(Feel free to skip this as it is egotistically long. Sorry.)

Yes, my grand return. My muse finally returned to me (at the most inconvenient moment possible, let me tell you), so I basically scrambled for a computer to jot this down in the middle of the night, fittingly enough, while my mind was still a little sleep-addled. I beg pardon for any bizarreness that may result.

If you're wondering what else to expect from me in the near future, go check out the most recent entry on my LJ (link is on my homepage–the entry is viewable to the public so you don't need an account).

In any case, I hope that this return is not only triumphant but generally permanent.

Love and Midnight Muses,


P.S. In my absence, I've been watching Doctor Who and BBC's Robin Hood, and if anyone wants to shoot a prompt my way, I would be much obliged (though, as always, no guarantees.) ships including but not limited to: 10/Rose, Duplicate/Rose, Jack/Rose, and Robin/Marion, Djaq/Will

The dark.

Maybe it was the fact that so much of their lives revolved around that blanket of darkness, the shroud of secrets that created a metaphorical darkness even in day time, but there was just something about the middle of the night.

It wasn't even conscious. She never really knew how it started, or remembered having the deliberate thought to do it, but, in the darkness that surrounded them, long after they'd both fallen asleep, she found herself reaching out for him.

Sleeping in Oliver's bed was comforting and wonderful in so many ways. Sometimes she vaguely wondered how she ever managed to get any sleep without his solid presence beside her, without being able to roll over and wrap her leg over his, slide her arm across his chest, and burrow her face in his neck. Then she remembered: she didn't sleep when he wasn't there. In fact she had suspicions that long before she'd ever met Oliver, she'd been reaching out for him in the night.

She was sure she never had an actual intention to do it, when she would place that kiss on his shoulder or neck. It was like sleep-walking. But on the other hand, she doubted he'd believe her if she told him.

Nonetheless it happened, sometimes more than once a night, that in her sleep she pressed her lips to whichever part of him her sleep-addled mind deemed most attractive for its own reasons, and somehow, it always woke him. Every time, without fail, that stolen, innocent, unconscious kiss would stir him, and then his arm would curl around her waist a little tighter, and his other hand would tilt her chin up so he could kiss her. And she would wake with a gasp to the feel of his lips claiming hers. And in the dark it was all so intense. Her mind hadn't caught up to her body yet, so everything was a rush of sensations. His coarse fingers brushing against her bare lower back as her tank rode up slightly. His tongue sliding into her mouth and caressing hers with surprising deftness, considering he'd been asleep only moments before. The sound of their breathing growing heavier as their bodies sought impossible closeness. In the dark it was ten times stronger. In the dark, she could feel her own pulse coursing through her body, changing erratically as she grew more aroused.

A small sound, something akin to a whine, would escape her throat and it was like the signal he was waiting for as he drew her on top of him, groaning at the way she wantonly arched her back, her kissing as artless as her thoughts. But she would be too slow for him, and so he would roll them over, his body engulfing hers beneath the blankets. His lips would leave hers as his hands began to roam the length of her legs. Her mind and body would struggle rapidly to sync with one another, but his lips gently ghosting over her throat would cause her breath to hitch and once more drive conscious thought away. Some nights, that was as far as it every went, and sleep would claim her even mid-kiss. Other times, simple need took a more urgent priority than weariness.

Once or twice her eyes would flicker open when she lost the sensation of his lips, and she would catch him staring down at her, his eyes the only thing that left an impression on her in the lightless night. Oh that gaze, the intensity in those eyes, she couldn't bear to hold the look for long, it was too much for her in her half-dream state.

Slowly her thoughts would turn more amorous. His hand resting on her bare thigh would cease to be enough, and a vague desire to ask him for more would occur, but she seemed incapable of speech. Instead her body would arch up toward him, her breasts aching to be touched as she pressed them against his chest, but he never satisfied her. With methodical lightness, his hand would skim the hem of her shorts and she would catch her breath, almost desperate for more. Slowly, his hand would slide further up, just grazing her panties and she wouldn't be able to stand it anymore. She supposed by this point she was fully awake, but it never mattered, her mind too flooded with lust to be any use to her.

His lips found her chest and silently she pleaded with him, "Lower, lower. Please!" Eventually, but never quickly enough, he would oblige, his lips brushing along the hem of her top. A groan and she lifted her breasts higher to him, hoping he would get the hint, but whether he did or not, he would ignore the need for what must have been minutes but felt like hours. And then–oh, glorious hallelujah chorus!–then, he would pull down the strap of her tank and for one brief moment the cool night air would cause her to shiver and her nipple to tighten right before his hot mouth closed over it, suckling and gently teasing it so that she cried out with pleasure. Distracted, she wouldn't be ready for the fingers that brushed aside her panties and grazed her clit. Her arms would grip him desperately then, fingers driving into his hair, seeking an anchor in this dream-like reality. For one brief moment as he drove her to climax, it would cross her mind that she couldn't be awake, that this was only an erotic dream because in what waking world did she get him? Did they get each other? But just as quickly as the unsettling thought would come, he would kiss it away, and they would make love in a rush of flushed skin, heavy breaths, soft cries, and darkness.

And when it was over, their clothes would be disheveled but present, and she would sink into an exhausted sleep almost immediately, clinging to him as she sank back into the depths of the realm of dreams and nightmares, aware only of the presence of his body beside hers.

In the morning, in the light, flashes of these moments would come to her, and she would have an uncomfortable uncertainty of whether it had happened or been some erotic dream she had invented, never quite sure she had actually been awake.

He loved those nights, the ones where it got that far, that she was awake long enough to let him love her, to drop every defense and simply feel.