The Sandman Fanfiction - Tumblr Posts

Sloom

AO3

In many ways, Dream feels inferior to the rest of his family. Which means he struggles when Hob asks to meet them.

Well this took a million years longer to finish than I expected and as usual I struggled with the ending but we gotta call it done at some point, lads, so here we are.

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

Dream tries not to think about it too much, because it makes something in his heart ache when he does.

How he was made wrong.

He doesn't understand it- he was born the same way as his siblings, and yet somehow he is the only one… lacking. Everyone else understands humanity, everyone else understands themselves, everyone else doesn't struggle to connect, to speak, to share, to exist in a way that doesn't hurt.

Even Desire, whom he despises so much for all the games they play to torment him…

But then, Desire is only so cruel to him. Maybe that, too, is his fault.

He had thought it was enough to do his job well - to protect the dreamers and his realm and all the power it contains. He can withstand being a bad sibling, a bad friend, a bad husband, father, lover, person (he can withstand it, he can) as long as he is good at his job. He doesn't play games, he doesn't let himself get distracted, he fulfills his purpose, he is good at his job, and that is enough. It has to be.

(And then he fails at that, too.)

(He had made himself good for one thing. Now he is good for nothing.)

He walks with Death, and his elder sister lovingly twists the knife. She reminds him of all the ways he got it wrong, got all of it wrong, and he wonders if she would have bothered to come if he had called at Fawny Rig.

(He wonders if she would have come if one of their other siblings had been captured.)

(He wonders if they all aid each other when he's not looking.)

(He doesn't look.)

She tells him to visit Hob Gadling and it feels like an execution. He feels like he’s bleeding, like he’s being sentenced to a slow death, like all of his wounds are on display for anyone to dig their fingers into.

He feels like he deserves it.

And so he drags his feet, first to the hollowed out husk of the White Horse, and then following a bright line to someplace new, someplace glowing with life and possibility and when he crosses the threshold he feels like a weed. He is too dark for this place, too cold, and when he sees Hob he expects to be kicked out like a stray dog.

Hob smiles at him. Smiles, and Dream feels a little less cold.

“You’re late.”

No condemnation. No cruelty. No accusation or malice or brutality.

Dream is breathless with it.

“It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”

Somehow, Hob’s smile brightens. When Dream sits across from him, he feels, for the first time since 1916- no, since long, long before then- that he is welcome and wanted.

When he came here Dream had braced himself for punishment. Instead, they sit and talk long into the evening. Soft and hesitant, Dream gives Hob his name, and Hob glows like he’s been given the answers to the universe. Bright and enthusiastic, Hob speaks of all he has done in the past century, and Dream listens and lets himself sink comfortably into the warmth of companionship.

Eventually, Dream knows he must return to his responsibilities. It aches to think of leaving this soothing place, but he feels as though a balm has been spread on his wounds. Still hurting and aching, but less so than before.

Before he stands to depart, Hob places a hesitant hand on his wrist.

“Feel free to drop by before 2089, yeah? Anytime.”

There is a long pause while Dream considers that. Despite how kind he had been, it feels inconceivable that Hob would want to see Dream more than he has to. But he cannot deny the way his chest clenches with hope at the idea of feeling this warmth again so soon.

Perhaps it is selfish.

But Dream agrees.

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

The first time it comes up is on their third meeting in as many weeks.

They are sitting together on a comfortably worn couch in Hob’s flat above the New Inn, next to each other but still with a respectable distance between them. Dream is trying very, very hard not to misstep in his friendship with Hob. And a part of that, he understands, means sharing the information Hob has asked for for so long.

It is a deeply uncomfortable experience for Dream. A part of him (the part that is still, in some way, shivering deep in the Burgess basement) cries that his secrecy is all that has protected him. That Hob, in his human greed and longing, will turn into Roderick the moment he realizes what Dream is, what he could get from him, what he could take from him.

(That same part of him, curled up the cold glass orb of his heart, cries that it’s better to just give it to him.)

And yet, in all that Dream tells him, Hob never turns cruel. He explains his function, his creation and rule over dreams and nightmares, and Hob’s eyes alight with wonder. He describes his realm, his subjects and landscapes and the Sea of Dreams, and Hob leans forward like an excited child.

And, when he stiltedly explains the nature of the Endless, Hob laughs fondly.

“You know, that actually explains so much.”

Dream tilted his head in confusion, “How do you mean?”

Hob waved his hand vaguely, leaning back in his seat, “Well, all your cute little quirks,” Dream resolutely ignores the warmth in his face from being called cute, “how formally you speak, and all the human things that seem to go over your head. Of course human social niceties aren’t natural to you, not only are you not human, you’re as old as the universe.”

Frowning, Dream looks down at his hands in his lap. He thinks, as he often does, of Death. Of her easy mingling with humans, her casual conversation, the way people smile at her. He thinks of his own shy smile and how all it does is make people walk away faster.

He doesn’t think being Endless explains anything about him, actually.

(It occurs to him, suddenly, that maybe it is not that he wishes to be unmade. He simply wishes he had been made right.)

(Or, perhaps, never made at all.)

“Hey.”

A warm hand covers his, and he looks up to find Hob leaning into his space, shooting him a small smile despite the concern in his eyes, “I’m not criticizing. It’s endearing,” he laces their fingers together, soft and gentle, “I like your quirks.”

That word again. Dream swallows, feels the words build at the base of his throat, they are flaws, they are faults, do not be fooled, do not show me mercy I do not deserve.

But before he gets a chance to explain, to warn him, Hob leans in closer, “I like you.”

The kiss is hesitant, he can taste the anxiety on Hob’s lips, the way he clutches his hand a little harder as though bracing to be pushed away. Dream does not have the strength to push him away. It takes every ounce of effort he has just to keep his tears from falling as he melts against Hob, pressing closer and drinking in Hob’s sigh of relief.

Dream stays long into the night, until Hob drifts to sleep in the circle of his arms. He never corrects Hob’s assumption on his nature, the words still stuck in his throat. Choking him.

But not enough to open his mouth.

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

"So," Hob drawled, putting his arm around Dream's shoulders in a way that was clearly trying to be casual and not succeeding even a little, "When do I get to meet your family?"

Several months have passed (several months of opportunities to tell the truth, to be honest, to crack his ribs open and show Hob everything wrong with him-) and their relationship has grown like a blooming flower. Dream feels warm with Hob, and Hob smiles easily whenever he visits.

Dream does not want it to end.

He hums in consideration, even as his entire body tenses against his will. He has told Hob about his family, though not extensively. He has told him their names, and the order of their birth, but not the intricacies of his relationships with them.

(He has not, even once, mentioned his parents. Hob hasn’t asked.)

(One of the first nightmares he ever crafted was that of a child crying for a parent who refuses to turn around.)

Beside him, Hob shifts a little uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he rambles, “I know it’s one of those silly human things, the whole ‘meet the fam’ part of a relationship, but well, y’know me, always curious about your life.”

Hob does that fairly frequently, explaining “human mysteries” or sometimes laughing fondly as he guides his “silly Endless” through whatever social mishap he’s found himself in. Always explaining away Dream’s stumbles with his inhumanity.

And now, he wants to meet his family, and Dream’s chest tightens at the thought of Hob expecting to meet more cold and aloof entities who don’t know where to put their hands and instead being met with Endless who are so much better.

“I… understand,” His speech is as faltering as the rest of him. “If you would like. To meet one of them. I can arrange a meeting.”

Pulling him closer against his side, Hob’s eyes brighten with excitement, even as he checks, “Are you sure?”

Dream nods, barely feeling the kiss on his cheek as he thinks of each of his siblings in relation to Hob.

Delirium and Hob would likely find each other a delight (an irony which does not escape him), both so vivid and full of life, always looking at things in new ways. They are both so bright, so colorful in their own ways. So jarring next to Dream's darkness.

(He pictures Delirium questioning why someone as nice as Hob is with her mean older brother.)

(He pictures Hob realizing he doesn't have an answer.)

He does not think he could bring himself to call Destruction, if he would even answer, but he thinks he and Hob would make fine friends- both turning away from the violence of their pasts, searching instead for ways to grow and nurture.

(Dream had to be punished into changing. Had to be tortured in order to grow.)

(He thinks he grew like a weed. Or perhaps an infection. Just because he is more does not mean he is good.)

If he's honest with himself, he thinks Hob and Desire would get along as well. Hob would probably be good for his sibling in a similar way that he was for Dream, able to understand the soft parts that Desire hides, and them able to share in the joys that life has to offer in a way Dream struggles to, so accustomed to denying his own wants.

(Desire hurt him. Desire hurt him.)

(He has been told that he is worse.)

Thinking about it, he thinks Despair would like Hob. He had the unique ability to truly appreciate despair and understand its value, and Despair had an appreciation for life that Hob could relate to.

(What does it say about him, he wonders, that Despair wants to live more than Dream does?)

Destiny would almost certainly decline any offer to meet, and Dream doesn’t know that he and Hob would be friends, per say, but…

(He imagines Destiny standing before the immortal, forgoing any small talk and telling Hob bluntly that he is destined for things far greater than his broken little brother.)

But, in the end, he knows there was always one person Dream wanted Hob to meet, even if it makes him lose him. So he steels himself and forces the words out.

"Hob, would you like to meet my elder sister, the one who gave you your immortality?"

“Death?” Hob goes a little wide eyed, “Is that- I mean, I can meet her without, y’know…” he makes a crude slashing motion across his throat.

“Of course,” Dream answers steadily, “She can be present among mortals without bestowing her gift upon them. She will not take you. Unless. You ask.”

“No, no, not planning that anytime soon,” Hob is quick to reassure, “Or ever, really,” he tacks on with a smirk and a wink.

Nodding, Dream allows himself to reach out and take Hob’s hand. He will miss this warmth. “I will speak with her, then. And arrange a meeting.”

Hob’s grin is wide and bright, and Dream can feel it as Hob presses a kiss to the sharp edge of his cheek bone, “Excellent! This will be fun, Love! I’ll pick up some of that wine that you liked enough to actually drink- or, would you rather we meet in the Dreaming?”

Dream only barely manages to suppress a cringe, but even so he bows his head, as if he could somehow hide within his own curled spine.

“I would. Prefer to let you meet on your own.”

Hob's smile falters, "What? Why?"

Because I do not want you to see us side by side. Because I do not want to make my lacking more obvious than it already will be. Because I won't survive seeing the moment your eyes turn cold. Because I'm scared.

"I merely wish you to get to know each other without my influence."

He can see so clearly in his mind’s eye, Hob glancing back and forth between the two siblings, one so charming and kind and good, and the other… lesser. Lacking. Dream does not wish to be present for that realization.

Recovering his grin, Hob laughed lightly, "Ballsy of you. Most folks I know wouldn't have the guts to leave their siblings and their partners alone together," he leans forward to play with Dream's hair teasingly, "What if we exchange secrets, eh?"

I'm a liar, I lied to you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-

“That is within your right.”

Hob laughs, startled, and pulls Dream flush against his side, “What a fair ruler you are,” he says jokingly, “Well, I can’t wait. It’ll be endlessly fun,” he winks, trying to get a rise out of Dream.

Dream smiles back. But it’s a little weaker than usual.

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

Dream stares at the ankh for a long time before he picks it up. A childish part of him wants to leave the gallery and feed Hob lies and excuses. Death is very busy, she could not make the time, I called and she didn’t answer, she didn’t answer, it has happened before-

But. What would that accomplish besides delaying the inevitable?

He cradles the ankh in his hands, “Death. I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil.”

“Dream!” He can hear the smile in Death’s voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wish to discuss. A personal matter. Would you care to join me?”

Death steps beside him almost before he can finish speaking, "Of course! What can I do for you?"

She's so casual and easygoing, but a part of Dream can't help but search for any lingering anger or resentment from their last talk. He wonders if she's forgiven him.

(He wonders if he's worth forgiving.)

Straightening, he explains flatly, "Hob Gadling wishes to meet you," he pauses before adding, "In a nonprofessional manner."

Snorting, Death replied, "Well, I could have guessed that," she grinned, "But you're finally letting me meet your little project?"

"He has become. Far more than a project."

"I know, I'm teasing, silly," she shoved his shoulder playfully, "I'd love to meet him! Just tell me when and where and I'll make some time."

Nodding, he considers his options. He is torn between stretching out his time with Hob and simply getting it over with. In the end, he chooses what he feels is a polite and reasonable timeframe.

“One week from tomorrow, in the afternoon. At the New Inn.”

“I’ll be there,” grinning, Death linked their arms together, “I can’t wait, I bet you two are sickeningly adorable together.”

A bitter part of him thinks Death would just be sad to see someone like Hob shackled to Dream.

“I will not be present. This meeting is for you and Hob.”

Death pulls back to look at Dream’s face, frowning in confusion. For a moment she seems to consider her words, before settling on a question, “What’s going on in that head of yours, little brother?”

Dream meets her gaze and answers flatly, “Nothing of importance.”

There is exasperation in her voice as she huffs, “I hate that you really believe that.”

He loves his sister so very much. And he does not have the strength to be yelled at right now.

So he straightens his spine and keeps his voice even, “I will let Hob know of the time of your appointment,” he allows himself to soften, just slightly, “He is looking forward to meeting you.”

“I look forward to meeting him, as well.” Death knows she has been dismissed, and so she gives Dream one final squeeze on his arm before departing back to her duties, a gentle rustle of feathers echoing through the gallery.

For a long moment, Dream stands in his gallery alone, gazing at the sigils of his siblings.

He will go and tell Hob of his upcoming meeting with Dream’s sister. And if he stays longer than strictly necessary, if he presses a little closer than he usually does, he if stares too long at Hob’s face in an attempt to commit his smile to memory, Hob is nice enough not to comment.

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

It is not raining in the Dreaming.

Dream does not feel that kind of sadness. There is grief, for certain but… it is a grief he believes he has no right to feel. This is not sorrow, it is justice, a loss of something that was never his to have. He cannot cry, he cannot mourn, he can't, he can't, he just-

The Dreaming is covered in a thick layer of fog.

A white mist, so thick it feels like you could move it with your hands, wade through it, drown in it. Dream is in one of the gardens surrounding the palace, grinding his teeth and trying desperately to make it go away. He had hoped that going outside would at least help clear the fog that had permeated the palace halls. Matthew had flown into a wall twice before resigning himself to perching on Lucienne’s shoulder until the hallways were visible again, and Dream does not think he could survive if another raven was injured due to his weakness.

The week had passed too quickly for his liking, time showing him no mercy. He had visited Hob each day, an unusual occurrence that Hob had raised an eyebrow at but otherwise not commented on. And in all that time, Dream had still not told him the truth. He did not explain that the Endless he was to meet would be nothing like Dream because Dream was nothing like the other Endless, did not confess to having cheated more time with Hob by misleading him about his nature. And now, it was too late. Hob would leave, and Dream would always be a liar.

Sighing, he leans against the tree behind him, looking up and frowning as the fog hides even the leaves above him. Sometimes he wishes he had more control over his connection to the Dreaming. More control over himself. He wonders if this is how humans feel when they wish mastery over their own bodies, their organs, their blood.

The fog is getting thicker.

Growling deep in his throat, Dream presses the tips of his fingers against his temples. There is no reason for him to feel so… lost. He has existed and survived before Hob, and he will continue to do so after. Happiness is not necessary. And besides, he has wanted to be a better person, and would a better person not prioritize their loved one’s happiness over their own? It is an irrefutable fact that Hob deserves better than Dream is capable of, so it is the least Dream can do to not stand in his way.

Pulling his knees to his chest, he wraps his arms loosely around them, feeling as bare and exposed as he had in Fawney Rig, suddenly thankful for the cover of fog. Perhaps, he could allow himself this respite. A moment of selfishness, and then he would pull himself together. Just one night to grieve where no one could see him. Just one night to hide-

“There you are!”

Dream’s head snaps up, eyes wide with a shock he could not hope to conceal.

Because Hob is here.

The immortal is smiling, like he has every other time he’s seen Dream, stumbling slightly through the fog before plopping himself down to sit pressed against Dream’s side. This close, he can see the spark of concern in his eyes even as he throws an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

“Well this is a bit different. You know I saw Merv actually sweeping the fog? What’s crazier is it was working, swept it into a big pile and then pushed it out the front door. I know anything is possible here, but I will admit I did spend a few minutes just staring at that spectacle.”

Throughout his rambling, Dream is aware that he is staring. A quick assessment of his own body alerts him to the fact that his mouth is parted, and he is literally gaping at Hob. How unbecoming.

When he fails to respond to his story, Hob’s smile dims, and the concern in his eyes amplifies, “Hey… is everything alright?”

No. Nothing makes sense. He feels more lost than before. He thinks the fog is getting thicker, heavier, colder.

“You…” He clears his throat, trying to compose himself even a little, “You were. Supposed to meet Death today. Did. Did that. Not happen?” That is the only logical explanation.

But Hob shakes his head, “No, we did, got back a couple hours ago, just took me a bit to fall asleep,” he chuckles a bit to himself, “She’s a riot, honestly, nothing at all like all the skull and crossbones nonsense.” He gives Dream a warm smile, “I can see why you two get along so well.”

Dream is. Dream is-

He opens his mouth, and all that comes out is fog.

“Woah, okay,” Hob jumps a little, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip around Dream’s shoulders tightens.

Fog is drifting from the corners of Dream’s eyes.

He can’t see. He can’t breathe. He feels so lost-

“Alright, hey, hey,” Hob pulls him closer, wrapping him in a firm embrace, “Love, I think we should go to the Waking, okay? Is that alright?”

Dream forces himself to nod against Hob’s chest. His body is no more bound in the Waking than it is in the Dreaming, but sometimes the distance makes it… easier, if only a little, to keep his shape. As opposed to here, where the edges of Dream and the Dreaming often blur together. Like now.

Hob kisses the crown of his head, and Dream can feel him pulling away, waking up, and Dream follows the pull. In the space between realms, he forces his form together, like holding a door shut, like clenching a fist. When he arrives, he is laying on top of Hob, who is splayed out on his couch. Some hysterical part of him wants to scold Hob for not settling in his bed to sleep.

As Hob fully awakens, his arms reach up to embrace Dream, and Dream can’t help but curl his hands in Hob’s shirt. Slow and gentle, Hob maneuvers them to sit up, and when he pulls back, Dream cannot look him in the eye.

“Hey…” Hob cups his face with both hands, rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles on the hinge of Dream’s jaw, and Dream realizes for the first time that he is clenching his teeth together hard enough to crack human bone. He fears what will come out if he opens his mouth.

“You’re alright, dove,” Hob whispers, still trying to coax Dream into relaxing his jaw, “Everything is alright, I’m right here, sweetheart, I’ve got you my love.”

It takes a few minutes, just Hob whispering softly and soothing his fingers over Dream’s skin, but eventually Dream musters the courage to let his teeth separate, parting his lips just slightly. He sags with relief when all that escapes him is a shaky breath.

“There you are,” Hob presses a kiss to Dream’s forehead before tucking his head beneath his chin and pulling him into a hug, rubbing a hand up and down his back.

Ever patient, he waits until Dream is breathing evenly to question him, “What’s going on, dearheart?” He rocks them back and forth as he speaks, “You’ve been off all week. I should have said something sooner, but I thought you were just nervous about me meeting your sister.”

Swallowing thickly, Dream forces himself to answer, “I was.”

Hob pulled back, brows furrowed in confusion, “Okay, but everything went fine? I told you, we got along great.”

“But…”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

Dream feels as lost now as he did in the Dreaming. How does he explain this to Hob? How does he explain it without drawing Hob’s attention to that which he somehow missed? He should be grateful that Hob is still here, how is he supposed to tell him this truth without making him leave?

Is he destined to make him leave no matter what?

Belatedly, he realizes he is still clutching Hob’s shirt.

He lets him go.

“I did believe. That you would enjoy each others’ company,” he explains resignedly, “And I assumed that in your meeting, I would. Lose your favor.”

Had he been looking, he would have seen Hob’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “You thought I would like her more than you?” His voice is heavy with disbelief.

“In a sense…” He had not considered Hob finding romantic interest in Death, as Hob seems to think, “I merely thought that. In meeting her, you would realize…”

(Death never struggled with her words the way Dream, the Prince of Stories, always seemed to.)

Taking a deep breath, he tries again, “We are both Endless. And yet. She is…”

“Different?”

“Better.”

Hob sucks in a breath as though he’s been slapped, “Dream-”

“You think that all the things wrong with me are due to my nature as an Endless,” Dream interrupts, the dam broken as he spills out everything he has been holding back for months, “and I let you believe that. But the truth is, my siblings are not like me. They do not struggle with humanity as I do, nor do they share my penchant for arrogance and cruelty. Death is older than I, and yet you saw her- she is kind, and she speaks normally, and she understands-” His voice cracks, and he has to pause, closing his eyes and forcing his molecules to stay solid. To stay here.

“The problem is not that I am Endless,” he confesses in a whisper, “The problem is that I am… me.”

Dream keeps his eyes downcast, fixated on the texture of the couch in the space between them. He wonders if Hob will chastise him for his deceit or simply tell him to leave, wonders if he will demand punishment or repayment.

One hand laces their fingers together, as the other gently cups Dream’s cheek. Hob does not try to tilt Dream’s face or make him meet his eyes. He just holds him.

“I happen to like ‘you’ very much, actually.”

Hob’s voice is soft as a breath, quiet despite the devastation and sorrow painting each word. Dream closes his eyes as Hob leans forward to brush their foreheads together.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he states firmly, confidently, “You’re not perfect, I know that, the same way you know that I’m not either. But there’s nothing wrong with you.”

The conviction in his voice gives Dream just enough courage to open his eyes. Hob’s eyes are filled with tears and shining with so much love it takes Dream’s breath away. When their eyes meet, Hob gives him a sad smile and brushes his thumb along his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry. For ever making you think you needed to explain away parts of yourself,” He brings Dream’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his trembling knuckles, “I don’t love you in spite of anything. I just love you.”

Dream wants to argue. He wants to give every example from his long, long life that he is wrong, that Dream is defective and unworthy and unlovable.

But when Hob kisses him, whispers “I love you” against his lips, he finds himself… hoping. That maybe Hob is right. That maybe this is another bet he would lose to the strength that is Hob Gadling’s love.

Later, after Hob has held him long enough that he does not feel like he may fall apart, he will give his arguments. Later he will state his case and Hob will not hesitate in debating right back, punctuating his points with soft kisses and fond smiles. And it will not fix everything right away, as much as they both wish it would. But it will feel like a start, like adding support beams to a faulty foundation, like strengthening the parts of Dream that always felt a breeze away from buckling.

But for now, Hob holds him tight and whispers against his hair, “You want to hear a secret?”

When Dream hums questioningly against his neck, he presses a kiss to his temple, “Death isn’t perfect either.”

Dream lets out a barking laugh, and then another, and another, and then he is sobbing and holding Hob like he is the only thing keeping him together because he is, and maybe this outburst is just another flaw of his.

Regardless. Hob still holds him.

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

A month later, Hob and Dream invite Death over for drinks. Three very different people sit in hob’s living room, and they drink wine, and laugh, and Hob occasionally scolds Death when he feels Dream stiffen at some of her teasing.

Before she leaves, Death pulls Dream into a hug, patting his back even as he stands stiffly in the circle of her arms, “I was right. Sickeningly adorable, both of you.”

Dream huffs, but feels no real offense or embarrassment at her words. It is still hard to trust that this is real, sometimes. But all night he had searched Hob’s eyes, and even when Death made him laugh or understood some human reference, he still turned to look at Dream with love and joy.

As hard as it is to believe, the truth is that Hob sat with both of them, and when he grew tired he asked Death to leave.

But he asked Dream to stay.

Dreamling Bingo 2023 Masterlist

Thank you so much to the @dreamlingbingo team for doing all the crazy work for this event!

Lil guide: ao3 is full works, usually minimum 1k words. Tumblr links are snippets or drabbles (one double drabble), two art fills that are [tagged], one nsfw fill thats also [tagged] that I greatly apologise for.

A1 - Sports Rivals: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724341516584222720

A2 - Panic Attack: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42339057/chapters/111521764

A3 - Loss of Power: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724341271133601792

A4 - Fusion: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724432409170526208

A5 - Gagged: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724384643141533696 [NSFW]

B1 - Compassion: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44137008

B2 - Mother is a creature: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43117123/chapters/111521569

B3 - Space Cruise: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44194588

B4 - Crossover (2+ Sources): https://archiveofourown.org/works/44758519

B5 - Turn over a new leaf: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45004402/chapters/113651104

C1 - Sports Commentator: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48777829

C2 - Secret Society: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724362174205771776

C3 - FREE SPACE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48633028

C4 - Addams Family: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48650857

C5 - Grey Hair: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44195302

D1 - Technology Stops Working: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724363698536431616

D2 - Magical Pendant: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/723274223048589312 [ART]

D3 - Spies: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724383812570710016

D4 - Fairy Tale: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724385519378759680 [ART]

D5 - Dance Team: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724361556046102528

E1 - Only one bed: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724340231278641152

E2 - Detective: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42988995/chapters/111521146

E3 - Fake Dating: https://www.tumblr.com/beauty-of-nyx/724429833405431808

E4 - Mind Control: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45004402/chapters/113237749

E5 - Interstellar War: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47421511

Colour Forecasting

By @blueberrymffn and @arialerendeair

Chapter: 19/?

Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 145,946 words posted/567,326 words written

Read on Ao3

Summary: Dream is a model who looks for stress relief from his life, his job, and his trauma, in the arms of a Dom at the London BDSM club Asphodel, twice a year, after each fashion week season.

Hob is a BDSM club owner who has spent the last few years serving a single client, who he knows very little about, twice a year, always at the same time of year.

After their latest Scene turns sour, and they part angrily, enough time passes for both of them to realize how much they miss each other. And when a second chance arrives unexpectedly - both of them leap at the chance for more.

(Also known as: Model Dream, and BDSM Club Owner Hob. They have an Arrangement until it goes Tits Up and then they get together and figure out how to live Kinkily Ever After through their respective Trauma™️ and have ridiculously hot sex.)

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(Chapter Preview!)

There really wasn’t much of a point in dressing for the club, given that all Hob had hinted at requires him to be naked or mostly so, but Dream put in an effort nonetheless. He had long since realised that Hob enjoyed stripping him out of fancy clothes more than the bare necessity of the act required. Though he’d already planned the outfit far in advance he thought about it again while showering; what Hob’s reaction would be. Hob knew what he could look like, but saw him mostly in ratty old jeans and one of his own t-shirts.

He felt a little awkward at first, looking at his reflection in the dresser mirror as he got ready. The sheer mesh shirt was hardly a shirt at all, just a darker shadow clinging to his pale body except for the lines of the seams. If Hob intended to stay at the club after, it would show any marks he had left behind. Much after, he would need some time to come down. The lamb leather trousers he’d chosen were so soft and light that they looked almost like velveteen but fit entirely too tightly like a second skin, enough so that he was happy he’d grabbed a long coat in the raid of his apartment or else he’d be immensely uncomfortable on the tube. After staring at himself for a moment, he shrugged for a non-existent audience and undid the top two buttons of the button-fly to reveal a hint of satin-edged lace beneath. He was wearing a coat over it, after all.

Much to Hob’s surprise when it had come up in conversation once, makeup was not exactly Dream’s strength. Maybe the women he worked with were good at it but for him, mostly he knew how to hide the dark circles under his eyes and look presentable. He went to clubs so rarely these days that he hadn’t the opportunity to put on proper gothic eyeshadow in quite a long time. It looked good by his estimation, and his opinions on makeup were certainly more formed than his skills. The only lipstick colours he had were mostly aimed at hiding how nervously bitten his lips were, but the overall effect was good enough. All of it would be smeared and cried off soon enough.

He threw on a light knee length black coat to hide his rather provocative outfit and after brief hesitation chose the Chelsea boots with a heel rather than his usual. Hob was intending to debase him with an audience, Dream could tower over him for a few minutes before that happened as his own little personal vengeance - not that Hob minded. After a moment’s hesitation he decided that Hob had most likely prepared everything for them, including something for him to wear afterwards that didn’t hurt, so Dream forwent bringing anything but himself.

With the after work rush over, Dream was gratified to find the tube station mostly empty and be nearly alone until the last few stops. He knew enough people in this general area that he was mildly nervous about bumping into someone he knew while all made up and dressed like a tart. Not that his reflection in the window was displeasing, no, but he held an irrational anxiety that it was obvious where he was going and for what.

He arrived at the club about an hour and a half after Hob had left the house, as he had dawdled a little for no particular reason. Perhaps he should have arrived earlier, given how busy it was - he’d thought a Wednesday night crowd would have been minimal but apparently not. After ditching his jacket at coat check he felt very exposed. A fool notion considering what some other people were wearing, but Dream was very cognizant of the looks he garnered as he weaved his way through the loose crowd to the bar, having spotted Hob there leaning across and pointing something out to the man on duty. Oberon, he was pretty sure. Dream wasn’t the best with names, faces were easier.

He moved in close behind Hob and draped himself over him, sliding his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. That should deter anyone who had been watching his approach, for the moment. “Missed you,” he said against Hob’s ear in a soft, low voice.

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Hob Gadling headcanons that the entire Dreamling/Sandman fandom has accepted

Hob either owns or built the New Inn, and lives in a flat above it

He is a magpie that collects trinkets

"Duck"

Even though he is a professor, he works at the Inn to cover for his employees when necessary

Everyone loves him, especially his students and employees

"You'll be the death of me"

He is a slut (affectionate)

Proud Bi Disaster

Tory hater

"I'll make some tea"

All his lounge/homewear is threadbare

Immediately best friends with Matthew and Lucienne

Desire likes him more than Dream

Dream of the Endless headcanons that have no basis on the source material but the Sandman/Dreamling fandom has decided to adopt anyway

After the success of this post

Has a sweet tooth

He also likes fries. Don't ask me

"I am given the impression that friends meet more than once per century"

Not a morning person

Hair always looks like that

"I am Morpheus, but Dream is the name I hold dear"

Could technically pluck Matthew for interfering in his private life and still won't

Is personally offended by the concept of coffee

"You are singular, Hob Gadling"

Borrows Hob's clothes

Which always hang low over his hipbones

"Desire. What are you doing here"

Doesn't wear underwear

Melts his clothes away

Cats

Hob could be holding a neon sign that says "I love you please marry me" and Dream would still think he's imposing

The Dream That Got Away

Chapter 8

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x You (no Y/N!)

This is a multi-chapter fic — Weekly updates (either Saturday or Sunday) because I found a rhythm of sorts lol

(The entire fic has been outlined, so I will see this to the end, you have my word)

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Link to the Masterlist

Overall Warnings!! Take heed:

Morpheus is DARK – in canon, he changes for the better (or at least, tries to – but we don’t do canon lol, so he goes even more batshit crazy) cue obsession, manipulation, possessiveness, powerplay

18+ ONLY – explicit scenes will be present, some explicit language

DUB-CON and NON-CON scenes

Character death (sort of)

Creator vs Creation drama

And other dark stuff that may be added in the future

This chapter’s warnings:

non-consensual kissing and touching

touch-starved Morpheus should be a warning of its own

mentions of death/killing

You have been warned!! Proceed with caution!!!

Link to the previous chapter

Chapter 8: The Dream Plan

If you thought the first beach you’d visit in the Waking World would take your mind off things for a while, you were sorely mistaken.

For the past few days, you had taken to sulking in Ollie’s study. Trying to come up with plans for evading your Dream King had made you a bit moodier and jumpier than normal. To top it all off, you swore you had felt this immense surge of endless power find its way back to its rightful owner – has he finally retrieved all his tools? If so, it wouldn’t be long before he gets to you and finds out what you had been up to. The thought bothered you so much, you had started refusing to eat and step out of the study, enough for Ollie to put his foot down and address your depressed state. Ever the fusspot, he insisted you come with him on a trip to Cape Kennedy, Florida, for a change of view, saying it would be good for your health. You had wondered vaguely why he chose this place, but you just got a shrug from him, mumbling how there was just “something about it” that drew him in. After reluctantly agreeing, all he had to do was dream of the room he was staying in so you could travel through his dream to meet him in the Waking.

Instead of calming your inner storm, however, going to the beach only made you realize how sorely you missed the ones in the Dreaming. With a twinge of sad nostalgia, you recall just how fine their sand felt as you wriggled your toes in them, and how the serene waters were the loveliest shade of blue. Involuntarily, a pair of eyes in the same shade, with galaxies swirling in righteous anger, floats into your line of vision – the unwelcome image goes away in a blink; a mere hallucination. It takes all your willpower to not stagger backward and make a run for it, so when you see a young woman with colourful dreadlocks in the distance, crouching before a raven, you quietly thank the Fates for a much-needed distraction. You’ve met the woman in passing at the Bed and Breakfast you’re staying at, so you take a step forward to say a more proper ‘hi’ this time.

You don’t get a chance to, for someone grips your arm tightly and hurriedly drags you away from the bizarre scene.

“What the – hey, what in the –”

You object to the intrusion, yanking your arm away and eyeing whoever it is. Whatever indignant retort you had bubbling at your throat dies down, leaving your mouth agape. What is he doing here?

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, doll.” The Corinthian gives you a mock salute in greeting.

“Corinthian,” you tilt your head to greet him back. “What was that all about?”

Smiling cheekily, he replies, “You should be thanking me. I just saved you from meeting your maker earlier than I’m sure you planned.”

Wide-eyed, you shudder inwardly at his insinuation. “You mean that’s his raven? How can you be so sure?”

“I overheard them.”

With a quiet gesture to follow him, you both walk away from the scene, ensuring you’re both out of earshot.

“What is a Dreaming raven doing, talking to Rose Walker?”

“You’ve met her?”

“Yes, she’s a fellow tenant at this place we’re staying.”

“Oh? I’m guessing you’re with your lover? You like getting yourself in trouble, don’t you?” He says playfully, wagging a finger at you.

Ignoring his comment, you repeat your question: “What’s a raven of the Dream Lord doing with her?”

“Don’t you recognize her? She’s a vortex.”

The Corinthian’s revelation makes you halt your steps in your shock.

“So, you are familiar with Vortexes.”

“I’ve read about them. Dreams are drawn to them, like moths to a flame.”

“Smart as ever, doll. As for me, I’m going to make her kill Dream.”

“No,” You say, shaking your head at him in incredulity. “You’re really not going to do that, are you?”

His smirk only grows wider, more sinister. “No spoilers, doll. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Your heart sinks at this – it’s clear he has made his choice, and there is no saving him from it. A sudden, concerning thought crosses you:

“He’s going to use her to draw out those who are missing.”

“Oh, you think?” He remarks sarcastically, looking around the beach with faint interest.

“It was a mistake, coming here,” you say in a haunted whisper.

Humming thoughtfully, he asks you, “What are you gonna do, then, Dream’s little plaything?”

“Don’t call me that,” You pout at the nickname, eyes darting at the beachgoers, looking for signs of Rose or the raven. “I must go and warn Ollie. What are you going to do?”

Hands in his trench coat pockets and with a confident air about him, he drawls, “What I do best.”

You give a final nod in his direction and say, “Thank you, Corinthian, for…this.” You gesture awkwardly between the two of you. “Take care of yourself.”

Chuckling lightly, he responds, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me, doll. I can take care of myself just fine. You, on the other hand…” he trails off, clicking his tongue.

He turns his back on you with a single wave, and you watch him vanish in the crowd of incoming beachgoers.

***

As soon as you enter the room, you find it void of the doctor, much to your dismay. The bed had been made, his clothes tucked neatly inside the dresser, and he had the towels replaced. He had at least tidied up the place before he left. Looking around, you notice a box on the table with a note attached to it. The note reads, in Ollie’s immaculate handwriting:

Mera,

I’m out witch-hunting lol :) back before dinner

I left you money for food if you get hungry,

should be enough to order an entire menu ;D

True enough, you lift the box, and you find ten one hundred dollar bills. The box itself, to your surprise, held a six-inch cherry chocolate cheesecake, which he must’ve ordered in after you left.

The cake looks fantastic, but you find yourself without an appetite, so you set the box down and start packing his things. You neatly fold every shirt and every pair of pants he hung in the dresser and place them in his luggage. You then pack the pair of shoes he had left under the table, and after ensuring everything else he had brought is tucked in the luggage trolley, you sit on the couch and wait.

After about six hours of waiting in the room, you had finished off half of the cake he left in your boredom; you’re restless, scared to death that your master might pop in the room any minute to whisk you away from the Waking for good. Sick of counting the flowers on the wallpaper, you take some of the money he left on the table and sneak out of the room to take a walk in the town square. You had heard Rose and her friend, Lyta, talk in the lobby about searching for a lost relative – you didn’t really stick around, not wanting to draw attention to yourself – all you found out was that they would be out the entire day. You expected Dream’s raven to stick with them, so you figured it would be safe. After about three servings of frozen yogurt and three hours later, you head back to the Bed and Breakfast, hoping Ollie had made it back so you could leave this place for good.

As soon as you burst through the door, you find him fast asleep on the bed, still in his day trousers. Looking closely, you notice a third-edition LeRêve device on his wrist, its extending wires strapped to his fingers. Wasting no time, you travel to his dreams, ready to give him an earful and drag him to the nearest airport to get as far away from Cape Kennedy as possible.

You arrive to find him on his desk reading a pocket-sized, antique-looking leather-bound book that you’ve never seen him read before.

 He looks up from the book as soon as he feels you arrive. He spiritedly gets up from his desk to approach you, saying, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone at the last minute, Mera, but I’ve been busy. Hear me out: I think know how to keep you safe.”

You let out a humorless chortle, and admit, “Ollie, we’ve thought of everything. Cutting off your consciousness from the Dreaming isn’t enough, now that he’s got a Vortex cooperating with him. That’s what I came here to tell you. We have to leave this place. He’s going to find me soon. Getting away from here can at least buy me more time.”

“What ‘vortex?’ And why did you pack? I need more time to figure this out.”

Now visibly panicking, you grab him by the arms. “Figure what out, Ollie? We don’t have time for this!” You strain out, slightly shaking him. Without your control, tears start to pool out of the corners of your eyes. If he finds me, he finds you. 

Very gently, Ollie breaks free from your grip, cups your cheeks with both warm hands, and brings your foreheads together.

“You have to trust me, please. Remember what you did for me, even after I placed that binding curse on you? You came back for me and helped me. I want to do the same for you. Don’t cry, please. He’s never going to hurt you again, not under my watch.”

Sniffling, you give him a tiny nod, touched by his determination to protect you from a being with powers beyond his comprehension. If there is even a tiny percentage of his plan working and staying with him, you decide to cling on to that at that very moment: anything, anything, just you could be free with him.

“Alright. What have you got?”

He sighs in relief, wiping your tears with his thumbs, and says, “Wards.” He grabs the open book he left on the desk and waves it excitedly in the air.

At your befuddled look, you explain further, “I drove all the way to Jacksonville to meet this witch I saw on Facebook. That was a hundred and sixty miles away, can you believe it? And I told her I keep being followed by this supernatural thing and I wanted to keep it away, and she asks what supernatural thing, right? So I told her I don’t know, but it’s powerful beyond –”

“Ollie,” you interrupt, waving a hand in his face. “You’re rambling. What did she say?”

“She sold me this book about magical wards. So, what if I can put up these wards in my dream –”

“The way they’re used in the Waking,” you finish his sentence for him. “It’s a novel idea, Ollie, but I’m not sure how a simple set of wards could keep an Endless away.”

In your head, flashes of a circular glass cage cross your vision. “But I think I’ve seen a barrier that kept one at bay.”

Ollie’s face lights up with hope at your comment. “We have to try, right?”

Tacitly, you agree, asking, “What do you need?”

“Just give me a few days. Please.”

You nod, starting to feel sick in the stomach at the price you need to pay to buy him time.

Don’t do it, comes the Voice’s ominous warning.

“I have to go back to the Kingdom.”

He turns his head away from the book sharply and narrows his eyes on you. “What did you just say?”

Expecting this reaction, you sigh deeply, sitting back down on the couch and pointedly ignoring the Voice’s protests. “I have to appear in the castle, so they don’t suspect a thing.”

“No. No, absolutely fucking not. You’re going over my dead body.” Ollie’s brows are furrowed together, and he places his hands on his hips in indignance at your proposal.

“Ollie, I don’t like it any better than you do. But please, hear me out. The Vortex I mentioned? It’s a human being with powers that can include traveling through other people’s dreams. She’s here, right in that building with us. Anything to do with dreams and nightmares, she draws nearer to herself, and she’s working for the Dream King. If I don’t go right now, they’ll realize I’ve been with you this whole time.”

Ollie, rubbing the back of his head, dons a distraught, yet resigned expression. “Are you sure there’s no other way?”

You shake your head glumly. With a sudden inspiration, you close the distance between you two. You fish out the dreamcatcher that had made its home in your pocket, untouched for almost a year. You hold it between your thumb and forefinger and show it to him.

He looks at the all-too-familiar object with a confused smile. “I thought you destroyed that.”

“I don’t know why I kept it. You’re still a bastard for binding me to it,” you jest, placing it back into your pocket and adding, “But I’m glad I did.” Breathing deeply, you summon all the courage you have in your heart for what you’re about to do.

Standing on your toes (he’s so bloody tall), you wrap your arms around his neck and plant a quick, soft kiss on his lips.

“I’ll see you later. Keep safe.”

And in an instant, you will yourself back to the sea of dreams for the first time in months, leaving him flustered and red as a tomato in the face.

***

In the fantastical dreams of Barbara McKean or Barbie, as she likes to be called, a dense fog engulfs the figures of a young female with rainbow dreadlocks and a tall, dark-haired male clad in flowy robes of black.

As Rose Walker takes slow, calculated steps through the fog, the King of Dreams follows wordlessly after her. His expression cold and unreadable, he watches the Vortex tread onwards with hands wading through the thick gray mist before her, perhaps looking for an exit from this dream. Morpheus can feel her dogged determination to find the dreams of her brother – his quest, on the other hand, is to fetch a Nightmare called Gault, whom he suspects may have kept her brother away in an effort to mislead him and exercise her own powers to rule a dream she has full control of. Another subject of his had gone rogue and had overstepped their boundaries. If only his creations know well to toe the line and obey the rules he has set out since the inception of his kingdom, he would be somewhere else, perhaps deep in the dreams of other mortals, in search of a dream that had proved so loyal, enough to sacrifice her safety to find him and save his dying kingdom. Perhaps, should they follow your example, he might be inclined to enact a more merciful punishment.

The fog before them gathers right in front of his companion, swirling to the middle to form a single door. Rose Walker hesitates for a moment, before pushing it open and stepping into the dream of another mortal.

The two unlikely pair find themselves in a neat, minimalist office, with the dreamer on his desk reading from a tiny, old book with utmost concentration.

Oliver Chapman, the said dreamer, slowly gets to his feet, placing his book inside his desk drawer.

“Excuse me, can I help the both of you?” he inquires, his suspicion-filled green eyes, glaring, locking on the galaxy-filled blue ones of Dream of the Endless.

A lucid dreamer.

The King rises to this quiet challenge, wondering inwardly why, of all the dreams he has been in since his capture, his is the only one with a strong scent of the dream most precious to him. Could his dream have recently sought refuge here, perhaps, before moving on to another’s? Are you close by, injured, too weak to come home to him and return to his arms? To his credit, Oliver Chapman does not flinch; Morpheus, however, the perceptive being he is, senses his rapid heartbeat. Has he got something to hide?

“You shouldn’t be here,” he declares, his narrowing eyes never leaving the Dream King’s.

Sensing the tension between the men, Rose clears her throat loudly and says, “I’m sorry, Ollie, we were just leaving,” putting emphasis on the last word.

Just as she finishes her sentence, another door materializes on the wall of his study where it wasn’t a few moments ago. Rose glances nervously between the two before finally pushing the door open and moving on to the next dream.

With a scoff of barely-concealed contempt, Morpheus tears his gaze away from the dreamer and exits through the door after the Vortex. He might not know it yet, but Oliver Chapman just found himself worthy of another visit from him in the near future.

***

Back in the Dreaming, you surface from the seas, relieved to finally know the waters have calmed down in your King’s presence.

The King of Dreams, back in his kingdom.

Of course, you’re happy he has finally returned to restore life to the Realm you loved with every fiber of your being –but surely that meant the sealing of your fate to a function you had dreaded to fulfill. You could hear your heart thumping loudly in your ears, and you try to compose yourself by breathing through your mouth as you begin your walk towards the towering gates. You trek past the town center, all the way to the bridge that connects the majestic palace that had been your home. It seemed only yesterday that the entire land had nothing but barren landscapes. Everything has been brought back to the way it was – the Dreamfolk, going about their lives merrily, grateful for their monarch’s return. It all reminded you of all the fun you once had before you came on your master’s radar, so it’s with a pang in your heart to have to say goodbye, granted Ollie’s plan works and your King does not get wind of it.

Ollie. You had just kissed him right before you left. If he found out…

The steps to the palace grounds shake you from your reverie. You take a final deep breath and ascend. Gripping your skirt in an effort to strengthen your resolve, you feel something solid in your pocket; fishing the object out, you see the ruby you had removed on your first day in the Waking World – his gift, or rather, his mark on you, a rather ominous reminder. You fix it on your head hastily, before darting to the Library to greet a friend you have not seen in almost a year.

Entering the Royal Librarian’s premises takes your breath away like it’s the first time you’ve seen it. You take a moment to stroke the giant shelves containing the books you thought you’d never get back in your creator’s absence, fighting back your tears of joy – humanity’s books, the same ones you’ve found solace in, now have finally made it home.

“Mera, is that you?”

At the sound of Lucienne’s voice, you spin around to see her, almost losing your balance. She has not changed a bit, except for her expression – you had gotten so used to seeing her in a morose mood for the past century, you forgot how bright her smile could be. Running to her, you give her the tightest hug you could muster.

“Mera, thank goodness you’re safe!” Lucienne exclaims in a relieved voice.

Breaking the hug, you brace yourself for the lie you’re about to tell, hoping one day, she could forgive you for it.

“I got stuck in the dreams,” you begin with a strained look, finding it difficult to tell the lie. Thankfully, she seems to mistake this as you recollecting your memory of getting lost in the waters.

“Oh, dear, what happened?” she asks, concern marring her features.

Shit. You had not prepared for this at all.

“I-I got…trapped,” you stammer, but before she could press on, you both feel the almighty presence of your King return to the shores, evidently coming from the dreams of the mortals. Has he seen Ollie?

“I’ve got to go, Mera. The Dream Lord has come back from a quest to find a Nightmare named Gault. I’ll explain everything to you later, but it isn’t safe in the palace yet – there’s a Vortex, and it’s recently been causing dream-quakes,” she explains. With a grasp on your hand, she flashes you a welcoming smile. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

And so you wait, rooted to your spot – not that you could move anyway. As much as you wanted to dig into the books and find out what your dreamers had been up to, you’re trembling and jittery, fumbling with your hands with nothing but dread filling your thoughts. What has he found out in his trip in the dreams with Rose? What if he found out about your plans or worse, what if he hurt Ollie? Your intrusive thoughts wander to an image of Ollie, eyes almost glazed over, lying in a pool of blood –

Pull yourself together, the Voice scolds.

You rub your face with your palms to erase the gruesome image. The Voice is right – now is not a good time to lose it.

As soon as you hear a pair of footsteps enter the library, you brace yourself for their arrival. You look down at the floor and try to regulate your breathing. When the footsteps come to halt before you, you bow your head in reverence – you’re in the audience of the very omnipotent being who had molded you into existence, after all. He merely stands there, yet he changes the entire atmosphere in the library to one of petrifying tension.

Dream of the Endless.

“Mera.”

The sound of his deep, velvety voice, echoing in the expansive space, sends shivers down your spine. Your hand unconsciously goes to your thigh where your other pocket is, feeling for the dreamcatcher as if trying to draw comfort from it.

“Lucienne, leave us.”

You inwardly flinch at the command he had directed at his Royal Librarian – it was the same command he had issued to her in the throne room all those years ago, the events after which haunted you ever since. Ever the obedient one, Lucienne rushes past you – your scared eyes meet her reassuring ones briefly as she mouths, ‘we’ll talk later,’ before retreating. Her footsteps die down and one of the massive doors to the library close behind her, leaving you and your master alone.

He takes dawdling steps towards you, taking his time – your eyes keep glued to his feet, willing your hands not to shake. He takes a stop a few inches right in front of you.

You see him raise his hand – is he finally going to unmake you after all the rules you’ve broken? With resignation, you wait for the excruciating pain of disintegrating into millions of grains of sand, but it doesn’t come. Instead, you feel a warm hand cup the side of your face ever so gently.

“Look at me.”

You are quick to raise your head and meet his eyes; in place of righteous wrath, he has an unexpected softness in his gaze, the galaxies in his blue eyes swirling in seeming anticipation. You almost get lost in it, if it isn’t for the memory in you of the same eyes that had looked at you with such lust it made your skin crawl.

As if on cue, his gaze darkens, the hunger in his eyes evident – like they did so many times before, those haunting moments still fresh in your mind.

You’ve thought of many things that would occur when you meet him again and kept playing them over and over again in your head.

His insistent lips on yours isn’t one of them.

Wrapping his other around your waist, the Dream Lord spins you around and pins you on the nearby bookshelf, inadvertently knocking off some books in the process. You close your eyes tightly, thinking of Ollie so you could endure the kiss, but his thumb on your chin forces your mouth open and he slips his tongue, tangling yours with his. Without meaning to, your palms make their way to his chest, tapping lightly, wanting to make him stop. To your surprise, his lips leave yours, and nuzzles your hair, but before your relief could register, his words make your heart sink to your stomach:

“Thoughts of you were my only solace in my capture.”

 And he takes a deep breath to smell your hair before pulling away, looking into your eyes as he strokes your jawline.

“I had feared the sea of dreams had claimed you for itself. What happened to you?”

With your breathing still uneven and shallow, you stammer in response, “I-I… got t-trapped, my Lord…”

“Trapped?”

You hope to the Fates he doesn’t see the fear in your eyes, or feel your escalating heartbeat – he waits for a response, narrowing his eyes slightly. Delaying any further could make him doubt anything else you would say, so in your rush to find an excuse, you blurt out, “S-someone trapped me using m-magic, your Majesty.”

For a second he assesses your words, trying to detect a hint of deception. But how could he? It was a partial truth, and one that you might regret revealing, but this isn’t the time to think of it.

He clenches his jaw with a look of burning outrage. With a low voice, he asks, “Who?”

“My Lord, it doesn’t matter –”

His hold on your waist tightens by a tiny fraction. “Who trapped you?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Please, my Lord, they did it because they needed my help, and they let me go in the end –”

“You must tell me, my dream. Their reason, nor their change of heart, matters not.”

You bite your lip in distress, trying to persuade him from his line of questioning. It isn’t working.

“My little dream, I am only looking after you. ‘They’ tried to keep what’s mine. I will ensure that they shall never do so again.”

“You don’t have to, my Lord, please…” you try to beg, daring to place your palm over the hand cupping your cheek. “Please, don’t…”

The Dream Lord hums lowly, and he swoops in on you and kisses you once more.

His kiss is desperate this time, as if wanting to savor every inch of your mouth – you let him, and at some point when he deepens the kiss even further, you tentatively kiss him back – anything for him to let the matter go. Will it be enough?

He growls in pleasure at your response, probably unexpecting it. This goads him on – his hands travel to your back, fondling the ribbon of your dress. Inwardly, you pray with all your might that he doesn’t undo it –

Then the ground beneath your feet shakes, forcing the both of you still your movement; grateful for the opportunity, you waste no time pulling away from his embrace and putting as much acceptable distance as possible without causing his temper to flare further.

When the quake eventually halts, your master breaks the silence with a warning: “I will soon coax it out of you. In the meantime, I forbid you to leave my Kingdom.”

You give him a wide-eyed look in protest, but he ever-so-slightly shakes his head, dismissing your objection. “It would set my heart at ease if you stayed there, my dream, until the Vortex has been dealt with. Your quarters have been restored to their original state. Your previous attendant would be happy to resume her role.”

No, this wouldn’t do; not again. You had spent so much time by yourself in that wretched prison, it almost drove you to insanity. Besides, you need as much freedom of movement as you can to visit Ollie’s progress.

So, clutching your hands to your chest in a plea, you say, “My Lord, please don’t confine me in there, I could help, or continue forming dreams –”

“No, you will not.” Despite our pleading eyes, you are met with your Lord’s resolute ones.

“Please, at least let me to the Library, I could be of use to Lucienne.”

He takes a threatening step forward with a curious expression, wondering, “Why, my dream? Do you not like your room? Or are you worried you’re going to be lonely, without company?”

No! shouts the adamant Voice in your head. Shaking your head wildly, you say, “No, sir I –”

“Well, if my dream requests it so,” he starts with a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth, “I can perhaps make quick visits to your quarters to keep you company.”

Perhaps, if you could’ve just agreed, maybe it should not have come to this? Visits from him, no matter what length, seemed to always leave you with a great deal of anxiety.

“I could never tear your time away from your duties, my King,” you say in an attempt to dissuade him.

A resonating caw from above interrupts your conversation.

“Sir, sir, you have to see this!”

You look up: the raven you saw only this morning circles the high ceiling above you before swooping low and landing on the nearest desk, facing you.

“Hello, ma’am!” he greets politely with a wave of a wing.

The Dream King steps forward with a leveled expression, addressing the raven and gesturing to you. “Matthew, this is Mera. She is a dream of mine. You will address her as ‘my lady.’”

Matthew the raven caws before bowing and amending animatedly, “Oh, I’m sorry, my lady. Are you okay? You look spooked. Did he scare you? I gotta admit, he does scare me a little bit – no, not a little bit, but, like, a lot, you know –”

“Matthew.” Your creator sharply interrupts his chatter. Facing you, he motions to the bird perched on the desk with a tilt of his head. “This is Matthew, my raven.”

With a tiny wave at the raven, you greet him ‘hello’ and flash a smile. “Have you met Jessamy, Matthew?”

His dark, beady eyes blink in hesitation, and he ruffles his feathers. “Uh… I have not –”

“That is a matter we can discuss at another time, my dream,” he declares flatly, his face donning a stony mask you know so well; one that always indicates no room for more argument. His eyes bore into yours once more with clear castigation. “My word is final. No wandering around the Realm, or you shall hear from me. Come, Matthew.”

“I’ll see you around, my Lady.” At his master’s bidding, Matthew takes off with a caw and follows the Endless, whose cloak billows around him as his long strides take him away from the library and out of your sight.

The instant he’s gone, you let out the breath you’re holding in and clutch a nearby chair in support.

And once again, like he has done so many times before, he has left you feeling trapped and helpless – and this is just your first meeting with him after a century. What could possibly go down next, with that vague promise of him invading your privacy in the pretense of keeping your company?

***

Morpheus likes to think he’s a man of his word.

This is why he quietly makes his way to your chambers using his sand to avoid rousing you from what looks like a troubled slumber.

The moonlight filtering from the windows of your room illuminated your figure. In your tossing and turning, he surmises, the silken sheets that had previously protected your form from the cold, night air, now reveal quite a sight to behold: your disheveled hair partially covering your face; the strap of your thin nightgown had fallen below your shoulders, exposing your delicate flesh; your nightgown had hiked up to your soft thighs. All the powers he had at his disposal almost isn’t enough to hold himself back from ravishing every inch of you laid out for him in such a state. With a low hum, he contemplates your choice of such a flimsy article of clothing in mild amusement – had you specifically chosen that nightgown to surprise him and tease him with such a view? Knowing how innocent you are, you could not have done that, at least not intentionally. And yet, it’s one of the many qualities he desired in you – your purity, and the thought of corrupting that little by little makes his cock twitch uncomfortably.

He takes deep breaths to will his arousal down, Matthew’s advice echoing in his head.

After they had left you in the library to begin tackling a wayward Nightmare of his and his devoted followers, his raven pressed him about his relationship with the dream he had just met. Morpheus confides very little, but it was enough for the motormouthed bird to conclude the nature of your involvement together. He had then given unsolicited advice; that his ‘scary, creepy vibes’ were pushing you away, and that he had to ‘be patient and go slow’ in pursuing you. Of course, this earned him quite the ‘scary glare’ even before he’d finished his sentence.

But a hundred and six years were evidence of how patient he was in your relationship.

He had been starved of you, and he’s desperately wanting to satiate this appetite. He has to give Matthew’s words some credit, however; he had been bold in his actions before, and he had indeed, ‘spooked’ you, as his raven had noted.

He sets aside his conflicting thoughts and approaches your bed. Softly, he brushes away the stray strands of hair that covered your face. Such beauty he crafted, he muses. Is he not allowed to appreciate his own work of art? His hand moves on its own accord, tracing the outline of your cheek, all the way to the exposed collarbones he had longed to lavish with marks of his possession. The thought of you underneath him, your skin flushed with his bites – he licks his lips in anticipation. He sits on the edge of your bed as gently as he can, his eyes locking on your luscious, bare thighs. He wonders inwardly how long these thoughts would sustain him before his emotions spill over.

No; his mere, clandestine touches aren’t enough. He needs to have you soon.

***

Get up.

Get up.

UP!

The Voice renting space in your head is never this insistent, so you heed its third call, and force yourself to wake and open your eyes. True and alarmingly enough, you find your King sitting on the edge of your bed, watching you with glowing, predatory eyes.

Your immediate reaction is to cover yourself – you pull at the sheets and drape them over yourself hastily; it only partially covers your body and it doesn't help the feeling of being exposed – not under his gaze.

“Forgive me, my little dream, for the intrusion. I planned to visit only momentarily, but I’m afraid I had stalled,” His eyes travel from your face to your partly covered thigh, and adds, “I could not leave, not when I’m presented with such a…tempting sight.”

You watch in muted horror, frozen in place, as one pale hand snakes toward your flesh and strokes it ever-so-delicately, tracing invisible lines. It’s when his hand travels upward that you flinch and pull your legs closer, covering them entirely in silk and hiding it from his heated stare.

He doesn’t appreciate your instinctive reaction.

“You refuse me, still,” he coldly states, his eyes glowing threateningly. “I had thought a century was enough for you to accept your role to me.”

“My Lord,” you start, your plea barely a whisper, “I beg you to reconsider –”

Slowly, he rises from the edge of the bed – you hope against all hope that he goes away in his disappointment, but he only advances nearer to your side, his face contorted in displeasure.

“You may have forgotten: I’m still your King and your creator, and you have a duty to me. A reminder may be long overdue.”

In a split second, you find your back hitting the bed and let out a startled cry. Your master had just gotten on top of you, pinning your hands to the side, his body pressing against you and straddling you at the waist. He's still fully clothed, but you could feel the heat radiating off him, his scent almost suffocating you. You try to stifle your whimpers and avoid struggling against his hold – angering him while in such a precarious situation wouldn’t do you any good.

With a low hum, his lips hover over yours, a hairbreadth away from touching. Your breath hitches, and slowly, agonizingly, he moves down to the groove of your neck, his hot breath peppering your already-flushed skin. He then nuzzles his nose on your jawline and inhales deeply, taking in your scent as if he couldn’t get enough. He’s motionless for a few moments, then you start feeling his lips hover on the side of your face.

“You,” he growls, his hand suddenly on your thigh, hiking your nightgown up, “Are,” he strokes upward, reaching your waist, fondling the hem of your underwear, “Mine.”

“No, my Lord, please…”

At this point, you couldn’t hold back your cries – tears start spilling from the corner of your eyes. When he feels the tears on the side of your face, he shushes you.

“Not another word.”

With your free hand, you cover your mouth at the threat, drowning out the pitiful noises you’re making, not wanting to upset him any further. You close your eyes, wishing this…this nightmare was over.

When he pulls away from you at last and gets off the bed, you scramble to adjust your gown and cover yourself up with the sheets. You sit up hurriedly and scoot backward until your back touches the headboard.

“You will meet me tomorrow morning, on the balcony of the highest tower in my palace. I will have my raven fetch you. Be there as I command it.”

He is gone in a flurry of sand.

It takes about five minutes before you break into tears, clutching a pillow close. You shake in uncontrollable sobbing as you squeeze the pillow tightly for comfort that wouldn’t come. As you do, you feel something solid against the soft cotton – you quickly rummage inside and take the dreamcatcher out. Once an abominable object that bound you against your wishes, it has now become your only source of strength. Nuzzling it to your cheek, your sobs die down, allowing you to think clearly and make an inward vow: no matter what he does, you will not break – for your dream of freedom and for Ollie.

It will all be over soon.

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Author notes on the Chapter:

More angy, touchy, possessive Dream Lord as promised :D

This was an adventure to write NGL. Also, I might be busy by next week - I will be out of town for work for an office party and a project, so the next update might be late (Sunday, Monday, perhaps?). Crossing my fingers I still get to write because I love this fic so much, and shit's about to unfold for our poor reader lol

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Author's notes in general:

Thank you, THANK YOU for reading!!

Please engage, comment and reblog!! I love feedback from you guys :) This is my first ever fic, so kindness is truly appreciated!

Thank you to my queen @queenshelby@endlessdreamqueen3 for encouraging me to pen this, as well as to my fellow Dark!Morpheus writers whose work I have thoroughly enjoyed and keep rereading :)

Post date: 12/10/22

Edit date: 12/10/22

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I don't know what exactly to say so I make memes

The Dream That Got Away

Chapter 10

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x You (no Y/N!)

This is a multi-chapter fic — Weekly updates (either Saturday or Sunday) because I found a rhythm of sorts lol

(The entire fic has been outlined, so I will see this to the end, you have my word)

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Link to the Masterlist

Overall Warnings!! Take heed:

Morpheus is DARK – in canon, he changes for the better (or at least, tries to – but we don’t do canon lol, so he goes even more batshit crazy) cue obsession, manipulation, possessiveness, powerplay

18+ ONLY – explicit scenes will be present, some explicit language

DUB-CON and NON-CON scenes

Character death (sort of)

Creator vs Creation drama

And other dark stuff that may be added in the future

This chapter’s warnings:

non-consensual kissing and touching

touch-starved Morpheus should be a warning of its own

angst, so much angst

threats of perpetual nightmares

the King of Nightmares living up to his name

You have been warned!! Proceed with caution!!!

Link to the previous chapter

Chapter 10: This Dream is Over

Morpheus left the library, and you on the couch, just a tad bit disgruntled at his Royal Librarian’s interruption – and for a second time too, however unwittingly so. You were already responding to his touches, and he was so close to finally taking you fully as he had desperately wished to for so long. But, perhaps it was for the best – after all, he made a vow to you to take it slow until the fifth day tomorrow. Only one more day, he tried to placate himself.

And yet, as he paced at the foot of his throne, he recognized the frustration invading his thoughts stemming from forcing himself to separate from you (why did he care, anyway? He is the King of Dreaming, he should be able to take you wherever and whenever he pleases). He was painfully aware how bottling these complex emotions like so might lead to uncontrollable outbursts, given his experience in the past.

Just pacing in his throne room and stewing in his thoughts won’t do – he needed an outlet.

He willed himself, with a bit of his sand’s help, to a beach at the outskirts of his kingdom; a beach only he, and on rare occasions, his librarian, had access to. On one bended knee, he took a fistful of the beach’s black sand, feeling every coarse grain in his palm. He stood slowly, spreading his fingers and allowing the sand to be carried away with the light breeze. Except the sand didn’t land on the midnight-coloured shore he picked it up from – every single grain started floating in midair before him as his power commanded so, gradually taking shape.

Into what, he was unsure of yet. However, he allowed his current storm of emotions to guide him to this new creation of his, eventually concluding the nature of the being he’s forming.

He had not created such a potent nightmare in a long time.

He looked around the black shores, his workshop of sorts, with his hands clasped regally right in front of him. His thoughts landed on a certain little dream of his, as he was wont to do.

The intimate moment he had witnessed in the dream of Oliver Chapman had led him to a flare-up in the library, and you had unfortunately received the brunt of it. He had stormed off to Fiddlers’ Green to find out if you had confided to your fellow dream about any personal matters. His heart wanted to believe your word regarding your connection with the mortal that had dreamt of you in such an insulting manner, but his age-old intuition told him differently. Experience had taught him to trust such inklings, and so he begrudgingly allowed an invasive thought to cross his mind: did his beloved dream harbour…feelings for the wretched human?

This was a thought he had refused to entertain at first, for it left a bitter, cloying taste on his tongue. Furthermore, he had no reason to doubt you in such a way. How could he? He had read so in the books himself: such was your steadfast devotion to him that you were willing to risk your life in search of him.

It was the cursed Chapman he did not trust.

Was he the one who had trapped you with magic? Even worse, had he brainwashed you against him, your master and creator? Was he the reason why, even after such a long time, you still had not accepted your eternal place with him? With a low hum, he contemplated gathering more of the black sand to craft more horrors he wanted to inflict – he might have a need for more nightmares than he originally intended. But should a third visit to the cursed dreamer confirm his suspicions, he would be forced into a more drastic, devastating approach.

Perhaps he could make the doctor forget? It would be like child’s play – with a pinch of his sand, the Chapman would forget about you, thus, you would have no more reason to refuse your function and shirk your new duty. You’d finally be more accepting of your fate as the King’s only consort, an honor he had no intention of bestowing anyone else. Whether or not he would even need to would be another matter.

He stayed on the midnight shores, concocting nightmares shaped in the maelstrom of his emotions, until just a little past sunset. He had planned on retiring to his chambers afterward – there was work to be done tomorrow, after all, and a dreamer to visit – but on a whim, he materializes into his library. He found Lucienne scribbling on her desk with the lamp on, having already dimmed the lights in the library.

“My Lord,” she greeted, polite as ever, putting her quill down and getting to her feet.

Morpheus slightly tilted his head in greeting, before issuing a command: “I need you to fetch the last Chapman’s book of dreams.”

Lucienne knew never to question his motives but, this time, she furrows her brows at the request. “Sir, you had asked me to put them away in your office with the intention of never touching them again. May I ask what brought this change about?”

“A mere hunch,” Morpheus replied, purposefully being vague about his reason. As loyal as she was, he and his librarian had developed a rapport that allowed her to freely voice her opinion on both matters of the Dreaming and personal affairs, but there were things that even she need not know – his plan for the dreamer in question being one of them.

With a purse of lips and a small bow of her head, she pulled out a set of keys from her desk drawer and quietly excused herself. Minutes later, she came back with a thick leather-bound book in tow and set it down on the table, dusting it off before handing it to him.

He gripped the book with unnecessary force, immediately flipping to its last pages. To the untrained eye, there seemed to be nothing amiss – but Dream knew better. He had handled an endless number of dream-books since the inception of the library, enough to know the final pages on the Sleep Doctor’s book had been cleverly and cleanly removed from the stitching on the spine instead of simply being torn off.

“Curious,” he muttered to himself, running his fingers on the portion of the book where the pages should have been stitched.

“Sir?” Lucienne looked on with mild intrigue, eyeing the book in the King’s grasp.

“Had there been any other instance of dreams going undocumented?” Dream asked, hoping to draw a more rational conclusion. Could you have –?

“None that I am aware of sir,” she responded confidently.

Could his suspicions be true? A bright flash of light followed by a loud thunderclap reverberated through the entire Dreaming, mirroring its sovereign’s inner turmoil. But no – he knew he needed to approach the matter more judiciously. After all, the vandal that tampered with the library book may not have been acting on her own accord. He tried to take control of his simmering rage, but in doing so, his hands, still holding the book, started shaking ever-so-slightly. This did not escape the notice of his worried librarian.

“Is there something wrong, your Majesty?”

Morpheus let out an imperceptible sigh. “Nothing I cannot amend, Lucienne.” Wordlessly, he handed the book back to her before walking away, retiring in his quarters. He made a beeline for his desk, where a quill and a small piece of paper lay waiting. He wrote a brief note on the paper addressed to his little dream, before traipsing to the expansive balcony that offered him a view of his Realm and the now-cloudy night sky, not minding the cold, harsh winds blowing against his form.

As soon as light touched the first blade of grass in his Kingdom, he would set to work: Fiddlers’ Green whom he would enlist to distract you, then the mortal from whom he would extract the truth, no matter the means.  

***

Ollie pulls you to him in a tight, warm hug with light shushes, trying to soothe your sobs. You’ve always liked his hugs, so you bury your face in his shirt, not caring that you were staining it with your tears. When you both pull away, he cups both your cheeks, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. He then places a kiss on your forehead, then whispers against your skin with the gentlest of tones:

“Then I’ll protect you with my life.”

His words were touching, but the last thing you want was for him to risk his life, not when the Endless could easily take it away with a snap of his fingers. “Ollie, he’s going to hurt you, I don’t want you to hurt…you could still run away –”

“Absolutely not,” he says, pulling away so he could look into your eyes. There isn’t a trace of fear in his, even with the impending threat on his life. At this moment, he’s the bravest human being you know, perhaps foolishly so. “I will not abandon you. I made you a promise, yeah? You will stay here, with me, and he’s never going to touch you again.”

He’s your only hope at freedom, now, but it would all be meaningless if your freedom isn’t with him. Trying to match his courage, you do something you have been meaning to do for quite some time.

“You mean, you…?”

“Take this,” you say as you place his dreamcatcher in one of his palms and cover it with one of your own. You ignore his befuddled expression and put on probably the wettest smile you’ve ever had. “This is yours. It always has been. I’m yours, Oliver, and as long as you have that, you have my heart.”

Your own confession takes you by surprise – who knew you had it in you to finally reveal your forbidden affections? Judging by his astonished look, he couldn’t believe it, either.

“Yes, I do. I love you, you big dum-dum. I love you so much,” a fresh set of tears makes your voice tremble, but they’re happy ones, and when you hear Ollie chuckle as he hugs you again, you laugh with him. You had not laughed in days – his laugh is just that intoxicating.

He cuts your winded laughter off with the gentlest of kisses on your lips. Gladly, you wrap your arms around his neck, still clutching the dreamcatcher as tight as you can, leaning into his kiss. Once both let go, elated and breathless, he holds the sides of your face in both hands and brings your foreheads together.

“I know this isn’t the time, but I love you, Mera, so fucking much,” he says with the widest smile he could muster. “I never thought you’d come around, you know. It’s what I’ve always wanted, it feels just like a dream.”

“Then maybe it is time you woke up, Oliver Chapman.”

Ice-cold shivers wrack your body at the sound of the voice, resonating in the entire dream-space – one you had hoped never to hear again.

Dream of the Endless.

Your heart rate goes through the roof as every hair on your body stands on end. You find yourself rooted to the spot – when had he entered the dream? Had he been there the entire time, masking his presence? Even worse, had he been lurking while you and Ollie poured your heart out for each other? You hastily conceal the dreamcatcher behind your back, away from his burning gaze.

Ollie recognizes the being that has come to whisk you away; immediately he positions himself before you, hiding you from your master’s view to protect you.

“Mera, stay behind me,” he orders you calmly.

You peek behind his outstretched arms to get a glimpse of your King. His eyes, the first thing you see, are pitch-black, so far from the ones that looked at you with so much warmth in the first moments of existence. The Endless that you saw then is gone now, replaced by this monstrous nightmare, with unbridled fury emanating from him in visible waves of black smoke.

“You shouldn’t be here. This is my dream, and you’re not welcome in it. I have placed runes –”

“None of which can ward me off,” he interrupts with a clenched jaw and shaking fists, his voice seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, overwhelming your senses. He takes deliberate steps toward Ollie, his cold, coal eyes never once leaving Ollie’s warm greens.

“You really think that a mere lucid dreamer is a match to one such as I?” he spits out venomously. “I am Dream of the Endless, the King of Dreams and Ruler of Nightmares, the one whom you owe your dreaming abilities. There is not a place in the Dreaming I cannot penetrate.”

Ollie, undeterred by the mad King’s words, rises to his challenge. “You won't take her away – I won't let you. She clearly doesn't want to go with you, so you leave her alone.”

Don’t anger him any further, you want to say, but you seem to have lost the capacity to speak.

The Ruler of Nightmares scoffs, an icy sneer forming at the corner of his lips. “Your hypocrisy astounds me, doctor. Were you not the one who bound her to you and manipulated her against her wishes? The dreamcatcher, that pathetic human magic is proof of that.”

“I don't deny your accusations, but I have never manipulated her feelings. Her love is real, I know that now, and so is mine. I won't let you take that away from us!”

“Ollie, no…” your warning comes out barely a whisper.

He either does not hear it, or he chooses to ignore it, continuing his tirade against your creator.

“And what about you?” he points an accusing finger at him, outraged on your behalf. “What right do you think you have to order her around and make her do shit against her will? You think you’re God?”

But the Lord of Dreams just lets out a mirthless, sinister laugh – one that sends chilling shockwaves down your body. “I am more than a God: I am an Endless, and one that can unleash terrors you dare not speak of, so watch your tongue. Or should I send a nightmare to cut it out for you?” he tauntingly asks, his sand threateningly circling his raised palm.

Oliver just refuses to back down. Instead, he takes a step forward, goading him on. You grab his arms in an attempt to hold him back. “Just because you have the power, does not mean you can give life to somebody –”

“Oliver, don’t –!”

“ – And hold their autonomy against them, you sick, twisted fuck!”

“Enough!” Dream thunders, the intensity of his outburst making the floor beneath you quake momentarily. “I have had it with you foolish humans trapping beings beyond your comprehension, all for the sake of your selfish, paltry desires. I will not let you, a mere mortal, covet what is mine any longer.”

Before your eyes, your King, surrounded with black smoke manifesting his uncontrollable rage, raises a trembling hand. His sand swirls with growing speed around him, getting ready to strike. He’s going to hurt Ollie.

“My Lord, no, please, please don't hurt him...” you find the courage to step in between your lord and the man you love. You’re not about to let him hurt Ollie, and so, with your palms clasped right in front of you in prayer, you beg. “I'm the one at fault, so please punish me instead –”

“Mera no –”

“Mera, my little dream,” the Dream King’s attention turns towards you. He lowers his hand, his voice softening by a fraction as he addresses you. “How you disappoint me. You lied to me. You threw away a hundred years’ worth of devotion to me, all for this mortal? By loving him, you have betrayed me, defied my will, and abandoned your role in the Dreaming, yet you still protect the very man who led you astray.

“I shall give you this choice, then: you will give me that dreamcatcher or I will be forced to give your beloved doctor what he so foolishly seeks - an eternal sleep, where he could dream all he wants without waking - forever.”

Your head slowly shakes in disbelief. Ollie would suffer in perpetual sleep, haunted by nightmares he formed, and all because you had dared fall in love with him. Was that such a sin in his eyes?

“Please my Lord, you don’t have to do this…”

“My dream, you brought this on yourself. Tell me now, before I think of a greater punishment. What will you choose?”

You bite your lip in distress, eventually tasting blood. Your Lord always keeps his word. And like he always has done; he now has you against the wall. You were always his prey, running off into a trap he had set – and he, the predator, circling you, drawing out your suffering. And now, if you don’t let him pounce, he’d hone in on another victim. It’s either you or Ollie.

As sick as it sounds, for you, it’s an easy choice to make.

Your hesitation seems to give it away for Ollie. He takes a hold of you by the arms, turning you to face him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to face him.

“Mera, don't give it to him. Mera, look at me.” He cups your face so he could look into you. “I don't care if he makes me sleep forever. We'll be together, then! It'll be just us, in here, don't you want that?”

Oh, sweet, sweet Ollie. Fresh tears start rolling down your cheeks, and he makes a move to wipe them away, but with your free hand, you lower them.

“I want all your dreams to come true, Ollie.”

A smile starts to form on his face, but you cut him off.

“So make them come true, in the waking world –”

“No Mera –”

“They need you there. You'll do great things –”

“No! Mera, don't do this –”

“Please listen to me –”

“I won't let you – !”

“Please, my dear Ollie!” you desperately beg, placing your palm on his cheeks. You put on a reassuring smile to try and persuade him to save himself, but you're breaking on the inside and you could feel it. “Do it for me. You are meant to chase your dreams, so do it in the Waking World.” Better you hurt than he.

You peer into your beloved doctor's face. You see nothing in it but love, sorrow, and acceptance of your doomed fate. You hate that resignation in his eyes, but you look into them, nonetheless. In your mind, he’ll always have that cheeky smile and that bright spark, just like he did when he first started talking about his passion to help people dream better. You’ll always have that look, and him, in your heart. At that moment, both of you get lost in each other, even for a few final seconds.

"Go live the life you’ve always dreamed of – for me," you whisper. "And I'll be happy and content just knowing that you did."

Slowly, you let go of your doctor's face, but he takes your hands in his, kissing your palms, desperate for more contact.

"Mera, I love you. Please..."

"And I love you, Oliver Chapman; in the Dreaming, in the Waking, and in everywhere else in between."

You feel your world coming apart when you finally let go of him. With one final choked sob, you turn to face your Maker; the Endless whose unforgiving glare was enough to pin you to place. You could tell by his look that the display of your affections deeply repulsed him. You cling onto the dreamcatcher for comfort with trembling fingers. All you want to do is to curl up in a ball at how his pitch-black, pitiless eyes bore into yours, but you swallow back your fear. Ollie had shown immense courage for your sake – he deserved the same from you.

The Dream Lord, obviously growing more impatient by the minute, walks to you intimidatingly, his smoky coattail trialing him behind him. He yanks the dreamcatcher from your shaky grip with so much force he breaks a few of its strings. He spares one brief look of angered disgust at the insulting object before looking into your eyes and crushing the dreamcatcher with his bare hands. Not once did he look away from you as the totem, a symbol of your slight against him, turns dust in his powerful fist.

Your heart clenches in pain, almost as if it was your heart your creator just crushed. Anguish washing over you, you collapse on the floor and clutch your chest, letting out a silent scream you try to hide from Ollie. The Endless, unmoved at the pitiful scene unfolding before him, strides purposefully over to Ollie with his pouch of sand in his hands. Panic immediately engulfs you, and you get to your feet, staggering toward them.

"My Lord, please, I did what you asked of me..."

Your words do not deter your creator, who promptly blows sand in your Ollie's face. The sleep doctor vanishes in a flurry of sand, gone forever.

"NO! OLIVER!"

What has he done? You double over in your grief, already fearing the worst.

"You promised you wouldn't hurt him…”

"I did not."

Morpheus turns to look at your quivering form hunched on the floor, face as stony as ever.

"I merely sent him back to the waking world."

But his words offer you no relief.

"He will, however, have no memory of you, of your time spent together, nor of his love," he continues with a snarl, "...for you. You are now, to him, a fleeting, fading recollection, a mere dream he had which he will forget at the first few moments of his waking hours. Nothing more, as it should be."

Your eyes, already blurry with the tears you shed at your beloved's parting, grow wide at this revelation – the King of Nightmares, living up to his title, yet you know you had barely seen his true form. There seem to be no other words you can place for what he has done.

"You're heartless." It comes out barely a whisper, yet your master hears your words clearly. He seems to be unaffected by them.

"No. I could have punished you, cast you to the darkness for openly lying, attempting to leave my Realm, and abandoning your King and master. Yet I have not, for I acknowledge that you had no hand in your capture."

Gathering all the strength you could muster, you stand to your full height. "I'd have rather you cast me to the darkness, my King. I no longer have a purpose or a reason to live. You already took him from me."

He takes an intimidating step forward, invading your personal space like he always does. With your master's face a few inches away from yours, you look away, wishing his callousness was directed at anything but you. He harshly lifts your chin with his forefinger and thumb.

He speaks, his voice slightly shaking with barely controlled rage, "Is this what it feels like to you, my Mera? Have you truly any idea what it is like to feel aimless, without purpose? Perhaps I can give you a taste."

You swallow the bile forming in your throat at the threat, but you could no longer bring yourself to care about what he can do to you. He has done the worst possible thing you can imagine.

"I hereby strip you of all your Dreaming powers. You shall be kept locked in your chambers, without any contact from outside.”

With this declaration, he uses his sand to transport you both to the prison cell he calls ‘your room.’ In the blink of an eye and a swirl of sand, you appear in your quarters, expecting the natural sunlight streaming from the windows to almost blind you, but the warmth does not come. Instead, you’re enveloped in the dim light source that is the starry ceiling above; the windows and the balcony are gone, replaced by nothing but solid walls, effectively holding you in your own, personal insane asylum.

"Here, you shall spend your time in isolation, contemplating your transgressions, your betrayal against the Dreaming and against me.” His scathing voice echoes around the dimly-lit room. "Call upon my name when you are ready to fulfill your purpose to me. Only then will I free you from this place and forgive you of all your offenses. Be warned, my Mera - Endless as I am, my patience is not."

And with that thinly veiled threat, he vanishes, leaving no trace of his presence, save a trail of sand falling to the carpet, leaving you alone in deafening silence.

Just as you start getting used to the quiet lull of your surroundings, you hear a piercing, tortured wail bouncing off the walls. Gasping for air and clutching your throat in pain, you barely recognize your own unearthly screaming. You collapse on the bed in renewed sobbing, wishing that your Dream Lord had indeed been ruthless enough to spare you the torment and just banished you to inexistence.

Ollie had gone to the Waking World and had forgotten about you. The only thing left in you are memories of him, ad in your solitary confinement, nothing stopped you from reliving them; every snarky comment he ever made, every bawdy joke he ever told, every fleeting touch you shared with him. It made your loss even more unbearable, but what else could you do but stew in them? His was the only memory you had worth recalling in your existence, yet he had none of yours. It was the spiteful King’s idea of retribution meant to wash away your sins.

***

You spend the next three days in absolute misery. Refusing to get out of bed, you stay curled up in a ball, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, warming you but never comforting you in your heartbreak.

He materializes in a spinning whirl of sand inside your bedchambers. It’s a pure display of power at this point, for he hadn’t removed the door to your room, even if he had it locked. You kind of half-expected him to close the distance at once, kissing you in greeting like he always did. Instead, he just stands there, intensifying the already-gloomy atmosphere in the room. Out of habit, you get up and bow your head slightly, even if you were still in your nightdress.

Languidly, he makes his way to you, pausing until he’s an arm’s length away, looking down on you with a reproachful look.

“You have not called upon me for forgiveness.”

You flinch the moment he raises his hand – only for him to lift your chin so you had no other choice except to look at him.

You give him the blankest of looks, unsure how to respond.

“The sooner you accept your fate, the sooner I can end your confinement. So, I will ask you again, my little dream,” he says in a low voice, leaning downwards so his face is but a hairbreadth away from yours. “Will you carry out your duty?”

Your response is barely a whisper, fanning the hair framing his forehead.

“I cannot possibly do what you’re asking me, my King. I am only a dream, so why me? Why make me suffer so for it?”

“You are more than a dream to me, my Mera. Out of all my creations, I treasure you, love you the most.” For a moment, his expression changes, but that tenderness in his gaze is gone in a flash. “Which is why, out of all the treason my subjects have committed, yours was the most painful. It is within my right as your King to pass judgment. And yet, it is within your power to end your penance.”

He whispers, “You need only do one thing.”

At the end of his last sentence, he angles his head – your noses touch, but he doesn’t press his lips on yours like you expected him to.

“Seek my pardon, and I can make it go away.” He whispers against your lips.

But if you do, it would mean admitting that Ollie was a mistake.

“No. My love for Ollie is no sin. I have nothing to ask for forgiveness for.”

You don’t regret your words, even as your master grabs the back of your neck forcefully to pull you closer to him, making your noses touch.

“You dare speak his name in my presence…” he hisses.

Closing your eyes, you feel his lips ravish yours in a vicious kiss, seeking to possess – in its force you’re pushed back into one of the bedposts. His unforgiving grip on your jaw forces your mouth open, coercing you to kiss him back. He abruptly pulls his head back when he feels a wetness on your cheeks.

Tears.

Despite the salty discharge, you stare at him with defiance.

“You still love that worthless mortal,” he concludes with a faint amount of sick amusement. “I have not decided the form of judgment I should pass on him. Should you prolong this further, it would give me more time to create potent nightmares tailored to his fears.”

He seems to relish the way your lips tremble in terror. The thought of Ollie getting nightmares especially made for him makes your empty stomach churn.

“Or shall I remake the Corinthian and send him to plague your mortal alone? He was and still is, my perfect nightmare. The both of you, my errant creations, so perfect in every way, yet so flawed…Renounce your love for the human now, and I shall be merciful.”

But he doesn’t see you fervently shake your head, for he closes in on your throat, planting wet, open-mouthed caresses on your skin. You make a move to push him away on his shoulder, but he grabs your wrist harshly and pins them above your head on the bedpost. It was no use struggling against him in his firm hold, so you close your eyes, imagining you were somewhere else, as you feel his free hand roaming your still-clothed form, desperate to feel your warmth. As his tongue lavishes your pulse point, you let out an involuntary moan.

“Ollie…”

By the time you realize your grave error, your Dream Lord has already pulled back, tugging on your hair with enough force to make you gasp in pain.

He looks at you with a dark, displeased expression, seething in anger. “I have tried being patient with you, my dream, but you truly test me.”

“My Lord, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

Your frantic apologies are drowned out by a maelstrom of sand engulfing the both of you. As you feel the sand disappear, you hear the loud rumble of thunder, followed by the thrashing of waves of an ocean in a raging storm.

You open your eyes to a different room. Your master had transported you somewhere else, but where it was is unclear – the room, however, looks to be inside an old castle. You can see the exposed stone bricks in its interior; against its closed, murky windows the rain outside pelted hard, offering you a view outside: deep, gray skies that littered with flashes of lightning, and a sea that tossed violently against the harsh winds. You’re now far from the Dreaming palace, you know that much. He had taken you here to isolate you even further.

The King before you places a firm hand on your shoulder, forcing you to sit on something soft – a huge bed covered in sheets of silk in the colour of his long coat, which you notice had already fallen to the floor. You pointedly avoid looking at him, your face turned to the side, fidgeting with the sheet. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see him shed his shoes, followed by his shirt. Suddenly, your breathing becomes more laboured, and you could hear your own pounding heartbeat despite the furious storm outside.

“My Lord, where have you taken me?” you start softly, attempting to distract him.

“Where we shall not be disturbed,” he says simply.

It’s when you hear him undo his belt that you make a last-ditch attempt to save yourself evade him and jump to the side of the bed to get as far away from him as you can.

It’s a futile move – you find yourself lying on your stomach, your right arm awkwardly buried underneath your body, and a taut, heavy, naked chest pressed against your back.

Your Dream Lord has you pinned beneath him, his thighs straddling your waist.

“No!” you cry out in distress; it’s the only thing you could do against the impregnable force pinning you to the bed without any wriggle room. You could feel his hot breath fanning the back of your neck. In response, he whispers over your ear:

“I grow tired of your refusal, dream of mine. You will carry out your duty to me tonight.”

“No, my Lord, please, please, I beg of you…”

But your fraught whimpers fall on deaf ears.

You feel a hot, wet kiss on your exposed shoulder, while a lazy finger traces your spine. To your horror, you only notice that your nightdress has disappeared when trails of sand enter your line of vision, before promptly vanishing into thin air. You’re completely bare under his gaze, and like a starved man, he feasts – his hot mouth starts leaving butterfly kisses on your upper back as he strokes the sides of your waist, while you lay below him, sobbing in earnest and unable to move.

“Please, no, please, no, no…My Lord, please…”

“You will not deny your King,” he growls against your back, gripping your waist tight. “For every ‘no’ I hear from you during our union, I will create a ferocious nightmare that will follow only your pathetic human until his end of days. Will you be responsible for the madness he will surely turn to?”

Still weeping piteously, your closed eyes flash vivid images of Ollie thrashing in his bed, screaming in his sleep at horrors only he could see.

For the last time, it seems, your Dream Lord had you effectively backed into a corner with no chance of escaping. The predator had grown weary of circling its prey and had now pounced, ready to devour.

***********************************************

Author notes on the Chapter:

Ollie and Dream's confrontation is the most challenging dialogue I have ever written. Next chap with will be full of smut, smut smut, so be prepared!! (I need to be, too, it seems - writing smut can be intimidating af lmao)

As usual, thank you for sticking with me in this!! Love lots!!!

******************************

Author's notes in general:

Thank you, THANK YOU for reading!!

Please engage, comment and reblog!! I love feedback from you guys :) This is my first ever fic, so kindness is truly appreciated!

Thank you to my queen @queenshelby@endlessdreamqueen3 for encouraging me to pen this, as well as to my fellow Dark!Morpheus writers whose work I have thoroughly enjoyed and keep rereading :)

Post date: 12/26/22

Edit date: 12/26/22

Taglist: Just lemme know please if you want to be added, too!

Tagging the following:

@wt-fxck

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The worldbuilding😍🙌🙇

"Pillars of Eternity" - Morpheus x Wisdom!Reader

[TW: kidnapping/captivity, blasphemy, mentions of sexual assault, nudity, graphic description of a rotting corpse]

[Sandman-inspired playlist] || 🫀REQUESTS ARE OPEN🫀

SUMMARY: In a spell-go-wrong, Rodrick Burgess manages to summon you: Wisdom incarnate. Noticing a strange and quite unnerving change in the world, Morpheus ventures into the Waking World to investigate, only to find someone he's always been looking for.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 9k (oopsie daisy)

Oh, you're just in time! Come, sit beside the fire, warm yourself. Did your travel go well? Hermes walked with you, you say? That is just wonderful! Back when I was a wanderer, he showed me many shortcuts, both in this world and leading to others. If you happen to meet him again on your journey back home, please send him my regards.

Why I summoned you? Well, I'd like to tell you a story. It's one of my favourites, actually. Tell me, do you think dreams and wisdom have anything in common? You can be honest, I won't tell The Circle's Magister of Oneiromancy. No? Nothing in common? I used to think that too. "How can fantasy and reason have any similarities?" I'd ask. But have you never wondered why oneiromancy is such a recent field of study? Even more important question: why do we find answers to the banes of life in our dreams? Of course, the Magister will give you plenty of plausible excuses but the truth is, none of it existed until a few centuries back. What reason and fantasy have in common is just that: oneiromancy. So far, it's the only shared work of the Endless and the Pillars of Eternity. What are the Pillars? Have I never told you about them? Oh, you have to forgive me, I'm an old man. Well then, let me briefly explain to you:

There are four Pillars of Eternity: Wisdom, Decay, Abyss and Aether. They created life and with life came the Endless. Unlike the Endless, however, the Pillars do not mingle with humans. They rarely even meet each other. The Pillars are the only force keeping our universe steady. They were never born, so they will never die. One day, they shall end this plane of existence and create a new one. What about God, you ask? Well, they are the God. The Holy Trinity was just a huge misunderstanding of reality as the early humans thought that Abyss and Aether are one entity.

Abyss and Aether are, actually, the oldest of the four Pillars, although so much time had passed that neither of them knows any longer who is older. But that doesn't matter for now. Both of them were always frail. In fact, so frail one would take pity on them and share their meal. Abyss had skin of the darkest shade you could imagine, while Aether's was so white it nearly made her transparent. They each held a weapon, a symbol of their power: Abyss carried the Aegis of Darkness and Aether held the Blade of Spirits. For the longest time, the universe was only them - two equal forces but not equal entities.

Then came Decay, the most beautiful boy you ever did see. One of the old poets wrote about Decay as "beautiful like the Trojan horse". Marigolds would sprout from his fingers, wolves and deer would sit side by side just to watch him pass. He is the cycle of life and death, a balance that allows the world to carry on. Decay's weapon, the Bow of Existence, is told to end and create life as he pleases. He could aim his arrows at our world and soon all of us would turn into walking corpses, spouting rotted venom with each ragged breath.

And the strangest of them: Wisdom. Her name, however, quite poorly represents her domain. She is everything that is arcane, that lies beyond the material world. The very magic that you so fondly study is her gift. No, it's more than that: she is what we call magic. Wisdom's siblings never quite liked her for she knew the secrets of their powers. Those that have been blessed to see her say that she's always holding the Spear of Ages but I know that to not be true. It is told to harness the arcane wisdom of all universes past, present and future. Some even go as far as to say that it's the only weapon capable of killing any and every creature, no matter how eldritch they are. In fact, Archangel Michael once told me that it was Wisdom's spear with which he killed Satan.

Remember the last time you visited and I told you about the Endless? Well, one time the Endless and the Pillars met, changing our world in a way we are yet to witness and understand. A charlatan named Magus managed to capture Wisdom with magic The Circle will not teach you. Sometimes I think they don't quite know it themselves but it's for the best. No one should be able to harness such strange power. Curiously, the said Magus did not die in some horrible way like many did before him casting that spell nor did madness gnaw at his old mind. But that's not important. Alas, without Wisdom to guide creation, the whole world began to fall into chaos. Magic became uncontrollable, even the powers of the Endless started to falter. Perhaps, that was the reason why Dream ventured into the Waking World to investigate that commotion...

Lucienne had finished briefing Morpheus on the current affairs of the kingdom of Dreaming but she didn't leave immediately after as she usually did. Instead, she stood slightly sideways to him, pondering whether to stay or go.

"There is something else on your mind, Lucienne." His voice was carried by the loud echo of the overwhelmingly empty throne room. "Speak."

She let out a sigh. Her gaze met his for a second before she looked away for a short moment, the last reflection of whether honesty was appropriate at the given time, only to look at the King again. "My lord, I can not be sure whether it's something worthy of your attention."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Before she let him in on the secret, Lucienne shortened the distance between her and Morpheus but in moderation - he was sitting on the stairs and had she walked a few feet farther, Dream would have to look up at her. It was simply wrong, for the librarian to look down on her master. "There is something strange happening in the Waking World," she revealed in a low voice as if she was expecting prying ears around every corner of the palace. "Prayers are no longer answered, magic is wreaking havoc..."

"Yes, I have noticed dreams and nightmares seeping into wakefulness," Morpheus confessed in a reflective tone. Lucienne wasn't sure what to think about his thoughtful voice; clearly, Dream was at least partially aware of the strange commotion and had spent quite some time thinking about it. Something about this subject made him stand up and slowly stroll around Lucienne. "I admit I can not tell the reason for such a breach between realms."

"If I may so suggest, my lord, perhaps Wisdom...?"

Morpheus suddenly stopped. He watched Lucienne's face for a moment, studying her expression. A cold silence filled the throne room as if speaking that ancient name was a transgression against entities incomprehensible to the creatures of this plane. "No one has seen the Pillars for millennia, Lucienne. They do not care about the affairs of other realms."

"They created this universe," she argued. "I'm sure impending doom that is not caused by them will get their attention. Magic is, after all, Wisdom's field of expertise, so to speak."

"Even if she was willing to take an audience, I do not know where she resides. Firstly, I shall visit the Waking World and see this unrest myself. Perhaps there is no need to seek out the Pillars."

The Lord of Dreaming was a steadfast man and so Lucienne did not bother attempting to change his mind. "As you wish, my lord Morpheus." She slightly bowed to him before leaving.

Burgess mansion was drowning in a tense silence - the same type of quietness that takes over a stalked prey. Staff didn't engage in their usual small talk and gossip anymore. Instead, they'd give each other shy, anxious looks of worry and fear as if each of them wanted to make sure that everyone else was feeling as much dread as they did. It was the calm before the storm but no one could quite tell how far from them the black clouds of rolling thunder were. Each time some odd sound resounded throughout the mansion, no matter how quiet or loud, housekeepers would immediately stop whatever they were doing and stare in the direction of the basement door. Cold sweat run down their spines.

Rodrick thought that the Corinthian's trustworthy look was quite suspicious. Somewhow, the man in glasses reminded the Magus of a sleazy salesman, who manages to sell surprising amounts of an outrageously low-quality product. Nonetheless, a more naive part of him longed to listen to what the blond stranger had to say - even to simply satisfy his curiosity but, perhaps, Rodrick knew somewhere deep down that he had found himself in a land of strangeness never before discovered.

"I'm afraid you got yourself a bigger fish to fry, mister Burgess," Corinthian stated with a polite smile. "You have captured Wisdom, one of the Pillars of Eternity. She and her three siblings are what you call 'God'."

A feeling of dread in Rodrick's abdomen only grew in strength - he was hearing about things never mentioned in the occult books he had studied so feverishly. Necronomicon itself never mentioned something close to "Pillars of Eternity".

But for now, Magus couldn't care less about Wisdom's familiar connections. "Can she bring back my son?"

"Personally? No." The Corinthian maliciously waited for Rodrick's expression to turn grim before he continued. "But if there is a way to make that happen, she knows all of them. The problem might be getting the bird to chirp."

"Oh, that should not be a problem," Rodrick gritted through his teeth. Was he already reliving all the imaginative tortures he was going to subdue her to?

The Nightmare, however, seemed greatly unmoved at the viciousness seeping from Rodrick's mouth. In some disturbing way, his face appeared brighter, suddenly, as though he was pleased with what he was hearing. "Do yourself a favour, mister Burgess, and chain her with iron. Lock her in a circle of salt and black tourmaline. Otherwise, the bird might just fly away."

But Rodrick was not a fool, perhaps a little too proud but never naive despite falling to the stranger's charm. He was right to submit the Corinthian's claims to generous scepticism. "How do you know so much about her?" he asked with a slight squint in his old eyes.

That polite smile the Corinthian so often wore never faltered. "Let's say I'm a distant relative of sorts. Goodbye."

Watching the blond man leave, Magus pondered what business the Corinthian had with making sure that Wisdom didn't escape any time soon. He came to the conclusion, that if she was as old and powerful as the stranger claimed, holding her captive was enough to gain Rodrick allies as powerful as they were inhuman. Therefore, even if she ended up not helping him, there surely was some otherworldly horror out there willing to fulfil his wish in exchange for her. But before that, Rodrick had to at least try and make her cooperate.

Waking up, you felt something coarse and cold against your skin. A shiver ran through your body and only then did you realize there weren't any clothes covering your skin. Contorting yourself into a fetal position in an attempt to fight the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes to look at wherever you had found yourself.

The room was dark - a dirty window the size of a bar of soap was a laughable excuse for a source of light. Judging by the painfully rigid and coarse floor, you must have been sitting on concrete. With each breath, your nostrils were filled with the stench of mould. When your eyes adjusted to the tomb-like darkness, you began noticing white lines around you. They seemed to come together into some sort of occult or alchemy symbol. Circles, triangles, hexagons...

"Metatron's Cube," you whispered to yourself. You could recognise your own creation anywhere but considering you hadn't drawn this one, there was a genuinely demented scheme operating in this realm. What's worse: you never bestowed this knowledge on humans.

The sound of a metal latch being lifted stopped you from your small investigation. As the door's rusted hinges moved, a deafening creak resounded in the concrete cell. A man with a halo from gas lamps behind him stood at the threshold as though he was the messenger of some unspeakable forces. He slowly stepped into the confines of your prison, showing only half of his face as the other half was still drowning in the overwhelming darkness of the place.

With just one look at the stranger, the enigma of your own magic being used against you became clear as day: "You tore your soul for this."

He, however, disregarded your statement. "I am offering a fair trade, Wisdom." Rodrick put an odd accent on your name as if he had expected you to be shocked at his insight. But you were a little too loyal to the name you had been given to be surprised at his knowledge. Seeing as he in no way impressed or intimidated you, Rodrick's expression fell and a disturbing shadow danced across his face. "You will stay here, imprisoned, until you bring back my son or tell me how to do it."

Humans... you give them one finger and they bite the entire hand.

"Such an act is against my brother's laws," you informed him. Decay was an entity difficult to please and so it took all four of you entire aeons to come to the consensus that currently controlled this universe.

"I do not care for any laws. I only want my child back." Rodrick stared at you with squinted eyes but it was not an expression of scepticism: his cheeks were raised in contempt and, thus, his eyes appeared smaller. He took a few steps closer to you but remained wise enough to not cross the line of the Cube. It would have been a very painful disintegration if he had. "Regardless of price," he added after a small pause.

"Most unwise, Rodrick Burgess," you answered slowly. Considering the fact that you were naked, laying on the cold concrete floor in a fetal position in his own basement, your words were in no way more intimidating than a scorned ant.

"I am the Magus," he spat out, "and you will address me only by that name."

But you remained unmoved: his anger could never impress you. "You are only a human, barely a larva in this universe's cycle of life."

"And you are my prisoner," he pointed out triumphantly. Although he hadn't gained anything yet, it seemed that Rodrick Burgess was for now satisfied just with your loss.

"So mote it be," you said in a calm, firm voice.

A heavy sigh left your lips when the metal door shut loudly behind Rodrick. Once more, there was only you, cold concrete and darkness. Inside Metatron's Cube, the world was disturbingly quiet. Visions of universes past and future no longer haunted you. Even realms of this cycle seemed to be out of your reach.

Days went by before the air in your cell changed. Something about this microcosm of captivity shifted but the borders of the Cube prevented you from learning what it was exactly. There was only dread and fangs that resided in the darkness surrounding you.

Then a figure emerged from the shadows. You recognized him immediately by his simple yet characteristic attire but you'd know this Endless without ever looking in his direction: his presence always filled the room with a faint aroma of pomegranate, lilac and old paper.

"Lord Morpheus," you introduced him. "It is not chance that brought you here but consequence."

"Consequence of what, if I may ask?" His low voice echoed throughout the small, empty room. In slow steps, he was making his way towards you.

"Everything. A horizon of events that had never happened and all the timelines that are yet to become true should we step in their direction."

Morpheus knew there was only one creature in creation that could speak in an equally strange and insightful way: "You're Wisdom."

Putting your hands against the concrete, you sat up with knees close to your chest in a pathetic attempt at retaining at least some of your decency. Seeing him for the first time in millennia, you thought he generally looked exactly the same as the day he came to life. "Yes, that is one of the names I was given in this cycle."

Even while he was meeting someone he regarded as nothing more but a tall tale, Morpheus remained ever so expressionless. "Why are you here?"

"I was imprisoned by my own spell; the magic I had created was used against me." You noticed he was coming dangerously close to the chalk line on the floor. "Be warned, Dream of the Endless, not to cross the lines of this sigil. It trapped me but you..." you stopped yourself from continuing. Perhaps, there was no need in informing him of such horrors that do not have to appear in this timeline - to be simultaneously reduced to atoms and locked in one's corporeal form. "I do not have the heart to tell you what shall happen to a creature of your sort in Metatron's Cube."

Morpheus listened - the tips of his shoes were a mere inch away from the border of the symbol. "I presume it is your imprisonment that is causing chaos across realms."

Yes, that was bound to happen. "The magic I breathed into this world is shifting, wandering into places it was never meant to reside in like sheep that scatter in the absence of a shepherd. It's slowly leaving all realms only to gather here, in my prison, where Rodrick Burgess can do whatever he pleases with it. In the upcoming days, humanity shall see the most powerful sorcerer that has ever graced planet Earth."

"Then I shall bring this transgression to an end."

You appreciated his vigour but inaction was often smarter than a well-intended impulse. "No, Morpheus, it is not time for me to leave yet. The magic of this place is too stable. Let it gather, let the scale be unbalanced and then come to my aid. Humans are fickle things and there is only so much magic they can harness with their bodies, minds and spirits. Once Rodrick Burgess gathers too much of it around him, the call to balance my freedom shall cause will make the magic devour him alive. Every particle of him that does not come directly from any of the Pillars will be reduced to nothing."

"What will happen to the realms while you await for the right moment?"

"They will surely be visited by my dear brother Decay. But to free me, you must retain your power, dear Dream, and there is only one way for me to help you do that. You will find my spear by the tallest tree in my home, in Shangri-La. Hide it in Dreaming, in a place no one visits and do not tell anyone about it. Leave it be and the spear shall let you and your domain live comfortably through my absence. Remain brave of heart, dear Dream, for the Spear of Ages shall show you the world through my eyes and it is not something your kind was meant to see."

He fell silent for a moment, clearly pondering the quest he was about to accept or reject. It was truly humiliating for one of the Pillars to be dependent on the goodwill of one of the Endless but at moments such as that one, it was unwise to remain prideful. "If you're trapped, how will I know when the hour comes to free you?" he asked. There was at least one creature in this cycle that wished you well.

"Come back in a decade and I will give you my judgement. Now go, Dream of the Endless, for Shangri-La is far from here and with both of us gone, your realm shall fall into ruin at a frightening pace. However, there is one more thing I'd like to ask of you." Although he was free to leave and save his kingdom before he saves you, Morpheus remained still, waiting. "If Rodrick Burgess so desires to see his son, allow him to but do not discard even the smallest element of truth: paint him in his thoughts as he truly is."

"I will return, Wisdom," Morpheus announced in a low voice before disappearing in a whirlwind of golden sand.

The first time Rodrick heard a questioning "Father?" resound in his ears, he dropped the pen he was writing with. A fearful tremor shook his old body.

He got up from his chair so fast, he nearly lost his balance and had to lean against the back of it. "Son?" Rodrick called out in a trembling voice. It was silence, however, that answered him. With a thundering heart, Rodrick run out of his study to continue the search for the source of the voice he so longed to hear again.

The creature he saw, however, could hardly be called a human. Perhaps the shape was once the corporeal form of a young man but those days were long gone. His military clothes were black with mould and torn in many places. Was it a scrap of material or part of his intestine hanging from one of the holes? Most of his face had already been eaten by necrophages, leaving a disgustingly open view of his greyish-green brain. Fat centipedes and larvas fell to the ground when he moved the remains of his head a little too fast. A putrid smell of something both sour and sweet filled the air making Rodrick feel his stomach tighten so much, its content travelled back up his oesophagus.

"Father?" the odiousness called out once more. His voice was raspy as most of the vocal cords had already been eaten by the happily fat insects. "Father!" the monster cried out upon recognizing his once beloved parent. "Why have you done this to me?!" he sobbed in terror and pain.

Rodrick Burgess was speechless at the horror he was cursed to witness. Hearing blood rush through his head and feeling his heart beating too fast, he leaned against the wall. His terrified gaze never left the terror that slowly limped towards him. A raven croaked outside.

The monster, in turn, never abandoned Rodrick's mind: as long as the Magus was awake, he was cursed to see, hear or smell the resurrected corpse of his son, while none other was privy to this maddening nightmare. It was his personal Hell, catered to his very own taste. The Devil, as one can learn, does not lurk in the details but in every wish and whim that is granted.

Morpheus never had to endure cold. Sure, there were lands of eternal snow in his realm but their weather never affected him. Their climate was, after all, of his own doing. The Himalayas, however, were a strange land and their coldness gnawed at every inch of his very being as if it wasn't his fingers the unpleasant weather touched but his very soul. Nevertheless, he had made a promise and that meant he had to brave through the unending pale dunes.

The day when his eyes saw the pagodas with gold roofs, a sigh of relief left his mouth. You were true in your words: the journey was long, tiring and littered with hardships that made even the Endless question their purpose. As Morpheus walked through the city hidden from the rest of the world, its inhabitants seemed surprisingly disinterested in the unexpected guest. Living at the literal top of the world, what wonders were they privy to? Among the streets of Shangri-La, his heart was at peace and Morpheus at first wasn't sure what to call this sensation. He felt as if he could sit down right where he stood and remain there until you and your siblings end this cycle of life. It surprised him how little regret resided in that hypothetical scenario: Dreaming, after all, would be reduced to ashes should he decide to abandon his current life and stay in Shangri-La but at that very moment, Morpheus had little to no care about his own domain. Even worse: the thoughts and memories of it were swiftly escaping his mind. There was only him and the overwhelming peace caressing his tired bones.

Despite his strange desire, he made his way to the monastery which was placed in the centre of the city. Crossing the threshold, he saw a large patio with a large brass gong placed in the middle. The twelve lamas that ruled Shangri-La probably didn't notice his arrival as nothing about their behaviour seemed to acknowledge Dream's presence. As if completely obvious to the doom looming over the universe, they continued their daily duties of meditation, practice and tea brewing.

The unexpected guest, however, did not remain unseen for much longer as if he was, after all, expected. One of the monks, dressed in orange robes and with a head bald enough to reflect sunlight, approached Morpheus silently. No words greetings or inquires were exchanged between them - the lama only stared at him, awaiting an explanation.

"I came for the spear," Dream announced.

The lama, however, spoke no words to him even this time - he simply pointed towards a hill that towered over the city. A mighty sequoia grew on top of it and Morpheus for a moment pondered how he had missed this very obvious landmark. What he never learned was the fact that until the monk pointed towards the hill, it didn't quite exist - not in this dimension, at least. With his eyes set on the miraculously tall sequoia, Morpheus marched on.

Standing in front of the tree, Dream was rendered breathless at the unspeakable beauty of the view around him. Shangri-La was but an anthill from this distance. The rest of the world, no matter how big someone thought it was, remained covered by thick, white clouds as if this sequoia and the pagodas with gold roofs were the only things to ever exist. The setting Sun, slowly crawling to disappear underneath the cotton-like clouds, painted the sky above him in all shades of fuchsia, red and orange. Morpheus completely understood why you had spent centuries in this place.

The golden spear was lodged in the frozen ground between the roots of the mighty tree above it. Although 'spear' appeared to be a quite misleading name: it was a polearm with two intrinsically decorated sharp blades on each end. A red ribbon was tied to the shaft of this primaeval weapon; even after centuries of withstanding violent winds, it remained untorn.

The moment his hand lay on the weapon, a terrifying avalanche of thoughts flooded his mind - concepts, ideas, words and images he couldn't even begin to understand. He retracted his hand as quickly as it touched the spear before. This sorcery was beyond him, it filtered through dimensions he could never trespass due to the very laws according to which he had been created. Morpheus was akin to an ant that, through a series of misfortunes and the universe's maliciousness, was suddenly cursed with experiencing the surrounding world as a human only to be thrown back into its tiny mind with sensations and knowledge it could never comprehend.

But he knew he had little choice if he wanted to free you one day as well as make sure his realm prevails in those trying times. Feeling an unknown fear in his chest, Morpheus grabbed the Spear of Ages once more. As maddening thoughts ran through his head, he used all of the strength he had to pull the long blade out of the frozen soil. Every inch of his crawling, pasty skin was screaming at him to stop, to abandon this unholy artefact and save himself. But, as it was mentioned before, Morpheus was a steadfast man and so he kept pulling and pulling until he believed he had been doing it since the birth of the stars.

The moon's silver light cascaded off the freed edge. Although the golden blade was covered in intrinsic reliefs, the metal was polished so diligently, Morpheus could see his own reflection in those decorations but he quickly noticed that something about it wasn't quite right; the reflection wasn't his only as though an invisible entity resided inside the blade, a creature he knew was there but couldn't physically perceive. On the other hand, perhaps he was finally seeing himself for the very first time just not in the limited way human mirrors reflect one face. Dreams of the Endless from universes past and future were staring into that golden blade all at once.

If the legends were true and this spear had been used to kill at least once, it must have been the most beautiful weapon to die by. Perhaps its artistry was exquisite enough to calm the spirit of anyone who fell victim to it, drowning in peaceful silence and awaiting Decay's passionate kiss.

Remembering the unsure state of his realm, Morpheus made haste to return to Dreaming, where things were much worse than he left them: entire lands dissolving into oblivion; Dreams and Nightmares confusing their nature and duties, only to seep into the Waking World with no way to come back; dreamers getting lost in their own dreams or stumbling into the consciousness of other people, unable to wake up. Trusting your words, he hid the Spear of Ages somewhere inside the palace all the while following your advice and never revealing its location to anyone. In a matter of hours, Dreaming returned to its state from before his prolonged absence, to its lawful order, but it still wasn't ideal. Morpheus knew that his realm wasn't going to heal fully until you are free and it pained him to know that in the face of a calamity that raised its terrible hand against his home, there was nothing he could do but wait.

Awaiting the decade to pass, impatiently or not, Dream would wander into the dreams of people in Rodrick Burgess's manor. Part of him was anxious about your fate: should you, somehow, be destroyed, this universe would disappear with a snap of a finger. Perhaps part of him was simply sympathetic towards you and the human malice that clawed at your existence. Maybe, in those dreams, he would uncover some way to ease your struggle.

And wandering through their dreams he mostly saw, as one might expect, completely mundane sights of fantasies and terrors. A change appeared only when he trespassed into the dreams of the men that guarded you, who fantasised of defiling you even in their sleep. Morpheus felt a gut-wrenching disgust seeing with his own eyes how low humans were willing to fall, to crawl, just to usurp a fraction of your gift. His mind was incapable of comprehending something so mundane, normal, for you, so there really was no way for him to tell what inexplicable madness would devour their minds should they happen to lay their hands on your spear. The human heart, however, remained insatiable in its greed.

When the first decade had passed, Morpheus travelled to your prison not expecting his visit to be one of many to come. Before leaving Dreaming, he pondered whether to take your spear with him but quite quickly did he realize that placing such an artefact within Magus's reach was more than completely idiotic - he already had something inexplicably powerful in his unlawful possession.

Arriving at the Burgess mansion, he noticed the lack of change in you as in you were sitting in exactly the same spot and exactly the same position as you did ten years prior. Morpheus was about to call out to you, ask for instructions on how to free you, but you seemed to be well aware of his presence even before he had a chance to speak:

"No, it is not the time yet, dear Dream," you answered his never-asked question," but the night is young and I should like you to stay with me until the sunrise if you wish so too. It is unwise to let loneliness gnaw on one's mind for too long."

Wasting no words, Morpheus simply sat down in front of you. Even in a position that was supposed to be comfortable, he appeared artificially rigid. His stern gaze bore into your face in anticipation. A few minutes of hesitant silence passed by before he became courageous enough to make demands to an entity superior to him. Dream's voice, although low and voided of emotions, made the coldness of your prison more bearable: "Tell me about other worlds."

And so you did. Recalling the marvels you had witnessed and created, you told him about realms that had existed countless cycles before this one as well as future ones about which you knew only as much as the afterimages of the event horizon revealed to you. Taken over by the nostalgia of your too-long life, you shared memories of a world you always recalled with fondness:

"The sky was an ocean, deep and impenetrable as you have never seen. There were no stars, no suns or moons, only gargantuan jellyfish that swam across the indigo firmament. They glowed with such a bright light, the land underneath them was never dark. A soft, melodic hum travelled through the light breeze that was always present. People thought it was simply the wind brushing against their homes but if you listened closely, you'd know that it was the creatures in the sea sky singing a blessing to the lands over which they swam. I remember... I remember it always smelt of oranges there."

Quite surprisingly, he listened to your stories without even a shadow of confusion as if none of the strangeness you had seen was enough to surprise him. Well, he was the Dream King, after all, and that meant he was made out of oddness and wonders. Sometimes, when your words were colourful enough, he'd chip in with a story of a similar dream he had once seen. But never once did he laugh at the ridiculousness of your tales, never once questioned their validity or admitted his lack of understanding. In all of creation, finally someone heard your stories and said "I know" instead of "Explain"; your infinite wisdom for the first time united something in place of dividing as it so often happened with minds too small to look past their pride. For the first time since you remembered, it wasn't unspeakably lonely to know what others couldn't comprehend.

"You are a strange creature, Dream of the Endless," you confessed close to the end of the night.

"How so?"

"In all of my eternal existence, you are the first to have the faintest idea of what I mean when I speak. Everyone else lacks the imagination to ponder the impossible."

"I do not believe in the impossible," he answered. Perhaps it was then, in those very words of disagreement, that your fondness of him sprouted so vigorously. "Improbable, perhaps, but human ingenuity showed me that the impossible is simply yet to be uncovered."

And what a wonderful thought that was! That there was always something more to discover, wonders yet to be seen and knowledge to yearn for; that no one truly knew everything and the finality of your wisdom was a generously rounded subjective experience.

The sun was beginning to rise - it was time for him to go. "I will be back," he stated before disappearing and you never quite knew if that was a promise or a fact.

One day, not too long after Morpheus's visit, Alex Burgess came down to your dungeon. He was a frail boy, no older than thirteen, with big eyes that watched the surrounding world as if he was seeing it for the very first time. Perhaps they were part of the reason why he looked so frightened by existence itself. If not, the fact that he was sneaking behind his father's back surely was.

He stared at you in silence for long minutes. Maybe he didn't know what to say or maybe the sight of you made him too scared to open his mouth. "Is it true what they're saying? Are you the Devil?" he finally stuttered out in a quiet voice.

"Devil is a title, not a name, Alex Burgess," you corrected him. "After the fall of Satan, that honour was bestowed on Lucifer, the current King of Hell. I am not Lucifer." Truthfully, it was offensive to even suggest you were anywhere close to that pesky, wayward creature.

"Can you really do it?" he continued. "Can you really bring my brother back?" A glimpse of fearful hope appeared in his eyes. It nearly made you feel sympathy for him.

"Do you think I should?" you returned the question. "Would it be wise, little Alex, to rob the dead of their peace?"

Frantically looking over his shoulder, the boy walked up to you in rushed footsteps. As a token of his complete subjection, Alex fell to his knees in front of you. Staring into those big, teary eyes of fear and longing, you wondered what horrors he had to endure since his brother's passing. "Please, do it, I'm begging you. My father, he... He has changed ever since my brother died."

But even the tears of children weren't a good enough excuse to break the consensus between you and Decay. "And why should Rodrick Burgess dictate who dies and lives?" you asked Alex. It was at least ridiculous to entertain such thought - that larvae would order lions around. Humans rarely considered matters from a perspective other than their own. Maybe it was time to force one of them to be something else than egocentric for a moment: "Which one of you had ventured into Death's realm and asked the boy himself whether he wants to return?"

And maybe Alex Burgess would have responded to your strange, quite macabre, question, had his father not appeared in time. Seething, Rodrick yelled out various curses directed at his youngest child. His hand, although old and tired, grabbed Alex's shoulder with surprising strength, only to forcefully drag him out of your cell. Then, in those big eyes that glistened with fear you, saw his moment of clarity, complete understanding that you were something much older and much more powerful than the fairytale of the Devil people believe in - you could be much worse than the Adversary and his father kept you locked up like a stray mutt. Since that fateful moment, every day Alex begged his father to let you go in fear of your primaeval anger.

The silence of your loneliness, despite being hardly bearable, was a lot more welcome than experiencing another exhibit of human entitlement. How come those low creatures always thought they knew better? As much as they execrated gods, idols and all creatures in between for not granting all of their wishes, they never seemed to entertain the thought that, maybe, it was for their own good.

Every decade that followed, Morpheus would leave his domain to venture into the Waking World; for one night every ten years, reason and fantasy sat face-to-face as if they could ever be equals. As time went by, you couldn't decide whether it sounded like a set-up to a bad joke or the first verse of a life-changing poem. Although, who was to say both variants weren't equally true at the same time? Why did it have to be one or the other?

In any case, some nights the two of you talked but others were spent in a pleasant silence. When the night hours were spent on conversations, it was mostly you talking but it was quite understandable: while you knew what he was, Morpheus had a less than vague idea of the truth behind the myth of Wisdom, the Pillar of Eternity. There was a strange intimacy in being the one known instead of knowing but you welcomed it with the warm curiosity that defined you.

One time, probably as a token of his goodwill or care for you, Dream brought a book from the library in his palace. Out of all the works ever written, Morpheus chose The Trial by Franz Kafka. Perhaps he liked it himself or perhaps he found it somewhat fitting. It was a bizarre thing to stare at him while he read through the existentialist story: not an emotion appeared on Dream's face, nothing that suggested any reflection elicited through the strange tale he shared with you, all the while words leaving his mouth painted a disturbing course of events of a man who tried to defend himself from an accusation he never learned. Nonetheless, his low voice made for an exquisite narration of the through-provoking tale and you found yourself pondering asking him to read more to you. But that was a worry for the future, now you simply listened to his pleasant words.

Hours had passed and the sun was rising, people in the mansion were beginning to wake up, so Morpheus knew he had to leave soon. But before he was gone for another ten years, there was something you needed to tell him or maybe it was him who needed to hear it: "The world would be at ease knowing that it is you who is watching over them while they sleep."

"Thank you. That is a beautiful wish."

You gave him a gentle smile. Was it insecurity or modesty that spoke through him? "It is merely a fact, darling Dream."

And with those words, Morpheus had disappeared, marking another decade when magic run uncontrolled through all of the realms.

The eleventh time Dream visited your cell, he could immediately sense that something was different about that night. Were the wolves howling at a strange moon? Or perhaps moth swayed to inaudible music? Whatever it was, it pierced the air even in the concrete cell.

"The day has come, dear Morpheus," you called out to him. As it usually so happened, you acknowledged his presence before he could make it known. "The clock has struck Magus's last hour. There is enough raw, untamed power within these walls for you to not fail."

Strangely enough, you were in a different position: on your knees, sat on the back of your feet with hands resting on your thighs, leaving your chest indecently exposed. Morpheus felt a knot of shame tighten in his stomach - he should look away, shouldn't he? Redirecting his flustered gaze at something above or behind you, he spoke:

"What should I do?"

"You will need my spear." Still, you refused to look in his direction. Your vacant stare seemed to be admiring the dark, wet and coarse concrete wall in front of you.

"I hid it in the Dreaming as you advised."

Finally, you looked at him. Out of the two of you, he seemed to be a lot more embarrassed at your nudity. Perhaps you simply grew accustomed to the constant shivering and goosebumps. "Or did you?" you asked with a glint of mischief in your smile.

Morpheus was about to answer you, voice his confusion at your vague question, when he felt something weighty in his hand. Sure enough, he was now wielding the Spear of Ages, although he knew for a fact that he did not bring it with him coming to your decadal meeting. Curiously, he noticed that within your vicinity, the primaeval weapon did not torture him with visions and whispers he couldn't understand.

"Break the sigil with my spear," you instructed him, "but first you need to cast a spell, call my name into the void beyond all realms and summon me into this plane. Repeat after me, Dream of the Endless: I name you wolf, guardian of order and arcane laws. I name you heron, pathfinder of skies. I name you moth, the winged god of change. I name you fox, a traveller between realms. I name you earth, the sanctuary of stability and abundance. I name you crow, keeper of lost lore. With this artefact of power, I name you Wisdom, the Pillar of Eternity."

Morpheus tightened his grip around the shaft of the spear. With a strained groan, he pierced the concrete floor of the basement breaking one of the Cube's lines. A loud cracking resounded in the small room and a web of crevices sprawled across the complex sigil, essentially breaking it into countless dismembered lines. From those breaches emerged green light that quickly became blinding, forcing Morpheus to look away. The power, whatever it truly was, only grew in strength and soon it had reigned over the entire mansion. Housekeepers kept their eyes shut tightly, covering their entire faces as they felt the light burning their skin.

Then, a blood-chilling scream resounded through the house. It was, as one might suspect, Rodrick Burgess himself. Having gathered and irresponsibly used your magic for his own mundane whims, the green-coloured power recognized the man as a vessel for arcane force and so it tore every particle, that you had breathed into existence, out of him. Soon, the screaming subsided and only a speck of ash was left where a man once stood. The green light went out, crawling back down the cracks it had originally climbed out of.

Your world became loud again, filled with whispers and images from different realms and timelines. The static noise of universes past and future was never once overwhelming - it was akin to a farmer hearing fields of wheat rustle on the gentle august wind; it was the sound of life, creation walking along its predetermined path.

After over a century of forced, cold nudity, you found yourself dressed once more, in emerald green and embroidered golden ibises. A cape was covering one of your shoulders. As paradoxically as it may sound, it was then that you had felt more naked in front of Morpheus than before as though him seeing you in your arcane exult was more intimate than witnessing its mere fraction.

Nonetheless, it was time for the two of you to leave this den of wickedness. Having effortlessly pulled your spear out of the cracked concrete, you placed your hand on Dream's shoulder and, without a word of caution, travelled across the globe to the place you considered home. Where the two of you once stood among the darkness, now lay glistening, green dust, so easy to be overlooked by an inexperienced eye.

Morpheus found himself among the busy streets of Shangri-La again. Despite decades having gone by since the last time he had set foot on those cobblestones, nothing about the hidden city had changed. In fact, it seemed as if not a day had passed for its citizens. Still, the people of Shangri-La passed by him without ever acknowledging his presence. To Dream's surprise, neither did they acknowledge you. The bright, warm sun rays reflected off the gold roofs of pagodas building the city. A gong resounded through Shangri-La as though the monks were announcing someone's arrival or calling people to prayer.

Seeing you in all of your timeless glory, no longer bounded by foul magic, he fell to his knees - bowing, as one should do when facing the Pillars of Eternity. Although he was showing you the respect you deserved, it felt strange to be reminded of the inequality between you because, truthfully, this dissonance was buried the moment he sat in front of you, asking to be told about lifetimes he never got to witness and landscapes he was never going to set his eyes on.

The Spear of Ages weighed in your hand. The bright sun of the Himalayas danced across its edge, reflecting a mirage of colours both known and yet to be named. With a strange nostalgia, you looked at your own reflection in the meticulously sculpted metal. Entire universes had been born and collapsed before another pair of eyes stared into the golden blades. Eternity was changing, you could tell as much, but in what ways? That knowledge remained beyond you, for now.

"Throughout those decades of chaos, it had belonged to you as much as it belongs to me." With a sharp sound, you broke the spear in half against your leg. Holding one of the blades in your hand, you extended the now-broken shaft towards Morpheus. "You do not bow before me, Dream of the Endless," you announced in an official tone making him look up at you, "but stand by my side as my equal. A friend, if you will." Such a word of intimacy and trust tasted weird on your tongue. It was a flavour you were yet to grow accustomed to.

With a gentleness that befitted hesitation, Morpheus took the half of the spear you offered him as he stood up. In the upcoming millennia, he was going to have numerous opportunities of proving its deadly legend true, raising the primaeval blade against his own siblings but never, until the end of this cycle, was his hand going to strike one of the Endless. Not with this arcane weapon, at least. Now, when half of the Spear of Ages belonged to fantasy and the other half to reason, a new power was called into existence to accommodate this dissonance: oneiromancy, the art of prediction through dreams.

"Wouldn't it be considered rude for one of the Endless to seek out the companionship of one of the Pillars of Eternity?"

"We are peers now, darling Dream," you reminded him. It was utterly bizarre to consider one of the Endless as anything else than below you but perhaps too much time had already passed to dwell on your differences. "All you have to do is ask."

He didn't speak right away as if he needed more time to ponder his request. Only now, having escaped the darkness of the dungeon you were held captive in, did you notice the strange yet captivating shade of blue in his eyes - they were the same colour as the sky sea once filled with glowing jellyfish you remembered so fondly.

Finally, Morpheus took a bold step towards you. The stern, cold look in his eyes suddenly became mild as they studied your face. His face stopped intimately close to yours. "Come with me," he begged barely above a whisper as though he was afraid of anyone else becoming privy to the desires of his heart.

"That is not a question," you answered equally quietly.

"Allow me to rephrase: will you marry me?"

Staring at him in thoughtful silence, you couldn't help but smile. Some part of you knew this was going to happen the moment he stepped into the confinements of your prison for the very first time. Perhaps, the curious resemblance between his eyes and the strange sea sky was more than a random occurrence. "It is not chance that makes you say this but consequence."

His face lit up with amusement or curiosity. Dream's lips, too, contorted into a smile but it seemed to be a reflex rather than a conscious choice. "Consequence of what, if I may ask?"

"Of things that I have done," you answered. In a truly tempting fashion, your arms circled his neck. You leaned in to whisper something in his ear, making Morpheus sharply breathe in as he felt your own breath against his skin: "And as a consequence of everything that you have done, I shall tell you 'yes' without hesitation."

How do I know this story, you ask? Well, of course they themselves told me! I could ask my father to tell me any story ever dreamt but so often I'd demand to be told the very same one over and over again - the tale of how he met my mother.

Growing up, I was always headed on an expedition to find the Spear of Ages, at least one half of it but I never did. As Dreaming and Shangri-La are far and wide, the weapon was nowhere to be found. "The spear can not show you anything that you don't already know, Mimir," my mother used to say. Perhaps, she was right.

But the day is growing shorter, dear student, and you mustn't linger beyond nightfall. I bid you farewell. May you dream of wisdom and may you be wise in choosing your dreams.

TAGLIST: @deniixlovezelda

for the love of God... this story left me wanting Tom mr to make love being morpheus ok 👌 I loved this story too much... you should read it

Like silk (Morpheus x Reader)

Pairing: Morpheus x fem!reader

Summary: In the afterglow of your lovemaking, you marvel at your immortal lover’s softness, inside and out.

Warnings: nudity, not full-on smut but heavily mentioned throughout and initiated at the end (minors DNI!!!), the author is soft af for Dream’s ethereal features and it shows

Word count: ~1.1K

A/n: Just some fluff inspired by Calliope’s line in the comics quoted below. Hope you enjoy!

***

“He was so gentle, and his skin felt like white silk against my skin.” - Calliope, The Sandman #71

***

Soft.

Everything is so, so soft. The warm breeze sneaking through the open palace window, the thin sheet lovingly draped over your bare lower half but a few moments ago, the mattress you’re resting on, the pillow beneath your head. And the softest of all - your lover’s skin, pressed against yours as you lie in his arms.

You could tell at first glance that his body would no doubt feel as ethereal as he looked. But you hadn’t imagined just how smooth his skin could possibly be, how much it would feel like the finest silk as it glided over yours with each thrust.

In truth, you hadn’t anticipated how gentle he could be, either. You’d expected him to make love as dominantly as he behaved, if not as coldly. Undoubtedly seeking consent and aiming for your pleasure, but coaxing it from your body by commanding you towards it with his, claiming it without falter.

Instead, you’d found yourself showered in tender caresses and feather-light kisses, the tips of his fingers almost hesitant as they meticulously learned where and how to touch so you would tremble in delight. And though you relished the steel firmness of his chest and abdomen pressed flush against your softest parts as he moved inside you, he’d done so with the greatest care, taking notice of your every little reaction and adjusting accordingly. By the end, you’d been lost in a silky cloud of pleasure floating across the night sky, illuminated only by the stars in your lover’s eyes.

You have no doubt he could be rough in bed as well, and the thought isn’t unappealing in the slightest. But for now, you simply lie there, satiated and content with the length of your body half-covering his, and your fingers tracing idle lines over his heart. You marvel at how smoothly your fingertips glide along his alabaster skin as they follow the line between his well-defined pectoral muscles, then make a slow, winding trail over the right one.

Dream lies back with his eyes closed, though he never sleeps. He’s simply relishing your touch, his arm wrapped around you as he lightly brushes his own fingers over your shoulder.

“You’re so soft,” you mouth into his skin, barely a murmur. He gives a low, questioning hum. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you’ve woken him from a deep slumber. You almost feel bad even so, having interrupted his rare moment of peace with such a random thought.

“I said, you’re very soft,” you repeat a bit sheepishly. “Your skin. It feels like silk.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Does that please you, my love?”

If his skin is white silk, his voice is black velvet. It rumbles deeply within his chest, where your cheek is resting.

You sigh at the feeling, but frown slightly as your hand pauses in its movement. “Why would it not?”

“A matter of taste, I suppose,” he says in casual manner. “I can alter any aspect of my appearance if you like. You need only ask.”

He says it like it’s nothing to him, and it is. But you find yourself almost... disturbed at the notion.

You lift yourself up so you’re sitting sideways, leaning on one hand while the other rests on his stomach. He reaches for it to play with your fingers now that you have removed yourself from his embrace. You look down at your touching hands, mesmerized by how well your fingers fit with his as he guides them into a languid dance of small, tender brushes against one another. Your eyes then drift to the contours of his beautifully chiseled abs, then travel across his strong chest, rising and falling with each breath, and finally linger on his face. The impossibly soft rosy lips whose touch you can still feel on every inch of your skin, the elegant line of his nose, the sharp jawline your fingertips had loved to trace, the black, unruly hair you had tugged on at the height of your pleasure, coaxing a low groan from your lover. And, last but not least, his eyes - the universe itself contained in two never-ending pools of starlight, spilling into the ocean of his irises.

You love him for what he is. His wondrous mind, his unwavering commitment to his given role despite its hardships, his depth of feeling, hard though as he strives to contain and conceal it. But you can’t deny that his physical form alone is the most ethereal, bewitching sight that has ever blessed your eyes.

“You are perfect, Morpheus,” you breathe out, holding back a shudder. To lose yourself like this in the image of him lying bare beside you is almost too much.

The lightest crease appears between his brows. His gaze stays locked on you as he sits up, bringing his face inches away from yours. He lowers his eyes to your body, studying you as you did him. His knuckles trace a gentle line over your skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake - from your folded knee, along your thigh and over your hip, up your stomach, then pausing a moment to follow the soft curve of your breast. It takes but the lightest touch of his thumb on your nipple to have it grow into a stiff little peak, making you gasp and shudder as you try to keep still under his observing gaze.

His fingers continue their path over your fluttering heart, then up the sensitive skin of your neck, until he finally cups your cheek and looks you in the eye once more. You think he might say something, but he only parts his lips so he can close them over yours.

It makes sense. He never quite knows how to receive your kind words. But he is always oh-so-willing to be kind to you.

His lips taste of stardust and rainfall and home. Of everything he is and everything you dream of, because he is your dreams. And you sink into him as easily as you drift to sleep. Gently guided by his hands, you shift onto his lap, your thighs on each side of his. The hard length of him nudges at your lower belly, seeking permission.

“I want you again,” you mewl softly into his mouth, eagerly granting it.

He breaks the kiss to look into your eyes as he takes your wrist in his hand, and lowers it into the heated space between your bodies. He takes his time savouring the feeling as he wraps his fingers over yours around his length.

“I am yours,” he declares as if it’s the simplest, more natural thing in the world. You guide the tip of him to your entrance, sighing as it kisses your wet folds.

“And I am yours,” you vow in return.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, and abandon yourself once more to his silken embrace.

***

A/n: Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are very appreciated🤗

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