#sandman fic
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It's kind of annoying that of the 4,000 Dreamling fanfics, 85% are about Hob rescuing Dream. I've never seen a fandom with so little variety. I need more alternate universes, where are the cowboys, astronauts, college AUs?
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──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]
summary: "We begin... with a spin."
pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader
wc: 16.2k+
warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)
notes: all good things come to an end : )
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That
1:32 ───|────── 4:55
part one | series masterlist | ao3 |
PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.
“Who are you?”
“I am Destiny of the Endless.”
“And who am I?”
“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”
“Why?”
“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”
“Why?”
“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”
“Why?”
“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”
.
“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”
Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”
He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.
“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”
Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”
Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well.
“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”
Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”
She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”
Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”
“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly.
Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome.
“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”
“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”
Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”
Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead.
“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”
You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?
You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right.
Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check.
“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”
Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”
Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.”
Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context.
“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”
Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”
These damn Constantines.
The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”
You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in.
Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”
Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”
“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”
You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.
“Can it be done?” you bite out.
Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.”
Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking.
Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”
The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”
.
Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—
“Make it stop, make it stop—”
It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.
.
A thousand reflections stare back at you.
“Coward.”
“Traitor.”
“Murderer.”
“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”
Do it, do it, do it—
A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch.
No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms.
.
Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace.
A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you.
“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”
No reply.
But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope.
A beautiful dream.
.
“Who did you say you were again?”
Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face.
“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”
“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”
“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”
Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds.
It’s answer enough.
Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”
The demons make good on that order.
.
Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat.
“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.
“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”
Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”
Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?
You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock.
“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing.
“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”
The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”
“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”
Your companions speak simultaneously:
“Why?”
“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?”
Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it.
You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently.
“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”
Somehow.
“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”
Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”
Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”
“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look.
You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”
“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns.
Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean.
“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them.
Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”
The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”
“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.
Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest.
You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction.
“Wait, wait…”
You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you.
“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”
If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable.
But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread.
“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”
“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”
You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.
Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”
.
The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades.
Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this.
They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”
Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones.
He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you.
“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves.
Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now.
Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”
Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”
Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green.
“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”
“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”
“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”
Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds.
“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”
Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”
Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up.
Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”
Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm.
“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”
They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now.
Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”
Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”
Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach.
It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it.
“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”
Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition.
“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns.
Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”
Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”
“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”
Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”
Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop.
“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”
Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”
Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either.
But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood.
As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”
Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”
You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny.
Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”
This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye.
“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily.
Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close.
“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”
And then…
The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed.
There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—
Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—
Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire.
“Desire, no—”
“Stop—”
“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”
“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”
Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—
“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”
Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now.
“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”
Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing.
Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been.
You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.
“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.
Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement.
Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”
His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”
“Can you…?”
Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.
“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”
Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both.
You thought… you were foolish enough to assume…
How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need.
You had foolishly believed you were friends.
Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice.
“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”
Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”
A bit of fun.
Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence.
“Fun.”
The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired.
It makes it worse. So much worse.
“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”
Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto.
“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”
Destiny says nothing.
You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.
“Wanderer—”
You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”
Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”
A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of.
He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching.
Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.”
No one laughs. No one responds.
Only a bit of fun.
“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.
For once, the curse listens.
.
Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia.
Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.
Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first.
“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”
Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned.
Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another.
When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body.
A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there.
Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing.
Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.
“Can I help you?”
You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak.
“No.”
You turn to go.
“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”
Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw.
“No,” you repeat.
The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood.
“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly.
Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you.
Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice.
Fine. You’ll find another way.
Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.
He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach.
And then, impossibly, you see him.
A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you.
“Corinthian.”
The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion.
Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears.
Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”
A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief.
Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”
“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”
The ring. Of course.
A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.
And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you.
The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.
“What are you doing?” you ask at last.
There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you.
“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly.
“No. You’re hurting them.”
Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”
A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”
Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents.
“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”
Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”
A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk.
“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”
Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you.
There’ve been times—
You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there.
He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you.
“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”
“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”
His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”
“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”
Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”
“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”
You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence.
“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”
“What did you do to yourself?”
Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood.
“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”
Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey.
“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”
“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”
He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.
“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”
Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”
Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his.
“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”
And then, through horror, darkness closes in.
.
Motion.
“Who is that?”
A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar.
“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”
“But I thought—”
Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension.
“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.”
Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe.
“Cori…”
“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”
You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”
“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”
Then nothing.
.
Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—
.
Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—
.
Blank page.
Blank page.
Blank page.
And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction.
“My lord.”
Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.
Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her.
“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”
.
You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase.
An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm. Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest.
The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?
Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.
You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…
“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”
Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable.
With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step.
Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed.
Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light.
Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”
“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”
Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.
“No!”
You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from.
Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”
His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life.
“No! No, no.”
Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—
Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also.
Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”
Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear.
“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”
Everything.
Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle.
“What are you doing?”
Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely.
Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”
You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone.
Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening.
“You’re bleeding.”
He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole.
.
Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again.
The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep.
You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now.
“You mourn him.”
You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him.
He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…
Sad.
There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you.
“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass.
Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere.
“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”
It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life.
“But you mourn him still.”
Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless.
“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained.
Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”
Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream.
Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet.
“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.
Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains.
“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”
Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”
“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”
You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”
Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse.
Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.”
Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”
Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth:
“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”
You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light.
“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”
Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”
Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need.
In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord.
.
“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”
Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests.
Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”
Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”
He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…
He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils.
“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”
A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream.
“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?”
A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”
“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply.
“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”
“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”
His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions.
“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”
“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”
Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away.
He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”
Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”
“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”
Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”
“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”
And then he’s gone.
.
Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.
You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent.
The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase.
“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”
Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.
Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”
Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”
No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm.
“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”
To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.
“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”
You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”
Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”
The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept.
“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”
Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.
“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”
Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.
“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.”
The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”
And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched.
But not this time.
“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”
The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words.
“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out.
He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape.
“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”
Madness and despair.
Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”
All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?
“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”
Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”
“Challenger of the Unknown.”
Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.
“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”
But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to.
“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”
There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is.
The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.”
Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.
“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”
You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”
His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway.
You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”
Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another.
“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures.
Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”
Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits.
“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”
“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”
Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show.
“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”
“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”
.
“Happy Dreamfall.”
Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet.
“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”
Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here.
Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.
“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.
Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”
Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word.
“Are you well?”
Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor.
“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”
Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused.
Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”
Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true.
Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.
“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.
His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin.
“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”
Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes.
“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly.
Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”
Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.
“Giving you my present.”
With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps.
“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”
Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”
It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point.
“Dream this is…”
The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it.
“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”
“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.
“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”
Your brows crease. “Time for what?”
Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity.
Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.
“We begin… with a spin.”
Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping.
“Dream. I…”
He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”
Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths.
But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier.
You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact.
He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you.
“Describe it to me,” he prompts.
Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation.
“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”
Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon.
“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”
Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.
“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”
Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”
And then stillness.
The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed.
Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand.
Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…
Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you.
You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand.
“Hi. There you are.”
Nothing, then…
Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile.
“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.
Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”
With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you.
“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”
His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”
You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure.
Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare.
But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke.
Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze.
He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”
Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.
“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”
Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—
Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—
A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”
With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”
A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”
You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.
You consider him for a moment.
“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly.
Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger.
You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous.
His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely.
“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly.
The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.
“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”
He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.
“Always.”
.
Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.
“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”
The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”
A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”
Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.
“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”
Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”
In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”
You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”
Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”
There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it.
You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”
You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists.
Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”
You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”
Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair.
“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”
Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…
“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”
“It would sadden my creations—”
“I’m asking you.”
Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it.
“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”
Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”
“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”
You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it.
“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”
He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”
Those unadorned words devastated you.
Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”
But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him.
“I’ll seek a way,” he avows.
“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”
Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment.
“Yes,” Dream replies.
You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him.
“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”
“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”
“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”
Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety.
A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse.
Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”
“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”
His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”
“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”
His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale.
“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”
You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”
“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”
Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease.
“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”
Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.
“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”
You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”
In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you.
Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference.
Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face.
It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”
an:
Never apologise, never explain.
I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.
Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ
#the sandman#dream of the endless#dream x reader#morpheus x reader#sandman x reader#the sandman netflix#sandman imagine#morpheus imagines#morpheus x fem!reader#dream x fem!reader#sandman fic#fanfiction#sandman netflix#sandman neil gaiman#morpheus fic#dream fic#tom sturridge#fic: today i bury you in me
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I wanted to write a little something more detailed based on this lovely ask, so I did - I'm afraid it's not very much, ironically because I'm very much struggling with my own Hypermobility at the moment! But I hope it'll bring joy, nonetheless <3
Love is Stored in the K-Tape
(550 words, rated M, no major warnings apply)
“You know, darling, it wouldn't hurt you to buy k-tape in a colour other than black.” Hob muses – measuring up the tape against Dream’s ankle and then cutting the strip. Dream huffs, and kicks his foot very lightly against Hob’s hand.
“Because the supposed flesh colour is so close to the colour of my skin.” Dream's tone practically drips with sarcasm. And all Hob can think is – he's adorable. Beautiful. An absolute brat.
“Well yes, it would look more like orange against your skin. But the blue would match your eyes so beautifully!” Hob picks up the last strip of tape and peels the back part away. He holds Dream’s ankle, taking care that the joint is comfortable, and applies the tape to the velvety pale skin. A quick kiss to the joint seals the process. “There we are, love. Is that alright? Not itching or creasing too much?”
Dream rotates his foot and gives a regal nod in response. Both of his ankles are taped, as is the outside of each foot (this part is to keep his toes from popping out of place). His right knee has been decorated too. Hob runs his finger over each piece of tape, and then leans in to kiss each one too. Hearing Dream’s little hum of satisfaction after each kiss brings a smile to his face.
“Thank you.” Dream eventually murmurs, when Hob has finished the tour of his joints. He tangles his fingers up in Hob’s hair and tugs affectionately. “For all that you do for me.”
Hob crawls up the length of Dream’s body to kiss him properly on the mouth before replying. “I can promise you that there's literally nothing else in the world that I'd rather be doing.”
“Even so…” Now Dream is blushing, just a little bit. It makes him look delightfilly radiant. He nudges his nose against Hob’s cheek. “Perhaps. I am becoming spoiled.”
“And perhaps. Spoiled is exactly how I want you.” Hob is half teasing, copying Dream’s intonation and the seriousness in his voice. But really Hob is the one who is quite serious, at least about this. He likes Dream to have expectations and demands of their relationship. It makes him feel like he's doing something right.
Dream only says “hmph.” And goes right back to pulling Hob’s hair. Hob has never been more enamoured with anything. He may be, he is willing to acknowledge, a tiny bit obsessed with Dream. This is what he wants: to be allowed to care for his lover and to make sure that he can enjoy sex without pain. It doesn't seem like too much to ask for.
“Darling.” Hob nuzzles into Dream's oh-so-soft neck, licks the flutter of his pulse, and fails to stop himself from smiling. “Do you think that I could make love to you, now?”
Another one of those beloved regal nods. Dream’s hand slides down from Hob’s hair to the pelt on his chest, and he tugs on that instead. “I will be most disappointed if you do not, after all that effort.”
Hob has no intention of disappointing Dream ever, let alone this evening. And so he sets the tape and scissors carefully aside, to devote every ounce of energy and attention to his unique and utterly perfect Dream.
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The Sandman Works Masterlist
Hello there! I figured it was about time that I made a comprehensive list of all my fics set in the world of The Sandman so here it goes ❤️
Remember Me, Special Dreams
Table of Contents and Playlist - Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Warnings: language, angst, mentions of graphic night terrors. Smut in later chapters.)
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Sometimes It's Fated
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 Coming Soon
Self-insert. AFAB reader. Dark Morpheus. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark Morpheus, smut, possessive behaviour, voyeurism, dub con/non con.)
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One Shots
Healed - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You hurt yourself at home and Morpheus tends to you. (Warnings: injury, blood.)
Fever Dream - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You develop a flu-like illness resulting in fever dreams. Morpheus helps you with the nightmares and cares for you. (Warnings: sickness, nightmares, physical intimacy.)
Decisions - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You and Morpheus are due to attend an Endless family gathering and you ask Morpheus for points on what to wear. (Warnings: physical intimacy, suggestive themes.)
Low - Angst/comfort. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus attempts to bring comfort to a dreamer who is managing depression, while in his cat form. (Warnings: angst, talk of depression.)
Autumn - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus has made you a dream based on one of your favourite things and you explore it together. (Warnings: physical intimacy.)
Don't Stop - Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up... (Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut.)
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#the sandman#the sandman 2022#the sandman netflix#sandman#sandman fic#the sandman fic#fanfiction#the sandman imagine#morpheus#morpheus x reader#morpheus/dream#morpheus/dream x reader#dream#dream x reader#dream of the endless#dream of the endless x reader#the dreaming#the endless#tom sturridge#sandman smut#dream smut#dream of the endless smut#sandman x reader#fluff#angst#comfort#sandman masterlist#the sandman masterlist#saskia writes sandman
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Endless Rapture
Pairing: Morpheus x wife!reader
Summary: You've been having difficulty sleeping and despite the fact that your husband is the lord of dreams, you've refused to allow him to help you sleep. He doesn't understand why...and you're afraid to tell him what you truly need.
Warnings: Angst, smutty smut smut. Morpheus is freaking perfect in this one and I should be ashamed (I'm not). Teeeeeensy bit of dom/sub vibes, oral (M receiving), unprotected sex (P in V).
A/N: Inspiration came from a line straight out of the graphic novel...you'll know it when you see it. Hope you enjoy!
Morpheus felt you enter the library before he heard your soft footsteps on the marble floors. He looked up from the book he was reading to acknowledge your presence. "You should be in bed, beloved," he said gently.
You moved closer, stopping on the other side of the table he was sitting at, arms tugging your robe more tightly around you to keep out the chilly night air. Your feet were tucked into fuzzy slippers, the only part of you dressed properly for walking about the palace at night. "I had trouble falling asleep."
"Again? Darling, if you would permit me to--"
"No, Morpheus, I am quite alright. I do not wish to use magic every time I struggle to sleep."
He sighed. "What is the point of being married to the lord of dreams if he cannot provide you with some magical perks?"
You chuckled lightly. "While I appreciate your 'magical perks', I do not enjoy running to you every time I am in need."
He shook his head. "That is the point of marriage, is it not?"
You looked down at the ground and shifted your weight back and forth, a clear sign that there was something on your mind you were holding back.
"My love? What troubles your mind?"
You looked up at him, voice barely above a whisper, "Perhaps it is nothing more than the cold of an empty bed."
Morpheus frowned, beautiful orbs sparkling in the soft lighting. "Do you wish me to come to bed?"
You nodded, but he could sense your reluctance and discomfort in admitting it.
"Is this what has been bothering you these last several nights?"
You nodded again, not quite meeting his gaze. "I did not wish to bother you."
He looked surprised, and perhaps a little hurt. "You could never bother me, beloved. I always have time for you."
"I know you are busy," you began, "and it is unfair for me to pressure you into lying in bed beside me, simply so I can rest more easily. It is not as if you need to sleep, my lord."
"What I need is for you to be content and at peace, which it is clear you are not," he looked down at the book he was reading and a small frown appeared on his face. He knew he needed to finish his work, but his heart ached to be with you. He sighed deeply. "I am sorry, my love. I must finish this before I can join you."
You hummed lightly, knowing that was likely to be his response. "That is alright, my lord. I have but one request before I return to our room."
"I should love to hear it, but only if you grant me my request first."
You raised an eyebrow at him, but inclined your head, indicating your willingness to listen.
"I should like it if you dispensed with the formalities. I much prefer when you call me by my name, not by meaningless titles," he said warmly, a gentle smile gracing his lips.
You smiled in return. "I suppose I can do so for you, Morpheus."
"Much better," he said. "Now, darling, what is it you wish for?"
"A kiss."
"Oh? Just a kiss?" he asked softly.
You nodded. "Perhaps it is all I need to ease my mind and allow me to rest."
He smiled warmly and rose from his seat. "How could I deny such a simple request?" He stepped around the table and moved towards you.
You looked up at him, the love and affection you felt was reflected back in his own gaze. He very tenderly placed his hand against your cheek, cradling your face in his palm. His other hand landed on your waist, allowing him to pull you in closer.
He slowly lowered his lips to yours, eyes fluttering closed as soft lips collided with yours. The kiss was sweet, gentle, full of a love deeper than the deepest oceans.
Your hands involuntarily lifted to touch his face, pulling him somehow even closer to you. He leaned into your touch and his lips parted slightly, enough to allow your tongue entry. It was not a fight for dominance so much as a graceful dance between two lovers; lovers who were equal in all the ways that mattered.
Morpheus felt his resolve weakening as the kiss turned more passionate. He could not bring himself to pull away from your lips, nor tear his hands from your skin. He could feel your heart beating in time with his own, essentially making up his mind for him.
You felt a soft breeze graze your heated skin as Morpheus slowly broke the kiss. Your eyes fluttered open and you realized you were no longer in the library. Directly behind your husband was the bed you shared, shrouded in the gentle light of the moon peaking through the window.
"Morpheus? What of your work?" you asked tentatively.
"I am certain my work will remain there until tomorrow. I wish to spend tonight in your arms."
You let out a quiet gasp, unaccustomed to the dream lord abandoning his work for you. You could not deny, however, that it was a welcome change. "How could I deny such a simple request?" you asked softly, echoing his earlier words.
Morpheus smiled warmly, pulling you back into him. "You may always deny me, beloved, though I hope you never have cause to."
"Never," you whispered as you reached up to pull his face back down to yours.
The kiss was twice as passionate as before, now fueled with a mutual desire more powerful than love alone. He realized, belatedly, that perhaps this is what you had really wanted. Another request he would never deny you, had you been comfortable enough to ask him.
"Beloved," he whispered against your lips. "What is it that you want?"
You pulled away from him in confusion, unsure of what he meant. "I--I do not understand..."
He ran his hands down the curves of your torso, settling comfortably on your hips. A quiet dominance oozed from his body, as it always did, but his control was not what you had in mind.
"May I be in control tonight?" you asked softly.
If anyone else had asked him, he would have immediately refused. Control was not something the dream lord gave up easily, but he found it immensely more difficult to refuse you. "I...you have...I do not recall you ever making such a request before."
You could sense his discomfort, so you began to backtrack. "We do not have to. I would never wish to make you uncomfortable--"
"Hush, darling," he said gently as he placed a single delicate finger to your lips. "It is something new for me, that is all. I wish to indulge all your fantasies...you only need tell them to me."
You nodded. "Even if it is only for a short while, I would very much enjoy taking the lead."
"I am yours to command," he murmured.
His words gave you the power you were so desperately craving; a power you would never abuse. "Remove your clothes and lie down on the bed," you said firmly.
He raised his eyebrows at your authoritative tone, but he did as you requested. He was slow to remove each article of clothing, brilliant starlit eyes never leaving yours. Once he was completely bare before you, he laid himself down on the bed, waiting for your next command.
You were much quicker to remove your clothing (though you did have much less on in the first place), and you climbed onto the bed beside him.
He waited with anticipation for your next move, the suspense only intensifying his arousal.
"I have two rules, my love," you said gently, fingers gently gliding down his chest. "The first is you are not to move unless I give you permission, understood?"
Morpheus nodded, but almost yelped in surprise when you grabbed his jaw gently, but firmly. "Words, Morpheus," you insisted.
"I understand," he said, voice deeper than normal.
You always loved hearing his voice, but it was moments like this, when his voice was deeper and thick with arousal, that you found it almost impossible to focus. You did your best to rein in your own desire, a mask of authority and control covering your beautiful face.
"The second rule is likely to be much more difficult for you," you murmured softly, leaning in to speak into his ear. "No matter what, no matter how badly you may want to, you cannot, at any time, touch me without my permission." You punctuated the end of your sentence with a gentle bite to his earlobe, eliciting a groan from his throat.
"Beloved, I--I am unsure I can abide by such a rule."
"I would suggest doing your very best, Morpheus, as the consequences for disobeying me will be most unpleasant."
His breathing was already labored and you had done nothing but speak to him and touch his body gently. You could see the desperation in his eyes and you reveled in it. "Do you understand, darling?" you asked.
"I understand."
"Good. Your obedience will be rewarded."
You quickly straddled his hips, pinning his body beneath yours. You started slow, placing kisses gently onto his face, careful to avoid his lips. As you began to trail down to his neck, he let out a soft whine, a noise that both surprised and aroused you. You knew he wanted you to kiss his lips, but you had other plans.
You continued to kiss the column of his throat, leaving gentle bite marks in your wake, marking his skin in a way you so rarely did. A sign of ownership that he would wear with pride.
Your hands roamed his chest and abdomen, enjoying the feeling of his silky skin beneath you, reveling in the tightening of his muscles as your skin grazed his. Your lips traveled down his chest, moving quickly to his abdomen, stopping just before you reached his erection.
He shifted slightly, clearly wanting to move, but he knew better than to try. Your eyes lifted to his in warning and he winced apologetically. You kept your eyes locked on his as you let out a warm breath against his sensitive skin.
He gasped and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment before opening again. He watched as your tongue slowly glided up the underside of his member, the need to feel your mouth on him becoming more intense. "Please," he murmured. "Do not tease me."
"You are in no position to make demands, Morpheus."
He groaned in frustration, but made no further comment. His eyes once again fixated on your mouth as you slowly lowered your head down to take as much of him within your parted lips as you could. A soft moan left his lips as he was enveloped in the wet warmth of your mouth.
When you began to move, he found it much harder to contain himself. His hips were desperate to move, his fingers craved to wrap themselves in your hair, but instead he clutched the sheets in his fists and kept his body as still as he could. Every move you made felt incredible, a continuous feeling of immense pleasure coursing through his veins.
You moaned slightly around him as you continued your movements. Your lips tightened slightly and you began to move faster, your hand aiding in providing pleasure to what you could not contain within your lips.
Morpheus moaned deeply and his hand entangled in your hair, the blinding pleasure causing him to forget your commands.
You stopped moving immediately, releasing him from your mouth. He whimpered at the loss of contact, but when his eyes met yours, he realized what he had done. He quickly removed his hand from your hair and placed it beside him on the bed. "I am sorry, my love. I--I could not contain myself."
Your expression was stern, but your eyes were soft and adoring. "I am pleased you are enjoying yourself, Morpheus, but that is no excuse to ignore my instruction."
He nodded. "It will not happen again."
"Good," you said before lowering your head to take him into your mouth once again.
This time, he was true to his word. Despite the indescribable feeling of your mouth around him, he did not touch you again. His moans were like music to your ears, encouraging you to continue your movements.
When he was close to the delicious feeling of release, you lifted your mouth off of him with a soft popping sound, earning a desperate groan of need from his lips.
His groan quickly turned to one of pleasure as he watched you line yourself up with his throbbing member before lowering slowly onto him, core tightening around him in the most delectable way.
You moaned softly when you were fully seated on top of him, the feeling of fullness giving you a deeper satisfaction than it had in the past. You looked down at the man beneath you, and felt your breath catch in your chest. His skin had a beautiful sheen of sweat, which seemed to glisten in the moonlight, somehow making him look all the more ethereal. His lids were lowered, but you could see enough of his starling gaze to know how deep his desire ran and how close he was to losing his control. You would never admit it to him, but you wanted him to lose control. You craved to feel the unleashed carnal creature within your beloved Endless, a loss of control something so rare, you had not seen it in centuries.
"Beloved, I know I am not at the helm of this ship, but I beg of you, please move." His tone was dripping with desperation and you found it difficult to refuse him.
You planted your hands on his chest for support and began to lift your hips up and down, creating a delicious friction that pulled desperate moans from both of your mouths.
You could barely keep your eyes open as the pleasure slowly overwhelmed you, your head tossed back, lips parted in a silent moan. Morpheus, however, could not keep his eyes off of you. You were the image of exquisite perfection, the most beautiful woman he had ever been blessed to bear witness to.
With each move of your hips, each moan of pleasure that slipped past your lips, he felt his resolve slipping. He needed to touch you, to lay his hands upon your soft flesh, to pull you close to him as he made you see stars. He did not want to break your rules, so he chose instead to do something much more difficult for him: he chose to beg.
"My love, I need to touch you. My hands are in anguish without the feel of your skin beneath them. Please, my darling, let me touch you."
You loved the sound of him begging, like an electric jolt of arousal straight to your core...an arousal your husband felt immediately.
"Not yet," you murmured.
His fingers dug further into the sheets. He clutched them so tightly he feared he may rip them in two. "Tell me that my touch would not bring you gratification, that you would not reach your peak more quickly."
You looked down at him, the sight as beautiful as it had been before. You noticed, however, that his hands had twisted into the sheets, the muscles of his arms so tense you feared they would snap. You felt your own strength of will weaken, but you were not quite ready to give in just yet. "I cannot deny the truth of your words, but you do not yet have my permission to touch me."
Morpheus groaned loudly. He wanted--no, needed--your permission. Not just because he had promised you control, but because he wished to please you in any way he could. Whatever you wanted, he would give you, no matter the cost to him. So while he would love the feeling of your skin against his, he would not succumb to his own desires, would not put them above yours.
Instead, the dream lord watched you. He watched as you moved your beautiful form, watched as your hands caressed your own neck, your breasts, every part of you he was so desperate to touch. He watched as the muscles of your thighs tensed and relaxed with each movement, and he longed to massage them gently, to feel them loosen under his touch.
Each delectable sound that fell from your mouth sounded like a melody meant only for his ears. He focused on the sounds you made, on the movements of your body, and on the way your core tightened around him, making it nearly impossible to resist the allure of touching you.
"Darling, please," he begged, those two words all he could manage.
You leaned forward, placing your hands back onto his chest. Your eyes met his, an entire universe held within his gaze, a universe you knew and loved deeply. You no longer had the strength to deny him what he desired, so you relinquished your control with two simple words, "Touch me."
The moment those words left your lips, his hands were on you, touching seemingly every part of you at once. The feeling was a euphoria you would never be able to describe.
His hands gripped your hips and he began to thrust up into you, sending you crashing down against him. Desperate moans left your lips as you clung to him.
A low growl escaped his lips as he held you against his chest and flipped you over so you were laid beneath him. His movements did not stop, his hips did not falter, an aching pleasure crept into your body, desire pooling in your abdomen.
Morpheus had always been an incredible lover, almost always gentle and loving, but tonight he was wild, untamed. The change of dynamics had unleashed something within him that could not be stopped, not that either of you wanted it to.
"I wish to hear you sing my name along with those glorious sounds of yours, my love. All of the Dreaming must know the pleasure I give you and the endless rapture you have given me."
"Morpheus," you gasped, his words giving you a feeling of pure elation you were unfamiliar with.
He moaned with you. "That is what I wish to hear, beloved. The sound of my name on your lips is the most enchanting sound I have ever heard. Allow me to better encourage such sounds."
Morpheus took making love to a new level that night. Every part of your body was overwhelmed with the greatest pleasure you had ever felt, which would later be a source of pride to the dream lord. For him, he felt closer to you than he ever had before, allowing himself to be so truly vulnerable with you, giving you complete control, had changed something inside of him that he did not wish to lose.
"All that night they stayed together, and every living thing that dreamed, dreamed of her body, and of the warm salt taste of her sweat and her skin…"
#Morpheus x reader smut#morpheus x reader#morpheus x wife!reader#dream x reader#dream of the endless x reader#morpheus smut#sandman fic#sandman smut#dream smut
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Hob Gadling been living it up at a Fae Ball with Dream last night….?
#dream of the endless imagine#hob x dream#hob x morpheus#hob gadling#ferdinand kingsley#feral for ferdie#morpheus x hob#dream of the endless#sandman fic
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Only Fools Rush In
So the setup for this is that Hob and Dream are professors in their forties at the same university, they’re friends who are very much pining for each other. They’re not oblivious, just taking things slow. Unfortunately, some meddling students and staff didn’t get the memo 😅
There will be more parts to this fic - as the word count kept running away from me I just decided to split it up and post the parts separately, however, I cannot promise when the next part will be completed.
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Part 1
“Seriously? Where are your gloves? Hat? Scarf? Literally anything to keep you warm??”
Dream scoffs at getting scolded upon sight, taking the few more steps necessary to join Hob at the entrance to the outdoor ice skating rink.
“I’m warm enough,” he argues, earning a disbelieving look from Hob, who takes off his own gloves and grabs Dream’s hand, finding it cold, as expected. Dream snatches his hand away with a petulant pout.
Hob laughs at him. “You’re freezing! And you’re ridiculous! Having a fashion style to uphold is all fine and dandy, but dressed like this you’re just asking to catch a cold!”
“I thought I was here to try ice-skating, not to get a lecture on the way I dress,” Dream grumbles. “Besides, won’t I warm up by the activity? All this fuss is unnecessary.”
He makes for the door of the building where ice skates can be rented, with a ‘the sooner to get this over with, the better’ attitude.
Hob follows, raising an eyebrow at him: “Oh, Mr. Confident thinks he’ll be skating circles around me in no time? We’ll see how you’ll feel about the lack of gloves and padded clothing when you’ll end up on your arse, time and time again!”
Dream rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that was your exact intention when picking this activity, making a fool of me, all for your amusement.”
“Hey, I won the bet fair and square! Didn’t you have a blast when you won the last one, making me shave my stubble clean and draw a fake beard on? The students weren’t able to look at me in class without bursting into laughter!”
Dream cannot help but grin at the memory. “You were able to captivate them with the material nonetheless.”
“Yeah, but I had to work twice as hard to shift their attention away from the beard!”
—
They keep bickering as they rent a pair of skates each, finding a spot on the bench to change into them. Hob demonstrates how to properly tie the skates.
After Dream’s finished, he checks Dream’s work, grabbing onto the skates and testing the wiggle room.
“It needs to be tighter. Tied loosely and your ankles would move about, unsupported. You could get hurt.”
Dream nods, listening carefully. Hob is the expert here, or at least the one with lots of experience to draw from.
“Here, let me help you,” Hob slips from the bench down to his knees, Dream’s foot held in between them, and reties his laces, pulling them tight. Dream blinks rapidly, surprised by the action.
“There, that’s better,” Hob says, looking up and laughing at whatever expression it is that he finds on Dream’s face. “What? No one has ever tied your shoes for you before?”
Dream huffs. “Of course not,” he says, cheeks a little rosier than before, and lowers his gaze down, as if to inspect Hob’s work.
Luckily, Hob doesn’t tease more, he slowly stands up and then offers Dream an inviting hand. “Ready to rock and roll?”
Dream sighs. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” and takes Hob’s hand.
—
The ice rink isn’t too crowded, which is good. Firstly because they have room to move slowly on the ice, with Hob skating backwards and helping Dream learn the ropes without the danger of being run over by someone. And secondly, it means there are less witnesses to Dream’s mortifying struggles.
“Why, again, is this considered fun?” He grumbles, letting Hob pull him forward slowly, feeling extremely embarrassed as he can’t figure out how to move forward on his own without turning it into awkward stumbling rather than skating.
Hob laughs, squeezing Dream’s hands tighter.
“It is fun, it just takes some time to get into it. You’ve gotta lean forward a little, you’re too stiff and upright,” he advises.
Hob explains and demonstrates the right motions to him, over and over with great patience. Dream tries his best to follow the advice, and after a while, it does get better. Hob praises him and asks if he wants to try on his own for a bit, but Dream gives him an anxious look.
“Hmm, maybe you could try with the skating aid?” Hob suggests.
Dream grimaces. “Over my dead body,” he says, prompting Hob to burst into laughter again.
“Okay, got it. No skating aid for grown-up Dream. How about you skate near the boards and I'll be on your other side, so you could have something to grab on when you feel unstable?”
Dream nods.
Hob moves into position on his left side. Dream skates forward a few feet, wobbles and immediately grabs onto Hob’s arm with both hands, holding on for dear life.
Hob chuckles. “That’s alright, you’re doing great! Mistakes and falls are an inevitable part of the learning process!”
Dream glares at him. “Thanks for the tip, professor Gadling.”
Hob grins. “I’m no professor here, just an ice-skating teacher.”
“Whatever. Hold my hand,” Dream commands, and Hob happily obliges.
They do a few rounds like that, and it’s…actually not bad. Dream is getting used to the mechanics of the movement and he’s not that anxious with a steady support by his side.
He tries speeding up, and it works. He maybe even starts to feel a little bit of that excitement that attracts people to practice this activity regularly.
“You’re doing amazing!” Hob says, and Dream cannot help but preen.
He raises an eyebrow at Hob: “What were you saying earlier, about me landing on my arse again and again?”
Hob laughs. “Clearly, you have a good teacher!”
Dream snorts. “Clearly, I am a good student.”
“That you are,” Hob says with a smile, and pulls Dream to skate faster.
And faster.
And Dream stumbles on uneven ice, falling backwards and taking Hob with him.
They both land on their arses.
Hob, of course, reacts to this with laughter. Dream really doesn’t know where that man takes all that optimism from.
“Sorry, my bad, I went too fast!”
“Yes, you do that,” Dream mutters under his nose.
“Pardon?” Hob asks, brows furrowed as he picks himself up from the ice and holds out a hand for Dream.
Dream looks at the outstretched hand but doesn’t take it. “You’ll have to have patience with me, Hob. I don’t have the guts for barrelling into things headfirst anymore.”
“It’s generally recommended to avoid barrelling into anything while you’re ice skating,” Hob jokes. Dream gives him a look and this time Hob does catch on that Dream’s not talking about ice-skating anymore.
His gaze softens. “You can take all the time you need, Dream, I’m not in a rush.”
He plops down onto the ice next to Dream, back against the boards. “Wanna just chill here for a while?”
Dream gives him an unimpressed look. “We can’t sit here, we’re in people’s way.”
“Eh, they’ll make do for a minute.”
Dream shakes his head and pulls them both up to stand again. “I should get back on the horse, shouldn’t I?”
Hob grins. “I think that’s a different sport, love.”
Dream rolls his eyes. “It’s called an idiom, you twit.”
Dream dusts off his gloved hands and picks up the hat that he was wearing. Hob actually forced his own gloves and hat on him before they started and Dream has to admit to himself that he’s glad for them now. Of course, he’s not about to voice that and give Hob the satisfaction. The pompom on top of the hat is silly, but it does keep Dream’s ears warm, so he’s willing to commit this small fashion crime in the name of comfort.
To top it all off, Hob’s knitted Doctor Who scarf is now also in Dream’s possession. He has no objections to that one, though it does look better on Hob.
He would feel guilty for leaving Hob to freeze but the man’s actually wearing a big puffer jacket, zipped up to his chin. And his cheeks are endearingly rosy when he smiles at Dream, which is also, uhm, something.
“Shall we?” Hob asks, and Dream reaches for his hand again. This time, Hob doesn’t pull, but matches Dream’s own tempo.
#dreamling#dream x hob#hob x dream#the sandman#sandman#my writing#dreamling fic#sandman fic#I would tag this as conscious slowborn#as in they both have feelings and are aware the other one os on the same page#but they decide to take it slow#unfortunately meddling coworkers and students are there to create chaos#more in next part
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Tada!
Commission for @windsweptinred for their amazing fic Metamorphosis, (goooo reaaaad iiiit) with Night!Dream and Time!Hob and their new Endless Babies Eternity and Euphoria! Flowers used are Amaranth for Hob which means immortality, the Queen of Night flower for Morpheus and Forget-Me-Nots for both of the, for constancy.
I adored this fic and getting to work on this, thank you so much for the opportunity and for the beautiful story!
#my art#commissions#friend fic#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#sandman#other people's awesome writing#fic rec#other people's ocs#sandman fic#night!dream#night!morpheus#time!hob#mother night#father time
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excerpt from hounds, ch. 48
an old pov returns :) and you will get no more context outta me than that
wanted to offer something, in lieu of posting just yet — progress is not steady but somehow still quite productive? i’ll write three chapters in as many days and then simply Lapse (c’est la vie — i do best bouncing between projects, so it sort of works) anyways, all things being equal, should be on track for my self-imposed january completion :) much love to all of you <3
#hounds#the sandman#hob gadling#dream of the endless#dreamling#fic#sandman fic#fic excerpt#lord how do i tag this#who knows#love y’all#thank u for ur sainted patience and enduring support#my heart belongs to u#<3 <3 <3
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Matthew calling Wanderer "Lady Dream" killed me dead and the only thing that can resurrect me is a drabble of Dream himself saying it (please)
pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader
wc: 1.2k+
warnings: jealous!Dream if you count that as a warning.
notes: got an idea that's too potent when I saw this, so LETS GO!!!
part one | series masterlist | ao3 |
“I messed up.”
Dream Lord doesn’t pause in his measured stride at your edgy words, his flame-kissed coat trailing after him. The Dreaming castle is abuzz, accommodating additional visitors from different domains, and you can’t recall the last time everyone was this frazzled. Everyone has come together as a well-oiled machine would, but tension hangs thick in the air. No one is happy about the new visitors or their purpose for being at the Dreaming. Dream himself hasn’t had a free second since; indeed, neither have you.
“I highly doubt it,” he replies.
“No, Dream. I did mess up.”
“You have wandered realms for millennia, Wanderer,” Dream reminds, slowing to peer at you over his shoulder. His features soften a touch from their near-permanent rigidity lately. His voice, too, eases into a husky, gentle drawl, “You are familiar with royalty and courtiers from countless kingdoms. A great number of them regard you highly. Your insight and advice in navigating this situation have been greatly appreciated.”
Your unease quells briefly, soothed by his sincere comments. It’s still too easy to be caught off guard by Dream’s attempts to be more open, more appreciative of those around him.
“You’re welcome,” you say softly, forcing down a gulp. “It's hard enough to remember a dozen different customs not to insult the guests. But I wanted to bring this to your attention first. Personally. So you don’t hear it from someone else first or, worse, the narrative gets twisted.”
Dream Lord rotates your way fully, moving closer. You’ve paused in a gallery. A new addition to the castle with multiple tapestries stitched from thick, luxurious cloth that hang across previously barren walls. Each one depicts various panoramas from different domains across the cosmos. It’s been a small, self-indulgent project you’ve undertaken in between travels, but given your recent company, it has gone down better than expected. Everyone relishes their kingdoms being paid homage to in the land of dreams.
“What happened?” Dream questions somberly. “Did someone hurt you? Threaten you?”
Your hands wring together at the seeping darkness in Dream’s voice, fingers knotting. You swallow under his steady, hard scrutiny.
“No, nothing like that. Certainly not with Cori around. It’s just… Cluracan invited me for a walk in Fiddler’s Green and, well, you know how he is. A flirt and an outrageous one.” A forced chuckle escapes you. Dream doesn’t smile or laugh with you. Some emotion pulses through his regal features, tucked from sight in seconds. “He’s a bit odd for a fae, if I’m honest. Surprisingly, he wasn’t drunk this time. So we got talking, and he was rather charming. It took me too long to realise he was, you know, hitting on me.”
You clear your throat, dragging your stare from the walls back to the Dream Lord standing in front of you. Dream’s bearing is stony, tense, his gaze hooded and mouth flat. Those pale irises seem to glimmer in the dusky light of the setting sun.
“Hitting on as in… courting,” you rush ahead, examining the strain in his jaw. “He asked if we were mates. And I think I’ve spent too much time around Hob because I figured he meant pals, you know? Friends. I forgot fae have a different definition of ‘mates’. So I immediately laughed and said: Well, of course, Dream and I are mates. We’ve been mates for centuries. So Cluracan got this intense look on his face—I mean, he gets under peoples’ skin even more than Cori—then actually bowed. And then, well…”
Dream seems to glide closer—close enough to touch, to breathe in, his words a cold caress, “Then what?”
You swallow. “Cluracan said: I must apologise, Lady Dream. I meant no insult with my offer. I now understand why Lord Morpheus refused my sister. I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to him. I would not wish to complicate this matter further.”
A shiver races down your spine when Dream’s arm slips lightly around you, settling on your lower back. “And then?”
His words are impossibly soft, but there’s something about the way shadows pool around Dream’s sloping, sharp features that set shivers skittering down your spine. His hand seems to burn through your coat. There’s something about the tension you discern in each digit, as if he’s holding himself back from dragging you nearer and pressing you to him. He’s done so in the past numerous times, tucking you from sight in the folds of his starlit coat. Quiet, peaceful, cold and hot like those raging stars you sometimes glimpse in his eyes.
“Then he, uh, left.” You don’t dare to move, curious to see what Dream Lord will do next. “And tripped in a creek. Which is weird because I’m certain there’s never been a creek there to begin with. It’s like it appeared out of nowhere. But anyway, I just… I thought I’d better tell you personally because Cluracan seems set on calling me Lady Dream now, and I don’t want you to overhear and take offence to it.”
“Why would I take offence to such a thing?”
You blink at his unhurried, probing question. Dream’s thumb strokes gently downwards—it’s so light, the contact, a mere graze, but there’s such potent power imbued into it you’re as good as naked beneath it, sensing the gesture through clothes and down to your marrow. Your breath wobbles before steadying. “Well, the implication…”
“Implication.” A deep, considerate hum vibrates from Dream’s chest, followed by a weighty, “Does this implication bother you?”
Does it? You’ve never cared for labels. Dream, to you, is everything. Those who matter most are aware of that, so why would anyone and their opinions matter? But they do. Deep down, you’re well versed with power that comes merely from what names you can evoke—whose favour in this vast cosmos you hold. But deeper than that lays a simpler sentiment: if you are his, in soul and name, you cannot be anyone else’s. Until you declare you are taken, then you are open. The brimming, dark scowl and icy, caressing whispers from his lips are displays of discontentment but not at any misstep on your part. But, rather, at the thought of another holding you so close. Another leaning down to touch their lips against yours. At the idea that you would permit anyone else this intimacy.
But there’s a more reticent sentiment to be read in the ancient, weary lines of his unchanging face: if you wanted another, he would not interfere. He would not hinder your happiness if you moved on and found someone else. He would not hinder you even if he wanted to.
You slant yourself closer. “No, I suppose it doesn’t bother me.”
As if you could ever want anyone else but him. Sullen, stubborn, flawed, but yours despite it.
Old ghosts flee from his regard, the weight on his shoulders lightening—a tiniest of smiles curving one side of Dream’s mouth.
He slants closer, his breath fanning against your ear. “Good. Because the title rather suits you, Lady Dream.”
an: Cluracan is a canon character that should appear pretty early on in S2 once Netflix stops being cowards. anyway, here's to hoping and hope you enjoyed : )
#the sandman#morpheus x reader#dream x reader#the sandman netflix#dream of the endless#sandman fic#morpheus imagines#dream imagine#sandman dream#sandman corinthian#dream x fem!reader#morpheus x fem!reader#sandman x reader#fic: today i bury you in me
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Monaaa beloved ❤️ will you please write angst prompt number 18. "Please talk to me" for one of your December ficlets? 👀 Can be either merthur or dreamling <3 your choice.
Miaaa <33 Some emotional hurt/comfort dreamling just for you! <3
devotion in morning grey
As a general rule, Dream does not interfere with his lover’s dreams, no matter how badly his fingers itch to condemn some of Hob’s worse nightmares. Too important, for the human mind to face its darkness.
Tonight, though, the entire fabric of the Dreaming ripples. Something tugs at the place within Dream’s chest that ought to be occupied by a heart, and he has to manifest teeth, just to clench them against the fissures of fear that are cascading across his consciousness.
He enters the dream in question before he can doubt such a decision.
He does not expect to find himself in the New Inn.
“Then I will take my leave of you and prove you wrong.”
Hob watches, frozen; Dream does, too. It is a memory, except for all the ways in which it is not. Except for how this is the New Inn, not the White Horse; for how the year is clearly 2022 or one close to it, and not the 19th century.
How Dream knows that they are not distant acquaintances in this scenario.
This is a nightmare of Dream leaving, despite the promises he has bitten into the soft flesh of Hob’s throat countless times, by now.
His counterpart disappears into the rain-drenched night, and Dream steps into the scene, allowing himself to be noticed.
Hob’s gaze, when it finds him, bears no relief; there is only resignation.
Swallowing against the dread, Dream gathers the powers of his realm around himself. “This dream is over.”
---
He sits on the edge of Hob’s bed as Hob drifts into waking.
He watches as Hob presses his knuckles against his eyes, hands trembling. When the silence stretches, when Hob refuses to look at him even though he is clearly aware of Dream’s presence, he finally, carefully tugs Hob’s hands away from his face.
“Talk to me,” he requests. He swallows and adds, “Please.”
The noise spilling out of Hob’s throat is self-deprecating and hollow. “What is there to talk about? You saw how it goes.”
Beneath Dream’s fingertips, Hob’s pulse beats wildly. It is still early in London, the morning barely forcing its way inside, and Dream is not sure how to convey the irrefutable fact that there is nothing Hob could say that would get Dream to leave again.
A frightful thought, even on the best of days. The crux of the matter too, as it seems.
As a general rule, Dream does not interfere with his lover’s dreams. This, he thinks, taking in the bruised skin beneath Hob’s eyes, the exhausted slope of his mouth, might require an exception.
He raises Hob’s hand to his mouth and kisses his fingertips, one after the other. The callouses are rough from the centuries, are painfully human, and all the more dear for it; Hob’s weary eyes track his every movement.
“I vow to you, I will not leave you again,” he says, spins it into an oath made of centuries’ worth of power, and lets it sink into the skin of their hands.
“Dream—”
“You have reason to fear, both from experience and what you know of me,” Dream continues; no matter how much it displeases him, it is the truth, after all. “But you know me, too, to stay true to my word, do you not?”
Hob’s lips twitch faintly, and Dream knows without needing power or inhuman insight that Hob is thinking of another promise Dream had made him, one spoken in anger, that he had not, in fact, kept.
He runs his fingertips across the back of Hob’s hand, around his wrist, until he can lift the frail point of his pulse to his mouth, too.
“Will you trust me?” he asks, too aware of how monumental a request it is.
Hob merely laughs; it is a low, throaty sound, that settles between them as Hob pushes himself up. “Always have; you know that.”
“Then what is it about this scenario that upsets you so? Your fear was strong enough to summon me through half of my realm.”
A lesser man may have looked ashamed; Hob mostly looks sheepish.
It untethers something warm within Dream’s chest, the way that Hob never falters, not even when stripped bare to his marrow.
“Then what?” he asks once more because he needs to know. He needs to make sure—
“I will fuck it up again at some point,” Hob says, shrugging as if stating a foregone conclusion. “And whether you will come back to sort it out, to let me make it up to you a second time… Well, that is anyone’s guess, isn’t it?”
Perhaps the worst part, Dream thinks, is that he cannot protest this notion with as much certainty as he would like.
Not even between the two of them does his track record speak in his favour.
He touches his fingertips to the edges of Hob’s jaw, and for once, does not carefully pick and re-examine every word that he is about to use.
“I cannot promise you that I will never again disappear,” he says, and Hob smiles at him in response, but it is a sad thing; it chafes against the corners of Dream’s soul. “But what I can promise you is that I will always, always return to you.”
“Dream, you don’t—”
“I returned after you proclaimed me lonely. I returned after I had been held captive by a mere human for over a century, and I confessed my shame to you, too. A capricious creature I may be, but you know nothing yet of the extent of my devotion, Hob Gadling. I will return to you, always; I cannot make vows about how long it will take me, but I do vow, upon my honour and my function, that you will not rid yourself of me by something so simple as insult.”
In the lines of Hob’s face, Dream can read the surprise. He can read the pleasure there, too, and presses his fingers to Hob’s mouth to commit it to memory.
“Well,” Hob eventually says, something both exasperated and fond—finally, finally—curling through his voice, “I suppose then it is lucky that we both have more than enough time to wait out your moods, is it not?”
Dream hums in agreement, searching Hob’s face. He finds the beloved warmth there, the willingness to endure centuries of waiting; to try, again and again.
He leans forward to catch Hob’s lips with his own, and licks his promise to do better into Hob’s open mouth.
When Hob touches him in return, it feels as if he believes it, too.
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Hello, Mr. Monster (Five. Sidhe)
Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader
Masterlist The Nightmare's Interlude
Chapter Tracks: "Milk and Honey" by Delain, "Lacrymosa" by Mozart
18+/TRIGGER WARNING: Kidnapping, involuntary drug use, involuntary body modification, cutting (not self-harm), vague threat of SA/brainwashing
A/N: I LIVE!!! Thank you all for your patience. The story is jumping into a new arc!
Don't miss the bonus interlude chapter I posted! Linked above.
5: Sidhe
“Be careful on the road.”
Aisling’s ears rang with Fay’s parting words.
The fairie always treated the end of the season with a little too much gravitas, but this time she looked at Aisling like she could physically see danger growing over her. Brambles breaking through the asphalt or boulders crushing the van.
“Know something I don’t?” she’d asked.
“I know you find trouble, and trouble finds you. I know the world is trying to settle back into an old order, and it’s the hour of chaos and hungry hands. I know you’re alone, and the road is dangerous.”
Now, many hours and miles away, the conversation replayed on an endless loop in her head.
It haunted her. From the moment the words dropped from Fay’s lips, they settled around Aisling’s neck like a loadstone. They became a tale still furled in a fiddlehead, a glimpse of wyrd lurking in the road ahead, and she’d run off without a real destination in mind. Never a great plan. Even less so with this warning tossed in her lap like a dead fish. It stank of prophecy, and the age-old fight-or-flight response kicked in. There was nothing to fight, so she fled the entire concept of fate, driving in a vaguely New York direction.
A little distance helped. It gave her space to breathe. To think.
The wind combed tangles into her hair and some of the fear from her thoughts.
When she spied a rest area with lots of trees and very few guests, she pulled off the highway.
She sat in the van, cross-legged on the floor with the windows and sliding door open, letting the breeze cleanse the space. Well. All but one window open. Plastic sheeting rustled over the window the Not Deer shattered. Someday she might have money to repair it properly, but it wasn’t a priority.
There was so much to work through.
She meditated, looking inside, listening for the tidal rumble of raw intuition. The cards danced between her hands as she relaxed against the border of the unknown, trusting instinct over logic until fold, after fold, after fold she knew she had the right order. A three-card read. Quick, efficient.
No time for nuance on the road.
She turned the first card and found the Ace of Cups in the past position. The very recent past, she would guess. It practically sang the Dream King’s name. The Ace of Cups celebrated creativity, awakenings, and new feelings – new loves.
Heat crawled up her neck as the reading conjured memories in her skin. The touch of his hands. His mouth. His voice. The ash of the stars he teased to explode still drifted across her mind, sparking new life in places she’d been sure it would never grow. It made her curious. It made her wonder what else he could do if she let him. It made her wonder what she could do to him.
Forcefully shaking off the goosebumps creeping down her arms, she refocused. She wasn’t asleep. And daydreams could be dangerous. There would be more than enough time to explore all that after dark.
The Moon marked her present. It had as many meanings as the moon had phases, most of them based on changeability and shifts in course. But only one – intuition – felt right. It looked back at her through the card, acknowledging her as she sat open to it, listening and feeling, like meeting her own eyes in a mirror.
Finally, her touch drifted to the future. Her breath stuttered. The eight of swords appeared in her hand, and she set it down quickly, fumbling, like it could bite her. If paper and ink could bite, it just might. The card of prisoners. It thrummed with warnings: imprisonment, helplessness, restriction, and malice. It jarred with the other two cards, unlinked from the common thread of her choices.
Fay was right.
Something was coming for her.
The breeze nudged the eight of swords, canting it off-center on her altar cloth. She imagined she could taste the threat in the air, fate cinching tight as she shadows of the future loomed over her rising hope.
Her palm settled over her chest, following a familiar pattern around an old ache.
It couldn’t be her monster. She refused to believe it. Not after his sweetness in the dark, not after his reassurances and promises. She simply didn’t want to imagine he’d snare her, strip away her agency as easily as he plucked away her anxieties.
That choice remained hers, and she chose hope for once. It’d been too long since she had anything to believe in but herself, and the whisper of that promise was addicting.
Caw Caw!
Jolted out of her spiraling thoughts, her eyes flicked from cards, to van, to the world outside, moving between the distant highway to the overhanging trees. Eventually, they fell on the feathered thing waiting right outside the open sliding door.
A bird that wasn’t a bird.
A dream.
Her eyelashes flickered over her vision as she tried to understand what she saw. Dreams were all gone from the waking. Her eyes never lied.
Hadn’t they all been called back?
It cocked its head, looking her right in the eye. She blinked, slowly, and it caught itself, looking to the side and pecking aimlessly at the barren parking lot, like it could fool her.
Something high in her chest fluttered. She couldn’t say if it was nerves or joy. But she didn’t recognize this dream.
“Who are you?”
It froze. Looked back at her. Spitting out a pebble it had valiantly pretended to be a bug, it croaked.
It was definitely new, at least to the waking world, and that made her intolerably curious.
“I can see you.” She let the words spin out slowly, amused and patient.
If it stayed, they were having a fucking conversation, and she didn’t imagine it came all the way from the Dreaming to play make-believe with cracked fragments of asphalt.
“Uh.” It cleared its throat. Not all dreams could speak, but the voice suited him, and she was glad they wouldn’t need to play charades to understand each other. Black feathers puffed up with half-raised wings as it hunted for the right thing to say. “I’m Matthew. Are you – are you okay?”
She glanced down at the cards, then back at the faux raven. Starting a new relationship with a lie felt wrong, but she couldn’t explain the intimate dread and trust she felt for the bird’s maker in that moment.
“Mostly. Maybe. I don’t know you. Are you… new? What are you doing here?”
She wasn’t accusing it of anything. Her worry for herself redirected into concern for the little creature risking her monster’s wrath. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of her. A trite desire, but a desperate need a fleet of childhood therapists hadn’t managed to shake.
The dream ducked, looking side-to-side for eavesdroppers, and hopped just a little closer. She leaned over her cards, closing the distance, humoring its covert antics. It must not be very familiar with the waking world if it thought strangers who saw a woman talking to a bird would see anything but a hippie on a bad trip.
With a flapping burst, he landed on the edge of the van’s floor.
“The boss sent me,” he said, still glancing around warily. “You know. Dream. Your… whatever the two of you are.”
A fair description, really. ‘Soulmates’ was too much. They weren’t exactly friends, and lovers sent uncomfortable heat rushing into her face.
Let the dream thing be confused. That made two of them.
“So, er, what’re you doing?” He twitched to study the cards with one beady eye, and she caught a glimpse of swords reflected in the convex mirror of his gaze.
She swept up the spread, folding it into a fresh shuffle, like she could tuck away the danger before it infected her new little friend.
“Reading.”
“Ever heard of books?”
Oh, so the little dream was actually a little shit? That worked. As a little shit herself, she approved of scamps on principle. Even if they insulted her talents.
“Not that kind of reading.”
The dream scoffed. “Those things really work?”
Funny, such cynicism coming from a talking bird. Seemed like bad manners to call him on it, though, so she shrugged. “Depends on what you’re trying to do with them.”
“Tell the future?”
All too well. “Sometimes.”
That caught him off balance, and he physically shifted from foot to foot, nails tapping on the floor as he found it again. She took pity on him.
“Why did your boss send you?”
“Just, you know, to keep an eye on things.”
She raised her eyebrows, easily folding the cards into new configurations without looking down, and the dream cleared his throat.
“Can’t really speak for the boss and all, but it’s a dangerous world out here, and he thinks too much about that. Sometimes. I’m guessing.”
The cards felt right, and she let them settle into a neat stack in one palm, waiting to be cut and dealt.
“Are you spying on me, Matthew?”
He croaked in naked offense. Or because she’d caught him out. “No.”
“Babysitting then.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Setting the deck on the altar cloth, she propped her chin on her fist. elbow balanced on her knee, and stared the bird down.
“I might.”
Sighing so hard his feathered shoulders rose and fell, the bird looked down, muttering things under his breath she pretended not to hear.
“Have you ever had your fortune read?”
His attention snapped back to her, picking up the opportunity for mutual distraction.
“No. Do dreams have fortunes?”
“I assume so.” Since he didn’t have fingers, she dealt for him. Another simple three-card spread. She didn’t have energy for much else after an evening of drinking, a night of wildly vivid dreams, and the shock of her own reading. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”
“But you’ve done this before. For things like me.”
“Oh, yes.” She thought of long nights at the festival when she’d been too young to drink, sitting in the dark with dreams and nightmares as they came up with their own fun. She remembered the first time she’d found The Lovers in Fin’s fortune and how she’d hounded him for weeks after. “Many times.”
Less than a day and their absence itched like a phantom limb. So stupid. Months apart without problem, and now she felt entitled to mope after a few hours.
She hoped they were okay.
She hoped she’d be okay.
Matthew puzzled over his three cards, his claws sinking into the loose weave along the edge of the altar cloth as he inched closer. She’d turned all three over in one fell swoop because she wasn’t in the mood for dramatics, and sometimes fortunes were easier to explain as a whole.
The dream’s, however, didn’t make much sense at all.
Death. Two of Swords. Three of Cups.
What the fuck.
He seemed particularly interested in the first card, and she began her usual spiel. “Death isn’t always death. It can mean and end to a phase, transformation…”
“Oh, it means death,” the raven interrupted. “For sure. I died, like really recently. Then I became -” He flapped his wings, sending the cards askew. “This.”
Until recently, Aisling thought she knew an awful lot about dreams and nightmares. She thought herself an expert. But she had no idea a dream could be anything before it was, well, a dream. And Morpheus had power over the dead? More news. Less welcome. The hair along the back of her neck pricked up, and she rushed on with the reading – something simple, something she could make sense of.
“Well…” She straightened the card. “This represents your past.”
The raven bobbed, a bird-like motion attempting to imitate a human nod. “So far so accurate.” He gently pecked the second card, pushing it even further out of line. He and his fortune defied order. “What does this one mean?”
She didn’t bother straightening it. The illusion of control wouldn’t last. “Two of Swords. Means you find balance in opposing forces. You have a tendency to repeat your mistakes.” Struggling to hold down a blooming smirk, she added, "And you're talkative."
“Talkative? Psh. Does that sound like me?”
“I don’t know.” It absolutely did sound like him. “But you do seem like the type to make the same mistakes.”
“Rude.”
“Blame the cards.”
He croaked, probably cursing her out in bird.
“Sure. So, what about this last one? My future, right?”
The Three of Cups. “Good luck and abundance. Kindness and pleasure. All the good things, usually after solving a problem. Have any problems, Matthew?”
“Plenty.” He shook his head and swayed between feet, warming to the subject.
Once upon a time, tarot readers served as talk therapists. She had a feeling Matthew would make her a historical reenactor.
“You wouldn’t believe what’s happened in the past few days.” The bird gossiped like an old crow. But that was good. No one told her anything, and this would be a nice change of pace, so she settled in to listen, happy to let the little dream spin her a yarn. “There was this woman – I guess that’s not too strange – but anyway, there was a ruby, and this man tried to change the world, but the boss stopped him, and we went to Hell before that. And I’d just met the boss, and that Constantine woman –”
Wait.
“Constantine?” She abandoned her relaxed position, leaning in to question the bird. “You’ve met Constantine?”
“You mean you’ve met her, too? Small world, right?” Matthew cleared his throat, cawing.
“She’s an old friend. She… warned me…”
Of course. That was how Johanna knew her monster was back on the scene. But she didn’t understand what her monster might want with the occultist. Was it her fault? Was it coincidence? Not that those happened very often, but a girl could hope.
“How did you meet Constantine?” Fuck. She should probably text her back, just to make sure she was still alive. “Is she alright?”
“Oh, she’s fine.” He croaked again. “Promise. Anyway…”
A redirection and a half right there.
“Are you not supposed to tell me?”
“Honestly?” He fluttered, spreading his wings like an open-armed shrug. “I have no idea. I’ve never done something like this before. I’ve only been a raven for, like, a week. I used to have rent, and a job, and fingers. If you’re looking for answers, I’m really not the bird to ask.”
Of course. Answers never came easily. She had to work for them, earn them like minimum wage – enough to keep her on the cusp of a breakdown without quitting entirely.
“I don’t suppose you could point me towards the right bird?”
“Can’t you just, you know, ask the boss?”
She glanced down, brushing a wrinkle out of the altar cloth where the dream and the breeze had disturbed it.
“I don’t know.”
Silence sat between them like a wriggling slug. Ugly, awkward. Neither wanted to touch it as it grew. She had a whole life to explain, and as a dream, he understood things she’d never grasp. Neither knew what to tell the other, or what might get the other in trouble with the elephant in the room.
The longer the silence grew, the more she wondered why her monster sent a minder. Maybe he’d foreseen the threat in her cards. Or maybe he wanted to slowly exert control over her waking life until he held perfect sway over her hours in any world. A bloodless war with an easy victory.
No. She physically shook the thought away.
No, she wouldn’t think that. Nope.
Maybe he was… concerned. She didn’t know if he felt fear, but if he did, he might have the usual long-distance relationship woes. Anything could happen when they weren’t together, and how would he even know until she failed to appear in a dream?
She liked that idea better, the myth of the anxious boyfriend who texted a little too often in an effort to feel closer across the borders he couldn’t erase, so she chose to believe it.
“Can you tell me about him?” she asked. “Your boss?”
“Listen, lady –”
“Aisling.”
“Right.” He softened, just a touch, and his empathy shone through their mutual frustration. “Aisling. I’m new new, if you catch my drift. I know about as much as you do.” Twitching to peer around the inside of her van, he strung together ideas until he had a mouthful of sentences to trade. “He’s a lot, but I’ve seen him be kind when he didn’t have to be. He’s scary powerful, but even when he wasn’t, he was proud. He’s a king, I guess. More than that, but that’s what I know.”
When he wasn’t powerful? She couldn’t imagine him as anything else. Fuck, did she want to ask, but she didn’t want to get the bird in trouble.
“I’ll try…” She swallowed around her misgivings. “Asking him sometime.”
“If it helps,” the dream bounced two steps closer, “I think he’d like that.”
She was out of things to pick at, and her smile fluttered awkwardly through her emotional kaleidoscope.
“You hungry? I’m starving.” Creeping around the bird and the spread cards, she escaped the van. “I need to wash up, and I’ll see if the vending machines are shit.”
“I never turn down junk food,” Matthew said, suddenly and deeply serious. “I miss human food. Rats aren’t bad – when you’re a raven – but I’d murder for a basket of fries.”
“Chips do?”
“You’re a saint.”
Patting her pocket to check for her wallet, she started the hike across the empty parking spaces towards the rest area. “And you have low standards, pheasant.”
“Raven!” he shouted after her, but she ignored him, hands in her pockets as she swaggered away.
The women’s was blissfully empty.
She had lots of time to splash cold water on her face and stare into the mirror. She let the water run, listening to the gathering echoes trickle and crash around the tiled space. Wasteful. She didn’t care.
She needed the noise, the wordless crush on her senses keeping her grounded as the warning, the reading, and the raven cycled through her thoughts.
And beneath all that, a girlish curiosity she struggled to accept.
Her monster played her well. She found herself wanting to fall asleep just so she could dream of him again, to see if he’d answer questions, if he’d touch her, if he’d let her touch him back.
But she didn’t quite trust it. Things only went well when they were about to go very, very badly, and until she knew which direction danger came from, she’d stay on guard. Hopeful or otherwise.
She drew her knuckle over her upper lip, thinking, and dry skin snagged. It wasn’t painful, but she couldn’t help comparing the texture to the palm she’d studied in the Dreaming, and an uncomfortable sense of her mortality prickled through her thoughts. Like the way people noticed their tongues and pooling saliva after someone pointed them out.
Something as simple as the weather damaged her. Air turned too humid or too arid made her flesh crack and peel.
She thought of the silken hands ghosting through her dreams, untouched by eons of labor, and her rough, human finger passed back over her mouth. How could she compare to an Endless? She made a poor match, and she knew it. Too weak. Too fragile. Too young, even. And age wouldn’t make her any worthier.
How could he stand to touch her when she’d crumble so easily?
She squeezed the edge of the sink, feeling too much of herself.
It wasn't fair to assume she knew his thoughts. It wasn't fair to assume he knew hers. But the ugly feeling to too many - varied - doubts curdled in her stomach, and she wondered if she'd ever have the strength to voice these kinds of insecurities.
A pity party would just make her more disgusted with herself, and she shoved away from the sink, pacing over the dirty tile, down the row of stalls and sinks.
She needed to calm down and get the raven a snack. No hysterics. No blubbering. She could contain herself, and everyone would be fine.
She looked up, face to face with her own reflection again.
Had that mirror always been there? Intuition prickled under her thoughts, drawing her attention to the details she’d failed to notice when she entered.
She counted the sinks. Seven. Seven sinks with matching mirrors and one long looking glass at the end of the line, tall and wide as a person, a surprisingly thoughtful investment in the utilitarian rest stop.
It wasn’t the strangest thing she’d seen, but she couldn’t recall the blur of motion her reflection should’ve made in her periphery when she marched in. Not the biggest thing. Nothing too alarming. Not even out of the ordinary really. But traps never were.
Fairy circles disappeared in tall grass and fallen leaves. Helpful goods and little treasures always appeared just where someone might’ve dropped them. The mirror was a little too clean compared to the others. Maybe it just didn't get splashed with soap and water from the sinks like the rest, but she wasn’t willing to risk it.
She didn’t like that mirror.
It rubbed her the wrong way, and she started moving towards the exit before she finished her thought.
One, two, three steps. Rubber soles squeaking on cement painted green as she moved towards her world of sunlight and dreams and rest stop vending machine snacks.
The long fluorescent light closest to the exit blinked. She stopped, and it went out. The next light buzzed, popped, and sparked as it died, and she took a step back.
She couldn't see anything approaching, but fuck if she didn't know her horror movies, and something was playing with her.
The third light winked out like a snuffed candle. Backing up, refusing to look away, just in case, she tried to stay out of the growing shadows. It was close to noon. Why did it feel so dark?
The fourth light. The fifth.
By the time the seventh flickered and died, she'd gone to the far end of the sinks, and as her hand pressed back against cool glass, she realized it wasn't a horror movie.
It was just another trap.
She made it all of one step away before long, wisened fingers coated in crumbling moss seized her upper arms and yanked.
The mirror dragged over her skin like mercury taffy, sticky with an aftertaste of poison. Shiny and wrong beyond her powers of description, it clung to her eyelashes and stuck to her skin as the hand in her hair dragged her through, away, and back – back - back into darkness. She struggled, writhing and shouting as her nails pried at the offending grip. But her fingers didn’t meet skin. Bark and lichen flaked off, crumbling over her cheeks as the gnarled spriggan hissed over her.
“Stay still, little prize. Wandering soulmate. Stay still!” It had a shrill, groaning voice. Wind shrieking in the creaking trees. Rot and new life in the same breath, rich with the age of soil. “Take you down. Take you back. Make you a pretty, pretty bride!”
Aisling did not stay still. She snarled, trying to escape through the light ahead, but the spriggan took her by the jaw and hauled her away into the crushing dark. It lunged headfirst into a tunnel too small to really fit them and chittered away, grinding its captive against the wall as it went.
Choking, trying to keep the fae from popping her head off her spine, she kicked along, catching breaths as she could. The spriggan’s many free hands pulled them along, and each handhold pulled earth loose from the sides. It fell in Aisling’s face, clogging her nose and eyes. Little beetles and worms fell, too.
Roots stinking of grave dirt caught in her hair, scratched her skin, but the grip on her neck locked her screams in her chest.
Her heart thundered.
Fingernails snapped as she tried protecting her face from the unforgiving path, still wrestling against the spriggan’s hold. Tears of shock and pain leaked out, mixing into mud over her cheeks. Her thoughts faded under the onslaught, melting into a tumble of sensation and abject horror.
They moved faster than they should. Magic warped the natural world and tugged them through adjoining planes. Aisling lost all track of up, down, or the way back to the mirror. The roots grew with their progress, and the spriggan cackled, so wildly pleased it didn’t notice how the fragile human in its grip struggled to breathe.
The world flipped, and she landed hard on a dirt floor, half-pinned under her kidnapper's bulk. Still holding her by the neck, the unseelie tugged her through a growing crowd of things with claws, wings, and half-grown faces, moving towards something she couldn't see. Black bars threatened the edges of her uncanny vision, and she grasped after her fading rage as her legs spasmed, tangling in the spriggan's trailing cloak. Terror choked her as much as the grip on her throat.
Oh, hell.
Matthew was still waiting for her to come back with a bag of chips.
Fuck.
Losing control, losing consciousness, she realized: she really was going to die this time.
Maybe that was better than whatever the unseelie planned, but she didn't want it. She wanted to struggle a little longer, find a way to steal a kiss from her masked monster, maybe. Sit in the sun. Let Constantine know the occultist hadn't lost another friend.
'You are killing our prize, spriggan."
Dropped, she crashed face-first into the dirt, coughing more than breathing as her ears rang. The whole scene felt a step removed, like she was wandering a dream or watching through fog. But that wasn't right. Magic bitter as wormwood coated her throat, and she curled into herself, feigning a fetal position as she reached for the long, iron nail hidden in the sole of her shoe. Her broken nails grated over the head, the blood leaving the metal slick as she tried to tug it free. Heavy feet approached - goblin guards ready to haul her off again.
She wouldn't roll over that easy.
The nail came free just as the bigger of the two guards reached for her, and she stabbed it in his hand. Green blood spattered over the dirt, and the beast howled in anguish. As it fell back, the other lunged, the nearby crowd taking notice.
Iron made friends of all fae. Even the natural enemies in the unseelie court. Like she'd shouted "Fire!" in a crowded theater, everyone had two reactions: run, or put it out.
Stabbing and waving her poisonous weapon, she whirled in a circle, looking for an escape, a passage, light, anything. But everywhere she glanced, she found more eyes and bared teeth.
They mobbed her. Many hands took her arm, grabbed her hair by the roots, and clambered onto her back. More and more joined the fray until they had her spread prone. A redcap took the nail with a long pair of silver tongs, nearly tearing the skin off one of her fingers to break her grip, and darted away, eager to separate weapon and wielder.
"Get its mouth open."
Clawed fingers pushed between her lips. They forced her jaw wide and slid filthy flesh, scales, and fur past her teeth, cutting into her gums, cheeks, tongue. Heat pricked in her eyes at the helpless pain as a tall unseelie with hair like moonlight over pond scum approached with a stoppered amber bottle.
Screaming, twisting, she tried again to save herself. Maybe, worlds away, the dream bird would hear. Or his master. Johanna, Fin, anyone. But the fae uncorked the bottle, and he poured it neatly into her open mouth.
"Let it swallow."
The hands all disappeared from her face, but they kept her anchored to the floor, prepared for another fit, another hidden weapon. She reflexively swallowed a mouthful of blood and potion to keep from choking, coughing desperately to clear the drops she'd aspirated.
Salt, iron, and elder berries.
“Gently now.” Taloned fingers massaged her throat, ensuring the draught went down. “Isn’t this better?”
She groaned through clenched teeth, pushing against the poisonous lethargy freezing her from the inside out, against the forbidding chill stripping away her agency but not her awareness. Inch by inch, she lost the war, and hand by hand the creatures restraining her let go.
The potion didn’t put her to sleep. She had no opportunity to escape into dreams. It only allowed breath and tears as she turned into a limp rag doll for the unseelie to manipulate like the hollow, powerless thing they believed all humans to be. They didn't need her to rest. They only needed her to be quiet.
Satisfied, the tall unseelie nodded to someone she couldn't turn her head to see. "Prepare it."
They carried her into more tunnels, broader than before, more than wide enough for them to march through without scraping the sides. A team of monsters handled her, murmuring ideas and instructions as they moved into a room echoing with running spring water.
Roots tangled overhead, and she watched them pass like waves, imagining they were the ones really moving as the unseelie court swallowed her up.
The terror swallowed her, too.
Trapped in her own body, she reached for disassociation as hooked claws and stone knives sawed through her clothes. Oblivion, however, floated out of reach as panic chained her to the bare stone they laid her over, left her drowning in every prod and poke as her handlers discussed how to improve on the fragile human flesh she hated a few minutes ago. She'd do anything to keep it.
They bared her to the frigid air, and she couldn't even shiver. Couldn't shout, or swear, or save herself.
The spring water was bright cold. Lights popped in her eyes as the first splash washed over her belly. Chill translated into pain, something too sharp to be liquid, even though she felt it rolling down her sides. Her captors cleaned her, scrubbing and muttering and pulling her hair as they combed it out. Her discomfort and fear simply didn't matter in a place where she had no voice. No choice. They tutted over her scars - a lifetime of chasing nightmares and living on the road patterned in bites, slices, and other imperfections.
"These are old," one unseelie muttered, tracing a fingertip rough as gravel along the Not Deer's old fang marks in her shoulder. "I can only smooth away fresh."
"Then make them fresh," another suggested. "Nothing else for it."
They took a knife to her, skinning her history by inches, peeling stories, tearing fascia, and baring muscle. The blade cut out the imperfections, erasing the glossy moon on her knee where she tripped on the playground as a child. It erased every line and mark loved ones would use to identify her body, leaving her naked and new in strange and terrible ways.
She watched them throw pieces of her into the corner. Hiding at the edge of the dim light, a spider the size of a small dog plucked them up like table scraps, jaws clicking just above the wet sound of the knife.
Butchered alive, her mind filled with static, rattling with captive screams and pleas. If she lived, she would not escape unscathed. This was killing something. This was changing her in ways that couldn't be undone, and she didn't want it. Someone had to make them stop before she couldn't recognize herself.
Warm blood soothed her goosebumps, and one of the voices sighed as her skin regrew.
"We'll have to wash it again."
More freezing water. More pain. She kept still as they worked, and her sanity squealed like glass under pressure. On the verge of shattering.
One began spreading a smooth, white cream up her arm, working it into the new skin. When the unseelie found Aisling watching, it smiled. "Ground pearls and unicorn horn, so you'll glow for the Dream King."
It explained like she'd be happy, like she wanted to be a pretty bride delivered in chains. If her stomach was still under her control, she would've thrown up.
Magical ingredients like anything off a unicorn would not come off in the next bath. More permanent changes worked into her flesh for her monster's sake. She would be more beautiful and less herself.
What she wouldn't give to spit in the unseelie's face. Or curse her monster's name. Anything. Instead, they worked the potion from head to toe, and the fuckers looked damned pleased with their results, assuming her gratitude as their rightful due.
Dozens of spiders crept from the corners, and the unseelie set to work on her hair and face as a thousand little legs tickled over her limp body. She wasn't wildly arachnophobic, but she'd jump and shout if a spider crawled up her arm. Now countless spiders wandered her naked body, and she couldn't shake them off. Instinct demanded she try, but she was as helpless under the spiders as she was under the knife. After a few moments of blind horror, she realized they were moving in patterns, leaving lines of silk they built into a gauze-lace dress over the next hour. She closed her eyes, desperate for even that much of an escape, and the unseelie painted her lids and lips to their satisfaction. Their concoctions smelled like roses and mercury.
When the spiders finished, the unseelie stepped back and sighed.
"Ready."
A troop of gnomes carrying some kind of box rushed in, and the unseelie handlers pulled back the box's front curtain, revealing something between an animal carrier and a royal litter.
"It's time to deliver you to the Dreaming, little bride."
They packed her inside, careful not to ruin their good work, and the curtain fell. She counted the walls. Seven. All the same soft white fabric shot through with silver threads. A pretty box for a pretty bride.
And her first hint of privacy. Alone, without unwanted hands, spider legs, and the sight of her own blood on the floor to distract her, her thoughts gathered behind the scrim of dread. She felt her heart beating in her chest, not just the hollow echo in her ribs. Her fingers tingled, begging to move, and one curled as the box rose, swaying on low shoulders down the labyrinthine tunnels of the unseelie court. It wasn't enough to save herself, but it was more than she had an hour ago.
She didn't witness the journey. She measured the time in twitching muscles and waking limbs, counting breaths instead of minutes. They moved between worlds, but all she cared about was the distance between her consciousness and any control over her hands. She wanted to pull open the curtained wall, and slowly, slowly she pushed her hand towards the edge of the screened box. A lifetime measured in millimeters. And just when her nails scratched the fabric, the box shifted, and she rolled back to her original position. Foiled by gravity. Of all damn things. A laugh brushed with madness fluttered around in her chest, caught like a bug in a net, and she wondered what kind of potion would give it life and get it out. She needed it exorcised. If she started laughing, she'd start crying, too.
The box must be enchanted, because she didn't hear anything outside it. The unseelie made lots of noise, and if they brought her to the Dreaming in any kind of official capacity, they'd have to announce themselves. She heard fuck all. She hadn't even heard the gnomes' feet marching towards her doom. Her soft prison kept her safe and stupid as they took her away.
When the front curtain pulled back, all she knew was she was somewhere else, somewhere with light and color, without the wormy, wet smell of the underground court. Two unseelie women reached inside, taking her wilting arms and guiding her to rise much more elegantly than she could've managed on her own. She was surprised her legs worked at all, but they must've timed this carefully.
She still wanted to bite them and run. But when she couldn't really keep on her feet without their support, that was impossible. She could watch. She could wait. She still didn't have a choice.
A weak little bride who couldn't fight back but didn't lounge like a slug in her cage - a lovely, tidy gift.
The unseelie with the pond scum hair swept up, taking her hand as the two attendants stepped back. She wanted to bite him most of all, and almost like he could sense her plans to draw blood - fuck the cost - he took her by the chin and faced her towards something much worse.
They stood at the foot of an impossible staircase in a room too grand for a ceiling. A cosmos moved overhead, catching the graceful statues along the columns between daylight and starlight. The steps curled through the air to the foot of a throne, a seat for a king, set above the receiving hall where lesser creatures stood and begged. Sunlight cut into dazzling colors through arcing stained glass windows backlit the monarch's place, on high. Beautiful. Breath-taking.
Yet it was the king's face that froze her heart.
She knew many things about Dream of the Endless. The King of Dreams and Nightmares. Lord Morpheus. Since she was a child, she'd been told he was cold and capricious, particularly with his lovers. That he was possessive and vengeful. If he was a good king to one he was an awful tyrant to someone else.
He was dangerous.
She knew he touched her gently and had a voice darker and deeper than the spaces between the stars, but she hadn't known until she stood a prisoner at his feet that she knew his face.
When she saw the beautiful entity trapped in the dead wizard's basement, she knew he was powerful. She freed him anyway. Her intuition led her to him, and she gave him exactly what he needed.
Her chest filled with lead. Heavy. Crushing. Pulling her down in the unseelie's grip. His hand tightened on her arm, and he refused to release her jaw, forcing her head back so the Dream King could see the fae's good work.
The Endless looked down on them all, starry eyes burning through her cobweb dress. Terrible and aloof.
Feeling drowned her reason, and she picked fragments of thought out of the swamp with shaking hands.
Why?
Why not show his face when she'd already seen it? It didn't make sense if he'd been honest with her. Was he that hungry for a little more power in their dynamic? Had he played a game, amusing himself with the dumb little mortal wyrd had already trapped in his name?
The unseelie, she realized, was speaking. He'd probably been talking since before they pulled her out of the gossamer prison.
"...one of our own. We've brought it - her - to atone for that one's error and ensured she is as fair and flawless as a mortal might be made. We cannot undo the sins of the first, but we have made a better gift of her in the end."
The creature made her humanity something fetid. She was not even as good as a dog, because her free will pushed her to snap back. But she'd been made fair, and what else could a mighty Endless desire from such a lowly thing, marked or not?
And Morpheus listened. He sat still as stone and let the fae hold her up for his inspection. She thought very carefully of every promise he'd ever made, and in this new light, she quickly found the gaps in his word.
She'd been such a fool to trust him.
A deep breath lifted her shoulders, the biggest voluntary motion she'd enjoyed since they drugged her, but she struggled to breathe. The air just wouldn't stick. Fuck. Fuck it hurt.
What an idiot.
What a romantic little idiot who had every warning and swallowed the poison anyway. It was written clearly on the label, but it looked right and it felt right so she ignored her mind and followed her gut, and look what that earned her. Belly pain and tears. They rolled hot and ugly down her face, creeping over the unseelie's hand, sinking into his skin.
He tutted. Releasing her arm, he reached into umber robes, confident in his hold on her face. Her jaw ached under the pressure.
"We understand you prefer... willing partners." The unseelie pulled out a white and purple flower for the king to see, and her blood ran cold.
She thought she'd been heartbroken before. She thought she'd been frightened. This was worse than anything she could've imagined, and she finally remembered to struggle. Sinking her nails into the creature's wrist, she tried to pull his hand off her face, but his hold was sturdier than the roots of a centuries old oak. Chances were, she'd drop the second he released her, but she'd rather eat pavement than be anywhere near the simple pansy flower.
"Love-in-idleness will woo her to your hand in a heartbeat."
It really would, too. A few drops of its nectar in her eyes, and she'd forget she was anything other than madly in love with the first face she saw. Her power to consent would evaporate as the spell took hold, and she'd be her monster's happy little fool for the rest of her life.
"No." Her voice joined the fight, and breathless as it sounded, it still carried through the chamber. Her monster must hear it, up on his throne, watching someone else manage the breaking of his new pet on his behalf.
She'd curse him with this. He'd hear her denial whenever he reached for her. She'd infect him with it, let it creep under his skin until he couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror. Maybe. Hopefully. If he ever cared the way he said he did.
She chanted her refusals through grit teeth as the unseelie lifted the flower. As much as she wanted to hurt Morpheus, her fear drove her actions. She begged, pleaded, using every scrap of her meager strength to just get away.
"Stop. Don't. No." When did her voice become so small? "Please don't." Panicking, scrambling to escape the unseelie and his curse, she fixed her eyes on the blossom's purple streaks. Folklore said it used to be pure white until Cupid shot it with one of his arrows. She'd be the opposite. It would bleed her mind white, a placid death in life.
"Stop."
Her words. His voice.
The command froze the scene. Every unseelie. Every mote of dust hanging in multi-color sunbeams. The hand on her face went from oak to rock, and she trembled, fighting to breathe as she dared glancing away from the damned flower to the entity on the throne. Her lead heart forgot how to beat.
Dream of the Endless glared down, hands curled into fists. Had his eyes always been so bright? Fury burned like the sun, a cutting light sweeping across the gathering, wrathful and inescapable as the end of day, as the coming of dreams. They dazzled her through the scrim of tears, and she teetered on the cusp of hope.
The unseelie, after several long, painful moments, cleared his throat. "Lord?"
"Do you think it a challenge for me to find any sleeping mortal, mauled by your kind or whole?" His voice rumbled with the threat of an earthquake. Or a flood. Something old and deep that crushed civilizations without effort or consideration. A natural consequence of assuming control over something beyond even the idea of command. Ancient. Endless.
The unseelie hesitated.
She waited, too, frightened to trust again so quickly. She fought to breathe, to reason out what was happening. If he'd order that fucking plant burned in Hell, she'd feel a lot better.
"N-no, Lord Morpheus."
The Dream King rose, and every member of the unseelie delegation took a step back. Caught in the leader's grasp, she stumbled with them, clinging and whimpering as she tried to find strength to stand on her own and wrestle free.
"Did you think I'd rejoice to see one so intimately linked to my fate dragged to my throne against her will?"
The sun faded from behind the stained glass, and shadows curled out from between the columns like living things. They didn't obey the light, and they twisted hungrily on the verge of attack.
The unseelie's grip shifted. A sharp nail pressed into the side of her throat, and long fingers circled her neck. Rather than showcasing her to the side, the envoy swung her forward to block the king's ire. A literal human shield.
It was a bad idea to threaten a king in his own palace. Even discreetly.
"You are guests in my realm, and therefore protected by the laws." His eyes blazed, and a warning pulled his voice so low she could feel it in her spine, reverberating through the realm. "But if you do not release Aisling Hunt to my hospitality - safe and well - you will have harmed another guest, and your protection shall be revoked."
He didn't negotiate. He simply explained. And the unseelie holding her knew it.
"We had always intended to leave her in your care," he whined.
"Do you wish to leave my realm alive?"
The unseelie stuttered, and a cruel sliver of a smirk ghosted over the pale king's face.
"But if you'd rather stay - Well."
The unseelie considered, flexing his grip. He'd come on a mission, and it had gone poorly. The Dream King was not grateful, and now the fae had to decide if it was safer to keep his shield or flee. A moment's thought. And he shoved her forward, hard. She landed hard on her knees, yelping at the impact, and the unseelie moved out of the chamber in a rush of half-hearted apologies.
Murmurs and footsteps faded, a distant argument breaking out like a clap of thunder. She flinched, still on hands and knees, trapped in a spiral of breaths that wouldn't come fast enough and shaking limbs that couldn't fully support her.
The flower was gone. The unseelie were gone. But she wasn't alone. Wasn't safe. And the sticky spiderweb lace plucked on her nerves without keeping her warm, so she shuddered on the hard, stone floor and gasped as she stared down at her strangely pretty hands with their unicorn treatment, and -
She was not.
Not on the floor. Not on her knees.
With Morpheus.
He seized her, caught her up close with fingers that hooked into her shoulders like talons. The world seemed to quake, but maybe that was only the chest beneath her cheek and the arms around her back. She didn’t see him change shape or size, but his presence swelled, thick and biting like ozone as he pulled her so deep into his embrace she couldn’t see his splendid throne, or the retreating unseelie, or anything beyond him.
Was this better? Was this safe? She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't trust him. Her ribs crowded her lungs, and her breathing fluttered, never drawing a full inhale or exhale, only pulling enough oxygen to keep her lightheaded, broken hearted, and awake.
"Sir?"
He dragged her deeper, long fingers gathering her by the handful to pull inside his shadows. At least, it felt that way. He might not break and bend her like the unseelie, but she had no doubt he could consume her, swallow her up until she blinked in the dark like a little star.
"Sir."
"What is it, Lucienne?" His rough, begrudging question flooded her senses, and her fingers spasmed where they dangled at her sides.
"Sir, she is not well."
She couldn't see the speaker, but they weren't wrong. Aisling felt very unwell. She hurt, and she ached, and she was worried something was irreparably broken, but she couldn't remember its name. She spun in eddies of failing thoughts, struggling to follow the basic conversation.
"I know." Sorrow, frustration, and darkness there.
But the stranger outside Morpheus's embrace remained undaunted, insistent. "Sir, she cannot breathe."
A cool hand cradled the side of her face, summoning her to meet his radiant eyes. A frightening place to be - in his hand, under his gaze - made worse by the fact she didn't know whether or not it was the perfect escape or some fresh hell.
His thumb rolled down the tear tracks, memorizing them by touch, teaching himself the shape of her pain. The face he denied her was very, very near, but she couldn't read it. Couldn't plumb the depths of whatever he tried to express.
"You must breathe."
It didn't sound like an order. He nearly whispered the three words, a private request for her ears alone. A plea. And she wanted to. She wanted to thank him for asking by filling her lungs, relaxing in his arms, and assuring him everything was fine. But she couldn't, and she didn't, and it wasn't. Another tear broke loose from the pools gathered over her lower lashes and rolled over his thumb, washing him in the agony he tried to explore.
"I have you now." He spoke like a song, the cadence pulling around her mind, soft and sweet as a lullaby, and she wondered if he was consciously trying to charm her. Any other time, she'd welcome it, but she couldn't find her courage, or her attraction. All she felt was small. Frightened. Vulnerable and nearly naked in the arms of a creature she didn't trust.
She couldn't decide to calm herself. Panic stopped being a choice several hours back, and as her body woke up, it demanded the reactions the unseelie potion refused it. Her shaking was her answer. She had nothing to give his searching eyes. Words were human and she stood there as a mess of fears and silent prayers tangled in a web of nerves.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to her third eye.
"Let me help you."
Tensing, expecting more magic or power to crush over her mind, she felt him brush her subconscious. He waited there, at the gates, and the part of her that understood him best accepted his hand. Guiding her from the frightful awareness of her own body, her monster sheltered her in a softer darkness, wrapping her in the blurred sensations of a peaceful rest.
Sleep.
She blinked, and slumped, and he gathered her up. As she faded, she saw him: the worlds beyond the face, and the smooth white skin of a being she was on the verge of loving without understanding.
Fuck.
She was still a fool, and his arms seemed like the safest place in all the world.
A very good place to fall.
Asleep.
#morpheus x reader#sandman x oc#sandman x reader#dream of the endless x oc#fic: hello mr. monster#sandman fic
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Hob on holiday!
#ferdinand kingsley#feral for ferdie#dreamling#sandman fic#hob x morpheus#hob gadling#morpheus x hob#dream of the endless imagine#hob x dream
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Hob tries to be a very normal about the fact that the pretty silver ropes he once tied around the nightmare’s wrists… appear to be rooted like weeds directly into the Corinthian’s spine. One tethered at the center of each rune. They stretch like pale tendon from the tattoos down his back to form the rope loops around his arms.
A friend from the discord shared this art and I immediately wrote a fucked up fic about how binding spells manifest for a mostly metaphysical being. Normal about it. They are kind enough to let me share with y’all. Enjoy the art and the fic. AO3 Link
#the sandman#the corinthian#the sandman netflix#hob gadling#hobrinthian#sandman fic#technically fic is#hobrintheus#and#corintheus
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