It's just a piece of Free Dream X reader writing based off those photos someone posted
The last place you expect to find him is like this, on the stairs of his throne room. Those white marble steps, made of nothing but fiction, the same stairs he had chased you on on very very good days, the same ones he kissed you at the top of and the same ones he first told you he loved you on.
And there he is again. Back, after years upon years.
And as you enter the throne room you freeze.
Despite the fact you have been his lover for centennials, his beauty takes you aback. He just looks so at home with the way the stained glass reflects upon his skin, the way his cloak is spread out behind him, the way those dark unforgiving eyes scan what used to be his kingdom.
His beautiful, beautiful, kingdom. And now all that is left is a pile of grey rubble, his lover and a librarian and where he used to stick out like a sore thumb in his own kingdom...he doesn't anymore. He looks just as broken as his surroundings.
Morpheus sees you when he hears the great doors close, and his head shoots up. His eyes go so wide and his jaw falls slack as he stands. And when you know it's okay for you to move you break down into tears, a grin on your face as you run into his arms and topple him back down to the stairs.
You're sure that must've hurt but it doesn't look like he cares so much. Because he has you and that's all that matters. And his arms go up to your face to brush away your hair so he can see your eyes and kiss your forehead and cheeks. And when he kisses you properly you're sure your dreaming.
"I missed you, I missed you." You're repeating as if saying it means he won't ever leave again.
"It's alright my love, I'm here now." He says and your head falls into his lap, arms splayed across him as he gently plays with your hair and smiles.
And you grip onto his cloak so tightly as if he might turn into Sand and disappear through your fingers.
They arrive at Grimmauld Place six weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, funerals behind them, chased by ghosts. Ron and Hermione are in Australia.
Harry and Ginny, the both of them, are war heroes, but in the Muggle world, they aren’t adults yet. their shoulders sagging with grief and their nights haunted by battle cries, they might as well be eighty-year-old war veterans, Harry thinks
Grimmauld Place is cool and ancient, like the inside of a cave. It is dusty and dark, and standing in the foyer, the dirty carpet beneath her neon sandals, Ginny looks so out of place. Her inherent brightness, her shiny red hair and her sheer brilliance isn’t bedimmed by the gloominess of the place where his dead godfather lived.
Lots of work to do here, Harry. sure you don’t want to empty your vault and find a fancy apartment in say, London or Cornwall or someplace else? she asks, hands on her hips, brown eyes assessing the place, Molly Weasley’s daughter through and through.
Harry just shrugs and says, I own a wand, so do you. plus, your Mum agreed to lend me her copy of 26 Household Charms.
*
We need more color in here, Ginny declares on evening. With Kreacher’s help and occasional aid from Mrs. Weasley, they have managed to clean and dust the place. Currently, they’re seated on the same side of the dining table, eating Chinese noodles from plastic tubs.
You think so? he asks. Harry reaches forward to wipe away gravy from the corner of her small mouth. Then, he sucks it off his thumb without thinking. It’s so natural, neither of them notices.
Don’t you? she asks. He shrugs.
You can’t shrug every time you have to make a decision Harry, she complains. This your house for..well, for the foreseeable future.
Haven’t I made enough decisions for a lifetime? Pretty tough ones, too, he mutters irritably.
Stop being dramatic Harry, she rolls her eyes.
Fuck you, he sighs.
Sure, after dinner though, she agrees nonchalantly. Her smirk is mischievous around a spoon of wet noodles.
*
They decide to paint his bedroom first. It’s the same one he shared with Ron in their fifth year. They choose to cover the walls in sage green Muggle paint that smells like ammonia. Ginny reads the instruction on the back of the bucket sitting on her toes, and Harry admires her backside from the door. Then, she ties a piece of old cotton over her fiery hair like a scarf, paintbrush in hand, and turns to him.
Well? she raises an auburn eyebrow. His dark ones arch in reply.
Get busy, Potter. She throws the paintbrush at him. Like a true seeker, he snatches it easily.
Good reflexes, Ginny says, already dipping her paintbrush in the color bucket.
You bet, Weasley.
Later, they collapse on the floor, tired. She’s already falling asleep.
Hey Gin, wanna move to the bed?
We’re not sleeping here. The smell is disgusting. He carries her to the bedroom that she and Hermione shared. When he returns from the loo, she sleepy murmurs,
That summer, I was so horny for you, I’d finger myself several times a day.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he looks down at her face lit by the candlelight, looks through her pretense of being sleepy.
He gets into bed and spoons her from behind. His erection fits perfectly in the cleft of her cute little bum.
And now? Are you horny now? he whispers hoarsely into her ears.
What d’you think?
Only one way to find out, innit?
When he slips his hand inside her underwear, she is soaking wet.
wrote a quick dialogue-only thing for my creative writing class and I enjoyed so I'm posting it (under the cut ofc)
“Well there I was, a washed-out deadbeat investigative inspector with a heart of gold and a briefcase by my side facing down a lion-zebra hybrid. I took out my--”
“Okay, hold on William.”
“What is it?”
“You did not face down whatever a lion-zebra hybrid is and you have never been an investigative inspector! Is that even a real position?”
“Mary, the only real position is what you make of it.”
“My name is not Mary! This is the thirteenth time this week you've messed up my name and you have only said it thirteen times this week. Maybe this memory issue has something to do with your tall tales.”
“Nice, a solid 10/10 is always a good friend.”
“Oh so we are rhyming now?”
“Well technically, Martin, it's not a true rhyme.”
“My name. Is not. Martin.”
“Okay, I'm gonna be straight with you.”
“Please do, Will.”
“I have no idea who you are.”
“Will, we've been over this time and time again! I do not want to get to know you outside of work. It is unprofessional.”
“Marina, i do not care about being friends with you because i don't know who you are.”
“William?”
“I have no memories past this morning, Mikey.”
“Wait, so that story you were just telling me about your trip to the Congo…”
“All fake. I am so sorry, Mariasha.”
“Oh well obviously it was fake. I have known you your whole professional career and you have never left Old Pansilvina.”
“Old Pansilvina?”
“You know, the state we are in?”
“Uh…”
“Okay anyways, yes your story was very fake but you have a wonderful imaginative mind.”
“I do?”
“We could definitely put you to work in the writer’s room, don't worry about your memories or anything, they'll come back with time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely! You'll fit right in.”
“What exactly is it that we do here?”
“Cover up anomalous weather patterns and traces of Galaxinacta B.”
“Galaxy what now? And why do we care about weather?”
“You'd better just watch the orientation video again.”
Feeling like I ain't enough lately
No if, buts or maybes
I understand why she no longer wants me as her baby
I don't wanna die but I wanna feel better then I have been lately
Haven't seen my friends in a minute I hope they don't hate me
It's just been so hard being me lately
Can't explain why I always answer maybe
Have I missed my chance
To take over the world with my plans?
I always knew I was going to be just average man
I know I'm still young but in honesty I feel so old
I feel like there's something wrong with my soul
This world feels awful
Hope I can be better
For her, for me
Be enough for anyone in full honesty
But this is my year
I'm going to say it twice
I hope it all turns out nice
title by @wholockviantime. 1.6 k of ??? epiphanies ??? and some in french too. also posted on ao3.
bitty:
the closet in jack’s bedroom is big -- cavernous, almost -- and new, and clean, and mostly empty. overwhelmingly empty, maybe. bitty can picture it, though, with its shelves and hangers full of clothes that belong to him too and shoes and jerseys and extra sheets, but the image is not for right now. jack doesn’t say anything but bitty knows he’d like to buy bitty new things to fill his closet with, make it theirs, but. for now, he’s content with his one drawer.
and the thing is, it really is big. so big bitty doesn’t mind going in there to put the laundry away while jack’s at practice. there’s a storm picking up outside but it’s warm in here, and jack’s got a big truck so he’s not too worried about him driving in the snow. he folds it all neatly, precisely, which he sure as hell doesn’t do for his own clothes. the closet even has a light, which turns on from the outside, so bitty doesn’t have to spend any time in the dark. it’s warm and comfortable and bright and
until it’s not. the bulb flickers off and bitty drops the socks from his arms, because the feeling is immediate. creeping in, squeezing his throat, taking his head and spinning it around. the fuck was he thinking? this closet is small. tiny, even, and he can’t breathe. he left his phone on the bed and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness -- or maybe he shut them tight and hasn’t been able to open them yet. it’s so fucking dark in here, and he remembers, he remembers --
he turns, nudges a sock with his toe as he does, and. and there’s some light from the windows in the bedroom creeping in from the cracked door, so he runs, and makes it to the bed gasping for lungfuls of air. the first thing he sees is his phone lit up with a text from jack: radio said the power’s out. i’m on my way home. be there soon. and one from his mom, from earlier, asking about how his weekend went. he hesitates, and looks back at the door now thrown wide open, then picks up the phone.
“dicky! i was just going to call. i saw something on the news about a storm and was wondering if you were bundled up,” mama says before he can even greet her. he takes a breath as the last of the dizziness fades away.
“not dicky anymore, mama,” bitty says.
“oh,” she says. she’s frowning, he can tell. “alright. everything okay, baby?”
“yeah, mama. everything is good. is daddy around? i’ve got,” he says, and in the kitchen the microwave beeps in time with the closet light stuttering back on, “i’ve got something to tell you.”
holster:
“tommy?” holster says before he can stop himself, and the man in front of him turns and stares. still, after all these years, unmistakeable. a slight twist to his lips from a cleft palate long since fixed by surgery, and a scar on his chin from -- “tommy bennett?”
“big adam,” tommy bennett says. no one’s called holster that in years. he’d almost forgotten.
almost.
the pepsi fridge he’s standing next to hums and the door to the bodega tinkles but they just stare at each other.
“i haven’t seen you since, since -- well, how are you,” holster says. tommy is still half a foot shorter than holster is, but he’s standing straight and his shoulders are square.
“what do you want,” tommy says. which is, well, fair.
“nothing,” holster says. “nothing. or, well -- ”
“i just want some sprite, man,” tommy says. he gestures to the fridge holster is blocking with all his bulk.
“oh. i’m sorry,” holster says. “like, not just about the sprite. about the, the, the, you know. the everything. i’m sorry.” his hands move to point to his own chin but he drops them halfway through the motion. “i’m sorry.”
tommy stares. “okay.”
“okay. really though, i’m --”
“sorry, i get it. can i...?”
“yeah. yeah,” holster says. he moves away from the glass, leaving a space in the condensation the shape of his hand. “i hope. i hope you’re doing well,” he says.
he gets no answer.
when he opens the door to the car, stomach twisting in nausea, ransom just raises an eyebrow at his empty hands.
“the fuck took you so long? and you didn’t even get any snacks,” ransom says.
holster turns on this car. “i’ll tell you later,” he says. “i think we’ve got chips at the haus, anyway.”
“alright, bro,” ransom says. “whatever you want.”
the neon lights of the store illuminate the rearview mirrors when holster looks back and the snow starts to fall.
shitty:
the envelope is addressed to mr. bishop knight in unfamiliar handwriting and the return address is one shitty’s had memorized since the month after he turned 12, though his mother hasn’t even looked at it once. he knows what it contains without even opening it: a birthday card and a signature. once there would have been thirty bucks too, but that stopped when he turned eighteen.
“hello-o-o,” lardo says from her bed. “coffee?”
“oh. right.” shitty’s still dressed from his solo trip to annie’s, so he sets the coffee tray down with the envelope on his desk and slowly unwinds his scarf, lovingly knitted by alicia zimmermann as a christmas gift. he unbuttons his jacket slowly, ignoring lardo’s impatient huffs.
“you got snow in your hair,” lardo says, rolling her eyes. “it looks like dandruff.”
“hm?” shitty carefully strips himself of his shirt and pants and brings over the cups to the bed. it’s warmer in here, with lardo, than outside. “oh, yeah. it’s messy out there."
“what’s that,” lardo says, gesturing to the desk with the hand that’s holding her cappuccino.
“christmas-slash-birthday card,” shitty says. “from my father.”
“oh. a little late for that.” then, slowly, “you gonna open it?”
shitty can’t help but lean into lardo’s side, and lardo lifts the arm not holding the coffee and wraps him up. takes him in.
“no,” shitty says, and closes his eyes, smiling, “not this year.”
jack:
la route de la patinoire jusqu’à la maison n’est pas longue, mais avec la neige devenant de plus en plus épaisse, et bittle seul chez lui dans la noirceur, elle semble interminable. les tempêtes lui ont toujours fait sentir impuissant, mais – bref, ils ne sont pas uniques dans la catégorie.
son père lui a souvent dit qu’ils ont tous deux un « esprit cartésien », et c’est peut-être vrai, mais ce n’est que dernièrement qu’il le prend vraiment à cœur. étape par étape, sa thérapeute et ses parents lui répètent. donc, voilà : prends une droite après le stationnement ; continue lentement pour trois kilomètres ; attention à la glace ; maintenant, arrête à l’intersection ; compte un, deux, trois ; avance ; une gauche, et ensuite une droite ; un autre arrêt pour la vieille qui veut traverser le chemin ; quatre kilomètres, puis l’immeuble droit devant.
rends-toi au stationnement souterrain et trouve l’espace qui vous a été désigné. éteint le moteur. prends ton sac du siège à côté et va à l’ascenseur. fais-le vite, quand même – il ne faut surtout pas oublier qui t’attends. et puis cinquième étage, deuxième porte à la droite. ouvre-là.
– jack ? bittle dit. oh, i’m glad you’re home.
sa voix, douce et familière, provient du salon. le salon qui a de la lumière, donc la coupure n’aurait pas duré longtemps, jack suppose.
– me too, jack répond. roads are getting pretty bad.
bittle apparait dans sa vision, avec sa couverture la plus chaude autour de ses épaules et un grand sourire peinturé sur son beau visage. il tend une main vers jack, qui la prend fermement. voilà une chose qui ne lui a jamais fait sentir comme s’il ne pouvait rien faire.
un nouveau plan, alors. étape un : prend la main de celui que tu aimes. étape deux : respire, respire, respire…
dex:
nursey stops him at the door, which is just as well, probably, because he's been staring at it for five minutes, trying to decide if he’s going to go this week. like he does every week.
“where the fuck are you going like that?” nursey asks. he crosses his arms and dex can’t even meet his eyes. he’s been having trouble meeting them for a while, now. “it’s a storm out there. you don’t even -- fuck, dex, you don’t even have gloves on.”
“i’m fine, nurse,” dex says down at his shoes.
nursey exhales, then shakes his head. “it’s not like i haven’t noticed you go out this time every sunday, you know.”
“i -- oh. um. i didn’t think you would.” dex bites his lip hard, then looks at the door. he hasn’t told nursey where he goes. or anyone at all.
“fine. if you’re not going to take care of yourself...”
when dex looks up, nursey is pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall and stuffing his arms into it, then pulls out a pair of gloves from the pockets.
“what are you doing?” dex asks. he feels panicked, suddenly, and reaches out to stop nursey’s hands. nursey just catches his and holds them tight.
“it’s non-denominational, isn’t it?” nursey asks. he brings dex’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them with a gentleness dex will never possess.
fuck.
“um.”
“i was waiting for you to tell me,” nursey says. “i figured you’d do it on your own time, or whatever.”
“oh.”
he’s never really been one for words, anyway.
“dex,” nursey says. “can i come with you?”
dex looks back at the door, then at nursey, with a smile tentative and soft against dex’s hand.
