lucidlonging

[lucidlonging]

dreamy, isn’t he? ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: you only meant to drink away your breakup at the white horse, but hob gadling shows up and drags you into his night out. then his friend arrives: tall, dark, intense, and far too attractive for your own good. you tell yourself you can charm anyone, but morpheus isn’t just anyone… and suddenly you’re in way over your head.

word count: 4.6k

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

You do not plan on winding up at The White Horse tonight. You were supposed to be clinking wine glasses at a bistro across town with a man who’d looked you in the eye and sworn he was different. Instead, you had the misfortune of finding out he was very much the same as every other idiot who thinks cheating is an Olympic sport.

Now you are on your third glass of cheap merlot, sulking at a corner table. Hair perfect, makeup flawless, dress that hugs in all the right places, and absolutely no one to admire the effort. You can feel eyes on you from the bar but none of them belong to the man you want.

“You’re a picture of despair,” a familiar voice says. You look up and find Hob Gadling sliding into the seat across from you. He looks like he stepped right out of some academic catalogue, all tweed and soft smiles. He is carrying a pint and his usual faint air of warmth.

“Hob,” you sigh, already reaching for his drink like you are entitled to it. “What are you doing here?”

“Meeting a friend,” he says, pulling his pint away before you can snatch it. “But clearly fate decided I should rescue you from drinking yourself into oblivion.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t want to drink myself into oblivion.”

“Care to share why?” You tell him, briefly and bitterly, Hob’s expression twists from sympathetic to amused as you recount catching your ex practically glued to someone else’s lips.

“You deserve better,” Hob says finally. “If he’s fool enough to let you go, good riddance.” You appreciate the sentiment, even if it doesn’t fix the hollow ache. You glance at his watch and raise an eyebrow. “So, who’s this mysterious friend? Another professor? One of your… what do you even call them… history club mates?”

“You’ll see,” he says. “And behave, alright? He’s… a bit intense.” You snort into your wine. “Please. I can charm anyone.” Hob rolls his eyes, but before you can tease him further the pub door opens and he walks in.

For a moment, you think your drunken brain is embellishing. He is tall, painfully so, with a lean frame wrapped in an immaculate black coat that seems to drink in the light. His face is all sharp planes and dark, arresting eyes that skim the room with quiet authority.

Every head turns when he enters, but he pays none of them any mind. He moves like the room itself bends to accommodate him, like the pub is just a brief inconvenience on the way to somewhere far more important. “Bloody hell,” you whisper.

Hob clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s him.” The stranger crosses the room in measured strides and takes a seat opposite Hob, sparing you only the faintest of glances. It is enough to send heat crawling down your neck.

“Hob,” he says. His voice is low, smooth, and devastating. “Mate,” Hob says with a smile. “Good to see you.”

There’s no handshake, no small talk, the stranger simply inclines his head in acknowledgment and fixes those fathomless eyes on Hob. Hob gestures vaguely at you. “This is my friend. She… well, she had a rough night, so I invited her along. Hope you don’t mind.”

The stranger looks at you properly this time. You meet his gaze and feel like you’ve stepped off the edge of a cliff. “Not at all,” he says.

His voice curls in your gut like smoke. You lean forward with a grin. “And you are?” Hob groans under his breath.

The stranger’s lips quirk the faintest fraction. “I am called many things,” he says, and there is a weight to it that makes you sit up straighter. “The Shaper of Forms. The Prince of Stories. The Dreamlord. To some, I am simply King of Dreams.” You stare. “That’s… a lot to fit on a business card.”

Something glimmers in his eyes, amusement maybe, though he does not smile. He leans forward, close enough that you catch the faint scent of rain and something older, something you cannot name. “But you,” he murmurs, “may call me Morpheus.”

Your heart does something dangerous. “Right,” you say, your voice a little too breathless. “Morpheus. Noted.” Hob looks like he regrets every decision that led to you sitting at this table.

You cross one leg over the other, very aware of Morpheus’ eyes following the movement. “So, Morpheus… do you always show up to pubs dressed like you’re about to haunt someone?”

“I dress as I please,” he says. “And does it please you to look like the sexiest man in a five-mile radius?” Hob makes a strangled noise. “Oh for…” You ignore him, Morpheus tilts his head as if your words are worth pondering.

“If it disturbs you,” he says, voice smooth as velvet, “I could leave.”

“No!” you blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean… no. Stay. Please. I’m sure Hob would be devastated if you left. Right, Hob?” Hob looks like he wants to melt through the floor.

You sip your wine slowly, letting your eyes roam over Morpheus’ jaw, his throat, the way his coat gapes just enough to hint at the stark lines of his frame. He feels like the sort of man you should not touch but desperately want to.

“So tell me, Morpheus,” you say, voice dropping low. “Do you do more than haunt pubs? Because I could think of… other places.” Hob chokes on his pint.

Morpheus’ gaze drops to your lips for the briefest flicker before returning to your eyes. He does not answer right away, and that silence is maddening. “I am… capable of many things,” he says finally. Your breath catches, and that is when you know you are in trouble.

You are tipsy now. Actually, no, you’re downright wasted. And Morpheus, because you’ve decided his ridiculous name fits him somehow, is watching you like he’s curious how far you’ll go.

You reach for your wine and find the glass empty. “Oh no. Tragedy has struck,” you sigh dramatically, setting it down. “I require another drink immediately.”

“You’ve had enough,” Hob says, hand darting to cover your glass. But you are faster. “Relax, Dad,” you shoot back, and before Hob can protest, you lean toward Morpheus and pluck his drink right out of his hand.

Hob blinks at you. “Oh for Christ’s sake…” You hold Morpheus’ drink up like a challenge. “This is mine now.” His eyes flick down to your lips as you take a long, slow sip. It burns going down, some kind of dark liquor, and you shiver from the taste.

Morpheus says nothing, he simply watches as you lower the glass and, without breaking eye contact, takes it gently from your fingers. Then he raises it to his own lips and drinks from the same spot your mouth touched. Your pulse stutters.

Hob coughs into his pint like he might drown. “Are you two serious right now?” You ignore him, leaning forward until your elbow brushes Morpheus’ sleeve. “You really are… dreamy, you know that? Like, it’s offensive. And your eyes. God, your eyes.”

Hob makes another strangled noise, but you are too busy staring at the man in front of you. Morpheus’ voice is soft and deliberate. “What about them?”

“They’re…” You lean closer, practically whispering now. “They’re the kind of eyes you could fall into and never come back. Like black holes. Or oceans at night.” The corner of his mouth tilts up, just barely. “You are drunk.”

“Mm-hmm,” you say, shifting closer. Your knee brushes his. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” You are acutely aware of how close you are now, how his coat sleeve brushes your bare arm and sends goosebumps skittering up your skin. Without thinking, you reach up and push a stray lock of his dark hair back from his face. It is soft, softer than you expected.

Morpheus’ lashes flutter at the touch, but he does not move away. If anything, he leans just slightly into your hand. “Oh my god,” Hob mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “I feel like I’m third-wheeling my own night out.”

You smirk and let your fingers trail lazily through Morpheus’ hair. “Sorry, Hob. But you really should have warned me your friend was… this.”

Morpheus finally moves. He places a single large hand against the small of your back, steadying you as you sway closer. The contact is light, barely there, but it makes your breath hitch all the same.

“You are… persistent,” he says, his voice low enough that you feel it rather than hear it. You grin. “Persistent is sexy.” Hob slams his pint down. “Okay, enough! You are practically in his lap now, and he’s…”

Morpheus’ arm shifts, and suddenly you are very aware that Hob is not wrong. You are straddling the edge of Morpheus’ thigh, your leg pressed firmly against him, his hand still steady at the small of your back as though he is perfectly content to let you stay there.

You glance up at him, heart hammering. He looks back at you calmly, unbothered by Hob’s protest, unbothered by your closeness. But you can see it, just barely, in the slight dilation of his pupils and the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for one heartbeat too long.

“You don’t seem to mind,” you whisper. His answer is just as quiet. “I do not.” You bite your lip. Hob groans and drops his head into his hands. “I can’t be here for this. I can’t. I’ve made a terrible mistake bringing you two together.”

But you are not listening. Your hand slides back up into Morpheus’ hair and he allows it, his posture deceptively relaxed as if you are not undoing him thread by thread. “Do you always let strangers crawl into your lap and steal your drinks?” you ask.

“No,” Morpheus says, and there is something dark and possessive in the way the word lingers. “Only you.” Your breath catches.

Hob is babbling something about finding a distraction before he combusts, but his words are a distant hum now. All you can focus on is the man in front of you, the hand at your back, the quiet promise in his voice. And for the first time tonight, you feel absolutely sober.

You shift further into Morpheus’ lap, and this time there is no denying it. You are straddling him now, one knee pressed against the outside of his thigh, the other braced on the seat. Your skirt rides scandalously high, and Morpheus’ hands, large and elegant, slide from the small of your back to settle firmly on your hips as though to steady you, or maybe to keep you there.

Your head tips forward onto his shoulder, the fine fabric of his coat brushing your cheek. He is solid, cool, and immovable beneath you, but there is an unmistakable hum of something else. Something alive and thrumming just beneath the surface.

“This is comfortable,” you murmur into his shoulder, nuzzling slightly, letting your breath warm the side of his neck. “I am glad you find it so,” he says quietly, his voice brushing over your skin like a secret.

Hob lets out a loud groan. “She is literally on top of you, mate. Are we just… ignoring this?” You peek up at Hob from Morpheus’ shoulder and grin. “I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re all fine.”

Morpheus’ thumb moves slowly against the curve of your waist, subtle but enough to make your stomach twist. You shift slightly, and your thigh brushes his. The friction makes your breath stutter, but you cover it with a teasing smirk. “You’re really not going to push me off, are you?”

“Why would I?” Morpheus replies softly, his hands tightening ever so slightly at your hips. Your grin widens. “Oh, I like you.”

“You have made that abundantly clear.” Hob coughs, spluttering into his pint. “Abundantly clear? She’s practically declaring it on a bloody billboard.”

You ignore him and lean closer to Morpheus’ ear, letting your lips ghost over the curve of it. “I could call you Dreamy again,” you whisper, soft enough that Hob cannot hear. “Would you like that?”

Morpheus’ hands still for a fraction of a second. You feel the tiniest shift in his breathing, like you’ve managed to surprise him.

“Call me what you wish,” he murmurs, voice low and deliberate. “It changes nothing.” But you can feel the subtle flex of his fingers at your waist as you roll your hips just slightly, teasingly, against him. It is barely movement at all, but the way his hands dig in a little more makes you want to push further.

Hob suddenly stands, his chair scraping back. “Alright, nope. I need a minute. I can’t watch this trainwreck for another second.”

“Where are you going?” you ask sweetly, still nestled against Morpheus’ shoulder. “To the bar,” Hob says, throwing his hands up. “To breathe. To drink. To remind myself this night is not cursed.” He stalks off, muttering to himself.

You lift your head slowly and find Morpheus watching you with those bottomless eyes. He has not moved his hands. They are still on your hips, anchoring you, and the way he looks at you now makes the air feel heavier.

“Seems we’re alone,” you say softly, a hint of a smile curling your lips. “Indeed,” he replies.

You slide your arms around his neck, playing with the soft hair at the nape, and the intimacy of the gesture makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the wine. You shift again, this time intentionally, your hips brushing against the line of his thigh. His hands tighten.

“Morpheus,” you murmur, testing his name on your tongue. He exhales slowly through his nose. “Yes?”

“I think you like this.” There is a pause. He does not deny it. You smirk, leaning in so your lips nearly brush his jaw. “You could kiss me, you know. I wouldn’t stop you.”

His fingers slide a fraction lower on your hips, and you feel the faintest tremor of restraint in the way he holds you. “That is… not wise,” he says, his voice like velvet scraping over stone.

“Who said I wanted wise?” Your nose brushes his cheek, and the warmth of his breath hits your lips. You are so close now that the rest of the pub disappears. There is only the weight of him beneath you, the way his arms keep you exactly where he wants you, and the quiet storm building in his gaze. Your voice is a whisper. “You want to, though. Don’t you?”

This time, he does not answer with words. One of his hands slides slowly up your back, firm and unyielding, until it cups the back of your neck. He holds you there, close enough that you can feel the thrum of his pulse through your lips, and you have never wanted anyone more.

Morpheus’ hand is warm and steady at the back of your neck, holding you just close enough to feel his breath ghosting over your lips but not close enough to kiss. The restraint in it is maddening. “Why are you torturing me?” you whisper, your fingers curling in the soft hair at the base of his skull.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice like a caress, “the anticipation makes it sweeter.” A frustrated noise escapes your throat, and you shift against him, pressing your hips down ever so slightly. The sharp exhale that slips from him is your victory.

You glance over his shoulder toward the bar. Hob is deep in conversation with the bartender, his back to you, oblivious. Your eyes meet Morpheus’, and there’s no need for words.

You rise slowly from his lap, letting your body drag against his in the process, and you feel the way his hands flex at your hips before he reluctantly lets go. Without saying a thing, you take his hand and lead him toward the narrow hallway at the back of the pub, every step heavy with heat.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows makes your heart race. It’s dim in here, the mirror streaked with condensation from the heat of too many bodies, and you barely have time to catch your breath before Morpheus is on you.

He backs you against the cool tile wall, his hands braced on either side of your head. The sheer intensity of his presence makes you shiver, and you barely manage a shaky smile. “Took you long enough,” you tease, voice breathless.

Morpheus doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in and captures your mouth with his, and it’s like falling through the earth. His lips are firm, deliberate, commanding, and you melt instantly, your hands clawing at his coat as he devours you.

The kiss deepens, all teeth and tongues and desperate little sounds that echo against the bathroom tiles. His hands slide down your sides and grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him, hard and unyielding, and the low groan that slips from his throat when you grind against him nearly undoes you.

“Morpheus,” you gasp, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag his name out like a prayer. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, kissing, biting, marking. “Say it again,” he growls softly.

“Morpheus,” you whimper, tugging at the lapels of his coat. He lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist as if they belong there. He presses you back against the wall, his mouth trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down your throat as his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

Your dress rides up as he grinds into you, and the friction is dizzying. You cling to him, your fingers buried in his hair, your breath coming in sharp little gasps. “You’re…” you gasp, “you’re so… god, you’re…”

“Yours,” he finishes for you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “For as long as you’ll have me.” The words make your pulse stutter.

He frees one hand from your thigh and slides it up under your dress, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. You gasp at the first touch of his skin on yours, and he smiles against your neck, slow and deliberate. “Please,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself.

Morpheus lifts his head just enough to look at you, his dark eyes burning with something that feels older than the stars. “As you wish,” he says softly. And then his hand slides between your legs.

You bite back a moan, burying your face against his shoulder, your hips jerking against his touch as he teases you with maddening patience. Every stroke, every brush of his fingers is precise, controlled, designed to drive you insane. “Morpheus…”

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice wrecked now, his forehead pressing against yours. “Say it for me.” Your nails scrape against the back of his neck as you obey, whispering his name again and again, each time more broken than the last.

And just when you think you can’t take any more, he stills, his lips finding yours once more, swallowing your desperate little cry as he pushes you over the edge. The world tilts.

Your pulse is still hammering in your ears when you hear the faintest sound outside the bathroom door: a creak, a muffled voice. Morpheus stills instantly, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. You’re both breathing hard, your lips swollen from his kisses, and the look he gives you says everything: you’re about to get caught.

“Shit,” you whisper, scrambling to straighten your dress as he gently sets you back on your feet. There’s a knock at the door. “Uh, occupied!” you call, a little too high-pitched.

You can feel his hands still on your hips, steadying you as you wobble slightly in your heels. He’s far too composed compared to you, though the smear of your lipstick on his neck says otherwise. “Can’t a girl get five minutes?” you mutter under your breath, smoothing your hair in the mirror.

“Five minutes?” Morpheus says quietly, an almost imperceptible curve to his lips. You swat his chest. “Not helping, Dreamy.”

There’s another impatient knock, and you sigh. “We have to go before Hob comes looking for us.” Morpheus nods once, his hand sliding reluctantly from your hip as you crack the door open. You peek into the hallway first, then step out, tugging at the hem of your dress as though that will somehow make you look less debauched.

You don’t even make it three steps before Hob appears, pint in hand, looking frazzled. His eyes dart between you and Morpheus, and his mouth falls open. “Oh, for…are you kidding me?”

“We were just…” you begin. “Don’t,” Hob says, holding up a finger. “Don’t even bother. You’ve been gone twenty minutes. Everyone in this pub heard the… noises.”

Your face burns, and you desperately try to muster a convincing smile. “What noises?” Hob gapes at you, then turns to Morpheus, his eyes narrowing. “And you. You’ve got lipstick all over your neck.”

You glance up, mortified, and sure enough, there’s a vivid smear of red at the edge of Morpheus’ jaw. Morpheus does not flinch. “It is… nothing,” he says, though his gaze slides to you for a fraction of a second.

Hob pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. “I am so done. So completely done. I invited you along to distract you from your breakup, and instead you…” He throws his hands up. “This. Whatever this is. I don’t want to know.” You fight a smile, but the corners of your mouth betray you. “Hob, it’s not that serious…”

“Oh, it’s serious,” Hob says, already heading back to the table. “And when you two come sit down, you’re keeping at least a full chair of space between you. I mean it.”

You glance at Morpheus, who is just as unreadable as ever, though there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he is nowhere near as unaffected as he looks. You lean closer, just enough for your lips to brush his ear as you whisper, “I liked the lipstick, by the way. Looks good on you.”

Morpheus’ jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and he gives you the smallest look of warning, but you are already smiling as you follow Hob back to the table, your body still humming with the memory of his hands on you.

Hob is already seated when you return, his pint clutched like it is the only thing keeping him sane. He points to the chair across from him with the authority of a weary parent.

“There,” he says, his voice clipped. “You sit there. And you,” he jabs a finger at Morpheus “…sit there. One chair apart. I don’t care if you hate the distance. You are keeping it.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling, mostly because Hob looks like he’s one thread away from unraveling completely. “Okay, okay. We’ll behave.”

“Forgive me,” Morpheus says softly as he sits down with you, his voice maddeningly calm, “if I do not make promises I cannot keep.” Hob groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You settle into the designated seat, prim and proper, hands folded neatly in your lap as though you are the picture of innocence. Hob visibly relaxes… until he notices Morpheus’ knee brushing yours under the table. “Don’t you dare,” Hob warns.

“I’m not doing anything,” you say sweetly, even as Morpheus’ leg presses a little more firmly against yours, the subtle pressure sending shivers up your spine.

“Neither am I,” Morpheus adds, voice low, but you feel the ghost of his fingers brushing your thigh beneath the tablecloth. The touch is maddening, featherlight, and you shift slightly closer to him in a way Hob can’t see.

Hob slams his pint down. “I see you both. I can feel the energy radiating off you like a furnace. For the love of God, could you at least pretend I’m still sitting here?”

You lean back in your chair, resting your elbow casually on the table, and let your fingers trail along Morpheus’ coat sleeve. “We’re not doing anything, Hob. Right, Morpheus?” Morpheus turns his head toward you, his voice low enough to be for you alone. “Not yet.”

Your breath catches, and you duck your head quickly, hoping Hob doesn’t notice the way your cheeks flush. But of course, he does.

“Oh, this is unbearable,” Hob says, throwing his hands up. “You’re both unbearable. I’m going to need therapy after tonight.”

You bite back a laugh, and under the table, Morpheus’ hand slips into yours, his thumb brushing lazily over your knuckles. He holds your gaze from across the small gap, and the sheer intensity in his eyes makes it impossible to breathe for a moment.

“I swear,” Hob mutters, “if I hear one more suggestive whisper or see another smudge of lipstick, I’m leaving the two of you here and never speaking to either of you again.”

Morpheus’ lips curve in the faintest of smiles, the kind that promises trouble. “Duly noted,” he says, but he does not let go of your hand.

Hob is visibly reaching the end of his patience, his pint drained and his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. You can practically see the vein in his temple pulsing as Morpheus’ thumb continues its slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles beneath the table.

“Right,” Hob says suddenly, slapping his palms against his knees. “I’m calling it. We’re done here, night’s over. Go home, drink some water, sober up, and for the love of everything holy, stop… whatever this is.”

You glance at Morpheus, your lips twitching. He is perfectly composed, the only evidence of your earlier tryst the faint trace of your lipstick still smudged along the edge of his jaw. His dark eyes meet yours, unblinking, as though Hob’s words do not apply to him at all.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice comes out a little too light. “No,” Hob says firmly. “No, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you out of my sight, not after you disappeared for twenty bloody minutes.” He rises from his seat and gestures for you to follow.

You push your chair back reluctantly, your fingers brushing Morpheus’ one last time under the table. He does not move to follow, but his gaze tracks you as you stand, as if committing every detail of you to memory.

You linger for a beat, heart pounding, before reaching into your clutch for a scrap of paper and a pen. You scrawl your number with a flourish, fold the paper twice, and as you pass behind him, you slip it into the pocket of his coat with practiced ease. He does not flinch.

But when you lean down, your lips brushing the edge of his ear, you whisper, “Call me, Dreamy,” and press a soft kiss just below his jaw, directly over the faint smear of lipstick you left there earlier.

He tilts his head almost imperceptibly toward you, enough that you can feel the hum of approval in his chest. Then you straighten, flashing him a wink as you turn on your heel and head toward the door. Hob is waiting, looking tired and utterly done with the both of you.

“I’m going to regret tonight forever,” he mutters as you step outside, the cool night air washing over your overheated skin. You glance back one last time. Through the pub window, Morpheus is still seated at the table, perfectly still, his eyes locked on yours from across the room.

And when you give him one final, deliberate little wink, you swear you see the faintest ghost of a smile curve his lips before he vanishes from view entirely. Your stomach flips, and you clutch your coat tighter as Hob leads you down the street. You know, without a shred of doubt, that he will call.

ꨄ: @kpopgirlbtssvt

[lucidlonging]

therapy for the endless ¹ ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.

word count: 5.1k || PART TWO ( tba )

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

Desire leans back on their throne like a cat in a sunbeam, nails tracing the curve of their own throat with languid amusement. “You are so predictable, brother,” they purr. “Always sulking, always brooding, always convinced no one understands you. Perhaps what you need…” they pause, smiling wickedly, “…is a therapist.”

Dream’s jaw clenches and he does not grace them with a reply at first. He is still, a tower of shadow and pale flesh, but Desire has known him too long not to notice the flicker in his dark eyes.

“You mock,” he says finally, voice low and rolling like distant thunder, “as though my realm is not built upon understanding the minds of mortals.”

“Oh, darling, I mock because you are utterly terrible at it when it comes to your own,” Desire says, sitting forward, voice syrup-sweet. “All that power, and yet you cannot fix your own problems. You sulk instead. You avoid. You…” their tongue darts against their teeth, “…fail. Maybe a mortal could do better.”

Dream narrows his eyes. He knows they want a reaction, but even knowing this, he feels it bite deeper than it should. He turns sharply and leaves, the gallery whispering shut behind him, Desire’s laughter echoing in his ears long after the doors seal.

Later, back in the quiet of the Dreaming, he finds himself unable to focus. He stares at the strands of dreamstuff that coil and twist in his hands and imagines what Desire meant. The idea is insulting, absurd, yet… a ‘therapist’. The word hangs in his mind like a thorn.

It is not as though he does not know of you. He has brushed against your dreams many times before. You are a mortal therapist, dedicated to your work, compassionate even when weary. He has watched the shape of your dreamscape bloom into ballrooms, bookstores, winding city streets, whatever space your subconscious desires.

And you… listen. That is what draws him. Even when alone in your dreams, your patience is evident in the way you move, the way you tend to each character your mind invents. That night, he decides to test Desire’s taunt.

You dream of a dance. It begins softly, music curling through the air like candlelight, warm and muted. The ballroom glitters, all marble and chandeliers, and your work crush, why is it always him, is there, tall and smiling, spinning you gently in circles. Your head is tipped back, the motion dizzying, the faint smell of his cologne filling the air. “Not bad,” you murmur as he twirls you again.

Then, suddenly, the music skips. A hush spreads through the room like ink in water. The lights dim, the chandeliers gutter out, and the dancers around you vanish one by one until only you remain in the vast, echoing space. The ballroom shudders and reshapes, the walls folding inward, the marble floor rippling into soft carpet beneath your feet.

You blink rapidly as the world steadies. You are seated now and there is a desk between you and the man who has appeared across from you, tall and impossibly pale, dressed in black so stark it seems to drink the light. His hair falls in disordered waves, shadows clinging to his shoulders like reluctant companions.

He is… breathtaking. That’s your first coherent thought, quickly followed by the realization that this isn’t where your dream was headed at all. “Where… am I?” you ask, glancing around.

The space is familiar now. Your office, down to the mug of lukewarm tea on the desk and the faintly peeling paint by the window. “Your dream has… shifted,” the man says, voice deep and soft, every word deliberate. He does not smile.

You squint at him. “Okay. And who exactly are you? I don’t usually cast such… attractive leading men in my therapy room.” His lips twitch. “I am here,” he says, “because I was told I require… assistance. From one such as yourself.”

You laugh once, incredulous. “Wait. You’re here for… therapy? In my dream?”

“Yes,” he says simply. He folds his hands in his lap, watching you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. “You will listen. That is what you do.” This is not how your dreams usually go. Still, you take a breath, channel the automatic professional instinct that has carried you through countless sessions in the waking world.

“Alright,” you say, settling back in your chair. “Then I guess we should start at the beginning. Tell me why you’re here.” He does not look away. “Because my siblings believe I am… incapable of solving my own troubles.”

“Uh-huh.” You raise a brow, penning the air like you’re holding a clipboard. “And are you?” His jaw tightens. “I am not.”

“Sure,” you murmur, half amused, half fascinated. Whoever this man is, he carries himself like he’s carved from pride and brittle edges. You can feel it. And for some reason, you don’t think he’s entirely aware of how much he’s revealing already. “Alright,” you say softly, leaning forward. “Then let’s talk about those troubles of yours.”

The man across from you leans back in his chair as if he owns not only the office but the entire dream you’re in. Which, okay, technically he might. He laces long, pale fingers together and rests them against his chin, his posture so regal you half-expect a crown to materialize.

“I suppose,” he says at last, voice low and reverberating, “we should speak of my family. That is where all… difficulties begin.” You blink. “Your family?”

“Yes,” he intones. He doesn’t blink. You swear you can hear the capital letter on the word. “They are… persistent, interfering. They’re unable to comprehend that I act not out of cruelty, but necessity.” You tilt your head. “Right. And they told you to see a therapist?”

A shadow flickers across his face. “My sibling, Desire,” he says, the name dripping like venom, “suggested I might require one. They were… mocking.” Your lips twitch despite yourself. “So you decided to prove them wrong by… coming to therapy. In my dream.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if you’ve just challenged the integrity of the universe. “I am here,” he says, “because they believe I cannot change. That I am incapable of self-reflection. They are mistaken.”

“Sure,” you murmur, folding your arms. “You seem like the very definition of open-minded.” Something in his jaw tightens, and for one thrilling second you think he might stand up and storm out of your own dream. Instead, he straightens further, spine a line of unbending steel.

“I have ruled my realm for eons,” he says, dramatic enough to make your eyebrows shoot up. “I understand more of the mortal psyche than any… therapist could hope to. But you will listen. That is… what you do.”

The way he says it, like he’s handing you a royal decree, makes you bite back a laugh. You shouldn’t mock a patient, even an imaginary one. But it’s a dream, right? And he’s so… “Okay, your majesty,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. “I am not your king,” he says, every word like a warning. You lift your hands in surrender. “Figure of speech! You’re just… a little intense, is all. Most people don’t loom when they talk about their siblings.”

“I do not loom,” he says immediately, which is absolutely something only a person who looms would say. “Right,” you say, barely holding back a grin. “So. Family drama. Sounds complicated. Tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment he just stares at you, silent, unreadable. Then, with a soft rustle like the shift of a thousand pages, he leans forward.

“They do not understand the burden I carry,” he says, voice softer now, though no less dramatic. “They call me cold and arrogant. But they do not see what I see. The weight of my responsibility. The consequences of even the smallest error. I have made mistakes, yes, but… always with reason. Always with purpose.”

You nod slowly, therapist mode fully kicking in despite your confusion. “And do you think they’re wrong? That there’s no truth to what they’re saying?” He hesitates. It’s tiny, but it’s there.

“I…” He clears his throat, gaze sliding away for the first time. “I do what must be done. I am… necessary. My role is necessary. They cannot understand that because they are… frivolous. Impulsive. They do not see the bigger picture.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your shoulders,” you say gently. “And maybe you feel like no one’s really listening to you about it.” His eyes snap back to yours. There’s something raw in them now, a flicker beneath all that pride and drama.

“Yes,” he says, almost too quietly. You soften. “That’s why we’re here. So I can listen. And maybe help you figure out why you’re feeling this way.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting the idea of actually needing help. “You presume much,” he says finally, voice back to its measured grandeur. “And you deflect much,” you shoot back.

He blinks at you, no one ever talks to him like that, you can tell. “I like this,” you continue, leaning forward with a little smile. “You’re all drama and doom, but you’ve got feelings under there. We can work with that.”

“I do not… possess feelings,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh.” You can’t stop the smirk now. “Tell me more about how you don’t have feelings.” He sits there, silent and visibly offended, and for one insane second you think he might actually dissolve into mist out of pure indignation.

He’s still glaring at you, but it feels different now. Less like he wants to obliterate you from existence and more like he’s… unsettled. Which is funny, considering this is your dream.

“You do realize,” he says finally, voice low, “that I do not require this. That this,” he gestures broadly, the air itself seeming to ripple at the motion “…is nothing but an exercise in futility.”

You rest your chin in your hand, pretending to consider. “Mm, that’s usually what people say when they’re secretly afraid therapy might actually help.” His eyes narrow. “I am afraid of nothing.”

“Right,” you say dryly. “You’re completely fearless, totally flawless, and definitely don’t have feelings. Did I miss anything?” For a second, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. Not in a smile, exactly, but something close.

“Mock me if you wish,” he says, leaning forward, voice dipping lower. “But you cannot begin to comprehend the scope of my existence. You would crumble beneath it.”

You blink at him, trying not to be distracted by how close he’s gotten. His presence seems to fill the room, a weightless pressure that makes the air taste different.

“Wow,” you say after a beat, forcing a lightness you don’t quite feel. “Do you rehearse lines like that, or are you just naturally this dramatic?” This time, you catch it. The tiniest flicker of a smirk before his expression shutters again.

“Tell me,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, “do you ever just… relax? Or is everything always about responsibility and cosmic burdens?” His gaze sharpens. “I have no time for… leisure.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you say softly, without teasing this time. He blinks, the tiniest hitch in his breath. The office feels smaller suddenly, the air warmer, and you realize the lighting has changed, dimmed slightly, the glow soft and amber like sunset.

You glance around. “Did you… change something?” He looks faintly startled, like you’ve caught him doing something unintentional. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, hiding a smile. There’s a silence then, not awkward but weighted, and you’re suddenly aware of the way he’s studying you. His gaze isn’t harsh or condescending now. It’s… curious. Like he’s cataloging the shape of your mouth, the tilt of your head, the way you chew absently on your pen as you think.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the weird flutter in your chest. “So,” you say, leaning forward again. “You’ve told me your siblings don’t understand you. What would you want them to understand, if they could?”

He exhales slowly, and the sound feels like the wind moving through empty halls. “That I am not… cruel. That I have not chosen this role out of some hunger for power. That I… care. Even when I must be distant.”

You nod, softer this time. “That makes sense. But do you ever tell them that? Or do you just… assume they’ll figure it out while you stand in the corner looking all mysterious and moody?” The look he gives you is almost affronted. “I do not… stand in corners.”

You laugh, and it’s warm enough that for the briefest moment his shoulders loosen. “You’re doing it now,” you tease, and gesture vaguely to his posture, all shadowy elegance and intensity.

“I am seated,” he says flatly, which just makes you laugh harder.

But under the humor, there’s that same stillness in his gaze. He doesn’t look away when you meet his eyes, and you’re struck by how much it feels like he’s… listening. Like no one else in the world exists for him but you. It’s a dream, you remind yourself firmly. Just a dream.

“Alright,” you say, breaking the silence because you suddenly need to. “Let’s try something different. What’s one thing you wish you could change about yourself?” He freezes, every muscle going taut. You’ve hit something tender, you can feel it.

“I…” He stops, clears his throat, and the air shifts again, cooler now, like a breeze from nowhere. You wait, patient, the way you always are with clients who need space.

At last, he says quietly, “I would wish… to be less alone.” Your chest squeezes, unexpected sympathy rushing in. You open your mouth to say something: something kind, maybe, something real but before you can, the office flickers. The walls ripple like water and then solidify again, and you realize he’s the one doing it, whether he knows it or not.

“Okay,” you say gently. “That’s a good place to start. We can work on that.” His head tilts, black hair falling forward like ink, and there’s something in his expression now you can’t name.

“You would… help me?” he asks, as if the idea is incomprehensible. You shrug lightly. “It’s literally my job.” He stares at you for a long moment. Then, almost too soft to hear, “You are… different.”

The words linger, warm and strange, and you feel the dream shift again: smaller this time, the distance between you shrinking, as if the world itself wants to draw you closer together.

You let his words hang between you for a beat, feeling their weight settle like dust motes in the warm glow of the room. “Different, huh?” you say finally, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was not intended as one,” he says, too quickly. You smirk. “Oh, I think it was.” He bristles, and you catch the faintest spark in his eyes. “You presume far too much.”

“Probably,” you admit with a shrug. “But you’re sitting here in my office in my dream, which kind of makes me the boss. So I get to presume all I want.”

The corner of his mouth twitches again, that almost-smile you’ve seen flash and vanish. “You are… insufferable.”

“Thanks,” you say sweetly. This time the smirk doesn’t vanish quite as fast. He leans back, still regal, still brooding, but there’s a subtle shift in the way he looks at you now. Less disdain, more… intrigue.

“Tell me,” he says suddenly, voice smooth as velvet. “Do you mock all who seek your counsel, or am I the exception?” You arch a brow. “Only the ones who act like they’re auditioning for the role of ‘tortured immortal prince’ in a gothic drama.”

The dream flickers at your words, the walls momentarily stretching taller, the windows narrowing into pointed arches. You blink and the office is normal again, but your pulse is thrumming.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies you with that same too-intense focus, like he’s dissecting every expression on your face. “Why do you… persist?” he asks finally. “Most mortals would have woken by now. Or fled.”

You shrug, though the truth is your heart’s beating too fast. “Because I care about my patients. Even the dramatic ones.”

“Dramatic,” he repeats flatly. “Extremely,” you say, trying not to smile. He leans forward slowly, forearms resting on his knees. The room seems to tilt with the motion, the air growing warmer, heavier. “You… do not fear me.”

The way he says it makes something flutter low in your stomach. You force a light tone. “Should I?” His gaze drops briefly to your lips before rising to meet your eyes again. “Most do.”

“Well,” you say, voice softer now, “maybe that’s your problem. You’re used to people being afraid of you, so you don’t know how to connect with them.” He goes very still, like you’ve brushed against a wound he doesn’t want you to see.

“That is… untrue,” he says eventually, though it lacks conviction. “Sure,” you murmur. “And I definitely believe you.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but then the room flickers again, the walls drawing closer by inches. You glance around and realize your chairs aren’t as far apart as they were.

“Did you just move us closer?” you ask and his brow furrows faintly. “No.” You point at the space between your knees and his. “Because we’re definitely closer.”

He looks down and, for the briefest second, you think he might actually blush. “It is… the nature of dreams,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh,” you say, biting back a grin.

He ignores you, straightening with all the dignity of a man determined to pretend he hasn’t been caught. “You believe I cannot connect with others,” he says, his tone deliberately measured now. “And yet here you are, still speaking to me.”

You blink at the shift, the sudden edge to his voice. “You think you’re proving a point right now, don’t you?”

“Am I not?” You laugh, leaning back and folding your arms. “You’re unbelievable. You can’t just… force people to care by glaring at them until they do.”

“I do not glare,” he says as you snort. “You absolutely do. You’re doing it right now.” He exhales, long and slow, like he’s reining himself in. “You are… infuriating,” he says, but it sounds less like an insult and more like an observation he finds oddly fascinating.

“Funny,” you say softly. “I was about to say the same about you.” His gaze lingers on yours then, something softer creeping in, and you feel the shift again, the office walls fading slightly at the edges, the air charged like a storm is about to break.

“Tell me,” he says, voice quieter now, “do you always speak so… freely?” You blink at the unexpected question. “You mean… honestly?”

“Yes,” he says simply. You hesitate, then nod. “I try. I figure dreams are one of the few places I can really say what I mean without worrying about hurting someone.”

Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, and the dream pulls tighter around you, like the universe itself is holding its breath. “I see,” he says finally, though it sounds like there’s more behind the words.

You watch him carefully, feeling that subtle weight in the air again, the way the dream seems to hum between the two of you. “Okay,” you say softly. “So you don’t think you can connect with people because you… can’t be honest with them. That makes sense.”

His head snaps up, sharp as a blade. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say, gentle but firm. “I think you build walls because you’re scared they’ll see the parts of you you’re not proud of. It’s a defense mechanism. Pretty common, actually.” He goes still in that way that makes the hairs on your arms lift.

“I am not,” he says slowly, “afraid.” You hold his gaze. “You are. And that’s okay.”

The air tightens like a storm front closing in. “You presume much,” he says, his voice quieter now, dangerous in the way a shadow is dangerous when it grows too long. “I’m just trying to help,” you say softly.

He leans forward abruptly, and the dream responds, your chair scraping minutely closer to his. You can feel his presence like a hand on your chest.

“You think you understand me,” he says, voice low and cutting. “But you do not. You cannot. You are a mortal, fleeting and fragile, and you believe your small insights can untangle what is infinite.” Your breath catches, the words hit harder than you want to admit.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you whisper. “Is it not?” he presses, and for a moment you catch a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “You dig and prod and demand, as though my soul is a puzzle you can solve in a single session. You think yourself brave, but you know nothing of true isolation. Of the weight that never ends.”

You flinch despite yourself. “That was uncalled for.” He freezes and it’s so quiet now, the office holding its breath. He looks at you and you can see it: the regret that flashes across his features, too fast for him to hide.

“I…” he begins, but stops, the word crumbling in his throat. You swallow, willing your voice not to shake. “You don’t have to lash out at me just because I’m asking questions you don’t like.”

“I did not…” He stops again, fists curling in his lap. “It was not my intent to…”

“Yeah, well, it hurt,” you say bluntly. His jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the silence stretches long enough for you to hear the faint hum of the dream shifting again. The space between you feels heavier now, more fragile.

“I am…” He swallows hard, the word foreign on his tongue. “Sorry.” The apology takes you by surprise. You blink at him, trying to gauge whether he means it. He does. You can see it in the way his shoulders have drawn inward, the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours.

You take a slow breath, softening. “It’s okay,” you say after a beat. “I… probably pushed too hard.”

He shakes his head sharply. “No. You were… correct.” That admission stuns you more than the apology. He lifts his gaze then, and for once, there’s no barrier in it. Just quiet, unguarded sorrow.

“I do not wish to be…” He searches for the word. “Alone. But I do not know how to be otherwise.” The dream seems to soften with the words. The light dims to a warmer hue, the walls edging closer almost imperceptibly, as if the world itself wants to comfort him.

You lean forward slightly, careful this time. “That’s something we can work on. If you let me.” He stares at you like you’ve just offered him a map out of a labyrinth he’s wandered for centuries.

The words hang there, fragile but steady, and you feel the dream settle into a quieter rhythm. The distance between you hasn’t shrunk much, but it doesn’t feel as wide anymore. You lean back slowly, studying him. “That was… progress,” you say gently. He blinks. “Progress?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You owned up to what you were feeling instead of deflecting. That’s not easy.” His gaze drops to his hands, the faintest crease between his brows. “I am… unaccustomed to such things.”

You smile a little, unable to help it. “I can tell. But you did it anyway. That means something.”

He looks at you then, and there’s something soft and searching in his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out why you’d even bother. It makes your chest ache in a way you don’t entirely understand.

“Don’t overthink it,” you add, your tone lighter now. “You might sprain something.” The corner of his mouth twitches, a reluctant ghost of a smile, and you feel the tension in the room ease just a little.

You let the silence stretch a little, giving him space, before you lean forward again, resting your elbows on your knees. “You know,” you say casually, “for someone who swore they didn’t need therapy, you’re doing surprisingly well at it.” His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “I am not… enjoying this.”

“You sure?” you ask, grinning. “Because I think you just almost smiled.”

“I did no such thing,” he says flatly. “Right,” you say, still grinning. “And that wasn’t an apology earlier either, I must have imagined it.” His jaw tightens. “I… do not apologize.”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, leaning back. “Of course you don’t. I guess that’s why I’m imagining the warmth in your voice when you said sorry.”

“I was not warm,” he says sharply, though you catch the faintest flush high on his cheekbones. “You totally were,” you tease.

He exhales through his nose, long and slow, as if he’s debating whether to vanish into a puff of dignified mist. Instead, he settles deeper into his chair, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “You are… vexing,” he mutters.

“I get that a lot,” you say lightly. Then, softer, “But I’m glad you didn’t walk out.” That gets his attention. He glances at you, and there’s something hesitant in his gaze now. “Why?”

You blink at him. “Because… I like talking to you. Even when you’re being a diva about it.” The word makes him stiffen. “I am not a… diva,” he says, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

“Oh, you definitely are,” you say, biting back a laugh. “You’ve got the whole brooding-and-doom monologue thing down pat. If you start sighing about how hopeless the world is, I might have to get you a velvet cape.”

His mouth opens, closes, and then, miraculously, he huffs out a single quiet laugh. You blink, startled by the sound. “Wait. Did you just…?”

“No,” he says immediately. “You did,” you whisper, delighted. “You laughed.”

“It was not laughter,” he insists, though his eyes have softened in a way you can’t ignore. You lean in, lowering your voice. “I think you might actually like me.”

He leans forward too, slow and deliberate, closing just enough distance to make your breath catch. “You presume too much,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, but he doesn’t move away.

You feel the dream tilt slightly, the office folding closer again, but it’s so subtle you’re not sure if it’s the room shifting or just your own heartbeat thrumming louder.

“Maybe,” you say softly, holding his gaze, “I’m not wrong this time.” For a moment, he just watches you, silent and unreadable. Then, finally, he leans back, retreating just enough to make the air between you feel too wide again.

“We should… continue,” he says, the words feeling like a shield he’s pulling up. You swallow, trying not to show how disappointed you are at the loss of his closeness. “Right. Okay. Let’s get back to it.”

But you can feel the change lingering between you: the warmth of his laugh, the way he didn’t deny it quite as quickly as before, the way the dream feels different now.

You settle back into your chair, letting the quiet hold for a few seconds. “Alright,” you say softly, “let’s keep going. But this time… I want you to tell me something real. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

His gaze snaps to yours, sharp and suspicious. “Why?”

“Because we’re making progress,” you say, calm but steady. “And because I think you want to.”

“I do not,” he says automatically. You tilt your head. “You sure about that?” He hesitates.

The office feels heavier now, quieter, the warm lamplight dimming just a little as if the dream itself is waiting.

Finally, Dream leans forward, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap his knuckles are pale. “There was a time,” he begins, voice low, “when I believed my purpose was all that mattered. That the work I did was more important than any bond I might form. I thought I could not falter, could not… care, because to do so would be a weakness.”

You stay silent, letting him find his own pace. He exhales slowly. “But I was wrong. My refusal to… soften… has cost me much. Those I loved have left. Some are lost forever because I would not bend. I have built walls so high they cage even myself.”

Your throat tightens. You want to say something, but you know instinctively that if you do, he’ll stop. “I have stood alone for so long,” he whispers, and this time there’s no grandeur in it, no theatrical weight. Just raw truth. “I do not know how to be anything else. But I do not wish to be… this. Not anymore.”

Your heart aches at the admission, at the flicker of pain in his eyes. You lean forward slowly, careful not to break the fragile space you’ve built. “That was… incredible,” you say softly. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

He looks at you like the words don’t make sense. “You… do not recoil.”

“Why would I?” you ask, confused. “Because,” he says, voice catching slightly, “when I show myself, most do.” You shake your head. “Not me.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The dream feels hushed and golden, like the world has narrowed to just the two of you. He’s looking at you with a tenderness you didn’t think he was capable of, and you have to fight the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him.

Then the air shifts. His eyes darken, and you see it, realization flashing like a shadow across his features. “You are waking,” he says quietly and your breath catches. “What?”

“The dream is ending,” he says, and there’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before. “You will return to your world. You will forget me.”

The words make something in your chest twist painfully. “I… I don’t want to,” you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

His jaw tightens, and for a second you swear he’s about to reach for you but he doesn’t. He just watches you, that same soft, searching look in his eyes.

“Goodbye,” he says softly, and then the dream begins to unravel. You feel the office dissolve around you, the floor falling away, the golden light scattering into nothing. You try to hold on to the sound of his voice, the shape of his face, but it’s slipping, slipping, until there’s only waking.

And the strange, hollow ache of missing someone you’re not even sure was real.

ꨄ: @kpopgirlbtssvt

[lucidlonging]

omg yes please send it!! i’ve never written morpheus x hob x reader before but i’d love to give it a try, i’ll do my best to keep them both in character ❤️

Ooo would it be okay if I send in a request for Morpheus later?🥰💜

of course! 🥰🩷

[lucidlonging]

Ooo would it be okay if I send in a request for Morpheus later?🥰💜

of course! 🥰🩷

[lucidlonging]

fanfic requests ✩｡⋆⸜ OPEN

since i’m currently on vacation and have a lot of free time (+ a lot of inspiration to write) i’ve decided to start taking some requests. i’m still pretty new to this so i’m unsure if anyone will want to request anything, but if you do, feel free to!

what i write:

˒ᯓ the sandman only (netflix series)

˒ᯓ primarily dream (morpheus), but i’ll consider writing for other characters if inspiration hits

˒ᯓ sfw + nsfw (please specify which you’re requesting)

˒ᯓ x reader (romantic, platonic, poly) || fem!reader or gn!reader

˒ᯓ fluff / angst / dark themes

˒ᯓ oneshots or headcanons

what i don’t write:

˒ᯓ underage nsfw

˒ᯓ incest / pedophilia

˒ᯓ real people / actor fics

˒ᯓ fetishizing mental illness or body types

boundaries:

˒ᯓ i reserve the right to skip a request if it doesn’t inspire me (no hard feelings, sometimes the brain just won’t cooperate)

˒ᯓ be clear in your request if you want romantic, platonic, or nsfw

format:

˒ᯓ reader details (optional)

˒ᯓ prompt / vibe / genre

˒ᯓ specify sfw or nsfw

please be patient and kind. sometimes it will take me a few days to finish a fanfic, sometimes it will take me weeks.

[lucidlonging]

i just want to write about him all the time 😭😭 like i’m literally on vacation and instead of sleeping or relaxing i’m just sitting here completely overwhelmed by morpheus 24/7. i feel like richard madoc (yes, the scumbag) driven insane by ideas lmao

i mean LOOK at him!! who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by this man??

Just read a comment that said: “I always find it interesting his hair is always like a bedhead style... corresponding with his province of power.”

And they’re absolutely right. I hadn’t seen it that way, but now it’s all I see.

[lucidlonging]

where the light falls ✩｡⋆⸜ lucifer morningstar

summary: you have always felt set apart from the world quietly carrying secrets even you do not fully understand. the church is the only place that feels still enough to breathe until a stranger named lucy appears in the candlelight. with eyes like winter skies and a presence that lingers long after they are gone, they begin to weave their way into your life. the closer they get the more you feel the ground shifting beneath you, as if some forgotten part of yourself is slowly waking.

word count: 7.7k

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

Rain drums softly on the church roof, a rhythmic pattern that quiets the hum in your chest. You sit in the pew farthest from the altar, as you always do, back hunched over your small sketchbook. The candlelight flickers across pages filled with wings and halos, horns and jagged teeth, paint-stained fingers hovering just above the latest smudge of charcoal.

You come here more for the silence than the sermons. Silence and the feeling of stillness that churches seem to hold, the kind you can’t find anywhere else.

The priest moves quietly in the sacristy behind the altar, murmuring prayers you can’t quite hear. You glance up at the massive wooden cross. It’s beautiful and cold, and you don’t know why it always makes your chest ache a little to look at it.

You press your lips together, steadying your breath. That ache, that gnawing emptiness, is something you’ve grown used to. You are not like everyone else. You’ve known this for a long time.

At first, when you were a child, it was just the subtle things like being able to sense when someone was lying, hearing whispers of things before they happened. Then came the stranger things: never being sick, never bruising easily, never aging. You’re well over a hundred years old, yet you look like someone in their mid-twenties. That’s why your parents kept moving when you were younger, from village to village, town to town. They died decades ago, leaving you alone with your secret. Now you stay mostly to yourself, drifting where you please. People whisper, they wonder, some call you a witch and they’re not entirely wrong.

But there’s something deeper inside you, something you can’t name. You paint it sometimes, in flashes of gold and silver, in black wings and burning light. You’ve never known where the images come from.

“That’s lovely.” The voice startles you.

You snap the book shut and look up. A person stands at the end of the pew, head tilted, platinum hair glowing in the candlelight like a halo. They’re tall, unnaturally graceful, dressed in black trousers and a silk blouse that makes them look both severe and elegant. Their eyes are the pale, cold blue of winter skies. You haven’t seen them before, you would remember if you had.

“Sorry,” they say when you don’t reply right away. Their voice is smooth, cultured, with an edge that feels… practiced. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I couldn’t help noticing your sketchbook. May I see?” You hesitate, curling your fingers protectively over the edge of the book.

“They’re just… sketches,” you say.

“Even sketches can be art.” They step closer and their presence is unsettling, though not in a dangerous way. It’s the way they look at you, like they’re peeling back layers you didn’t know you had. You glance down at the closed book, then back up at them. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”

“Not yet.” They smile faintly and extend a hand. “I’m Lucy.” You study their hand for a beat before reaching out, the brief contact sending a strange ripple through your chest.

“Nice to meet you,” you murmur. Their smile sharpens. “Oh, I think it will be.”

You hesitate, still holding their hand. Something about them doesn’t feel like other people. Not exactly threatening, but sharp. Like standing too close to lightning before it strikes.

“Lucy,” you repeat slowly. The name rolls awkwardly off your tongue, unfamiliar yet… right somehow. “Do you come to this church often?”

“Often enough,” they say, sliding gracefully onto the pew beside you without waiting for an invitation. They fold one leg over the other, all elegance and poise. “Though I’m not sure I fit the mold of the average parishioner. Neither do you, I’d wager.” You blink, a little thrown by their audacity. “What makes you say that?”

“Your art.” Their gaze flicks to the sketchbook in your lap. “And the way you sit all the way back here, away from the rest of the flock. You’re not the type to simply… follow.”

There’s an edge to their voice, a soft mockery, and it makes you shift uncomfortably. “I like the quiet,” you say defensively. Lucy smiles as if they know you’re lying. “Do you?”

Something in you bristles, but instead of pulling away, you find yourself leaning into the conversation. “Do you?” you challenge. They tilt their head. “No. I like the questions that come with it.”

Your lips quirk despite yourself. “Questions?”

“About faith, devotion, obedience,” they say smoothly, eyes glittering in the dim light. “Humans cling to belief like it’s armor, yet so few ever ask why. Don’t you find that strange?”

You glance up at the crucifix again, unsure how to respond. You’ve asked yourself those same questions countless times. Why do you keep coming here, to a place that offers no real answers for what you are?

“I guess it’s comforting for some people,” you murmur. “Believing there’s a plan, that someone’s watching over them.”

“Ah.” Lucy leans forward slightly, their voice dropping low, intimate. “And do you believe someone is watching over you?”

The question hits you harder than you expect. You open your mouth, then close it again. The truth is, you don’t know. Sometimes you’ve felt something: an inexplicable nudge, a presence hovering just beyond reach but it’s never been clear, never been constant. You’ve spent decades trying to understand it.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. Their expression softens, though there’s something keen and knowing behind their eyes. “How very honest of you.”

A beat of silence passes, and then you surprise yourself by asking, “Do you believe?”

Lucy laughs softly, a sound that’s both amused and bitter. “Believe in what, exactly?”

“God, heaven... All of it.”

“Darling, I know it exists,” they say. Your brow furrows. “You… know?”

They meet your gaze, unflinching. “Let’s just say I’ve been around long enough to have no illusions about what is and isn’t real.”

There’s a weight to the way they say it, an oldness that doesn’t match the youthful curve of their face.

And yet, strangely, it doesn’t unsettle you. Quite the opposite. You feel a strange familiarity in their presence, like the warm echo of something you once knew but can’t remember. “That’s… an interesting answer,” you say softly.

“Interesting, or infuriatingly vague?”

“Both,” you admit and Lucy smiles again, slow and satisfied, as though they’ve managed to hook something in you.

They lean back, regarding you with unnerving focus. “You’re not like the others who come here,” they say finally. “You have questions too. Deep ones. I can see it all over you.” You hug the sketchbook closer to your chest, suddenly self-conscious. “I just like to draw,” you say, though it sounds flimsy even to your own ears.

“And you like to come here and stare up at a cross, wondering if there’s an answer waiting somewhere you can’t see.”

Their words land too close. You feel your chest tighten. “Why are you saying all this?” you ask, voice soft but steady.

They shrug, casual and disarming. “Because I like the way you look at me when I do.” Your face warms, though you can’t tell if it’s anger or embarrassment.

Lucy rises then, smoothing their blouse with long, graceful fingers. “I should let you return to your sketches,” they say, and there’s a faint mockery in their tone, as if they’re fully aware you won’t be able to stop thinking about them now, but before they turn to leave, they add, “Perhaps I’ll see you again. I do enjoy good company when I find it.”

“Wait,” you say before you can stop yourself. They glance back, one brow arched. You hesitate, then manage, “Do you live around here?”

“I live wherever I wish to,” they say lightly, and then they’re gone, their silhouette melting into the shadows of the nave.

You stare at the empty space they left behind, heart beating too fast. For the first time in decades, you feel… seen.

You spend the next few days telling yourself you’re not thinking about them. You repeat it like a mantra while painting, while washing your hair, while staring up at the cracked ceiling of your tiny apartment late at night. They were just a stranger who sat next to you in church and said a few provocative things. That’s all.

But your body betrays you. You keep replaying the way Lucy’s gaze pinned you in place, the curve of their mouth when they smiled like they knew something you didn’t. The way they spoke felt… deliberate. Like each word was carefully chosen to strip you bare without ever touching you.

And then there’s the feeling you can’t quite put into words. That strange familiarity. You’ve never felt it with anyone, not even with your parents when they were alive. Around Lucy, you felt… recognized.

You try to shake it off as you leave the church one cold morning, but the thought lingers, irritatingly persistent.

By the time you settle into a small café two streets away, your mind is buzzing with questions. You pull out your sketchbook, hoping that drawing will quiet your thoughts.

The café is busy, filled with the clatter of porcelain cups and the low hum of conversation. You order a coffee and slide into the farthest table, close to the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass.

You’re so focused on your half-finished sketch that you don’t notice someone standing at your table until a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“May I?” You look up sharply, and there they are. Lucy. Their platinum hair gleams under the café lights, their black coat cinched at the waist, and that same infuriatingly self-assured smile playing on their lips.

You blink, momentarily disoriented. “Lucy.”

They tilt their head, clearly pleased you remember their name. “Well, it seems fate enjoys throwing us together,” they says.

“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” you say, though you’re not sure you believe it.

“Is it?” They pull out the chair across from you without waiting for an answer and settle in like they belongs there. “I was just walking by and saw you through the window. You looked so absorbed in your drawing, I had to stop.”

You glance down at your sketchbook, annoyed at the heat rising in your cheeks. “You really don’t have to keep pretending you’re interested in my art.”

“On the contrary, I find it fascinating,” Lucy says, leaning forward on their elbows. “What is it this time? Angels or demons?”

You hesitate. Today’s sketch is of a figure with both wings and horns, half in shadow, half in light. “Neither,” you say, a little too quickly.

Lucy’s lips curve. “I see.” They don’t press, which somehow makes the heat in your cheeks worse.

You pick up your coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. “Do you always talk to strangers like this?”

“Only the interesting ones,” they say smoothly and your eyes narrow. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I have reason to be.” You huff a soft laugh. “That’s… refreshing, I guess.”

“Refreshing?”

“Most people second-guess everything. You just… don’t.” Lucy leans back, studying you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. “Most people are afraid of what they’ll find if they stop second-guessing themselves. You’re afraid too, aren’t you?”

Your grip on the coffee cup tightens. “Afraid of what?”

“Of what you are,” Lucy says softly. The words are like a strike to the chest. You blink at them, heart hammering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do,” they murmur, and the certainty in their voice makes your throat go dry.

They lean forward again, lowering their voice until it’s only for you. “You don’t age. You can feel when someone is lying. You dream things that come true. Do you think people don’t notice how… different you are?”

Your mouth goes dry. How do they know that? You force yourself to meet their gaze. “Have you been following me?” They smile faintly, the kind of smile that tells you they have no intention of answering the question.

You push back in your chair, trying to steady your breathing. “This is insane. I don’t even know you.”

“You want to know me,” Lucy says simply.

The words hang in the air like a challenge and your pulse thrums painfully in your throat. “Why would I want that?”

“Because I can give you answers,” they say, voice low and steady. “And because,” they pause, letting the silence stretch until you’re practically leaning toward them “I think part of you already knows you’re supposed to.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. You want to ask what they mean, why they keep talking like this, but you can’t seem to form the words.

Then they lean back, as if nothing has happened, and glance toward the counter. “I should get a coffee,” they say lightly. “Will you still be here when I come back?”

You hesitate, torn between leaving and demanding they tell you everything. But when they stand, you hear yourself say, “Yeah. I’ll be here.” Lucy’s smile is slow and wicked. “Good girl.”

Lucy returns with their coffee, setting it on the table with that same unhurried grace. They don’t ask if they can sit again; they simply do, folding down into the chair as if the space has always belonged to them.

They wrap their long fingers around the porcelain cup, watching the steam curl lazily upward. “Do you know,” they say softly, “most people would have run from me by now.”

You arch a brow, though your pulse jumps. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It’s supposed to be honest,” Lucy says, taking a slow sip. Their pale blue eyes hold yours over the rim of the cup, unblinking. “You’re different. You feel it, don’t you?”

You swallow. There’s an instinct in you to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. Lucy smiles faintly, like they can hear the silence you can’t fill. “I can see it in the way you carry yourself. That weight, that loneliness. You don’t belong anywhere, and you don’t know why.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s a cheap guess,” you say, forcing nonchalance.

“Hardly,” Lucy says, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “You wear it on your skin. I should know. I’ve been where you are.” The words hang between you like bait.

You lean forward slightly before you can stop yourself. “You’ve… been like me?”

Their lips curve slowly, a secret tucked there you’ll never be allowed to see. “Different, but yes. There was a time I knew exactly what it was to be set apart. To want to belong so badly it hurt.”

Your chest aches, something in their tone feels like a confession. “What happened?” you ask quietly.

Lucy’s gaze softens, though there’s a sharp edge to it still. “I stopped trying to be something I wasn’t. That was the first step.” You frown, searching their expression. “That’s… vague.”

“Life rarely deals in certainties,” they say, voice low. “But you’re looking for them anyway. That’s why you go to church, isn’t it? To feel like you’re part of something bigger. To hope someone will tell you who you’re supposed to be.”

You glance down at the coffee in your hands, unsure what to say. They’re not wrong, but the truth of it feels raw, scraped open.

“You talk like you know me,” you murmur.

Lucy leans in then, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of smoke and something darker, like spice. “Maybe I do,” they say softly. “Maybe I see more of you than you think.”

Your heart beats hard enough to hurt. “Why does it feel like you’re trying to get under my skin?”

Their smile is slow, almost feline. “Because I am.” The bluntness of it leaves you momentarily speechless.

Lucy tilts their head, watching your reaction like a predator studying prey. But their voice softens again when they speak. “Tell me something,” they say. “Do you ever feel… familiar to yourself? Like you’ve lived a thousand lives but can’t remember a single one of them?”

The question hits so close to home it steals your breath. “I…” you falter, throat tight.

Lucy’s gaze sharpens. “It’s all right,” they say gently. “I know what that’s like too. To feel as though you were… someone else once. Someone more. And now you’re left with this faint echo of what you used to be.”

Your hands tremble slightly where they clutch your cup. “How do you know that?” you whisper.

They shrug, feigning casualness though their eyes are hungry with satisfaction. “Because it’s written all over you.”

You search their face for more answers, but they only lean back, letting the silence do its work. Finally, you ask, “So what does that make us? You and me?”

Their lips part, but they hesitate. They could tell you the truth. That they are Lucifer, the Morningstar, the devil you’ve been painting your whole life without even knowing it. That you were once an angel yourself, but instead they give you a sliver of truth, one that will burrow deep and stay there.

“Kindred spirits,” they say softly and you can’t explain why the words make you shiver.

“Kindred,” you repeat quietly, as though testing how it tastes on your tongue.

Lucy’s gaze holds yours, steady and unrelenting. “If you’ll let me,” they murmur, “I could show you how not to be afraid of that anymore.” You stare at them, your breath caught in your chest. They are magnetic, the kind of person you should run from but can’t.

Instead, you ask the question you’re not sure you want the answer to. “Why me?” Lucy smiles again, slow and devastating. “Because you’re worth the trouble.”

You feel the ground tilt beneath you, and they know it.

They rise gracefully, smoothing the dark coat over their hips. “Walk me out,” they say, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you do.

The walk home is quiet at first. The city is still damp from the morning rain, the pavement slick and reflecting pools of amber streetlight. Lucy walks beside you, hands tucked loosely in the pockets of their black coat, and though they don’t speak, their presence is a gravity all its own.

You’re hyper-aware of them. Of the click of their boots on wet pavement, the faint curl of smoke-and-spice perfume that lingers between you, the way the air seems to bend around them like they belongs to another world entirely.

“You didn’t ask where I live,” you murmur finally, breaking the silence. Lucy glances at you, a smile tugging at their lips. “Do I need to? You’ll show me. You want me to see.”

Your stomach twists at the ease with which they say it, at the quiet certainty. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I am,” they say simply, without arrogance. “You’ll find it liberating if you ever let yourself be.”

You almost ask how they can be so certain of anything, but their gaze cuts to you, and the question dies on your tongue. They follow you all the way to the narrow street where your apartment building sits. It’s a crumbling brick thing, tucked between two taller complexes, the kind of place no one looks at twice. You’re already fumbling for your keys when Lucy speaks.

“I like this street,” they say casually, their gaze sweeping the peeling facades, the shuttered windows. “There’s something… unpretentious about it.” You glance at them, surprised. “Most people wouldn’t call this street unpretentious. They’d call it rundown.”

Lucy tilts their head, pale hair catching the lamplight. “Most people are boring.” The words make you smile before you can stop yourself.

You unlock the building door and step inside, but Lucy doesn’t follow. They linger at the threshold, hands still in their pockets, head tilted in that assessing way they have.

“I’ll see you again soon,” they say softly, as though it’s already decided, you want to ask when, but the words stick, and they turn and walk back down the street before you can gather them.

The dreams start the next night. They’re not new exactly, strange dreams have always haunted you, but these are sharper, more vivid, like they’re trying to tell you something.

You dream of a figure bathed in golden light, wings stretched wide and burning like the sun, a sword blazing in one hand. The figure’s beauty is almost unbearable. And yet there’s something terrible about them too, a sorrow so deep it turns the edges of their radiance to shadow.

When you wake, you sketch. It’s almost a compulsion, like the image will tear you apart if you don’t set it down. And when you finally stop, hours later, you realize the figure you’ve drawn looks unsettlingly like Lucy.

You stare at the sketch, heart hammering. That can’t be right. You’ve never seen them with wings or light in their eyes, yet the resemblance is undeniable. You shove the sketchbook into the drawer of your bedside table and slam it shut.

You don’t see Lucy for days, and you tell yourself you’re relieved. But when they reappear outside the church the following Sunday, leaning against the low stone wall like they’ve been waiting for you, you can’t deny the rush of something sharp and warm in your chest.

“Good morning,” they say, their voice rich and smooth as ever. “I was hoping I’d see you.” You hesitate, clutching your coat tighter around you. “Were you?”

“Of course.” They step forward, and there’s a glimmer of amusement in their pale eyes. “I wanted to tell you some news. I’m moving next week.” Your stomach drops. “You’re… moving?”

“To San Francisco,” they say lightly, as though they’re talking about the weather. “A change of scenery felt overdue.”

It’s like the world shifts around you. You hadn’t told anyone yet, but you’ve been planning your own move to San Francisco for weeks. It was supposed to be a clean start, another new life. You almost blurt out the coincidence, but something stops you. Instead you just nod, trying to sound casual. “That’s… a big move.”

“Big moves are the only ones worth making.” The words feel like a challenge, and you find yourself blurting before you can think better of it, “Can I ask you for a favor?”

Lucy arches a brow, their lips curving. “You could ask me for many things. What is it you want?”

You hesitate, your pulse fluttering in your throat. “If you’re driving there… could I come with you? It’s just…” you glance away, embarrassed “it would be nice not to go alone.”

For a moment Lucy just watches you, silent, like they’re savoring the vulnerability in your request. Then they smile, slow and devastating. “Of course,” they say softly. “I’d be delighted to have the company.”

The relief you feel is immediate, though you try not to show it. You give a small nod and glance down at your hands. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I… I really appreciate it.”

Lucy tilts their head, watching you with that unreadable gaze. “When are you leaving?”

“End of the week,” you say. “I’m almost done packing.” They hum thoughtfully, taking a step closer. “Almost?”

You glance up. They’re closer now, the sunlight catching in their pale hair like fire through glass. “Yeah,” you admit. “I’m a little behind.”

“Then let me help.” The offer startles you. “Help? With my packing?”

“Why not?” Lucy says easily. “I’ve got nothing better to do. And besides…” their lips curve in a subtle smile, “it will give me an excuse to see where you live again.”

There’s something intimate in the way they say it, but they don’t give you the chance to overthink it. They just wait, patient and unflinching, until you finally nod. “All right,” you say softly.

Your apartment feels smaller with Lucy in it. They stand by the doorway at first, surveying the room with a faintly amused expression while you flit about nervously, tugging at boxes and half-folded piles of clothes. You tell yourself you’re embarrassed by the mess, but it’s more than that. Their presence changes the atmosphere, makes the air heavy, charged.

“You really do have a talent for living light,” Lucy observes, shrugging out of their coat and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. “Most people hoard. Memories, clutter, bad habits. You seem to travel without all three.”

You huff a small laugh, crouching to tape the bottom of an empty box. “It’s easier when you’ve moved as much as I have.”

“Yes,” they murmur, almost to themself. “Always running.” You glance up, frowning. “I’m not running.”

“Aren’t you?” They kneel gracefully beside you, taking the roll of tape from your hand. Their fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. “That’s not a judgment. Merely an observation.”

“I just… like starting over sometimes,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. Lucy’s pale eyes flick to yours, and for a moment the intensity there makes your chest feel hollow. “I know the feeling,” they say softly. The words are like an admission, and yet you can’t quite grasp what they mean.

Lucy proves to be startlingly efficient at packing. They fold your clothes with surgical precision, stacks books like they’re puzzle pieces, and somehow manages to make the chaos feel under control.

You catch yourself watching them more than once, fascinated by the way they move: fluid and certain, as though they’ve never questioned a single decision in their life. “You don’t have to do all the hard work,” you say, breaking the silence.

Lucy doesn’t look up from the stack of books they’re arranging. “But I’m good at it.”

“That’s not the point,” you protest. They glance at you then, lips quirking. “You’re adorable when you try to scold me.” Heat creeps up your neck and you turn away, pretending to busy yourself with another box.

You’re digging through your bedside table for an errant pen when you remember the sketchbook. Your breath catches as your fingers close around it. You hadn’t looked at it since the night of the dream, since you drew… them. You hesitate, debating whether to shove it into a box, but the decision is made for you.

“What’s that?” Lucy’s voice is soft behind you, and you turn quickly, clutching the sketchbook a little too tightly.

“Just some drawings,” you say, trying to sound casual.

“May I see?” You freeze, knowing exactly what page lies on top. “It’s nothing interesting,” you say.

Lucy steps closer, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I doubt that.”

But they don’t push further. Instead they simply pluck the pen you were searching for from the dresser and hand it to you, their fingers brushing yours for a second too long. “Keep it safe,” they say, nodding toward the sketchbook.

You nod, relieved and unsettled all at once as you slip it into a box. Lucy says nothing else, but when they turn away, you don’t notice their pale eyes flicker with recognition, or the way their smile curves faintly at the corner.

By the time the boxes are stacked neatly against the wall, the sun has dipped low, staining the room in shades of amber and rose. You’re tired, but there’s a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the work. “Thank you,” you say softly.

Lucy shrugs like it’s nothing, though the way their gaze lingers on you says otherwise. “What are kindred spirits for?” The words settle deep, and you can’t bring yourself to look away from her.

The next few days slip by in a haze. You keep busy. There’s still some errands to run and last-minute goodbyes to people you’ll probably never see again, but there’s also Lucy.

They don’t visit every day, and yet somehow they’re everywhere. You run into them outside the church when you go one last time. You find them leaning against the counter at your favorite café, pale hair catching the morning light as though they were simply… waiting. When they do come by your apartment, they never linger long, just long enough to help seal a few of the last boxes, carry a stack of books down the stairs, and leave you wondering how someone could feel so present and so elusive at the same time.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it. That they’re just being kind. But late at night, when you wake sweating from dreams of golden light and shadows curling like smoke, you see them in your mind. Always them.

On the morning you’re meant to leave, you wake with a sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. The apartment is stripped bare, the walls blank, the air too still. You close the door behind you for the last time and stand in the hall for a moment, listening to the hollow echo of your own breath.

Lucy is already waiting at the curb. They lean against a sleek black car that looks far too expensive to be parked on your street, their long coat catching the breeze. When they spot you, they straighten, their pale hair glowing almost silver in the washed-out morning light.

“Ready?” They ask softly.

“As I’ll ever be,” you murmur as they take your overnight bag from your shoulder without asking and load it into the trunk with the rest of your boxes. Then they open the passenger door with a small flourish, their gaze flicking toward you in invitation.

For a moment you just stand there, hyper-aware of how small the car will feel with them in it. But then they quirk a brow, and you slide in, heart thudding louder than you’d like.

The first few hours are quiet. Lucy drives with the same controlled grace they do everything, one hand light on the wheel, the other resting along the edge of the door. Their pale eyes stay fixed on the road, but you can feel them, the hum of their presence sitting low and steady in your chest.

You sneak glances at them when you think they won’t notice. The profile of their face is almost unreal in the filtered sunlight. Sharp, elegant. You want to ask where they’re really from, what they’re running from, if they are running at all, but every question that rises dies on your tongue.

They break the silence first. “You’re awfully quiet,” they say, not looking at you.

“So are you,” you counter, though your voice is soft. Lucy’s lips curve faintly. “I like watching you squirm.”

Your breath hitches. “I’m not squirming.”

“Oh, darling,” they say, finally glancing at you, their pale eyes catching yours for a fraction too long, “you’re practically vibrating.” You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward the window to hide the flush rising in your cheeks.

By midday, the tension has started to gnaw at you. Lucy makes occasional conversation: asking about your favorite cities, the kind of music you like but there’s an edge to every word, like they are testing the walls you’ve built. When they asks, “Why do you keep running?” it feels like a blade slipped between your ribs.

“I’m not running,” you say, sharper than you intended. Their gaze flicks to you for a moment before returning to the road. “If you say so.” You want to argue, but the words won’t come. Because they are right, in some way you can’t admit.

The sun is dipping low by the time they pull the car off the highway into a desolate rest stop. They kill the engine and stretch in their seat, their black blouse pulling taut across their chest in a way that makes your mouth go dry. “We’ll need to stop soon for the night,” they say.

You nod, but you’re not really listening. There’s a thrumming in your chest that’s been building all day, and now, in the stillness, it feels unbearable. Lucy notices, of course they notice. “Something on your mind?” They ask softly.

You look at them, and the question that rises is not the one you mean to ask. “Why does it feel like I’ve known you forever?”

Lucy tilts their head, and there’s the faintest flicker of satisfaction behind their pale eyes. “Because you want it to feel that way,” they murmurs.

You swallow hard, heart hammering. “It’s not just that.”

“No?” You shake your head, unable to look away from them. “I… I feel safe with you.” Their gaze softens, though the sharp edge never quite leaves it. “You shouldn’t,” they say quietly.

And then you lean forward and kiss them. You mean for it to be brief. Just a fleeting press of lips, a release for the storm that’s been building in your chest for days… but Lucy’s mouth is soft and warm against yours, and when their hand slides lightly into your hair, you feel your entire body go taut.

They don’t deepen the kiss. They don’t need to. They just wait, letting you fall into them, letting you think this was all your idea. When you finally pull back, breathless, their pale eyes catch yours, unreadable.

“Sorry,” you murmur, though you’re not. Lucy’s lips curve slowly, devastatingly. “Don’t be.”

The silence after the kiss is electric. Lucy doesn’t speak as they pulls the car back onto the highway, the faint smile still tugging at their lips. You can feel their amusement humming like static in the air between you, and you hate how it makes your stomach twist with want.

You try to focus on the road ahead, on the dying light bleeding across the horizon, but your thoughts keep circling back to the warmth of their mouth on yours, the soft drag of their fingers through your hair.

They drive for another hour before pulling into the gravel lot of a roadside motel. The neon vacancy sign buzzes faintly in the dusk.

“You need to rest,” Lucy says, killing the engine.

“You don’t?” They glance at you, that faintly mocking smile tugging at their lips again. “I get by on less.”

You stare at them for a moment, wanting to ask what that means, but they’re already stepping out of the car, moving with that same effortless grace.

The room is small and unimpressive, two narrow beds covered in faded floral bedspreads. You drop your bag by the door and sink onto the edge of one bed, suddenly aware of the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Lucy moves through the space like they own it, setting their coat neatly over the chair, tugging loose the cuffs of their black blouse. They don’t look tired, not even a little.

“You’re really not going to sleep, are you?” you ask quietly. They glance at you, amused. “Would you sleep, if you didn’t have to?”

You shrug, eyes following the way they push their pale hair back from their face. “I guess not.” Lucy steps closer, their presence filling the small room, making it feel hotter, heavier.

“You’re still thinking about it,” they say softly. You blink up at them. “About what?”

Their lips curve slowly. “The kiss.” Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. “And if I am?”

They lean down slightly, their pale eyes fixed on yours. “Then maybe you should stop thinking.”

The words tip you over the edge. You rise from the bed and kiss them again, harder this time. Their mouth is warm and unyielding against yours, their hands sliding easily into your hair, down your back, tugging you closer until you’re pressed flush against them.

There’s no hesitation in their touch. They move like someone who knows exactly what you want before you do.

Your hands fist in their blouse, pulling it free of the waistband of their trousers as you stumble backward toward the bed. They let you, their pale eyes dark with amusement, as though they’re savoring how desperate you’ve become.

When the back of your knees hit the mattress, they ease you down onto it, climbing over you with the kind of grace that makes you feel small and breakable.

“Lucy,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning. They silence you with another kiss, slow and devastating, their tongue teasing lightly against yours until you’re trembling beneath them.

Clothes disappear quickly. Their blouse, your sweater, the soft rasp of fabric against skin. Lucy takes their time, dragging their fingertips over the lines of your body like they are memorizing every inch.

“You’re beautiful,” they murmur against your throat, their voice low and reverent. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted this?” You shake your head, unable to form words when their mouth finds the soft curve of your shoulder.

“Then let me show you.”

They move down your body with agonizing patience, kissing every place that makes you shiver. By the time their lips trail lower, you’re gasping, clutching at their shoulders as if they’re the only thing anchoring you.

The rest of the night blurs into sensation. The warmth of their mouth, the deft press of their fingers, the way they coax pleasure from you like it’s theirs to command. They don’t rush, don’t let you rush either, holding you right at the edge until you’re begging without shame.

And when release finally crashes over you, it feels like something inside you breaks open. They kiss you through it, slow and deep, as though they’re claiming every shattered piece.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you wake hours later in the same bed, tangled in the sheets. The room is dark except for the sliver of moonlight spilling through the curtains.

Lucy isn’t in bed with you. They’re sitting in the chair by the window, one long leg crossed over the other, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Did I wake you?” They ask softly. You shake your head, pulling the blanket closer around you. “You weren’t sleeping.”

“I told you,” they say simply. You want to ask why, but something about their gaze stops you. Instead you say, “Come back to bed.”

Their lips curve in a small, unreadable smile. They rise, slow and deliberate, and slide into the bed beside you.

You fall asleep again with their arm around your waist, the steady weight of their presence curling around you like a promise you don’t understand, but in your dreams, the wings are back.

You wake to pale light filtering through the thin motel curtains, the sheets tangled loosely around your legs. For a brief, blissful moment, you forget where you are. Then the memories come back in fragments: the kiss in the car, the way Lucy’s mouth felt on yours, the things they made you feel with nothing more than their hands and their voice.

Your breath catches as you turn your head. They are is still in bed beside you, though they’re lying on their back, eyes open, staring at the cracked ceiling. They look untouched by sleep, hair spilling pale and perfect across the pillow.

“Morning,” you whisper, your voice still rough with sleep. Their gaze flicks to you, soft but unreadable. “Morning.”

You watch them for a moment, hesitant. There’s something about their stillness that makes you ache. “Did you… sleep at all?” you ask.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

They don’t answer immediately. They shift onto their side, propping themself up on one elbow so they can look down at you. Their fingers trace a lazy line over your shoulder, down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“I told you, some of us just don’t need as much sleep as others,” they say finally.

You swallow. “That’s not an answer.” Their lips quirk, but they don’t elaborate. You push gently, “Lucy, you never talk about yourself. You know so much about me, and I… I don’t even know where you’re really from.”

They lean in, their voice a soft murmur against your ear. “Does it matter?” Your chest tightens. “It feels like it should.”

“Then I’ll give you this much,” they whisper, brushing their lips against the hollow of your throat. “I’ve been around longer than you can imagine. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. But I’m here now. With you. Isn’t that enough?”

It should be, you want it to be, and yet the part of you that’s always searching for answers trembles. But then they kiss you, soft and devastating, and the question slips from your grasp like water through your fingers.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of packing up and driving. You’re quieter than usual, though Lucy doesn’t seem to mind. They hum softly to herself as they drive, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, close enough that your knee occasionally brushes it. Each touch sends a spark up your spine, but they never pulls away.

By the time the San Francisco skyline comes into view, your chest feels tight for reasons you can’t name.

“There it is,” Lucy says softly, almost reverently. You stare out the window, taking in the sprawl of the city, the way the late afternoon light turns the bay into a sheet of molten gold.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. They glance at you, a faint smile tugging at their lips. “It will be what you make of it.” There’s something in the way they say it, as if they know what’s coming, what you’ll find here.

You should ask them about it. About all the things they say like that, the little comments that feel heavy with meaning. But you can already feel the answer they would give, a smooth evasion wrapped in a half-truth.

And you can’t bear the thought of breaking this fragile, magnetic thing that’s grown between you, so you let it go.

Lucy finds a place to park in front of the small apartment building you’ll be calling home, and for a moment you just sit in the car, staring at the cracked sidewalk, the narrow stoop leading up to the door.

“Well,” you say softly. “Here we are.” They turn the engine off and face you fully, their pale eyes steady and impossibly deep. “Here we are,” they echo.

You want to say something, anything, but their gaze leaves you speechless. Lucy leans in then, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so gentle it almost hurts. “Invite me in,” they murmur.

Your pulse jumps. “Do you… need an invitation?”

Their lips curve faintly. “No. But I like hearing you ask me to stay.” You exhale a shaky laugh and nod. “Then stay. Please.” Lucy’s smile is soft, victorious, and you know they were never really asking.

Weeks pass, though you hardly notice. They have slipped into your life so seamlessly it’s as though they’ve always been there. They don’t live with you, not technically, but it feels like they do. You wake to the faint scent of their perfume on your pillow, realize they left their coat slung over your chair, their favorite book on your bedside table.

They appear at your door without warning, sometimes with dinner in hand, other times with nothing but that soft, knowing smile. You tell yourself you should ask how they always seems to know when you need them, but you never do.

Because the truth is, you do need them. You’ve never felt more grounded, and yet more untethered.

The dreams return with a vengeance. Night after night you see the same figure of light and shadow, wings outstretched, their beauty so staggering it makes your chest ache. Sometimes they fall, plummeting from a place of impossible height, and you wake with your heart racing like you’ve been the one falling.

You sketch the images as soon as you wake, trying to trap them on paper before they fade. When you’re done, you realize you’ve drawn Lucy again, their face softened by sorrow, their body haloed in light that looks like fire.

The first time it happens, you show them, your voice uncertain. “Do you think it looks like you?” you ask, searching their expression.

They only glance at the drawing before handing it back. “A little,” they say, as if it’s nothing, as if it doesn’t matter. And then they never bring it up again.

The days bleed together. They fill every empty corner of your life with their presence. They make you laugh, make you feel wanted in a way you never have before. There’s a confidence in them, a steadiness you cling to like a lifeline.

But sometimes, when you wake alone in the middle of the night, you think about all the questions you’ve stopped asking. Where they’re from. Why they never sleep. How they always seems to know exactly what you’re thinking before you say it.

You tell yourself you’ll bring it up but then they touch you, or kiss you, or simply look at you with those pale, impossible eyes, and the words dissolve before you can speak them.

One evening, you’re curled up on the couch with them, their arm slung loosely around your shoulders, when the question almost slips out again. You glance at their profile, at the way the soft glow of the lamp turns their hair to silver, their features to something otherworldly.

“Lucy,” you begin softly. They look down at you immediately, their mouth tilting into that faint, devastating smile. “Yes, darling?”

Your throat tightens. You want to ask who they really are, why you feel this strange familiarity in your chest every time you’re with them. But they’re stroking their thumb along your arm in lazy, comforting circles, and you can already feel the weight of the silence they’ll give you in return.

“Nothing,” you say instead. They lean down and kiss your temple. “That’s what I thought,” they murmur, and you let it go.

That night, the dream comes again. Only this time, you wake to find Lucy sitting on the edge of your bed, watching you with those pale, unreadable eyes.

“Bad dream?” They ask softly. You nod, still trembling, clutching at the sheets like they’ll keep you grounded.

Lucy doesn’t ask what you dreamed. They just lie down beside you, pulling you against them until your head rests over their heart. “Sleep,” they whisper, their hand stroking gently down your back. “I’ll keep you safe.”

And you believe them.

[lucidlonging]

the art of mending ² ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: matthew panics when dream is knocked unconscious by his own ruby. unable to reach lucienne, he desperately seeks out you, an old friend from his human days. you’re a two-hundred-year-old traveling witch and healer who usually charges for your services, but matthew begs you to help dream pro bono. despite your instincts telling you to avoid endless business, you agree. you find dream fading in a decrepit warehouse and pour every ounce of your energy into healing him. it nearly drains you dry, but you stabilize him just in time. when he wakes, he’s characteristically unreadable but clearly curious about you, and visibly displeased by how much the healing has weakened you. he offers that you travel with him, insisting it’s “to keep an eye on you” until your magic stabilizes, though you suspect there’s more to it than that.

word count: 5.3k || PART ONE

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

The first step you take into the Dreaming feels like falling into another heartbeat. The air itself hums here. You can feel it on your skin, a subtle vibration like the pulse of something vast and ancient. The sky glows in colors you don’t have names for, bleeding into one another in living ribbons. Stars scatter and reform into constellations that shift the moment you try to focus on them. Somewhere in the distance, a forest rearranges itself with a slow, sighing sound, its canopy folding in and out like waves rolling on a black ocean.

The path beneath your boots is pale marble, the stone warm to the touch even though you can’t see a sun. Dream walks beside you, silent but steady, his coat brushing faintly at your side as he leads you forward. He doesn’t need to touch you to be grounding, you feel his presence like a tether, an anchor in a world that could so easily swallow you whole.

You look up at him, catching the profile of his impossibly sharp cheekbones and the faint flutter of his lashes. “This is…” you start, but trail off because the word beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He glances at you as if reading your unfinished thought. “You may find the Dreaming… unpredictable,” he says, his voice a low murmur that somehow carries in the quiet.

“Unpredictable,” you echo, your gaze flicking toward the horizon where mountains rise and vanish as if the world itself can’t make up its mind. “That’s one word for it.”

“If you are uncomfortable,” Dream continues, “you need not stay.” You stop walking. “Do you want me to leave?”

He halts too, turning toward you fully. The shadows seem to cling tighter around him, pooling at his feet like spilled ink. His eyes, those fathomless, endless black eyes, hold yours. “No,” he says finally.

It’s soft. Quiet. But the honesty in it sends a tremor through your chest. You swallow, trying not to sound too pleased when you say, “Then I’m staying.” Something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for you to name. He doesn’t argue. He just inclines his head, the faintest nod, and turns back to the pale gates ahead.

The gates give way to something even more impossible: the library. You freeze at the threshold, because it’s not just big, it’s infinite.

Rows of shelves stretch higher than any cathedral you’ve ever seen, their ladders dangling like ribbons. The air is thick with the smell of leather and old paper, but there’s something sweeter layered under it, maybe jasmine, or something you’ve only ever dreamed of. Lanterns with no visible flames hang in the air, casting pools of soft golden light that shift gently as though they’re breathing.

Dream doesn’t pause, but you do, your head tipping back as you try and fail to see the ceiling. Do they even have a ceiling? It feels like the library just keeps going up and up, folding in on itself like a hall of mirrors.

Lucienne’s voice breaks the quiet. “She’s a mortal,” she observes, stepping out from behind a towering stack of books. She adjusts her glasses, eyeing you with a polite curiosity that makes you feel suddenly aware of every inch of your mortal self.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” you blurt, because you feel like an intruder here, a splash of waking-world clumsiness in a place that doesn’t tolerate mistakes. Lucienne studies you for a moment, then shakes her head. “You won’t be in my way. But…” She glances up at the endless stacks, her voice lowering. “Be mindful. The library remembers.”

You have a dozen questions, but Dream is already walking.

He leads you to a long table of dark wood at the center of the hall. Its surface is scattered with scrolls and broken fragments of glowing objects, and the shadows around it cling just a little more tightly, as though it belongs to him. He rolls his sleeves up, just enough to bare his pale wrists, and begins repairing a fractured globe of light hovering at the edge of the table.

“Can I help?” you ask, stepping closer, the hum of his power vibrating faintly in the air.

“No,” he says without looking up.

“Not even a little?” He glances at you then, just briefly, before returning his focus to the glowing fragments. “Your magic would not be of use here,” he says, soft but final. You drop into the nearest chair with a huff. “Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty.”

Dream stills for the barest second before lifting his gaze again. “You are not just… ornamental,” he says carefully, as though the very concept baffles him. You blink at him. “Was that a…?”

“No, just an observation,” he cuts in smoothly.

“…compliment,” you finish, smirking. “Sure sounded like one.” The tiniest twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s not a smile. But it’s close enough to feel like a victory.

“I’m going to make you laugh one day,” you promise, leaning back in your chair. He hums low in his throat, still focused on the broken sphere. “We shall see.”

Time doesn’t pass here the way it does in the waking world. You lose track quickly, but you don’t care. The library becomes your anchor. You wander other parts of the Dreaming: the gardens where flowers glow faintly at your touch, the open fields where dreams themselves drift like wraiths waiting for purpose but you always find your way back to the table.

Dream works tirelessly, mends what was fractured during his absence with a precision that feels surgical. Shadows unspool and weave back together at his command. Creatures you don’t recognize creep close sometimes, curious, only to scatter when they see you watching. Sometimes you read aloud. “You could just do this yourself,” you point out the first time, opening a worn book you plucked at random from the shelves.

“I could,” he admits, leaning back slightly in his chair. “But your voice carries differently here. It anchors the story.” The heat that rushes to your cheeks is embarrassing. “You could’ve just said yes.”

“I do not lie,” Dream says simply. You roll your eyes and start reading. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move much at all, but you feel his eyes on you, soft and heavy. The sound of your voice seems to ripple outward through the Dreaming itself, settling everything around you into stillness.

The next day, when you approach the table with another book in hand, he’s already waiting.

It doesn’t take long before the banter becomes constant. “Do you ever not brood?” you ask one afternoon, leaning back in your chair and spinning it slowly with the tip of your boot.

“I do not brood,” Dream says without looking up from the scroll in his hand.

“You brood so hard you could teach a class in it,” you counter. “Advanced Brooding with the King of Dreams. Sign up now, seats are limited.”

One dark brow lifts fractionally. “Do you ever not talk?”

“No,” you reply with a sunny smile. Lucienne mutters something from across the hall that sounds suspiciously like, “thank the gods for that,” and you laugh so hard you nearly tip your chair over. Dream glances at you, and though his expression doesn’t change, you swear you catch the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Moments like that become addictive.

The library fills with a quiet rhythm: the soft rustle of pages, the distant creak of ladders moving across the endless shelves, the low hum of Dream’s voice when he answers one of your questions. Sometimes he asks you to read aloud again, and the way he listens: utterly still, his eyes fixed on you as though you’re the only sound that matters, makes your chest tighten.

And yet, for all the warmth blooming between you, there are walls you can feel but not see. Dream is careful, gentle. He never touches you unnecessarily, and you can’t decide if it’s courtesy or something else.

That night, lying in the soft guest bed in the quiet wing of the palace, the distance gnaws at you. You throw the blanket aside and swing your feet to the floor.

The gardens are different at night. The paths glow faintly beneath your steps, lit by clusters of soft white flowers that seem to bloom in slow motion as you pass. Pools of silver water mirror the sky, which shifts from a star-scattered black to a pale lavender haze and back again with each blink. The air smells of rain and something sweet you can’t name, and for the first time since arriving, you feel the hum of your magic again, restless and coiled tight beneath your skin.

You crouch at the edge of one of the pools, dipping your fingers into the water. It’s warm, almost too warm, and the pulse of your magic rises sharply, begging to be released. But you resist. “You cannot sleep.” The voice is soft but unmistakable.

You whip around, heart lurching, and find Dream standing just beyond the edge of the pool, half in shadow. His coat stirs faintly around his boots like it’s made of smoke. He looks even taller out here, framed by the luminous flowers, the faint light catching in his black hair.

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” you ask, though your voice isn’t as steady as you’d like. “I was not… sneaking.”

“Really?” you murmur, straightening. “Because you scared me half to death.”

“I would never,” Dream says softly, stepping closer, his voice a low hum that sinks into your bones. “I was already here.”

You tilt your head. “Were you following me?” He stops just a step away, and you can feel the way the air shifts between you. “No,” he says again, quietly. “But you looked… troubled.”

You cross your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse stutters. “I’m fine.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “That is a lie.”

The words make your throat tighten, so you deflect with a faint smirk. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to enjoy the gardens without being silently judged by their creator.”

One corner of his mouth twitches in the smallest hint of amusement as he steps closer, closing the last of the distance between you. The faint scent of parchment and rain seems to cling to him, grounding and dizzying all at once. “I would not judge you,” he says softly.

“Oh no?”

“No.” Another step. His coat brushes lightly against your hip. “But I would ask why you are awake when you should be resting.”

“Maybe I like the gardens better at night,” you whisper. “They’re quieter. Less… watched.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Do you feel watched here?”

“Only by you,” you say before you can stop yourself. The words hang between you, heavy and unguarded.

Dream’s eyes hold yours, unreadable, but he doesn’t step back. You can feel his presence like a second heartbeat, steady and all-encompassing. “You’re doing it again,” you murmur.

“Doing what?”

“Staring,” you say softly. He tilts his head just slightly, the faintest tilt of shadow and moonlight. “I am… considering.”

“Considering what?” His gaze flickers briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Why I cannot seem to stay away from you.” Your breath catches. “Dream…”

“Say my name again,” he whispers, his voice impossibly soft, as if it matters more than anything else in the world and you can barely breathe. “Dream.” Something in him unravels. His hands rise to cradle your face as he leans in, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. But when you fist your hands in his coat and pull him closer, he deepens it, and the sound he makes low in his throat makes your knees go weak. His thumbs brush along your jaw as if he’s memorizing you, grounding himself in the reality of this moment.

You’re lost in it, lost in him, in the warmth of his mouth, in the steady hum of his power all around you, in the way the world itself seems to tilt.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing harder than you should be. “Wow,” you whisper, your voice unsteady. “So… that just happened.”

“Yes,” Dream murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “It did.” You try for a teasing smile, even as your heart hammers against your ribs.

You laugh softly, the sound trembling with something that feels too big to name, and let yourself stay close for just a moment longer, your hands still fisted in the lapels of his coat.

His lips brush yours again, softer this time, as though reluctant to part from you. One of his hands lingers at the line of your jaw, the other resting at your hip, grounding you, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Dream…” you whisper, unsure what you’re asking. He draws back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Come with me,” he says softly.

It isn’t a command. It never would be, not with him but there’s a weight to it, a quiet gravity that pulls you in as surely as the air you breathe, and when his fingers thread through yours, you follow without hesitation.

The gardens fall away behind you as he leads you into the winding corridors of his palace. The floors glow faintly with each step, lighting your way as though the realm itself is clearing a path for you. Arches soar overhead, impossibly high, each one cut from shadow and pale stone. The windows between them don’t look out on the Dreaming at all but on constellations you don’t recognize: stars scattering and reforming, bursting briefly into life before winking out again.

You glance up at him, your voice soft. “Where are we going?”

“My chambers,” Dream answers, quiet but certain. Your pulse trips. “Your… chambers?”

“Yes.” There’s no missing the low hum of desire in him now. It rolls off of him like heat, restrained but impossible to ignore. You smirk faintly, trying to mask the hitch in your breath. “Why do you even need a room? You can’t sleep, remember?”

He stops, turning to face you in the glow of the corridor. His eyes catch the light and hold it, bottomless and devastating. “Not for sleep,” he murmurs, and your heartbeat skips painfully hard in your chest.

“Oh.” His lips twitch at your reaction, but he doesn’t elaborate. He simply keeps your hand in his and guides you forward, through a final archway and into a space that takes your breath away.

His chambers are vast but not cold. The walls are stone, but softer than they look, smooth and faintly warm beneath your fingertips when you trail them along as you step inside. Light glows from unseen sources, washing the room in muted gold and silver. Shadows curl in the corners like living things that only obey him.

And the bed, gods, the bed dominates the space, draped in sheets so soft and pale they look spun from clouds. “This feels like a trap,” you say, turning to him with a teasing smile you hope hides the flutter in your chest.

He steps closer, close enough now that the edge of his coat brushes your hip. “It is not,” he says softly.

“Mm.” You back up a step, the back of your knees brushing the edge of the mattress. “Feels like one.” Dream’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and when his eyes meet yours again they’re darker, hungrier. “Do you wish to leave?”

You shake your head, voice quiet. “No.” His exhale is barely audible, but you feel it all the same, the smallest surrender. And then he’s kissing you again.

This time it’s deeper, there’s a quiet urgency in him now, a hunger that’s threaded through the steady control he never quite lets go of. His hands settle at your waist, sliding up your sides with devastating slowness as if he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You part for air just long enough to murmur, “You don’t seem like the kind of man who gets nervous.” His lips hover just above yours, his voice a low rasp. “I am not… accustomed to this.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging gently at his coat. “Neither am I.” He kisses you again, and this time there’s no hesitation.

Your back hits the bed as he guides you down, his coat slipping from his shoulders and pooling on the floor like spilled ink. He’s careful, always careful, as though the weight of his body might crush you, but he’s so close now you can feel the heat of him seep through every inch of you.

His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, down the column of your throat, each kiss deliberate.

You tilt your head back with a soft sigh, threading your fingers through the dark silk of his hair. “You really do have a bed for this,” you manage, your voice trembling.

“Perhaps,” Dream murmurs against your skin, his teeth grazing lightly at the spot where your pulse flutters.

“Perhaps?” He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Would you prefer I show you why?”

The question makes your breath catch. You drag your nails lightly down the back of his neck and whisper, “Show me.”

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing lightly at your waist. You arch up instinctively, a soft gasp escaping you, and that’s all the permission he needs. He pulls the fabric up and over your head with slow, deliberate care, tossing it aside.

The sound he makes when he sees you bare before him… just a soft, almost reverent inhale that makes heat rush straight to your cheeks.

“Don’t you dare call this an observation,” you murmur, though your voice is shaky when his hands frame your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts.

His eyes lift to yours, darker than you’ve ever seen them. “No,” he says softly. “It is not. It is… awe.” The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache. “Then come closer,” you whisper.

He obeys and the kiss that follows steals the breath from your lungs. His mouth moves from yours to your throat, tracing the line of your collarbone before trailing lower, and you gasp when his lips close softly around your nipple, warm and wet and utterly devastating.

“Gods,” you breathe, your back arching into his mouth. He hums low against your skin, one hand rising to cup your other breast, his thumb circling slowly until you can’t bite back the moan that escapes you.

You want more. Your hands slide down the front of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to feel the marble-hard muscle of his chest. He shivers at the first brush of your fingers and pulls back just far enough to let you push the shirt from his shoulders.

The sight of him steals the words from your mouth. Lean and strong, his pale skin is a canvas of sharp lines and impossible beauty, and the heat in your belly twists tighter. “Beautiful,” you whisper, without thinking.

He stills, looking at you like the word undoes something deep inside him. “Do not…” He swallows hard. “Do not call me that.”

“Why not?” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching the way his breath hitches. “Because it’s true?” He leans down until his forehead rests against yours, his voice barely a breath. “Because you undo me when you say it.”

“Good,” you whisper. “I want to.” Dream kisses you again, and this time the restraint frays.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you back against the bed as his body presses flush with yours. You can feel him hard against your thigh now, the proof of how much he wants this, wants you, and the knowledge makes your pulse pound.

“Dream,” you murmur, your hands moving to the waistband of your pants, “I need you…”

“Let me,” he whispers, and the way he eases them down your legs, slow and reverent, makes you tremble.

The last of your clothes slips away in his hands, leaving you bare against the pale sheets. He sits back on his heels, and for a moment he doesn’t touch you, he just looks.

His black eyes drink you in, the shadows curling tighter around him as though they’re just as undone as he is. He reaches out, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the inside of your ankle before trailing upward. The lightest touch, but it leaves a line of fire in its wake.

“Dream…” you whisper, squirming beneath his gaze.

“Be still,” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “I want to see you.” Your chest rises sharply as his hand glides higher, past your calf, along the soft skin of your thigh. His eyes never leave yours as he leans down and presses his lips to the inside of your knee, the kiss so soft you almost miss it.

The next one is higher. And so is the next. By the time his breath fans hot against the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your hip, you’re trembling. “Please,” you gasp, your hands clutching at the sheets.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, framed by shadows and light, and the hunger in his eyes steals your breath. “Do not look away,” he whispers. You don’t.

When his mouth finally closes over you, it’s devastating. He’s slow at first, his tongue teasing you with lazy strokes, tasting you like he’s savoring every second. The first moan escapes you before you can bite it back, your hips arching instinctively toward him.

He groans softly at the sound, and the vibration makes you gasp. “Dream…” The way he says your name in return: low, rough, his breath warm against your skin, sends a shiver straight up your spine. He drags his tongue deliberately over your clit, finding a rhythm that has your entire body taut with need, and when his fingers join in, sliding slowly into your slick heat, you nearly come apart.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, his voice a low rasp. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

A second finger follows, curling deep inside you in a way that makes your breath catch. He moves them with maddening precision, his tongue working you relentlessly until you’re clutching at his hair, your body trembling.

“I…” Your voice breaks on a whimper. “I’m close…”

“Then fall for me,” he whispers, curling his fingers just so, his tongue pressing harder. It breaks over you like a wave.

You cry out his name, your back arching from the bed as pleasure floods through you, blinding and all-consuming. Dream doesn’t stop, he keeps drawing it out, coaxing every last shudder from you until you’re gasping, your thighs quaking around his shoulders.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his mouth kiss-bruised, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. “You taste,” he says softly, his voice raw, “like a dream.”

You barely have the strength to tug him up to you, but you do, capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s desperate and grateful all at once. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you hungrier.

“Your turn,” you whisper, your hands sliding down to the hard length of him straining against the front of his pants. He shudders at the touch, but his hand catches yours gently, holding it still. “No. Tonight is for you.”

“Dream,” you murmur, curling your fingers stubbornly around him through the fabric, “I want this… I need you.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself. When they open again, the restraint there is hanging by a thread. “Then I will not deny you,” he breathes.

He stands only long enough to strip the last of his clothes away. You drink in the sight of him, pale and perfect, the lines of his body sharp enough to cut and the undeniable hardness of him making heat twist in your belly. He moves back over you, his weight pressing you gently into the mattress, and you can feel him hot and heavy against your stomach.

“Dream,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “Please.”

He kisses you deeply, one hand cradling your face, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses, searching your gaze for any hesitation, and what he sees there must be enough, because he pushes into you slowly.

The stretch is exquisite. You cling to his shoulders as he fills you inch by inch, the delicious ache settling deep in your core.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice trembling for the first time, “if I hurt you.”

“You’re perfect,” you breathe, your nails digging lightly into his skin. “Don’t stop.”

The sound he makes: a low, guttural groan, punches straight through you, and then he’s moving.

Slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, the drag of him inside you almost too much to bear. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he buries his face in your neck with a soft, choked sound.

“You feel…” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, “like you were made for me.” His words make you shudder, and your hips meet his eagerly, taking him deeper, faster. The rhythm builds, the friction sending sparks shooting up your spine. He kisses you like he’s starving, each brush of his mouth against yours tasting of devotion and need.

The pressure in your core coils tighter and tighter until you can barely think. “I’m close,” you whimper against his lips.

“Come for me,” Dream whispers, his voice ragged, his thrusts rougher now, his control fraying. Your climax slams into you, sharp and consuming. You cry out his name, your body tightening around him, and the sound drags him over the edge with you.

His hips jerk as he spills inside you, a low, shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He stays there, buried deep, his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your ear.

For a long moment, the world is just the sound of your hearts hammering in unison. When you finally draw in a shaky breath, you tilt your head back to look at him. His black hair is mussed, his eyes still dark and blown wide, and the sight of him unraveled like this steals whatever words you might’ve found.

“Dream,” you murmur softly, brushing your fingertips along the sharp line of his jaw. “Was that… an observation or a compliment?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the first real laugh you’ve ever heard from him, low and warm and so intimate it makes your chest ache.

“Both,” he says, and kisses you again.

The weight of him is still warm over you, the faint tremors in his body matching the slow aftershocks rippling through your own. He doesn’t move at first, just stays pressed against you, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot over your skin.

Your fingers drift lazily through his black hair, soft as spun silk, and he makes a low, quiet sound you feel more than hear, a hum of contentment that vibrates through your chest.

“I think I broke your King of Dreams composure,” you murmur, your voice still hoarse with pleasure.

He lifts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. His face is so close you can see the delicate lashes framing those endless black depths, the faint flush at his sharp cheekbones. “You undid me,” he says simply, as though that explains everything. You smile faintly. “Good.”

Dream shifts, rolling onto his side but pulling you with him, close enough that your bare skin brushes his everywhere. His long arm curves over your waist, his hand splayed possessively at the small of your back as though to keep you there.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder, exhaling slowly. “This place… it makes my magic restless,” you admit softly. “Like it’s buzzing under my skin and I can’t do anything about it.”

He’s silent for a moment, his fingers tracing slow circles along the curve of your spine. “I know,” he murmurs at last. “I can feel it.” You blink up at him. “You can?”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “The Dreaming is alive in its own way. It hums with my power. Yours fights to answer it, even though it does not belong here.”

“Which means I’m stuck just… buzzing?” you ask wryly, though your voice trembles when his thumb brushes the hollow of your back.

“Not necessarily,” Dream says quietly. He shifts closer, close enough that his breath warms your lips. “Use it. On me.” You start. “On you?”

“Yes.” His voice is low and sure, but there’s something softer beneath it, something that feels like trust. “Channel it. It will not harm me. And you… will find release.”

Your chest tightens at the weight of that offer. “You’d really let me do that?” Dream’s black eyes hold yours, steady and unreadable. “I would ask you to.”

You raise a shaky hand, resting your palm against the sharp line of his jaw and he doesn’t flinch. The hum of your magic swells at the contact, flooding your veins, and you close your eyes, letting it rise. It’s instinctive, this reaching for him: not a spell, not even a conscious command. Your magic simply knows, leaping to meet the dark, fathomless power that thrums in his very skin.

He exhales, a sound that’s almost a groan, and your eyes fly open. “Dream?”

He’s watching you, his pupils wide and black, his breath unsteady. “Do not stop,” he whispers, and the raw edge in his voice makes your pulse stutter.

You press closer, letting your magic flow into him, wrapping itself around the shadows that cling to his body. It doesn’t fight, it melds. The power you feel in him is endless, but for the first time your own doesn’t feel small or inadequate. It feels like part of something bigger, like your magic was always meant to fit here, in him.

His hand slides up your back to cup the nape of your neck, his fingers curling in your hair as if to hold you in place. “You are…” His voice catches, low and reverent. “I can feel every thread of you.”

The heat between your thighs flares again at his words, and you press closer, your magic spilling into him with a rush that makes your skin prickle. He groans softly, his head dipping to rest his forehead against yours, his body taut with the effort not to move.

“Is this too much?” you whisper, your own breath shaking. “No,” Dream says, voice like velvet against your ear. “It is perfect.”

By the time you pull back, your magic has settled, the restless hum replaced by a warm, grounded calm, but Dream… Dream looks different.

There’s a soft glow beneath his skin now, subtle but unmistakable, like your magic left a trace of itself in him. He studies you for a long moment, silent and unreadable, and then leans in to kiss you: slow, deep, tasting of gratitude and something that feels like promise.

When he finally speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “You can do that again, whenever you need,” he murmurs against your lips. Your chest tightens, and you nod, breathless. “Okay.”

He pulls you closer, curling you into the circle of his body until you’re enveloped in warmth and shadow. You rest your head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and impossibly soothing, and for the first time in what feels like forever, sleep takes you easily.

ꨄ: @withoutyouimsaskia

[lucidlonging]

morpheus has this inevitable chemistry with any character that he interacts, I don’t know if it’s because he’s autistic and he doesn’t know how to interact with other person or he is just a weirdly charming man that flirts with everyone constantly even if he dosen’t realize

[lucidlonging]

a name freely given ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: you are a demon bound by a cursed dagger, forced to obey the will of the burgess family for decades. your orders are clear: serve without question and guard the silent prisoner locked in a glass cage beneath the manor. when the barrier around his prison begins to weaken, you are drawn into a choice that could change the course of your captivity forever, but freedom has always come at a price.

word count: 5.1k

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

The circle smells of iron and salt, it’s the first thing you notice as you claw your way into existence, drawn unwillingly into this brittle human plane by the ancient words spoken in a language the summoner doesn’t understand. The summoning circle crackles at the edges, a barrier of raw magic that keeps you locked in. It burns when you press a palm to it, but you don’t flinch. You only smile.

Your teeth glint in the flickering candlelight as you lift your gaze.

There he stands. A man in an immaculate coat, his hair slicked back with too much oil, his expression feverish and triumphant. He clutches a dagger in his gloved hand, and the moment your eyes land on it your smile falters. It’s your dagger.

The blade is blackened, etched in runes older than any kingdom. It hums faintly, resonating with your essence. The man doesn’t know what he holds. You can see it in his shallow, eager breath, in the sweat rolling down his temple. But you know. The moment he clenches his fist around the hilt, the invisible chain linking you to the dagger locks tight, dragging you to your knees.

“Excellent,” he says. “You’ll do nicely.”

Your jaw clenches, but you remain silent. To speak would be to acknowledge his control, and you can’t bear the taste of it yet.

He steps forward, the sole of his polished shoe brushing against the edge of the circle. He doesn’t cross it. He knows better. “I am Roderick Burgess,” he says, puffing out his chest as though you should be impressed. “You are now bound to me. Do you understand?”

The magic of the dagger pulses in time with your heartbeat. You feel your throat open against your will, the word dragged from you like a confession. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Roderick’s thin smile cuts into his face. He gestures, and the chalk at the circle’s edge hisses as it dissolves. He could command you to cross. He doesn’t have to. You step forward on your own, because the dagger’s will is his will. The air outside the circle is cold against your bare feet.

He doesn’t waste time. “You are a demon,” he says, almost hungrily. “The darkest of them all, if the texts are to be believed. The Dark One.”

Your lips twitch. You could correct him, but you do not. He doesn’t deserve your words.

Roderick lifts the dagger, watching it gleam in the candlelight. “I have summoned you for a reason. My son has died. You will bring him back to me.”

The request is not new. Humans are always predictable in this way. Their fear of death is bottomless, their desperation a currency you’ve bartered with for centuries. But you cannot grant what he asks, and the truth is a bitter seed in your chest.

Your tongue feels like lead as you’re forced to answer. “I cannot.” The candlelight trembles. Roderick’s face hardens. “You dare tell me you cannot?”

You meet his eyes because the dagger can command your obedience but not strip you of your pride. “Only Death can return a soul once it was taken,” you say, voice even. “and I am not Death.”

Roderick’s jaw works furiously, but he says nothing. He just stares at you as if sheer willpower might change your answer.

Finally, he hisses, “Then you will serve me until I find a way.” The chain tightens. The dagger pulses. You bow your head because you have no choice, the word spilling from your lips in a whisper. “Yes master.”

The orders come swiftly after that. Fetch this. Destroy that. Silence the witnesses. Your tasks are often bloody, always meaningless. Roderick’s hunger for control seeps into everything he touches, and you become the sharpest of his tools.

You try not to think about the dagger, locked away in the heavy iron safe at the foot of his bed. You try not to think about how close it is and how far away.

But then Roderick summons you one night, eyes gleaming like a man on the edge of victory. “I have captured another,” he tells you, and the way he says it sets your teeth on edge.

He leads you down a stone stairwell into a vast cellar where the air tastes old and damp. The scent of magic coils around your senses as you approach the heart of the room, where a sphere of crystal and sigils gleams faintly in the torchlight.

At first you see nothing, and then your gaze catches on the pale figure inside the glass cage. He is tall, his presence too big for the basement, his hair black as the void between stars, his clothes taken from him. His head is bowed, but the weight of his presence is impossible to ignore. Power radiates from him like the tide, ancient and endless, pressing against your skin.

He is silent, your breath catches despite yourself. Roderick speaks as though introducing a trophy. “The so-called Lord of Dreams. He will grant me what you could not.”

You watch the prisoner, the way he does not move, does not speak. Your instincts scream that this is no mortal godling. This is something older, something infinite. And yet he is trapped… just like you.

“Keep an eye on him,” Roderick orders sharply, breaking the spell of your thoughts. “If he tries to escape, you will stop him. At any cost.”

Your head bows again against your will. “Yes master.” But inside you, something cracks.

You used to dream, not often, and never sweetly, but the dream-realm would still claim you when exhaustion stripped your defenses bare. You had vivid ones, dark and strange, shaped by the magic coursing through your veins. There had been a time you could wake from them with the echo of another life clinging to your skin. It reminded you you were alive, even if what you were was something twisted.

But now, the moment you close your eyes, you are trapped in an endless silence. It began after they brought the glass prison into the cellar, after you first saw him.

You lie in the attic where Roderick locks you when you’re not needed, your body aching from the latest task, the shadows heavy and airless. You stare at the rafters and count your heartbeats, but sleep never comes. It hasn’t for weeks… and you know why. Because He is trapped.

You feel it in your bones like a chord pulled too tight, an invisible tremor deep in your essence. The Dream Lord’s confinement is wrong. It disrupts the natural balance you have always lived on the edges of. You cannot name the feeling, only that it twists in your gut until you feel hollow.

You wonder if he knows you used to dream, you wonder if he knows you can’t anymore and you wonder if he cares.

Roderick’s voice snaps you back to the present. You kneel at his feet because the dagger forces you to, your head bowed like a penitent.

“There is a ritual tonight,” he tells you briskly, hands clasped behind his back as though he is a great king and not a desperate man clawing at powers beyond his reach. “You will guard the chamber. If anyone approaches, you will stop them. Understood?”

“Yes master,” you whisper. You mean to keep your voice even, but the dagger’s magic leeches everything warm from your tone, leaving behind only the obedience Roderick craves.

He studies you for a long moment. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, the way he enjoys your humiliation. Then he dismisses you with a flick of his hand. You rise and walk silently down the stone corridors to the cellar.

The ritual chamber is cold. Candlelight pools at the edges of the room, throwing shadows across the great glass sphere in its center. You stop at the threshold and let your eyes slide to the figure within.

He hasn’t moved since you last saw him. You don’t know if it’s intentional or simply the way he is, this Dream Lord who has become a part of your life even though you’ve never heard his voice. His posture is regal despite the chains of magic keeping him inside the prison, as if he is above it all. You find yourself speaking to him sometimes, when you are certain no one will hear.

Not about yourself, never about yourself… but about the world outside, the one you know he hasn’t seen in years now. You tell him what the sky looked like that morning. The way the first frost had rimed the edges of the roses in Roderick’s garden. You tell him what the world smells like after rain.

He never looks at you and you tell yourself you don’t care, but you do.

The attic at night is even worse after those long, silent hours by the glass sphere. You lie awake on the narrow bed, staring into the darkness, and remember what it felt like to be free.

You used to take long walks through the shadowed forests of Lucifer’s realm, barefoot so you could feel the dirt and moss beneath your toes. You would climb high places just to leap from them, the air roaring past you, wings unfurling at the last second. You would stand by rivers you could never cross and let yourself imagine.

You used to smile sometimes. Now you’re a weapon in a box, brought out only when Roderick wills it. And you can’t even find solace in dreams. The silence has settled so deep into you it feels permanent.

Your next task is cruel, Roderick orders you to punish a servant who had the audacity to question him aloud. The boy can’t be more than seventeen, thin and trembling as you drag him by the scruff into the cellar where the ritual had been hours before.

You want to tell him to run, a part of you wants to tell him you won’t hurt him. But your hands are not your own. The dagger’s pulse burns hotter with every breath, its will a chain wrapped around your ribs. You strike once. Twice. Again. Until the boy collapses, whimpering.

And when it’s over, you kneel on the cold stone floor with blood on your hands and a hollowness gnawing at your chest. You feel the Dream Lord’s gaze on you for the first time. It is faint, fleeting, but real.

You look up at him through the curtain of your hair, and though he still says nothing, the weight of his presence settles heavy over you. He saw.

And for reasons you cannot explain, that burns worse than Roderick’s dagger ever could.

There are nights you imagine reaching the safe and taking the dagger into your own hands, breaking the chain once and for all. You imagine cutting Roderick’s throat for every command, every humiliation.

But the dagger won’t even let you picture it fully. So you stand guard at the glass sphere, silently praying for something to break the stalemate.

One night, you catch yourself whispering again. “You could shatter this cage if you wanted,” you say softly to the Dream Lord, glancing at the cellar door to make sure Roderick isn’t near. “I’ve seen the power in you. You could rip through this place like it was made of ash.”

There is no answer. You step closer to the glass, lowering your voice further. “Why don’t you?” The silence that answers you feels heavier than words.

You clench your fists, nails biting into your palms. “I don’t… want to keep you here,” you whisper. The words tremble, and you hate yourself for it. “But I can’t let you go. Not unless he orders it. I am sorry.”

The glass refracts the torchlight, casting sharp shadows across his features. He does not meet your gaze.

And you realize that you are begging the impossible: for forgiveness from a being who owes you nothing.

You can feel the moment Roderick Burgess dies. The news comes not in whispers but in the ragged sound of his last breath, echoing through the manor like the collapsing of a great structure. One moment you are kneeling at the cellar door, the dagger’s cold tether wrapped around your chest like a garrote, and the next, the magic flickers.

For a heartbeat you think you are free… you rise, feeling the faint loosening of the chain in your ribs. The dagger pulses once, frantic, as if it knows its master has gone.

But before you can move, the footsteps come. You recognize Alex’s gait immediately. Roderick’s son has never had his father’s heavy tread. He slips into rooms instead of owning them, soft-spoken and unsure. You have never feared him the way you feared Roderick.

Perhaps that is why a small, treacherous hope ignites in your chest when you step into the cellar.

He is pale, eyes wide from the weight of what he’s done, but he does not falter. His gaze flickers briefly to you and then to the great glass sphere in the center of the room.

You follow his eyes. The Dream Lord hasn’t moved. He sits like a statue within the cage, every line of his body carved in shadow and silence.

Alex clears his throat. “It’s over,” he says softly, voice trembling as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself. “My father is gone.” Your fingers twitch at your sides. The dagger’s chain is still around your ribs, lighter now, but present.

“Then free us,” you whisper. Alex’s head snaps toward you, startled.

You take a small step forward, ignoring the way the dagger resists. “This doesn’t have to continue. The binding dies with him. You can release me. Release him.”

For a moment Alex just stares at you. You can see the calculation in his face, the way his breath stutters with fear and ambition. He is young, he is human, and you tell yourself you know how this ends. But still… still, you hope.

Alex’s lips press into a thin line. “I can’t,” he says finally. “I won’t.” The dagger’s chain pulls tight again, as if agreeing with his words. It shouldn’t surprise you. It doesn’t surprise you, but it still hurts.

Alex steps past you, closer to the glass prison. “If I let him go, he’ll kill me,” he mutters. “I have to… I have to keep him here. Until I know what to do.”

Your jaw tightens. “And me?” He glances at you, and there is a flicker of regret there, just a flicker.

“I need you,” Alex says simply. “Father may be gone, but someone has to protect the house. Someone has to ensure he doesn’t escape. You’ll keep your place. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

The chain yanks you down to one knee before you can lunge for him. You don’t know if the dagger does it or your own despair.

Alex doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns on his heel and leaves you in the cellar, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. You stare at the stone floor until your vision blurs.

The months blur together after that. You keep the same vigil you always have, standing guard over the silent figure in the glass sphere. You carry out Alex’s orders with the same ruthless precision Roderick demanded. You never close your eyes because there is no point in trying.

But it feels different now. You thought there might be a world where the chain broke with Roderick’s death. You thought there might be a world where Alex chose mercy.

And the hollow ache in your chest is a reminder that you were wrong.

The cellar is damp with autumn rain when you find yourself speaking again. Your voice is barely more than a rasp. “He had the chance to free us.”

The Dream Lord’s head lifts slightly, and you realize with a jolt that this is the first movement you’ve seen from him in months.

Your throat tightens. “It shouldn’t surprise me,” you say quietly. “Human greed. Human fear. It’s the same as it ever was.”

His eyes find yours through the glass. Dark, fathomless. And in that moment you feel seen in a way you cannot bear.

You turn your head away and sink back against the wall, curling your knees to your chest as if you can hide from the weight of your own words.

Alex rarely visits the cellar now. He is afraid of you, though he will never admit it. He locks you in the attic at night, but he knows you could find a way out if the dagger allowed it.

And yet he keeps it locked in the same safe his father did, as though proximity makes him safer. It is almost funny… almost.

You spend more time than ever at the sphere, the silence between you and the Dream Lord a strange kind of tether. You can feel the fury in him now, the way it coils tighter and tighter with every passing year.

And though you know it is dangerous, you find yourself praying that he will escape. Because you no longer care what happens to you if he does.

The air in the cellar that day feels different, though you can’t name why. You stand in your usual place by the wall, your hands clasped behind your back like the perfect weapon Alex wants you to be. The dagger’s tether hums faintly in your ribs, a constant reminder of your obedience.

Alex is speaking again, voice sharp and thin as he wheels himself closer to the glass sphere. He’s older now. His hair is thinning, his shoulders slumped, but his fear of the prisoner inside the glass hasn’t lessened in the slightest.

“You’ll stay down here forever,” he tells the Dream Lord. “You can’t hurt me. You can’t leave. There’s no point in trying.”

You watch the prisoner carefully from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t move. He never does.

Alex leans forward in his chair, his voice lowering, bitter and trembling. “And I’ll never come back down here again. You’ll rot in that cage alone.”

The words hang in the air like a curse. Paul, who has been silently watching from behind Alex’s chair, shifts his weight. He lays a steadying hand on Alex’s shoulder, murmuring something too quiet for you to hear.

Alex sighs, long and exhausted, and nods. “Fine. Take me out of here. I’m done with this place.” Paul turns the chair sharply toward the exit. And that’s when it happens.

The wheel clips the edge of the chalk barrier surrounding the glass sphere. It’s subtle, almost clumsy, the kind of mistake Alex would never notice. But you see it.

The chalk shatters under the pressure of the chair, the protective line breaking in two and the magic falters. You can feel it ripple through the room like a sudden intake of breath.

Alex doesn’t notice, but Paul does. For the briefest second, his gaze flicks toward you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn.

You hold his eyes and then you say nothing. Because Alex’s orders were always to watch the prisoner, to stop him if he tried to escape. They were never to inform him of every change in the room.

The dagger doesn’t burn you for your silence, Paul’s silent permission is enough. He wheels Alex out of the cellar without a word, the heavy door shutting with an echo that seems to reverberate through your bones.

You stand perfectly still, your pulse loud in your ears, your eyes sliding toward the sphere where the Dream Lord sits motionless.

The barrier is weaker now. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that he might be free.

You do not sleep anymore, not truly. The attic and the cellar feel the same now, windowless and airless, the damp stone pressing against your chest like a weight you can’t shake. But tonight is worse. Tonight you can feel it in the marrow of your bones: the crack in the barrier changed something.

It hums faintly now, like a dying flame. You tell yourself you must stay alert. If Alex’s orders have not loosened, if the dagger’s chain has not let go, it is only a matter of time before you are called to enforce them again. You must remain watchful.

But exhaustion drags at you harder than it has in years. You sit with your back against the wall, knees drawn up, your eyes fixed on the glass sphere. The Dream Lord has not moved, but you think, for a moment, you see his eyes open.

And that is the last thing you remember before the world slips away.

You stand barefoot on soft, black sand. An endless ocean stretches before you, silvered with starlight. The air is cool and heavy with the scent of storms, and the waves lap gently at your feet as though welcoming you home.

You realize, with a sharp pang, that you are dreaming. The first dream in years. And then you hear him. “Demon.”

The voice ripples through the air like a command, deep and resonant, pulling at the core of you. You turn and he is there. The Dream Lord steps across the tide toward you, his cloak trailing like shadows over water, his presence eclipsing the stars themselves. He is no prisoner here. His bearing is regal, his power palpable, his eyes ancient and dark as the void.

You drop your gaze instinctively. “Lord Dream.”

“Look at me,” he says softly and you do. The weight of that gaze almost undoes you.

“This realm is mine,” he says, and the waves hush at his words. “Here, your dagger holds no power. Here, you answer only to me.” Your chest tightens. “You brought me here.”

“Yes.” You step back instinctively, though you know there is nowhere to run. “Why?”

He closes the distance between you, not unkindly, but inevitable. “Because the barrier is weak now. Weak enough that I can reach beyond my prison. But I cannot yet act fully in the waking world. Not without help.”

Your throat is dry. “You want me to free you.” His gaze does not waver. “No. That is not what I ask of you. The dagger will not permit it. We both know this.”

Your fingers curl at your sides, because the truth of it stings. Dream tilts his head, studying you. “I am asking for permission.”

You blink. “Permission?”

“To leave you here,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “safe within the Dreaming. While I walk your absence through the waking world. I will slip into the minds of those who guard me. I will plant the thought they have long tried to bury. I will guide their hands until they free me.”

You stare at him, it is not a request you expected. “You… you would put me into a coma,” you whisper.

“No,” Dream says, and there is a flicker of something like gentleness in his tone. “I will keep you sleeping, without pain, until I am free. You will not feel the dagger’s pull. You will not feel the weight of your orders. You will simply… rest.”

You draw a sharp breath. “And if it fails? If they don’t free you?”

“Then you will wake,” he says. “And nothing will have changed. But I will try again. And again. Until I am free.” You are trembling now, though you try to hide it.

“Why ask me?” you whisper. “Why not just do it?”

“Because,” Dream says, stepping close enough that the edge of his cloak brushes the sand at your feet, “you have been denied choice for too long. And I will not take from you what others have stolen.”

Your chest aches at his words.

You think of the years standing watch over him. The countless nights you whispered to the silent glass. The taste of freedom you have not known since the dagger was first pressed into a mortal’s hand.

And you nod. “Yes,” you say softly. “Do it.” Dream holds your gaze for a long, quiet moment. Then he lifts a hand, fingers brushing lightly against your temple.

“Sleep, demon,” he murmurs. And the world folds in on itself like a tide rushing out.

When you wake again, you are no longer in the Dreaming. You are lying on the cold stone floor of the cellar. The air is different now, charged with a hum of raw power you have never felt before.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, disoriented, your breath catching as your eyes dart toward the glass sphere… it is broken, shards of it glitter across the floor like starlight, and you can see the deep gouges in the stone where its weight had been rooted.

And then your gaze lifts, he is still there. The Dream Lord stands before the broken remnants of his prison, tall and utterly still, a figure cut from shadow and stormlight. He is the same and yet not. The silent prisoner you guarded all these years has been stripped away, revealing something far greater, something that was never meant to be caged. And in his hand is the dagger, your dagger.

Your breath seizes painfully in your chest. Because you know, know in the marrow of your bones, that the chain still exists. It has simply shifted hands.

For the first time in decades, someone else is your master. You want to recoil, to run, to do anything but what the dagger’s pull demands. But the chain is as unyielding as it ever was.

Your knees hit the floor.

You bow your head, every muscle trembling, your voice tearing itself from your throat in a whisper that tastes like blood. “Master.”

The word makes you want to retch. It coils in your mouth like poison, the same way it did when you first spoke it to Roderick.

But this is worse, because this time, a part of you had believed, stupidly, desperately, that if anyone might set you free, it would be him.

You force the next words past the tightness in your chest. “What… what would you have me do?” There is no answer at first. Only silence, heavy and suffocating.

You dare to lift your head. He is watching you, expression unreadable, the dagger glinting darkly in his hand. You know that, if he wished, he could keep you as easily as Alex did. Perhaps even more easily. He could order you to follow him into the Dreaming, to bend every ounce of your strength to his will.

He would never need to touch the dagger again. Your heart hammers so loudly you can hardly hear your own voice when you whisper, “Please don’t…”

Dream steps forward. You flinch, but you cannot move back. The dagger binds you to stillness as he closes the distance between you, every step deliberate, the air around him crackling with quiet power.

When he stops before you, you can barely breathe. He lowers the dagger and your gaze follows it with a mix of terror and disbelief as he extends it toward you, the hilt balanced across his pale palm.

The chain around your chest loosens instantly. You don’t reach for it at first. You can’t. You just stare, your hands hovering as if the dagger might vanish if you touch it.

“Take it,” Dream says softly, his voice low and steady, the first words he has ever spoken to you in the waking world.

Your breath catches on a sound that is half a sob as your fingers close around the hilt. The magic surges at your touch, familiar and terrible and wholly yours again. You feel the chain retract from your ribs, snapping out of existence with a final, fading spark.

The weight of it gone is so overwhelming you nearly collapse. When you lift your head, your vision blurs.

“You… you freed me,” you whisper, the words trembling like something fragile. Dream’s dark eyes hold yours for a long, quiet moment.

“I will not be the same as they were,” he says simply. And somehow, that is enough.

You sink back into a proper bow, this time because you choose to. Your voice is steadier when you speak. “My lord.” Dream inclines his head slightly.

You rise to your feet, clutching the dagger to your chest. You should leave now. This is your chance, but you pause.

Because what you are about to do is not something demons do lightly. You lift your gaze to his once more and tell him your name. He stills.

You know he understands the gravity of what you are giving him. A demon’s true name, freely spoken, is a bond.

“You may call upon me if ever you need me again,” you say. “I will answer. To repay what you have done.” Dream studies you, his expression unreadable, but there is a shift in the air, subtle and profound.

Then you step back, the dagger warm and solid in your hand, and for the first time in decades, you are free to walk away.

The cellar is still and heavy, the silence echoing around the shattered prison. You stare at Dream for a long moment, your dagger clutched against your chest. The magic in it hums softly now, answering only to you.

You should say something else, show him your gratitude, perhaps, or bid him a farewell. You should explain what this means but the words catch in your throat.

Because you know that if you speak, your voice will break, and you will not give him that. Instead, you incline your head one last time, the barest dip of acknowledgment, and step back from him.

Dream doesn’t move. You turn and walk toward the cellar door. Your bare feet are silent against the cold stone. You force yourself not to look back, even though you feel the weight of his gaze on your spine with every step.

The door closes softly behind you and then he is alone.

Dream stands in the center of the room, surrounded by the glittering remnants of the glass prison that held him for so long. The air is heavy with freedom and memory.

In his mind he still holds your name. It lingers on his tongue like a secret, quiet and powerful.

He could call you now, and you would come, but he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes and listens to the silence, and for the first time since his captivity began, it does not feel like a chain.

[lucidlonging]

masterlist ✩｡⋆⸜ lucifer morningstar

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞 YOU CAN COMMENT HERE IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST

where the light falls

summary: you have always felt set apart from the world quietly carrying secrets even you do not fully understand. the church is the only place that feels still enough to breathe until a stranger named lucy appears in the candlelight. with eyes like winter skies and a presence that lingers long after they are gone, they begin to weave their way into your life. the closer they get the more you feel the ground shifting beneath you, as if some forgotten part of yourself is slowly waking.

word count: 7.7k

[lucidlonging]

masterlist ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞 YOU CAN COMMENT HERE IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST

˚⋆𐙚｡⋆ = requested fanfics || request a fanfic here ! || * = smut

the edge of everything

summary: you’re stuck in a coma, your mind caught in the fragile space between waking and dreaming, constantly slipping between the two. on the shifting shorelines of the dreaming, you discover you’re not alone. the lord of dreams himself lingers at the edge of your awareness. he is distant, watchful, never stepping fully into the light. but when he finally does, everything changes.

word count: 4.3k

the art of mending

⌞ PART ONE || PART TWO * ⌝

summary: matthew panics when dream is knocked unconscious by his own ruby. unable to reach lucienne, he desperately seeks out you, an old friend from his human days. you’re a two-hundred-year-old traveling witch and healer who usually charges for your services, but matthew begs you to help dream pro bono. despite your instincts telling you to avoid endless business, you agree. you find dream fading in a decrepit warehouse and pour every ounce of your energy into healing him. it nearly drains you dry, but you stabilize him just in time. when he wakes, he’s characteristically unreadable but clearly curious about you, and visibly displeased by how much the healing has weakened you. he offers that you travel with him, insisting it’s “to keep an eye on you” until your magic stabilizes, though you suspect there’s more to it than that.

word count: 4.9k || 5.3k

a name freely given

summary: you are a demon bound by a cursed dagger, forced to obey the will of the burgess family for decades. your orders are clear: serve without question and guard the silent prisoner locked in a glass cage beneath the manor. when the barrier around his prison begins to weaken, you are drawn into a choice that could change the course of your captivity forever, but freedom has always come at a price.

word count: 5.1k

therapy for the endless (to be written)

⌞ PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE ⌝

summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.

word count: 5.1k

his most careful consideration (to be written) *

summary: you arrive in the dreaming with one goal: to tempt morpheus, to seduce the king of dreams and secure the key to hell for your people. but morpheus is not a man so easily swayed. in the moonlit gardens, he turns your game against you, circling, teasing, and unraveling you until every defense you came with is stripped away. by the time he leaves you trembling, you no longer know whether you were playing him… or he was always playing you.

word count: tba!!

dreamy, isn’t he? *

summary: you only meant to drink away your breakup at the white horse, but hob gadling shows up and drags you into his night out. then his friend arrives: tall, dark, intense, and far too attractive for your own good. you tell yourself you can charm anyone, but morpheus isn’t just anyone… and suddenly you’re in way over your head.

word count: 4.6k

between the tides ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆ (to be written)

summary: after decades locked away by a demon, you are rescued by morpheus and hob, your soulmates. half dream, half nightmare, you’ve never seen the dreaming or felt its pull because of the magic-forged bracelet that’s bound you since birth. they bring you home, show you patience and care, and you begin to crave them in a way you don’t fully understand. when you finally ask morpheus to take the bracelet off, the bond snaps into place with overwhelming intimacy, and the three of you spend the night wrapped around each other, safe for the first time in your life.

word count: tba!!

the carriage of want ˚⋆𐙚｡⋆ * (to be written)

summary: morpheus follows delirium through her realm’s train, where she tests him by conjuring a seductive copy of you. he resists, but the image burrows under his skin. back in the dreaming, still raw with want, he slips into your sleep and remakes your quiet café into a long, swaying train. what follows is slow-burn seduction turned rough, his restraint fraying into need as he pins you to the glass and makes you confess you still want him.

word count: tba!!

[lucidlonging]

masterlist ✩｡⋆⸜ the sandman

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

DREAM OF THE ENDLESS ── .✦

LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR ── .✦

[lucidlonging]

the art of mending ¹ ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: matthew panics when dream is knocked unconscious by his own ruby. unable to reach lucienne, he desperately seeks out you, an old friend from his human days. you’re a two-hundred-year-old traveling witch and healer who usually charges for your services, but matthew begs you to help dream pro bono. despite your instincts telling you to avoid endless business, you agree. you find dream fading in a decrepit warehouse and pour every ounce of your energy into healing him. it nearly drains you dry, but you stabilize him just in time. when he wakes, he’s characteristically unreadable but clearly curious about you, and visibly displeased by how much the healing has weakened you. he offers that you travel with him, insisting it’s “to keep an eye on you” until your magic stabilizes, though you suspect there’s more to it than that.

word count: 4.9k || PART TWO

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

The knock at your door comes after midnight, soft and frantic, the kind that makes your instincts tingle. You’re halfway through sorting a collection of dried herbs when you freeze and glance toward the old wooden door. You haven’t had a visitor in weeks. Nobody even knows you’re staying in this cottage except for the tavern keeper who rents it out during the slow season. And the way this knock scrapes against the silence of the forest doesn’t feel like a polite request for sugar.

It happens again, louder this time, followed by the sound of claws on the frame. You sigh, push away from the table and approach with your usual caution. Your senses are tuned razor sharp after two centuries of surviving the unkindest corners of the world, so you extend your awareness like a net. No hostile energy seeps through the cracks. Just worry. Panic.

You unlatch the door and pull it open, bracing yourself. And come face to face with a raven, no, not just any raven.

“Matthew?” you breathe, recognizing him instantly. His shiny black feathers are slick from a drizzle you hadn’t noticed, and his dark eyes glitter with something deeper than bird fear.

“Thank God,” he blurts, hopping frantically closer to you. “You’re here. You’re still here.”

“Hello to you too,” you mutter, stepping aside so he can flutter in. He lands clumsily on your table, scattering sage and feverfew leaves to the floor. “It’s been a while, Matt. You look… well, as well as a talking raven can look.”

“No time for catching up,” he says, feathers ruffled as if the words alone irritate him. “I need your help. My boss, he’s hurt. Bad. Like not waking up-bad. I didn’t know who else to come to.”

Your brows knit together. “Boss? What kind of boss does a raven have?”

“The King of Dreams,” Matthew says, flapping his wings once in agitation. “Morpheus. You probably know him as Dream of the Endless. Long story short, he got knocked out by his own ruby, and I can’t reach Lucienne. I’m not even sure she’d get here in time if I could. He’s fading, and I don’t…” He breaks off with a sharp, helpless croak.

You stare at him for a long moment, the weight of his words pulling at your chest. Dream of the Endless. You’ve never crossed paths with him directly, but of course you know the name. Most old creatures do. He’s legend. A god. He’s not someone you would normally cross for fear of what he could do to you with a thought. And yet…

“Matthew,” you say carefully, “if what you’re telling me is true, the fact that you’re here instead of going to someone in his realm tells me this is… desperate.”

“It’s bad,” Matthew says, voice cracking. “He’s out cold. And he’s not waking up. I don’t even know if he can. Please help him, I wouldn’t ask you for this if I had any other choice.”

You glance at your packed bags in the corner. You were supposed to leave at sunrise, moving on to the next nameless town. It’s what you do. Never stay long enough to be found, never take roots because roots rot. Yet you feel yourself softening, remembering Matthew back when he was human, before the wings, before all this.

“Fine,” you sigh, grabbing your cloak. “Show me where he is.”

Matthew almost sobs in relief, hopping back onto your shoulder as you step out into the night.

Matthew leads you deeper into the woods, farther than you’d gone before. The rain turns heavier, but you don’t complain, pulling your cloak tighter as he mutters directions in your ear. Finally, you reach a clearing where an abandoned warehouse sags against the storm.

“Inside,” Matthew says.

You find him there. A man, no a being, lying motionless on the cracked concrete. Even unconscious, he is impossible to mistake for mortal. His dark coat spreads like spilled ink around him, his pale face unnaturally still. Black hair clings to his forehead as if the rain followed him inside.

“Matthew,” you whisper, kneeling slowly at his side. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

“Can you fix him?” Matthew hops nervously closer, his claws clicking. “Please tell me you can fix him.”

You hesitate, touching your fingers lightly to the being’s wrist. There’s no pulse the way a human would have one, but you can feel a current, weak and fraying. His essence is slipping.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you admit softly. “He’s not built like us. It’ll drain me.”

“You can do it,” Matthew insists. “You’re the best I know. And you don’t have to do it for me. Do it for…”

“Don’t you dare guilt trip me,” you cut in sharply. But you’re already rolling up your sleeves. “Get out of my way. I’ll need space.”

You hover your hands over his chest, calling on the energy buried in your bones. It rises like fire, burning as it leaves you, threads of glowing light sinking into his form. It’s slow. Agonizingly slow.

You grit your teeth as his essence fights you. It’s like trying to stitch together a star with mortal thread. Sweat slicks your hair to your temple.

“You’re going to owe me,” you whisper under your breath, glaring at his serene, unconscious face. “God or not, I’m keeping a tab.”

Minutes stretch into hours. You pour everything you have into him until your hands shake violently, your legs buckle and the world tilts. You fall forward, catching yourself clumsily on your palms. But he breathes.

It’s subtle, the faintest lift of his chest, the barest flicker of movement beneath closed eyes. He’s not awake. But he’s here again.

Matthew makes a broken sound of relief behind you. “Holy crap! You did it.”

You slump against the wall, your entire body trembling. “Not yet. He’s stable. That’s all I can promise.” And then you feel it, a pull. A thread snapping taut. His essence brushes yours like a hand ghosting over your skin. And even as exhaustion claws at your consciousness, you know that when he wakes… you’ll have a lot to explain.

You don’t remember sliding down the wall, don’t remember your eyes fluttering shut for even a moment, but when you blink yourself awake the warehouse is quiet except for the sound of steady rain against the roof. Your entire body aches like you’ve been wrung dry. The air feels thicker now, charged, the way it does before lightning strikes.

Your gaze drifts instinctively toward him. He’s still lying where you left him, the shadows clinging unnaturally close around his form. But he’s no longer pale like death. There’s color in his lips now, the faintest flush of life.

And then his eyes open. Black as a raven’s wing, endless as the night sky, they lock on yours with an intensity that robs you of air. He doesn’t move at first, simply watches you as though he’s cataloging every breath, every heartbeat.

You clear your throat, your voice raspy when you finally manage, “Welcome back, your majesty.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he sits up slowly, every line of his body fluid and purposeful. The sheer presence of him fills the room in a way you hadn’t anticipated, like the walls themselves are leaning inward to hear what he might say.

Matthew hops nervously from a beam above, landing in a rustle of feathers beside you. “Boss!” he blurts, relief cracking through his voice. “You’re awake. Oh my God, you’re awake. I thought…”

Dream lifts one elegant hand, silencing the raven without a word. Then his gaze returns to you. “You,” he says, and the single syllable makes something in your chest tighten. His voice is low, velvet threaded with steel, but beneath it is the faintest rasp, as though it costs him to speak at all.

You arch a brow, pushing yourself to your feet with some difficulty. “Me? Yes. Congratulations, you’re observant. You’re welcome, by the way, for saving your ass.”

Matthew caws softly, like he’s bracing for impact. Dream tilts his head, his expression unreadable. “You are not of my realm. Yet you wielded power that touched me directly.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That was healing magic. Something you desperately needed, by the way. I could’ve let you fade, but your raven here begged nicely.”

The faintest flicker of something passes over his features… amusement, maybe, or annoyance, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“I was vulnerable,” he says at last, as though he’s testing the word on his tongue. “And you saw fit to… intervene.”

“Again,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re welcome.”

Now that you’re upright, you can feel how close the two of you are, his presence like gravity pulling you toward him. He’s taller than you imagined, a dark tower of quiet, coiled strength. You should be intimidated, maybe even terrified, but instead there’s a thread of heat curling low in your belly.

His eyes narrow slightly, as though he can feel it too. “Why?” he asks softly. “You ask payment for your services. Matthew told me as much.”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance even as his gaze pins you. “Because he asked me to. Because I could. Because maybe I didn’t feel like letting the King of Dreams die on a warehouse floor. Take your pick.”

He studies you for a long, unnerving moment. And then he rises fully to his feet, stepping closer in one fluid motion.

You tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “I do not forget debts,” he says, voice low enough that it vibrates through you. “Nor do I ignore… those who interest me.”

There it is. The spark you’d felt even when he was unconscious. You try to mask the sudden rush of heat in your face with a smirk. “Interest, huh? That’s one way to put it. Personally, I’m just hoping you don’t smite me for touching your essence without permission.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. Barely, but it’s there. “I do not ‘smite,’ as you put it. And I am… grateful.”

Matthew lets out an audible sigh of relief. “Okay, great, everyone’s alive, nobody’s smiting anybody. Can we… I don’t know… get out of this creepy warehouse now?”

You glance at the raven and then back at Dream. He’s still watching you like he’s unraveling every secret you’ve ever kept. And even though you’re exhausted to the point of collapse, you feel a shiver of anticipation run through you.

Because you know this is only the beginning. You’re still reeling from the weight of his gaze when your knees buckle slightly. You curse under your breath and catch yourself on the rusted edge of a steel beam, your legs trembling with fatigue.

His head snaps toward you, those bottomless eyes narrowing. “You are drained,” he observes, voice soft but unyielding.

You shoot him a look. “Brilliant deduction. Maybe you should add detective work to your résumé.”

The retort lands, but it doesn’t deter him. He steps closer, closing the scant space between you in a way that makes your pulse jump. You swear he barely touches the ground, moving like shadows shifting across a wall.

“You expended your energy on me,” he continues, his tone unreadable. “More than you could afford.” You straighten, squaring your shoulders despite how hollow you feel. “I’m fine,” you lie.

His gaze dips, taking in the paleness of your skin, the slight tremor in your hands. He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t even pretend to.

Matthew flutters nervously to the floor, looking between the two of you. “She did kinda burn through a lot to wake you up, boss. Like… all of it. She nearly collapsed.”

Dream’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening as though Matthew’s words confirm something unpleasant. Then, after a beat, he says quietly, “Come with me.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Travel with us,” he says, as if it’s the most natural request in the world. “It is not wise for you to remain alone in this state. I would… keep an eye on you.”

There’s no mistaking the implication. He’s not asking because you’re weak. He’s asking because he’s concerned. “Keep an eye on me,” you repeat, arching a brow. “What are you, my babysitter now?”

His eyes catch the dim light of the warehouse, reflecting it like a starless sky. “If that is what it takes.”

The words knock the breath from you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You’d expected arrogance, maybe indifference. Not this quiet, deliberate offer of protection.

You try to mask your surprise with sarcasm. “And what exactly would I be signing up for, your majesty? I don’t do well with leash-and-collar arrangements.”

A flicker of something, maybe amusement, touches his lips. “You would not be bound,” he says softly. “Merely… accompanied. I owe you my life. And until I am certain you will not suffer for saving it, I would prefer you stay where I can see you.”

Your heart gives an irritating little kick at the way he phrases it. You look away, busying yourself with fastening your cloak even though your hands are still shaking.

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” you murmur.

He steps closer, enough that you can feel the faint warmth radiating from him despite the chill in the air. “I do not ask favors lightly,” he says. “But this is not a favor. It is an offer. You saved me. Allow me to return the consideration.”

Matthew bounces lightly on his talons, feathers rustling. “I think you should take him up on it. He’s… not exactly the type who makes a habit of watching over mortals. You’d be safer.”

You glance between them. Safety has never been a luxury you counted on. But the idea of going back to your lonely little pattern after this night feels… hollow.

And there’s something in the way Dream looks at you, like he’s weighing more than just your health, that makes your breath snag.

You purse your lips, pretending to deliberate. “Alright. Fine. I’ll come with you,” you say finally. “But not because I need a chaperone. And not because you tell me to. I’m choosing this. Got it?”

His gaze softens, barely, but enough that you notice. “Understood.” You tug your cloak tighter and step past him, trying to ignore the heat that lingers in your chest. “Then let’s go, your majesty. Lead the way.”

You can feel his eyes on you as you walk toward the door, a silent promise in the weight of his presence. Something tells you you’re not going to regret saying yes.

You expect him to summon a door to his realm immediately, some grand gesture of otherworldly power that will leave you blinking in awe. Instead, Dream simply shakes his head as you approach the door of the warehouse.

“We are not returning to the Dreaming,” he says quietly. You stop short. “Excuse me? Why not? Isn’t that where you… live?”

His gaze flicks to you, dark and unreadable. “You are not magically stable enough to travel there safely,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your essence is frayed from expending your energy on me. If you attempted to cross realms in this state, it would tear you apart.”

Your mouth falls open. “Tear me apart? You could have led with that instead of letting me think you were suddenly shy about going home.” He tilts his head, expression unwavering. “I am not… shy. But neither am I reckless.”

You glare at him for a beat longer, but your energy isn’t in the best place to keep sparring. Instead, you cross your arms and ask, “So what now? We just hang around in a warehouse until I’m magically… stable?”

“No,” he says simply, stepping past you. “We will find an inn. Somewhere quiet.” You blink. “An inn. Like… beds and grumpy innkeepers and weird floral bedspreads?”

“That is the general purpose of an inn, yes.”

Matthew, perched on Dream’s shoulder now, makes a noise suspiciously like a snort. “I knew you two would get along,” he mutters, which earns him a faint but pointed glance from his boss.

You huff but follow Dream out into the night. The rain has tapered off, leaving the forest slick and shining under the moonlight. You trail behind him, too tired to argue further as he guides you along the dirt road like he’s been here a hundred times before.

“Why not just… do that thing?” you ask after a few minutes. “Snap your fingers and make us appear at the inn?” He doesn’t even turn around as he replies, “I am conserving my strength. And yours.”

There’s no arguing with that. Not when your body feels like it’s one hard breeze away from collapsing.

Eventually, the trees give way to a small village, its cobblestone streets quiet at this late hour. Dream leads you straight to a stone building with a weathered sign creaking above the door. Warm light spills from the windows, and you can already smell woodsmoke and the faint tang of baked bread.

“Wait here,” he murmurs.

You watch as he steps inside, all impossible presence and silent grace. Through the window, you see the innkeeper glance up from the counter, visibly startle at the sight of him, then quickly hand him a key. Dream’s expression doesn’t change as he takes it.

When he emerges again, he doesn’t even glance at you before saying, “This way.” You follow him up the creaking wooden stairs to a narrow hallway. He stops at a door halfway down and unlocks it, stepping aside so you can enter first.

It’s a simple room: one bed, a narrow dresser, a window overlooking the quiet village square. But after the warehouse, it feels almost luxurious.

You turn to face him. “One bed?” He meets your gaze evenly. “Would you prefer the floor?”

“I’d prefer you got me another room,” you shoot back.

He doesn’t flinch. “There was only one available. If it eases your discomfort, I do not require sleep.” Your stomach twists with something you refuse to name. “Right,” you mutter. “Of course you don’t.”

Matthew flutters into the room and lands on the dresser. “Guys, let’s just be grateful we’re not still sitting on a cold warehouse floor, yeah? You look like you’re gonna keel over. Just lie down already.”

You glare half-heartedly at the raven before toeing off your boots and sitting on the edge of the bed. Dream watches you with that same unnerving stillness, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as if he’s guarding the door.

“You’re… just going to stand there?” you ask finally, raising a brow.

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “Until I am certain you are stable.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Stable, huh? You really know how to make a girl feel special, your majesty.” Something flickers in his eyes at that, a faint glimmer of humor. But it fades quickly. “I must also deal with John,” he says, the name heavy on his tongue. “The man who wields the ruby. He is… dangerous. And I cannot allow him to harm others while I am distracted.”

“Right,” you murmur, leaning back against the headboard. “So you’re going after him next.”

“Yes.” You look at him for a long moment. “And you want me to come with you.” It isn’t a question and he doesn’t deny it. “If things become… difficult, your skills could prove valuable.”

You smirk faintly, despite the fatigue tugging at your eyelids. “You mean if you get your ass kicked again, you want someone around who can patch you up.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no real heat in it. “I would prefer to avoid another… incident.”

“Yeah, me too,” you say softly, your voice fading as the exhaustion finally drags you under. The last thing you see before sleep claims you is Dream, standing sentinel at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on you like he’s daring the world to try and touch you again.

The quiet hum of sleep pulls you under like the tide, but it’s not deep enough to hold you. Not with the faint awareness that he’s there. You shift slightly, blinking your eyes open. The room is cloaked in soft shadow, the kind that feels alive, and you instantly know you’re not alone.

He’s still there. Dream stands near the window, framed by moonlight, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he looks out over the silent village square. You can feel the weight of his presence even before your bleary gaze catches the curve of his dark coat and the faint sheen of his pale skin.

Matthew is on the dresser, asleep, his head tucked beneath a wing. He twitches in his sleep with the occasional soft croak, but otherwise, the room is so still it almost hums.

You watch Dream for a moment longer, drawn to the quiet power radiating from him. Then you hear his voice, low and smooth.

“Matthew.” The raven stirs, blinking one eye open groggily. “Boss?” he croaks.

“Return to the Dreaming,” Dream says softly, not even turning his head. “Rest. I will manage from here.”

Matthew blinks at him. “What? No. No way. I’m not leaving you. Not after…”

“You have done more than enough tonight,” Dream interrupts, his tone unyielding but not unkind. “You found me help. You brought her here. Without you, I would not be standing.” He glances toward the raven now, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, Matthew.”

Matthew’s beak snaps shut, stunned silent for a beat. You get the feeling he doesn’t hear gratitude from his boss often. Finally, he mutters, “Yeah. Okay. You’re welcome… boss.”

He hops off the dresser, flapping lazily toward the open window. Before he leaves, he turns his head back to you. “Don’t give him too hard a time,” he whispers conspiratorially, his voice barely audible. “He’s… complicated.”

You bite back a smile. “You don’t say.” Matthew gives you one last look and then is gone, slipping into the cool night air.

The window closes with a soft thud behind him. And then it’s just you and Dream. You shift on the bed, clearing your throat softly. “You didn’t have to send him away on my account. He probably would’ve liked to stay.”

“I did not send him away for your comfort,” Dream says, turning to face you fully now. The moonlight frames him like a living shadow, his hair falling messily across his pale forehead. “He has done enough. He deserves his rest.”

“And you?” you ask quietly. “Do you deserve rest?” He steps closer to the bed, so fluid you barely register the movement until he’s standing at the edge of the mattress. His gaze drops to you, searching, weighing. “I do not… require it.”

You huff a quiet laugh, tilting your head back against the headboard. “You keep saying that like it makes you special. But it’s not exactly healthy, you know. Even gods need a break now and then.”

His expression softens just slightly, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes your skin prickle. “I am not concerned for myself.”

The words hang between you, heavier than they have any right to be. Your pulse kicks up, and you suddenly feel the need to break the moment before it swallows you whole.

“Is that why you’re hovering like some… guardian shadow?” you ask, forcing a bit of teasing into your voice. “Because you’re concerned for me?”

He doesn’t deny it. He just steps closer, the distance between you now little more than a breath. “You risked your life to save mine,” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I will not allow harm to come to you. Not while you remain under my watch.”

Your throat feels tight. “You’re making it very hard for me to believe you’re just being polite, your majesty.” The corner of his mouth lifts, the faintest ghost of a smile. “Perhaps I am not.”

You swallow hard, heat rushing to your cheeks despite the cool night air. His presence is overwhelming this close, the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. You find yourself tilting your chin up, just slightly, your breath hitching as the distance between you narrows even more.

But then he steps back. Just a fraction. Enough to give you space, though his eyes never leave yours. “Sleep,” he says gently. “Your strength will return faster if you do.”

You could argue. You could tease him again, demand to know why he looks at you like that, like you’re something he’s not sure whether to guard or devour. But the exhaustion is too heavy now, your eyelids too heavy.

So you just murmur, “Fine. But you better still be here when I wake up.” His expression softens, something you suspect not many people get to see. “I will.”

And you believe him. Enough that when you finally close your eyes, it feels like the safest thing you’ve done in a long, long time.

The sound of rain wakes you. At first, you think you’re still dreaming, the rhythmic patter against the window bleeding into your awareness like soft drumbeats. But then you shift and the sheets beneath you rustle, warm and real, and you know you’re awake.

Your body feels different. Steadier. The raw ache of exhaustion that pinned you down last night has receded, replaced by a low hum of strength returning. You stretch, luxuriating in the rare sensation of feeling like yourself again, then blink toward the window.

He’s still here, Dream sits in the corner chair, an unmoving silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the rain-streaked glass. He hasn’t changed position since you last saw him, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair, back straight as if he’s carved from stone. Only his eyes move, tracking you as you stir, their bottomless black glinting faintly in the grey morning light.

“You’re seriously still watching me?” you rasp, your voice scratchy with sleep. “Do you ever blink?”

His head tilts slightly, that quiet, measured way he has. “Not often,” he says, tone perfectly even. “I wanted to be certain you remained… stable.”

You push yourself upright against the headboard, arching a brow. “Stable. You make it sound like I’m a temperamental piece of magic that’s about to explode.”

“Aren’t you?” he asks softly.

The corner of your mouth lifts. “Maybe. But you’re brave to sit that close to the blast radius.” That earns you a faint narrowing of his eyes, though there’s no real heat in it. “You seem improved,” he says, deliberately changing the subject.

“Better than improved,” you admit, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “I feel… like myself again.” You stand, smoothing the hem of your tunic, and offer him a smirk. “Don’t look so disappointed. I know you enjoyed watching me all pale and shaky.”

He rises from the chair with a slow, effortless grace that makes your breath hitch. “I do not enjoy seeing you weakened,” he says. “I simply prefer to know you are… whole.”

You cross your arms, grinning despite yourself. “Whole. Stable. You really know how to flatter a girl, your majesty.”

The’re a slightest flicker of something like amusement touching his lips before it vanishes again. “Do you plan to continue referring to me as that?” he asks, stepping closer.

“As what? Your majesty?” you tease, backing up just enough to let the space between you thrum. “Why? Does it bruise that endless ego of yours?”

He stops only a breath away, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of his presence brushing against your skin like a shadow. “It is unnecessary,” he says, voice low and even. “I am Dream. That is enough.”

Your lips curve into a sly smile. “Dream. Alright. But I can’t promise I won’t keep using the other one when I feel like getting under your skin.”

For just a heartbeat, his eyes darken in a way that makes your pulse skip. “You enjoy provoking me.”

“Someone has to,” you murmur, tilting your chin up. “You’re wound tighter than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s practically a public service.”

The rain is louder now, drumming against the roof like a secret being kept just out of reach. He holds your gaze for a long, charged moment before stepping back. Not far, but enough to let you breathe again. “Get ready,” he says quietly, though there’s a new edge to his voice. “We leave soon.”

You arch a brow. “Leave where, exactly? I thought you said I wasn’t magically stable enough to go to your realm.” “I did,” he says, glancing toward the window. “But I must deal with John. And I suspect you will insist on coming.”

You shrug, deliberately casual. “Well, someone has to keep you from getting your ass kicked again.” A muscle ticks in his jaw, though you think you catch the ghost of a smile before it disappears. “You are… infuriating,” he says softly.

“And you’re fun to annoy,” you shoot back, heading for your boots. “It’s a balanced dynamic, don’t you think?”

You can feel his gaze follow you as you bend to lace them up, and you can’t help but smirk at the way the air between you feels heavier now, charged in a way that has nothing to do with magic.

When you straighten, you find him standing there, impossibly still, but his eyes are darker than they were a moment ago.

You hold his gaze, feeling the spark of it like a challenge. “Well, Dream,” you say, savoring the name, “what’s the plan?”

[lucidlonging]

the edge of everything ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: you’re stuck in a coma, your mind caught in the fragile space between waking and dreaming, constantly slipping between the two. on the shifting shorelines of the dreaming, you discover you’re not alone. the lord of dreams himself lingers at the edge of your awareness. he is distant, watchful, never stepping fully into the light. but when he finally does, everything changes.

word count: 4.3k

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

The first thing you notice is how the air tastes different here.

It is neither sharp with the crisp bite of morning nor heavy with the languid weight of night. It tastes… untethered. Like time doesn’t know which way to flow, like breath doesn’t know whether to stay in your lungs or leave. You blink, unsure if your eyes are open or closed, because the world around you shimmers in soft-focus grays and silvers.

You’re standing barefoot on a shoreline that doesn’t belong to any ocean you know. The sand is fine and pale, whispering beneath your feet with every hesitant step, but the water is… nothing. No waves. No tide. It just stretches endlessly, reflecting a sky that could be dawn or dusk or something between.

There is no sound, there is no one. The longer you stand there, the stronger the sense that you’ve been here before.

You hug your arms around yourself, staring at the horizon that never moves. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t remember… much at all, actually. Faces, names, places flicker at the edge of your thoughts like dying lightbulbs, but every time you reach for them, they vanish.

And yet, you feel the world beyond this one. Like warm hands pressed against a thin pane of glass. Like voices muffled through water. A constant push and pull drags at your insides, trying to tug you in two directions at once.

You fall to your knees in the sand, clutching at your head as a sudden flash of noise erupts. An echo of beeping, loud voices, the smell of antiseptic. Then it’s gone.

The silence roars louder in its absence.

Your throat feels dry when you speak aloud, your own voice trembling with uncertainty. “Hello?”

The echo of it doesn’t bounce back. It just… fades.

You don’t know why you expect an answer, but some part of you does. Some part of you knows you’re not alone. And you’re right.

In the distance, at the very edge of your vision, something darker than the shadows moves.

You freeze, heart hammering even though you can’t feel your own pulse here. The figure is far, far away, but you know it’s looking at you. You know because the air tightens in your chest, the way it does when someone watches you without speaking.

It doesn’t move closer. You wait. And wait. But the figure remains, quiet and still, as though it belongs to the horizon itself.

Finally, you push yourself up from the sand. “Are you…” You stop. The words are you real feel wrong somehow. Instead you ask, “Can you hear me?”

There’s no answer.

Only that unwavering presence, as familiar as it is unsettling. It keeps happening. You slip between this not-place and flashes of the waking world. You’ve learned, by now, that’s what it must be. Reality. That thin glass you sometimes feel your hands press against. You hear voices there. Sometimes a man and woman whispering close by, sometimes the distant clatter of machines. Your body feels heavy there, pinned and unresponsive. Here, though, you can walk. Run, if you choose to.

And here, the shadow is always with you.

You can never get close. Whenever you step toward it, it seems to pull just a breath out of reach, retreating to the edges of everything. It isn’t cruel. It doesn’t toy with you. It just… keeps its distance.

But you know it’s watching.

Sometimes you speak to it. Sometimes you tell it things you can’t tell the void, like how much you hate the sound of beeping machines, or how afraid you are of forgetting your own name.

“I think I’m dying,” you whisper one day, your bare toes curling in the sand as you stare out at the water. “I think that’s what this is.”

A shift in the air. Almost imperceptible, but enough to make you shiver. You wait for an answer you know won’t come.

“Are you even real?” This time, something changes. The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. But you feel it, like a tide shifting beneath your feet. Like an inhale too deep to be your own.

And then the dream breaks. You wake, except you don’t. The heaviness is back. The smells, the distant voices, the beeping. You fight to move your fingers and can’t. “She’s stable,” someone says, the sound muffled like they’re talking through a wall. “No change.”

The words settle over you like a shroud. The next time you return to the shoreline, you’re angry.

“You’re not even going to help me?” you demand, spinning toward the shadow at the horizon. “You just watch? Is that it?”

Nothing.

“You could at least tell me what’s happening,” you snap, your voice breaking. “Am I… am I in a coma? Is that it? Because that’s what it feels like. Like I’m stuck. Like I can’t get back.”

The figure is closer now. Your heart stutters painfully. “You are real.” A pause. Then, for the first time, it speaks. It’s low, smooth, carved from the sound of midnight itself. “Yes.”

The single syllable sinks into you like a stone dropped into water. You take a step forward. “You… you can talk.”

“Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you before?”

A long silence stretches between you. Then he speaks again, each word weighted and precise. “Because I was not certain you would remain.”

The words are strange and beautiful and confusing, all at once. You shake your head. “Remain where? Here?”

“Yes.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

There’s no hesitation this time. The shadow moves forward, his steps silent on the sand, and you finally see him.

He is tall. Pale. His dark clothes ripple like smoke around his body, a coat that might be shadow and might be reality. His hair is black and wild, his features sharp enough to cut the breath from your lungs. And his eyes… his eyes hold entire galaxies.

He stops just close enough that you could reach out, if you dared. His voice lowers, rich and unhurried.

“I am Dream of the Endless. The Lord of the Dreaming. King of Nightmares. Shaper of Stories. The Sandman.”

The titles roll off his tongue like thunder. You blink up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your thudding pulse. “That’s… a lot.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It is what I am.”

“So… you’re saying you’re literally the Sandman?”

“Yes.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat, incredulous and half-mad. “Okay. Sure. I’m in a coma and now the Sandman is visiting me. That tracks.”

His gaze sharpens, but you think you catch a flicker of amusement in it. “You do not believe me.”

“Not exactly,” you admit, folding your arms. “But I’m listening.”

And for the first time, his lips curve up, just barely. You’re not sure what unnerves you more: the fact that the so-called King of Dreams is standing inches from you… or that he’s ridiculously attractive in a way that feels unfair.

You try to cover your nerves with humor. “So… Dream of the Endless. The Lord of the Dreaming. King of Nightmares. Did I get all that right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I did not choose the names,” he says calmly.

You tilt your head, lips curling in a smile you don’t entirely feel. “What would you like me to call you, then? Your Majesty? Sandman? Morpheus? Big Dramatic Guy in Black?”

A flicker of something sparks in his eyes, so fleeting you might have imagined it. “Dream will suffice.”

“Okay, Dream.” You cross your arms over your chest, still barefoot in the pale sand. “So, Dream… am I a guest here, or a prisoner?”

His eyes soften, just a fraction. “Neither. You are… on the edge. Between the waking world and my realm. Your mind exists here because it does not wish to fade. Your body remains elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere.” You repeat the word like it tastes bitter. “You mean the hospital bed. The coma.”

His silence confirms it. You feel the ground shift beneath your feet, though it doesn’t move. “So this is it? I’m just stuck here? Waiting to… to wake up? Or die?”

“That depends on you,” he says, voice low and steady. “And on those in the waking world.”

The heaviness in your chest grows unbearable. “Right. Totally reassuring.”

He tilts his head, the movement feline, assessing. “You attempt to make light of it. That is… unexpected.”

“What, would you rather I cry?” you shoot back. “You seem like the kind of guy who likes tragic tears. Adds to the ambiance.”

His lips twitch, barely… the tiniest hint of a smile. You latch onto it instinctively. “Oh my god. Did I just make the all-powerful Lord of Dreams smile?”

“It was not a smile,” he says, but the words are too smooth, too slow, like he’s allowing you the win.

“Yes, it was,” you tease. “You can’t deny it. I saw it. It was all…” You mimic a tiny upward twitch of your lips, grinning at him.

Something about the way he looks at you now, his dark gaze sweeping over you with impossible depth, makes you feel suddenly weightless. “Few have dared to mock me,” he says quietly.

“Maybe they should try it sometime. You seem like you could use it.”

“You are remarkably bold, considering where you stand,” he murmurs, voice soft and dangerous.

Your pulse skips. He’s right. This is his realm. He could do anything here. You swallow hard but refuse to back down. “Well… what’s the worst you can do to me? I’m already in a coma. Pretty sure my life isn’t exactly in my hands right now.”

His eyes narrow. For a moment, you’re certain you’ve gone too far. Then, instead of striking you down or vanishing, he simply steps closer. Close enough that you feel the brush of his coat in the still air.

Close enough that you can smell something faint and cool and impossible to name. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You are…” He pauses, searching for the word. “Unusual.”

You swallow. “Thanks?”

“It was not a compliment,” he says smoothly.

“Sure sounded like one.”

There it is again… the ghost of a smile. You’re dizzy with it.

He doesn’t always appear when you call. But you’ve learned that he’s always there. Watching.

You’ll be wandering through a dreamscape of endless forests or mirror-glass oceans, talking aloud to fill the silence, and you’ll feel it. That subtle change in the air. That weightless tug at your awareness.

Sometimes you call him out.

“You know, it’s creepy that you just… linger. Watching me like some moody phantom.” No answer.

“Not even going to deny it, huh?” The shadows ripple.

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “I’ll just assume you’re hanging around because you like me.” This time, his voice drifts from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Assume what you wish.”

You laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the trees. “Oh my god. That was basically a confession.” Silence again, but you know he’s still there.

The more you tease him, the less distant he becomes. He begins to answer you when you speak. He walks with you sometimes, silent at your side, the endless folds of his coat brushing the dream-soil. You test the limits of his patience constantly, and he lets you.

“You’re ridiculously dramatic, you know that?” you tell him one evening as the dream-sky shifts from pale gold to deep violet. He glances at you, one brow barely raised. “Dramatic.”

“Yes. All the shadowy coats and the galaxy eyes and the ‘I am Dream of the Endless’ stuff. You could lighten up a little.”

“Lighten up,” he repeats, the words foreign on his tongue.

“Yeah. Crack a joke. Smile more. Wear something with color.”

He looks down at himself. At the void-black coat, the darker-black shirt beneath, and then back at you. His expression doesn’t change. “You are mocking me.”

“Yes.”

“And yet,” he says softly, “you keep seeking my company.”

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. “Well… you’re the only one here. Kind of slim pickings in the company department.”

“Is that so?”

“Don’t get a big head about it,” you warn him. “You’re just… better than being alone.” For the first time, something flickers across his face that you can’t quite read. Vulnerability? No. You must be imagining it. But you’re not imagining how much you look forward to seeing him now.

Or how your teasing has begun to blur into something warmer. Something dangerous.

It starts small… with a fleeting touch, just the brush of his coat as he passes too close. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that you’re hyperaware of every tiny movement because this world is empty, and he’s the only real thing in it. But the longer you spend together, the harder it is to believe your own excuses.

Tonight, you’re sitting on the edge of the dream-shore, legs drawn up to your chest, staring out at the mirror-still water. He’s behind you, standing as he always does: a silhouette in a world of half-light.

“You know,” you say, hugging your knees, “if you’re going to keep me company, you could at least sit down. You’re making me nervous, looming like that.”

There’s a pause. You half expect him to ignore you. Then he moves, the soundless sweep of his coat grazes the sand, and when you glance over your shoulder, your breath catches. He’s lowering himself onto the ground beside you.

Not close enough to touch. But close enough that the thin hairs on your arm rise.

“Well,” you murmur, staring back at the water. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

He doesn’t answer, but you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth when you risk a look at him. Later, you test your luck. You’re walking together through a dream-forest, the air soft with glowing motes of light, when your hand brushes against his by accident.

You freeze, waiting for him to pull away. He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t move closer. You glance at him sidelong. “No scolding? No… nightmare punishment for daring to touch the mighty Lord of Dreams?”

He looks down at you, his expression unreadable. “You think I would harm you for such a thing?”

“Well… I wasn’t sure,” you admit, trying to keep your tone light. “You’re kind of scary sometimes.”

“I do not wish to frighten you.”

The quiet honesty in his voice makes your breath stutter. “Oh,” you say softly. He steps ahead of you then, breaking the moment, and you feel foolish for hoping it meant anything.

But something has shifted. He stays close now. Walks at your side instead of trailing behind or lingering in the distance. When you speak to him, he answers, not just with careful, one-word responses, but with thoughts that carry weight.

And sometimes, when you least expect it, you catch him watching you with an intensity that makes your skin burn.

You push your luck again one night. You’re lying on your back in the sand, staring up at the sky that’s neither day nor night, when you feel the soft weight of his presence at your side.

“Do you ever get lonely?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he says. It’s immediate. Too immediate.

You turn your head to look at him. His profile is sharp, distant, but there’s a tension in his jaw you don’t miss. “You’re lying.” He doesn’t respond.

“You are,” you press. “I can tell.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow so you can face him. “Because you always stand back like you’re afraid to get close. And you watch me like… like you don’t want me to disappear. People who aren’t lonely don’t do that.”

His eyes find yours. For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. Then he speaks, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “Perhaps I am… accustomed to solitude.”

The words hit you harder than they should.

“You don’t have to be,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His gaze darkens. “Do not offer what you cannot keep.”

You blink. “What does that mean?” “It means,” he says softly, “that this is not your home. You are only a visitor here.” The reminder lands like a stone in your chest. You look away, throat tight. “Right. Guess I needed that.”

He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for you. But you feel his presence like a phantom warmth. And you realize, with startling clarity, that you want him to reach for you.

You don’t remember when the teasing stopped feeling like armor. You still poke at him sometimes, but now it’s gentler. Now it’s… something else.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you ask one morning as you walk along the endless shoreline together. He glances at you. “Do you not wish me to?”

“That’s not what I said,” you murmur.

“Then why ask?” “Because I don’t understand it,” you admit, slowing your steps. “I’m just… me. And you’re… well. You. The big dramatic guy in black who rules all of this. What’s so interesting about me?”

He stops. The silence stretches so long you almost apologize. Then his voice comes, low and steady.

“You are… different.”

“Different how?”

“You persist,” he says simply. “You speak to me as though I am no more than a man. You are unafraid, though you have every reason to be. You… intrigue me.” You stare at him, breath caught in your throat.

And for the first time, you see it: the vulnerability you’ve felt creeping into your own chest mirrored in his. It terrifies you. It exhilarates you. The silence between you has changed.

It’s not heavy now. Not oppressive. It’s… warm. Like he’s no longer a shadow you can’t touch but a presence that belongs beside you.

You lie in the soft sand again tonight, staring at a sky filled with stars that didn’t exist yesterday. You’re almost certain he put them there.

“Those weren’t here before,” you say quietly, pointing up at the glittering constellations.

“Do you dislike them?”

“No. I like them. They make this place feel more alive.”

“Good.” You turn your head toward him. He’s seated beside you, one knee drawn up, hands loosely resting on his thigh. The posture is uncharacteristically casual, and for some reason, it makes your chest ache.

“You changed it for me,” you murmur. He doesn’t deny it. You smile softly. “You’re full of surprises, Dream.” His name sounds different on your tongue now. It’s not teasing. It’s something else, something more.

Later, when the stars have shifted again, you find the courage to ask.

“What’s it like?” you say, voice low.

“What is?”

“Being… you. Dream of the Endless. King of Nightmares. All of it.”

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough that you wonder if he’s going to dismiss the question entirely. Then he says, “It’s never-ending.”

Your heart twists. He doesn’t look at you as he continues, voice low and unguarded. “I am older than time. My realm spans the infinite, yet I am bound by it. My duties are unending. My choices… heavy. Few know me as I am. Fewer still care to.”

“Because they’re afraid,” you whisper.

“Perhaps,” he says, turning his gaze to the horizon. “Or perhaps they simply do not think to ask.”

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. “I’m asking.” He looks at you then, and you feel like he’s peeling back every layer you have left.

“I see that,” he says softly. You don’t mean to say it, but the words tumble out anyway.

“If I ever wake up,” you murmur, “you could… you could visit me. When I sleep.”

The silence is deafening. Your pulse kicks hard, and you rush to fill it. “I mean, if you want to. Obviously you’ve got a whole universe of dreams to manage, so you’re probably busy. But… I’d like it. Seeing you again.” He’s so still it’s unbearable.

“Dream?”

His voice, when it comes, is hushed, fragile: “I would like that,” he says. The breath leaves your lungs.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he says, more firmly now. “I would like that very much.”

You bite your lip, unsure why your chest feels so tight. “Then… I’ll try harder. To wake up. So we can.”

He reaches for you then. It’s not much, just his hand brushing against yours, fingers barely grazing, but it’s enough to shatter you.

You curl your fingers around his instinctively. And he lets you. It’s the smallest of changes, but it changes everything.

He starts telling you more. Not in a rush, not all at once, but in pieces. You learn how old he is. So old you can’t even comprehend it. You learn about his siblings, the Endless, and the weight each of them bears. You learn that he carries stories and nightmares and dreams in his hands, shaping them for all living things.

And you learn that he is careful with you. You’re not sure when you stopped feeling like a guest. You’re not sure when this place started feeling like home.

But the thought of leaving it now, of leaving him, fills you with a dread you can’t name. One night, as the dream-forest hums quietly around you, you stop walking and catch his hand before he can take another step.

“Dream,” you say softly. He turns to you.

“Why me? I want a real answer this time.”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Why not you?” You shake your head. “No. I’m serious. I’m not… special. I’m just some girl in a coma. So why do you keep coming back?”

His expression softens, just a fraction. “Because you are more than that,” he says.

“More than what?”

“More than you believe yourself to be,” he says simply. “You are… persistent. Defiant. You remind me that even the smallest flame can survive in darkness.” Your throat tightens.

“Do not cry,” he says softly, brushing the back of his knuckles along your cheek.

“I’m not,” you whisper, though your voice trembles.

You wake with tears on your face. Or at least, it feels like waking. You’re back in the heavy, silent world of machines and muffled voices, awareness slipping in like a dim light.

“She’s… stable,” someone says again. “No change.”

The words claw at you. You want to scream, to tell them you’re right here. But your body won’t move, and the voices fade.

When you slip back into the Dreaming, Dream is already there. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. But he doesn’t hide the tension either, the way his jaw tightens when you appear.

“You were gone,” he says quietly.

“Just for a bit,” you murmur. “It happens sometimes.”

His eyes search yours. “You were close to waking.”

“Was I?”

“Yes,” he says. “Your mind was slipping back to your body.”

The thought is a knife twisting in your chest. You know you should want that. You should want to wake, to return to the world that’s waiting for you. But the idea of leaving this place, leaving him…

You shake the thought away. “That’s good, right? Waking up. That’s… that’s the goal.”

“Yes.”

But his voice is so low, so reluctant, that your heart breaks a little. You try to laugh, though it sounds brittle. “You don’t sound thrilled about it.” He’s silent for a long time. Then he says, “I will miss you.”

Your breath catches.

“Dream…”

“You should not remain here,” he continues, voice firm now, like he’s afraid you’ll argue. “This is not your home. You belong in the waking world. With those who love you.”

Your chest aches. “What if I don’t want to go?”

“You must,” he says, stepping closer. “Your life is still yours to live. Do not give it up for this.”

“For you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. The air thickens. His eyes darken.

“I cannot ask that,” he says, almost harshly.

“You’re not asking,” you murmur, blinking back the sting of tears. “I just… I don’t want to lose this. Lose you.”

He exhales slowly, like the sound of the tide pulling away. “You will not lose me,” he says softly. “I have told you. I will visit when you dream. If you wake, you will still find me here.”

“Promise?”

“Yes,” he says, voice steady now. “I promise.” You swallow hard, nodding. “Okay.”

“Do not be afraid,” he whispers, and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. The touch is feather-light, almost reverent.

Your throat closes up. “I’m not.” He looks at you for a long, quiet moment. Then he leans in just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours.

“Wake,” he says softly.

You think it’s a goodbye, and in a way, it is. The dream begins to dissolve around you. The sand, the sky, the ocean, all of it peels away into nothingness. And you fall.

When your eyes open, the world is blinding. The beeping of machines is sharp and unbearable. You try to lift your hand and find it trembling, weak, but moving.

Someone gasps. “She’s awake! Go get the doctor!” The room erupts in noise and light and tears, but all you can think is one thing. One name.

Dream. The first night after you wake, you fall asleep to silence. You think, foolishly, that maybe you imagined it all. Then the air shifts. You open your eyes in the Dreaming, and there he is.

Exactly where he’s always been, waiting for you. He doesn’t move as you walk to him across the sand, your bare feet leaving soft prints behind you. You stop in front of him, looking up at his impossibly dark eyes. “You kept your promise.”

“Yes,” he says simply.

And then, softer: “You woke.”

“I did,” you whisper.

He studies you for a long, quiet moment. Then he says, “I am glad.”

You swallow, heart twisting. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” he says. You smile, just a little. “I’m glad too. Because now… now we get to keep this. All of this.”

His lips curve, the barest ghost of a smile. “Yes,” he says again. And for the first time, it feels like forever.