#Dream feels the pain of watching him walk away and knows that Hob was right — and he runs after his human...

[secondjulia]

Lord Morpheus' Curls: A short film

Happy holiday, friends! Have you had the opportunity to appreciate Tom Sturridge with curls yet?

From Effie Gray (2014).

[kydrogendragon]

Dreamling fic idea I'll probably never get around to:

Dream is the highest ranking cleric in the city. His gifts are sought after by all and the cost of his services reflect it. He has treated and healed everything from Kings to Demi-Gods. But he is tired of his position. Those he cares for and treats are grateful, yes, but his services are almost expected. And the one time he fails because the bishop was too far gone, even for Dream's skills, he was berated for his failure. Whispers echoed through the kingdom that the High Cleric Dream was losing his touch, that the gods that favored him so are losing interest.

Dream begins to think that maybe they are right. Then he meets Hob - a necromancer that works out in the battlefields, mostly. Someone who he would normally never cross paths with until he does. His sister had advised him that a change of scenery could be good for him and his soul. To recharge and rest a moment and reconnect with his divine gifts.

Hob is helping carry in the wounded and sick from the most recent skirmish in the outerlands. Dream hovers, watching as this captivating handsome man, covered head to toe in grime and blood and dirt, gently guides his fellow soldiers towards the healers bay. And then he walks towards the bodies of those that had not made it.

Hob kneels by the dead, and Dream watches with curiosity. Necromancy was not viewed highly. Most necromancer positions were ones of war, raising the dead so that they might keep fighting. Dream wonders what possible reason this one might have for raising them here in the city. He freezes, thinking perhaps Hob was a traitor or spy and is planning to unleash an attack.

But no. No, as the young man's body beside him jolts to life, a wheezing, gasping noise releases from the cold dead lips. And Hob just smiles. He grabs the corpse's hands, giving it a gentle pat, and says, "Easy there. It's okay. The pain is gone, yeah?"

The corpse just nods.

"Good. Good," the Necromancer says. "You asked me, said if you died on the field-"

"That you'd bring me back, I remember." The corpse speaks, his voice rough. The sight is unsettling to Dream.

"That's right," the Necromancer says, smiling still. His voice is warm and low. Dream strains to hear it from his hiding spot. "What did you want me to say and to who?"

Dream furrows his brows in confusion. What odd game is this man playing at?

"Tell my parents... that I loved them. That I'm glad I got to serve my kingdom as I had. I... I did, right? I did good?" Dream's heart clenched at the quivering in the young soldier's voice. They remembered. They preserved their memories and thoughts and feelings. But...

Dream shook his head. No, corpses brought to life by necromancy are just reanimated. There should be no soul left within them. That is what every teaching has said before. The only exception being a corpse that is reanimated within mere minutes if dying. But this soldier died on the battlefield. He died days ago, at the least. So how?

"You fought so well," the Necromancer says. Dream sees tears fall from those warm brown eyes. "You saved many lives out there. You served king and country well."

"Good," the soldier says with a sad laugh. "Good... then. Then tell them that as well, please? And... and if you can find my brother, his name is Calrose, tell him I'm sorry for all the shit I gave him when we were young. And tell him that he was right about the ale. He'll know what I mean."

Dream feels he ought to turn away from such a seemingly private moment but he finds he cannot. He's transfixed on the sight.

"And tell my girl, sweet Alice, tell her I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise after all. Tell her I tried and that I-" And the young corpse bursts into tears. Or sounds like it, at least. There are no tears to be shed but the pained wail that is drawn forth from his throat couldn't be mistaken for anything else. The Necromancer leans toward and holds the young boy in his arms, ignorant of the rotting flesh and stale blood.

"I'll tell her. I'll tell them all. Don't you worry," the Necromancer whispers against the man's skull. There is a large gap in his head, Dream realizes now. His skull looks to have been smashed by something strong and heavy. It is most likely how he died. "You can rest easy now, lad. Be at peace. You've earned it."

And as the Necromancer lays the young man back down, Dream watches as the boy takes a final, shuttering breath in and sees the light in his eyes fade as the air is released. He is still once more but with the barest of smiles on his lips.

Dream is dumbfounded by this. By all of this. Everything he feels he knows has been turned upside down by a single man. So he follows him. He watches his movements through the city and witnesses many times his strange version of necromancy. He also witnesses the joy and sadness that it brings to the loved ones he tells each corpses last words to.

It's in a tavern, down by the ports, that Dream officially approaches the Necromancer. Hob, of course, picked up on his newest shadow that first day. It wasn't until just recently that he realized who it was that had been tailing him. And he's petrified. Hob well knows that necromancy within the walls of the kingdom is forbidden unless authorized. He thinks Dream is there to arrest him.

But no. Dream just wants to talk. And he doesn't ever mention his position as High Cleric either. And guessing by the black hooded cloak he wears, Hob is guessing Dream doesn't think he knows who he is either.

So they meet more often. Hob tells Dream of his life, of his experiences. He tells him of his experiences with Necromancy, specifically, and how he's found that more clings to a corpse than you might think. Especially if they had things they still wished to say.

Then one day the kingdom is attacked. The forces manage to breach the outer walls. Dream is darting all around, healing as best as he can, trying to help bolster their offenses. He sees Hob in the chaos of it all, rising corpses to help the fight. It is the first time he has seen this type of magic used in battle. It is the first time he sees Hob wield his skills for a fight.

Then Hob is shot at, an arrow sticks out of his chest and blood is running down his chin as it floods his lungs. The corpses he commanded fall to the ground as his focus breaks. Dream runs to him, ignorant of the continued onslaught. He holds Hob's hand as he calls forth every ounce of his drained power to breathe life back into damaged cells. But the arrow was poisoned. Death magic clings to the arrowhead and infects Hob's body from the inside out. He removes the arrow and allows his magic to flow inside, coating Hob is a warm, white light. He is healing, but it is slow. And with Dream drained as he is, he cannot overwhelm the opposing magic as he might normally. Still, he continues. And he is winning, slowly.

And then more arrows strike the pair. Dream covers Hob's body with his own but the thick cloak he wears only protects him so much. The garb he wears marks him as a Cleric and he has heard enough stories and read enough tales to know that picking off the healers early on is a prime battle stategy.

Hob tries to push him off, to cover him instead, but Dream holds him down, even as the venom embued in each strike weighs him down, Dream continues. Hob begs him to stop. That he'll kill himself if he keeps this up. And Dream knows that he is correct. He will die. But, he finds, as he summons forth the last reserve of his strength, he does not mind dying if it means Hob gets to live.

Besides, there are still words he would say to Hob. He will see him one last time before he goes for good after all.

He pushes all that is left of him into Hob and the death magic fades away. There is only light and love left in his cells. No more poison. Hob is safe.

Dream collapses. Hob scrambles up and drags them both out of the line of fire. Most of the enemy soldiers have left, continuing up through the kingdom. There is a clashing of steel and iron and the sound of magic being flung in the distance. But all Hob can see is Dream. His face lax in his lap. It makes him want to laugh and cry all at the same time because the first time Hob gets to see that beautiful face this calm is when he's dead...

Hob pulls the arrows from his body, discarding them in a pile and pulls the man's body close to his chest. He wishes, not for the first time in his life, that his gifts were of healing instead. Hob bows his head and kisses the soft skin of Dream's forehead and he whispers the words he has heard Dream speak before. Healing words. Hob feels a strange tingle within him. It responds differently than the magic he is used to. And then it is gone.

Hob frowns. And, going off of instinct, he speaks the words that he knows like breathing. His normal powers flood through him but they are also different. It twirls within him, mixing with some sort of foreign piece. But he continues, calling forth for Dream's spirit in the Ether and guides it back to his body. A soul cannot be reattached once the link between is broken. But it can reside there for a time. This is what Hob has learned over his years of study.

And today he is proven wrong. He watches as the chain that links them heals. It glows in a brilliant white light as Dream's soul is guided by golden hands that he knows are his own magic.

Hob looks down.

Dream's eyes open. And he smiles.

The best they can figure, once the kingdom is secured and the people and healed and tended to, is that Dream's own magic stuck with Hob and allowed him to perform both Cleric and Necromatic Magic simultaneously, effectively bringing Dream back from the dead.

It is something that needs further research and is happily agreed and funded by the Crown. Hob is promoted and works side by side with Dream now as they continue their research. They still go down to the healing bays on the weekend. Dream assists with the wounded and Hob still gathers the dead's last words. Life is good. Better than is has been. And Dream finally feels like he's rediscovered his sense of purpose. And Hob? Well, Hob's finally found what he thought he's never get: Love.

[hardly-an-escape]

Bleach | Dream/Hob | 1067 words | rated G for @domaystic day 07: stained clothes

tags: retired Dream, laundry mishaps, tooth rotting fluff, religious Hob Gadling (but only incidentally), Dream is learning how to human, Hob Gadling is a good boyfriend

Hob looks mournfully at the sweater in his hands and gives the spot another little scrub. It’s futile. He knows it’s futile. He’s been doing his own laundry for about a hundred years by now, after all. Still, he rubs halfheartedly at the spot, just one more time. Just in case.

You never know, do you. Miracles still happen. Some of them could be laundry-related miracles, possibly. There’s probably a patron saint of doing the wash. Hob casts his mind wildly back to catechism classes of centuries past. Veronica, maybe? The story with the veil? Or Clare of Assisi – had the Poor Clares been laundresses or is he thinking of a different order? He sighs and offers a quick prayer to both of them. Just in case.

He may not have been to church in a month and a half, and he hasn’t been Catholic since the 16th century, but every little bit helps. He sighs again and scrubs at the bleach stain, which doesn’t look back at him accusingly so much as it simply exists, accusingly, on the sleeve of Dream’s softest, most favorite black cardigan.

The front door of their flat bangs open and he hears the jingle of keys and the thump of Dream’s shoes being deposited on the boot tray.

“I’m back! They didn’t have the tea we usually buy,” Dream’s voice calls down the hall. “So I got Barry’s instead. Is that alright? I couldn’t remember if you like that brand or not. Why are there so many kinds of tea, Hob? I stood there looking at the shelf for ten minutes. You’d think at some point humanity would have said, oh, I think we have enough kinds of tea now, but –” he trails off as he begins to put the shopping away, his dear, deep voice disappearing in the rustle of shopping bags and the rattle of cabinet doors. 

Hob walks slowly down the hallway from the airing cupboard to the kitchen, sweater held in both hands before him, feeling like nothing so much as a man carrying the body of a beloved pet cat to its owner.

It isn’t that Dream will be angry – far from it, in fact. Dream will be, as he always is, endearingly grateful for the fact that Hob does his laundry, as he is for all the little caretaking tasks that Hob has taken on as Dream learns to be human. It’s just that now, as he learns to be human, Dream’s emotions lie so close to the surface. He feels everything with the depth and intensity of a child: pride when he successfully does the shopping, pain when he stubs a toe or burns a finger on the kettle.

Disappointment, when something goes wrong. Sadness, at a loss or a failure.

Hob has watched him weep over a broken teacup and crow with utter joy after winning a game of cards. And this was his best sweater, his softest, most favorite cardigan, one of the first pieces of clothing that had truly been his. A cardigan Dream had chosen, thoughtfully, in the department store; not just stolen or adopted by osmosis from Hob’s wardrobe. Which now sports an accusing, unmissable bleach stain right on the upper side of the left sleeve.

Dream pauses in his activity when Hob appears in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, seeing the look on Hob’s face. “What happened? Are you hurt? I can’t take you to A&E, I’m not allowed to drive the car yet. Hob? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your sweater,” Hob says dismally, holding it up for inspection. “It’s got bleach on it.”

Dream makes an adorable, sad little noise and gathers up the cardigan, cradling it like a wounded animal.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Hob says, not meeting his gaze. “I did that load of towels and socks yesterday, I must’ve spilled some bleach on the edge of the washer when I added it, and I guess the sleeve got dragged through it somehow when I put the colds in this morning, and I am so sorry, love, I know it’s your favorite and I will buy you a new one,” he rushes on, “I will buy you six identical sweaters so this never happens again, I –”

“Hob.”

Dream’s voice can still, at times, attain a certain measure of its former power and gravitas, through mere timbre alone. Hob’s eyes immediately snap up to meet his gaze. Dream’s eyes are huge and blue and watery and human and still the most beautiful thing Hob has ever seen in his long life.

“Hob.” More gently now. “It is just a sweater. Why are you so worried, my love?”

“Well, I mean. It’s not just a sweater. It’s your favorite,” says Hob. “And I want you to, to have nice things. Your favorite things. I know it’s hard, to be human. It’s hard for us normal humans, and I can’t imagine how much harder it is for you sometimes, and I just… I want nice things for you. Because, because I love you,” he says lamely.

Dream looks at him for a long moment, those blue eyes glistening, and then very deliberately casts the cardigan aside onto the pile of shopping bags and steps into the open circle of Hob’s arms.

“My love,” he says tenderly into Hob’s neck. Hob sniffles a little and indulges in the softness of Dream’s hair and the smell of his shampoo. “It is just a sweater. And you may buy me another, even six, if you so wish. And you may stain every single one with bleach, many times over. It will be, as you like to say when I make mistakes, very human of you.”

He pulls back just enough to rub their noses together and murmur his next words into the warm curve of Hob’s mouth.

“I find I like being human, because I am being human with you,” he says. “And you take the best care of me that anyone ever has. And no number of stained sweaters could possibly change that, I am sure.”

“Well then. If you’re sure,” says Hob, and kisses him. “I will get you a new one if you want, though.”

“Or perhaps I will add more bleach stains. And embroidery. And sequins. I have been looking for a new art project.”

“Or that,” says Hob, and kisses him again.

[seiya-starsniper]

Six Degrees of Separation - Ch 3 (Sandman x Dead Boy Detectives)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Crystal Palace/Charles Rowland (DCU), Johanna Constantine/Jenny Green Rating: Teen & Up | Status: Incomplete | Chapters 3/5 | Words: 3.5K

Tags: POV Multiple, Hob Gadling gives live advice to a bunch of teenagers, while helping them solve cases, that's it that's the fic, also he maybe plays matchmaker for his hot mess bestie

Summary:

The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past. Hob Gadling wasn't planning on adopting three teenagers and a full grown woman, but stranger things have happened in his long centuries of life.

Tumblr Posts: Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3 below, or at the above link on AO3

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Crystal thinks she's being clever by hiding in a corner of the pub away from where most of the staff can see, but somehow, Hob finds her anyway and places a steaming hot mug of tea down on the table in front of her. 

“On the house,” he tells her, and Crystal frowns.

“I can pay,” Crystal tries to insist, reaching for her bag to pull out her wallet. Hob shakes his head and shoos away the attempt, and Crystal doesn’t have it in her to fight too hard. Not today anyways. 

“Next time then,” he tells her with an easy smile. “If I’m being honest, you look like you could use a pick-me-up right now anyways.”

She really could. Crystal imagines she looks like shit. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying, and her nose feels stuffy from all the times she’s blown it in the past hour. She hasn’t even bothered trying to hide the pile of used napkins on the table.

“You did say Tuesdays were slow,” Crystal manages to croak out, trying to keep her voice even as she takes the tea in front of her into shaking hands. 

“I did,” Hob agrees, and then he sits down in the chair opposite her and starts taking out what looks like a pile of homework from his canvas bag. “I actually have some papers to grade, if you want some company. I’m happy to listen if you want to talk about it. Or we can just sit here in silence, if you’d like.”

She does want to talk about it, but the problem is, Crystal doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know how to tell Hob, who is both a complete stranger and not a stranger at the same time, that her life is both the best and worst it’s ever been in a very long time. She doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s Niko’s birthday today, and that the giant shopping bag next to her on top of the table is full of dozens of manga volumes she’ll never read, but felt the need to buy because, well because .

But, true to his word, Hob doesn't press her for more conversation, instead focusing immediately on the pile of paperwork he'd stacked. Crystal watches him smile when a student gets the answer right, and frown when they get an answer wrong. Every once in a while, his face takes on a bewildered expression, and Crystal wonders just how terribly bad the answer he’s looking at is.

Crystal wonders if Niko would have been in school now if she hadn't died. She seemed happy to simply solve cases with Crystal and the boys once they’d gotten the parasite out of her, but how long would that have lasted? Did Niko want to go to university? Would she have come to London if Crystal asked her to?

“I walked by a bookshop the other day,” Crystal finally offers, unable to keep the raging storm of emotion to herself any longer. Hob looks up from his paper and puts his pen down. She has his full attention now.

“They had a new volume of a manga out on display,” Crystal continues, glancing over at the shopping bag from that exact same store. “I thought, ‘Oh I should tell Niko, she'll be so excited there’s a new volume out!’ But then I remembered Niko’s not here. Niko's not here because she died trying to save me.”

“Ah,” Hob sighs sympathetically. “You're feeling guilty you're alive and she's not.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much to hear it spoken out loud, but Crystal's tears begin anew. She drops her gaze down to the steaming mug of hot tea and blinks them away as best she can, knowing that the hitch in her breathing gives her away anyways. 

“Survivor's guilt is a bitch,” Crystal says, and just like that, the dam of emotions she’d been holding back finally breaks. “I didn't even get to say goodbye ,” she practically wails into her mug. “We get to say goodbye to all these other strangers, to watch them go into their afterlife and I didn't even get to say goodbye to Niko. I hate it.”

It feels good, to finally get it out there in the open. To put words to her heartache, to the giant, endless maw of raw emotion and guilt. Crystal had tried to vocalize how she’d felt to Charles and Edwin, but they were too used to death, to people moving on. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, but they didn’t know what felt like to be left behind, not really. Not when it was all but guaranteed that they’d always have each other. 

“Life's unfair like that, sometimes,” Hob tells her, and the tone of his voice tells Crystal that the immortal is full of unsaid goodbyes himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance, truly.”

“You would've liked her,” Crystal replies, wanting to move away from the subject before she has another breakdown. The staff at the bookshop had definitely thought she’d gone through a bad breakup when she was paying for everything. Crystal looks back up at Hob and gives him a wry smile. “Probably way more than you liked me. She wouldn't have tried to burn the place down.”

Hob snorts. “I like you just fine as you are now, kid,” he says, returning her smile with one of his own. “Just no more arson attempts and we're good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Crystal agrees. “Can’t guarantee a different ghost won’t try though.”

“They’re welcome to try,” Hob says, then gestures around the room. “But you’ve seen my wards. Been building them up here for almost twenty years now, not much is getting in or out of here without my permission.”

“How did you end up owning this place anyways?” Crystal asks, curiosity now burning a hole in her. “Charles and Edwin said the other night that when they first met you and were a traveling merchant or something.”

“Ah,” Hob replies, and his expression turns soft and fond. “I have this…friend, and we used to meet once a century at the old White Horse tavern down the road. For drinks. When they shut the place down, I bought this place, so we could still have someone where to go.”

Crystal narrows her eyes at the way Hob says friend and drinks .

“Is that a euphemism?” Crystal asks, and Hob chokes on his tea. “You know it’s 2024 right?” she continues. “Being gay isn’t ille—oh god, ” she cuts herself off, realization dawning upon her. “Are you in a centuries-long situationship? ” 

Hob goes into a full-on coughing fit now, but still manages to vigorously shake his head at the accusation.

“No I—cough—we’re just—cough—friends!” he insists, but Crystal isn’t convinced. 

“What do you even talk about?” she presses. “And who the hell only meets once a century for just drinks? ” she adds, putting the words in air quotes. 

“It’s complicated,” Hob replies, seeming to finally get his breathing under control. “Mostly just this and that,” the man adds, waving his hands around to emphasize the vagueness of their meetings. “You know, current events.”

“Current. Events.” Crystal repeats incredulously. Right. Yeah. Definitely a situationship. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“You know what, next time he comes in, I’ll introduce you,” Hob huffs indignantly. His face is bright red too, and Crystal just knows that isn’t all from the loss of air to his windpipe just moments ago. “And then you can see we are just friends .”

He looks so serious, so intent on proving Crystal wrong, while still so desperately pining , that she can’t help but burst into laughter. It feels like a cord unwinds in her chest when she does, loosening a pressure she’d forgotten was there. 

“Yeah okay, sure, I’d love to meet you ‘friend’,” she replies, putting the word friend in air quotes. “But for like, actual drinks, and not ‘drinks’”, she adds with an exaggerated wink. Hob grumbles something about ‘kids these days’ which makes her laugh even more. 

----------------------------------

When Crystal leaves The New Inn hours later, her heart and belly both full, she curls up with her gigantic pile of manga and reads while waiting for Edwin and Charles to get back from their latest case. Since their investigation took them to a condemned building that was quite literally falling apart and structurally unsound, Crystal had been ordered to stay home, and wait for Charles and Edwin to bring the evidence back to her. 

When they do eventually make their way back, it’s with Jenny in tow, and she’s holding a giant cake box in her arms. Crystal smiles through the mist in her eyes, when she opens the box and sees ‘Happy Birthday Niko’ in bright red letters. 

“You remembered too, huh?” Crystal hiccups.

“Stop it, I don’t want to cry too,” Jenny replies, her voice also wavering. Her hands are shaking when she places the cake box down on the table. It’s way too much cake for two people to eat, since Edwin and Charles don’t partake, and Crystal thinks she’s going to be eating leftover cake for the next week at least. Jenny handles the cutting of the cake, and when the two of them each have a slice in hand, Edwin clears his throat, directing their attention to him.

“Right then. A celebration of Niko is not complete without Scooby-Doo,” he declares, and though his tone is light and teasing, Crystal can hear the emotional weight behind it too. 

“Right,” Crystal agrees, and when Charles wraps his arm around her, she gives up all pretense of not wanting to cry, and sobs openly into his shoulder. “I’ll get the TV set up. Just—give me a minute.”

Crystal falls asleep to the sound of cartoon feet running away from the latest villain of the week, and in the moments just before her mind is claimed by the Dreaming, she swears she catches the scent of poppies and dandelions.

[teejaystumbles]

Hob dreams. He thinks so, at least. His dreams always have a certain soft feeling to it, the lack of sharp edges or certain stimuli, like he's watching himself from inside his body and through another layer of skin, making everything muffled and quieter than when he is awake.

So when he steps through the blackness that surrounds him and marvels at the feeling of being in a hall of huge dimensions but without actually seeing or hearing anything, he is pretty sure he's dreaming. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he sees that there are stars under his feet and in the dark around him. Is he in space? He's not wearing a spacesuit though and the floor under his feet is hard. He realises that the lights under his feet are reflections of the galaxies above him. Awed he continues onwards, slowly, watching the lights. Two stars shine brighter than the others. He heads their way, keeping his eyes on their white glow.

One cannot reach the stars by walking.

He'll try anyway. Where else is there to go?

To his left the darkness suddenly reveals a house, a cottage, small but inviting, the door open. Hob knows that there's someone inside he loves, cooking. It's his mother. She makes the stew he always loved best.

He could go in, stay awhile. Remember. But he shakes his head. He has had all this. He can remember another time. These stars before him he has never seen so close before, and if he does not follow them now he might not find them again. The thought urges him on and he turns away from the cottage, for a second seeing himself superimposed upon his body, waving and embracing his mother in quick apology before hurrying on, but he has never stopped walking. This is how he knows he's dreaming.

A manor rises to his right and it feels bigger and more menacing than it ever was in real life. Inside are rooms full of laughter, and rooms full of tears, rooms full of blood and cellars full of water, deep and dark and cold. His wife smiles at him from the topmost window.

He could go in. Climb the stairs, climb and climb, until he reaches her, and is rewarded with her smile, her hand in his, and his son's laugh echoing through the house. He could. He wants to. But he also knows that this is gone, this is borrowed, this is a DREAM.

He turns from the pained face and the blood on the steps and the feeling of being drowned in his own tears and walks on, the twin stars brightly before him. He wants to reach them. Can he reach them both or only ever one of them at a time? But no, they belong together, they are one and they can be reached. He is sure of it. Can he take them with him when he wakes?

You would dare.

Yes. Yes I would.

The darkness around him has grown again, less and less stars being reflected in the gleaming floor he walks on. Only those two stars are still shining brightly, burning and beckoning. They are high above him and Hob suddenly finds himself at the bottom of a staircase. It winds upwards towards the stars, coiling and twisting like an Escher drawing.

Hob puts his foot on the first step. There is a sound like a sunken bell reverberating through the massive space around him and he halts for a second. Then he puts his other foot on the next step, and the next. It is a long climb and all the while the deafening drone of a giant bell having been rung vibrates through Hob's chest and the stairs under his feet. The stars above do not move and Hob stares at them, continuing with single-minded focus, now that he is so close.

No other memory rises to distract him and after what feels like an eternity of taking step after step upwards he finally sees that the stars he is looking at are set into two black eyes. Eyes that have a familiar slant, set into a familiar face, above a familiar nose and mouth.

He stops and stares up at the giant on his throne, one of his hands larger than Hob, and his mouth falls open in awe.

"Oh. It's you."

His stranger - (you may call me Morpheus, a smile, a clink of glasses, a new beginning) - nods his head a tiny fraction and the stars in his eyes twinkle.

"It's me. You found my throne room, Hob Gadling."

"You were leading me here."

"Was I? Did you find no dreams to entice you on your journey?"

"No. Things of the past. They didn't appeal to me. Not as much as the future. Not as much as you. I will ever go forward. As long as you're there." And even if you're not but I'd rather you were, he thinks, he knows but doesn't say and knows the being above him hears it all the same.

Hob takes another step up and another, and slowly his stranger leans down and offers his open palm. Hob climbs onto it and touches the marble skin under him reverently. It feels like the floor he walked, and on the flawless palm there are lines like constellations. Hob traces them gently and the hand underneath him shivers. His stranger lifts him up to look at him and Hob clings to his thumb, fighting against vertigo.

"You are big!" he states the obvious, a little breathless. His friend hums, a deep rumbling that echoes in the vastness of the throne room.

"You followed the stars, and the stars I hold. Would you take them with you now, Hob? Like you came to do?"

He blinks slowly and Hob sees again the stars burning in his eyes that are as big as dark lakes at night.

"I would." he whispers. "But you're too big, aren't you? You're not meant to be held by someone as small as me. You're meant to hold us."

"That is so. And yet, I find myself reflected in your eyes... whenever we meet. I can be held, Hob. If I allow it."

Hob takes a step forward on the stranger's hand and reaches out to touch the plane of his cheek. He leans in and kisses the white skin softly.

"Please, allow me then."

The stranger hums again and closes his eyes, leaving Hob in complete darkness. The skin under his hands moves and suddenly Hob's nose is touching soft hair and there are arms wrapping around him. The gossamer touch of lips on his cheek makes him raise his hands to map the now human-sized body in his arms. Then there's a soft sigh.

"This dream is over."

Read on AO3

[unabashednightmarepizza]

𝐻𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑌𝑜𝑢 | Morpheus( Dream) x Goddess!Reader

Series Masterlist

"So, Ethel... How life has been as a single mother? I believe it was hard, I know how it feels like~"

Gulping down her drink anxiously, Ethel watched you caress the many artifacts in her room. She was trying to understand what you were and what your main purpose was, by how you almost seemed like you were floating around and how your eyes reflected everything in her room. Corinthian was definetly right.

This wasn't real you.

She wasn't someone with an obsession over myths, but she knew this body.

The benevolent and merciful Queen of 9 Realms, the one that fought with giants and stormed the Halls of Valhalla... The ever strong Queen Y/N of Asgard.

"It has been hard, yes. Though I don't know how you know I have a son or how you understand my pain..."

"I surely wouldn't forget the woman who stole from Rodrick and Morpheus, darling. You should've seen it, The old man was so angry that it was funny to watch him loose himself and Morpheus not giving a single fuck at what he was demanding of him!"

Laughing quietly, you brought your hands together behind your back and walked around slowly. Your eyes would occasionally catch Corinthians but you would dismiss and roll your eyes at him and how he was biting his lips. Men and their digusting lust...

"And how do I know the pain? Normal, I've watched her experience every kind of pain because of that goddamn King of Dreams. I know how being left alone feels like, have my personal trauma." Noncholantly drinking your wine, you looked at Corinthian, fully dismissing the mortal in the room. "Are you ready for your first mission, darling?"

"Ready as I can ever be, my lady~"

"Good. I want you to find two people for me, they're very important so don't you dare fuck this up."

"Of course. But who are they?" Feeling slightly irritated at how noncholant you were, since most people would die to be near him, but you turned your sharp eyes at his glass covered one and talked to him with a deep and raspy voice that shook the place.

"Don't you dare compare me to those disgusting, vile creatures! I'm no ordinary god, and you will behave as such! Don't forget this, I can and would kill you with a single thought. Anyways, the people I want you to find are Rose Walker and Hob Gadling... Bring them to me and have your reward, nightmare~"

When he disappeared suddenly, afraid for his life, Ethel cursed at her luck for being left alone with a revengeful and sick-minded god. And the feeling only intensified when you turned and looked at her with pale skin and red, glowing veins over your face. Stumbling away and holding on a table, you laughed joyfully at her misery.

"Sorry for this... I have so much pent up anger after years of being locked away. Don't worry, I will not stay here anymore. I would rather go and spend time at streets than being within the same room as a human... But I need to ask..."

Getting closer to her and trapping her between the table and your body, you felt her shiver and leaned closer to her. "Where is the ruby, Ethel? Only have one chance to answer and don't try to pull a funny shit on me~"

She stopped her hand mid-air when you caught her hand that was holding the protection amulet and stared at it with an unwavering look. "Humans are surely stupid, the amulet only works for those who are malicious beings... Demons, nightmares... I'm a God, you stupid mortal!"

Shaking and kneeling before you, Ethel started to cry silently and brought her hands together in front of her. Not that she knew if it would make a change. "Please, my liege! I'm so sorry, please have mercy!"

Scoffing at the miserable act in front of you, you swatted her hands away and kneeled before her, taking her face between your hands." Ethel, I'm not someone as patient as my sister neither am I merciful... Tell me where it is, and I would never be have to see your face."

"I swear I don't know!"

"Ethel, Ethel... You're lying, and I don't like liars~"

Getting to the door, as if you didn't appear out of nowhere, leaving the woman on the floor, you turned to the blond woman with a teasing yet curious look while still holding onto the door, hanging on it and swinging back playfully. "When you see John again, please pass my thanks to him and I hope he enjoys his gift~"

"My lord, are you sure about this? It has been a long time since you entered this waters."

"Do you think I've forgotten?"

Rolling her eyes at Dream's answer, for the millionth of time and not that he would see it, Lucienne shuffled closer to the stubborn man who was already fixed on his journey to get his tools back. And it seemed something stirred inside of him when he had to sacrifice Gregory and how his eyes glossed over while absorbing the creature. He had started to show more emotions, I wonder if that's about Her Majesty...

"No, but-"

"I cannot ask the Fates of something without giving them something in return. There is nothing left to give in the Dreaming... I have to gather my offerings from the dreams of others." Dream said, as if it was the most normal thing he had ever said and it was wrong of Lucienne to even suggest something else.

"I understand, sir but... There is one thing that stayed intact even after all the decaying, as if it was protected and maybe-"

"Even if someone offers me the Moon and the Sun, I would rather die than giving what had witnessed our love many times... The only thing I have left of my love..."

Raising her hands in surrender when Dream sharply turned and gave her deadly eyes, she retreated and watched him pour the sands of Gregory and get in the water to get what he need to call to the Fates.

It was true that the only thing that stood tall and mighty, with a shine that definetly wasn't from the Dreaming, was the altar and the fountain that you had gifted him when he jokingly told you that it would be good to hear some water sound near his study room. The altar was the symbol of your marriage and the fountain was the epitome of love and care for him. The carvings and many runes on it, your own language were done by your graceful hands and he remembered the nights where he used to lay on your chest and you would play with his hair, rub his naked back tenderly while singing a song you always heard from your mother when you were still young.

Every single one of those acts were what made him "go soft" for you, especially after a passionate love making and the protectiveness you both would feel.

He could vividly remember how your eyes always shone with a new brightness each day, how everywhere bloomed with life whenever you were happy. The warmth your body offered to him, and the angel-like face you had...

He missed you, no... He craved you. Inside that goddamn glass for a century, he had the time to go back to every little moment you had and they were what kept him together. Even he was naked, with nothing inside to provide something for him, being treated as if he was a lesser being than those who captured him.

He only hoped that wherever you were, he would be your hook to hang on until he found you.

With a new determination, he gathered all those he needed and set up his plan to call for the Fates... The only problem was, they would give him the chance of only asking three questions and he didn't know what to do. With his tools and you gone, he would have to make a choice and if they would be able to give him a decent answer about you, then so be it.

" I, Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless... summon the Fates. The Three who is One, the One who is Three... The Hecate."

Three thunderclaps were heard and when everything settled down, three women in purples were seen and Dream greeted them with respect even though they were taunting him for his losses and his state, looking down at him for his obvious hunger to learn about what he holds dear to him.

"Yes, I do want something. I need your help."

"Help? Oh, listen to him... Like you helped us against Circe?"

"Circe is old business, my sister-self... And he did bring nice stuff.."

After showing the serpent at them and seeing his other offerings, they agreed to give him the chance of asking three questions and he used two of them to ask about his tools, almost slipping two more which would have angered the Fates even more had they not warned him. Learning a little bit about their whereabouts, The Fates were curious as to why he wasn't asking the third question, choosing to stay silent instead.

Knowing his ego and straight-forwardness, one of them voiced what has been in each of their minds.

"What are you waiting for? You still have one more question, ask it!"

But Morpheus was in turmoil, with his logic and heart. His mind screamed at him to ask about his last tool, to get them back as soon as possible and come to save you from wherever you were, resulting in you being in danger for a longer time but... His heart was pounding at his chest so harshly, threatening him to break out and save his wife first, for she was the reason of his standing.

He didn't realize how hard he was clenching his fist, his wedding ring hurting the inside of his palm. And he wouldn't even realize it, neither would he realize how thight his jaw was, if one of them hadn't looked at him with a look that could be considered shocked yet soft.

" He's in a delicate state, my sister-self... A man in love and despair, having troubles with what he is supposed to do and what he wants to do..."

Dead eyeing them and turning his head side ways, he looked into the darkness that was creeping on him but the voices of the Fates beought him back to his senses. He would, na way in Hell, let them taunt him for his loss.

" I want to ask about my-"

"Even though we're shocked yet pleased that you chose to ask about her, we give you one more question to answer... Not for you but for Her Majesty's sake..."

"She helped us and fought hard, if that's the way to return her kindness... Then, we're ready to make an exception for you."

Waving their hands in the air, a purple smoke engulfed Morpheus and the place where they were standing. Opening his closed eyes, he watched the three women smiling down at him, urging him to ask his question.

He would never say it out loud, but he was grateful that you had fought for them even when he told you he didn't want you in danger.

"What happened to my wife in my absence?"

Bowing their head slightly, they started to speak in a row but what they told him only confused him more.

" After you were gone, she thought she did something wrong for the longest time ever. Yet, she remained in your kingdom to maintain the order you two had made..."

"But when the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, her health started to get worse. With the miracle happening in her, and sharing her powers with 10 realms suddenly, she had become bedridden..."

"This is all we can give you but, if you wish to learn everything... You know where you need to go..."

And just like that, they disappeared suddenly, leaving Dream with his thoughts. Your health had gone worse? And you thought he... left you fend for yourself? Without saying anything? How could you think that, when he adored you more than anything? When he created everything for the memory of you... Did you have so little faith in him?

And what was the "miracle in her" supposed to mean?

A flash of anger coursed through his veins, a shiver running down his spine. He couldn't believe that the faithful wife he had thinking so little of him. A growl ripped inside of him but the sound only made him flinch at how mean and harsh he was being to you without even listening to you. Yes, it seemed like a far away dream that the egoistic Endless of Dream would feel bad at how selfish he was being to his wife, even feeling like he failed her with the harsh words that crossed his mind and wanting to listen to her but he didn't lie when he said that he would do anything to make her happy and safe.

And now, he was one step closer to get the meaning of his existence, his muse back into his arms.

And he knew just where to look.

" My lord, may I ask where you are going?"

"I have learnt about my tools but what I need desperately is not them, rather my wife... I am going to Asgard to learn what happened to her."

"Did the Fates tell you about her? Is she fine?" said Lucienne with a happy glint in her eyes at the possibility that you could be found and brought here again. Seeing her happy face and hearing the hidden joy under her voice, Morpheus smiled at the librarian and nodded his head, feeling giddy all so suddenly and looking down at his pale hand to see the ring that has been the only thing that couldn't be taken away from him throughout his imprisonment.

"That, I don't know yet... They only told me that the Watcher of All Realms is the one who knows what happened..."

"Heimdall... Oh dear... Then, my lord, may I ssk one more favour? Take a raven with you."

Now that she looked at his face more closely, the eyebags beneath his eyes were more prominent, his bones visible and his hair more messy than ever and his shoulders were slightly hunched over as if the whole weight of the world was on him.

And in a way, it was. He spent years in a glass, away from people he cared about and was tortured mentally. And when he came back, he saw everything he worked hard for in ruins, his queen nowhere to be seen. He had seen his best friend being shot in front of him, worry etched itself into his heart and squeezed his soul hard at the mere memory of everything he once had and would never have.

"No more raven..." he muttered weakly, remembering the horrific scene of Jessamy being killed.

"If not for you, for me... A raven could travel between realms, keep me informed-" Lucienne begged with vigor, having no intention of letting this one go like that. Morpheus already felt like Lucienne has been controlling him ever since he came back, as if he was weak, as if he was needed to be lead here and there. Not knowing that it was all because she cared.

"I don't need a Minder...Jessamy was the last one..."

Sighing out, and feeling like ripping her nonexistent hair out, she tried once more. "My Lord... The loss of Jessamy was heavy on everyone but you know what drove Her Majesty away from life, apart from loosing you... If you don't want it, at least do it for her sake..."

Not giving any answer that showed he listened, he turned his back to the water and let a portal appear, one that showed the golden halls of his beautiful lover's kingdom.

"If Heimdall knows what happened, yet didn't do anything... I don't think you will have to worry about anything, Lucienne..."

Raising her brows surprised at what Dream had said, implying on killing Heimdall, your most trusted friend and right-hand man, she couldn't help but take quick steps to him. "My lord, forgive me if I'm misunderstanding but... Are you implying that you would kill Her Majesty's best friend? The one who has been with-"

"I suggest you to not to finish that sentence, Lucienne... For I don't want to say anything to hurt you."

If the situation wasn't so serious, Lucienne could've wept at the thoughtful act of care from him but this... This couldn't be left alone like that. "Your Majesty, all I'm saying that Heimdall and her grew up together. You, of all people, knew better that there is no one else for her. You would be hurting her even more, rather than helping, my lord..."

Unfortunately, Morpheus had always been the one to get easily jealous, despite his failed attempts at love and anyone who he cared for eventually slipping away from him, the people they cared about more than anything would always face the same hostility, and Heimdall wouldn't be any exception.

The fact that he was always with you, which was enough to get a reaction out of Dream, is the only thing that could've made you two drift away, you always reassuring him that there was nothing going on with such tender yet powerful words that he would be left with doing nothing except believing in them with his whole heart.

Taking a deep breath, and reminding himself that he shouldn't be harsh to her, he stepped onto the water that now was shining, without looking back.

Hoping to find answers, but never expecting what would be waiting for him.

After all Lucienne forgot to tell him about the most important part, the part where he was a father now.

After learning you talked with her son, Ethel went to the prison, as John called it, to see that he was fine and well. The fact that she couldn't do anything to hurt you or stop you made her vivid, grunting in anger and jealousy. Whether she accepted or not, she was greedy for power, just like many humans. Always wanting more, always being more... But none of them ever happening...

If only she had one ounce of power you had...

Unknown to her, you were already inside, talking to the poor man while he was sitting on the bed, as far as he could get away from you, fearing you... Being able to see you and hear you was what made him go insane, humans, in normal circumstances, wouldn't be able to see gods or anything supernatural but given the fact that his father was a Magus- somehow a decent one at least, even though he made a deadly mistake by capturing dream- these visions had passed onto him. Resulting in misery and more despair...

Normally you would have laughed hard and killed whoever dared to say that you would pity a human but seeing the hunched man cower away like a baby animal made something stir inside you. He reminded you of yourself, when Odin would be too much for you and your siblings, after all Thor was the golden child, Hela was the doomed one and you were the one that was expected to do great things... While he was the scapegoat of the family.

It wasn't that no one cared about him, he was the youngest of the triplets of the royal family, with Hela and you being the older ones, and even if Hela didn't give a single shit about him, you were always there. Always patching him up, always talking to him, acknowledging that he was there, alive and someone with thoughts and emotions...

That was exactly why he possessed you, to finish off Dream and free you from all the pain, insecurities and despair he had brought . Your body was weak physically but it wasn't the only part that was weak.

Your heart was way weaker, and your soul having no more branch to hold on, which made your capture easy but... Huh, I guess I could make use of her body...

"Hello, John~ It's been a long time since I saw you... I believe almost 20 years now? How have you been?"

Startling at the honey-like voice of a woman, one that he knew that wasn't of his mothers, he turned sharply to see you sitting on a golden chair, looking mighty and powerful as ever. He was afraid he had done something wrong, even though he was always here and had no chance of getting away and doing something else except reading, and his eyes widened at that, fearing that this would be the time he finally died.

But you just... smiled sweetly at him. A sight for sore eyes, indeed.

" What are you... doing here?"

"Came to check on you and... Help you, my dear. You don't deserve to be sitting here idly all day, caged like an animal..."

You knew exactly which buttons to press to manipulate someone into believing you, broken humans being the easiest ones, so with slow tentative steps, you stood in front of him and took his face between yours, softly caressing the ridges and wrinkles on his face while he closed his eyes thightly at the feeling.

Soft rays of sun bathing his face with everuthing it had to offer, healing the broken pieces of his soul with a tenderness he had never seen.

Right at this moment, he knew he would do anything to please the goddess that blessed him with new feelings.

And that was exactly what happened.

" Your mother is coming here, John. The woman who trapped you here, the one who stole from you and me, living in the wealth I offered to you... Don't listen to what she says, for me..."

Before you could have continued, the woman burst in hurriedly, while trying to hide her true intentions with a sickening smile.

And they call me the bad guy, when there is a old geezer like her...

"Hello, darling... How are you, how is therapy going?"

Seeing you roll your eyes at her and stray away from him, he got up like a moth following the flame. He didn't want you to go away, he wanted you to stay here with him, bask in the light you gave around yourself!

But to see your expecting eyes, expecting him to do something- what you wanted him to do- he knew you'd stay there if he did what he had to do.

The raw want to have something, the lounging... They could make someone turn a blind eye to the most obvious things...

For example your body, not being truly yours.

"Is that your way of asking if I have forgiven you?"

"I'm only trying to talk to-"

"That never ends well for us, no?"

Sighing dejectedly, Ethel stepped closer to her son while you were watching their interaction with interest, leaning back on the chair you were sitting and crossing your legs on each other with a smug and capricous smile. Humans always tought that they were alone, but just because their eyes didn't see doesn't mean that there is nothing.

She didn't have time for John's self-pitying sessions, it was only time that you would come here and she needed to talk to him as soon as possible.

" what we need to talk about is... the ruby."

Turning his eyes at her, she didn't realize that he was looking behind her, eyes following every motion of someone.

"Don't tell her... Do you think she cares about you? Why did she only come when SHE needed something from you?"

" Do you think she cares? She may be your mother, but the only thing she cares is power... If she cared, she wouldn't have thrown you here..."

"You could be so much more than a crazy man, what are you gonna do? Choose to live as a pest, or become something more with my help?"

With every sentence, you circled John, leaning over his ear to whisper everything to mislead him, much like Lucifer did to Adam and Eve.

What they said was true...

Deceiving humanity is the easiest and most enjoyable thing...

And the changing in John's eyes and the stiffness of his posture were proof that you were so close to conquer the world.

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[darkhorse-javert]

Vidua... Part 1

@everlarkficexchange and @567inpanem. I’m sorry this is so late, technical problems my end. Also I am still writing it down, and I have no idea when I will get to the end.

Written for prompt 44, where Katniss is taken to the Capitol to marry Snow.

They bang on the door just after sunrise. Buttercup leaps from the windowsill to dive under the bed as I shove my feet into my boots and cross the room to open the door. No matter what you opened when the Peacekeepers knocked, or you soon found that you didn’t have a door, just a flat board of wood lying on your floor. Cray, Head Peacekeeper, stands on the doorstep

“Katniss Everdeen, aged sixteen on 8th of May this year?”

I nod tightly “That’s me” Cray knows who I am he’s bought wild turkey from me often enough, but there is a clipped formality to his voice, and I see the half-dozen other peacekeepers grouped up beyond him

“You need to come with us to the Justice Building, now”

“What is it?” My mother’s voice comes from behind me “What’s going on?”

“No need to worry Mrs Everdeen, in fact you should be proud of your daughter.” Still the formality in Cray’s tone, my mother's hand clamps on my shoulder, wrinkling the rough shirt. “Now Miss Everdeen comes with us, Mrs Everdeen you and any close family may attend at the Justice Building in half an hour to assist, bringing smart clothes for Miss Everdeen”

Cray holds out his hand towards me, I don’t take it but I step through the doorway, past him. The half-dozen peacekeepers form a box around me two in front, two behind, two at my sides. They are so precise it unnerves me, but as we march off I take a look over my shoulder. My mother stands in the doorway of our house, watching, and then Prim still in her night dress appears at her side in a flash of checks. 

Framed by the Peacekeepers we walk quickly through the district, the dirt paths and rickety Seam houses, then onto the more orderly streets of the town. Already people are up, and they look over but then avert their eyes. Someone in the centre of a squad of peacekeepers, it doesn’t do to show any kind of acknowledgement or association. Only a handful of children stare, because it is a strange thing to see, with our Peacekeepers. That only makes me stiffer in my stance. Somewhere in the long distance between the start of town and the Justice building, the peacekeeper on my left reaches out and touches my hand, making it seem as if she’s guiding me around a puddle on the ground. I glance over to see the formal reflective visor gone and recognise Purnia, who I’ve seen at the hob. Her eyes are kind as she whispers quickly, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, I swear.” 

I want to ask her what is going on, but her eyes snap forward again and the glimmer of the visor comes down. We’re nearly at the square when I hear the pit siren. But not the horrifying screech that means there has been a mine accident, the hooting that marks an end of shift, and yet, isn’t the pitch different. Normality in the middle of chaos, but even that is wrong. 

We pace across the square, prominently visible. The shopkeepers are more awake than the Seam; setting up for the day, rigging out their awnings, polishing the glass, checking the lay of the window displays. They stop what they’re doing as we walk past, making a dull ripple of silence and I feel the fear in their gazes. But again, nothing more than looking, you don’t mess with Peacekeepers on official business. Then when we’re at the base of the two flights of steps to the front of the Justice Building, there is the sound of a scuffle going on behind. Only when we reach the big landing halfway up the stairs do I glance over, two of the baker’s sons are grappling in the shop door, the older pulling the smaller back into the shop. Purnia’s hand on my back urges me forwards up the stairs onto the stone frontage. The doors, with their huge proud eagle, swing open, then close behind us with a deep metal slam. Only my pride holds back a shuddering flinch. Now Purnia's reassurance feels very very thin. 

Inside the Justice Building entrance hall,mMy escort march me to one of the lifts. I along with  Purnia, and the other flanking peacekeeper step into the lift to be surrounded by the smell of sour milk. The other peacekeeper presses the button to take the lift up. 

As I turn round, just before the doors close I see the back pair of peacekeepers moving away to the flights of stairs at a quick jog. The lift doors close and it begins to creak upwards. Without the sun on the visors I can now see the face of my other escort, Livia. She's not in the job as often as some of them, but I've traded with her before now. Rosehip syrup comes to mind.

"Katniss, whatever is to happen, from the moment these doors open, you stand for District 12 in its entirety. Just - " Purnia pauses “Just show them what District 12 really is, not just the assumptions people make about it,  that it's all grubby minors. 12 is more than that. Be proud of it and show that pride.”

  The fact that the Peacekeepers who know about things because they are the officials of the district don't really seem to know what this is about far more than I am willing to let on. And why warn me or cue me at all. Whatever is going on, it's to her benefit for the District to look good for some reason. Of course the Peacekeepers are the security, the day to day panem representative in our district, so they want to look good.

The lift in the Justice Building is supposed to be slower than a slug but it is too soon when the box stops and the doors open. It must be slow though for Cray and the other four Peacekeepers stand there to receive us. Cray is slightly further back, his face tinted red. I resist a smile at the thought of him having to puff up all those stairs for me. The flash of amusement is quickly doused, what am I doing here? To represent the District, according to Purnia. That’s the same high flowery language Effie trinket uses each Reaping day. But how? A reprobate hunter being whipped? Have they snached Gale too, to make an example of both of us… or some of the Hob traders?  They lead me down the corridor to two large wooden doors at the end with the same eagle insignia as on the Justice Building main door we passed through earlier. Last time I was here I was eleven, receiving a medal for my father who I would never see again. I blink sharply, forcing back the emotions behind my mask. Purnia warned me. 

Keep it together Katniss, you stand for District 12.

Cray pushed open the wooden doors of the hall, and we walked in. The wooden beamed hall seeths with Capitol people, a mass of bright colours. As someone notices our arrival there is a sudden hush, and in the gathering of the silence I hear someone say "President Snow has chosen well this time."

 Even then a shrill Capitol voice rises and out of the throng comes Effie Trinket, the Capitol representative who each year calls out the names of those reaped 

"Here she is, our District Sposata" her hands are outstretched towards me as if in welcome, but I'm still coping with the shock of the too brilliant false pink dress she is wearing, so bright it cannot be a natural colour. She clicks towards me in her heels, moving straight past Cray without even an acknowledgement. Her eyes note my clothes and hollow, then falsely brighten again.

 "You are a darling, I am sure."

She glances at Cray, who straightens and answers a question she hasn't even asked "I asked her family to arrive in half an hour with smarter clothes, to give you a chance to explain everything to Katniss, Miss Everdeen,about her situation."

"Quite right." She beckons to me as she turns away "Come with me, dear and I'll explain everything."

I follow her then perch awkwardly on the wood of a recessed window seat. I already know at least part of what she is about to say. As soon as the bubbly man said the words President Snow. A dim memory from that starving spring I turned 12, extra mandatory viewing,watching a girl from District 4 in the Capitol, walking between rows of people in a dress of luxury we could only dream of, to be married to the president of Panem, a man old enough to be her father. There had been pain in her eyes, pain I hadn't understood or cared about then, as she walked. I drag myself back to listen to Effie prattle "it is a great honour to be chosen for your district Katniss, to be the one to symbolise the partnership between the Capitol and the District." 

Partnership..not likely. 

I but in, before I think too deeply about that. "What about my family, my tesserae, I provide for them". 

Effie actually looks sympathetic for a moment before it morphs into excitement "You needn't worry Katniss, they'll receive a Capitol stipend to replace your wages, a house in Victors Village... They needn't worry about the tesserae anymore with that. Besides with the marriage they'll become Capitol citizens by extension, and they'll be ineligible for reaping." Effie pauses to tally where she's got to in her list of benefits, and it's a good thing because my brain is fixed on those three words 

Ineligible for reaping. 

I go and Prim won't be in the pens this summer knowing that there is a slip with her name on itin the girls great glass bowl. And not just this summer, but every summer, as the slips would pile up each year.- for this I would be willing to die, marriage is a small price to pay. 

"How many of my family?"

 "Just siblings dear, those with a shared parent."

A pang of regret that I cannot register Gale and his siblings as my cousin and have them excluded from the reaping too.

"Is the marriage today?", it tumbles out before I can stop it and Effie laughs softly, pityingly like you would with a child. I clamp my jaw shut before I say anything else stupid and she shakes her head. 

"Goodness me, no Katniss. Today is your district farewell, then we'll go to the Capitol. There are so many things that you need to know and that need to be done. The fitting of the dress, your trousseau," Effie waves her hand as she speaks and the cuffs flutter like birds. The marriage, that will take place in a week, once we've dusted you off a little bit.” I feel like I have been doused in cold water. Effie is looking around slightly suspicious at one of the fire places, which does seem fairly free of coal dust. 

These people are not interested in me. Just in a symbol of the district they can have without it's bad points. I rub my fingers on the smooth wood of the seat, while she rattles on again sounding rather like a squirrel chattering in the branches. After a while she notices that I am not attending in the slightest and huffs, then she gets up and leaves me to the whirl of my thoughts. 

There is a velvet cushion on the window seat, my fingers find it, rifling the stroke of the fabric back and forth. But even this is strange, different from the little house, where it's only place is a tiny strip on my mother's collar. I turn and stare out at the square below. The stalls have been herded away, people in uniforms are setting up huge projector lights, uncoiling the rope for one large pen in front of the steps, I cast my eyes upwards and sure enough there are nests of extra Peacekeepers appearing on the roofs I can see. It's like another reaping day, apart from the fact there are no age pens. The thought, the realization hits like a stone, sinking through my mind and into my stomach. It is a Reaping day, and I am the lone tribute, chosen by a lottery I don't even know; to go to the Capitol. I turn back to the room, and Effie must have been watching because she's stops her chattering and comes to me

"You will love this Katniss, I've just been to talk to Cinna, the ideas he has for your trousseau, you'll be the talk of the world." I have no idea what a trousseau is,  other than it needs fitting according to her earlier comment.

"Miss Trinket," I use my best manners voice, as if I was at school, "I will be able to come back to District 12 won't I?"

"Of course", the cuff birds flutter. "Why it would be utterly gauche to miss any special district events… but Katniss there is so much in the Capitol the winter celebrations, the illumination yo will never have seen the like, the fireworks the dinners, and I haven't even mentioned the private parties."

But through that I hear what she isn't saying, that once I leave the district I become a person of the Capitol and that my visit back will be few and far between for display. Some of it must have shown on my face, because Effie starts chattering again "But of course we're not rude, after you have been presented to the district and received their acclamation, you have two whole hours to make your goodbyes to all your friends, so they understand before you are whisked away to the Capitol for a time" 

[i]or forever[/i]  I add in my head. 

"You mustn't come back until you are well settled in." She holds out a notebook and a gold pen, seeming warmer in her attitude "Here, you write down a list of everyone you want to see, and that way I can give them priority over anyone else who comes to curry favour." 

The back of the notebook is slightly furry in my hand, a strange texture between pelt and the velvet. The pen is so strange, cold and gold that I am almost afraid to touch it, that I'll leave fingermarks on the shell. Effie leaves again. Livia steps closer to me, ostensibly a protective guard. She leans over and subtly twists the pen so a small nib pops out of the end, giving me a tiny chin up nod then becomes inscrutable again. I turn my attention to the page, the list of people I really want to see as it forms in my head as I run it down. 

[i]Gale Hawthorne[/i]

[i]Hazelle Hawthorne[i]

[i]Primrose Everdeen[/i] I'm not taking chances she'll be forgotten, but I hope she'll come with our mother. 

There are others I'd like to add, but I don't think I can safely invite Hob people without giving reason, and I can't send peacekeepers to fetch them on official business. But Sae is safe. Yet as I add her name, I realise I don't know her surname. Only that her Hob name amongst us is Greasy Sae, and we can rely on her to take what we catch and to not begrudge us hear in the winter. I stare down at the page, trying to remember, trying to hear someone else use it, but I draw a blank. Livia bends her head down, speaking low.

"Its Fetler." 

[i]Sae Fetler[/i], I write it down pause... then add another name beneath 

[i]Madge Undersee.[/i]

We aren't friends, not like Gale and I but I realise that I'd feel guilty to leave her out, to disappear without a proper explanation to her face, although being the mayor's daughter she probably knew before I did. Half a dozen names, all the people I can put down to say goodbye to. Not much really. Effie clicks over on her heels, wordless I hand over. She nods, half glancing." I'll see they come". She speaks with such confidence and nods with such assurance as if no one would dare say no to her.

------------

Any feedback, @567inpanem, would be gratefully received.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I know, I’m greedy... but anymore deep within? I’m so curious to see where this goes 🙏🏻 Also, bless you authors. This is a wonderful space full of talent and I’ve been reading non stop!

Deep In The Darkness Peering: PART ii Chapter TWO:

Ordinarily, Claire would have been asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Tonight, however, her brain refused to allow her sleep and she sat up in bed, her mind going over their evening interactions.

As she lay alone, Jamie’s words were still rolling around in her mind. She hadn’t expected them but as he had opened up to her she felt obliged to do the same. Only John knew about her doctorate, even Glenna didn’t know. How she’d managed to keep it from her co-workers for this long, but she had. As a junior doctor she had busied herself with writing journal articles and publishing her medical notes under a pseudonym, somehow keeping her father alive through her own words. Once again John had been an angel, coming to her rescue and helping to get her a job as a nurse whilst keeping her medical training under wraps.

The muffled sounds of Jamie stirring drew her out of her fog as she glanced quickly towards the door. Half expecting him to settle, she rubbed her eyes. But just as she was about to reach across and turn her light off, a short, sharp cry bought her head up once more. Claire was exhausted so she didn’t question why she had failed to hear him earlier. Rising, she crept slowly over to her door, peeling it open as quietly as she was able as she waited to see if he would calm and continue into a more peaceful sleep.

His anguished cries, though, continued after a brief pause, subtle gaelic words floating down the corridor as Claire snuck towards her guest room.

Curled on his side, he had pressed himself as close to the wall as he was able to get; his legs tucked tightly against his chest as the duvet bunched between his thighs. She could feel the tension radiating off him as his face scrunched up as if he were physically in pain.

From her position in the doorway she could already see that the stitches to one of his deeper wounds were beginning to split, and his shoulder blades contracting, painfully, against one another just as blood began to seep through his nightshirt. Unable and unwilling to sit aside and watch without assisting, Claire crawled beside him, her hands shaking as she wrapped herself around Jamie, whispering soothing words against the back of his neck as she calmly massaged the tense muscles along the top of his accessible arm.

“It’s alright, Jamie. You’re safe, you’re home…” Without thinking too carefully about her words she rocked him backwards and forwards, the motion causing Jamie to release his legs as his breathing began to return to a more regular pace. She felt him inhale and exhale, the goosebumps on his flesh receding slowly as his whole body started to sink into the soft mattress.

For a moment she thought he’d woken as he shifted, the angular plains of his back now smoothed out as he stretched his legs straight. But it soon became obvious that he hadn’t as he stilled. Though his back worried her, Claire didn’t want to rouse him now that he was relaxed so she readied herself to stay by him. Her presence seemed to calm him, and though she worried how he’d be when he finally woke, fatigued pulled her under and her eyes closed as she rested against him.  

The next thing she saw was the sun streaming in through the thin curtains as she pushed herself from the empty bed. Beside her, it was clear Jamie hadn’t long woken himself as the sheets were still heated from his presence.

Bacon. The scent of it wafted through the room and she thrust her hair back into a rough pony before wiping the sleep from her eyes. Walking into the kitchen she caught sight of the back of him, his nightshirt still stained from the previous evening but he seemed unfazed by it as he made himself at home over her hob.

“I see you managed to start the gas off.” She said, announcing her arrival whilst skirting the obvious conversation starter.

“Aye,” he replied, turning a little to look at her as he spoke. He hadn’t flinched which meant he’d known her to be there which reminded her that he probably wasn’t that used to his own company. “It gave me a wee bit of a hard time, but I got it to work eventually - I hope ye dinna mind?” He phrased it as a question but she could see a momentary worry line curve into his brow.

Quickly, she shook her head and smiled. “Not at all, use anything and everything you need.”

“Would ye like one?”

“That would be lovely, I’ll put the coffee on.”

Tipping his head to the side, she could see that he’d already started the percolator as the black drops began to drip though the thin paper mask that had kept the grains contained whilst dry.

“Will you let me look at your back then? Just in case.” She broached the issue quietly but confidently as he stopped turning the bacon for just a moment before continuing until each carefully sat back in the sizzling oil. Silence surrounded them as the seconds slowly fell away and she began to regret speaking at all.

“Aye.”

Claire could tell from his half-whispered reply that the memory of it had stirred something altogether more unpleasant to mind and she was grateful that the awkward (for her) silence had given him the time he needed to process that. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” With a cautious smile lifting her lips very slightly, she reached for her small medical kit - opening the small draw beneath the sink and placing it on the countertop as she searched for what she thought she might need.

Jamie turned the hob down to allow the bacon to heat gently before placing himself on a stool. Holding the base of his shirt, Claire caught him deliberating out of the corner of her eye.

“You can take that off - if that’s alright?” Choice was something that had been taken from him along with a myriad of other things and as much as she wanted to be there to help him through this transitionary period, she also wanted him to take control of as much as possible - even down to whether he wanted her to see his back...or not.

Luckily, he nodded briefly, the muscles clenching along the base of his jaw as he did so.

Once she had the ointment and antiseptic to hand, Claire turned to the task at hand. One glance let her know that it was just a simple procedure. The damage was slight, thank goodness and the stitches appeared to have held - though the tension in his back had caused them to split between the thin gaps causing the bloody mess on the back of his top.

“It might sting a little, but it isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“No A&E trips needed then?” He joked, hunching himself forwards as he prepared himself for her touch.

“Not this time.”

They were quiet as she worked to clean him up though she burned to ask him an endless ream of questions. It was only after she had passed him a clean shirt that she dared ask the first and most important one.

Waiting until he’d plated up their late breakfast and with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of them, she took one bite of her sandwich and swallowed before asking it.

“Has that happened every night since you arrive, Jamie?”

“The nightmares?” He asked knowing immediately what she meant.

“Yes.”

“Aye, and before that.” He answered honestly, seeing no need for lies between then.

“You weren’t speaking English.”

“It’s protection, you see.”

Claire could see the moisture building in the corners of his eyes and she wondered whether it was the right time to be pressing him into talking to her but she seemed to have started something that he wasn’t prepared to finish now. Continuing to eat her breakfast, she allowed him the chance to tell her anything he needed to in that moment.

“Less than 2% of Scots speak it. Most of the guards dinna have the skill and the English ones certainly don’t…” the observation hung in the air between them for a short while and Claire could have guessed the name of one particular officer but she simply nodded to acknowledge the statement, “...when yer faced wi’ the devil himself - you have to be prepared, aye?”

Just for a second her heart stopped dead in her chest as fear etched itself across his face.

“When did they start?”

“After my arrest. I dinna ken what happened that night, Claire. Sometimes I’ll see things, but they’re blurred and incoherent. In my dreams, though, I see things I think canna possibly be real and I’m trapped in my own body unable to fight free.”

All of a sudden all of those sleepless nights seemed to weigh him down and his shoulders slumped under the pressure of it. There was something completely raw about his admission and she made a mental note - now really wasn’t the time to press him for more information on the night of the alleged assault.

“But then, last night, all of a sudden it all seemed to dissipate. And I woke wi’ you holding onto me like ye thought I might drown.”

“It helped?”

“Aye.”

The haunted look had disappeared from his eyes causing Claire to unclench her fists and grin over at him.

“Thank you, Claire, Truly.”

[iridescentanachronism]

when one night only turns into two

hello folks, i have never written fanfiction and never used this blog! i guess i’m diving in headfirst LMAO!!! 

this is a lil blurb i thought of when y/n is a singer (not super big but for sure up and coming) and she covers kiwi at one of her shows and it goes viral and harry notices and decides to just SHOW UP at her show the balls on this guy!! anyways this is my first fic so please be kind! constructive criticism is always welcome 

“thank you for coming out tonight! your presence gives me the ability to do my job- i will always be grateful for each and every single one of you. drive safely and love one another, los angeles. thanks again for having me, you have been wonderful.” 

as you walked off the small stage at the house of blues your heart swelled with pride. this was your first show out of state, and from what the audience sounded like, you had crushed it. performing in LA had always been a dream of yours, but a daunting one, considering that their crowds were used to big names and powerful stage presences. you were intimidated by the city- yet you walked off their stage with an indescribable feeling of pride, adrenaline, and confidence. this was the start of something new and you could feel it.  

feeling someone’s eyes on you, you made a sharp turn and ran into your tour manager, rosco. “hello! hey, hey, hey, that was amazing wasn’t it? the energy felt absolutely maddening! god, i could do that everyday for the rest of my life. what do you think? was it too much, did we do too many covers?” the words seemed to flow right out of you, even though you gave LA your all, it was still LA, and rosco had always been your best critic. he quickly responded to let you know it was as amazing as you’d originally thought, and that if this show was any indication, you would have plenty more shows in LA. 

what you didn’t expect, however, was the ruckus that one of the aforementioned covers would cause on twitter. you had always loved harry styles, and after taking quite some time to look into the legalities on the matter, decided to cover kiwi for the first time last night. logging into your account, you noticed the song title trending- and after clicking on it you were led to a video of your show, hair being shaken around you, throwing yourself around the stage with the heavy music, and the scene was completed with a boisterous crowd jumping around and singing every word along with you. a smile covered your face- this is your favorite part of performing, losing yourself entirely in the stage, and in this video you were doing just that. however excited you had become at the potential this showed for your career, you immediately had so many questions. why had this blown up so much? you covered four songs last night, why is this one such a big deal? after looking through the tag, chuckling at some memes, and being freaked out by some responses, you had found the tweet that made you lose your shit. the tweet itself wasn’t even the raunchiest you had found this morning, it simply stated: “@y/t/n: fuck my shit up, babe. literally, whatever you want to do to me, do it” with the linked video of you singing kiwi. however, one thing in particular stood out to you. the part that said “liked by harry styles”. 

you immediately dialed rosco, not only is he your tour manager, but basically your entire support system. a musicians life gets lonely, and he is the only one who has stuck by you throughout the entire tumultuous journey. 

“sweetheart! perfect timing, i actually was just about to call-”

“harrystylessawthekiwivideoandlikedatweetaboutitholyfuckingshit-” you started to ramble, your most prominent nervous trait, in the highest pitch rosco thought he had ever heard from you. 

“sweets, first of all, where was that pitch when we recorded the album? second, take a breath and tell me again, i can’t understand a damn thing you said”

you took a deep breath and told him of the tweets you saw, and when you told him about harry’s interaction he simply told you to chill out. he had favorited a tweet, and he may not have even been the one to do it. with an odd sting you realized he was correct, while it was exciting to have your idol recognize you, you could not overthink it: it was simply recognition for a job well done. 

“it seems as though the people you needed to impress are just as proud of you as i am, lovey, your ‘one night only’ in los angeles has been extended to two, you interested in doing it all over again tomorrow night?”

you must have looked like a goldfish in your kitchen, jaw slack and eyes wide open, you struggled to come to your senses. you had asked for the chance to prove yourself in a city known for music, and good music at that, and were apparently being gifted with a second chance. 

“oh! um, yes, of course, why wouldn’t i? holy shit, this is amazing, holy shit!” you began to squeal and run in circles around your house. whilst giggling with elation, the seriousness of this event hit you: two nights of rocking out with the liveliest crowd you have ever played for, in the city you’ve dreamt of doing this in for years. drops began to form in your eyes as you managed to spit out a quick thank you to rosco, who knew you would cry. he, quite frankly, did not want to hear your tears, so he hung up after telling you what to tweet. 

after logging on you realized you had gone from a respectable 10k followers to an overwhelming 30k, you almost squealed again, composing yourself enough to type, you wrote: 

@y/t/n: wow. in absolute awe of you la. thank you for supporting me, and thank you for letting me do what i do. and thanks to you all, i have been gifted another night here (-: night two at the hob! tickets on sale at 6pm california time, come see me tomorrow night, peeps! i’ll be sure to make it worth your while <3 

with the click of your fingers and the ping of your phone, the announcement had been sent, and the stage had been sent. the pressure was on, and you had never felt more in your element. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

everything that could have gone wrong on the morning of your fateful second show, had. you had woken up late (something minor, but was an omen for your bad day), gotten a flat tire, been hit on by the man sent to fix said flat tire, and had been late to soundcheck. after arriving at soundcheck you had found that everything was wrong, the stage wasn’t set up correctly, the duct-taped x’s from the previous show had been removed, and you had to all but start from the beginning. 

you had planned to change things up from your previous gig, but had no time to practice the changes. you spoke to your band and hoped that was enough, you drank some coffee, did some jumping jacks, warmed up your vocals, and put on your game face. this is your second show in LA, and you weren’t going to let anything ruin it; hearing the sounds of a sold out bar in front of you, feeling your heart began to flutter in your chest, and knowing that in a few minutes you would be putting on the best show of your goddamn life had set you up well. you were ready. with your shoulders back and head up high, you walked onto stage and, unknowingly, commanded the attention of the room. 

about twenty minutes into your set you decided to take a quick breather. taking a long sip of water and leaning into the microphone, you decided to do a quick little check in, “hey folks, hows everyone doing out there?” your southern drawl had just slipped in towards the end, and you felt so at ease on stage that you hadn’t even noticed. someone else did notice. 

harry styles had decided to surprise you at your show, he had favorited that tweet because he agreed- you could do whatever you wanted to him, but he would rather do whatever you wanted to you. he had his signature smirk on as he stood backstage, listening to rosco ramble about how surprized you would be when you realized he had come, and how much you adored his album. as you continued to banter back in forth with the sold out bar, harry had taken note of how peaceful you looked. you stood proudly on stage, with messy hair, and a sick body you looked comfortable; the stage had seemed like your home. 

luckily, you hadn’t noticed harry the entire show, hadn’t even noticed how his eyes hadn’t left your body while you passionately belted out every word to his song, completely losing yourself in the melody, and delivering another breathtaking performance. he watched you take your final bow, and heard your last expression of gratitude, before watching you run off stage and into the arms of your tour manager. harry quickly noticed the tears in your eyes and the smile so large that it looked painful, he heard your rambling and the joy in your voice, it had reminded him of when this was all new, when nothing was guaranteed, and the only thing keeping him in this trying industry was the feeling you were experiencing right now. 

his moment of nostalgia passed as you had unraveled yourself from rosco’s arms and did a double take. harry styles was standing in front of you. you heard a deep chuckle coming from him, likely due to your wide eyes and gaping mouth, he heard a quiet “no fucking way” come from you, and decided he had waited long enough. as cocky as usual, he rasped out, “hello love, your show was amazing. it’s a pleasure to meet you, i’m harry, as i think you may know” he didn’t bother waiting for a response from the gobsmacked young woman before continuing, “y’know, i’ve seen plenty of covers of kiwi, but none have been as genuine as yours. you captured the song for what it is, you blew it away, blew me away in fact, so i knew i had to come out and see ya tonight.” his accent grew thicker as he became more bemused with your state of shock.

your breath eventually caught up to you as you nervously chuckled, “holy shit, thank you so much. you have no idea how much that means coming from you. thank you for coming out, oh my god, i have so much to say to you but nothing is coming to mind other than thank you, so thank you, again” 

“of course, darling, i loved it. i’ll be sure to pass along my number so whatever comes to mind can be said. unfortunately, i have to run, but i’ll be seeing you around kiddo, keep up the good work” harry said with a sly wink, leaving you flushed at the pet name, and yearning for more time with him. while you let out a soft thank you and goodnight, you began to think of what the future held for you. praise from harry styles was not to be taken lightly, and his impromptu visit had only fanned the flame in your soul, his visit meant you were doing something right, and this had been the fuel you needed to continue putting in long hours at the studio, and spending evenings alone, writing in your shitty and overpriced apartment.  

while you had been thinking of what this visit meant for your career. harry had thoughts of you headlining arenas swimming around in his head. as he walked away he thought of you; thought of how immensely talented you were, how charismatic you were, and how far you had to go. he also thought of your grace, the presence you carried as you pranced around on stage, and the charming beauty that you seemed unaware of. harry styles knew you were talented, but he also knew you were breathtaking, and he could see absolutely nothing stopping you. 

as he walked away and you listened to rosco’s compliments, you allowed your own mind to wander. maybe, just maybe, things were going to look up for you. and you couldn’t help but sigh happily at the thought. 

A/N: hello peeps! sorry this was super long hmm i’m torn between cutting it or not, because not much harry but also the buildup is important to me, please let me know what you prefer! constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome and apprecited! thanks for reading this far if you did, you mean the world to me! let me know if y’all would want a part two (-:

[ellanainthetardis]

Since next week is hayffismas week there won’t be a chapter, so I will see you on the 29th! Also, from this chapter on, it’s the part where I’m mean and I don’t say how many are left so it can end any time. Haha, my meaness knows no bouds. Let me know if you like this chapter! You know I live for feedback!

[FF] or [AO3]

Chapter 26 : From Memory Alone

Haymitch forced himself to go on, down the corridor, to his own room. It wouldn’t help to go back in Effie’s bedroom, to hold himself. No word would comfort her. Dragging out the goodbyes would be more painful than it needed to be.  

He ran his fingers through his hair, almost punched and kicked the wall…

Katniss, he reminded himself, save Katniss. For the boy. For Effie. For all the kids you’ve failed over the years. For a chance at a shitty redemption.

He got dressed slowly, methodically. Comfortable clothes. Something he would have worn in Twelve.

There would be no cameras where he was going.

The knock on the door was faint and he wasn’t surprised to see Harwyn standing there instead of Maya. Katniss had told him she liked the Capitol woman well enough. It had been with a shrug, of course, and the implied statement that she wasn’t Cinna. He hoped the other stylist would be kind with Katniss. She would be nervous. Afraid probably.

He had only been through that whole part once before, almost too long ago for him to remember properly.

Mentors never met the tributes before the launch. His memory was rusty even if he knew what would have to happen. Harwyn’s walking stick was sporting a blue gem that day. The old man didn’t ask how he was doing and didn’t try to offer pointless words of comfort. He led him to the living-room in silence, a somber procession of two men.

His feet faltered in front of Effie’s room. He brushed his hand against the door on his way. A last caress. A last… He didn’t know.

He could hear voices in Katniss’ room, the hurried muffled whispers of goodbyes. They hadn’t taken the girl yet, then. They would get her once he was off. She still had a few minutes with the boy.

He felt jealous.

A few minutes…

A few minutes were precious.

A few minutes meant everything.

The doctor was waiting in the living-room, looking very professional in his white uniform, his small black case at his feet. He greeted Haymitch with a terse smile and a quiet profesional “How do you do?”. They were well acquainted, the two of them. He had ended up in the Games Clinic more times than he could count over the years.

He ignored the question and sat on the couch’s armrest. He wanted that part over. He wanted to leave the penthouse. He wanted…

Suddenly he wanted a lot of things.

A last breath of fresh air on a winter morning in Twelve, when snow had fallen all night long and everything was a pure white as far as the eye could see.

A last night with Chaff, Finnick and the others, laughing and teasing each other until they were ready to roll under the table or be thrown in the drunk tank.

A last kiss, one that didn’t taste of tears, one that tasted like happiness and hope and, maybe, of a better future.

A last walk around the Hob, a last bowl of Sae’s soup, a last chat with Ripper, a last glimpse of the woman who wore Maysilee’s face…

A last chance.

Haymitch focused on the blue gem at the end of the stylist’s walking stick when the doctor warned he was about to inject him with the tracker.

He focused on the blue gem when the shotgun fired the implant. The pain was brief but he hated the thought of being tagged like cattle.

He kept focusing on it when the stylist escorted him to the roof and the waiting hovercraft.

Haymitch sat down but it didn’t take off at once. The engine hummed softly, the whole aircraft shook briefly and he thought he could still make a run for it. He should have before that maybe. He should have grabbed the kids, their family and make a run for it before the whole mess even started. They might have made it in the woods.

He lost himself to that fantasy for a second. He pretended hard they could have made it. He pretended hard they could have found a safe place to settle in. He pretended the Capitol wouldn’t have tracked them and dragged them back kicking and screaming after killing everyone who wasn’t a victor in their group. He pretended it wouldn’t have killed him to leave Effie behind and leave the rest of his life without her.  He pretended.

The hovercraft took flight and any possible escape flew away with it. He watched the city disappear through the small round window, barely noticing the food at his disposal on the table in front of him.

He hated the city.

He hated the arena more.

“Did Effie ever tell you how we met?” Harwyn asked casually, as if they weren’t on their way to his worst nightmare.

He almost chewed the guy’s head off for that.

He turned back to the stylist with a snarl but the cutting bitter words remained stuck in his throat. He couldn’t utter a single sound. His hands were clutching the armrests of his seat. His heart was hammering hard in his chest. A bad shiver ran down his spine.

He felt sick.

All he could manage was a jerky shake of his head.

It was better than puking all over the breakfast table.

Harwyn started telling him the story of a seventeen year-old Effie who had accompanied her sister to a huge fashion show with several designer houses, of how she had boldly stepped up when one of his models had twisted her ankle, a short firecracker with an attitude… His voice was calm, his tone casual, and his descriptions precise.

Haymitch relaxed slowly because he could picture it, picture her and her ambition driving her to twist fate’s hand. Halfway through, the stylist pushed a plate in front of him and he started eating. He forced himself. The food tasted like ash on his tongue and settled heavily in his stomach. He forced himself because he would need the strength, he knew that. He drank plenty too. Dehydration was always a danger in any arena.

He felt more grounded by the time the hovercraft landed but, despite all the water he had drunk, his mouth was parched. He was desperate for some whiskey. A fine brand. The best brand. He could almost taste it on his tongue from memory alone.

The tremors were bad that morning and it would do him no favor in less than an hour.

The launch room was too small and he felt confined. He had forgotten about the shower and he declined it. He smelled faintly like Effie and he wanted to keep that, the memory of her skin against his. Or maybe it was in his head. Either way he didn’t feel like showering.

The outfit was waiting for him.

Simple black boxers, sturdy boots, thick heavy pants, a cotton undershirt and a brown jacket branded with a 12 on the back. It was similar enough to what they had been given during his Games and to what tributes usually wore.

It gave him no indication at all about what they would have to face. He had been expecting something a little less standard. This was a Quell after all.

His fingers were trembling so much he struggled getting dressed but Harwyn didn’t offer to help, something he was grateful for. It was humiliating enough to be visibly shaking like a leaf. It stung his pride.

The old man still adjusted the lapels and checked that everything fell appropriately but it was more a stylist thing than a gesture of pity so he could accept that.

They didn’t talk.  

The launching tube was two feet away, threatening in its harmless appearance.

Haymitch couldn’t stop staring at it.

He sat down to wait but Harwyn remained standing, leaning on his walking stick. The stylist looked ill-at-ease and it occurred to Haymitch there was a reason he had never worked for the Games before – or hadn’t, at least, made it a regular thing. He had never before contemplated how jarring it must have been for stylists to literally wait with kids for their own death.

When the mechanical voice told tributes to get in place for the launch, Haymitch licked his lips and stood up slowly.

Harwyn walked next to him. “Do you want me to pass along a message to your escort?”

He shook his head, his right hand closing around the hard gold of the bangle. Everything that had needed saying had been said.

His escort.

His wife.

It was the first time he had thought about her like that and it was both painful and strangely… comforting at the same time.

He had done it for her mostly, having long given up on any desire to form a family in the traditional sense of the term. He was a bitter old man with shattered dreams. She wasn’t. Despite everything, she still clung to hope and dreams and positivity. He had wanted to do something for her, show her what she meant to him, what they could have been…

He realized as he placed his hand on the cold plastic that maybe he had done it for himself too.

Maybe he had done it for the simple comfort of knowing she had been all in, his until death did them apart.

He wasn’t sure it really mattered in the face of everything but… It was a nice thought.

She had his ring, he had her bangle and the Capitol could do nothing to change that now. They had, at least,  won that particular battle.

He stepped in the tube and turned to face Harwyn.

“Thanks.” he said because the man had done more than he had to and it was rare enough to find in the city to deserve acknowledgement. “Make sure she’s alright, yeah?”

The stylist nodded.

The plastic door slid shut and he felt the slight vibration of the engine. He closed his eyes when he felt the platform start to move and only opened them once it was steady again.

He was ready for a meadow full of green grass, a beautiful deadly trap of an arena…

All he saw when he finally opened his eyes was his own reflection staring back at him.

[tricksters-captain]

FP Jones/Andrews family/Riverdale imagines - Oh Dear Part 9

AN: This chapter is a little different... It’s also a little short so I may release the next chapter a little earlier than Friday. 

(Part One) (Part Two)(Part Three)(Part Four)(Part Five)(Part Six)(Part Seven)(Part Eight)

Overall Summary: You’re Archie’s old sister and you have a thing for a certain serpent

Pairing: Reader x FP Jones, Sister!Reader x Archie Andrews, Daughter!Reader x Fred Andrews

Word count: 1,335

Warnings: Well, FP is clearly older than the reader in this fic, none really

Before homecoming...

FP watched you leave the trailer with a unconscious smirk on his lips. 

You really were something else. 

He turned to the kitchen and poured himself a coffee, he had to be at Alice Coopers in an hour and if he was honest, he was kind of nervous. 

He knew Alice. He knew that this wasn’t just some social gathering to bring the Cooper/Jones family together but he said he’d go since Jughead seemed so damn excited about it. And in the end, he didn’t care that much about Alice’s intentions as long as his son was happy.

And your surprise visit was enough to encourage him to get through the rest of the evening. Knowing that you would be at the Whyte Wyrm in a pair of combat boots and black washed jeans that clung to you so tightly was enough to help FP through the night. 

FP had no idea why he let himself get talked into what he just experienced at the Cooper’s house. It was an interrogation he never particularly wanted but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t expect it to go ass up one way or another. 

He ran his hands over his face, sighing, partially out of defeat and partially out of exhaustion. 

““Betty! Jug! Hey!” You crossed over to Betty’s front patio, next door to your own. FP’s head shot up when he heard your voice. 

He felt as if he’d ran straight into a brick wall when you came into view. His lips parting lightly and his eyes widening in awe. 

You looked incredible.

FP hadn't realised that you were only really watching his reaction and had noticed that he hadn't held back when you revealed yourself. 

(Y/n), my gosh, you look beautiful!” Betty awed over your dress, and you thanked her. FP snapped back to his usual neutral facial expression, hoping that no one had seen his reaction to you as Betty cooed over you. 

“I’ll be right back, I have to get something from the house.” Jughead excused himself for a second, and then Betty started heading towards FP’s truck, leaving you and FP both alone for a split moment. 

‘Wow’ FP thought. 

“You look... beautiful.” FP murmured as you both walked down the steps, slow enough to have a private conversation. He wanted to say more, do more, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t even find the words to say more. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself. Shame I didn’t get to see you in a suit tonight though.” You teased, a smile toying on the corner of your lips. FP eyes caught the smile you were repressing. 

“Believe me, you’re not missing much.” FP told you, chuckling softly. He looked sideways at you, waiting for you to say something else, anything else, but Jughead rejoined you, cutting you off.

“Come on, Betty doesn’t like to be late.” He said, rushing past you. FP shook his head at how whipped his son was on the young girl but also couldn’t help but feel hypocritical. 

FP watched his son open the car door for you and Betty as he clambered into the truck himself. 

He was glad that you entered first, pushing yourself up against his arm, your familiar scent filling his nose. 

The car was a tight squeeze but FP didn’t mind. He didn’t mind being so close to you and the other two didn’t think too much of it and so on you went. 

FP pulled up outside the school and almost told you to skip homecoming but managed to control himself. You were young, you should enjoy yourself and you were meeting later on anyway. 

“Have fun tonight.” FP quietly told you as the younger couple exited the car.  

“Remember, Whyte Wyrm, save me a dance.” You whispered, winking at the man. FP’s eyes lingered on your lips, he had to fight every urge in his body to kiss you in that moment but fortunately you exited the truck before he could act on it. 

“You be a gentlemen tonight, okay?” FP leaned towards the window, calling out to Jughead. He watched you take the umbrella from Jughead and head up the stairs to the front doors. FP’s gaze never left you. He watched your shoulders move as you adjusted the umbrella. He watched the way you stumbled slightly in the heels you wore. He watched your face light up as you greeted others and he felt himself suddenly long to be at that dance. 

“He always is, Mr. Jones.” Betty assured FP, bringing him back to his senses. 

“Betty, you mind giving us a minute?” Jughead asked, Betty, of course, didn’t mind and left the Jones family to talk.

After the talk with his son, FP headed back to the trailer park. His thoughts raced around his head, if Jughead said yes to Toledo that means he would have to go, he would have to leave you. He didn’t know if he could do that. He guessed you could always go to college there and he’d still get to see you but how long would he be able to get away with that?

He sighed, shaking the thoughts from his head and decided he’d make himself something to eat considering he didn’t do much eating at the Coopers. 

He figured he’d have to wait at least an hour before you ditched the dance but kept his phone by him in case you called. His phone rarely exploded with calls but when it did, it was usually you. 

FP’s mind wondered back to the first time you admitted you were crushing on him. He could admit that he couldn’t believe what he was doing at first when he allowed you into his life but, boy, was he glad he did. 

You made him forget about all the bad shit going on in his life. You made him forget the pain he had when he wife left him and took his baby girl which replaced the drinking. You made him forget what it was like feel like a loser, what it was to be the typical bad guy.

You made him feel human. 

He ducked down into the fridge and pulled out a box of eggs and a frying pan. 

He turned on the hob and the eggs started to sizzle when he suddenly got lost in thought. He was reflecting on the day he met you behind the bleachers. Your hair tied up, your shorts high on your hips, one sock a little lower than the other. Your (y/e/c) met his and that was the moment he knew he was screwed.

He was drawn from his thoughts when a chorus of sirens and flashing lights pulled up outside his trailer. He huffed. What could they possibly want on this night of all nights?

FP opened the door to reveal Sheriff Keller and a gathering of cops. 

“We have a warrant to search the premises.” Keller told him. 

“Be my guest. Got nothing to hide.” FP stood back and opened his arm, allowing the officers to enter. 

FP sat back and watched the cops raid his home, trashing the place that he and you had only just completely cleaned. His mind wondered to the polaroid of you and him and where he had put it, not that it mattered much because the cops weren’t searching for a photograph.

He thought to himself that he would have to let you know that he may be a bit late to the Whyte Wyrm if the cops didn’t finish up soon, especially since they weren’t leaving a single thing unturned. 

FP wasn’t worried at all about the raid, anything that could link him to any crime was ridded of a long time ago. He didn’t like to leave loose ends and therefore there would be no strings to pull. But when the sheriff pulled out a lockbox that FP had never seen before, he knew he was in trouble.

Chapter 10

Tag list

@jugheads-lawyer @shannon-posts @montgomerydeladempsey @amycarstairs @geekoftv @forsytheserpents @treblebeth @sweetvengeancee @immortalmurphy @rln108 @evenmyphonemissesyourcall94 @twilight-loveer @ri-verdale  @neganskitty @audreyxhorne @squall-ore @lefoutoir @riverdalehipsters @sassyfiedscribbles @itsgirl17321 @shewalksinstarlightx @cutesnakemum @svanck @juliet12345678 @oldschool-aye @bluexangels @esmiestyles @lifeisforlosers @lilythe1975 @janellemonaenae @negansxlucille @hellboundblogger @im-everyones-type @thestrugglesofateenagedirtbag @aliceswonderlandblog @youvebeenwinchesterd @xsnak-3x @cucharadebager @future-style-dreams @panther-and-peacock @wxnderfull @uncharte-dlove @illinterrogatethecat00 @angelicaleonamichelle @thealipower @hyuk-chan @squidgy84 @photoastucess @http-harleys @cordelia-stark-jones @onceitoowasinnocent @theserpentgod @anthonystoner @isak-lovelies @jordan0ella @willow-days02 @kkkkkennedyyyyy @john-and-mary-husband-and-wife @imaginationss @the-girl-who-always-believed @hey-assbutt6-6-6 @itsfangirlmendes @littlemisscaptainfandom @octxgonxl 

[teejaystumbles]

Sorry Dreamling shippers for I have sailed to the shores of imaginings after comic canon… this contains major spoilers for the end of The Sandman, so please only read if you know the comic books or do not care if you’re spoilered. I could not resist, I need to write my thoughts down because I simultaneously love and hate the end of Sandman. This is based on and begins after “An Epilogue, Sunday Mourning”. (Also there is now a second part continuing after this: link )

Hob sat alone in his living room, nursing a bottle of wine. Gwen had left an hour ago when she realized he needed time to himself. He was thinking again about the dream he’d had at the fair. Walking along a beach...together with his oldest friend, and a stranger with long hair who he had met only once and who laughed very loudly.

“Why did you give me that dream?” he said to the empty air.

“To say Goodbye? I was at your funeral, you know. Everyone was, I think. Only then I really understood who you were… dream king.”

Hob sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling unshed tears sting in his eyes. “I know you meant well, but I didn’t need that dream. Now I’m just sad again...that you’re gone, and no-one will meet me in 94 years…”

“I apologize. It was not my intention to make you sad.”

Hob’s head shot up at the voice, unfamiliar and yet… Before him stood a man, more a boy, really, as white as moonlight, or bone or… Hob didn’t know. He seemed like the opposite of his friend, but his eyes were somehow the same. He was wearing modern clothes, what looked like tight jeans and a leather jacket over a hoodie – all of it white. On his chest gleamed an emerald.

“You… you’re not him.”

The being shook it’s white fuzzy chin-length hair. “No. I am Dream. But I am not Morpheus...the one who met you every century.”

“Dream…” Hob repeated in awe, finally having been granted a name to call his friend (not his friend, someone else – Morpheus, his name was Morpheus-) by.

The man nodded. “Again, I apologize for causing you pain. I remember our meetings and I know that… he was very fond of you. A part of me...wanted to meet you myself.”

The being named Dream lowered his gaze, almost shy.

“It is presumptuous, I know, but I was wondering…”

He looked at Hob with a face full of hope.

“If you would be willing to... continue our – your – arrangement...to meet every 100 years…”

Hob studied the other’s face and mulled over his words.

“Why?”

Dream’s mouth dropped open but he didn’t say anything. Hob felt a sharp pain twisting inside, and so he continued, ruthlessly, mercilessly.

“Why would you want that? I know why he did. He didn’t understand humanity, not well, not in the beginning. Maybe he understood it too well, in the end… and he was lonely, I think.”

Hob smiled to himself and took a drink of his wine. He looked away from the boy, at the floor.

“I never thought he’d be the first of us to go… have been wondering lately… if I should…”

The white chucks (honestly? Damn, kid) of the other stepped into his view and Hob looked back up. The young man’s eyes were glistening wetly and Hob was fascinated against his will. His old friend had never shed a tear in his vicinity. He had been angry, and very rarely, amused, if any emotion could be read from his aloof face at all. This one didn’t look angry, just sad, and lost.

“I understand if you do not wish to meet with me, Robert Gadling. I want you to know that I would not have you believe that you are forgotten, though. I remember… I remember… and I feel…”

Hob frowned. “What do you mean? Either you are him, or you aren’t. Right?”

Dream shook his head a fraction.

“I am not, and yet I am. I know you, like he knew you. I...care for you...like he did. But it feels like it’s a book someone has been reading to me, like a movie I watched from behind his eyes...”

He fell silent and looked at the floor again. His hands in his jacket pockets seemed to clench. “It is real enough for me that I know I miss you. But I know that for a human it must be impossible...to let go of the part of me you knew… to...accept me instead.”

Their eyes met and the air felt charged. Hob inhaled sharply and breathed out through his nose. I miss you. “So, what. You want to keep meeting up every century?”

“If you wish to.”

“I don’t know… it was kind of his thing, you know? It always felt like every hundred years was all he would allow himself. Didn’t want to get too distracted from his job, I guess.”

Dream inclined his head in silent agreement. Hob examined the other closely before he said: “Not you, though. I think you need to learn a bit more, and more quickly. You’re a kid.��

Did he imagine the barest blush on Dream’s cheeks? The young man opened his mouth to retort but closed it again. Hob grinned.

“Tell you what, Dream, I’m free this weekend. We can make popcorn, watch a movie. I also make good tea.”

Dream stared at him a bit wide-eyed and Hob thought he had misjudged. But then, slowly, a small smile bloomed on the young man’s lips. He stepped closer to the table and pulled one of his hands out of his jacket. As he put a tiny blood-red flower into Hob’s empty wine glass he said, still smiling:

“I look forward to it.”