#first Sandman fic be gentle with me

[five-and-dimes]

Safe in the Palm of Your Hand

Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares, Dream of the Endless.

Lord Shaper.

For Dream, his body is not always a fixed thing. He would even go so far as to say that most of the time it is not a fixed thing. He is sand, so many countless pieces shifting under the lightest winds and the softest touches. His form changes based on how others see him, on how he sees himself, on how those two expectations interact, on whether one is stronger than the other or if a reasonable middle can be found.

Sometimes, though, he is sand in an hourglass (impenetrable glass, no wind, no air, no gentle touch to guide his form, motionless, frozen in his helplessness) and he doesn’t feel solid, he feels fragile. Breakable. Like the same soft touch and gentle wind will shatter him. In those moments, his expectations of himself will always outweigh anybody else’s.

And it is such today. His status as an Endless does not protect him from his own nightmares, not when they are his own memories, and on this day his body feels wrong. He does not feel like an Endless. He does not feel like a king, or a lord, or a person. Even months after escaping the Burgess Mansion, after regaining his power and repairing his realm, even now, he finds himself feeling… small. His form shudders and shivers and he feels weak, he feels like a vermin to be caught, a prey to be hunted and devoured, he feels dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe, small, small, small-

There is a mouse in Hob’s apartment.

He almost didn’t see it, was only alerted to something being amiss by the soft, frightened squeak when he opened his front door. Turning his head, he caught just a glimpse of a small shadow darting behind the old armchair in the corner. Closing the door behind him, Hob hums in surprise. Living above a pub, he’s never dealt with mice or other creatures in his home, most being more attracted to the kitchen and trash cans on the first floor before stumbling into the catch-and-release traps set around the property.

Sighing, he lets his bag fall from his shoulder onto the floor, resigned to his new task for the night. He can finish grading in the morning, once he’s dealt with his unexpected guest. Over the centuries he’s managed to overcome the instinctual disgust and fear at the sight of rodents, but that doesn’t mean he wants one running around his apartment. For a moment, he considers going back downstairs to get one of the traps from the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to give the small creature a chance to hide deeper in the apartment. Besides, he’s wily- he’s certain he can herd the mouse into a box and get it outside himself no problem.

There is a box next to the coffee table in the center of the room, full of papers and documents he’s been procrastinating on organizing, and he casually dumps the contents onto the floor as he approaches the armchair. He keeps his footsteps soft and slow, hoping not to spook the mouse into bolting. So far though, Hob hasn’t seen it since it darted into the corner. Kneeling carefully, he positions the box on its side in front of him, reaching out to move the chair to one side in an attempt to give the mouse only one direction to run.

The mouse doesn’t run.

Hob can’t help but furrow his brows sadly once he’s able to see it, huddled as far in the corner as it can get. For a moment he feels his heart clench in a way he doesn’t fully understand, something more than just general compassion for a small creature, and then he gasps as he realizes what he is looking at.

Two bright points of light emit from the mouse’s eyes.

“...Dream?” The name is less than a whisper on Hob’s breath.

He doesn’t receive an answer, but he doesn’t need one.

Since the stranger's delayed return, he and Hob had seen each other several times, a surprising change in their relationship that Hob welcomed with open arms. After so many years, Hob was finally given answers to some of his countless questions, including a name, and a summary of what exactly his friend is. Dream had even been generous enough to visit Hob in his dreams once, and Hob still gets flutters in his stomach when he thinks of the bright stars of Dream's eyes.

The box is quickly tossed aside and he crouches down farther. Dream had explained to him during one of their recent meetings that he was able to shapeshift (his explanation was far more detailed and complicated than that, but shapeshifting was the closest Hob's human mind could get to understanding) and his heart cracks in his chest as he takes in the sight of his friend in a form he has never seen before; has never even imagined in relation to the Endless being.

Pitch black fur contrasts the bright white of his eyes, but the fur looks matted and thin, tiny ribs peeking under the skin, and he doesn’t know if mice can cry, but the fur looks wet and clumped around the eyes. A long thin tail is sickly pale, and Hob can see him trembling even through the rapid rise and fall of the tiny chest.

Dream is always so strong and untouchable in Hob’s mind, it’s jarring to see him so small and clearly frightened. He doesn’t know what happened- why Dream is in this form, why he’s here, but Hob doesn’t think there’s a force on Earth or off it that could stop him from reaching out to comfort.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he keeps his voice soft and gentle, afraid of frightening him further. Afraid of hurting the small, fragile ears. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re alright,” slowly, so slowly, Hob cups his hands and lowers them to the ground before his friend, “you’re safe here, can you come out? I just want to help.”

Still no response, unless you count Hob’s heart breaking more each moment he watches the mouse shake and shiver in the corner. Part of him wonders if he should leave Dream alone, but it feels too cruel, and Hob has always been one to trust his instincts when it comes to matters of the heart. And so, taking a deep, steadying breath, he cautiously moves to gently scoop the mouse into his palms.

It hurts more than he expected to actually feel tiny trembling paws against his skin, but Dream doesn’t run. In fact, he turns jerkily and tucks his little face against Hob’s fingers, curling into a ball as if trying to hide. He lets out a soft shushing sound, bringing his hands to his chest, cradling the mouse against his chest and making a shelter with his hands.

Dream isn't sure how he got here either.

He had been feeling off kilter for days now, the weight that lived in his chest feeling more unbearable than usual. More and more he found his surroundings reacting to him; walls closing in and curving, clothes growing thinner and thinner, air becoming frigid and still. His lungs felt tight, desperate for breath he didn't need, and then he caught his reflection and the glass shattered in response and he heard someone yell, maybe worried, maybe angry, angry, angry, and then he was gone.

When he lands, he knows he's in a new form, but he can't focus on it, too scared in a primal way he can't identify. All he wants is to hide, it's all his mind can hold on to, so when he hears a door open he runs. If he can just stay hidden, if he just avoids capture, maybe he'll be able to pull himself together. But when he is found, his terror and sorrow are so great he freezes. He thinks he recognizes the man in front of him, even if he looks different being so much larger than him, but it doesn't matter. It doesn’t ease his fear, his grief, his hopelessness. Dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe.

Dream feels small. Dream is small. So small and easy to hurt. He thinks maybe he always has been.

But…

But the hands don't crush him. He is lifted slowly and then he finds himself… held. Not held down, not trapped, not caged. Even as one hand folds above him, there is no tension, and Dream feels certain he could escape if he wished too.

He does not wish to.

Hob's hands are warm, so warm, and soft, and nothing like the cold hard glass of his memories. Dream finds himself curling up as he is cradled against his chest, soft fabric covering a strong chest that doesn't scare him as much as it did a minute ago. Cupped against him like this, he feels ensconced in a gentle cave, the shadows beneath his hands a welcome peace against the thought of a hundred years of harsh light keeping him on display.

Slowly, his trembling body stills, curling up tighter and soaking in the warmth.

"There you are," Hob coos, sitting on the couch, ever careful of his precious cargo. It is a great honor, he thinks, to hold an Endless in the palm of your hands. To be tasked with protecting something so valuable. Cautiously, he lays down, smiling as he sees the mouse curl deeper into his sweater, resting right over his heart. Hob keeps one hand cradling him, and brings the other up to pillow his own head against the arm of the couch. "Sorry if I scared you earlier," he keeps his voice low, "wasn't expecting company. But I meant it when I said you're always welcome. I'm glad you came to me."

Hesitantly, he moves one thumb to carefully stroke the matted black fur of Dream's back. It almost looks like the mouse sighs, relaxing even further, and Hob grins.

Continuing his gentle petting, Hob does what he does best.

He talks.

He tells the little dream mouse about the annoying staff meeting he had, and his favorite and least favorite coworkers, and one of his friends who wanted Hob to start a karaoke night at the New Inn, and how he thinks in his next life he wants to buy a fixer-upper and do as much as he can with his own hands. He tells Dream the little mundane things that have made Hob think of him, and how he wants Dream to get a phone but he thinks his head would explode if Dream ever sent an emoji.

He talks, and the mouse relaxes more and more, no longer curled desperately tight, but burrowing comfortably into him, and Dream thinks that maybe being small isn't as scary anymore if it means he can feel Hob's heartbeat drum against his entire body.

Eventually, Hob's hand goes limp above him, draped over Dream's form like a weighted blanket, as Hob talks himself to sleep.

Dream is still small. Still fragile. But he is surrounded by Hob Gadling, by his warmth and his compassion and his love, and he realizes that all he wanted was to feel safe, and Hob managed to give him that and so much more.

When Hob awakes, it is to the sun shining through his living room window and Dream, his familiar, gangly, human-shaped Dream, laying across him with his head on his chest. Hob's hand is resting on his wild black hair, as gentle with him now as he was the night before.

"Hi," Hob's voice cracks lightly as he wakes, but his grin is wide and bright when Dream turns to look at him.

"Hello."

They'll talk about it, later, after Hob has stretched the kinks out of his neck and has used his puppy eyes to convince Dream to eat some breakfast. Later, Hob will hold his hand and let Dream tell him fragmented details of where he's been this past century, of what was done to him. He'll stroke Dream's back when he seems to shrink, stuttering and stumbling over words about how who he wants to be and who he's supposed to be and who he's been turned into all cut into who he is like broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about being broken. Later, Hob will hold him and tell him that being hurt is not the same as being broken.

Later.

For now, Hob just smiles and gathers Dream in his arms, letting him rest his head back down to listen to his immortal heartbeat, happy for the heavy weight against his chest.

[junkissed]

can't get you out of my head

member — fwb!vernon x f reader genre — smut, like a little tiny bit of angst? with a happy ending word count — 2.4k synopsis — so what if calling your fuck buddy every other day is a little excessive? maybe you're just in love with him. smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, lots and lots of kissing, some dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, begging, creampie warnings — vernon is called hansol - i don't usually do that but just go with it; vernon is kind of a sweetheart tbh this ended up being pretty soft notes — june is back !! i've really been struggling to write these past few months so i'm actually super proud that i was able to sit down and write this as fast as i did. i can't promise another fic anytime soon or any kind of consistent uploads, but i hope you enjoy this meager offering! thanks for the support even while i've been gone :) also this is based on a dream i had about vernon the other day and i could not stop thinking about it it was driving me crazy, so everyone say thank you to my brain or the sandman or whoever put that idea in my dreams because this fic is a result of it. if there are mistakes pls ignore i wrote this at 2am

the thing you remember most about hansol is his lips.

the first time you kissed him was like opening a door to a world you'd never known existed. your past hookups had been terrible kissers, or even worse—hadn't even tried to kiss you at all. you were sick of the boring, underwhelming sex with men who couldn't care less if you got off or not. but some god or being in the universe must've been looking out for you, because finding hansol was nothing short of a miracle.

it was so good, you weren't even that embarrassed when you'd desperately texted him a couple of nights later, practically begging him to come over and fuck you again. he was burned into your brain, the feeling of his mouth locked with yours seared so deep in your memory you couldn't erase him if you tried, but it wasn't exactly like you wanted to. 

he hadn't explicitly said you would only be a one night stand, but you usually didn't hang around the same guy for too long, and he didn't really seem like the commitment type anyway. but when you find something this good, you don't let it go, and somehow you both knew that whatever this was, it was too good to pass up on.

so it wasn't really a surprise when you found yourself on his couch, straddling his lap in the late hours of the night for the third time this week. 

like you remembered, his lips were warm and soft, his cheek brushing against yours as you melted into him. you could kiss him for hours and not notice the time passing at all, so focused on the rhythm of his mouth working you up more than anything you'd done with any man you'd slept with before.

the heat of his hands resting on your hips sends shivers up and down your spine, unconsciously arching towards him as his tongue pushes into your mouth.

one gentle hand travels carefully up beneath your shirt, tracing the skin of your stomach before stopping at your breast, your heartbeat racing beneath his palm.

your breath is hot on his cheek as you readjust your position, slipping your knees onto either side of his hips and sinking down to straddle his lap. your clothed cunt throbs as he presses his bulge against the inside of your thigh, and you don't hold back the open-mouthed moan that escapes you as his other hand quickly reaches up to angle your jaw and guide your lips back to his.

you push your hips down a little harder on him and his nails dig into your breast. his grip tightens a little as his hips cant up against you, desperate for more pressure against his strained cock.

your eyelids flutter as his other hand tilts your chin upwards, finally breaking away from your mouth only to reattach his lips at the base of your jaw. his tongue laves over your skin before he starts to suck, and you shiver when he pulls back and cold air hits the wet patch of spit on your neck.

you have to focus hard not to drool when you open your eyes and catch a glimpse of his face, lust-glazed eyes staring up at you through his long, thick lashes, his intense gaze fixed on you.

if you ever get past this weird in-between stage of talking but not talking, maybe you'll tell him how jealous you are of his beautiful, natural eyelashes. if you ever actually get to have a conversation with him outside of calling to hook up, maybe you'll tell him how nice his lips are. you'll tell him how soft his hands are and how he's by far the best person you've ever slept with, leaps and bounds better than all the rest, and—

before you fully realize what's happening, you feel your shirt being pulled over your head and hansol's lips have made their way down to your chest. without a sound his hands roam your body, fingers drawing invisible lines over your bare skin and leaving trails of goosebumps with every touch.

he doesn't talk much during sex, or maybe you just don't know each other well enough yet for him to have much to say. aside from the way he occasionally murmurs about how perfect you are — an oddly intimate thing to say to someone who's just a friend with benefits, but coming from him it sounds so casual — the only words you ever get out of him are curses and whimpered pleas.

the only words he ever gets out of you are shamelessly begging him, please kiss me again, please, hansol; and you're always too far gone to care about how whiny you sound, because you need his lips on you so fucking bad you think you might just die without them. but he always obliges, quickening the speed of his thrusts and wrapping his arms around you tighter so he can kiss you deeper, until your lips are numb and you can still feel the weight of him holding you even hours after he's gone.

so maybe you do have a teeny tiny crush on hansol. anyone in their right mind would, and when he's finished with you tonight you're sure you won't have much mind left to even think about it. certainly this is a problem for another day, a day when you'll inevitably call him again so he can make you lose your mind all over again and you won't have to think about how much you like him, and you'll continue like that for who knows how long. 

maybe he'll get bored of you, or find someone else, or move to another city too far for you to justify travelling for a relationship that isn't even a relationship…

… but then he lets out a little groan and you fall back into reality, the reality where you've been making out with him for the past half hour and he quietly but confidently lets you know if he doesn't get his dick out soon he's definitely going to cum in his pants and not only will it make him look like a loser but he also won't get to fuck you, which is the whole reason you asked him to meet up tonight, right?

well, yeah, you guess, but a part of you knows there's more to it than that. but that's not really a conversation for right now.

you lean down to press another chaste kiss against those lips that you can't stop thinking about, and your fingers pull his t-shirt over his head before finding their way down to the button at the top of his jeans.

you've had his cock inside you more times than you think you deserve, but still your stomach bubbles with excitement as he lifts his hips and shimmies out of his pants, the outline against his briefs more than enough to make your mouth water before he slips those off, too.

for tonight, you're the recipient of his undivided attention. you alone get to have him and his perfect cock all to yourself; maybe not forever, but for right now, and that's all you really need.

he presses his hand against his bulge, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as you stand up from his lap to kick off your pants and underwear.

you must have been taking too long for his liking, though, because as soon as you're fully nude his hands tug impatiently at your waist and pull you back down onto him. 

he lets out a heavy sigh, the head of his cock pressed deliciously against your clit as you start to rock your hips back and forth.

but before long his hands bring you to a stop and he lets out his usual string of pleas to let him fuck you, and now it's your turn to sigh in relief as he pushes into you, the stretch so natural like he was the only one who was made to sit you on his lap.

he doesn't move right away. he never moves right away, whether to give you a chance to adjust or maybe because he himself can't handle the feeling. either way, you always struggle to take in a shaky breath as your walls flutter around him, perfectly thick and long that you could probably cum untouched like this if you sat there for long enough.

but as badly as you want to never move and let him cockwarm you for hours, he always eventually moves. 

he starts out slow, just a few inches at a time, a gentle in and out that's almost romantic until you feel like you can breathe normally again— right before he knocks the breath out of you, increasing his pace until the room is filled with the loud sounds of skin against skin.

he always fucks you like it's been months since he's came, even though you know for a fact it was last thursday and all over your stomach. all you can do now is hang onto his broad shoulders for dear life, nails scratching helplessly at his muscles as he carries you up and over the edge, pushing you into the first of many orgasms tonight.

sometimes he'll make a comment about how wet you get when he fucks you like this, rough and fast as he pounds into you like there's no tomorrow. and that's when you'll agree, yes you love it so much, yes he's so good, yes you need more and please, please keep going.

if it were anyone else they'd probably smirk at that, satisfied with the momentary boost to their ego. but that's what you love about hansol, is that he's not anyone else: he'll take those words and use them to somehow fuck you even rougher and even faster, so rough and so fast that sometimes tears will start to roll down your cheeks, and that's usually about when you start begging him to kiss you.

you can't help it. the way he bounces you so effortlessly on his cock, his lips parted and beads of sweat trickling down his neck, you need him bad. you want to be closer to him, closer than you know is physically possible but damn if you won't try anyway.

throwing your hands around his neck and falling against his chest, tears still streaming from your eyes as you plead with him, repeating his name over and over and over like you've lost your mind and he's the only thing left. in all honesty, maybe he is.

he quietly shushes you and tilts his chin up to capture your lips in the kiss you so badly crave, and it's everything you need and more and somehow still not enough but you can't think straight anymore when his cock is hitting you just right and his mouth is also just right and each vein, each curve, each ridge, drags perfectly along your walls and he's splitting you open and goddamn you are ruined for anybody else.

you feel like you're skirting in and out of consciousness when you cum again, squeezing around his cock so tight that even his powerful thrusts can't continue at their current pace.

it isn't long before he lets go too, holding you flush against his body as he fills you up, painting your insides white with a breathy moan, and in a weird way it makes you feel kind of proud.

you both sit there for a moment, panting as you start to come down.

without even standing up you already know your legs are jell-o, but you don't really have time to think about that as hansol lifts you off his lap and sets you carefully on the couch, leaving you with another kiss before he stands up and disappears down the hall, returning seconds later with a towel that looks suspiciously new.

you'd asked him about his bathroom towels last time you'd been over at his place. a mismatched collection of white and brown and aquamarine that he'd taken with him when he'd moved out of his parent's house, he said, he'd never really had a reason to buy a set of his own. 

the grey cloth in his hand now that he uses to gently wipe between your legs is one you don't remember seeing.

he finishes and you want him to kiss you again, but you're too shy to ask now so he leaves you again with just a kind smile this time.

you've put most of your wrinkled clothes back on by the time he comes back. he offers to drive you home every time afterwards, but you always insisted you were fine, already feeling like you'd overstayed your welcome.

this time he doesn't offer, though, just quietly sits down next to you to pull on his own clothes until you're both fully dressed.

he speaks before the awkward silence has time to set in.

"have you been seeing anybody else?" he asks, and it's probably the longest sentence he's spoken to you outside of when he's fucking you.

it takes you a couple seconds to say no. god, you sound like a loser, but you couldn't lie to him. since the very first time with hansol the thought of seeing anyone besides him hadn't even crossed your mind. just like you thought; ruined.

it takes him a couple seconds to reply, too. 

"good," he says, and you could almost swear his cheeks are pinker than usual as he admits that he hasn't been with anyone, either. "could we keep it that way?"

your breath catches a little. "yeah?"

"yeah," he answers. "whatever… this is, i like it. and i like you."

and just like that, things make sense. 

"maybe, would you, y'know, wanna stay this time?" he asks, and you can't hide the grin on your face as you lean over and kiss him again, your answer evident in the way your hand falls against his warm chest and your fingers weave gently through his hair.

everything is so simple with hansol.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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[sailoryooons]

Gods of the Dark | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price. 

☾ Word Count: 21,606

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, intense fight scenes, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, attempted murder via drowning, a physical fight between a man and a woman in the middle of a storm, sexual dream sequences featuring making out, biting (light), grinding, reader having flashbacks of trauma, a lot of thoughts about reader's terrible parents, a sort of power imbalance in the sense that reader is in Yoongi's realm as a part of a deal.

☾ Published: July 9, 2023

☾ A/N: It's finally here! This was originally supposed to be two giant chapters, but I cannot manage my time in a way to write to ~40k chapters and also fit all of this in a way that is not overwhelming or feels like it makes sense, so I have chosen to do this in 4 chapters of roughly 20k words! Thank you to everyone who has hyped me up for this idea, helped me work out some ideas, or listened to me struggle to write this because I was so unsure about the chemistry between Yoongi and reader at first. I am really excited to be writing this and have taken this in quite a different direction than the original idea when I had when I watched the Lilith MV, but that's okay. I heavily draw on inspiration from the Lilith MV, the song Possession of a Weapon by Ashnikko, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, the movie The Witch, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab and the original myth of Hades and Persephone (where I got the deal/living in Yoongi's world idea from).

Special thank you to my amazing beta team who really helped make this fic what it is and make sure it was legible: @theharrowing and @here2bbtstrash

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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Tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve

Change like a season

-

It begins with rain.

White sheets of it beating against the window in a gentle murmur, a soft leak in the corner of the kitchen dripping into the metal bucket your mother has set out. The storm brings a cool wind with it, blowing in on the back porch where your father rocks back and forth in his chair, watching the deluge. 

Shivering, you throw another log into the fireplace, pulling your shawl closer as orange embers spark and crackle, drifting up the shute. The smell of burning cedar grows and you smile, sitting down in front of the licking flames and holding out your hands to warm your palms. 

Behind you at the kitchen table, your mother pulls a thread and needle through a dress she’s been working on, stitching purple flowers into the sleeves. You wonder if she’s making it for the neighbor's daughter, a girl a few years younger than you to be wed soon. 

Mother makes some of the best stitching in the village, her practiced hands etching artful flowers and vines and designs on the sleeves and skirts of most of the village women. She’s tried for years to pass the craft on to you, but your fingers aren’t nearly as nimble and your eye for art is sorely lacking. 

What you lack in art you make up for in stories, though. Head in the clouds, swimming in worlds, places and things you’ve never seen. Lives and people who only exist in your mind, entire fantasies with more colors and sights and smells than your tiny little world contains. 

You’d write them down if you could. Writing and reading is not a woman’s craft, though, and you know better than to press your father on the subject any further than you have in the past. A terse word from him and your raw knuckles after being forced to do the wash alone for weeks kept you from bringing up the topic of learning to read and write ever again, especially when you remember the sting of his slap when you pushed too far.

Still, you have your mind. You have the ability to dream up worlds and twist fantasies together, to daze off and pretend that you’re somewhere else. That you’re living another life.

You have the days where you finish working at the inn early, sitting in the corner of the room with hard bread and cheese, listening to the town’s storyteller whisper tales and myths to the children of the village.

For now, it will suffice. 

When the rain finally slows in the late afternoon, it’s cloudy and cool outside, the perfect temperature for a walk. Pulling on a pair of linen pants and a tunic, you creep toward the door, hoping to avoid the attention of your parents as they begin to prepare dinner in the kitchen, their movements methodical and silent. 

Carefully, you slide boots on your feet. As you reach for the front door, hidden from the view of the kitchen, you hear your mother call your name. You pause, closing your eyes and grimacing as you call back, “Yes?”

“Where are you going? It’s wet and cold outside.”

“Just for a short walk.”

“You’re going to catch a cold,” she protests. Her steps move near you. You pull the door open and step into the wet air, eager to get away from her. “Come help us with dinner.”

“I’ll see you shortly, the weather is lovely!”

Before your mother can come around the corner and pin you with her disappointed stare, you’re down the slippery steps and sloshing into the yard, mud and grass sucking at your steps as you hurry. You hear your father yell something like dammit, girl but you can’t be sure, the sounds of birds and the bugs swallowing his curses as you rush through the front yard.

The world is covered in a layer of fine mist, tree boughs heavy with rain as they drip drip drip onto the forest floor around you. Thick, gray clouds hide the sun still. Thunder rolls in the distance, promising more rain through the night. You don’t mind, diving into the darkness of the trees on a well-worn path through the woods.

Water floods the path up to the ankle, soaking your boots. You grin and kick your feet as you walk, watching the ripples flow outward. Water mosquitoes dance on top of the surface of the flood and you note little tadpoles swim by, confirming that the river by your house is flooding up over the bank and washing into the mainland. 

This is common most summers. Your house is out of the way from the town, almost a thirty minute walk. This far north, you’re only ten minutes from the edge of the slow-moving river that floods yearly turning the land around your property into a marsh. 

It’s your favorite time of year. A heron startles as you wander through the trees, shaking its white wings and shedding water as it hurries away on long, thin legs. You spot a snake swimming through the reeds, rushing away from you once it senses you sloshing through. 

Closer to the river, you pause. It’s hard to tell where the embankment dips down with it flooded. You can see where the flood moves faster, powered by the depth of the river and the overflow from the lake up north. Leaning against a tree, you look around this world of water. 

It seems alien. Trees block out the sky and are reflected in the surface of the flood, giving the illusion that you stand between two worlds, two dimensions. 

What would that be like, you wonder. 

According to the high priest in town, there are other dimensions. There are the heavens for the gods of light and love, who bless the world with fire and harvest and rain and oceans, who protect the people and who will absolve you of all sin and greed if you pray to them hard enough and accept them as your patrons. Who will love you only if you are devout.

You don’t believe in them for a second. If those gods of love and light do exist, they are not entirely good. They have never answered your prayers, have never saved you from pain or from sorrow. You have begged the gods to give you a new life, to let you leave. To let you go somewhere far away.

They have been silent. They were silent when your father beat you after the first time you rejected a marital match. They didn’t help you when he burned all your materials when you tried to teach yourself the shapes and sounds of letters.

So you stopped praying to them. 

There are other gods, of course. Other places for the wicked, dark gods full of trickery and greed, who seek only to fill the world with sin and deceit, who desire to make humans suffer and lose themselves in hedonism and debauchery. Those gods have a place too, the dark underworld for those who should be punished and reminded what it is to be full of sin. 

You’ve never prayed to them either, too afraid of what it would cost you. But you wonder if they answer or if they too watch the world from a mountain so high that they cannot bother to help those who need it. 

Still, you wonder what it would be like to walk between two worlds. To see one reflected in the other, to fall face first into the cool water only to surface in another place, almost an exact replica of where you’re from. 

It would be nice. Perhaps there you wouldn’t be a disappointing daughter who has turned away every suitor in the village, much to your father’s rage. There, you would be allowed to pursue reading and writing. You’d have the agency to sail the world and see the ocean for the first time, to feel the freezing spray of the seas on your face while you hunt the coast for something lost. 

Always something lost. 

In all of your fantasies, you’re looking for something. Sometimes, you’re not sure what it is you’re looking for, you just know that something needs to be found. Other times, it’s a specific object or a person, something that, deep down, you know represents the thing you desire to find most: freedom. 

A small school of fish swim by your feet. They can’t be any larger than your pinky finger, scurrying along before they’re swept up in the suction of the flowing river. Sighing, you push off the tree and begin to head back home, swatting at your bare arms where gnats bite at your sweaty skin. 

Dark presses in as you walk back. You had stayed in the woods later than you intended, mind drifting far off among the sounds of the world around you. A cool tingle slides down your neck as you walk, water breaking around you. 

You pause. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you spend far too long in the woods and the sun goes down. It feels like there’s someone there with you, just at your back. Slowly, you turn to look over your shoulder but there’s no one there, just the warm press of something you can’t see. 

When it happened the first time, you’d been so afraid you ran home. Now, though, you smile and look down at the ground as you keep walking. The presence, whether it’s real or something you have made up in your head, is always comforting. Always there, a gentle press of feeling. 

There are candles burning in the windows and an owl hoots in greeting when your house appears. Inside, you kick off your shoes and rush to meet your parents at the silent dinner table. Both of them look up at you, your mother’s mouth pinched, eyes weary. Your father’s gaze is thunderous as he picks up cutlery and begins to cut into his potato in saw-like motions, his knuckles going white.

You sit down without a word, bow your head to pretend to pray. Your mother clears her throat, drawing your attention. “It’s after dark. You missed your prayers.” 

It doesn’t matter. You weren’t going to pray anyway. But the way your parents look at you makes you drop your eyes down to the table, their expressions alarmed. Were you really about to pray after the sunset, when the benevolent gods were no longer listening? The only gods available to you now are dangerous. Violent. Tricky. 

Dinner is dry and too heavily salted. Still, you don’t complain. Somewhere in the world, you’re sure that there are wonderful feasts being held. Plates and platters of honey-glazed meats, roasted pheasant and charred filets. Whipped sweets and colorful confectionaries, dripping fruits and sugary drinks. 

None of those places exist anywhere that you’ve ever seen, but you like to imagine them as you chew your way through an oppressively silent meal. He says nothing, but you can tell your father is angry once again. Just as well, he at least keeps it to himself through the meal and says nothing when you’re done. 

“I’ll do the dishes,” you offer quickly when your parents finish. It’s an olive branch and they know it. They accept anyway, letting you gather plates as the soft hush of rain begins again. 

Rain washes out the night. You can’t see anything beyond the water that runs off the roof over the back porch as you dip your rag into warm water, scrubbing at the plates before setting them to dry in the stack next to you. 

Frogs croak, their loud voices blending together into the roar of the rain. Every now and again, lightning flashes above and thunder shakes the sky. You feel it vibrate through your ribs and you smile, inhaling the charged air. 

“... doesn’t have a choice!” You turn toward the open doorway. You can’t see your parents but the window is open to their room, voices coming in and out of the rain. “... force her! I’ve had… and he’s already agreed.”

You frown, stopping your scrubbing to lean further, straining your ears. “This won’t go well,” your mother says. 

“I don’t give a damn! It’s already done, woman. Enough.”

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by thunder. You frown and turn back to your task, trying to piece together what they’re talking about. You think back to your mother stitching the dress before dinner and think perhaps they’re gossiping about the neighbor again. She wasn’t happy that she was being married off and everyone knew it.

Still, she’s doing it. She’s stronger than you. It’s hard to imagine going through with something you don’t want, to live a life shackled to another person who doesn’t love you. Whose only purpose is to coexist with you and reproduce. To run a household and get through each and every day, the same as last.

It’s hard to say if your parents are in love. They are tender, at times, but you can’t ever point out a moment that your mother or father seem truly happy. Content isn’t the same as happiness. Not really. While they work together well and seem to have struck up a balance after the years, there’s nothing in the way they move through life that seems joyful. 

You had asked your mom if she was happy once. She gave you a funny look and said, I have a roof above my head and food on the table. How could I not be? 

Her response puzzles you still. To live is not to be happy. Being alive is just that - being alive. A bare minimum. But truly being happy is something else. At least, that’s how you understand it. How the heroes and characters in stories and tales live their lives, fighting for happiness. 

Later that night, you forget all about their whispers behind the sheets of rain. You’re tired and the storm is soothing, making you dream of a far away land where there are two armies entrenched in war, battling for their kingdoms and lighting the sky with storm magic. 

Another dream. Another fantasy. 

-

In your dream, a soft mouth meets yours. The kiss is slow, tongue dragging against yours, tasting of something sweet, mouth warm. It smells like clove and cinnamon, and though you don’t open your eyes to see the mouth that slides against yours, you know you are safe. 

-

It ends in darkness.

Dusk has settled around your home like a funeral shroud. Your father has been gone all day, your mother flippant when you ask about his whereabouts. Your mother is a painted picture of anxiety: mouth pinched, darting eyes that fail to meet yours, and hunched shoulders. It makes your palms sweat, the way she avoids you in the house. 

Rain comes down in patterns again, bands of storms floating by and turning the world gray. You don’t have to go to the inn with the road flooded, so you spend the day at the window instead, watching each storm flash by, listening to the frogs and watching the birds pick through bug-filled waters between each deluge. 

When the sun begins to set, you find your mother standing near the window, looking through wet glass as she chews the corner of her lip. She wipes her hands on her dress, not picking up that you’re standing in the doorway watching her.

The gown she has been stitching for the past few days lays on the table. It’s a beautiful thing, bursting with intricate flowers on the sleeves and the skirts. You don’t enjoy dresses - much less the kind for marriage - but you admire the careful needlework. 

“It’s a good dress,” you tell her. She startles from where she stands at the window, whirling around to face you. “One of your best.”

“Yes. I-” something crosses her face that’s unreadable. “Would you try it on for me? I want to make sure I got the sizing right.”

You shrug and pick it up. It’s not the first time she’s used you for sizing and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You just hope that she doesn’t make you stand on a stool for hours to place pins in the skirt, mapping where she needs to take in the seams and make the fabric fold. 

The material is a little scratchy when you put it on. It’s snug across the chest and a little bit long at the wrist, but the material ripples over you like water. Outside of your room, the sound of your father’s voice echoes. He sounds more jovial than usual, laughing loudly - another voice is with him. 

Frowning, you work the buttons on the side of the dress to secure it shut, pulling the fabric into place. It isn’t often that your father has guests over, but you can assume it’s one of his friends he has over for dinner. You make a sour face at the thought that perhaps it’s Mr. Laudermill and his son Nathaniel again, a family your father has tried to pawn you off on before. 

The list of people your father has tried to get you to marry is astounding. It’s become a joke in the town, a game of who will he ask next? At first, there were plenty of families who offered their sons to make the union. Now, after how vehemently you have protested for your right to pick your husband yourself, it’s you who is rejected when your father makes dowry offers.

It seems - much to your advantage - that the men of the town and even the neighboring villages grew tired of the girl who liked to say no. It gives you small satisfaction to know that sheer inconvenience has earned you freedom alongside your mother’s unwillingness to force you. 

Still, the Laudermills are a little persistent. Not your father’s favorite option he has ever brought up, but it was one that didn’t say no. 

You enter the main house with minor trepidation, uneager to spend the evening sighing at Nathaniel’s terrible jokes and attempts to win you over. You wonder if it’s sheer pride that brings him back this time, upset that he cannot beat the town's little conundrum. The unconquerable conquest. You get the feeling that’s why he and his father visit for dinner sometimes, Nathaniel’s pride unwilling to back down from the challenge. 

You’d respect him more if he had more admiration for the word no. 

Nathaniel and his father are in the main room of your home, speaking in laughing tones to your father. Your mother stands near the open back door, hands wringing together. There is another person in your house that you don’t expect, though. The village’s high priest nods his head along with something that your father is saying, wrinkled hands clasped in front of his robes.

Time seems to slow down. You take in the tight expression on your mother’s face, her eyes drifting over to the priest who is dressed in ceremonial purple robes, an air of professional courtesy about him. He’s nodding to Nathaniel who is speaking now, and it’s when you really look at him, dressed in nice linen pants, a long sleeved shirt and an ornate vest, that you put the pieces together. 

Too slowly do you react as your father turns to you. His smile is forced and his gaze is burning with warning when he gestures. “There’s our bride!”

The word sinks in like a blade. Right between the ribs and up, its point poking dangerous at your heart as your blood begins to roar in your ears. You’re frozen to the spot, staring at them from the threshold of your room. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your neck, your hands shaking. 

“You look beautiful,” Nathaniel says, grinning. It’s a genuine smile, a proud one. Something that says finally. “I’m so glad you’re ready, after all this time.”

“I… what?”

In a moment of razor-sharp clarity, you remember the conversation your parents were having last night, soft words whispered under the cover of the storm. You remember something about forcing her and someone having already agreed. 

No. No. Nonononononono. 

You don’t realize you’re speaking out loud as you back up into your room, the horror settling in as the rain begins to tap on the roof. Your mother looks crestfallen but remains silent as your father’s smile tightens and his face reddens. 

When he says your name, it’s full of warning. The back of your legs hit your bed and your weak knees buckle. You sit down with a huff and shake your head. “You can’t do this,” you whisper. You can’t find your voice, can’t work your throat louder. “You cannot make me marry.”

“Of course I can,” your father hisses. His smile drops and in its place is something dangerous. Horrific. The villain of all your dreams and epic fantasies. “I have given you more than enough time to choose. You have not. As the man of this house-”

“No!” you bark back, cutting him off and shooting to your feet. “I am a person-”

“You are a woman!” he roars, making the high priest flinch. “Your purpose is to grow up, get married, mind the household and provide an heir! You are the only fiendish woman in this entire forsaken village who seems to misunderstand this!”

“It is not my purpose!”

“It is, and you will fulfill it!” he hisses. “You will marry this man before the gods, with my blessing and the witness of the priest.” 

Behind you, thunder rolls. The rain comes down harder. Frogs croak loudly, bracketed by the sound of the trees bending with the weight of the wind. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the people before you. Your mother with tears in her eyes, your father with fury in his face, the priest with disappointment and Nathaniel. Nathaniel with glee. With a grin. With a smirk. 

“I won’t do it,” you whisper. 

Before they can argue, you turn on your heel and leap onto your bed. Your father and Nathaniel rush at the doorway, their steps pounding behind you as you crawl through the window, your ribs slamming on the sill as you lean face forward. Rain soaks you immediately, your hands gripping the sill as you haul your middle half over the edge, intending to just flip down into the mud. 

Hands yank at your legs and you scream, a feral sound ripping through your lungs as you kick backward violently. You’re yanked back toward your room viciously, rib cage aching where you slide on the concrete frame. With another savage kick, you make contact and hear a loud shout before the hands drop from your waist. 

Pushing harshly, you throw yourself the rest of the way through the window, falling the few feet down to land with a splash. Your father is screaming inside the house but you’re already slipping to your feet, whatever he says drowned out in the rain. 

You don’t even think. You run, hands picking up the wet-leaden skirts on your dress as you tear off toward the woods. Water rushes around your ankles as you go and you hear commotion at the window as someone clambers through. You don’t dare turn around as you rush to the line of trees, unafraid of the dark but terrified of the slamming footsteps behind you.

It’s impossible to be fast in the flooded woods. You wince as your feet get cut up on rocks and sharp sticks that you can’t see. You trip over roots and kick solid things as you slog forward, biting back a cry as you try to flee. 

“Get back here, you wretched bitch!” Nathaniel screams behind you. 

It never occurred to you that he could say something so violent. It spurs you forward, mud and water sucking your feet down and making your flight sticky and slow. Rain pelts down between the leaves, the storm lighting up the treetops with purple flashes every now and again. Thunder shakes their branches and rumbles through your feet, the water rushing higher and higher. 

Nathaniel slams into you at the waist. You scream as he takes you down, his weight on top of you. Your scream is cut off as your mouth fills with water. You swallow in a panic, body thrumming with alarm as you choke, nose full of water, eyes burning. You can hear the dull roar of water, the swish of your tangled limbs on the floor. 

Clawing at him, you feel your nails rip down soft flesh and hear a muted yell. He lifts his weight off of you and you sit forward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, retching. Your lungs and nose burn as you gasp for air, fighting to get a breath in. 

Nathaniel is on you again, his hand going for your hair as he digs his fingers in hard, yanking at your scalp. Your hands fly to his wrist and you scream again, pulling at him, trying to free yourself. Tears smart your eyes from the stinging pain as he yanks hard enough that you think he’ll tear you right apart. 

“Fucking ungrateful,” he barks.

Your feet slide in the mud as he uses your buoyancy in the knee deep water to haul you back toward the house. You twist in his grip, mewling in panic and pain as you work to get your feet under you and fight back. You let go of his arm and throw a weak punch at his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go, even as you twist, hands shooting to the ground, digging through soaked earth and weeds until you feel the hard, rough shape of a rock. 

Grabbing it, you lift your hand from the water and bring it down hard on Nathaniel’s wrist. He screams and lets go of your hair. Your fingers ache from the blow but you don’t waste precious minutes, scrambling to your feet and sloshing away from him again. He’s already gripping at your dress, fingers ripping at the fabric to get a hold of you. 

Desperation claws at you and you scream for help. You don’t know if anyone else is out here in the dark of the woods but you don’t care. Bleeding, in pain, and terrified, you tear through the water, the rock clutched in your fingers, rushing in the dark as Nathaniel gives chase.

“Please!” you scream at the dark. “Anyone, please!” 

A thread of thought slivers through you about the gods. Praying to the gods has never gotten you anywhere. It didn’t make your father let you read. It didn’t get you out of your town. It didn’t save you from this. The supposed gods who rule with light and love had never heard you and you had long stopped believing in them.

But you’d never prayed to the gods of the dark. The gods who only listen to words whispered after the setting sun. 

“Please,” you beg, turning your head to the dark sky. Lighting flashes and thunder rumbles. Cool wind brushes against your face, wind that feels like it whispers I’m listening. “Please,” you scream again. “Help me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Help me!”

Nathaniel takes you down by the waist again. You gasp for air this time as your face slaps the water with a sting. The current is rushing faster here, pulling at you. Deeper. Colder. You’re close to the river, and you feel the suction of the force of the flow tugging at your body as Nathaniel digs his fingers into the meat of your arms. 

This time, he doesn’t pull you with him. He holds you down, shoving you deeper and deeper until you realize that he’s no longer interested in bringing you back. You kick at him, you tear at him. You slam his wrist with the rock again but his other hand grabs yours, wrenching the weapon away from you. 

Your lungs are screaming and water is rushing into your nose as oxygen escapes you. His grip is firm and you begin to panic. All you can think is help help help help. Please help. 

Bubbles escape your mouth as you’re forced to breathe out again. You’re running out of time and pain starts to build in your chest. You feel the way your lungs squeeze, needing air. You let out more air and press your lips tight, desperately trying not to inhale. 

Breathe in, your instincts scream. Breathe breathe breathe breathe. 

Agony. You’re in agony as you open your mouth in a final cry, unable to form the words. Unable to scream and ask for a higher power that you only believe in at this moment to help you. 

Water fills your mouth. You swallow it whole, feel it go down as you begin to spasm. 

You’re going to die. 

And then Nathaniel’s hands are gone. It takes you a moment to realize that there’s no crushing grip on your arms and in the brief moment of realization, you barely manage to push up. To break the surface and vomit, water coming out of you in a stinging, horrid mess. Your stomach turns and you feel your chest squeeze as you choke.

The storm is still raging around you, water pulling at you and pressing you into the rough bark of a tree. Blinking tears from your eyes, you look around but it’s too dark to see. You can hear Nathaniel looking for you, screaming your name in the dark. 

The back of your neck tingles. There’s a feeling in the air behind you - that sliver of breath that you often sense when you’re out in the woods alone just after dark. Like something or someone is there with you, just behind you. 

“What is it you want?” a deep, dark voice whispers. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel chilled to the bone. The voice is like none you’ve ever heard, sensual and dizzying. 

“Want?”

“You asked for help.” The voice switches to your other ear and you don’t dare turn around to find the speaker. “What do you want?” 

“What can you give?”

The voice chuckles. The sound makes you shiver, your eyelids fluttering. The voice purrs, “I can give you anything you dream, little lamb. Tell me: what do you want?”

You think about it. Lightning lances through the sky and for a brief moment, the world is a flash of silver. You see Nathaniel in the light, a few feet away from you. He’s bloody and heaving, his eyes snapping to where you hide against the tree.

“Freedom,” you gasp as the world falls to darkness again. “I want freedom.”

“What will you give me?”

“What do you want?” you beg, hearing Nathaniel move toward you.

There’s a soft hum and you feel lightheaded at the sound. “Your time.”

“My time?”

“Your time in exchange for freedom, little lamb. Better hurry, this offer is about to expire.” 

Nathaniel screams in a rage. Sloshes closer to you. Your heartbeat quickens. You can feel it in your chest, hear it in your ears, your pulse throbbing as he nears. 

“Okay,” you whisper, voice coming out shaky. 

“Then tell me you accept.”

You take a deep breath. “I accept.” 

There’s a brush at the nape of your neck, warm and soft. Though you’ve never been kissed before, you think that it’s the press of lips, intimate and barely there. Something inside you flickers to life, like a new instinct that has opened its eyes for the first time. You’re aware of another presence, a soft buzz that presses down on you as it stands up next to you. 

Thunder rolls and you feel someone brush by you.  A hand touches your cheek almost fondly, fingers dragging along the curve of your jaw. Blinking slowly, you lean into the touch, seeking its comfort. You don’t know who it belongs to. All you know is that just the feel of fingers on your skin has your stomach flipping, your toes curling. 

The hand drops from your face and you immediately miss the contact. Opening your eyes, you see another flash of lightning. There’s someone standing in front of you dressed in black, slick with rain. You can’t make out anything much, just the shape of a man in a dark cloak. 

A god. You know he’s a god, whoever this savior is. You know that something has heard your screams in the dark and has come to give you what you wanted. What you begged for. 

“She is no longer available to you,” the god announces to Nathaniel. It’s not the same whisper as a moment ago, but a deep, raspy voice. Dark. Demanding. “She’s mine.” 

“That’s my betrothed,” Nathaniel answers, though it comes out like a question, his voice trembling. “I– she belongs to-”

“Me,” the dark god assures. A loud clap of thunder makes you flinch. “Goodbye, Nathaniel Laudermill.” 

Nathaniel screams. You don’t know what happens. There’s just his shout of terror in the dark and a roll of thunder that shakes the trees and rattles the earth. You feel the vibration in the water from the unearthly thunder before you realize that this sound, this trembling, is the wrath of a god. 

The sound fades and the shaking stops. You feel more than see the god in front of you turn to face you, a sweeping warmth as he bends down. You cannot make out any features, your vision swimming with bursts of color in the lack of light. 

“You’re with me now,” he assures you. “And you should not be afraid.” 

Gentle hands reach out and cradle your face. You’re suddenly tired, every pain in your body weighing you down like stones, pulling at you until you’re closing your eyes and succumbing to the heavy exhaustion.

The last thing you remember is your whispered name on reverent lips. 

-

You’re dreaming. Your eyes are closed in this dream but you feel light and warm. Fingers brush over your cheek, soft and reverent. You hear a gentle, deep humming, a pleasant melody. It smells like clove and cinnamon, making you drift further into the dream. You lean into the hand cupping your face and hear a deep chuckle before drifting off into nothingness. 

-

The first thing you notice is the smell of clove and cinnamon. It’s a soothing scent that sends your heart fluttering as you roll over. The blankets wrapped around you feel divine, soft with a high loft that feels like you’re wrapped in clouds. The mattress is decadent, sucking you in further as you settle in on your side, inhaling deeply.

Then you remember hands tearing at your legs. Ripping you by the hair. Water filling your lungs and throat. The flash of lightning and the cold rain as you were dragged under a flood again and again. 

With a gasp you sit up in bed, heart hammering. You still as you look around, mouth dropping open at the opulent room. The bed is the largest thing you’ve ever seen, on a low platform swimming with charcoal colored sheets and pillows. The headboard looks like polished obsidian, glinting in the low light provided by dozens of flickering candles.

Stone walls make up the room, rough rock with sconces of flickering flames. The room is sprawling with a sitting area a step down from the bed, decorated with chaise lounges, a coffee table and high-backed chairs situated in front of a fireplace. Flames crackle on a log, orange light dancing across the room. On either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that stretch up to the high ceiling.

Across from the bed are open double doors where you can see a magnificent bathroom. From your vantage point, you can just make out sinks carved from a hewn rock and what looks like a trickling waterfall sluicing down the wall. 

Turning to the left, there is a set of glass doors, a balcony just on the other side. It appears to be nighttime outside, thousands of stars glittering through the glass and the largest moon you’ve ever seen suspended in the sky like a lone coin.

Carefully, you peel back the covers. You’re still in the wedding dress your mother made you. It’s stained and tattered and bloodied, making your stomach flip uncomfortably as you look down on it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you place your feet on the stone flooring, expecting it to be cold to the touch. 

It isn’t. Warmth radiates from the floor through the soles of your feet, making you sigh, tension bleeding from your shoulders as you close your eyes for a moment. Though the aches and the pains from being scratched and hit and torn down are gone, you wince as you recall them. 

Your parents were going to force you to marry Nathaniel. You don’t know how you missed the signs before, how you thought that there was any other path. With your elbows pressed to your knees, you hang your head in your hands, pressing your eyes shut and taking another shuddering breath.

This time, a sob slips out. Somehow, you had tricked yourself into thinking that your parents would abide by your wishes to make your own choices. Foolish, you realize. Your father had not grown complacent. He had been biding his time, waiting to strike. 

The smallest viper has the greatest sting.

And your mother was going to let him do it. The woman who had brought you into the world screaming and bloody was going to pass you off to a man, even if it meant that man dragged you kicking and screaming to the altar. 

Disgust curls in your stomach and your hands turn into firsts, pressing against your closed lids and making bursts of colors flash in your eyes. Split down the middle, one part of you mourns the loss of the parents you thought that you had. The other is an open wound, festering with a hateful infection at the very thought of them. 

The sound of the door opening catches your attention. Your heart leaps as you sit up straight, dropping your hands into your lap as a man slips through the large double doors near the sitting area. Your breath catches in your chest as he sweeps into the room, looping his hands behind his back as he sets his dark eyes on you and approaches. 

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, you think. Inky hair falls into his enigmatic eyes. His skin is deep gold, a contrast to the all-black blouse that he wears tucked into black pants. You see the open collar of his shirt revealing a patch of tan skin and an elegant throat, but it’s his face that shatters your mind. 

The man - or god, you think - has a square, masculine jaw offset with a delicate mouth the color of rose petals. His nose is straight and wide and would look ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it’s the perfect balance, his cheekbones high and angular, cutting the roundness of his nose. 

“Good to see you’re awake,” he greets. The man stops at the edge of the step that leads to where the bed sits higher than the rest of the room. You stare and stare and stare at him, unable to process words as he grins at you. His voice is dulcet and warm, but not the voice that promised to save you. “How do you feel?”

“I…” you rasp out and you shake your head, unable to think of anything else.

His mouth quirks and he nods. “It sounds like you had a terrible time. How about you take a well-deserved bath and get out of that terrible dress? Sorry to have left you in it, I was under strict instructions not to invade your personal space.”

“Yes, please.” You hesitate. “Where am I? Whose instructions?”

“You’re somewhere safe with someone who wants you to remain safe.” 

“Where is safe?”

He gives you a secretive smile as he nods toward the bathroom before turning on his heel and striding away. On unsteady feet, you follow him. It helps that the floor is warm, giving you the strength you need to make it down the two steps and across the stone toward the bathroom. 

“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer your question,” he admits. “I’m just here to help you get settled. My name is Taehyung, by the way.”

“Taehyung.” You say the word, familiarizing yourself with the shape of it as you enter the room and stop. 

The bathroom is far more luxurious than you realized from afar. There is a waterfall running down the black rockface between two basins, trickling into a little fountain that drains on the floor. To the right side of the bathroom is a large body of steaming water. 

Herbal scents fill the room as you near the edge of the dark surface of the water. It reminds you of hot springs in a cave near the southern villages, a place you’d only heard of but never seen. It’s massive, surrounded by a smooth, stone edge. There is a corner full of what appears to be salts, soaps and herbs alongside flickering candles. 

Opposite the hot spring is a giant glass window that overlooks mountains and lush greenery. From the window, you can see the entire world of wherever you are stretched out in the most dazzling and wonderful display. You can’t help but feel as though you’re somewhere that belongs in the epitome of night.

“How deep is that?” you ask, turning to Taehyung with a wary expression as you gesture to the body of water. 

His expression softens. “Waist high when you stand in the middle. There is a ledge that you can sit on all the way around. It’s incredibly safe and very warm. I can stand just outside the door if anything goes wrong.”

“Okay.” 

Taehyung points to a stack of clothes resting on a stool near a cabinet full of towels and jars of things. “Those are for you to change into. The towels are for you to dry off, of course. Anything in the bathroom is yours to use.” Taehyung must sense your hesitation, because he gives you a soft smile. “You’re safe here. I promise.” 

“I’d feel better if I knew where here was.”

“Bathe. Relax. Then I’ll take you to him.” 

Taehyung does not give you a chance to ask to whom he refers. He strides out of the room and the door swings shut seemingly on its own. You blink a few times at it, standing in the middle of the warm bathroom in a daze.

Spinning, you look around the room and find yourself drawn to the window. Up close, you realize how high up you are. It’s a bit dizzying, and you look  down at the ground only to see that there is a garden bursting with purple and blue, neat rows of flowers that stretch until they meet a line of trees. 

A world of mountains unfolds beyond the window. You’ve never seen mountains but they are larger than you could have ever imagined, snowcaps stark against the night sky. It’s mesmerizing and a little too big, so you turn away from the window and head for the steaming basin of water. 

Peaking over the edge, you can see the bottom. It doesn’t look that deep, but your stomach twists as you pop the buttons on your dress. Your fingers feel stiff and disjointed as you work to undress. You look down at the ripped threads and the dirty fabric and think about how much time your mother spent stitching it.

Suddenly the dress feels suffocating and you pull hard on the garment, popping buttons from the threads and sending them clattering on the floor. You shed the dress and kick it away from you, stripping off your undergarments and lowering yourself to the edge of the water. 

A sigh leaves your mouth as you slide your feet and legs in first. The water is hot, though not scalding like you expected. Closing your eyes, you remain sitting on the edge for a moment, letting your calves soak and muscles unwind, fingers gripping the edge tight. 

Taking a deep breath, you slide forward a little, firmly placing your feet on the ledge Taehyung spoke of. For a moment, your fear spikes. You feel it sharp in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the edge of the basin. With a few deep breaths, you carefully slide down to the ledge proper, sinking in the hot water to the chest. 

“I’m not going to drown,” you whisper to yourself. The words come out shaky and you’re not entirely sure that you believe them. “I’m not going to drown, I am not going to drown, I am not going to drown.”

You repeat the mantra until you believe it, your fingers grasping the edge of the stone seat as you try to relax and melt into the water. It takes a while, but you finally grow too tired of remaining tense, taking a deep breath and gaining the courage to relax. 

Gently, you rest your head against the edge of the basin. Heat seeps into your skin and you feel the anxiety bleed out of you, your tensed muscles unwinding. You hadn’t realized how clenched up you were until you let go, and your body sags a little bit in the water. 

Time slips away. Thankfully, your body doesn’t hurt the way you anticipated that it would. Frowning, you press your fingers into your skin where there should be bruises and pain. There is no evidence on your skin that Nathaniel laid his hands on you the night before - the day before? You’re unsure how much time has passed, only that there is an eerie absence of your wounds.

Turning your head, you look at your dress discarded on the floor. There’s certainly evidence of a struggle spattered all over the fabric, but it makes you wonder if the god who answered your prayers has healed you.

A god. 

The thought comes to you in a snap and you stare down at the water, eyes unfocusing as you try to recall the details of what happened. You remember screaming for help, the sound of your desperation ripping through your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever screamed like that, terrified and wild. You remember thinking about the gods, begging them to hear you, willing them to listen. 

Water had been filling your lungs. Crushing out air. You remember the rush of the stream around you as it pulled at your fighting body. Nathaniel’s hands gripping you and holding you under viciously, fingers like claws as he tried to drown you. 

Then you surfaced and choked, completely shrouded in darkness…. And you remember that quiet voice made of smoke and shadow. Thinking of it now makes you shiver, despite how hot the water is. The voice had promised you freedom in exchange for time and had taken you to wherever this place was. 

You open your eyes, unsure when you had even closed them. Glancing around the room once more, you decide there is no way that you’re anywhere close to home. You’ve never seen anything like this bathroom before, a feat of what appears to be architecture and maybe magic. 

Soaps and salts line the edges of the bathing pool. When you feel brave enough, you dart across the middle like a minnow, trying not to think about how you nearly crossed death’s bridge in a shallow body of water not long ago. 

Unscrewing lids, you smell each of the glass bottles of liquid, humming in delight. You settle on a hard bar of soap that smells like lavender and mint. It feels good to scrub your skin raw. You imagine that you’re washing away all of the memories of Nathaniel’s fingers on your skin and the scratchy dress your mother made for you.

Fingers and feet pruned and skin feeling stripped of a top layer, you reluctantly exit the bath. The towels are the softest thing you’ve ever felt. You run the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head up at the sky and sighing. Wherever this dark god has taken you doesn’t seem so terrifying, yet it puts you more on edge, these luxuries. 

The clothes Taehyung left out for you fit well enough, though it’s obvious they are not your exact measurements. He’s provided you with soft, black pants and a loose, black tunic with intricate designs that look like clouds on the sleeves and collar. 

You hesitate when you’re ready to leave the bathroom. So far, it seems that whatever bargain you’ve struck with this god has been in your favor. But you know you’ve made a deal in a moment of fear, and you’re not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to.

Time.

Though you’re nervous, you can’t stay hidden in the bathroom forever. Nudging the door open, you peek around the edge, gaze sweeping the room as you look for Taehyung. He’s standing in the sitting area, face toward the flickering fire. He looks both terrifying and beautiful, hands linked behind his back as he watches the flames. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Taehyung calls without turning around. “I mean it when I tell you that you’re safe.”

Slipping through the door, you walk toward him, regarding him warily. “Still,” you answer. “I don’t know where I am. Are you even human?”

He does look over his shoulder then, flashing you a wicked grin. “I’m not.” 

Taehyung’s answer doesn’t put you at ease, but you’re unsure what to do. Wordlessly, he gestures for you to follow him as he heads through the door and out of the room. For a moment, you hesitate. What would happen if you refused to leave the room? Is your deal with the god already in effect? What are its limitations? 

You can answer none of the questions you have, so you follow Taehyung, hoping to find answers soon. Except as soon as you step out of the room, you think you might have even more questions. 

The halls are dark and lit with flickering torches, casting an orange glow up to the cavernous ceilings. Though you’ve never been in a castle or seen one, you have an idea of how grand they are. There is no doubt in your mind that this is a castle, the halls resplendent and sweeping with artwork and fabric and statues. 

In front of you, Taehyung walks jovially with his hands linked behind his back. He hums a tune you don’t know, but it sounds smooth and warm. You follow behind him, casting your gaze around as you walk, trying to remember which turns you take and what paintings you pass. 

You reach a tall, closed set of wooden double doors. Taehyung raps his fingers against the door, looking over his shoulder at you with an excited grin. Your stomach flips and you wipe your palms against the bottom of your tunic. Your hands feel shaky and you twine them into the fabric, willing them to stop. 

Taehyung must hear someone on the other side of the door, because he opens it and steps in and to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You take a deep breath and walk by him into the room, stopping immediately as you look up, your mouth falling open. 

It’s a library grander than you could ever imagine. Your town had quite a small library at the church that belonged to the high priest, but this is something beyond your wildest dreams. The ceiling stretches higher than your imagination, filled with floating lights and stars - the entire night sky is stretched above you in swirling constellations of purple and blue. 

Three floors make up the library, each lined with books and windows that look out into the evening. You can see sprawling gardens beyond the tinted glass, but it’s the shelves of books that catch your attention. Stepping into the room further, you slowly spin, looking at the sheer amount of volumes that line the walls. There are multiple seating areas with rich, velvet blue armchairs and couches, tables full of books and papers and ink bottles and maps. 

Your throat tightens as you look at Taehyung, your mouth wobbling. The urge to burst into tears has never felt greater than this moment. You never imagined that you could stand in a room with so many books, and the desire to pull one off the shelf and delve in is cut short by the single, glaring fact that you don’t know how to read them. 

Distracted by the books upon entry, it takes you a moment to notice another presence in the room. You feel a tingle at the back of your neck, one that draws your eyes toward a long table near the fireplace. It’s the same feeling you had when you were saved from Nathaniel, an awareness that buzzes along your skin.

A man stands in front of the table, watching you with dark, feline eyes. He’s beautiful. Otherworldly, really. His round features remind you of the moon, but it’s the sharp eyes and the careful pout of his mouth that draws you in. He looks both delicate and dangerous, and you notice the quirk on his lips as he watches you watch him. 

He’s in all black. Black pants tucked into black, knee-high boots, and a black, long-sleeved shirt. There’s a layer of necklaces around his neck and you can see shapes and runes that are unfamiliar to you. The same runes and shapes are on the rings on his long, delicate fingers, folded in front of him. 

This is the face of a god. You know it in the way that there’s something ancient in his eyes and in the way he glows from within. His power is tangible, a crackling energy pressing up against every nerve in your body. 

“How are you feeling?” his voice vibrates right to your core. Soft and dark like you remember it, though a little rougher now. Gravelly. He studies you, unmoving. “Hopefully well-rested?”

“I feel…. Better.” Finding the words is hard in his presence, especially under the scrutiny of his gaze. You want to dart out of the room and hide, but you also don’t want to leave the library without exploring. “I think I should thank you?”

It comes out as a question and he smirks a little. Your stomach flutters at the sight; he raises a brow. “You’re welcome. Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

The door shuts behind you and you startle, whirling around to see that Taehyung has left you. Your nerves fray further and you turn back to look at the god watching you. Behind him on the table, you realize it is a feast of sorts. Roasted meats and poultry, platters of fruit, plates of cheese and neatly arranged crackers, steaming pans of vegetables and things you cannot identify. 

He notices. “You must be starving. Come. Eat.” When you don’t move, he sighs. “I didn’t save you just to harm you.” 

It’s true enough. You carefully approach the table, eyeing him as he unclasps his hands and pulls out a chair for you. When you hesitate, he arches a dark brow again and you feel yourself grow warm in the face, muttering your thanks as you hurry over to the chair and sit down. 

The god’s presence is buzzing. He doesn’t touch you, but it’s like you feel him anyway, just an inch away from you. He helps you slide your chair in and gives a deep, contented sigh before he moves toward the opposite end of the table, taking the dull hum of energy with him. 

Across the table, he sits. His gaze finds yours again as you stare at him, finding it difficult to look anywhere else. Even with the smell of a divine meal, your attention on him is a fixed point. If this bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans back in his seat, casual and confident. 

“Have what you like,” he offers. “I don’t know what you enjoy and I didn’t want to pry.”

The table is full of options. You chew the inside of your cheek. There is glazed duck and roasted ham, creamy looking potatoes and sauced vegetables. Your stomach growls and twists painfully as you stare at your choices. 

“The duck is good,” he offers gently. You glance up. He nods towards the dish in question. “Sorry, it’s probably overwhelming.”

“A little,” you answer, but take him up on his advice and go for the duck. “Where are we?”

“In between.”

You frown as you plate different foods, fingers sticky as you do. You’re hyper-aware of him watching you and you try not to look up, feeling your hands quake as you add roasted veggies to your plate. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does. We’re at the in-between of all things. Not a solid place in your sense of understanding. It’s not a physical manifestation of a land mass, but it is a world that contains physical things.” 

“A… dimension?”

“Exactly. This is my domain.”

“And what… are you?”

You look up at him then. His lips twitch at the corners and he tongues the inside of his cheek. “A god. But you already knew that.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.” 

Silence falls between you as you pick up a knife and fork, cutting carefully into your meat. You pop it between your lips, sighing when the duck melts on your tongue with the taste of honey and something else. You sag in the chair, not realizing until now how tense you had been to this point. The food sends a wave of warmth through you and the god watches as you take a few bites, patient as you eat.

“This is fantastic,” you say, glancing at him as you reach for a glass of water. “The flavors are like nothing I’ve ever had.”

“I assure you that all things here are like nothing you’ve ever had.” You hum in agreement, taking another eager bite. You cannot imagine anything in the real world tasting this succulent. You almost wonder if perhaps this is all a dream. “You didn’t pray before you began to eat.”

Your chewing pauses. He’s bemused, giving you a sideways grin with his brows raised. You swallow thickly and say, “Praying never got me anywhere until recently. Why did you help me?”

“Because you asked.”

“You didn’t have to, though.”

It isn’t a question. He answers anyway. “I didn’t.”

“So why did you? The other gods have never helped me.”

“The other gods aren’t me.” His voice is soft and lethal, raising the hair on your arms. “We are not all the same, and you’d do well to not make any further comparisons moving forward.” 

You lower your gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Gods are fickle beings. We are quick to offend and slow to let go. You don’t know any better and are thus forgiven.” 

“What do I call you?”

For a moment, he hesitates. You think he isn’t going to answer just as he says, “Yoongi. You can call me Yoongi.”

“Is that your name?” 

“It’s one of them.” 

“How many names do you have?”

He chuckles. It’s a delightful sound and you smile, watching him lean his head back against his chair, looking up as he shrugs. “How much time do you have?”

Time. 

Suddenly, you remember that you aren’t here on this god - Yoongi’s - good graces. You’re here because you called for someone in a moment of need and he agreed to help you, but at a cost. Your time. He had asked for your time, and a sense of anxiety tiptoes its way up your spine as you think about the ambiguity of his deal. 

Swallowing harshly, you shift back in your seat. The food in your stomach feels a little heavy, far too rich for you to eat more than a few bites. You’ve only ever known your parents’ staples of meat, bread, cheese, and root vegetables. 

“When you saved me,” you begin. “You made a deal with me.”

“I did.”

“My freedom in exchange for my time.”

His eyes are glittering as he watches you, completely still. The fireplace next to you crackles. It makes shadows dance across his face, giving him the appearance of something wild and untamed. Your heartbeat quickens as you watch him, this godly being, as he stares you down. 

“That was the deal,” he finally hums. His head cocks to the side a little. “I don’t usually discuss business over dinner.”

“I’m done eating.”

He huffs but doesn’t seem annoyed. “Perhaps tea, then? It will help settle your stomach.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that my stomach needs settling?” 

“I know a lot of things.” Yoongi rises and gestures to the chairs directly in front of the fireplace. You stand, following his lead. There’s a quiver of energy in the air and you pause, turning to look back at the table to see it’s completely bare, no trace of anything left. You whip around to look at Yoongi as he sits in a wingback chair. “I can do a lot of things.”

A steaming cup of tea sits on a wooden table next to the chair you sink into. The cushions are soft, swallowing you in and making your muscles melt. The cup is warm when you pick it up, steam curling off the surface. Sniffing, your eyes flutter as you inhale the smell of mint. 

“What are you the god of?” You open your eyes and look at him. Both of his feet are planted flat on the floor, his arms resting on the arms of the chair. He looks a little stiff, more so than he did at dinner. Orange firelight reflects in his inky eyes. “You’re a god of the dark.” 

“There’s no such thing,” he scoffs, and you frown. “Your concept of gods is skewed. There is neither good nor evil, light nor dark. There are just gods.” 

“So it doesn’t matter who you pray to?”

“We don’t need your patronage. If we did, we wouldn’t be gods, would we?” You’d never thought of it that way. You sip your tea, letting the warmth and sharp mint bloom in your mouth. “We’re beyond the simple classification that mortals use to understand and organize what they think our intentions are. I have been classed as both good and evil, light and dark, benevolent and malevolent.”

“But surely there are things that are inherently evil, even among the gods.”

“Of course there isn’t. Evil is a point of view. It is a word used to define the feeling one has when the opposite of their desire occurs.” 

“I… guess that makes sense. But isn’t something like murder wrong?”

“Are you not the villain of the duck you ate today?” You blanch. Yoongi looks smug as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “Are you not evil for calling down the wrath of a god on Nathaniel Laudermill?”

“He was going to kill me.”

“You rejected his hand in marriage. You did the opposite of what he desired. I believe in his eyes, you are the evil. Is Death evil for doing what he was made to do?” 

Yoongi’s words make your head spin. You gulp a mouthful of scalding tea before setting it on the table next to you, your mind reeling. The realization that you’re sitting in a library with a starry ceiling arguing over morals and the concept of evil with a god who has saved you from certain death makes you giggle. 

He seems surprised by your sudden outburst, raising his brows as you cover your mouth, your fingers pressed to your lips as you try to contain your sudden mirth. “Sorry. This seems absolutely insane. I’m arguing over the word ‘evil’ with a god in a realm that is everywhere and nowhere at all. It feels like perhaps I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not. Though your dreams are dizzying and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You should be proud of them.” You furrow your brows. How does he know what you dream of? Before you can ask him to clarify, Yoongi says, “You wanted to discuss the deal.”

“Oh. Right. What did you mean by wanting my time in exchange for my freedom?”

“It’s simple. I want you to spend two weeks each month here.” 

Yoongi’s words sink in as you look at the window behind him. Outside, the world is sinking into what you think might be night. The sky is swimming with stars and constellations, stuck in a perpetual twilight of sorts. You’re reminded that somehow, Yoongi is like the moon and the night itself, especially when you find his dark gaze on you as he waits for your response. 

“Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company.” 

“That’s it? You just want me to hang out in exchange for saving me?” He nods. “That seems too easy.” 

His lips curve upward. “Maybe I’m very annoying.” 

For some reason you think it might not be true. You think of all the things that you’ve heard about the gods. Yoongi tells you that everything you know about them is wrong, but you know that the gods of the dark are tricksters. They are experts in the art of luring mortals in, and you wonder if that’s what he’s doing now. 

“Does it have to be consecutive weeks?” you ask, trying to bide time to collect your thoughts and work out his intentions. “Or can it be a collective?”

“Consecutive.” 

“What… what happens when I go home? With my family.”

Yoongi’s face grows stormy. You shift in your seat. “You’re under my protection,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll bear a mark that protects you. No one will force their will upon you again.”

“Can you?”

He shakes his head, long hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks haunting in the firelight, but beautiful. You avert your gaze, fixating on the books in the room instead. “You have my word, I will never control you. I promised you freedom, that includes me.” 

“But I have to be here. I can’t escape from that. Is that freedom?”

“You made that decision of your own free will. It’s your words that bind you here, not mine. While you’re here, you are able to do whatever it is you desire. In fact, I encourage it.” 

“Wording is really important to you, isn’t it?”

He chuckles and inclines his head, fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “It is. Consider the first day of your deal already spent. You slept most of it off while you healed.” Yoongi stands, drawing your attention to him. “Sleep more,” he insists gently. “Tomorrow, I’ll give you a tour.”

The thought of a tour - and seeing Yoongi for more days - thrills you. Taehyung appears at the doorway as Yoongi escorts you out. He wishes you goodnight and lets Taehyung take you back to your room, though you feel his gaze and presence as you leave. 

It isn’t until you’re back in your room that you realize you never asked Yoongi how long your deal is supposed to last. It occurs to you that while he has given you a sort of freedom, perhaps he has taken something from you after all. 

-

Tall trees surround you. Above them, you can make out a swirling sky of stars and planets and several moons, so bright that it turns the forest a shade of blue. The woods around you are familiar, and there’s a well-walked path just ahead of you that leads to the river by your home. You’ve walked among these trees and creatures hundreds of times, but never with a sky like this.

Crickets chirp as you walk through the woods now. Grass tickles your bare feet, the earth soft and damp beneath you. It smells like fresh rain, but there’s no flood or mud as you navigate by instinct. 

It’s peaceful out here. How many times have you come here to escape your father’s rage? How many times have you sat, back pressed against a tree, watching the light fade from the world until it was too dark to see where you were going? You always managed to get home safely, even with the lack of light. 

The river rushes a few yards ahead. You pick a spot to sit and watch, beneath the cover of leaves. The sound of running water and the smell of rain on the wind lulls you into a trance and you close your eyes, resting for a while. 

Here is where you find peace. Where you dream. 

Awareness creeps up on you and you open your eyes, looking upward as you sense someone approaching. Yoongi stands next to you, onyx eyes gazing at the river. He’s in black clothes like before, his hands tucked into his pockets. You smell clove and cinnamon, making you dizzy. Power radiates off of him but it feels warm and safe. Like the night air itself comes from his existence. 

“Am I dreaming?” you ask him. He looks down at you, an obsidian strand of hair falling in his face. He nods, giving you a gentle smile. “This is often where I go to dream.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer you. He looks back to the rushing river, his face becoming unreadable. He looks like he’s somewhere far away, lost in his thoughts. Absently, he says, “Your dreams are my favorite.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are bright, full of life and color and sound. You dream the way people create art, the way people create worlds. It is rare to see such magnificence among the sleeping.” 

“I just…” you shrug. “Think of places I would rather be.” 

Yoongi looks at you then and his face is shadowed, full of thunder. “You’ll never be forced to live that life again.” 

“Do you promise?” 

He opens and closes his mouth, narrowing his eyes a little before shaking his head. You feel a smile tug at your mouth, endeared by his microexpressions. “Yes, little lamb. I promise.”

-

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed and looking around. The room spins as your brain tries to catch up with your body, your physical and mental awareness completely out of sync as you swivel your head, drinking in the unfamiliar room and the soft sheets that smell like clove and cinnamon. 

For a moment, you forget where you are, and adrenaline surges through you. Your fingers twist in the sheets as you ground yourself, memories from the day before slotting into place. Letting out a long exhale, you relax, flopping backward in the opulent bed, your heart rate slowing down as your panic bleeds out of you. 

You’re in Yoongi’s home. In a place that is somewhere in between - whatever that means. The god has told you on multiple occasions that you’re safe and have nothing to fear from him and for some reason…. You believe him. Maybe it’s naive, but you can’t erase the feeling that Yoongi is being honest with you, that he has good intentions. 

Perhaps it’ll get you into trouble one day. For now, you cast off doubt and peel yourself out of bed, trailing to the windowed doors that lead to the balcony beyond. You try the handle and are delighted to find them unlocked. Slipping through the doors, you’re met with warm, balmy air. It smells like petrichor, the breeze kissing your skin gently.

Like before, the world seems wrapped in permanent twilight. There is no sun in the sky, but a vast stretch of swimming stars and the largest moon you’ve ever seen. In the distance, dark mountains loom over you, their peaks capped in snow and wreathed in mist. 

Forest stretches out toward them in a vibrant shade of green. There’s a settee on the balcony along with a table and chairs. Leaning on the stone railing, you look down to see colorful gardens and a large pond full of vibrant fish.

All of the radiance makes you smile. You’ve never seen colors so rich, and you’re unable to recall if your world was this vibrant. The garden below is bursting with violet and cerulean, the flowers unfamiliar to you. Their fragrant smell wafts up to the balcony, a hint of sweetness in the air. 

A roll of thunder catches your attention. You look to the east, noticing that one of the mountains in the distance is darker than the others. Lightning crackles in the sky around it and the mist is heavier there. You think the trees are darker too, though you can’t tell if they’re gray or if it’s the shade from the swollen thunderheads drifting over them. 

Behind you, the door to the balcony opens and startles you. Whirling around, you find Taehyung leaning against the frame, mouth curved upwards in a sideways grin. “When you didn’t answer the door I got worried.”

“I thought I was safe here? What is there to be worried about?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you took a dive off of the balcony.”

“What is that place?” you point to the thundering, shrouded mountain. Taehyung looks where you point, his smile dropping as he stares at the looming peak. “By the look on your face, somewhere bad.”

“Bad is a relative term.” 

You scrunch your nose. “You sound like Yoongi.”

“Already familiar, are we? Cute.” He pushes off the door frame and beckons you inside. “Ask Yoongi about it on your tour.”

“Are you not coming along?”

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Not give tours.”

If it weren’t for Taehyung’s playful tone and glint in his eye when he casts you a glance, you’d think you were bothering him. Instead of getting angry, he drapes himself on one of the couches by the fireplace, long legs dangling off the arm as he lounges.

Today, he’s in charcoal colored pants and a red, billowing shirt that shows off the smooth, tan skin of his chest. A dangling earring catches your attention as he leans his head back, silky hair shifting. If Yoongi is made of moonlight, you think that Taehyung might be made of sunlight: golden skin, warm energy. 

“By all means,” you mutter. “Hang out.” 

“This is my home first, human. I shall do as I please.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat and roll your eyes, walking toward a large, polished wardrobe made from dark wood. It smells like fresh cedar when you pull on the brass handle, opening the door to reveal tunics and dresses, all hung neatly. 

Rich silks, velvets and cottons greet you. You run your hand over the materials, amazed at how soft they feel. They are far better quality than your mother ever had access to. Your heart squeezes when you think of her, and you shake your head a little as if to physically dispel thoughts of your family out of your mind.

Facing them seems like an impossible task. You know that you’ll have to eventually. Two weeks with Yoongi in this strange world seems like a long time, but you’re not sure if it’s nearly long enough to mentally prepare to go back and face them after what’s happened. Will they still be angry? What will they say? Will they have been worried about you all this time?

There’s no way to know the answer. So instead, you pretend none of that exists. For once, you have stumbled into a dream and adventure like you’ve always wanted, and you intend on playing the part. 

An emerald shirt catches your eye. It’s made of a silky material, supple when you rub the sleeve between your fingers. It’s plain, save for the laced string at the throat to cinch and tie it off. You grab a pair of black, cotton pants as well, the fabric just as soft as the sheets in your bed. 

With Taehyung humming on the couch, you let yourself into the bathroom to change. You appreciate that the floor is warm wherever you go barefoot, and you quickly slide out of your clothes from the previous day and into the new ones. The measurements are a little off, but more than manageable as you pull the tie closed at your throat. Glancing into the mirror, you can’t help but smile a little.

You look so different. The shirt belongs to someone adventurous, you think. Perhaps a pirate or a huntress riding atop her horse through the woods. You slide your fingers along the material, its softness inviting and magical. 

Two weeks. You’ll be here for two weeks with Yoongi, a god who has been alive for hundreds of years, if your conversation from the night before was anything to go off of. It feels surreal and you’re a little nervous, but more than that, you’re excited.

Suddenly, the world is full of possibilities. No marriage to tie you down, no power held in your parents’ hands. 

 “Gods you’re slow to get dressed,” Taehyung announces when you enter the room. He sits up, appraising your outfit. “Green looks good on you.”

“How many are there?” he cocks his head at your question, peeling himself from the seat. “Gods and goddesses, I mean.”

“Pfft. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?” 

“Maybe thousands, I don’t really know. There’s basically an infinite amount of universes. All anyone mostly cares about are the Eternals, the gods who remain the same no matter what name or history mortals assign to them.”

“Eternals?”

“Mhmm.” Taehyung leads you into the hallway. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he strolls leisurely. You follow beside him eagerly, looking up as he seems thoughtful. “Gods are hard to define. They are great beings with massive power. Some gods do the same thing, some don’t. They come from the infinite amount of worlds to which they are native, and somehow make it into mortal history. But the Eternals have always been here, always known. They do not change.”

“Who are the Eternals?”

“Life, death, chaos, time, pathos, dream and fate.” He makes a face then. “Fate and chaos are hard. They work in direct opposition to one another. It drives time insane, naturally.”

Seven Eternals. It makes sense, from a logical standpoint. Every world must have life and death and the passing of time. Where there exists a living thing, there exists a vessel of emotion and dreams. In all worlds there is the potential for chaos disrupting fate. 

“Yoongi is an Eternal?”

Taehyung glances sidelong at you, smug. “Yes, Yoongi is an Eternal.”

“Why do you look at me like that when I say his name?” Taehyung doesn’t answer, instead smirking as if he’s enjoying a private joke. Your fists close and open as you swallow down a demand to tell you what he finds so amusing. “Which one is he?”

“Have you no guesses?”

That makes you think. Recalling the night before, you remember the way Yoongi looks: dark eyes swimming with something magical, a soft and raspy voice, the way he appeared in your dreams. 

Though your dreams are mesmerizing and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You recall what he said about your dreams, the way he leveled his gaze at you, full of meaning that you didn’t understand. 

“Dreams,” you say, certain that you're right. “He’s the Eternal of Dreams?”

“He isn’t of dreams. He is Dream.”

You’re unable to clarify Taehyung’s emphasis on Yoongi being a deity of dreams as he opens the door to the same library as before. This time, he doesn’t knock. When you step inside, you realize it’s because the room is empty. Yoongi is nowhere to be seen, though pale light filters in through the windows. It’s still forever twilight outside, yet a little lighter. It feels like morning, even if it does not entirely appear to be morning. 

Behind you, the door shuts. You turn to see Taehyung has left without another word, leaving you entirely alone in the captivating space. 

Without hesitation, you walk to the nearest shelf housing rows and rows of books. The spines range from muted browns and neutrals to bright reds and rich blues. Velvet books, leather books, canvas, silk. There is no shortage of materials making up each one, letters painted, printed or stitched down the back of them to denote what they are. 

Each one breathes a world of possibility as you drag your finger along the shape of them. You wonder how many worlds and histories are scribbled away in the pages of this room, the very idea of it overwhelming. 

Trinkets and objects you’re unfamiliar with line the shelves as well. Your fingers trace their shape and you wonder what they are. One object in particular catches your eye in the corner of the room. It stands on three metal legs and has large, interlocking rings that spin lazily in some unknown pattern. The rings are hammered metal and appear to have markings engraved on them.

The device slowly spins of its own accord. Upon inspection, there seems to be nothing else responsible for its motion except magic or science that is beyond you. You can see that there are seven metal rings and different markings on each of them, but you cannot guess what the engravings read. 

“It represents the balance of the Eternals. Taehyung mentioned you had a vague starting point as to what I am.”

Yoongi’s deep voice makes you leap and screech, spinning on your heels to face him. Your hand flies to your chest and you can feel your heartbeat rattling wildly. Yoongi stands a few feet away from you, hands linked behind his back and eyebrows raised at your reaction. 

He’s dressed similar to the night before, though a little more casual. His black pants are tucked into knee high boots, and his black shirt is loose fitted with silver stitching around the collar. You notice that it’s in patterns of stars and moons, furthering your confirmation that Yoongi is associated with dreams in some manner. 

Yoongi’s long hair is pulled half out of his face today, tied away in a bun. The rest of his hair brushes the tops of his shoulders as his inky eyes regard you patiently. His curiosity makes you feel warm all over and you drop your hands to your sides, fingers twitching. 

“How so?” you ask. You turn back to the device. “What does it run on?”

“Our energy. Each ring represents a member of my family. The speed at which they turn represents the balance among us. When the speed is off, the balance is off.”

“What causes the balance to be off?” 

Yoongi steps closer to you. You hold your breath as he does it, but you can feel his presence like a buzzing vibration at the back of your neck.

His voice is softer when he answers, “A number of things. Sometimes some of us aren’t always performing the way we should be. Other times, we’re overperforming. Or fighting, really, as siblings are wont to do.”

“I don’t know what that’s like.”

“You’re not missing much. Especially when your siblings are as ancient and never ending as you are.” 

“How… old are you?”

You look at Yoongi to see he’s standing next to you now. He looks at you, face impassive as he lifts a shoulder. “How old is the earth? How old is existence? It’s hard to say.” 

“Where do you come from?”

“Chaos was first. Life and Death were next, twins born of the sudden whims of Chaos. I was next, for Life often dreamed. Time was always there, though no one knows if Time or Chaos came first. Pathos and Fate came later.”

You nod, though you don’t fully understand the scope of how old and fathomless the existence of things like chaos and time and dreams are. It makes your head spin, trying to conceptualize the thing next to you who looks very much like an ordinary man being something so ancient and primordial that he precedes human existence entirely. 

“You’re overwhelmed,” he notes, a bit of amusement in his voice. “I don’t blame you. The best way to understand it is that I am a living concept that can never be destroyed, so long as there exists something to dream about.” 

Crossing his arms in front of him, Yoongi clasps his hands and gives you a slight smile. He has a pretty smile, you realize. Delicate and almost shy. It makes your heart flutter and you mentally chastise yourself for thinking that a being of eternal dreams can possibly be shy. 

“How about a tour? Our deal is that you’ll spend two weeks a month here. I’d love for you to feel like this is a place you can be familiar with, if not something akin to a home.”

“Home?”

His smile grows. “If that word ever seems fitting, sure.”

Home. The word makes you think about what home means to you and suddenly you feel a pit form in the bottom of your stomach. Flashes of a flooded forest, lighting lancing across the sky, hands gripping you tight and shoving you under the water. 

“Um,” you clear your throat. “So a tour.”

Yoongi’s eyes glitter as he grins and turns, using a hand to gesture to the wide library. “This is the main library, but we’ll end our tour here. Let’s go through the gardens first, it’s nice weather.”

Yoongi starts without you, leaving you to stand staring after him as he goes. His gait is smooth and confident. He presses on a pane of glass that you realize is a door. A breeze teases the loose pieces of his hair, carrying the familiar scent of clove and cinnamon toward you. 

For a moment, you stare after him. Yoongi being a deity of dreams makes so much sense in this moment, stepping into the twilight, face tilted upward slightly as though he’s soaking up the sun. He looks radiant. Tranquil. When he turns to look at you expectantly, his rose pink mouth quirks sideways. 

“Right,” you say, hurrying to follow him. “Outside is where we start.” 

When you pass him, you get the sense that Yoongi wants to tease you further. Instead, he says nothing and leads you into the gardens. A cobblestone path leads from the door through wisteria trees, their amethyst leaves swooping down and filling the air with sweet fragrance. 

Up above, the sky is a mix of blue and purple, thousands of stars twinkling. There is a stone bench near one of the windows of the library, but Yoongi leads you away from the palace and down the path under the trees. The air is crisp and pleasant, cooling your anxious, sweat-slick skin. 

Yoongi links his hands behind his back. “This is the library garden,” he informs you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s mostly wisteria trees, which are my favorite to walk through when I need to think.”

“They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Much different from the woods outside of your home.”

“You know the woods outside of my home?”

“You called me there, remember?” You blanch at the memory, but if he notices, Yoongi says nothing. “Besides, I’m familiar with the woods that surround your home. Your village pays homage to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

He hums. “Life. Perhaps they don’t know that it’s him they pray to, but they do.”

Taking a left, Yoongi leads you on a looping path through the massive wisteria trees. They’re larger than anything you’ve ever seen, their bows sweeping monoliths of purple, trunks thick as boulders. A strange creature sits on the branches of one of the trees, making you stop and stare. 

A tiny, carnelian creature sits on a bough, bright against the lavender background of the leaves. It has four legs and scaled feet, sharp talons cutting into the bark as it keeps its balance in the tree. Small wings are folded on its back, bony limbs with paper-thin skin between them, a lighter red than the rest of its body. A long tail snakes around the branch, holding the creature in place as its long neck extends, head tilting to look at you curiously.

“Is that a dragon?” you whisper, staring at it.

You’ve only heard them described in stories, but you don’t really know what they look like. It has scales like a lizard and it blinks two large eyes at you, entirely black. There are small horns on its head, and a forked tongue snakes out as it tastes the air. 

“She’s a fey dragon,” Yoongi hums, looking up at the creature with a smile. “And she’s not supposed to be in the trees here, are you?”

A puff of smoke curls from the dragon’s nose as it huffs, making you take a step backward. Yoongi lets out a deep laugh that makes a tingle rattle down your spine and your toes curl. The sound is like smoke and velvet, heady in the air. 

“She won’t hurt you,” Yoongi assures, shaking his head to continue walking under the dragon’s branch. “She’s a pesky little thing, but she is incredibly sweet. Fey dragons are much smaller than their firedrake cousins and less dangerous than their basilisk relatives.”

With your eyes cast upward, you hurry after Yoongi, keeping your gaze on the large lizard as you run under the branch. Her dark eyes follow you, unblinking and fathomless. The hair on your arms stands up and you can’t help but feel that despite the dragon being small and what Yoongi calls harmless, it is incredibly intelligent. 

“There are dragons here?” 

“There is everything here.”

You frown, finally turning away from the dragon as you leave it behind. “That’s confusing. Everything as in…?”

“When you dream, you have limitless potential. You can go anywhere, be anything, see any creature. Dreams even invent things that do not exist in the natural world. Creatures, stories, songs, words, plants. The possibility for creation in a dream is limitless, and this place is the essence of dreams. It is me.”

“So you are this place and the place is you?”

He seems thoughtful before nodding. “More or less. This is a dream realm as much as it is a collection of ideas, thoughts and hopes. Everything that every living creature has ever dreamed about walks these lands.”

“Even nightmares?”

Yoongi pulls up short and whips his head at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to meet his eyes under his severe expression. In the distance, you swear you hear thunder. An apology springs to your lips, but before you can give it, Yoongi nods sharply once and begins walking again.

“Nightmares too. Do not speak of nightmares here, lest they come searching.”

You think about Taehyung telling you that you were safe but being concerned when you didn’t answer the door earlier that morning. A chill seeps into your bones as you rejoin Yoongi on your walk, his pace not as relaxed now. 

“They come searching?” you try, a little curious, a little afraid. 

“Yes. They are different from dreams. Unpredictable in a way I admire and dislike.” He glances sidelong at you. “They have a mind of their own. You are safe with me always, but it’s best practice to not think of them while you’re here. This world has a way of manifesting.”

For a few moments, you walk in silence. You let your questions fall silent as you look around. The two of you exit the wisteria trees to see a large pond. A single, massive wisteria sits on its western edge with a bench underneath it. 

The surface of the pond is dark and smooth, reflecting the swirling stars in the sky. Yoongi leads you around the mirror surface and points out the mountains in the distance that you could see from your windows. 

“Mountains of Sleep,” he tells you. “It is where all beings who are ready for their eternal rest come to dream for the remainder of their existence. They are also called the Mountains of Divinity, for there are hundreds of divine immortals among their peaks.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Not all beings rest here. Some prefer their own planes and resting grounds. But this existed before those places, and has long been used for the tired and the weary who are ready to retire.”

“Are they dead?”

“No. The dead cannot come here.” He hesitates. “When they do, it is because they are not a dream.”

You get the sense that Yoongi is talking about nightmares again and you shiver as he takes you around the pond. “Don’t let anything in that body of water convince you to go swimming. They won’t intentionally hurt you but they don’t understand the concept of human life.”

“They?”

“They don’t have a name. They are water-folk who were dreamt up by someone once. I admire them and they’re beautiful and wicked smart, but they’re a bit cheeky.”

“I’m starting not to feel as safe as you said I was.”

Yoongi stops and frowns. He lifts a hand as though he’s about to touch your arm before he thinks better of it and drops it at his side. You realize you’re disappointed that he did before mentally kicking yourself, feeling a little ashamed to be so affected by a god. You’re sure Yoongi gets it often, but it makes you feel silly nonetheless. 

“You are safe.” He lowers his head a little, catching your gaze. Though his eyes are midnight black, you swear you see the stars above reflected in their dark pools. “But there are rules everywhere. This place has them just the same as your home did. You were relatively safe there, but there were rules.”

“And then I broke them and Nathaniel tried to murder me.”

“Nathaniel was dealt with and will never touch you again.” Thunder rolls in the distance and your heart flutters at the vehemence with which Yoongi says this. “The misdeeds of your family cannot chase you here.”

You don’t press Yoongi on the matter. Instead, you let him proceed with the tour, keeping your questions to a minimum as you wonder what Yoongi meant by Nathaniel being dealt with. You recall the soft, susurrated voice against your ear when Yoongi found you. The gentle brush of something like a kiss to your neck. The rage and power as he stepped in front of you to face Nathaniel when the deal was done.

It does not require much to make an assumption about Yoongi’s meaning. 

The yards of his palace are sprawling and full of color. Gardens with flowers he doesn’t know the name of but said a little girl had dreamed them and he liked them so he made more. Butterflies with colors you didn’t know existed flitting from plant to plant. Fruit orchards with the ripest, reddest apples you’ve ever seen. 

And the palace. It is the only word you have for it. The building is several stories tall, hewn from dark stone with at least five different towers. Starlight glitters in the windows as Yoongi guides you up the stairs toward the massive double doors that lead to the main entrance of the castle. On the door handle are two wrought-iron griffons with proud faces. 

Without a touch, the doors open on Yoongi’s arrival. You wonder if the building responds to his presence as the door swings open for the two of you. Inside, the foyer is as magnificent as the library, a lush purple carpet rolling over stone floors. 

In the center of the room is a massive spiral staircase. Looking up, you see that it goes all the way up the floors of the palace, dizzying circles of floor after floor. Yoongi explains there are other ways to go all the way up to the top throughout the castle but this is the easiest way, though he assures you that by the third floor you’d be out of breath. 

Each room Yoongi shows you is opulent and warm. Rich, deep wooden furniture, paintings with dark splashes of amethyst, scarlet and gold. Rooms for tea, rooms for painting, rooms for music, rooms for dancing. Yoongi has a room for everything, sometimes occupied by strange little creatures that hide when you walk in or curious things that lift their heads when they see him. 

No one else besides Taehyung seems to be there, though. You come across felines, little balls of light that bounce around Yoongi excitedly and light him up like a burst of flame, a little furry thing that you think is a fox but in a shade of shocking sapphire, and a massive wolf with eyes like ice that blink apathetically at you as you walk by. But never once do you see another person. Even Taehyung seems to be amiss. 

“Does no one else live here?” Yoongi takes you through another room empty of people and things. “It’s so empty.” 

He takes his time to answer as you leave the room and move into the hallway. It’s hard to tell which way you’re going, but you think that you’re headed toward the library again. Your legs ache from going up and down the stairs on an endless tour of rooms, and you’re eager to be in the library once more. 

“There used to be,” Yoongi says slowly. “But people don’t tend to do well in places that they don’t belong.”

“So you’re all alone here?”

His smile is sad. “I have Taehyung.” He pauses before he adds, “And now you.”

I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company. You think of Yoongi’s words from the night before and suddenly you’re filled with sadness. Sadness for this ancient being, who seems so gentle and quiet. Who lives alone in this giant castle with all of the world’s dreams around him and no one to share them with. 

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “How do you know I belong?”

“Pardon?”

“Do I? Belong, I mean. You wouldn’t… have me here if I wouldn’t do well, right?”

“No one dreams the way you do.” He says this firmly. Confident. Fierce. “I believe there is nothing you wouldn’t be able to find here.”

“Do you always know what I dream about?” 

“No. But you dream… loudly. Colorfully. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore. I don’t like to pry, though.” 

“Can you see everyone’s dreams?”

“Mhmm. I even make some.”

This catches your attention and you reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. He glances down where your fingers touch his skin, your fingers buzzing where you’re connected. You flush with warmth and drop your hand, clearing your throat at how forward grabbing him was. 

Yoongi is smirking when you ask, “Can you show me?”

“One day, yes. For now, the end of the tour and lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, your stomach rumbles. His grin spreads into a full smile and Yoongi leads you back to the library. Again, the doors open without his touch and as you pass them, you study them for any sign of an auto-opening mechanism but find none. 

Yoongi’s magic appears limitless. You remember the food disappearing from dinner, the swell of power as Yoongi agreed to save you, and his sudden appearance as you were drowning. You know nothing about the god of dreams or what he’s capable of, but you’re awed at how easy it comes to him. 

“This is the main library.” Yoongi turns around to face you, sweeping his arms out on either side of him. “There are two others: one in my room and one located in the dream tower.”

“You didn’t show me the dream tower.”

“I’ll show you when you’re ready.” 

Unsure what ready means to Yoongi, you look around the library. Same as the night before, the shelves are crammed full of books and scrolls, so much paper and ink that it makes you lightheaded with excitement. It still smells of lemon and wax, though as you pass Yoongi to go to a shelf, you’re overcome with clove and cinnamon again. 

Trying to ignore the shiver that merely walking by Yoongi gives you, you brush the spines of books once again, feeling their potential under your fingertips. 

“You always have access to this library. You can read what you like.”

A pang goes through you and you drop your hand. Without looking at him, you mumble, “Thank you, but I can’t read.”

No response comes. You stare unseeing at the books before taking a breath to turn your head and steal a glance at Yoongi. You expect some sort of amusement or perhaps pity, but his face is unreadable, jaw working.

“That’s okay,” he finally says. “We will teach you. After lunch we will make a schedule to help fill your time here. Reading and writing lessons will be a part of that.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Do you mean that?”

“Do you want to learn?” You nod your head eagerly. He grins gently. “Then we will teach you.” 

-

Yoongi’s eyes are dark as he presses forward. Your breath catches in your chest as you lay back, looking up at him with your lips parted, heart hammering in your chest. He settles his waist against you, the weight of him pressing you into your bed as you lay back. 

He is so beautiful that it puts you in a daze, staring up into his face as he leans over you. His hair is pulled back, but a few dark strands hang loose. His mouth is stained red with wine, making you want to lean forward and taste his lips and feel their softness. 

Tentatively, you reach a hand up and brush the loose strands of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. You don’t stop touching him, though, hand cradling his flushed face. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your palm as you cup his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth. 

“Is this what you dream of?” he whispers, eyes remaining closed. “Being under me, like this?”

Dreaming. You realize you’re dreaming. You jolt and suddenly, you’re alone. 

-

“Your handwriting is terrible,” Taehyung admits, looming over your shoulder. You grip the quill tighter, nearly snapping it in two. “But you learn unbelievably fast. How many of these letters do you think you have consistently memorized?” 

Taehyung is in charge of your writing lessons today and you already want to kill him. It’s been five days of your new residency in the House of Dreams, as Yoongi calls it, and you’ve quickly learned that Taehyung is equally charming and playful as he is outright vexing. 

Instead of turning to give him a very harsh poke in the arm with your quill, you scan the shapes in front of you. There are twenty-six of them, all awkwardly slanted and misshapen where you’ve used too much ink or not enough. Using a quill and ink feels alien to your hand and your fingers struggle to remember the proper way to hold it as you draw your letters. 

“I think most of them,” you answer slowly, mentally sounding out each word on the page in your head as you go. “But there are a few of them that confuse me. The lowercase ‘d’ and ‘b’ I find nearly impossible to recall and ‘v’ and ‘u’ are rather frustrating.” 

“Whenever you see a ‘u’, think of it as having a scoop. Sc-uuup.” Taehyung points to a ‘u’ on the page and mimics the scooping motion. “Might be easier to associate the sound scoop with ‘u’ even though the word itself doesn’t have a ‘u’.” 

The desperate look you give him makes him laugh as you struggle to imagine why a word with a ‘u’ sound doesn’t actually contain the letters. You’re saved from Taehyung’s maddening - but helpful - instruction as Yoongi walks into the library. 

“You’d better not be laughing at her again.” 

Taehyung steps away from you and bows his head toward Yoongi. “I’m laughing with her. We’re just sharing amusement over the hypocrisy of letters.”  

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It’s hilarious.”

Today, Yoongi is in a deep, amethyst colored shirt. It’s laced at the throat with the familiar moon and stars that he has stitched on much of his clothing, and his hair down and long, slicked back and tucked behind his ears. As always, he’s in dark pants and boots today, the sound of them clicking on the stone floor as he nudges Taehyung out of the way to peer over your shoulder. 

You tense. Being around Yoongi for the last five days has been intoxicating. It is bad enough that you get distracted during your lessons by the way his voice rumbles when he speaks and the way he chews his lips when working on his own things while you study. It’s worse that now he invades your dreams, whispering in your ear and hands wandering over your curves, sinful mouth brushing over your skin and leaving you to jolt awake in bed covered in sweat.

The very idea that Yoongi knows what you're dreaming of drives you to the edge of insanity. He’d promised he preferred to avoid your dreams, but you wonder if he knows. Knows that you have developed an insatiable habit of fantasizing about his hands, or about the tone of his voice. 

Gripping your quill tight, you hold your breath when he leans over you. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him and smell him, cinnamon and clove making your eyes flutter. If you didn’t know he was the god of dreams, you’d mistake him for the god of lust, if that was a thing.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” You peer upward to see Yoongi looking down at you. If you tilted your head back just a fraction more, you’d be pressed against his chest. Even from upside down, his moon-pale face and cosmos eyes make you want to scream. “Are you alright?”

“Nervous that I’m not performing well.”

His face softens. “You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry about progress and pace.”

“But what if I lose it when I go h- back.” 

Home. That’s what you were going to say. But the idea of home is terrifying. You don’t know what waits for you when you go back. You don’t know what splitting time between two worlds means. You don’t know what you’ll do when you have to spend two weeks there before coming back to Yoongi. 

Five days in Yoongi’s realm has been enough to make you feel like this has always been your life. You fit into the daily routines of Yoongi and Taehyung better than you imagined, and though you still sometimes get lost in the House of Dreams, you discover that you’re adapting. 

There’s always something new to discover, an adventure around the corner. You like learning your letters and the sounds that they make. You love studying the maps in the library and tracing the distances between countries you can’t name and have no idea where they are. 

Most of all, you love exploring. Rooms upon rooms of objects both normal and magical. Creatures that roam freely around the palace - including a clever little fox that has taken interest in following you around as you take breaks from studying by walking around the grounds. 

While Yoongi’s home doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, you’re more afraid to go back to your mother and father than you are to go near the pond at the edge of the wisteria garden. 

So you avoid thinking of going back.

“You’ll practice while you’re there,” Yoongi says, as though it’s the easiest answer in the world. “You have to practice every day.”

“My father won’t- he doesn’t…” You shake your head, unable to get the words out. That your father would strike you to the ground if he found you with books again. “I can’t bring anything back with me.”

“Sure you can.” You glance at him to find his expression is firm. “I told you, you’re under my protection. Things will be very different for you when you go back.”

“How?”

“It’s… difficult to say.” 

Yoongi offers nothing else. You become hyper aware of how close he’s standing to you again and you look down at your letter practicing. With a shaky hand, you dip the quill into the ink, lifting it from the inkwell and letting the excess drip before bringing it over to the paper. 

When Yoongi makes no move to leave, you inhale deeply to steel your nerves and continue tracing. He’s content to watch you as you work. If he knows how distracted this makes you, he doesn’t let on. Perhaps he has no idea that as you scrawl a shaky letter ‘k’, it’s Yoongi who consumes your thoughts. 

Even in your waking hours it seems you’re not rid of him. 

Most of your study sessions are like this, Yoongi watching you so closely that it makes your quill bleed too much ink. He is a passive teacher, letting you come to him with questions instead of correcting you constantly like Taehyung does. Even now, when you hesitate on the next letter of the alphabet, Yoongi doesn’t offer his help. Lets you figure it out. 

You dip the quill in ink and continue. 

After you finish the last shaky letter, you set the quill down, flexing your fingers open and closed. Yoongi makes a satisfied noise and steps away. You turn to see him walking toward the table by the fireplace, which is where you have started to take all your meals. Already, there are platters of food and drinks. Taehyung sits in a chair, plucking a grape from a plate and popping it in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you,” Yoongi grumbles as he takes a seat at the head of the table. You push yourself up from your chair, legs aching from sitting so long. “Who said you can eat my grapes?”

“Ugh, I’m tired of eating alone.” 

“Let him stay, Yoongi.” The god looks at you with a glower, bottom lip jutted out slightly. It’s so cute that you can’t help but burst into laughter, hand flying to your mouth. “Sorry, I think you just pouted.” 

“He did.” Taehyung grins and leans back in his chair. “He wants you to himself.”

Yoongi hisses Taehyung’s name, shutting down the teasing immediately. You glance at Yoongi shyly as you sit down but he doesn’t meet your eyes, choosing to laden his plate with food instead. You can’t imagine why Yoongi would want you to himself, especially when all you do is ply him with questions. 

Still, a little bit of a thrill goes through you as you start loading your plate, your gaze drifting toward the deity again as he bites into a strawberry, the juice running down his chin. Your eyes track the movement as his tongue darts out, catching the drip before it escapes too far. 

Yoongi’s mouth is hypnotizing and it takes you a moment too long to realize he’s watching you stare at him. Quickly, you grab a cup and bring water to your lips, gulping the cool water and glancing up at the ceiling, feeling embarrassment bloom like warm liquid through you. 

When you put the cup down, you swear you see Yoongi smiling. 

-

Hungry lips suck at the tender flesh of your neck. You gasp, feeling your toes curl in pleasure, head spinning. Yoongi’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, the drag of his rough tongue soothing over the bites driving you mad. You let out a soft moan, eyes squeezing shut as you writhe under him. 

Yoongi’s large hands pin yours above your head, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he continues to ravish your neck with his hot mouth, tongue and teeth. His hips roll over you and you whine, feeling his hard-on pressing against you. 

Your parents would kill you if they knew you were here like this, trapped under a god of the dark as he sucks on your pulse point, mouth moving upward to nip your ear. Your chest is heaving and you can’t get enough breath, overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and clove, by the way his mouth pulls sounds from you so easily. 

Yoongi tears his lips away and looks down at you, eyes so dark and blown out that you think he might devour you, swallow you whole in one bite - 

“You’re dreaming of me again,” he whispers. “I don’t know if you mean to be dreaming of me, like this.” 

You startle, realizing this isn’t real, and the illusion fades. 

-

Twilight skies stretch above you. It’s warm outside, but the night air is cool against your skin, making you shiver as you sit down, folding your legs criss-cross. 

“Are you cold?” Yoongi asks, sitting down on the soft grass next to you. You shake your head, eyes fixed on the low table in front of you that's filled with platters of meats, cheeses and crackers. You eye a glass bottle of red liquid that you think is wine, mouth watering. “Are you sure?”

“Promise, the wind feels nice.” 

He looks doubtful as he sits down next to you, a healthy amount of space between you. 

Tonight, Yoongi has insisted on a late night snack outside under the stars. He seems eager, verging on giddy as he glances up at the sky before reaching for the bottle of red liquid and popping the cork. 

After nearly two weeks in the House of Dreams, you’ve learned that this world is forever twilight, lit up by dreams. Here, day and night don’t exist in their truest forms. There are always millions of people and creatures dreaming at every moment of existence, not limiting Yoongi’s world and power to times of day and night. 

The twilight is beautiful. You’ve grown accustomed to the purple tint to the world, the way that it gets just the barest bit darker outside during certain periods, as though even in a world where night and day don’t exist, there are still two separate halves of time. 

Yoongi passes you a glass. You bring it to your nose and sniff, delighted at the scent of cherries and something else. It’s certainly wine, though you wait for him to pour himself a glass to sip any. 

Earrings dangle in Yoongi’s ears tonight. Each lobe has a small, thin chain with a moon charm on the end that’s studded with sapphires, catching the moonlight as he sets down the bottle and sits back. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down again, leaving his full face in view as he looks at you and gives you a gummy grin that scatters your thoughts. 

“Chaos is moving through the sky tonight,” Yoongi informs you, glancing upward. “When she does, she’s beautiful to see. She doesn’t do it that often, but she’s passing us by on her way to do whatever it is she does somewhere. I wanted you to see.” 

He holds out his drink and you grip yours tight, raising your glass to clink with his like you’ve seen people do at the inn in your village. He turns away from you, bringing his wine to his lips to sip. You follow suit, tentatively tilting your glass.

Sweet cherries bloom on your tongue and you hum in delight. It isn’t just cherries you taste, though. There’s a lush sweetness too, edged with spice, filling your mouth with warmth. You look at Yoongi as you sip and see him watching with a closed-lipped smile, eyes searching your face.

“You like it?” 

You nod and set the glass down. “It’s delicious.” 

“You like sweet things.” 

“And you like salty.” He raises a brow in question. “You’re always going for the salted meats at dinner. And you have salted pork right there,” you point to the meat and cheeseboards. “Do gods get dehydrated?”

“We do not. I didn’t realize you were paying so much attention.” You shrug, picking up your wine to take small sips again. “Anything else you’ve noticed?” 

Everything, you want to say and don’t. You’ve noticed so many things about Yoongi, all of them coming to mind at once. But you don’t want to reveal just how much you’ve watched him over the last two weeks, paying far more attention than is proper. 

You could tell Yoongi how you’ve noticed that he wears seven necklaces exactly, each with a different symbol charm on them that you think corresponds to the seven Eternals. You could tell him that he has the habit of closing his eyes and tilting his face upward, like he’s absorbing moonlight. You know all of his favorite breakfast items, specifically crispy bacon and sugared strawberries. 

And there are other things you could tell him, like in your dreams his lips are soft as sin, his voice low and sultry. You could admit that most nights you feel his grip on your waist and that when you study his hands during your lessons, you can’t help but already know the shape of them. 

Perhaps two weeks back in your village is exactly what you need to get the ridiculous fantasy of this eternal being from your head. You don’t think you could bear the shame of him knowing exactly what living in the in-between realm has done for your imagination in a very unexpected way. 

“You like bacon,” you offer as an answer. “And sugared strawberries. In the evening, whiskey is your favorite. It smells a little bit like honey, but still spicy. And you must work in the dream tower often at night, because the door to the tower smells like clove and cinnamon and you always smell that way.”

Yoongi’s brows shoot up. You hide your expression with your glass of wine, taking a long draught. It hums in your veins, warm and rushing like nothing you’ve ever felt before. When you lower the glass, Yoongi watches you with an intense expression. You meet his gaze, suddenly unable to look away. 

The air feels charged as you stare. His eyes dip down to your mouth a single time, then back up to your eyes. The breeze moves strands of his hair and you smell the hint of clove followed by cinnamon, just as you always do when he’s near. Your heart starts to staccato as the silence presses on. 

A little shriek cuts through the tension like a knife. You flinch and turn around, looking at a red blur of movement burst from the wisteria trees. Tiera lands with a squawk, the fey dragon huffing as grey smoke curls from her lungs. She ignores you entirely as she normally does and skips over to where Yoongi is sitting before she settles next to him, curling like a cat and laying on her tail.

Yoongi laughs. “Hello, Tiera.” The dragon chuffs and lets out another puff of smoke. “Are you not going to say hello to our friend?” 

When the dragon pays no attention to you, you roll your eyes. “She hates me.”

“Dragons are capricious. She’s been with me for over a hundred years.”

“Not very mature then, is she?”

He chuckles again as you pluck cheese from the platter and pop it into your mouth. You’re delighted to find it’s soft and garlicky with a hint of rosemary as well. “She is still a child in dragon years.” 

“And you let her be a glutton.” 

“You could be too.” Your chewing slows and you swallow the cheese hard. You wait to see if he’s teasing you, but Yoongi watches you with a placid expression. “Dreams and desires are intertwined, you know. Desires come from dreams. It is in my nature to be indulgent.” 

“I’ve never really been indulgent in my life.”

“Do you want to be?”

“What?”

His mouth twitches. “Indulgent.”

“I think this is indulgent,” you gesture to the food. “And you’re teaching me to read and write. That is more indulgence than I could ever dream of.”

He hums and it sounds like disapproval. “I think your dreams are far more indulgent than that.” 

He knows. You think he’s going to say something, to ask about the way you dream of him. Instead, he says, “When you return, we’ll work on your indulgence. There is no shame in wanting things, you know?” 

“I don’t know. How could I?”

Light flashes above your head. You break eye contact with him to look up and gasp. The sky is full of shooting stars, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The world lights up as you see rainbows streaking across the sky, bursts of colors and explosions of brilliance shooting through the sky. 

Your mouth hangs open as you watch, mystified into silence. You’re sure this is what Yoongi meant when he said Chaos was passing by, for the sky becomes a cacophony of color and stars and light. You blink your eyes, stunned by the display. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, your heart hammering with excitement as you watch it, legs crossed, head tilted up.

The stars begin to slow and there are less bursts of color, until finally, there is just a shimmering wake of stardust and pink simmering in the sky. You look at Yoongi, utterly speechless, to find him looking at you. His eyes reflect the night sky, full of constellations and stardust, glittering in the dark depths of his irises. 

Yoongi’s eyes are as wonderful as the display above, but you don’t say that. 

“That was beautiful,” you breathe. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His eyes don’t leave you when he hums softly in agreement. “It was.” 

Tiera shuffles next to Yoongi, drawing your attention. She snakes her long neck out, tongue tasting the air as she eyes the meat on the table. Yoongi hisses at her and taps her nose in chastisement, earning an angry croak as the dragon shuffles back to her napping position. 

The rest of your evening is spent snacking in companionable silence. Yoongi doesn’t talk much unless he’s answering your hundreds of questions, but tonight, you have none. You’re comfortable to just look at the world around you, the wisteria branches dancing in the breeze. 

In the distance, you hear thunder. Your eyes follow the sound to the same dark peak with lightning crackling through the mist. You’ve yet to ask Yoongi about that peak in particular, but you think you know what looms there. You remember Yoongi talking about how there are nightmares in this realm too, and you’re not eager to ask what that thunderous mountain holds. 

Yoongi doesn’t divulge, either. He watches you as you regard the peak and says nothing. Perhaps even the Eternal of dreams is hesitant to speak of that place, which is a good enough reason for you not to press him further on it. 

When your stomach is full and you’ve had another glass of wine, you lay back in the grass. Your limbs feel heavy with drink and your world is tilted on a slow-rotating axis. The buzz in your veins feels pleasant, though your thoughts are a little sticky like honey and they run together, untamed. 

Careful to keep his distance, Yoongi lays back in the grass with you. His face looks up at the sky, but you look at him. His features are so delicate and soft, nose and cheeks so round. His face don’t make sense in your head, so severe and terrifying yet gentle and innocent at the same time. 

“You’re staring,” he says eventually. 

“I’m indulging,” you tease back, loosened up by wine. “You said I can indulge, so let me stare.”

“What is there to indulge in?” 

“Your… earrings.” 

That makes him look at you, a brow quirked. “My earrings.”

“Yes. Very shiny. Very dangly.”

“Shiny and dangly?”

“Is there an echo out here?” you demand, frowning at him. “Yes, I am indulging in your jewelry!” 

“Would you like some earrings?”

“My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Well then we’ll pierce them.”

“Well,” you grump. “Don’t you have the answer for everything?”

He smiles then, that rare gummy smile that makes you shut right up. “I told you. I’m indulgent. Anything you want, all you need is to ask.” 

Rolling your eyes, you bite your lip to hide your smile at his words. It is insane to you that this ancient being is laying in the grass next to you telling you to only ask what you want. You don’t know what you want, but you do know that this feels like a dream. That you’re not really here, and that you’re going to wake up tomorrow and be in your bed at home. 

Dread fills you at the thought of going back to your parents. In a way, you want to see them. They’re your parents and there is… unfamiliarity without the sound of your mothers needle stitching through cloth. You could do without your father entirely. The rage inside of you when you picture his face is difficult to quell and is often followed by terror. 

Yoongi has told you that you will be safe when you return. You believe him. There is no reason not to. But more than anything, you’re terrified about what comes next. Living between two worlds is something you remember dreaming about that one day in the forest, looking at the way the world was reflected back on the mirror-calm surface of the water. 

Now that you have access to two worlds, you don’t know what to do with the other that has brought you nothing but suffering. And yet, you still want to see what is there. You’re not ready to leave it entirely without knowing. 

“Are you afraid to go back?” 

Yoongi’s question is soft. You don’t hesitate to answer, “Yes.” 

“You won’t be alone. All you have to do is dream of me, and I will come.”

You hesitate then ask, “Do you know any time someone dreams of you?”

“It’s like hearing someone call my name, but I never answer. My business is in creating dreams, not invading them. People like you are able to spin up dreams on your own without my assistance. I help those who cannot.” 

“That sounds like a lovely job.”

He hums. “It’s not without its stresses. I talk a lot about the nature of dreams, but there is more to me and to my job than that. Perhaps we will leave that for your next visit, yes?”

You nod. “Okay.” 

“Come on,” Yoongi sighs, heaving himself upward. “It is late and in the morning, you must return.” 

-

“Touch me,” you beg him, straddling Yoongi’s lap. His head rests against the back of the couch and he looks up at you as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer than you imagined, sliding like silk between your fingers. “You told me to ask for what I wanted. Touch me.”

“Anything,” Yoongi agrees. His hands skim up your thighs, warm and rough. He squeezes your flesh, making you moan as his hands continue their worship. Yoongi grips your hips tightly, kneading your flesh as he pulls you closer to him. “Anything. Everything. For you.”

-

When you wake up, you’re confused. The roof above your head is wood and thatch. The mattress beneath you is thin and lumpy, sweat sticking the sheets to your legs. Rolling over, your vision blurs until it comes into focus once more, revealing a tiny room with just a bed, a wardrobe and a closed door. 

Your  room. Well, your room in your parents’ house, you realize with a panic. 

You shoot up in bed as terror claws at you. Did you dream it all? Was it not real? Nothing in your room has changed and the windows are open to the cool air. Grey clouds drift in the sky and you can smell the petrichor of oncoming rain in the distance. 

Rushing to your bedroom door, you rip it open, your heart threatening to burst with how hard it’s beating. You don’t know what you’re looking for or what you expect to find, but the idea that you have just woken up from the most vivid, wonderful dream is so maddening that you need anything to tell you it was real. That it wasn’t in your head.

Your mother is sitting at the kitchen table stitching. She looks up when she hears you. She looks different, leaner and narrower than you ever remember, her greasy hair tied low at her neck. Her hands pause their stitching as she stares at you, stricken. 

“What day is it?” you ask her. The day you had been attacked had been a seventh day. You remember that clearly. “Tell me what day it is!”

Instead, your mother screams in sheer terror. 

Masterlist | Ask | Playlist | Series Masterlist | Tag Lists | Next Chapter

[xx-vergil-xx]

thank you

thank you to everyone who read this fic — who left comments and kudos and even simply opened the first chapter and went “huh. alright then”. thank you to the artists who found something in it worth painting and drawing and making, thank you for the songs you have sent me, thank you for the wrath/grief/enthusiasm you have enriched my inbox and my life with. there were times in this fic where my life was not so good, and then there was you, and it was all a little better. i have never in my life written something this hefty, nor this truly involved — i wasn’t sure i could. now i know i can! there is always the next thing. i think that’s beautiful. and it gives me a feeling i can’t express to know that my particular manner of assembling language has gone and touched other lives and left gentle impressions — this is a privilege i can’t even begin to express my gratitude for, and it is all thanks to you, right there, reading

if you read this story once, or halfway, or four times, or just the first paragraph, you have given me the most immeasurable gifts: your time, your thought, your eyes over my words. i am surpassing honored. i am so so stupid lucky. i’m really glad i settled in to watch this show that year and a half ago <3

thank you for reading <3 <3 <3 xoxo

[iprefertheterminsane]

Ok i'm a lil bit familiar w/ some of your WIPS here but the Sandman Fishbowl WIP is making me 👀👀 Can I ask about that, pls? 💗

ITS LITERALLY ONE OF THE FIRST SANDMAN FICS I EVER WROTE i DID share with you 😭😭😭 this was back whem Fishbowl Fics were still all the rage but i left it behind like 3 chapters in and forgot about it and now nobody is doing fishbowl fics anymore 😔😔😔😔. Basically Hob saves Dream from the Fishbowl and lives with Hob for a little after bc Hob manages to persuade they look for the tools human style. Its very similar to softest punk's Shelter except obviously softest punk actually published it and did it a whole lot better than I ever could. Anyway heres a snippet;

(...)

Through the ringing of his ears, something speaks. 

It resonates through the very bricks of the manor, and it trembles from it. It is from deep within the soul, of the mind, velvet seduction of a nightmare. 

(It is a voice Hob knows well.)

"Roderick Burgess."

It echoes from everywhere, quiet and earth-shaking, from nowhere at all. Hob shakes his head, rapid, like a dog shaking rain off his coat. 

"Do you know what you have done?"

I'm bleeding, Hob registers dimly, hands aching from torn open knuckles and peppered bits of glass, dusting his cheeks, his palms, the cold slick of the wall the blast had pushed him against. He uses it as leverage, hauling himself upwards. 

"For your monstrous greed, and petty arrogance, lives have been lost, and innocents have suffered."

The worst of the shrapnel had exploded forwards, in the direction of the gate, well away from Hob's angle of safety. The heavy mist had spread, spread, spread, and the manor is dead silent. 

Burgess Junior is slumped against the wall, motionless save-Hob notices with surprise-the shaky movements of his chest. 

Hob finds them. 

"No," cries Roderick Burgess, perched on his knees as Johanna Constantine had been in their pub, in 1789. His eyes are fogged white, unnatural, and he twitches violently from visions he cannot escape. "No, no, no, Randall, please-my son, my boy-," 

"You shall live as you had wished, Roderick Burgess." 

The Stranger says, standing with an outstretched hand, stance straight and sure, and his face doused in shadows. Inhuman. The order is made in finality. His lips move, but only barely. 

"And you shall beg for death."

With the sullen proclamation, the Stranger lowers his hand, and with it, it seems, the last of his strength. 

Hob watches as he collapses within himself, like an imposing tower finally reduced to rubble to reveal its cracked foundations at last. He moves without thinking, and catches his Stranger before he hits the ground, gathering him into his lap. The air is no longer so deathly cold as it had been before, but his Stranger shivers still. His greatcoat had been taken from him, but Hob takes off his own shirt to cover him despite his protests, and urges him to stand. 

"We need to get out of here," Hob tells him. "It's dawn soon, and the cops might be here any moment." 

"My tools," the Stranger insists. "They were taken from me." 

Hob is trying to figure out a gentle way to press that they are surrounded by dead bodies, a writhing old man and a quiet party, before he hears it again; familiar bird trills. 

The Stranger perks, head whipping to turn towards the entrance.

"Jessamy."

Before Hob could feel bitter from the reverential tone used for an unfamiliar woman's name, the large white-breasted raven finds them, and Hob almost startles. In his lap, his Stranger places a hand to his chest, and Hob calms despite himself. 

The raven flutters nervously, but decides, finally, to land on the floor by Hob's knee. She titters with worry, bumping against his Stranger's outstretched palm, and he practically slumps further from relief. 

"Jessamy," Hob mutters. "She's yours?" 

The Stranger doesn't answer, turning his head to bury his face in his chest instead, body shaking still, from exhaustion, anger, or the cold, perhaps even all three at once. He doesn't try to get him to stand again. His body aches, but he feels his miracle working already, how his skin begins to knit and spit glass from his flesh, leaving behind silvery scars or nothing at all. He counts to three, and with a single breath, lifts the entity in his arms, cradled in his arms in a bridal carry. 

His Stranger had always been thin, but he is light, lighter than Hob knows he should be. He tries not to panic about it. 

"I'm taking him home." He tells the bird. "Find the tools he's talking about, and follow us."

The bird flaps her wings twice, and caws.

"I'll keep him safe," Hob swears, with inadvisable conviction. "I promise." 

This, finally, mollifies her, and Hob follows her up the stairs. 

The party is silent, and bodies are slumped on floors, against tables and walls. It takes him a second glance to realize they weren't dead, as he had assumed. He hears snoring, even, and quickened breaths. 

"They're sleeping?" Hob asks, walking quickly but treading carefully over their bodies. 

The Stranger nods, eyes closed. 

"For how long?" 

Not dead, Hob surmised. But they might as well be.

"Forever." 

[virgo-dream]

1st Dreamling Nation Fic Exchange: Victorian Soldiers Edition ✨

“A mini bang of fics all written by members of the Dreamling Nation discord server, revolving around the same prompt, in which we were all given the same two pictures and, outside of brainstorming plot ideas together, were left to our own devices to create a story.”

It is with great pleasure that I present this collection of fics, fruits of the first Dreamling Nation fic exchange!

When I made this discord server back in December, during a Christmas induced Big Sad(TM) moment, I could never have imagined the amazing community we were creating, and now, almost a month later, we’ve got more than just these fics to show for what this server has given us. I’m incredibly blessed that one moment of deep sadness led me to meet such great people, and that we can keep inspiring each other and celebrating creativity and this wonderful fandom space that The Sandman has given us.

This event was only made possible by @littledreamling’s gentle guidance and kindness. Thank you, my love! I hope this will be the first of many! 💖

Now, with no further ado, the fics:

⭐️ When I Wake Up, There Are Only Your Eyes to Greet Me, by @virgo-dream

Rating: Explicit / multi chapter / warning: graphic depictions of violence

Five times Sergeant Robert Gadling woke up to Captain Morpheus Apeiron. One time Morpheus woke up to Hob.

A very unlucky battalion finds itself in the command of one Captain Morpheus Apeiron. He doesn't seem particularly worried with their survival, but mostly with ending the war as soon as possible. Sergeant Robert Gadling seems to be the only thing keeping all these young and inexperienced soldiers alive. After one particularly heated fight between them, Hob ends up discovering there is much more to his Captain than meets the eye, but is he seeing Morpheus as he truly is, or through the prism of his own desire?

⭐️ Golden Heart, by @littledreamling

Rating: Teen and Up / multi chapter

The first time he had ever clapped eyes on Morpheus Endelas, son of Lord Chronos Endelas, Hob knew the man was no soldier. He had floated through the camp, his feet barely brushing against the dry leaves, his head held high and haughty. There had been a massive red jewel around his neck and a white-breasted raven perched on his shoulder, equally lordly, if a bird could ever be described as such. Hob had simply rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why Lordling Endelas was parading through their camp, but it was also above his pay grade. He was just a first lieutenant, practically still rolling around in the mud with the common soldiers. So he had shrugged and rolled his eyes some more, right up until someone helpfully informed him that Morpheus Endelas was their new Captain. And then he had started reconciling his relationship with God, because the Lordling was sure to get them all killed.

⭐️ Ananke, God of Compulsion, by @aquilathefighter

Rating: Teen and Up / multi chapter

Lieutenant Hob Gadling is planning on deserting before his deployment. He has everything planned from faking his death to getting to the US. However, a wrench is thrown into his plan when Captain Morpheus Endeleas asks him to be his assistant for the week leading up to the company’s deployment. Now under close watch by a man Hob thinks despises him, he cannot escape his duty. What will come from a week working closely with Cpt. Endeleas?

⭐️ Tirra Lirra, by The River, by @quillingwords

Rating: Explicit / multi chapter / warning: major character death

Little Hob Gadling meets a strange boy by a river, and their lives become intertwined over decades. A love story set against a backdrop of war. A tale about memories, dreams, and making choices.

⭐️ After The Storm, by @immacaria

Rating: Teen and Up / multi chapter

The war was over. They had won. It was finally over. But Hob knew that at the moment they stepped into London, Dream's family would descend upon them like vultures and try to seperate them. No problem, though, Hob fought four years in the war. The Endeles family would not take Dream away from him.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hello, could I request a Morpheus x reader, where reader is an immortal like Hob and has been friends with Dream( and has helped him through some trouble from time to time) but through the years reader developed feelings for dream (but he doesn't know that) but can't confess (thinking they are not good enough for him) and just watch helplessly as Dream falls in love for every other being, until one day this recent lover of his was only using him to gain power, reader found out about it and confronted them (and was about to have a smackdown), until dream intervined and fought with reader. Reader tried to warn him but he didn't listen and banished reader from the dreaming, before reader leaves the dreaming for good she finally confessed to dream and was out of sight.

Soon after, Dream realized that reader was right and tried to find them and found them living with Hob (as best friends), confronted reader, they talked (realization of feelings ensues)and they got together.

Angst and fluff please, I recently read your Morpheus fic I love the subtlety and gentle showing of affection, I'm sorry also that this message is so long. Have a great day/night ✨

A/N: misread it and wrote an ending where the Corinthian tries to shoot his shot but I fixed it and all is well in the end!! The thought is still there tho

"Snooping" - Morpheus x Immortal!Reader

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.1k Sandman-inspired playlist

London, autumn of 1763

Attending a ball at your love's fiancee's home sounds like a black comedy theatre play until it becomes reality - a reality you had, unfortunately, found yourself in. To make the matter slightly worse, Morpheus was indirectly the reason for throwing the party in the first place: one of his nightmares escaped and the current plan was to lure them into a closed space and then catch or whatever it was Morpheus had in store for them. Truthfully, you felt better not knowing exactly what he was going to do with the escapee. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

In a funny way, Morpheus treated you like a god - came to you only when he needed something but you never minded that. He was great company, always making your endless life a little more exciting as days turned into bland centuries. As a word of explanation, it should be said that through "exciting" you should understand "with consequences possibly detrimental to all of humanity". And that one fateful ball wasn't anything else:

It was fairly recently that Morpheus had learned about one of his nightmares going rogue and leaving Dreaming on their own accord. His biggest concern seemed to be the fact that no one could tell him even approximately how long the nightmare had been gone. That, in turn, suggested the existence of a whole different can of worms - it was possible to leave Dreaming without his knowledge. No one's knowledge, for that matter. There was no way Morpheus could even guess the extent of the damage his own creation had caused in the Waking World, which was partially why he was all the more unnerved that night. His patience wasn't limited, it was completely gone. As much as you disliked his tense attitude, you had to admit that his sense of responsibility was to be applauded. He had to be a good king...

"Are you sure about this?" you asked him as you inconspicuously looked around the hall. The problem with nightmares, dreams and Morpheus himself was that all of them generally looked like humans. It was impossible to just vaguely look around and point at the right person. Additionally, the more time the wanted nightmare had spent in the Waking World, the more seamlessly assimilated he'd become, making it virtually impossible to tell them apart from the regular crowd unless they had a characteristic trait in their appearance that could hardly be hidden.

"Do you not trust me?"

"You're a few centuries and near-death experiences too late to be asking this. I'm just not very fond of a rogue nightmare going berserk at a banquet for so many important people or us getting into a brawl with the wrong person. This can end in an international disaster."

"Which is why we have to be thorough and quick."

Morpheus had gotten you into many more dangerous larks throughout the years but weirdly enough, it wasn't something one could simply get used to - each adventure was filled with so much supernatural it could hardly be considered anything else than a fever dream. No matter how much you've talked to him, his domain remained a great mystery to you and so did all things connected with it. Perhaps, that was part of his charm.

"Lady Ruth and I will look on this floor. You have to go upstairs."

"You want me to do some snooping?" you said with a small grin on your face. His expression remained unmoved - your continuous effort at making him use slang wasn't amusing. "Sleuthing?"

"Infiltrate."

"One day I'll get you to say 'snooping'."

"I will not."

"We have a lot of time." Morpheus sighed at your words and was about to leave your side to join Ruth who was chatting with some of her guests but you grabbed the sleeve of his jacket to stop him for a moment. His face looked strict when he looked at you but he was far from reprimanding you. "Just be safe, alright?"

"You need not worry about me."

You let go of his jacket and Morpheus marched away to play the greatly inconspicuous role of a loving fiance. His arm shamelessly wrapped around her waist and had she not been the lady of the house, guests surely would have pointed out the social faux pas. Ruth, however, remained no less affectionate and leaned her head against him. It's vital to notice that Morpheus was not an affectionate man in any way and so such a show of intimacy felt even more serious. He stood there, among the Kingdom's elite and looked like he was in the right place: similar clothes, proud poise and seriousness characteristic of people who had a little too much to lose. The fact that he fit right in was a low blow to you, mainly because you knew you didn't. Morpheus and you belonged to completely different worlds and there was no point in disputing that. As simple and crude as it may sound, he was just the wrong person at the right time for you. Perhaps, that's all it takes for a disaster.

"Put on your adult shoes and get over with it," you whispered to yourself. The sooner you find the rogue nightmare, the sooner you can leave this place and dwell on your heartache in comfortable and befittingly pathetic loneliness.

Pushing pasts lords, counts and viscounts you made your way up the stairs. Thankfully, the string orchestra was loud enough to deafen the creaking of the wooden contraption. It was one of those rare occasions where not fitting in was a blessing in disguise - no one was paying attention to you. Should anyone ask about you, most of the guests would simply shake their heads in confusion. Being invisible was something you had grown quite used to.

Most of the rooms on the first floor were locked but it could hardly be surprising - Ruth didn't want guests wandering around her house. Despite the mild disappointment at your detective work being cut short, you were thankful that you didn't have to waste your time and possibly let the nightmare escape. Trying each pair of doors, you had finally found one that opened but what you saw inside was nowhere near your expectations.

"What in God's name is this madness?" you said to yourself as you looked around the room.

Quite obviously, there was no nightmare in sight but another horror had welcomed you. There was a giant map of the world with certain locations marked in red paint. Next to those circles were pinned articles and charcoal drawings of people you didn't recognize. In front of the map was a table littered with random items and an open leatherbound notebook.

Skimming through the book, you found yourself strapped for words. It was something like a diary but with notes on Morpheus, his habits, people he knows and every instance the author watched him use his powers. Granted, their analysis was quite thorough and proved the maniac an intelligent person.

"Wait a goddamn minute," you whispered to yourself. Reading again through the witness 'miracles' Morpheus had committed made you feel like they had something in common. Some of them you had seen yourself and if your memory wasn't failing you, there was a third person present during those events. "Ruth..."

Hurriedly, you went through the rest of the notebook, still in disbelief at your discovery. It felt almost too out of character for the Ruth you knew to do something like this. Maybe that's why her scheme had gone undetected for so long... To your own horror and utter disgust, she had even prepared notes on you:

"Sceptical. Convince Morpheus first?" "Difficult to intimidate. Try coddling up to them." "Follows him around when they're together. Friends or unrequited love?"

"Oh my, you shouldn't be here, dear." Ruth's voice made you turn around in panic. It was like a scene from a thrilling book where the hero finally stands face-to-face with the villain. Unfortunately for you, good authors rarely make such confrontations beneficial for the protagonist. "I must have forgotten to lock this room beforehand. Come on, the mare is surely not hiding in here."

"Have you ever wondered what's going to happen when he finds out?" you asked. You could feel your whole body becoming instantly warm as blood boiled in your veins. For the first time since you've met her, Ruth's stereotypical lady-like attitude irritated you beyond comprehension: you knew it was just a sleazy facade. "Because he's not stupid, although plays that role very well, I admit. If you want this masquerade to fly, I'd suggest you already start working on a sobby explanation."

"Whatever do you mean, my dear?" she continued playing her role.

"Oh, drop this facade, Ruth. You and I both know your relationship with Morpheus is only transactional even if he doesn't know about that."

"You know nothing about it either." It was strange to hear her speak naturally and not in a pretend damsel in distress voice. "It's not like you have proof, do you? Those notes?" She vaguely pointed at the desk behind you. "Well, perhaps his fiancee has missed him dearly and wanted to know if she can contact him more often."

"Do you honestly think he's going to believe that?"

"Think about this yourself. Would the great Morpheus, king of Dreaming believe his soon-to-be-wife or a less-than-presentable circumstantial acquaintance who has been pining for him for centuries? What, did you think you're hiding your affections well? A blind fool could tell you love him and luckily for me, he's worse than that. Perhaps it's better for you that you've never told him. You've spared yourself utter humiliation."

You didn't quite know what Devil had possessed you but you suddenly found yourself smashing Ruth against the wall. Your fingers were digging into the expensive material of her dress, making the material stretch out and crumple. Instead of a grimace or a wince, a grin appeared on her face. You were playing right into her game.

"Did I strike a nerve? Good. Tell me, what do you bring to the table? Centuries of moping?"

"I don't give a damn why or for what you're trying to use him, you tasteless wench" you were gritting through your teeth with a mere inch separating your faces, "but be sure I will make him see you for what you really are. You worthless, lit-"

"Hold your tongue. I have seen enough."

You whipped your head around only to see Morpheus's brooding physique. His normally expressionless face was now reeking of contempt with the way his cheeks were raised.

"Oh, love! Thank the Lord you've come!" Ruth exclaimed as she got out from your clutches and run towards Morpheus. In an irritatingly protective manner, he quickly pushed her behind himself. "They threw themself on me, accusing me of all sorts of wickedness. Jealousy has made them into a monster! Yes, jealousy, my love. They've told me of their affections themself!"

"You... I have considered you a friend but you're just a treacherous beast."

"You can't be serious about this, Morpheus! Just look around!" You made a vague circular move with your arms. "It's a whole dossier on you and your power. Not something a loving wife-to-be does in her downtime, is it?" You stepped closer to him but Morpheus only further pushed Ruth behind him. "Come on, you know me like no one else. I've never lied to you, never had a reason to."

"I will hear no more of your poisonous words. You have meddled enough in my affairs. If you wish ill will on my future wife, there is no place for you by my side. I shall not see you in Dreaming either."

As much as it hurt, it was the last chance to save an ounce of your dignity and walk away without further driving a wedge between you two. In some way, you had expected that moment to come one day, when Dream has to choose between his royal duties and you. It simply would have been nicer if you had any sort of indication that this fateful day is approaching.

"My heart breaks for you Morpheus, for how blind love has made you. How you'd rather set the world aflame before a blemish fell on the one you love. I understand it. Even your harsh words that I do not deserve can not make me hate you, I can't even bear the thought of holding a grudge against you, Morpheus. Because I understand. Because I'd rather set the world aflame."

"Leave," he gritted through his teeth.

It was the last thing Morpheus has ever said to you - or so you thought.

London, winter of 2023

Hob was kind enough to let you live with him, the two of you bonding over the rollercoaster your lives had become after meeting the King of Dreams. With time, you had grown quite attached to him and ever since leaving Morpheus behind, Hob and you had spent decades pretending to be closely-knit siblings. Somehow, people never quite questioned your lack of similarities.

The inn wasn't in a busy area, so you had become used to rather moderate traffic on a daily basis. Outside of lunchtime, not many people visited the bar but it was just enough to keep the business afloat without raising any suspicions. It was the end of the day, which meant making a list of products you needed to order. Hob had a habit of sitting at a table in the corner, beside the bar counter, while preparing the said list - close enough to you to hear you counting all the ingredients he should order.

You were cleaning the counter as well as checking the shelves and cupboards for any alcohol you were close to running out of. "We're low on spiced Captain Morgan, Hob, so mark that... "your voice hung as you automatically looked towards the entrance upon hearing the bell ring," down," you finished quietly. "What are you doing here, Morpheus?"

He looked different than the day you had met him. Although he was an ageless entity, cursed to live until the end of the universe, Morpheus appeared older but more so mentally than physically. His skin was more grey than simply pale and his eyes appeared more stern and lifeless than ever before. He was wearing a long, heavy black coat - something strikingly different from the embarrassing rococo fashion of the 18th century.

"I have come to make amends," he stated.

You didn't answer right away. For a moment, you simply stared at him, perhaps partially in disbelief that this reunion was actually happening and out of his will. Despite his change in appearance, a certain tactless pragmatism still stuck to him. "You're not even going to ask?"

"Excuse me?"

"Two hundred and sixty years we haven't talked and you show up expecting me to listen and forgive you but you refuse to even ask how I've been?"

"How have you been?" Surprisingly, he didn't show defiance. The past two hundred years really must have changed him.

A scoff of disbelief left your mouth. "Awful, miserable, not good at all but Hob is a lovely person to be around. If you think that saying 'I'm sorry' is going to fix anything, you're so wrong I lack the words to express it."

"Are you angry with me?" He sounded... surprised. Maybe he really did believe that with humans 'time heals wounds'. What an awful saying that was! Time, at best, makes one forget the pain or even the existence of the wound. The scar, however, never forgets the wound it once was and it refuses to disappear simply because its owner hadn't scratched it open in a while.

"I was once. Over two hundred years ago. Now I'm just hurt and disappointed. I thought we trusted each other. Have you ever counted how many times I nearly died while helping you out?"

Morpheus stared at you in silence and you could already tell he did know. He kept count.

"I do not expect you to forgive me, although I do wish for that."

"Believe me, Morpheus, I want that too. But I have suffered enough, don't you think?"

"I was wrong."

"About?"

"About Ruth. You were right and I refused to listen. I was too blind to see through her lies and schemes. I never should have doubted your loyalty and honesty."

"And what does that enlightenment have to do with me?" For someone who explicitly came to apologize, he was very good at avoiding commitment to that resolution.

"I'm... sorry," he spat out. As a king, he wasn't quite used to making apologies but if he so desired to commune with humanity it was high time he learns to.

"I told you that this isn't going to fix anything."

Morpheus sighed heavily as if he knew what he had to do but refused to commit to it all the same. "Snooping," he murmured under his nose.

Your lips curved into a grin. "You really are desperate to be saying that." Truthfully, it was difficult for you to hold back laughter. After so much heartache and lack of closure, that was the one thing Morpheus thought would get you to forgive him. But, maybe, if he was willing to do that one thing he refused to do for many centuries he was honest and truly desired your forgiveness.

For the first time in so long, he looked you in the eye. His normally intense stare was now slightly vacant as if he was still pondering something, weighing out the chances of success of whatever it was he had on mind.

"It was either that or setting the world aflame," he finally said. "Have me back, please."

Did you... hear that right? A complete emptiness took over your mind. You remembered your confession very well as if you had spoken it no earlier than yesterday. Truthfully, you never really thought he would pay it any attention. After all, if he was happily married like you had assumed until today, why would he? Turns out, he must have thought about so many times that not a word of it slipped his mind.

As if taking advantage of your sudden moment of confusion, Morpheus reached out to grab your hand. Once he cradled your palm with his, he placed a chaste kiss on it. His confession was about as honest as an eldritch king can get.

Hob only craned his neck further to get a better look at the two of you. A smile of relief appeared on his face - he had been waiting for that moment ever since he saw Morpheus and you together.

[starchxn]

STARCHXN ⇥ STRAY KIDS MASTERLIST

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↝Please note that all fics written in this blog are either female-centered or Idol-POV fics unless stated otherwise.

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↝A gentle reminder that all the idols/famous person(s) mentioned in these stories are purely for fictional purposes. I do not know any of these idols personally, thus all personalities these idols portray in these fics are purely fictional and not that of their real-life personality.

↝As of 2024, I am no longer accepting or writing reader insert fics. My older reader insert fics will be kept up as a sign of my writing progress, but my writing style no longer supports romance.

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Christopher Bang Chan

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⇥ Mr. Sandman

Genre ↣ Angst, Fluff if you squint. Word count ↣ 1,884 Words. Synopsis ↣ As an insomniac, Chan has had countless sleepless nights. This night was the same, nonetheless, something special seems to greet him.

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⇥ Ghost Story

Pairing ↣ College Student! Bang Chan X College Student! Reader. Genre ↣ Pure Angst, Sad Ending. Word Count ↣ 2,241 Words. Synopsis ↣ After Chan's previous girlfriend disappears quite suddenly and quite literally ghosting him, he takes you in as his next girlfriend. It takes you weeks to realise that he's never going to move on in the first place. Alternatively, When some relationships are just meant to be beautiful mistakes.

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⇥ Sing To Me

Pairing ↣ Crown Prince! Bang Chan X Forgotten Princess! Reader. Genre ↣ Modern Royalty AU, Enemies to Lovers AU, Angst, Fluff. Word Count ↣ 9,829 Words. Synopsis ↣ After news sweeps the kingdom about an infamous assassin caught in the outskirts, heads turn to see who she really is, including one of the crown prince Bang Chan himself. After a failed attempt at an escape, you're directly under the supervision and interrogation of the very person you were sent to kill. Will you both be able to snap out of your hatred enough to find that there was more in common between the both of you, or will both of you end up being each other's worst enemy? OR In which acceptance and understanding can lead to one's true downfall.

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⇥ Overdrive

Pairing ↣ Slight Baker! Bang Chan X Gender Neutral Reader. Genre ↣ Strangers to (kind of) Lovers AU, (Implied) College AU, Slight Angst, Fluff. Word Count ↣ 1,357 Words. Synopsis ↣ Chan was just supposed to deliver four boxes of cupcakes to a frat house on New Year's Eve, surely nothing would go terribly wrong… right?

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Lee Minho

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⇥ If I Killed Someone For You

Pairing ↣ Lee Know X Reader. Genre ↣ Pure Angst, Unrequited Lover AU, Lee Know Mafia AU. Word count ↣ 4312 Words. Synopsis ↣ Minho had sworn to protect you no matter the cost, but when your naivety leads you to get trapped into an abusive relationship, will he choose to give it a blind eye like you had made him promise, or would he finally go against you just to prove just how much he loves you?

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⇥ 6:41 AM [Timestamp]

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Seo Changbin

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⇥ Visiting Hours

Pairing ↣ Bang Chan and Changbin (strictly platonic). Genre ↣ Angst, eventual Fluff. Word count ↣ 1,050 Words Synopsis ↣ A friend deserves to mourn the loss of the other, even if it's not so much of a loss.

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Hwang Hyunjin

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⇥ Royals

Pairing ↣ None. Genre ↣ Royal AU, Angst Word count ↣ 1,117 Words Synopsis ↣ Hyunjin watches his kingdom crumble, bit by bit. After the death of his parents, he was the only one who could stop his sister's terror reign, but every moment comes with a price.

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Han Jisung

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⇥ Burning Sunset

Pairing ↣ Best Friend! Han Jisung X Reader Genre ↣ Fluff, best friends to lovers AU Word count ↣ 1,238 Words Synopsis ↣ When your best friend Jisung says he's never once laid eyes on the beach, you make it a point to take him there, but you do have an ulterior motive. OR In which Jisung realises how terrifying yet comforting love is.

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Lee Felix

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⇥ This member's universe is in the making, check back in for his exciting adventure!

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Kim Seungmin

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⇥ 3:36 PM [Timestamp]

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Yang Jeongin

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⇥ Fire and Water

Pairing ↣ Phoenix! Jeongin X Merman! Chan (Platonic/Almost Guardian-like) Genre ↣ Fantasy, Angst. Word count ↣ 946 Words. Synopsis ↣ A tale of two creatures, of Fire and Water and of a new Beginning.

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⇥ 3:05 AM [Timestamp]

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SKZ- OT8

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⇥ Scars- Halloween Special

Pairing ↣ None Genre ↣ Dystopian AU, Angst, Sad fluff. Word count ↣ 1,113 Words. Synopsis ↣ As the world nears the second year of being dominated by the sound monster, eight boys are looking back on the scars they've acquired since the past year.

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[rriavian]

WIP - Transmutation

Just a little snippet of a wip I'm working on. Honestly never thought I'd write something canon compliant with the end of the comics because I really don't like it. However, @bobbole and @windsweptinred have coaxed me into thinking about it and so this is part of a larger fic (will be Corinthiel but this snippet can be read as gen).

Warning: Spoilers for the Sandman comics below.

-

There is a dreamstone around his neck.

This one is emerald, a green like the lush summer fields, like trees, like leaves so aglow with life it's a wonder so much is crammed within. Morpheus had lost his ruby, had not remade it, now has given Daniel this—I have chosen you, I have chosen this—the stone a gift from one Dream to another.

And who is Dream now?

There are memories. Not echoes, not remnants; all that life, bursting with it, embracing with it, invigorated as if that split second between existence had been a long sleep, a longed for moment of rest. Daniel is certain, he is unsure, is Dream and he knows what that is, knows and yet has never known it before. He’s known it forever and yet the name feels unfamiliar on his tongue, rolls as smooth as Daniel does, as smooth as Daniel doesn’t.

What is a ghost?

The residents of his new realm—his old realm, he’d made this, he is this—certainly look at him like one. Daniel is careful, knows he rips open a wound that hasn’t began to heal, knows it because when Lucienne sees him and smiles her eyes are filled with tears. That first time is mirrored as Matthew hovers uncertainly, settles on his shoulder to hesitantly preen his hair, a jerky uncertainty to them both.

Strangers meeting where once there’d only been friends.

He will go gently with them.

They need time, need adjustment. Even the Corinthian, newly remade, will need time to find his feet. 

He is a ghost to them, must clothe himself in flesh, must let them add that substance until he’s no longer so transparent. No longer something that haunts. Daniel meets them again, he meets them all for the very first time, a return and yet he finds himself homesick. He speaks and hears a different voice, finds surprise the first reaction; surprise and then approval for his gentleness, a softening amongst the pain, the mourning, as they begin to tentatively relax around this new Dream.

They don’t realise he is not new at all.

Morpheus whispers still.

He shouts.

His love endures, for Lucienne, for the Dreaming, for all who now call him kind, who see him and do not realise that this is Morpheus’s love—realised at last, able to be shown, shining out like the sun it’s always been—Daniel honouring it and letting it rise. It isn’t his, wasn’t brought with him from the infant he had been, this is not his love yet because he'd had none of it to bring, had no ties to any of this before. Daniel Hall had no roots in this place beyond being conceived here, was given this, is planting trees. Now he is being shown it, guided to see the Dreaming in all its splendour, in all of its joy.

His heart is his own, it’s not the one he was born with, is new, is amalgamated, is Daniel, is—

Morpheus.

He was human and now he’s not, yet still is, still enough of that to be cradled by Dream. And that, at long last, feels like coming home. That sunlight love turned inwards for perhaps the very first time, the full beam of it so bright it feels impossible, a warmth shining on his own face as he’s held close and cherished.

[immacaria]

Writing Pattern Meme

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern! Thank you for the tag, @ravensilversea, I love doing these things!

Here's the list:

"It started with a whisper in the dark." - And, in your arms, I know peace (and so does our family) (Top Gun)

"Through the years, Hob learned how to deal with whatever shit life threw at him. Ghosts, witches, vampires, fae. Whatever it was, he always dealt with it and always kept on living like nothing happened. " - I'll crawl home to him (again, again, again) (The Sandman)

"Hob is walking back home, his nephews and nieces surrounding him, when he sees Dream standing in front of his house, hands in his pockets and looking up to the house in what seemed hesitance. He is as beautiful as always, all sharp angles and regal posture. Even now, years later after their break-up, Hob still thinks of him as someone royal, too beautiful to be simply human." - I want to see the world and have you by my side (The Sandman)

"Laughter comes out of Hob's belly, loud and joyful, as Dream sits beside him with a smirk playing on his lips and mirth brightening his gaze. The adrenaline of the stage still drums in their veins and he feels like he is on top of the world, unstoppable and untouchable. Immortal ." - I want to fall in love every single day (The Sandman)

"The war was over." - After the Storm (The Sandman)

"It's early in the morning when Orpheus' cries pass through the room, waking both Hob and Morpheus at once. Morpheus moves slower than him, eyes opening just enough to look around and head not even lifting from the pillow. He is tired, Hob knows, not a bit used to having a small kid living in the same place as him. Hob isn't used anymore as well, but his body knows what to do on his own." - Do not leave me alone (The Sandman)

"There is a smile playing on Dream's face as she watches Hob play around with her students, kicking a ball around. She laughs along them when one almost falls after tripping. They had been on a date when the little group appeared, calling them out surprised, as if they were surprised their teacher existed out of school grounds." - Show me how to live again (The Sandman)

"Hob Gadling has seen many things in the hundred years he has been alive. War, famine, plague and horrors that would make most men kneel over and beg for death. He has lost so many loved ones that he wouldn't be surprised if some higher being came up to him and told him that his heart is nothing more than a little piece of what it used to be." - Hey, Papa (The Sandman)

"Hob is staring, she knows, but she has been doing it for the past seven hundred years and she is yet to be reprimanded. So, she watches as Dream waltzes around the room with her older brother, both of them mesmerising and captivating, but in different ways. Where Death is warm and gentle, a smile on his face that makes you want to be friends with him, Dream is cold and hard, her face closed in an expression that doesn't let you take your eyes off her." - May I Have This Dance? (May I Have Your Whole Life Too?) (The Sandman)

"Chrissy Cunningham was sitting at her porch, watching as the wind moved around her and her flowers and plants. She was a young witch in training, a baby witch like her mother liked to say so much. This was her new house, what would be her new home from then and on." - Stand Close to My Soul and I Will Stand Close to Yours (Strange Things)

I think my pattern is that I always start setting who is the protagonist and their current enviroment as well as some of their past. And I usually make longer paragraphs to start everything.

I'n tagging @tj-dragonblade @staroftheendless @quillingwords @chaosheadspace & @tharkuun

[onthesandsofdreams]

A Dream Passion

Fandom: The Sandman (TV) Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Fem!Reader Summary: "Do you remember?" The voice whispers in your dreams. Insistent and deep, with a slight hint of desperation. Rating: Explicit (to be safe) Words: 1033 Notes: Boy. First time writing something as explicit as this, so, please be kind. Also, this fic is for my big sister @mousedetective, hope you like it, because I’m trying to write smut, which is something as you know, doesn’t come easy to me. Soulmate AU / Witch Reader. Warnings: Unprotected sex. PIV sex Prompt(s): #8.- Do you remember? from @fictober-event 

Read @ AO3

"Do you remember?" The voice whispers in your dreams. Insistent and deep, with a slight hint of desperation.

You groan. The hands that are currently running all over your body are sending shivers all over. The mouth that explores you is drawing happy sounds of pleasure. Your hands turn into fist, hanging into the silken sheets as the man slides down until he arrives at your core.

"Do you remember? Do you remember me yet, my love?"

Truth is, you don't remember him. If you had met before you would be sure you'd never forget such a handsome man. Not when he is like darkness personified, stars for eyes and dressed in black. Should you know him? There is something there, in the back of your head and your heart  and soul that screams that yes, you know him.

You're about to speak when strong hands part your legs wider and a firm tongue makes contact with your clit. Whatever you're about to say, it gets lost in the cries of pleasure that the man between your legs is drawing from you. His strong hands are keeping your legs apart, making it easier for him to explore you at his leisure.

One of your hands leaves the sheets and tangles in his wild hair, doing your best to push him further into you. "I need..." even with your mind clouded with pleasure, you sound breathless. 

He stops, "Yes? Tell me what you need, my love?"

"You. Please. Take me."

The man hums, quite pleased with your request. "Very well. If you want me, you shall have me. Who am I to deny my Queen?"

You're not a Queen, but you don't have time to deny that as, with one swift motion he has buried deep inside of you. You keen, he fills you so well. Like two puzzle pieces connecting at long last. Your chest feels heavy, your heart is loud and you can hear the rush of blood in your ears. Time stands still as the man above you does not move, but lowers himself enough that there is no space between your bodies.

The kiss he gives you is deep, and you moan into his mouth when he finally starts moving. And it is utter bliss.

He is both gentle and loving one moment, the next, it is as if he were a man dying to meld your bodies together that neither of you could tell where one ends and the other starts. You kiss him fiercely and devour the deep groans and growls that make their way out of his mouth. 

You only part when the need for air becomes to much. The world outside of this bedroom may be quiet and dark, but in the privacy of this bedroom, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and the sounds of pleasure are like a song, like music to your ears.

Pleasure only grows and grows. Your hands exploring his back, clinging to his surprisingly strong shoulders. Leaving a trail of kisses on his neck. "Oh God, you feel amazing."

His mouth also explores you as much as it can, but he leaves marks behind. "Mine." He growls. Both hands resting on your butt, lifting up to find another angle. He knows he found the perfect spot when you keen and scratch at his back.

"Please, I'm close..." you manage to speak through the fog of pleasure. "So close."

You don't need to say more, for the moment those words have left your mouth, one hand leaves your butt, finds your clit and begins a soft massage that heightens your pleasure all the more. "Yes, please..."

"Mine." He growls into your ear. "Say that you are mine."

"I'm... yours." And you're close, so very, very close. "Yours."

He growls and you shiver, you're about to fall to the precipice when he speaks again. "Say my name. Remember it and say it out loud."

Your mind is clouded with pleasure, but with one more thrust and and pressure on your clit and you're falling down a precipice of pleasure, "Morpheus!" You scream, not even caring if the name is right or not.

"Good, you remember me." One more thrust and then you can feel him filling you. "My love, my Queen." He groans as he continues to ride out his pleasure.

You sigh, your walls still clenching and enjoying the bliss. Your eyes feel heavy with sleep and you wrap your arms around him and kiss the head that has come to rest on your chest. You play with his hair and he purrs in contentment. You loose track of time as you both remain wrapped around each other until you drift off to sleep.

*

"Morpheus!" You call into the empty room as you bolt upright. Light is filtering in through your curtains, and your bed is empty.

But you know that just wasn't a normal wet dream.

That is when it all comes back to you. Of the dozens of lives lived, of the many loving nights you and Morpheus spent together and the promise that you two would find each other in the next life. In that moment you know that you have to find him. He is part of your soul. Not only that, but your soulmate.

"Morpheus. I remember. If you're listening to me. Come to me."

But he does not.

That is when dread fills you. That is when you know that something is not right. That you got to find him. Because you know that if he had been able to, he would have materialized in your room the very moment you had said that you remembered who you were. What you both were to each other.

You will do everything in your power to find him so you two can be together again. And heaven help anyone who had harmed him, because witches like you could be hell when angered, fortunately, you had time. This life had blessed you into being born to a family of long-lived witches and wizards.

"Morpheus, I'll find you. I promise you that and we'll be together again. Hold on. I'm coming my beloved King. I'm coming, my dearest Dream."

[weirdfishy]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

thanks for the ask queenie! 💕

in no particular order:

punkflower & godhood - spiderverse

when i went fruitloop n wrote abt miles n hobie, diving into their pining with comparisons on how they see each other as gods (the brainrot is so real in this one) :D

hearth - spiderverse

punkflower; hobie is injured + get together; also sort of like ^that one in terms of style, they're both of a freer form n more recent than the rest of these, though all of these are less than a year old

Unknown Caller ID - danny phantom x dcu

Danny gets mis-dialed for a ransom call; he goes to handle it, 100% crack treated seriously

though i'm treating it more seriously, as this is getting a sequel...someday... 😅

I'm only human, I have no perfection at all - the sandman tv

dreamling coded, fishbowl rescue, creepy ass burgess, guilt asf; my fav of my sandman fics, it's short n sweet, slightly more poetic than the others, i like the imagery it evokes, and hob burns burgess manor, as a treat <3

All Eyes On Me (I Only Want Yours) - bbc merlin

OOC Arthur is arse over tea kettle for Gaius' assistant (merlin isn't arthur's manservant)

this one is...gentle? i would say? it's not too angsty n it's not too sweet, and there's art for it!!! which i adore, this is the first fic i got art for, which was amazing n wonderful to see (i cried, 100%)

[myoddessy]

LONG STORY SHORT | dream of the endless

pairing: dream of the endless x harmony goddess!reader

summary: contrary to your title and your legacy, your life before morpheus was one of strife. and now, with morpheus' hand in yours and his lips upon your skin, you finally allow yourself to reflect.

notes: i will not rest until the sandman with folklore and evermore songs is my official brand. i promised this fic weeks ago but i'm rlly burned out and stressed, ANYWAYS here it is, finally! i lowk hate the ending but i'm not going to fix it so sorry abt that

warnings: angst, people taking advantage of reader's gifts, lgbt!reader but it's only briefly mentioned so you can ignore it if you wish, love at first sight with morpheus 💞💞

word count: 1.5k

the playlist.

the lavish silk of your bedding dipped with morpheus' weight as he moved to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you skimmed through a novel that morpheus had influenced in your honour.

"you must allow me to tell you how ardently i admire and love you." he read from over your shoulder, voice slow and sleek, like molasses sliding through the gentle air.

"good evening, mr darcy." you grinned with a teasing lilt to your voice.

"good evening to yourself, miss bennet."

his arm moved to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you even closer to his side. you closed your book on instinct, setting it down on the bedside table as you always did when his scent of home was close enough to haze your mind. you turned slightly, your head resting by the crook of his neck, hand easily falling into his. his thumb rubbed across the back of you palm. he pressed a lasting kiss to the crown of your head.

today it was cold in the dreaming, something that did not occur often, but openly reflected the stress of its creator. even without the chill of the outdoors, you could sense morpheus' distress and frustration in the way his hold was tighter than usual, and the way you felt him relax drastically when you lay down upon him.

he was troubled, and instead of running away, he chose to come to you. he trusted you, he felt safe with you. he had shared everything with you; the existence before you that could barely be called a life, the early stages of living that came with meeting you, the joys of eternal thriving that your love brought. and yet, no matter how much he had shared with you, you had never shared your past with him.

not out of distrust, or fear, or any form of anxious judgement, but out of avoidance. for if you had to disclose your history with morpheus, you would have to relive it yourself.

before morpheus, you had cried in the arms of poets, and artists, and bards alike, and they had all written off your suffering as an excuse for their grand masterpiece. they dedicated it to you, said their magnum opus was all thanks to the glorious harmonia, but none of them actually listened.

you'd been abandoned, realising after centuries that everyone you had ever known preferred the idea of missing you as opposed to actually being in your presence.

first to go was your mother. aphrodite was a kind and caring soul, and, even now, to say she abandoned you was impossible. in truth, the lack of her shadow around your light was a product of your independence. you challenged her, tested her patience in a fashion so contradictory to your moral ground. but instead of letting frustration take hold of her, your mother relished in your challenge and nurtured you until you grew to a goddess worshipped by the masses.

when she left, it was not of ill intentions. it was a testament to her pride of who you had become. her final gift to you was your freedom, even if her company was all you wished for over the coming centuries.

you couldn't remember the others. old friends turned enemies, lovers turned distant strangers, devotees turned assailants. each of them fled in similar fashions, they adored you, praised you as you tore pieces of your heart and soul and handed them over until you feared that your body would cave in on itself. that's when they turned, when they let the door slam on its way out, when they left you cold and alone.

but no matter what happened, you never faulted them. you were peace itself, so how could you bare anger upon those who sought it elsewhere. you did not fight, unless the battle grabbed you by your haunches and hauled you into the field.

it had happened before and you knew, even though you lay in morpheus' arms, that it would happen again. circumstance would betray you and you would be left with crimson seeping into the cracks in your hands.

you had watched lucifer fall. you dived to their aid and guided their descent and, in turn, gained an unwavering ally. but no matter how much you'd done to help the ruler of hell, your actions could not go unpunished. angels and once fell under your rule rebelled against you and pushed you from the precipice of virtue leaving you tumbling off of your pedestal. you could not fight your fate, it was not a path you had chosen, it chose you.

in distress and despair, you cling to whomever lay closest to you, their lips slotting against yours in the perfect distraction from your pain.

you once met an artist and he turned your suffering into a portrait that gained him eternal fame as he cast you to the shadows. after him, you crawled into the bed of a poet who truly loved you. she was kind and caring and looked after you. she nursed your wounds and kissed your scars and let her fingers dance across your broken and battered bones in a practiced ballet for every moment she spent with you.

to this day you consider her one of your purest loves. she was different. warm and welcoming, unlike all the others who would come to hold you, and those who already had. but what set her apart wasn't just the good she held inside, but in the fact that she wrote sonnets for you, where others simply wrote them about you. she art, her blood, her sweat, her tears, they were yours as much as they were hers.

but, as all mortals do, she passed into a world beyond the dreaming and you were left alone once more.

tired of the deceit and false hopes, you continued to trek through the worlds alone. lucifer would call you to their side every few centuries, usually with a request easy to complete, sometimes showing a sheltered side of them that begged for simple conversation from the one being their could call a companion.

when the angels swarmed again, enraged by one of lucifer's actions, you stood proud in their kingdom, wielding a sword gifted to you by the ruler themself and betraying your own name. yet again, the battle had chosen you and the fight left you seared and scarred.

you hadn't ventured to hell since. you often wondered if lucifer missed you, or if your old friend had simply moved on with the drive to build their empire higher and higher.

and then you met him.

fatefully, and wholly random, your shoulders brushed while entering a ball and later your hands met as partners for dance were spun around. his eyes soft and pupils dilated, yours much the same, the steady sounds of perfect orchestra gifting you an outro as he followed you blindly to the balcony for air.

for a few minutes, neither of you saying anything, wondering if the other would first. “you seem different to the rest.” he begins and you scoff, hopes of him standing out from the other madman who had lusted for your story, claiming you were ‘unlike anyone they had ever met — special’ until he followed up with a name you hadn't heard in eons.

“you're harmonia, aren't you?”

you turned to him sharply, confusion and concern etched onto your face but then something in the shadows that danced across his made everything fall into place.

“you're dream of the endless.”

“i much prefer the name morpheus, but yes.” he seemed amused by your confusion, prepared for an onslaught of questions but you only asked him one simple thing.

“do you wish to dance again, morpheus?”

he smiled, you mirrored it. he stepped towards you and took your hand in a light bow, you curtseyed in return. music flooded outside through the open doors and the moonlight guided your steps as you waltzed into midnight.

“where is it you've gone this time, my light?” his voice pulled you from your stupor, smile evident in his words.

you turned in his arms, chin resting on his chest and eyes batting up at him. “nowhere important. not when i could simply be here.”

his smile widened as he pressed another kiss to your forehead as you drew shapes on his skin and recounted your day, relishing in the peace the dreaming granted you.

here, you were free to lay down your sword without the worry of wielding it again to fend off threats to your love. here, you did not have to worry about a tug of war between heaven and hell for your favour. here, you were no longer subject to the cold words and cruel intentions of others.

here, your only duty was to love morpheus as deeply as he loved you, and in the steady rise and fall of his chest, you knew that role was as easy to fill as breathing.

existence before him wasn't easy, but still, you lay in a kingdom forged in the name of your sanctuary. you had survived, the notion made you smile.

[kittynannygaming]

[The Sandman] Tous les chemins mènent à Hob

Original Post

I’ve posted a prompt, not too long ago (see the link above) and @entropy-mephit​ and I began to answer back and forth, creating a mini-story.

So here is the deal. I’ll post the text here and if you want to add to it, you’re welcome to do it. I would prefer you add your text to the other post to keep this one as a fic (I’ll add your part as soon as possible) and its comments. If you have any question, please let me know!

I'll probably post it on AO3 so if you contribute to the story and have an AO3 account, let me know so I can.

Now, let’s enjoy the story!

What if Fawney Rig, property of Roderick Burgess & before him of Lady Johanna Constantine, was at the beginning the property of Sir Robert Gadlen aka Hob Gadling? What if Dream after escaping Alex, find Eleanor & Robyn mausoleum? (Original Prompt)

Dream is standing frozen, staring at the portrait of people he tried to not watch too closely (because he promised Hob to not interfere) but he still couldn't forget from back then when he expected the tragedy to finally break that man. He never could quite banish them from memory. And now he stood by the resting place of mortal remains, and his mind has drifted to what was left of his own son, and grief pinned him in place.

He had no intention of lingering but his mind was in tumult, made even worse by how frayed his connection has became. There was only his own grief, unable to dissolve into millions of unconscious minds across galaxies.

And then there was one, just single but connected to same thread of grief, looking at something so similar to the portrait that had caught him into the memory in the first place.

Pain shared, echoing, but finally Dream could feel, at least for short moment, he was not alone.

Instead of the Dreaming, he went to his friend instead.

Reaching trough dreams, path forged out of longing, the guidance turns out surprisingly gentle. Dream barely registers jagged edges of broken fantasies he passes trough, carried by current of patient anticipation.

To visit Hob was not fully conscious decision, but Dream is of subconscious more than anyone in Waking. It just felt right, to drift along and let himself visit.

Dream appears near the New Inn, he has barely any strength to conjure some clothes and, unconsciously appears as he has been beaten. Hob appears in his vision range and he calls for him. Hob turns his head, saw him and run to him. Dream is barely conscious when Hob carries him (bridal style) through the New Inn entrance.

Dream relaxes into soothing aura of the place, shining with stories and daydreams and he drinks in the ambience. Feeling just a little stronger for it.

Some people are sleeping nearby and he could just slip away into dreaming through their minds, but arms around him are too comfortable. There is voice he can't focus on. Saying something to him as he is brought to new room.

Dream smiles, letting himself file in changes in familiar man.

Such devotion, from the man whose he rejected the offer of friendship in quite a spectacular and dramatic way. He had time to think, time to regret. Dream was laid on the soft surface of a couch, moaning quietly when the warm embrace disappeared. A blanket took the place of strong arms and it smell so much of Hob that Dream wanted to get lost in it.

Then there was warmth and wetness, with a gentle touch of cloth wiping at his brow. he could vaguely feel a tiny bit of his self, fashioned from Night, come away, clinging to the material. Enough for him to open a single eye and try to perceive as mortal senses would have it.

He saw Hob, leaning over him with worry, reaching to clean his wound. On the cloth there was a smudge from drop of liquid darkness with wayward light of distant memory of a star that wandered into it Half mind present Dream calls the droplet back to himself, hovering it above his finger before he *looks* at Hob. Human is staring at him in wonder, suddenly silent and Dream instantly misses sound of his voice.

And with another impulse Dream spins this droplet of himself solidifying it into tiny orb of crystallised thought. Drops it into his palm and instantly reaches out, still too detached from human language to speak as he offers this little gift.

New wave of worry emanating from Hob washes over Dream like a river, swirling around edges of his physicality with man's attention checking for the wounds and taking account of bruises. There us feeling of fingers clenched tight around the marble just made. The warm blanket shifts. Even warmer hug comes, first tentative, then firm and grounding. Dream hums against Hob, enveloped in care and more affection than he could imagine. Blanket suited for one like himself.

Finally, the Dream gets feeling human enough to figure out words muttered

[elyteracy]

while i love posts about writing for yourself and i think they’re extremely important, i do think it omits the fact that stories, in all shape, form and medium are created and exist solely to be shared. yes i write for myself, but i also write because when i was 12 i read a book by Le Clézio (french author) called Lullaby that was thinner than my own pinky (and what small fingers I have) and at 26, i still pick up this tiny book with the same reverence that I had when i was barely out of childhood. i write because when i watched the sandman last week and i cried each episode at the gentleness and infinite kindness neil gaiman shows for humanity in every story he tells. i write because one time somebody commented on a fic i’d posted years before for a fandom i didn’t really belong to, with a trope i didn’t even particularly enjoyed, to tell me that several years later, even though they’d stopped reading fanfiction, they still thought about that one scene from my story and they took the time to tell me YEARS after reading it for the first time

this isn’t to say you shouldn’t write for yourself. i’m still the first person to cry reading my own stories, but i share them because if it just made one other person cry, it will have been all worth it

[bewaretheundead91]

Y/N is a woman who was killed against her will to prevent the Dreaming Realm from being destroyed. She is set free into the Dreaming by Morpheus only days before the Dream king is summoned to the waking world and trapped. A century later he returns only to pick up where it all left off.

A/N: Awful at summaries. I truly don't even know what I'm doing with this fic. I don't even know if it's a good idea to write this or not. Heck I'm even terrified to post this because of all the delicious Sandman fics I've read. I have not read the comics and characters may seem OOC.

Warnings: Resentful Dream King, slight violence, Dark Morpheus , mistreatment

“Now you know how it feels to be trapped in a cage,” She whispers as her ears catch the familiar crunch of his boots against the ground. The woman keeps her eyes, casted out towards the deep lake before her. Dark blue with subtle movement. “I have no sympathy for you, only for those who were affected by your disappearance. Which was everyone of course.”

“Y/N.” the wind lifts his voice upward. It slithers up her spine and wisps around her throat. She lifts her head and gasps. “Y/N”

“You heard me right, I’m glad you have suffered,” She spits out as she turns around. Before her is a man whose face is taunt and sallow from lack of rest and stress. His eyes were an irritated red with tears filling the corners. “You are selfish, regardless of what you endured.”

The dark hair man’s face is unchanging. He stands and takes every word. When she is finished talking he looks her up and down, it has been years, a century since he has seen her. She looks modern in all black, with black boots and a pea coat much like his own. But her Hair is still wild.

“You will not speak to me in that manner,” The man says with disappointment laced with anger. The legs are kicked out from beneath the girl and fall to the rocky ground, knees first. “As a prisoner of mine, you will be punished.”

“Is that what I am now? No longer a ward of your kingdom?”

He clenches his strong jaw and flares his nostrils.

“So being trapped in the dreaming for more than a century is not a fitting punishment as is?” The girl sits up and the man grips a large chunk of hair and pulls her towards him roughly. The dark-haired man squats down beside her.

“This is punishment?” His voice goes soft in her ear. “Being here is punishment? Being able to wander around this realm freely is punishment? I could hand deliver you to Lucifer themself, locked away. Do you deserve hell?”

“You killed me. You are my eternal punishment. Eternal hell, Morpheus!”

She calls him by his name, like it was a jagged dagger straight into the heart.

A hand snatches her throat and her words stop. He leans in and examines her, forcing her head up. She was well rested and for the most part healthy looking. She has not been suffering from his disappearance. It pains him..

She chuckles looking back at his sad eyes.

“I wish I could have seen you wasting away in the little cage of glass. Sad and forced down from your pedestal. Not the king of dreams while trapped in a contraption made by humans, were you?”

“Ah, fond of glass cages I see,” An evil idea flickers in his mind. His eyes roll to the side, curving his lips up to a smirk. “How would you like to be locked away, without clothing and fresh air? Staged in my throne room for everyone in the dreaming to see. Just as I was in the basement for a century.”

“You want to put me away, you enjoy hurting me,” The woman says, struggling against his gentle, but strong hold. “You want me naked and caged, it excites you. Perhaps more than emotionally.”

“You do not know what I want.” He says and shoves the woman away, she lands palms, breaking the fall. .

“But I do know. How many humans have you killed to prevent your world from crumbling? In your eternal life?”

Morpheus turns his head to the side and walks away. The woman stands back up and pulls the black coat around her. The wind picks up and the sky clouds over.

“That is what I thought, King of dreams. Sad selfish man. You are acting like the very men that exist in the waking world. Perhaps you are creating them in your influence? Through their dreams?”

“Do not dare compare me to man, to men.” He says calmly, stopping in his tracks.

“Why shouldn’t I? Does it expose that you are flawed even for a god?”

“No.” Morpheus waves his hand and the woman vanishes.

Y/n lays in the glass enclosure covering her chest, with crossed arms. Around her neck was a black collar, slightly heavy made of thick leather with a chain latched at the back. Degraded and shamed, Y/N had been locked within the enclosure for what seemed days.

Dream sits in his chair looking outward, still feeling the exhaustion of the century kept in the waking world. The remaining fragments of his kingdom are floating above him. He was placing the pieces together like a puzzle.

“Sire, please do not continue with this treatment, she no longer holds the power of a vortex. She is dead in the waking world.”

He looks to the side at the girl hiding her most intimate parts. She was frail, just existing just as he had. He clenches his jaw and flings his line of site to his trustworthy librarian.

“A punishment fit for our prisoner, Lucienne.” He says calmly.

“I thought she was not a prisoner, she was set free into the dream realm.”

“She finds this place confining,” Morpheus stands up from his chair, walks down the steps, and approaches the nude girl. He runs his fingers over the glass and leans in. His eyes studying the weak girl. Gazing at her bare skin.

“As a human would,” Lucian comments, placing their notebook under their arm. “She cannot leave, see her father, or complete her research. You were also summoned before you could really speak to her. It is a large expanding cage made in your image, I can understand those thoughts.”

Morpheus thinks back to the day of Y/N death, dropping her here in this realm, alone. It was only a couple of days that past before he was ripped from his kingdom.

“I could make you not exist, Y/N,” His whispers, voice starts at the bottom of her spine, dragging up every notch and clings to her throat. She gasps, lifting her head up slightly. The effect on her body was unreal. “You would like that wouldn’t you?”

She lifts her head up, eyes barely open. Her hair falls over her shoulders. She was like a fairy trapped for amusement.

“Morpheus,” Lucienne says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re hurting, perhaps even angry, but on your ward…she has not committed any ailments against you. She was quiet here while you were gone. Reading in the library most days.”

“This does not hurt anyone,” He says, looking down at her again. “She will not die. I am simply observing the condition of it. Letting her know how it feels.”

“But why, sire? Release her, you do not truly wish this upon anyone.”

“You would speak to me in this tone.”

“She could be useful to you sir,” The librarian suggests, looking at the girl sympathetically. “You need your tools and she is connected to the dream world.”

“She may run.”

“If she runs, so be it sire. Ultimately she would be summoned back to the Dreaming.”

“I don’t want her to leave.” His voice was slow.

The girl's eyes flicker up towards her captor, they form a deep glare. The captor smiles, parting his lips in excitement.

“While you were caged, did you find more distaste for human life? Resentment even. She is no human. You do not want the people of your world to see this.”

Morpheus waves his hand and the glass case vanishes, dropping the girl harshly to the ground with a smack. The heavy chain attached to the collar drops to her spine and backside with a clink. She lays still, unmoving.

“Sire,” Lucienne says. Quickly she walks to the woman on the floor. She crouches down to move strands of hair from her face. There were tears. “This treatment and behavior is appalling. Especially for you.”

“I am ruler of the nightmare realm as well, Lucienne. It’s always been inside me.”

Morpheus strips his coat and walks up to the woman on the floor. He bends down and reaches for the girl’s face, he examines the tears and releases her, content with his work. He drapes the garment over her body and scoops her up easily. He wraps the coat around her body.

“I am sorry.” His speech was soft, but strained.

“Put me down,” Her voice is, but a whisper. “Please put me down, Morpheus.”

“I cannot, I am taking you to my bed to rest.”

“No.” It was a simple reply, but brave.

“You need to rest and eat, Lucienne is right, anything that reminds me of humans has been a target.”

“I don’t want to be in your bed or your castle, please take me to my home,” she pleads weakly looking up at him. Feeling vulnerable she ulls his coat closer over her body. “I haven’t been human for years.”

“You do not have to cover yourself, I've seen everything.” He says eyes flickering over her.

Y/n looks away.