undergrounds | Mr. Sandman

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Mr. Sandman

6 Feb.

It's February, still cold but Valentine's Day just around the corner and people starting to think of spring, it might not be surprising that romance seems to be in the air. Hard to pin down just what the difference is—but romance seems to be nagging at a lot of minds.

It might be because last night, you had a dream. Nothing clear, but bits and pieces stick with you. Maybe it was just stolen glances and light kisses, or maybe it was flashes and surprising jolts of something more physical, more raw. Either way, the dream doesn't quite fade away when daylight comes.

The strangest part? It's about someone you normally try not to think of that way.

Dreams are like that though, sometimes. It's probably nothing.

10 Feb.

A few days later, and the dreams keep on keeping on. For at least one person, it's every night. For others, it may be more intermittent. It may be just happening for the first time, after a visit to the Redbright Institute or passing through the surrounding neighbor, or after chatting with a particular vampire. It might happen spontaneously. Either way the dreams keep coming, and they continue to be about someone in particular, someone who you've been denying or ignoring your attraction to, but it's getting hard to pretend you don't feel a little warmer when you think about them.

It's starting to seem like there's something a little weird going on here. Even weirder? There's a chance that the person you're dreaming about is having the same dreams. Not just romantic dreams—the exact same shared dreams.

At least, they are if they're dreaming of you too.

14 Feb.

It's been a week now, and the dreams keep escalating. Not only do they become more frequent, they're more vivid. What started with disjointed images and feelings, more impressions than anything else, have evolved into full narratives—ranging from chastely romantic nonsense, imagining that the object of your desire is a knight coming to rescue you from a dragon, or arrived to offer comfort and support in a bleak moment, to intensely erotic. Some of them may be down right silly.

But the common thread is there. They are all about the same person, and they all expose the fact that you care about them in a way that's not as platonic as you've pretended.

And maybe it's about time you confronted that?

On the other hand, maybe you're just riding this out.

Either way, this is getting sorted out tonight. There's not going to be a better time for it

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The way Natasha looks in the gown she was in was not lost on Evie. Again, she wasn't blind. She'd always been a shapely woman, but the tight lacing only brought it out. For the first time, she really understood why Jacob was so fond of Victorian fashions for women.

She sets her down, and her hands linger a bit longer than she should.

"You're a natural," because it's the dream and it had certainly seemed that way. With a soft smile, Evie ties up the horses to a nearby branch, and rescues the picnic basket from the back of her horse.

"Let's get settled, shall we? We have blankets and pillows and loads to eat." Pomegranates, apples, and she could swear she smelled fresh baked bread.

Natasha's lips twitch, her smile momentarily confused—it seems strange, momentarily, to come out for a picnic—but the confusion passes. Why shouldn't she share a meal with her friend? (Is friend the word? And why wouldn't it be?)

"I can't wait," she smiles, studying the garden for somewhere to sit. It's lovely. Idyllic, really.

She chooses a shady spot under an arbor of roses. Waving for Evie to follow, Natasha makes her way toward it.

It was, honestly, the sort of something girls who had grown up a very different way than Evie would have done. Which surprises her. She'd never felt much desire to be one of those girls. She'd liked learning under her father the ways of being an Assassin. She loves it.

With the basket, Evie moves to Natasha. The spot she's chosen is lovely, and soon thanks to the magic of dreams, a rather cozy nest of sorts has been created. A large plush blanket for them to sit on, plenty of pillows. The food itself should never have fit inside of the picnic basket, let alone appeared so quickly. Further more, the blanket had come with a small canopy, keeping them cool in the bright summer day.

"Wine, or whiskey? We have both." They had a lot of things, weapons scattered amongst the food.

In the way of dreams, Natasha finds herself settled in among the cushions and roses, more comfortable than she ever remembers being at a real picnic, sitting on the ground. The corset is restrictive, but not in a way that impairs her movement.

"I'd love some wine," Natasha hears herself say, leaning in toward her friend, her voice low enough to sound conspiratorial. "And maybe some fruit?"

Evie starts to pour the two of them each a nice glass of red wine. Carefully, she hands one to Natasha, while she grabs a plate of fruit. Setting her own glass aside, she reaches for a strawberry and holds it out to Natasha.

"Strawberry?"

Natasha leans in closer, her lips parting slightly. She can't remember the last time she actually tasted a strawberry—though she can't remember quite why she wouldn't have had one recently—and the temptation is strong. Rather than take it in her hands, she wraps her lips around it and bites into the flesh while Evie holds it in her fingers.

The too-red juice of the strawberry drips down from Natasha's lips, on to the porcelain of Evie's long, delicate fingers. She watches it, as though it's in slow motion, before turning her dark green, almost teal eyes to Natasha's.

Another trail of juice leaks from the corner of Natasha's mouth. With her other hand, Evie leans forward, gently brushing the juice away with the pad of her thumb. Without thinking, she raises her hand to her mouth and begins to suck away the juices, still maintaining eye contact with her friend.

The touch seems natural in the dream—as natural as eating from Evie's hand had. The intimacy in the touch and the sensation of Evie's thumb on her lip, the indirect contact between their mouths, all seem perfectly in place here.

She leans close, sipping her wine and gazing into Evie's eyes, studying the color in them.

"And what can I give you?"

Her eyes are locked with Natasha's, a smile playing on her lips as she finishes off the strawberry juices from her thumb.

"Surprise me."

Natasha's eyes linger on Evie's lips three long seconds before she leans in and brushes her own lips over the other woman's lightly, as though tasting the juices that aren't there.

It's her first kiss with a woman. But her lips feel just the same as any man's ever had- perhaps even softer. She lets Natasha kiss her for a moment, before one of her hands comes to cup the other woman's cheek so that she can find herself kissing back.

It is not Natasha's first time, either in her dreams or in reality, she she's confident, kissing Evie until she kisses back, then melting under the kiss, drawing her deeper. One hand cups Evie's cheek, guiding her into a soft, lingering kiss, drawing it out a long moment before she sits back breathlessly. Her chest rises and falls quickly above her corset—it's cliche, and feels a little silly even in the dream.

Does she even have to breathe?

Evie leans forward, leaning against her, pressing against her as the kiss deepens. But all too soon it's over, and her lips feel cold.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking deep into her eyes. "I shouldn't have done that."

Natasha blinks at that, then laughs—a throaty chuckle just in her throat, warm and a little incredulous. "I'm pretty sure I was the one who did it."

"I could have sworn this was my doing." She doesn't move away, her hand resting on Natasha's hip.

"Hm? Well... maybe it is." Natasha says, wetting her lips and leaning in again, brushing her lips over hers slowly, as though checking just whose fault this is.

Evie pulls back just briefly, still resting her forehead against Natasha.

"We're both at fault, then," she whispers, her voice low. Their lips meet again.

Natasha meets the kiss sweetly, her hand going to Evie's back and pulling her in with a confident touch. She's not in a rush, but she wants to be close to her friend. Closer than they've been yet.

Evie can feel herself trying to fit against Natasha, pressing a bit more of her weight against her. Natasha's energy seems to shift, and with it, Evie does as well, deepening the kiss between the two women.

The kiss deepens, becoming more pointed—more heated and directed toward a particular outcome, an urgency slipping into the contact. Natasha can't deny the appeal of seeing this through, the way it excites her. She doesn't want to deny it—

Natasha wakes with a start, sitting upright in bed in her dark room an panting softly. For a short moment, her thoughts are clouded with the dream and she stares in confusion at the blank walls. Then, as the world comes into sharper focus, she sighs deeply. This is the fourth or fifth time she's had dreams like this that she could remember. It's not normal. Not because her friend isn't desirable, but because she knows her dreams.

They're never this good.

It's time, she thinks, to talk about this.

The time to talk happened to be February 14th. The plan that Evie proposed had been simple: come on over, we'll drink and watch horror movies. it just happened to be on February 14th and maybe there would be overpriced heart-shaped chocolates.

Just to eat. Not for any other sort of reason, why would you ever think that?

Truthfully, the dreams had been on the forefront of Evie's mind, and she'd almost canceled her plans. But that would be rude, they'd been planning this before any dreams happened and what did dreams even mean, anyway? Evie wasn't the sort to put any sort of stock into them.

Still, was it just her, or were things a bit odd between her and Natasha, as they sat drinking wine on her couch. "Is everything alright?" She asked the other woman.

Natasha had been lost in thought, not paying attention to the movie that had been playing for half an hour or so now. Memories of the dreams from recent nights surface sitting next to her friend, distracting her.

She shakes off her reverie when Evie speaks up. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've been quiet most of the movie," she says, as though it's not a huge deal, just some casual observation she made.

"Usually you're not so quiet." Usually they sat closer. Though Evie was finding herself feeling oddly grateful for the space. And yet so isolated.

"I'm not normally that loud, am I?" she asks it wryly, dodging the implication at first, but her memories aren't so easily dismissed. She sets down her wine and shifts, leaning a little closer as she admits, "Guess there's a lot on my mind. Sorry about that."

"No, but you're more..." she glances at the other woman. "Comfortable...?" Was that the right word? When did having friends become this strange?

She nods. "I understand. If there's anything you wish to talk about, you know you count on me." They were friends. No matter what weird dreams said.

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