I will be home in 2 hrs. Omg. So 6:30. 9:30 for joo. djkejfieoroejsbd
waaaaiiiiittttttiiiinnnggggg because I have vacation things to telllll you
Omg u will be online for fluff :D heieirueiwiroeototoy
bb didn’t you know fluff is the best medicine? alsogonnaskipworktomorrowforbedrestso
@truebigbadwolf — I’ve evaded it for five months and I think I’ve caught I early enough. I think I’ll have to call off tomorrow and go to the doctor to get some tamiflu.
I will still b on. FLUFF
This is not the flu.
This is not the flu.
My dad did not give me the flu.
So this was a dream, and therefore he did not want to be awoken – not all the way. Not pulled from this gentle calm between sleep and awake. He was never given such gentleness as she was providing to him and he looked at her with eyes poured in with wonderment and confusion. Where she found him? He had no idea. He just knew that she, and her other half, were always there – looking for him. And not only now did she admit to worrying about him, but she missed him. And he knew that he missed her too – because within all that chaos that was his nightmares she was the only one separate from it, the only thing to hold onto it. And he would thank her for it for a very long time, and he would show her his thanks and appreciation and above all else, adoration for her kindred spirit. Because kindness never came to the wolf, and he never sought it out. But she was here anyways.
He could see the girl in her eyes, on the cusp of being a woman – so much different than the other version of her. The one he met first. Or had he met her first? It was hard to draw the line completely; they looked so very much the same. And together he still felt at ease. He dropped his hands from hers, allowing her to touch his face, to comb her fingers through his hair, to brush her thumb along his jaw line and cheekbones. He was enamored by the sensations of her soft skin. And he could hear how unsure she was. He himself was unsure – but not in the way a young girl tries to understand her heart but in the way a destroyed man tries to believe he has one.
“I missed you too.” His hands found her waist, but he didn’t grip her to him, he didn’t pull her close. But his hands rested there, just above her hips, and he dared himself to near her face with his own. He saw the blush along her cheeks, the slight crinkle of her nose, the quiet admission that he could only hear.
“Have you ever been kissed, Wendy?” He spoke his thoughts as they came. And he spoke quietly.
Wendy watched as the last vestiges of whatever nightmarish dream she had pulled him from slowly slipped away. His shoulders relaxed and the furrow on his brow smoothed away and it elicited a pleased hum of accomplishment from her. Her eyes darted to his and away, the pink of her cheeks never having a chance to recede at the way he looked at her like hope. Her heart pitter-pattered and she wondered if he would allow her to lay against him.
His brogue was still heavy with sleep and it made her shiver in a way she was unaccustomed to; in a way that made her feel shy and his hands were warm as they found her waist. Her smile deepened as he returned her declaration but as his face neared the smile faltered. There was no fear of him on her face, simply surprise, unsure as to what he was doing. She could feel his breath on her face and she could count the freckles over his nose and her belly flip flopped. His hands suddenly felt hot through the shirt and seared to the skin of her waist and plump, rose lips parted slightly, tongue peaking out to wet them.
There was a haunted look that came over her face as she thought of kisses. The time in her room where she tried to explain to a boy clothed in leaves the difference between a kiss and a thimble and when he spoke of a kiss her brow furrowed. Her hand had shifted as he moved, resting on his neck and her fingers curled in his hair and her heart… her heart stuttered and skipped at the way his warm brown eyes looked so warmly at hers. “I don’t know,” she murmured honestly. “But I think I’d like you to.”
Ever since the dream state, the nightmare, the incubus’s mental slaughter house full of tricks and strange turns – Desmond was exhausted. Emotionally exhausted to the point of burrowing deep and declaring a coma. The last bit stuck with him; Lucifer so cold and charming and following his every move and waiting for all the walls to come tumbling around him. The Devil believed that Desmond was born from fire, not murdered by it, and that he would rise from the ashes as a monster to be reckoned with. It was true, once. But the years became long and hard and began to bore down on him, reminding him in slivers of who he truly was. A boy destroyed, a child removed from childhood, a teenagers heart sacrificed. A born werewolf, a slave to the moon only to become a slave to the fallen star. And now he lay in the chapel, a place meant for God – a place once given to worship. It was a bit of a cliché but he marveled over the architecture.
It brought him to a place of calm, his surroundings. He entered here the night before, after the attack on his mind and spirit and was nearly in tears. It felt heavy, this weight. It smothered him, had his hands clawing fist fulls of his own hair and pulling. He’d nearly torn tufts of it out, curls, all gone by the roots if he didn’t calm himself. And seeing the mother Mary, her form to the right of the crucifix, hovering there in front of great large windows of stained glass – he saw his mother in her. It filled him up with a great sadness and it swelled and curled like the waves in his chest, and he’d nearly broke down again. He was so tired of running but he had to keep running. And he’d wished he’d left when he had the chance, because his gut instinct was correct. Wherever he went, trouble found him, and it found the others in his path. How could be so neglectful of the circumstances? He fell so easily for the girl with large doe eyes and for that he paid the price, and so did she. And even more so the truth that was trapped within her – a girl, young and afraid of a God.
In his sleep, he was sure he would stumble across vivid dreams of anguish. He feared sleep and yet exhaustion founded him, and it clung to him like a blood soaked cloth. But now, in the wilderness, it seemed to be depleted by a feeling of something brushing along the trees – like a calming and soothe breeze, blanketing over his mind. A young Desmond walked further into the dream, watching as the sky made a ripple and he stared up – scrutinizing, curious. And then he could feel a slight brush across his cheeks and he turned around, trying to find the source to the phantom sensation there.
Was it a ghost? He hoped not. But perhaps this sensation of haunting wasn’t evil, because it felt naught of his other dreams. It was a whisper of tenderness against his skin and he watched as another breeze blew back the tops of the trees. And the sky began to cloud over, black, and billowing. Images of women being torn apart at the seams in bed began to run red across his vision and his heart pounced. A scream broke free from somewhere far and unattainable. Birds flew in clouds of feathers across the sky, an inkblot chasing the moon. A lovers hum filled the expanse, a lullaby carried by the wind. And with a sudden drop of lightning, Desmond opened his eyes and he sat up quickly from his sleeping. Spots in his vision, hands clenching at the sheets, chest heaving. He hadn’t realized how close his face was to another’s, how close his face was to Wendy Darlings. His eyes locked with hers, and the fondness that clung to him unwillingly was apparent in his eyes. Chocolate curls pulled back by blue ribbon, brown eyes, long lashes, full limps. He could feel her heartbeat, she was that close.
Desmond grabbed her hands almost immediately – what he would normally do if someone hovered while he slept, but without snapping back her wrists and forcing her out. He didn’t want her out. He knew that she was waiting, just as she has said she would, just as she had promised. And in holding her hands, he was making certain that this was real and not another ripple of a dream. Another figment to breathe life into. He feared seeing Wendy Darling torn to bits just as all the others had been, but he could truly feel those hands. And he almost sighed out with relief.
“You’re not a dream.” He spoke, obvious, but he wasn’t sure what to voice. What to speak, or say, or do. She could see everything now, and he was curious as to what she truly saw in him if she were here. She saw everything there was to know or at least the big pieces of who he was. Who he still is. They saw into each other’s monsters, and yet he was ashamed of his own. He did it to himself. His mistakes could have been avoided. But a part of him found it disagreeable to think of cruelties when he could be thinking about the girl who wore his clothes from a past dream, a past life. A girl who came to see him, for him. So he smiled.
“Not many come willingly to see me,” He peered down at her palms, “- but you’re the only one I won’t turn away. I don’t have the strength to do so.”
He moved so quickly that she was taken aback, her breath caught in her throat from surprise and she watched as he came to the consciousness of this particular plane of waking and dreaming. His hands were warm and the grip didn’t weaken so much as it grew more tender. Wendy’s own smile was shy, pink coloring her cheeks slowly as her heart stuttered, the weight of her own existence still lurking there but dimmed, overshadowed by the delight on her face. Desmond looked happier than she could imagine when he smiled and there was something treasured in it that he smiled like that to her. She ducked her head to follow his gaze in an effort to hide the stain on her cheeks, biting her lip again in thought.
"It still is," she gently reminded him, her voice soft as a whisper int he sacred quiet of the moment. "A type of dreaming. I would have been here sooner but she doesn’t sleep." Jill had paced like a frightened, angry leopard in her cage after the initial horror of waking up and it was only when Jill slept did she relax and the two facets could be released and the far had fell into exhaustion only a little while ago. Wendy, the girl trapped inside had been left to ruminate in her own horrors of memories and dreams and the longer Desmond held her hands, the more the girl visibly relaxed. "I’ve been so worried about you."
Wendy could give in now. There was no race against the clock. There was no worry that at any moment the jaws of death or Lucifer or Gabriel would snap down upon them and Wendy withdrew a hand and lifted it to cup his cheek. the tips of her fingers curled into his hair and her thumb brushed lightly against the bone of his cheek as she lifted his face so she could look at him. Stubble was scratchy against her soft, warm palm and her eyes were gentle, tired in the way something old was but no less alive.
"I missed you." There was the slightest question in it that only a girl could make with the evidence to the reciprocation. A quiet and hesitant admission of a girl who was afraid but willing to try.
Even with how troubled his mind was, Desmond looked like the boy free from the wolf while he slept. The years he carried melted away under this vulnerable state and Wendy knew that she shouldn’t touch him. He needed his rest.
Wendy Darling had always been a girl who couldn’t help herself.
Her mind was quiet — it was only her. She wore his shirt, the one from their dream and she swam in the cotton that was free from blood. Her long, thick hair was pulled back with a blue ribbon, tendrils curling along her cheeks.
It was morning there, in the careful, quiet place between sleep and awake. Casts of blues and reds and greens, yellows and purples danced amid the streaks of warm morning light. A kaleidoscope of color from the pretty stained glass in the leaded windows in the ancient stone walls of the circular apse. Once where icons stood was Desmond’s bed and Wendy knelt in the sheets behind him, silent and still as she watched over him.
She started with his hair. The dark, unruly curls tangled around his head on the pillow and she reached out to stroke them. Free from blood and gore, his hair was soft under her fingers and she bit her lower lip to keep her giggle in as Desmond shifted slightly against the sheets. From his hair she moved to his face. The prominent cheekbones, the shadow of dark stubble stark against his sleep pale skin.
Wendy shifted closer to him, slowly, and lowered herself to an elbow so she could examine the slight dusting of freckles and the way his dark lashes kissed the skin of his cheeks. He smelled good. Cigarette smoke and forest and the trace hints of leather. Wendy lifted a finger and ran a careful, light line down the bridge of his nose where the furrow in his brow tended to be with the tip of her index finger. He wrinkled it, huffing air through his nose and his brow furrowed in sleepy annoyance but still, he didn’t wake. It was so hard not to giggle. Wendy felt it bubbling in her. It was some strange and carefree feeling she hadn’t felt in such a long time and it was compounded by the curiosity of him.
From his face she moved to his torso and it was there her questing hand hesitated. For as old as Wendy was, men were still a strange thing to her. There was her father who was a hazy dream that she had warm memories of that were little more than feeling. There had been Captain Hook with his black hair and forget-me-not eyes and the terrible hook for a hand that he’d threatened her with until Peter gutted him with it. For as old as Wendy was, she wasn’t Jill. She was still a girl who had known nothing but adolescent boys who called her mother and a teenage god who threw temper tantrums.
Don’t think about it. Don’t feel it. Ignore it.
She pushed the darkness aside, banishing it away. This moment, this place that was only them was no place for dark things like Neverland and Wendy resumed her perusal of his chest. The dark whorls of hair that she remembered the touch of caught her eyes first, but then she saw the scars. They were different shapes and sizes — strange round circles of raised flesh on his shoulders, vicious and jagged lines slashed across and his arms… Desmond’s arms were terrible. Age had worn away the worst of it, Wendy knew, but the streaks of unnaturally smooth flesh still seemed strange against his skin.
He still hadn’t woken. A glance back at his face revealed that the furrow on his brow had not quite vanished but his breathing was still even and Wendy lowered herself fully beside him and nestled against his arm and tucked her head on his shoulder. Her fingers began to trace the history of violence against him. Careful little traces of her fingers over scars, her lips pressed slightly against his shoulder. Unbidden, a song fell from her. A gentle hum of some long remembered lullaby and she wasn’t sure who it was she comforted.
Desmond had survived battles. He deserved his rest and whatever comfort she could provide him.