#morpheus and his doomed relationships | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

7-wonders · 7 months

Text

Never Been Kissed

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

Summary: Morpheus cannot possibly wait another moment to let you know how he feels about you. What happens when it appears that you don't reciprocate?

Word count: 2.0k

Author's note: Shitty summary, sorry, but you know the scene in Barbie (2023) where Ken goes to kiss Barbie after the party and she just stands there?

This one? Yeah I got it into my head that it would be funny if eternal drama queen Morpheus was in Ken's position.

Clueless!reader, innocent!reader. This is just a kinda stupid, goofy little fic, idk. If you liked it, I'd appreciate hearing from you! If you didn't like it, sound off as well! My haters are my motivators.

P.S. You might be saying "the Endless aren't allowed to love mortals it leads to their ruin!" And I say that this is my fic so I decide the rules. Buckle up babes.

Death would say that he is head over heels.

Desire would say that it is boringly predictable and far too soon.

Lucienne would not say anything, but she would give him that look over the top of her glasses, the one that says that he had better know what he is doing.

Matthew would say that he is down bad, which is apparently what the youth of today are saying.

They are all right, though Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, wishes they were not. Despite his very best efforts, he has fallen in love once more. With a mortal, a human—you.

Morpheus has never had much luck in love. Though there were a few occasions (very, very few) where it was not his fault, he is mature enough to understand that he has often been the cause of a relationship’s demise. He falls hard and fast, and he always has. That, combined with his…intensity, is what he believes to doom him each and every time. Perhaps he gives too much of himself to those who don’t deserve it; perhaps he shows his hand too quickly.

But you, he knows, are different. You won’t hurt him, not in the way that others have. You won’t take him for granted.

Tonight, he has decided that he will finally confess to you his affections. He will bare his realm to you, the parts that no normal dreamer will ever get to see, and hope that you understand that this is akin to him baring his very soul. After all, he is the Dreaming, and the Dreaming is him.

But where to take you? What to show you? Morpheus agonized over these questions for far longer than he would care to admit. Although he hoped to be able to accompany you to the farthest reaches of his realm (a tall task, considering said realm was infinite), to explore so much of the Dreaming with you that he rediscovered lands he had long forgotten about, this first foray needed to be perfect. He needed something special, something that conveyed to you the depth of his feelings.

He decided to start with something simple that most people would like to see: Athens, and specifically the Acropolis, as it was in its glory days. For all of the animosity Morpheus felt towards the Greek pantheon, he had to admit that they, and their worshippers, contributed much to society and humanity as a whole. Next was a glimmering lake that was actually the moon’s surface, followed by a glen in what could be the Scottish highlands populated by dragons—he found himself particularly pleased by your stunned awe upon seeing the mythical creatures.

The penultimate stop was one that Morpheus took great pride in thinking up, for he knew that it would be your favorite. A visit to a fae village, exiled by Titania and given sanctuary in the Dreaming (solely due to Morpheus’s dislike of their monarch), enjoying a Harvest celebration. They were harmless creatures in the Dreaming, devoid of any of the power that fae normally possessed, so Morpheus did not feel any hesitation in allowing you to explore the festivities. Above all else, the fae love a good party, so it was not surprising when a few invited you to join them in dancing, pulling you along with them until you were spinning and twirling as though you had always known the fae folk dance. You reached for him, mouthing “Come dance with me!” but he gently rebuffed you with a shake of his head and a smile, happy to simply watch the way you moved, with a grin on your face and boisterous laughter sounding just as lovely as the music playing.

What you had referred to as a “behind-the-scenes tour” ends in his private gardens, long a place of solace for him. Your excitement, your joy, fuels him. It’s palpable and intoxicating, and Morpheus wishes he could bottle it and keep it with him forever to give him just a hint of this feeling whenever he wants.

“This is…amazing. Your realm is amazing,” you gush, your eyes sparkling. “I feel like that word is such an understatement for what I’m trying to describe, but it’s the only one that comes to mind right now.”

“It pleases me to hear you think so.”

“Thank you for this. For trusting me,” you say sincerely.

Morpheus was right, you do understand the gift that this experience was meant to be. It makes the space in his chest cavity, where his heart would be if he allowed this form to have one, feel warm. It is only the the very least I could, no, would give you, he thinks.

You’re smiling so sweetly at him, the moon shining down like a spotlight and making you look the closest to holy that Morpheus will ever get. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment where he will tell you of his love for you, and where you will then reciprocate. This is the moment that he will commit to memory for the rest of eternity until his sister locks up the universe behind her. This is the moment that you become his, and he yours.

There is so much that Morpheus wants to say to you, yet he knows not where to begin. An unfamiliar feeling swells within him—nervousness. What if he says the wrong thing, what if he scares you off with his intensity before he can truly say what he wants to say? No, best to show you how he feels before telling you, that way there is no doubt. With that, Morpheus leans in towards you and closes his eyes, waiting to feel his lips on yours.

That feeling does not come, and Morpheus belatedly realizes after a few moments that it will not come. When he opens his eyes and looks at you once more, you’re still standing in the same position that you were, still smiling, albeit looking a bit more confused

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

All of Morpheus’s plans, his hopes and…dreams, for lack of a better term, come crashing down around him. So you’ve rejected him, then. He has laid his heart bare for you, shown you parts of his realm that no other mortal has been lucky enough to see, and you’ve turned him down. This, he muses, is his fatal flaw. Mentally, he had already declared you his, crowned you his consort, and created an entire life with you.

But the Lord of Dreams should know better than anyone that it does no good to dwell on dreams, for they are nothing but fantasy and can lead only to heartbreak.

“It appears that I was wrong in thinking that my feelings were reciprocated,” he says lowly, looking out at a carefully cultivated rose bush that is rapidly wilting. An icy wind begins to whip up, stripping the bush of its dead petals and sending them swirling off into the night.

Shock, raw and unfiltered, crosses your face. “Oh! You wanted…to kiss me?”

Morpheus pauses at this odd question, for he did not think you to be so obtuse. Did he not make it obvious that that was what he was intending? Are you attempting to shame him further? “Yes? I apologize, since you have made clear that you do not harbor the same affection for me as I do for you.” He has to grit his teeth to keep from spewing anything more vicious, though lightning cracks across the sky and says what he cannot.

“No! I mean yes. I mean–” You take a breath and shake your head as though you’re trying to physically clear your thoughts. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve never…been kissed. Before.”

The bad weather, which had been threatening since the moment he realized that he was wrong and tried desperately to hide the devastation that was threatening to overtake him, dies down so suddenly that it could have been turned off by some unseen entity hitting a switch.

“What.” It is certainly not proper of Morpheus to sound so shocked, especially when it’s regarding a topic that you are so clearly embarrassed about. But he simply cannot believe that someone like you, someone so delightful and open, so empathetic and, well, attractive, has never experienced intimacy from another before.

“I know, it’s super lame. People just…haven’t ever liked me in that way?” You shrug and add, “Just haven’t found the right person yet,” in a way that sounds so self-deprecating that it must be a line you’ve heard many times before.

“So you have never…”

You shake your head and look away in embarrassment. “No hand holding, no kissing, no dating. Nothing. Sorry to disappoint.”

It goes unsaid what else you haven’t done if those simple, basic acts of romance have been devoid from your life. From the way you brace yourself, you’re obviously expecting him to react negatively to the news, and he assumes that this is from experience. Instead, Morpheus finds that he does not mind in the slightest. No, this piece of information is…rather titillating, actually.

(Perhaps it’s the fact that this means you’re largely untouched by anyone, but specifically mortals, whom Morpheus has seen the worst of for over a hundred years. The filth of humanity has yet to mar you in such an intimate manner. Prior to today, Morpheus didn’t think that he had an innocence kink. Now? He’s starting to see why the gods and goddesses of old so favored virgins.)

He files this revelation away to be revisited later, when he can hope to be in complete control of his emotions and not have them divided by having the object of his affection standing right in front of him.

“I do not find myself disappointed,” he says.

Your eyes meet his once more, and he can see the hope you hold. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “It is not your fault that others have failed to properly see the magnificence standing before them.”

‘Magnificent’ does not even come close to doing any justice in describing you, Morpheus feels, but it will do for now.

“Morpheus,” you admonish half-heartedly and bashfully. You are obviously not used to receiving such compliments, which is precisely why Morpheus is now determined to make sure that you shall never go a day without hearing one.

“Would you be interested in such things with me?” Things, of course, being the list of activities you have never partaken in.

Slowly, a smile spreads on your face. “Really? You like me like that?”

Your naïvete is truly endearing. “I do. Am I correct in hoping that you feel the same?”

“Yeah. You’d be correct.”

“Then might I bestow upon you your first kiss?”

Somehow, your smile widens, and you nod. “I’d like that.”

Morpheus again leans towards you, but this time, his actions are reciprocated. Your lips against his are soft and a little clumsy against his, which is to be expected from someone who has absolutely no experience. The entire time, he can feel the way that you’re trying, and failing, to keep yourself from smiling.

It is by no means the best kiss that Morpheus has ever had. Yet, it will likely remain one of his most fond memories of such an action.

When you pull away, you’re giggling almost giddily. “That was really good,” you praise, as though discussing a book or a meal. It’s simultaneously not at all and exactly what Morpheus was expecting from you, and he can practically feel himself falling further for you.

Tonight will not be the night that he espouses his love for you. He will not whisper promises of the universe against your skin, and he will not whisk you away to his chambers so that he may properly ravish you. Instead, this relationship will be…slow. Although that is not something that Morpheus is used to, something that he’s familiar with, he finds that he is alright with the concept of taking things slow, so long as it is with you.

#morpheus x reader #morpheus imagine #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless #the sandman imagine #dream of the endless imagine #the sandman

362 notes · View notes

skaikruswan · 2 years

Note

Hi! I found pouty Morpheus super cute! Could you please write a Morpheus x goddess!reader who always shows affection for Morpheus. But one day she accidentally ignores him because she has too much work. Eventually our emo boy gets upset about it. Thanks❤️❤️❤️

Divine intervention

WC: 1,4 k Ao3

Relationship: Morpheus x f!reader

Notes: fluff, first meeting, missed date, pouty Morpheus

Dear anon, thanks for the prompt! I am sorry it took a while. I hope you enjoy!

If you liked this story, i have written others.

You know a secret, an important one, one that saved you from the oblivion that has claimed so many deities. Humans hold power over gods. So many gods and goddesses believe, no, consider themselves to be worthy of their dedication and worship, without even caring enough about humanity. It’s selfish and arrogant, and sooner or later, this attitude will be their doom.

You have had many names over the ages and various aspects in several cultures. In the end, it didn’t particularly matter to you what humanity called you, as long as they called you at all.

You walk among humans, listening to their struggles and pleas, offering a kind word or a much-needed pat on the back, helping them in any way you can. You give them hope and sympathy, the light at the end of a tunnel, the warm blanket in a cold night. Some people notice that you’re not human: you see it in their widened eyes, their reverent gaze, or their sharp inhale. But most of them are simply glad that you’re here.

You don’t need temples or sacrifices; all you need is the warm feeling in your chest as you see them get better, to know that you helped them.

Each time a person you helped has dreams about you, you feel equally content and queasy. You feel honored and glad that you made such an impact on them, but you worry as you just entered the realm of a being much more powerful than you are. But all your worries were simply worries. Morpheus, Dream of the Endless and ruler of the Dreaming, doesn’t consider you a threat. You still remember your first meeting.

Lexie, a lovely young woman just survived a dangerous operation and got a new pair of lungs, after endless weeks of hoping and praying. In her dream, she was standing on top of a mountain, screaming from the top of her healthy, functioning lungs, and how could you not smile, when her joy was this wonderful and infectious?

“You are the reason she has such a positive dream,” an unknown, deep voice declared, you turned around to see Morpheus. Dressed in black, his dark hair a mess, his blue eternal eyes peering at you, you felt the endless power radiating from him.

“I am sorry sir, I shall leave your realm at once,” you apologized, every atom in your immortal body vibrating as you inclined your head in a respectful manner.

“You are helping the dreamers. I sense no evil intentions. You can stay.”

__________________________

One shared dream has become several, and over time you stopped walking on eggshells around him. To be honest, it is really nice to have someone to talk to. Immortality gets rather lonely and despite the comforting presence of humans, you still don’t have anyone to really connect with. Your last friend, a minor deity of peace, did not make it through the 20th century. Watching them wither and fade in front of your eyes forever tore a piece of your heart from you.

Morpheus shares your vision on humans, that immortals serve them instead of the opposite. He has told you that he had only recently realized this. It had been in a dream, the lake over which they were rowing reflecting the dark, starless sky, when Morpheus had confessed the atrocity he had suffered through during the last century.

You impulsively had reached out to hold his hand, your thumb stroking over the back of his hand. Your mind had called you a fool while your heart was soaring, and for a moment, you had held your breath.

“Thank you for your time, and for listening to me.” He had smiled at you for the first time, and you felt your heart skip for a beat. His other hand had covered yours and you hoped that the darkness hid your big blush.

“I’m glad I’m here.”

___________________________

You almost saunter as you walk through a crowd, smiling at a heartbroken teenager, dropping some change into the cup of a homeless, and stopping an elderly man from walking in front of a car. Morpheus and you will have a date tonight, and the prospect makes butterflies swarm your stomach. You wish you could say that you have experience, but when it comes to matters of the heart, immortals are just as lost and confused as mortals.

You had been cautious and gentle at the beginning of your relationship. In the privacy of a dream, you had held his hand, brushed your fingers through the silky strands of his hair, or pressed a featherlight kiss on his cheek. But you didn’t want to showcase your relationship, fearful that the residents of the Dreaming would gossip.

“My love, you have nothing to hide or fear. Let everyone in this realm know that I enjoy your presence and affection,” he had declared, softly pressing his lips against yours, and you had felt sunlight light up inside your veins. From this day on, you hadn’t held back, showering him with affection, showing the world how much he means to you.

Matthew once called lovey-dovey, his caw sounding like laughter as he soared over you, interrupting your picnic date in Fiddler’s Green. Merv told you in secret that there were nightmares and dreams betting on how often you would make the boss smile during one day. Lucienne kept giving you an almost amused look every time you waltzed into the library, knowing that she would have to answer a question about Morpheus, so you could surprise him better.

__________________________

You’re glad that tragedies still affect you, that you still feel the pain and sorrow that seems to sniff out any positive emotion as a storm would sniff out a candle; it means that your heart hasn’t turned to stone. You’ve seen deities grow cold and unbothered. You’ve sworn that it would never happen to you.

You feel their need for you, you hear their despairing thoughts and broken-hearted prayers, and steel yourself for a long day.

A minute turns into an hour, an hour turns into several. You can’t deny them in their hour of need, so you offer everything you can.

While you’re immortal, you still experience exhaustion, and you drag yourself to your home, immediately falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_______________________________

Morpheus has shown you how to enter the Dreaming, and you find yourself right where you want to be: the palace. It is surprisingly empty, except for a group of naiads who disappear into some people’s dreams in a burst of spring water. The throne is empty, so Morpheus must be somewhere else. Council seems to be finished.

You wander into the library, expecting Morpheus to maybe discuss something with Lucienne. The librarian is seemingly looking for something, pulling out books and tomes with a small frown on her face. You announce yourself by clearing your throat and wait until Lucienne has finished her task.

“It’s good to see you, my lady. Do you have any more questions?” she asks as she adjusts her glasses.

“Just one actually: where’s Morpheus?”

“I don’t know, I’m afraid. After the council was finished, he left.” Lucienne glances around before leaning forward. “He seemed a little displeased.” Regret and embarrassment twist knots into your stomach as you realize why that might be the case. You missed the date!

“I’ll look for him, thanks Lucienne.”

__________________________________

You find him in Fiddler’s Green, at the exact spot you’ve had you picnic date. It’s dark, so he perfectly blends in with the shadows. With his back turned towards you, he can’t see the way you bite your lip, but he can hear your hesitant steps. Nobody likes being stood up.

“I am sorry for missing our date.” You don’t regret helping those in need, but you regret that Morpheus waited here for you, and you didn’t show. You feel a stone drop inside your stomach. While you were never into gossip, even you have picked up that Morpheus doesn’t take rejection kindly.

“I waited.” Morpheus turns around and you bite the inside of your jaw to freeze your facial expressions. Dream of the Endless is pouting, and you will remember this image forever. Lucienne was right.

“I will make this worth your wait,” you promise, giving him a coy smile as you slowly approach him, fluttering your eyelashes for good measure.

“Surprise me, goddess,” he challenges, giving you a small smirk, one you wipe off his face as you crush your lips against his, burying your hands into his hands and angling his head as you put all your love into this kiss.

#the sandman #the sandman x reader #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream x reader #my writing #my sandman fics

768 notes · View notes

cuubism · 1 year

Text

wip wednesday so. here's a 'wip' (crack fic i binge wrote instead of working on my actual wips that are weeks if not months overdue in updating oh god)

necessary context: matthew has not yet learned that hob is immortal

“Alright, listen up, team!” Matthew cawed to the handful of dreams and nightmares gathered around him. “Most of you guys were here before me. What was it like last time Lord Morpheus had a catastrophic relationship failure?”

“Bad,” said a tiny dream in the shape of a mouse.

“Thanks. Very helpful,” Matthew muttered. “Wanna offer any specifics? Did the world end?”

“Yes,” said a ghost-like nightmare, rolling its eyes. “The world ended. This is just a collective hallucination.”

“Technically, it is a collective hallucination,” said another nightmare that looked kind of like… a computer? Matthew hadn’t even been aware Morpheus knew what computers were.

Some of the other dreams snickered.

“Hey!” Matthew squawked. “This is serious. You’re aware he’s dating a human, right? If breakups were bad, how do you think that will end?”

The collected dreams were silent.

“Eternal night!” Matthew yelled. “Doom and gloom! Tartarus in the depths of Hell! Thunder and lightning very very frightening! Do you want that? I don’t!”

“What are we supposed to do, though?” asked the little mouse dream. “Humans always die.”

“I don’t know yet, that’s why we’re here,” said Matthew, flapping his wings in agitation. “Um. Make an ark for when the Dreaming becomes Water World, maybe? Or uh. Clone Hob? No, that’s weird… Maybe we can get him an emotional support cat or something?”

“Mervyn says Hob is already an emotional support human,” whistled a dream that looked like, and was the size of, an entire forest.

“Fuck.”

“If he’s sad,” sang a music-box dream in its childlike voice, “maybe we should cheer him up!”

Matthew snorted. “How are supposed to cheer up Mister Emo King himself?”

The music-box trilled. “Everybody likes music!”

“And puppies!” yapped a Labrador Retriever.

“Sparkles?” said a dream that was just a floating star.

Matthew was feeling extremely dubious about any of these things being able to cheer up the most gothic depressed person he’d ever met, but it was going to have to do.

“Alright, guys,” he announced, clapping his wings, “here’s the plan. You all have to try to make Lord Morpheus as happy as possible so he won’t go fucking berserk when his human dies. But! Be subtle. Don’t let him know what you’re doing. And for the love of all that is holy Do. Not. Mention. The. H. Word.”

“Hell?” said a toddler dream, scratching her nose.

“No!!! Hob!!!” Matthew scrubbed a wing over his beak. “We’re all gonna fucking die.”

#operation cheer up your mopey friendless boss so he doesn't destroy the world #doesnt go exactly to plan #matthew the raven #the sandman #dreamling #(they come in later)#my writing

360 notes · View notes

just-french-me-up · 8 months

Text

Heatstroke

Fandom : The Sandman (AO3 link) Pairing : Dreamling (Dream x Hob) Rating : Explicit | 2.1k Tags : Smut, Fluff, Established Relationship, Blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics Summary : England is suffering through its second week of a scorching heatwave, and Dream's presence in his flat does nothing to cool Hob down... or does it? "I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns." "Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly." "Could you now?"

Heat was everywhere. It was the air he breathed, the water from the tap he drank, the sheets he slept on, the walls he tried to find shelter behind. It was under his skin, ever present, unescapable, and Hob felt as though he was going mad from it.

It had been one week of this, sweltering heat sweeping through the south of England, unleashing all of its scorching might, with London at its epicentre. The city had not been built to withstand such temperatures, and Hob's flat was no exception. Closing the blinds and sleeping with the windows open had worked for the first few days, but, insidiously, the heat had filtered in Celsius by Celsius, invading the space until there was no longer any respite from it.

Ever the harbinger of doom, the forecast had announced another week of this, sending London into a frenzy, between those who could afford to retreat north (or better yet, abroad, to more scenic and forgiving shores), and those who didn't have that luxury.

Hob was part of the latter.

Work kept him anchored in the city between lectures and research, the university administration staunchly refusing to trigger their remote learning protocol, citing the poor exam results following the pandemic as their main concern. God forbid they lose their prestigious ranking. At least the faculty's archives provided Hob with a few precious hours of cool air. Such commodity was hard to come by, these days.

At home, Hob had grown used to living in semi-darkness, the blinds permanently closed, only leaving a sliver of light in. He often congratulated himself on having bought a fan one heatwave ago, before the entire stock had been raided by his heat-striken fellowmen. It did little to cool him down, though. Hot air was still hot air, no matter how much velocity it hit you with. He spent his days in nothing but his underwear, moving as little as possible, taking his mind off the heat as best he could.

Nights were almost bearable. When he didn't spend them at the New Inn, Hob would lie on the couch, crushed by the thick atmosphere, listening to this or that book, his body far too hot still to fall asleep yet. He was struggling to follow his latest pick when a deep, familiar voice startled him.

"I was not aware nudity was the latest fashion."

Hob sat up awkwardly, staring at the dark silhouette standing by the bedroom door. God, when he'd told Dream he could waltz in whenever he pleased, he never imagined himself sweaty and practically naked when that happened. Well... not at the onset, at least. In spite of the relative darkness, he could see the quiet smirk tugging at Dream's well-studied, often worshipped lips. Also wait, was he wearing a turtleneck, of all things?!

"It's something of a national trend, at the moment."

Dream took a few steps around the living room, the hem of his coat swaying gracefully against his ankles. Hob could feel himself sweat just imagining the weight of those layers. Morpheus, statuesque as ever, didn't seem the least bit bothered.

"How are you not cooked medium rare, right now?" Hob asked, looking for the faintest hint of a flush on those fair cheekbones of his, finding none. That turtleneck had to be awfully warm around his throat, though, the black, soft-looking fabric clashing deliciously with his skin. If he could just slip a finger underneath... Another kind of heat spread through Hob at the thought, doing nothing to improve the miserable state he was already in.

"I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns."

He said it as though it was barely worth mentioning, boringly mundane, and not easily the most fascinating thing Hob had heard all week. Hell, all year. He relaxed against the back of the couch, observing Dream's slow prowl towards him, suddenly acutely aware of his lack of proper clothing and undignified posture.

"Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly."

A low hum rose from Dream's throat, a cross between a chuckle and a huff. He was looming over him now, their knees nearly brushing.

"Could you now?"

Whatever clever retort Hob's brain had come up with, it died on his lips as Morpheus' hand ran across his damp scalp, his fingers combing through his hair. His skin was cold, impossibly so, his touch leaving tingling trails behind, making him itch for more. Hob let out a hearty, breathy sigh, leaning into the palm of Dream's hand.

"Fuck, that feels good."

He didn't mean to sound so achingly needy, but it was, by far, the best sensation he'd had all week. He had tried to beat the heat in various (and increasingly desperate) ways, but nothing matched the soft, cold silk of Dream's skin sending shivers down his spine. It felt... clean. Like fresh fallen snow, pristine and undisturbed. Which was a descriptor he could not quite apply to himself, in spite of many daily cold showers.

"I'm disgusting," he groaned, thinking of the sweat no doubt covering Dream's fingers now, a sensation he didn't envy.

"You are human," he countered gently. "You can not pick and choose which laws of your world apply to you or not."

Hob flashed a sly grin.

"Save for one."

"Quite right," Dream conceded, amused.

His fingers were still raking through Hob's hair, providing much needed relief. Running so hot had helped Hob in the past, back when central heating was still but a literal pipe dream in someone's head, but what had felt like a blessing then passed for a curse now. Much like the walls of his flat, he'd been build to keep the heat in.

Dream's fingertips brushed his ear, causing delightful sparks to shoot down his jaw.

"How does it feel, then, getting to choose which principles of physics apply to you?"

He'd meant it as a tease, expecting another one of Dream's huffed chuckle, but the reaction he got was more intense than what he had bargained for. Morpheus' gaze was consuming, to say the least, his pupils almost too wide and eerily dark to pass as human. A hand left his scalp to follow the line of his neck, fingers trailing down his throat like drops of icy rain.

"At present?" Dream's voice was a low murmur. Hob could almost feel the warmth of his breath against his ear although Morpheus over him, his back straight. "Exquisite."

Hob's adam's apple bobbed at the brush of his fingers. He did not fully understand how Endless' senses worked, but he could bet everything he owned that Morpheus could actually feel his heartbeat through his skin, his heart wreaking havoc in his chest. His lack of proper clothing left him exposed, the effect of Dream's ministrations painfully obvious, preternatural abilities or not.

"You are quite warm," Dream pointed out, as though he was only now realising the extent of Hob's predicament.

"So that you're choosing to feel."

It was hard to fight the edge in his voice between the cold caresses exploring his shoulders and Dream's almost predatory gaze. His only garment was getting too uncomfortably tight, his erection pressing against the fabric with yet more torturous heat.

"Touching you would hardly feel the same if I shielded myself from it."

Exquisite, he had called it. Touching him felt exquisite, even like this. Hob could hardly fathom it.

"So I am the sun-soaked rock you cold-blooded beauty like to lie against for warmth," he quipped, smirking up at him.

"In a way, perhaps."

Dream's hands reached his torso, sending more shivers through him on the way down. Hob could feel his throat go dry as Dream lowered himself on his knees in a fluid motion, his pupils wild through his lashes. A hand trailed up Hob's thigh, tremors following in all of his leg. He did not expect the gasp that escaped him when Dream wrapped his fingers around his cock through his boxers. The cold felt odd, at first, though far from unpleasant. Quickly, Hob found himself wanting it more. The clash between his burning skin and Dream's was intoxicating, making his hips roll at the touch.

"I thought you liked touching me," he groaned, frustrated by the pesky, unbearable barrier between them.

Dream merely smiled, that fucking cheeky smile he'd given him in 1789, and Hob's hips bucked of their own volition. Fuck that perfect face of his, God! To add insult to injury, Dream's thumb brushed light circles against the head of his cock, drawing a hiss out of him, his cock aching for more.

"Dream."

His attempt at being firm melted into something more pleading, but Hob was past caring. He needed and he wanted and he was not above begging. Mercifully, Morpheus pulled down his boxers, exposing him hard and sensitive to his cold breath. A strangled moan rolled out of him as Dream lapped at the throbbing tip, the ice on his tongue on the verge of burning, but ultimately divine.

"Fuck!"

Hob threw his head back, reclining fully against the sofa, his body trembling from the heat, Morpheus' mouth and the pleasure rushing through him. The surreal combinaison of sensations was making him dizzy in the heavenliest way possible. By the time Morpheus had him in his mouth, his hand stroking the base of his cock, Hob was moaning mindlessly at the ceiling, his hand tangled in Dream's hair.

"Fuck, you feel so good, love."

He could barely focus on words half of the time, babbling praises, stretching his back to accommodate the surge of pleasure threatening to undo him. He could not remember what he'd said after a while, but Dream hummed around his cock with such sinful wantonness Hob felt blood rush to his cheek.

"Don't stop," he panted heavily. "Don't stop, you're going to make me come."

Dream dragged his tongue along his length, drawing relentless swirls around the head of his cock. Hob grabbed the arm of the sofa, holding onto it for dear life. Morpheus' cool breath against his oversensitive skin caught him off guard. Dream's eyes were black now, bottomless pools of stars calling for him to jump and drown in them. When he spoke, his voice purring and sultry, Hob could hear it as close as if he'd spoken right next to his ear.

"I want you warm on my tongue, Hob Gadling."

Fuck! The words were barely gone that Dream wrapped his lips around the tip, his eyes still staring into Hob's as he teased it with a pointed tongue. Overwhelmed, Hob spilled with a gruff shout, tension stretching all of his muscles taut, before his body sank into the sofa, boneless and breathless. He could feel the stifling pressure of heat in his lungs, exertion weighing his body down even more than before. The cold press of Dream's body came to alleviate the ache as he leant against Hob, a hand against his mad, immortal heart.

"Never died of a heatstroke before," Hob chuckled hoarsely, his voice nothing but a prolonged wheeze.

"This is quite a serious accusation."

He did feign offense really well, that one.

"I think you tried your best."

Hob wrapped a heavy, lazy arm around Dream's waist, seeking skin under all those layers.

"Wouldn't mind you trying again," he added, his brain still floating hazily inside his skull. Dream pressed his forehead against his, bringing him some relief. "I could get you out of all that bloody fabric, for a start."

"Perhaps you will. I am told the Waking World will suffer another week of this," Dream said, pointing his chin at the nearest window. "I would hate to withhold any helpful assistance from you."

"I'm sure you would."

They held each other in comfortable silence, Hob slowly catching his breath.

"Sleep is notoriously difficult for humans during such times," Dream said after a while. "It makes for strange dreams. Or no dreams at all."

"It's been a struggle for a few days, yeah."

Hob slowly furrowed his brows, replaying Dream's words in his head. A stupid grin then stretched his lips, pushing against his cheeks.

"Is this your way of telling me I've not been visiting often enough?"

"I would not word it in such terms."

He gave Dream's hip a light squeeze. Did he posh himself up on purpose to visit him?

"I missed you too."

The proud git would not say it, but the way he leant heavier on Hob spoke louder than words, anyway.

"So, would it please you, other... visits? Should the weather continue to interfere with your sleep?"

Hob did not have the heart to tell him those were called "date", in this day and age, although he suspected Dream would sooner disappear for a millennium rather than 'wording it this way'.

"Yes. It would, shitty sleep or not. Although I admit I do enjoy your blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics."

"I thought you might."

101 notes · View notes

cynthiav06 · 18 days

Text

It's only in Percy Jackson Fandom where shipping anything other than the main couple seemingly warrants death sentence.

Every other fandom explores so many other ships as shipping between characters helps in finding out how far the depth of their relationship might go.

Personally, I have always loved the idea of what Perachel could have been if Uncle Rick had actually tried. Imagine:

Part 1

Percy staying up thinking about this mortal he accidentally ran his sword through; she looked furious and confused and long after its over he is left wondering if that's how his mother felt when she met his father. He wonders it ceaselessly at times.

Rachel living in fear of everything she sees, plagued by dreams and visions, and this guy who ran her through with a literal sword calling her a mortal and surprised she can even see the sword just straight up leaves, taking all the answers with him. Long after it's happened, all she's left with is a canvas filled with the sketches of a sea-green eyed guy.

Then fate connects them yet again because Percy needs her. It starts with his need to fulfill the quest and her need for answers, but the awe Percy must have felt at Rachel's courage through the whole quest despite the incessant quips from Annabeth. He is sorry then that he has dragged someone like her to her death and if that weren't enough they run into the Titan King and he knows that maybe he has doomed them all and Rachel, mortal and unreliable according to Annabeth , throws a hairbrush at the literal actual Kronos himself.

On the flip side, Rachel knows for sure that whatever happens with her visions she will always dream of the sea green eyed hero. The images are everywhere. Him fighting, him negotiating, leading, saving them so she draws and draws and hopes it stops.

It has been noted somewhere in the Fandom once that the only reason Rachel was attracted to Percy was because he introduced her to a whole new world as if that isn't reason enough, as if they need a reason. As if it's not happened before with The Sea God and the Queen among mortals.

It doesn't stop for either of them cause now Rachel knows there's a prophecy hanging over Percy's head, and Percy knows she will see its outcome. So they talk of anything but this, whatever they can because neither of them wants to see how it ends, for the world and for them.

Long before Blackjack crashes his hooves on Paul's Prius, he knows it's coming; the end of the world, and it's far too late to look back. He leaves Rachel there because he is never taking her on a mission again, Morpheus knows he has enough nightmares of something happening to her.

Rachel watches him leave as a prickling at the back of her head tells her one of them isn't returning and no matter how wrong it is, she wishes against all odds that it won't be him.

After that, Rachel has only her visions to keep her company. She has started seeing someone's past , it's not his, but if she tries hard enough, she sees him once or twice. She commits the visions to memory, immortalizing them in art.

Percy doesn't speak to her for a good while after that, not because he doesn't want to, he would do anything to speak to her instead of doing this but his life's already forfeit so he might as well save the world. But he doesn't need to speak to her; they talk best in their visions. When of present, they are always of her. He understands why he sees them, for it's necessary to know what she sees, for she can't tell him, but he's glad for the excuse of it. He gets to see her, and he stays sane.

Yup, she's certifiably insane when she gets in a helicopter to see him, but he needs to know.

He was quite prepared for it, his death and her possibly becoming the Oracle later on. He knew it would happen. He is glad in some part of him that he would die long before it comes to fruition, that he would die in a world where they were together.

It would be their shared tragedy, them fulfilling their destinies as he escapes the divine while she ties herself to them.

Rachel had prepared for the same. She could give up over men , she was certain she would never think of them again after Perseus Jackson dies; it would be her eternal mourning and if someone asks she might tell them that the Spirit of Delphi lost her favored hero to her own prophecy.

But Fate's far too cruel.

Rachel is euphoric. He won't die, HE WON'T DIE. He's NOT the hero. The implications don't set in until she is facing him in the Throne room of Olympus. She says the things she doesn't even mean so she can soften the blow. She sees the break in him in his eyes as they share a last glance instead of a last kiss.

It clicks for him after Luke dies a hero. The bittersweet pang of triumph and loss. Blackjack is gone, and she's taken him. He isn't nearly as furious over that as he is about what she is to do.

He doesn't know if the curse is broken for sure, and he definitely doesn't want her to be the test run. Does she not know visions of her ending up like May Castellan are what breaks him in his worst nightmares.

He is the one who sees her take the oath, as she breaks what's left of them. A moment before all things come crashing down, she looks at him, and he looks back. The Oracle of Delphi and The Savior of Olympus have roles to play and loving the other isn't written in fates or destiny but they share one last vision of a perfect kiss as they resign themselves to their fate for the rest of their life; Their destinies forever entwined but never joined.

....Part 2 pending

(Also going to write headcanons of just perachel things and there are many so wait up)

#percy jackson #rachel elizabeth dare #perachel #there will be a part 2 #i want to cover hoo books too #annabeth chase #sally jackson #prophetic percy #sally and poseidon #percy jackson and the olympians #anti percabeth

29 notes · View notes

orionsangel86 · 26 days

Text

If creativity wasn't constantly being stifled by the brainless greed of moronic studio heads at Netflix, and all new shows weren't therefore constantly under the threat of cancellation. This is how I think Sandman should be adapted.

Season 2 - focus primarily on Season of Mists, with one off episodes Song of Orpheus, Thermidor, and A Midsummer Nights Dream, then lead into an adapted Game of You arc which centers around Morpheus (and swaps out some new characters for existing characters like Johanna Constantine).

End this season with Dream entering a relationship after being shaken by having to face his past transgressions with Calliope, Nada, and Alianora all in short succession. Make it clear that this relationship is a bad idea. (Still hoping this is with JC rather than Thessaly).

Season 3 - enter Brief Lives arc. Start the season the way it starts in the comics, a broken hearted Dream floods the Dreaming until Delirium shows up at his door. Expand the arc, bring back older characters instead of continually introducing new ones, and have the season really focus on Dream's mental state.

Sandman: Worlds End Spin off - rather than adapting Worlds End as part of the original Morpheus- centric Sandman adaptation. Have a spin off series released between seasons 3 and 4 that centers around a universe shaking event where people from all across time and space find themselves stuck at the Worlds End Tavern. They tell stories, and each story is played out per episode. A true anthology series where they could bring in famous faces to guest star (like they do with Black Mirror). The spin off ends as the tavern patrons stare in awe at the funeral procession in the sky. Something terrible has happened in this world.

Season 4 - The Kindly Ones. No further explanation really needed. This follows Morpheus's downfall, his path to his doom. Perhaps a show adaptation would be kinder to him, and the other characters? Perhaps there is hope in this particular universe? Whatever happens, we need a full series to truly do this arc justice. End it with a one off feature length episode based on The Wake - and an after credits 15 minute sequence based on Hobs dream to give us a final glimpse of hope through our tears.

Thats how I'd do it, but then again I'm not a Netflix executive with nothing but short term profits on my brain. No room for limitless creativity in this bullshit capitalist dystopia we live in, but a girl can dream...

#my brain is buzzing this morning #and okay i know i know i trust neil #and we still know so little about it #but i dunno im just nervous #im sure I'll love it whatever #i just dont want it to get cancelled before it concludes #the sandman #sandman comic spoilers #sandman speculation

13 notes · View notes

cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Tithe 2/2

Part One

Summary: Younger Gods AU - don't need to read the original fic to enjoy. (But you do need to read part one.)

18+ NSFW

Warnings: Neglect/abuse/manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, SMUT (artisanal?), the whole-ass angst train, needlessly verbose prose for the "aesthetic," potential (minor) S2/comics spoilers

My master list for further reading

Recommended listening: Son Lux "Let Me Follow," and Ghostly Kisses "Blackbirds"

Next on the one shot list is a Hob x reader x Morpheus inspired by a prompt. And Younger Gods, of course. And the new, super-long mystery project.

Any of you lovely fucks want an AU of this AU? Like, with the Tom Ellis Lucifer? Same premise, wildly different story. I kinda want to write it, but I can't promise when it will appear. Let me know if there's an audience or if I should leave it on the back burner until it boils down to sludge.

Part Two

The bread runs out, and then the waterskin goes dry.

Her life becomes an hourglass, slowly draining as she waits to be remembered.

The Morningstar likes her best when she’s weakened, desperate, when there’s nothing but frantic hope left in her eyes, and it all belongs to the ruler of Hell. She hasn’t reached that point yet, but each day brings her a step closer, and if the Morningstar does not come, does not bring light to her cell, she’ll eventually fall beyond even that.

The last drop of water rolls over her parched tongue, leaving a damp trail that sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her cracked lips aren’t bleeding – yet. She’d rather be asleep before they do. This time, she won’t crawl back towards consciousness without a light to follow. Until the door opens, she’s determined to dream. Of all the things she may lose, her misery, her life in Hell is not at risk. But damned souls cannot enter the Dream Lord’s realm.

If she remains forgotten, she’ll lose her meadow and the storms that rush to greet her like old friends she never knew.

Dreams have become a finite resource, and she wants as many as she can hold before they disappear forever. The Dream Lord said he would not take them from her, but death might.

She curls into the dark, face tucked against cold stone, listening to the hollow shadows that keep her company. Until she drifts.

She escapes.

It’s so easy; it never fails to surprise her how quickly and far she goes in the space between breaths. Hell, she’s always been told, is the one place in the universe impossible to escape, but that just isn’t true.

One moment, she waits in the cold. The next, she rests in soft grass with rain washing her clean of cares.

The meadow bursts with life – slow-growing things and skies rolling thick with heavy clouds – all very busy existing. Peacefully thrumming with a green pulse removed from time. Each beat of the space’s verdant heart lasts a moment. An eternity.

She loves every inch of it, and the possibility of losing this home breaks her heart.

For a day, she stays in the grass. Unmoving. Bathing in the rain and the beams from the sun and moon that peek between thunderheads.

Although she imagines his eyes on her, suspects his touch in the rain and his attention in nodding daisies, the Dream Lord only returns on the third day. He did not visit – openly at least – as her rations slowly drained away. She can only guess why, but she sees the question unspoken, the unwanted answer that brought their last meeting to an end.

Maybe he senses the change, the deeper melancholy infecting her place of peace, and it’s called him back like an open wound left to fester.

He still cannot save her.

She knows.

She was the one to tell him, after all.

But when she looks up, knee-deep in the stream with the rain peppering kisses along her neck, she’s glad.

What can he take she isn’t already doomed to lose?

He’s a familiar face now, and she doesn’t have many of those. He stands in her sanctuary, and no bad thing can happen here. She refuses to believe otherwise. She needs faith in something. Her hope in the Morningstar fades in the dark with her half-mortal body, and her grey-sky meadow fills a flaking hollow in her chest.

There’s room in that hollow for him, too.

Her meadow is already a part of the Dreaming, and thus a part of its Lord. She found rest and safety in him before he waited at the edge of the woods, and if he wants to visit the stormy plain while she sleeps, who is she to deny him?

He doesn’t approach, and neither does she. He’s content to watch, studying her leisurely play like her wet ankles will tease out some great mystery, or the grass she weaves into a plait holds terrible riddles. But she only wants to feel flowing water over her skin. She only wants to make something green and fresh into a pretty wreath to set in the rushing stream.

When the sun catches the clouds on fire, and sunset burns hot pink and gold, she settles in a cluster of colorful weeds to wait for the stars. Yellow flowered sour grass, little wild violets, and bristling white clover peep up between her fingers, cushion her head as she lies back.

She feels the Dream King approach more than she hears him. It’s like the wind stops to bow, and his presence fills the little pause in the meadow’s pulse. Sitting beside her, he watches the sky clear. The clouds never hide the constellations when she dreams. They’re too wonderful to hide, even for the most liberating storm.

His eyes mirror the cosmos as he turns to her, enchanting. They should make him distant. Unreachable. But she swears she could name the constellations twinkling there.

“What brought you here?” she asks.

“A part of me has always been here. I am the Dreaming.”

She isn’t sure if he’s being obtuse on purpose, but she can’t remember the last time she felt free enough to ask questions, so she presses it, building a history between the two of them, growing their encounter into a connection.

“The first time I saw you. When you waited by the trees.”

Galaxies comb over her as she rests, looking up at him from the bed of weeds and wildflowers.

“Curiosity.” Honest and simple. It isn’t exactly a vulnerable confession, but he doesn’t have anything to prove to her, and she likes the honesty.

She wonders if it will stretch to the present.

“And this time?”

The light in his eyes sharpens as they narrow. He looks at her like he’s the one who asked the question, hunting for answers behind her eyes.

“Curiosity unsated. And –” He hesitates long enough she thinks he won’t continue, but when he does, his voice has something beyond a ruler’s curiosity, a trace of the stories buried in his gaze during their last encounter softening the words to a rumbling whisper. “Perhaps, concern for a dreamer.”

The last rind of orange sun dips under the horizon, and the stars jump to life, ignoring the twilight. They’re all eager to burn.

She rolls fully onto her back, smiling as she takes his gaze with her, and looks up. How many more nights of dreaming does she have left? How many stars can she count, and if she tallies them all, can she keep them when she goes?

He waits for her answer patiently, as sure and still as the dark he wears so well.

Since he didn’t lie to her, she can’t bring herself to lie to him, either.

“This may be my longest dream yet. And my last.”

She thought he was still a moment ago. But now the dream goes still with him, and he’s a black hole locking the world in his gravity. It’s only suspense. Not suffocation. It draws her without either having to move.

When he breathes again, the stars remember how to twinkle. The stream dares to run.

“Has the Morningstar forgotten you?”

“Yes.” She’s resigned to her death, but she already yearns for all these beautiful things she can’t keep. “I wish this were real.” So she could tuck a flower in her pocket to smell when she wakes. So she could cradle a star in her palms during the coldest nights of her pitch dark cell.

More than anything, she wants the storms to follow her home like a stray dog.

“Your life here is as real as what you feel in the waking world.” He pauses. Corrects himself. “In Hell.”

Her view fogs over, and she blinks quickly, before any tears leak down her face. She doesn’t try to hide the misery in her voice. “That just makes it worse, though.”

A shooting star arcs overhead. Instead of a wish, she pins her fears and regrets to it, hoping it will take them far, far away, leaving her to enjoy however many dreams she has left in peace.

----------------------------------------------

He leaves less and less.

For the first week, he comes every other night. Then he appears with the stars. Eventually, he arrives early enough to see the sun set and lingers long enough to watch it rise again. A growing pattern spreads like a bright stain: the weaker she becomes, the closer he sits. The longer he stays.

Rain still falls, thunder grumbles, and lightning flashes quick as thought. It’s all still her, all still her dream and her place, but she’s dying, and they both know it.

Eventually, it becomes a matter of leaving when he must rather than visiting when he can.

She isn’t sure why he cares. He oversees all dreamers, and the Dreaming expands beyond even those countless billions. She waits for the right opportunity to pose the question – a bright afternoon when the then clouds glow with the sun and dim rainbows hover over the trees. Everything tastes possible.

“I am the Dreaming, but I believe this corner of my realm would crumble away without you.” He buries his long fingers in the grass, tilts his head back to study the gathering clouds. “The meadow is mine, but the storms are yours, and their energy feeds everything that grows here. I could create a facsimile without your rain, but…”

His endless eyes turn to illuminate her, expressing all the dangerous things hanging like forbidden fruit between his words.

It would not be the same.

It would not feel like her.

It would lack the smells and shades of her untrained, demi-god soul.

And he would miss it.

He would miss her.

How should she tell him she will miss him, too?

“Dream Lord –”

He interrupts her. “You’ve given of yourself, and I enjoy your company. Please.” His chin drops so he can eye her through his lashes, and she isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or a dare. “Call me Morpheus.”

Her mouth feels strangely dry as she meets those eyes – dark in spite of the stars they hold. “Morpheus.”

“Yes.” His deep voice drops even lower, pushing her thoughts aside like a puff of dandelion seeds. “What name do you wish me to use?”

The dandelion seeds fly back to the stem and turn to stone. She looks away, humiliated, wondering if he’ll just forget he asked and tell her something new instead. But, patient as ever, he waits, though he seems aware the question wasn’t taken as intended.

She lets the silence sit until it’s awkward, until the shame and horror burn in her throat, begging for some kind of release. The answer chokes its way free.

“People call me things, but I don’t have my name. The fae didn’t think I needed it. The Morningstar calls me Rain. But that isn’t my name.” It all tastes like vomit. Ugly and undeserving of the quiet meadow. He’s given her permission to call him by name, and it’s a wonderful gift, but she can only show her scars to excuse her failure to offer the same. “I have no name to give you.”

That strikes him. When she dares to look him in the face, she sees the empathy. His slackened expression holds no judgement. He doesn’t mock her or take back what he’s shared. Frustration lies in the way his eyebrows pinch, though, and she’s seen it there before.

He’s found a limit to his power, and he doesn’t like it.

This time, instead of placing her alone in the field and leaving, he folds the narrow space between them so she presses into his side, under an arm that brings her even closer.

It’s a denial on his part. Who would dare pluck a dreamer from the defense of the Dream King’s arms?

She chooses to accept his embrace regardless. It’s the first she’s enjoyed in quite some time. The best by far, even if he’s claiming something she hasn’t expressly given permission to take.

With his chin resting on her head, he murmurs, “We shall find it for you, and you will have any name you wish until that day.”

Like she has time to wait. Time and opportunity to search the waking world for the name her mother gifted her.

She doesn’t have the strength to argue. She wonders if he says these things because he knows, too.

----------------------------------------------

The storm rages through the meadow. She feels herself slipping fast, but she irrationally hopes if she pushes more of herself into the dream, some fragment will live on. Morpheus can keep it. He can keep the meadow and the chaotic weather. Her afterlife will keep her away, but she doesn’t want to leave him lonely in a dusty field.

They stand together by the stream because she’s sick of lying down and waiting for the end, even if she feels it biting her heels. She’ll meet death on her own two feet. His arms keep her upright, pulled close to his chest.

Only days left now. Maybe hours. She fights to stay in her dreams, aware of the throbbing headache and spiking pain in her physical belly. It all washes through the link to flesh and bone, echoes that manifest in her dream. She’s lucid enough to recognize them for what they are, and she’s lucid enough to ignore them. She chooses the dream. Considering Morpheus holds her fast, the dream has chosen her, too.

Even in the circle of his arms, remaining takes focus. The discomfort of her living body leaches through and jerks on her tether to wakefulness, demanding she return and suffer in full.

As the Dream Lord holds her, she holds him. Her arms loop around his narrow waist like he’s a tree in the storm that will anchor her against the pull from sleep. Lovers would carve their names into the trunk. Instead, she whispers, “Will you stay? Just a little longer.”

It is all she has left.

He breathes into her hair, and the gust is pleasantly warm compared to the wind. Only a little longer. She imagines his arms cinch just a bit tighter in defiance.

When he speaks, his voice is haggard, the smooth darkness roughed by an unspeakable emotion that has dared touch the Endless. “I will stay.”

He’ll stay until she can’t.

Until the end.

They stay together, breathing in time, pretending the end isn’t galloping towards them. Playing at eternity in cherished silence.

And then –

The door creaks, and she jerks awake. Dim light – still blinding – pours into her cell, framing the winged ruler like the sun.

“My sweet Rain. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

She looks to the light with hope, but it isn’t for the Morningstar. It isn’t for the fire’s warmth or the bland food that will fill her shriveled belly. She hopes to live so she may dream again, bring rain to Morpheus’s lonely meadow.

The months have taken their toll. The Morningstar holds out a hand, calling her to rise and return to her monarch’s side, but her knees fold the moment she tries to stand. And she does try. The igneous rock scrapes her palms as they catch her full weight, and she gasps for breath at the effort.

Even if there is light, she’s still dying. She needs water. Food. It isn’t too late to perish.

The Morningstar sweeps down, not to lift her off the floor, but to hold her chin and force her eyes from the floor. Lucifer’s eyes are hungry on her face. They demand her helpless adoration. Her wild hope.

“You are unwell.” The ruler of Hell says it like someone else left her in her cell for the better part of a year. No responsibility. No guilt. Only feigned concern tender and light as a feather. “We must remedy that.”

Mazikeen helps her up, half-carries her as the Morningstar moves to a table full of food and a tall pitcher full of what she desperately hopes is water. Little chimes ring through the marble hall with each shuffling step. The demon helps her sink to the floor their ruler’s side, her head resting against a knee. Easily within the Morningstar’s reach, angled so her desperation is on display.

As ever, she’s at the Lightbringer’s mercy. Her tormentor is her savior. But that’s only true because she must live to keep her dreams, and there’s a cup of water in Lucifer’s hands.

A ringed hand holds her jaw steady as the goblet nears. “Here. Drink and be well, Rain.” As she swallows, a hand runs over her hair. Torn chunks of bread and grey vegetables follow, taken from the Morningstar’s fingers. She knows how to behave, how to appear thankful and glad when she’s screaming inside. Her dignity died a long time ago. It doesn’t chafe her. But she has someone else’s hands in mind now.

She is still something the Morningstar fears to lose, and the Morningstar has no idea she’s given her hope to another king.

----------------------------------------------

She enters the dream in his arms.

He holds her like he’s been waiting, unmoving since the light of the open door woke her.

They stand in the meadow with the threat of rain carrying across the sky in rolling thunder, and as she finds herself, discovers her balance, his hands rise to her face.

He studies her as he had from the edge of the woods, but it isn’t her actions he marks. Inquisitive stars peer deep to draw out new pain, searching for hurts, asking without words if she is well.

Her hands trace the back of his fingers, wandering to his wrists, over his sleeves and up to his elbows. Then back to his wrists in a soothing stroke.

“I will dream again,” she assures him.

The Morningstar has remembered her. She will live, and she’ll return to this green place in his Dreaming.

His hands shift so his thumbs press on her jaw, tilting her face up to meet him. She expects a word or some nebulous expression she’ll spend her waking hours puzzling over, but he banishes all her expectations effortlessly.

With a kiss.

Silken lips press to hers. A touch. An introduction.

Her heart stalls in her chest as her hands cling to forearms. Holding him close in confusion.

“I thought you lost.” His mouth barely leaves hers, and each word is practically a kiss of its own. “I thought this meadow would languish without the rain.”

Apparently, the grass wasn’t the only thing to grow thirsty in her absence. He barely finishes before he kisses her again. An invitation this time, a call to dance as their lips glide together. Careful touches grow warmer, firmer, and she dares to answer in kind. She’s never been invited to play this game before, but she feels like she’s glowing, like there are no bones or muscle left in her body, only the hazy idea of lightning before a bolt gathers itself.

His hands slip along her jaw so the tips of his fingers can curl into her hair. She has his full attention, the weight of a billion dreams, and she wonders if this will consume her. She entertains a fantasy that he can tear her away from her mortal body, keep her in his soft hands like this forever.

Their lips break apart so he can press his forehead to hers, noses brushing together as he puts together the questions he must ask before he takes more.

“Will you spend this dream with me?” He pauses his thought for the next kiss. It’s quick, but no less sweet. When he pulls away, he leaves enough space to look, to hold her gaze. She sees his need, his hunger, and she hopes he’ll swallow her whole, let her never be lonely again.

“May I show you what it is to be worshipped, little storm god?”

There’s a touch of a growl in his voice, and it carries through her in a delicious shiver. He isn’t the only one who wants, who needs, who hungers. Her hands wander to his chest. Two curious, brazen fingers creep higher to ghost over his lips, trying to discover the secrets behind the blinding power of his kiss. When his eyes flutter shut, bolder hands brush along his eyebrows, down his nose, until he shudders and catches them up in a grip like silken iron.

With more kisses to her fingers, her knuckles, the inside of her wrists, he says, “Please. Give me your words, little storm god.”

Here, in his realm, he’s asking permission. Has anyone ever asked for it before? No. Never. She swells with something painfully bright, and she feels drunk on power. She smells ozone from her lightning.

The feeling burns, fierce and lovely, as she stares into the stars he calls eyes. She doesn’t recognize it. It’s nameless as she is. But she wants more, and if she has to give him every word she’s ever spoken and ever will, she’ll gladly surrender them.

“Yes.”

He slips closer, nuzzling with soft kisses under her ear as he presses her hands against his chest again.

She tries to think of more words – the right words. Breathless, she says, “I’ll spend this dream with you. Please. Morpheus.”

Before she can descend into frantic babbling, he seals her agreement with another kiss. He asks with gentle touches for her to open for him, and she gladly gives leaves for him to take as he wishes, because she’s falling into the sky, and one of his stars burns in her heart.

----------------------------------------------

He pulls night around them like a curtain.

Even the stars disappear behind a thick scrim of cloud cover.

The trees rustle with the breath of a rising storm, and for the moment, their psithurism is the only song in the dream, the only sound as he lowers her into the grass, its emerald flush gone silver in the night.

When he first reclaimed his tools and began the laborious process of remaking his realm, the green meadow had dazzled him. He’d stumbled upon it by chance. Great swaths of ruin and decay gave way to a peaceful storm, and as he’d stepped into her space at the edge of the Dreaming, the rain melted the weight on his shoulders. His power mingled with hers across the landscape, and though he knew all dreamers without stopping to speak with them, he found himself wanting to understand. He wanted the little storm god to look at him and answer his questions.

How could a prisoner of Hell have so much life to share with the world of sleep? Did she know what boon her rains granted the desolate corner of his kingdom?

He approaches her with all his questions, and he finds a lonely demi-god who hardly knows what she is. Her divinity is fact, but it has no influence on her waking hours. It is a gift unconsciously offered, poured into his world to sustain life and passion where all else cracks and decays.

The longing in the dream touches him, a lonesome song of a trapped thing, so he gives her warm sun between the clouds, lets the long grass embrace her and the stream kiss her feet. When he returns, when he struggles to leave, he soothes her with contact she’ll recognize as his embrace. Hands, and arms, and his chin on the crown of her head.

It’s a quiet thing. A balm for a heart that has never been any way but broken. He basks in her relief as she faces an end he unwittingly inspired, and it soothes aches of his own. It goes this way until he craves the little storm god in her meadow – her respite from Hell.

The craving grows in quiet hours and misting rain, fed by the threat of imminent loss. He thinks he has lost her when she fades from her dream, only for an instant, but it’s more than enough. When she returns to his arms, he is decided.

He pours that reverence into every soft touch, each stroke of his lips.

She gives him the words he most wants to hear, and he begins his worship.

When she looks up from her bed of grass and flowers, her expression suggests she’s the one eager to praise, that he is the god deserving offerings. He must show her differently.

He sets a hand on her chest, splayed fingers just reaching her collar bones. His palm drags down as he leans in to claim her lips, splitting her attention as his palm travels between her breasts, down her belly. As his hand returns, he banishes her clothing. His hand rests over her heart, flesh to flesh, and he listens to her waking pleasure through the dream. It’s only an inexperienced whisper, but he will teach it to sing.

Prayers drip from his tongue as he tastes her neck. Her confused, eager hands roam his hair, his neck, the collar of his coat with little noises of joy and frustration. When he smiles, charmed but determined to keep his slow pace, he moves his hand from over her heart to cover a breast. Patience has its rewards, but he will not leave her cold and wanting.

He fills his mouth with her other breast instead of words, and he tastes her heartbeat through the tender skin as he teases her peak into a bud. She gasps and arches, so his free hand slips around to support her back, keeping her near as he begins his feast.

The first sprinkles of rain patter over them, but the storm god panting under him hardly seems to mind, and neither does he. He loves her rain, her kindly chaos.

“Morpheus.”

He answers the summons, returning to her lips as his thumb circles a stiff nipple. Pushing her thighs apart with a knee, he reclines between her legs, giving her time to adjust to the position without feeling exposed. She fills his senses. Petrichor and crushed grass. Moving water and electricity.

There is more of her to have, and he thinks he may combust if he can’t have it all. He breaks their kiss with praises as he works his way down the path his hand took in the beginning. Words feel hollow, beautiful, and good, and perfect – his mouth does a better job expressing his passion when it’s full of her skin.

His hands paint her body with affection. They explore each dip and curve, spread over her back, cradle the dip of her waist, return to her breasts and curl around her hips. He doesn’t give her space or time to grow shy, but he enjoys her yelp of surprise when he swoops low and pulls her knees over his shoulders. A kiss to the inside of her knee reassures her of his intentions, and he moves to her core.

He licks her entrance, and a broken moan rewards him. How sweet. He must discover what other sounds she makes when she isn’t guarding her words and asking careful questions. As free as she believes herself to be, she does not know how to be unrestrained, even in her dreams. That is alright. He will help her.

Every flick of his tongue triggers a gasp. When he takes her clit she whines. Her hips try to dance against him, chasing pressure and release, but he has complete control, which he uses to build a slow pleasure that will shatter her. He wants her to fall apart on his tongue, and Dream of the endless is nothing if not determined.

She comes with a cry that sounds almost hurt, but the dream practically glows with her passion, and the clouds echo her calls with thunder.

He isn’t satisfied, and he pulls another from her, this time beckoning her to the edge of madness with curling fingers in partnership with his tongue. He allows no pain, free to banish any possible discomfort from this encounter. If he ever has her half-mortal body in the Dreaming, he will drag her through hours of bliss until she cannot recognize any pain in their coupling. But that is a concern for another day.

For the time being, he’s happy to grow drunk on her taste.

After she catches her breath for the second time, she reaches for him, and he takes her outstretched hand, pondering how lovely their fingers look laced together as she tugs him back up to cover her so she can rain chaste kisses over his face and down his neck. He’s burning for her, and the ache crawls from his belly into his chest as she puts her lips to his eyes, his nose, his chin.

His clothes melt away, and she explores every inch she can reach with fresh enthusiasm. He kisses her back into the grass, savoring the warm fingertips tracing the lines of his chest, dipping over his stomach.

He gathers her leg to rest over his hip, maintaining the kiss as he presses inside. A groan reverberates through the entire Dreaming, and he bites down on a name he doesn’t know. It has never bothered him so much as it does in that moment.

But her hands are on his face, and her whole form writhes to welcome him.

As he moves within her, he aches to fill her with stars and wishes, to let her breathe her dreams through the desperate gasps billowing over his ear. She clings to him, and he reaches for her heart. Though they are too close for him to even imagine a parting, he kisses his hopes and assurances into her flesh, breathing devotion and faith as the wind sweeps down with the rain to bless their union.

He wants to take everything she naively offers, but he wants to give as well. He wants to search out the name bestowed by her mortal mother and return it. He wants to whisper it like a benediction as he takes her again in the storm, tying them closer with old magic and simple understandings.

She chants his name with dizzying fervor, stoking his desire to find more, to press nearer in every way. Her body offers him the relief of a cottage fire in an autumn tempest, and he throws as much fuel on that fire as he can. As his hips roll to meet hers, he murmurs, “Let me feel you again. Will you give me another? Can you give me more?”

She’s past the point of words. Even his name has fallen from her lips, though he still feels it thrumming in her mind as she flutters around him, approaching the end with the most desperate sounds. He kisses her sternum, just over her heart to ask a boon of the little goddess coming to pieces in his grip.

“Please.”

She remembers how to speak as she crashes through her third high.

“Morpheus.”

What would he give to hear her call him thus every evening? It must be a spell. He prays the magic takes, that it sets around them, binds them like satin cord.

He works back up her throat, hungry for another kiss as his own end rushes near. She accepts him so readily, so happily. Even though she’s exhausted from pleasure, the smile she meets him with has the flavor of spring.

Joined in every way, he shudders with his release, filling her the way her rain filled his heart. Reluctant to leave, he rests above her, within her, as he stills. Quick breaths push her chest against his, and he cradles her blissfully limp body. Her fingers twine through his hair again, soothing, trying to return satisfaction and fulfillment she’s already given him twice over.

Her storm tempers itself. Satiated purrs carry through the sky, and a misting rain glitters on her bare skin, catches in her hair and lashes like jewels plucked from the night sky. Her eyes may as well be moons for the tidal pull they exert over him.

Though he has just had her, has yet to even pull away, he wants more. It’s a thirst he can’t slake, and he marvels at his own sway as she presses into the palm he holds to her cheek.

All too soon, she will wake. In Hell. She will suffer, regardless of the Morningstar’s favor.

There are few hates as strong as the starving man’s as he watches a fool leave all he’s ever craved to rot.

He will not allow it. He cannot bear to as she kisses his hand and glimmers in the sleeping meadow.

“Twice traded storm god,” he murmurs, “should you be willing, I would negotiate a third trade for you, to make you a creature of the Dreaming.”

He watches her face, almost mistakes the tears dripping from her wide, hopeful eyes as more rain. Eager again for her words, he kisses over her cheeks and returns the salt in a searing kiss, branding her with their entwined passions.

He wants all of her. Forever. He tells her as much.

“I would make you mine and keep you.”

If she agrees, she need never disappear from his arms again. He need never worry that the rain will cease. She need not sleep in a cold cell, trapped in the dark alone.

Her acceptance shines in her eyes, haunts the stroke of her hands over his back.

“I would be willing.”

It’s better than an oath, and he knows just how to honor it. He’s more than ready to worship her again.

----------------------------------------------

He sends Cain as his emissary. It’s the first thing he does after he loses the storm god to waking, and he waits on his throne for news, struggling to attend to his duties as he wonders what news his subject will bring.

Will Cain see the storm god, veiled and chained with bells in the corner of the room, or will the Morningstar lock her away again at the first whisper of a guest.

What demands will the ruler of Hell make of him in exchange for the storm god? It is a negotiation he dreads, and not only for the risks he will face. The Lightbringer is often cruel, and the tithe may have to pay for her own freedom in blood. But Morpheus will have her regardless of the Morningstar’s machination. Even if she comes to the Dreaming mauled, he will celebrate her arrival.

Surely she knew the danger when she accepted him?

She is made to weather storms.

He need not fear too much.

Cain returns.

He gives Morpheus a letter from Lucifer Morningstar, formally sealed with wax, written on parchment made from some ancient beast’s hide. Before he breaks open he words, he quizzes his subject. Had he seen the storm god? Was she well? Did the Morningstar intimate violence as it became clear who, in fact, claimed the tithe’s allegiance?

The first murder shakes his head. “She stood in the shadows with the Morningstar’s favorite Lillim. I didn’t even notice her until I said your name and the bells on her ankles trembled.” He hesitates, and Morpheus feels the sun dim behind the throne room’s stained glass.

“What?” he demands.

“The Morningstar – well, the Morningstar smiled.”

Morpheus opens the letter and immediately spots the trap. It is a terrible thing, clearly meant to destroy him. But he doesn’t care. Not as much as he should. And the Morningstar must know it.

It’s less of a letter and more of a will. Lucifer Morningstar has left Hell. The infernal realm and all within is given into the hands of Dream of the Endless.

An impossible burden. An invitation for war and conflict with a dozen of the most powerful entities to ever grow thought.

Yet all he can think of is the door in the royal chambers, and the little god locked behind it.

Cain took a day to travel back, and the storm god is not asleep. He cannot feel her in the Dreaming, and he wonders if she’s hurt, if the pain keeps her from resting. What has the Morningstar done in the hours since handing Cain the message?

He rushes to Hell. He does not pause to enter by the gate, armed with the word of the Morningstar. This time he enters not as a guest but as lord. If any demon dares interfere, he will not regret tearing his way through them.

Word of the Lightbringer’s desertion has already spread, and Hell hums with a particular kind of anxious chaos. Demons press against rules, abandoning their posts in the image of their former keeper. Souls wander, wild-eyed but free for just a moment of their torment.

He cares for none of them.

A few small devils scatter as he enters the Morningstar’s chambers.

The door stands open, the cell empty. Subdued fear crests over him like a wave.

Had the Morningstar simply left the demons to tear into her flesh? Undefended? Screaming as he waited for word to reach him?

He will find her soul and take it away with him, turn her into a true creature of the Dreaming and give her an eternity free of whatever agony the Morningstar had left for her.

One of the devils tries to skitter past him to the door, and he seizes it by the neck.

“What happened here?”

It chitters and croaks, but it is weak, and it bows quickly to Dream’s power. As razor-sharp claws scratch at his hand, it hisses what it knows.

“Ruler summoned fae king. Wanted magic. Wanted potion to stop sleep. Stop dreams. Stuffed it down the tithe-pet’s throat. Took the tithe. Took Rain. Not here. Gone. Gone. Gone. Let me go?”

He throws the twisted cretin across the room, snarling.

Yes. Now he sees why the Morningstar would smile. The little storm god made good bait, even if the former ruler of Hell had no intention of surrendering her.

The eternal ash scratches his lungs, but he can’t help drawing breath after breath, looking for some trace of her as he crouches to touch the floor of her cell.

She met him here.

He wonders if he can feel her hunger and thirst in the stone, her loneliness in the shadows.

She dreamed herself away, and now she will have no escape. Even if she walks the waking world, Morpheus has no doubt the Morningstar will find ways to punish her. And without a realm to govern, there should be plenty of time for torment.

The burden Lucifer so elegantly foisted on him prevents Morpheus from chasing after his little storm god for weeks and months. Time slips by as he sorts through the mess left by the Morningstar’s retirement, and by the time he’s free, she is gone.

He searches the waking world and discovers nothing. No stories, no whispers, no hints. The Morningstar has hidden her well, and he knows better than to ask the Lightbringer to trade a second time.

Months stretch on, birthing new years and decades.

He wonders as he waits in her meadow, still hoping that she will break the magical chains twisting through her mind and dream her way home.

Does she ache for him as he yearns for her?

The grass is turning yellow.

Is she in pain?

The stream runs dry and the bare trees rattle like skeletons when faint breezes disturb the still air.

What else has the Morningstar taken from her in retaliation?

The sun is too bright, and the stars turn dull.

He was right. It is dying without her. Fading around him even as he tries to sustain the place where he kissed her, where they joined and made love for the first and last time.

Morpheus does not give up, but there is no path to follow, and the corner of his world they shared crumbles. She becomes another bleeding scar he cannot staunch, a misery he carries in love.

Perhaps one day. Perhaps by some miracle or mistake they will meet again. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Nothing kills hope, not even when it becomes a knife between his ribs.

He wanders the sea of the unconscious, looking for storms.

#morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #dream x reader

175 notes · View notes

writing-for-life · 5 months

Note

Let's go choose violence:

3, 8, 9, 25 for The Sandman :3c

Rubs hands gleefully…

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

Of course not screenshotting as everyone’s entitled to their opinion, so this is just a thing *I* find hard to understand/get my head around:

“Neil Gaiman ran out of ideas, and that’s why he killed off Morpheus.”

I mean, you could say he wanted to conclude his arc, and with that I agree. And thank fuck he did, because if Murphy were still alive, we would need to suffer the horrible takes that DC has foisted upon us ever since. But it is so completely incomprehensible to me when I read that there was no sign that Morpheus would off himself before World’s End or TKO. That it came out of nowhere, that it made the whole thing completely depressing and insufferable and sends a "bad" message.

It all was right there, from the start. You can’t read "The Sound of her Wings" and not see that he’s absolutely haunted by the narrative, and how much comfort he finds in her. And you don’t need to read the whole thing and then just see it in hindsight (it's something I hear/read quite often). It’s clear as day if you are willing to go down the line of thinking that the Endless aren’t people but concepts. I personally think that’s where people can trip up. And I even get it--of course we want to humanise them because we are human. But they are not. They are mirrors and foils that are supposed to make us think about our own humanity (and we recognise it in them, but that still doesn’t make them human--they just show us human traits and what this mortal coil is about. Carry it and abandon it in equal measures).

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

Everyone apart from me of course 😂

"Hob Gadling is any shape or form the personification of hope, and his sole purpose is to (squee! UwU) save Murphy from his bleak existence".

No he ain’t. Hope is Hope, and she is a little girl (blows a raspberry right in your face). If Hob''s anything, he is humanity in a nutshell: ugly, self-serving, opportunist, but also feeling, caring and redeemable. But especially the first part is harder to woobify.

Did I also mention I have this take that making Dream's relationship to Hob all about romance and sex forgets about the importance of friendship, and why it's actually so important for the plot? Plus, that we have a tendency to erase male friendship and hence lean into toxic masculinity if we make every glance and every touch and every close emotional bond about: "Oh, they want to fuck?", and that's decidedly *not* progressive? Yeah, about that... (ship them, it's fine, no problem whatsoever, just be aware it's not the *only* take, and I will stick my neck out now and say: it won't be canon).

9. worst part of canon

That’s a tricky one because I can make sense of pretty much everything to be fair, but if I had to choose, it’s that Morpheus’ failed relationship to Nada created ripples that basically doomed every black woman connected to his arc (not *all* black women, I think that’s actually a misinterpretation, as is that Morpheus is racist, which he conceptually can't be). And as soon as he’s dead, we get token Gwen who isn’t doomed by the narrative anymore. And said Gwen *really* is a token black woman with no true agency of her own—her entire purpose is to serve the redemption of the slave trader. And that Neil actually confirmed this was *intentional* in The Sandman Companion. I get why he made that narrative choice, but to me, it still looks bad. I have hopes though he moved on from that take and we don’t get to see it in the show (the signs are there, so fingers crossed).

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

Ties in with 3: That The Sandman should have a different, “more hopeful” ending.

But quite a few others:

You *should* write fanfics about XYZ because there’s not enough of it.

You *should* elevate supporting characters to main characters because they are ABC.

You *shouldn’t* focus so much on the main character because he’s a guy/male-presenting (I mean, he’s the protagonist, so there’s that).

You *should* ship m/m because it makes problematic dynamics less problematic.

You *shouldn’t* ship m/f because it’s heteronormative. My favourite: Johanna Constantine is bi, you *shouldn’t* ship her with a guy, because again: Heteronormative. Erm, I hate to break it to people (and speaking from experience): That’s how being bi works, and we like m, f and nb equally? And we happen to want sex with m, f and nb? And we pretty much have blinkers on when it comes to falling in love with a *person*, or what we find hot/sexually arousing? And I swear if I read shit like that once more, I’ll get heteronormative out of sheer spite and will smite people.

You *should* or *shouldn't* ship. Both fine. And/but there's certainly more to The Sandman than blorbofication and allosexualisation of everything.

So yeah, pretty much anything that involves a *should*. You can do whatever the fuck you like as long as you don’t lose your ability to critically engage with it. Plus, the space has to be welcoming for everyone, and that’s sometimes hard for creators and people who don’s serve/like the main flavour. And therein lies the problem, because critical engagement doesn’t always happen, and a lot of good stuff disappears in amongst the noise…

#asks answered #asks #today I choose violence #will it tag this? of course I will >>>#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #hope beautiful lost nebula #nada sandman

11 notes · View notes

azi-sings-calliope · 9 months

Note

Hi! For the “Give Me a Character” Meme, how about Lord Morpheus himself, Dream? 💭

Oooh boy. Oh boy. Thank you so much for asking this, cos this is gonna be a ride.

*spoilers for the entire sandman comics, long post, be warned*

I consider Dream's character to be a can of worms except some are real worms and some are gummies.

In this post I'll talk about themes of what he was owed, what he owed others, hope, and the inherent agony of his existence.

Thoughts on Dream:

I think he was doomed from the start.

So. Morpheus is a character who I consider to be deeply realistic. Now, this is gonna sound strange, but allow me to elaborate.

Dream was created as an embodiment of hope and wonder in a universe that consistently destroys it. (This is just my interpretation). He's told he's omnipotent but comes to learn there are rules that bind him like any other creature.

But he's hopeful. So he forms relationships, loves, hopes, but the universe is wired against him, his function, and by extension, all the Endless.

So, these experiences make Dream bitter. He hates the universe, the mortals that resemble the ones he used to love, and Desire (we know why).

Now, like so many other beings, he's nearly hopeless. He's heartbroken and vengeful and cruel. He throws himself into his work. I think he's never able to do it fully. This is because he doesn't show himself to mortals, tries not to care about them, when his entire existence is meant to help them.

His work and detachment shows him how powerful he is. He becomes entitled, and I think that some part of Dream, whether that be conscious or unconscious (ha), feels as if he is owed something. Owed a stable function, owed some form of compensation for the agony of his existence.

But his work is what he exists for, he cares about it deeply, obsessively. Then he gets captured. In my interpretation, this imprisonment is when he realizes that he will never get compensated. It will always hurt. He's depressed, and hits the point of exhaustion, anhedonia. He realizes he's not invincible, his work can be compromised, he's owed nothing, and he spirals. He's obsessive again, he hunts for his tools, punishes people.

He jumps from obsession to obsession, trying to ward off creeping grief and apathy.

Through the help of other characters and the reality of who he once was, he begins to believe he can change.

He gets faced with his crimes, like Nada, and is hit with who he once was, and does what he can to fix the injustice he committed against her. At this point, he believes in change, in improving himself.

But then shit hits the fan, and in an attempt to help Delirium and Destruction, to get them what they are owed, he has to kill his son.

Orpheus is a point in his past that carries great grief, but moments - which are rare in Dream's life - of love and happiness. And he has to destroy that part. He gave Orpheus what he was owed.

He has atoned for his sins, and in doing so lost what he loved. Those sins always needed to be atoned for, but there was no other way to do it. Which is why I said he was doomed from the start.

His past sins, his change, his obsession with his function have left him hollowed out, exhausted, apathetic. I think of that Bilbo quote, "I feel like butter spread too thinly over bread." I think that's how Dream feels in the end.

As I've said a lot, Dream represents hope in a way. And he lost his hope continuously.

The universe beat him down, he beat himself down, he beat others down to the point he didn't have anything in him left to hope.

He believed he was owed compensation for his pain. He ended up giving others what he owed them.

(I interpret Daniel as a hopeful version of Dream, solidifying the whole hope message of the serious. But considering this is about the Morpheus aspect, I won't get into that here.)

Onto the thing I said at the start about him being realistic, while of course Morpheus' eternal existence is hard to relate to, I look at him, a being in that much pain with that much power, and be unable to do anything about it, and I think, how could you not be like that?

So, to sum up, a character who was destroyed by the universe, became cruel and vengeful, had to atone for their sins which were near inevitable by the very nature of their existence, then had to give up the unimaginable to atone for them, and in doing so lost everything and didn't care, because that was how much Hope lost his hope.

Dream was doomed from the start.

On that cheerful note, onto the other points!

Who I ship him with:

Dream x therapy

I love Morphienne, like I said before, it's just such a beautiful relationship built on trust and mutual respect and admiration I love it so much.

Dream and Calliope, please, they were so cute together before and during Orpheus, and they need to heal together.

And last but certainly not least, Dream x Lucifer. Now I have no platonic explanation for whatever Dreams description of them during Season of Mists was, but there was several layers of grief in that interaction. Plus they have great chemistry.

Non-Romantic otp:

Basically, all the ships but platonic, except Dream x Lucifer. I'm not picky.

But imma be honest and say Matthew, or, hot take, Bast, if she ever got over that crush. I just think their mutual love of cats would be adorable.

Unpopular opinion:

Even though I listed my ships, those are just wishful thinking. I think before Morpheus gets into another relationship, he needs to do some serious self reflection and improvement. I think canon proved jumping into relationships is something Morpheus' has a problem with. I don't think I'll be able to read a fic that immediately starts as a love story, and disregards Morpheus' flaws. (That being said this is just my opinion, all fics are amazing) His problems won't be solved by another person, no matter how cute they are together. He needs to work on himself.

What I wish had happened in canon:

This is actually difficult, because I genuinely think Dream's story is absolutely integral, and his character arc is mapped out exactly how it should be (in my opinion).

However, I wish there was a scene, maybe several, maybe a plotline, of Dream and Calliope working through their grief together. I would also like a scene, in the Kindly Ones, where Dream says goodbye to Lucien/Lucienne, because I think their relationship was too deep for it to go unsaid.

Well, I hope you liked my very cheerful answers, thanks again for asking!!

Note: everything I said was my interpretation or opinion.

#the sandman #dream ask #mild character study?

11 notes · View notes

kitkatpadywaks · 1 year

Text

In Another Universe

Mini-Series: Part 3/?

The Meeting.

Pairing: Morpheus x Fem!Reader

Story: Dancing With The Devil (Alternate path from the end of part 2 of the story onwards)

Warnings: Third Person. Will Mostly Be Referred To As She (Called Y/N When Her Nickname Is Being Used And Will Occasionally Be Called By Her 'Angel' Name). She Has Kids. Daddy Issues. Some Angst. Tension (She's Keeping Secrets and Morpheus Knows It).

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Major Spoilers for the Story (Klaus Mikaelson fic), like this existing spoils the mystery of who my character is as well as her character arc.

This will also be posted to my Wattpad.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N spends the next few weeks waiting. Waiting for the inevitable moment when she's face-to-face with him again. She waits for the Kindly Ones to tell them how to get into his realm, Dream's realm.

His name makes her shiver as she paces around the apartment. Like she had been doing since she got back from meeting Raphael's history professor friend who isn't a friend, Hob Gadling. Who she could tell was hiding something. Which she hopes is something painfully human as she knows her brother likes him, if his constant blush was anything to go by.

Oh fuck, I hope I don't look like that when I'm around Dream. She pauses her pacing when she hears the door open and close, looking at her brother in confusion when he appears in the kitchen where she stopped her pacing. "I thought you where staying with Hob for a bit longer?"

Raphael stares at his sister not knowing what to tell her, before deciding it's best to just tell her the truth, "I was, but an old friend of his turned up and I wanted to let them catch up."

She eyes her brother knowing there's more to the story, "But?"

"It was him..." He watches the confusion cross her face, then the understanding "Yeah, it was an awkward and long conversation. Cause it turns out, Hob is immortal and they've known each other for over six hundred years!"

She barely processes the information before Raphael is speaking again.

"And the Kindly Ones said to follow your instincts and they'll lead us to Dream's realm."

"Okay..." she stops him from walking away, "what happened with Hob? Did..."

"I kind of just went, 'Huh' and walked away. Then I ran into the Fates and came back here."

"You need to talk to him." She holds her hand up to stop him from interrupting her, "But for tonight, we'll eat, watch some films and then you're going to bed. Okay?"

Raphael nods, "But what am I going to tell him? 'Yeah. Hi. I'm your soulmate but get this. I'm from another universe so our relationship is doomed.'" He throws his hands into the air, groanng.

She snorts, ignoring the sting of their reality as her eyes tear up. "Maybe not that." She grabs his arm, dragging him into the living room. "Choose what we're going to watch, I'll grab the snacks."

She walks back into the kitchen and leans against the fridge as she tries to stop the tears from flowing down her face. After taking some deep breaths, she composes herself and grabs the bags of snacks she picked up from the shop on the way back from the pub. She walks back into the living room, determined to forget their inevitably doomed relationships.

The siblings decide to wait a few days before attempting the journey to Dream's realm, mostly based on Raphael wanting to be in a better mood and therefore more polite. Y/N gives him that as she knows it will be needed and she will be her usual self no matter how much time she may take to try and be otherwise.

She waits in the alleyway near their apartment for her brother, kicking around a can as she had been doing for the last five minutes, tensing up when she hears footsteps coming down the alleyway and relaxing when she sees her brother.

"Ready?"

She raises an eyebrow at him to which he just shrugs, releasing his grey wings from his back. She does the same, putting up a hand for him to wait as she takes a deep breath, trying to allow her instincts to take over. She stretches her wings briefly before taking off into the sky, Raphael following close behind her as she just flies, not thinking as she lets her wings and instincts lead the way. She closes her eyes, enjoying the feeling of the wind flowing through her feathers and her braided hair. Her eyes flutter open as she feels herself going through something. The feeling is not unlike when she goes through the rifts she makes to travel through universes, but softer, almost.

"Woah."

Her brother's quiet voice reaches her ears as she takes in the same thing he's seeing. The vast colourful land and the endless black beach, separated by gates that look giant even high in the sky. Raphael gestures towards an area of the beach that sits in the middle of the two different gates. She glides down onto the black sand, her powerful wings making it fly around her as she lands.

"Which one do we take?" Her brother asks as he lands behind her.

Their wings recede into their backs as she leads them to one of the gates. It opens as they draw near, revealing a woman with dark skin peering at them over round spectacles.

"Welcome to The Dreaming." She greets them with a polite smile.

They walk the long distance to the palace with the woman who introduced herself as Lucienne. The siblings walk along the path, greeting and being introduced to The Dreaming's residents they come across. Lucienne tells them about The Dreaming as they go, including what the function of the two gates is. The pointy-eared woman lets them know that the gate they went through, the gates of Horn, tells Lord Morpheus that they mean no harm to the realm and its resident. Which would have told him the opposite if they went through the other gates, the gates of Ivory.

She exchanges a look with Raphael, both finding it amusing that she had implemented something similar in Hell nearly twenty years ago so she could weed out who would be a threat to her daughter, Evie, who she was forced to raise in Hell, away from her little sister and her father.

They walk under the front gates of the palace, the siblings looking up at the living stone guards, the Gryphon, the Wyvern, similar looking to the one that watched over and protected her daughter in her universe, and the Hippogryph all watch the siblings walk into the home of their sovereign.

Lucienne leads them through the palace, through all the corridors until they stand in front of a set of doors, which open on their own when Lucienne knocks. They enter a large room, Raphael taking in the structure as Y/N stares at the man standing on the stairs leading up to a throne. They stop in front of the stairs, the siblings bowing simultaneously, feeling his inquisitive gaze. She locks eyes with the man she now knows as Dream or Morpheus, searching his expressive blue eyes while his face remains emotionless, much like her own. She is only distantly aware of Lucienne introducing him, coming back to the present when his gaze drifts over to her brother, her head turning to look at Raphael.

"It's an honour to be welcomed into your realm, Lord Morpheus. I am Raphael and this is my sister..." he hesitates

"Lucy. We've met." His eyes flicker to her and then back to her brother.

"Right." Raphael chuckles, Morpheus's intense gaze making him shift on the spot.

"Why have you sought an audience with me."

She looks up at Morpheus, "The Kindly Ones told us you may be able to help us."

He looks at her, a shiver going down his spine from hearing her voice for the first time. "And how might I do that?"

"We're looking for our father." Raphael buts in, "He's been rather difficult to pin down."

"Your father?" He questions, "Why?" Morpheus narrows his eyes at her, taking in her caution, and her pain. The pain he's felt since he first laid eyes on her, that he didn't realise was hers until that very moment. He could feel how cruel life had been to her.

She takes a deep breath as she looks at her brother. He returns the look, letting her decide what to tell him. She lets her instincts take over, glad that they don't seem to be marred by Morpheus. "Well, the short version is, he's dangerous and powerful. And he will do anything to keep that power, he has and he will threaten people and he'll kill them if he even thinks they're a threat. He won't stop, not unless we find him and bring him to justice. For everyone's sake. For every universe's sake."

"Every universe's sake?" Lucienne speaks from her position next to the stairs.

She looks at Lucienne, "We're from another universe. And we've been chasing our father across... I don't even know how many, universes. What I do know is, we have to be careful. If he knows we're in the same universe as him, he will move on and we'll have to start all over again."

The silence that follows makes her nervous, even more so when there's a tug in the back of her mind. She blocks it, glaring at Morpheus as his eyes momentarily flash silver, telling her that he knows she's holding something back.

"What do you need from me?" He asks hesitantly, letting her keep her secrets. For now.

Raphael opens and closes his mouth as he tries to think, frowning at his sister when he comes up with nothing. The Angels had no idea why the Kindly Ones had sent them to The Dreaming.

"What do you do? What are your powers?" She asks, figuring it was a good place to start.

"I hold the collective unconscious of every living being capable of dreaming. Controlling their dreams. Watching over them as they sleep. Though I'm not sure that includes your father, if he's anything like you described."

The sibling raise their eyebrows at him, as neither of them expected that answer.

Y/N's mind whirs around with thoughts, "It shouldn't need to." She ponders out loud, turning her head to look at her brother to see if he's on the same line of thought she is. He isn't, judging from the confusion on his face. "Our father can't resist boosting his own ego."

Raphael's face lights up with understanding.

"Miracles." The siblings say simultaneously.

She looks at Morpheus once again, "Has anyone been dreaming of, friends or family's miraculous recoveries from illnesses or someone saving them from certain death. Stuff like that."

There's a beat of silence, "I can't recall anything you have described."

She purses her lips, Morpheus's eyes flickering down to look at them. "Is there a way I can search through the dreams? I may be able to spot his influence where you can't."

He looks at her incredulously, "And what makes you think I would allow you to enter the minds of the dreamers?"

Her pride bristles at the question, before her common sense kicks in and she deflates. He has no reason to trust her, whether she passed the test at the gates or not, he knows she's hiding something, something big. She knows he can sense it, thanks to their bond, even if it has yet to be completely fulfilled.

"Because of what you feel..." Raphael blurs out, hoping his sister is right about them being soulmates, even if he doesn't believe it as he remembers when Klaus died. How much pain his death caused her, how much she went through to see him one last time, physically and mentally.

Morpheus's head snaps towards Raphael, his face darkening.

"The way every nerve lights up when you're in the same realm, the way you can't stop thinking about him... her!" Raphael's face flushes slightly making his sister smirk at him, "You know she doesn't mean any harm to your realm or the mortals. We're just here for our father and then we'll leave and you don't have to see or hear from us ever again."

The silence that follows weighs heavily on everyone in the room, even Lucienne starts shifting in place. Y/N examines Morpheus's face as he continues to stare her brother down, feeling as he tugs on their connection, as he confirms what he refuses to admit to himself, what he knows to be true.

"I will consider it. For now, you may search for your father in the library." Morpheus doesn't voice his displeasure at the thought of her leaving, of never seeing her again. His heart constricts as he thinks about how he can extend her stay, if he even should.

The siblings don't voice the question on the tips of their tongues, instead, they bow in respect and follow Lucienne as she leads them through a side door in the throne room, Morpheus's burning gaze following them until they're out of sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading!

25 notes · View notes