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#the sandman AU
grammay · 1 year
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I draw this after finishing reading The Sandman fanbook Hopes & Dreams AU
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humanpurposes · 7 months
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Sweet Dream
The Sandman AU
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Her father means to summon and capture Death, but ends up with the wrong sibling. She becomes fascinated with their prisoner // Main Masterlist
Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character
Warnings: 18+, spells n shit, mild gore, death, lowkey Lima syndrome, smut
Words: 8000
A/n: For my fellow Morpheus and Aemond lovers. Also available to read on AO3.
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Roderick Burgess had always been a terrifying man. In grief he has only become more irritable and less predictable. 
The telegram came in the early days of July. She delivered the news to Roderick herself, while he was in his study. Her father did not like to be disturbed and he might have beaten her to remind her of the fact, until those fateful words slipped from her mouth. “Randall’s dead.” Shot down by a German machine gun at the Somme. In the end he had been one of thousands, his body buried in a neat line of tombstones somewhere in France, his name engraved on a plaque in the church at Wych Cross, ultimately unremarkable and indistinguishable from the other men and boys who had lost their lives.
But it was not so for Roderick. He let out a sudden groan and clutched his chest as though his pain was tangible and terrible. He shed no tears– of course he didn’t, but he gritted his teeth, crying out in fury as he dashed his hands over his desk, sending papers, books, fountain pens and empty whisky glasses tumbling to the floor. 
She stood frozen, waiting for his hand to descend on her for being the one to tell him, but it didn’t.
When they held a memorial service for him, Roderick handed her a piece of paper, to read before the crowd of faces she didn’t recognise. 
“Randall was our family’s happiness. He was the bravest, the wisest, and kindest older brother I could possibly dream of having.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read because she knew it was all a lie. In truth, Randall was like their father. They had the same short temper, the same stubbornness and the same cruelty. 
But Randall being dead meant she could reinvent him.
Lately, she dreams of happier memories and looks back on them fondly, knowing they can never be contradicted or disproved. 
While her father has dreamt of Death ever since. 
It’s a brisk afternoon in October when a man in a suit, bow tie and bowler hat arrives at Fawny Rig. He clutches a leather briefcase in front of him and introduces himself as Dr John Hathaway, a curator from the Royal Museum, travelled all the way from London to this quiet corner of East Sussex. She leads him through the panelled halls of the manor, to her father’s study.
Roderick barges in behind them, in a shirt and waistcoat, already smelling faintly of whisky and waving his cane in her general direction. “Tea for our guest,” he orders.
She has the pot ready and strains the dark, reddish liquid into two delicate china cups while her father and Dr Hathaway settle on opposing leather sofas in the centre of the room.
“I take it you have reconsidered?” Roderick says.
“After our meeting at the museum… I know what I said, but–” Dr Hathaway takes an unsure breath. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week off Jutland.”
It’s a loss Roderick can share, even if he doesn’t really understand how other than a few quick words of condolence. “I lost my son, Randall last year. He was my greatest joy.”
She pauses as she reaches for the sugar bowl. She has never been under the illusion that her own existence has given her father any joy, but then what sort of person would she have to be to earn his respect? She places the sugar on a tray, along with the small jug of milk and the cups, and brings them to the small table between the sofas. The pair don’t spare her a word of thanks or even a brief glance.
Dr Hathaway’s hand lingers on the clasp of his case. “If I give you this, could you truly do it? Could you really–”
“Capture the angel of Death?” Roderick says. “I believe I could.”
She shudders unexpectedly. The old groundskeeper used to say a sudden chill meant someone was walking over your grave.
Dr Hathaway clicks open the clasp and takes out an aged, leather bound book. It has no title on the cover, just gold markings in square, geometric patterns. 
“The Magdalene Grimoire,” her father mutters, his eyes wide in an ominous sort of wonder. “With the spells recorded in the book, we will see our sons returned to us.”
The next night is a full moon. She stands by the door with Sykes, welcoming men and women dressed in midnight blue robes to the manor and directing them towards the door that leads to the cellar. They’re all part of Roderick’s ‘Order of Ancient Mysteries’ which as far as she can tell is a cult of fanatics who still believe in witchcraft. They come to Fawny Rig once a month, to listen to her father read from so-called ‘spell books’ as though he is a preacher.
The fanatics pull hoods over their heads and descend the narrow stone steps into the cellar with lit candles grasped in their hands. Roderick leads the way, the book Dr Hathaway gave him tucked under his arm. 
She shoots Sykes a concerned frown but he just shrugs. He’s paid to organise the household and guard Burgess’ collection of relics, not to ask questions. Questions are a dangerous game with Roderick.
She trails after them and shuts the iron lock on the door behind her.
The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.
The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.
She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession. 
“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”
His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too. 
He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”
The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
And so the ritual begins.
“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.
“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”
She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings. 
“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”
And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle. 
The room is still and she holds her breath.
The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.
The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.
He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain! I open the way! I open the gates! I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together! Come!”
A noise, like a cracking whip splits her ears. The feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.
And from the flames a body falls to the floor.
It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.
This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.
She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look away from the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed. 
The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.
“Is this… Death?” she utters.
“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says. He points to the pouch. “Get that for me.”
She stares back at her father. How he can speak so flippantly when a man has been conjured, seemingly from thin air, is beyond her. But he glares back, his dark expression only more formidable with his aged frown.
So she steps forward and begins to lower herself beside the man.
“Careful, girl!” Roderick barks, “don’t break the binding circle.”
She stops and looks down, where her skirt is inches from brushing over the markings on the floor. She shuffles back and, with trembling fingers, reaches for the pouch. It’s not hard to take, the man hardly resists, twitching his fingers to keep it in his grasp. It feels wrong, stealing from someone too weak to hold onto what is his.
She looks into the jewel-like eye. Can he see through it? Perhaps it has something to do with the scar? Did he place it there himself, or was he simply made this way?
Someone snatches the pouch from her. She looks up at her father as he undoes the strings and peers inside. “Sand,” he mutters, and stows it away inside his robes.
“And the jewel,” he says to her.
She means to protest, but finds she cannot.
She avoids the markings as she leans forwards. She presses her fingertips beside the man’s eye. His skin is cold and firm.
She swallows her guilt and the nauseous feeling in her throat, nudging her fingertips into the socket. It takes her a few attempts, but she pries the jewel free, wincing when she feels it come loose. If he feels any pain he hardly shows it. His brow furrows but his other eye remains closed, and he makes no sound.
She stands and offers the jewel to her father.
Roderick holds it to the light of one of the candles, giving a curious hum before he pockets that too.
“Move,” he mutters to her, pushing her out of his way as he stands over the man. He tugs on the black cloak and it falls into fragments that fade away, like dust on a breeze. The man’s body is bare, pale skin running over details of muscle and bone. He shivers and twitches like he has a fever, but still he does not speak, or even let out a breath.
“We’ll let our guest recover,” Roderick says, “and then we shall make our demands.
They leave him there for days. He does not move, or ask for food or water.
She doesn’t dream in the nights since they captured their ‘guest’. In fact she hardly sleeps at all. Each morning she wakes, already exhausted, having felt like she’s only closed her eyes for a few brief moments.
Then come the stories in the newspapers. They call it ‘the sleeping sickness’. People all over the country, and in fact the world, have been plagued, either to not sleep at all or never wake up.
On a cold, drizzly morning, a stranger appears at the door to the manor.
She listens and watches from the top of the stairs, crouching by the bannister to stay out of sight as a man with choppy silver hair and pale skin strides into the entrance hall, with Roderick following closely behind.
“Do I know you?” her father asks, furiously.
“No.” The stranger’s voice is low and almost seductive. “But I know all about you, Roderick Burgess, and the being trapped in your basement.”
“You mean to intimidate me?”
She sees a flash of a grin and a pair of pale purple eyes through the wooden balusters.
“I am here to help you,” the stranger says. “There are benefits to keeping one of the Targaryens in your confinement.”
“Targaryens?” her father echoes.
“Did you think Death was the only one of her kind? Death has family. Destiny, Despair, Desire…”
“And who have I got?”
“Dream,” the stranger says with a smile that bares his teeth.
A shiver runs over her shoulders. She keeps her jaw tight to stop herself from reacting to it.
Roderick scoffs. “What good is a God who governs dreams?”
The stranger's voice darkens. “There was a saying in the ancient times of humanity, that said the Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. But they are not Gods. They are more than Gods. They are Endless.”
He tells Roderick of Dream’s vestments, the pouch of sand and his sapphire, both of which he says Roderick may manipulate for his own influences. He says the binding circle will not be enough to contain their prisoner, that they must construct a sphere of glass within the circle.
Most crucially of all, he says no one must be allowed to fall asleep in Dream’s presence.
“Why are you helping me?” Roderick finally asks.
The stranger runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles to himself. “Little family dispute, I shan’t bore you with the details. But for your sake, and for mine, he must not escape.”
He offers his hand to Roderick, who returns the gesture after a moment of hesitation.
Before he heads for the door, the stranger’s eyes trail up to where she hides. Her heart leaps with a sense of dread, like she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to. 
She doesn’t trust him, not by the look or sound of him, but her father does. He follows the stranger’s instructions, ordering the construction of the glass sphere, to be welded around their prisoner as it is made. Finally, he arranges a rota of guards to keep watch over him, under strict orders to never fall asleep, lest their prisoner escape into their dreams.
The details of his face are etched into her memory, even after months, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip, the silver falling over his shoulders. If she could dream, she is sure she would dream of him. Instead she holds onto the flashes of images that appear before her waking eyes, the pale skin of his bare body against the floor, the stars in his sapphire eye, now kept locked away in her father’s study.
She knows Roderick has tried to bargain with him, and each time he returns from the cellar more furious than when he entered it. “He will not speak a word!” his voice bellows through the quiet halls of the manor. “He will not even look at me!”
When she dares to ask questions, Roderick glares at her and tightens the grip on his cane.
The stranger with silver hair was right about something, wealth and admiration have come to Roderick Burgess in droves since he acquired the Lord of Dreams. It’s something about the sapphire, or the sand, something she doesn’t understand, but their family comes across good fortunes, which is almost entirely spent on lavish parties to entertain Roderick’s ever expanding crowd of admirers.
She wakes with the sunrise, from a void and dreamless sleep. The manor is littered with empty bottles, full ashtrays, plates of half-eaten food, odd shoes and playing cards. Her father must still be asleep, which is odd. He is usually an early riser, even after a night of drinking.
A rumbling in her stomach has her heading through the entrance hall towards the kitchen, but she stops when she sees two men waiting by the door to the cellar– two of the guards her father has hired to watch the prisoner, dressed in smart suits with service revolvers just poking out of their jackets. They look restless, peering their heads round corners, shifting their weight on their legs, not wanting to step too far from the door.
“We can’t just leave,” one mutters to the other.
“I’m not staying down there with that… thing one second longer than I have to–”
“Good morning,” she calls.
They look at her in unison, and frown.
“Have you seen Noel and Mauirce?” one of the men asks. “They’re nearly half an hour late.”
The rotation of the guards. They take eight hour shifts in pairs.
Her eyes glance to the cellar door, opened only a fraction. “I could watch him until they get here,” she says, “if you want to leave.”
It doesn’t take them long to agree.
They leave through the front door. When she hears it shut, she finally lets herself reach for the handle to the cellar door. The handle is cold, untouched for hours at a time, and a little stiff. She pushes on it slowly, carefully, making as little noise as possible. 
With the cellar door closed, she shuts out the light and warmth of the morning. A silent, icy draft drifts through the narrow stairway. She follows it down, all the way to the dull, eerie light of the main chamber.
The sight takes her breath away, the glass sphere, suspended above the ground, still within the circle of markings that keep his power contained.
He sits in the centre, still bare, his knees tucked into his chest and his hair falling around his face like a veil.
As far she knows, no food or water ever passes the threshold to the cellar, and the cage is never opened. How does he breathe? How does he eat? How does he not wither away? He just sits there, stoic, his face frozen in time like a statue, like the image of a god cut from marble, to be preserved and admired.
A man like that cannot be real, and yet there he is.
“Hello,” she says. 
He does not react to her voice or the sound of her footsteps as she walks further into the chamber.
If he can even hear her. She wonders how thick the glass is, if sound can permeate it, or does he just hear the sound of his own breath echoed back to him, endlessly.
She comes to lean against one of the pillars, tracing her fingertips down the cold, rough surface of the stone.
“Are you really the Lord of dreams?” she says. 
His gaze lifts and turns to her, just enough that she can see his chin, his nose, and a single violet eye. It is not like the stranger’s, it is far more vibrate, burning with with a silent fury that makes her heart flutter and her skin feel tight.
“I have not dreamt since that night.”
She knows it isn’t just her. It’s the sleeping sickness, the war, the cloud of darkness looming over the rest of the world.
“The groundskeeper has a son, he’s only ten years old. He’s been asleep for months now. He can’t even eat. If he doesn’t wake up, he’ll die.”
He does not react, but his eye follows her as she takes a single step away from the pillar, towards the sphere.
“This is my father’s– our doing, yes?”
Her eyes dip to his chest, to the movement of his lungs underneath skin and muscle, a steady rise and fall with a deep, patient breath. 
“My father is a reasonable man, if you could give him something, anything, I am sure he would let you out.”
He tilts his head, until she can just see the point of his scar on his cheek and the edge of his empty eye socket.
He is simultaneously the most terrifying and most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. The low light only accentuates the harsh angles in his face, the ridges and lines in the muscles and tendons of his neck, torso, arms and legs.
She takes another step closer. “I would let you out, if I could,” she says quietly, like a secret.
He blinks softly, and when her eyes flicker to his lips she sees them curled into something almost like a smile, but not quite. 
“Oh you would, would you?”
Her blood runs cold at the sound of her father’s voice. She whips her head around just in time to see Roderick marching towards her with his hand reaching out. His fist grips at her hair, and when she yelps in pain he hisses at her to be quiet. He drags her back up the steps, away from the cold cellar, to the warmth and the light, to the world without dreams.
She bathes before dinner, wincing as she runs her hands over the fresh bruises that mark her skin. Most of them are red, others are set deep and already turning a greyish purple. 
Her father’s fury still rings in her ears. “Stupid girl! If he escapes he will slaughter us all!”
Leaning on her back is especially painful, it’s where her body took the brunt of his cane. She brings her knees into her chest, hunching over herself.
She hasn’t cried over her father’s cruelty in years, not since she was a small child. He’d always call her weak for it. Randall never cried when he was disciplined, because he knew, deep down, it was good for him. Perhaps she is simply not as strong as Randall was.
Her tears are hot and stinging in her eyes. She blinks and lets them fall onto her knees, to become the dew that lingers on her skin.
“Do you want to die, girl? Because it can be easily remedied!”
She doesn’t wear anything special, a white satin dress, with long, billowy sleeves, and applies some rouge to her cheeks, to make her seem more awake, more alive.
She reaches the bottom of the staircase as the clock in the entrance hall starts to chime. Five times. Marking the start of another shift rotation. 
Two men appear from the hall that leads from the cellar, vaguely nodding as they pass her.
She can see into the dining room from the stairs, an enormous table set with silver cutlery and china plates, for just two of them.
The door to her father’s study is closed, obstructing the voices within. He’s arguing with someone. 
Before she can stop herself, she’s walking towards the cellar. She tries the handle to find it unlocked. With one final look to the door to the study, she descends back into the darkness.
Two guards sit on wooden chairs by the entrance from the stairway, and immediately stand to attention as she walks into the chamber.
“Miss,” one of them calls, “you cannot be here.”
And she seems to have caught his attention too. He looks up from where he sits in the sphere, his forearm resting on his knee. His hair is pushed from his face, and his violet eye is wide, curious.
“This is my father’s house, I will go where I please,” she says, shakily, continuing until she comes face to face with the glass.
He stares at her, somewhat furious, but in a way she knows it is not meant for her.
The men behind her are muttering to each other, she doesn’t hear their words, but she hears their panic.
“It isn’t right for him to keep you here,” she says. “It isn’t right for him to think he can play with mortality. And I am as bad as he is for letting this happen.”
The tendons of his hand flex as he clenches his fist, his fingers restless as he stares at her, intently.
“If I let you out,” she whispers, “would you harm me?”
His face softens as his eye moves over her face. 
He’s studying her, she realises. She imagines him noting the curves of her cheeks and chin, the shape of her mouth, perhaps the faint teartracks and the dark circles under her eyes.
What does he make of her, the daughter of his captor, the one who pried the sapphire from his eye? Roderick could be right, he might slaughter her the moment he is free from his cage. 
“I would like to believe that you wouldn’t,” she says.
His expression gives nothing away.
Suddenly he shifts. His muscles tense as he comes to his feet and uncurls his spine to stand before her. Something about his movements are distinctly inhuman.
The guards behind her are shouting now, telling her to step away, calling for Mr Burgess. Their voices are inconsequential to her, muffled as though spoken behind a closed door. Her heart pounds in her ears. All she sees is him, the intense gaze of his eye, a wide palm reaching out and pressing against the glass.
She reaches up slowly, his eye growing wider with every inch she comes closer to touching the glass that separates them, but not quite meeting it.
His brow furrows as if to question her. Why are you hesitating? What are you afraid of?
She won’t be dragged upstairs again. She won’t be thrown to the floor with nowhere else to go. She will not suffer at the hands of Roderick Burgess any longer.
So she presses her hand to the glass.
Her skin is feverishly cold, her arms weightless. She can almost feel the shape of his palm through the glass, but not quite, like she is reaching for something she will never touch, clawing to the memory of a dream.
She can feel herself slipping into numbness, her eyes and her limbs becoming heavy. She presses her fingernails against the glass, silently pleading though she doesn’t know what for. An escape? An end? Anything.
His face is strangely gentle as he pouts his lips, hushing her, lulling her panic. She can feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing, but it does not frighten her.
The glass shatters, her knees give way. She is awake enough to know she is falling, but too far gone to stop herself.
But she does not need to.
The world around her is silent– no, a gentle breeze drifts over her skin and whispers in her ear. Sunlight beams onto one side of her face and the other rests against bare skin. She feels a weight around her waist, something propping her body upright.
She tries to steady herself but the ground shifts beneath her. The arms around her only tighten their grip when she stumbles.
Finally she lets her eyes flutter open. They are in a desert, a vast expanse of dry sand, reaching as far as the eye can see.
Her head is moving with his breath, against his chest.
She tilts her gaze up, close enough that her lips barely brush over the base of his throat.
His eye is already fixed on her, holding her firmly in his arms, pulling her into him.
Wordlessly, he releases one arm from her waist, and reaches down, keeping his eye on her face. When he brings himself back up, she looks at his closed fist, where sand slips from between his fingers. 
Her confusion must be visible on her face because he smiles softly at her, letting out a low “hmm” as he does.
She means to blink, but when she opens her eyes the world has changed again.
She lies face down against the ground of the cellar, dust and dirt pressing into her cheek, broken glass littering the floor around her.
She blinks again through the haze of sleep still clouding her vision. She makes out a figure in a long black coat with silver hair falling down his back. He stands over two bodies, lying lifeless on the ground, and stalks towards another.
Roderick is at the base of the stairs. He raises his cane and cries out as the prisoner reaches into his coat.
Her father’s voice fades into a spluttering, retching sound. Then he is silent. His body slumps to the floor with a gut-wrenching thud. When the stranger walks away, she sees her father sprawled out on the floor, blood spurting from his throat, seeping into his shirt, pooling on the floor around him.
She pushes herself up, leaning on her hands as her vision is blocked once again by a black coat. He stands over her, blood dripping from a knife he holds in his hand, his eye a brighter shade of violet than it was before.
He kneels beside her, taking her chin in his fingertips.
“Are you hurt?” he says. His voice is a hypnotic blend of soft and harsh, low and light, chilling in a way that sends a wave of warmth through her stomach.
She looks past his shoulder, where Roderick’s skin is turning from white to grey. “What did you do to my father?” she utters.
He jerks her head back to him. His expression is dark, lips upturned into a sneer.
Does he expect her to be grateful?
“My tools,” he says.
“You’re… what?”
“My tools. The sapphire and the pouch.”
The items that were stolen from him, that her father has now paid for with blood.
“Are you going to kill me too?” she says, digging her fingertips into the stone and the shards of glass beneath her.
He tilts his head and his lips twitch in a flicker of movement. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me where they are. I will not harm you.”
Three men lay dead mere feet from them, and yet she finds herself wanting to trust him.
He offers her his arm as she stands, gripping at the thick, leather sleeve. Her palms are covered in small cuts from the glass, droplets of bright red blood pearling at the edges. He takes her wrists in his hands to have a look and tuts to himself.
“Quickly,” he says, moving towards the steps, leading her along with him, past the bodies of the guards, and the body of her father.
She brings him to the study, her hands shaking, bloody and outstretched before her. The door is wide open, a stack of papers thrown carelessly to the floor.
Roderick’s safe sits in a black cabinet in the corner of the room. She uses her fingertips to open it, wincing at the pieces of glass still stuck in her skin, but she swallows down the pain.
She guesses the combination on the first try. 1895– Randall’s birth year.
There, in the centre shelf, above the Grimoire, below a stack of banknotes, is the pouch of sand and the sapphire.
He reaches for the gem first. She turns away as he fixes it back into his socket, remembering the weight of it in her palm when she took it from him. She sees him reach forward again, but not for the pouch. He takes a hold of her wrists.
With no magic words or spells, he waves a hand over her palms. For a moment she sees a glow in his sapphire eye. The pain vanishes, so does the blood, the glass and the dirt. 
She blinks a few effortless tears from her eyes. Tears for her father, tears of relief, she cannot place a cause.
Cold fingertips meet her skin once more, as the Lord of Dreams wipes her tears away, bringing her gaze to meet his.
He leans in closer, until his forehead meets hers. “Sleep,” he whispers.
She falls into him, to find herself wide awake, clinging onto him as she had done in the desert.
But they are somewhere else entirely. The sky above them is a pale yellow, like daybreak, painted with swirling grey clouds. The land here is… dead. Dead trees, barren mountains and hills, and in the distance, beyond a dried lake, is a castle of red brick, decrepit, falling into ruin.
“You see the damage that has been done to my realm?” he says. With her ear pressed against his chest, his voice is cavernous and she feels everything, the way his words drag through his throat. She feels his pain at being confined, the loss of his home and his creations.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“I do not forgive easily, that is why Roderick Burgess had to die. But you…” he pulls away from her so he might look at her properly, cupping the sides of her face and swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. “I do not need an apology from you. We are free of him now.”
“Is that what you think I wanted?” 
He hums with tight lips. “I have seen your dreams, as I see the dreams of every mortal. I see them as clearly as you perceive the waking world. It just so happened that our dreams coincided.”
She had never dreamt of her father’s death and she had certainly never imagined that she might have played a part in it. But she cannot deny the weight now lifted from her shoulders. She will never have to earn his approval, she will never have to endure him again. She is free of him.
“Go now,” he says, “I am sure you have your own business to resolve.”
He releases his hold of her and brings his hands behind his back. As he walks towards the castle the world around her starts to fade. She can smell the musk of the manor, the lingering smoke of her father’s cigars, the distinct scent of a winter evening.
“Wait!” she calls.
The ends of his coat swish around his legs as he turns back to face her. “Yes?” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile.
“I want to know your name.”
“I have had many names,” he says.
“And how would you have me know you?”
“Aemond,” he says.
She echoes his name, letting her mouth linger on the final syllable. “Will I see you again?”
He draws the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Perhaps,” he says.
When she wakes she is laid out on one of the leather sofas of her father’s study. She looks down at her hands, traces her fingertips down her face, now free of the dirt and dust. 
She wonders if she might have dreamt all of it, the beautiful man in the sphere, the glass breaking, her father’s blood on the floor…
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Her life is never the same after that. With her father dead, his estate passes to her. For the first time, her life is hers to do with as she pleases.
And yet she feels an absence, a hollow longing in her chest.
Her dreams come back to her since she set him free, and each night she dreams of him.
He only appears in brief moments, like lighting, bright and brilliant, but gone in a heartbeat, before she can truly see him. She sees the movement of a leather coat, flashes of silver, violet and sapphire blue. Sometimes she is met with darkness as a pair of lips ghosts over her neck with a contented sigh and a warm breath.
She cannot bear it.
As she lies in the empty manor house, she traces her fingers over her body, her lips, down her neck and her chest, underneath her cotton nightgown, to her navel and the pool of wanting wetness between her legs, trying to imagine they are his. 
She pictures the way his hair fell around his face, the coldness of his skin, the curve of his lips. She imagines them parting in a small sigh, the sound of his breath, the way his chest hummed as she circles over her bundle of nerves. Pleasure sparks at first but it keeps slipping from her grasp.
She circles faster, harder, searching for a spot that will finally give her the release she craves.
She feels heat and a sheen of sweat settling on the surface of her skin, her breathing hitches, her hips twitch under her touches. The pleasure heightens, then fades.
With her eyes tightly shut, she spurs herself on with thoughts of him, breathlessly chanting his name into the empty space and cold air of her bedroom.
“Aemond… Aemond…”
Something changes.
The mattress shifts beneath her and a weight presses against her body, her legs, her stomach, her chest.
A hand clasps around hers, ceasing her movements, and bringing it to rest by her side.
She laments the loss of the friction against her bud, her pleasure pulled away from her, but in its place anticipation blooms within her.
When she opens her eyes he is above her, against her, hovering his face over hers so that all she sees are his eyes, one violet, one sapphire.
“You have my attention,” he says in a soft but unsettling voice.
A thrill ripples through her body.
She whispers his name on an exhale of breath, running her fingertips over his arms, tense and toned as his props himself over her. 
But she is somewhat dazed, her senses numbed by fatigue and the echo of the pleasure she had been chasing.
“Is this real?” she utters.
Aemond leans further into her. She feels a weight between her hips and an unmistakable hardness prodding at her centre as he brings his lips to her neck, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against a sensitive spot of skin that has her body tensing and her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Does if feel real?” he whispers against her skin.
How much has he truly seen of her dreams, her desires, she wonders? Perhaps she should feel some kind of shame, but she cannot, not when she is on the precipice of something bright, beautiful and damning. She can hardly stand being on the edge of it, having him so close but not close enough.
She wraps her arms around his neck as he teases her with his lips, crosses her legs around his hips, meeting his movements as he torturously grinds his hardening cock against her cunt, dripping with arousal, twitching and clenching around nothing at the anticipation.
“Needy little thing,” he mutters, dragging his nose along her neck as he comes to kiss the hollow of her throat.
His voice sends a shockwave through her body. Her hips buck against his, determined for relief as her fingers thread through the soft strands of his hair, and tug. 
He lets out a quiet growl against her skin. A hand rests upon her thigh and trails up, bunching the hem of her nightgown to her waist and adjusting the other side. 
He sits back, watching her with the same darkness and intensity as when he was trapped inside the cage, intrigued at the least, fascinated if she is presumptive. 
The irony of being laid half bare before him and at his mercy does not escape her.
“I’ve heard you crying out for me, little mortal,” he says. 
“You said you can see my dreams,” she says, “how?”
“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he says, “in The Dreaming. I see your dreams as I see the dreams of every other being. I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world. But you…” he muses, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “You are incessant.”
She shivers and writhes under his touch, a pulsing heat settling within her.
She traces her hands over his, where they grip at her waist, along his smooth skin, the tendons and veins. His fingers are long and lithe. She knows they would feel so perfect, wrapped around her throat, stroking over her skin, pushing inside of her wet heat to coax her pleasure.
Aemond smiles to himself as though he can hear her thoughts.
He grips harder into her flesh and pulls his hips back, only to let his cock slide over her slick folds with teasingly gentle thrusts.
Every stroke pushes her closer and closer to the edge, but not enough to find release. She feels the frustrating want pulsing through her body, the coil getting tighter and tighter, her cunt clenching over nothing.
“Aemond…” she says with a breathless mewl, “please…”
“You really want it, don’t you?” Aemond growls, resting his forehead against hers. “Just feel how wet that empty little cunt is for me.”
Her eyes trail along the angles of his face, the line of his scar, the night sky in his eyes as he stares down at her, the gentle curve of his lips and how they settle into a soft expression. 
Her gaze slips further down, over his throat, his collar, his pale, bare chest, the ridges of the muscles on his abdomen, the slight dip in his waist, the trail of silver hair to his cock, long, hard and flushed with need, transfixed by the way it moves against her.
She holds her breath each time he withdraws, stifling her whines into his mouth when he only keeps teasing her.
“I want it,” she groans, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”
He lets out a contented hum as he leans down to kiss her. The movements of his mouth are slow and consuming, claiming her with lips, tongue and teeth, wetness and warmth.
She holds him close by the sides of his face. In his violet eye she sees his hunger, his rage, his lust. In his sapphire, she sees oblivion. 
And finally, he eases himself into her. 
He fucks her delicately, dragging his cock through her gently, slowly, deeply. His lips ghost over her skin, her temple, her cheek, back to her mouth with light kisses and strained but soft breaths. 
With a few deft circles over her bud she feels herself come undone around him. Her climax burns through her and she holds him closer for purchase, digging her fingertips into his skin as her resolve melts and her legs tremble around his hips.
Aemond doesn’t stop. He holds her against the mattress with a determined grip, fucking her through her peak until her pleasure settles and simmers once more.
Being kissed by him, held by him, fucked by him feels light a dream, that weightless, numb feeling of being between consciousness and sleep coursing through her limbs. It feels good, it feels deep, it feels perfect.
She cannot be sure how many climaxes he draws from her, she just feels him, his heat, his hands and his skin as he repositions her legs, guides her onto her front, brings her up to her knees, pushes her back down again, until she is a blissful, mindless mess.
He meets his own end when he has her face down on the bed, her face turned to the side against the pillow, his mouth on the underside of her jaw as he pounds into her. 
“You’re doing so well,” she hears him rasp, “you’ve been so good to me… fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
Her mind is beyond words and coherent thoughts. She utters the only thing she feels, the only thing she can think of, “Aemond… Aemond… Aemond…”
He stills his hips against her rear with a guttural moan, pressing his face against hers, squeezing her waist under his hands. He allows himself a few more shallow thrusts until he is spent. She feels his cock pulse within her, a warmth pooling, his spend dripping from her cunt once he has pulled away.
The weight dissipates from her back and for a moment she lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling her chest rise and fall against the bed, the softness of her sheets under her fingertips.
She wakes to a gentle breeze running over her skin and slipping down her spine.
She allows her eyes to flutter open and recoils at the pale sunlight beaming through the spaces in the curtains. 
She holds her breath.
She hears no sound or sign of life other than her own pulse. 
She twists herself to sit up, noting that her bedsheets are neat and the hem of her nightgown is where it should be. 
Is it possible that she dreamed it? She remembers it so vividly, but the mind has a way of playing tricks. Perhaps it was only a dream.
“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he had said. “I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world.”
How do we determine what is real? she wonders as she pulls on a robe and goes to open the curtains. The morning floods her bedroom. It brings no warmth, but it brings light and life back into the room. 
To dream is to live beyond ourselves, why should that be any less true than the world around me? 
She seats herself before her vanity, reaching for the drawer for her hairbrush.
But something catches her eye, a glint of colour against mahogany wood, a small gem catching the sunlight.
She takes it between her thumb and index finger and brings it before her eyes; a sapphire, the size of a pearl, a deep and vibrant blue. Its edges are uneven and dull, uncut, as though plucked straight from the earth. 
She turns it about between her fingers. It could be a trick of the light, but there is depth to it, a vastness within. The sapphire seems to capture the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars.
His was the same.
As the dazed state of sleep wears off, she feels the satisfied ache between her legs, the spots on her skin marked by him. She smiles to herself and holds the gem in her palm, this precious gift, this reminder, this promise from the Lord of Dreams.
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Tags (comment to be added)
Sweet Dream taglist: @solisarium @sirenangelroyal @sabrinasstar @shygardengalaxy @aemondsfavouritebastard @wintrr13 @thedamewithabook @lexwolfhale @rainyforest777
General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria
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delta-pavonis · 1 year
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OKAY. OKAY.
HEAR ME OUT.
Hellknight!Hob wearing this. Chest hair and tiddies out, full happy trail, all of it...
Of course, I think about that, and that inspires a ficlet. And then that ficlet turns dark. So... *shrug* *shoves new baby out in the world*
Rated T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time Hob sees Dream is when the latter has the audacity to enter the Morningstar's realm. He watches as the Dream King intimidates Squatterbloat into bringing him to the Palace. The demon is stupid and gullible, easily swayed, and Hob has a mind to bury his morningstar in the moron's fleshy head, but he would rather observe the visitor and his raven from the shadows.
Hob trails them, the straps of his armor expanding and morphing to cover his body with the mottled charcoals and midnights that are the palette of Hell. Squatterbloat leads the King in a circuitous route to their destination, passing a cell whose occupant not only commands the attention of the sovereign of the Dreaming, but whose pleading pains him. Curious.
He follows the pair of black figures beyond their guided tour, all the way into Lucifer's Hall, sliding unnoticed through the crack in the main doors. Hob is good at his job. He hadn't been successful at being a bandit and cutthroat in life for nothing.
Hob takes a place in the long shadows of one of the pillars and observes.
Apparently the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares is here in Hell to retrieve his helm, one of his important symbols of office. And of course it is some overly ripe idiot like Choronzon who has it. Sometimes Hob just wants to kill them all and promote new individuals to the positions of power, sometimes the house can't be cleaned, it needs to be razed and rebuilt.
But what is truly awe-inspiring is watching the battle between Dream and the Morningstar themself. The Dream King wins, although not handily. It makes the victory even more impressive. Hope. Of fucking course. Hob is quite sure that he has never seen the Lord of Hell so visibly angry in all his 600 plus years in the underworld.
Helm secured and confidence restored, the Lord of the Dreaming is proud and... well, he is incredibly beautiful. He is sharp angles in soft greys and blacks, luminous white skin draped in flowing ink, spikes of hair wafting against gravity.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Hob follows Lord Morpheus and his raven back outside. They walk slowly through the barren, twisted landscape, calculated and careful. Imperious.
Hunger ripples down Hob's spine. He wants.
The Lord stops, body going more still than death. "I am here in my official capacity as King of Dreams and Nightmares. You have followed me for long enough. Show yourself, fiend."
The Dream King's voice is so much deeper and darker than Hob expected and now it is directed at him and it goes directly to his cock. He decides to drop any pretense all at once.
Hob has no shame as he steps out from hiding, the shadow-plates sliding back and leaving him in what really amounts to a series of leather straps and a loincloth, buckled to accentuate the triangle of his torso and the strength in his chest, with sleeves from biceps to palms. The Knights of Hell need no metal protection - they shield themselves in darkness and guile - and so Lucifer Morningstar gives them intangible weapons: the ability to inspire lust and envy as much as wrath. He drops his physical weapon and holds his hands out to his sides.
"Dream King," Hob inclines his head. "I am not here to harm, nor am I here at the behest of my Lord, the Lightbringer." He meets the King's piercing blue eyes and has to grit his teeth to hold in a gasp at how sharply they cut into his breast.
That look trails from Hob's head to his toes slowly, then back up. Judging. Assessing. "So why do you dog my steps, Hellknight?"
He shrugs and takes a step forward. There is no reason for Hob to not be bold. He has long been dead. He has been a resident of Hell and served the Devil themself, has lived that fate worse than death, for almost seven centuries. He has, quite literally, nothing to lose.
So Hob nudges a the magic at his disposal into the cant of his hips, the tilt of his head, the purse of his lips. He lowers his eyelids and takes another step towards the luminous being of black and white before him. "I merely wish to look my fill before I can no longer."
"Bossss..." The raven flies a nervously tight circle above them. He is summarily ignored.
"You wish to more than look, Hellknight, for I can taste your dreams." The Lord of Nightmares snarls as he takes multiple steps to get into Hob's personal space. "You dare-"
Hob laughs loud enough to interrupt him and those ice shards widen in shock. "Oh, yes. I dare." He steps up once more and now their faces are within inches of each other. "How do you think the Morningstar trains their knights? Do you think there is anything you could do to me that would be worse than 700 years of this?"
The resonant chuckle that curls across Hob's skin should probably worry him, but he cannot muster such sense when he is watching the pupils of the Dream King's eyes bleed black outwards, eclipsing his eyes entirely, and wholly captivating Hob. "Lucifer Morningstar's sins often get in the way of their... creativity."
A pale hand shoots towards him and Hob braces for impact, for pain.
He gets nothing of the sort.
Fingers that are the coolness of a lake in summer skate with hedonistic gentleness across Hob's cheek. The palm cups Hob's jaw sweetly. Honeyed breath caresses Hobs lips before they are pressed together. Then he is being kissed with the fondness and warmth of a dear lover.
And that is when Hob realizes that he has vastly miscalculated.
Against his better judgement, Hob is lost to the tide of it. The softest touch of tongues morphs into lazy familiar licks, mapping Hob's mouth as if to memorize, immortalize.
The King of Dreams pulls away and Hob is left panting and hazy.
"I touch you, I kiss you, as I would a lover, as I would my beloved." The King whispers it like a benediction. Hob gasps at the horror that settles into the marrow of his bones. "And never will you feel it again."
And then he is gone.
Hob watches, frozen, as each stride the King takes covers miles. It is only when they have disappeared over the horizon, both Lord and Raven, that Hob realizes tears are streaming down his face.
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haley-lana · 23 days
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human!AU where Morpheus is an edgy ao3 writer, and Hob draws fanart of his fics
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doitforstamets · 1 month
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Happy Valentine's you freaks<3 (I don't know who originally had the cow hob idea. It's been making rounds. Everyone contributing is a champ.)
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roguelov · 11 months
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Crimson Stained Petals
Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?
Words Count: ~3.9k
Reader: Neutral (unspecified now, however fem leaning)
Warnings: Mostly establishing characters, minor pining, hints of bloodlust
Chapter 2 and future chapters to come!
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A advertisement in the newspaper, and a purpose.
A live-in house servant wanted. Duties required as such including cleaning and maintaining cleanliness of said home, laundry - including washing, folding, and ironing linens, occasional shopping, and menial requests asked of the owner, however cooking skills are unnecessary. Contact at -
You tucked the clipped ad into your pocket. You leaned back, and lazily glanced out the dusty window. The carriage bounced over the dirt path, kicking up dust clouds. A forest, thick with little sunlight penetrating through the tall treetops, surrounded the carriage on both sides. One turn, one stray off the path, and you would be lost. A poor soul taken by the creatures and ghosts of the woods. A soul whose name would drift off into oblivion in a day.
You bent forward, trying to sneak another glance at the manor - at your new home.
“Please, follow me this way.”
You were led by a woman, with round glasses, and wore a well tailored suit. She held her head high, yet her eyes shone with an unbelievable kindness. Walking in, you tried to sneak a peek over the expansive, and expensive, home: the chandler in the center of the main foyer - a globe of dripping starlight, the crown molding etched with swirling elaborate designs, two staircases carved from a rich warm wood curved upward to the second floor, the wall were mostly in dark tones - each room a designated color from greens, reds, blacks to creams - and some covered in wallpaper mimicking a lace design, however the showstopper was the stained glass window above the front door which reached to the top of the two story home - it depicted a tree in a sea of roses, dare you say a version of Eden.
The home was draped in dark, ominous tones, but where light shone it shone brightly cutting back the dread.
If only the sunlight was out now. It was setting, casting shadows across the floors and onto the walls. And with the dense forest, night arrived much faster.
The woman directed you to a small, parlor room to the right of the entrance. Cozy, would be how you would describe the room. A place to talk with guests. There were two sets of couches and a few chairs with a table. Cream tones covered the room, breathing fresh life compared to the diming home. The fireplace, however, was unlit and the curtains were drawn closed for the night leaving a chill. It was a give and take.
“Please, sit.” The woman pointed to any of the seating options.
You nodded, and chose the couch directly across from the other, with the table adding a division. The woman smiled, and sat across from you.
“I’m not sure if I properly introduced myself initially, so apologies for such odd behavior. You may call me Lucienne,” the woman, Lucienne, spoke.
“Lucienne,” you greeted with a small bow of your head. “It is wonderful to now be formally acquainted. You may call me (Y/N).”
You were pleased to skip past such stiff formalities of sir, ma’am, mister, and misses.
Lucienne smiled, softly reaching her eyes. “Wonderful. Now, I am the one who will be conducting this interview for the job.”
You cocked your head, your confusion written plainly on your face. “The lord will not be joining us?”
“No, unfortunately, he is a busy man and has asked for me to do this in his stead. Is this okay?”
“Oh, yes, please continue.”
Lucienne nodded. “Okay, then let us start. I will begin with a simple question: why have you decided to apply?”
You fiddled with your hands, suddenly very nervous. “I’m new in town, and have been staying at the local inn. This job provides an opportunity for myself, and I cannot deny the pay piqued my interest.”
“Do you have any experience in housework?”
“Not professionally, however, I have cared after my uncle for years and have done most of the housework when living with him.” You looked out of the parlor back to the main grandiose foyer. “I will admit the size of the manor is quite daunting and intimidating, but I like a challenge. It will keep my mind and hands busy.”
Lucienne smiled, pleased with your response. However, her smile soon flickered. She straightened her posture, and cleared her throat. “Allow me to be less formal for a quick moment, I have a more personal question to ask. It’s more for my own curiosities.”
Your eyes locked back with hers. “Please, ask.”
She paused, struggling to find the correct wording. “Have you heard of the rumors surrounding the manor? Do … do they not frighten you?”
Ah.
“I have, but only a few. And I am not afraid, I am here for work and pay. As long as I can do what I can, and not stir any trouble for the lord then I will be content.”
Lucienne nodded, her smile returned. “I do believe we have found a new member of our manor.”
Your heart soared.
“However, allow me to discuss with my lord and to see if any other applicants apply. Please, you will hear from us by the end of the week.”
“Wonderful.”
The carriage pulled around the massive stone fountain - a simple three tier tower in which water gently spilled over the edges. Water lilies floated amongst the top as they were rock side to side by the small turbulence. You hopped out, taking in the manor once again.
A truly haunting, gothic visage.
It was built out of mute grey stones and harsh angles. Tall spires extended from the roof to the heavens. The stained glass window over the front door shone almost calling out to you like an exotic Venus flytrap - a beautiful front hiding a dark truth. All the tall thin windows had their curtains drawn forbidding anyone from peeking in.
Yet, life bloomed around it.
Willows trees hugged the manor, and its limbs danced in the wind beckoning all to seek shelter under them. Bushes with various flowers blossomed in front of the manor along the building’s edges. Around the side, a greenhouse stood proudly with countless vegetables and beside it, curving around the whole back side and unable to fully see from the front, was a maze formed out of lush full rose bushes. The brightest, and darkest, red roses you ever seen - the red of rising passions, the red of forbidden attractions, the red of blood spilled under the moonlight.
It truly was a serene place. A place of mystery and wonder.
“Your luggage.” You spun around, finding the coachman holding your two carryon bags. Your entire life packed neatly. He asked, “Do you -“
“Oh, no, I’ve got it. Thank you.” You took your bags.
The coachman stared, and squinted with a hint of uncertainty. His eyes flickered over your shoulder to the manor. “Okay,” he mumbled, then left.
He spun on his heel and hopped back into the carriage. With a flick of the reins, the horse whined and trotted off. May God have mercy on your soul, I will be praying for you. It all lingered on the man’s tongue, but didn’t speak aloud. For if he did, he believed whatever sick imaginations his twisted mind thought of would come to fruition. He was from an older generation, one who still believed in devils and creatures of the woods, one who warned all children of the dangers of leaving the house under the full moon. Heading down the dusty road, and once away from the manor’s sight, he finally mumbled a prayer for you.
You approached the manor - your new home for the unseeable future - with the setting sun tucked behind the foliage. You peered over your shoulder, watching as the carriage slipped out of sight. It was happening. It truly was happening.
Inhaling, you steadied yourself.
A new chapter.
You exhaled, calmly your anxious heart. You reached out, and pressed the ornate doorbell. A soft chime buzzed. Your anxiety, however, could not be quelled. You tightened your grip on your bags. Your body betrayed you, unable to settle, and your mind started to spiral into insanity.
You needed this job.
You needed to do this.
You have dealt with much worse, and yet you also wanted to tuck your tail and run. No. You vehemently shook away those fears. You will stay. You will do your job. You will start this new part of your life.
The door unlocked, and swung open with a high pitched creak. Your breath hitched, momentarily startled. You expected to see the familiar face of Lucienne, instead you were greeted with the lord of the manor.
Lord Morpheus.
He was a man of stature and wealth. He held himself with the utmost dignity with perfect posture - chin leveled with the floor, back straight, and his shoulders pushed back and downward. His chiseled features were carved out of marble, his pale skin had no blemishes. His short, cropped black hair swept back. And not a single hair was out of place, or dared to be. His eyes locked with yours. Instantly, you were small, you were a child again. A spike of fear crackled over your skin. His eyes were calm, a steady practiced calm. Yet, as he studied you, a twinkle shone in them - if it was a twinkle of interest, you could not say.
He certainly was attractive, exceptionally so.
His clothes neatly pressed. He draped himself in night’s cape: black. His midnight black vest was finely embroidered with a somewhat floral design - adding a softness to him. Two rows of silver buttons lined his vest, along with a silver chain tucked into a pocket. If it was attached to a watch or simply for design, you couldn’t tell by a quick scan. Under the vest, his dress shirt - a pale grey like a storm cloud rolling in - puffed out at the sleeves and tapered at the wrists. The cuff links were small, yet resembled starlight. With each catch of the light, they dazzled like a miniature universe - it must be an expensive jewel embedded into them. The collar, stiff and high, was wrapped in a silk black puff tie, smoothed nicely against his chest. A perfectly crafted ruby brooch was pinned to his tie. Scanning downward, his trousers were also black and tailored, and his shoes were polished as if dirt never touched them.
However, his eyes captivated you. It was the only other color on him: a pale, sparkling blue. They seemed to glow in the setting sunlight. They were swirling galaxies, they were diamonds forged in promises, they were oceans holding all its mysteries and mythology.
He seemed to be from another time, like an ode to the renaissance.
With your little time spent in town, you had still learned quite a lot about Lord Morpheus. He was a recluse who rarely left his manor, his crafted realm. And soon, whispers of witchcraft followed. Some of the townspeople still believed in folklore, and if anyone ventured off the beaten path they would be whisked away. Taken then killed. Rumors of animals gone missing, along with young adults, did little to ease their worries. Yet with no evidence, speculation stirred. So, why not point fingers at the man who hardly made an appearance with the town?
However, although he never made an appearance, his influence rippled throughout. His constant donations to the local school and businesses rebutted all such weary thoughts. He owned a local bookshop in town which was adored by most - with the expectation of those who believed the devil lurked between those shelves. He was also the CEO and founder of an editing and publishing company. He let stories into the world, and he encouraged creativity. He was the man to uplift the underdogs, but such kindness had a price. His editing, his notes on stories sent in, were cutting. Such harsh critiques were enough to discourage a few despite the reasonable payment for his services.
He was truly a man of absolute power.
“I’m sorry,” you bowed your head. “I was expecting Lucienne.”
“She is away most of the day to care for the bookshop,” he answered easily.
His voice was so surprisingly low that it rattled you to your core. He spoke at an even pace, lulling you. A voice truly perfect for telling any and all stories.
“Of course,” you said as if you knew such information.
“You must be our newest member, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” He continued.
“I am.”
“Lord Morpheus.” His outreached hand hovered between you. Quickly, you dropped your bag, and took up his hand. A chill ran through you at the contact of his skin. He bent forward, and kissed your hand. “Pleasure, and I hope your stay here is enjoyed.”
“Thank you for allowing me into your home,” you said with a nervous smile.
Morpheus eyed you for a moment, but moved on. He dropped your hand, and motioned into the manor. “Allow me to show you to your room.”
“Thank you.”
You moved to grab your bags, however, Morpheus was faster - like a viper striking. He had snatched up your bags, carrying them for you. “As the lord of this home, I do believe it falls under my duty to attend to the newest member of our quaint home.”
You wanted to retrieve your bags. “Please, sir, you don’t have to -“
He started to walk inside, ignoring your pleas. “You are under my roof and care, this is nothing.”
He was a nobility. He shouldn’t cave to such droll formalities, but he did. And oddly, your heart raced with your things in his care. You didn’t think he would sneak through your belongings, or withhold them. But, they were your livelihood.
He held your life in his hands.
However, you pushed down such feelings and strolled after him. “Thank you for showing such kindness.”
“Please, it is the least I can do.”
He briskly walked to the back, to the opened double doors in the middle of the two staircases. Walking past, your keen eye did note a door under one of the staircases - a query for another time. The double doors led to a massive dining hall with a long table to fit a dozen or more people. A spacious room had an assortment of plants in the corners and a beautiful rose bouquet in the center of the table. He turned, heading to the back right wing of the manor. Before, following after him, you also caught a vast room up ahead with an abundance of plants decorating the space - a sunroom. The first few stars of the night twinkled through the high arched glass.
“To the left is the kitchen where you are welcome to any food,” Morpheus explained as he walked. “As stated in the job description, you do not have to cook for me, but you must feed yourself. Lucienne usually takes care of the groceries on her way back from the bookshop, so if there is anything special you want just relay that to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved through a swinging door, revealing a hallway veering left or right. “This is mainly the guest quarters, and where you will be staying. Just to inform you, Lucienne does sleep upstairs to help me with the bookshop and company business, so it will be you alone on this side of the manor.”
You nodded, understanding.
He peered over his shoulder to you. “Which room do you want?”
“I am given a choice?” You were slightly taken back.
“You are. This is your home now, and I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
“Oh, well.” You looked left and right. Windows on either side of the hall revealed what you may see each morning. To the right, it showed the stone structure of the manor with bushes lined along its edges. Most of the light - sunlight or moonlight - would be blocked out. Looking left, you saw the first twinkles of starlight, and a massive forest. Rose hedges ahead glittered under the changing light. You gestured to the door on the far left. “The left one, I suppose.”
Morgues nodded, and turned left. “If you are ever dissatisfied with it at any point, please switch rooms if you so wish.”
He opened the door, quite easily despite the bags in his hands. He stepped back, allowing the space and opportunity to enter first. You thanked him and brushed past him.
It was a quaint room, and bigger than any other you had. It had a rather large bed for just a simple guest room, with plush pillows and soft sheets. There was a wardrobe and drawer for your things, a desk tucked into the corner to write letters or for any other reasons, and a window looking out the back to the forest and - now properly seeing it for the first time - the maze. Walking in, you were in awe at how cozy it all felt. Your fingers skimmed over all the furniture and strolled to the other door on the opposite side. Opening it, it was your own personal bathroom with everything you needed, and more importantly with a massive soaking tub.
“I hope it is to your liking.” You spun around. Morpheus had gently placed your things on the bed, and stayed there for a moment. He glanced around, “I apologize for any dust.”
You waved him off. “I have seen worse, and this is perfect. Thank you.”
He nodded, “Good.”
Silence blanketed over like a bated breath. Morpheus turned his head staring out the window to the flourishing rose maze. He cleared his throat, stepping away from your bed. “I should also inform you of another who lives on the premises: Mervyn. He lives in a small cabin closer to the forest. He tends to the greenhouse and the gardens, mostly a gardener, but if something does break inside the manor he has some knowledge on maintenance.”
You nodded. “Okay, maybe I will introduce myself tomorrow -“
“I would strongly suggest against doing so.”
You tilted your head as your brows furrowed. “Can I ask why?”
Morpheus sighed, bringing his arms behind his back. “He is weary of strangers, and enjoys his solitude. To respect his boundaries, I would advise against it. You may see him out and about, but do leave him in peace.”
“Oh, okay, I understand.” You peered out the window to all the lush flowers and to the willow tree brushing its branches against the window. “But, if he ever needs any assistance please inform him. I will be happy to aid him in any way I can.”
Morpheus eyed you. Not with animosity, but curiosity. You were certainly an oddity, and a breath of fresh air in this purgatory. “I will inform Mervyn if the need arises, but he is protective over his work so I do not expect he will accept it.”
“Understandable.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“Oh, uh,” you thought for a quick moment, “I suppose hearing about Mervyn, it does raise one question: is there anyone else who lives here that I should know about?”
Yes. “No, it is only the three of us.”
You nodded.
“Excellent, and if that is all.” He turned around to leave.
You stepped forward. “Oh, Lord Morpheus, one more thing.”
“Yes?” He glanced over his shoulder.
“And what of my duties for tomorrow?” You asked. “Where shall I start? And is there anything specific you want done?”
You had his attention, you figured it was better to ask now instead of tomorrow.
He shook his head. “No, in fact, I say explore the manor. Familiarize yourself with it. If you wish to start cleaning you may do say, you are welcome to go into any room. But, I will suggest staying out of Lucienne’s room. She likes her privacy as well.”
You blinked, surprised by his response. But, you mumbled an ‘okay’.
He stepped once, but his foot hovered in the air. He paused, considering your question again. What other duties could he give you, besides cleaning this rotting corpse of a home. “I may call for some tea tomorrow afternoon,” he spoke softly.
You perked up, “Of course.”
He walked away. “Goodnight, and I wish you the best of dreams.”
A smile graced your lips for the first time. “Thank you. And you as well sir, goodnight.”
Morpheus snuck a glance, seeing your smile. He turned away and swiftly walked out, shutting the door behind him.
Taking a breath of peace, you began to unpack your things. You folded and hung up clothes from your bags. Toiletries and other personal items now found new homes. However, one bag remained. Reaching the bottom of almost empty luggage, you pulled out a small handbag. You breathed a sigh of relief and clutched it to your chest, holding it tightly.
This.
This was what frightened you when Morpheus carried your things. It was a small somewhat insignificant bag - only slightly bigger than your forearm, but stuffed to the brim. This worn down bag, with stitches and patches, carried your whole world.
Your two luggage bags carried your life - materialistic needs, and necessities. This bag carried your world - precious memories, irreplaceable items, and a promise. You closed your eyes, and said a small thanks that it was still in your possession. Taking this brief moment, you tucked the bag in the drawer under all your clothes completely hidden, and away from any prying eyes.
Now, you could rest.
You changed into your night clothes, did your nightly routine, then settled into your new bed. Laying down, you stared up at the ceiling.
You were truly here.
You were truly about to change your life.
You knew it.
And while you began to settle into bed, the lord battled with himself.
After leaving your room, he tried to keep a calm exterior. However, as soon as he walked away, he braced himself against the doorway between the main foyer and dining room. He breathed erratically, gulping for air. No. Not for air, for thirst. His throat clenched, begging for a drink, begging to be satiated by you. He gritted his teeth as sweat broke out over his forehead and back of his neck. He clawed at his tie, yanking it down. His clothes were too tight, suddenly very constricting.
“This may be more difficult than anticipated,” he mumbled to himself.
The smell of you consumed him. He was a dying man in a desert, and you his only salvation. And he truly hadn’t had a proper drink in a while.
He pushed himself off the frame, and scrambled over to the door under the grand staircase. Pressing his forehead against the door, thankfully for the coolness, he reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a plain, silver key. The key slipped through his fingers, but the chain easily caught it. He fumbled with the key for a second, constantly dropping it. He swore under his breath.
An outsider looking in would be alarmed.
This wasn’t a man any longer.
No, it was a frantic feral animal, this was a monster in disguise. His fingernails grew in length, sharpening to a point. A perfect weapon to slice into any flesh. His canines also elongated, easy to sink into veins and drink until his feast was complete. His hauntingly blue eyes glowed, eerily so. It was unnatural, and also hypnotizing.
He nearly wanted to rip the door off its hinges. An easy feat. But, he composed himself. Breathing in slowly, the disguise was pulled over once more - the wolf was a sheep again. He took up the key, unlocked the door and darted inside, locking it behind him.
The manor was silent again.
And when Lucienne returned, she would know where to find her lord.
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windsweptinred · 10 months
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Metamorphosis
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"Where there is Time, there must be Night."
"Order, Chaos"
"Life, Unlife"
"Father, Mother"
"And found your Night, long ago, did you not?"
'Did I hear you say you have no intention of dying?'
'Err, yeah, yeah that's right.'
"Find him."
"Name him."
"Claim him."
The whole story here on Tumblr,
Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7
Or, if you'd prefer to read along on A03
(A fantabulously huge thank you everyone who liked, commented and reblogged both here and on A03. Credit for the phenomenonal artwork above goes to the incredibly talented @kat-wick @ambarden @ibrithir-was-here and @mashumaru. Go check out their accounts and flood them with love!)
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tunafishprincess · 2 years
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Death and Rebirth
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Just had this idea on my mind and wanted to draw it out.
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justletmereadmyfic · 1 year
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Sandman/Beauty and the Beast AU, ACTIVATE! (ironically, this is not the one I am actively writing right now).
Dream as the beast, because really, who else is most likely to piss off an enchantress by being an asshole. But the other inhabitants of the castle are all turned into animals as well, rather than furniture (specifically, they're turned into birds — our supporting trio being, of course, Jessamy, Matthew, and Lucienne).
And for the role of Belle... Rose! (Wait, let me explain).
Jed is the one initially captured by Dream after getting lost in the woods and seeking refuge in the castle.
Dream's curse doesn't specify romantic love, and the raven trio think "Kids are adorable, and they love animals! And they haven't been taught by society to hate yet! We can definitely make this work!"
But Rose, absolutely frantic, finds him and exchanges herself for him, same as Belle does for her father in the Disney film.
So now they're stuck with Rose, which... uh... doesn't work nearly as well. But she's already suspicious AF, and probably would not react well if they ask her to let Jed stay, too.
Cue our Gaston... Hob! Yes, handsome, roguish, braggart, flirt, skilled with weaponry, it all checks out.
Hob is excited at the opportunity to go kill a beast and rescue a beautiful woman. The opportunity of a lifetime, and should ensure his name lives on forever!
Unfortunately, he discovers while the beast is definitely a beast in appearance, he's not at all in—okay, he's got a beastly personality too, but he's also very cultured! A thinking creature! Not an animal at all!
Anyway, Hob parks himself in the castle and says, we'll handle this as civilized men! I will not leave here until I secure the fair Lady Rose's freedom, no matter how long it takes! So, let's open negotiations!
And over the following weeks, Hob and Dream fall in love, breaking the curse.
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illumi-nati-png · 1 year
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The infamous Musician AU 🥰🖤 only some sketches tho
@deliriiuumm and I’s AU that idk how much she would want me to spoil but for context what would happen if indie rock star Dream meets Hob, frontman of the glam rock band Desire is also part of 👁
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doctorhouse5343 · 4 months
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After being allowed to go home early, Hob went off to his boyfriend's place to surprise him, a bouquet of peonies in hand. He got in, the door wasn't locked, and went inside. "Honey, I'm back!" He called out, no answer. With a shrug, he decided to go and wait for him. Fidgeting soon proved not helpful so he decided to sit near the bookshelf to read. When he pulled out a book however, he was suddenly tossed through some sort of slide. It ended abruptly, with him landing on his rear. The journalist sighed, getting up before realizing that he was in the basement,basement that served as Dr. Endlesstein's lab. Since he was curious, he decided to look around a bit.
On a shelf were jars with things in them; a few contained either an eyeball or a whole hand, the walls covered in sketches of the human skeleton. On the desk were pages full of the doctor's handwriting, ramblings on how to bring the dead back with science. All of it was making Hob uneasy but what really made his blood run cold was the sight of two creatures. They were human enough but something was off, most of the limbs didn't match the proportions of the body and one of them seemed to have rodent teeth; probably from a possum. The journalist was so stunned that he didn't even notice Morpheus' presence "Hob, I can explain..It's not what you think", the doctor said, trying to put him at ease "Let's sit down and talk, okay?". But Hob was having none of it, he silenced him with just one look before running out of the basement and out of the house. Dr. Endlesstein soon sat, alone in his lab, wondering if it was the end of their love story
Bonus (aka little funny thing); Morpheus : *pulling out a book from the bookshelf to read* *immediately gets swept back into his lab*
Morpheus : *sighs* I really need to remember to put a less intriguing book as the trigger, it's the third time this week that this has happen, all because I keep forgetting
he never replaced the book
also, many thanks to the mysterious person rebloging my drabbles, you are a gem ^-^
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sandman hope!hob au Pandora's box
okay so we know DC follows Greek/roman mythology to a point right? so Pandora's box must exist, and we all know the story right? hope gets trapped in the box after Pandora opens it.
part 2
wordcount: 1551
hope!hob is trapped within this box for several millennia all alone, not even taunted by captors, just isolated in the dark and quiet watching as new awful things are born within the box. I imagine the box is opened by someone just before the age of heroes begins. a scorned lover pouring all the new horrid things directly into their cheating, abusive partner and catching a very small light before it enters their gaping chest cavity. they hold hope there, magically closing the wound and sealing their lover into an endless void, outside of time’s realm condemning them to live forever in never ending pain. they do all this with one hand, carefully holding hope, they take his small form outside and whisper into their hand
“do something worthwhile with this freedom, any god out there knows we need you” the words are washy and weak “and if you cannot find the strength to do it all yourself, bless people to inspire you within the minds of the rest of us”
they open their hand and hob’s little light form takes off to see just how the world got on without him. not well obviously, a world with no hope is desolate and cold. hope goes back to his realm to call on his sister death to catch him up, and she tells him she knows just the person to do just that.
Morpheus has been around a long time. he was born after Pandora opened the box and the only word the people of his village called him was hopeless. this was not a surprise of course, hope was not where he was supposed to be, but the rest of the children still seemed to want to live. Morpheus however made it seem like a chore. he went through the motions as they came and did nothing more or less. he was a thing of beauty though, his demeanor didn’t stop suitors from pursuing him. they all did their best but none of them ever seemed to interest him. he even caught the eye of a king who gifted him a ruby necklace saying it popped against his pale skin and dark hair. Morpheus did not particularly want to keep it but his parents had insisted he keep it and marry the king anyway.
and so he did.
he was not particularly fond of his husband, but he didn’t dislike him. the marriage and his husband were just another motion. the grounds of his husband's kastro were vast and stretched for miles and ended in cliffs that Morpheus found himself standing before at the end of the many walks he took in a day. one particular evening, when the winds were stronger that usual, he found himself lingering at the cliff’s edge a bit longer and a bit closer than he normally would, and so had someone else
“are you going to jump?”
to say the voice had startled him would be incorrect, it had simply shifted his focus. the woman who the voice belonged to was dressed in a fine ebony cloth and a very simple necklace with a strange symbol he could not place, and her skin was just as pale as his, if someone had seen them together they might’ve thought they were siblings, still Morpheus did not especially care who she was or what she was doing here but answered her nonetheless
“no, but would it really matter if i did?”
“what does it matter? you know, most people have some sort of emotion towards the prospect of dying.”
“i suppose they do, don’t they? i don’t see why though, it’s going to happen whether they want it to or not”
“they probably see the beauty, or in some cases pain, that life has to offer” Morpheus tilted his head and thought for a moment before looking back at the woman
“perhaps life has nothing to offer me, nothing of value anyway” he said starting his way back to the kastro past the woman dressed in black. he had already gotten past her as she cocked her head and called back to him
“you know how you said it happens whether one wants it to or not?” he stopped and turned back to her
“yes, what of it?”
“it’s not going to happen to you”
“what?” she turned to face him once more
“you aren’t going to die, whether you want to or not. you are going to watch as life progresses and evolves into something you, at this moment, could never even fathom.” she beamed, before he could question her further one of the servants called his name, it was late and the king wanted him back in the kastro, he called back saying he’d be in soon, but when he turned to face her, she was gone.
now, hundreds of thousands of years later, as he stands in the entrance to his home, standing in the living room, the woman is before him once more for the second time. her clothes match the days casual fashion just as they had before, all black and very simple with the same necklace. the man next to her, however, is wearing clothes that fit with the first outfit he has at the very bottom of a trunk in his attic. a long pale yellow tunic with white underneath with traditional sandals. his hair reaches just above his shoulders and his head seems to have a faint gold glow around it. he's looking around at the shelves of books, movies and various musical mediums with awe before moving on to the trinkets and sculptures scattered around.
"I don't believe I introduced myself the last time we met" she pipes up drawing Morpheus's attention away from the man
"you did not." he confirms as he sets his bag down and hangs his coat "you also left quite suddenly" he adds as he takes off his shoes
"yes I did" she laughs "I'm here to rectify one of those things, I am death of the endless and this," she pauses to pull the man behind her to her side "is my brother, hope" the man smiles "and I have a favor to ask of you"
morpheus tilts his head "a favor, why would i do you a favor?"
"its not really for me, its for him" she says pushing him forward a bit
"he doesn't have to do anything for me if he doesn't want to" he says to her before turning to Morpheus "you really don't, I can figure it out by myself, sister I can figure it out on my own this really isn't necessary" his motions are slightly sporadic
"figure what out?" he asks walking to the kitchen thinking about what type of drink to get for his guests.
"you don't have to worry about it, it-"
"my brother hasn't been able to reach this realm for quite awhile, he needs someone to catch him up on what he's missed" death interrupts with a smile "and I thought who better than someone whos been around the longest?" she asks as she follows him to the kitchen
Morpheus ponders this for a moment 'what he's missed?' he pops his head out of the kitchen to take another look at hope 'based on his clothes he's probably never had hot chocolate' he thinks as he goes back in to start gathering the various types of chocolate from his pantry and put some milk on the stove.
"if I were to help him. what would I have to do? just give him the internet, could he just absorb the information?" he questions as he cuts up a chocolate bar.
"internet? what's an internet?" hope asks panicked "can it catch me? is it magic?"
"no hope, no, nononononono, it cant catch you" she reassures him "its like destiny's book but, um, well its hard to explain but its not a net, it cant catch you" she puts her hands on his shoulders and quietly says "no one is going to catch you again I promise. I wont let them"
'catch him again? where was he?' he thinks as he stops cutting 'who caught him?'
"okay no internet"
"no internet"
"i guess, i could just, i dont know, tell him stories?" morpheus suggests pouring the chocolate into the milk and stirring
"stories sound nice, i'd like to hear stories." hope says in a small voice
"you're gonna need some new clothes though," he says pouring the hot chocolate in a cup "tunics aren't exactly in style anymore. here I think you'll like this" he says handing it to hope, watching his reaction as his face lights up. like actually lights up. well not his face per say, but the light around his head.
"this is delightful! what is it?" hope beams (literally) looking into his cup
"you may not have been around but you still live within their souls, if ever so slightly. they are never truly free of you, hope" death says leaning over the counter. "anyway. hope, when Morpheus lights this candle it means he's ready to tell you a story. okay?" he nods "alright lets get you bac to your realm" "okay :)" and with that they're gone.
"..."
"I didn't even really agree" Morpheus says, holding the candle.
n e ways i hope the four people who see this and also read through all of it like it! thank you for reading!
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humanpurposes · 7 months
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Sweet Dream, Teaser
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The Sandman AU // Main Masterlist
Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character
Warnings: 18+, gore (very briefly), more to be added including death, smut
Words: 800
A/n: Thought I'd treat you guys to a quick teaser. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the actual fic :)
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The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.
The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.
She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession. 
“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”
His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too. 
He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”
The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
And so the ritual begins.
“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.
“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”
She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings. 
“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”
And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle. 
The room is still and she holds her breath.
The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.
The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.
She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.
He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain. I open the way. I open the gates. I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together. Come!”
Suddenly the feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.
And from the flames a body falls to the floor.
It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.
This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.
She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look beyond the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed. 
The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.
“Is this… Death?” she utters.
“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says.
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Tags (comment to be added)
Sweet Dream taglist: @solisarium
General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria
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delta-pavonis · 4 months
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FINISHED: You create me against your lips Chapter 21
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banner artwork by the superlative @teejaystumbles
Read on AO3: Chapter 21 my body / writes into your flesh / the poem / you make of me.
Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || In Progress Hellknight!Hob, Hellknight Hob, Alternate Universe, Dream is a little dark (as a treat), D/s, dom/sub, dom!Dream, sub!Hob, BDSM, anal sex, anal fingering, oral sex, deep throating, come swallowing, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bathing, bath sex, biting, bite kink, painplay, breathplay, impact play, bloodplay, restraint, rimming, face fucking, subspace, breeding kink, discussion of mpreg, aftercare, eldritch Dream, Nightmare, Nightmare/Hob/Dream, spoilers for Seasons of Mists, spoilers for Brief Lives, spoilers for The Song of Orpheus, happy ending (eventually), a totally different take on Hob as a knight, additional warnings in author’s notes for each chapter
Hob cannot help the joyful laugh that rolls out of him as he reaches up to frame Dream’s face in his hands. “Eager, love?” It feels so good to be beneath Dream like this again that Hob is almost dizzy with it, and he offers no resistance when Dream dives in to reacquaint their tongues. "Mmm," Dream smiles a little as he pulls back, "No," he starts kissing along the bearded jawline, enjoying every inch as he makes his way to the spot beneath Hob's ear, to the soft patch of skin that will make Hob shiver so sweetly if he applies his teeth to it. "Eager. Would be. Never. Making it." Each phrase is savored and articulated slowly, separated by a kiss, drawing the sentence out. "To. The bed."
Read on AO3: Chapter 21 my body / writes into your flesh / the poem / you make of me.
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q-ueen-potato · 4 months
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Dreams of Christmas
Resume: Hob Gadling was a human, until he wasn't. He always wanted to be something, to be remembered and to have something offer and too see and to live...and now he has all of it.
Or
Hob's heart take the best of him and he becomes more
Or
Hob is Santa Claus
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fauxraven · 1 year
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Can I request that me and Morpheus are husband and wife and I have telekinesis and I protect him from all the people who are after him but i over use them and I pass out but release a energy blast but he catches me in his arms and places me in his bed until I wake up and I finally reveal who I am and he is very sweet about it
Brave New Dream
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pairing: Dream of the Endless x Powerful fem!reader
summary: a thousand lifetimes of protecting the man you love and a billion reasons to love you more.
warnings: slight spoilers for the comics.
word count: 3k+
dedicated to this lovely Anon who, I hope will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Not sure this is what you had in mind but I took a bit of a creative license ;)
Enter the Dream, weary traveller
The universe began in death.
The world as humans know it was created billions and billions and trillions of years ago.
And for the longest time, there was nothing there.
Not even darkness.
Nothing but a pile of rocks that I'd crafted from my tears, long before I even knew about tears; long before I even knew about sadness.
Long before I knew about anything at all.
Unfortunately, the concept of sadness is one I’ve become familiar with. It's a concept I completely owe to myself, lest there be a Depression of the Endless I would be unaware of.
Naturally, sadness has never only really been just sadness.
And love has never really been just love.
Sadness and love; the only things I've ever taken for granted. I drag them behind me, like one of my husband's long billowing coats, on my road to eternity.
And eternity, is unbearable.
Eternity is impervious to evolution.
Eternity is impervious to the big D.
Eternity has never been anything else but existence, uninterrupted.
Nothing but me, sitting cross-legged on a giant rock floating in endless nothingness, watching stars bursting into life.
Billions and billions of lives.
Billions and billions of deaths.
Aeons fly by.
Atoms arrange, break down, rearrange, reshape, remodel in an infinite scheme for life.
And of this new process, burst life, everlasting.
The Creator came first.
He shaped worlds and realities of incomparable beauty, worlds that I could admire from my rock in a secluded part of this new universe. For him, I was grateful.
The Designer came second.
She'd always been here, in a way, just like me, but the Elden Books only gave her life meaning when her disembodied eyes had found those of her equal. For her, I was devastated.
Mother Night and Father Time were a logic addition to this bubbling garden of life, looking back.
Night and Time.
The essence of youth, ebbing away, crumbling to dust with each passing day; the everlasting presence of darkness itself, allowing thought to mankind, spawning fear and wonder in equal parts.
Night and Time. They never even knew I was there.
Night and Time and their children.
Seven Endless, seven beings, just as lost as I. Seven creatures of obedience and rules and death and destiny and dream and destruction and despair and desire and delight and—
Love.
So much love.
At first sight really; at first heartbeat.
But they were meant for inspiration, these beings, nothing else. Never anything else.
Whereas I was meant to watch.
From the darkest yet untrodden corner of a burgeoning universe, in a form that was not my own and thoughts that never sparred with anyone nor anything else. For them, I became everything that I am today.
But the beginning is important to this story; perhaps twice as important as the end. As it was from this very rock of oblivion, that I witnessed the purest thing yet.
The universe began with a dream.
A tiny dream, the first dream ever dreamt.
A fickle thing born of love.
A firstborn daughter, dreaming of her father, long since dead in battle. Fuzzy around the edges, the dream had no tangible contender, nor substance.
The father had no face to look at, no eyes to stare into nor voice to listen to; he was only as strong as all the men in her village, but the babe had no use for a face, only for a feeling.
She saw herself as older, fuller, running into his arms and laughing—laughing is not quite the opposite of crying, you see, but it is a merciful lie, one we tell ourselves to preserve our hearts, if only for a moment.
And the newly-born Dream Lord, barely more than a babe himself, was the sole puppeteer of this blooming hope.
And he was beautiful.
I loved him instantly for it.
I loved him for hope, I loved him for dreams, I loved him for love, even. I loved him for everything he could do and everything he could be. I loved him because when I thought of him I didn't feel quite as alone anymore.
I loved him because he gave me the courage to leave my rock and set sail for the stars. He'd never admit it, but Earth had always been his favourite of all worlds. And so it became mine.
Every waking moment, I sought to protect him. To love him from afar, rather than to not love him at all.
These days, it proved harder a task than usual.
The turn of the Twentieth century had offered me many things.
Semi-security, as a traveller, a woman, an impossible being. I'd been burnt as a witch, drowned as a witch, scalped as a witch, wheeled as a fae and hanged as a thief. I did not enact revenge. All of these were true, to some extent.
I'd established various homes across the aeons, found others like me, befriended some, hated nearly all of them. Always loved him.
Human beings are selfish by nature, but they have a knack to come about it that is just so ethereally beautiful and insightful and... magnificent. Just so uniquely human.
My love was just as self-absorbed. My friends themselves had some choice words about my aeon-long pining.
But of those friends, I particularly resented one.
Madame Klare was nothing particularly graceful nor spiteful. Only horrifyingly, tediously decent.
She knew of my shameful feelings, naturally. I reckon her exact words were A worthless waste of cosmic time, or some such lines.
The jab wasn't strictly intended to my feelings but rather to the unconventional way I chose to deal with them.
You see, I wholeheartedly believe that ire and hate are driving emotions, but there comes a time when the well of hate has run dry, when ire is no longer burning away in a pit but dying out in a shallow pool.
But love... love is infinite.
And when you love something as much as I love Morpheus, you protect it. It's the most... natural thing in the worlds—all and every of them worlds.
And time and time again, I protected him.
It began like a drawl; a slow, steady choreography that I practised alone from behind a one-way mirror—the Selena Gomez to his Drew Seeley.
He was a dark dot on a map, followed by a burst of light—life and love, everlasting.
My entire lives, I kept running after him.
After billions and billions of years, I was awarded a holiday by my dear friend.
A centennial thing—every three hundred years, she would kick my ass to the curb. I would leave for a century; go off-world, love myself, love the stars, come back and resume my duties to my one true love.
It was also during this century of lenience that my love was stolen from me.
I encountered him again some time later in a park in England, feeding the pigeons, of all things. I found him changed, in an odd, less tormented way.
The sun was showing her glowing head, burning brightly on an amateur soccer game. A fevered child ran past Dream of the Endless—he glanced at it with disdain and I stifled a laugh.
Needless to say, in this picturesque landscape, the broody dream Lord stood out like a sore thumb.
Something in him called out to something buried in me. For the first time, I decided to break my own rules.
He didn’t notice when I sat beside him.
‘’I love pigeons. They only ever need you for food but at least they’re very straightforward little bastards about it.’’
He gave me a sideway glance—sapphire blue and decaying hopes—and flicked another crumb to the surrounding flock.
There have been many an occasion, many a cause for his sadness over the years.
Sadness swallowed him whole every time.
Which is why I’d promised myself that I would never be the source of it.
Sadness was a default setting for both of us, but his was an infinite whirlpool, a tiny part of an endless ocean, extinguishing all hope of light it came across. And for a very long time, I thought this was all there was. But his sadness was so much deeper, so much stranger and so much more beautiful than that. Than mine. He was it. He was my everything.
My hand found his knee; only for a second, only for a tiny speck of comfort magic to weave through the dark jeans, through muscle, make-believe tissue and bone and there—the heart of an endless.
He looked at me then. At the smile I unknowingly offered him and the warm touch of my hand on his knee. And panic set in. Like every time for the past ten billion years, I scrammed.
⚭ ⚭ ⚭
The universe was playing a cruel joke on me.
The cruelest yet.
I simply kept seeing him everywhere, without even looking.
I wasn’t being strictly honest with myself either.
I knew about Hob and the New Inn; I had known about everything for a very long time.
I just didn’t expect he would see me right away.
I didn’t expect Hob to point a finger to the standoffish girl who’d been stalking his old friend for hours. I didn’t expect the man himself to look over. I didn’t expect my legs to be such traitors in the nick of time.
‘’Hi,’’ Keep it cool. Keep it together. Oh, god. He’s looking at me. He’s really looking at me and seeing me and I’m standing there, not doing anything. ‘’Can I… buy you a drink?’’
I’d done many stupid things over time. Hurt a lot, broke my own heart, shadowed him dutifully.
Loved him with everything that I had.
Of that, I said nothing.
I spoke of awkward things, shallow things, lively things, shiny things and funny things.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say much at all. He just kept staring and listening and I was entirely convinced that by the end of the evening I would scramble off back to my rock.
But I did not.
And he asked to see me again.
From there, something blossomed. Something beautiful and unlikely and ultimately based on lies.
But life went on.
And we… we fell into this lie so easily—he, digging deeper into the clumsy courtship and I, burying myself in a grave made of my own rules. It looked an awful lot like the underside of a cosmic rock.
He believed me human; of all things.
He saw my messy flat, and my boho friends and he showed me his realm and his love and it all absolutely terrified me.
I began by lying to my boyfriend.
Before long, I kept lying to my husband.
In all fairness, I’d denied him, the first time.
And despite his sadness and anguish, and my own self-loathing, I kept denying him until I just couldn’t anymore.
The wedding itself was all very briskly. Unexpected.
Right after I’d said no for the fifth time and just before I’d said yes for the first.
Something blue, something stolen, an immortal best man and his sister Death, officiating a small barely-put-together ceremony in the middle of an English park. It was perfect. It was everything.
I tried to convince myself that I was happy. I tried to live in a lie. I chose to kiss my husband every day, to chase his touch, to listen to the voice in me that needed him nearly as much as he needed me.
But every story, if you keep it going long enough, ends in death.
Death, is no beautiful lady on a languid trek through Brighton.
Death, is a burst of light, with a twist.
It’s a blonde woman who’s just lost a son and will take it out on anyone.
On the love of all my lives.
My physical form is used to these instincts by now. I should know better. I really, really should know better.
My mind follows, leaping from the confines of a rock at the borders of a forgotten universe.
I stand between a broken woman and a tattered dream—and I burst. I let it engulf all parts of me in every world that I’ve ever known. My power reacts on its own, fuelled by instincts and a dreary endless life without him.
This life remembers aeons of solitude.
It remembers bright skies and a dream of love. It remembers an otherworldly burst of light and a bewildered dream and a fuzzy mother.
This death remembers an endless embrace of sinew and a bed of starlight and wobbling bookshelves coming into focus.
‘’Boss? I think she’s coming to.’’
‘’My dream? Can you hear me?’’
A fuzzy dream of love and a talking raven.
A throbbing head and a loving hand in the small of my back, helping me up.
‘’What’s happening?’’ No. Wrong question entirely. ‘’What happened?’’
‘’It seems you’ve used up your… energy. Trying to help me.’’
‘’He means that you totally kicked ass today.’’
The raven isn’t an unusual sight. The bite in my husband’s eyes however…
It’s not that I haven’t seen this gaze before; this cool, unperturbed, assessing gaze. It’s just that I have never seen it in relation to me. This is death, for the first time in fifty billion years.
‘’Leave us.’’
The master’s orders are seldom discussed, and I am eternally grateful to Matthew for his slight twitch and dubious glance but I reassure him with a small smile. The bird flies away through a window; a window I recognise. Dream’s window. Our window in our little cosmic alcove, here, in his kingdom.
‘’It’s nice to see you still consider me enough to spare a pillow for my head,’’ I observe, stretching on the silk sheets and throwing him a coy smile. ‘’But whatever should we do with this insanely large bed?’’
‘’You lied to me.’’
The bite is cutting, gritted through a carefully crafted mask of indifference. It hurts more than the fleeting ghost touch of brushing against him in a busy street. More than shoving sixteenth century robbers with a wandering eye for rubies against a wall of a tavern with the force of my mind. Far more than nudging an engagement ring towards the man I’ve always loved, painfully aware that he would be gifting it to another woman.
‘’I’m not human, Morpheus.’’
The words are painful; they clog in my throat, and I wish to take them back immediately. A teardrop glistens in his endless eyes. I want to reach up and collect it before it falls.
‘’What, then?’’
‘’I don’t know. Not exactly. I never have. I just know that I’m old. Older than you.’’
He chuckles bitterly. ‘’That is impossible.’’
‘’Nothing is impossible. You taught me that.’’
‘’It’s all been a lie, has it not?’’
‘’Yes.’’ I’m desperate. Pathetic. His. ‘’You have to understand, I just wanted to protect you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, baby.’’
‘’You lie.’’
‘’I live for you.’’ I put his hand over the last beating organ I have left and kiss his tears away. ‘’I burn for you. I die for you.’’
‘’You’ve killed for me, my love. And you almost did die as well.’’
‘’I’ll do it again. Tomorrow if you’re free. I might have to sneak out, though. My husband gets awfully jealous; in this very hot very red-flaggy way.’’
He gives a snort—even that is dignified—and takes my face into his hands. ‘’You’ve overwhelmed yourself.’’
‘’Happens once every millennia. Only with you though. Always with you.’’
And then I read it. The confusion in his face. Dream’s always been an open book to me; an open books of books, Destiny’s own damned tome of forged tales. Dream is my fate, I know that now.
‘’When? When did you start…’’
Complete and unabridged truth. In sickness and in health. For now and until forever ends.
‘’Do you remember Alianora?’’
He remembers. He remembers everything.
‘’She needed a bit of a nudge to cross over. Took care of those lousy gods though, did she not?’’
I did it. It’s done. Out in the multiverse.
I’ve just admitted to indirectly saving his life and his realm. I’ve just admitted to unknowingly third wheeling in one of his earliest relationships. I’ve just admitted to loving him, for eons past.
‘’That was you? You helped her then?’’
‘’And a few more times across time. Once or twice or a billion. You, mister, are a magnet for trouble.’’
‘’You should have shown yourself.’’
‘’I had no wish to trample on your happiness. I wanted you happy, even if it wasn’t with me. That’s what love is, isn’t it?’’
‘’I love you.’’ He says after a drop. His admission has my own eyes watering. ‘’I think I loved you even when I didn’t know you.’’
‘’I don’t,’’ I sob into his jaw. ‘’I hate myself. I hate myself for not being there, for not being by your side when you were imprisoned.’’
‘’Do not fret. I was released and then—I met you.’’
He’s lost his eloquence somewhere in this mess of tears and snot that we share, and the kisses I keep peppering along his jaw and the thousand truths I haven’t told him yet. But I purposely pause to tell him this one.
‘’That wasn’t easy, you know.’’
He pauses as well to look me in the eyes properly.
‘’A real hurdle. There were guards everywhere and I can’t reach that far on my own. I just had to make it look like an accident—a misplaced swipe of a tired wheel. But it worked. It set you free, and I am so glad that it did, because then I wouldn’t have had these glorious years with you. I peaked, I really did.’’
He stands frozen for a moment.
My dream king, prince of stories who’s just been told an entirely new one that he doesn’t understand.
I stare deeply into those starlight eyes only to find that I can read him no longer. It frightens me beyond compare.
‘’Please, say something.’’
He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he brushes my temple with a soft thumb. The moment drags on with the sweetest touch before I catch his fallen tear with my trembling lips. Against those, he whispers shakily.
‘’Can I… buy you a drink, Dream Queen?’’
A/N: Some soft, out-of-character Dream, but who’s complaining?
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