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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

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|throne| - morpheus x reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: face-sitting | pairing: morpheus/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content.

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His long, ivory fingers unlace the front of your dress with methodical care. You are here, in the Dreaming, resting upon his black sheets of an entirely too-large bed. Your palms twitch at your sides and your chest flutters like a hummingbird when Dream pins you with his eternal, heated gaze.

He says, “You are doing so well, my love.”

His touch is gentle and fleeting, peeling the thin, white dress off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of silk. Your thighs squeeze together beneath his appraising look. Every glance, every faint touch, burns into your skin like wildfire. He has asked you not to move, not to touch him, and you have obeyed for what feels like centuries.

Morpheus drops his lips to yours, kissing you slowly, and you feel his hum of pleasure reverberate through his chest. You arch your back, fingers clutching the sheets, and your peaked nipples scrape against the soft wool of his sweater. You gasp at the new, delicious sensation and Dream takes the opportunity of your parting lips to delve his tongue between them. He kisses you like it is the last thing he’ll ever do. His tongue strokes into your mouth with languid, playful motions, sucking your lower lip between his, and drinking in your soft mewls.

Your cunt throbs, your body writhes with longing, as he braces himself above you.

“I want to touch you.” You whine when you have a moment’s reprieve. His lips quirk into a semblance of a smile. You are in the Dreaming only until your alarm jolts you awake. You don’t want to waste any time.

“I know.” He breathes, his hand traveling from the side of your ribcage to your hip, before he parts your legs with a single, large hand. His knuckles brush along your clit in a faint, barely-there touch and you whimper.

“There is something I want as well.” He drops the mental image—his fantasy—into your mind like a coin tossed into a wishing well. Your body prickles with heat and awareness and desire. You nod slowly in consent.

His lanky, dark body prowls over you, his hands light and tempting, before he rolls onto his back with glimmering, mischievous eyes. You nervously bite your lip, heartbeat hammering in your ears, and straddle Dream’s narrow hips.

He nudges you with his palms flat on your ass, “Higher, love.” His deep, rumbling voice causes a shiver down your spine. You shuffle forward until his head is between your thighs and you wrap your hands around the twisted, ivy-shaped iron of his headboard. You tentatively lower yourself and his breath ghosts across your sensitive skin.

“Here?” You rasp, nerves and excitement bubbling in your veins like fine champagne.

“Here.” He hums with contentment. The first touch of his tongue along your folds makes you gasp, and you jump, surprised, but Dream’s hands are on your hips and refusing to let you go. He starts slow with teasing, warm licks across your lips. You quiver above him with your hips jerking involuntarily.

You peek down at him and discover his eyes are closed, dark eyelashes kissing his pale cheeks, his wild hair like a shadow of dark feathers tickles your thighs. His hands drift from your hips to the swell of your ass, kneading and squeezing, keeping your cunt pressed against his mouth. His tongue slides into you and you both hear and feel his groan of wanton enjoyment.

Dream speaks directly into your mind; ‘I will never tire of the taste of you.’

Your eyes roll back into your head, seeing stars, and the Dreaming deepens with a rich, silver color—like moonlight. Morpheus works his mouth over your clit, sucking and laving, feasting on you with rumbles of pleasure. He holds you firmly in place as your knuckles whiten around iron-wrought leaves. Your thighs and arms tremble, shaking and pulsing with need, chasing that inevitable, brilliant release that only he can give you.

You are panting, glistening with sweat, and resisting the urge to hump into his face. His mouth draws away from you and a soft, begging “Morpheus,” slips from your lips. He does not verbally respond and nibbles along your inner thigh. Fine. If he is going to play games, then you are going to break his rules.

Selfishly, you plunge a hand between your legs, and fist a handful of his inky, soft hair. His eyes snap open and they burn with white-hot heat.

“I’ve been good.” You say with a pout. You card your fingers through his hair, stroking him like a big, predatory cat. It is such a marvel that the Lord of Dreams has such gentle, tender places. His hair, the curve of his throat, the space between his long fingers. You long to discover them all.

He hums, “You have.”

He returns to his ministrations between your legs with fervent intensity. His tongue works over you in restless, determined strokes and your spine buckles forward and you tighten your grasp in the root of his hair. The Dreaming ripples with molten, gold light and it glistens on your sweat-soaked skin. Your heart pounds, roaring in your ears, as your stomach clenches and your thighs quiver.

You come and a raw and guttural cry is ripped from your throat. Morpheus drinks in your sounds, your release, his hands pinning you to him and squeezing your buttocks. You sag, boneless, pressing your face into the cold metal of his headboard. Dream moves you with gentle, yet strong hands, guiding you to nudge your leg aside and lay on your back against the comfortable, silk sheets. You blink blearily up at him and your skin prickles at the sight of his mouth and chin shiny with your release. He strokes his fingertips along your temple to the curve of your jaw. His eternal blue eyes regard you with open affection.

He says, “Do you wish to continue?”

You nod almost drowsily, “Yes, please.”

His gaze stokes a new, hot flame inside your abdomen. This a dream you never wish to wake from.

#morpheus x reader #morpheus x fem!reader #dream of the endless fic #kinktober 2022 #dream of the endless x you #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman x reader #sandman fanfic #kinktober2022comp

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 4 months

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I see you very much as an expert on all things Rohirrim, so I bring to you this question, hoping I can pick your brain for info to use in my own fics (full disclosure). 😅

It seems to be a popular fanon that the Rohirrim/Riders of Rohan have tattoos, and that body art is a part of their culture. Do you have any thoughts or personal HCs about this that you're willing to share?

Thank you in advance! I appreciate you and your blog so much (if you didn't already know that).

Oh my goodness!!! I am so very honored to be thought of as a person who is knowledgeable about my beloved Rohirrim, and I hope very much that I can live up to that reputation. Thank you!!!

I’m not aware of any real textual evidence for body art among the Rohirrim, and the historical record in the medieval Anglo Saxon and Norse societies that Tolkien used as a reference for them seems to be disputed. But I absolutely understand and agree with the conventional wisdom that tattoos are a thing in Rohan. It just fits well with a warrior culture that has a wilder, dare-I-say more pagan aesthetic as compared to the smooth solemnity of Gondor or the formal elegance of the elves. And since they’re a culture that doesn’t document things in written words, pictorial representations such as tattoos and body art would be one way to fill that gap (along with their songs and oral traditions).

In my mind, tattoos in Rohan are common but basic—they’ve really only got the technology for the “stick and poke” method so the designs are kept simple because anything too elaborate is difficult to pull off well. They’re mostly in black line (using soot) but some have color using powder made from grinding up certain dried roots and plants.

Each village/community has its own distinctive tattoo motif that is worn by all of that community’s members. So you can tell just by looking at someone whether they’re from Upbourn (a fish because it’s a river town) or Dunharrow (mountain peaks since they’re in the White Mountains) or Everholt (a boar in honor of the wild boar that live in this part of the Firien Wood), etc. And soldiers also tend to share tattoo designs specific to their éored—getting your éored’s mark is a formal rite of passage for the younger members when they first get assigned to their company. These shared tattoo designs are important both for group cohesion and as a means of identifying fallen Rohirrim even if the deceased isn’t known to whoever finds the body.

Beyond these ritualized and practical functions, I do also like to think that there are some purely decorative tattoos among them as a means of personal expression and/or to help cover small scars that so many Rohirrim have from battle, riding accidents or other mishaps. Obviously horse-based designs would be very popular, as well as other flora and fauna of Rohan. But they’re a very sentimental people and so I think little emotional signifiers would also be very common (again, especially because they generally don’t have a means to pay tribute to beloved people/things in written form, this sort of symbol would serve the purpose of making some kind of record of those tributes).

In terms of specific people in my head canon: Éomer has a little simbelmynë blossom for each of the major figures in his life that he’s lost (forearm). Háma had a sun to remind him of his wife, who brought warmth and light to his life (shoulder). Théodred had stars in the shape of a particular constellation that is visible every year on his mother’s birthday (chest). Éowyn has a representation of her father’s sword (left wrist) and gets a quill (right wrist) to represent Faramir after they get married. (Faramir got a little running horse in her honor on his first trip to Rohan. He was glad he did it, but he never wants to sit through that again.)

Merry brought tattooing back to the Shire when he showed up with a tobacco pipe on his bicep (both for its association with Buckland and in tribute to Théoden, whose last words to Merry were about smoking together someday when peace was restored). Unsurprisingly, tattoos did not catch on with the other hobbits, but Merry remains very proud of it.

Anywayyyy…I hope that was in any way helpful! Thanks so much for asking!! I remain a huge fan and am so grateful to you for helping convince me to put some of my thoughts and stories out there vs keeping them all in the confines of my own Google drive!

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #asks #answered asks #rohan #rohirrim #éomer #éowyn #háma #théodred #merry #faramir #lotr headcanon #tattoos

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chewing-drywall · 2 months

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METALOCALYPSE HEADCANNONS

(Part 1/??)

Buckle in yall this will be a long ass post

TOKI WARTOOTH

Earlyklok! Toki

-the most sincerely homophobic in the beginning. You don't just get raised the way he's been and not have some WILD ass beliefs about the world, he eventually unlearns it but being surrounded by dude bros who constantly call things gay as an insult and his tendency to take things litterally DONT help. And it's not like active hate or anything it's just getting raised that gay people are sinners and are gonna burn in hell is definitely a topic you gotta make an effort to unlearn.

-seeing two girls kissing on the streets of florida for the first time??? SHOCKED, litterally did a full head swivel to check if anyone else had seen it and imploded when no one seemed to be as surprised at he was

-Doesnt really even understand why the rest of the band likes casual sex so much, it feels good but at first he thought it was strange there were all of these girl fawning over a him, a technical stranger, and he just goes along with it.

- got his ears pierced about 4 months into earlyklok sitting on the ledge of their shared apartments crusty bathtub

they were all packed into the tiny bathroom, talking over eachother, the room thick with weed smoke, skwisgaar perched over him in the bathtub holding his head straight

pickles did it with a safety pin and an icecube, joint hanging off his lips as he squinted in concentration

Toki didn't flinch, didn't even stop talking to Nathan about the newest Cannibal corpse album that Nathan wanted to buy a cd of

He liked the feeling of skwisgaars hands engulfing his face, it was a touch that wasn't cruel. Plus knowing that the best guitarist he's ever heard in his whole life hands were soft was a fact that he's gonna ingrain into his head.

Murderface and Nathan actually looked mildly concerned at tokis complete lack of reaction

- the kid will offhandedly say really cryptic shit, through broken English and weird reactions to what they think is normal stuff. the band gets the gist that they'd have to be a hell of a lot drunker to handle his truth (toki: oh don't worry I'm used to the dark! :), everyone else:👀)

-got a lip piercing but didn't take care of it properly, so of course it got infected and had to be taken out

-this is when he starts age regressing but doesn't realize he's doing it,

-he'd watch a kids cartoon in complete silence until the season ends and it's the only way to keep him completely still and quiet

-is attracted to bright and colorful things even if it gets him made fun off by the guys, secretly LOVES Lisa frank art

Regular adult toki

-AUTISM AUTISM AUTISM

HATES tables that aren't clean, when it's noticeably sticky or there's crumbs that stick to his arms when he leans on the table

-same with the feeling of spilt beer, has gotten used to it over the years but the feeling of dried sticky beer still has his skin crawling

-has drunken bong water as a dare (all of them have as some point but still)

-has also smoked weed through his nose (again on a dare)!

-if you look really close into his eyes, his eyes go so light blue it looks pale yellow

-very very kind and pretty eyes, the downwards slope of them make him look sad with a neutral face

-LONG AND THICK EYELASHES

-works out mostly regularly to keep his shape, he gets too energetic for the others to handle so it's a good way to blow off some steam

-Likes the idea of wearing feminine stuff, skirts seem sooooo comfortable but doesn't wear them cause yknow the teasing would be absolutely relentless

-medium thickness chewed on lips, does it mindlessly

-knows hes capable of incredible violence, the band is also very aware and whenever he gets legitimately pissed off during a argument (like a genuine, seriously bad argument) they'll usually just back off and wait to bring it up later when toki doesn't look like he's three seconds away from curbstomping them

-FAT crush on Nathan but for some reason gets really shy around it??

-Nathan will compliment him and toki will deadass write with a fluffy pink huge glittery pink pen in an equally pink journal kicking his legs and giggling

*Nathan told me when I got that chord I kept fucking up correct that he could *see me improving* EEEEE he's soooo big He could throw me Like a football

-fond of murderface, knows people deal with their own shit in diffrent ways so he doesn't take his insults to heart (usually)

-relationship with skiwsgaar is. Weird.

I'll probably get into it on another post but it's SO complicated like. Were both emotionally constipated around eachother, our relationship used to be so kind and gentle skiwsgaar was tokis mentor and wanted to see him grow but has such anxeity around toki surpassing him he purposely beats him down; and toki doesn't have the work ethic or drive to truly get to thay level and it impedes the progress of the band. But engages with this weird rivalry thats also a form of love and respect like. Your the only one I could ever be worried about being better than me and I've watched you grow so much and I don't know how to express that properly YADDA YADDA YADDA

-loves pickles very much, he was the most welcoming in the beginning and always made a space for him at the table, later on a shoulder to cry on.

#metalocalypse #toki wartooth #dethklok

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witch-and-her-witcher · 4 months

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neris | T | slice of life, angst, winter solstice | ao3

The path was a little bumpy and a little elf had to pick up your gifts along the way to deliver, @kix-j! I wasn't your original secret santa, but I'm so excited to share this fic with you for @acotargiftexchange! Also, please enjoy the mood board and playlist to accompany these baddies being a bit sad together.

It goes without saying, but thank you @wilde-knight for the read through and @iftheshoef1tz for the supportive discussion! <3

~*~

Mist creates a watery haze outside the open windows.

The window panes are dotted with rain and condensation from the warmth of the fire meeting the chill of the December air, creating a spectacle of colors reflectant — evergreen and brown from the pines along the cliff’s edge, the vast gray-blue of the churning ocean, as well as the warm ember yellows, oranges and reds from twinkling string fae lights along the mantle, the roaring fire.

The air is just as crisp to inhale with the snap of humidity, the underlying brine of the ocean.

The eastern coast of Autumn.

Eris has promised to bring Nesta, and finally they’ve found the time to secret away to the cliffside retreat.

It’s more soothing than she ever could have recreated in her mind, even with Eris’s vivid depictions of times past. Now that Nesta is here, enveloped in the oceanside and forest, embraced by nature’s harmonized production of chaos and stillness, she can’t imagine spending time anywhere else.

You belong, the raindrops pattering on glass and cedar say.

You are safe, the warmth of the soundless fire caresses against her skin.

You are seen, the crashing waves call to her.

Home, Eris’s hands wrapped in hers promise.

Rubbing circles absently, Eris seems hardly aware of the contact as he stares out the open windows and takes in the same scenery. Music plays in the background, heavier in low brass instruments as he claims is more appropriate for Winter Solstice than her favorite piano pieces.

He isn’t wrong. The rich melody is warm and cozy like sitting cuddled up amongst the cushions and woven blankets on the couch with a partner and a warm drink. Free and easy like the temporary reprieve from everyday tasks and responsibilities.

Not that Nesta will admit it to him.

Directing her gaze to his face rather than the scenery, she wonders if her eyes reflect the ocean colors in compliment the same way the fire dances like it belongs in his amber stare.

“Still want me to close the window?”

Eris blinks down at her, as if he’s been startled awake. “No, it’s fine,” he says, voice gruff from the stretch of time they haven’t spoken a word. Entranced in a wholly fae way, a thrall Nesta never could have maintained as a mortal staring out of an open window — even to a view as picturesque as this one.

“Will you admit I was right, then?”

“Foundationally, it still makes no sense. It’s a waste of energy to keep the room warm with the windows letting in the chill.”

“Don’t want to take the excuse to use body heat to compensate?”

Eris’s lips curl into his devilish smile. “Was that your plan, Archeron? Not well thought through, there is fire coursing through my blood.”

“You’re so conceited,” Nesta says, studying her nail beds. It’s too difficult to maintain a petulant tone when she’s busy getting lost in his pleasing features. “I was only trying to make up for your own lack of imagination, provide you with the material to make a move.”

Eris sips from the ceramic mug with his mulled wine, the soft breath from his nose wafting the spicy, holiday scent towards Nesta. He squeezes her hand in his.

He doesn’t answer because they both know she’s full of shit. Eris’s thoughts are made of nothing but moves. Maneuver after maneuver to shape the world to his will. To predetermine the outcome to his benefit. It’s why she’s sitting here now, a grand proclamation and then minute movements to shape the possibility of this reality.

Which means, Nesta is to his benefit.

She thought at first just politically, maybe even to spite her brother-in-law, but now …

It’s all of that, but more. The benefit is the way he looks at her now, the tension eased from his features and the gears whirring only at half speed behind that calculating gaze.

Unable to resist any longer, she lifts her fingertips to his jawline. Traces the freckles that dot along the sharp shape of him.

“What thoughts were you so engrossed in?” she asks as he tilts his chin up, giving her better access to follow the constellations down his neck.

“Truthfully?” His voice vibrates under her touch and Nesta smiles, pleased with his display of trust. Lady Death has her grip on his throat, and her Autumn prince can care less. “I wasn’t thinking of much beyond the waves.”

“That’s rare.”

“It is. I can’t remember the last person I could sit with and have my mind drift so easily and not worry about where the proverbial knife in my back could come from.”

Nesta’s hand dips down along his thickly knitted, creme sweater, down to his waist where she knows he keeps a knife tucked away. “I could make this more exciting for you if you would like. Unfortunately, my attacks are much more straightforward. Nothing beyond a block or counter strike to plan against.”

He shivers unbidden as her fingertips caress the skin just above the dagger’s hilt.

“Don’t be humble, it doesn’t suit you,” Eris says. Nesta scrunches her nose in response.

“Where’s the air left in the room for me to blow smoke? You took it all.”

“Tch.”

Eris leans his head back on the sofa, pulling Nesta flush to his sculpted chest, easy to feel even under the thick material of his sweater. She settles back comfortably. Eris winds his arms around her middle and Nesta tucks her toes under his calves for warmth.

“Nap and then walk.”

Nesta hums in agreement, lashes already fluttering shut.

“Watch out —”

Nesta shrieks as she nearly loses her footing on the slick leaves coating the narrow trail darting between pines and mostly bare deciduous trees — the culprits for the slip hazard. Strong hands yank her back before she can teeter off the trail etched into the cliffside or stumble onto her hands and knees.

“You’re very bad at this,” Eris chides, not releasing her hand once Nesta is firmly on her feet again.

She doesn’t mind the anchor between them. Eris is always warm and it carries through their joint touch.

“Where I trained, there were more arrogant males kidnapping me and leaving me for dead … and less wet leaves. I’ll correct that error in the future.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Oh?”

“No more training.”

“Oh. Right.”

Nesta stares out at the rocky beach coming closer with each tenuous footfall. She’s careful how and where she sets her brown leather boot, trying to use those instinctual fae senses in the way Eris has tried to teach her. To feel out the shape of the land beneath her, listen for the way it wants to be tread on.

You sound so old when you talk that way, she teased, and then added, Oh, wait —

He’d cut her off by scooping her off her bare feet, curling her legs around him while he pressed her back into the bark of an oak tree. Shown her that despite his centuries of knowledge gained, other parts didn’t shy away from a young male’s work. Like putting his back into it.

Those scrapes from the tree bark in her back had been the most delicious pain to tend to the following evening.

When she’d finally joined him in Autumn, he’d sworn off mandatory training, but it didn’t mean there weren’t lessons. They simply aimed to familiarize herself with her body, mind, grounding her as a fae rather than honing her as a weapon.

Nesta looks out at the blacks and grays of the stony beach and black, silty sand mixed amongst it all. Listens to the way the rocks roll back and forth over each other as the tide pulls them to and fro. Searches for a bridge to what was and what is.

No more training.

There’s still the occasional jolt of anxiety that she should be making herself useful, needing to seek her sense of belonging in the training arena — and then reminding herself that isn’t how she needs to go about it. Was never really about her, while it had helped, it had been someone else’s form of self worth projected onto her.

It’s been months and Eris still has to remind her she doesn’t have to fight to master herself, to prove anything.

Occasionally she misses the strength, the power, at the tips of her fingers and toes, her blade’s end. The lethal beauty of it all. The control of it all.

But mostly she feels relief.

She rubs her chest absently.

“Stop thinking about it.”

She huffs. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” Nesta tuts, casting a look over her shoulder. Eris’s hair is tousled handsomely from the wind and his gaze cuts straight through her. “And should I stop thinking about it tonight, when we’re in my sister’s home to celebrate her birthday and Solstice?”

“Preferably,” Eris says. “Gives them less control over you. Worry about nothing but how good-looking the male on your arm is.”

“Gods. Are we really going to go together?”

“They’ll find out eventually.”

“It feels suicidal.”

They’ve completed their descent to the beach. Nesta follows Eris’s lead, picking along the ground to find a few good stones to begin chucking into the sea foam and waves. They face the ocean, comfortable in the sound of breaking waves against the jutting cliffside some leagues away and nothing more for a stretch of time.

“Maybe we don’t go.”

Nesta raises a brow. “Really? You’d give up the drama of such a grand reveal?”

“Under the right circumstances, I could be convinced. Although, it would be such a loss. To miss Rhysand’s face when he realizes where you’ve been hiding. A good reminder I can keep a secret from him if I want to.”

The male satisfaction of it all is clear on his face. Nesta herself wouldn’t mind sticking it to Rhys. But … She’s not sure she’s ready to face her sisters yet. The sting of betrayal is still raw.

And as for her mate.

Nesta worries at her bottom lip.

“Hey.” Eris turns, cups her chin and places his thumb on her lip to quit her worrying. “It will keep. I can still get my dramatic reveal without ruining our getaway. Your family will just have to learn you’ve been sleeping with the enemy another time.”

“You enjoy this too much.”

“I’m five hundred years old, dear. These moments don’t come about every century, especially with the likes of Rhysand. He keeps his cards close to his chest.” Amber blazes with the heat of too many centuries of history Nesta can’t begin to grasp. “I can enjoy your company deeply for the magnificent creature you are while dually indulging in a sense of victory. I’m allowed the occasional bout of pettiness.”

“Once a century.”

“If that. Realistically, every other.”

“Gods, you’re old.”

The insult bleeds through the sentiment she knows he’s trying to get across on reflex.

She stares up at him, searching for sincerity or that cunning flicker of a tell. Looking down at her along the blade of his nose, Eris keeps his expression open, confident, certain. Unperturbed even by her knee-jerk reactions. Youth, he’d told her another time when her mouth had run away from her.

It’s almost too much. Nesta wants to look away, to not have to face how sure he is in all of this. When she still searches for cracks in all that he’s laid out for her, in all that they’ve already laid bare for the other. She wants to hide away the vulnerabilities this male sees — sees and accepts. But the hand on her chin doesn’t allow her too.

She closes her eyes and exhales through parted lips. Tries to calm her frantically beating heart.

When did that start?

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It’s Eris’s turn to huff, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he tucks her close into the space against his chest where he can set his chin on her head, wrap his arms around her, and she doesn’t have to bare it all straight to his face. Nesta curls into him, relishing how easily they slot against one another, in the easy passing of understanding.

They’re both difficult people, but they’re difficult for a reason.

A strong wave crashes and sprays them, but it only joins the mist hanging in the air. The moisture is curling the ends of Eris’s hair and Nesta is sure her hair is frizzy from it, but she doesn’t particularly care.

“I like it here,” she says into his sweater.

“Me too.”

“It’ll still be here even if we go for an hour.”

“It won’t be an hour, you know that.”

After the initial shock, they’ll want to get them drunk to ply for answers. Rhys loves any excuse to tear through his wine cellar and Nesta’s reappearance with Eris Vanserra, in a romantic relationship no less, will free every cork he swears has cost him a small fortune a piece. The schmoozy interrogation, the looks of dismay her sisters will give her and the guilt Nesta will feel as soon as Feyre brings up the baby …

“Does it make me weak? To not want to face them yet?”

Eris hums, the sound rumbling in his chest against her. It inexplicably comforts Nesta to her core. Knowing that when Eris considers matters, it's not lightly or to sugarcoat her feelings, but with careful judgment, weighing facts. That’s why Nesta is prepared to ask questions she only wants to hear a real answer to.

“Weakness would be bending to anyone other than yourself. They don’t control you, Rhysand isn’t your High Lord any longer. They’re just family and being uninterested in their particular brand of overbearing, backstabbing, and tongue-in-cheek pleasantries isn’t weak. It’s strategic.”

“Is this from personal experience?”

“You see where we are for Winter Solstice. If I had to breathe the same air as my brothers for another minute longer, I’d likely stab one of them.”

They could use a stabbing, any one of them. But Nesta can read between the lines that any boiling over emotions wouldn’t be useful now. Eris has bigger plans and he needs his brothers aligned and on his side, annoying and horrible as they are.

Nesta pulls away from him. “Ready to walk back?”

Eris nods. He gestures for her to go first. Nesta grins knowingly, turns with a swish of her hips. If she asks, he’ll say it’s to ensure she doesn’t fall off of the cliffside — but the simmering heat in his gaze as he watches her backside will say otherwise.

“I can think of better ways to stay entertained this evening besides sitting around a stuffy Night or Autumn Court party.”

A shower and dinner pass pleasantly.

Nesta feels warmed through as they sink back into the sofa with books perched on either side, feet kicked out on the plush ottomans. Between the food, the wine, and the fire, it’s nearly too much to add touching Eris as well. There’s a healthy flush to his high cheekbones, up to the tip of his ears, that she’s sure is reflected on her own features.

“Well?” Eris conjures the bundle of Solstice gifts Nesta had painstakingly shopped for and wrapped leading up to today. “Are we arriving late to exchange gifts?”

By now, it’s surely been thoroughly discussed over dinner how Nesta has returned to her flaky habits. Not bothering to arrive with the plus one marked on her note of untraceable origins.

Nesta’s full stomach curdles at the thought of all of those harsh, judgemental eyes on her once again. Exhaustion runs through her to consider the amount of energy needed to combat that level of criticism, spoken or not — shared in the open, or mind to mind.

Leaning forward, Nesta snatches the bottle of dessert wine the northwestern province of Autumn is known for. The grapes there reach the perfect frost several times a year due to proximity to Winter and the vignerons work like fiends to harvest and press the delicacy.

She pops off the cork.

“We’re staying, get rid of the other gifts however you want.”

She tosses back a swallow of the sweet alcohol straight from the bottle. Eris lifts his hand to flick the remaining bundles to another pocket realm, to some charity organization’s front stoop, she doesn’t know —

She launches forward to grab the simple, brown paper wrapped box with the loudest bow on the top before the parcel can disappear with the others.

“Except …” She considers the present, the recipient who will neither care nor know who the giver is. Sweet, innocent baby Nyx. “Send this one to the River House.”

It’s gone in a puff of ozone and charred oak. The scent of Eris’s magic lingers, but his attention span for the issue dissipates just as quickly as the gifts themselves.

“Feel better?” he asks, lacking any emotion outside of cool interest as he assesses her.

Nesta takes one more guzzle of the wine for effect and then sets it aside. “Yes.”

“Good,” Eris says, turning to face Nesta. “Because you mentioned something about better ways to spend the evening.” He places a hand on either side of her head while stretching his impossibly long body over hers, hovering just without touching aside from where his knees straddle her, pulling down the cushions beneath them. “Yet all you’ve done is tease.”

“Tease? Me?” Nesta says into the space they share breath, Eris’s lips painfully close. Her nerves tingle with the desire to touch, to press her mouth against his. To swipe her tongue inside of that now familiar warmth and forget all about troubles in her mind that preside in the far north of Prythian.

“You,” Eris confirms in a low growl. He doesn’t wait any longer, angling down to slot their lips together and stealing the breath from her.

Nesta’s toes curl in her thick socks.

Eris kisses her with scorching desire. Licking the lingering taste of the dessert wine from her mouth and luxuriating in the soft sighs he pulls from her. Nesta bunches her hands in his sweater at his sides and tugs him closer.

“I can’t let my reputation suffer then,” she says against his lips, lashes parted enough to see the lust heating Eris through if his hot skin weren’t enough to give away his flush. “Let me see to that.”

Eris smiles devilishly. “Show me your worst, Archeron.”

Her stomach coils low with arousal and Eris rumbles against her with satisfaction as the scent of just what he’s doing to her curls around them.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, Nesta pulls Eris down to meet the rest of her body craving to feel his comforting weight. As if by osmosis she may gain some of his unfaltering confidence. It’s a fool's errand, by all accounts. To try and master in a few months what it's taken him to gain over centuries.

But as Eris deepens the kiss and shifts his hips along hers, his own interest heady in the air, Nesta thinks the effort will have a benefit either way.

#neris #nesta x eris #nesta archeron #eris vanserra #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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thesightstoshowyou · 4 months

Text

Christmas Cheer

Pennywise x GN Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Christmas music, blood, gore, supernatural elements, a bit of predator/prey, fingernail trauma, thigh riding, threats, alien anatomy, noncon, forced orgasm, facial, really dumb Christmas puns, Pennywise is a tiny bit sweeter than I usually write him.

(This is my secret Santa gift for the lovely @fingersinmyhair )

‘Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring tingle tingling too (ring-a-ling-a ding-dong-ding!)…!’

Every nerve in your body twitches. This song, this fucking song has played nearly thirty times during today’s shift. You swear you’ll go postal if you have to hear it one more god damned—

“Have a great day!” you chirp, handing the customer their purchases. They don’t even acknowledge you, too wrapped up in the flurry of last minute Christmas shopping.

The smile immediately slips from your face.

‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year…!’

Fuck this holiday.

***

Your shift complete, you cannot get to your car fast enough. Chilly air bites at the exposed skin of your hands and face and snow crunches underfoot as you make your way through the mostly empty parking lot. Your breaths curl white before you in the darkness, only the odd streetlight to guide you.

Inside your vehicle is hardly a relief, and a thick layer of frost has settled on the windshield. Great.

The engine rumbles to life as you attempt to rub warmth back into your fingers. The radio starts up—that’s weird, you’d had it synced to your phone on the way to work—

‘…he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows…he knows…he knows…he knows…HE KNOWS!’

You freeze, alarmed when the song begins to skip, the crooning voice growing deeper and more menacing with each pass. The back of your neck prickles, your eyes growing wide the longer you stare at the radio. This doesn’t make any sense. How could it be skipping like that…?

Wild cackling suddenly explodes from the speakers and you startle. Hurriedly you dive forward, fumbling with the radio and clapping your free hand over your ear as the laughter rises to deafening levels. The click of the knob plunges you into silence, save for your gasping breaths.

Desperately, you try to rationalize what just occurred. They had some kind of technical issue at the radio station. Your car’s wiring is on the fritz. It has to be one of those, right?

Yet, as you pull out of the parking lot, manic laughter still echoing in your head, you can’t shake the eerie feeling hanging in the air. You drive in silence, too afraid to try the stereo again.

Turning down your street, all the familiar decorations flash and twinkle, your neighbors apparently never short on Christmas spirit. You feel a little guilty you hadn’t decorated this year, but there simply hadn’t been time with your work schedule. You hadn’t even put up a tree.

Foreign red light illuminates the last houses on the block. Someone must have put out new decorations, but why so close to Christmas? You nearly pass your house, your frazzled mind not registering what it sees. Slowing to a crawl, your jaw falls open.

The snow blanketing your lawn glows red, reflecting the…Christmas lights splashed across the front of your home. The lights form the shape of a face, if you can call it that. Eyes blink and lips curve in an unnerving grin, too wide and too toothy to be natural. Worse, every single bulb is red, and not the typical, cheery Santa red. These are an evil, deep crimson that bathes the entire block in ominous color.

Someone must be playing a prank, right? But who would have the time and skill to do such a thing? Your neighbors certainly don’t know you well enough to joke with you like this, and your friends are all working, as far as you’re aware. Who then…?

Dumbfounded, your nerves buzzing, you pull into the driveway and turn off the engine. Cautiously, you slide from your car and approach your front door, the flashing red lights reflecting off your keys as you work the lock open.

You’ll just go in, find your gloves, and then figure out where these decorations are plugged in to shut them off. Taking them down will have to wait until tomorrow—

Inside your home is deathly silent. You freeze, acutely aware of your own breathing. Even the blood rushing in your ears sounds like a tsunami.

Outside, red lights blink and reflect off something on the floor…something wet. You take a step closer, bending down slightly and squinting. Realization hits and you recoil in alarm.

It’s a large boot print, but instead of being clear like melted snow, it’s red. Red like the lights outside. Red like blood. Your gaze is drawn to the others just past it, a trail of them leading further into your house.

Whipping around, you reach for the door handle and twist, intent on escape. You’ll race to your car, call the police. Maybe you can stay with a friend—

The handle doesn’t budge. Baffled and winded by barely contained panic, you jerk the door and throw your entire body weight into another twist. Your sweaty palms slip on brass. It’s like the whole knob has been frozen in place.

You pull, kick, and beat on the door with your fists, but they could be feathers for all the good it does you. The wood doesn’t budge.

You’re trapped like a rat.

How is this happening?

Hastily, you pat your pockets in search of your phone. Your heart sinks when you find them empty. It’s still sitting in the cup holder of your car.

Slowly, you swing back around. You’ll have to try the back door next, but this requires you follow the bloody tracks deeper into your darkened home. You swallow thickly, heart beating a tattoo against your ribs.

You tip-toe forward, careful not to step on any noisy floorboards. Every sense heightened, you’re acutely aware of the disturbing absence of sound. You should hear the hum of the refrigerator, the buzz of the heater, the drip of water from the leaky sink, but the only sounds come from you as you creep down the hall. The hair-raising feeling of being watched keeps your head on a swivel and your skin crawling.

The living room is up ahead. A few more steps. Then the kitchen and back door are just beyond. You can do this.

When you step into the room, you must clap your hands over your mouth to stifle your horrified scream.

Illuminated by the flashing red light pouring through the windows is a massive spruce tree, a tree that wasn’t there when you left for work this morning. Instead of tinsel and baubles dotting its branches, dripping innards hang and twist through its needles. Right at the top, completing this macabre imitation of a Christmas tree, sits a severed hand—a star.

You stare in shock, rooted to the spot in bone-numbing terror. Blood drips from intestines and patters onto the wood floor below. Who would have…could have done this? Whose body parts are those?!

You need to get out of here—

Before you can force your legs into motion, a cheery giggle echoes around the room. Your breath catches in your throat, your eyes drawn to the fireplace. It had come from the chimney….

Rustling. Soot puffs from the fireplace. Your chest heaves, your heart stuttering.

Long, white fingers—gloves—sneak out from the chimney to grip the facing, one hand, then another. The muscles in your chest freeze, terror choking you.

Next comes a blood red Santa hat perched atop a wild tuft of orange hair. A cracked, white forehead emerges from the gloom, followed by a pair of glowing, golden eyes trained directly on you.

You can’t move. You’re frozen in disbelief and dread as the entirety of a lanky body unfurls from the fireplace, joints popping and cracking as the creature stands upright to face you.

It is tall, menacingly so, and dressed in a tattered, soot-covered Santa suit. But what draws your gaze is its visage: It’s painted white with streaks of crimson curling over yellow eyes to its mouth. The same color stains its nose. It’s like clown makeup….

Almost.

The impossibility of it all leaves you reeling. This man, this thing…it isn’t human. Of this, you’re certain. Your mind races but no thoughts stick, no plan for what to do. You teeter on the edge of hysteria as you internally scream at your seizing muscles to move.

You jolt when the creature inhales deeply, unseen bells jingling when he moves his head. Drool, thick and viscous, spills from his fat lower lip to drip onto the floor like the blood raining from the grisly tree. The red mouth curls into a wicked grin.

“Gingerbread and cocoa. Just in time for Christmas,” it says, voice lilting. Raising a hand, it points one spidery finger toward the spruce. “Do you like the tree? Pennywise decorated it all by himself.”

Finally, your limbs react. You spin on your heel and sprint, a choked shriek tearing from your throat when maniacal laughter echoes through your home. It’s the same laughter that had filled your car not an hour ago.

You stumble, grip the wall, use the leverage to launch yourself around the corner, only to skid to a stop when you find the front door has completely vanished. Only a wall remains, smooth and white like the rest.

Panic, panic, what do you do, where do you go—

Long fingers wrap around your ankle and yank. You crash to the floor with a cry and a heavy thud, palms stinging where they catch your weight. Whirling around, you find your leg clutched by the intruder. Its mouth spreads far too wide across his face—much like the mouth lit up on the outside of your house. It grins at you with too many pointed teeth.

You loose a blood-curdling scream when you’re dragged back down the hall. You writhe, scream, flail, claw at the floor until your nails crack and break off, but the grip around your ankle holds firm. The clown, unaffected by your struggle, simply drags you along like Santa’s sack of gifts, whistling the tune of Jingle Bells all the while.

He deposits you before the gruesome tree, your shirt growing damp and heavy as it soaks up the blood that has pooled. Frantically, you attempt to push to your feet but the clown pounces, hateful cackling filling the room as he grips the back of your head and shoves your face into the wet floor. The overpowering stench of iron fills your nose and you gag, your cheek sliding in gore the harder he presses.

“W-WHAT DO YOU WANT?” you sob, your feeble attempts to buck and wriggle thwarted by the clown’s weight against your back. More chortling, close to your ear this time. The scent of its carrion breath and the chilly drool smeared against your ear makes you tense and retch in disgust.

“Poor Pennywise never gets any Christmas presents. Always left off the list, always forgotten. Boo hoo hoo,” he sings, feigning sorrow. He shifts and shoves a thigh between your thrashing legs until the limb is flush with the apex of your thighs. The sudden warmth right against your most sensitive parts pulls a yelp from your lips, your eyes growing wide as saucers.

“Rut against it, little treat, or Penny will tear your face off. I bet it tastes like cookies. Cookies for Santa!” You whimper and furiously shake your head, but the prick of needle-teeth against your cheek has you raising your hips and grinding.

You snap your eyes shut, doing your best to ignore the heat that blooms in your gut at the contact. As though he can read your mind, the clown gleefully giggles and matches your rhythm with pressure from his own leg. You grit your teeth, a pathetic little sound lodging in your throat.

“A good toy! The pretty toy wants to moan, wants to float up, up, up and away! Pennywise has a little angel for his Christmas tree, hmmm?”

“N-No, no,” you whine, your tone more desperate than you wanted. Your face heats up, hips rocking of their own accord, want burning in your gut, your underclothes growing wet the more you leak. This is wrong, this is sick, what are you doing, stop this, stop, you’d rather die than admit this is good….

Wouldn’t you?

“Time for Pennywise to open his present!” The clown rears back, grips ahold of your pants, and rips. Fear tips the scale over desire, a scream leaving you in a rush, struggle renewed.

His weight quickly returns and pins you to the slippery floor, jagged teeth setting against your ear. He hisses, “Bad toys get broken. You’re not a bad toy, are you?”

Frantically, you shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. Pennywise grips your jaw, the sound of fabric tearing making you jolt. Out of the corner of your eye you watch as his fingers elongate, the tips of black claws piercing through white gloves. They come to rest just under your ear, sharp points threatening.

Pressure against your center instantly draws your attention. Something thick and hot writhes against your entrance. You choke on a cry and begin to fight, only to gasp and still when claws scratch bleeding lines down your neck.

“Show Pennywise what a good toy you’ll make.” A shaky breath hisses between your teeth. The drooling head of what you now understand to be this creature’s length prods then burrows into tight muscles. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as you’re stretched and filled by the clown’s seemingly endless girth.

Finally, his hips come to rest against your ass. Pennywise sighs, his painted nose nuzzling your hair, a breathy chuckle puffing against the shell of your ear. “Soft and sweet and allllll wet, just for Pennywise, yes?”

He gives a quick thrust. All the air you hold in your lungs leaves in a huff, embarrassingly wanton sound following close behind. The stretch is incredible, discomfort toeing the line of pain. Still, it’s satisfying, being stuffed so full where you need it the most. It’s too much, yet so delicious your eyes cross.

Slow rocking of hips gradually turns to harsh snapping until you’re scooting forward along the slick floor. Each thrust makes you keen; so dizzy are you with sensation you hardly register it’s you making the racket. In your ear, the clown grunts and growls, hidden bells jingling with the pistoning of his hips.

With his grip on your face, Pennywise tips your head so he can drag his tongue through the blood dribbling down your throat. He licks up your cheek, noisily slurping up tears. “Pennywise was right! Tasty little snack, a tiny treat. Swallow you in one bite, he will, ohhh yes….”

Pleasure mounts. You reach the precipice so quickly you don’t even have time to protest. A feeble, “Wait, wait,” leaves your tongue in a garbled mess when the pressure deep in your belly explodes. Ecstasy ripples under your skin, your toes and fingers curling, an unchecked moan filling the room.

Pennywise growls, the sound ominously deep and rumbling, like some primordial beast. It vibrates against your back and sends a frightening thrill up your spine. He rips his cock from your spasming channel and flips you onto your back. You manage to snap your eyes shut a millisecond before thick ropes of sugary-smelling cum paint your face and chest. Accidentally, you swallow what lands on your tongue, the taste so overpoweringly sweet you gag once again.

Breath reeking of rotting meat washes over your skin and you quickly wipe away the seed coating your eyelids. You find the clown’s painted face inches from your own, golden eyes gleaming in your darkened living room. Gloved fingers—no more claws—smear spend across your cheek and shove more into your mouth. You grimace, your tongue slick with the flavor of cotton candy on steroids.

Another insane laugh, another flash of shark teeth. Will he kill you now? Add your guts to the tree? Swallow you whole?

“Frosted my little ginger snack, didn’t I?” he jokes. You stare, bewildered, terrified, exhausted, and trembling from head to toe.

Long fingers pat your cheek, tap, tap, tap. The clown jumps to his feet, boots clicking together. He bends backwards, bones snapping deafeningly in your quiet home. Long legs swing up and over, his body twisting and bending unnaturally until he’s sliding back up the chimney. The clown winks once before disappearing from view.

Then, silence.

You barely breathe, listening intently. Is he…?

‘JUST HEAR THOSE SLEIGH BELLS JINGLING, RING TINGLE TINGLING TOO!’

You jump and scream, hand flying to your chest when your television flicks on, volume at max. Sleigh Ride blasts through the speakers, the screen fuzzy static.

Groaning, you slump backwards, head thumping against hardwood.

Fuck. This. Holiday.

#pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #pennywise x reader #pennywise x you #it 2017 #it 2019 #it movie #stephen king’s it #thesightstoshowyou

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ladythornofrivia · 8 months

Text

wounded echo

Pair: shinichiro x reader

Warnings: depression, self-harm, psychological abuse, self-hatred, toxic drama

A/N: i decided to write this chapter because i don’t want to leave this story behind. and i love the story of little mermaid.

please report if anyone decides to steal/plagiarize my work and notify me. thank you.

Please listen to this song while reading this series. I'll be posting this link every time I made a new upload.

youtube

Chapter II: Fish Out Of Water

You watched the humans celebrate with their unusual birthday tradition. On the night of the coastline and shore shimmered. Every night, a night life on a human land was something you haven’t seen. The significance between the night between heart of the deep shores and and the clear lands is there were no constellations and bright lights sparkling like diamonds, so much flicker, so much brightness in all colors. You envied the humans who lived in a life with colors and sun, and while having the light of sun bathe through the waters, you couldn’t help what it feels like to live and breath air and bathe under the golden daylight that bask and tingles your skin with glowing warmth. Ripples under the surface, it sickened you. Nothing ever changes. Everyone around you are the same as if the time is still but merfolk still moved—or somehow feels like you’re starting from the beginning of time. Then it repeats. Stilled, though motioned.

Ripples under the surface has bored you.

Echoes bellowed through the night. Raging and excited scream came from above. You haven’t gone down the water. You wanted to explore more. After all, you don’t want to spend another moment in the water during your birthday, which your family tends to forget. Even up high, the escalation in your heart proceeds, the overwhelmed sensation flowed through you, hot and chilled at once. Your heart wouldn’t stop in ease. Everything is unfamiliar to you as if you have stepped out of the cage, you felt so small while the world was just another shark with honed teeth, waiting to eat you. The world is a shark, and you’re only a small fish, wandering.

The booming noise still came through. When they moved along the steep road, the fins on your tail swiftly dipped and splashed the water, following them. Blood rushing into you, your breath ragged as your arms maneuvered farther. You didn’t want to lose them. You have gone this far to bend the rules and rules are meant to be broken. Sometimes when your heart yearned for something, the goal matters, never mind the life or health or consciousness you possessed.

Chasing them in the water, your eyes never lost sight of the men, wild and free. As you, your heart, has been captured by fascination, like any merfolk. But there was something more that you’re more aware of. Their legs.

Being a mermaid, with fins, it helped you swim faster, which you are grateful for, but seeing men riding weird vehicles with two legs, has caught your eye. You studied them some more by the time they hit the beach. You hid by the wooden pillar, watching them stomp and explore at the spacious bridge. From there, they continued their celebration; they didn’t want to block the traffic.

They kept drinking, whilst the young boy called as Mikey, sat down and ate his birthday cake, similar shape as a fish. You never have a birthday cake before. Let alone sweets that they spoke of. Even the young man who adores his little brother, despite Mikey’s attempts on poking fun at Shinichiro.

Shinichiro.

His name caressed into your tongue and head like silk. All your life, you heard nothing but your sisters’s names and your parents’s names—sickening and exhausting. Lustrous ivory skin on a young man’s face was glowing with benign aura. His cloudless, dark eyes squinted as he smiled and cheered, drinking the fizzling substance in his lips, laughing and chatting, as the lively expression on all of his companions.

Several minutes had gone by, and despite your weary state, you still keep watching them from under the bridge.

"Seriously, when are you going to give me a dorayaki?" Mikey whined, his hand shook the fabric on Shinichiro's coat, then kicked him by the calf.

Shinichiro winced. "Hey, watch it! We're having a celebration. And I think you'll like it even more than a dorayaki."

Mikey pouted. "Why not? Why not buy the snack now?"

Shinichiro tsked. "You just have to wait, buddy," he said, ruffling Mikey's blond hair again. Then it became silent, leaving the rumbling waves crashing on the shore. You stayed at the pillar underneath Shinichiro's feet. With a clear shot of his innocent, youthish face, you couldn't help but fall for his charm--hypnotic and silence of breath captured you in silence.

"Happy Birthday to you," someone sang. Within seconds, the men clapped, beating the rhytm of the birthday song. There, one of the founding members held a giant cake that shaped like fish as two tall members behind the man with white-haired locks, gave an endearing smile.

As the birthday chant goes on, the ocean waves grew louder. Everything became uneasy; the shift in your weight became lightfeathered. The waves are carrying you with brute force. The louder they shouted, the more the ocean waves drowned the noise. Whoever causd the commotion in the waves brought a great deal of disturbance in your stilled composure.

"Happy Birthday to you~" then the burst of applause imploded. The lightning rumbled in the skies.

As Mikey was about to blow a flag-like shaped candles, the bridge rocked for a short second.

When Mikey held his breath in again, the bridge rocked again, causing the birthday cake to splat. The shaking stopped; everyone gathered altogether in confusion. As they gathered in relief, there's one person who Mikey is aware of someone's absence.

"Where's Shin?" Mikey panicked.

The gang searched around with their pivoting heads.

"Shin," Mikey shouted. Realizing his jacket has been spotted, not on the floor of the bridge, but the cold, dark and churning waves.

Shinichiro was nowhere to be found.

"Shin!" Mikey bellowed, when he was about to dive after him, one of the founding members held him back.

"Don't do it, Mikey," a man with a scarred face said.

"I can't! He's my brother, I have to save him!" Mikey reasoned.

"Someone get him!" another member shouted. The men hesitated at first, but they haste, mounting on their bikes and arrive at the coastline to fetch their leader.

As you dove your way into the deep waves, you searched for him. Shoving the frozen water in an alarming pace as your breath ragged, yearning for Shinichiro to be unconsciously breathing at the challenging environment. Compare to him, you swam farther, for you to realize that your eye caught a certain glowing light inside the ocean. The glowing light you have spotted was none other than Shinichiro. With a silver glow of your glitter fins, you gave the spare energy and reached him, enclapsed your arms underneath his waist and dragged him upwards to the surface. The upcoming tsunami nearly came to a close, for the waves suddenly went still.

~~~

It took long to reach the land's surface, back where they celebrated the young boy's nameday. As your inner strength brought Shinichiro back on the dry shore, you noticed that not only you have contacted the land's surface, but you have also contacted a human, a very first human your heart is longing for a curiosity. Everything you have seen, still overwhelms you with awe and welcoming. The unfamiliar warmth glowed onto your skin as you looked and have slightly unguarded by the golden sunlight.

The sun and the molded sand by the beach has reached the potential of your fascinations stretched higher to its reached heights. Your heart soared as your daydreaming of other world has plagued into you, drawn to a farther place away from darkened familiarity.

The man before you still laid unconscious, exposed with soft porcelain skin, soft lines on his stomach appeared hard and solid, his long and lush locks of raven hair pressed down against his forehead, breathing.

Your head pressed down against his chest, hearing a loud noise between thumps.

You have shaken him first. Again, you felt no response from him. Then you tried to open his mouth to hear his breath against your ear and raven hair strands.

The silver glitters on your skin--limbs, shoulders, and back--prickled. It didn't hurt in the slightest, but it comforted you with warmth. Slicking his wet hair back, you have never seen a handsome man who is not only kind, but also a sense of joyful area he spread around his companions.

Your voice ached to come out, to call him in his sleep, to call him with your waking sound.

And so, you gathered a courage to find yourself immense with quietude, with your thundered heart, you sang.

You have a gift of song and sight, you perusuaded your voice to those who come and want to know you. But to your family, your gift of voice and sight, was useless to them, calling your talent "nothing" and "futile" to use for kingdom's future.

"You won't go anywhere with your useless talent," your own mother and father said. And when you defended your natural-born gift, your family has stripped your privileges away, and have thrown you into a golden cage, to "repent" for what you have done.

You have done nothing wrong but to value your assets.

in a golden cage, there's no out there to call you, not one to glance or check on you. The golden walls in the cage has been filled with your broken tears. No one came up to you and realized what they have done.

"We didn't do anything wrong," they said, over and over and over again, like being stuck in a limbo.

As your tears soon drown to faded silence, your parents unlocked the golden cage. "Have you learned your lesson," they asked with a smile and wide, glaring eyes..

Merfolks are often happy creatures. They love to laugh, to sing and dance and chat, playing instruments and have bond with other creatures, yet strayed from sharks and things are decayed from the human lands. That's where your heart was set in motion as you first saw the abandoned cruise ship somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. All stayed in one circle the moment your heart was set on something more than just simple prosperity.

The moment they noticed your act, they not only ignored you, they always find ways to berate you that isn't based on your actions. Their projections were laid against you. Each day, your days have gone colder than last--unloved and untouched, and yet touched by the unloved.

Nothing has ever repaired or redeemed. So you went your ways, minding your business. And thus, the longing for leaving and residing elsewhere is better than the familiar cold comfort.

His breath had caught your attention. The cough of water spat from his heaving chest as his back lunged forward with his eyes tight shut, pain and filled with drowning salt water. You knew that humans cannot drink water while you are immune, not that your life is aquired to drink liquid.

"Shinichiro," you whispered, caressing his sticky, wet locks with sigh of relief.

"Shinichiro," you repeated, your voice grew louder.

You felt his heart stopped. His eyes were open, seeing you, all basked in glitter and an adorned smile. But before he could get a clear shot of your visage, the men nearby shouted his name.

"Captain!" someone said.

"He's here, he's here," another member said, and all the men hopped over to the beach and dashed towards their sleeping leader.

Thankfully, you managed to exit the way towards the splashing water, swimming away to the bloudered rocks, watching him getting dragged and hoisted up by his men. Meanwhile, Mikey rushed over to his side and booted Shinichiro by the leg.

"Ow," Shinichiro groaned. "That's unecessary, Mikey."

Mikey suddenly tackled him with a hug. "You big idiot," he said.

Noticing Mikey's unsual reaction, Shinichiro said, "Are you crying, Mikey?"

"I'm not crying," Mikey responded, still clutching to his older brother.

Then Shinichiro scooped Mikey up into his arms, shushing him. "Don't cry, Mikey. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

The men surrounded him nearly weeped at the sight of a brotherly bond between their leader and their leader's young brother.

"We'll go buy you dorayaki, okay? Sorry that the party is ruined."

"You didn't ruined it," Mikey pouted. "It was that stupid ocean and the lightning struck."

And that is the moment where you wanted to reach your goals on stepping into the dry land, but unsure how.

Either way, the fire that enflamed in your heart and scales still lingers.

Lingering behind the large rocks as you watched Shinichiro looking to the distance of the swaying sea. "Someone rescued me," he uttered, letting go of Mikey.

Then racing towards the wet coastline. "Someone's saved my life!"

"Who?" a founding member with white-colored hair said, flabberghasted.

"She sang to me. She have the voice of an angel," Shinichiro said with a hopeful sigh.

"She?" a man with bulky appearance said. "Shin, you couldn't even get a date. There's not a girl in plain sight. Plus I don't any girl would survive in a deep ocean that is infested with sharks and jellyfish and lots of poisonous stuff that's under that salt."

"You get rejected all the time," a man with a scar said, scoffing. "I doubt it. Maybe it's just waves that are carrying you."

"I think you drowned too much," a man with white-colored hair added.

"I thought this is sad, but it's actually way worse than I thought," Mikey said.

"Hey," Shinichiro said with a sad expression.

"Remember how you got rejected for the twentieth time? You got a large booger hanging on your nostril. Your right nostril," Mikey indicated his pinky finger near to his nostril.

"Knock it off, Mikey," Shinichiro warned. "Or I won't be buying you a dorayaki. I'll even buy it without a flag."

"Awww, no fair, Shin!" Mikey kicked Shinichiro at the back, making him fall, then to be picked up by his companions and lead straight farther from your reach.

You yearned to see him again, to hear and acccompany him as your heart sang a song for him. You must do what you must do. You have to find a way to reach the land.

~~~

By the time Shinichiro and his men disappeared from your sight, you dove back in the water. Your heart grew heavy with anxiousness. You didn't want to go back to your homeland. You'd rather stay with the sharks and poisonous corals and reefs. You'd rather be tied up in a net, rather than lingering another hour or two to be spent away being degraded by your parents and siblings.

Your head went spinning, and your body went sluggish. As you went back on following a path, the path you created for a shortcut to your home and your secret hiding spot. Your secret hiding was spacious, filled with human collections, one that nobody in merfolks know how to use, or does think it's just pile of rubbish garbage. You wanted to know every human contraptions work.

Going inside your secret place was your way to relieve yourself from depravity and withdrawals.

In your grotto, you collected many possessions, even attires from the olden ages. You pressed your fingertips against the fabrics. Some are scratchy, some are soft and silky, you haven't touch anything unlikely before. You wondered to yourself of what was like to wear frabrics hugging to your skin. Sometimes your hands touched between the human possession and your fin scales.

Things would have been different if your family has completely ignore you as if your existence deteriorate.

Things would have been if you could sing aloud of how much you're inspired to see and change your ways of life as a mermaid rather defending their ideals. Why change for the merpeople by sacrificing your views when they could never sacrifice their pride for a child's plea for understanding and compassion?

None of them are enough to see the fiery difference from you. To them, your passion and different views are nothing but a threat.

"Shinchiro," you whispered. Your saddened heart was calling out to him. The voice of your heart has spread from the coursed veins until reaches to your ears, defeaned to a secret hymn that sent from your heart. Your fingers prickled as your yearned to reach closer to him.

You're quick to notice that on that night you rescued him, his long, black coat was missing. You wanted to search far and wide for the coat, but knowing how stretched the ocean is, your doubts overcame. Chances are, the coat has been torn apart or being wasted by the octopus's ink or evaporated by the jellyfish's sting.

Regarding to his belonging, you returned the olden cloth back at the pile and dashed out to hunt for his coat without help.

Over and under, you're searching for the black goat. You planned on returning the coat to him. But your energy has grown and overspent. You wanted to rest, you wanted to eat, but you'd rather be sick and starve than eating the same food for a last decade. Even when staying as your trueself to your ideals, you still want to change your life by avoiding them. You doubt that they'll "miss" your presence, so it should be a good start for you to move forward.

A large being dashed and passed by you. It was blurry you couldn't make out what it was until it shows your friend--only friend--Melo, the Beluga whale.

"Hiya, (y/n)," Melo greeted with his fin flapping.

"Melo," you said with gritted teeth. "Not so loud. I don't want any creatures in the ocean to come at me."

"Sorry," Melo said with a sympathetidc smile. "What are you looking for anyway?'

"Something important," you said vaguely, eyes darting in panic motion. "I have to find it or else I won't be able to see it again."

"What was it?"

"It's something important. If I say anymore than that, I might get punished again."

"Well, come on, let's go find it," Melo encouraged, went ahead and hunt for the missing item.

Which possibly might not be soon found. But if you let this go now, you won't be able to see him again.

"What does it look like anyhow?"

"It's long," you described. "And it's dark."

"Like a squid's ink?'

"Well, I," you said. "I just--look it's hard to describe. I just have to get it back before it's gone for good."

Your heart raced as you search further, spotting anything is long and dark-colored coat. But none of them are accurate. They're mostly sea creatures shifting from one hiding spot to another. At this rate, your tears threatened to fall, Melo noticed and came by at your side, nudging his head to yours, then your hands clapsed. "I'm sorry," you said, weeping in the middle of nowhere, where are no creatures or boulders or seaweeds. "I need to get the coat back to someone."

"Back on the land?" Melo assumed.

"Yes," you whispered. "I can't let them know."

"Don't worry, (y/n)," Melo said. "I'll make sure to feed your family to the sharks when they cross the line. After all, we've been gathering to many human collections for a long time."

Your fingers swiped your hair strand aside. "I know. I just I want to bring it back up to the surface."

"Wasn't your nameday yesterday?"

"Yes, but my family decided to change the laws and made it all about themselves as the last evening's supper."

Melo frowned. "Even sharks have better mannerisms than them."

You said nothing but to stare off into space, wandering what could Shinichiro be doing.

~~~

{In Land}

Somewhere far, and even in his sleep, Shinichiro could still hear the beautiful voice of an angel.

Under a hot climate, Shinchiro lunged himself awake, breathing hard in his personal room at the garage. Everywhere he goes, and in his bike shope, his hears could hear the sound a song's calling. The sea has drowned him and has been mercied by the grace of his savior. His savior's voice has been ringing in his mind and heart since that night.

I have to go to the beach again, Shinichiro thought. If I could find her, I must have clues.

Under a nightfall, he grabbed his keys and left, leaving him with a motorcycle, a song became louder as he sped his bike on a road. The song's calling was getting louder, numbing him, beguiling him closer. Dismounting, Shinchiro rushed by the coastline, the moonlight shone as the hymn upon the continuous waves, crashing.

He must find a way to give gratitude from a grace of his savior.

~~~

"Have you found it yet, (y/n)?" Melo huffed.

"No," you said, shoving the tangled seaweed down on the ocean's floor. "Nothing."

There's no hope for me now.

"It must be somewhere around here," Melo insisted with a merry grin.

"Oh," you said, swishing your hand. "That must've been the stingray."

"No, really, come on, we can't give up!" Melo's fin flapped--pointed at the direction ahead of you.

Squinting your eyes, you depicted a flowing object with a small glint of sliver on its back. Before you know it, your heart sped, unknowingly why.

"You want to go get it for you?" Melo asked. "You look tired."

"No, we'll go together," you insisted, and Melo voluntarily pulled you up.

As you made your way, you spotted a black substance on the floor. When you take a closer look, it was no doubt that you have found Shinichiro's coat, being stuck under a heavy, rusted anchor.

You gasped. "This is it!"

"That's the one you've been looking for?'

Your head nodded vigorously, hugging the coat to your chest once you pulled the coat out from the hook without leaving a scratch with a help from Melo.

"Thank you, Melo," you said, hugging him.

Melo, on the other hand, knew something was off, as if your usual sad self is gone and went back to happiness. He has no intentions of belittling you. Just like you, Melo is also curious of the human world, but don't have the privilege of having human-like appearance. As long as you are happy, is what all matters of Melo's happiness.

He knew something that is beyond from searching the coat. He knew that your enamoration grew higher.

The love of land is still there, but there's something more than meets the eye. More than the sound of the sea, the sound your heart has drawn into more than the your heart's longing, but love.

Taglist: @galactict3a @colored-tr-panels @slay0368 @the-haitani-baton

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mollymawkwrites · 1 year

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this is the longest thing i have written in well over a year, and i'm quite happy with how it came out. thank you so much @dapandapod for your support and cheer reading, it meant a lot <3 CW: dubcon, sleep paralysis, inhuman!Eddie

Of course Steve gets nightmares. He’s always had them, ever since he was a little boy in a too big house. They only got worse after he saw a demogorgon crawl out of the walls at the old Byers’ place.

Flesh monsters, vines tight around his neck, demobats tearing at his flesh… Yeah, his brain has all the material it needs to fuck up his nights for several lifetimes. And yeah, some of them are about Eddie.

That’s weird, given Steve was only vaguely aware of the other boy’s existence until they met in less than ideal circumstances. And it’s not like they hit it off then, either. Sure, Eddie was fun and braver than he liked to pretend, but they hadn’t really gotten to know each other, what with the whole “running for our lives” situation.

But one doesn’t decide what one’s traumatized mind chooses to focus on, and so, in the months after the almost apocalypse, Steve gets used to seeing Eddie’s pale, bloodied face in his sleep every once in a while.

One of those nights, give or take five months after they’d buried an empty casket and struggled to meet Wayne Munson’s eyes, Steve wakes up from a nightmare featuring big, fearful doe eyes with a strangled gasp.

His brain struggles to catch up as his heart beats fast enough to hurt, sweat tickling his scalp. What hits him first is the heaviness of his limbs, unresponsive even as he wills himself to sit up. Panic seizes him, and he screams — well, tries to. All that comes out is a pathetic wheeze.

No matter how hard he strains on his vocal chords, nothing comes out but the air in his lungs.

It takes him a while to calm down, and even then it’s more out of exhaustion than anything else. That’s when Steve notices the shadow in the corner of his room. And it’s not like he’s not used to mistaking a pile of clothes or a coat hanger for a threatening presence — there have been incidents involving panic attacks and waving his nail bat at unsuspecting items.

But this — this is not just a hallucination. Or maybe it is, a very elaborate one. He can’t see much, a humanoid shape, hunched between his wardrobe and his desk, so dark it looks like it’s sucking the moonlight from the room.

It doesn’t move, and Steve keeps his breathing shallow, quiet, his lungs straining with the lack of oxygen as he stares at the shadow, his eyes burning with the need to blink. As if keeping his eyes on it will keep it from moving closer.

A car passes in the street outside, bathing the room in light for a second, and two eyes flash, reflective like a cat’s, fixed on Steve, furthering the feeling of prey tickling at the back of his neck.

But with the sudden light, there and gone, Steve gets a better look, though the thing is still just a shadow, a complete absence of color and light; but the shape of it is familiar, wild curls around its head, bad posture in a relaxed, careless way. It’s a silhouette he sees more often than not when he’s asleep.

Maybe he is still dreaming; that would explain why he has no control over his body, his voice. Why Eddie’s shadow is standing in the corner of his room. It doesn’t make it easier to relax, the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped in his own skin bringing back flashes of metal chairs and manacles in a Russian secret facility, of slimy vines crawling over him, restraining his limbs, choking him.

“Eddie” is unmoving, quiet, as Steve’s chest heaves around painful breaths, his mouth opening around silent words and pleas. Nothing comes out of his mouth but agonized whimpers. Tears gather at the corners of Steve’s eyes. He still doesn’t dare to blink, equal parts terrified that Eddie will disappear or that he’ll attack him if he does. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, making the forced immobility of his limbs even more unbearable.

It feels like hours before he slips into an exhausted sleep, “Eddie” just as unmoving in the corner as Steve is in his bed. Flashes of light glint off of his eyes from time to time, and the outline of him seems blurry, like dark, unnatural smoke. Steve fights to keep his eyes open, trying to catch more details out of the apparition haunting his room, but as the stars wink off and the sky lightens, he gives up, and sinks back into uneasy dreams.

The incident stays on his mind for the next couple of days, making him nervous, unsettled; but after an uncomfortable conversation with the other older kids, he concludes that was just the results of his exhausted, traumatized mind, a textbook case of sleep paralysis (thank you Nance). After that, it’s easier to put it out of his mind.

Except it’s not even a week before he wakes up gasping in the middle of the night, vivid images of bitten off flesh and big, lifeless brown eyes staring at a blood red sky superposing with the familiar decor of his own bedroom for a second. Restless energy thrums, desperate to do something, get rid of this helpless feeling that’s been underlying, hiding under his skin for months; but as he goes to rise and find something to do, maybe call Robs or demand a check in through the walkie, he finds himself, once again, unable to move an inch.

This time he forces himself to breathe through the panic, to relax his limbs, just like Nancy told him. And it helps, it does, right up until he notices the shadow standing at the foot of his bed, the moonlight coming from the window forming a halo in its wild, curled hair, darkness bleeding out from where Steve knows the bats tore into skin and flesh.

He can’t help the choked sob clawing up his throat as tears spring to his eyes, rolling down his temples to pool in the hollow of his ears. He whimpers, hurting his tight throat as he fights to whisper, “S— sorry, ‘m sorry, Eddie—“

A weird, hissing noise echoes around Steve’s room, making the hair on his arms rise, like the warning sound of a rattlesnake when you’ve stepped too close. It takes Steve a minute to realize it comes from Eddie, a mockery of a shushing sound, as if trying to soothe him.

At some point, around the same time his tears dry and his sobs fade into tired hiccups, the sound merges into a faint hum, discordant and unsettling, like an old-timey melody heard through a malfunctioning vinyl turntable. It sounds familiar, though Steve’s exhausted mind can’t quite recognize it. He falls back asleep quickly, wakes up in the morning with salt tracks dry on his cheeks and a stubborn melody stuck in his brain.

This, like the nightmares, the yearly world-ending threat, and the knowledge that superpowered teenagers are a thing, becomes Steve’s new “normal”. Every once in a while, when Steve dreams of Eddie, he wakes up to the silhouette of the dead metalhead lurking in his room, sometimes in the corner, sometimes in the shadow of his wardrobe, or even perched on his desk.

As weeks pass, the silhouette seems to get sharper, like a camera focusing bit by bit. Shadows leave place to a pale face with wide, black eyes, reveal claws at the end of long, thin arms, and the low, rough voice always seems to be humming the same melody, the one Steve can’t seem to shake off his brain even during the day, and is pretty sure is meant to be played on a guitar.

After a few of these nightly visits, Eddie gets bolder, starts crouching at the foot of Steve’s bed, and eventually, perching over him, his face hovering over Steve’s, eyes glinting, mouth forming wordless melodies. There is no weight, no dent in the sheets; dreams are weightless, Steve supposes. There is a smell, though, something like ash, like ozone and iron, that gets stronger whenever Eddie manifests that close to him. A cold sensation seeping through the sheets where there should be contact between them, raising goosebumps over Steve’s skin.

This goes on for another few weeks, during which Steve debates telling anyone about his unusual nighttime visitor. He saw Eddie’s dead body, the vital parts ripped out of him by thousands of tiny teeth. He mourned along with the rest of the Party, though his waking mind kept his focus on Max and her slow, painful recovery.

All that to say, Eddie is dead. Steve knows that. And even if he wasn’t, they left his body back in the Upside Down. El closed all the rifts, they made sure of it. How could Eddie be here, when his body has been locked in another dimension?

Steve is probably going crazy, making up a strange imaginary friend, a fucked up kind of coping mechanism. Telling the others will alert them of his less than stellar state, and get it in their head to help him. And then… then Eddie, or whatever weird imaginary version of him, might disappear for good.

Steve’s not sure why the thought makes him so uncomfortable, why he almost looks forward to going to bed now, despite the nightmares, despite the insomnia, just because it might be one of those nights where Eddie “visits” him again. Somehow, he gets to spend more time with a man he lost before they could become friends, and no matter how fucked up that is, Steve doesn’t get a lot of nice things these days. He’ll enjoy that one while it lasts.

There is something else Steve hasn’t told anyone, not even Robin. Since their last stunt in the Upside Down, Steve’s libido has been… well, lacking would be a word for it. And he knows he’s got A Reputation, but the truth is he’s never been as much of a Casanova as everyone says. Sure, he’s gone on a lot of dates, and some ended up in one night stands. But that always feels unsatisfactory. Yeah, Steve likes sex, loves sex, but what he loves about it is the emotional connection. So no, he doesn’t sleep around that much even at the best of times. And this… this is not the best of times.

The fact that he’s either been not sleeping or having nightmares when he does surely doesn’t help. He’s had no interest in sex in months, and even masturbation is only perfunctory, just another unsuccessful way to try and fall asleep.

So when he gets his first wet dream in who knows how long, Steve damn well intends to enjoy it. There’s no real focus of his dream, only warm, fuzzy sensations, a tingle in his lower belly he’s not felt in what feels like forever.

He basks in it for a little while, heat building, shapes and sensations brushing his skin, his hands tangling in long, soft hair, humming lips kissing his burning skin, a weight shifting over him like a comforting, grounding embrace.

A hoarse voice moaning praise, whispering his name against his throat, his ear, his hair.

“Stevie…”

He grinds against the other body, chasing sparks of pleasure, but the weight disappears, and he whines, hips stuttering, seeking delicious friction.

“Steve,” the raspy voice pierces through the hazy fog of lust, and Steve opens his eyes to his dark room, a now familiar immobility restricting his body. His heart beats hard in his chest, body still caught in unfocused pleasure. He knows to look for a shadow before he’s even completely awake.

Eddie’s crouched awkwardly near Steve’s legs, big eyes staring at him in surprise. From his point of view, there’s no ignoring the obvious tent in the light summer sheets. The shame that floods Steve chases away the last of the sleepiness, and he closes his eyes in mortification, a muffled groan making its way out of his tight throat. There’s no doubt Eddie had been sitting atop him when Steve had started moaning and grinding his hips like a perv. The weight had felt so real, so good, and now Steve is left with a persistent hard-on in front of his own personal ghost.

So instead he keeps his eyes closed and hopes against hope he’ll get back to sleep and Eddie will be gone when he wakes again. Which, of course, has zero chance of happening in normal circumstances, even less so with his dick still stiff as a board.

The mattress shifts, Steve’s body rolling with the movement. He snaps his eyes open, meets Eddie’s equally confused gaze. That felt like… Eddie actually sitting on Steve’s bed, his weight dragging Steve towards him like gravity. But it can’t…

They both watch as Eddie raises his hand as if in slow-motion, hovering right over Steve’s knee, complicated emotions stirring in his bottomless eyes. The touch, when it comes, is cold through the sheets. A jolt of electricity shoots up Steve’s thigh, contracting the muscle and tingling over his skin.

“Stevie?” Eddie rasps, voice unsure. Steve wants to tell him it’s okay, though he really doesn’t know if it is, all his comfortable assumptions about dreams and sleep paralysis and logic flying out the windows as Eddie’s fingers press into his flesh; not bruising but firm, like he’s trying to make sure he won’t go through Steve’s skin.

Gaze rising from where he’s been staring at Eddie’s — corporeal— hand for the last minute, he finds Eddie’s eyes searching his face, bloodless lips parted over too sharp teeth. Though he feels far from confident about the situation, Steve dredges every bit of reassurance and comfort he can find, pushing it to the front of his mind as if Eddie could absorb it through — fucking osmosis or something.

Dumb as it sounds to his own brain, Eddie seems to catch up on it, and he shifts again, a little closer, upper body hovering over Steve’s, his big dark eyes searching for something.

Slow, as if not to spook him, Eddie brings his other hand to Steve’s bare chest. His fingers are freezing, and Steve can’t fight off the shiver that wracks through his body at the touch, soft skin yielding under a clawed hand.

Eddie stays still for a moment, his eyes never leaving Steve’s, before lowering his head next to his hand, ear against Steve’s chest, as if… as if listening to his heart.

Steve’s face flushes bright hot as his traitorous heart immediately picks up, betraying how affected he is by all the touching.

He is so lost to mortification he almost doesn’t notice the strange sound rising in the room, but the vibration against his chest catches his attention. Weird as it is, it doesn’t take long for Steve to understand Eddie is purring, loud and smug like Dustin’s cat always does when he perches on Steve’s lap. A silent laugh shakes Steve’s shoulders, and Eddie straightens up, a small, hesitant smile on his face. Sharp fangs press into his plush bottom lip, creating little dimples matching the ones on his cheeks. Steve only sees them for a second before Eddie shuffles even closer, leaning down again, aiming this time for Steve’s neck. Visions of those sharp fangs tearing into his throat only torment him for a second, before he hears Eddie snuffling against his pulse point, cold breath raising goosebumps over the bare skin.

Steve’s not sure his sleep stale sweat is a very alluring scent, but Eddie seems to think otherwise, as an oddly long tongue trails from the dip between Steve’s collarbones to the ticklish spot under his left ear, the deep purring emanating from Eddie’s chest growing louder with the action.

Steve lets out a strangled gasp at the wet sensation, the night air flowing from his open window immediately cooling the trail of saliva and enhancing the sensation. His flagging dick reacts immediately, rising to attention. Eddie raises his head, face hovering right over Steve’s as he searches his gaze, a sharp grin pulling at his lips when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for. Steve’s breath is shallow, fresh sweat beading at his temple as his body heats rapidly, hyper aware of Eddie’s skin so close to his own, their only point of contact the hand Eddie still has placed at the center of his chest and the strands of curly hair tickling his throat and shoulders.

“Stevie,” Eddie croaks again, with an edge of teasing to his voice this time, his cool breath brushing over Steve’s face.

A pang of loss runs through Steve when Eddie sits back, mourning their proximity, until Eddie throws a leg over Steve to sit over him, much like he has taken to do during his nightly visits, except this time, Steve can feel it, his weight, the coldness emanating from his body, as he sits right over Steve’s crotch.

For once, Steve thanks his momentary paralysis, as he has no doubts his hips would have thrust up if he’d been free to move. Instead, he lets an admittedly embarrassing groan, which has Eddie smiling wilder and squirming a little, sending sparks flying through Steve’s spine, his core tightening with pleasure.

Leaning with a smug purr, his hair tickling along Steve’s scarred ribs, Eddie plants a kiss right over Steve’s sternum, nosing into his chest hair. Steve’s hands itch to reach for him, to stop him or urge him to keep going, that isn’t clear even in his own head. Staring at the dark blue of his bedroom ceiling, trying to breathe deeply enough to get enough oxygen to his brain so he can think about the situation properly, Steve leaves Eddie to his animalistic… scent marking?

The scrape of a fang over his left nipple startles him back into the present with a gasp, eyes snapping to Eddie’s mop of dark hair. Dark eyes glint at him between the strands before lowering again to focus on the sensitive area.

It’s more exploratory than intentional, the way that slick, serpentine tongue flicks out to follow the edges of Steve’s scars, to taste the moles and freckles that dot his entire body, and it drives him crazy. He feels filthy, enjoying it this way, though there’s no way Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing.

The thin sheets offer little protection, and though Eddie is still mostly shrouded in darkness, Steve’s pretty sure he’s just as naked. He can feel the muscles in Eddie’s thighs flexing on each side of his hips with every tiny movement, and there’s no ignoring how well Steve’s cock fits under his ass, trapped in delicious agony.

Once Steve notices that, no amount of imagining his old swimming coach naked helps to quell the fire building inside him. It only takes a few more minutes of Eddie playing with his chest like a kitten with a new toy to bring him to the edge; once there, it’s only a matter of Eddie shifting a little, Steve’s cock slipping between his buttcheeks, and Steve is thrown into a cramp-inducing climax, body going rigid under Eddie.

He comes to a few seconds later, chest heaving, opening his eyes to a pleased and awestruck expression on Eddie’s face. They stare at each other for a silent second, before Eddie sits back and snakes his hand under the sheet and Steve’s underwear with a focused expression on his face. Excuses and apologies bubble up to his lips, dying on his tongue as Eddie drags a clawed finger in the sticky cum on Steve’s lower belly. Bringing it to his own mouth with a curious expression, Eddie licks Steve’s cum off of his finger, effectively strangling the breath out of Steve’s lungs in the same time.

Making a face at what Steve assumes to be a bitter salty taste, Eddie scrunches his nose and lets the sheet fall back over Steve’s modesty. Fondness floods Steve’s chest, and he smiles up at Eddie when the boy turns back towards him.

Body lax and fuzzy, more relaxed than it’s been in what feels like years, Steve quickly slips into a dreamless sleep, only conscious long enough to feel Eddie’s cool but solid presence laying down beside him, wrapping around him with a contented purr.

Steve falls asleep to the feeling of Eddie’s sharp, blackened fingers treading through his hair, playing with the strands, humming a discordant melody in a deep, raspy voice.

Steve wakes slowly, drifting in and out of consciousness, sensations coming back to his body; the slight chill of the air over his naked skin, something soft brushing against his cheek, an unpleasant sticky sensation tickling at his crotch. God, it’s been years since he’s come in his sleep like this, he’d thought he was over with this kind of teenage bullshit—

The memories of the night before hit him at the same time as he registers the arm thrown over his chest, and he snaps his eyes open, suddenly completely awake. The body against his shifts as it wakes, tangled curls tickling his nose and making him sneeze. All movement seizes, the other body going as stiff as his, before it springs up, light blue sheets slipping down to reveal pale skin mottled with dark ink and angry pink scars.

Eddie Munson is looking down at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Warm, brown, human eyes.

“What the fuck?” A rough, scraping voice escapes Eddie’s mouth, though it doesn’t look voluntary, if his even more confused expression and the hand flying to touch his own lips are to be believed.

“Me what the fuck? You what the fuck!” Steve replies intelligently. He’s not very proud of how he’s handling the situation, but he’s pretty sure he can be excused for that one. It does feel good to be able to talk — and, oh, to move as well, he checks as he mirrors Eddie and sits up — with Eddie there.

“I’m alive? I’m— I’m real?” Eddie overlooks Steve’s stupid answer, turning his eyes to his own — very naked — body, right hand hovering over his chest as if afraid to touch. Or to go through his own skin.

Too confused and tired of this shit to be delicate about it, Steve tugs on the curl of brown hair sticking to Eddie’s neck. “Seem real to me.”

Eddie slaps his hand with a wince and a frown, but at least the disbelief on his face fades from his expression for a second. Silence settles over them as Eddie wiggles his fingers in front of his face, pokes at his own cheeks, smushing them in a way that floods Steve’s heart with fondness.

“Am I… human?” Eddie asks at last, his eyes deliberately avoiding Steve’s this time, as he skims his right hand over his left forearm.

Steve studies him, the vulnerable slouch of his shoulders, the slightly unnatural paleness of his skin, and raises his own hand to brush Eddie’s hair away, revealing a pointed ear. “I’m not a hundred percent sure on that one,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the arch of Eddie’s ear. “You can still blush though, so that’s good news.”

Face flushed red, Eddie groans, falling forward to hide in the crook of Steve’s neck. “You’re an asshole, Harrington.”

“Well, I might be an asshole, but it looks like fucking me brought you back to life, so I think you should be grateful,” Steve says, barely containing a laugh as Eddie gives a halfhearted slap to his chest.

“I thought it was a dream! I thought I was dying or already dead and my brain just decided to let me have some fun in my final moments.”

“You often dream about breaking into my room to have your way with me?” Steve wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, reveling in the very firm, solid presence of him, though not as warm as he’d expect a human body to be.

Pushing away to give Steve a stern look, Eddie says with a flat voice, “Steve, I literally just came back from the dead. Stop trying to get in my pants.”

Steve shrugs and slips out of bed, giving Eddie some space. He steps out of his soiled underwear, confident that Eddie likes what he’s seeing. “I’m not the one who sex-dreamed myself back to life. You don’t have a leg to stand on here, Munson. At least I got a great orgasm out of it. And here I was, about to return the favor.”

And if he puts a bit more of a swing into his hips as he walks to the bathroom, well. The sound of bedsheets being shoved to the floor and footsteps following him in a hurry are so, so worth it.

#steddie #steddie fic #my writing #stranger things #dubious consent

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retrodreamgirl · 2 years

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seasons of becoming: spring | steve harrington x fem!reader

spring | summer | fall | winter

summary: spring is beauty in relapsing buds and the kiss of the sun in all its saturation, its birds singing and hearts beating on high, its the devotion of new friendship in a place that once held none and it's the question of love at first sight vs love we never thought we lost at all; for you spring is baking and gardens, giggling girls, and pizza after courtside, but somehow it's also steve harrington, fake tears, failed plans, and some girl named polly who (in your opinion) has killer high heels [5.1k]

warnings: uh...steve kinda being a jerk ig? just typical mean girl stevie, reader having mixed emotions about steve, strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, fem!reader, eventual mutual pining, some mentions of sexual intentions but nothing explicit, not proofed or edited(sorry bout it), lmk if i missed anything!

⤜♡→

You find Steve at the edge of spring.

You’re laying amongst the protrusion of freshly bloomed flowers with their petals white, decorated with darkened lines of pink crawling from the center to tickle your cheeks with their waxy finish, resting as pollen at the lining of your nose. Your legs are crossed at the ankle, dress fanning about your thighs like you’d done it all your own, the colors reflecting from the wild growth flourishing as blossoms beneath the watchful eye of mother nature.

It’s just coming upon noon, the sea of flowers swallowing you whole enough that the average passerby wouldn’t even notice you lying there with nothing more than your arm to shield you from the unforgiving wrath of the sun.

It’s a recent niche, the silence of the trees and the lake brushing delicate mist every so often on a catch of wind easily preferable to the prosaic monotony of Hawkins.

It’s freedom away from the daunting reality of everything outside of the prolonged stretch of green. You never knew anyone else came here and you were wholly taken with the delicate stretch of land.

You often imagined what it would be like to build your own little town, not like the square etchings of your hometown with everything exactly where it’s meant to be. Maybe a house in place of the town hall, a pizzeria in the center of a suburb and none of it would matter because it would only be you.

Your hand is raised halfway to the sky, tracing the thickness of the clouds and their analogous shapes, painting them with your nails of chipped pastel pink. Building something as confused as you.

You find Steve as the obstruction lining the area beneath your pointer finger.

He’s pretty, is your first thought followed by a string of inconsistencies in his character. The way he would constantly throw his head back and run his fingers through his hair like he was angry then the laughter that would follow suit like he found himself a surprising amusement.

You think he must be talking to someone, but once he’s made himself aware enough to step beyond the lining of the trees you recognize his thoughtful solitude.

A melancholy soliloquy to serenade the budding stems, a eulogy to the ones that would decay in tandem with the sun sinking beneath the horizon.

There’s a sudden guilt in your concealment with the Earth. Like you’re intruding on something private, an invasion as long as you continue to watch him as a false inhabitant of the wild field.

You were too embarrassed once he got to the thick of it, nearly screaming the words he spewed like venom, grabbing at a loose branch to assault the trunk of an innocent tree. So you lay there, focusing on the lingering scent of petrichor resting beneath the blades of grass you steadily cull with your fingers.

You glanced at him often enough to commit his distant features to memory, closing your eyes in an attempt to picture him as someone happier. You ache to tell him there’s something better than whatever it is stressing his voice and the delicate lines of his face. An empathetic farce that tugs at the strings attaching to the appendage too often guided to your brain and the misgivings of reality.

He never looks in your direction, too complicated in his emotions to bother, but it didn’t stop you from drinking him in like a precipitation necessary for your body to take root amongst the flora.

Eventually he begins walking away, presumably the way he came, to a car that would drive him far away leaving you with nothing but a committed memory. But what is memory if not the most inaccurate of mental capacities.

You decide then that you should at least know his name.

With his back turned you could pretend you’d never seen him at all, like you’ve been hiking in the woods and you only just realized your car might need a jump so you can get home.

You finally stand with your dress clinging loosely to your legs and the unnamed stranger that you would later come to know as Steve Harrington walking steadily from view with his broad shoulders hunched over like nothing he’s said in the last twenty minutes made a difference at all. You part your lips with the intention of speech, but it never comes.

You were too afraid to say anything.

So you didn’t.

~*~

“What do you think of love at first sight?” You muse, tucking the best flavors of chocolate then securing the lid onto the feux gold box. You scratch at your ankle behind the counter, that way lovestruck girls do in the movies when they’re remembering their lover in absence.

You feel dull for even thinking it, don’t know what this odd feeling of amour could possibly be longing for as it rests dormant in your chest, waiting for the draw of a flame like a moth in dusk.

“You should walk by again.”

“I’m serious.” You gasp, tightening a bouquet of flowers with silk ribbon around the cellophane covered stems. It’s not the first time Lucas has darkened your doorstep, pockets clanking with loose change and his heart stapled to his sleeve. Usually something about a cute redhead you’ve come to know as Max Mayfield.

“So am I! I can barely keep up with love after a near catastrophe and obvious mutual pining.” He’s laid out an assortment of candy to go with his selection of orchids, some of them wilted enough that you marked the price to nearly nothing. You don’t bother asking what he has or hasn’t done this time. The constant roller coaster of teenage allure is an affair to remember though you’d swiftly taken it upon yourself to forget it entirely. “What good could possibly come from falling in love with someone you’ve never actually had a conversation with?”

“You know, you shouldn’t be so pessimistic.”

“It’s called being a realist. Hey, do you have any of those sticker packs around here? I think Max would like them for her portable.” You dig beneath the counter, the sheets you tend to use to decorate boxes of cookies or cupcakes ordered to go.

“Sure, but have you actually tried to apologize to her? I mean, the things you tell me are so sweet. Maybe you should actually say them to her and you wouldn’t be here so often.” You slide a sheet of stickers along the counter, something a little more neutral than the swatches of hearts bubbling in various shades of pink.

Lucas stops pestering the package of chocolates on the counter to look at you like there’s a head too many sprouting from your neck.

“You think I haven’t tried? Every time I start I just get all sweaty and tongue tied. I look like an idiot.”

“You’re the smartest kid I know, have faith in yourself. Besides, I don’t think we’d be such good friends if she didn’t believe in you at least a little.” You procure a gift bag to gently package Lucas’s apology topped with rose colored tissue paper. You don’t bother ringing him up at all, the monetary loss is something you’re willing to take in the name of true love. “Go talk to her, Lucas. Next time I see you in here it better be for something romantic. You could even bring Max. I already feel like I know her so well.”

“I can’t just take this.”

“It would hurt my feelings if you didn’t.”

“Why were you asking about love at first sight anyway? You got a crush or something?” He’s mischievous now, the completion of his initial significance satisfied enough that he can zero in on the innocence of your quick conversation.

“It was just a question.”

“Yeah sure, and Dungeons and Dragons is just a game.”

“Glad we’re on the same page, Einstein.” He looks like there’s something tipping over the edge of his tongue, but he grabs it just in time to stuff it back in and suffers his loss as gracefully as possible. “Now get out of here, I’ve got actual orders to fill.”

“I can’t, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Is it Max?”

“No, it’s Steve. He’s dropping Dustin and Mike at the arcade.” It pains him to say it. That he’s not wasting his money on Dig Dug and skeeball instead of apology gifts and above average pastries.

“Who’s Steve?”

“He’s our babysitter.” If you were to describe the way he spoke the words you’d say he’s missing the usual angsty abandon of any other teen who had to say they have a babysitter. He’s rather resigned to the whole thing, more annoyed they aren’t here than that they exist at all.

“You’re in high school, do you still need a babysitter?”

“He’s more of a glorified chauffeur now, but he likes to pretend he hates being the babysitter so it stuck.”

“Poor guy.” You deadpan, startling when the front entrance shoves open. You’re momentarily speechless, watching the stranger, who lacks the unfamiliarity of someone you’ve never met, approach the counter. “Welcome to—”

“Don’t bother, he doesn’t have anyone to buy for. He’s kind of a loser now.” Lucas teases, snatching his bag from the counter.

“You know, that’s big talk for a guy who needs a ride to buy flowers for his girlfriend. Or is it ex? I honestly can’t keep track.” You’re about to speak up on someone’s behalf, but they’re both so quick you never had a chance.

“Don’t even worry about it, Steve. I guess you’ve had your ass kicked too many times to keep a long term memory.”

“Lucas!” You chide, unused to him being so brash in any circumstance. Steve takes it in stride, stealing the gift bag from his hand to root through its contents. You feel exposed watching the way his brows knit, like he’s judging you and your store entirely too harshly. You feel awkward, shifting on your feet, trying to place exactly where you’ve seen this guy, Steve, before.

You wonder then if you have anything out of the ordinary on your person, prone to stray blots of flour on your cheeks or embarrassing stains of chocolate on your front. It’s never been embarrassing before, but now you’ve decided it must be entirely silly to bake for a living.

There’s a hint of persuasion in Steve’s movements, like everything he does is with the intention to draw you in. The gentle precision of his hands and the way his hair dangles just right over his forehead forcing his habit of knocking it away by frequent occasion. He only glances at you slightly, lips pushing toward the apples of his cheeks, leaving you with the emotional repercussions of his perception. Lucas rolls his eyes, turns to you with a funny look.

“Do you see what I put up with?” You don’t retort, just tear your attention away from Steve tight lipped. You weren’t lying when you said Lucas is the smartest kid you know, his brain nearly ticking with the resilience of his intuition. He seems to realize what you don’t, eyes widening a fraction then falling with a certain resignation. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, whatever, let's go. I’ve got a date.” Steve shoves the bag at Lucas, flipping his keys in hand. “You want me to take you to the arcade?”

“No, I want you to take me to Max’s. What do I look like showing up to the arcade like this, dummy?” You shape your hand to fit over your lips, no intention of laughing at the two so outright. Steve really looks at you then, rolling his eyes like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Do you see what I have to put up with?” He counters Lucas’s earlier notion, finger spiraling at the brink of his ear, pleading insanity.

“You’re coming to my scrimmage this weekend, right?” Lucas ignores Steve entirely, slapping a flier atop the counter. “It’s just for fun, but I could use some loyal fans.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.” You nod, watching him jog out of the store. Steve follows suit, your eyes trailing every smack of his sneakers against the tile, but he doesn’t look back once.

~*~

You hadn’t intended to be sitting so close to Steve at the game.

The distance of your seat two rows below him and his date is pure coincidence and you’d move away if you could. You don’t know why the thought crosses your mind, but once it does you can’t seem to shake it.

Your leg bounces nervously beneath you, something about a perpetual embarrassment of character that’s chased you since birth. You aren’t sure he’s spotted you, but you’ve been sitting there too long to have suddenly spotted him you think. Especially because your back is to him and to have seen him lofted above you would mean to be staring entirely too hard. Not to mention there’s no guarantee he’d know you at all.

“Mind if we sit?”

The game is in the gym at Hawkins High, a building that’s meant next to nothing to you since you graduated just a couple short years ago. Not that it meant anything but an eight hour sentence set to witness the cruelty of adolescence and the mercy of occasional mental stigma when you did walk the harrowing halls.

So you’re unsurprised when the first people to attempt to commandeer the empty space beside you on the bleachers are a couple of younger girls, their hair pigtailed and half up respectively. The one that actually addressed you with a heaviness in her tone, one not meant to spur your defenses but rather one that begs an even determination, has a head of fire with the flames crowning her shoulders.

“Oh yeah, go ahead.” You smile, tracing the sliver of skin that shimmies from the sleeve of your t-shirt. Only a few moments after they settle, the makeshift teams with their netted jerseys jog onto the court. “Let’s go Lucas!”

You’re not sure what’s appropriate for the setting, but when Lucas glances over he seems altogether pleased with your public display. You send him a pair of thumbs, nearly apologizing when the girl to your left side taps at your arm.

“You know Lucas?”

“Yeah, he’s kinda the only reason I’m here.” It clicks then, the licking flames and soft intimidation. “Wait…are you Max?”

“Yeah, who are you?” The girl she stumbled in with peers over her shoulder, a magical sugar stick dangling from the corner of her lip while her eyes widened with a serious case of curiosity. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…I just—”

“Don’t know who I am? It’s a fair question, don’t worry.” You calm, retaking your seat with the scant bodies crowded around you. “I’m Y/n, I work at the semi-new bakery in town. I may or may not be responsible for the chocolates and sorry flowers on Lucas’s behalf.”

It’s awful the way she blushes under your attention. Not in a bad way, but rather the rude subtext that she doesn’t quite believe an affection like that should be reserved for her. It plagues you not to grab her by the shoulders and profess her as more worthy of love than she can understand just now.

“You’re nice.” El supplements, offering you the pack of blue sugar she’d forgone in favor of gnawing her confection bare. You take it kindly, wetting the tip of your finger and dipping it into the tart dust. “I’m El.”

“Thanks. You guys are sweet.”

“We’re going for pizza after, you should come.” Max offers, nudging your hand aside to dip her own finger. There’s something nice about the way her face scrunches at the nose, her lips pulling at the edges in reaction to the impression of the granular saccharine on her taste buds. She looks at you, your own face not far off, and giggles. “Steve is driving, but if you're coming El and I will ride with you.”

“He looks like he’s on a date.” You chance a quick glance to find that Steve is very much on a date. He’s molded the length of his arm around her waist and his head is entirely invisible where it eagerly attacks the flesh of her neck. It’s a wonder you’re able to make him out at all, the two of them nearly one person.

“It won’t last long.”

“Yeah, he’ll say something stupid and she’ll dump his ass by the second half.” El nods, tugging at the colorful sleeves of her button-up. “So you’ll come?”

“I mean…I don’t wanna intrude. It seems like a friend thing—”

“You’re our friend. Besides, Robin can’t make it so the boys totally outnumber us.” Max is matter of fact, somewhere in her little rant she snuck her finger back into the candy so now she wiggles the deep blue saturation in your face as if that proves it because she would never do that to someone who wasn't bound to her for life. “It’ll be great I promise, and I’ll make sure Steve doesn’t flirt with you.”

“Okay, yeah I’ll come.”

You live in peace with the two girls until about partway through the second half. Lucas has successfully scored twelve points in addition to two free throws when you feel a presence hovering with uncertainty over your shoulder.

You tilt your chin a fraction, the flit of your eyes over your shoulder is noncommittal until Max senses your discomfort and follows the momentary trail herself. Her shoulders heave and she seems more amused than concerned when she exhales.

“What do you want?” It feels safe to turn completely then, Steve’s hand fanning the air vaguely in your direction.

“I could use a bit of assistance.”

“With what?” El looks around, her pupils rounded with a conditioned pointedness. She appears ready to pounce and were it not for the sheepish way Steve pats her shoulder you’d think something was seriously wrong.

“Look, she's just a little…duller than I expected.” He dips his chin in the direction of his seat above you. The girl he seemed molded to just an hour ago now picking at the chips in her nails and popping her gum excessively where he left her. Between your own thoughts popping like the chewy bubbles she blows behind her head and the constant squeak of sneakers scrubbing the court his excuse is mildly irritating.

“Just take her home.” You offer lamely, turning your attention to the game in an attempt to seem like you don’t care either way.

It’s not that you do care, but if you were invested enough in him to have any sort of opinion you would tell him she doesn’t seem like his type. Though you don’t know his type at all and the connection of your brain that begs to differ seems to think his type must be something vaguely reminiscent of you and it makes you sick.

You felt like the dull one just the other night, laying unperturbed in your bed until the ritualistic terror of reliving every interaction you’d had that day no matter the significance. When you seemed justified to spend a little too much time on the portion of the day occupied by Lucas complete with the sliver of Steve, you came to realize you’d known him all along.

To keep pace with your own tired brain, you were weighed down with the task of remembering just about every doggedly irredeemable interaction you had back at Hawkins High.

In short, Steve Harrington is what you came up with.

Not overtly evil or the incarnate of satanic possession, but he’s of no innocence, popular for running with the crowds that were. You vaguely remember the streak of mean that painted him so grossly back then.

The way he spoke and reveled in his sleight of hand, pockets sealed with cash and the ability to wave inconsistencies in his character with the sleazy crest of his lips. Feigned as the charming trust fund boy who tucked his polos and always sprung for a first date.

It was lying there in your dorky quiz team t-shirt with your legs bare and your beloved plush tucked to your chest trying to remember that absent feeling you felt at work, that your mind was met with the betrayal of your youth. The way you were no saint in your habitual avoidance of Steve and his petulant posse by day when your body gave way to fanciful fits of lust by night with your hand taking the place of he whose name you slowly blocked in favor of your faceless fantasies.

It’s not that you forgot him, but by the time you graduated he seemed to fade from the spotlight that presented him as so unflattering. You didn’t see him commanding the halls so much as you did in the beginning years, only sporadic whisperings of a king dethroned.

Steve shifts, drawing your attention back to the problem, for him not you, at hand. He’s half kneeling on the bench, close enough that you can smell his cologne and what you surmise is a piece of the gum his date is chewing so aggressively.

“I tried, she’s not budging.”

“You could always go for honesty.” Max rolls her eyes, clearly more seasoned with Steve’s waning fits of passion. You begin to wonder how he came to be so influential with such malleable youth. “God, Steve, I don’t care. But she’s not coming to eat pizza if you don’t even like her.”

“I know, I just need some help, please. I’ll pay for pizza.”

“You were already paying.” El snickers, scooting just a hair closer to Max. She looks at you expectantly. “Maybe you can help.”

“Uh…how?”

“Just follow my lead.” Steve clutches your wrist, the moment feeling a tad too charged when he’s softer than you were expecting. His thumb grazes along the underside, the pad slightly calloused but still an uneasy comfort. You avoid his eyes, no intention of acknowledging your susceptibility to the shiver up your spine or the way you slightly stumble forward when he rounds the bleachers. “So…how are you with fake crying?”

“I mean…I’ve never done it seriously. What’s your plan here?”

“My friend needs me because her boyfriend is a huge jerk and broke her heart!” A genius truly, is how he presents it. Far too well versed in the art of a clarity that only appears to find him when he’s finished shoving his face beyond the valley of someone’s breasts. “It’s simple really, all you have to do is look devastated then she’ll totally fall for it, I’ll take her home maybe call her for a little one and done another day, we’ll take the stooges for pizza and everything will be perfect.”

The unfortunate audible that Steve wasn’t expecting is the girl in question catching wind of her inattentive date with his hand locked rather suggestively around your wrist, the distance between you less than paramount to anyone watching.

Further, as luck would have it, Max and El are no longer paying attention to Steve thus making your display appear far more intimate than it is. You itch to get away, suddenly no desire to be at all linked to Steve and his callous predisposition toward the many girls he’s seen come and go.

You recall Nancy Wheeler in this instance, wondering just how much of that’s actually true. She seems smart enough not to entrap herself in his snare without good reason.

“I don’t think that’s gonna work.” You posit, readjusting your stature to distance yourself from Steve’s incredulity.

“It’s the perfect plan.”

“Sure.” You nod, almost pitying Steve’s ignorance to his own detriment. “What’s her name by the way?”

“Polly, why?”

“Hey, Polly, what do you think of Steve’s plan?” Steve flinches, turning around only slowly enough to catch the tail end of Polly’s ponytail following the length of her objectively killer, right heel sinking painfully into the toe of his sneaker.

You’re minutely remorseful for not speaking up sooner, half proud of yourself for teaching him a lesson no matter how small and with the knowledge that it probably won’t stick. He’s keeled over by now, finding solace in the release of the lofty weight from his very minor injury.

“Guess that solves it!” Max chirps, just as the final buzzer squanders any remaining gratification when you realize you’ve missed the end of the game. “Just in time for pizza. I’m gonna go congratulate Lucas.”

Max jogs off, El looking off somewhere in the jumbled masses until she spots something of interest, excitedly waving her arms over her crown. You see a slouching troop of three boys approaching your trio, likely the friends Lucas is always on about. El glances at you then, chuckling at Max’s retreating figure.

“That just means she wants to kiss him then tell him he smells so he’ll shower before we’re all stuffed in a booth with his sweat.”

“Remind me to thank her later.” You counter, just as a curly capped boy makes haste crouching at Steve’s side. It’s funny the way Steve clutches his shoulder then shoves him away like he’s realized the implication as mocking.

“What happened to him?”

“His date.” El shrugs, climbing the short distance to the gym floor. “It’s okay, Steve, Dustin’s here for you.”

“Shut it, Hopper.” He grunts, managing the admirable feat of standing once more on his two feet and without so much as a limp. “Why didn’t you tell me she was there?”

“Call it…a responsibility to my sex.”

“What about my sex?” He spits, though it's not as weighted as he hopes, especially when the trial of pubescent boys snort something of an obnoxious sound in return. “She does stuff, and now I’m never gonna experience it because of some stupid solidarity between women.”

“Oh come on, you’ll have someone new lined up by the end of the week. Get over yourself.” You shove him, shouldering your tote. “You said she was dull anyway. Wouldn’t you rather find someone you have a good time with?”

“Forget it.” One of the other boys speaks up, his hair more of a mop than anything that could logically be tamed. He’s also much ganglier and towers over you without trying. “He’ll just go on another tangent about Nancy and I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Don’t be a jerk.” The last of them to speak also looks to be the sweetest of the bunch, his soft features and bowl cut enough of an indication without the speech that flows like clumped batter. “But she’s right, Steve. You should actually try to find someone you actually like.”

Yeah yeah, we’re not talking about this. Especially not here, someone tell those two we’ll be outside.” He glances around the gym like it’s something too disgusting to be bothered with and you can’t say you disagree.

The walk to the parking lot is enlightening enough, you learn new names and exchange your own followed by a brief yet entertaining squabble about who would be riding where.

“You can all forget it!” Max makes herself known in the nick of time, volumes rising to an extreme in the filtering slab of concrete. You're taken to admiring an unusual spot of growth near the lining of trees to one side. A rainbow like structure of flowers though missing the extremes of bright orange and firetruck red in flavor of muted pinks and blinding white. “You guys are riding with Steve, El and I already called Y/n.”

“Hey, she was my friend first.” Lucas chimes in, jogging up from behind with his gym bag tossed over his shoulder. He’s freshly showered and still glowing from his performance, clearly still an agent of chaos in his freetime.

“Lucas, you did great! You have to tell me when your next game is. I missed the end because of someone.” Your tone is joking, but Steve is no less grieved by the subtle dig. He tosses his keys once before setting off the short distance to his car.

“If you’re not in my car, belts buckled by the time my key is in the ignition it's on you.” He grumps over his shoulder, though you’re sure he doesn’t mean it when no one moves an inch.

“Not that I agree with him, but I’m starving.” Lucas breaks, hand settling against his abdomen. You’re in no place to disagree, your only meal being the meager helpings of a leftover cinnamon roll you refused to let rot in the display case this morning.

“Then I guess you boys better get going.” Max points toward the raging taillights of Steve’s car, four pairs of eyes bulging when he dares begin backing from the geometric holdings of his parking spot. The four of them set off jogging, Lucas just catching the handle of the backdoor enough that Steve gives. You can see him spitting something toward them as they all pile in.

You're left with the two girls giggling at your side, something of a youthful exuberance infiltrating you where you stand.

“Boys are stupid.” El sighs, gripping your hand unexpectedly. You didn’t take her as someone to hold affection so openly, her slow creep towards you throughout the past few hours something like a timid animal, you the willing participant in her frightful give and hope to receive.

“They are, aren’t they?” Max is more deliberate, looping your arms and resting the warmth of her cheek atop your shoulder.

The steady breeze of the growing season kisses at the apples of your cheeks, the sudden path of flowers that earlier snagged your attention feeling as beautiful as the moment you find yourself a part of, the blossoming of new friendship. It’s infectious, the way you smile at both girls forcing the blush higher on their cheeks where they return it in kind. You begin the steady lead to your own car, now resting solitary in the lot now that Steve’s peeled off without further pretense.

You decide that like all seasons there’s something in the becoming of the soft air and the nuance of the foliage making itself known amidst days of warmth and sudden rain in spring. A delicate hush in the song of the birds in their fresh return from winter, mating along the trees and soaring to heights only known by the grace of feathered flight. It’s inhaling fresh dirt and new leaves, the fluorescence of a scarab beetle reflecting in the concrete.

The beauty of things to come.

“That they are.”

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 7 months

Note

Matchup for bg3! Please! 💜

She/they, bisexual

I have blueish-gray eyes with red hair that's in a side shave (like one side on my hair is shaved). I am chubby, I have tons of freckles except on my face. I like wearing emo style clothes or comfy clothes like hoodies and sweats. I hate dresses and shorts, I don't like showing off skin.

Likes: anything with drawing/painting, games including board games.

Dislikes: uhhh spiders, driving (I refuse to get a driver's license it's a huge fear of mine.) I'm not scared of being in a car just driving it.

Isfp-t, I am a cancer. People say I have rbf (resting bitch face). Though I am really nice to people, unless they mess with the people I care about then I couldn't care less about them. I try to be helpful when I can. When I am around people I know, I can be loud and talkative (the loud part isn't on purpose it's just when I'm happy or excited). I tend to put people a lot before myself. I don't really like talking about my personal issues to anyone and can be known as the therapy friend. It's the opposite though when I'm around people I don't know, I'll be quiet and not wanting to interact. I have adhd, depression and anxiety (wonderful I know). When I do get upset I don't talk and won't interact until I have calmed down. I do cuss a lot though I'm more careful when I'm around kids/people I don't know. If I have a fight with someone I prefer to sit and talk it out and hate it when they walk away from me when I'm just trying to talk to them.

If you need more info just message me! Thank you! 💜

A/N: You didn’t specify which gender result you’d prefer, but since you mentioned you’re bisexual, I included my top male and female picks below! I hope you enjoy!!!

For you, @veethewriter , I think you’d be a great match for either Halsin (Male) or Shadowheart (Female)!

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ Halsin would be a great fit for you! He’s kind and very artistic himself. And while he enjoys woodwork the most, I think he’d appreciate an afternoon of drawing or painting with you outside in the grove. Many Wood Elves, like Halsin, have either red or brown-hued hair, so he’s used to seeing such a color on people. However, he swears no other elf can compare with how gorgeous your hair color is. And he finds your side shave particularly alluring. He also adores your figure. He is a big guy, he’s tall and very muscular, and can’t help but want to hold and pick you up and squish you (if you’d let him that is). Your supple shape reminds him of nature’s bountiful harvest.

And while he himself has absolutely no qualms about showing off his skin, he respects your desire not to. Not everyone is as comfortable free of the confines of clothing as he is, this he’s well aware of. He’s always on the lookout for organic, comfortable elven clothing he could gift you.

And the good thing about Faerun is the fact that there aren't any cars. If you want to go somewhere, you’ll need wheels, heels, or a spell of some sort. (Or if you’re lucky, a druid boyfriend who can transform into different rideable wild animals. Can you imagine, strolling up to town on the back of a big brown bear? No one would mess with you! lol)

I’m not 100% decided on Halsin’s MBTI. Part of me feels he’s introverted, then again, he’s very willing to meet and work to help others- strangers even, so long as they’re kind and help him in return. I do, however, feel pretty confident that he’s a Feeler as well, so you have one letter out of the four for sure in common. And the two of you are also very open-minded, which he loves. Halsin can’t see himself in a romantic relationship with someone if they were to be angry and close-minded. An on/off sexual relationship? Sure. But for him to have that deeper kind of love, you’d need to be tolerant- which you are!

I also imagine him to be a Taurus, which furthers how compatible he is with you- a cancer. You two are so in love, it’s almost spiritual, like a soulmate sort of connection. No matter how sad or moody (or emo as you said) you can get, his steady and stable temperament will help comfort you, and ground you in times of great emotion.

Halsin, as an archdruid, is kind of the “Dad friend” of the Grove and his Party. He’s the one people turn to for advice and mentorship. You being the therapy friend understand the toll this can take. You’re able to support each other and lavish each other with much-needed rest and recovery when the demands of everyone’s emotional sharing/dumping become too much to take.

Halsin is a very focused and rather positive person, which can be a direct contrast to you with your ADHD and depression. But that’s a really good thing because, for all the things you forget, he remembers. And for all the times your illness and life get you down, he’s right there to pick you back up, or even just ride it out with you until the feelings pass. His presence radiates calm- he’s like a walking talking security blanket. If you’re feeling anxious, you can grab his hand, or have him lay on top of you for some compression therapy (don’t worry, he’s supporting 95% of his weight himself so as to not accidentally crush you lol).

He appreciates how mindful you are around the little ones. It makes his heart flutter. And he can’t help but think what it would be like to be in a family of his own with you one day.

♥ ♡ ♥ Shadowheart is quiet and determined. She’s reserved, especially around strangers, and she puts on a good front, but deep down she’s a sweet girl with a traumatic past. She doesn’t like talking about it too much (that is of course, if she remembers it), but for some reason, she’s more okay sharing such things with you.

She’s not very extroverted or loud, but she can appreciate it when you are. Your joy is infectious, and it’s something she hasn’t felt in a while, so she wants to do everything in her power to make you happy because when you’re happy- she’s happy.

And oh boy does she need therapy! As the therapy friend, she greatly appreciates your ability to listen and not judge when she does talk about her past or her feelings. Being raised in a cult is complicated, and there’s A LOT to process there. It’s gonna take time, and thanks to your open-minded demeanor, she feels safe enough to do a fair amount of it with you.

As a cancer, you and Shadowheart are very compatible romantically as I see her as an Aquarius. Both of you are smart, and devoted, and have a lot of feelings. The main difference is in how those feelings come out. For you, it’s easier to emote than it is for her. But that’s good. When you’re too emotional, she’s ready to reel you back in. And when she’s being too cold, you can help pull her out of her shell.

Shadowheart also has a ‘resting bitch face’, but that doesn’t mean she’s judging everyone. Okay, maybe she’s judging everyone a little bit, but to be fair there are a lot of peculiar characters out there and one can never be too safe! The two of you rarely get any trouble from strangers because you are too tough to mess with. From your more emo style to her ‘dont-fuck-with-me’ attitude, absolutely no one’s gonna be crossing you!

Shadowheart herself probably has a slew of health concerns and mental illnesses that she has yet to address. I imagine, that once she comes to learn the truth of her past, she is at increased risk for anxiety and depression. So weirdly, it’s almost a blessing her partner knows what it’s like living with these things. Your experience shows her that life can and does go on. And she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her with anyone other than you.

#baldurs gate x reader #baldurs gate imagine #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 matchups #baldurs gate matchups #bg3 #halsin x reader #shadowheart x reader #halsin imagine #shadowheart imagine #hc #matchups

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narrators-journal · 1 year

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Peek-a-boo, I see you

Tiktok put a gun to my head and made me aware of Wally Darling, so have a random little fic for him to exorsize this bastard from my brain lol.

The creator is Clown shaped coffin if I remember his name right, and this is entirely non-canon fun. Just enjoy it as a spoopy kind of x reader junk food, and RESPECT THE CREATOR’S BOUNDARIES YOU HEATHENS.

Old tv shows were a mixed bag. Some were cheesy, dated, and full of misinformation, especially old children's educational shows, and some were sketchy and blatantly unacceptable by the modern standard. Which proved to be a fun betting game for you and your friends. So, when you found a box of dusty, sun-yellowed video tapes in your attic that had likely been left by a past resident, relics from the olden days of cable and the first VHS's, You thought a watch party of sorts would make for a fun night for you and your friends. Which, it had been! Even if finding a VHS player in today's modern time was a hassle, Welcome Home was a fun mix of colorful and energetic, simply oozing a charming abundance of cheese for your little group to enjoy. Which, made it all the more enjoyable to commentate over the child-friendly plots and loveable characters. From playing the low-stakes plots far too seriously, to wolf-whistling and making sly jokes about characters like Frank, Poppy, or Eddie, you and your friends had a blast as you watched about half of the first season. Which, was more than enough time for one particular character to wander his way into your heart and make it his home. Wally Darling. Wally Darling was easily a favorite amongst your friend group as soon as it was brought up how long he took to do his hair each morning in one episode. Which, had earned him quite a few playful comments and jabs, while the lot of you watched. Plus, he had been such a sleepy, relaxed character in juxtaposition to the light-hearted energy of Barnaby, or the bubbly extrovertism of Julie, so you found yourself putting the cheesy kids show on even after your party. "Geez Wally, are you only going to paint apples?!" Julie asked the main character on one of the occasions you had the third season playing for white noise during chores. "He could paint something a lot pervier, Julie." You said while folding clothes on your bed. Repeating a joke you had admittedly made more than one time at the episode and still laughing at your own implication as the episode obliviously played. Going through the motions of the bubbly girl dragging the yellow-skinned, blue-pompador'd artist around to find a muse that wasn't his favorite fruit. You, meanwhile, sat and half watched while you folded a towel and mulled over your to-do list for the day until the tape ended and you had to rewind it yet again. "Have you ever wanted to have a chat with your bestest friend, Wally Darling?" The Salesman in the opening ad asked, sounding as if he'd chugged three Monsters before recording the pitch. Showing clips of the aforementioned doll as he continued, "Have you wanted to ask him a question, but didn't know where to send a letter? Just say hello and how much you enjoy the show? Well, fret no more! for 25 cents a minute, you don't need to write him, you can call!" His words making you chuckle. After all, phone services nowadays were almost extinct, if they weren't more aligned with...adults than children. So, hearing the man pitch an outrageous price for a simple phonecall with someone claiming to be a cartoon character to assumedly children, was amusing. Though, to have such a wild price for a call must mean this show was fairly popular. Wonder why I've never heard it mentioned, You mused while the first episode began to play. Only to have a sudden thought pop up in your mind, Wonder if I could call the number still. It was a rash, impulsive thought. The number was almost certainly defunct and abandoned, it was bound to not go through and be a waste of time to try. Which, you knew very well. But, that didn't keep you from digging around in the scattered piles of folded and rumpled clothing until you found your phone half hidden under a stack of bed sheets. After that, dialing the number was a breeze since you'd heard that ad so many times. And, to your surprise, the call even seemed to go through! Just as fast as your curiosity shot up though, you jumped at a sudden, shrill scream of an old phone ringing. Yet, the only phone you had in your home was your cellphone, which was singing out a different chime into your ear. Which, only left one possible source for the sudden ringing in your room. The television. Granted, the phone on tv ringing normally wouldn't have been an issue. Wally was the Elmo of Welcome Home, he obviously got plenty of phone calls from his friends. It was just that...Wally wasn't supposed to have anybody calling him this episode. The episode was all about seeing a day in the life of Wally Darling. From his hour and a half of hair care, to his bedtime routine, the viewer was meant to follow him through the entire time. And, while yes the episode did have a one or two minor conflicts he helped with, they came up while he was out and about. So, by all forms of logic, his phone shouldn't be ringing. "Oh, seems we have a phone call." Wally drawled in his lazy, spacey voice. Pausing his explanation of what he often ate in the morning and what made a balanced diet to head for the land-line he had sitting on it's own little table beside his favorite armchair. However, before he could pick up and maybe speak to you, you smashed 'end call on your phone's screen and watched with no breath in your lungs as Wally's phone went silent as well. Earning a simple, "Oh. I guess they changed their mind. We'll have to be faster next time, neighbor." and a smile from the puppet. That wasn't in the script. The thought kept circling your head, taking over every possible sense with a fresh coat of fear with each lap. That wasn't in the script. Wally never gets a phone call in this episode. He never says that. You didn't know what to do with that information. It wasn't like you could blame a coincidence after all, you'd seen this entire tape from beginning to end more than once, and not a single time had Wally gotten a call this episode, or mentioned one. Yet, there he was. Acting as if your attempted call had been almost expected, and just returning to his script as if you weren't physically shaking like a small dog in a thunderstorm. What do I do? Do I tell my friends? Google it? Get a check-up? You thought, watching Wally go about doing the morning dishes blithely and mention his need to go to the shop for some groceries. Yet, that impulsive voice returned when Wally paused at the door, "Though, let's wait a moment. Just to see if that neighbor calls back." He suggested to the camera, "I'll give it two minutes, after that I really do need to go see Howdy." Yet another change from the script. An invitation, by all accounts. As if Wally somehow knew you were there. Watching him, still holding your phone, and debating trying to call again. I should call my friends. I shouldn't poke at this. The rational side of you said, leave this shit ALONE. Yet, you did neither. Instead of calling one of your friends to get their advice, you hit the redial option and looked back to the screen. Watching the puppet's bright red phone ring again, and the blue-haired...creature, pick up. "You know, neighbor. It's very rude to hang up so abruptly when you were the one to call." He hummed, his spacey, quiet voice drifting into your ear as crisply as if your best friend were speaking. Not only that, but he'd somehow known who had called him despite his land-line having no form of caller id. Wait, why is he- is he SMUG about my calling? You asked yourself, putting a hand to your chest to mindlessly try to slow your racing heartbeat while your brain whirled with panicked thoughts. Was it just a lucky guess that he knew you were calling back? Did he just know? Could he see you? As if to answer your questions, you honed back in on the episode, and sure enough. Wally was simply sitting in his arm chair, smiling and staring at you with large, bottomless voids for pupils. "Hello? Hello~" He sang finally, forcibly grounding you and assuring you that yes. This was reality. "Cat got your tongue, neighbor? Is there something you needed?" he asked, as if it were nothing more than one of the usual calls Julie or Frank might make. Yet, you could still hear the knowing tone laced into his ambling voice. Wally Darling, knew all too well what he was doing. Instantly, you wanted to simply hang up and shut off the tv. You wanted to unplug the thing and chuck it out your window like a frisbee. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to move an inch under that haunting stare of the cartoon character. So, you instead dry swallowed the lump in your throat and squeaked out, "H-hi..." "Oh, there you are." Wally hummed, "Was there something you wanted to talk about? Or did you perhaps need my help with something?" "N-no..." You forced out, barely a whisper through the terror that rooted you to your bed in a shocking state of calm. Adding quietly, "I just...tried this number." "Oh, well I sadly can't stay to chat. I have to go shopping before I forget." He told you innocently, giving you a sweet smile that now seemed sour as he added, "I would love it if you called again at a later date, though. Then, we can have a nice, lengthy chat. Good bye neighbor, I love you." With that, Wally put the phone back in it's cradle and the episode seemed to go back to utter normalcy. Wally going out to shop as if the conversation had never happened. Just, leaving you physically shaking on your bed with your laundry forgotten. And, admittedly, you stayed like that, utterly frozen, until the tape once again reached its end. Only then, you found you could launch yourself at the vhs player to snatch the black rectangle out of it. Quick to slap it back into its yellowing case and gather the other videos. All of a sudden, you could understand exactly why the original owners might have abandoned those seasons in the attic.

#Welcome home #Wally Darling #x reader #creepy #not canon at all #Welcome Home arg

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slothgiirl · 2 years

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Parallel Beings

morpheus x reader drabble. soft. reuniting after morpheus is free.

Your marshland had long been drained. Houses had fone up over the century along woth stripmalls and streetlights.

Humans erroniously thought that nature spirits died out like the gods when their worship and adoration ended, but you kept going, kept existing along with your paved over marshland as long as the plants kept taking root. Trees were trimmed routinely by city workers, but they still provided shade to children playing in front of their homes. As long as the water fowl migrated back, you'd go on in some form or another. This patch of land was you. And it's face would change as it had in ages past, ice ages receding. But life was here and so were you.

It wasn't the human developement over the last century that left you living in the attic of a townhouse like a dead tree waiting to fall, but your lover. News of his capture wore at you. You'd chewed your nails down to the quick. Tree sap had leaked where you'd gone too far.

(You missed the color of the soil before the marsh was drained. A brown so dark it was mistaken for black in the dark. Rich with leaves and amphibeans. Your skin was lighter now, tambed by concrete.)

Dream had been captured. And you, rooted as you were to this patch of land so far from him, could do nothing. Guilt ate at you.

The first decade he'd missed the day he had promised you, one day where you had him all to yourself, you'd cried and flooded the entire marsh. The second, you'd worried. You'd walked to the boarder, your feet caked in mud and watched the cars go by. It hadn't been difficult to hitch a ride. But a handful of kilometers later, you'd doubled over in pain. Your hair had dried. When you'd picked out leaves clinging to your locs, yours hair had fallen out.

You belonged to this place. To this land. It was you.

You returned.

You wandered the Dreaming, hoping each night Morpheus would be in his realm once more.

You watched the trees shrivel and die. Slowly, the dreams and nightmares grew wild. A dream left, then another, and soon the Dreaming was deserted save for Lucienne and those who were neither dream nor nightmare.

You held the dream of his palace within you like a human heart, in your core, hoping to keep the place together. You closed your eyes and remembered the towers and every step that you hated having to walk up. Lucienne's precious library with all its contents, books that had yet to be written, books that were forever unfinished. The imaginings of so many minds, you imagined running your fingers over the spines but no matter how often you or Lucienne patched things together, without the Dream Lord the realm fell apart.

The books rotted away from the lichen and mud the grew in the library. (You are marshland.)

And so the decades pass and it does not grow easier to bare.

The helplessness you felt, unable to help the entity you so cared for. The Endless you loved.

(When phones became common place, you tried calling but the English police dismissed you as a prank caller.)

Decades become a century.

You chose the attack over the basement this decade. The windows remained opened throughout storms and heatwaves.

You lay on the grass at night, watching the fireflies. Your tenets all thought you strange but with your cheap rent they didn't care. (So long as you lived here, the foundations and pipes of the house stayed strong.) You close your eyes, sinking into the soil. You close your eyes and forget you have a body. You are earth. You are the diverted stream. You are the breeze runing through the trees. Billions of ants break down the organic detrius. Racoons sort through the bins. A rusty pipe leaks into a basement across town. A pothole fills with mud.

With an inhale, you fit back into a human shaped body.

(You began with the first organisms before there was even a word for marsh, before this place was marsh and here you will be as climate changes your ecosystem.)

It's with an inhuman awareness that you know the Dream Lors is there before you open your eyes.

"Hello." You don't move to get up. It's luxurating to have him with you once more. It's semantics if you throw your arms around him when he has stepped on the earth that you are. The shape of him is imprinted on the grass he sits on.

You turn to him.

Morpheus appears unchanged since you last laid eyes on him. Stark white complextion and an expression that betrayed how much of a chore he found parading around as a human.

You hold a hand out to him.

In some ways he reminded you of skittish spring rabbits slowling venturing from their burrow.

Instead of taking your hand, he lays down besides you.

You feel the cruch in the blades of grass as the weather turns and leaves fall from trees.

It would ruin his coat if he was human.

"You're free," you have to say.

"I am."

You roll onto you side, drinking in the sight of Morpheus. Looking closely, you could see how captivity had worn at him. His cheeks were hollow. There was a dullness to his form: a wilting peace lily.

You run a hand over his shoulder, idlying toying with the lapel of his coat.

"I must beg your forgiveness," your voice is small, weighted down by the uncessing guilt you carried, "I did not give you aid in your hour of need."

Morpheus covers your hand with his. "There is nothing to forgive." His voice is low and deep, in tune with the night hours. "My love."

Your body bends towards his. You meet his gaze. It's akin to the water fowl migrating back in the summer, year after year. Butterflies have done so for countless eras. Having him back, here, with you, fills you with bountless joy.

Knowing Morpheus was free washes away your guilt. That he was free is what matters. His visit is just the cherry on too.

"Lucienne spoke of your actions in The Dreaming." His words hang in the air. You know what he means. Thank yoh for caring for Rhe Dreaming.

You wrap an arm around his chest protectively, craddling him in the earth. (The yoga instructor down the street is a big fan of grounding.)

"I tried," you sigh, "but stopgap measures were the best I could do and even those failed after a century."

You rake your eyes over him, over and over, drinking him in.

It had been Morpheus who proposed a compulsatory day once a decade. He was the most passionate of lovers, but that did not change his endless responsability. He'd grown complacient and careless of you. The time between his visits had grown. The time he would make for you in the Dreaming shrivled up. (Though his love for you has never faltered.) This accord had been his. A compromise to save your relationship.

The Dream Lord wraps an arm around you. His hand traces patterns across your back.

He looks up at the night sky. You don't comment on the tears in his eyes. "The Dreaming has been made anew." You hear the hitch in his breath. "Perhaps for the better."

There was a story there. For another time.

"I'm glad," you tell him softly. "It was difficult to watch your realm fall apart. To see you in such a state," for The Dreaming is as much him as the Marsh is you, "Nothing would take root. And the dreamers. . ."

Morpheus' closes his eyes. Taking a rare moment to rest, to enjoy the freedom denied to him. "And yet you stayed."

"How could I not?" You loved him.

Taking care of The Dreaming was your way of helping him. It was better than nothing. Even if your attempts had failed.

His small mouth curves into a rare smile. "All the same, I must thank you," he says while you rest your body against his.

The air was crisp.

"You don't have to, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same," you rest your head on his shoulder, at peace once more. Breathing in time with the world: you would spend the rest of your days like this if you could. But you understood Morpheus would not neglect his realm any more than you could abandon yours.

This was enough.

"Stay with me," you say quietly, "I owe you eleven days."

"And I plan to hold you to them."

"I expect nothing less of you Morpheus."

The idea of seeing the Dreaming again in its full glory filled you with glee. Even the darkest corners of his realm that reasserted his position as King of Nightmares was beautiful in its own ways.

But for now, you bask in the confort he brings here, lying in the earth with you.

There would be time to talk through the last century. Now was a time for serenity.

#dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x y/n #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus imagine #drabbles #really aimless and im unsure about it but its something #did like fleshing out the idea just didnt want to do more w it

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