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ibrithir-was-here · 11 months

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Its almost 2 AM. And instead of sleep I wrote Baby Dream AU drabble, cuz Calliope only graces me in her time zone I guess. Might be a part two. Anyway here ya go xD

Baby Dream Drabble (part 1?)

Jessamy was a raggedy, much mended, button eyed stuffed raven. She was Morpheus's only friend, and he loved her more than anything in the world.

Teleute had given Jessamy to him on his first birthday, though of course he didn't remember that.

She'd made Jessamy with her Gift. He knew that, even if he didn't know how. He didn't really know how any of their Gifts worked. He just knew that they all had them.

Portos could See,

Teleute could Give--and Take Away

And he could Dream

The others were too small yet for their gifts to be clear. Olethros was just four, the twins were barely two, and baby Euphoria hasn't even reached a full year yet.

But Morpheus thought Portos already knew what their Gifts would be. After all, he had been the one to give them all their names, though he was only ten himself. He'd looked with seemingly unseeing eyes at each one of his siblings as they'd lain blinking up at him, hours old, and had Seen the shape of who'd they become, the outline of their life written out like a page within a great book that only he could read.

That was how he'd explained it to Morpheus anyhow.

The explanation seemed to be enough for Mother and Father as well. They'd just nodded and agreed, and then handed the newly named child off to their nanny, free now to pursue their own interests within the scope of their own Gifts, until those interests crossed to include each other again, in which case another child was added to the Aterenus family.

Another small bassinet to line the nursery, which would become a small bed within a few years, shuffled over to make room for another small bassinet. Each one set up and left to the care of the nanny who'd been taken on that month.

They never stayed long. They found the house too lonesome to abide, the masters too difficult to appease, and the children too strange to love.

The children learned to make due.

Portos spent his time wandering the gardens of the estate, keeping out of everyone's way, his fingers tracing over his books.

Morpheus, at six, wasn't technically allowed in the library, but sometimes he managed to sneak in, and when he did he'd pour over the pictures of every book he could reach. He didn't understand all of the words, but he'd make up stories around the pictures and the words he could read, whispering them allowed to Jessamy.

Teleute, always the most outgoing of the three eldest siblings, and though she was only eight and the nanny should have been watching, she managed to always find a way out of the manor house and out into "the real world" as she called it, though it was only the local village.

She would come back with tales of such fantastic things as shops and cinemas and other children to play with, children who were called home at last by mothers who smiled and fathers who laughed and hugged them close.

Morpheus drank in her stories like he was someone's dying of thirst.

And at night he'd Dream of them.

The shops and cinemas and happy children with happy parents. As vibrantly and fully as he could. And for a few hours each night he'd wrap himself in a bubble of warmth that he'd never felt in the waking world.

Sometimes he'd even be able to pull bits out from the dreams. Only little things though. A wrapper fromna sweet he'd never tasted, a stub from a film he'd never seen, a flower from a feild he'd never played in.

He never could seem to pull out the big things. The friends, the smiling families, the warm feelings.

He thought perhaps, if he could see them once himself, in truth, then maybe the next time he Dreamed them he could make them real.

If he could see them just once, he knew he could.

That was how one day he'd found himself, Jessamy in tow as always, ducking through the underbrush, scrambling through the hole in the fence Teleute had told him of, and running as fast as his small legs could carry him down to the village. Towards sunshine and smiles and maybe even a friend who could speak back to him.

He got to the bottom of the hill when the men in the dark car grabbed him.

They put something on his mouth that muffled his scream and made him feel strange and sleepy--and when he did sleep he didn't dream.

When he finally woke, feeling sick and fuzzy, he was somewhere dark and cold and hard. There was a strange painted circle around him, and that made him feel more sick and fuzzy.

There were people all around him also, and their shadowed faces were as cold and hard as the room they were crowded in.

The man they called Mr. Burgess was the hardest and coldest of all. He shouted at the others for "grabbing the wrong one" and several other things about the difficulty of spells and alignments and other things Morpheus didn't understand.

And then he'd started shouting at Morpheus.

He wanted to know what he could do, what his Gift was, what he was good for.

Morpheus didn't answer. He was too afraid to. In case his Gift was not what they wanted. In case it was.

He wasn't supposed to tell people about his Gift. None of them were. It was one of the few things his parents had ever told him, besides to stop bothering them. Never let anyone know what he and his siblings could do. They would be in terrible trouble if they ever did. People would do horrible things to them if they found out about their Gifts.

Morpheus didn't want to know what could be more terrible than being in this place, with these people.

So he kept quiet. He kept quiet for three days. He thought it was three anyway, it might have been more. He couldn't tell, here in the darkness.

He kept quiet, and ate the little food they gave him and drank the little water, and hugged Jessamy to him tightly when he got too hungry and didn't want to cry, for fear he wouldn't be able to stop.

He felt like that more and more often.

Each day Mr. Burgess came down to yell at him. To yell and demand and threaten. And Morpheus felt fear locking his mouth shut tighter with every horrible word that spilled from the man's mouth. And he spent each night cowering from nightmares of the man; towering over him as he shrank smaller and smaller, chasing after him in the darkness, locking him in a glass bubble with no air, suspended naked for all to see.

And on the third or fourth or seventh day, Mr. Burgess snatched Jessamy out of Morpheus's arms.

And he tore her into pieces.

He dumped the pieces outside of the painted circle, where Morpheus couldn't reach them. He could only stare, thick, silent tears running down his thinning cheeks as he stared at the tatters that had been his only friend.

He thought, dimly, that he didn't think he could talk now even if he wanted to.

And he didn't want to. He didn't want to do anything but be somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away.

Somewhere warm, and safe. Where Mr Burgess couldn't be. Where there would be softness instead of hard stone, and enough to eat, and…and…

Morpheus curled up on the stone, as tightly as he could, and let his mind drift off. He hadn't tried to Dream, properly Dream, the whole time he'd been here. Worried his Dreaming might give his gift away, worried it would make things worse.

He didn't think things could get worse now.

At least if he Dreamed, he might see Jessamy again.

If he was very lucky, maybe he wouldn't even wake up.

And so he let the Dream wrap around him, hoping that wherever it took him, it would never end

***

It was the smell of pancakes that woke him.

He didn't really wake of course. Morpheus could tell he was in a dream, he always could. But in the dream he was waking up, and there was warmth and softness all around him.

A pillow and mattress beneath him, a blanket tucking him in. Both more comfortable than anything he'd ever had at home. More colorful too. As he blinked open his eyes, Morpheus saw a room filled with a galaxy swirl of color. The walls were covered in bright paper, the ceiling in little plastic stars, something his parents would never have allowed in the nursery lest they peel the paint.

The windows were a riot of color, stained glass that the warm sunlight filtered through to send a rainbow down onto Morpheus's equally star-covered blanket.

And there were toys.

Toys of all shapes and sizes and descriptions, in bright and cheery colors, scattered on shelves and in woven baskets and some simply scattered on the floor, another afront his parents would never have stood for, though Morpheus couldn't remember the last time they'd actually been inside the nursery.

In permeating it all was the wonderful smell of pancakes, coming through the door on the other end of the room.

Slowly, afraid that at any moment he'd take a wrong step, trip over a toy and take a tumble and wake with a jolt back in his waking nightmare, Morpheus tip-toed his way across the floor, the starry blanket pulled about his shoulders, determined to keep its warmth about him as long as he could.

He took a breath, turned the handle, and walked into a large open room. There was a comfortable looking , a few bookcases filled with interesting looking books, and a television set turned off, but a radio was playing somewhere.

And at the far end it opened into a kitchen space, where a man stood, his back turned to Morpheus, flipping pancakes and humming along with the radio.

Morpheus stopped in his tracks, frozen at the sight of the towering adult. He was broad and strong looking, with longer hair than Morpheus had seen on a man, with a reddish tint to it that reminded Morpheus of his father's hair. He wondered how loud this man could yell, how hard he could hit.

Morpheus gulped, took a step back. wondered if it was too late to sneak back into the wonderful bedroom, lock the door and hope he wouldn't be noticed. If he was very very quiet he could probably get away and--

And right then his stomach gave an almighty rumble.

It would have been loud in the waking world, in a dream it practically echoed.

Morpheus froze up like a deer in headlights, hunger displaying as icy fear flooded his stomach as the man froze, and then turned…

The warmest, softest, kindest eyes Morpheus had ever seen settled on him, widening in surprise for a moment and then crinkling up into a happy welcoming smile.

Morpheus had never known that people could smile with their eyes.

"Hullo" The man said, crouching down to get on eye level with Morpheus, "Who might you be then?"

Morpheus opened his mouth to answer--and then shut it again, looking down at his feet as he felt his cheeks flush under the attention. He hadn't spoken much to adults even before he'd been taken, afraid of hearing once more that he needed to be quiet, to get out of the way. He'd never had someone approach him like this, on his level instead of towering over him.

It was strange and disconcerting and…and nice.

And yet he still couldn't make himself speak. He'd gone so long without using his voice by now that he was almost afraid of what he'd hear if he tried.

But he knew if he didn't say something the man would start to get angry. He'd start to yell and then then--

Morpheus felt his chest tightening again, his throat felt thick even as he tried to summon up something, anything to say before the tears burning at the edges of his eyes could fall.

"Hey hey, it's alright"

The man's soft voice broke through the ice of Morpheus's panic like the sunshine of Spring thawing a frozen lake, its soothing tones sinking down into him, pulling him up from the depths he'd been sinking into.

"Bit shy? That's alright then. Suppose it's rude of me to ask before I've even introduced myself."

He held out a hand, slowly, so that Morpheus wasn't even startled into thinking it was coming towards him.

"I'm Hob, Hob Gadling. Would you like some pancakes then, little dream?"

Morpheus looked at the man, Hob's, hand, open in invitation, held steady, not gearing up for a slap. He looked at his warm smile, his kind eyes. And for the first time in more days than he knew, Morpheus felt warm all through.

He reached out his own hand, and placed it cautiously in Hob's. It curled over, dwarfing his small one, cupping it gently but not squeezing, not trapping in anyway. And Morpheus nodded his head. Yes, he would love some pancakes. He was so, so hungry.

Hungry for food and warmth and the kindness in Hob's face, a kindness he didn't think he'd ever seen till now, had never known could exist outside of his older sister and the comforting softness of his lost Jessamy.

Hob's smile became even brighter, and he gently, so gently, took Morpheus's hand as he led him to the table, where a plate of steaming, golden pancakes lay, stacked and waiting.

"Well come on then, I'd love the company. Stay as long as you'd like"

Morpheus wondered if he could stay forever.

***

When Hob Gadling woke up that morning, there were tears in his eyes, and a smile on his face.

He'd long since gotten used to the tears.

But it had been a long while since he'd woken up smiling.

Not since Eleanor, not since Robyn…

The little dream boy--he hadn't looked like Robyn at all. Dark where Robyn had been fair, quiet when he's never been able to get Robyn to stop talking.

He wished now he'd never tried.

But he was glad all the same, of the chance to be there for a child again, to make food to share, to read a silly picture book with ridiculous rhymes while the small dream boy had curled up next to him, wide eyed over some silly simple story Hob couldn't even recall now.

It had been a silly simple dream too. He'd played silly simple games and made silly stupid jokes he hadn't played or made in years and though the dream child hadn't laughed, he had finally smiled. And oh, it was such a sweet little smile, it lit up his whole face.

And he'd gotten to tuck a child in for bed once more, in a room that certainly did not exist in his real flat but fit so perfectly into his dream one, just as the dream child had seemed to fit perfectly into his existence as well, filling a space he'd long tried to avoid remembering was empty.

Hob hoped he'd dream the same dream again. He wouldn't mind seeing the sweet little dream child again.

He never expected to start dreaming it every night.

#baby dream au #my writing #platonic dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #sandman au #sandman fic #good thing i dont work till 11 #good greif i gotta get to sleep #death of the endless #roderick burgess #the endless family #destiny of the endless #Morpheus #tw child abuse #angst #hurt comfort #this does have a happy ending for baby Morpheus dont worry #jessamy the raven

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dee-writes-smut · 23 days

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LAZY MORNINGS

FEATURING Cassian x reader

SUMMARY lazy mornings, simple fights, and tender kisses; all gone, all lost without him.

CONTENT WARNINGS major character loss, depression, emotional descriptions of kissing (?)

AUTHORS NOTE happy 100 followers, here's some devastating angst as a thanks! Enjoy! :)

I wanted it all. The lazy mornings in bed, the fight over which movie to watch, the bumping into each other in their small kitchen. The disagreements and the tears and the kisses and their love. For once, I wanted to be selfish, and I wanted to have it all.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness was seamless with Cassian by my side. As the first tendrils of dawn painted soft hues across the room, I would stir from slumber, greeted by the comforting weight of his arm draped possessively over my waist. His warmth enveloped me, cocooning me in a sanctuary of bliss where time seemed to stand still.

In the quiet stillness of the morning, I savored the sensation of Cassian's breath against the nape of my neck, a gentle rhythm that mirrored the rise and fall of my own chest. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly laundered sheets to create an intoxicating bouquet that stirred something deep within me.

"Cassian," I would murmur, my voice still heavy with sleep, "just a few more minutes."

His response was a gentle hum, a silent affirmation of our shared desire to linger in this moment of tranquility a little while longer. With his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my skin, I would bury myself deeper into the folds of the sheets, reveling in the sensation of his steady breath against my skin.

Minutes stretched into eternity as we savored the simple pleasure of being together, the outside world fading into insignificance in the face of our shared intimacy. Each touch, each caress, spoke volumes, conveying a depth of emotion that words could never capture.

Eventually, the call of hunger would rouse us from our languid state, and we would stumble into the kitchen, limbs entwined and hearts full. The familiar rituals of breakfast became a dance of shared moments, each movement fluid and effortless as we navigated the space between us with practiced ease.

Cassian took charge of the coffee, his hands moving with precision as he measured out the perfect ratio of ground to water. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the scent of his cologne to form an irresistible blend that stirred something deep within me. Meanwhile, I busied myself with preparing the rest of our meal, slicing fruit with care and toasting bread to golden perfection.

The rhythmic clink of knives against cutting boards filled the air, a soothing melody that accompanied our shared silence. As we worked side by side, I couldn't help but marvel at the easy rhythm of our partnership, the way we moved in sync without needing to exchange a single word.

Breakfast would be a simple affair, yet it held a significance that transcended the mere act of nourishment. As we sat across from each other at the table, our eyes would meet in silent communion, words unnecessary as we shared the unspoken bond of love and understanding. But it was after breakfast, when we would return to the warmth of our bed, that the true magic would happen. We would lie there, limbs intertwined and hearts open, basking in the afterglow of our shared meal, lost in the sweet serenity of our love.

No relationship is without its rough patches, and ours was no exception. For all the lazy mornings and tender moments we shared, there were also moments of discord that tested the strength of our bond.

Our disagreements were fierce, fueled by passion and stubbornness. This particular argument had been brewing beneath the surface for weeks, simmering like a pot left unattended until it finally boiled over.

"It's not just about the mission, Cassian," I argued, my voice tinged with frustration. "It's about us. I can't keep pretending like everything's fine when it's not."

Cassian's expression hardened, his jaw tightening with tension. "This is bigger than us," he countered, his voice strained. "The Rebellion needs us. We can't afford to let personal feelings get in the way."

His words cut deep, slicing through the facade of composure I had been desperately clinging to. The weight of his duty hung heavy in the air between us, a constant reminder of the sacrifices we were both forced to make.

We clashed over matters of duty and sacrifice, our opposing viewpoints pulling us further apart with each passing moment. The tension in the room was palpable, like a taut rope ready to snap at any moment.

"I can't do this anymore," I would whisper, tears welling in my eyes. "I can't keep pretending like I'm okay with you risking your life every day."

Cassian's expression softened, a flicker of remorse crossing his features. "I know," he would reply, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't just walk away. You know that, sweetheart."

I would retreat into myself, the weight of our disagreement pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket. Doubt crept into my mind, casting shadows on the once bright future we had envisioned together.

But amidst the chaos and confusion, there was also a glimmer of hope—a willingness to listen, to understand, and to forgive. We were two souls adrift in a sea of uncertainty, reaching out for each other in the hope of finding solid ground once more.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. "I'm scared, Cassian. I'm scared of losing you."

He would draw me into his arms, his touch a lifeline in the darkness. "I'm not going anywhere," he would assure me, his voice filled with determination. "We'll find a way through this, together."

In the quiet of the night, with our hearts laid bare and our fears exposed, we would find solace in each other's embrace. Our tears mingled together, a silent testament to the depth of our love and the pain we felt at the thought of losing each other.

And as the first light of dawn crept through the window, casting a soft glow over our entwined forms, we made a silent vow to do better—to communicate more openly, to listen more attentively, and to cherish each other with every breath we took.

Amidst the chaotic ebb and flow of our lives, there existed pockets of pure bliss—moments where time held its breath, and the clamor of the world melted away, leaving only the tender dance of our souls.

Our kisses were a language unto themselves, each touch a sonnet of desire and devotion, weaving a tapestry of unspoken vows and whispered confessions. In the sanctuary of our embraces, I found solace, as if the universe itself conspired to bring us together in perfect harmony.

His lips were an oasis, tender and yielding against mine, kindling a flame that surged through every fiber of my being, an inferno of passion that blazed brighter with each lingering caress. His touch was an electric current, coursing through me with a pulse of urgency and longing, binding us together in a symphony of sensation.

We stole kisses in the most unlikely of places, our love a secret shared with the world—a stolen moment in the bustle of a crowded street, a whispered promise beneath the moon's gentle gaze. Each kiss was a revelation, a testament to the depth of our connection and the fervor of our love.

But it was not merely the physical act of kissing that tethered us—it was the unspoken language of our hearts, a melody of longing and belonging that resonated with every touch, every brush of skin against skin. In the tender aftermath of our embraces, we lay intertwined, our breaths synchronized in the quiet cadence of the night, content to dwell in the sanctity of our shared affection.

Our kisses were a kaleidoscope of emotion, laughter bubbling up between stolen breaths, joy and mirth dancing in the spaces between our lips. Other times, they were a silent plea for reassurance, a whispered prayer against the uncertainties that lingered at the edges of our lives.

And as sleep eventually claimed us, cocooned in the warmth of each other's arms, I knew with unwavering certainty that I was exactly where I was meant to be—loved, cherished, and infinitely blessed by the presence of this extraordinary man in my life.

In the quiet moments of our intimacy, I could feel the weight of his love, an anchor grounding me amidst the tumultuous seas of life. With each kiss, it was as if the world around us faded into insignificance, leaving only the profound connection that bound us together.

Our kisses spoke volumes, conveying emotions too deep for words to articulate. They were a dance of vulnerability and trust, a testament to the depth of our bond and the strength of our commitment to each other.

As our lips met in silent communion, I felt a sense of belonging that transcended the physical realm, a profound knowing that in each other's arms, we had found our home. And in those stolen moments of intimacy, I vowed to cherish every kiss, every touch, as a precious gift from the universe—a reminder of the extraordinary love that bound us together, now and for eternity.

In the aftermath of Cassian's sacrifice for the Rebellion, I found myself adrift in a sea of memories—fragments of our love that seemed to shimmer and fade like distant stars in the night sky.

The lazy mornings in bed felt like a distant dream, a fleeting moment of bliss now shattered by the harsh reality of his absence. I could almost feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine, his steady heartbeat a comforting rhythm against my skin. But when I reached out, all I found was empty space—a cruel reminder of what we had lost.

The arguments over trivial matters echoed in the empty rooms of our home, their echoes bouncing off the walls like ghosts of our past. I could hear the frustration in his voice, the stubbornness in his stance, as we clashed over insignificant details that now seemed trivial in comparison to the gaping void left in his wake.

But amidst the echoes of our disagreements, there were also moments of laughter and joy, the playful banter that had once filled our home with warmth and light. I could almost hear his laughter ringing in my ears, see the mischievous glint in his eyes as we teased each other mercilessly. Those moments were a balm to my wounded soul, a reminder of the love that had once flourished between us.

Yet, even as I navigated the caverns of our shared memories, reality intruded in the form of his family, checking in with concern etched into their every word and gesture. They offered solace, companionship, and a shoulder to lean on, but I found myself retreating further into solitude, unable to bear the weight of their well-intentioned sympathy.

The stolen kisses filled with laughter and longing haunted me, their memory a bittersweet reminder of all that we had shared. I could almost taste the sweetness of his lips, the warmth of his embrace, as we had reveled in the simple pleasure of being together. But now, those moments felt like distant echoes, fading into the darkness like whispers carried away by the wind.

But most of all, I missed the feeling of being loved—truly and unconditionally, in a way that transcended words and defied explanation. I longed for the warmth of his touch, the strength of his embrace, the way he had looked at me as if I were the center of his universe. But now, all I felt was the cold emptiness of his absence—a void that seemed to stretch on for eternity, swallowing me whole.

As I traced the lines of his face in my mind's eye, I realized that I had taken our love for granted, assuming that it would always be there, steadfast and unchanging. But now, as I sat alone in the silence of our home, I understood that nothing in this world was permanent—not even love.

In the quiet moments of reflection, I found myself grappling with the realization that love, no matter how deep or enduring, was not immune to the passage of time or the cruel twists of fate. And yet, even as I mourned the loss of what once was, I couldn't help but cling to the hope that perhaps, somewhere out there in the vast expanse of the universe, our love still burned bright, a beacon of light in the darkness.

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