#spiros

“Stars,” he’d explained, pulling you to a stop as one of the little pixies pulled a dark blue swirl from the sky, like midnight-colored cotton candy, and ate it, leaving a gleaming star-like hole behind. You’d felt such an intense sense of wonder, heart loud in your chest, that you’d woken yourself up, hand actually outstretched as if you could touch-  

They were wonderful and strange, and you remembered them with a clarity that you’ve never associated with dreams before. You could smell things - sweetness in the air, salt water on the breeze, and you could feel the heat and cold when you walked by his side. Still, it hadn’t been hard to write it all off as nothing more than an overactive, tired mind. Maybe you’d binged too many fantasy stories in media lately and your brain was just mushing everything together? Never mind that you can’t recall anything recent about pixies eating holes in the sky. 

They’ve continued though, the dreams, the meetings you have with him. Far off places on maps are spread out before you like a feast, his arm warm under your hand as he escorts you or does his best to leave you breathless with laughter. You’ve always woken from those dreams invigorated, but with the strange sense that you were missing something, until- his face. On a shore with cresting orange waves, you turn away from the blinding glare of reflective sunshine, and then you see him, draped in a dark chiton, just before you wake.

Even having seen it just the once, you can’t erase it from your thoughts. The color of his eyes, shades shifting when you unfocus, like photographs of far flung nebulae. The impression of feathers twined with his hair and yet arching away from his temple like actual wings. The way his lips look when they shape your name, his hand taking yours so he can twine your fingers together-

He’s too beautiful to be true.

You’re both convinced you’ve made him up, and absolutely convinced you couldn’t have. Aren’t people supposedly only able to see those they’ve seen before in their dreams? And you know, without a doubt, that you’ve never seen anyone that looks like him in your day to day life. Unless he’s just a piece-meal of people or ideas you’ve found attractive. Even then, you’re not sure you could have put him together so smoothly. 

It’s hard to believe that you’ve made him up though, when he declares that he is real. That, at least, has never happened before. Though you’re not sure you’ve ever taken the time to ask someone if they were a product of your imagination when you’ve been dreaming, having been too caught up in your imagined adventures yourself. 

One night he’s stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, claiming that you should chart your dreams-

“Prove it,” you blurt, and you can feel your pulse speed. His image wavers, there and gone, and his eyes widen. “Prove that you’re real,” you clarify and your pulse ratchets up another notch. 

“How?” He asks with a laugh and then takes your hand in his, clinging almost, like he can’t quite believe he’s touching you - never mind that he’s touched you before. His laugh sounds strained though, and the smile on his face is… Thin. “And you must calm your heart, dear one. You’ll wake, and how will I prove myself then?”

“I don’t-” know, you’re about to say, but he presses a finger to your mouth, worrying at his lower lip as he glances over your shoulder.

“Perhaps… Perhaps, I can tell you the dreams of those near you,” he says softly. “Yes, wait here for just a moment.” He does vanish then, and the dream loses a bit of clarity. You have a vague memory of being unable to read one of your favorite books, and then he’s back, whispering random sounding things into your ear, arms curled around your middle. “A family dog, a work dispute interrupted by a cart of apples, and a great webs, knitted by a grandmother. Ask your neighbors,” he pleads, mouth deliciously warm where it’s brushing your ear. “I am real, and I know their dreams - ask them,” he urges, and then you wake.

He’s so strangely eager for you to believe him, and after that list... You give in to the mild embarrassment and make awkward small talk with two of your neighbors. Bringing up recent dreams in front of the mailboxes is a little difficult, but you manage, if not exactly smoothly. You half hope it comes to nothing, that they brush off your questions and move on with their day - what are you even doing, trying to prove that a dream man is more than a figment? But one of them mentions an old dog they used to have, and then the other claims they dreamed or arguing with their boss. 

“-we were at the bottom of a hill though, and one of those old apple carts came tearing down, nearly mowing us both to the ground. It was a bit more.. Vivid than usual, I suppose.”

“‘S nothing,” your other neighbor interrupts with a laugh. “My kid thinks great grandma must be a spider and has nightmares about her knitting webs as gifts.” 

With a peculiar fluttering feeling in your chest, you march right back into your place. He’d been telling the truth.

Or you’d become prescient. You’re not sure which is the more likely, but… 

Lucid dreaming. 

You crack into the stack of books you’d taken home from the library with eagerness. You want to try and take control in your dreams not only because manipulating them would be interesting, but because you’re desperate to prove that he’s more than a figment on your end. You try not to get caught up in thoughts of prescience - even if he is real in some way, it’s still a bit hard to believe you’re suddenly able to tell the future, even through dreams. You’re tempted to bring that up though, just like the very non-magical looking books, when next you see him. 

There are a copious amount of notes and preludes in nearly all of the books, as well as the articles you’ve looked up online, that say to not get your hopes up. Lucid dreaming apparently doesn’t work the same way for everyone, and the results are rarely immediate.

Succeeding on the first try isn’t unheard of, one person writes, but it is exceedingly rare. True success will come in stages, starting with Awareness. Are you aware that you’re dreaming? Are you aware of where exactly you are in your mindscape? And that brings us to another important vocabulary word: Mindscape.

“Mindscape,’ you mutter, flicking idly through the pages. Some of the books are very cut and dry, but on the other hand, the articles and first hand accounts on the internet are… Kind of out there. You feel less like you’re researching and more like you’re getting drawn in by click bait or conspiracy theories when you read about personal mindscapes and see the hand drawn maps. Some of them are detailed enough - in both drawing and description - that you wonder why they aren’t trying to market them. 

Still. You try and gather up information without getting your hopes up about it all, but honestly that’s the most difficult part. Having already experienced something.. Other while you were dreaming, you can’t help but think maybe you’ll have the upper hand. He’d told you, more than once, that your dreams had felt different to him, so you can’t get it out of your head, and... your hopes are most definitely up. 

You clear your schedule, and even buy some special kind of ointment meant to help aid in lucid dreaming, heavy with mugwort and pennyroyal. The fancy art on the jar reads Night Flying in filigree letters, but on the back, in very large red print is: DO NOT INGEST. Half of you wants to set it aside, but you have done the research. On your forehead and temples only, or sometimes- you check your notes, wrinkling your nose when you see the written neck, and feet included. You open the jar, still unconvinced, but it only smells faintly of mint. 

You’re unashamed to admit that you use less than the recommended smear, just to be safe. You settle down in bed, going through the breathing exercises that supposedly help aid sleep, and cross your fingers. 

Not much happens. You wake in the morning, feeling well rested and too lethargic to get out of bed, but- No dreams. Not that you recall, anyway. Your hopes crash hard for a few hours and you clean your face and neck of the flying ointment a little more viciously than you need to. It seems so silly in the light of day, but you can’t shake the feeling of those dreams. Not the memories of them, crystal clear, not the weight of his hands in yours. But he hasn’t always shown up every single night. 

You try again. And again, and it isn’t until the third night, when your pillow now seems to be steeped in the scent of minty pennyroyal from the ointment, that you finally achieve a vaguely lucid dream. 

You’re walking down the street when you realize that you can’t hear the sounds of traffic, and then- Then you realize you’re dreaming. Your heart rate picks up, and you spin in place, exuberant, wondering why you’re turn seems to take twice as long as normal - and then there’s a plain looking door standing in the middle of the sidewalk. You walk towards it, after all, where else is there to go? But as soon as you place your hand on the plain brass handle, you frown. Between the books and the disappointment of not being able to tell the future, of not getting to see him, you.. You want magic in your life. You’d rather walk through a door that reminds you of Narnia, with gilded edges and some kind of fancy door knocker, than walk through one that looks like you can push it over with a strong breeze. 

Concentrating on actually changing a dream takes way more effort than you would have thought though. If you close your eyes, it seems to give your subconscious enough tether to try and take back control. You close your eyes, and instead of seeing the fancy door you would have wanted, you’re distracted by thoughts of fluttering pages- no. You open your eyes, forcing yourself back on track, and laugh, finding your hand not on a plain brass handle, but on an ornate knocker. You smooth your fingertips along the swirling lines of it, pleased with yourself. Maybe it’s not quite what you’d hoped, but you’ll happily take it. You knock and then step back, assuming with every fiber of your being that he’s going to be on the other side, that he’s going to swing it open and pull you into his arms, but- The door creaks open, revealing a plain looking room with purple windows. It’s disappointingly empty, and he isn’t anywhere to be found.

You take a step into the room, letting the door close quietly behind you and then glance down at your hands. Lucid dreaming is all about being able to change things, isn’t it? You think of him, breathe deeply, and snap your fingers, willing him to appear with everything that you have within you.

Nothing happens. You’re still alone, with only the slightly hazy room for company. You can’t help but feel like you’re missing an intrinsic piece to the puzzle of his presence. Maybe you need to call his name, but… 

You frown at the ornate rugs beneath your feet, eyes getting distracted by the whirling patterns. You’re not entirely sure you can remember his name. You have vague memories of him telling it to you, but all of those seem to be the ones in which you hadn’t yet been able to see his face. For a half second, the weight of disappointment bows your showers. Maybe you have made him up. You blink, and the dream seems to lose focus, your lucidity ebbing like a tide. You’re on the verge of waking, you realize, and then his voice is heavy in your ear, his lips warm as they brush against the shell of it, saying quickly, and fondly: “My name is Spiros. Don’t forget it so easily next time, hm?”

You wake with his name on your lips, half expecting him to manifest inside your bedroom. After a few heart stopping seconds though, you have to sigh. It stays tragically empty, and yet the heat of him, the texture of his lips- you can still feel it. You’re not going to give up.        

After a while though, you feel like all your free time is spent sleeping. You experiment with the flying ointment, but after the last two or three times, decide that you no longer need help. The awareness of lucid dreaming happens more than half the time now, and you can change some things, but otherwise… You’ve been spending each night combing through strange places, catching the barest glimpses of him over the horizon, hearing his voice, faint on the breeze. Maybe, you tell yourself one evening, you need to stop chasing him. It’s like trying is only tiring you out, making you wander through long roads, only to find he was right where you left him. He doesn’t feel like a figment any longer, but the fact that he doesn’t is beginning to scare you, just a little. You can’t spend all your time searching for him, can’t spend all your time sleeping. You decide to stop chasing, even if you still practice actual lucid dreaming. But then, the next time you achieve more than awareness, more than that sense of reality, Spiros is waiting for you. 

“Been searching, have you?” He teases, reaching out for your hand and- you can feel him. The faint whorls of his fingertips, the drag of his nails over the palm of your hand. It’s more than just the strange clarity from before, or the sense of being aware, Spiros’ feels real, and if you couldn’t see the shifting nebulae of his eyes, you might think you were actually awake. He tugs you a step forward and then turns you about in quick whirl, leaving the room with the faint sense of spinning, like you’ve actually been turning too many fast circles on your feet. 

“Who are you?” You can’t help asking, letting him take another few dancing steps before you put your feet down, refusing to be moved. “I’ve been chasing you, trying-”

“Spiros,” he says, coyly, like he thinks you might be teasing him back. “Haven’t we talked about this before?”

“Not your name,” you say, glancing past his shoulder. Maybe you shouldn’t be staring quite so intensely at his eyes. The dizziness hasn’t yet faded. “Who are you, that you can jump into another person's dreams? I’ve been researching, you know, and- I still can’t figure it out. How you knew about my neighbors. I thought for sure that I was fooling myself. Or maybe that I was prescient,” you confess, embarrassment wrapping around you like a cloak. “But if you’re real-”

“My apologies,” he says, and even more strange than knowing that this is all a dream is that you can feel it. His sincerity, heavy in the air, and it sounds like… It sounds like cricket song. “For leading you on a chase. I cannot come often, there are too many dreams to spin, but-” He rests his forehead against yours, eyes falling closed. “I cannot seem to stay away.”

“Why?” You ask, just as confused, if not more so. 

Spiros pulls away, eyebrows raised and for a moment his jaw works, like he’s searching for the words to say. 

“You,” he says insistently. “Something about your dreams kept me coming back, but it was you that made me stay. Don’t you remember our talks?” Spiros asks, hair brushing against your cheek as he leans in again, and- feathers, there are wings, tangled in hair somewhere above his ears. 

“I do,” you reassure him, hesitantly lifting a hand to stroke a single fingertip along his jaw. Faint stubble pricks at your finger, though not enough to make it uncomfortable. “That isn’t the point of this, though. You’re attracted to me,” you say, hardly believing it, and yet feeling the truth of it all the way down to your bones. “You’re attracted to me, and- to spin,” you say suddenly, thinking of the way your neighbors had claimed the dreams were extra vivid. “You spin dreams? I thought-” But you’re not entirely sure what you thought. Maybe he was simply a person with a talent for something beyond lucid dreaming? Creating them though..

Spiros sighs, taking a step back, letting your hand fall away from his face. 

“I had hoped to save this particular conversation for another time, but you are much more observant than you used to be,” he says, shrugging a single shoulder, mouth slightly mournful. 

“I don’t know whether I should be charmed or irritated by the way that sounds,” you say quietly, crossing your arms over your chest, just to give yourself a sense of normalcy.

“I’m one of the oneiroi,” he says, like that should mean something to you. “One of many. I.. Once there were many who called us gods.” His eyes flash back to you and then down, the afternoon breeze whipping his hair away from his face. “And perhaps we were, but now?” He turns in a circle, as if he can see far beyond the confines of the park you’re standing in. He probably can, you realize, if what he says is true. “There are medicines to combat us, or people who have severed themselves from this realm so severely that we can’t even catch sight of their dreams. And our newest siblings-” Spiros’ mouth twists. “They are so fast, swooping in on daydreams for their sustenance. Few of you take the time to notice us these days. If we’re noticed, perhaps we’re called nothing more than spirits.”

You wake with more questions than answers, but you feel satisfied with one thing: Spiros exists. Maybe not exactly how you’d pictured, but he wasn’t a figment. And he- Cares. About you. It’s still mind boggling though, trying to process the information, trying to sort out what you should do about it. You enjoy time with him, you’re very attracted to him, but you can’t help but worry about whether disbelief will always be lingering in the back of your head if you pursue things. 

If only to cement his interest, Spiros seems to return twice as often after that, taking you on such vibrant, whirlwind adventures that sometimes they short out, speeding up your sleeping heart until you nearly wake. After one of these strange glitch-like interruptions, Spiros takes you to a warm night garden so the two of you can catch your breath, and it barely takes a blink before you’re suddenly lying in dark grass, softer than down against your back.

“Comfortable?” He asks, sitting to the right of you, his eyes tracing your body like a caress. 

“I want you,” you find yourself saying, almost before you can even finish the thought inside your head. Spiros blinks, and the whole area seems to pause, as if it’s holding its breath along with him. After a moment, his eyes seem to change, the cool toned stars in their depths turning to molten gold, to heat and wanting, and the air becomes heavy with it.

“Truly?” Spiros asks, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He reaches out to touch you, fingers hovering over your shoulder and then stops, waiting for your response. 

Yes, you think to yourself, thinking of every small touch, of his breath against your skin, of the way he says your name to capture your attention. His fingers tremble until you take his hand and press it to your chest, wondering if he can feel the unsteady rhythm of your heart. “Yes,” you finally say aloud, pushing away all your doubts. “Isn’t it obvious?” You ask, only half teasing, still wrought with nerves, even as he leans down to kiss you. 

“As obvious as I feel?” Spiros asks and you can almost taste him, he’s so close. He cups your breast and then strokes his thumb over your nipple, breathing out slowly as he does. 

A small laugh escapes you, more of a rough, low gasp than anything else. “‘S why I’m asking,” you say, closing your eyes before you can get lost in his own. His mouth meets yours, soft and warm, stubble barely noticeable against your chin or cheeks when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It’s almost a shame, you think, hesitantly sliding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, that I won’t come away from this with evidence. His kiss turns almost desperate, needy, after that, teeth tugging at your lower lip as he straddles one of your thighs, hand smoothing down your body and taking your clothes as he goes. He tastes like evening, and it’s beyond frustrating, not knowing what else to compare it to.   

Despite knowing that you won’t bare the marks of this when you wake, Spiros seems desperate to leave you with the sensation of them. Your lips feel swollen, buzzing with his attention by the time he pulls away so you can breathe, and his hands are heavy on you, half massage, half the slow drag of his nails, just enough to leave your skin pebbling even though you’re not cold in the slightest. He seems content to just touch, to watch you writhe underneath him, your hips arching as you try and get closer. He’s still dressed, still covered by that dark chiton, hands steady- but his face. The look in his eyes is greedy and pained. You wrap your fingers in the front of his chiton and yank, pulling him back down to kiss, to taste the pulse in his throat. The angle has him pressed to you, hard and hot and bare underneath his clothes and you moan against his mouth at the sensation. You don’t want him to look so sad, you want him to stop thinking, to feel you- Your hand slips between you, moving aside material until you can take him in hand. 

Spiros tenses, pulling his mouth away from yours so he can groan quietly, immediately rolling his hips down into the grip you have on him. “Are you impatient?” He asks, voice gone rough and rasping. “I would think- by the dark,” he gasps, hand wrapping around your thigh when you squeeze him. He seems lost for words, lips pressed so tightly together that they’re trembling. After a moment he shifts, spreading your legs so he can kneel between them. The sight of it, the way his hands slide up your thighs, makes your heart beat even faster. A buzz, a zip, seems to shudder through the very foundations of the earth, and for a split second you could have sworn you saw your own ceiling and bedroom instead of stars and nebulae wheeling through the sky above you. 

“Concentrate,” Spiros insists, breathing the word out against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickles and you shiver, blinking a- he bites you. Not hard enough even to bruise, but the sharp edge of it has your back bowing, attention fully settled on Spiros’ hand dipping between your thighs. They’re the perfect texture, and he uses just the right amount of pressure to slick them through your wetness, to stroke slowly over your clit. Between the bite and his fingers, you’d forgotten to move, but you squeeze him again, wanting to reciprocate, wanting to share the pleasure.

It feels like forever and no time at all before you’re aching so badly that you’re about to beg. Every brush of his thumb, every time he curls his fingers inside you has you rocking up into the motion, but you want him, want him to speed this maddening rhythm. “Enough,” you gasp, choking on a laugh when he ceases all movement, a slight frown curling his lips. “Not- enough of you,” you say, and then you’re whimpering as he pulls his hand away, his clothes vanishing before you can blink. 

“Enough foreplay?” He asks, licking at his fingers before both of his hands are curling around your hips, dragging you towards him until his cock is teasing your clit with slow strokes. 

“Yes,” you say, a bit sharply, unable to do more than grasp at the soft grass underneath you. The angle is perfect for watching, for seeing him drag the head of his cock over you until it’s gleaming with your wetness, but it’s too gentle and you can’t find purchase with your feet to help press you harder against him. “I want you to fuck me,” you demand, breath coming fast as he takes a moment to glance at the far side of the garden. 

“I suppose I should,” he teases, smirking before his eyes drop back down to you. “Morning is approaching too fast for my liking.” You don’t know how he knows, you have little idea of the time you’ve spent here now, but you’re not complaining when he lets go of your hip to take himself in hand and press himself into you. You tighten, eager for him, for the feel of him filling you and his eyes flutter closed, lips parting like he’s forgotten to breathe. “You- you feel-” His jaw snaps shut, and he takes a deep breath before his hand curls back around your hip again, and he sets an unforgiving pace. 

“Oh,” you get out, clutching tighter to the grass. You no longer care that you can’t move your hips, that you’re having to tense your thighs so your legs aren’t dangling uselessly- watching is wonderful. Anywhere or with anyone else, you would have worried about him getting tired, but Spiros looks like he has endless stamina, thrusting into you this way. His knees finally shift though so he can bring you closer, so his skin can brush against your clit with the angle change and then you’re shaking apart, head thrown back. You’re dizzy with the force of it, breathless and then Spiros is gasping your name and heat fills you until you’re overflowing, his thrusts slow and he loosens the tight grip he has on your hips. “Spiros,” you breathe, trying not to focus on the way the stars and trees overhead are shifting in the breeze. You blink, and you think you see your ceiling again, morning light casting pale patterns over the walls- and then Spiros is lifting you, a hand against the middle of your back as he pulls you into his lap, uncaring of the mess, to place an eager kiss against your lips.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever get enough of you,” he confesses against your mouth, hand gentle as he cradles your jaw. “But you must wake soon, and I cannot keep you here.”

“You sure?” You tease, grinding yourself down and then whimpering because- He’s still hard.

Spiros looks drunk, cheeks ruddy, eyes heavy lidded, but he grins. “If only I could,” he murmurs, and his next kiss is sweet, and lingers long after you’ve woken. 

You’re alone in your room, and even though it’s cold out, the blankets feel stifling. You shift your legs, still blinking sleepily and freeze when you feel how slick you are. You wonder if you’re not going to hurt yourself with this in the future, with longing for more time with him.  It’s only then that you notice a single, gleaming feather on your pillow. The sight lays your fears to rest.

If only for the moment.

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