How do you do?
So. Let the record show that I am not Felicity. The entirely-too-sweet heatherhouse constructed a character very, very loosely based on yours truly as seen through the kind lens of friendship. (Though I will admit to knowing my way around a flogger. Ahem.)
But I do have a bit of a ficlet to share. No Felicity inside. Because, despite the faintly snarky way in which it was made, shiplizard had a good point about the last snippet posted to this Bob/Harry community -- there was no Harry.
So, here's Harry. And Bob. And oodles of angst.
It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But the wizard was dreaming again, and the dead can enter dreams.
Hrothbert of Bainbridge stood in the loft, the strict geometries of light and shade drawn across his seeming by the streetlight outside the blinds, and watched Harry sleeping. Watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the rumpled sheets, watched the pulse at the hollow of his throat, watched the movement of his eyes beneath his closed lids. And when all three increased, fluttering from a metronome regularity to the heated rhythms of dreaming, Hrothbert of Bainbridge closed his own eyes, smiled bitterly, and slipped into the nightscape.
Dream logic is different. Spaces bend and warp, linearity shreds, and there is no solidity not won by force of will. For the waking mind, it can mean madness, but Hrothbert's will was in no wise ordinary. He stepped forward, and earth rose to meet him. He sought to see, and light was created. The gathered threads of power whispered through his veins, and his nightscape self smiled in a fashion that would give the most fearless pause to feel that caress once more, a pleasure denied him anywhere but here. Pleasure, again, as he waved his hand and the half-defined vampire things menacing Harry's dreamself fled in terror.
There might be things in the nevernever that love him not, but in the nightscape, Hrothbert of Bainbridge is still feared.
A moment's concentration, and Harry's familiar, messy loft took shape around the two men, an overlay of reality on dreamstuff that caused the necromancer a fleeting disorientation, an unnatural sensation of being in two places at once. But seeing Harry's fear and confusion soothed away to comfort was more than ample reward.
"Bob? The wards...? There were...."
No words of explanation. Not tonight. He hadn't been in Harry's dreams for weeks, fighting the urge, and now all he wanted, craved, was to touch.
And touch he did.
Pale hands on full lips, which stilled obediently. Pale hands through dark hair, softly mussed from sleeping. Pale hands on olive skin, which heated in response. Harry's dream-eyes darkened, slitted half-closed as Hrothbert allowed himself that which he would never know in the waking world, and kissed the man who was his jailor.
Hot, so very hot and hungry tonight, Harry's hands in his hair in return, Harry's hips pushing against him, and Hrothbert smiled a third time at this other power. He knotted his fist in the wizard's hair to urge the kiss to even more bruising intensity, then forced the younger man back with a wicked laugh. "Greedy boys don't get sweets, Harry," he admonished, and the other man moaned as a pale hand brushed aside his clothing with a whisper of thought and wrapped around the ache of his cock. "And you do want something sweet, don't you, my dear boy?" He forced Harry back to the bed, magicked his own clothing away without even a gesture, and fitted his pallid form against Harry's dusky one.
Pale hands on slim hips, which rose obediently. Pale hands around darker wrists, pinning them to the bed. Pale hands whispering over planes of muscle and heat, shifting pillows beneath the wizard. Tonight, Hrothbert wanted to see Harry's expression, see him lose control. He took the younger man face up, stroking inside him with relentless insistence, finding again and again that spot that made the wizard moan and whisper his name and clutch at his back like he was drowning. And when Harry came, hard, screaming his mentor's name, Hrothbert of Bainbridge wept inside.
Because it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He left the wizard dreaming, for the dead can leave dreams.
But I do have a bit of a ficlet to share. No Felicity inside. Because, despite the faintly snarky way in which it was made, shiplizard had a good point about the last snippet posted to this Bob/Harry community -- there was no Harry.
So, here's Harry. And Bob. And oodles of angst.
It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But the wizard was dreaming again, and the dead can enter dreams.
Hrothbert of Bainbridge stood in the loft, the strict geometries of light and shade drawn across his seeming by the streetlight outside the blinds, and watched Harry sleeping. Watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the rumpled sheets, watched the pulse at the hollow of his throat, watched the movement of his eyes beneath his closed lids. And when all three increased, fluttering from a metronome regularity to the heated rhythms of dreaming, Hrothbert of Bainbridge closed his own eyes, smiled bitterly, and slipped into the nightscape.
Dream logic is different. Spaces bend and warp, linearity shreds, and there is no solidity not won by force of will. For the waking mind, it can mean madness, but Hrothbert's will was in no wise ordinary. He stepped forward, and earth rose to meet him. He sought to see, and light was created. The gathered threads of power whispered through his veins, and his nightscape self smiled in a fashion that would give the most fearless pause to feel that caress once more, a pleasure denied him anywhere but here. Pleasure, again, as he waved his hand and the half-defined vampire things menacing Harry's dreamself fled in terror.
There might be things in the nevernever that love him not, but in the nightscape, Hrothbert of Bainbridge is still feared.
A moment's concentration, and Harry's familiar, messy loft took shape around the two men, an overlay of reality on dreamstuff that caused the necromancer a fleeting disorientation, an unnatural sensation of being in two places at once. But seeing Harry's fear and confusion soothed away to comfort was more than ample reward.
"Bob? The wards...? There were...."
No words of explanation. Not tonight. He hadn't been in Harry's dreams for weeks, fighting the urge, and now all he wanted, craved, was to touch.
And touch he did.
Pale hands on full lips, which stilled obediently. Pale hands through dark hair, softly mussed from sleeping. Pale hands on olive skin, which heated in response. Harry's dream-eyes darkened, slitted half-closed as Hrothbert allowed himself that which he would never know in the waking world, and kissed the man who was his jailor.
Hot, so very hot and hungry tonight, Harry's hands in his hair in return, Harry's hips pushing against him, and Hrothbert smiled a third time at this other power. He knotted his fist in the wizard's hair to urge the kiss to even more bruising intensity, then forced the younger man back with a wicked laugh. "Greedy boys don't get sweets, Harry," he admonished, and the other man moaned as a pale hand brushed aside his clothing with a whisper of thought and wrapped around the ache of his cock. "And you do want something sweet, don't you, my dear boy?" He forced Harry back to the bed, magicked his own clothing away without even a gesture, and fitted his pallid form against Harry's dusky one.
Pale hands on slim hips, which rose obediently. Pale hands around darker wrists, pinning them to the bed. Pale hands whispering over planes of muscle and heat, shifting pillows beneath the wizard. Tonight, Hrothbert wanted to see Harry's expression, see him lose control. He took the younger man face up, stroking inside him with relentless insistence, finding again and again that spot that made the wizard moan and whisper his name and clutch at his back like he was drowning. And when Harry came, hard, screaming his mentor's name, Hrothbert of Bainbridge wept inside.
Because it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He left the wizard dreaming, for the dead can leave dreams.