll be back when he's healed and not a moment sooner!", you'd hollered as they begrudgingly trudged away.

Childe's gaze on you was proud and soft at the memory; you were the only person that had ever fought for him---and fought Fatui agents two times your size with a wooden spoon, too.

At your request, he greedily accepted your touch, closing his eyes as he let himself be blissfully consumed by the feeling of your kind hand smoothing the ointment over his skin.

When you finished, you sat back and examined him for a while. You did this often---like you were saving the image of him somewhere deep within you, like you were scared to forget him, scared to lose him. Your gaze washed him in warmth, his chest aching from the well of love he harbored for you. It made his eyes glitter and his heart ask questions it was desperate to know the answers to.

"...why do you put yourself through this?", the question slipped from his mouth in a whisper before he had the chance to think it through. It had been eating away at him since the day you took him in.

You tilted your head, the curious pout on your lips making him gulp; you were so very cute.

"Through what?", you asked.

"This.", he clarified, lifting his arms as much as he could to gesture to the situation you'd both found yourselves in. "...you know you don't have to.".

"I want to.", you argued. "The Fatui wouldn'---"

He interrupted your statement, "wouldn't take care of me like you would, I know. But that doesn't answer my question.", he looked into your eyes with furrowed eyebrows and painful confusion in his expression. "I know I'm burdening you. So why would you put yourself through this?".

In all honesty, he was terrified of your answer. He feared that asking would make you come to your senses and finally send him away; though he knew you deserved to get his hopeless corpse out of your house.

What he didn't expect was the lips he was so enamored with curving into a smile.

"You said you were mine; so you're mine to take care of. No one else's."

Now this perplexed him. He'd been yours since the day he met you, when your pretty face and gentle demeanor tethered him hopelessly to you from your first shared smile. And that tether coiled itself tighter and tighter around him with every day you spent at each other's side, every time he observed your unending compassion---building huts for creatures of the forest before snow storms would hit, patiently helping him with the school subjects he struggled in, babysitting his siblings with him while his parents were away...but what was so confusing was, he'd never told you. He belonged to you in silence and silence alone, neglecting to inform you of the hold you had on the heart he'd willingly given to you long ago.

He was at a loss for words, your exclamation hitting the nail right on the head. He was yours, but how did you know?

His wide eyes and crimson cheeks only made you chuckle, pulling his letter out of the apron you wore---the letter he'd saved on his person at all times for you in the event of his death.

"Unless this isn't yours?", you asked, cheekily.

His face paled. You must've found it after you'd taken him back to your house to care for him. You'd washed his clothes, including his coat, and emptied the pockets before throwing them in the wash bin---finding his letter for you safely tucked in the pocket that rested above his heart.

You opened the letter and read aloud your favorite passage to him:

"When you find my body, I ask that you carve out my heart and take it with you; it belongs to you, just as my body, my mind and my soul, though I fear the whole of me is too heavy for you to carry. Carry this, so you may have me and not be crushed by my weight. So you may have proof that I, and everything I am, belongs to you."

The rosy, dreamy smile that bloomed on your lips as you cantored his confession to him like gospel brought his deepest wishes and desires to life; you accepted him and his love with your full heart. His voice escaped him as you made his dreams come true with just a smile. Your perfect, perfect smile.

"Childe...", you said with a sweetness in your voice that rivaled any dessert he'd ever tasted.

His name falling from your lips made his heart jump.

"...yes?"

"...I love you.", the phrase left your throat like a quiet, ardent cry. I love you. It came from a deep, ancient part of your heart; a space carved out long ago for the boy you spent your childhood with, a space whose walls strain against the fullness of it. You'd stuffed it full of so much care for him, it felt like it was just a pinprick from bursting.

Your words made his own heart whine and scrape at the confines of his chest like a puppy wanting out of its cage so that it may find its beloved owner.

"That's why I take care of you. I love you.". It wasn't an explaination, it was a promise. It was a confession that you were just as tethered to him as he was to you.

Without another word, you scooted closer and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, careful not to lean too much of your body weight on him, but enough to envelop him in your warmth. He felt your heart beating against his, a passionate duet between lovers that had gone too long unsung.

He couldn't hold you in return, his arms aching too much to lift, but he buried his nose in the crook between your shoulder and neck, breathing in your scent as deeply as he could, pressing kisses to the soft space. You loved him. You loved him. He'd believe he was dreaming if the soreness from his wounds wasn't all too real---proof that he was living and breathing in the reality that you wanted him. That you wanted him and he was yours without any hesitation. Now, he was itching to heal, prepared to follow any rules you put in place for him as long as it meant that at the end of the process he could hold you like he wanted to---tight and possessive and finally.

He hungrily kissed his way up the column of your neck, just like he'd done in every daydream he had a moment to indulge in and in the periods of wakefulness he spun in before he fell asleep every night. Every waking thought he could spare was spent in dedication to you you you. He made his way up your jaw, to the sensitive spot behind your ear that made you gasp and shiver; spending a long, devoted moment tending to it eagerly. Then he kissed back down your cheek until he hovered right in front of your lips---pausing there. He looked up into your eyes amorously, pleadingly, silently asking for your permission to press his lips to your own. As if he was unsure if he was worthy or not.

Your loving gaze was enough to give him his answer.

So he shut his eyes and leaned into you as you braced yourself on his shoulders, squeezing them as his cracked lips finally met your own. He ardently devoured you, his desperation overcoming his physical limitations---abandoning his need for physical comfort in lieu of his need to taste you, to lick up every sweet kiss you would give him. He leaned forward as you attempted to pull away, his lips unable to satiate their craving. You relented, laughing lightly as you gently pressed him back down onto the pillows to relieve the sharp pain in his abdomen he sacrificed for a moment more of your lips on his. You indulged him, smoothing your hands up his neck to cup his jaw and hold him as you gave him as much as he wanted---which would never be enough.

No matter how much affection you'd give him, it could never fill the well of longing he'd been digging for you since the day he met you.

He'd yearn for you every moment of every day of his life. In this moment, he made a law for himself to follow: After he heals, he'll take care of himself, treat his exhaustion and avoid lethal injuries, so that he may keep coming back to you with his love in tow---offerings of affection he'd lay at your feet and pray you'd accept. He'd keep his heart beating so it would stay warm for you; so that the day you'd pry it from his chest would remain eras away.

· · ♡ · ·

"Childe, I can hold the spoon.", you demanded, attempting to snatch the spoonful of soup from his hand as he chuckled and evaded your swipes.

Your grumpy, flushed face was too adorable for his heart to take, and the sound of your stuffy voice was too funny.

Oh, how the tables have turned since the day you'd taken him into your home. Once he'd started adhering to your treatment plan wholeheartedly, he healed in record time. Your harbinger had grown stronger and livlier than ever, a feat which he acreditted solely to your kisses and love.

"All I'm saying is, I didn't start healing until you started kissing me.", he had claimed, grinning broadly as he brought you into his arms after being able to stand on his own without pain for the first time since his injury.

He'd moved in not too long after he came back from his first mission since his hiatus, favoring your cozy cabin over any mansion his money could buy. He was grateful to be home with you...but you'd caught a bug while he was away. When you opened your front door with bleary, puffy eyes and the sniffles, he couldn't help but pinch your cheeks and laugh, drawing you in for a kiss. You'd argued and tried to push his face away, shouting that he'd get himself sick, but he only captured your wrists and held them against his chest as he pressed his lips to yours.

"No weak little bug can take down a warrior as strong as me.", he'd arrogantly claimed...

...you hated that he was right.

So he got to steal kisses from you scott free while he nursed you back to health, just as you'd done for him.

And he delivered such sweet payback, playing 'demanding nurse' just like you had.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Open up. Medicine's gotta go down the hatch."

"You're not sleeping alone tonight, love. Gotta keep you warm so your cold doesn't get worse!"

"Maybe you shouldn't shower alone...you might faint. Just let me come with you."

You started to pick up on the fact that maybe not all of his rules and regulations were made solely in your interest.

Now, you were fighting him over whether or not you could feed yourself.

"My arms aren't broken!", you bickered, sniffling and pouting like a stubborn child.

"Ah ah ah! But any physical exertion could delay your progress. You wanna get better, don't you?", he argued, grinning like a fox.

"...yes."

"Then lay back and let me handle you. I gotta take care of what's mine, right?".

You only quit your grumbling because he looked so proud of himself. So cheerful that he got to make you feel better and call you his, just like you'd done for him.

He planted a kiss to your hot forehead, tutting as he pulled away.

"Your fever hasn't gone down yet. Let me get you a cool compress."

With that, he trotted off to the kitchen. You couldn't help but smile at his antics, running about without a break and spending every moment of the day doting on you---all for a little case of the sniffles.

And how could he not? You were his one and only love, and like he said, like he'll repeat any time you need to hear it...

You are his. He is going to take care of you.

#genshin x reader #childe x reader #childe x you #genshin childe #genshin ajax #genshin fluff #genshin x you #genshin impact #tartaglia x reader #genshin tartaglia x reader #childe fluff #friends to lovers #childe genshin impact #ajax genshin impact #ajax tartaglia #tartaglia x you #genshin tartaglia

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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months

Text

Washington State's capital gains tax proves we can have nice things

Today (June 3) at 1:30PM, I’m in Edinburgh for the Cymera Festival on a panel with Nina Allen and Ian McDonald.

Monday (June 5) at 7:15PM, I’m in London at the British Library with my novel Red Team Blues, hosted by Baroness Martha Lane Fox.

Washington State enacted a 7% capital gains tax levied on annual profits in excess of $250,000, and made a fortune, $600m more than projected in the first year, despite a 25% drop in the stock market and blistering interest rate hikes:

https://www.theurbanist.org/2023/06/01/lessons-from-washington-states-new-capital-gains-tax/

Capital gains taxes are levied on “passive income” — money you get for owning stuff. The capital gains rate is much lower than the income tax rate — the rate you pay for doing stuff. This is naked class warfare: it punishes the people who make things and do things, and rewards the people who own the means of production.

The thing is, a factory or a store can still operate if the owner goes missing — but without workers, it shuts down immediately. Everything you depend on — the clothes on your back, the food in your fridge, the car you drive and the coffee you drink — exists because someone did something to produce it. Those producers are punished by our tax system, while the people who derive a “passive income” from their labor are given preferential treatment.

The Washington State tax is levied exclusively on annual gains in excess of a quarter million dollars — meaning this tax affects an infinitesimal minority of Washingtonians, who are vastly better off than the people whose work they profit from. Most working Americans own little or no stock, and the vast majority of those who do own that stock in a retirement fund that is sheltered from these taxes.

(Sidebar here to say that market-based pensions are a scam, a way to force workers to gamble in a rigged casino for the chance to enjoy a dignified retirement; the defined benefits pension, combined with adequate Social Security, is the only way to ensure secure retirement for all of us)

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/25/derechos-humanos/#are-there-no-poorhouses

Washington’s tax was anticipated to bring in $248m. Instead, it’s projected to bring in $849m in the first year. Those funds will go to public school operations and construction and infrastructure spending:

https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/politics/was-new-capital-gains-tax-brings-in-849-million-so-far-much-more-than-expected/

That is to say, the money will go to ensuring that Washingtonians are educated and will have the amenities they need to turn that education into productive work.

Washington State is noteworthy for not having any state personal or corporate income tax, making it a haven for low-tax brain-worm victims who would rather have a dead gopher running their states than pay an extra nickel in taxes. But places that don’t have taxes can’t fund services, which leads to grotesque, rapid deterioration.

Washington State plutes moved because they relished living in well-kept, cosmopolitan places with efficient transportation, an educated workforce, good restaurants and culture — none of which they would have to pay for. They forgot Karl Marx’s famous saying: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

The idea that Washington could make up for the shortfalls that come from taxing its wealthiest residents by levying regressive sales taxes and other measures is mathematically illiterate wishful thinking. When the one percent owns nearly everything, you can tax the shit out of the other 99% and still not make up the shortfall.

Meanwhile: homelessness, crumbling roads, and crisis after crisis. Political deterioration. Cute shopping neighborhoods turn into dollar store hellscapes because no one can afford to shop for nice things because all their income is going to plug the gaps in health, education, transport and other services that the low-tax state can’t afford.

Washington State’s soak-the-rich tax is ironic, given the propensity of California’s plutes to threaten to leave for Washington if California finally passes its own extreme wealth tax.

There’s a reason all these wealthy people want to live in California, Washington, New York and other states where there’s broad public support for taxing the American aristocracy: states with rock-bottom taxes are failed states. All but two of America’s “red states” are dependent on transfers from the federal government to stay in operation. The two exceptions are Texas, whose “free market” grid is one nanometer away from total collapse, and Florida, which is about to slip beneath the rising seas it denies.

Rich people claim they’d be happy to live in low-tax states, and even tout the benefits of a desperate workforce that will turn up to serve drinks at their country clubs even as a pandemic kills them at record rates. But when the chips are down, they don’t want to depend on a private generator to keep the lights on. They don’t want to have to repeatedly replace their luxury cars’ suspension after it’s wrecked by gaping potholes. They don’t want to have to charter a jet to fly their kids out of state to get an abortion.

This is true globally, too. As Thomas Piketty pointed out in Capital in the 21st Century, if the EU and OECD created a wealth tax, the rich could withdraw to Dubai, the Caymans and Rwanda, but they’d eventually get sick of shopping for the same luxury goods in the same malls guarded by the same mercenaries and want to go somewhere, you know, fun:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

We’re told that Americans would never stand for taxing the ultra-rich because they see themselves as “temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” It’s just not true: soak-the-rich policies are wildly popular:

https://balanceourtaxcode.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/WA-State-Wealth-Tax-Poll-Results-3.pdf

The Washington tax windfall is fascinating in part because it reveals just how rich the ultra-rich actually are. Warren Buffett says that “when the tide goes out, you learn who’s been swimming naked.” But Washington’s new tax is a tide that reveals who’s been swimming with a gold bar stuck up their ass.

It’s not surprising, then, that Washingtonians are so happy to tax their one percenters. After all, this is the state that gave us modern robber barons like Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. And then there’s clowns like Steve Ballmer, star of Propublica’s IRS Files, the man whose creative accounting let him claim $700m in paper losses on his basketball team, allowing him to pay a mere 12% tax on $656m in income, while the workers who made his fortune on the court paid 30–40% on their earnings.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#economic-substance-doctrine Ballmer’s also a master of “tax loss harvesting,” who has created paper losses of over $100m, letting him evade $138m in federal taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/24/tax-loss-harvesting/#mego

These guys aren’t rich because they work harder than the rest of us. They’re rich because they profit from our work — and then, to add insult to injury, pay little or no taxes on those profits.

Washington’s lowest income earners pay six times the rate of tax as the state’s richest people. When the wealthy squeal that these taxes are class warfare, they’re right — it is class war, and they started it.

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Edinburgh, London, and Berlin!

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/03/when-the-tide-goes-out/#passive-income

[Image ID: The Washington State flag; the circular device featuring George Washington has been altered so that it is now the head of a naked man clothed in a barrel with two wide leather shoulder straps.]

#pluralistic #steve ballmer #irs files #washington state #soak the rich #capital gains #taxes class war #euthanasia of the rentier

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five-and-dimes · 5 days

Text

Run Away (But We're Running in Circles)

After a million years I finally finished this one!

Dream doesn't believe he is truly loved- Hob and Death simply love everyone, it has nothing to do with him. Cue those closest to him doing whatever they can to prove that he is, in fact, very very loved

AO3

The past two months have been a whirlwind for Hob Gadling in the best way possible.

So many things he once thought impossible (or at the very least highly unlikely) had come to fruition. His stranger had returned to him, his stranger apologized, his stranger called him his friend. Those three things alone had made Hob's heart feel like a star, burning and bright and alive.

And then the ethereal man had sat across from him, a gentle smile on his face, weary but sincere, before he smoothed his expression into something unreadable.

"I believe introductions are in order," Hob almost squealed like a fan girl as the man hesitantly held out his hand, "Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares. I have other names as well should you find this one unsatisfactory."

It's so ridiculous Hob would laugh if not for the dead serious note in his stranger- his friend's- voice. The idea that Hob would find anything about this being 'unsatisfactory', that he would declare his name not good enough and ask for another. Absolutely ludicrous.

Also a little sad, but he pushes past that.

He clasps his hand, face about to split from smiling so wide, "Dream," it feels so good to say, "a name that suits you perfectly," he adds because it's true. Then he smirks, "I'm Hob Gadling. I'd offer you another name but you've never complained about this one."

A breath escapes the other man, as much of a laugh as Hob has ever heard from him and this is the best day in Hob's very long life.

"Tell me of your life, Hob Gadling, for it has been too long since last we met."

Yes, it has, and for a moment Hob's joy dims. Then why did you leave me? Where have you been? Why now? What changed? Why now? The questions bubble uncomfortably in his throat.

He swallows them back.

Eventually he will allow himself to ask for answers- demand them even, perhaps, he thinks he deserves it- but not today. Today he wants to bask in the warmth of reunion. In the gentle glow of his friend’s shy smile.

So all he says is an earnest, “Yes. I have missed you dearly, my friend.”

When their meeting comes to an end, the sky outside dark and the employees of the inn not so subtly putting chairs up around them, Dream asks if Hob would be amenable to meeting more frequently, wringing his hands in front of him and not meeting Hob’s eyes, as though expecting to be denied.

Ridiculous creature.

And so they continue meeting, and Hob… has mixed feelings. He is glad to know more of his friend, to finally be given the answers he has been gnashing his teeth for. But sometimes when Dream speaks it feels more like bloodletting than sharing- like he is offering himself on an altar, inviting Hob to drive a dagger through his heart, like he needs to make a sacrifice to this thing called friendship.

He feels it most when he learns why Dream missed their meeting.

Hob feels the blood leave his face as Dream speaks of being torn from his realm, bound by magic, stripped and degraded and imprisoned and hurt-

“Dream,” Hob interrupts, his voice choked, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Across the table, Dream doesn’t look at him, “You are my friend.”

“Yes,” Hob agrees immediately, “And I will still be your friend if you don’t want to talk about this.” He tries to catch Dream’s eye, “Being your friend doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“Being a bad friend means I owe you everything,” Dream counters, and Hob wants to cry.

Hob does cry, “Fuck, Dream…” He almost missed the prideful and aloof king of centuries past. As much as he enjoys the easy smiles and the taste of a name on his lips, he would give it all away if it meant saving Dream from this pain.

Dream flinches but does not pull away when Hob reaches out to take his hands, “I’m not keeping a scoreboard with our friendship. You don’t have to pay me back if you make a mistake. And you especially don’t have to hurt yourself for me. We’re friends. So I don’t want you to hurt.”

When Dream looks up at him, he looks so confused. Head tilted and brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of the idea that someone does not want him to pay for his sins in blood.

“I do. Want to tell you these things,” Dream explains haltingly, head ducking again as he continues softer, “But perhaps. No more today.”

“Of course, love.”

Dream observes him again, eyes searching his face as though looking at a pile of puzzle pieces. Hob doesn’t know what he finds, or what picture he makes with the pieces, but for now he nods, shoulders slumping as the subject changes.

It gets easier. Or, it seems to at least. Dream tells him about Jessamy’s death quickly and her life extensively. He talks about his realm, his function, his subjects. And, eventually, he talks about his family. Some he only gives the names of, and nothing else. Some he gives brief histories of, or descriptions. And one in particular Hob learns much about.

He learns the most on the day he is given the joy of experiencing Dream having just come from an afternoon spent with his elder sister.

“I do not know why she is so insistent on spending time with me these days,” Dream grumbles, and Hob has to hide a smile behind his drink, because despite being the entities of Dream and Death (which had been quite the shock to learn), right now he is sitting across from a little brother exasperated with his big sister. “We are so different. I find it hard to believe she enjoys my gloom compared to her exuberance. Perhaps she merely delights in tormenting me,” he laments.

Hob laughs, "I think it's cute," he grins, "she clearly loves you."

Dream hums, not unhappily, and moves in a way that is too elegant to be called a shrug, "In a sense."

The tone doesn't match the words, and Hob scrunches his face in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Tilting his head slightly, Dream answers casually, "Simply that she loves me in a way similar to how you do."

And that has Hob's eyebrows shooting up to his forehead because he really, really hopes Death doesn't love her brother the way Hob does. "I'm not following."

Dream hums again, a quiet moment as he chooses his words, "Death has a love for all of humanity," he states, "and all that existence has to offer. Put simply, she loves everyone. It is in her nature. You, too, have a wealth of affection for all that you meet and all that you experience. So it is not a matter of loving me , but rather, simply loving in such a way that happens to include me by default."

There is a stretch of silence as Hob turns those words over in his mind. He struggles to fully grasp them at first, the sentiment conflicting with the way Dream presented it as irrefutable fact, something obvious and common knowledge, something Hob couldn't possibly deny.

But, shaking his head frantically to clear his thoughts, Hob was absolutely going to deny it.

"No!" Dream started at the vehemence in Hob's voice, "That's not true at all!" His voice was firm, and almost angry, which in hindsight didn't help the situation.

"...Oh," Dream's voice was soft, and carefully neutral, "I understand," he conceded. His body was like marble, and Hob could see the way he was consciously trying to mask his sorrow and Hob wanted to punch himself in the face.

"Wait, no, not like that! I didn't mean it like that!"

He hated this. Hated all of it. Hated that his friend believed he wasn't loved on purpose. Hated how quickly he accepted the idea of not being loved at all.

Reaching across the table, Hob clasped his hands around Dream's, sure but gentle. Dream blinked in surprise, staring down at the point of contact, and Hob waited patiently until their eyes met again to start speaking.

"I love you," and this was the true irrefutable fact, the true obvious and common knowledge, the truth that Dream could not deny. "You, specifically. You on purpose. I love you because you're you, and I love you apart from everyone else. And your sister does too, I know it. You are very loved, my friend, and it is not an accident."

Their eyes search each other's. Dream finds conviction, finds honesty, finds something he is afraid to identify as love. Hob finds old aches, finds disbelief, finds something close to fear. Dream looks lost.

“You really did miss me. When I was gone.” Dream whispers with awe, and it hits Hob like a punch to the gut that Dream hadn’t believed him before, had obviously assumed that Hob was just being polite or reciting a social script without really meaning it.

“Yes,” he says, soft and firm, “I really did.”

A soft sound of sand shifts at their feet beneath the table and Hob knows that Dream desperately wants to run away. Instead, he closes his eyes and grips Hob's hands tighter. Hob is so very proud of him.

"I fear I have dominated the conversation this evening," his voice is raspy, forced out between clenched teeth, "tell me of your week, Hob Gadling."

It is a plea desperately masquerading as a demand. There is only so much Dream can take at once, and Hob understands, and Hob loves him, and so he smiles and returns Dream's grip.

"You will not believe what one of my students submitted as their thesis for the end of the semester-"

~~~~

Hob doesn’t actually know if summoning Death is a thing he can do. Dream had, finally, after 600 years, explained the parameters of Hob’s immortality. It was actually pretty much what Hob had assumed given the question posed to him at each of their meetings; He would live as long as he wanted to, and when he no longer wanted to, Death would guide him to the Sunless Lands.

Well, Hob very much did not want to go to the Sunless Lands, but he did want to speak to Death.

“I refuse to look up any sort of magic bullshit for this,” Hob starts, feeling supremely silly for talking to himself in his empty flat. But he didn’t exactly have any other ideas. “So I’m going to assume in your weird Endless-ness that you can somehow hear me. I’m not looking to die today, or ever really, but I’d appreciate it if I could talk to you, Death of the Endless.” He pauses, and then adds on, “It’s about your brother.”

Apparently those are the magic words, as a voice almost immediately speaks up from behind him.

“Oh lord, what has he done now?”

Hob nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting around in his seat on the couch to see a beautiful woman leaning against his kitchen counter. While her style of all black matches her brother’s, that is where the resemblance ends. Bright eyes and glowing dark skin, a warm smile on her face. He hadn’t fully grasped how unhealthy his friend tended to look until this moment.

Shaking off the initial shock, Hob smiles back, “So you’re the famous Death, eh? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only bad things I’m sure,” she teases.

“From humans, perhaps, but not from your brother.”

She smiles fondly, and Hob can tell immediately that she cares for Dream. He wonders what Dream sees when he looks at her.

“You said you wanted to talk about him?” Death asks, “Not that it’s not nice to finally meet you, but I can’t be pulled away from work for too long.”

Hob shudders instinctually at the mention of her ‘work’, but he shakes it off as he begins to explain, “Right. So, normally I wouldn’t tell you this behind Dream’s back, but I don’t think he’ll ever tell you himself and I think you should know so that you can… help, I guess.” Death frowns, and her face darkens as Hob quickly recounts the conversation he had with Dream, and his assumptions on the nature of her and Hob’s love for him.

By the end, she looks heartbroken, but when she speaks her voice is dripping with annoyance.

“My little brother truly is an idiot-”

“Don’t,” Hob cuts in. It’s probably not his brightest idea to interrupt death herself, but he knows in his gut that he can’t let her gain momentum on this, “I didn’t tell you so you could scold him, I told you so you could love him.”

“I already love him!” she snaps.

“Love him louder then!” Hob snaps back fearlessly, throwing his arms up. “Don’t be mad at him for hurting! For whatever reason, he doesn’t recognize that we love him, but the reason doesn’t matter , not right now at least. We need to stop the bleeding before we worry about what made the wound.”

There is a long pause, the two simply staring at each other. Death looks a bit shocked, eyes wide and jaw tense. Hob stares back determinedly. He may not have known Dream as long as his sister, but he is positive down to his bones that Dream won’t see the “love” part in “tough love”. He’ll probably just see the admonishment.

He wonders if that miscommunication hasn’t been a wedge between the two siblings for a long time.

Finally, Death seems to deflate, her shoulders slumping even as she quirks a smile, “My brother would appreciate the metaphor.”

Hob chuckled, “Heh, I’ve noticed. It’s helped, honestly, figuring out whatever metaphor works best for him at any given moment, y’know?”

“Yeah. I do.” Death sighs, and for a moment she looks so old . So ancient. And when she meets Hob’s gaze he thinks she looks uncertain. “I do love him. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Hob answers softly. “But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

~~~~

Hob speaks every love language, but if he’s honest, cooking will always be one of his favorites.

He thinks of being a young peasant and his parents pushing food from their own plates onto his and his siblings’ so that they would never feel the sharp pang of hunger, and of the few kind souls during the 1600s who offered food to him, the fellow homeless who nonetheless would split their meager findings with him. Sharing food has simply always evoked the warmth of love for him.

It was part of why the rejection had stung so badly in 1589. A table full of food meant to be shared, and he had been left sitting there alone. A table full of love with nowhere to go.

Now, though, he is more determined than ever. Now he knows Dream, in a way he hadn’t for so long, and he is desperate in his desire to make sure Dream feels the love he is offering.

And so he offers him food.

“Come on, just a bite!” Hob nudges the plate closer to Dream. They are sitting across from each other at the kitchen island in Hob’s flat. He had spent the better part of the day preparing the most decadent mac and cheese he could- creamy and buttery, layers of cheese and pasta folded together with autumn vegetables and a coating of perfectly toasted breadcrumbs on top. Each ingredient was added with Dream in mind, with the desire to warm him from the inside out, to give him something indulgent that might put some meat on his bones.

He’s so thin. Not fragile, exactly, Hob is certain that this mystical being is stronger than he looks, and yet… There is something to be said about how one envisions themselves in dreams. Regardless of his physical capabilities, Hob can’t help but ponder over Dream’s manifestation, and how frail and hurt it looks.

“It’s a pretty standard ritual of friendship to share a meal together,” he says pointedly, smiling when Dream huffs at him. It feels maybe a little underhanded, as he knows Dream is trying very hard to be a good friend, but he doesn’t feel too badly when he sees the soft smile on Dream’s face. For all that he had vehemently rejected their friendship at first (or perhaps because of that initial rejection) he seemed just as moved to be called friend by Hob as Hob was to be called friend by him.

“I suppose I am bound by ritual then.” There is a strange note in his voice that Hob can’t quite place, but he is still smiling, so he wonders if that is just what Dream sounds like when he tries to make a joke.

Either way, he finally reaches forward to pick up his fork, taking a delicate bite of the gooey mess Hob had served him.

“Well?” Hob asks, barely hidden eagerness in his voice.

Dream swallows, his posture becoming impossibly straighter as he looks at Hob fondly, “You are a fine cook, my friend.”

Hob can’t suppress a grin, leaning back casually in contrast to his friend’s sharp and stiff bearing, “I’m glad. It’s a useful skill when you have companions in need of spoiling.” To his delight, a soft, almost imperceptible blush blooms across Dream’s cheeks. If Hob wasn’t so practiced in observing him he might have missed it. He’s glad he didn’t.

The evening is a quiet one, sharing stories between bites, and Hob is happy. He wills the food to fill his friend. He sends a prayer that Dream’s body might become soft with his love.

~~~~

“Come on, I want to show you something!”

Dream is becoming more accustomed to his elder sister’s spontaneous visits. After her chastisement, the day she pushed him to reunite with Hob, he had expected to not see her again until it was obligated of her. For all her joy and bright smiles, he could not imagine she would actually enjoy his company. Perhaps because of her joy and smiles.

He did not expect her to willingly subject herself to him.

And yet, she had come to him. She had called to him through their galleries, inviting him into the humble space she called her home when she was not ushering souls to her realm, and inquired about his meeting with Hob Gadling. She had smiled, and squeezed his hand, and told him she was glad he had someone to call friend. He assumed she must be glad that there was someone else to deal with him, and this meeting was merely to ensure that there was someone else out there holding his leash.

Then she called him again.

And again.

It kept happening, and while a part of him felt guilty and selfish, he could not deny that he enjoyed his sister’s company. And so he allowed himself to set aside his quest to understand why she was doing it. His elder siblings have ever been a mystery to him, and whatever her reasoning, even if it was simply to keep him in line, he decided to allow himself this small joy in his sister’s presence.

Today, linking their arms together, Death practically skips as she pulls Dream from his realm. Despite himself, he can’t help but smile fondly at her enthusiasm, allowing her to guide him to the waking and into a large building. He can feel the shroud of Endlessness around them, and knows that they are walking unseen. It piques his curiosity. Death normally insisted on walking among mortals specifically to interact with them, even if only a little. The fact that she now hides them is unusual.

Glancing around, Dream finds that they are in a natural history museum, surrounded by various educational exhibits. There are murals of ancient, long gone animals and cases with their bones, plaques with information and names, interactive screens and displays. Eventually, they enter a room dedicated to plants and flora of the distant past. Death walks purposefully towards the back, glancing at Dream with an excited smile as she points to one of the displays.

“Look.”

On the pedestal in front of them is a small, square piece of amber, and within the amber there is a flower. It is small, five petals floating in the resin that Dream remembers holding in the palm of his hand so very long ago. Not as old as Dream, but older than humans, old enough that no creature on this plane dreams of it.

Dream used to keep them on the windowsill of his bedchambers.

“They were your favorite.”

Death’s voice breaks him from his revelry, and he realizes that he has been standing as still and frozen as the flower for several minutes.

Her words were not a question, but Dream nods anyway, “Yes.” The word cracks just slightly, and it takes effort, but he turns his gaze away from the flower to look at his sister, his brow furrowing in confusion, “You… remembered?”

“Of course,” Death speaks softly, as though to not break the fragile air around them, but still smiles warmly, “You gave me some, once, and I understood why you loved them. They were lovely.”

Nodding again, Dream swallows thickly, turning back to the fossil before continuing, “They faded from the Dreaming when the last creature to remember them passed to the Sunless Lands. They exist now only in the deepest pages of the Library.”

“And here,” Death corrects, tilting her head towards the exhibit, “They exist here, now, too. Humans found them. They’ll remember them,” she puts a hand on Dream’s shoulder, squeezing lightly and grinning a little wider, “Maybe someone will dream of them again!”

But not as they were , Dream thinks to himself. Any dreams of this small, fragile flower will not be the same as the ones Dream kept growing in his window, the ones he tucked behind his elder sister’s ear, the ones he held close to his chest when he was overwhelmed. They will never be the same again.

Reaching out, he lets his fingers brush against the fossil, the golden color hiding the true hues of the precious petals within, and it feels cool and cold like glass and suddenly Dream thinks he sees a hint of his reflection in the amber. Unneeded breath catches in his chest, and he wonders if this is how he would have been remembered if he had not escaped from Fawney Rig. Lost and forgotten and buried only to be dug up like this . Frozen and painted over with someone else’s color.

Assuming he was remembered at all.

His vision blurs, and his fingers tremble as he traces over the shape of the trapped flora, nothing but cold cold cold where once there had been soft and fragrant petals.

“Dream?”

Death moves to stand in front of him, pulling him away from the fossil and blocking his view. He blinks, and realizes that he is crying, but the tears are thick, and slow, and his vision has taken on a yellow hue. Raising a hand to his face, he catches a tear on his fingertips and stares down at it.

He is crying amber.

“Hey, it’s alright, little brother, you’re okay-” Death looks caught between panic and heartbreak, eyes wide and bracing her hands on Dream’s shoulders. It only makes him cry harder. Amber runs down his cheeks, dripping sluggishly from his chin into his cupped hands, sticking to his eyelashes, and he feels half-fossilized already.

Gentle hands run through his hair, guide him to kneel on the floor, and he feels the shift from Waking to Dreaming, his sister taking him home. He thinks it might not be so bad, to be petrified and buried here in the Dreaming. He thinks he might be worth more as an excavated relic than he ever was as a living being.

But. There is still a hand stroking his hair, another wiping the thick tears from his face, heedless of the mess. There is a voice beside his ear shushing him, “Oh, little brother, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He inhales, choking on the resin in his throat, closing his eyes as he lets the cool air of the Dreaming reach his lungs and slow his tears.

The resin is drying on his cheeks, and it is a struggle to open his eyes again, shards of amber encasing his eyelashes. He glances down at the pool cupped in his hands, and then sees the resin smeared over his sister’s fingers and nearly starts crying again.

“I. I apologize-”

Shushing him, Death reaches out to take his hands, tipping his palms until the amber pours out, dripping onto the stone floor of the throne room until she can curl their fingers together. Dream’s breath hitches, and he tries to pull away. He envisions the resin on their hands hardening, encasing their fingers together in amber, and how cruel it would be to subject his beloved sister to being stuck with him .

Death holds on tighter.

“It’s alright,” she leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, “take a second, Dream. Everything is alright.”

It’s really not. But reluctantly, Dream takes her advice. He breathes deeply, tries to loosen the hold his anguish has on him, dilutes it with the comfort his sister so readily offers until the resin begins to thin. Slowly, with each breath the amber turns to salt water. He still feels stiff. He still feels trapped. He thinks he simply moved the amber into his blood. Death is still holding him.

He inhales shakily, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Death responds, soft and casual. They are still kneeling on the floor, and she leans back just a bit, still holding his hands but giving him a little more space, “I didn’t mean to upset you-”

“It was no fault of yours,” Dream interrupts, “I. Appreciate the gesture.” Looking up, he adds on, “I did not expect you to remember such an insignificant detail about me.”

“It’s not insignificant. It’s you. And you’re not insignificant.”

Those words are what finally make him pull away. His movements remind her of a mannequin, stiff and jerky, popping joints back into place after falling apart until he is once more solid and immovable. He folds his hands in his lap, and he does not look at her.

“I am aware of the importance of my function. I have not forgotten your words to me.”

Death consciously holds back a sigh of frustration. Settling back onto her heels, she takes a moment to look at her brother. She thinks of all the harm that happened in his absence, all the dreamers whose hands she took while her brother sat silent in a cage. She thinks of her words to him when they met again in the Waking after his escape. She thinks of Hob telling her that her brother didn’t feel loved, and how she had immediately put the blame on Dream. After all, how could he possibly think she does not love him for him ?

She thinks she’s starting to understand.

“I worry about you, Dream,” she whispers, reaching out to smooth back his wild hair, “I worry that one day…”

One day, Death will have to take the hands of all of her siblings. She knows that.

But she hopes that day is far away.

Dream looks up at her, head tilted like one of his ravens, “But I would still. Be there. Like the flower in the amber.”

“But not the same.” Death closes her eyes, the words soft with heartbroken realization, “Not you .”

Reaching up, Dream gently removes her hand from his hair, “Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate, opening her eyes to look at him fiercely and gripping his hand. Dream sighed, but did not try to pull away. He still looks stiff and tense, and he swallows thickly, like there is still resin in his throat.

Death cannot help but laugh wetly. This day had not gone the way she had hoped. “Next time I want to make a point I’ll just get you something in your favorite color.”

“You do not know-”

“Green.”

Dream’s head snaps up, eyes wide in shock, and when Death smiles back, it is smug, but also fond, and sad, and- he thinks, maybe- loving, “I’ve walked through your gardens, Dream. I’ve sat in Fiddler’s Green. I’ve seen the landscapes you’ve created. And I noticed. Because I love you.”

When Dream looks at her, she can’t help but think that he does not believe her, not fully. But there is something in his eyes, a desperate longing. Like he wants to believe her. Like he wants it to be true.

Don’t go , Death doesn’t say, Don’t go. Stay. Stay so I can prove it to you. Stay long enough for me to convince you. Just give me some more time.

Desire used to love me, Dream doesn’t say, and then time passed.

“I love you as well, my sister.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, and only barely fights back tears, “I know.”

~~~

Something is not right with Hob’s plan.

It has become a regular occurrence for Dream and Hob to spend an afternoon or evening together several times a week, making it easy for Hob to guide them to a meal. Lunch at the university cafe between Hob’s lectures, dinner at a new restaurant, pots of stew that Hob had let simmer throughout the day, waiting for his friend to share a bowl with him. Each time Dream smiled and accepted his offers, diligently clearing his plates and complimenting Hob on his choices.

And Dream was getting thinner.

He didn’t notice the thinness at first. No, he noticed the layers first. Dream tended to bundle up, to keep himself covered regardless of the weather, and Hob understood. He himself sometimes caught himself pulling his coat around himself a little tighter when he remembered the details of Dream’s imprisonment. So Dream adding extra layers to his ensemble- sweaters and scarves and hoods on his coats- Hob assumed it was just a result of Dream still working through his trauma.

But as time passed, he noticed the way his friend’s already impossibly sharp cheekbones became impossibly sharper. The way the bones in his hands stood out in stark relief each time he reached for his fork.

Hob didn’t understand it.

Sitting in his flat now, not expecting company since he saw Dream in all his fragile, delicate beauty the night before, he wracks his brain to try to piece together what might be going on with his friend. He is deep in thought, hands steepled as he leans back on his couch, so he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of loud, frantic tapping on his window.

Glancing at the window, he blinks in surprise at the sight of a large crow or raven that he swears is glaring at him. For a long moment, he simply stares, contemplating whether this warrants a call to animal control or if he should just wait for the bird to leave. He is debating trying to shoo it away himself when it taps on the glass again, somehow even angrier.

“Hey!” An unmistakable American voice projects from the Raven’s beak, “Open up, asshat, I wanna talk to you!”

In the grand scheme of things, this is not the strangest thing to happen to Hob, and yet he still nearly falls off the couch as he flails in surprise.

“Excuse me?” He stands and cautiously approaches the window, “Who, or what, exactly are you?” He demands. Hob may not be the brightest bulb in the shed, but he knows better than to let strange, angry, talking ravens into his home without taking precautions.

The raven huffs, “The name’s Matthew, Hob Gadling ,” he spits his name out pointedly, “And I’m here on behalf of Lord Morpheus, so let me in so I can shake you down properly!” He flutters a bit, letting his talons scratch at the window threateningly.

Perhaps Hob should be even more wary, given that the Raven both knows who he is and is clearly already upset with him for some reason, but the mention of one of Dream’s titles has him throwing the window open.

“Wait, Dream sent you?”

The raven- Matthew, Hob reminds himself, shaking his head in bafflement- glides through the open window to land on Hob’s coffee table, turning back to glare at him again.

“He didn’t send me, I’m here on his behalf ,” he clarifies haughtily.

Tilting his head, Hob riffles through his memories, trying to recall every name Dream has mentioned in his stories of the goings on of his realm between their meeting. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he remembers Dream mentioning a Matthew a few times, usually with fond exasperation.

“I think Dream’s mentioned you to me… you’re one of his subjects in the Dreaming, right?”

“I’m not just a subject ,” Matthew replies with great offense, “I’m his raven .” He puffs his chest out proudly, in a way that Hob thinks more than proves that he is someone who spends a lot of time with the Dream King.

“Right, he definitely failed to mention that detail,” Hob teases good-naturedly. There doesn’t seem to be any urgency here, so he allows himself to grin widely, “It’s nice to meet you! I haven’t gotten to meet any of Dream’s other friends.”

“Yeah, I noticed, and I find that highly suspicious,” Matthew declares, “What exactly do you have to hide, huh?”

“Uh, it’s not really hiding, I just… don’t know how to contact you?”

“A likely story.”

“I mean if you tell me how to call you I’d love to hang out more-”

“What’s your deal, huh?” Matthew interrupts, “What exactly are your intentions with Lord Morpheus?”

Hob is suddenly struck by the uncomfortable feeling that he is being given the shovel talk. By a bird. About a man he is, unfortunately, not even dating.

“No intentions, really,” he tugs his ear nervously, “I just. Enjoy spending time with him, is all.”

Matthew’s feathers ruffle in agitation, “Humans are conniving pieces of shit who can’t be trusted within a ten mile radius of any sort of power,” he declares, with the authority of someone familiar with being a ‘conniving piece of shit’ himself, “so excuse me if I’m suspicious that Average Joe over here is just ‘hanging out’ with one of the forces of the universe.”

“I don’t think I’m that average-”

“And another thing! Stop guilt tripping him into eating, you ass!”

Hob’s jaw drops at the accusation, “I- wha- he’s skin and bones!”

“Yeah, and you making him sick all the time isn’t exactly helping the situation, pal!”

“Wait, what?”

“Jeez, you’re slow on the uptake,” Matthew huffs in annoyance, “He’s not human, dude. So human food doesn’t work with him. It’s like… you know that scene in Twilight- the books, not the movies- where Edward eats a slice of pizza? And then in an interview Meyer said-”

“Okay, stop, stop stop stop,” Hob cuts off Matthew’s rambling, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But he takes a human form when he’s here though, right?”

“He looks like a human,” Matthew clarifies pointedly, “That doesn’t mean he functions the same as one. Just because you can fit bologna in a CD player doesn’t mean it’s going to work out for ya.”

A slow dawning sense of horror fills Hob, and it must show on his face because Matthew tilts his head to the side curiously, his tone gentling for the first time since his arrival, “You really didn’t know, huh.”

Hob shakes his head miserably, moving to sit heavily onto the couch, “No. Dream has tried to explain the whole ‘Endless’ thing to me, but it’s so complicated. And he never mentioned that he can’t eat, and he just looks so thin and I just wanted to help-”

“Okay, alright, it’s okay!” Matthew flaps his wings a few times desperately, “Please don’t cry. If you cry, I’m gonna cry, and I’m not ready to find out if dream-ravens can cry or not.”

“I can’t believe this whole time I’ve been making it worse.” He thinks again of 1589, of Dream barely glancing at the spread Hob had offered him. He’s always known Dream wasn’t human. He feels like an idiot.

“I feel like an idiot,” he admits out loud.

“I mean, you are,” Matthew replies, ignoring the halfhearted glare Hob gives him, “but you’re not a malicious idiot, which was really what I was more concerned about. In my head you were like, trying to weaken him before making your move or something.”

The very idea makes Hob sick, and he shakes his head vehemently, “Never. He’s my friend . I get that humans hurt him recently, but I don’t care about his power, I just care about him .”

“Hm. You definitely seem sincere. I suppose maybe I should have just tailed you for a bit before coming in guns blazing. But my job is to protect the boss and he’s been looking a little rough recently, so. Y’know.”

Sniffling, Hob glances up at the raven, watching as he shifts on his feet anxiously. Hob blinks in realization as he speaks, “You really care about him, huh?”

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” Matthew shrugs as much as he is able, his tone becoming more casual, “Honestly it’s kind of hard not to. I mean have you seen the guy? Like, he’s supposed to be this all-powerful force of the universe, but he feels more like a kitten you find hiding from the rain under your car, y’know?”

Hob barks out a laugh, “I don’t think he’d appreciate that comparison, but you’re absolutely not wrong.”

“It’s not like he didn’t care about me first!” Matthew states, almost defensively. He flutters over, settling on the couch cushion next to Hob and he gets the impression that they should be sharing a couple beers right now, gossiping about their mutual friend, “He tries soooo hard to be all cold and aloof, but he knew me for five seconds and tried to keep me from doing my literal job ‘cause he was worried I’d get hurt.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Hob smirks, shaking his head fondly.

“I can’t believe I had to die to finally get a good boss,” Matthew huffs, “Honestly that’s the craziest part of my afterlife. Turned into a raven? I can shrug that off. I enjoy my job and love my boss? THAT’S the part I have trouble believing.”

Snapping his head over, Hob blinks for a long moment. Matthew’s feathers fluff up at his staring, “What? What did I do?”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Hob’s face, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Want to help me with something?”

~~~

When Dream arrives for a visit two days later, Hob doesn’t even bother saying hello.

“Can I hug you?”

Dream blinks in surprise, tilting his head curiously as Hob stands patiently in front of him. When he finally nods, looking confused but not uncomfortable, Hob wastes no time wrapping his arms around his friend and pressing him close. He can feel the shape of his manifested skeleton through the layers of his coat.

“Dream,” he sighs sadly, one hand guiding Dream’s head against his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Dream moves as if to pull away, but does not struggle when Hob tightens his grip, “You have done nothing to warrant an apology.”

“I’m sorry for pressuring you to eat.”

Now, Dream jerks back, and Hob lets him go, though he keeps his hands on Dream’s shoulders. He looks surprised now, and somewhat guilty, “What do you-”

“Matthew told me,” Hob explains, “Oh, yeah, I met Matthew by the way. Good guy. Or, raven, or whatever,” Dream scowls, and he quickly continues, “He was worried about you.”

“He need not have interfered,” Dream looks away, body stiff under Hob’s hands, “There was no need for his concern.”

Hob sighs, “Dream. You could have told me you can’t eat food in the Waking.”

There is a pause as Dream considers his words, gaze still steadfastly avoiding Hob’s. “You… enjoy food,” he states, “and cooking. And you. Said it was a ritual among friends.”

“I know,” Hob winces, “I understand how it might have sounded when I said that, but… Dream, we won’t stop being friends just because there are certain things we can’t do together.” Dream doesn’t answer, his body as stiff and cold as a statue.

“Dream,” he ducks his head to try to catch Dream’s eye, “I won’t love you less if you tell me no.”

And that has Dream’s head snapping up, eyes wide with surprise in a way that makes Hob’s heart crack.

“I mean it,” he insists, “I won’t be mad, or- or offended or anything if there’s certain things you can’t do. I’m sure there’s plenty I can’t do because of my humanity that you wouldn’t hold against me, yeah?”

Dream frowns, confusion on his face, “I would not ask you to take part in anything that went against your nature.”

Hob tilts his head back and sighs, his mouth curling in a fond smile, “You’re so close. You’re right there.”

There is a long pause as Dream seems to turn his words over in his head. “You. Also would not ask me to take part in something that went against my nature? Even if it is something you enjoy?”

“Exactly,” Hob grins, “I don’t enjoy it if it hurts you.”

“Despite how I have treated you in the past?”

Hob’s grin falls so fast it hits like whiplash, “Of course not!” He feels his chest tighten in horror, “Is that what you thought? That I would be okay with hurting you because we got in a fight once?”

Glancing away, Dream’s brow furrows in consideration, “It is not… I did not believe you were doing it on purpose,” he admits, which does lift a little of the weight from Hob’s heart, “I merely…” he looks up at Hob through his eyelashes, “I did not want you to think that I do not take our friendship seriously. I wanted. To prove myself. To prove that I am capable of being worthy of your companionship. I have declined your offer of friendship once already. To deny a ritual of friendship offered to me now would be unforgivable.”

“Only because there would be nothing to forgive,” Hob replies softly. Before Dream can say anything else, Hob pulls him back into his arms.

“I. Did not mean to upset you,” Dream says tensely.

“You didn’t.” Hob gives him one last firm squeeze before reluctantly releasing him, “Now, my friend,” he says it again in hopes of reassuring Dream, who still looks anxious and lost, “Matthew didn’t say anything about you having ill-effects from our movie nights, yeah?”

Dream hums, and the slightest bit of tension leaves his shoulders, “Indeed. I have been. Enjoying experiencing this new media with you,” his lips twitch towards a smile, “And you promised me an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet tonight.”

Hob groans dramatically, placing a hand on Dream’s back to guide him towards the couch, “The only reason I’m allowing it is because the setting is different enough for me to almost forget it was inspired by that twat Shaxberd.”

“Technically it was inspired by me.”

“Well then sit down and enjoy the fruits of your labor,” Hob laughs, getting West Side Story set up for them to enjoy. The curtains are drawn to cover the glass panes of the windows, there are blankets and pillows strewn across the couch, and there are no snacks or food on the coffee table in front of them. When he looks at him, Hob thinks Dream looks a little… softer. A little more comfortable.

A little more loved.

~~~~~~~

“What’s on the docket today, boss?”

Matthew lands carefully on the Dream King’s shoulder. He had spent what felt like several hours accompanying Mervyn throughout the castle grounds, pestering him with questions and prodding him for stories as he made minor adjustments to the landscape, and now he felt energetic and ready for a task. Sometimes Matthew felt like he was a better raven than a person. If nothing else he was happier as one.

Dream hums as he walks down a quiet path outside the castle, “I must check in on the dreams of light to see how my newest creations among them are settling. And ensure they do not require more added to their numbers.”

The ‘dreams of light’ were how Dream had explained a particular sect of dreams to Matthew. They were created for dreamers who felt as though they were in the deepest darkness, those who saw no hope for themselves. They were dreams meant to inspire and revitalize.

“So they’re like, the light at the end of the tunnel, yeah?” Matthew had responded when Dream had explained.

“Yes,” he had replied with a small smile, “That is not an inaccurate comparison.” Matthew had beamed with pride at understanding a little more of this new realm he called home.

Meeting the dreams of light had been enlightening- pun absolutely intended- in a lot of ways. Mostly, Matthew learned that Lord Morpheus was deeply uncomfortable with them.

He didn’t think it was a matter of him not liking them or anything. But there was something in the way he had walked and held himself when in their presence. It reminded Matthew of how he had felt the first time he had held one of his friends' new baby; utterly adoring, and absolutely certain he was about to break it.

“I can deal with ‘em, boss.”

Dream turns to glance at the raven shuffling on his shoulder, brow furrowed, “I have already stated that I would do so.”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t want to,” Matthew shrugs his wings nonchalantly, “Unless you have some other important raven errand for me, just let me handle them. I don’t mind.”

With a deepening frown- born of confusion rather than displeasure, Matthew notes- Dream raises his arm, and Matthew instinctually hops from his shoulder to his forearm, allowing them to look each other in the eye. “Wants have no authority within my duty. If a task must be done then I shall do it.”

“Uh huh, yeah, I get that,” Matthew nodded, “but does this particular task have to be done by you ?”

“...I. Suppose not.”

“Great! Then delegate! I mean, I’m offering. Those guys don’t bother me the way they do you, so it’s not an issue, really.”

“I have not expressed that they bother me.”

Matthew sighs, shifting from foot to foot a little nervously, “Listen, don’t file an HR complaint for me saying this, but I love you, and so you are not as subtle as you think you are when it comes to being uncomfortable. To me at least.”

There is a long moment of silence as they stare at each other, Dream blinking in surprise, and Matthew tilting his head back and forth out of some strange raven instinct to view his boss from different angles.

“...We do not have an HR department in the Dreaming.”

“I can’t tell if that’s you telling me you are upset or aren’t upset.”

To his shock and awe, Dream smiles. A small huff escapes his lips, the closest to a laugh Matthew has ever heard in his time as his raven. “I am not upset,” he states regally. “Since you are so insistent, I will allow you to run this errand on my behalf.” He makes it sound like he is the one doing Matthew a favor, which doesn’t actually surprise Matthew all that much. Honestly, he finds it kind of endearing.

“Will do, Lord Morpheus!”

He is still smiling as Matthew flies away. It’s not much.

But it’s a start.

~~~~

Matthew is in the middle of debating whether it would be in poor taste to ask to see Jessamy’s book when Lucienne steps into the library, sighing heavily.

“What’s up, boss lady?” Matthew flies over, landing to perch on the back of the chair next to the one Lucienne had fallen into heavily, “Everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Matthew,” Lucienne smiles, and he can see she looks more “fondly exasperated” than “distraught”. “I simply just came from seeing Lord Morpheus. He is still on the shores of creation.”

It has been almost two weeks since Matthew had checked in on the dreams of light, and had made some rounds among some other groups of dreams and nightmares as well. His report for the Dream King had been similar for all of them: they were doing fine, there was no true trouble, but could still benefit from higher numbers due to the massive increase in dreamers over the past hundred years.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Dream had taken that as a great personal failure and had immediately set to work creating rapidly and desperately. Last Matthew had checked on him, his fingers had been bleeding. He hadn’t even known that was a thing that could happen to him.

“Any luck?” Matthew asks.

Lucienne hums, and it’s so similar to how Dream does. It amuses Matthew how alike the two were, and he wonders who influenced the other more. “He is taking a brief break,” she very nearly rolls her eyes, “only to ensure that the quality of his work does not suffer from the quantity.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Sighing, Lucienne shakes her head fondly, “I love Lord Morpheus but he can be quite stubborn sometimes.”

Her words have Matthew perking up. To be honest he’s a little surprised he hadn’t thought of this sooner. “Actually, funny that you say that. Want to join a group project to help the boss out?”

~~~~

Lucienne is still pondering Matthew’s words (and there had been a lot of them) when she stumbles upon her lord in the Library. He is seated quietly at a small table tucked in the back, hands folded in front of him. There are no books on the table, and he seems lost in thought. Part of her wonders if she should leave him alone, but…

“Apparently he doesn’t think anyone like, actually loves him. Which honestly kind of explains why he always looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Shit, I’ve felt on the verge of tears since that Hob guy told me about it. Like, I just assumed he knew, y’know? How can he not know?”

“Good evening, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne greeted with a smile, pulling him from his thoughts as he glanced up at her. Despite whatever he had been mulling over, he still smiles as he looks at her.

“Lucienne,” he dips his head in greeting, “I hope I am not intruding.”

It is his realm. It is him . And yet he still considers this space hers.

“Not in the slightest,” she assures him, “Was there anything I could assist you with? Or were you merely visiting?”

“Visiting,” he confirmed with a nod, “I just returned from the Waking,” he explained, “and I felt the need to. Collect myself, I suppose.”

Humming in consideration, a thought occurs to her, “I cannot help but notice you have been spending quite some time with a particular human in the Waking, my lord,” she teases, “Will we be welcoming a new consort soon?”

Lucienne’s voice is light and fond, a teasing smile on her face, and yet Morpheus’ face still drops. It reminds her of a flower wilting, and his eyes are just a little glassy before he turns his gaze to the floor.

“I apologize,” his words are tense, some mixture of frustration and sorrow.

“Whatever for?”

His eyes dart to glance at her skeptically, “I am aware, as I am sure you are as well, how troublesome my. Amorous pursuits are,” He straightens his back, steeling himself, “I shall restrain myself. You have my word.”

For a moment, Lucienne simply looks at him. He has changed so much, and yet is still so very much the same. In the past, he might not have apologized as he did now. But she recognizes the guilt and shame all the same.

Finally, she steps forward, sitting in the seat across from him, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief, “Surely you resent the burden that comes with my being in love. You have every right to be cross with me for succumbing to such feelings once again.”

“And yet I am not.”

Morpheus lifts his head, looking at her more directly, brow furrowed in confusion, and so she continues, “I have never been upset with you. You love deeply, and that is not a bad thing. I have only ever been saddened to see your heart broken.”

“My heartbreak has always been well deserved,” he insists. “ My pain is just. The injustice is the burden I throw on those around me.” He looks down again, fists clenching, “I bring storms with my sorrow, I lose focus on my duty, I become overwhelmed with both the love and the loss.”

Lucienne hummed, “Those things may be true. But they do not make me love you less.”

His head snaps up so fast she thinks she hears a crack. He is wide-eyed in his disbelief, and it makes her want to cry. Morpheus has been prideful, and stern, and reticent with his words. But it was impossible not to know when Morpheus loved you, whether he said it or not. Even when he lashed out and struggled to grant her more responsibility, Lucienne never doubted Dream’s love for her. It pains her to think that he has not felt the same surety with her love for him.

“You are my lord, and you are my friend,” she states, voice even as she recites simple facts, “and I love you. Not because you do not have flaws, but because there is so much about you to love, and your flaws simply cannot deter me.”

Dream continued to stare, blinking slowly, like trying to solve a puzzle in his head. Eventually, he swallowed thickly, turning his gaze down to his own hands as he admitted softly, “You know me so well. Better than most. I was certain that this knowing could only end in your disdain.”

“Perhaps I know you better than you do,” Lucienne responded, a hint of mischief in her voice that Dream could not help but quirk a smile at.

Tilting his head, he recalled fondly, “Do you remember, so long ago, when the stories of the world were scattered through the Dreaming? Every time a page drifted past us, even if we were giving a tour to an important guest, you would fly after it.”

Lucienne laughed at the memory. She remembers how her feathers fluffed with agitation each time, offended at the chaos of it. Every story, written and unwritten, left to float freely through the dreaming, unbound pages swirling in the wind and catching on branches and pillars. Lucienne could never resist the urge to collect them. “My beak would be so full of pages I could barely see where I was flying.”

“How far you have come,” Dream smiled proudly, glancing at the towering shelves of stories around them, “From your little hoard of collected stories in the corner of the palace. To this.”

“Because you allowed it,” Lucienne pointed out. She had been nervous, when Lord Morpheus first discovered the piles of pages she had brought inside and pushed into the neatest stacks a raven was capable of. It only occurred to her decades later that he must have known from the beginning what she was doing. It was only when she began struggling with the size of her hoard, when she was brought near tears at knocking over one of her precious stacks with a stray wing, that the Dream King ‘found’ it.

And he gave her shelves, and bindings, and hands.

He shook his head, “I believe you would have made it happen regardless. A beakful of pages at a time. I merely made it easier.”

“And do you think that makes it count less?” Dream looked at her, head tilted in confusion, and she could not help but shake her head fondly, “Oh, Lord Morpheus, you can try to downplay your love all you like, but those of us who love you back will always see it regardless.”

There is another pause, his brow furrowed as he seems to consider this. Consider the idea that there are those who see him. They see him because they love him, and the seeing only makes them love him more. She wonders how he will take it. She hopes he doesn’t run away.

He doesn’t. Instead, he dips his head and smiles, “I. Am glad. It would pain me. If you did not know my care for you.”

“I know, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne reached out, laying a hand over his, “I know.”

Squeezing his fingers just once, she leans back, smirking deviously, “Now,” she adjusts her glasses, keeping her tone light and professional, “tell me more about this human who has caught your attention. I must make sure he is good enough for you, of course.”

When Morpheus laughs, he sounds young, and happy, and loved.

~~~

“My friend,” Hob begins cautiously, “is everything alright?”

Dream has always been quiet, but tonight he is distracted . He seems far away and lost in thought, a furrow in his brow that Hob wants to smooth over with his fingers. There is music playing softly in the background, one of their quiet evenings of sharing stories and Hob gently showing Dream little bits of what humanity had created in his absence. He does not seem upset, exactly, but Hob still worries.

“I. Am fine,” Dream responds stiffly, and Hob can’t help but snort.

“For someone who claims the title ‘Prince of Stories’ you are a terrible liar.”

Dream glares at him, but there is no heat behind it. In fact, Hob is almost certain he sees his mouth twitch as though holding back a smile. Softening, he allows himself to scoot a little closer on the couch, until their legs are just barely brushing. “I’m serious, though,” he repeats, “Are you okay?”

Sighing, Dream glances down at his hands in his lap, “I am fine,” he insists, “I simply…” he takes a long moment to consider his words. When he speaks again, it is in a rush, as though he must push the words out before he loses them, “Matthew and Lucienne claim that they love me.”

Hob blinks, “Oh.” He is both pleased to know that Dream is being told, and confused by Dream’s reaction. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Looking up at him, Dream looks… ashamed, “They are my subjects,” he explains, “I have power over them. In such a situation, is it not immoral to ask them to love me?”

“ Did you ask?” Hob presses, already knowing the answer, “Or did they choose to love you on their own?”

Dream does not answer, and he does not look comforted either. “And Death,” he ignores Hob’s question, “she has said… but is it not obligation to love your family?”

“It can feel like it sometimes, sure,” Hob answers carefully, “but in reality, no. Family can be complicated, but at the end of the day, love is never an obligation. It is in fact very possible to not love your family. If she loves you it’s because she loves you.”

At first, he doesn’t understand it. Why Dream seems to grow more anxious and fearful with each word Hob speaks in comfort. Hob is trying to reassure him that he is loved and yet his eyes are wide, jaw tense and hands clenched into tight fists. He looks cornered.

He looks, Hob realizes, like Hob himself had as a starving man in the 1600s. Like a man who had been given the barest scraps to keep him alive and was now bracing to have it stolen away.

“And you?” Dream whispers, “You have claimed to love me…” he searches Hob’s face desperately, his voice choked when he finally brings himself to ask, “... Why ?”

“Because it’s true.” Hob reaches out recklessly, because it’s too important not to. He laces their fingers together and leans forward to keep their eyes locked even when Dream tries to look away, “Because I do love you. You, Dream of the Endless. I love your dedication to your work, I love the way you speak, I love explaining humanisms to you. I love how hard you try, how you don’t give up even when you’re convinced you've failed. I love how much you care.”

He could go on forever. Reckless, daring, desperate, Hob lifts his other hand to cradle Dream’s cheek, feeling the way he sucks in a breath at the contact, “I love the look in your eyes when you experience kindness,” he strokes a thumb gently against the skin under Dream’s eye, “and I love you so much that I also hate that look in your eye… as if you’ve never experienced kindness. As if you’re not used to it. As if you don’t know what to do with it. I love you so much, and I want you to be loved more . I want everyone to love you.”

Dream does not need to breathe, and yet his chest is nearly heaving with shaking breaths, each of Hob’s words hitting him like a blow. He has to swallow a few times before he can manage to speak again. “I do not want everyone to love me,” he confesses, “I just…” Hob has never heard him sound so uncertain. So small. Dream has to look away before he is able to continue, “I want the love I have to be true . I know I am too much,” his voice drips with shame, “I know I love too hard. But it is because I want so badly to be loved in return the way I love. I do not require quantity. I just… I want… I want the people I love to love me back.”

Timidly, he looks up at Hob once more, and his voice cracks as he asks, “Is that selfish?”

“No,” Hob answered immediately, “That is very, very human.”

“I am not-”

“You are humanity’s dreams,” Hob interrupts, “And I promise you, humanity dreams of being loved in return.” Leaning forward, he pulls Dream gently closer, until their noses are nearly touching and they are sharing breath, “And you are, you know,” he whispers between them like a secret, “You are loved in return.”

“You cannot know how others feel for me,” Dream argues weakly.

“Perhaps,” Hob cannot help but smirk, “I mean, I do, but I know you won’t accept that. So accept this: I know how I feel for you. And I love you. I’ll say it however many times you need. I love you-”

“Stop.”

Dream’s eyes are clenched shut, and Hob can see the moisture caught on his eyelashes. But he’s not pulling away, and when Hob pulls back, he drifts after him. “I’ll stop talking if you want me to,” Hob offers, “I’ll stop touching you, if it’s too much,” He starts to pull his hands away and the tears finally spill down Dream’s cheeks, “But I won’t stop loving you.”

The words are barely out his mouth when Dream crashes into him. He nearly falls backwards, only just managing to keep them both from toppling over, his hands bracing against Dream to steady them. There is salt on Dream’s lips, and they tremble against Hob’s, and he can taste the words on them as clearly as if Dream had spoken them out loud.

Stay, his kiss begs, Stay, stay, stay.

“I love you, too,” Dream whispers against his lips, his hands curled in Hob’s shirt as though expecting him to pull away.

But Hob only pushes closer, wrapping his arms around Dream’s fragile figure. “I know,” he replies, pressing kisses to his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, “I know. I know you love me. And I love you back. I promise.”

Holding Dream tight in his arms, Hob knows that he will probably have to convince Dream again tomorrow. He will probably have to convince him again and again and again, and he doesn’t care. He loves him enough to remind him.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing

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stsainz · 9 months

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today, i decided to wear my hoodie once again

cr;

Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder // landonorris on Twitter // A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams // British GQ interview // Max Verstappen and Lando Norris 2013 // Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver // lando.jpg on Instagram // Beyong The Grid Interview with Carlos Sainz 2018 @artemispt // landonorris on Instagram // pink + white by Frank Ocean // The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us! by Sufjan Stevens // Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors // McLaren Unboxed 2020 // Be Alone by Childish Gambino // Sims tag // Le Gay Ghetto: Gay Cartoons from Christopher Street (1980), by Charles Ortleb & Richard Fiala // Hoodie Video // McLaren Instagram reel ||

#today i decided to wear my hoodie again #lando norris #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlando #love is all they have #f1 #formula 1 #web weaving

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rthko · 5 months

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Hey, a gay friend group of mine has invited me to go on a trip to Steamworks in Chicago. I'm very excited to go, but it's my first time going to a place like this, and also Chicago itself. Any I should know going into this experience? Any other things I should do while in Chicago?

You were the first person I thought of when they invited me, haha

This post ended up LONG so there will be a Read More cut

First, I'm glad to hear you're going to Chicago! It's a beautiful city with something for everyone. Though I've been to Chicago and I've been to bathhouses, I have not been to Steamworks specifically. Which is ironic, especially when it's the golden standard. So my bathhouse advice will be more general, and my general Chicago advice will be more specific. I'll structure this as a series of questions I used to have about bathhouses that you might also have.

How do bathhouses work?

At the front desk, you enter by paying for a membership (for an out of town visitor this will probably be a one time membership) and either a room or a locker. As far as payment is concerned, guests cannot share a room or a locker. From there you'll get a towel and some keys and head to the locker room to undress. Never lose sight of your keys! Keep the band wrapped around your arm. Fun fact: the placement of one's keys at a bathhouse was the original flagging. Left arm for top, right arm for bottom. Not that people necessarily follow that today but I thought it's fun. Any bathhouse will have private rooms, common areas, amenities, and a darkroom for more spontaneous group sex. Amenities could include a sauna, a steam room, a pool (Steamworks does not have one), a hot tub (Steamworks has an excellent one), a gym, tables and chairs, even board games books and magazines. As long as you're respectful there is no wrong thing to look for. Some people aren't even really there for sex and enjoy the nudist aspect, or they are there for sex but only as voyeurs.

What should one bring to a bathhouse?

Flip flops! That's the number one thing I end up forgetting. Also lube, poppers if that's your thing, and a cock ring if that's your thing. Condoms (and I'm not here to moralize) are usually provided for free but bringing them wouldn't hurt. There will also be a store to get any of these things as well as snacks and drinks (not alcohol).

Are bathhouses intimidating?

At first. I am lucky enough to live in a city with two bathhouses, so if I want to visit all I have to do is go downtown. If you're traveling from out of town, the stakes must feel a lot higher, and you might feel more pressure to make your visit "worth it." Don't sweat it (unless you're in the sauna, then by all means sweat). A provate room is a great place to retreat to or bring someone for one on one time (I say one on one because the beds are typically just twins. Not great for groups). These days, I actually find my bathhouse visits lower stakes than hookups with strangers. Hosting logistics are a mess, and inviting someone to my home or vice versa feels too personal.

How does consent work? Are people respectful?

By entering a bathhouse, you consent to being seen nude or semi nude, seeing other people nude, and seeing sex acts. When it comes to touch, you always have a say. A lot of it is gestural--you can get closer or pull away--but you can always verbalize your intentions and limits. I cannot guarantee that no one will be creepy; I've had my own experiences with that. But I will say that if things aren't going right in a "conventional" hookup there's no polite way just to leave (even if it's a perfectly valid option), but at a public venue I can say "excuse me" and just dip out. Take a walk around. Sit in the sauna. If you're afraid to upset someone with a rejection, you don't ever need to be, but here's a perspective that might help: in Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, Samuel R. Delaney writes in one scene about taking his curious friend to a porn theater. His friend is surprised by how peacefully people take rejections, and he explains that when there are enough yesses, the nos don't matter. Abundant options and possibilities lower the stakes.

What are the body standards like?

Bathhouses, like a lot of gay spaces, have in some cases been known for harsh body standards. This is less true today, when a good amount of the clientele are older. I live in a mid-sized city without the "prestige" of Steamworks, but I will say I see a lot of body types and racial diversity, and it's been very gratifying to me to simply exist in the nude with other people. I think we as a culture, especially in the United States, are too detached from our own bodies, and it's nice to find recreational outlets that ground us to them.

Are STIs a concern?

They can be. But you can make decisions about what works for you, including condoms, PrEP, DoxyPEP, or sticking to behaviors with low transmission risks. If condoms are your preferred method, I will say not everyone will feel the same way but they need to respect your boundaries.

And now, Chicago. I will try to keep this brief:

Art:

I will of course recommend the Art Institute, but it demands a full day and I don't know your schedule. For artsy things that don't take as long, I recommend going to the Museum of Contemporary Art and the Chicago Cultural Center. The latter is free, right next to Grant Park (including the Bean, yes), has two stunning stained glass domes, and temporary exhibits for the Chicago Architecture Biennial.

Shopping:

-Michigan Ave or State St are kind of a waste of time but worth it if you want to feel that "shopping in a big American city while jazz is playing" fantasy.

-Unabridged Books and the Women and Children First feminist bookstore.

-Transit Tees. If you want Chicago a souvenir go here.

[These next three are in Boystown near Steamworks]

-The Men's Room, a gay sex/kink shop. If poppers are your thing, get Video Head Cleaner, a beloved local Chicago brand.

-Beatnix, a shop for costumes, party looks and drag looks

-Out of the Closet, a resale store that might appeal to a queer sensibility.

Bars (all in Boystown except Jackhammer)

-Sidetrack, a HUGE and popular bar

-Roscoes, a bar with a lot of clout among famous drag performers

-Berlin, a charming bar with more alternative drag

-DS Tequila, a great place for Margs that does have food including breakfast food

-Cell Block, a leather bar at the north end of Boystown that's not for the faint of heart but has a special place in my heart.

-Jackhammer, a bar similar to Cell Block aside from its recent renovations. It's kind of a trek away, so I recommend making a trip out of it and seeing 64Ten leather next door and the Chicago Leather Archives and Museum nearby.

Oh, and I can't not recommend Chicago style pizza if it's your first time. Sorry haters. Lou Malnati's is my favorite.

This is probably WAY more than you bargained for! I have been meaning to write at length about bathhouses on here and your ask sort of kick-started this. Have a great time in Chicago!

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bg-brainrot · 5 months

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Day four of Astarion x Rogue!Tav winter fluff for the BG3 Winter Holiday Challenge!

Prompt: Mulled Wine

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Premise: Astarion walks into you making mulled wine. He doesn’t understand why you must ruin wine for the sake of winter. When he refuses to see your point, you find another way to show him.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Holidays, Alcohol, Kisses, post-cannon

Word count: ~1k

“Darling, what are you doing to that red wine?” Astarion walks into the kitchen, turning his nose up at the concoction you’re stirring.

“I’m making mulled wine,” you say, turning to smile at him. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He gives a single sniff and turns his lips down into a grimace. “My nose tells me that you’re ruining a perfectly good bottle of wine.” You drop the smile and give him a glare.

“What do you mean ruining?” you ask, incredulous. “I’m following the instructions that Gale gave me to the letter. Though I guess I am skipping over some of his longer-winded tangents…” A quick glance over at the notes on the counter confirms your accuracy.

The vampire shakes his head at you and walks up to the stove where you’re still stirring. “I have no doubt that you’re executing it perfectly, dear. You’ve made poisons that require more finesse than this. However, adding all of those spices– and oranges? What was wrong with the original wine?”

“Nothing was wrong. I just wanted to make something seasonal,” you say, feeling the need to defend your creation. You look down at your mixture, at the various pieces of seasonal flavors swirling as you stir, and you’re almost positive that it will taste perfect on a cold winter’s day like today.

“Why not a nice buttered rum? I don’t mind if you torment the rum.”

You roll your eyes at this, knowing full well now that this line of questioning was meant to be entertainment for Astarion. He was likely just bored and wondering why you were spending so much time in the kitchen. “I don’t want buttered rum. Why are you so against mulled wine– when was the last time you even had mulled wine?”

A moment of silence passes between you, and you turn away from your pot to look at him, suddenly fearful that you accidentally struck a nerve you hadn’t meant to. However, he just looks pensive, a single finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. When his answer finally comes, he just says it with a sense of awe, “You know, it’s likely been over 200 years.”

“Oh,” you respond, pursing your lips. You gesture at him with the spoon you’re holding. “Maybe it would be like a brand new experience?”

“It could be,” he responds, and while there’s some hesitation to his tone, he does sound more amenable to the idea now. He wafts the steam from the pot toward his nose, as if a better sniff might change his mind. Instead your lover physically recoils and places a hand over his face. “Gods, what are these spices?”

“Let’s see... cardamom, cinnamon, and star anise,” you recite, looking back at the paper Gale wrote you.

Your lover makes a face at you before he chokes out, “Star anise? That’s where the pungent smell is coming from. Darling, as the resident connoisseur of scents, you should have asked me for your spices.”

“Ah,” you breathe out, understanding dawning on you. You point the spoon at him excitedly, “I got it!”

“Got what?” he says, staring at you blankly. You can feel his assurance in your ability to make mulled wine deteriorating by the second. No matter– you know how to fix this.

Scooping up a bit of your brew in the stirring spoon, you blow gently on it to cool it down and hold it out to him. “Try it.”

“Oh no,” he immediately says, taking a step back. “I refuse to be your test subject.”

“Fine then, let me try it first.” You sip the mulled wine out of the spoon, savoring it on your tongue. It’s sweet, it’s spiced, and it tastes just like cozying up to a fireplace– your face breaks into a wide grin at its rich flavor. As you suspected, the star anise only gives it a subtle note, none of that strong licorice smell it typically has. Astarion wouldn't remember that after hundreds of years away from drinks like this. “Mmm, it’s perfect.”

Astarion looks at you for a second, as if waiting for your composure to crack, your body to convulse with disgust. When nothing happens, he only asks, “What does it taste like?”

“Would you like to try it?” You’re beaming at him now, absolutely certain that this will change his mind about mulled wine.

He still seems cautious, probably wondering if this is all some ruse devised by you and Gale.

Sensing his worries, you scoop another spoonful for yourself, take a drink, and close the distance between you. “Mmm mm,” you say to him, behind closed lips.

“What?” the man asks, raising a single eyebrow at you.

“Mmm mm!” you repeat, pointing to your lips, which you’re emphatically puckering at him.

Your request clicks in his head a moment later and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “My love, have I told you that you’re utterly ridiculous lately? Because I feel like you’re overdue.” Nevertheless, he takes a step forward, placing his hands on your waist and pulling you close as he meets your pursed lips with his.

The kiss, much like the mulled wine, starts off sweet but quickly comes with a kick of spice. Astarion’s tongue traces your bottom lip and you open your mouth to allow him in. One of his hands finds your face and angles it to deepen the kiss, locking his mouth with yours to try to keep the wine from spilling.

You feel a few trickles of liquid fall down your chin, but you find that you don’t mind– in fact, the only thing on your mind is the way Astarion’s tongue is relishing the mulled wine. The vampire gives a low hum as his tongue circles yours, tasting the liquid fully. He has yet to run away in revulsion, so you’re pretty sure he likes it. Or at the very least likes kissing you.

When he finally pulls away, a bit short of breath, his lips stained with wine, he gives you a smirk. “I think I finally understand the appeal of mulled wine.”

“So does that mean you liked it?” you ask him, equally breathless.

Astarion swipes his thumb down your chin, wiping away the wine that dribbled down before bringing it to mouth. He gives you a dark, lidded look as he licks it off and gives a rumbling hmm. “I’m not sure yet. You’ll have to give me another taste.”

It’s slow going, but you enthusiastically ensure that your lover gets his fill of mulled wine.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #rogue + rogue #astarion x reader #bg3holidayfluffle23

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bellarkeselection · 4 months

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Breathe With Me

Request from @val2557 imagine of Kayce Dutton and he is helping the reader when she has a an anxiety attack when there is a lot of people at a dinner they are attending?

Everybody that knew who the Dutton family were had started making their own judgments about my relationship with Kayce. His father John always asked his kids to show up to the Livestock dinner party but it was rare that they all showed up. Beth didn’t see the point in it, Lee was focusing on running the ranch, Jaime was trying to run for office and that left the reason Kayce didn’t go to them….me.

I wanted to attend the dinners I really did. There was just one problem. I had anxiety when it came to large crowds who I felt were judging me. Running my hands down the light orange dress I was wearing I sighed letting my mind wander with my thoughts. “Come on Y/n. You can make it through this.”

“Y/n, are you ready….wow.” Whipping my head around I heard my boyfriend’s voice enter the bedroom.

I turned around making my short brown boots screech against the wooden floor. Normally I had my hair up in a braid but I decided to leave it loose and just put some curls on the ends. “Is it too much. I don’t know how you dress for a livestock dinner.”

“It’s not that. You….damn you look good.” Kayce gasped slowly crossing the floor until he was standing in front of me.

I smiled eyeing him in a tux for once. “You clean up rather good too, Dutton.” He had his normal black cowboy hat on his head paired with a white dress shirt and a black suit jacket.

“Are you sure you’re up for tonight. We can just stay home. My father will understand why.” He suggested to me.

I teased him trying to not have the conversation. “You just want to stay home so we can lay in bed all night.”

“I mean you weren’t complaining last time when we had sex for hours….but I am being serious about not wanting you to be nervous.” Kayce pointed out to me with a smirk on his face leaning closer to me kissing my forehead. He wrapped his arms around my waist tugging me against his chest gently.

Shaking my head in disagreement I draped my arms over his shoulders kissing his cheek. “I’ll be fine, Kayce. Tonight is important for your father and he want him to keep liking me if you ever want to put your mother’s ring on my finger.” He nodded looping his arm through mine leading me to his truck since we said we would meet him there later.

The drive wasn’t that bad since we just listened to county music until we parked the truck outside the building. He helped me out of the truck and we walked in together not holding hands since I wanted to appear confident during the dinner. Kayce had me walk in front of him opening the next door wheee I gulped coming into contact with a room of livestock members all talking. “Hey, look at me. Just tap me if you need to go and we will.”

“I got it, Kayce.” I nodded moving through the crowd of people finding our table and name tags at the very front.

John walked out onto the stage nodding his head down at us as a silent thank you for being here the second we sat down in our chairs. Lee was there but Beth and Jaime’s spots were still empty. “Since 1886 every Dutton who died is buried 300 yards from my back porch. My great, great, grandfather, to my wife, and someday I will be there myself. When a tree grows on my ranch, I know exactly what fed it. That’s the best we can hope for because nothing we do is for today. Ranching is the only business where the goal is to break even. Survive another season. Last long enough for your children to continue the cycle, and maybe just maybe, the land is still there when a tree sprouts from you…lord god give us rain and a little luck and we’ll do the rest, amen.”

I smiled, watching his speech feeling fine until I heard someone next to our table whispering. "I can't believe they came tonight."

"My boys were joking that they don't come because she might be pregnant." Another mumbled to their friend.

Reaching for the fork on the table I attempted to push past the tightness I could feel beginning to surface in my chest. "But there is someone I'd like to recognize tonight because she has been a great member of the family for a while now. Y/n L/n, I appreciate everything you do for this family."

"Hey are you okay?” Kayce shifted his gaze over to me seeing my chest heaving up and down. I was also clutching the fork in my hand until my fingers were almost turning white.

Lee glanced our direction beginning to clap at the end of his speech. “Congrats to Y/n and my father.”

Everybody around us joined in the clapping and cheering while John made his way over to our table. He sat down in the chair next to me. I shifted my gaze around the room quickly in a panic seeing my vision start to get blurry. “Y/n?” Kayce calls my name the second I dropped the fork and it clattered to the floor and I jumped up rushing through the crowd to the bathroom.

Shutting the door quickly I gasped for breath sliding down onto the floor to catch my breath. Gripping my hair in between my fingers I was so annoyed at myself. I shouldn’t have ran out of the room like that but I didn’t know what else to do. “Y/n, darling. Can I come in?”

“Yeah…” I croaked out wiping away the and getting up from the ground floor when he opened the door and shut it so nobody would see me crying in there.

Kayce stared at me silently for a moment seeing that I was shaking in my boots. Wrapping my arms around myself I felt like I still couldn’t breathe even though the tightness in my chest had gone away. He opened his arms and tilted his head telling me to com here. “Sssh I’ve got you. I’m right here…it’s gonna be okay.”

“Is it….how badly do you think I embarrassed your father leaving like that?” I sniffed through tears gripping onto his dress shirt as tightly as possible.

He just keeps me close to his chest resting his chin on top of my head. He knew that I was going to worry about this when there was something more important like my well being going on. He wasn’t concerned with what the others out there thought, he just wanted me to be okay. “It doesn’t matter right now. Just breathe in and out with me until you’re better. Can you do that for me?”

“Mmm.” I made a noise barley breaking the hug where he was holding onto my forearms since I still didn’t have good balance. Taking in a couple of long breaths in and out I finally started feeling better where I laid my head back down on his chest and he kissed my forehead.

Kayce smiled lightly squeezing my hand in his. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ll explain what happened to my dad later.”

“Are you sure he won’t be upset?” I questioned him where he leads me through the hallway and out to his truck. He helped me back into the vehicle before getting in on his own side.

He reached over taking my hand in his once more. “I’m sure, baby. I just want you to feel better.”

“Thanks Kayce.” I smiled laying my head on his shoulder and we stayed in the parking lot just enjoying the silence before we went home for the evening. Both calm in the others presence and away from the busy livestock diner.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

#kayce dutton #kayce dutton x fem!reader #kayce dutton x reader #kayce dutton imagine #luke grimes #yellowstone series #yellowstone #yellowstone imagine #yellowstone masterlist #yellowstone fanfic #yellowstone x reader #ask box is open for anything #requests open #comments really appreciated #anxiety attack #yellowstone one shot

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ancientcraftnoccultism · 3 months

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Ancient Craft & Occultism