#the cuckoo the sandman

[writing-for-life]

The Portrayal of Womanhood in A Game of You

I’ll be honest with you: Writing about The Sandman with a focus on (queer) women surely feels different in light of the recent allegations.

This meta has been languishing in my drafts for a long time, and since I’m currently clearing the pile, I will still publish it. Mostly because these views are mine and not someone else’s. And also because they’re critical to a degree. However, if you feel that these are topics that you currently find hard to engage with, this is the exit sign (I totally get it).

With that out of the road, let’s talk about the women of A Game of You (and why it was always one of my least favourite arcs, despite the fact that my literary and thematic preferences should have made it one of my favourite ones)…

Gender roles are a central theme in A Game of You. Before the arc even moves into these themes on a deeper level, we already get this:

Barbie tells Wanda that she wasn’t allowed to read comics when she was a young girl. And that immediately struck a chord with me upon my first reading as a teenager: I was allowed to read comics, but I still remember getting the side-eye, especially from boys. Somehow, you didn’t belong to their club (even if you arguably knew more about Batman than they did 🤣). The reason Barbie gives us is that reading comics supposedly rendered her “unladylike” (yes, comics were considered “boyish”, at least when I was a teenager, and this is exactly the time we’re talking about here). But it’s not just about how a girl is supposed to act—it’s also about actively excluding her from something that’s only for men/boys. And while the topic of, “What’s a girl supposed (and allowed!) to be like?” isn’t something either particularly dwell on in that moment, Wanda faces the struggle of having to define and fight for her womanhood daily: As a trans woman, she feels resistance on a constant basis. When she talks about Weirdzos from the Hyperman comics, this is actually a nod to DC’s Bizarro, who could be described as Superman’s shadow (there’s a whole story why they were called Weirdzos instead of Bizarros in The Sandman, but that’d lead too far here. You’ll probably find it on Google).

Close enough to the “real thing”, but always “slightly off”

And Wanda carries the shadow of her biology. All the time. There’s no escape for her, no respite, no true support.

We also see this in a scene with Hazel, one of Wanda's neighbours who lives in a lesbian relationship with her girlfriend Foxglove. Hazel noticed that Wanda has "a thingie." Despite the fact that a lot of “weird” things are happening in those panels, part of that is definitely that Wanda has not fully (in Hazel’s eyes) transitioned:

What is she, exactly (not who)?

And that question gets answered very painfully when Wanda, Hazel, Foxglove, and Thessaly come together to free Barbie from being trapped in the Dreaming. Thessaly is sure she can defeat the Cuckoo that holds Barbie captive. However, she needs menstrual blood to perform a ritual that will allow them to traverse the Moon Road into the Dreaming. During this process, Thessaly insensitively refers to Wanda as a man and prevents her from joining the journey with Foxglove and Hazel (and no, this isn’t about “Thessaly the TERF”—I already made my position on that clear and think that whole discussion needs a lot more nuance than fandom is often willing to engage in).

Maiden, Mother and Crone

Thessaly's statement, "This isn’t your route. It can’t be," further highlights the discrimination Wanda faces on a daily basis. She “isn’t” seen as a woman now, and she “can’t” ever be, even if she had reassignment surgery—Wanda would still be seen as a man by the ancient powers that be.

Wanda's struggle, more than any other character's, highlights the ongoing conflict between self-identity and societal perception of women. And that’s unfortunately still a struggle most women face. But Wanda’s character is particularly poignant because she is repeatedly forced to reaffirm her sense of self, only to be torn down again and again. Even Barbie, who always supports her and would probably never knowingly hurt her, says this when Wanda reveals her childhood name:

“Alvin? That's your real name?"

Please imagine what it must feel like if even the ones closest to you refer to your dead name as your “real” name, even if it’s without malicious intent (of course Barbie makes good on that later, but…).

Wanda can never truly find comfort in anyone. She is constantly confronted with the disparity between her self-perception and how the world views her. Ultimately, Wanda's exclusion from entering the Dreaming (and there’s more symbolism in that than you can shake a stick at—not just because she’s denied her womanhood, but also because she is denied entering a place of hope and possibility, and not least because she is denied being capable and having agency: Thessaly repeatedly acknowledges Wanda is important, and that she needs her help. But that’s on her terms, not Wanda’s) leads to her tragic death: The storm caused by drawing down the moon destroys the apartment where Wanda remains to watch over Barbie’s body.

And that’s why Wanda’s arc in the comics will always stay problematic to me (I don’t know how optimistic I can be for the TV series, because we’ve already seen her headstone in BTS shots, even if her overall arc seems to have changed): Dream grants Barbie a boon, which she uses to save the women in the Dreaming, but Wanda is not among them. There is no saving her—not in this world, not in any other.

Wanda's conservative parents bury her with her deadname Alvin Mann (and her second name adds insult to injury, because it is the German spelling of “man”, as in “male”. And again, I’m somewhat glad they have changed this for the series, as seen on said headstone, because I never got why choosing that name was necessary in the first place. Or let’s say: I get it, but I don’t think it was needed and was layered on too thick. Sometimes subtle does it, sorry).

Why is Wanda so consistently shamed, while Hazel and Foxglove's lesbian relationship is regarded not a big deal (I’m obviously not insinuating it should be, see my disclaimer at the bottom of this post)? Although I have to admit there are things about that one that always rubbed me up the wrong way, too: The dumbing down of Hazel (honestly, most of us were not that clueless about reproduction in the 80s and 90s, lesbians or otherwise), the play on butch/femme stereotypes to then clumsily try to turn them on their heads (which did not work for me), the still somewhat male gaze applied to Foxglove (she didn’t have to sleep naked with her tits on display, did she?), the implication that all women somehow end up as mothers (if they don’t end up dead), even if just “accidentally”… There’s a whole lot to be said about the topic of motherhood, and how it gets instrumentalised in several Sandman arcs, but maybe that’s for another time...

To explore that question, I want to have a closer look at Barbie, who is a (in my view, often clumsy) stand-in for the gender-identity of many (CIS) women.

A quick throwback to The Doll’s House

The first signs of Barbie's identity crisis don't appear in A Game of You, but rather in The Doll's House. She is introduced as one half of “Ken-Barbie”: They finish each other's sentences, Barbie lacks a distinct personality and is completely overshadowed by being a “traditional wife” (maybe not the type of trad wife we think about today, and yet…). The fact that she and Ken share names with plastic dolls underscores the artificial nature of their identities and their relationship.

Barbie's dream-life always felt more authentic and meaningful to her than her waking reality—that’s why she is only a shell of herself when she can’t dream (after the vortex interlude with Rose Walker). She is passive, conforms to her father's expectations of being "ladylike" and adheres to “good” CIS- and heteronormative behaviour. And then, after her divorce, she feels uprooted, shows little motivation and relies on Wanda for support. Freeing herself from her shackles could have been a story of reclaiming her power without the layer of implied loneliness (I’ll get to that). Instead, she needs to suffer for a bit…

Barbie being trapped in her dream world also traps her in a state of passivity: Dreams are not real. You can make them real, but that’s not what she does—they are a maladjusted escape for her. And yet (or maybe rather “because”), instead of directly confronting and fighting the Cuckoo, Barbie smashes the Porpentine (much to the Cuckoo's delight).

Upon waking…

Upon waking, Barbie's personality hasn't changed much from the woman we first met. When she goes to Wanda’s funeral, she struggles to defend Wanda from her transphobic aunt despite trying.

However, she engages in a small but significant act of rebellion by crossing out "Alvin" on Wanda's headstone with her favourite lipstick and writes her real name instead.

Barbie then recalls a dream she had while traveling to Wanda's funeral. In this dream, she sees Wanda not as she was in life, but as an idealised version of herself—soft, more curved, and wearing a pink dress. Death stands beside Wanda, symbolising that she is recognised for who she truly is.

And I get it: The idea was to say, “She was always a woman, even to the cosmic powers that be. Eat that, Thessaly and everyone else.” But there’s also the part of me that wants to say, “You know what? She was good the way she was. Perfect in her imperfection. We didn’t need to affirm her womanhood by showing her as a stereotypical woman.” The use of “perfect” and “drop-dead gorgeous” always really rubbed me up the wrong way in relation to the way she was portrayed in that panel. Because it portrays a stereotypical woman: That’s what you look like if you need to/want to pass. And this applies, sadly enough, to all women in one way or another, no matter what gender we were assigned at birth. But if that scene holds meaning to people, I also get it. My more critical take on it is maybe down to my own history (again: disclaimer at the bottom of this post).

Simultaneously, the destruction of the Land in the Dreaming grants Barbie a newfound independence. She is now alone, without her best friend or the friends of her dreams, but these losses have given her freedom. And for a moment, loneliness becomes the ultimate resolution to Barbie's identity conflict. And I found that idea horrible, I’ll be brutally honest with you:

On the final page of A Game of You, Barbie is shown alone, waiting for a bus to an unknown destination. She reflects on her dream of Wanda, where she had the chance to say goodbye to her past life. For a moment, she stands rigidly still, and that moment feels… really long? Separated from her past and facing an uncertain future, she is free from anyone's expectations or desires. And maybe, in that simplicity, she finds freedom.

And maybe, A Game of You challenges the idea that we have full control over our identities. Our self-perception and how others perceive us are always influenced by external factors. And somewhat, I could never quite shake the feeling the story equates the removal of the ties that bind us (in this case: relationships) and/or death with freedom: Wanda only fully realises her identity in death, and Barbie feels most liberated when she is free from past entanglements and future obligations. Whether that notion is truly rejected in the end is probably down to the reader: Barbie turns and runs towards her bus, heading into a future that, while uncertain, maybe also holds a glimmer of hope. Unfortunately, none of the women of The Sandman get off particularly well in that department, and that is a common theme…

Disclaimer: I write this as a CIS bisexual woman in her 40s who has been in relationships with both women and men for 30+ years. Two of them led to marriage/civil partnership: One with a CIS woman, also bi (we were together for 10 years, 3 of them in a CP), one with my now husband (CIS straight man, married for 10 years, together longer, and we have a kid together). I don’t need to tell you this, but I am because I think it is important to disclose my own bias and experiences as a queer woman in the 90s, which include coming out, experiencing bi-erasure and misogyny from both inside and outside the LGBTQ+ community. As such, they will definitely colour the way I read and interpret A Game of You.

[deconstructthesoup]

In another universe, Rose hires the Dead Boy Detectives to help her find Jed

And maybe it's not the Corinthian who kills Jed's awful foster dad but a certain 80's ghost boy who's dealing with issues of his own

[azulso]

Familiar faces in The Meg 2

[goncharov-propaganda-factory]

i cant believe the moon really is a bioessentialist. neil gaiman was right about everything

[comparativetarot]

Six of Wands. Art by Shannon Hochman, from the Sandman Tarot Deck.

[landwriter]

🌹!! Super excited to hear that there are secret WIPs

Hob had thought, Christ, I need to be more careful, and said instead, “Yeah, alright. S’the whisky, innit?” and made like he was drunker than he was for the rest of the evening, slurring his modern English words around the hot knot of fear and fitful longing that was stuck in the back of his throat.

---

from the no-longer-secret WIP The Death of Translation as well! :)

[thelandswemadeofpaper]

@beetleandfox

'The Mystical Vibe'

The 'soft magic', the subtle magic

Thats how I call it, I wrote a few posts about it. Read your posts about Susanna Clarke's magical system and reminded me of it

Also, see the Sandman battle with the Devil, same vibes

About the interpretation and characterization of some beings and concepts.

Principally magical ones and demons (I not including Youkai, they are spiritual non-catholic beings from Japanese folklore. I am not demonizing other cultures), they often got portrayed in two different ways: I am calling them 'subtle' and 'blunt' cuz its kinda fits.

'Blunt' is the most common in animes, portraying beings that can be fought more physically. Many fantasy medieval like to shove mythological beings around with no development, the term 'Demon King' is throw around like a fucking hot potato I swear, the way those being are introduced make them more 'real people' than 'creature' and kinda...weaker in a way.

Ancient Magus Bride is a good exemple of a wonderfull portrait of celtic culture and that 'mystical vibe' of the Fair Folk and Noragami put a cool concept into the whole 'influence people to do evil' thing, even if the latter is not the subtle type.

'Subtle' magic is less superpower and more mystic/fairy tail like. Tolkien was pretty much the first writer to put a mythological race (Norsen Elves) was people, before that they were simple...things? They weren't people for sure, they were...the Fair Folk. (See my post about 'Mystical Vibes', Legendary and All That Stuff.)

You don't imagine those type of people being defeated the 'blunt' way.

Dragon Ball is really blunt in its attempts to show that Ours-Characters-are-OP-as-fuck, destroying planets and universes like its nobody business. DC and Marvel still driving me nuts with their confused Tier levels and infinite number of cosmic-OP-weirdoos-with-generic-names that stop caring about making sense and yet, works with a more poetical touch like Silmarillion tend to give a 'air' of a superiority compareted to the others. The Presence and the One-Above-All are clearly far weaker than Eru, even when all are based on the Christian God.

Like Dustfinger from Inkheart is not just a fire manipulator, he's said to speak the tongue of fire, for fire itself kiss him in the lips. The mystical vibe on this give me the impression that the Fire Release from Naruto and the Fire Alchemy of Roy Mustang would not work on the guy, maybe not even Ryujin Jakka.

Addams Family is pretty much it, the new Wednesday series not much (its too blunt).

Or the Theft of Intagible Things (like fears, ambitions, feelings...) or weapons like...an sword that does Emotional Wounds. Just...mystical vibe.

I...tried to explain. Its complicated, lost myself here. Sorry?

[ohraicodoll]

Saw the prompt post. And your tags. So I'm dropping this in your lap and leaving the rest to your excellent discretion! Any fandom. Any characters.

“you’re so cool.”

Good luck! Have fun!

Thankuuuuu Cuckoo! (I was totally going to do Sandman and Dream but couldn't stop laughing over what his reaction would be without making it ooc. So more TLOU lol)

Hero Worship Joel Miller x f!Reader (Established Relationship) + Ellie The Last of Us 1k Words

“You pull it straight back until the string is almost kissing your lips,” she guided her, watching as Ellie pulled the bow string back with shaky arms, “Elbow in, not out like a chicken wing. And breathe, you’re fine.” The teen seemed to glare at the small target across the way in the makeshift target practice Jackson had crafted. She took a deep breath, released and flinched.

All three of them watched as the arrow hit the target on the edge of the hay bale. Joel chuckled. “That had to be the wind!” Ellie argued, glaring at the older man. “There hasn’t been a single breeze all damn day,” he smirked, looking up to meet her instructor’s eyes over the girl’s head. With an eye roll, she picked up her own bow and took Ellie’s spot to demonstrate, “You keep flinching. If you keep your arms straight how I showed you, the string isn’t going to smack you in the face. Look, just watch.” 

Purposefully, she slowed down her movements and pulled the string back, arrow notched. Joel was right, there was no breeze and the target wasn’t very far away. Much closer than when he’d let the girl practice shooting the rifle. 

Elbows in and stance proper, she released the arrow and watched it sail home to the center of the target. Bullseye. Ellie groaned. “Whatever, you both are show-offs,” she grumbled, glaring at them both now. “Mmmhmm, why don’t you go grab another set of arrows if you’re gonna run your mouth and be a sore loser,” Joel nodded towards the small shack a little bit away where one of the older men kept all the range supplies. With a grumble, they watched as she trudged away, bow practically dragging in her hand. “She’s getting better,” chewing on your lip, she leaned against the wooden fence that acted as a barrier between the shooting area and the danger zone. “Yeah she is, but you know her. Wants to be instantly good,” Joel chuckled and rested his arms beside her, knee raised to brace on the fence, “She’ll get there. Besides, I think she’d rather do this than be at the theater though I do miss the two hours we’d get on our own when she would go.” Raising a brow, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye with a smirk, “Yeah I’m sure you do. Ellie’s trying to persuade me to let her stay in the small house behind the property. She needs her space.” The excuse was almost laughable as only a week ago she had asked to stay in their shared room during a bad storm, blaming her window they had already fixed. His eyes burned into the side of her head, fingers adjusting against the fence until they grazed the skin of her elbow, “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.” She huffed out a full bellied laugh and turned her eyes to him, “Oh please. You’d be at that back window with the binoculars checking on her every second if you let her, Miller. Probably rope Tommy into it too.” He sighed and was the one to roll his eyes this time, “Yeah, yeah. Give it a couple more years of her going full teenager and we’ll see. She drives us nuts enough as is and I’m dreading the day she starts being interested in boys.”

She struggled to fight down a grin, not wanting to break it to him that it wasn’t the boys he was going to have to worry about. With a smirk, they both turned to look at the teen, watching as she talked to the attendant and then catching sight of the young boy very blatantly staring at her not even a foot away. The boy had to be roughly six or seven and stared at her behind large bottle glasses, eyes huge on his tiny face. His mouth hung open slightly, eyes transfixed. Nudging Joel with her elbow, she nodded at the kid and the stars in his eyes. Ellie, her arm full with a new quiver of arrows, turned and almost ran straight into the little boy who hadn’t moved an inch. She looked almost startled, brow furrowed in a way that was too similar to Joel, mouth turned down. It had taken her a bit to not be in full aggressive mode and instantly be on edge with every person that stared at them, but every now and then that tough attitude came out. She didn’t like to be stared at. The kid blinked. The two adults tried not to laugh. “What?” Ellie asked a little harshly, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re so cool,” the boy choked out with a look that was pure admiration. Joel turned his head into her arm and tried not to laugh out loud, pressing his mouth into the fabric of her coat. His shoulders shook with the effort. Ellie almost seemed taken back, unsure of what to do, false bravado gone. But then she grinned and that attitude slid back into place before she leaned towards the kid and seemed to whisper something. They couldn’t hear what she said, but could see her head turn to look at them and nod before pulling back and walking over. The boy’s face stared at all three of them star struck. They tried to act like they hadn’t been watching the interaction and went back to the lesson as normal, didn’t mention Ellie’s little fan or how her shooting got better afterwards as if she only needed a little bit of confidence. It was a moment they didn’t want to intrude on or make her embarrassed about. And a week later when she went to the girl’s room to drop off a newer pair of shoes, she didn’t bring up the kid drawing tucked between some book pages that was obviously from her admirer. All three of them were drawn in crayon, looking larger than life, with the words, “Ellie's family” scribbled at the top.

[bludpudding]

I’ve been thinking about the last scene in DBD.

we see niko and the dandelion sprites huddling together in an igloo in what appears to be a clearing in a snowy forest. 

now, we know for a fact that a game of you is being adapted in sandman season 2. 

in a game of you, barbie travels through a snowy portion of the dreaming called the plain on her quest to defeat the cuckoo.

since we know that ghosts can canonically hide from death in the dreaming (i.e. hector and lyta), is it possible that niko escaped with the sprites to avoid her afterlife? dare I say join barbie on her journey?

is it possible that sandman S2 will also partially be DBD S2?

and this may be a huge stretch but,,,,, possibly something to do with martin tenbones,,,,,,

[peachesofteal]

Do you have any COD x reader blogs/fics that you really like or recommend?

Of course I do:

Cuckoo's Civilian Asset is pure magic. All of @cuckoo-on-a-string's writing is transcendent, but Civilian Asset feels really special whenever I (frequently) reread it. (Also if you're only going to read one Sandman/reader fic ever, it should be Younger Gods. Which is also Cuckoo's.)

@yeyinde There's writing, and then there's this, which is hard to explain. Poetry, maybe? I don't know. Incredible though, run don't walk. Try 'Sea Swallow Me' for Simon, or Wicker Pyre for Price.

@lethalchiralium writes Happiness which is a must for soft dad Simon, but there's also Diamondback, which I salivate over. Keri's writing just feels like a true indulgence to me.

@as-is-above-so-below has an amazing series called 'The Captain' which features one of my fav reader characters in the fandom and dad!Simon. I love it so much. It's not a 'you' read, but don't skip it!

@halfmoth-halfman's a designer dress from heaven and your dirty wedding ring' is so wildly good. I hang on every word. There's also, of course, 'The Little Things' and it's following works, which are great. Like all of Moth's work, you pretty much feel like you're there. 10/10.

I've very lightly dabbled in/read omegaverse... and I tend to stray away from it BUT Hummingbird by @omeganixtra is so fucking good, I binged most of it in one go.

@halcyone-of-the-sea always hits, you pretty much can't go wrong. Personal favorites: 'None Lacking Sins' and 'See no Evil'.

@writeforfandoms's The Hanging Tree is one of my fav Johnny fics. Also, 'Listening In' is Ghost/Soap/reader and it's SO fun.

I think that's it. I honestly read more fic on AO3 than I do on Tumblr, and haven't really had much time for it lately but these are a few great ones!

[muffinlance]

I've been arguing with myself for some time whether to ask you this.... This year's (2023) Book Riot Read Harder challenge includes a challenge to "Read one of your favorite author's favorite books." Since you are one of my favorite authors, would you be willing to share with the internet some of your favorite books, please? (I also plan to ask haicrescendo, so don't be alarmed if you see this on their feed, please.)

Have a selection!

Childhood Favorites:

Raptor Red: Utah raptors living their best lives <3

Christopher Pike's The Last Vampire: baby's first introduction to Indian mythology AND baby's first introduction to "how to launch things into orbit, a don't-try-this-at-home primer". Which is a lot for a short YA vampire novel to accomplish, and that's just in the first book. (Remember Me and Witch are my other favs from that author).

The Last Whales: human-made apocalypse from the perspective of whales. You know, some light childhood reading.

Dune: who doesn't like giant sand worms? With bonus Litany Against Fear.

Collegehood:

Watership Down: bunnies and mythology and bunny wars with and without mythology

Sandman: Goth!Death is best Death. The Fiddler's Green's last moments live in my head forever. Boring people with their rich internal lives go brrr. Did they do the Cuckoo storyline in the show? Did they do it good?

The Black Cauldron: classic childhood trauma read

Recenthood:

Middlegame: oh boy oh BOY do I like novel takes on time travel magic via math and wordplay

The Ballad of Black Tom: sure you can summon a world-devouring eldritch horror <3 as a treat <3 (Lone Women by the same author is also deLIGHTful)

A Deadly Education (and its associated trilogy): angry death mage tries angry-hard not to be an angry death mage. Simultaneously succeeds and fails, in equally fantastic ways. (Spinning Silver by the same author is also Very Yes.)

Murderbot: Murderbot Murderbot Murderbot

[writing-for-life]

Alright so what the hell IS a cuckoo (in the Sandman universe)? Like, was this ever really explained? Are they evil? Are some of them more good/neutral? Do they still look like the people they mimick in the Dreaming once they get to the real/waking world? Doesn't anybody NOTICE that, if they do?

Well, first of all: Since the Cuckoo is basically a nightmare, we have to keep in mind that Morpheus actually created it. He even says, when questioned why it should be allowed to live, that it was basically fulfilling its purpose—a purpose he gave to it.

And that purpose is very Jungian in my view. The Cuckoo is essentially not unlike a parasite, and it latches on to your shadow (your dark side, whatever you want to call it). And it’s down to the dreamer if they defeat it or get corrupted by it. Just like we can be consumed by our shadow (both by giving in to it OR repressing it) or integrate it with awareness so we can grow. The intention is obviously the latter (edit: argh, sorry typo, wrote “the former” by accident. That’s obviously not it), so I don’t think you can call the Cuckoo evil by default (and neither does Morpheus himself suggest they are), but I guess it’s a bit like the Corinthian being created for a specific reason and then developing a mind of his own, so to speak.

The problem with the Cuckoo and Barbie was that the natural course, or the way the Cuckoo usually “matures” (for lack of better term), was interrupted due to the whole Rose/vortex business: Barbie stopped dreaming while being a very avid dreamer before who was deeply connected to the Land, (the Land is only for young girls, but Barbie was connected to it much longer as we all know). And that got the Cuckoo in a way trapped, and then the events of AGoY started to unfold.

That’s at least how I understand it, if anyone has good additions, let us know 🙂

@saiyanblood2 ask answered

[peachesofteal]

🤤 this fic is god tier

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.

[thevampiremarie]

ABOUT THE WRITER + MASTERLIST

AUTHOR'S STATEMENT ON PALESTINE

Click on this link if you want a Heartless update

🔞🔞🔞

My fandoms:

The Sandman (comics and tv show)

Call of Duty

Dune

Heartless (Simon “Ghost” Riley x fake marriage!Reader):

masterlist

Also keep an eye out for @cuckoo-on-a-string ‘s upcoming Price x Reader marriage of convenience fic, which is related to Heartless!!! Teaser here.

Summertime Sadness (Simon "Ghost" Riley x second chance romance w/ heavy angst Reader):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 2 preview

Chapter 3 preview

Chapter 4 preview

treehouse (Dream of the Endless x pregnant!Reader):

masterlist

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul Atreides x OC!Reader x Chani)

Part 1: Jessica

Part 2: Paul

Part 3: Duncan

Magindara (Dream of the Endless x mermaid!Reader)

Tumblr

AO3

Let The Good Times Roll (Captain Price x sugar baby!Reader):

Part 1

Sneak peak

Sneak peak 2

Sneak peak 3 bcuz I have no self control

[aralezinspace]

8 SHOWS TO GET TO KNOW ME

Tagged by @just-some-random-blogger and making a new post because I can xD

Doctor Who

The Sandman

Avatar the last air bender

Naruto

Pokemon

Ouran high school host club

House of the Dragon

Black Butler

Tagging with zero pressure cuz I love y’all @chromehoplite @cuckoo-on-a-string @undiscovered-horizon @apocalypticromantic666 @lecalcifer @vsenyatargaryen @dotieeee @lilpunkrock @peachesofteal

[borninwinter81]

About me

I thought I should make a pinned post which is slightly more in depth than my bio concerning general interests as I seem to have gained a few followers, and in case any of them have a wish to know!  This is not definitive and will likely get added to over time when I have the thought “how could I possibly have forgotten X”.

Music:          Devin Townsend/Strapping Young Lad/Casualties of Cool Ulver Alcest Agalloch Gojira Cattle Decapitation It’s a safe bet that I’ll probably enjoy anything which could be labelled post-punk or goth, particularly if it originates in the 80s or 90s. Ditto for 90s metal (reminds me of my teen years!) Most classic rock from the 70s or 80s (my parents brought me up on this) Industrial and aggrotech. Classical music, including opera 1950s and 60s rock and roll Many genres of extreme metal, like black metal, death metal, funeral doom, goregrind etc.

Recently a friend has been getting into Black Metal having never listened to it before, and it's been causing me to rediscover my love of that genre as well as find a few new artists that I've never heard before 😁

Authors:  Edgar Allan Poe (also fits under poets) Terry Pratchett Neil Gaiman Stephen King Joe Hill JRR Tolkien Robin Hobb Brian Lumley Clive Barker Way too many more to count – I read A LOT

Poets: William Blake (see my Good Omens/Blake posts here and here) Samuel Taylor Coleridge John Milton Christina Rosetti Walt Whitman

Shakespeare plays (having a literature degree, I feel like I should know more Shakespeare, nonetheless the ones I am familiar with I absolutely love): Hamlet (loved it since the Mel Gibson version, and I have seen many since!) Macbeth Richard II (not only because of David Tennant, but also Fiona Shaw, hers was the first version I saw of it). A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Movies:  12 Monkeys Bladerunner Subspecies movie series Nightbreed (Cabal Cut for preference!) Dredd (2012) Only Lovers Left Alive Pan’s Labyrinth (honestly anything by Del Toro really, but this one especially!) Donnie Darko Franklyn The Green Mile Dark City One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest Schindler's List Mad Max: Fury Road (the others too, but this is my favourite) Again, loads more than I’m not listing, I love movies

TV Shows: Good Omens The Sandman Star Trek (all versions, but particularly TNG and DS9) Farscape Blake's 7 Classic Dr Who (I do like the new stuff, but pre-Eccleston will always be my favourite, it's probably a nostalgia thing) Spartacus Black Sails Sharpe Robin of Sherwood

General interests:            Charity shops/thrift store shopping Sewing Crochet General DIY/crafting as the mood takes me, particularly customising items that I buy at charity shops Pencil sketching (relearning to do this, I used to be pretty good when in school!) Tattoos/piercings