#Sandman fic

[merry-moody-missy]

Aw to be chilling out on holiday with Hob and dog 🥰

[rainypuppycloud]

It's kind of annoying that of the 4,000 Dreamling fanfics, 85% are about Hob rescuing Dream. I've never seen a fandom with so little variety. I need more alternate universes, where are the cowboys, astronauts, college AUs?

[gabessquishytum]

I wanted to write a little something more detailed based on this lovely ask, so I did - I'm afraid it's not very much, ironically because I'm very much struggling with my own Hypermobility at the moment! But I hope it'll bring joy, nonetheless <3

Love is Stored in the K-Tape

(550 words, rated M, no major warnings apply)

“You know, darling, it wouldn't hurt you to buy k-tape in a colour other than black.” Hob muses – measuring up the tape against Dream’s ankle and then cutting the strip. Dream huffs, and kicks his foot very lightly against Hob’s hand.

“Because the supposed flesh colour is so close to the colour of my skin.” Dream's tone practically drips with sarcasm. And all Hob can think is – he's adorable. Beautiful. An absolute brat.

“Well yes, it would look more like orange against your skin. But the blue would match your eyes so beautifully!” Hob picks up the last strip of tape and peels the back part away. He holds Dream’s ankle, taking care that the joint is comfortable, and applies the tape to the velvety pale skin. A quick kiss to the joint seals the process. “There we are, love. Is that alright? Not itching or creasing too much?”

Dream rotates his foot and gives a regal nod in response. Both of his ankles are taped, as is the outside of each foot (this part is to keep his toes from popping out of place). His right knee has been decorated too. Hob runs his finger over each piece of tape, and then leans in to kiss each one too. Hearing Dream’s little hum of satisfaction after each kiss brings a smile to his face.

“Thank you.” Dream eventually murmurs, when Hob has finished the tour of his joints. He tangles his fingers up in Hob’s hair and tugs affectionately. “For all that you do for me.”

Hob crawls up the length of Dream’s body to kiss him properly on the mouth before replying. “I can promise you that there's literally nothing else in the world that I'd rather be doing.”

“Even so…” Now Dream is blushing, just a little bit. It makes him look delightfilly radiant. He nudges his nose against Hob’s cheek. “Perhaps. I am becoming spoiled.”

“And perhaps. Spoiled is exactly how I want you.” Hob is half teasing, copying Dream’s intonation and the seriousness in his voice. But really Hob is the one who is quite serious, at least about this. He likes Dream to have expectations and demands of their relationship. It makes him feel like he's doing something right.

Dream only says “hmph.” And goes right back to pulling Hob’s hair. Hob has never been more enamoured with anything. He may be, he is willing to acknowledge, a tiny bit obsessed with Dream. This is what he wants: to be allowed to care for his lover and to make sure that he can enjoy sex without pain. It doesn't seem like too much to ask for. 

“Darling.” Hob nuzzles into Dream's oh-so-soft neck, licks the flutter of his pulse, and fails to stop himself from smiling. “Do you think that I could make love to you, now?”

Another one of those beloved regal nods. Dream’s hand slides down from Hob’s hair to the pelt on his chest, and he tugs on that instead. “I will be most disappointed if you do not, after all that effort.”

Hob has no intention of disappointing Dream ever, let alone this evening. And so he sets the tape and scissors carefully aside, to devote every ounce of energy and attention to his unique and utterly perfect Dream.

[rhosyn-du]

Alternative Education - Dreamling

Square/Prompt: A3 - Dubious Consent for @dreamlingbingo, although the consent ended up much less dubious than I originally planned. But the spanking is arguably dubcon, so I’m counting it anyway

Rating: Explicit

Ship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: human AU, age gap, tutor/student relationship, tutor!Hob, student!Dream, spanking, face slapping, blowjobs, hand jobs, face fucking, hair pulling, unnegotiated kink, messy af power dynamics

Link on AO3

Summary: Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. If Hob spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how good Dream would sound begging for his cock, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Inspired by this post. Huge thanks to @gabessquishytum and 🪽 anon for the inspiration for this fic and the sequels that make up half my planned bingo fills. This AU has eaten my brain in the best way.

Thank you @karalynlovescake for the beta and tagging help!

Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. Dream is clever, with a cutting wit and a skill for weaving words that Hob is frankly a bit envious of, and when he’s not being a prickly asshole about one thing or another, Hob actually enjoys his company. Plus, Dream’s parents pay him well enough that he doesn’t need to take on any other regular clients this term, just the occasional one-off to supplement his income—nothing less than a godsend when Hob needs those extra hours if he has any hope of finishing his dissertation on time.

It doesn't hurt that Dream is beautiful. As in, model beautiful. Love songs and fucking sonnets beautiful. The kind of beautiful that, if he were a couple years older and not Hob’s tutee (or hell, just one of the two; Hob’s not a saint), would have Hob angling to take him to bed, or at least to the men’s for a quick fumble. But Hob is a professional—or at least a guy who would really like to keep this job—so if he spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how things might have gone if they’d met under different circumstances, thinking about how good Dream would sound begging for Hob’s cock in that low, liquid-sex voice of his, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Most days, Dream’s tutoring sessions are nothing more than Hob keeping Dream company for a couple hours, and maybe trying to coax a smile out of him when he’s in one of his more sullen moods. Dream doesn’t need a tutor, but from everything Hob’s seen, he could sure as hell use a friend, and Hob is more than happy to be that when Dream will let him, fucked up as it might be that he’s getting paid to be there.

Then, there are days like today, when Hob is sure he earns every fucking penny Dream’s parents pay him.

“It’s a stupid assignment, and I won’t do it.”

Hob sighs. They’ve been through this a dozen times already. “It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.” It is. Hob can’t even argue the point. How Dream’s teacher even got his post with such an appalling misunderstanding of classical literature is beyond him. “It’s the assignment you were given, so it’s the assignment you need to turn in. You’re lucky Mr. Choronzon is giving you the chance to redo it instead of just failing you for turning in something that didn’t meet his requirements the first time.”

“The essay I turned in was good,” Dream protests. “You know it was. You read it.”

“It was,” Hob agrees. There are people in his graduate seminars who couldn’t give that nuanced a take on Ovid. “But it still wasn’t the assignment.”

“The assignment,” Dream snarls, “is stupid.”

Hob folds his arms and leans against one of the ostentatious posts that adorns the foot of Dream’s bed, grateful at least that they’re in Dream’s room today rather than the study, where one of Dream’s siblings might try to weigh in and inevitably make things much worse.

“You said that already.”

“It isn’t fair,” Dream tries. Also, not for the first time.

“No, it’s not. But that’s how things are sometimes. Shit’s unfair and it sucks for a bit and you deal with it, and then you get to move on to the parts that don’t suck.” Hob runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dream, you could be half done with the thing already if you hadn’t wasted the past hour whining about it like a kid who doesn’t want to eat his greens.”

Dream’s eyes flash with indignation, and he tilts his chin up so he can glare down his nose at Hob. “I am not a child.”

“Then stop fucking acting like one!” Hob knows it’s the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth, but he’s too annoyed, too utterly done with this conversation to stop them.

Dream’s lips curl back in a sneer and his eyes narrow to angry slits, a sure sign that he’s started to spiral into a full-blown tantrum. “And what will you do about it if I refuse to bend to your oh-so-exacting standards for mature behavior, Hob Gadling?”

He takes a step forward, directly into Hob’s personal space. It’s a tactic Hob’s seen him use before, though never with him. It’s meant to make him uncomfortable, to give Dream the upper hand.

Hob refuses to let it.

“Will you put me in time-out?” Dream taunts, close enough that Hob can feel the warmth of his breath. “Put me over your knee and then send me to bed without my supper?”

Now that's an image. Hob shakes his head, firmly filing that thought away for later.

“Would serve you right if I did put you over my knee,” he says blandly. “You could do with a good spanking.”

Dream scoffs. “You wouldn’t dare.”

It’s the certainty in his voice that does it. The kind that only comes from a lifetime of wealth and privilege and people bending over backward to cater to your whims. A lifetime quite unlike Hob’s own, and one that means Dream hasn’t the faintest idea how much Hob would dare.

It’s almost comically easy to get a hand around Dream’s wrist and pull him down onto the bed, element of surprise and more back-alley brawls than Hob would admit to out loud giving him the edge he needs to ensure that when Dream lands with a startled cry, it’s roughly across Hob’s lap.

Hob intends for it to be quick. Just a few swats to make a point before Dream wriggles out of his grasp.

That’s not how it goes.

The instant Hob’s hand connects with Dream’s backside, Dream stops struggling. He lets out a strangled, almost desperate sound and then goes completely boneless in Hob’s grasp.

Hob pauses. Then, curiosity piqued, delivers another sharp smack.

This time, the sound Dream makes can’t be mistaken for anything other than a moan, muffled as it might be by the bedding.

Hob sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly and painfully aroused.

He should stop this. If he were to continue, if anyone were to find out...

But. Hob wants. And he isn’t the sort of man to deny himself something he wants when the universe is kind enough to drop it—soft and pliant and plucked straight out of his filthiest fantasies—in his lap.

So he brings his hand down again. And again. And again until Dream is clutching at the duvet beneath them and half-sobbing every time Hob’s palm connects.

Hob’s hand is aching by the time he stops, and Dream is a gasping, trembling mess across his lap. He rests his hand on the small of Dream’s back, waiting.

Slowly, Dream’s trembling eases, and his hands release their death-grip on the duvet. He lets out a long, shuddering breath.

Hob chuckles. “Feeling better, then?”

Dream flinches like the words are a physical blow, and then he’s scrambling to his feet, face flushed, glaring in Hob’s general direction without meeting his eyes. “You’ve made your point."

“Yeah?” Hob challenges. “You’re ready to write your essay, then?”

Dream’s eyes snap up, outrage winning out over embarrassment. “I told you, I will not.”

The outrage probably shouldn’t turn Hob on as much as it does. “That’s the problem with enjoying something that’s supposed to be a punishment. Doesn’t tend to be very effective.”

“You dare to suggest that I enjoyed—”

“I can see how much you enjoyed it,” Hob interrupts, looking pointedly at the outline of Dream’s erection, clearly visible beneath his black skinny jeans.

“Do not mock me,” Dream snarls.

Hob takes pity on him, spreading his legs so his own arousal is clearly visible. “I didn’t say you’re the only one who did.”

Dream stares. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Hob makes a decision.

“Come here,” he says softly.

Dream does, eyes only lifting from the bulge in Hob’s pants as he moves into the space between his legs.

“I think,” Hob continues, reaching out to slide a hand up Dream’s chest and hook it around his neck, “maybe you need a different sort of motivation, yeah?”

“Is that what you think?” The words are haughty as ever, but Dream makes no move to pull away, and his pupils are blown so wide it would be easy to mistake his eyes for black instead of blue.

“It is.” Hob’s grin takes on a feral edge as he feels Dream’s pulse jump beneath his thumb. “On your knees for me, pretty thing.”

It takes only the faintest pressure on the back of Dream’s neck before he’s sinking to his knees with far more grace than Hob would have expected. He looks up at Hob through dark lashes, an unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

“You ever sucked cock before?” Hob asks.

Dream scowls. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Good to know,” Hob says, tracing the sharp line of Dream’s jaw with his fingers, “but not what I asked.”

“Once.”

Hob figures that’s as much answer as he’ll get, but Dream keeps talking.

“Mother insisted that my eighteenth birthday warranted a family dinner, despite the fact that not one of us wanted to be there. When Father sent his PA to let us know he wouldn’t be attending, nearly an hour after dinner was set to start, Mother threw a fit, and I decided I’d rather spend my birthday blowing Father’s PA in the study than listening to my mother’s histrionics.”

Hob is fairly certain his eyebrows have nearly disappeared into his hairline by the time Dream finishes speaking, and he has to swallow twice before asking, “Did you enjoy it?”

“He was very gentle”—the way Dream’s lip curls when he says the word makes it clear it’s not a compliment, and Hob can’t help the way his fingers tighten on Dream’s jaw in response—“and he didn’t last two minutes.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hob croons, moving his free hand to unfasten his pants, “that is a tragedy.”

Dream watches, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, as Hob frees his cock and gives it a few lazy pumps, and then he's leaning in and wrapping those pretty pink lips round Hob's dick like he's absolutely starving for it. Hob lets out a startled groan, and Dream smirks up at him from around his cock.

Hob has the briefest moment of worry that he's not going to last two minutes, and then Dream tries to take just a bit too much, jerking back instinctively as he triggers his gag reflex.

“Easy, pet,” Hob murmurs.

Dream ignores him, sinking back down on Hob’s cock without giving himself any time to recover and immediately choking again.

“Hey,” Hob says, easing Dream back with a firm hand on his jaw. “Much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going like that.”

Dream wrenches out of his grasp and glares up at him. “I thought I made it clear I don’t need you to be gentle.”

“And I’ve got no interest in being gentle with you.” Hob reaches for him again. “Just—”

Dream reacts like an angry cat, snarling and very nearly managing to sink his teeth into Hob’s hand, but Hob’s reflexes kick in just in time to save him from a nasty bite, and Hob uses the momentum to deliver a sharp slap across Dream’s face.

Dream gapes at him, his expression a complicated mix of shock and indignation and raw desire. It’s a good look on him. Hob takes advantage of that shock to get a hand in Dream’s hair, giving it a sharp tug and watching in satisfaction as tears brim in those impossibly blue eyes.

“If you hurt yourself,” Hob explains, preventing any objection Dream might want to make by shoving his cock roughly back into Dream’s mouth, “then I’ll have to wait for you to heal before I do this again.”

He punctuates his point by rolling his hips, fucking into Dream’s mouth until his cock hits the back of his throat This time when Dream gags, Hob’s hand in his hair keeps him from pulling away, holding him in place until the tears gathering in his eyes start to roll down his face. It might just be the most gorgeous thing Hob has ever seen.

“But if you can learn a little patience,” he continues, pulling back enough that Dream can suck in a desperate breath through his nose, “and let me teach you to do it right, then I can fuck your throat as often as a little cockslut like you needs, yeah?”

Dream lets out a desperate sob, and the feel of it around his cock is nearly enough to break Hob’s resolve, for him to just take without any care for whether Dream might enjoy it, except...

“I want to, pretty thing.” I want you, he doesn’t say.

Tears still leak from Dream’s eyes, but his expression is open and wanting as he takes another, shaky breath and relaxes into Hob’s grip.

“There’s a good love.” Dream makes a soft, contented sound as Hob slides his cock in just a bit deeper. “Can you relax your jaw for me, too? Yeah, just like that.”

Dream turns out to be as quick a study in this as he is in any subject he puts his mind to, letting Hob guide him with rough hands and soft words as Hob fucks his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts. Hob is glad to have the distraction of telling Dream what to do, otherwise he’s not sure he’d last much longer than that idiot PA.

As it is, it only takes a handful of minutes before Hob’s instruction becomes a broken string of curses and praise as he loses himself in the eager heat of Dream’s mouth and the sight of Dream’s fucked-red lips stretched around Hob's cock, and the beautiful, needy sounds Dream makes every time he manages to take Hob just a little deeper. Hob only just manages to get a warning out before he’s coming into that perfect mouth, Dream half-choking again trying to swallow it all and somehow still managing to look smug about it even as a line of come escapes his lips and drips down his chin.

“Aren’t you just a beautiful mess,” Hob says, catching the drip with his thumb and smearing it across Dream’s cheek as Dream works him through the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s had in ages.

Dream gives a considering hum and makes a show of releasing Hob’s cock, opening his mouth so Hob can watch the slow drag of it against Dream’s tongue.

Hob lets out a growl and slides off the bed, straddling Dream’s thighs and licking the taste of himself out of Dream’s mouth. Dream kisses him back with every bit of the enthusiasm he’d shown for sucking Hob’s cock, eager hands sliding beneath Hob’s shirt and dragging him close, shamelessly rutting his cock against Hob’s ass.

The angle is terrible for it, and it isn’t long before Dream is whining pitifully into Hob’s mouth, wriggling his hips in a vain attempt to get more friction.

“I’ve got you, pet,” Hob says, working his hand between them to pop the button on Dream’s jeans.

“Yes,” Dream gasps, sounding absolutely wrecked. “Hob, please—ah!” His words bleed into an inarticulate cry as Hob wraps a hand around his prick, jerking him off with practiced ease.

They’re too close for Hob to properly see Dream’s face, so he contents himself with drinking every sound Dream makes from his mouth, greedy for every gasp and whimper, and when Dream comes with a wild sob, he swallows that sound too, letting Dream pant into his mouth until he’s fully spent.

They stay like that for several long moments, Hob leaning back against the foot of the bed, Dream slumped against him, breathing each other’s breath.

Eventually, Dream straightens and, before Hob can say anything, lifts Hob’s come-covered hand to his mouth and starts licking it clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

“Oh,” Hob breathes.

“I wouldn’t want,” Dream says between licks, “to have points docked for failing to clean up my mess.”

Hob huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever questioned your fastidiousness.”

Dream hums in agreement as he sucks the last of Hob’s fingers clean. “But I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your instruction, or that I’m not taking it seriously.” And then he curls himself against Hob’s body, nestling his face into the crook of Hob’s neck. “Patience has never come easily to me, but. I will try.”

It takes Hob several seconds to parse out what Dream is talking about—not the least because he’s also processing the shock of Dream cuddling him—and when he does, he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He’d meant what he said, but he hadn’t really believed Dream might want him to mean it.

“Can teach you patience, too,” he says, bringing his arms up to cradle Dream against him. Fuck. This is such a bad idea, and Hob just...can’t be bothered to care. “There are so many things I can teach you, pet.”

“I have no doubt. Although, I’m uncertain how this is supposed to motivate me to write that ridiculous essay. Not that I’m complaining about your methods.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Hob tells him. “I already know you’ll have it done before our next session.”

“Do you,” Dream says flatly.

“I do,” Hob agrees. “Because if you do, I’ll spank your ass proper pink for you.”

Dream sucks in a sharp breath.

“And if you do it well, I’ll fuck you ‘til you cry after.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which Hob thinks he can nearly hear Dream’s internal debate.

“Perhaps,” Dream allows finally.

It’s enough for Hob to know he’s won. And if he’s wrong, well, he’s got a few days to think up a fitting punishment.

[writing-for-life]

Dream’s Therapist

Parents

The session notes get longer and longer, so I decide to go over all of them again to decide on today’s topic of conversation.

Intake

Insomnia

Nightmares

Emotions

The client is on time (well, 35 minutes early, but my receptionist tells me he brought a book; she is certain it is “Le Mythe de Sisyphe” by Camus, and he reads it in French). When he comes into my office, he wears a black… robe? despite it being 25 degrees Celsius. Surprisingly, he takes it off though and hangs it on my coatrack. There is still no smalltalk, although he asks, very politely, if I could open the blinds a bit more since today, the room is too dark for his liking.

DT: I’d like to talk about your family today. How do you relate to them? (I notice immediate signs of stress and he looks at my paperweight) Take it, it’s fine.

Dream (He takes the paperweight and begins to fiddle with it, turning it over and over and over again): My family is like… a cosmic jigsaw. We should fit together perfectly, and I reckon we do. In theory. From a distance. To all you mortals. But you should never, ever look too closely.

DT: And why is that? What about your parents?

Dream (Silence ensues. It lasts for 9 minutes. I contemplate several times whether to cut it short but decide to let him sit with his thoughts until he is ready): They like to play a game of charade, I suppose. If we communicate at all, it is in cryptic symbols and metaphors….

DT: You like communicating like that, too, don’t you?

Dream (I notice a glare, quickly followed by a violent shake of his head): My father once gave me an hourglass with a note that read, “Your move.” I still have no idea what he was trying to tell me.

DT: Did you ever ask?

Dream (I notice the familiar eye-roll): No.

DT: Why not?

Dream: You would not understand.

DT: Try me.

(Another bout of silence ensues. This time, it lasts 10 minutes, and I decide to finally intervene—he’s not getting a lot of bang for his buck this way. I notice a moment too late I shouldn’t use the word ‘bang’ when relating to my clients, not even in my mind).

Maybe just explain to me what your parents are like.

Dream (I notice a slightly annoyed exhale through his nose): My father has a particular (he frantically turns the paperweight in his hands) …watch that is a source of contention, and he insists on synchronised cosmic events. Well, not really synchronised as you would define it I suppose but… (he shakes his head again). No matter. My mother has a thing for unravelling galaxies and the ensuing chaos. They are not a great match by any means.

DT: Doesn’t sound like it. Are they still together?

Dream: No. They have not been for a very long time.

DT (Divorced parents. It makes sense): And how did that influence your upbringing?

Dream (He laughs. It sounds… I have no clue what to think and try not to show it on my face. He truly sounds like someone who has forgotten how to laugh. I actually feel sorry for him. I remind myself not to show that on my face either): My father is Time, my mother is Night. Do you expect me to relate to them as my role models?

DT: (I notice bitterness that most certainly covers up some hurt and wonder if he tries to be metaphorical, or if he is diving down into the depths of his delusion again): Do you? Or did you at any point?

Dream (He leans back in his chair and spins the paperweight on his index finger. It keeps on spinning. I’m confused): How could I possibly relate to someone who prunes roses before they are fully in bloom and never even smells them? Or someone who permanently entertains herself with moonlight cocktails and star-shaped canapés? My parents are… unrelatable and exhausting.

DT: And is exhaustion all they make you feel?

Dream (The paperweight stops spinning, and the silence lasts for 6 minutes this time): No, they make me feel conflicted. (He didn’t say he doesn’t feel. Good.) My father… might have taught me something about duty and the weight of eternity. But I suppose I might have preferred warmth (he starts fidgeting with the paperweight again and briefly looks at me) over cosmic-level indifference.

DT (I am surprised at the sudden willingness to share his emotional landscape. I still don’t show it on my face. I hope): And your mother?

Dream (I notice a hard swallow before he gazes out the window. His voice is very quiet): My mother paints the skies with stars. But those… nights are lonely. She revels in the beauty of darkness and starlight but never touches the hearts of her children. She never dreams of us (His voice turns quieter still). Or of me.

DT: You don’t know that.

Dream (He looks at me again): Trust me, I do. Perhaps you should remember who and what I am?

DT (I decide to tread carefully): Yes, you told me you are the embodiment of imagination, dreams and nightmares.

Dream: Correct. And I know she doesn’t dream of me.

DT (That delusion is stubborn. As they are): If your parents never gave you what you needed, did you ever try to seek comfort or solace elsewhere?

Dream (I notice he holds on to the paperweight so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Even whiter than they are): For as long as I remember I longed for nothing more than just a fleeting touch transcending cosmic duty. (He looks at me through his lashes before he focuses on the paperweight again) Make of that what you will.

DT (I wonder what’s gotten into him today. The sudden openness is confusing. Not that I’m complaining): I don’t make anything out of anything. Let’s stay with those desires. (I notice he flinches) What do you truly want?

Dream: I… feel adrift. (He seems to think for a moment): Sometimes I envy you humans (Okay, I can work with the delusion). Your families argue about burnt toast and forgotten anniversaries. My family argues about the curvature of spacetime and the existential implications of your socks disappearing in your laundry. You have no idea how these things affect… (He stops himself) Never mind. You have simpler families—Sunday dinners, awkward Thanksgiving conversations, and no cosmic-level crisis before dessert.

DT (I decide to play): I think you might underestimate the crisis potential of our dinners.

Dream: Do I? (He actually smiles.)

DT: Yes. But let’s stop changing the subject (I notice he looks slightly embarrassed, which is surprising) and get back to your wants. If you had to choose one thing you really wanted right now, what would that be?

Dream (His voice is very quiet again): To escape the endless cycle. But my duty binds me.

DT (That took the wrong direction and definitely requires reframing. Change of tack): It seems to me that you think of yourself as a silent observer at times. Or as being responsible for other people and their dreams. At least that’s what I’m gathering, correct me if I’m wrong. (He just looks at me but doesn’t say anything) What if you dared to dream yourself?

Dream (I notice the deep frown on his face before he puts the paperweight back on my desk): It is not possible to dream beyond one’s destiny. And mine is not to dream.

DT: What if that weren’t true?

Dream (Silence again. Quite brief this time): That seems… like a tome bound in too many shadows.

DT: Did you ever notice you relate to yourself as if you were (I’m fishing for the right words here) a book, written by someone else?

Dream (I notice he shuffles uncomfortably in his seat): That would be assuming I had a story of my own, which I do not.

DT: And why would you believe that?

Dream (I notice he taps his foot. Six times): I trust our time is up?

DT: No, although we’re getting closer.

Dream: Good, I shall leave then. (He makes a move to get up)

DT: I’ve got homework for you.

Dream (I notice the eye-roll, but he actually stays seated): The infernal diary again?

DT: No. I’d just like you to reflect on a thought.

Dream (I notice the raised eyebrow): And what thought would that be?

DT: If it is truly paradoxical to allow yourself to dream while thinking you are responsible for other people’s dreams.

Dream: The former seems… highly improbable.

DT: Are you going to think about it though?

Dream (He gets up and looks around the room for a moment before his eyes finally connect with mine again): I shall, despite the very apparent futility of your… experiment.

DT: I don’t experiment with people’s thoughts or feelings. I just encourage them to step back and have a closer look at them.

Dream: I shall try to… forgive me: I will trust your expertise on the matter.

DT (I notice he actually has internalised our last session. At least to a degree): The delusional one?

Dream (I notice he really wants to suppress a smile, but it’s not working): No, the real one.

DT: Same time next week then?

Dream: Yes. And you may still use ink in your diary. For however long you deem necessary…

< Previous Session

Next Session >

[medievalpeasantdreambf]

Selkie!Dream

For a while Hob Gadling falls under the assumption his friend, the Stranger, is some sort of sea-related divinity.

Hob would have quite a few arguments in support of the theory, if anybody were to ask. With his black hair and unearthly pale complexion, the Stranger looks the part of a Brittany-coast ghost.

He’s wealthy and powerful, clearly the lord of some realm, but takes no interest in fighting over land. He’s clearly ancient, and inhuman. He has the powers to preserve (Hob’s still here, isn’t he?), but they seem arbitrary, like he can’t preserve everything he might wish to- or why would he have looked so empathetic when Hob told him of Rovyn’s death? He can use a pouch of some fine earthen powder, salt or sand, to bring old memories up from the depths… His hair floats as if free from gravity, or hangs, solid black and silky as if soaked… Clearly he’s some kind of sea-being.

Hob refines his guesses over time. Every time the man meets him, he’s wearing a long black robe or coat. No matter its material, it looks as soft as fur, as smooth as skin, and fits his stranger more perfectly than even the best tailors could manage. When the Stranger storms out on him in 1889, he leaves behind his hat, marching unconcerned into the downpour. Hob takes it home, drunkenly thinking of- what, hanging on to it for him? When he wakes in the morning, his window is open, and the hat is gone. Even though his- the Stranger had been in here, he hadn’t broken their hundred-years meetings contract: Hob hadn’t stirred from sleep even once that night.

Ultimately, after hearing the man-creature speak with reverence of the prized garment, ever-changing yet always undeniably the same object as his “Sister’s coat”, Hob’s mind settles on one idea : selkie.

They have a reputation for passing their magical pelt along from one woman to another in the family line. Hob is not too troubled by this last detail, as regardless of what human folklore actually knows of selkies, there are already far more surprising matters in their relationship than his friend’s gender.

Come 2022, Dream has explained nothing but follows Hob back to Hob’s place and hangs up his coat.

Hob is deeply moved by the action as he knows how awful it would be for this immense source of power to be stolen. Dream agrees it would be a terrible thing for him to lose the item for being reunited with it brings him so much comfort and he cannot bear the thought of losing this essential part of himself again.

To Dream, it is indeed a gesture of immense trust after the torments he went through last century but not the one Hob thinks it is.

Dream knew his friend’s growing respect and even affection for the coat, he’d noticed and let Hob fold it. Out of sight, he admired the immense care put into gently shaping his belonging into a clean square before petting the fur that still carried the warmth of his body. He kept staring as Hob lifted the pelt to his face, against his closed eyelids and studied him breathing in the familiar smell of his Stranger.

Dream couldn’t help his surprise the day he was standing by the doorframe, wishing his friend a good night when Hob had helpfully straightened the pelt as it was directly laid over his shoulders. If gesture felt like a caress on his naked skin, Dream found out he didn’t mind it so much.

And if some times later Hob discovered Dream’s kisses felt of ocean salt, it turned out he didn’t it mind so much either.

[information]

[withoutyouimsaskia]

The Sandman Works Masterlist

Hello there! I figured it was about time that I made a comprehensive list of all my fics set in the world of The Sandman so here it goes ❤️

Remember Me, Special Dreams

Table of Contents and Playlist - Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Warnings: language, angst, mentions of graphic night terrors. Smut in later chapters.)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-∆-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sometimes It's Fated

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 Coming Soon

Self-insert. AFAB reader. Dark Morpheus. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark Morpheus, smut, possessive behaviour, voyeurism, dub con/non con.)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-∆-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

One Shots

Healed - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You hurt yourself at home and Morpheus tends to you. (Warnings: injury, blood.)

Fever Dream - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You develop a flu-like illness resulting in fever dreams. Morpheus helps you with the nightmares and cares for you. (Warnings: sickness, nightmares, physical intimacy.)

Decisions - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You and Morpheus are due to attend an Endless family gathering and you ask Morpheus for points on what to wear. (Warnings: physical intimacy, suggestive themes.)

Low - Angst/comfort. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus attempts to bring comfort to a dreamer who is managing depression, while in his cat form. (Warnings: angst, talk of depression.)

Autumn - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus has made you a dream based on one of your favourite things and you explore it together. (Warnings: physical intimacy.)

Don't Stop - Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up... (Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut.)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-∆-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

[punishandenslavesuckers]

Hob tries to be a very normal about the fact that the pretty silver ropes he once tied around the nightmare’s wrists… appear to be rooted like weeds directly into the Corinthian’s spine. One tethered at the center of each rune. They stretch like pale tendon from the tattoos down his back to form the rope loops around his arms.

A friend from the discord shared this art and I immediately wrote a fucked up fic about how binding spells manifest for a mostly metaphysical being. Normal about it. They are kind enough to let me share with y’all. Enjoy the art and the fic. AO3 Link

[merry-moody-missy]

Hob Gadling been living it up at a Fae Ball with Dream last night….?

[rriavian]

Major spoiler warning for the end of The Sandman comics below. Please scroll if you haven't read that far or just if you'd like to avoid them. I've tried to make sure I've tagged properly but just wanted to add an additional warning.

Ok so a while ago @two-hands-toward-the-sun made a post about Daniel Hall and Calliope meeting after he becomes Dream, and it made me curious so I started thinking about what that would be like. Below is the resulting ficlet :)

-

There was a question to be asked when Calliope arrived.

The Furies attack had made its mark, scars left on a realm whole but still healing. Despite that she found the Dreaming felt unchanged; still ever shifting, a constancy in how it reflected every Dreamer, in how it reflected Dream.

That same quality carried, that sense of the new in the old, observed when Calliope met Dream of the Endless in his palace and found him at once so recognisable and yet so very unfamiliar. She found it in hair as white as she knew it had been once before, as she knew it had been so very long ago, Calliope found it in eyes that had never been green but had always been starlit. This was the same sky, just as likely to turn black, currently content to match shades with the emerald hanging around a pale neck, its gold chain glimmering against the now white clothes. It made the pain somewhat easier to feel, made the loss somewhat clearer too, the cut cleaner.

Perhaps it would never heal but the wound wasn’t ragged.

Calliope smiled. “What would you like me to call you?”

For the first time he smiled too.

It was a fine thing for that to be the first thing she witnessed, the first discovery she made of him. Calliope had not seen it on this face—younger, so similar and yet not that at all—watched and learnt the way these features softened and found it lovely. 

“Daniel.” He said; still Dream’s voice, low and soft, not quite like hearing a ghost though, not when the voice of a dream had always been so much more than what was left by the dead. “I chose it.”

There was pride in that.

A child’s. Not immature, just fresh, untainted. Calliope's smile widened even as tears began to well in her eyes. “Very well then Daniel.”

“You may also call me Dream.” He added. 

Calliope nodded. “It’s who you are.”

Another smile.

“It is.”

-

Calliope had been invited.

She found herself curious as to why now.

“What has made things different?” Calliope asked, knowing she was here for more than to attend a funeral. “Morpheus was never ready, you are all he was…”

Daniel waited once she trailed off.

He stood silent while confirming that Calliope wasn’t going to continue. It was only then that Dream picked up the thread Calliope had dropped, it was only then that he revealed that he'd caught it as it fell. “You wish to know what I gained?”

It wasn’t a surprise that he’d untangled her question so effortlessly.

Calliope found that remained just as unsettling as Dream’s perception could so often be. Precise in the way a scalpel was; it cut out only what was needed, went as deep as was required by the wound, cut expertly but it still cut. He was right. Calliope did wish to know what he’d gained, though until he’d said that she’d not been sure it was the right word, the right definition. Daniel Hall had been human. Morpheus had always been Endless.

Calliope didn’t know what to think of the amalgamation of that.

Perhaps she never would, but she could still use a perception all her own to try and find both sides of its coin. “Yes, what you gained…and what you lost.”

“I…” Dream paused but didn't stumble, paused not to find the words but to feel them. “I lost them both. I gained them both. We joined and so became new.”

“Changed.”

“Yes.” He shrugged, so simple a motion for so large a truth. “What is that for one such as me? What can it be. To change is to die, and to die is to change.”

“Our son died.” Calliope said quietly.

“I know.” Daniel said. “I know what that is now.”

“I don’t.” Calliope admitted, her own simple statement for far too large a truth. “Not like a mortal does. How can I mourn when—“

Daniel took her hand. “You can mourn with me.”

Oh.

He was kind, wasn’t he?

So very kind, just like her Oneiros had been. Daniel was dark like him too; sharp, resplendent in it, somehow refreshed like a mortal was after a long sleep, less worn and weary in a world the same as when they'd closed their eyes. The nightmare in him reborn too, as it should be, that cruel aspect rejuvenated because it had never been a wound to cast out. Calliope had never needed to find Dream in the darkness, had never forgot enough of him to try, had known no hand was needed to pull him out of what might be dark but would always be him.

The full spectrum of what a dream was; Dream was as soft as he was sharp, the hand that now held Calliope's was as cold as the action was warm, Dream was cruel—

He was kind.

“It takes time, doesn’t it? For us.” Calliope said quietly, part of her always standing two thousand years away. “How long can grief last when one lives forever.”

Daniel considered that for a moment, heard its threat, its hope. “Perhaps even grief must die.”

“Must change?”

He smiled, this time a little impish, a mischievousness familiar and utterly unique. “Indeed.”

Calliope sighed. “I do not think mine can change the way yours did.”

“No.”

“I suppose that is true for humans too.” Calliope continued, then tested specifics, tested going as far down another thread as she could and wondering if he might once again pick it up. “For other parents. Other mothers.”

Calliope didn't trail off this time, dropped the thread all the same, deliberate and—

It changed hands.

“I have lost a son,” Dream said, his eyes as green as the place where the Bacchante had torn Orpheus apart, as green as the forest that had continued growing nonetheless. “And I have been a son who is lost. I have been taken and I have been taken from. I know what hurts you, Calliope the muse, and I would mourn with you if you’d allow me.”

“You lost a mother.” Calliope realised; breathed it like an ode, where grief expressed the fullest, felt an answer resonate as what could only be given as poetry.

“I am Daniel.” He said, somehow agreed, somehow refuted too, both acknowledged what grief that was and what it couldn’t be. His pause was what lay between stanzas, what inspired the next one to begin. “But I am not Daniel Hall.”

Oh Dream. 

A baby had died—oh that hurt, the thought of Orpheus dead like that, the thought of him having so little time—a mother grieving what could never, ever come back. They had spoken of loss, of Morpheus, of Daniel, because there were really two deaths in this one life. A new pain in that to match what else was gained. Refreshed Dream may be but there was always a burden to bear, always one to carry. That was life, was dreams and nightmares, was balance and perhaps it was restricting to call that a caveat. It was neutrality perhaps, a scale that could tip both ways.

It wasn’t failure that made this hurt.

Calliope nodded. “Then perhaps we can mourn him too?”

Perhaps Dream had tested the dropping of a thread this time. Daniel stilled, looked at her searchingly; eyes now black and aglow with stars, the wonder of looking up at the sky, the wonder of looking down at the earth. They shared that between them. Calliope found herself remembering Orpheus—a child asking to stay up late, an adult asking if she’d like to meet his future wife—remembered a searching look that said I need to be sure.

That said do you really mean it?’

She’d never seen it in Dream, found it now. This fragile sort of wondering, this want revealed as if he’d not yet thought he’d be given the gift. 

As if he’d not known he’d be granted the right. 

Dream nodded at last. 

“Yes.”

[xx-vergil-xx]

excerpt from hounds, ch. 48

an old pov returns :) and you will get no more context outta me than that

wanted to offer something, in lieu of posting just yet — progress is not steady but somehow still quite productive? i’ll write three chapters in as many days and then simply Lapse (c’est la vie — i do best bouncing between projects, so it sort of works) anyways, all things being equal, should be on track for my self-imposed january completion :) much love to all of you <3

[writing-for-life]

A Collection of My Metas, Fics and Art that Feature the Women of The Sandman

I love the women of the Sandman. I write about them quite frequently, post art about them, write my fics from a female viewpoint (I’m mainly an OC writer though, but I have one-shots and poetry about canon characters).

So since we’ve been talking about them a lot over the past few days, here are all their tags (they contain both official and fanart, and every meta that features them enough for me to tag them), and all my metas, fics and poetry in which they are the main protagonist/character or at least strong focus.

I have posted art for literally all of the women in the Sandman and also written about most of them in one way or another, and you can find the ones that are missing here via my Sandman Tag Library (usually the ones that maybe haven’t been mentioned with a lot of depth or separate artwork). I think it’s normal and fair that we gravitate more towards some characters than others for personal reasons. It’s just the complete erasure of women that often gets to me.

I want to do more, but like every writer and curator, the disinterest in the women of the Sandman is often a bit discouraging. I haven’t given up hope we can change that…

Here they are, in alphabetical order:

Alianora

Dreams of Light (poem)

Alianora’s tag

Barbie

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Barbie’s tag

Calliope

Lupē (short fic, Morpheus x Calliope)

Mother (haiku)

Calliope and Dream (meta)

Calliope’s tag

Chantal

Chantal’s tag

Death

He Hears the Sound of Her Wings: Death as Solace (meta)

Death’s Wedjat Eye: Deeper Symbolism or Random? (meta)

Touching Death or: Why Dream is Not Simply Touch-Starved in The Sound of Her Wings (meta)

Oblivion is not an option—A musical meta about “A kind word and a friendly face” (meta)

All the Endless are buckling under the weight of their functions (David Hitchcock art meta)

Ode to Death (poem)

Requiem (poem)

Comfort (haiku)

Sigil (haiku)

Wings (haiku)

Death’s tag

Delirium/Delight

A sacred garden: Death and Delight (Michael Zulli art meta)

Delirium’s tag

Despair

Despair’s tag

Ethel

Ethel’s tag

Eve

Eve’s tag

The Fates

The Fates’ tag

Foxglove (Donna)

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Donna’s tag

Gault

The Mother Wound (meta)

Gault’s tag

Gwen

Hob Gadling’s Involvement in the Slave Trade or: The Fallacy of Racial Reconciliation (meta)

Gwen’s tag

Hazel

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Hazel’s tag

Hope

The Sandman Overture and Exiles: Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit—Everything Changes, Nothing Is Truly Lost (Not Even Hope) (meta)

Only Hope calls you out like that (meta)

Hope’s tag

Ishtar

Ishtar’s tag

Johanna

Thessaly, Johanna and a weird meta about musical motifs (meta)

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Johanna’s tag

Killalla

Killalla’s tag

Lucienne

If it is implied Lucien is Adam, what does that make Lucienne? (meta)

Lucienne’s tag

Lyta

Aftermath (poem)

Mother (haiku)

Lyta’s tag

Mazikeen

Mazikeen’s tag

Nada

“Tales in the Sand” in Context of “The Doll’s House” (meta)

Where the Blood Fell, Red Flowers Grew (meta)

Tales in the Sand—Did we find the women’s story? (meta)

God Forbid a Woman Do Anything (haiku)

Nada’s tag

Night

The Mother Wound (meta)

Night’s tag

Nuala

Nuala’s tag

Rachel

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Rachel’s tag

Rose

Rose’s tag

Rosemary

Rosemary‘s tag

Thessaly

Thessaly in the context of second and third wave feminism (meta)

Thessaly’s tag

Titania

Titania’s tag

Unity

Unity’s tag

Wanda

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Wanda’s tag

Zelda

Zelda’s tag

[cosmictapestry]

laity

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Hello, Mr. Monster (Five. Sidhe)

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader

Masterlist The Nightmare's Interlude

Chapter Tracks: "Milk and Honey" by Delain, "Lacrymosa" by Mozart

18+/TRIGGER WARNING: Kidnapping, involuntary drug use, involuntary body modification, cutting (not self-harm), vague threat of SA/brainwashing

A/N: I LIVE!!! Thank you all for your patience. The story is jumping into a new arc!

Don't miss the bonus interlude chapter I posted! Linked above.

5: Sidhe

“Be careful on the road.”

Aisling’s ears rang with Fay’s parting words.

The fairie always treated the end of the season with a little too much gravitas, but this time she looked at Aisling like she could physically see danger growing over her. Brambles breaking through the asphalt or boulders crushing the van.

“Know something I don’t?” she’d asked.

“I know you find trouble, and trouble finds you. I know the world is trying to settle back into an old order, and it’s the hour of chaos and hungry hands. I know you’re alone, and the road is dangerous.”

Now, many hours and miles away, the conversation replayed on an endless loop in her head.

It haunted her. From the moment the words dropped from Fay’s lips, they settled around Aisling’s neck like a loadstone. They became a tale still furled in a fiddlehead, a glimpse of wyrd lurking in the road ahead, and she’d run off without a real destination in mind. Never a great plan. Even less so with this warning tossed in her lap like a dead fish. It stank of prophecy, and the age-old fight-or-flight response kicked in. There was nothing to fight, so she fled the entire concept of fate, driving in a vaguely New York direction.

A little distance helped. It gave her space to breathe. To think.

The wind combed tangles into her hair and some of the fear from her thoughts.

When she spied a rest area with lots of trees and very few guests, she pulled off the highway.

She sat in the van, cross-legged on the floor with the windows and sliding door open, letting the breeze cleanse the space. Well. All but one window open. Plastic sheeting rustled over the window the Not Deer shattered. Someday she might have money to repair it properly, but it wasn’t a priority.

There was so much to work through.

She meditated, looking inside, listening for the tidal rumble of raw intuition. The cards danced between her hands as she relaxed against the border of the unknown, trusting instinct over logic until fold, after fold, after fold she knew she had the right order. A three-card read. Quick, efficient.

No time for nuance on the road.

She turned the first card and found the Ace of Cups in the past position. The very recent past, she would guess. It practically sang the Dream King’s name. The Ace of Cups celebrated creativity, awakenings, and new feelings – new loves.

Heat crawled up her neck as the reading conjured memories in her skin. The touch of his hands. His mouth. His voice. The ash of the stars he teased to explode still drifted across her mind, sparking new life in places she’d been sure it would never grow. It made her curious. It made her wonder what else he could do if she let him. It made her wonder what she could do to him.

Forcefully shaking off the goosebumps creeping down her arms, she refocused. She wasn’t asleep. And daydreams could be dangerous. There would be more than enough time to explore all that after dark.

The Moon marked her present. It had as many meanings as the moon had phases, most of them based on changeability and shifts in course. But only one – intuition – felt right. It looked back at her through the card, acknowledging her as she sat open to it, listening and feeling, like meeting her own eyes in a mirror.

Finally, her touch drifted to the future. Her breath stuttered. The eight of swords appeared in her hand, and she set it down quickly, fumbling, like it could bite her. If paper and ink could bite, it just might. The card of prisoners. It thrummed with warnings: imprisonment, helplessness, restriction, and malice. It jarred with the other two cards, unlinked from the common thread of her choices.

Fay was right.

Something was coming for her.

The breeze nudged the eight of swords, canting it off-center on her altar cloth. She imagined she could taste the threat in the air, fate cinching tight as she shadows of the future loomed over her rising hope.

Her palm settled over her chest, following a familiar pattern around an old ache.

It couldn’t be her monster. She refused to believe it. Not after his sweetness in the dark, not after his reassurances and promises. She simply didn’t want to imagine he’d snare her, strip away her agency as easily as he plucked away her anxieties.

That choice remained hers, and she chose hope for once. It’d been too long since she had anything to believe in but herself, and the whisper of that promise was addicting.

Caw Caw!

Jolted out of her spiraling thoughts, her eyes flicked from cards, to van, to the world outside, moving between the distant highway to the overhanging trees. Eventually, they fell on the feathered thing waiting right outside the open sliding door.

A bird that wasn’t a bird.

A dream.

Her eyelashes flickered over her vision as she tried to understand what she saw. Dreams were all gone from the waking. Her eyes never lied.

Hadn’t they all been called back?

It cocked its head, looking her right in the eye. She blinked, slowly, and it caught itself, looking to the side and pecking aimlessly at the barren parking lot, like it could fool her.

Something high in her chest fluttered. She couldn’t say if it was nerves or joy. But she didn’t recognize this dream.

“Who are you?”

It froze. Looked back at her. Spitting out a pebble it had valiantly pretended to be a bug, it croaked.

It was definitely new, at least to the waking world, and that made her intolerably curious.

“I can see you.” She let the words spin out slowly, amused and patient.

If it stayed, they were having a fucking conversation, and she didn’t imagine it came all the way from the Dreaming to play make-believe with cracked fragments of asphalt.

“Uh.” It cleared its throat. Not all dreams could speak, but the voice suited him, and she was glad they wouldn’t need to play charades to understand each other. Black feathers puffed up with half-raised wings as it hunted for the right thing to say. “I’m Matthew. Are you – are you okay?”

She glanced down at the cards, then back at the faux raven. Starting a new relationship with a lie felt wrong, but she couldn’t explain the intimate dread and trust she felt for the bird’s maker in that moment.

“Mostly. Maybe. I don’t know you. Are you… new? What are you doing here?”

She wasn’t accusing it of anything. Her worry for herself redirected into concern for the little creature risking her monster’s wrath. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of her. A trite desire, but a desperate need a fleet of childhood therapists hadn’t managed to shake.

The dream ducked, looking side-to-side for eavesdroppers, and hopped just a little closer. She leaned over her cards, closing the distance, humoring its covert antics. It must not be very familiar with the waking world if it thought strangers who saw a woman talking to a bird would see anything but a hippie on a bad trip.

With a flapping burst, he landed on the edge of the van’s floor.

“The boss sent me,” he said, still glancing around warily. “You know. Dream. Your… whatever the two of you are.”

A fair description, really. ‘Soulmates’ was too much. They weren’t exactly friends, and lovers sent uncomfortable heat rushing into her face.

Let the dream thing be confused. That made two of them.

“So, er, what’re you doing?” He twitched to study the cards with one beady eye, and she caught a glimpse of swords reflected in the convex mirror of his gaze.

She swept up the spread, folding it into a fresh shuffle, like she could tuck away the danger before it infected her new little friend.

“Reading.”

“Ever heard of books?”

Oh, so the little dream was actually a little shit? That worked. As a little shit herself, she approved of scamps on principle. Even if they insulted her talents.

“Not that kind of reading.”

The dream scoffed. “Those things really work?”

Funny, such cynicism coming from a talking bird. Seemed like bad manners to call him on it, though, so she shrugged. “Depends on what you’re trying to do with them.”

“Tell the future?”

All too well. “Sometimes.”

That caught him off balance, and he physically shifted from foot to foot, nails tapping on the floor as he found it again. She took pity on him.

“Why did your boss send you?”

“Just, you know, to keep an eye on things.”

She raised her eyebrows, easily folding the cards into new configurations without looking down, and the dream cleared his throat.

“Can’t really speak for the boss and all, but it’s a dangerous world out here, and he thinks too much about that. Sometimes. I’m guessing.”

The cards felt right, and she let them settle into a neat stack in one palm, waiting to be cut and dealt.

“Are you spying on me, Matthew?”

He croaked in naked offense. Or because she’d caught him out. “No.”

“Babysitting then.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

Setting the deck on the altar cloth, she propped her chin on her fist. elbow balanced on her knee, and stared the bird down.

“I might.”

Sighing so hard his feathered shoulders rose and fell, the bird looked down, muttering things under his breath she pretended not to hear.

“Have you ever had your fortune read?”

His attention snapped back to her, picking up the opportunity for mutual distraction.

“No. Do dreams have fortunes?”

“I assume so.” Since he didn’t have fingers, she dealt for him. Another simple three-card spread. She didn’t have energy for much else after an evening of drinking, a night of wildly vivid dreams, and the shock of her own reading. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”

“But you’ve done this before. For things like me.”

“Oh, yes.” She thought of long nights at the festival when she’d been too young to drink, sitting in the dark with dreams and nightmares as they came up with their own fun. She remembered the first time she’d found The Lovers in Fin’s fortune and how she’d hounded him for weeks after. “Many times.”

Less than a day and their absence itched like a phantom limb. So stupid. Months apart without problem, and now she felt entitled to mope after a few hours.

She hoped they were okay.

She hoped she’d be okay.

Matthew puzzled over his three cards, his claws sinking into the loose weave along the edge of the altar cloth as he inched closer. She’d turned all three over in one fell swoop because she wasn’t in the mood for dramatics, and sometimes fortunes were easier to explain as a whole.

The dream’s, however, didn’t make much sense at all.

Death. Two of Swords. Three of Cups.

What the fuck.

He seemed particularly interested in the first card, and she began her usual spiel. “Death isn’t always death. It can mean and end to a phase, transformation…”

“Oh, it means death,” the raven interrupted. “For sure. I died, like really recently. Then I became -” He flapped his wings, sending the cards askew. “This.”

Until recently, Aisling thought she knew an awful lot about dreams and nightmares. She thought herself an expert. But she had no idea a dream could be anything before it was, well, a dream. And Morpheus had power over the dead? More news. Less welcome. The hair along the back of her neck pricked up, and she rushed on with the reading – something simple, something she could make sense of.

“Well…” She straightened the card. “This represents your past.”

The raven bobbed, a bird-like motion attempting to imitate a human nod. “So far so accurate.” He gently pecked the second card, pushing it even further out of line. He and his fortune defied order. “What does this one mean?”

She didn’t bother straightening it. The illusion of control wouldn’t last. “Two of Swords. Means you find balance in opposing forces. You have a tendency to repeat your mistakes.” Struggling to hold down a blooming smirk, she added, "And you're talkative."

“Talkative? Psh. Does that sound like me?”

“I don’t know.” It absolutely did sound like him. “But you do seem like the type to make the same mistakes.”

“Rude.”

“Blame the cards.”

He croaked, probably cursing her out in bird.

“Sure. So, what about this last one? My future, right?”

The Three of Cups. “Good luck and abundance. Kindness and pleasure. All the good things, usually after solving a problem. Have any problems, Matthew?”

“Plenty.” He shook his head and swayed between feet, warming to the subject.

Once upon a time, tarot readers served as talk therapists. She had a feeling Matthew would make her a historical reenactor.

“You wouldn’t believe what’s happened in the past few days.” The bird gossiped like an old crow. But that was good. No one told her anything, and this would be a nice change of pace, so she settled in to listen, happy to let the little dream spin her a yarn. “There was this woman – I guess that’s not too strange – but anyway, there was a ruby, and this man tried to change the world, but the boss stopped him, and we went to Hell before that. And I’d just met the boss, and that Constantine woman –”

Wait.

“Constantine?” She abandoned her relaxed position, leaning in to question the bird. “You’ve met Constantine?”

“You mean you’ve met her, too? Small world, right?” Matthew cleared his throat, cawing.

“She’s an old friend. She… warned me…”

Of course. That was how Johanna knew her monster was back on the scene. But she didn’t understand what her monster might want with the occultist. Was it her fault? Was it coincidence? Not that those happened very often, but a girl could hope.

“How did you meet Constantine?” Fuck. She should probably text her back, just to make sure she was still alive. “Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s fine.” He croaked again. “Promise. Anyway…”

A redirection and a half right there.

“Are you not supposed to tell me?”

“Honestly?” He fluttered, spreading his wings like an open-armed shrug. “I have no idea. I’ve never done something like this before. I’ve only been a raven for, like, a week. I used to have rent, and a job, and fingers. If you’re looking for answers, I’m really not the bird to ask.”

Of course. Answers never came easily. She had to work for them, earn them like minimum wage – enough to keep her on the cusp of a breakdown without quitting entirely.

“I don’t suppose you could point me towards the right bird?”

“Can’t you just, you know, ask the boss?”

She glanced down, brushing a wrinkle out of the altar cloth where the dream and the breeze had disturbed it.

“I don’t know.”

Silence sat between them like a wriggling slug. Ugly, awkward. Neither wanted to touch it as it grew. She had a whole life to explain, and as a dream, he understood things she’d never grasp. Neither knew what to tell the other, or what might get the other in trouble with the elephant in the room.

The longer the silence grew, the more she wondered why her monster sent a minder. Maybe he’d foreseen the threat in her cards. Or maybe he wanted to slowly exert control over her waking life until he held perfect sway over her hours in any world. A bloodless war with an easy victory.

No. She physically shook the thought away.

No, she wouldn’t think that. Nope.

Maybe he was… concerned. She didn’t know if he felt fear, but if he did, he might have the usual long-distance relationship woes. Anything could happen when they weren’t together, and how would he even know until she failed to appear in a dream?

She liked that idea better, the myth of the anxious boyfriend who texted a little too often in an effort to feel closer across the borders he couldn’t erase, so she chose to believe it.

“Can you tell me about him?” she asked. “Your boss?”

“Listen, lady –”

“Aisling.”

“Right.” He softened, just a touch, and his empathy shone through their mutual frustration. “Aisling. I’m new new, if you catch my drift. I know about as much as you do.” Twitching to peer around the inside of her van, he strung together ideas until he had a mouthful of sentences to trade. “He’s a lot, but I’ve seen him be kind when he didn’t have to be. He’s scary powerful, but even when he wasn’t, he was proud. He’s a king, I guess. More than that, but that’s what I know.”

When he wasn’t powerful? She couldn’t imagine him as anything else. Fuck, did she want to ask, but she didn’t want to get the bird in trouble.

“I’ll try…” She swallowed around her misgivings. “Asking him sometime.”

“If it helps,” the dream bounced two steps closer, “I think he’d like that.”

She was out of things to pick at, and her smile fluttered awkwardly through her emotional kaleidoscope.

“You hungry? I’m starving.” Creeping around the bird and the spread cards, she escaped the van. “I need to wash up, and I’ll see if the vending machines are shit.”

“I never turn down junk food,” Matthew said, suddenly and deeply serious. “I miss human food. Rats aren’t bad – when you’re a raven – but I’d murder for a basket of fries.”

“Chips do?”

“You’re a saint.”

Patting her pocket to check for her wallet, she started the hike across the empty parking spaces towards the rest area. “And you have low standards, pheasant.”

“Raven!” he shouted after her, but she ignored him, hands in her pockets as she swaggered away.

The women’s was blissfully empty.

She had lots of time to splash cold water on her face and stare into the mirror. She let the water run, listening to the gathering echoes trickle and crash around the tiled space. Wasteful. She didn’t care.

She needed the noise, the wordless crush on her senses keeping her grounded as the warning, the reading, and the raven cycled through her thoughts.

And beneath all that, a girlish curiosity she struggled to accept.

Her monster played her well. She found herself wanting to fall asleep just so she could dream of him again, to see if he’d answer questions, if he’d touch her, if he’d let her touch him back.

But she didn’t quite trust it. Things only went well when they were about to go very, very badly, and until she knew which direction danger came from, she’d stay on guard. Hopeful or otherwise.

She drew her knuckle over her upper lip, thinking, and dry skin snagged. It wasn’t painful, but she couldn’t help comparing the texture to the palm she’d studied in the Dreaming, and an uncomfortable sense of her mortality prickled through her thoughts. Like the way people noticed their tongues and pooling saliva after someone pointed them out.

Something as simple as the weather damaged her. Air turned too humid or too arid made her flesh crack and peel.

She thought of the silken hands ghosting through her dreams, untouched by eons of labor, and her rough, human finger passed back over her mouth. How could she compare to an Endless? She made a poor match, and she knew it. Too weak. Too fragile. Too young, even. And age wouldn’t make her any worthier.

How could he stand to touch her when she’d crumble so easily?

She squeezed the edge of the sink, feeling too much of herself.

It wasn't fair to assume she knew his thoughts. It wasn't fair to assume he knew hers. But the ugly feeling to too many - varied - doubts curdled in her stomach, and she wondered if she'd ever have the strength to voice these kinds of insecurities.

A pity party would just make her more disgusted with herself, and she shoved away from the sink, pacing over the dirty tile, down the row of stalls and sinks.

She needed to calm down and get the raven a snack. No hysterics. No blubbering. She could contain herself, and everyone would be fine.

She looked up, face to face with her own reflection again.

Had that mirror always been there? Intuition prickled under her thoughts, drawing her attention to the details she’d failed to notice when she entered.

She counted the sinks. Seven. Seven sinks with matching mirrors and one long looking glass at the end of the line, tall and wide as a person, a surprisingly thoughtful investment in the utilitarian rest stop.

It wasn’t the strangest thing she’d seen, but she couldn’t recall the blur of motion her reflection should’ve made in her periphery when she marched in. Not the biggest thing. Nothing too alarming. Not even out of the ordinary really. But traps never were.

Fairy circles disappeared in tall grass and fallen leaves. Helpful goods and little treasures always appeared just where someone might’ve dropped them. The mirror was a little too clean compared to the others. Maybe it just didn't get splashed with soap and water from the sinks like the rest, but she wasn’t willing to risk it.

She didn’t like that mirror.

It rubbed her the wrong way, and she started moving towards the exit before she finished her thought.

One, two, three steps. Rubber soles squeaking on cement painted green as she moved towards her world of sunlight and dreams and rest stop vending machine snacks.

The long fluorescent light closest to the exit blinked. She stopped, and it went out. The next light buzzed, popped, and sparked as it died, and she took a step back.

She couldn't see anything approaching, but fuck if she didn't know her horror movies, and something was playing with her.

The third light winked out like a snuffed candle. Backing up, refusing to look away, just in case, she tried to stay out of the growing shadows. It was close to noon. Why did it feel so dark?

The fourth light. The fifth.

By the time the seventh flickered and died, she'd gone to the far end of the sinks, and as her hand pressed back against cool glass, she realized it wasn't a horror movie.

It was just another trap.

She made it all of one step away before long, wisened fingers coated in crumbling moss seized her upper arms and yanked.

The mirror dragged over her skin like mercury taffy, sticky with an aftertaste of poison. Shiny and wrong beyond her powers of description, it clung to her eyelashes and stuck to her skin as the hand in her hair dragged her through, away, and back – back - back into darkness. She struggled, writhing and shouting as her nails pried at the offending grip. But her fingers didn’t meet skin. Bark and lichen flaked off, crumbling over her cheeks as the gnarled spriggan hissed over her.

“Stay still, little prize. Wandering soulmate. Stay still!” It had a shrill, groaning voice. Wind shrieking in the creaking trees. Rot and new life in the same breath, rich with the age of soil. “Take you down. Take you back. Make you a pretty, pretty bride!”

Aisling did not stay still. She snarled, trying to escape through the light ahead, but the spriggan took her by the jaw and hauled her away into the crushing dark. It lunged headfirst into a tunnel too small to really fit them and chittered away, grinding its captive against the wall as it went.

Choking, trying to keep the fae from popping her head off her spine, she kicked along, catching breaths as she could. The spriggan’s many free hands pulled them along, and each handhold pulled earth loose from the sides. It fell in Aisling’s face, clogging her nose and eyes. Little beetles and worms fell, too.

Roots stinking of grave dirt caught in her hair, scratched her skin, but the grip on her neck locked her screams in her chest.

Her heart thundered.

Fingernails snapped as she tried protecting her face from the unforgiving path, still wrestling against the spriggan’s hold. Tears of shock and pain leaked out, mixing into mud over her cheeks. Her thoughts faded under the onslaught, melting into a tumble of sensation and abject horror.

They moved faster than they should. Magic warped the natural world and tugged them through adjoining planes. Aisling lost all track of up, down, or the way back to the mirror. The roots grew with their progress, and the spriggan cackled, so wildly pleased it didn’t notice how the fragile human in its grip struggled to breathe.

The world flipped, and she landed hard on a dirt floor, half-pinned under her kidnapper's bulk. Still holding her by the neck, the unseelie tugged her through a growing crowd of things with claws, wings, and half-grown faces, moving towards something she couldn't see. Black bars threatened the edges of her uncanny vision, and she grasped after her fading rage as her legs spasmed, tangling in the spriggan's trailing cloak. Terror choked her as much as the grip on her throat.

Oh, hell.

Matthew was still waiting for her to come back with a bag of chips.

Fuck.

Losing control, losing consciousness, she realized: she really was going to die this time.

Maybe that was better than whatever the unseelie planned, but she didn't want it. She wanted to struggle a little longer, find a way to steal a kiss from her masked monster, maybe. Sit in the sun. Let Constantine know the occultist hadn't lost another friend.

'You are killing our prize, spriggan."

Dropped, she crashed face-first into the dirt, coughing more than breathing as her ears rang. The whole scene felt a step removed, like she was wandering a dream or watching through fog. But that wasn't right. Magic bitter as wormwood coated her throat, and she curled into herself, feigning a fetal position as she reached for the long, iron nail hidden in the sole of her shoe. Her broken nails grated over the head, the blood leaving the metal slick as she tried to tug it free. Heavy feet approached - goblin guards ready to haul her off again.

She wouldn't roll over that easy.

The nail came free just as the bigger of the two guards reached for her, and she stabbed it in his hand. Green blood spattered over the dirt, and the beast howled in anguish. As it fell back, the other lunged, the nearby crowd taking notice.

Iron made friends of all fae. Even the natural enemies in the unseelie court. Like she'd shouted "Fire!" in a crowded theater, everyone had two reactions: run, or put it out.

Stabbing and waving her poisonous weapon, she whirled in a circle, looking for an escape, a passage, light, anything. But everywhere she glanced, she found more eyes and bared teeth.

They mobbed her. Many hands took her arm, grabbed her hair by the roots, and clambered onto her back. More and more joined the fray until they had her spread prone. A redcap took the nail with a long pair of silver tongs, nearly tearing the skin off one of her fingers to break her grip, and darted away, eager to separate weapon and wielder.

"Get its mouth open."

Clawed fingers pushed between her lips. They forced her jaw wide and slid filthy flesh, scales, and fur past her teeth, cutting into her gums, cheeks, tongue. Heat pricked in her eyes at the helpless pain as a tall unseelie with hair like moonlight over pond scum approached with a stoppered amber bottle.

Screaming, twisting, she tried again to save herself. Maybe, worlds away, the dream bird would hear. Or his master. Johanna, Fin, anyone. But the fae uncorked the bottle, and he poured it neatly into her open mouth.

"Let it swallow."

The hands all disappeared from her face, but they kept her anchored to the floor, prepared for another fit, another hidden weapon. She reflexively swallowed a mouthful of blood and potion to keep from choking, coughing desperately to clear the drops she'd aspirated.

Salt, iron, and elder berries.

“Gently now.” Taloned fingers massaged her throat, ensuring the draught went down. “Isn’t this better?”

She groaned through clenched teeth, pushing against the poisonous lethargy freezing her from the inside out, against the forbidding chill stripping away her agency but not her awareness. Inch by inch, she lost the war, and hand by hand the creatures restraining her let go.

The potion didn’t put her to sleep. She had no opportunity to escape into dreams. It only allowed breath and tears as she turned into a limp rag doll for the unseelie to manipulate like the hollow, powerless thing they believed all humans to be. They didn't need her to rest. They only needed her to be quiet.

Satisfied, the tall unseelie nodded to someone she couldn't turn her head to see. "Prepare it."

They carried her into more tunnels, broader than before, more than wide enough for them to march through without scraping the sides. A team of monsters handled her, murmuring ideas and instructions as they moved into a room echoing with running spring water.

Roots tangled overhead, and she watched them pass like waves, imagining they were the ones really moving as the unseelie court swallowed her up.

The terror swallowed her, too.

Trapped in her own body, she reached for disassociation as hooked claws and stone knives sawed through her clothes. Oblivion, however, floated out of reach as panic chained her to the bare stone they laid her over, left her drowning in every prod and poke as her handlers discussed how to improve on the fragile human flesh she hated a few minutes ago. She'd do anything to keep it.

They bared her to the frigid air, and she couldn't even shiver. Couldn't shout, or swear, or save herself.

The spring water was bright cold. Lights popped in her eyes as the first splash washed over her belly. Chill translated into pain, something too sharp to be liquid, even though she felt it rolling down her sides. Her captors cleaned her, scrubbing and muttering and pulling her hair as they combed it out. Her discomfort and fear simply didn't matter in a place where she had no voice. No choice. They tutted over her scars - a lifetime of chasing nightmares and living on the road patterned in bites, slices, and other imperfections.

"These are old," one unseelie muttered, tracing a fingertip rough as gravel along the Not Deer's old fang marks in her shoulder. "I can only smooth away fresh."

"Then make them fresh," another suggested. "Nothing else for it."

They took a knife to her, skinning her history by inches, peeling stories, tearing fascia, and baring muscle. The blade cut out the imperfections, erasing the glossy moon on her knee where she tripped on the playground as a child. It erased every line and mark loved ones would use to identify her body, leaving her naked and new in strange and terrible ways.

She watched them throw pieces of her into the corner. Hiding at the edge of the dim light, a spider the size of a small dog plucked them up like table scraps, jaws clicking just above the wet sound of the knife.

Butchered alive, her mind filled with static, rattling with captive screams and pleas. If she lived, she would not escape unscathed. This was killing something. This was changing her in ways that couldn't be undone, and she didn't want it. Someone had to make them stop before she couldn't recognize herself.

Warm blood soothed her goosebumps, and one of the voices sighed as her skin regrew.

"We'll have to wash it again."

More freezing water. More pain. She kept still as they worked, and her sanity squealed like glass under pressure. On the verge of shattering.

One began spreading a smooth, white cream up her arm, working it into the new skin. When the unseelie found Aisling watching, it smiled. "Ground pearls and unicorn horn, so you'll glow for the Dream King."

It explained like she'd be happy, like she wanted to be a pretty bride delivered in chains. If her stomach was still under her control, she would've thrown up.

Magical ingredients like anything off a unicorn would not come off in the next bath. More permanent changes worked into her flesh for her monster's sake. She would be more beautiful and less herself.

What she wouldn't give to spit in the unseelie's face. Or curse her monster's name. Anything. Instead, they worked the potion from head to toe, and the fuckers looked damned pleased with their results, assuming her gratitude as their rightful due.

Dozens of spiders crept from the corners, and the unseelie set to work on her hair and face as a thousand little legs tickled over her limp body. She wasn't wildly arachnophobic, but she'd jump and shout if a spider crawled up her arm. Now countless spiders wandered her naked body, and she couldn't shake them off. Instinct demanded she try, but she was as helpless under the spiders as she was under the knife. After a few moments of blind horror, she realized they were moving in patterns, leaving lines of silk they built into a gauze-lace dress over the next hour. She closed her eyes, desperate for even that much of an escape, and the unseelie painted her lids and lips to their satisfaction. Their concoctions smelled like roses and mercury.

When the spiders finished, the unseelie stepped back and sighed.

"Ready."

A troop of gnomes carrying some kind of box rushed in, and the unseelie handlers pulled back the box's front curtain, revealing something between an animal carrier and a royal litter.

"It's time to deliver you to the Dreaming, little bride."

They packed her inside, careful not to ruin their good work, and the curtain fell. She counted the walls. Seven. All the same soft white fabric shot through with silver threads. A pretty box for a pretty bride.

And her first hint of privacy. Alone, without unwanted hands, spider legs, and the sight of her own blood on the floor to distract her, her thoughts gathered behind the scrim of dread. She felt her heart beating in her chest, not just the hollow echo in her ribs. Her fingers tingled, begging to move, and one curled as the box rose, swaying on low shoulders down the labyrinthine tunnels of the unseelie court. It wasn't enough to save herself, but it was more than she had an hour ago.

She didn't witness the journey. She measured the time in twitching muscles and waking limbs, counting breaths instead of minutes. They moved between worlds, but all she cared about was the distance between her consciousness and any control over her hands. She wanted to pull open the curtained wall, and slowly, slowly she pushed her hand towards the edge of the screened box. A lifetime measured in millimeters. And just when her nails scratched the fabric, the box shifted, and she rolled back to her original position. Foiled by gravity. Of all damn things. A laugh brushed with madness fluttered around in her chest, caught like a bug in a net, and she wondered what kind of potion would give it life and get it out. She needed it exorcised. If she started laughing, she'd start crying, too.

The box must be enchanted, because she didn't hear anything outside it. The unseelie made lots of noise, and if they brought her to the Dreaming in any kind of official capacity, they'd have to announce themselves. She heard fuck all. She hadn't even heard the gnomes' feet marching towards her doom. Her soft prison kept her safe and stupid as they took her away.

When the front curtain pulled back, all she knew was she was somewhere else, somewhere with light and color, without the wormy, wet smell of the underground court. Two unseelie women reached inside, taking her wilting arms and guiding her to rise much more elegantly than she could've managed on her own. She was surprised her legs worked at all, but they must've timed this carefully.

She still wanted to bite them and run. But when she couldn't really keep on her feet without their support, that was impossible. She could watch. She could wait. She still didn't have a choice.

A weak little bride who couldn't fight back but didn't lounge like a slug in her cage - a lovely, tidy gift.

The unseelie with the pond scum hair swept up, taking her hand as the two attendants stepped back. She wanted to bite him most of all, and almost like he could sense her plans to draw blood - fuck the cost - he took her by the chin and faced her towards something much worse.

They stood at the foot of an impossible staircase in a room too grand for a ceiling. A cosmos moved overhead, catching the graceful statues along the columns between daylight and starlight. The steps curled through the air to the foot of a throne, a seat for a king, set above the receiving hall where lesser creatures stood and begged. Sunlight cut into dazzling colors through arcing stained glass windows backlit the monarch's place, on high. Beautiful. Breath-taking.

Yet it was the king's face that froze her heart.

She knew many things about Dream of the Endless. The King of Dreams and Nightmares. Lord Morpheus. Since she was a child, she'd been told he was cold and capricious, particularly with his lovers. That he was possessive and vengeful. If he was a good king to one he was an awful tyrant to someone else.

He was dangerous.

She knew he touched her gently and had a voice darker and deeper than the spaces between the stars, but she hadn't known until she stood a prisoner at his feet that she knew his face.

When she saw the beautiful entity trapped in the dead wizard's basement, she knew he was powerful. She freed him anyway. Her intuition led her to him, and she gave him exactly what he needed.

Her chest filled with lead. Heavy. Crushing. Pulling her down in the unseelie's grip. His hand tightened on her arm, and he refused to release her jaw, forcing her head back so the Dream King could see the fae's good work.

The Endless looked down on them all, starry eyes burning through her cobweb dress. Terrible and aloof.

Feeling drowned her reason, and she picked fragments of thought out of the swamp with shaking hands.

Why?

Why not show his face when she'd already seen it? It didn't make sense if he'd been honest with her. Was he that hungry for a little more power in their dynamic? Had he played a game, amusing himself with the dumb little mortal wyrd had already trapped in his name?

The unseelie, she realized, was speaking. He'd probably been talking since before they pulled her out of the gossamer prison.

"...one of our own. We've brought it - her - to atone for that one's error and ensured she is as fair and flawless as a mortal might be made. We cannot undo the sins of the first, but we have made a better gift of her in the end."

The creature made her humanity something fetid. She was not even as good as a dog, because her free will pushed her to snap back. But she'd been made fair, and what else could a mighty Endless desire from such a lowly thing, marked or not?

And Morpheus listened. He sat still as stone and let the fae hold her up for his inspection. She thought very carefully of every promise he'd ever made, and in this new light, she quickly found the gaps in his word.

She'd been such a fool to trust him.

A deep breath lifted her shoulders, the biggest voluntary motion she'd enjoyed since they drugged her, but she struggled to breathe. The air just wouldn't stick. Fuck. Fuck it hurt.

What an idiot.

What a romantic little idiot who had every warning and swallowed the poison anyway. It was written clearly on the label, but it looked right and it felt right so she ignored her mind and followed her gut, and look what that earned her. Belly pain and tears. They rolled hot and ugly down her face, creeping over the unseelie's hand, sinking into his skin.

He tutted. Releasing her arm, he reached into umber robes, confident in his hold on her face. Her jaw ached under the pressure.

"We understand you prefer... willing partners." The unseelie pulled out a white and purple flower for the king to see, and her blood ran cold.

She thought she'd been heartbroken before. She thought she'd been frightened. This was worse than anything she could've imagined, and she finally remembered to struggle. Sinking her nails into the creature's wrist, she tried to pull his hand off her face, but his hold was sturdier than the roots of a centuries old oak. Chances were, she'd drop the second he released her, but she'd rather eat pavement than be anywhere near the simple pansy flower.

"Love-in-idleness will woo her to your hand in a heartbeat."

It really would, too. A few drops of its nectar in her eyes, and she'd forget she was anything other than madly in love with the first face she saw. Her power to consent would evaporate as the spell took hold, and she'd be her monster's happy little fool for the rest of her life.

"No." Her voice joined the fight, and breathless as it sounded, it still carried through the chamber. Her monster must hear it, up on his throne, watching someone else manage the breaking of his new pet on his behalf.

She'd curse him with this. He'd hear her denial whenever he reached for her. She'd infect him with it, let it creep under his skin until he couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror. Maybe. Hopefully. If he ever cared the way he said he did.

She chanted her refusals through grit teeth as the unseelie lifted the flower. As much as she wanted to hurt Morpheus, her fear drove her actions. She begged, pleaded, using every scrap of her meager strength to just get away.

"Stop. Don't. No." When did her voice become so small? "Please don't." Panicking, scrambling to escape the unseelie and his curse, she fixed her eyes on the blossom's purple streaks. Folklore said it used to be pure white until Cupid shot it with one of his arrows. She'd be the opposite. It would bleed her mind white, a placid death in life.

"Stop."

Her words. His voice.

The command froze the scene. Every unseelie. Every mote of dust hanging in multi-color sunbeams. The hand on her face went from oak to rock, and she trembled, fighting to breathe as she dared glancing away from the damned flower to the entity on the throne. Her lead heart forgot how to beat.

Dream of the Endless glared down, hands curled into fists. Had his eyes always been so bright? Fury burned like the sun, a cutting light sweeping across the gathering, wrathful and inescapable as the end of day, as the coming of dreams. They dazzled her through the scrim of tears, and she teetered on the cusp of hope.

The unseelie, after several long, painful moments, cleared his throat. "Lord?"

"Do you think it a challenge for me to find any sleeping mortal, mauled by your kind or whole?" His voice rumbled with the threat of an earthquake. Or a flood. Something old and deep that crushed civilizations without effort or consideration. A natural consequence of assuming control over something beyond even the idea of command. Ancient. Endless.

The unseelie hesitated.

She waited, too, frightened to trust again so quickly. She fought to breathe, to reason out what was happening. If he'd order that fucking plant burned in Hell, she'd feel a lot better.

"N-no, Lord Morpheus."

The Dream King rose, and every member of the unseelie delegation took a step back. Caught in the leader's grasp, she stumbled with them, clinging and whimpering as she tried to find strength to stand on her own and wrestle free.

"Did you think I'd rejoice to see one so intimately linked to my fate dragged to my throne against her will?"

The sun faded from behind the stained glass, and shadows curled out from between the columns like living things. They didn't obey the light, and they twisted hungrily on the verge of attack.

The unseelie's grip shifted. A sharp nail pressed into the side of her throat, and long fingers circled her neck. Rather than showcasing her to the side, the envoy swung her forward to block the king's ire. A literal human shield.

It was a bad idea to threaten a king in his own palace. Even discreetly.

"You are guests in my realm, and therefore protected by the laws." His eyes blazed, and a warning pulled his voice so low she could feel it in her spine, reverberating through the realm. "But if you do not release Aisling Hunt to my hospitality - safe and well - you will have harmed another guest, and your protection shall be revoked."

He didn't negotiate. He simply explained. And the unseelie holding her knew it.

"We had always intended to leave her in your care," he whined.

"Do you wish to leave my realm alive?"

The unseelie stuttered, and a cruel sliver of a smirk ghosted over the pale king's face.

"But if you'd rather stay - Well."

The unseelie considered, flexing his grip. He'd come on a mission, and it had gone poorly. The Dream King was not grateful, and now the fae had to decide if it was safer to keep his shield or flee. A moment's thought. And he shoved her forward, hard. She landed hard on her knees, yelping at the impact, and the unseelie moved out of the chamber in a rush of half-hearted apologies.

Murmurs and footsteps faded, a distant argument breaking out like a clap of thunder. She flinched, still on hands and knees, trapped in a spiral of breaths that wouldn't come fast enough and shaking limbs that couldn't fully support her.

The flower was gone. The unseelie were gone. But she wasn't alone. Wasn't safe. And the sticky spiderweb lace plucked on her nerves without keeping her warm, so she shuddered on the hard, stone floor and gasped as she stared down at her strangely pretty hands with their unicorn treatment, and -

She was not.

Not on the floor. Not on her knees.

With Morpheus.

He seized her, caught her up close with fingers that hooked into her shoulders like talons. The world seemed to quake, but maybe that was only the chest beneath her cheek and the arms around her back. She didn’t see him change shape or size, but his presence swelled, thick and biting like ozone as he pulled her so deep into his embrace she couldn’t see his splendid throne, or the retreating unseelie, or anything beyond him.

Was this better? Was this safe? She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't trust him. Her ribs crowded her lungs, and her breathing fluttered, never drawing a full inhale or exhale, only pulling enough oxygen to keep her lightheaded, broken hearted, and awake.

"Sir?"

He dragged her deeper, long fingers gathering her by the handful to pull inside his shadows. At least, it felt that way. He might not break and bend her like the unseelie, but she had no doubt he could consume her, swallow her up until she blinked in the dark like a little star.

"Sir."

"What is it, Lucienne?" His rough, begrudging question flooded her senses, and her fingers spasmed where they dangled at her sides.

"Sir, she is not well."

She couldn't see the speaker, but they weren't wrong. Aisling felt very unwell. She hurt, and she ached, and she was worried something was irreparably broken, but she couldn't remember its name. She spun in eddies of failing thoughts, struggling to follow the basic conversation.

"I know." Sorrow, frustration, and darkness there.

But the stranger outside Morpheus's embrace remained undaunted, insistent. "Sir, she cannot breathe."

A cool hand cradled the side of her face, summoning her to meet his radiant eyes. A frightening place to be - in his hand, under his gaze - made worse by the fact she didn't know whether or not it was the perfect escape or some fresh hell.

His thumb rolled down the tear tracks, memorizing them by touch, teaching himself the shape of her pain. The face he denied her was very, very near, but she couldn't read it. Couldn't plumb the depths of whatever he tried to express.

"You must breathe."

It didn't sound like an order. He nearly whispered the three words, a private request for her ears alone. A plea. And she wanted to. She wanted to thank him for asking by filling her lungs, relaxing in his arms, and assuring him everything was fine. But she couldn't, and she didn't, and it wasn't. Another tear broke loose from the pools gathered over her lower lashes and rolled over his thumb, washing him in the agony he tried to explore.

"I have you now." He spoke like a song, the cadence pulling around her mind, soft and sweet as a lullaby, and she wondered if he was consciously trying to charm her. Any other time, she'd welcome it, but she couldn't find her courage, or her attraction. All she felt was small. Frightened. Vulnerable and nearly naked in the arms of a creature she didn't trust.

She couldn't decide to calm herself. Panic stopped being a choice several hours back, and as her body woke up, it demanded the reactions the unseelie potion refused it. Her shaking was her answer. She had nothing to give his searching eyes. Words were human and she stood there as a mess of fears and silent prayers tangled in a web of nerves.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to her third eye.

"Let me help you."

Tensing, expecting more magic or power to crush over her mind, she felt him brush her subconscious. He waited there, at the gates, and the part of her that understood him best accepted his hand. Guiding her from the frightful awareness of her own body, her monster sheltered her in a softer darkness, wrapping her in the blurred sensations of a peaceful rest.

Sleep.

She blinked, and slumped, and he gathered her up. As she faded, she saw him: the worlds beyond the face, and the smooth white skin of a being she was on the verge of loving without understanding.

Fuck.

She was still a fool, and his arms seemed like the safest place in all the world.

A very good place to fall.

Asleep.

[zzoomacroom]

Rain Is Coming Down, but the Clouds Will Surely Pass (Chapter 5)

✨✨✨✨✨

Dreamling, Retired Dream, Multi-chapter, Mpreg, Fluff, Smut, Angst

(Start from chapter 1 here)

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 5/12 (~6700 words)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional tags: Retired Dream, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Trans Dream, Fluff, Smut, Angst

✨✨✨✨✨

Chapter 5: 26 Weeks

Today they have a rendezvous with Death.

Hob goes through his mental checklist: he’s put the kettle on and washed the nice cups—the ones for company—and the apple crumble he nabbed from the pub is warming in the oven. He fiddles with the charcuterie board he’s cobbled together, rearranging the cheeses, grapes, and little dishes of olives for the dozenth time this afternoon. He stands back to survey his work, then checks his watch. Almost time. It’ll have to do.

He’s got nothing to be nervous about, really. He’s always happy to see his sister-in-law, despite his aversion to her function, and he knows there’s no need to try and impress her (not that he’s put together a particularly impressive spread, although he hopes it comes across at least somewhat classy). Whatever news or offers she may have regarding their child’s mortality, she’ll let them know regardless of which cup her tea is served in. Even so, his stomach has been roiling all day, and he suspects the prickles of sweat on the back of his neck can’t be blamed on the fact that he’s got the oven on in this suffocating August heat.

He triple-checks that he flicked the kettle on and wipes his damp palms on a tea towel before making his way down the hall. He breathes a sigh of relief at the immediate drop in temperature as he steps into their newly air-conditioned bedroom, where he’s greeted with the sight of his husband frowning at the full-length mirror and fussing with the hem of his shirt. Hob meets his eyes in the reflection as he settles behind him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Morpheus is wearing all black today, he notices. Hob isn’t sure what to make of that, or if there’s anything to make of it at all. It’s not his old uniform of skinny jeans, dramatic coat, and Doc Martens, but he still cuts a striking figure in his soft black joggers and flowy tunic accented with abstract splashes of gold and silver.

“Hey there, handsome,” Hob smiles. “All set?”

(Continue reading below or on ao3)

Morpheus gulps and nods. “Yes. I believe so.”

He’s looking more than a bit peaky, and under any other circumstances Hob would suggest they cancel their plans, even at the risk of suffering the wrathful pout Morpheus would no doubt inflict upon him for daring to presume any weakness in his constitution. But this is important, and they’ve already put it off long enough. This will be Morpheus’ first time seeing his sister since last Christmas; Death keeps a very busy schedule, and Morpheus has been reluctant to call on her for reasons that Hob mostly understands, though he may not fully agree with all of them.

“It’s going to be fine, love. I know it will,” Hob says, stroking and cradling his husband’s belly in an attempt to reassure them both. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together, eh?”

Morpheus nods again, sighs resolutely, and shuffles to the chest of drawers where he keeps his makeshift “gallery,” which consists of an ornate antique jewelry box filled with an array of trinkets they picked up at a flea market. The whole thing is adorable, in Hob’s opinion. There’s a tiny leather-bound notebook, a silver ankh pendant, a tarnished gold heart-shaped locket that neither of them ever managed to open, a single earring with a stylized fish hook, and a large glass marble swirled with a psychedelic rainbow of clashing day-glo colors. No need for Dream’s sigil (where would they even find anything like it?) as Morpheus is a natural lucid dreamer and could easily contact Daniel if he ever needed to. Not that he often calls on any of them, but Hob knows that he feels more secure having the option.

Morpheus removes the ankh from the box and sets it on top of the chest of drawers, staring intently at it as he drums his fingers on the wooden surface. Not quite ready then, evidently. Hob stills his restless fingers by taking his hand—he’s shaking, poor darling—and wrapping him in a hug, gently rocking them from side to side.

He may try to hide it, but it’s obvious to Hob that Morpheus is a nervous wreck. His morning sickness has lasted well into the afternoon, and he’s been hovering restlessly around the flat all day—fidgeting, tidying this and rearranging that, checking his hair every ten minutes, and so on. He’s afraid. Hob empathizes; they’re finally getting an answer to the question that’s been hanging over them for months. What if it’s not the answer they want to hear?

But besides that, Morpheus is apparently worried that Death will scold him or generally disapprove of his recent life choices. It’s quite sweet, really, the way he holds his sister in such high esteem. And it’s understandable; Death is absolutely lovely—when he finally met her for the first time, Hob had been pleasantly surprised to find that he liked her right away. Even more shockingly, she liked him too, despite all the things he’s said about her over the years. He’d felt like a right tit apologizing for calling her stupid, but she’d only laughed and told him he had been forgiven the moment he made her brother smile.

So Hob doesn’t quite share his husband’s fear; he can’t imagine that Death will be anything but happy for them. Morpheus firmly believes he’s done some great wrong just by living his bloody life—the same life his sister enthusiastically bestowed on him specifically so he could finally live after countless lonely, miserable eons of being slowly crushed under the weight of his duties. It’s like—what’s that thing his students are always saying? Like he’s trying to get a good grade in being human, something that’s both normal to want and possible to achieve.

It doesn’t matter whether or not Morpheus’ fear is rational, though. Either way, it’s clearly eating him up inside; he’s so tense, the muscles in his back taut and rigid, unwilling to be soothed as Hob runs his hands up and down his spine. “I can’t do this,” he mumbles into Hob’s neck.

“Oh, sweetheart. You can. I know you can,” Hob whispers, bringing one hand up to the back of his head and caressing his silken hair. “My strong, brave, beautiful husband. You’ve got this, dove.”

Hob pulls back just enough to give Morpheus the most encouraging smile he can muster, although it’s probably not all that convincing. Even if he’s not anticipating a dressing-down from Death, Hob can’t help but be a bit wary of her. As much as he likes Death the Person, his distaste for Death the Actual Thing is so deeply ingrained as to be instinctual, and he’s always a little on edge before her visits. And then there’s that thought he’s been trying in vain to bury for the past four months, clawing its way to the surface once more.

What if the baby is mortal? What if they have to bury another child someday?

Well. They’ll find out, won’t they? Better to rip the band-aid off now. Hob presses himself against his husband and breathes deeply, encouraging him to do the same. “Breathe with me, love. That’s it. I’ve got you, darling. Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”

Morpheus heaves a shuddering breath before extricating himself from Hob’s embrace and picking up the ankh again. “Sister,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving. “I hold your sigil—”

His invocation is interrupted by a deafening whoosh of wind followed by a flurry of wings, like a bevy of doves startled into sudden flight.

“I’m here!” a cheery voice calls out from the sitting room.

Morpheus gives Hob a pleading look, and Hob strokes his trembling shoulders with sweaty palms. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, leaning in to kiss the deep furrow between his husband’s brows.

There’s a noise from behind them—a faint huff of laughter followed by a tiny “aww.” Hob turns to see a kind face surrounded by a profusion of sable curls peeking through the bedroom door.

“Will you lovebirds get out here?” Death grins, sighing in mock exasperation. “As adorable as this is, I’m afraid I haven’t got much time to spare.”

Hob feels his neck flushing with embarrassment, and Morpheus looks like a deer caught in the headlights after having just sucked on a lemon. He opens his mouth to rejoin, but before he can speak, a shrill beep sounds from down the hall.

“Ah. That’ll be the crumble,” Hob says sheepishly. “I’ll just go and fix the tea while you two get settled, yeah?” He squeezes his husband’s arm apologetically before heading towards the kitchen. On his way out the door, he ducks to give his sister-in-law a friendly peck on the cheek. “Good to see you again, love. How’ve you been?”

“A bit worried about my brother,” she replies. “But I see that he’s in good hands.” She turns to Morpheus, beaming as she takes his hands in her own and surveys him up and down. “Look at you! I hardly recognize you, little brother,” she coos. “You look so…”

“Pregnant?” Morpheus deadpans.

“Alive!” she laughs, putting an arm around his back and herding him towards the sitting room. “Human! You look great, Morpheus. You really do.” Morpheus scoffs, but does not hold back the small, pleased smile that creeps onto his face as he lets his sister drag him to the sofa.

Most of Hob's worry drains away at Death's enthusiastic reaction, bleeding out of him like the inky clouds seeping into steaming water as he makes the tea. He hopes his husband is feeling the same. Morpheus rarely talks about it, but Hob knows he still feels awful about Orpheus, and about Daniel and Lyta, and a thousand other things. And he thinks his sister is going to tell him he’s wrong for starting a new family after all that. Hob gets it, he really does. He often wonders what Eleanor and Robyn would say if they could see him now. Would they be hurt that he’s “replacing” them? Would they hate him? And what would they say about all the other cruel, horrific, unforgivable things he’s done? Someone like him probably shouldn’t have a family at all…

He exhales heavily, shaking his head as he loads up a tray with their tea and nibbles. Now is not the time to go down that road.

He walks into the sitting room just in time to see Death giving her brother a playful punch to the arm before pulling him in for a hug. “...No, you idiot! Of course I’m happy for you! And it’s obvious you’re happy, so stop moping, will you?” she huffs, clutching his narrow shoulders tightly.

“Thank you, my sister,” Morpheus mutters bashfully. “As usual, your words are a balm to my conscience.”

Hob can only stand in the doorway, grinning and shrieking internally at how cute they are. His anxiety dissipates further at seeing his husband so obviously relieved; just as he suspected, Morpheus had no need to worry about any judgment on Death’s part. Hob is so caught up in witnessing this rare display of Endless sibling affection that he momentarily forgets the reason for his sister-in-law’s visit and the very real possibility that she may have bad news for them.

He ambles over to the sofa, only spilling a few drops of tea as he sets the tray on the coffee table. “Tea and a bite to eat, if anyone’s interested,” Hob announces, furtively scanning the room to be sure he didn’t miss any of Morpheus’ risqué artwork when he tidied up earlier. Fortunately, the only paintings visible are perfectly inoffensive sunsets and still lifes, and Hob feels slightly more at ease as he nestles into his husband’s side. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Morpheus melts into him, the knots in his shoulders unwinding as Hob slings his arm around him.

“Thank you, Hob. This looks lovely,” Death says, taking her tea and a generous portion of the crumble. “So,” she continues after taking a bite, glancing between them with a ‘let’s get down to brass tacks’ expression on her face. Right, this is it, Hob thinks, tightening his grip on his husband’s shoulder. “Are you having a baby shower?”

“Er…” Hob begins, just as Morpheus splutters and nearly chokes on his tea. Not what either of them expected her to say, evidently. “We hadn’t planned on it,” he says dimly, looking at his husband and finding him equally nonplussed.

“But you have to have one!” Death insists. “It’s been ages since you’ve seen the rest of the family, and they’re all excited about their new niece or nephew. Del’s been beside herself. Literally; you know how she gets. And everyone in the Dreaming—”

“Sister,” Morpheus interrupts, rolling his eyes in amusement, “I do not think that will be necessary.”

“It’s sweet, but we really don’t need any more baby stuff,” Hob chimes in, hoping to rescue his husband from the mortifying ordeal of spending time with family. While it sounds like quite a nice idea to Hob, he knows Morpheus has been less keen than ever on socializing lately (which is saying something; it’s getting to be concerning, really). “Suze—er, friend of ours, think you met her at the Christmas party—anyway, she’s given us loads of things her grandkids have outgrown. We’ve already got more than we know what to do with.”

“Nonsense,” Death asserts. “I’ll talk to Lucienne about it. I’d throw it in my realm, but it doesn’t exactly have the right atmosphere for a baby shower, you know? I’m sure Daniel won’t mind us having a little get-together in the Dreaming.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this,” Morpheus says wearily.

“Nope!” his sister replies brightly.

“Very well,” Morpheus grumbles, looking resigned as he nibbles a morsel of Gouda. “As long as you promise it will indeed be only a ‘little get-together.’”

“Of course! Just the family and inner circle; forty, fifty people tops.”

Morpheus groans dramatically and throws his head back against the cushions, and Hob can’t hold back his snort of laughter. It’s absurdly endearing, the way they act like a pair of perfectly normal human siblings; anyone else witnessing this conversation would never guess that one’s an all-powerful cosmic being and the other used to be just as cosmic and all-powerful.

“Well, I think it sounds wonderful. Thanks, D,” Hob says, earning him a betrayed glare from his husband. Hob shrugs and smiles ruefully at him. It would do Morpheus good to get out of the flat, although if the party’s in the Dreaming they technically won’t be leaving their bed—which, come to think of it, might actually convince him to go along with it. And it would be rude to reject the offer, especially when their child’s future might be hanging in the balance. Speaking of which, Hob is eager to get that conversation over with, but he’s not sure how exactly he should broach the subject. “So, er…”

“You want to know if the baby will be denied my gift,” Death says gently.

Morpheus stiffens in Hob’s embrace. Hob gulps. “Yeah, well, we’ve er. Been wondering, is all. Will—I mean, should the baby be immortal? Don’t imagine there’s much precedent for this sort of thing, is there?” he chuckles, tugging nervously at his ear.

“You’d be surprised,” she smirks. “How about this: the baby will grow up normally, the same as any other human child, and they’ll have my protection until they’re old enough to decide what they want. Then it will be up to them whether or not they want to live forever. They’ll get the same deal I’ve given the two of you unless they choose otherwise. And they may choose to be mortal; you’ll have to be prepared for that possibility.”

Hob lets out a shaky breath. Right. That seems fair. Death’s offer is simultaneously a load off his mind and a whole new source of worry. He can’t imagine any child of his would choose not to live forever, but he supposes it would only be right to give them the option. And at least now they can take solace in the fact that they know what to expect.

Hob takes his husband’s hand and meets his eyes, raising his eyebrows in silent query. Morpheus responds with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. All good, then.

“Thank you, sister. That is a generous offer, and a great comfort,” he pronounces.

“Yeah, that’s—that’s really good to hear,” Hob agrees. “Thank you, Death. Er, I don’t know how we can repay you, but—”

“Don’t be silly,” Death interjects with a wave of her hand. “You’re family. You don’t owe me anything. So. Now that that’s taken care of, tell me, how are you handling prenatal care? Have you been going to Eileithyia again?”

“Yes,” Morpheus says shortly, suddenly taciturn once more. He pops an olive into his mouth, apparently unwilling to elaborate further. It’s still an understandably sore subject, which Death is well aware of, and Hob feels a flash of mild irritation with his sister-in-law for bringing it up.

“She’s been coming to us, actually. Can’t beat the convenience,” Hob chimes in, awkwardly attempting to lighten the mood.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Death replies. “She’s the best there is—on Earth, anyway—and it’s good that you’re mending fences.”

Morpheus scowls at that but doesn’t dispute her words, and Hob squeezes his hand in a silent show of support. He’s glad, too, that his husband just happened to know the ideal person to help them with their medical dilemma, even if they weren’t on the best of terms to start with. Because of course he knows the actual Greek goddess of childbirth and midwifery, and of course there was bad blood between them.

“What do you mean we can’t ask her? She sounds perfect.”

For weeks now, Hob has been agonizing over finding a doctor with a halfway-decent bedside manner who can treat Morpheus and the baby under the radar without asking too many questions. Morpheus hasn’t been much help; if he had his way, they’d avoid that whole mess altogether and he’d lock himself in the bedroom to give birth alone, like a stray cat. So Hob has had his work cut out for him.

And now his husband is presenting him with the answer to all their problems, yet he’s saying they can’t go to her. There’s a story here, Hob’s sure of it, but he’s a little afraid to hear it. “What happened, dove?” he asks softly.

Morpheus sighs—a heavy, creaking thing like an ancient tree toppling over. “She delivered Orpheus,” he murmurs, so quietly that Hob can scarcely hear him over the muffled din of the crowd downstairs. “She is a lady-in-waiting to the Kindly Ones. And a sister of Calliope.”

Ah. Hob can see how that would complicate things. Still, he’s been racking his brain trying to come up with a better solution and consistently coming up blank. “I understand, darling, but are you sure—”

"There is more,” Morpheus interrupts, staring down at his lap. “She—I… sent a dream to her. A portent of things to come. Her son was to be offered up as a champion in battle. Sosipolis—the child—he… he was only a babe, still at his mother’s breast. I…” he trails off, his voice rough.

“Oh, love,” Hob whispers, taking his husband’s hand and intertwining their fingers.

“It was not my wish for him to die. You must understand,” Morpheus pleads, still not meeting Hob’s eyes, “visions of the future are on the border between dreams and Destiny. I was, in essence, only an unwitting messenger—less than that; I was… merely the paper on which the message was written. Nevertheless…”

“Sweetheart,” Hob says, bringing his hand to his husband’s chin and lifting it to look him in the eye, “I know I’m biased, but this sounds like another one of those stories where you blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. Like you said, you were only the messenger. Besides, she chose to do what the dream told her, so it sounds like that was on her.”

“She is a servant of the Fates. She would be a fool to ignore Destiny.”

“Well, then maybe she ought to have taken it up with him,” Hob replies, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. He’s only met Destiny once, and he didn’t much care for him. No sense of humor whatsoever on that one, and he apparently has a history of letting Morpheus take the blame for things that have little to do with him.

“Even so. I… could have been kinder to her.” Morpheus sighs and shakes his head. “When the battle began, the child was transformed into an enormous serpent, and the invaders fled in fear. The serpent survived, but… it was no longer Sosipolis. Not in any way that mattered. Eileithyia came to me then, grief-stricken and enraged. I took no responsibility for my part in her tragedy. Even the boon I offered her was a paltry consolation; I told her to kill the serpent, and her son’s soul would live on in the Dreaming. He would remain a child, and she would never again see him in the Waking World. It was not in my power to offer her more.”

Recognition dawns on Hob as he listens to Morpheus’ tale. He vaguely recalls reading this story in some mythology textbook or other—the bit about the boy turning into a serpent rings a bell, anyway—although at the time, of course, he’d had no idea of his then-stranger-now-husband’s role in the whole thing. It’s always a bit mind-boggling to hear about all the legends, historical events, and even celestial phenomena he’s been involved in, especially when Morpheus talks about them like they happened down the road last Tuesday. Hob is never quite sure what to say, and now is no different.

“Er, that… that just sounds like a tough situation all around, love. And it sounds like you tried to make the best of it; hell, I’d have taken you up on the offer if I were her,” Hob says, rubbing his thumb over his husband’s bony knuckles.

“She did not share your sentiments. She was insulted by the proposition, and she… she told me that she hoped I would know the same pain one day.” Morpheus sniffs and smirks bitterly, his lower lip trembling. “I suppose she ultimately got her wish. In her grief, she eventually killed the serpent. She took some comfort in the dreams of her son, but it was not the same. He was not as he should have been. He should have lived, he…��� his voice wobbles as he trails off, and Hob finds himself blinking back tears as he pulls him close, stroking up and down his back.

It doesn’t take a genius to see the parallels to Orpheus, and to Daniel. Hob thinks of Robyn, of the daughter who died before she could ever live, of the child he left behind and never knew. A tangled thread of grief and regret that winds through both of their lives, the same story cropping up again and again… It can’t go that way this time. He won’t let it.

“I’m so sorry, dove. You’re right, things didn’t turn out the way they should’ve. But you did your best. And I understand why you don’t want to ask her for help. We’ll find someone else, I promise.”

In the end, the best candidate Hob managed to find had been a veterinarian with a discreet side practice treating human patients. When he had brought it up to Morpheus, well… if looks could kill and Hob could die, he’d have been reduced to a pile of ash on the spot. He’d almost made a joke about the vet being perfect for his angry cat of a husband, but he didn’t fancy sleeping on the sofa for the next century, so he’d kept his mouth shut.

“I suppose,” Morpheus had conceded through gritted teeth, “I would be willing to speak to Eileithyia. If there is truly no better option.”

Contacting the goddess turned out to be fairly straightforward. Morpheus called on her in much the same way he would call one of his siblings, while holding a talisman that Hob didn’t recognize from the gallery—a small stone figurine that looked a bit like the Venus of Willendorf, apparently the same one he used when he was pregnant with Orpheus. Hob had found it touching that he’d kept it all this time, although Morpheus admitted he hadn’t actually held onto it and had retrieved it from his own dreams with some help from Lucienne. To Hob’s credit, he had only been slightly mystified at this pronouncement and made a mental note to remember that trick the next time he loses his keys.

Eileithyia—who now runs a small private practice in Thessaloniki for people going through difficult pregnancies—had graciously responded to Morpheus’ call and agreed to meet with them at the pub that weekend.

“I’m nervous. Are you nervous?” Hob asks, his leg bouncing involuntarily beneath the table. Not their usual table, but a booth in the back where they will, in theory, have a modicum of privacy.

“For the third time, yes,” Morpheus sighs beside him.

“Sorry, I’m just—”

“Don’t say nervous,” Morpheus snaps. He looks perfectly composed, his shoulders straight and his face that familiar old mask of aloof neutrality that had taken Hob centuries to crack, but Hob knows his husband would rather be literally anywhere else right now (including Hell, probably).

“Sorry,” Hob mutters, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Morpheus gently bumps Hob’s shoulder with his own, and Hob smiles and knocks their knees together in reply.

They sit there in silence for a few long, tense minutes. Hob sips his beer while Morpheus barely touches his lemonade. Hob has never been a particularly introspective bloke, but he’s been making a sincere effort to be better about that, which is exactly why he’s now frantically trying to calculate how he should behave around the literal goddess they’ll be meeting. What’s the right combination of deference, gratitude, and affected nonchalance to avoid embarrassing his husband and himself? He ought to be used to this sort of thing by now, but the giddy thrill of meeting divine beings in pubs never really wears off.

Before he can overthink it any further, a woman slides into the seat across from them. She’s beautiful, in a surprisingly down-to-earth way, and looks casually sophisticated in her long white blouse and loose-cut trousers. She looks like any other middle-aged woman, so much so that Hob is about to politely inform her that they’re actually saving that seat, when—

“Eileithyia,” Morpheus says. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oneiros,” she responds with a curt nod. “You look well.”

“Robert Gadling—er, call me Hob. We really appreciate you coming all this way,” Hob interjects, reaching his hand out before wondering, a split second too late, if Greek gods shake hands or if he looks like an arsehole right now. Fortunately, Eileithyia grasps his hand across the table and shakes it firmly while giving him an appraising look.

“A pleasure to meet you, Hob Gadling. You are the father, I presume?” she asks. Her voice is low and pleasantly accented, with an authoritative and decidedly maternal tone to it.

“Guilty as charged, ma’am,” Hob replies with an awkward laugh.

Suze appears and takes the goddess’ drink order (black coffee), cheerfully oblivious to the fact that she’s speaking to a millennia-old deity, and once she’s gone Eileithyia leans back in her seat, folding her arms on the table. She seems a very no-nonsense sort of person, with shrewd hazel eyes and salt-and-pepper hair swept back into an elegant bun. Nevertheless, her stern gaze is softened by laugh lines, and she actually reminds Hob a bit of his own mother, what little he remembers of her. Formidable, but kind.

Right now, she appears to be waiting for one of them to say something. She doesn’t exactly look happy to be here, but the fact that she was willing to come all the way from Greece must be a good sign, right? Even if she did magically teleport.

Hob clears his throat to begin making awkward small talk, but Morpheus speaks first. “Eileithyia. I… owe you an apology. I am. Sorry,” he says haltingly, like the words are being wrenched from him against his will.

Eileithyia raises her eyebrows. “I have never known you to apologize to anyone. It seems Calliope spoke truly. You have changed, Oneiros.”

Morpheus blanches at the mention of his ex-wife, but he nods and cracks a wry half-smile. “Indeed. I have experienced several significant changes as of late.”

Eileithyia’s face softens as her eyes drift down to Morpheus’ midsection, just barely beginning to swell, and Hob can’t hold back the proud grin that blooms on his face. It’s true—Morpheus has changed, for the better in Hob’s opinion. And he knows very well how hard it is for his husband to apologize; the man’s held grudges for billions of years, so this is big.

“Very well. Apology accepted,” the goddess declares. “In truth, I forgave you long ago. Besides,” she adds gently, “my feud was with Dream of the Endless, and you are no longer that.”

Morpheus’ shoulders sag, in relief or regret or maybe both. “I— thank you. That means… a great deal,” he murmurs.

“So, will you be able to help us, then?” Hob asks.

Eileithyia takes a long sip of coffee before answering. “My abilities are much diminished. There are fewer and fewer worshipers; my shrines have fallen into ruin. However, as long as there are those who pray for a safe pregnancy, I retain some of my power.” Hob nods as she speaks, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation, one that he fully understands and that doesn’t sound like a passage from Homer. “Regardless,” she shrugs, “I am also a certified midwife. I doubt there will be much need for divine intervention.”

“Well, even so, you’ve got at least one new acolyte,” Hob chuckles. “I’ll be lighting a candle every day, or… making an offering? Er, how does this work, exactly?”

“I also take cash,” she says, smiling for the first time since her arrival. “But only in euros. None of your funny English money.”

Hob bursts into surprised laughter. “Yeah, alright, we can do that,” he says, shaking his head in bemusement.

“You are sixteen and a half weeks along,” the goddess says, turning to Morpheus. “We’ll start with visits every four weeks. I will come to you; I imagine that will be simpler than you coming to Thessaloniki. You can accommodate a home birth?”

“I—Yes. That… that would be ideal,” Morpheus replies, looking rather nonplussed.

“Good. We will increase to bi-monthly visits in the third trimester. Possibly once a week if there are any complications, though I don’t sense anything now.” Eileithyia looks Morpheus up and down, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “It’s not twins. Do you want to know the sex?”

Hob gapes at her. “You can tell all that just from looking? And you say your powers are diminished?” The goddess simply smirks and shrugs in reply.

“We would prefer not to know the sex,” Morpheus says, and Hob nods in agreement. “Thank you, Eileithyia. Truly. I… I was not sure you would be willing to speak to me again.”

“I would not turn down an expecting parent in need,” Eileithyia assures him. “I am glad you called for me.”

“I’ve got to say, this is all just fantastic news. We’ve been tearing our hair out trying to find a doctor, so we’re really grateful for your help. What a relief, eh darling?” Hob beams, putting an arm around his husband’s shoulders.

Eileithyia surveys the both of them, her expression thawing into something tender and wistful. “Your man cares deeply for you, Oneiros. I am happy for you.”

Morpheus smiles—a full, broad smile that shows his teeth and lights up his whole face. “Yes,” he replies softly, tilting his head to face Hob. “He is a good man. I am lucky to have him.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Hob splutters, his face heating as he tugs at his ear with his free hand. “I’m the lucky one.”

They hammer out the finer details of the agreement, and Hob can feel his husband relaxing further with each question that’s answered. Apparently fathers are not typically welcome at appointments—something about sacred mysteries and arcane knowledge or some such—which Hob isn’t thrilled about, but they at least manage to talk Eileithyia into letting him be present at the birth.

After they’ve discussed and planned and finished their drinks, a muffled chime sounds from somewhere nearby. The goddess pulls a mobile phone from her pocket and frowns at it. “Ah. A patient is going into labor. I must be going.”

The two men thank her again and say their goodbyes, and as she turns to leave Morpheus calls out to her. “Eileithyia, I… If you speak to Calliope before I do, would you… give her my regards?”

Eileithyia nods and smiles warmly at him before vanishing into the crowd.

So everything worked out brilliantly after all, and Hob couldn’t be prouder of Morpheus for burying that two-thousand-year-old hatchet.

“Yeah, Eileithyia’s been a life-saver,” Hob says, nodding in agreement with his sister-in-law. “If it weren’t for her, we would’ve had to go with one of my, er… underground contacts. And they’re all either glorified drug dealers or so-called ‘doctors’ with questionable credentials whose usual gigs involve extracting bullets from mobsters. And of course anything through the NHS is out of the question.”

“Of course. Can’t have your secret getting out,” Death winks.

“Too right,” Hob agrees before downing the last of his tea. It’s a relief talking to someone who understands. “Only it’s a bit frustrating; not like we can tell any of our friends the real reason we’ve got a midwife making house calls instead of going to an obstetrician like normal people living in the 21st century. Suze keeps trying to talk us out of having a home birth. I think now she thinks we’re just artsy-granola-hippie types. What was it she was asking you the other day, darling?”

“She was impressing upon me the importance of vaccinating the baby,” Morpheus replies. “And reminding me that there is no shame in getting an epidural,” he adds with an endearingly perplexed frown, which only deepens as Death hides a snicker behind her teacup.

“And she’s certainly not wrong!” Hob says. “Still, better that we’ll be dealing with all that in the comfort of our own home. Speaking of the birth, wasn’t there something you wanted to ask your sister, dove?”

A tinge of pink appears on Morpheus’ cheekbones as Death leans forward, glancing between them expectantly. “Ah. Yes, I…” Morpheus begins, stumbling over his words. “Sister. Would you… be there? When the baby arrives?”

“It would be my honor, little brother,” she replies, her eyes shining. “Technically I’m present for every birth, but it’s lovely to be invited.” Morpheus nods, looking a little choked up himself, which naturally makes Hob’s eyes water too. “By the way,” Death continues, “are you planning on introducing the little one to mum and dad?”

Morpheus lets out a derisive bark of laughter. “No. No, I think not.”

“Probably for the best,” Death grins, shaking her head. “Oh, that reminds me, I was talking to Despair not too long ago, and she was saying…”

Hob quickly loses the thread of the conversation as the siblings discuss things that probably happened billions of years ago to people he’s never heard of. He simply watches the movements of his husband’s face, his brow gradually unfurrowing and his eyes creasing with laughter as he listens to his sister’s tales. He’s just so bloody beautiful, so extraordinary. Hob still can’t believe he’s his. He can’t believe he’s sitting here, in his flat, having tea with the former anthropomorphic personification of dreams and the current anthropomorphic personification of death, and they’re talking about literal stars that they know, and their midwife is a goddess, as is his husband’s ex, and…

And what is Hob, compared to all that? Just some bloke who became immortal by accident and knocked up someone so far out of his league they’re not even playing the same sport. The baby is going to be an incredible person, though. Hob is already sure of that. And then he’ll have two extraordinary people in his life, and he’ll still just be some doofus with nothing to offer.

His spiraling rumination is cut short as the two siblings erupt into laughter. Hob laughs along, even though he didn’t hear whatever was so funny. Still, it brings a genuine smile to his face to see Morpheus enjoying himself and looking so relaxed.

“Well,” Death sighs, stretching as she rises from her chair, “I’d better be on my way. Got another appointment nearby.”

“Oh! Wait, you’ve got to see the nursery before you leave,” Hob says, standing up with a groan and extending a hand to help Morpheus to his feet. “Mo’s mural is looking spectacular.”

“Next time. I promise,” she beams, pulling both men in for a hug. “It’s been wonderful to see you, brother. And you, Hob. I’m so happy for you both, really.”

“Thank you, my sister. For everything,” Morpheus murmurs.

Death kisses his temple and whispers something that draws a smile from Morpheus, then turns to Hob. “Take good care of him, Hob,” she says softly.

“I will,” Hob promises, nodding fervently. “Always.”

And then, with a blinding flash of blue light and a fluttering of wings, she’s gone.

Morpheus collapses back into the sofa cushions like his strings have been cut. He looks exhausted. Hob is right there with him. He settles back down beside his husband, gathering him into his lap as he begins to knead out the remaining tension in his shoulders. “Proud of you, love,” he whispers. “And hey, great news from your sister, eh? One less thing to stress about.”

“Mmm,” Morpheus purrs in agreement as he luxuriates in Hob’s touch. “Although I am not looking forward to this ‘baby shower’ of hers.”

“Party pooper,” Hob chuckles, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “It won’t be too bad. I’ll set an alarm, wake you up if it gets too painful.”

“I will hold you to that,” Morpheus replies.

“How are you feeling, darling? Time for a nap, do you think?”

Morpheus considers this as Hob continues to work out the knots in his neck. “No,” he says finally, “I feel. Restless. And I am craving chips.”

“Why don’t we head downstairs for a bite, then? Probably do us both good to get out and work off this leftover adrenaline.”

Hob is half expecting Morpheus to insist on staying here while Hob goes and fetches him some chips (a frequent occurrence in the Gadling household), but to his surprise, his husband nods. “Yes. I think I would like that,” Morpheus says, moving to stand up.

“Brilliant!” Hob exclaims, with a bit more gusto than he’d intended, as he hauls them both to their feet. He can’t help it; getting his husband to leave the flat feels like almost as big a victory as the positive news they’ve just received. “Shall we?” He holds his arm out in an exaggerated show of gentlemanliness, and Morpheus takes it with a roll of his eyes that belies the adoring grin on his face.

Hob has a spring in his step as they make their way down to the pub, arm in arm. There’s nothing, he thinks, that could spoil his good mood right now.

Well. Almost nothing.

✨✨✨✨✨

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, as well as kudos and comments on ao3 are always appreciated! 💗💗💗

[wanderingthroughsands]

VIII. If you don’t know where you are going…

Can you help me out, can you lend a hand? It’s safe to say that I’m stuck again Trapped between this life and the light I just can’t figure out how to make it right

– "Rain" by Creed

The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was the face of Dreamlord, mere inches away from my own. My ears rang, and my entire body felt helpless, limp, stripped of any ability to move. Lord Morpheus gripped my shoulders firmly, kneeling before me on the marble floor, his endless gaze piercing through me. As my thoughts slowly began to return, and the palace surroundings sharpened, I noticed something in his face… fatigue. His brows were furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. I felt his slow, deep breaths on my cheeks, and his strong hold on my arms, as though he wouldn’t allow me to collapse.

“Dreamlord,” I spoke weakly, letting our eyes meet. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer, just continued to gaze at me unflinchingly. With each passing second, my strength and awareness of what had happened returned, but I didn’t dare move even a fraction while he was so close to me. His grip loosened slightly, yet the intensity of his stare remained. His presence, nearer than ever before, awakened something new in me—something that nearly displaced the fear and anticipation I had long known.

“For a moment, I thought… I was certain… But you let me live. What happened?” I asked, almost in a whisper, afraid that careless words might disturb the extraordinary energy surrounding us.

“Something went wrong,” Dreamlord replied just as softly. “You weren’t supposed to feel that pain. Your power…”

“You didn’t take it from me?”

“My lord!”

Lucienne found us kneeling across from one another in the middle of the throne room, speaking in hushed tones, our closeness almost making us appear as one. At the sound of her voice, Dreamlord finally tore his gaze from mine and, standing, extended his hand to help me rise.

"Is everything all right?" Lucienne asked, concern in her voice as she stood beside me, facing Lord Morpheus. "Something happened in the Dreaming, my lord—something like a tremor, but it felt as if the very foundations of the realm were shaking."

"I attempted to extract a fragment of my Nightmare from Rebecca Surrey's existence, but..." He turned to the woman, and in the colorful light streaming through the stained glass windows, the exhaustion on his face was even more evident. "Her power would not submit to me. It attacked me."

"Attacked you...?" Lucienne's words faltered, and she cast a surprised glance in my direction. "Are you... unharmed, my lord?"

"That power..." Dreamlord continued, as if he hadn’t heard her question. "I cannot comprehend it, Lucienne. Even the Corinthian, my most perfected Nightmare, couldn’t fight me like that. It wanted to repel me, to wound me, without regard for the life of its bearer."

"How is that possible?" Lucienne's expression was already one of astonishment, yet somehow her brows rose even higher. "If Rebecca was born from the Nightmare..."

"...then why did she not yield to her creator, to Dream of the Endless? What have you done to preserve your power, Rebecca Surrey?" he turned his attention back to me, and once again, that familiar dark shadow settled over his sharp features.

"I..." I stammered as fear suddenly surged back into me, crashing like a wave. "I really, truly don’t know, Lord Morpheus."

"Mind that you are addressing King of the Dreaming, the Ruler of this realm, the Endless, Master of Dreams and Nightmares, of hope and of torment..." With each word, his voice, which could shake the very pillars of the universe, echoed more menacingly through the palace chamber. "I expect you to answer my question truthfully."

"I swear on my life," I said, remaining rooted to the spot, though every fiber of my being wanted to flee from the overwhelming force of his energy. "That I did nothing to defend my power. You know I was willing to give it up to you, Dreamlord."

We fell silent, locked in a gaze like predator and prey before the final battle. I could see the anger in his eyes, and he must have seen my fear, but surely he also saw my resolve. Like him, I couldn't understand why the power I had already resigned myself to losing refused to leave me. The attack on him had happened as if without my will, manifesting as pain in the deepest recesses of my being.

And Lord Morpheus, instead of continuing the fight, had spared me. He had spared me yet again.

"We must find out why Rebecca's power resists yours, my lord," Lucienne said cautiously after the silence had stretched on. "There is no record of her second parent in the Book of her history. If the Corinthian is indeed the father, as the traces he left suggest, perhaps he can help us understand..."

"I will not restore the Corinthian to the Dreaming, Lucienne," Dreamlord interrupted coldly. "He caused too much damage here and in the waking world."

Lucienne lowered her gaze for a moment.

"Then perhaps the fault lies with the Vortex?"

"The Vortex appeared years after Rebecca Surrey was born. And, like no Vortex before in millennia, it would not have been able to instill such power in a human child." He turned his gaze back to me, as if analyzing me from head to toe. I remained silent, waiting for him to pass his divine judgment, unaware of what might be brewing behind the unreadable facade of his face. "In recent times, I have presented you with many choices," he said at last. "You chose to surrender your power to me, yet I am unable to take it from you. You are something I cannot explain. And until I learn why your power opposed mine, I will have to keep you in my realm."

"Dreamlord," I responded, a surge of defiance rising within me at the cold, hollow look in his eyes. "You seek the truth about the origin of my power, and so do I. I would gladly help you in the search for answers... but you just cannot imprison me here."

The calm aura that surrounded him almost perpetually suddenly vanished. He stepped toward me, and as I lifted my gaze to meet his, he seemed larger and more powerful than ever before. Darkness enveloped his eyes, swallowed his features, and instead of the pale man I had once seen in the park just before the accident, I saw an infinite, dangerous night, slowly wrapping its tendrils around me.

He was no longer the person I had first encountered. He was the Endless. The Lord of the Dreaming. A being of unimaginable power.

"I have endured your defiance time and again, Rebecca Surrey," he spoke, his voice so deep and filled with rage that I felt it reverberate through my fingertips. "You dare to make demands of Dream of the Endless, and instead of destroying you the moment I found you, I try to fulfill them to save your fragile human life. So now, you will heed my demand."

"I wanted to give you my life," I whispered, struggling to catch my breath as my racing heart constricted my chest. "I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me."

"By defying me? Hiding within my Nightmares? Failing the purpose for which you were created?" He leaned in closer, and I stopped breathing altogether, staring into the dangerous darkness of the night he had become. "I know you could wake now and return to your world. But you won't do this. Not until I allow it. I need to hear it from you, Rebecca Surrey. I need you to promise that you will not leave the Dreaming until I give you permission."

I swallowed hard, fighting against the rising tide of fear. He was right, I actually could close my eyes and open them back in the waking world. I could slip away from the snares of the night that Lord Morpheus wove around me. I could leave him here, once more, and condemn myself to endless flight through Nightmares.

And yet...

"I promise not to leave, Dreamlord," I said quietly, my facial muscles tightening with each word. "Not until you give me permission."

The darkness vanished, and with it, so did Lord Morpheus. The throne room felt smaller, quieter as I finally took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to compose myself. Slowly, second by second, the colorful light from the stained-glass windows crept back into my awareness, and the thunderous pulse of blood in my ears began to fade. Only then did I also realize Lucienne was standing not far from me, silent and as unsettled as I was. My hands were still trembling as I wrapped them around my arms, trying to shake off the lingering chill within.

"Rebecca," Lucienne’s voice was gentle as she extended her hand toward me. "You can’t stay here. Come with me."

Lucienne led me to one of the deep, soft chairs in her library and allowed me to sit in silence for several minutes, while she busied herself organizing books. I watched her, first absentmindedly, then with increasing focus as she carefully sorted through the volumes and arranged them in neat rows on the vast wooden shelves. Her movements were steady, full of certainty and calm, as though she knew her library as intimately as a mother knows her child. Watching her soothed me, slowly dissolving the fear that had taken root in my chest.

And though she seemed absorbed in her task, I knew she was waiting for me to be ready to speak.

"Lucienne..." I finally began, and she immediately turned from her books to offer me a warm, kind look. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"Each of us in the Dreaming has been where you are now," she smiled and sat down in the chair opposite mine, her voice gentle and soothing. "Lord Morpheus has been the great ruler of this realm since the dawn of time. But since that very same dawn, he has never taken well to defiance."

"Matthew told me the exact same thing," I muttered, sinking deeper into my seat.

"I’ve served Lord Morpheus longer than you could ever imagine," Lucienne continued with a soft chuckle. "And more than anyone, I know that everything he does is for the safety and well-being of the Dreaming. Don’t judge him too harshly, Rebecca. From your first encounter, he has been trying to protect the life you hold so dear."

"I know," I sighed, though I couldn’t quite shake the edge of stubbornness in my voice.

"You are a bit alike, you and Lord Morpheus," she said, sounding amused. "He’s just as stubborn and just as unwilling to let others decide his fate. But trust me, if he didn’t care about your safety, he wouldn’t ask you to stay in his palace, where nothing can harm you."

"I don’t think it’s my safety that concerns Dreamlord so much," I replied, rolling my eyes, though Lucienne’s smile only grew warmer.

"Then why didn’t he fight back against your power when it attacked him?" she asked, her tone probing but kind. "You don’t trust him, and I can’t entirely blame you for that... but Lord Morpheus rarely cares for human life as much as he does for yours. Those emotions you just witnessed—they weren’t a sign of indifference. They were the opposite of that."

The opposite?

"Lucienne," I leaned slightly towards her, clasping my hands on my knees. "I want to help him understand why he can’t take my power. But here, in the Dreaming, I feel helpless. I made him a promise, and if I were to break it..." He would hate me—that’s what I intended to say, but the words just wouldn’t pass my lips.

"He will eventually turn to you for help, I’m sure of it," Lucienne said, drifting off into thought, as if a distant memory had resurfaced. "He must, if he wishes to reclaim the power you now possess. But for now, you should stay here, let your emotions settle, give yourself and Lord Morpheus some time."

"Time..." As she said it, a question suddenly sprang into my mind, and I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it sooner. "Lucienne, what about my world, the time that’s passing there? If I don’t wake by morning, and my mom sees me lying lifeless in bed..."

"You needn’t worry about that, Rebecca," she replied soothingly. "Months might pass here before a single night in your world comes to an end."

"She has nightmares about me not waking up. It’s been that way ever since the accident, the one that left me unconscious and started these journeys into the Dreaming. It’s always been just the two of us, her and me, so when she thought she might lose me back then..."

And as soon as I said it aloud, another thought instantly filled my head.

"It’s always been just the two of us," I continued, feeling excitement rise within me with each word. "Lucienne, your books lack any mention of my father, but my mother—she actually met him! Perhaps she remembers something, knows something we can’t discover on our own. Maybe staying here, in the Dreaming, would be a mistake after all. Maybe I should return to the waking world... and simply talk to my mom."