Tulips and Forget-me-not's

__________________

The step stool gives you an extra boost. There's a large bowl on the very top shelf that you need so you can Lena can bake cookies. You grab it, but lean too far back. Your heart drops as you brace for impact, but a pair of arms catch you instead.

"Holy crap," you murmur, looking at your savior.

Pope tsks and shakes your head, "You need to be more careful." He helps you stand up right as you hand Lena the mixing bowl.

You give him a sheepish smile, "I know, but you're also always there to catch me, right?"

He silently rolls his eyes and watches as you and Lena start gathering the rest of the ingredients to bake.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He says things here and there, answers a question or two when Lena asks.

"Okay, now we need to get a whisk-oh! Thanks, babe!" Pope is already holding out a whisk to you that he grabbed as you were reading the instructions aloud. You kiss his cheek in appreciation and hand the whisk to Lena.

He comes up behind you, hugging you from behind and resting his head against yours as you watch his niece mix the cookie ingredients all together.

_____________________

You'd just dried yourself off after a shower. You're standing at the bathroom sink, drying out your hair when Pope appears in the threshold. He leans against the wall, watching you. You catch his eyes in the reflection and softly smile at him. You go back to getting ready for bed.

After setting the hair dryer down, you go to grab your brush, but you see Pope standing behind you already, brush in hand. You stand there as he brushes through your hair, careful not to hurt you in anyway.

Once he's done, he sets the brush down and kisses your head. He goes back to being a silent observer.

You grab your skincare and start your routine. You feel his eyes completely focused on you the entire time. You don't feel unsettled. You feel seen, appreciated, loved, and protected.

______________________

"Does he do that all the time?" Your friend, Ella, asks, nodding to Pope who's sitting at the bar counter, watching you.

You glance at him over your shoulder and then turn back to Ella, "He's protective of me."

"It's creepy."

You roll your eyes, having explained this to several people beforehand, "It's how he shows he cares. Besides, he's out DD if we get too fucked up."

"That's what Ubers are for."

You scoff, "Why pay for a ride when Andrew can drive us for free?"

"Okay, but he's been staring at you nonstop," her eyes glance back at Pope in a disgusted way, "He's not controlling or anything, is he?" she looks at you seriously, silently asking a question you've gotten before.

You sigh, "I'm fine. I promise. Andrew's not like that. He just shows his love and care differently than others. It took me some time to understand it too, but he treats me so much better than anyone has."

Ella slowly nods, "Alright, but if he hurts you in anyway-"

You chuckle, "I know, girl. I'll let you know."

_____________________

Pope brought you to The Drop so he can discuss some things with his brothers. You're sitting at the counter, drinking a soda, and scrolling through your phone when a man decides to take up residence right next to you.

You sigh and say, "Not interested," without looking up from your phone.

The man scoffs, "Not even gonna let me say 'hi' or nothing?"

"Nope," you don't give the man any satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you continue drinking your soda and scrolling through your phone.

The man fully faces you, "I can treat you real good."

"I'm taken."

"And where's your guy right now, huh?"

"Right here," you hear Pope speak behind you and you smile into your straw. You completely turn to face Pope, "Everything good?"

His eyes soften when he looks at you, "Yeah. Go start the car," he hands his car keys to you.

You close your hands around his, "I'm fine. Let's go." You see him hesitating but immediately nods. You guide him out of the bar and he's following you, but not before sending a deadly glare back to the man who was bothering you.

_______________________

You're sitting in the sand, back pressed against an eroding wall, alone. You just needed some fresh air and sunshine after a rough few days. You listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the sound of children screaming with laughter, seagulls flying above head.

You hear a jingling of keys paired with the sounds of heavy boots approaching. A shadow looms over you, but you know who it is. You look up and see Pope staring down at you. He's giving you a questioning gaze.

"I'm okay. Just needed to think."

He nods and sits on the wall, right behind you. You lean against his legs, his hands resting on your shoulders.

But Morpheus remained cautious.

The Endless watched you like you were a flame in a dry forest. Dream and Destruction trailed you constantly, one or both of them always nearby. Death appeared now and then too, calm and kind and silently prepared for the worst.

Still, you felt safe.

Watched, yes. Hovered over, absolutely.

But safe.

And it helped that Dream had become even more absurdly obsessed with your pregnant form over the past few weeks. Which was saying something, because his awe had been intense from the beginning.

Now, though?

Now it was worship. Overprotective worship.

He called your body sacred. Spoke to your belly as if it held the key to the cosmos. Touched you like you were carved from stardust and breath. He watched you walk like the act itself might unmake him.

It was reverent. Beautiful. Deeply emotional.

And—if you were being honest—a little ridiculous.

And now—

You were sitting at the small vanity in your bedchambers, trying very hard not to cry for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your makeup was done. Your dress was perfect. You were very pregnant. And in just over an hour, you would be married.

The castle stood veiled in impossible beauty, its spires crowned in moonlight and illusion, its halls humming with power and song. Endless night kissed the edges of an eternal dawn, and somewhere in the skies above, galaxies moved slower—watching, perhaps, or simply pausing in reverence.

Every path in the palace gardens bloomed with wild things. Dream had asked the Dreaming to reflect your soul, and so it had: flowers from every continent, constellations stitched into hedgerows, vines curling into poems in languages no longer spoken. The river nearby whispered lullabies. The breeze carried hints of your perfume.

And still, you paced.

Your belly curved beneath the ivory silk of your wedding dress, warm and heavy and sacred. The child kicked occasionally—stirring, reminding you that today was more than ceremony. Today you became his wife. The King of Dreams. And this child, not-yet-born, would bear witness to that vow from within the sanctuary of your body.

You paused near the mirror. A painting of starlight and pearls looked back at you.

Your hands trembled.

Then, a knock came. Gentle. Familiar.

Lucienne.

You turned, rising carefully from the chair as the door opened.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, heart stuttering.

“No,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong. But… there is someone here to see you.”

You blinked. “What? Who?”

Lucienne stepped aside.

And the world cracked open.

Because there, standing in the threshold, looking like every memory you’d ever clung to and every hope you’d long since buried—was your mother.

Radiant in deep green robes threaded with faint sigils of stardust and earth. Her hair was swept back in soft waves. Her eyes were glassy, wide, locked onto yours with such ferocity it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You didn’t move at first.

Couldn’t.

“…How?” you whispered, the question strangled in your throat. “How is this possible?”

Lucienne gave a small, fond smile. “You might want to ask your husband to be.”

Your knees nearly gave out. You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears already spilling over.

Your mother stepped forward then—eyes shining, voice shaking. “Sweetheart…”

You surged into her arms with a sob, clinging to her like a child, like no time had passed at all.

She held you just as tightly, her hand cradling the back of your head, her other wrapped around your belly.

“Oh,” she whispered, as if feeling the life inside you. “Oh my brave girl.”

You broke. Fully. Beautifully. Wracking sobs, tears soaking into her shoulder. She held you through all of it, gently swaying you as if to anchor you in the moment.

Lucienne stepped quietly back, giving you space. But before she turned, she cleared her throat softly.

“She can only stay until sundown,” she said gently. “After that… the Fates would be very displeased.”

You looked at her through your tears and nodded. “Thank you,” you managed. “Thank you for—”

Lucienne gave a small bow. “It wasn’t me you should thank. But he wanted this for you. He said a queen should not walk without her mother on her wedding day.”

Then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

And you turned back into your mother’s embrace, shaking with wonder, still disbelieving.

But it was real. She was here.

You pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her. Your fingertips brushed her cheek, as though expecting the illusion to dissolve at your touch. But her skin was warm beneath your palm. Familiar. Real.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” you whispered, voice cracking.

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “So did I.”

You touched the faint glow at her throat—the pendant resting just above her heart, pulsing faintly with warmth and something deeper. Recognition surged through you like a jolt of memory and magic.

It was a dreamstone.

Your breath caught. “He gave you that.”

She nodded, lifting her fingers to touch it gently. “Lucienne said it was his way of anchoring me here. Just for today. Just long enough.”

A wry smile tugged at her lips, full of disbelief and lingering awe.

“But I must say that I was surprised when he appeared—” she exhaled a soft laugh “—with a wedding invitation.”

You blinked, stunned. “He… what?”

“I was unsure whose wedding I was attending,” she continued lightly, her voice warm with irony, “seeing how I am, well… dead. And cannot leave the otherworld.”

Your throat tightened.

“But apparently,” she said, eyes twinkling now, “the Dream King’s wedding is important enough for the ruler of that realm to make an exception.”

You laughed through the rising swell of tears, pressing a hand to your mouth. “He brought you an invitation?”

“Rolled parchment. Black wax seal. Very formal.” She raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, I thought he might be there to collect me for some ancient reckoning. But no. Just a wedding.”

You let out a watery breath. “Only him.”

“Only him,” she echoed softly, gaze turning tender again. “And only for you it seems.”

She reached forward and took your hands, her expression softening as she looked at you—at the gown, the glow, the swell of your belly beneath it all.

“I don’t think he’ll ever let you feel alone again,” she whispered.

You shook your head, eyes full, voice catching. “He hasn’t. Not once.”

You watched her fingers as she adjusted the veil, smoothing the silk where it draped over your shoulders, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind your ear with a familiar gentleness. Her presence felt like home—like something lost and found again in the same breath.

And still… there was something you needed to ask.

You swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”

She stilled for a moment, then nodded, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Of course.”

You hesitated—because the question was raw, and deeper than it sounded.

“Was I… enough?” you asked. “For you. As a daughter.”

She turned to face you fully, her eyes shining, mouth parting in silent disbelief. “Oh, sweetheart—”

“No, I just…” You tried to laugh, but it wobbled. “I’ve always wondered. You were so powerful. So brave. And I was just—me. Quiet. Small. I always felt like I was supposed to be more. Do more. Be something… else.”

Her hands came up to cradle your face—both of them, warm and steady, trembling only slightly. “You were everything, my love. Everything I ever hoped for. You don’t need to be more than yourself. You are more.”

You blinked hard, trying not to cry again.

“I worried,” you whispered. “Even now. Carrying this child… marrying someone like him… I don’t always feel like I belong in any of it.”

Her hands tightened slightly on your cheeks, grounding you with the weight of her gaze.

“You do belong,” she said, with a quiet conviction that silenced every shadow inside you. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’ve done everything right. But because love doesn’t require you to be anything more than what you are.”

You opened your mouth, but the words got stuck behind the rising knot in your throat.

“You carry life,” she continued softly. “Not just in your body—but in your choices. In your heart. In how fiercely you love, how deeply you feel. That is power. Not loud, not destructive—but enduring. Steady. Yours.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and she caught it with her thumb.

“I used to lie awake and wonder who you would become,” she whispered. “What kind of woman would grow from that soft, curious girl who used to ask about stars and pretend to fight dragons with kitchen spoons.”

You let out a choked laugh. “I still do, sometimes.”

“Well,” she said, brushing your hair back again, tucking one last strand into place, “I’d say you’ve turned out just fine…”

She paused, and her smile turned wistful.

“…but it is time now.”

***

Your breath caught.

You glanced toward the window. The sky of the Dreaming was shifting—threads of silver curling into rose gold, light beginning to gather at the edge of the horizon. It wasn’t sunrise. Not exactly. But something like it. A ceremonial dawning. A moment the Dreaming itself had been holding its breath for.

You turned back to her.

Your voice came quieter than you meant it to. “Will you walk me down the aisle?”

She looked at you—truly looked—and in her eyes was that same fierce, protective love she’d always carried for you, whether you were a child with scraped knees or a woman about to marry a king.

“Of course,” she said, the answer immediate, unwavering. “I already spoke with your father about it. And he agreed.”

You blinked, stunned. “He did?”

She nodded, reaching to adjust your veil one last time. “He understood. This moment… it belongs to us.”

You took her hand slowly, your fingers curling around hers. “Thank you.”

“No,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

There was a knock at the door. Delirium’s voice—soft this time, for once—floated through on the other side. “They’re ready…”

You looked at your mother one last time, heart wild and full and breaking in the best way.

She gave your hand a squeeze. “Come, my love. Let’s go.”

***

The doors opened.

And the Dreaming opened with them.

You stepped into light that wasn’t sunlight but shimmered like memory—warm and pale and endless, pouring in from the floating arches of the Starlight Amphitheatre. The sky stretched above like a living canvas, deep violet stitched with soft silver stars, and beneath your feet, a woven path of moonstone and dreamglass curved ahead toward the altar.

Your mother held your hand.

The music was like nothing you had ever heard. Not harp, not flute, not string—but the kind of sound that only existed in dreams. A chorus of longing. Of love. Of hope made tangible.

And they were all there.

The Endless.

Ancient gods and mortal friends.

Creatures too strange for language, and beings so powerful they bowed their heads in reverence as you passed.

Tatiana, Queen of the Faeries, stood tall and resplendent among her shimmering court, her expression unreadable but respectful. Adina sat at the edge of the front row, wide-eyed, her hands clutched together in breathless wonder.  Beside her, another mortal you had never met. A man with a smile on his face.

Matthew was near the altar, nervously preening in his ridiculous little tuxedo collar, carrying a velvet pouch in his beak. He spotted you and made a soft cooing sound that might have been affection or sheer terror.

Your gaze lifted—

And there he was.

Dream.

Waiting at the end of the aisle, framed by impossible light. His coat was black as night, embroidered subtly in stardust, silver threads coiling across his collar like constellations. His expression was unreadable to most—but you knew it. Knew him.

He was undone.

And when his eyes met yours, you felt the Dreaming pause. As if the realm itself was witnessing something sacred.

You felt your child shift inside you—calm and still, as though even they were watching.

Each step forward echoed through your bones. You weren’t sure if you were trembling or if the world around you was—but your mother’s arm was steady, and that steadied you too.

Halfway down the aisle, you felt it: the dreamstone at your heart pulsing in time with the one she wore. Anchoring her to you. One heartbeat. One shared breath. One borrowed miracle.

When you reached the altar, she turned to you and brushed your veil back, just enough to kiss your cheek.

“You are luminous,” she whispered. “Go to him.”

You nodded, unable to speak.

Then you turned—facing your future, your love, your king.

And Dream stepped forward.

No words yet.

Just the two of you, standing together beneath a sky that had waited eternity for this moment.

Lucienne stepped into place between you—solemn and composed, dressed in ceremonial robes that shimmered with runes only the Dreaming could read.

She smiled gently. “Shall we begin?”

And the world held its breath.

***

Lucienne stood before you, tall and composed, her robes ink-dark and etched with ancient lettering that shimmered softly, like starlight caught in motion. She carried a leather-bound tome—no ordinary book, but one drawn from the Library itself. It glowed faintly with threads of silver and dream-gold, its pages fluttering once as if sensing the enormity of what was to be spoken.

Her gaze moved over the gathered crowd—across beings of myth and memory, gods and monsters, mortals and spirits. When she looked at you, her expression softened, warm with something deeply personal. Then she turned her attention to Morpheus.

And for the first time in the realm’s history, she smiled at him.

“Before the stars first sang, before Time began his long walk forward, there were stories,” she said, her voice rich and low, carrying across the open air like a binding spell. “And in the hearts of those stories, there was always longing. Always the shape of something not yet known. A yearning.”

You could feel it around you—the Dreaming responding. The air thickened. The sky pulsed faintly. Even the light grew warmer.

Lucienne turned the page.

“Today, in this place shaped by imagination and held together by will, we gather to witness not an ending, but a convergence. Not a fantasy, but a vow.”

She glanced between you and Dream again, her voice softening.

“Morpheus, Dream of the Endless and King of Dreams. And you…” Her eyes met yours. “Mortal-born, flame-hearted, bearer of impossible life—you who came to the Dreaming not by destiny, but by fracture, and stayed not by force, but by choice…”

You felt your throat tighten.

Lucienne’s tone became ceremonial once more. “You stand here now, together, between realms. Between breath and shadow. Between what has been and what is yet to be. To speak vows not only to each other, but into the very fabric of the Dreaming. Into its bones. Into its stars.”

Dream hadn’t taken his eyes off you. Not for a second.

Lucienne extended her hands, and two threads of silver light rose from the book—soft, coiling, weightless.

“These are your vows,” she said. “Not written by fate, nor dictated by law. They are yours alone. Speak them now, and let this realm bear witness.”

She stepped back.

And the amphitheatre fell silent.

Even the sky waited.

***

Dream stepped forward.

His fingers found yours immediately—delicate at first, then firmer, anchoring. As if the moment might drift away unless he held it. Held you.

He raised your joined hands between you, cradling them gently in his own.

“I have been many things,” he began, his voice low and rich, like night air over water. “King. Captive. Maker. Ruin.”

“I have shaped dreams for eons. I have whispered in the minds of sleeping gods, guided mortals through their fears, held the architecture of imagination in the palm of my hand. I have known longing. I have known silence. I have known loss so vast it hollowed me.”

His thumbs traced slow, reverent circles against your knuckles.

“But you…” He looked at you as though the word itself were too small to hold what he meant. “You stepped into my realm with no title. No command. You did not ask for my crown. You asked for me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I did not know it was possible,” he said softly, “for something not forged in dream to become the center of it. But you did. You became that.”

The tears welled fast, your throat tightening with each word.

“I do not vow perfection. I am not mortal. But I have learned through you what it means to try.”

His hands lifted yours a little higher, as if offering them to the stars themselves.

“I vow to choose you,” he said, his hands lifting yours just slightly. “In shadow and storm. In silence and song. Even when the path leads… into the waking world—”

He paused, and something almost like a smile ghosted across his lips.

“—and into absurd retail stores with terrible lighting and endless rows of self-assembly furniture.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, shaky with emotion. His eyes softened at the sound.

But then his voice grew quiet once more, the humour melting into something raw and earnest.

“I will protect the child you carry. Not because of what they might one day mean. But because they are ours. Because they are a piece of you.”

Your eyes were overflowing now.

“I vow to love them. Fiercely. Gently. Completely. As I love you.”

A long breath.

Then, with his voice low and sure and devastating:

“You are not made of dreams. But you have become mine. My queen…”

He leaned in ever so slightly, his thumbs brushing softly over your trembling hands.

“…and my heart.”

The words weren’t grand. They weren’t adorned in poetic flourish. They were simple. Honest. A truth carved from shadow and silence and eternity itself.

“My beloved,” he said finally. “In all things. For all time.”

And though the Dreaming was silent, you could feel it reacting—like the realm itself exhaled in relief. As if its lord, at last, had come home.

Silence bloomed between you.

Not awkward. Not expectant.

Sacred.

***

You stood there, hands still cradled in his, your veil trembling with every breath. The tears streamed down your face freely now—not from fear, not from nerves, but from the unbearable gentleness in his vow. From the way he had seen you. Chosen you. Promised you everything in the only way he knew how—by offering himself.

The Dreaming waited.

Not one sound came from the audience. Not even Matthew.

And Dream… he didn’t urge you forward. He only watched. Held you. Let you feel everything.

You tried to speak once. Failed. Took a breath.

He didn’t flinch.

You closed your eyes, trembling, then opened them again—and this time, you found your voice.

Raw. Quiet. But clear.

“I don’t have the right words,” you began, your voice shaking, raw with emotion. “Not like you.”

You laughed once—soft, broken. “I didn’t prepare anything. I thought I would just… know. That something would come to me. But standing here, in front of you, I realise nothing I say will ever be enough.”

Dream said nothing, but his hands held yours just a little tighter, as if to tell you he understood. As if to say: speak anyway.

So you did.

“I didn’t expect you. I wasn’t looking for someone like you. And I didn’t think someone like you could ever choose someone like me.”

You blinked through tears, your voice barely more than a breath.

“But you did.”

A pause.

“And somehow, that choice… changed everything.”

You steadied yourself. Let your thumb brush over the side of his hand. Felt the weight of him—not just his presence, but the constancy. The depth. The impossible softness hidden beneath all the shadow.

“I vow to love you not like a queen, or a dream, or some immortal legend. But as a woman. As myself. I vow to stand beside you in the quiet moments and the impossible ones. In joy, in grief, in absurd mortal stores with confusing checkout systems and too much noise.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“I vow to remind you that even kings need rest. That even gods deserve to laugh.”

Your throat tightened, but you pushed through.

“I vow to love you not for your power, or your realm, or the wonder you command—but for the man who speaks softly to ravens. Who carries guilt like shadow, but still learns how to hope. Who knelt before me and meant it.”

The tears were back now, falling freely.

“I vow to love our child as I love you—completely, without condition. Not because of what they are, but because they exist. Because they are a piece of you… and a piece of me.”

You looked up at him through the blur.

“I didn’t know stories like this were allowed to be mine.”

You laughed softly, broken and beautiful.

“But you gave it to me anyway. You—who have seen everything, and still chose me.”

You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand.

“So I vow to stay. To choose you. Not because I am bound to you—but because I want to be.”

You leaned in slightly, forehead nearly touching his.

“I love you. Not like a legend. Not like a dream. But as a woman who woke up one day and realized she had found the impossible—and was brave enough to keep it.”

***

Lucienne stepped forward, her voice gentle, breaking the stillness like the soft turning of a page.

“The rings,” she said.

Matthew, who had somehow remained unusually quiet throughout the ceremony, gave a little squawk and fluttered forward from his perch. The velvet pouch hung from his beak, swinging as he landed with uncharacteristic grace on a nearby column.

Lucienne plucked the pouch from him with care. “Thank you, Matthew.”

He ruffled his feathers.

She opened the pouch and produced two rings—one dark as midnight with flecks of starlight caught inside, and the other pale and luminous, etched with impossibly fine script that shimmered only when touched by light.

You hadn’t seen them before.

But the moment your eyes fell on them, you knew—Dream had shaped them himself. Forged not from metal, but from pieces of his realm. From himself.

Lucienne held them out in her gloved hands.

Dream took yours first.

Slowly, deliberately, he slipped the band onto your finger—his thumb brushing your knuckle, a grounding touch that said I am here. I am yours.

The ring settled like it had always belonged there. Warm. Weightless.

Then you took his hand.

Your fingers trembled, but not with doubt.

You slid the second ring onto his finger, and as you did, you felt something in the Dreaming shift—softly, reverently. Like a chord being struck across the heart of the realm.

Lucienne smiled, just a little.

“Then let it be known,” she said, her voice clear and echoing through starlight and silence alike, “that this bond has been witnessed. By dream and waking. By blood and time. By those who endure and those who pass.”

She looked at the two of you—not as a librarian, not as a servant—but as someone who had watched her king lose and find himself again in the shape of you.

“I now pronounce you bound. Not by duty. Not by power. But by choice.”

The light in the sky swelled, and Lucienne bowed her head.

“Husband and wife,” she said.

And the Dreaming exhaled.

***

He didn’t move at first.

Neither did you.

You stood in the hush that followed Lucienne’s words, the Dreaming holding its breath around you, as if even the stars dared not intrude.

Husband.

Wife.

The words hung in the air, delicate and thunderous all at once.

And then he stepped closer.

Slowly. Deliberately. One hand came up to cup your cheek, the other cradling the curve of your belly with aching tenderness—as if he were holding both your heart and your future all at once.

He looked at you like you were the only thing he had ever truly wanted. Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you.

“You are mine,” he whispered, not in possession, but in awe. “And I… am yours.”

And then he kissed you.

Not as a king.

Not as a god.

But as a man in love.

His lips were soft, reverent—pulling a sigh from your chest, drawing you forward until you forgot there were eyes watching, until the sky above you seemed to dim in deference.

The Dreaming shimmered around you. Light bled across the horizon. Stars arced quietly above your heads, and somewhere nearby, Matthew made a soft, emotional noise that might have been a sniffle.

When you finally pulled back, your hands still in his, your foreheads touching, there was no doubt left in you. No fear. No fracture.

Just this.

Just him.

And the rest of eternity unfolding quietly beneath your feet.

The moment your lips parted, the Dreaming moved.

Light flared gently through the arches of the amphitheatre—not blinding, not sharp. More like a sunrise made of breath. A soft, golden wave that rippled across the realm as though the Dreaming itself were rejoicing. As though it knew its king had just become whole.

Then the silence broke.

Not with thunder.

But with joy.

Delirium let out a whooping cheer, immediately tossing handfuls of shimmering butterflies into the air. Some of them turned into confetti mid-flight. Others exploded into bubbles. One may have whispered something inappropriate in Latin.

Desire clapped once, slow and theatrical. “Well. That wasn’t a disaster,” they purred, reclining in their chair with feline amusement. “Miracles do happen.”

Despair, for her part, did not speak. But she bowed her head, fingers curled tightly over her heart, and for a moment, her eyes softened.

Death was already crying.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, grinning through it. “I told him he had it in him,” she whispered to Hob, who nodded and offered her a pocket square.

“About bloody time,” Hob muttered with a teary laugh.

Lucienne, ever composed, gave you a small, deeply proud nod before quietly closing the ceremonial tome and stepping back.

The fae court watched in glittering silence, Tatiana’s expression unreadable—until the corner of her mouth curved into something gracious. Respectful. Perhaps even kind.

Adina, sitting wide-eyed and stunned, let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and whispered, “That was… the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Matthew sniffled loudly from the edge of the altar, flapping once as he muttered, “I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I just—there was dust. Okay?”

You laughed through your tears, the sound breaking something open in those around you.

Then—of course—your mother.

She stepped forward slowly, her hand pressed over her heart, her eyes shimmering with the kind of emotion that only comes from witnessing something impossible and knowing it was worth every price paid.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at you.

At him.

Then back at you, her mouth trembling into the softest smile.

“You are so loved,” she said, voice breaking. “And you are exactly where you’re meant to be.”

She reached out and touched your cheek, one last time, her fingers lingering. “I couldn’t have dreamed a better ending. Or a better beginning.”

You clutched her hand, trying not to sob.

Behind her, your father stepped into view.

Destruction.

He looked strange in stillness—like a creature built for motion forced to pause. There was something unreadable in his expression. Something heavy. But when his eyes met yours, they gentled. Not warm, not soft—but something close. Something trying.

He came to stand beside your mother. Not touching her. But near enough.

And when he spoke, it was quieter than you expected.

“I have forged a thousand weapons. Witnessed the fall of stars. I have stood beside gods who claimed to understand the universe.”

His eyes flicked to Dream. They did not soften—but they respected.

“And yet today… I have seen something greater than all of them.” He looked at you. “My daughter, choosing her path.”

You blinked hard, your throat tight.

“And walking it with strength,” he finished, quieter now.

Then your father stepped forward—and pulled you into a hug.

Not cautious. Not hesitant. Fierce, grounding, full of weight and warmth. His arms wrapped around you like he could shield you from the entire universe if only you asked.

You let yourself hold on, just for a moment, breathing in the scent of ash and metal and old magic—your father, raw and wild and finally here.

“I am proud of you,” he murmured into your hair. “More than I ever said. More than I ever showed. But you should know it now.”

You nodded, too full to speak.

When he pulled back, there was something burning in his eyes—grief, maybe, or guilt, or something older still.

Then he turned to Dream.

The air shifted.

Even the stars seemed to lean in.

Destruction looked at him for a long moment. Not as a brother. Not as a rival. But as the man who now held the most fragile, precious parts of his daughter’s heart.

He extended his hand.

Dream, after a pause, took it.

The clasp between them was brief—but heavy. A silent acknowledgement between two ancient beings who had rarely agreed on anything.

And then Destruction, still holding his gaze, said calmly—

“I expect you to look after her, brother,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not as a duty. Not as some cosmic obligation. But because she is everything.”

Dream did not flinch. “I will.”

Destruction nodded once. The kind of nod that ended wars.

“But,” he added, a flicker of iron threading his voice, “if you forget what she’s worth—if you fail to hold her with the care she deserves—”

A pause.

“I will remind you.”

It wasn’t a threat. Not really. Just the promise of a father who had watched the universe too long to pretend love wasn’t dangerous… and still believed she was worth the risk.

Dream inclined his head, the slightest bow of respect. “You will not need to.”

Another pause.

Then Destruction released his hand.

***

The ceremony faded like a dream itself—still clinging to your skin, still echoing in your chest—but the Dreaming had other plans now.

The moment you and Dream descended the steps of the starlit amphitheatre, the world changed.

The reception hall hadn’t existed before that moment. Now it bloomed from the ground like a palace made of light and memory. Vast glass ceilings framed a sky streaked with aurora and stars. The floor shimmered beneath your feet like stilled water. Floating chandeliers drifted lazily overhead—each one shaped like a different constellation, casting a gentle glow across the room.

And the guests?

Chaos, beauty, and wonder.

A centaur in formal armor debated philosophy with a cloud made of violins. A minor forest god turned into a tree in the corner to nap. The fae drank shimmering wine from goblets that whispered secrets with every sip. A handful of dreams from the children's wing were politely asked not to swordfight indoors. They did anyway.

Tatiana and her court hovered near the open balcony, trailing laughter and illusion. Desire held court at a circular table of mortal poets, clearly stirring up just the right amount of trouble. Despair had retreated to the shadows, watching everything in silence but not without interest.

Death danced.

With Hob.

Spinning in a slow, uncoordinated but joyous circle, both of them laughing like children.

Adina had a drink in one hand and a tiny, enchanted cake in the other, her eyes wide as saucers. “This is real, right?” she whispered to you at one point, half-wondering if she’d wake up. “Like… all of this?”

You turned toward her, the veil long since tucked away, your hair loose and tumbling over your shoulders in soft waves. Your cheeks still glowed, your eyes rimmed with tears that hadn’t fully dried—but you were radiant, calm in the way only someone who had found where they belonged could be.

You smiled, slow and sure.

“For me, yes,” you said, knowing she would not remember it as such tomorrow.

Adina looked around again—at the floating lanterns shaped like memories, the creatures sipping golden starlight, the vast glass ceiling arched over a sky that breathed like a living thing.

“I always knew he was weird,” she muttered, taking another sip of her drink. “But I didn’t know he was that weird.”

You laughed, a quiet, breathless sound. “He’s not weird,” you said, eyes flicking toward your husband—who at that moment was deep in conversation with what appeared to be a robed crow made entirely of ink and stars. “He’s just… Dream.”

As if summoned by your words—and, perhaps, he had been—he turned.

And then he was walking toward you.

Everything else blurred a little. The sounds, the light, the surreal murmur of gods and creatures and dreams sharing wine and impossible fruit—it all faded. Until it was just him. Just you.

He stopped in front of you and offered his hand.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, quiet and certain.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smirk. “You don’t dance.”

“I do not,” he agreed.

“And yet you’re asking.”

“Yes.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked at you with that unreadable softness you’d come to know—the kind that felt like moonlight slipping into places you didn’t think light could reach.

“Because,” he said simply, “this is our wedding. And I believe it is expected.”

You laughed. “You believe it’s expected?”

He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing your skin, his voice dropping into that velvet-smooth register that always seemed to wrap around your spine like a silk ribbon.

“Lucienne told me,” he said gravely, “that I am to dance with my wife.”

You blinked, amused. “She told you?”

“She said,” he continued, as if quoting sacred law, “‘It is a custom in the Waking World.’”

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She was holding a clipboard,” he added. “It felt unwise to argue.”

Your grin widened. “So… you’re dancing under duress?”

He tilted his head. “No. I am dancing because she reminded me… that this is not just a ceremony. It is a celebration. And because you deserve that.”

His words slowed there—just enough to let them land.

“And because,” he said softly, “I wished to hold you.”

The laughter faded from your lips, replaced with something warmer, deeper.

He offered his hand again, this time not out of obligation or tradition—but devotion.

“Please don’t step on my feet,” you whispered.

“I will try not to,” he murmured. “But I make no promises.”

You placed your hand in his.

And the Dreaming opened its arms around you.

You let him lead you onto the floor—if it could even be called a floor. The surface beneath your feet shimmered like stilled starlight, glassy and endless, reflecting the aurora-stitched sky above.

The music shifted as you stepped into place.

You didn’t know where it came from—no orchestra, no band—but it was there. Dream-music. Built from memory and breath and the low thrum of distant thunder. The kind of melody that didn’t ask for steps. It invited them.

Dream placed one hand at your waist, the other holding yours with gentle precision. He was still, at first. Measuring. Not nervous, but… aware. As if each movement required its own quiet reckoning.

You expected awkwardness.

But instead—

He moved.

Slow. Fluid. Purposeful.

Not a dancer in the traditional sense, no. But in the way planets move. In the way shadows bend toward light. In the way dreams unfold when no one’s looking.

It wasn’t perfect. He stepped a little too carefully. Held you a little too reverently, like you might vanish if he miscalculated the distance between you.

But it was him.

Every inch.

And you had never loved him more.

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours. “Am I doing this right?” he murmured.

You smiled through the tears gathering again. “You’re doing perfect.”

Around you, the Dreaming pulsed with light.

The chandeliers above reshaped into blooming stars. The sky cracked open just slightly—revealing the velvet dark behind it, scattered with unfamiliar constellations. The air filled with silver petals that drifted like snow and never touched the ground.

The guests had fallen into a hush.

Not because they were commanded to.

But because they couldn’t look away.

And somewhere near the front—watching with wide eyes and an open mouth—Hob Gadling muttered, loud enough for a few of the Endless to hear:

“Is he really dancing?”

Death snorted beside him, dabbing her eyes. “You’re not hallucinating.”

“I thought the world would end before I saw that man waltz,” Hob whispered, stunned. “This is better.”

Lucienne, standing nearby with a flute of starlight wine, didn’t even glance up from her program. “He practiced.”

Hob blinked. “Wait, what?”

She looked smug. “Library. Three nights in a row. With a broom.”

Hob let out a bark of laughter, then quickly muffled it behind his hand when a cluster of dreams turned to shush him.

You didn’t hear them, of course.

You only saw him.

Dream, moving with you in slow, solemn circles, holding you like you were the only anchor he had ever known. Like this dance was not just ceremony, but something older. A promise made in motion. A vow sealed in silence.

He leaned in slightly, his lips just brushing the edge of your temple.

“You are radiant,” he murmured.

You tilted your face toward him, voice soft.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

A pause.

Then—

“You practiced.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second.

“I did not wish to embarrass you,” he said stiffly.

You smiled, glowing. “You couldn’t. Even if you tried.”

And so you danced.

In the middle of gods, myths, and dream-creatures—

He held you like you were the only real thing in the realm.

The last notes of the song faded into the air like a sigh.

Dream’s hand lingered at your back as you turned slowly away from the dance floor, your gown whispering along the starlit ground. The guests had resumed their conversations, the music shifted into something light and drifting, and yet—through it all—you felt it.

That quiet pull in your chest.

Like something precious beginning to slip through your fingers.

You found her standing at the edge of the gathering, just past the crystal archways—watching you with a soft smile, her hands folded in front of her, the dreamstone at her throat barely glowing now. Fading.

You moved toward her slowly, trying to memorize every inch of her.

She opened her arms without a word, and you stepped into them, clutching her like the moment might hold if only you loved her hard enough.

She smelled the same. Felt the same. Just a little lighter now.

“I saw everything,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “You were beautiful. The way he looks at you…. He loves you.”

You pulled back slightly, blinking through the tears. “It’s not enough time.”

“I know,” she said gently, cupping your cheek. “But it was time we weren’t supposed to have at all. And he gave it to us. You gave it to me.”

Your breath hitched. “Will I see you again?”

Her smile turned sad and knowing. “Not like this.”

“I’m not ready to let go.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “Letting go of someone isn’t the same as losing them. I’ll still be here.” She pressed a hand lightly over your heart. “In every breath. Every laugh. Every moment you hold that child, or tell a story, or walk into the Dreaming and feel whole.”

You nodded, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

She brushed them away, just like she used to when you were small.

“My girl. My brave, shining girl.”

Her form flickered softly—light curling at her edges like smoke kissed by moonlight.

“It’s time,” she said, and her voice didn’t tremble—but yours did.

“I love you,” you breathed.

“And I love you,” she whispered. “Always.”

She pressed one last kiss to your forehead—

—and vanished like mist beneath a rising sun.

You stood still for a long moment.

Then Dream was there again, silent at your side. He didn’t speak. He didn’t reach for you at first.

He just waited.

Until your hand found his.

And then you turned, together, toward the rest of forever.

***

The celebration continued behind you, full of light and strange laughter and music that shimmered like falling stars. But you couldn’t stay.

Not just yet.

After your mother vanished—after that final breath of warmth against your skin—you turned from the fading magic and let Dream lead you away. Wordlessly. Without fanfare.

Through an archway carved from memory.

Down a corridor made of dusk and quiet.

Until the two of you stepped into a small garden lit only by moonlight. The air was still. The pond nearby reflected not the sky, but dreams—soft flashes of moments that had not yet happened. The child kicked gently inside you, as if sensing the shift.

He did not ask if you were alright.

He didn’t need to.

You sat slowly on a bench shaped from old stone and gentler years, your fingers laced loosely with his.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Thank you,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the stars above the water. “For giving me that. For giving her to me.”

His gaze didn’t leave you. “It was not a gift. It was something owed. Something you should never have been denied.”

You looked down, blinking hard. “It felt like a miracle.”

“It was a trade,” he said quietly. “One I would make again. A hundred times.”

You turned to him, eyes shining and he was quiet for a moment, watching you.

“I did not understand, before you,” he murmured. “What it meant to give something without expecting anything in return. To love in such a way that sacrifice becomes instinct.”

You reached out and touched his face, fingers brushing the line of his jaw.

“And now?”

His eyes closed beneath your touch.

“Now I know,” he said. “And I find I would give you anything.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t need anything else,” you whispered.

He opened his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “That is why you are the only thing I have ever wanted.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your hand resting lightly over the life between you.

“I love you,” you breathed. “For everything. For this. For today.”

His arms slid around you carefully, pulling you close.

“And I will love you,” he whispered, “for every tomorrow.”

And in the quiet beyond gods and guests and kingdoms, you stayed wrapped in him—still in your dress, barefoot now, belly between you, stars spinning softly overhead—and let yourself rest.

Loved.

Chosen.

Home.

***

You exhaled against his shoulder, wrapped in his arms, the murmurs of celebration far behind now—dim and distant, like the echo of a dream already fading.

After a long moment of silence, you tilted your head slightly, your cheek brushing his collar.

“Would it be terribly selfish,” you murmured, “if we were to leave our own wedding?”

Dream stilled—but not in resistance. In focus. Attention. As if he already knew, but wanted to hear it from your lips.

You leaned back enough to look into his eyes.

“Because I would like to… conclude this day the way it was meant to be concluded. Completely. As husband and wife.”

There was no hesitation in him.

No question. No coyness. Only stillness—deep and quiet, like the moment just before a dream takes hold.

His gaze held yours, and his voice was low, threaded with something deeper than desire.

“I would like nothing more.”

The words were simple.

But the way he said them… it hollowed you out and filled you all at once. As if the longing in him had been pressed down for so long, it could only come out soft. Steady. Sacred.

Like he didn’t just want you.

He needed this.

Needed you.

No throne. No audience. No realm to uphold.

Just skin. Just breath. Just a night where he didn’t have to be anything except yours.

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, one by one, like each vow still lingered there.

And then—

“Come,” he said again, quieter this time. “Let us finish the day as it was meant to end.”

You nodded, breath catching.

And when he led you into the dark—

you went without fear.

Because you were no longer walking into shadow.

You were walking home.

***

Back in the great hall, the wedding celebration continued—albeit with slightly less dignity now that the bride and groom had mysteriously vanished.

A sentient harp was trying to seduce a centaur. Someone had taught the nightmare-children to do the conga. Hob was halfway through his fifth glass of something neon and pretending not to be crying again.

And at the long obsidian table near the edge of the floor, the Endless—those ancient, eternal forces of the universe—were decidedly gossiping.

Delirium was upside down in her chair again, sipping from a glass that kept changing color and occasionally giggling when it fizzed.

“Where’d Morphy go?” she asked, swinging one leg in the air. “And her? They were all glowy and googly-eyed and spinny, and now they’re gone. Poof. No warning. Just vanished. Like—whoosh—married into thin air.”

Desire smirked into their wine. “Darling. They’re probably off consummating their union.”

Delirium blinked. “Consoooom-uh-what?”

Despair groaned softly into her drink.

Desire leaned in, voice purring. “You know. Sealing the vows. Putting the king in king-size bed. Getting… dream-deep.”

Death gagged. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“I mean, it’s tradition,” Desire continued, ignoring her. “Big ceremony. Applause. Emotional speeches. And then bam—off to defile some silk sheets in a realm they probably named after a poem.”

Death held up a hand. “Okay, seriously, can we not have this conversation while I’m still eating cake?”

Desire smiled serenely. “Don’t blame me if you choke on innuendo and fondant.”

Delirium snorted out a laugh and immediately inhaled a butterfly.

Despair sighed, deeply, and refilled her glass.

Destiny did not respond, but the page in his book turned itself a little faster than usual.

And somewhere in a tower neither dream nor god could enter without permission— your husband kissed you like vows weren’t made with words, but with hands, and breath, and skin.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

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@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

Then—

Laughter.

Low at first. Then louder. Mocking. Cruel.

It came from the shadows above, from the broken walls of illusion. From them.

The demons.

Anarazel’s voice licked around him like smoke.

“So easy,” he said. “So easy to break the Dream Lord. You bled for her. You wept for a child that never was. And all we had to do was let you imagine happiness.”

Dream did not rise.

He was still. Silent.

Until—

“You are nothing without your realm,” another demon sneered. “But here, in Hell, even gods crawl.”

“You begged,” hissed a third. “You pleaded to keep a mortal. Pathetic.”

Dream’s hands moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He pressed his palms to the floor. His arms shook with strain, not just of body—but of essence. What remained of his power sparked at his shoulders like lightning threatening to strike.

“You believe you’ve broken me.”

The air stilled.

“Because I wept for what you took. Because I bled for what you could never understand.” He lifted his gaze, and the void responded—contracting around him like a held breath. “But I would do it again.”

The floor cracked beneath his feet.

“To dream of joy is no weakness. To grieve is not surrender.”

A wind rose—unnatural, seething with ash and stardust.

“You call this a trial,” he whispered. “You think illusion wounds me more than truth?” His eyes glowed now, faint but rising, twin galaxies born in a collapsing sky. “Then allow me to offer my truth.”

He raised his hand.

Not to strike.

But to unmake.

The illusion shattered as if it were glass too long under pressure. The air collapsed inward, folding the house, the flowers, the child’s laughter—all into silence. A new darkness bloomed, not of Hell, but of Dream—dense, infinite, ancient. It howled with forgotten names. It devoured even despair.

The demons recoiled.

One stepped forward, snarling, baring its true face—horned, immense. It lunged.

Dream caught it with a flick of his hand.

The creature froze mid-air. Its mouth gaped in a scream that never came. The shadows around Dream twisted tighter, a noose of nightmare. His voice broke through like thunder from the deepest trench of eternity:

“You made me remember her pain. You made me hold our child and then took her from me. And for that—”

He clenched his fist.

The demon folded in on itself. Imploded. A soundless scream. Gone.

The others shrieked.

Anarazel stumbled back, his mask cracking with strain. “He is bound!” he spat to the others. “He should be too weak!”

“He is weak,” hissed another. “But even broken gods are dangerous.”

Dream took a step forward.

The demons flinched.

A second step.

The void bent around him.

“I should destroy you,” Dream said, his voice no longer mortal, nor Endless, but something older. “I should turn this pit inside out and drag your bones through the screams of time.”

The air split, ready to answer his call but then— A second voice.

“Enough.”

Lucifer Morningstar stepped from the shadows, neither winded nor wary, though even she watched Dream now with caution. Her pale skin glowed like moonlit marble, and her crimson eyes narrowed.

“Dream Lord,” she said gently, “do you truly wish to summon the Furies?”

The name alone silenced the air.

Lucifer looked to the demons now—her expression withering.

“You idiotic, arrogant worms,” she spat. “Do you think tormenting the King of Dreams—for a mortal, no less—was wise? Do you think desecrating the very fabric of his realm and heart wouldn’t come with consequence?”

“He came here alone!” one demon shrieked. “He broke his own rules!”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed. “And you think that gives you leave to mock the Dreaming? To toy with matters that echo far beyond your understanding? You tread close to war. And I will not have Hell burned for your vanity.”

Silence.

Only the crackle of Dream’s shadows, still poised to strike.

Lucifer turned to him again.

“If you walk away now,” she said, her voice low and formal, “I will personally tear the contract that binds her soul. You and yours will owe Hell nothing. Your blood remains your own. Your realm stays untouched.”

Dream didn’t speak.

His gaze remained locked on Anarazel, who trembled now beneath what he had wrought.

Lucifer stepped closer. “I know what you are capable of, Morpheus. And I am telling you: leave with your power intact, your mortal untouched, and your vengeance unfulfilled—or stay, and let the Furies feast on your grief for eternity.”

A long pause.

Then, Dream’s shadows receded.

Only slightly.

He spoke, his voice raw from smoke and pain.

“I will leave,” he said. “But the next time one of you so much as breathes her name…”

His eyes flicked to Anarazel.

“I will not stop at illusion.”

Lucifer nodded once.

With a single motion, she produced the scroll of contract—blackened with ash, sealed in bone. She ripped it in two. It burst into silver flame and was gone.

“It is done.”

Dream exhaled. Not in relief.

In restraint.

A gate opened behind him—ancient, golden, humming with the frequency of his realm.

He turned to leave.

But as he stepped through, his voice followed one last time:

“She is not yours to touch. Not in dream. Not in nightmare. Not in any realm.”

And then he was gone.

Only ash remained.

***

Moments later, a rush hit you like a storm in your chest.

One second, you were shivering beneath the blankets, skin clammy, your wound burning through layers of flesh and soul alike and, the next, it was gone.

Snuffed out like smoke.

You sat upright, the sheets tangling around your legs. The pain had vanished. Not faded—vanished. In its place was a sudden warmth, a ripple across your ribs, like starlight catching fire in your blood.

Your breath hitched.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no—”

You threw the covers off and ran.

Barefoot across cold, dream-slick stone. Past startled guards and silent corridors. The castle knew. It tilted for you, twisted paths straight. Something was happening. Someone had returned.

You burst into the Great Hall just as the portal opened—golden-edged, jagged, burning like a tear in the veil of realms.

And through it, he stumbled.

Your heart stopped.

Dream of the Endless stepped through the gate, swaying, his body ragged with damage. He held his helm in one hand like an anchor, the other clutching his side. His coat was gone—just a torn black shirt clinging to his blood-slick skin, his trousers ripped at the seams. One sleeve hung in tatters. His hair was matted with sweat, his face pale—too pale—and under his eyes, shadows pooled deep and violet.

And then he collapsed.

“Dream!” You screamed.

You were already there before he hit the floor, dropping to your knees and catching him—cradling his weight against you. His head lolled to your shoulder, cold as marble.

Matthew landed with a frantic flutter nearby. Lucienne appeared, eyes wide, breathless.

“Oh gods,” you breathed. “Dream, look at me.”

“I am fine,” he rasped. “My love… although I would prefer… you not see me like this.”

“Too late,” you snapped, your hands already checking him for wounds, “you don’t get that choice.”

Lucienne crouched beside you. “He is… severely weakened.”

You cupped his face. “Is there anything you can do? Dream-magic or something? Anything?”

Lucienne shook her head gravely. “No. He is the Dreaming. His power does not regenerate the way yours or mine might. He needs time. Rest.”

Your jaw tightened. “Then I’ll clean him up and help him rest.”

Dream stirred weakly. “No. I will tend to my wounds myself—”

You cut him off, sharp and trembling. “No. You’re not doing this alone.”

Lucienne offered, “Shall I summon the dream-healers?”

“No,” you said again. “I said I’ve got him.”

Dream tried again. “I would prefer—”

You grabbed his chin gently, turning his face toward you. “I don’t care what you’d prefer. I’m not asking. This is what’s happening.”

There was a long pause.

Then, barely above a whisper: “Very well.”

You helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily on you, nearly weightless in your arms—like the wind might carry him away if you let go.

At the threshold of his chamber, Lucienne hesitated. “Shall I—”

“No,” you said without looking back. “I will look after him.”

***

Inside his quarters, the air was dim, golden.

You guided him to the basin and sat him on the low stone bench beside it.

“Lift your arms,” you whispered.

He obeyed. Slowly.

You peeled the ruined shirt from his body—ripping the fabric when needed, careful not to jostle the deep cuts across his ribs. The sight of him made your stomach twist. Blood streaked his pale skin, mingling with bruises, slashes, and burns. His breath came shallow. His head bowed.

You dipped the cloth in warm water.

Pressed it gently to his chest.

He flinched.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

He shook his head faintly. “It’s not pain.”

You swiped again, and this time you saw it: the blood receded beneath your touch. The wounds closed, inch by inch. Your hand trembled as you moved down his sternum, cleaning gently, reverently. It was like watching a god slowly remember what it meant to be whole.

You rinsed the cloth. Pressed it to his shoulder, wiping away blood from his collarbone.

You leaned down and kissed the curve of his shoulder, just above a fading bruise.

“What did they do to you?”  You whispered the words before you could stop yourself.

Your lips lingered just a moment longer on his shoulder—salt and shadow beneath your mouth. You wanted to swallow the pain for him. To pull it from his skin like thorns.

Dream didn’t lift his head. He didn’t answer.

Instead, his voice came low. Hollow.

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

The cloth in your hand had gone cold. You dipped it again, wrung it out slowly. Your fingers brushed his as you did, and you felt it—his tremor. Not of weakness. Of restraint.

You didn’t push. You didn’t ask again.

You moved instead—gently trailing the cloth down his arm, wiping away a smear of dried blood at the crook of his elbow. His skin, pale as moonlight, shimmered faintly beneath your touch. Bruises bloomed then faded. The deeper cuts laced themselves closed as if your care stitched time backwards.

You cleaned him like he was something sacred. And he was. To you, he always had been.

You reached his hand last. There was blood beneath his nails. Your thumb rubbed softly over each knuckle, circling, tracing. He watched you now. Quiet. Consuming. As if he needed to memorize the way your hands tended him.

“Maybe another time,” you murmured, returning to his shoulder with slow reverence.

“No,” he said again, firmer now. “Not ever.”

You looked up into his face.

There was no cruelty in his words. Just finality. Whatever had happened in Hell, he meant to keep it buried. A price paid in silence.

You nodded once, kissed his shoulder again. “That’s okay.”

Then you rinsed the cloth and laid it aside.

Without a word, you knelt before him on the smooth stone floor, your hands resting lightly on his thighs, eyes meeting his.

“I never thought anyone would go to Hell for me,” you said, voice soft as breath.

Dream blinked slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched, like it might form a smile—but never quite did.

“I would do anything for you,” he said. “If you asked.”

You took one of his bloodied hands in both of yours, brought it to your lips, and whispered against his knuckles:

“Then I ask you this, Morpheus.”

His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and endless.

“Rest. Truly rest. Let me hold you until your shadows are quiet again.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But when you rose and guided him to the bed, he followed.

And when you lay back and opened your arms, he came to you—slowly, almost reluctantly, but he came.

He settled beside you, head resting on your chest, his arms curled around your waist like a man afraid to wake.

You stroked his hair.

“I’ll stay here,” you whispered. “Until you’re well. Although, I might have to send a raven to call in sick at work for me for the next few days.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, faintly: “You are ill again?”

You laughed softly. “No, it’s a joke.”

A breath. “I see.”

You smiled against his temple, kissed the crown of his head, and pulled the covers over him.

 “I do not sleep,” he murmured, voice muffled against your collarbone. “Not in the way mortals do.”

You let your fingers thread gently through his hair—soft, dark strands like night spun into silk.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you need rest. Whatever your version of that is.”

A pause. He didn’t move. Didn’t argue.

You shifted slightly, brushing your thumb along the slope of his cheekbone.

“So, just lie with me,” you said. “Be still. Let this be enough for now.”

Dream exhaled—not a sigh, but something slower. He tightened his hold around your waist, his body unwinding inch by inch as if the command had reached something deeper than his mind.

Stillness. A rare mercy in his endless storm.

The realm itself seemed to hush—winds slowing, the tower darkening to a gentle dusk. Somewhere in the distance, a raven did not cry. The Dreaming held its breath, as if honouring its king’s surrender.

His head nestled closer. You felt his lips move, barely a whisper. “I love you.”

You pressed another kiss to his brow, whispering in return, “I love you too.”

And so, in the quiet hush of his chambers—where time no longer mattered and wounds began to fade -you lay together.

A mortal and an endless.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

You were tired in the way only night work can make you tired—down to the bones, where sleep no longer helps. You rubbed your eyes, clutching your bag tight to your chest as you stepped out into the cold.

The air was damp. Heavy. Like the sky was too full to hold itself together much longer.

Your footsteps echoed as you made your way across the near-empty street and into the parking structure. There was always something about this place that unsettled you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a dying thing. Your heels clicked too loud. The shadows pooled in the corners like they had weight.

You told yourself not to be ridiculous.

You told yourself to just get to the car.

But when the elevator opened on your level, the lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

Blackout.

Darkness fell like a blow.

The overhead hum stopped. The silence was absolute. Immediate. The kind of silence that feels like it has teeth.

Your breath caught. You fumbled for your phone—but even before your fingers reached the zipper of your bag, you heard it.

Something dragging.

A shuffle of leather and skin and something… wet. Not footsteps. Not breathing. But something.

You froze.

Then—

A rasp. Like breath across bone. Right behind you.

You turned.

And saw it.

Not nightmare. Not hallucination.

Flesh.

A demon—skin blackened and split like old stone, limbs stretched far too long, and teeth like daggers carved from ancient ivory. Its eyes burned—not metaphorically. Burned. Fire in bottomless sockets.

You didn’t scream. You couldn’t.

You ran.

But only a few steps. Your leg hit a bumper. You stumbled, fell hard. Your bag flew from your shoulder.

Then pain.

It grabbed your leg. Its claws sank into the soft skin of your ankle. You screamed, but only inside—your throat locked tight. The pain was blinding, but your brain refused to register it. You were going to die. Alone. In this place.

It reared back.

And then—like a breath before a storm—

A rush of wind.

A sound. Low. Not quite thunder. More like the world itself drawing in breath.

A figure appeared between you and the creature. Cloaked in black. Face hidden behind a mask. A scary mask. Made of ivory.

“Lord Anarazel,” a voice cut through the dark—low, cold, not shouted, but resounding all the same.

The demon stopped mid-lunge. Its head snapped toward the voice, lips curling into something almost human.

“Lord Morpheus,” it hissed, venom slithering behind the word. “To what do I owe the indignity of your interference?”

The figure stepped into view—a tall shadow clad in flowing black, the smooth ivory mask concealing his face, giving no hint of emotion. But even through your fear, something in the air shifted when he moved. Like gravity had chosen a new centre.

“I cannot allow you to claim what does not belong to you,” the masked figure said. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay a power vast and ancient—like the sound of wind over an open grave.

The demon bared its teeth. “You do not command the laws of Hell, Dream Lord.”

“No,” said the figure, taking a step closer, “but I am older than them.”

The garage felt smaller somehow. The ceiling lower. The air tighter. You could hardly breathe.

“Be gone, Anarazel. Return to your pit. Or shall I remind you what happens when you disobey the will of an Endless?” he asked, as he had once before.

The demon faltered, eyes burning brighter with fury. “You dare invoke the old rights? She was promised. The pact was sealed in utero. Her soul is mine!” he said before trying to attack Dream by leaping forward with an inhuman snarl, claws outstretched, jaws unhinged in fury.

But the moment Anarazel moved, Dream raised one hand—no more than a graceful flick of his fingers—and the world responded.

A ripple spread through the air like shattered glass suspended in time. The demon froze mid-lunge, limbs jerking as if caught in unseen threads. Black smoke erupted from its joints, sizzling against the sudden cold.

“You forget yourself,” Dream said, his voice now deeper, darker. “This is not your hunting ground.”

Anarazel hissed, straining. “Nor is it yours, Dream Lord. You have no dominion here.”

“No,” Dream replied. “This is the Waking World. But I am Endless. Stronger than you. And she is under my protection.”

Anarazel snarled, trembling in his invisible bonds, smoke hissing from the seams of his scorched limbs.

“You think this is over?” he rasped, voice jagged like a blade dragged through stone. “You think a flick of your fingers can undo the fires that forged me?”

His body began to twist unnaturally, bones cracking with wet snaps. Something within him pulsed—an infernal core reigniting.

Then—without warning—he lunged again.

His form blurred in the dark, breaking free of the strands that held him, moving faster than before. A shriek tore from his throat as his claws slashed toward Dream’s chest. The air burned around him. His teeth snapped open, jaws stretching too wide, too deep—an abyss of gnashing hunger.

Dream didn’t blink.

He didn’t raise his hand this time.

He simply spoke.

“Enough.”

The word dropped like a stone into the void.

The ground fractured.

Shadows erupted from beneath Dream’s cloak—ribbons of night, sharp as glass, spiralling through the air like tendrils of starlight and death. They collided with the demon mid-scream, threading through his form with impossible precision.

Anarazel’s body contorted. His shriek turned to a choked, warbling wail as he hung suspended, his limbs yanked backward by the force of Dream’s will.

“You were warned,” Dream said. His voice now sounded like many, a chorus of wind and thunder, silence and fury.

The shadows constricted.

The demon burst into ash with a soundless implosion, sucked inward until there was nothing left but smoke curling above the concrete.

Silence returned.

But it was a different silence. Not relief. A heavy, reverent hush—like the world itself was stunned into stillness.

You hadn’t moved. You couldn’t.

Your leg throbbed with pain. You couldn’t tell if you were cold or burning. You didn’t even realize you were crying.

Your arms wrapped tight around yourself as you curled up against the bumper of the car. Your breath was shallow, choked.

Then the figure turned.

You flinched hard.

“I wish you no harm,” he said softly. The ivory mask still cloaked his face. Somehow, that made it worse.

“Don’t—” your voice cracked, nothing more than a rasp. “Don’t come near me.”

You tried to stand. Your body wobbled, but the fear overtook the pain.

He didn’t move toward you. Not yet.

Instead, he lifted one gloved hand and removed the mask.

The silence deepened.

His face was pale. Beautiful. Inhuman. His eyes were night skies with no stars, and yet—within their endless black—something shimmered. Something ancient. Something wounded.

Your breath hitched.

“It is you,” you whispered.

And then the world tilted sideways.

Your knees buckled.

And everything went black.

RETURN TO THE DREAMING

When you woke, your body was warm. Too warm.

Not uncomfortably so. Not feverish. Just… known.

The covers were heavier than you remembered. Softer, too. The pillow beneath your cheek smelled of parchment and starlight and something faintly floral—like a scent from a forgotten garden. You blinked up at the ceiling, not quite ready to move, disoriented by the absence of city noise, by the hush that seemed to breathe with you.

It took a moment before you noticed: You were not in your apartment. You were not in any place you recognized.

But you were home.

Somewhere deep inside you, your bones remembered.

Your breath caught.

You sat up slowly, the weight of the blanket falling into your lap. The room was quiet, touched by silver light leaking through high, arched windows. The walls shimmered with soft blue shadows. A fireplace glowed in the far corner, dancing with a flame that gave no heat. The furnishings were elegant and ancient: carved wood, velvet, golden accents dusted with time.

It was beautiful.

It was impossible.

It was yours.

Not recently. Not in this life. But the curve of the doorframe, the soft dip in the mattress, the book still open on the nightstand—it all spoke of something deeply familiar.

And then you saw him.

He was sitting in the velvet chair across from the bed, silent as stone, cloaked in black and shadow. His gaze was already on you. Watching. Waiting.

Dream.

No mask this time. No glamour to soften him. Just the full, terrible grace of what he was. The King of Dreams. The one who had once held your heart in his hands—before you knew what a heart could carry.

Your breath hitched. “It’s you.”

His voice was quiet when he answered. “Yes.”

Your fingers gripped the blanket. You couldn’t look away. “I… I don’t understand. Where—where am I?”

“The Dreaming,” he said softly. “These were your chambers. Once.”

Your chest pulled tight. “Mine?”

He nodded. “I brought you here after Anarazel attacked. You passed out. I could not risk him finding you again. The Dreaming is sealed. He cannot cross here unless I allow it.”

You stared at him, and slowly, the memories began to flicker.

The garage. The lights going out. That thing.

And then—

Him.

A mask. A voice. The feeling of being lifted, carried.

And now… this.

You pressed your hand to your mouth, tears welling. “It was real. The attack. You—you saved me.”

His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

“And this place—” you looked around, trying to reconcile the aching familiarity with the disbelief clawing at your throat. “This was mine?”

“Yes,” he said. “You stayed here once, before the memories were taken. Before you returned to the Waking World.”

Emotion swelled inside you. “I remember the lake. The coat. Your voice. I remember your hands.”

A flicker of pain crossed his face.

“And a kiss,” you then whispered, the words catching in your throat like a secret you weren’t supposed to remember.

He didn’t move. Not even a blink. But something in the air between you changed—tightened. Like the moment itself held its breath.

You studied his face. Those ancient eyes, full of galaxies and graveyards.

“We were lovers once,” he said, his voice breaking gently on the word. “You came to me willingly. And I loved you.”

The silence between you was deafening. Holy. Awful.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you whispered, “Then why don’t I remember?”

He rose from the chair, slow and shadowed. “Because it was required of me to take your memories. For your safety. And for mine.”

Your voice shook. “You took them?”

He looked down, shame flickering across his pale features. “Yes. I did.”

“Why?” The word trembled out of you. “Why would you do that to me?”

Dream’s eyes lifted to yours—ancient, hollowed with sorrow. “Because it was decided upon by the decree of my siblings,” he said, voice like ash and starlight. “They feared what you would become. What we would become. I had no choice. If I hadn’t done what I did, they would have done much worse.”

Your breath caught. “So, you obeyed them.”

“I loved you,” he said, the words nearly breaking. “And they demanded I sever that bond. To protect you. To preserve the balance of things older than gods.”

You stared at him, raw and trembling. “And now? You still brought me here. It doesn’t make any sense," you said, shaken, before carrying on. "And why am I even that important to them? Your siblings? I am just human.”

Dream’s gaze did not waver, but something in him faltered—like a ripple across still water.

“You are not just human,” he said. “You never were.”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came.

He stepped closer, his voice quiet, steady. “You were born of a mortal woman. But your father… is not of this world.”

You blinked. “My father—?”

Dream’s voice deepened as he stepped into the slant of starlight falling through the arched window. “Your father is one of the Endless. Like me. Like my siblings,” he said. “He is Destruction.”

The silence in the chamber turned viscous. Like time itself was holding its breath.

You stared at him, disbelieving. “That’s not possible.”

“It is not only possible,” Dream murmured, “it is truth. You carry his mark and some of his power. It runs through your veins. I have seen it. I have felt it.”

“No…” Your head shook, denial spiralling like panic. “No. My mother said my father was… just a man. A wanderer.”

“He was,” Dream said gently. “But not in the way you understand. Destruction walked the world for centuries, hidden from all. He left his realm, his duties, may centuries ago. He tried to live among mortals—to love one. And from that, you were born.”

You stumbled from the bed, the silk cover falling from your legs, feet touching the cool stone floor. “So you’re telling me I’m—what? Your niece?”

Dream flinched. Not at the word, but at the break in your voice.

“I did not know,” he said. “Not when we met. Not when I loved you. Not when I…” He swallowed. “Not until I saw the necklace you wore. It bore his sigil. I recognised it only after I had already—”

You held up a hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”

The weight of the truth crushed against your ribs. Your father. The Endless. You—something other. And Dream… his eyes breaking apart like twilight.

“You erased me,” you whispered. “You took our memories. All of it. You let me live in a lie while you walked away. And now you bring me back. For what?” you asked as everything came flooding back. Every moment. Every touch. Your love for him.

“To protect you,” he said. “From Anarazel and his demons.”

“There are more of them?” you asked with a shiver running down your spine. “What do they want from me?”

Dream’s eyes burned with a quiet fury, but it was not directed at you.

“There is a contract,” he said, his voice like a slow-coming storm. “A pact forged before you were even conceived. Your mother was desperate. She was frightened. And Anarazel offered her a bargain. Power, perhaps. Or protection. But the cost… was the soul of her firstborn.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “She made a deal? With a demon? Before I was even…?”

He nodded once. “Before she knew she was pregnant. Before she knew what you were.”

You took a step back, reeling. “And they’ve come to collect.”

“Yes.”

“But…you say that I’m not fully human. Doesn’t that break the contract?”

Dream’s gaze was heavy. “No. You are mortal and you were born of her. That is enough. And more than that… you are powerful. More than even she could have known,” he said, his voice darkening, “Anarazel knows it too. Because I intervened. And I have no doubt that he will want to use this to his advantage.”

Your voice cracked. “Use this to his advantage? How?”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “To hurt me.”

The words landed like ice water in your veins.

You sank back down onto the edge of the bed, breathing hard. “This is all… this is all too much. You tell me I’m your niece, that I’m some half-Endless anomaly. That you loved me. Took my memories. That demons are coming for my soul, and the reason they’re accelerating now is because I mean something to you?”

Dream moved then—quiet but swift—and knelt before you. It was jarring. This eternal, inhuman thing bending to you like a penitent. Like a man.

“I am sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything. For making you forget. For the pain. For placing you in the path of what now hunts you.”

You stared at him, unable to speak.

“I had thought I could bear the cost,” he went on, dark eyes locked to yours, unblinking. “To lose you. To sever what we were. To live in your silence. But I could not. I was wrong. And now, whatever remains of us—whatever future you choose—I have made it my purpose to protect you.”

He paused, as if the weight of his vow needed air around it. Then, softer:

“Not as your blood. Not as your king. But as the one who loves you still.”

You looked down at him—at Dream, kneeling in devotion, in sorrow, in something that might have once been pride but had now been stripped bare.

He looked like a god, but he sounded like a man.

And you… you felt like something in between.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed. With history. With heartbreak. With the echo of every word, he hadn’t said aloud until now.

Your throat ached. “You saved me and that should be enough for me to forgive you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours—endless and black and filled with galaxies. “I would do so a thousand times more.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. And then another. You reached for him, slowly, as if in a dream.

And he let you.

Your fingers tangled in the collar of his coat, pulling him up—closer. He rose to his knees before you, and your foreheads touched, your breath mixing in the space between.

His breath caught.

It was almost imperceptible—just the smallest hitch in the rhythm of him. But you felt it. As if the very Dreaming around you paused to listen.

“I love you,” you whispered again, softer this time, but no less certain. “And I never stopped feeling it. So that must be worth something, right?”

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again, the stars inside had shifted—brighter, somehow. Wilder. Like they had been waiting for you to say those words across a thousand lifetimes.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. Instead, he cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks like they were holy things. His touch was cool, and yet it burned you to your core.

“I am not worthy of it,” he said, voice raw with feeling.

Your hands covered his. “But you are, Dream,” you said. “You are worthy of my love.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips over yours like the hush before a storm. “If that is so, then I will spend eternity proving it to you. If you let me.”

You kissed him instead of answering. Not just because the weight of his vow made your heart ache—but because you weren’t ready to touch the edges of that word.

Eternity.

You were mortal. Still human, at least in part. You didn’t want to correct him, to remind him that your time was not measured in endlessness. That what you felt had an expiration date.

So you kissed him. Soft and deep. Purposeful. You kissed him like time didn’t matter and, when you finally pulled away, he was watching you with a tenderness that unravelled something deep inside.

But then he tilted his head slightly, thoughtful, and asked in that solemn, maddeningly literal tone of his, “I must ask… on human moral standards… do you consider the fact that you are my niece to be a complication?”

You blinked.

There was a pause, followed immediately by laughter.

It broke from your chest before you could stop it. Sudden, involuntary, almost incredulous. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head as you tried—and failed—to suppress it.

Dream looked momentarily startled. As if he hadn’t anticipated humour in this moment of raw honesty.

But, you simply couldn’t help it. The sheer Dreamness of the question—the timing, the delivery, the sincerity—sent something loose inside you. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was hysteria. Maybe it was just the absurdity of the moment catching up with you after so much fear, loss, and love unspoken.

You wiped a tear from your cheek, trying to catch your breath. “God. You really do have no filter for timing, do you?”

He bowed his head slightly in that way he did when burdened by the weight of things too large to explain. “Perhaps I do not, but I am aware that, in the past century, mortal societies have come to regard blood relations with particular moral weight. I understand that such a union, by your world’s standards, would be considered inappropriate.”

The way he said it—earnest, thoughtful, like he had read a book on it recently and was trying to be sensitive—only made your heart twist tighter in your chest.

“At first I, myself, was concerned about what this might mean but, among the Endless, where lineage is essence, not biology, such boundaries are neither fixed nor relevant. And yet, I do not wish to diminish your view of the world nor would I seek to cause you discomfort.”

You let the last echo of his words fade between you—words spoken with such careful solemnity, as if he had measured every syllable against a thousand years of silence.

You reached for his hand, warm where it pressed to your cheek.

“It’s no problem,” you said gently. “I never knew my father. I never knew any of this. Not when I met you. Not when I fell in love with you.”

Dream’s expression shifted—still grave, but softening at the edges.

“And if it is a relationship you seek with me,” you added, voice trembling just slightly, “then you should know by now that it will be far from conventional. You’re the Lord of Dreams, which is… something I’m still trying to get my head around. Honestly, if you didn’t feel so real, I’d probably think I was hallucinating.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“I’m mortal,” you added. “None of this makes sense right now. So the fact that we’re… apparently related by essence, or whatever you Endless call it—it almost feels trivial compared to everything else.”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, something old and aching.

You reached for his other hand and held them both, anchoring yourself to the only constant in a world that no longer obeyed the laws you once believed in. “You still feel like mine,” you said, your voice trembling like something sacred. “And I want to be with you. In the way it was. The way you promised.”

His gaze did not waver. His eyes, endless and fathomless, held yours with the weight of memory and myth. “You remember the promise?” he asked softly—no demand in the words, only a thread of wonder. And longing. And fear.

“I do now,” you whispered.

At that, Dream bowed his head—not in defeat, but in reverence. As if the act of remembering, of choosing him again, was something holy.

“Then let me fulfill it this time,” he said, his voice deep and low, like wind through ancient halls. “Let me keep it as I could not before.”

Your throat tightened. “You better.”

“I will,” he said again, firmer now, as if repeating the vow aloud might root it more deeply in time itself. “And now that is settled… perhaps we must turn our attention to the demon.”

You didn’t answer at first.

You studied him, the way the light touched his features—how the shadows seemed to lean toward him, as if even the Dreaming itself couldn’t help but reach for him.

“Just to be clear,” you said slowly, “I am safe here, right? Anarazel, or whatever it’s name is… he can’t reach me here?”

He inclined his head. “Not here. He cannot cross into the Dreaming unless I permit it. And I would tear him apart before granting him such trespass.”

You nodded, a small breath of relief catching in your chest. “Good.”

Then your expression shifted—softening into something far more deliberate.

“Then… perhaps,” you said, letting the word hang between you, feather-light but charged, “if I am safe…”

He raised a brow, curious.

“…you could take me to your quarters first. Just for an hour or so,” you added with a hint of mischief. “Before we talk about demons.”

His head tilted. “To my quarters?”

You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “Yes.”

He blinked, visibly puzzled. “Why?”

You stared. “Really?”

He hesitated, then said, genuinely, “I assumed you sought quiet. Or rest. Or… perhaps counsel after what happened to you last night.”

“No,” you whispered as you stepped closer, letting your hands slide gently up his chest—feeling the steady, quiet strength beneath the layers of darkness. You kissed him then, soft at first, then deeper, slower. You lingered until his hands found your waist, holding you like you were both too fragile and too necessary to let go.

When you broke the kiss, you didn’t pull away.

You leaned into the curve of his neck, your lips brushing the hollow just below his ear.

“I want you to make love to me,” you whispered and he stilled.

“Because for months,” you murmured, your voice rich with ache, “I’ve missed you. Even when I didn’t remember you, I wanted you. I felt you in a way I couldn’t explain. I woke up craving you. Reaching for someone who wasn’t there.”

You then teased him by gently biting his ear, causing his breath to catch. “I want to feel your hands again. Your mouth. Your body. I want to remember what it’s like to be yours,” you whispered with desperation and need.

His breath left him—shallow and sharp, as though he’d been struck.

At last, his voice came low, reverent. “My love… if I take you to my quarters now…” he said, “we will not be done in an hour, like you suggested.”

“Even better.”

 You smiled—slow, wicked, certain. And a sound escaped him, low in his throat—somewhere between a breath and a groan.

He cupped your face in both hands, gaze burning with something far deeper than desire.

“You do not know what you ask of me,” he said, his voice a tremble wrapped in thunder. “What I have denied myself. I dreamed of your return and despaired of it. If I take you to my bed, I will not be gentle with my need.”

You pressed closer. “Then don’t be.”

His pupils widened. His fingers twitched.

Then he was still—so still it felt like the world had gone silent around him. Only his hands moved, slowly sliding from your waist to your back, as if grounding himself in the feel of you. His touch trembled, reverent and restrained.

“I want,” you whispered, lifting your eyes to meet his, “you to show me how the King of Dreams makes love.”

His gaze flickered—storm-dark, ocean-deep. But he didn’t speak.

You held your breath, your voice barely audible. “That first night… you were so careful. So gentle. And it was everything I needed it. You made me feel safe. Known. Loved.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though the memory alone could undo him.

“But I want more now,” you went on, fingers curling lightly at the nape of his neck. “I want you. The whole of you. Not just the part of you that holds back for my sake. I want to feel what you feel. Your hunger. The desire you’ve buried for months or centuries even.”

A breath. Then another.

“I want to see what it means,” you whispered, “to be claimed by you.”

“To be claimed by me?” he asked as his eyes opened again, and what you saw there made your heart stutter.

It wasn’t just desire.

It was worship.

It was madness.

It was the night sky split open, spilling stars.

“You are certain?” he asked, and his voice—low and shaking—carried the weight of worlds. “You do not ask lightly. If I allow myself what I want… if I cease to restrain…”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you interrupted him, your hands sliding beneath the folds of his coat, feeling the warmth of him. “I never was. And I know that you will not hurt me.”

His lips parted. His breath hitched.

Something broke then—something silent and invisible. The dam in him gave way.

And the Dreaming itself exhaled.

He reached for you in a rush—his mouth finding yours, his hands pulling you against him like gravity had remembered its purpose. The kiss was no longer slow, no longer tender. It was claiming. It was a shudder that started in the soul.

A pulse of raw energy stirred the air around you—books trembling on the shelves, shadows pulling close as if drawn to your union.

When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper:

“Then come with me,” he said, voice ragged. “And I will show you.”

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug