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Summary: Two of the three Fates don't like the ending that has long been written for Dream of the Endless, and endeavour to change that by bringing him in contact with his soulmate. While such a decision saves Morpheus's life, it also changes everything he thought he knew about the natural order of the universe when he discovers that his soulmate is a mortal.
Word count: 5.6k
A note from the author: I've had this soulmate idea stuck in my head for a very long time, but I worried that I would be unable to write it because it was out of character/I couldn't figure out how to get it to work. Then the first six episodes of season 2 dropped, I saw how much of a yearning, sad, pathetic lover boy Morpheus actually is (thinking specifically of the look he gives Nada when she comes to him in the Dreaming for the first time), and the hesitation on the faces of the Mother and Maiden before Morpheus's string is cut, and went "oh I can work with this."
Not sure yet if this will be a true series with chapters or just a series of one-shots, but there will be more parts (I've already started writing them)! Iâm honestly really nervous to release this just bc of how ambitious it is haha. I so hope you enjoy reading, and would greatly appreciate hearing from you about your thoughts on this!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Official String of Fate playlist
In a pocket realm masquerading as a cottage sit three women of varying ages, each appearing to be about twenty-five or so years older than the woman sitting on her right. The youngest, her tight curls shiny and skin clear of any blemishes, sits next to a spinning wheel and works at coiling her latest yarn into a ball. The next, a woman whose gray streaks and smile lines begin to betray the years she looks to have lived, continues to knit a scarf made of fine, black wool. The last, her white hair and wrinkled skin just barely scratching the surface of how old she truly is, idly pets a calico cat in her lap as she peruses the front page of what looks to be a newspaper.
The women are known by many names. The Gray Ladies. The Kindly Ones. The Fates. Maiden, Mother, and Crone. But at this moment, in this space so sacred to them which exists outside of the jurisdiction of any of the beings that they oversee, they are simply sister-selves.
âThe Oneiromancer gave the key formerly belonging to Lucifer Morningstar to the angels,â the Crone notes blithely, summing up what sheâs been reading.
âWhere it should have been all along,â the Maiden says. âThe Silver City cast Lucifer out in the first place and sent them to oversee Hell. Might as well finally have to clean up their own mess.â
The Mother sighs. âSpeaking of messes, poor Morpheus must have one of his own to clean up after hosting all of those pantheons and realms in his very seat of power.â
ââPoor Morpheus,ââ the Crone mocks, rolling her eyes. âThe last thing any of the Endless need is our pity, but especially him. No, the only thing heâll be receiving from us is what his prophecy foretells.â
Though all three of the Ladies possess powers of Sight, the Crone has a special aptitude for events which have not yet come to pass. She also holds grudges like no other and still bitterly recalls the whole matter with Circe and the Dream Kingâs role in it, and has thus been keeping a particular interest in the length of the scarf currently being knit.
The Maiden, who has a memory longer than most and vividly recalls just how deeply the Sandman loves his son, despite how it may, at times, have looked otherwise, winces just slightly at the reminder of what is coming. Though the action was minute, the Mother, who is perhaps most like the name given to her in that she always wants the best for her âchildren,â notices, as she always does.
âThe oldest battle will begin, andââ the buzzing of a timer in another room cuts the Crone off. âAh! Thatâll be the cookies. One moment, lovies.â
The cat jumps off her lap as she stands from the couch with an agility that one would not expect from someone looking to be the Croneâs age and heads into the kitchen to begin preparing tea.Â
âIâll be sad to see this one end,â the Mother laments, running a hand down the rows of neat stitches. âOur sweet sister-self would call me a softie if she were in here, and maybe itâs true. How can I not be, though? Dream of the Endless is changing, though he once believed that impossible. Itâs slowgoing, of courseââ
âI wouldnât expect anything less from him,â the Maiden notes with a small smile.
âNor I. But there are futures out there where he is given the chance to change fully, futures where he accomplishes a whole lot.â This isnât a mere guess; in the same way that her sisters can keenly recall the past and peer into the future, the Mother sees the potential paths of everybody who walks Destinyâs garden.
It comes to both Maiden and Mother at the same time that neither of them particularly wants to see Dream of the Endlessâs story end in such a way as the Crone has been anticipating.Â
The Maiden glances through the door, where the eldest-presenting of the three has disappeared to the kitchen. âThere isâŚsomething we could do, you know.â
She gravitates towards a cupboard near the window, opening it and beginning to search through what looks to be an infinite supply of yarn until she finds the skein sheâs looking for. After checking the identification tag that every skein carries, so as not to get any mixed up, she hums satisfactorily.
For a species so full of themselves, human mortals only know about five to ten percent of what they would consider to be the Universeâs mysteries. Whatâs waiting for them after death (whatever they decide), if thereâs a god (many), if theyâre the only signs of intelligent life out there (hardly, and itâs a stretch even to call the human race intelligent). Another one of those mysteries is that of love. Is there such a thing as true love, as soulmates? Though they are familiar with the concept, even going so far as to attempt to label their loves as soulmates, they truly do not know if the person they are attaching themselves to is the one meant for them.
If only they knew what almost every other species capable of higher thought does: that soulmates are very real, and finding oneâs is not nearly as much of a guessing game when oneâs senses are heightened. Currently, Morpheus and his soulmate do not meet. While Morpheus dies, his soulmate goes on without ever having any idea of his death. There would be a few relationships before a perfectly normal and loving marriage, but his soulmate would never know the all-consuming love of being fated to someone. Now, howeverâŚ
âOops.â The new yarn is dropped in the Motherâs lap, and sparks emit as it bounces against the other yarn.
The Mother grins, scandalized. âNaughty petal,â she teases.
âQuickly now, before she returns,â the Maiden urges, returning to her seat and becoming very interested in her own project once more.
The Motherâs deft hands go to work, relying on thousands and thousands of years of practice to begin to knit the new yarn into the well-established pattern already created. By the time the Crone returns, there is no feasible way for the yarns to be separated without stepping into one of the few domains they have no power over.
Her outrage and indignation can do nothing now, for the fates of two have been combined into one, and the future has already been set in motion.
â˘â˘â˘
Dream of the Endless is, as he is told that the youth of today say, going through it. A simple family dinner (though is anything truly simple when it involves any of the Endless?) proved to be the catalyst for attempting to reverse one of his most regrettable and shameful decisions, only for his journey to turn into a cosmic fiasco when Lucifer Morningstar abruptly retired and gave him the key to Hell, a key that he neither wanted nor needed. Still, he dutifully oversaw the various pantheons and realms as they each vied for the key, if only to ensure the safety of the woman he originally sought to free.
Although he did not necessarily expect Nada to unilaterally forgive him for what he had done, Morpheus did hope that she would understand the sincerity in his actions at present. The opposite was true. SheâŚstruck him. Dressed him down as though he were a mere child. Still, he offered her what he once did ten thousand years ago, for his love for her had not diminished in those ten thousand years: the chance to rule by his side. The Queen of the First People, always so eloquent with words, turned him down with a barb that cut so deeply, Morpheus wondered if the wound left behind would ever heal.Â
âI wonder if your kind is even capable of love,â she said to him, chin held high and looking every inch the ruler she once was.
Morpheus tried to defend himself, to make her see that he did love, and that he loved her. His efforts were futile, and she cared not what he had to say. She wished him well, ever the diplomat. Then Nada was gone, to see what the Waking had in store for her, leaving behind only devastation and loneliness, those old friends.Â
That was mere hours ago, the Dreaming almost immediately becoming drenched in torrential thunderstorms thereafter. Morpheus made his way to a balcony at the top of the palace, content to let the rain drown him. Lucienne, however, would not stand for it.
âMy Lord,â she said tersely, black umbrella shielding her from the brunt of the storm, âperhaps solace is not the best thing for you right now.â
Perhaps she was right, but Morpheus, who was in no mood to listen to helpful solutions, glowered as he stared off ahead into the distant mountains. âThen what would you suggest?â
She thought for a moment, then sighed. âI am sure Hob Gadling is worried after your last interaction, where you told him that you may miss your next meeting. And he has said that you are always welcome.â
Pride and anger almost have Morpheus shoot the idea down before Lucienne can finish speaking. However, as he thinks about it, he realizes that there might be some merit to her suggestion. Hob Gadling had faced many triumphs and challenges throughout his long (for humans, that is) life, matters of the heart surely being one of those. Might the immortal man have some wisdom for a situation such as this?
Now he sits in the temple Hob had inadvertently created while waiting for his oldest friend to return, the New Inn, hand loosely curled around a stem of red wine that he has not yet touched. While the majority of him wishes still to be drenched in rain, another part appreciates the way that the Waking feels real. The Dreaming is real, of course, but he can manipulate every aspect of his realm. Here, he is master of none, and experiences the sights and sounds of a small pub on a Thursday night as any being would.
Morpheus had not gotten the opportunity to ask Lucienne the question he had been meaning to pose to her before he left the Dreaming. So, here in the Waking, he finds that opportunity. âDo you believe that I am incapable of love?â
From across the table, Hob Gadling cocks his head in thought. âDid the womanâdid Nada say that to you?â
Morpheus nods. âThey were some of her last words to me before sheâŚleft.â
The immortal sits quietly to compose his thoughts, taking a sip of his drink and staring up at the ceiling until the words he believes will comfort the Dreamlord, while also telling the truth, come to him. âSheâs speaking in anger, my friend. You did an objectively bad thing to her, and she has every right to react towards you in whatever way she sees fit. But,â he says quickly, knowing that Morpheus is a breath away from angering, âshe is wrong. Do you not love your realm, the dreams and nightmares that you create? Do you not love the dreamers whom you oversee? Your family, yourâŚfriends?â
None of that is romantic love, of course, but Hob is right, as he so often is. Morpheus does experience love in every one of those instancesâsometimes begrudgingly, but he does love.
âYou speak true, my friend,â Morpheus acknowledges, feeling his sisterâs realm loosen its hold on him just slightly as the shadows of Despair begin to shrink.
Hob grins and opens his mouth to speak, but movement from the front of the pub captures his attention, and he instead waves. A mortal approaches their tableâbraver than most mortals in this pub, who have, so far (as is usually the case when heâs in the Waking), taken one look at the Endless and shied away in fear.
âHey, Rob!â the mortal greets, using a name Hob must be going by in this century.
âNow, my favorite TA wouldnât be taking advantage of my pub to work on homework for my class that you havenât done yet, would you?â he asks.
âIâm your only TA this semester.â The sentence conveys that this is a common line for Hob, who chuckles and waves a hand nonchalantly in the air.
âSemantics!â
âBut to answer your question, a couple of us are meeting up before the history grad studentsâ weekly happy hour to work on our term assignments for Kellerâs Archival Methods class. I would never work on your homework in front of you!â
The mortal looks at Morpheus and winks, letting him in on the secret shared between student and teacher that homework for Hob Gadlingâs classes has absolutely been completed in this building before, and with one quick movement of an eye, Morpheus feels himself come undone.Â
(In that little pocket realm masquerading as a cottage, two of the three Fates giggle and congratulate themselves on their impeccable timing, while the third sulks as she stares into the fire.)
The concept of soulmates is not rare among beings like himself. Indeed, out of all the species capable of higher thought, humans are the only ones who believe it to be a mere myth or fairytale (humans, of course, believe almost everything that they cannot understand is a myth or fairytale, which is why the other specieses donât bother with them the majority of the time). To them, itâs a word one would use to describe the one whom they love most in the hopes that there are some forces of the universe out there steering them towards true love.Â
Most of the gods and goddesses, fae, beings, and creatures of all kinds, who have spoken about it in his presence mention a number of âsignsâ that average humans, with their dulled senses and limited use of brain capacity, miss. Sometimes it is simply a feeling, as though the universe has been tilted off balance the entire time, and meeting oneâs soulmate has righted it. In other cases, electricity seems to spark the first time soulmates touch. Some have known their soulmateâs name before they properly introduce themselves, and others know exactly what their soulmateâs first words to them will be. He has even heard rare tales of seeing the Fatesâ work itself, strings of fate connecting soulmates when theyâre first in proximity.
Morpheus has never doubted the existence of soulmates, nor has he doubted the experiences he has heard. No, what he has always questioned has been the intensity of such a bond. How powerful could true love actually be, to change the life of one so powerful? Surely, a soulmate did not exert that much sway over a being of myth and legend?
He has been in love before, of courseâwith Alianora, with Killala, with Calliope. For a moment, when he rescued Nada from Azazel, he allowed himself to hope that such a second chance was his sign that Nada was his soulmate.
Now, he knows that those loves were pale imitations of the love that one has for a soulmate. A single wink has transformed everything that he thought he knew about life, and where he once saw no future that did not involve taking his sisterâs hand, now, he sees only possibility. Itâs not just a mortal who stands in front of him now, one of seven billion faceless creatures that occupy his realm for a third of their short lives.Â
No, itâs you.Â
Morpheus comes to know your identity immediately by virtue of you being a dreamer, yet he thinks he will not truly be satisfied unless he hears it from you directly. For a brief moment, a black string appears around his wrist, stretching and morphing into a silver one as it loops around your own. Then, itâs gone, leaving behind only the startling realization that Dream of the Endless has met his soulmate.Â
You bid farewell to Hob as Morpheus watches helplessly, uncharacteristically breathless when you, the deity he now worships faithfully, deign to smile his way before leaving. He is a mere planet sucked into the orbit of a bright, shining sun as his eyes follow you across the room, watching as you greet your friends at a large table. When you toss your head back in a laugh while removing a computer from your bag, he regrets that heâs too far away to hear the sound.
âMy friend?â Hobâs voice is the life preserver he needs to pull himself out of the ocean heâs found himself treading through, and finally manages to look away. âIs everything alright?â
Morpheus is unsure. On the one hand, it seems as though he has finally found what he has spent nearly his entire, endless life searching for, right when he had decided that it might be time to stop altogether. On the other hand, the intensity of the bond formingâŚfrightens him. Further, youâre a mortal, which means that he risks once again ending a civilization of humans thanks to his romantic aspirations. Instead of answering Hobâs question, he asks one of his own.Â
âYou have lived a long life,â Morpheus begins, trying desperately not to sound as shaky as he feels. âSurely you have heard of the concept of soulmates?â
Hobâs smile turns soft, wistful. âOf course. Some immortals think that itâs the universe or whoever giving them something to make unending life bearable; others, like myself, are simply romantics who are charmed by the idea of having a love to follow them from life to life. Iâve heard your lot have a much easier time finding soulmates than us regular olâ immortals, that your heightened senses show you things the rest of us canât see.â His brow furrows in thought as he digests the rather odd change in subject. âWhy do you ask? DidâŚdid you believe Nada to be your soulmate?â
Morpheus is relieved that Hob hasnât made the connection between his oldest friendâs sudden odd behavior and the appearance of his student. âYes,â he answers truthfully. âFor a time, I did.â
None of his previous feelings matter anymore, though, now that the answer to his happiness is sitting across the room.Â
âForgive me, Hob, but I must end our meeting sooner than I hoped. There areâŚmatters that I must attend to.â He needs to leave, for if he does not, he fears he may occupy this chair all night and watch you in a manner that would be considered âcreepyâ by todayâs standards.
To his credit, Hob does not act like their meeting is being cut short. âNo worries at all. You know youâre welcome any time.â
âThank you for your hospitality and counsel.â
Morpheus hesitates before leaving, defenseless against fate as his gaze is drawn back to you once more. After a moment, he opens the door to the pub and steps back into his own realm.
The ornate stained glass windows of his throne room do not allow him to see outside. But Morpheus does not require windows to know that the weather has already cleared, from booming thunder, bright lightning, and gale-force winds to clearing clouds and hesitant rays of sunlight beginning to dry the drenched landscape of the Dreaming. His realmâs weather is a direct reflection of his own emotions, and as he staggers to sit on the steps leading up to his throne, hope begins to warm his own waterlogged heart.
A soulmate. He would be lying if he were to say he hadnât ever imagined the possibility of there being someone out there fated for him. Hob Gadling had called himself a romantic when explaining what he knew of the phenomena, and though Morpheus would never use the word to describe himself, he does think it apt. For all that he has been a being so devoted to his duties, he has also longed for someone to share those duties with.
If what he has seen is true, and he truly has become the first of the Endless to have a soulmate, then there is much to consider. There is only one person equipped to help him with this (only one person whose help he wants with this), even if she has never been through such an experience herself, which is how he finds himself in his gallery, staring ahead at the ankh placed in a frame.
âSister,â Morpheus calls. âI must speak with you.â
âHiya, little brother,â Deathâs voice sounds from her sigil after mere seconds. âThis a quick matter?â
âI would prefer that you come through, if you have some time.â Though no day can ever be slow when one is an anthropomorphic personification of a vital universal concept, Morpheus does hope that today, at least, is not busy for his sister.
âI always have time for you,â she says fondly.
One moment, there is nothing but air in front of him. The next, his beloved sister, her trademark smile the antithesis of the all-black ensemble she always sports. Said smile falters when she takes in Morpheusâs affect, likely resembling that of a wounded animal.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Death asks, placing a hand on his arm. âI figured you would be sad after the whole Nada thingââ
Wonderful, Morpheus thinks distantly, word of my rejection has already spread beyond the boundaries of the Dreaming.
ââbut this isâŚnot sadness. Iâve seen you sad before. A lot, actually.â
He tries not to take offense, for he knows that she speaks true.
âYou have,â he agrees. âAnd you are correct.â
âWell, out with it then. Whatâs got you in such a state?â
He has to make an effort to say the words, a part of him worried that it might not be true if he actually voices what heâs just experienced. âIt appears that I haveâŚfound my soulmate.â
Deathâs smile slides off her face in shock before quickly reappearing, somehow wider than before. âShut up!â
Morpheusâs brows furrow as anger rushes through him. âI beg your pardon?â
When she begins to laugh, those thunderclouds that were only just banished begin to build again over the palace. The Endless were never technically children, but at this moment, Morpheus feels every bit the little brother that he is as he perceives his eldest sister to be making fun of him.
âThis is no joke, my sister.â His voice booms through the gallery, making the frames shake just slightly.
âNo, sorry, I didnât mean it in a bad way! You unintentionally quoted a movie, thatâs allâremind me to show you that movie sometime, same actress as the one in Mary Poppins! Iâm simply trying to say how shocked I am.â Deathâs eyes shine as she looks at him. âDream! Your soulmate? Youâre sure?â
âThe string of fate all but confirmed it.â
She squeals, a high-pitched shriek that echoes through his gallery, stopping suddenly when she realizes her merriment is not shared. âWait. Why are you not excited? I thought you would be more excited!â
âIt would appear that my soulmate isâŚmortal.â
Enthusiasm deflates out of her like air being released from a balloon. âOh. Well. That is a problem, isnât it?â
âYes,â he agrees, even though that feels to be a massive understatement. His soulmate being a mortal is more than a problem; itâs a tragedy just waiting to happen.
Deathâs eyes flick around the room before she looks at Morpheus again. âYâknow who would be able to help us with this?â
He knows exactly where sheâs going with this and wants no part in it. âSister, noââ
âDestiny!â
âIt is alright, trulyââÂ
The last thing he needs is another of his siblings involved in this situation, specifically the one who can tell him what he fears to hear, but his words fall on deaf ears as Death stands in front of Destinyâs sigil.
âHello, big brother!â Death runs a finger along Destinyâs frame. âMay we come through?â
The reply is immediate. âYou are both meant to be in my realm at this time.â
âOoh, lucky us.â Death grins and takes Morpheusâs arm so that he cannot escape, stepping into Destinyâs Garden as the fabric between realms gives way upon their eldest brotherâs invitation.
Destiny of the Endless stands before them, looking as he always doesâwearing his robes and carrying his Book, stern and acting as though he carries the weight of many worlds on his shoulders (which is technically true). Out of all of his siblings, Morpheus speaks the least to Destiny, for he knows that there will never be room for a friendly conversation if the Book does not require it.
âDeath. Dream,â Destiny acknowledges with a slight nod. Death darts over to give him a kiss on the cheek, and though he tries his best to keep his face as stonelike as the statues surrounding the garden, his lips still twitch up just slightly at the affection.
âBrother,â Morpheus greets. âNeed I explain the situation to you, or has your Book explained it already?â
âYes, I know what has happened.â
âThen you know that our sister believes you have answers to a number of questions.â
âDo not hide your curiosity behind our sisterâs actions. You also want answers.â
Even though he knows Destiny isnât being malicious by saying it, Morpheus still feels chastised and has to fight the urge to lower his eyes to the ground. âYes,â he says, a little quieter than before, âI do.â
âYour path has stayed the same for centuries now, with little variation.â Destiny opens the Book to a page that must contain Morpheusâs story. âYesterday, that changed.â
He gets the feeling that the debacle with the key to Hell has something to do with his story changing. âI was not supposed to meetâŚâ
Itâs impossible to bring himself to say the word to his brother, to breathe life into his hopes in front of one who could so easily crush them.
âNo. But for reasons that I do not understand and cannot say, forces intervened. The moment that you left the Dreaming, it was providence that you would meet your soulmate.â
Though he knows that he must temper his emotions, that there is still a large part of the equation that has yet to be solved, this confirmation that the string of fate Morpheus saw connecting you to him was not a trick of the eye, that the sudden intensity with which he found himself falling for you was not mere desperation to be loved after crushing rejection, is a gift.Â
âThe first of the Endless to find their soulmate!â Death says beside him, likely almost as happy as he is, simply due to one of her siblings finding happiness. âAnd here I thought that the Fates simply enjoyed being cruel to us because of our power.â
âThere is still the matter of my soulmateâs mortality,â Dream reminds both his sister and himself.
This, he believes, is where the fantasy comes to an end. Death may be pleasantly surprised that the Hecate allowed him a soulmate in the first place, but he worries that their cruelty lies in the linking of his soul to a mortalâs. There will be no falling in love, no learning another in every way that matters. There will be no marriage, no everlasting partnership. No, he will be forced to know that there is someone out there for him, but that making a move would ensure your demise, and likely the demise of many others. He will be forced to watch from afar as you go through life without him, until eventually his chance at true love takes his sisterâs hand and journeys to the Sunless Lands.
âWe are forbidden to love mortals, lest we bring about their ruin.â His voice sounds hollow as he repeats this unwritten law, matching the hollowness that he is soon to feel for the rest of his endless life.
Death smiles sympathetically, but does not seem as heartbroken for him as he might have imagined. âI have a theory, if youâd be willing to hear it?â
Morpheus nods. âBy all means.â
âIâve been thinking about this for a while, honestly, and the past few days have made me consider that there might be some weight behind this idea. Though we, the Endless, all have our different purposes, our main one is to serve humanity. Humans hold quite a lot of power, even if they donât realize it. They decide where they go after they die, and their belief, or lack thereof, gives the gods power. Beings with power like to believe that we have control over humans, but if anything, they have control over us.
âNada and the First People believed that to love an Endless meant devastation for them. Might that be why the First People were wiped out, and not because itâs an unwritten law?â
Morpheus has never considered this, and mulls the possibility over. Desire, specifically, had courted a mortal in order to sire a child in the hopes of Morpheus spilling family blood. Though they did not love Unity Kincaid, he knows from Unityâs own words that she loved her âgolden-eyed manâ very much. Yet there was never the end of a civilization due to her love, nor did there seem to be any natural consequences for such a union.
Is Death right? Has Morpheus been living under a misguided belief all this time?
âDestiny?â Morpheus asks, yet again, afraid to know what his brother might say. âIs she correct?â
âThe Gray Ladies, for all of their aforementioned cruelty and disdain towards us, respect the concept of love; they relish playing matchmaker. It is one of their favorite parts of their function.â
Their other favorite, of course, is when their services as the Kindly Ones are invoked.
Morpheus must uncharacteristically swallow to clear his throat. âSo it is true? I will not bring about the end of modern civilization by pursuing my soulmate?â
Destiny remains silent, and Death whoops excitedly.
âThatâs a yes!â she declares, wrapping an arm around Morpheusâs shoulders and squeezingâthe closest to a hug he typically allows. âThank you. This visit has been everything I hoped it would be.â
âIt is time now for you both to depart,â Destiny responds. Heâs not being rude by ushering his siblings out of his realm; it is simply what the Book demands, and he must follow that steadfastly.
âYes, of course, weâll let you get back to it. Farewell, Destiny!â Death bids, waving once before disappearing through the tear in the veil that will undoubtedly lead back to the Dreaming.
âThank you, brother. Truly.â Morpheus would thank him more profusely than this, but it would be in vain. Destiny knows just how thankful Morpheus truly is.
âDream,â Destiny calls as Morpheus has one foot back in his realm.Â
He turns to look at his older brother, only to see the fond twitch of his lips typically reserved for Death or Delirium directed towards him.
âGood luck.âÂ
It is not the usual foreboding tone of someone who knows what is to come and is merely conveying the necessary information as required by his function. No, these words are sincere, are well wishes that one would give to someone they care greatly about, and he appreciates them all the more as a result.Â
Morpheus nods gratefully, then makes his way through to the Dreaming, where Death stands beaming with her hands clasped in front of her.
âYou have a soulmate,â she breathes, awed.
âI do.â While he knows he should be visibly thrilled, he cannot help but to remain serious as he works to fully digest the information, works through what it actually means for him and his future.
Death notices this, as she always does, and takes his hands in hers. âYou get to be loved, Dream, just like youâve always wanted. Donât be scared of this gift that youâve been given.â
But he is scared. Terrified is a better word to describe how heâs feeling. What if you deny him as Nada has done? What if the gravity of a soulmate bond, of loving one of the Endless, proves too tall a task for you? He could not bear it if his loveâif the reveal of so much beyond the world youâve been raised to knowâwere to cause you fear. He cannot get this wrong, will not get this wrong, yetâŚ
âI know not how to court in this day and age, let alone court a mortal,â he says weakly. It is a flimsy excuse, of course, and one that Death sees right through.
âYouâre asking the wrong being, since itâs been a good two hundred years or so since Iâve been truly involved with anybody. Iâm quite sure that thereâs some information on modern dating ritualsâitâs called dating now, by the way, not courtingâin that ginormous library of yours. Your raven was recently human, too, wasnât he?â
He need not say anything, for they both know the questions are rhetorical. She squeezes his hands softly before releasing them and stepping towards her frame.
âIâve got to get back to work, okay? But please donât doubt yourself. You deserve this! And youâll figure out how you want to approach this situation; you always do.â
Death has always had an unshakable faith in him, even when he does not believe the same of himself. âI appreciate your wisdom, as always, my dear sister.â
âBye, Dream.â She opens her own rift between realms, likely to the Waking. âI expect to hear all about this soulmate of yours when we meet next!âÂ
Then Morpheus is alone, left to his own devices as he tries to figure out where one starts when they first meet their soulmate.
Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch. 8
Chapter 8: (Little Bird)
Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prisonâsilent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past â pieces that may not have been meant to surface.
A/N: YESSS finally some more interactions between little reader and Dream!! Loved, loved, loved getting to this chapter. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did writing it. If you'd like to be added to the taglist just let me know in the comments or send me a message, loves. Thanks again!đđ
MASTERLIST
Day by day, you read to him. Sometimes he would close his eyes and breathe in the rhythm of your voice; other times, he would stare at you until you were interrupted by a loud yawn from a guard, prompting you to whisper, "âTil next time." You often wondered if he truly listened or if he even understood the words, but you liked to think he did. It made you feel as though you were making his involuntary stay a little less miserable with your presence alone.
You had grown careless. Enraptured in your stories, you had missed the soft clink of a cane on the stone steps and the dark figure of a man watching you from behind the stone pillar every night. The guards never paid you any mind, and you were always careful to be tucked in bed by the time Mr. Sykes passed by your room with your nightly mug of honey milk.
But tonight was different. You were lying on your stomach, your chin propped up by your hands, kicking your heels back and forth as you read from a weathered book of Greek myths. Inside the glass, the King of Dreams had done something he had never done before. He had lowered himself to the floor, mirroring you perfectlyâlying on his stomach, his pale chin resting on his thin arms, his starlit eyes level with yours. It was the closest you had ever felt to him. A silent, glass-walled slumber party between a girl and a god.
You were just reaching the part where Herakles escapes the underworld when the air in the cellar turned freezing.
"A touching scene," a voice rasped, dripping with malice.
You scrambled to sit up, the book thudding against the floor. Roderick Burgess stepped out of the shadows, his silver-headed cane clicking sharply against the concrete. The ruby at his throat pulsed with a rhythmic, angry light.
"Mr. Burgess!" you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat.
"I have watched you for three nights now," he said, stepping into the circle of light. He looked down at the prisoner, his lip curling in a sneer. "In all the years I have kept him, he has never moved for me. He has never mirrored a human soul. And yet, for a child and a book of fairy tales, he humbles himself to the dirt."
Dream didn't move. He remained on his stomach, but his gaze shifted from you to Burgess, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.
"Tell me, girl," Burgess hissed, reaching down to grab your arm, hauling you to your feet. "What has he said to you?âÂ
"He hasn't said anything!" you cried, wincing as his grip tightened. "We just... we just spend time together. Please, let me go, youâre hurting me!"
"Do not lie to the Magus!" Burgess roared. He shoved you toward the glass, right against the edge of the seal. "If he won't speak to me, perhaps he will speak to you.â
He fixed a cold stare on the glass sphere, his voice echoing with a terrifying authority. "Return my son and grant me the immortality I am due, or offer me a tribute of equal valueâotherwise, I can no longer guarantee that the girlâs stay under my roof will remain... comfortable."
The fear that had been holding your tongue suddenly vanished, replaced by a white-hot spark of protective rage. You squirmed out of his grip and looked at the man who treated his own son like a servant.
"He won't tell you anything because you're a bully!" you screamed, trying to pull away. "You're a mean, greedy old man who just wants to hurt him!â
The silence that followed was terrifying. Burgessâs face went from pale to a mottled, violent purple. His eyes widened, his nostrils flaring.
"You forget yourself, you little brat," he whispered.
CRACK
The slap came so fast you didn't see it. The back of his hand cracked across your cheek with enough force to send you spinning. Your head slammed into the stone pillar behind you, and for a second, the world went black. When your vision cleared, your face felt like it had been branded with a hot iron.
Inside the globe, Dream didnât move to stand. He stayed low to the floor, calculated, refusing to give Burgess the satisfaction of a struggle that might put you in further danger, but his gaze was a death sentence. While his body remained still, his eyes went utterly darkâthe blue depths vanishing into two endless, starless voids of pure cosmic fury. The very shadows in the cellar seemed to crawl toward the glass, responding to a rage that felt like it could level the mansion.
You ran blindly, the corridors of the mansion blurring into a smear of dark wood and flickering candlelight. The sobbing breaths caught in your throat, tasting like salt and the metallic tang of the blood inside your cheek. You just wanted the safety of your blankets, the comfort of the dark where no one could look at you with greed or strike you with hatred.
As you rounded the corner toward your room of the house, you crashed headlong into something solid and warm.
"Oofâsteady now, steady!"
A silver tray clattered, the heavy ceramic mug of your nightly honey milk wobbling precariously but staying upright in a pair of steady, aged hands. You recoiled, a small cry escaping your lips as you shielded your face, expecting another blow.
"(Y/N)?" It was Mr. Sykes. He stood there, his brow furrowed in confusion, the steam from the milk rising between you. But as the light from a nearby sconce hit your face, his expression shifted from surprise to a grim, weary horror. "Oh, child. Dear girl, look at me."
He set the tray down on a side table with a trembling hand and reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from your face. He didn't have to ask who had done it. There was only one man in this house with the temper and the cruelty to leave a mark like that on a guest.
"Come," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of pity and fear. "Into your room. Quickly now, before anyone sees."
He guided you inside and shut the door softly, leaning his back against it for a moment as if to bar the rest of the world out. You sank onto the edge of your bed, your small frame shaking with the aftershocks of the cellar.
Sykes moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency. He disappeared into your washroom and returned with a basin of cool water and a clean linen cloth. He pulled up a chair, his joints creaking, and began to gently dab at the corner of your mouth where the skin had split.
"It's... it's my fault," you hiccuped, flinching as the cool water hit the heat of the bruise. "I called him a bully. I told him he was mean."
Sykes let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest. "You spoke the truth, little one. But the Magus has never had much use for the truth. Especially when it comes from someone with a heart as soft as yours."
He wrung out the cloth and folded it, pressing it firmly but gently against your swelling cheek. The cold was a blessing, dulling the rhythmic throb that had begun to make your head ache.
"You mustn't go down there anymore, (Y/N)," he said, his eyes searching yours with an earnest, desperate plea. "He is a dangerous man, and that... thing in the basement... it brings out the worst in him. Promise me you'll stay in your room tomorrow. Let the swelling go down. If your father saw you like this..."
He trailed off, the weight of the secrets he kept for Roderick Burgess visible in the deep lines around his mouth. He picked up the mug of honey milk and pressed it into your hands.
"Drink this. It has a little something to help you sleep. No dreams tonight, hopefully. Just rest."
He patted your knee one last time before gathering the basin and the soiled cloth. "Iâll tell the maids youâre feeling unwell and aren't to be disturbed. Sleep now, child."
He slipped out as quietly as he had entered, leaving you alone in the dim room. You huddled under the covers, clutching the warm mug, the silence of the room feeling louder than the Magusâ yells in the basement. Your cheek burned, a physical reminder of the Magus's shadow, and as you drifted into a heavy, medicated sleep, your last thought was of the dark, star-filled eyes that had watched you fall.
The tea Sykes had brought was long cold, the honey settled in a sticky, amber pool at the bottom of the cup. You curled onto your side, pressing the unbruised side of your face into the pillow, but the silence of the room was too loud. It allowed the thoughts youâd been running from all day to finally catch up.
âPapaâ, you thought, a fresh hot tear escaping and soaking into the pillowcase.
You could almost see his face, the way his forehead crinkled when he was worried, the way he always smelled like old books and pipe tobacco. If he saw your face now, if he saw the purple shadow of the Magusâs hand on his little girl, he would be terrified. Heâd be so angry. Heâd pack your trunks in the middle of the night and whisk you away from this cold, grey house before the sun even rose.
The thought of leaving should have been a relief, but it felt like a lead weight in your chest. If you left, youâd never see Alex again. Poor, quiet Alex, who lived in his fatherâs shadow and tried so hard to be brave. But more than that...
Your thoughts drifted down, past the floorboards, past the heavy stone foundations, into the damp dark of the cellar.
If you left, who would read to him? Who would tell him about the birds in the garden or read to him? The Magus only wanted to take things from himâhis secrets, his power, his dignity.Â
The image of him lying on his stomach to match your height flashed in your mind. He had looked so human for a second. So tired. A small, hiccuping sob shook your shoulders. You were just a little girl, and he was... something else. Something ancient. But the way he had looked at you after the slap, the way his eyes had gone dark with a rage that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world, haunted you.
âHe was angry for meâ, you realized, your eyelashes damp and heavy. He couldn't move, and he couldn't speak, but he wanted to stop it.
You wondered if he was sitting there now, staring at the empty space where you usually knelt. You wondered if he missed the sound of your voice. As sleep finally began to pull at your limbs, heavy and grey, you felt a crushing sense of guilt. You had promised him you weren't afraid, and then you had run away.
"I'm sorry," you whispered into the dark, your voice a mere breath. "I'll come back. I promise I'll come back."
You drifted off then, the pain in your cheek fading into a dull hum, your last conscious thought a prayer that your father would never find out, because the idea of leaving that man alone in the dark was more frightening than any slap the Magus could ever give.
The morning sun was too bright. It spilled across your duvet in mocking, golden ribbons, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. You groaned, shifting beneath the covers, but the movement sent a sharp, rhythmic throb through the left side of your face.
When you finally gathered the courage to slide out of bed and look in the vanity mirror, you winced. The bruise had blossomed into a deep, ugly plum color, stretching from your cheekbone down to your jaw, your cheek swollen and puffy. It looked like a permanent shadow, a mark of your "disobedience."
A soft, rhythmic knock at the door made you flinch.
"Itâs only me, lass," Mr. Sykesâs muffled voice came from the other side. "Iâve brought some tea and a bit of toast."
You hurried to the door and turned the lock, pulling it open just a crack. Sykes looked tiredâolder than he had the night before. He carried a silver tray, the steam from the teapot curling into the cool morning air. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped in, his eyes immediately finding the mark on your face.
He let out a heavy, weary sigh. "Sit yourself down, darling. Let's have a look at you."
You sat on the edge of the unmade bed, clutching a pillow to your chest like a shield. Sykes set the tray on the nightstand and reached out, his thumb gently hovering near the edge of the bruise.
"The swelling's set in," he murmured, his voice thick with a guilt he couldn't quite hide. "Iâve brought some cold cream. Itâll take the sting out and help hide the color if you have to go out.â
"Is... is he angry?" you asked, your voice small and raspy from crying. "Mr. Burgess?"
Sykes paused, his hand shaking slightly as he poured the tea. "Heâs in his study. Locked away with his books and that ruby of his. Heâs in a foul temper, but heâs not looking for you. Heâs frustrated that the prisoner still won't give him what he wants, even after... well, after last night."
Sykes handed you the teacup, his fingers lingering on yours for a supportive second. "I told the house staff youâve caught a nasty chill and aren't to be disturbed. You stay up here today. Read your books. Hide away for a bit."
"I left my book downstairs," you whispered, remembering the volume of Greek myths lying abandoned on the cold cellar floor. "The one with Greek myths."
Sykesâs expression softened into something truly pained. "Iâll fetch it for you later, when the guards are changing shifts. No one will notice." He sat in the small armchair by the window, watching you take a hesitant sip of the tea. "You shouldn't have gone down there, (Y/N). Not because you did anything wrong, but because men like Roderick... "
You looked down into the swirling amber liquid of your tea. You wanted to tell him that the "prisoner" had a name, but the secret felt heavy and precious, like a diamond you had to keep hidden in your palm.
"Iâm sorry you have to stay here, Mr. Sykes," you said softly.
He gave a dry, hollow laugh and looked out at the rolling English countryside. "We all have our cages, lass. Mine is just made of old debts and bad choices. Yours shouldn't be."
He stood up, smoothing his waistcoat. "Eat your toast. Iâll be back at noon to check on you. If you need anythingâanything at allâyou ring that bell, you hear?"
You nodded, offering him a small, weak smile. As he closed the door and the lock clicked back into place, the room felt suddenly very quiet.
You touched your cheek, the skin feeling tight and warm. You wondered if he was still angry on your behalf, or if he was just as lonely as you were, tucked away in your separate cages, waiting for the world to change.
The next night, the bruise was a deep, ugly violet that stretched from your cheekbone to your jaw. You had stayed in your room and played cards with Mr. Sykes during the day, but now, in the darkness of the cellar, you let it show. You had to come back. You had to know if he was okay.
The guards were whispering, looking at the glass with wide, frightened eyes. The atmosphere in the basement felt electric, as if a storm were held captive behind the stone walls.
You knelt by the glass, your breath hitching. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears. "I shouldn't have been so loud. I shouldn't have made him angry at you."
Suddenly, a voice echoed.
It wasn't a sound, not really. It was like a vibration in the back of your skull, a resonance that felt like the tolling of a great, silver bell under the sea. It was deep, cool, and carried the weight of a billion years.
âLittle one.â
You jumped, nearly falling backward, your eyes darting around the empty shadows. "Who's there? Alex? Is that you?"
âDo not look to the shadows. Look at me.â
Your head snapped toward the glass. Dream was sitting perfectly still, his back straight, his eyes locked onto yours. His lips were pressed together, unmoving, yet the voice in your head was clearly his. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing you had ever heard.
"You..." you breathed, your hand flying to your mouth. "You're talking? In my head?"
âI am the King of Dreams and Nightmares. The mind is my kingdom,â the voice vibrated, softening as his gaze landed on your bruised face. âAre you... alright?â
The sheer impossibility of it made your head spin. You stared at him, seeing the way the stars in his eyes seemed to swirl with a sudden, sharp concern.
"I-I'm fine," you stammered, your fingers ghosting over the bruise. "It doesn't hurt that much anymore. I was just worried about you."
A strange, flickering shadow of an expression crossed his faceâsomething that might have been a smile, if the slight quirk of his lips counted as such.
âYou should not have returned,â he whispered into your thoughts, the voice sounding like the rustle of dry leaves. âIt is dangerous. The Magus is a man of small soul and great cruelty.â
"I couldn't leave you alone," you said firmly, plopping down onto the floor. "I promised I'd finish the story."
There was a long silence. You felt a gentle warmth spread through your mind, a sensation like being tucked into a soft, velvet blanket on a cold night.âThen read, little bird,â he said, and you could almost feel the phantom touch of a hand against your hair. âI am listening.â
đ§ŠOf Dandelions and Promises: Part 1 I Part 2 (completed) - Torn apart after spending years at the orphanage together, you come to realize that fate has a funny way of making things right again.
Dazai Osamu
đđ§¸The Handler (platonic! headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.
đđ§¸Like Old Times (platonic! headcanons *technically a pt. 2 to The Handler*) - you're the mediator friend, and one of those idiots just abandoned you.
đ§¸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europeâwith broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.
đđ§¸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that youâre stuck with each other.
đđ§¸I Know It's Over (plantonic! songfic oneshot) - Sometimes, all it takes is a record, a cup of tea, and two chaotic constants to remind you youâre not as alone as you feel. I KNOW IT'S OVER (THE SMITHS)
Yukichi Fukuzawa
đđ§¸Always in the Middle (platonic! oneshot) - after years of rivalry, a shared threat forces both Fukuzawa, Mori, and their respective agencies to join forces, much to the relief of their long-time friend and partner.
Chuuya Nakahara
đ§ŠWhiskey Eyes: Part 1 I Part 2 (completed) - Chuuya stumbles home piss-drunk in the dead of night. Safe to say, you were both in for a really long night.
đ§¸Grow Light (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya comforts you when you're gloomy on rainy days.
đ§¸Cheating Gravity (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya indulges your rain-loving whims.
đđ§¸The Handler (headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.
đđ§¸Like Old Times (headcanons *technically a pt. 2 to The Handler*) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots, and one of those idiots just abandoned you.
đ§¸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europeâwith broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.
đđ§¸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that youâre stuck with each other.
đđ§¸I Know It's Over (plantonic! songfic oneshot) - Sometimes, all it takes is a record, a cup of tea, and two chaotic constants to remind you youâre not as alone as you feel. I KNOW IT'S OVER (THE SMITHS)
Ougai Mori
đ§¸Missed a Spot (oneshot) - You help your husband shave after a long day.
đđ§¸Camellia Kisses (oneshot Hanahaki AU!) - Youâve been at Ougai Moriâs side since you were nineteen, first as his assistant and now as a trusted executive. But for years, youâve harbored a dangerous secret â an unspoken love for him thatâs begun to manifest in a deadly condition: Hanahaki Disease.
đđ§¸Always in the Middle (platonic! oneshot) - after years of rivalry, a shared threat forces both Fukuzawa, Mori, and their respective agencies to join forces, much to the relief of their long-time friend.
đđ§¸Whispered Names (oneshot) - A quiet cafĂŠ, a tired doctor, and a coffee shop owner with an ability. When you enter Moriâs dreams to offer comfort, you uncover the truth behind his nightmaresâand who he really is.
Edgar Allan Poe
đ§¸Chamomile and Conditioner (oneshot) - Poe is deep in one of his dramatic writing spirals, and you gently bully him back into reality.
đ§ŠLove Me Like the End is Coming: Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch.8- After you help Dream escape from his glass prison in the Burgess mansion, you become a close friend of the King of Dreams, unveiling mysteries about your past along the way. Slowly, your bond deepens and becomes something more.
đ§ŠLittle One (platonic!): Part 1 I Part 2 (completed)- Dream´s younger sister gets captured by Rodrick Burgess. He simply won't stand for that.
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Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch.8
Chapter 7: (White Pebble)
Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prisonâsilent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past â pieces that may not have been meant to surface.
A/N: Sorry for how long it's taken me to upload! I'm going to try to be better about it, especially now that s2 came out. Hope you enjoy!!â¤ď¸
MASTERLIST
The weight of the mansion felt heavier the next day, as if the stones themselves were leaning in to listen to your footsteps. You had tried to stay away from the cellar when Mr. Burgess was home, truly you had, but the memory of those starlit eyes filled with that shred of hope you saw the night before just fueled your need to go talk to him.Â
Before you could even think of sneaking away, you ran into the Magus in the long, portrait-lined hallway on the way out of your bedroom. Roderick Burgess looked taller than usual, his shadow stretching out like a dark stain across the carpet.
"A word, (Y/N)," he said, his voice smooth but cold, like a frozen lake. He placed a hand on your shoulder, his fingers pressing just a little too firmly into your skin. "Iâve noticed youâve been wandering. This is a large house, full of history... and certain secrets that are not meant for children."
He leaned down, the smell of old paper and bitter herbs clinging to him. "The lower levels are off-limits. The man downstairs you saw during the ritual with Alex is an extremely dangerous and unstable individual. It would be a terrible shame if I had to tell your father that you were... troublesome. Do you understand?" His hand squeezed your shoulder.Â
You nodded quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yes, Mr. Burgess."
"Good child," he murmured, patting your cheek with a hand that felt like dry parchment. "You may go play with Alex."
---
By 5:00 PM, the atmosphere in the house was suffocating. Alex had just been scolded again, his fatherâs voice echoing through the floorboards: âYouâll never be like your brother. Stop being a nuisance!â
A soft knock came at your door. When you opened it, Alex was standing there, his shoulders hunched and his expression so dejected it made your chest ache. You didn't even have to ask. You grabbed the book youâd been "borrowing" from your fatherâs library, a dusty old thing with retellings about Orpheus and Eurydice, and nudged Alex toward the stairs.
"Let's go to the gardens," you whispered. "The air is better out there."
The garden was a sprawling maze of manicured hedges and stone statues. You and Alex sat on the grass near a moss-covered cherub, absentmindedly sorting through colorful pebbles you found in the walkway. Alex talked in low, hushed tones about the latest dramaâhow more "important" people were coming to the mansion to see the Magus, and how his father looked at him like he was a pest.
But your attention kept drifting.
The morning sun filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the Burgess mansion, casting long, dusty fingers across the breakfast table. You poked at your porridge with a silver spoon, the metal clinking rhythmically against the porcelain. You hadn't slept much; your head was still full of the way heâthe man in the glassâhad looked at you last night. The way the names of his brothers and sisters had seemed to pull him toward the glass like a magnet.
"Youâre quiet today, (Y/N)," Roderick Burgessâs voice cut through the silence like a dull blade.
You looked up, startled. The Magus was sitting at the head of the table, hidden behind a copy of the morning paper, but his cold, blue eyes were visible over the top of the pages. He wasn't looking at the news; he was looking at you.
"Just thinking, sir," you said softly, trying to keep your voice from trembling.
Roderick set the paper down slowly. The ruby glowed a deep, angry red against his dark waistcoat, reflecting in his eyes. "Thinking is a fine thing for a guest. But Iâve noticed youâve developed a certain⌠curiosity. Especially regarding the lower levels of my home."
Beside you, Alex tensed, his own spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He looked at his father with a familiar, flickering fear.
"The cellar is a damp, dangerous place, (Y/N)," Roderick continued, his voice dropping to a low, smooth purr that didn't feel friendly at all. "The stairs are steep, the air is foul, and it is full of shadows and things that don't belong in the light. It would be a shame if a young girl like yourself were to have an accident down there. Or if I had to tell your father that his daughter couldn't follow simple house rules."
He didn't raise his voice, but the threat was there, heavy as the stone floorboards beneath you. He was telling you, without saying the words, that he knew youâd been there. You swallowed hard, the porridge feeling like a lump of clay in your throat.
"I understand, sir," you whispered.
"Good. See that you do." He snapped his paper back up, dismissing you both.
Later that afternoon, the air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and turning leaves. You and Alex were out in the sprawling, overgrown gardens, trying to fly a kite that refused to catch the breeze. Alex looked tired, the shadows under his eyes matching the ones youâd seen on the man in the basement.
"He's just cranky because the man won't talk," Alex mumbled, tugging fruitlessly on the kite string. "Father thinks if he stares at him long enough, he'll just give in. He doesn't like it when things don't obey him."
You didn't answer. Your attention was caught by something on a stone cherub nearby. Perched atop the moss-covered statue was a raven. It was magnificent, its feathers shimmering with an iridescent blue-black sheen that reminded you of the ink-wash sky in your dreams. It wasn't flying away or searching for worms. It was simply watching you, its head tilted with a strange, unnerving intelligence.
"Alex!" you hissed, pointing a finger towards the bird. "Look."
"What is it?" he asked, wiping a smudge of dirt from his forehead.
"Is that the bird? The one from the night of the ritual? The one that tried to stop your father?"
Alex squinted at the raven, his face paling. The bird let out a soft, intelligent craw and hopped down from the statue, landing on the grass just a few feet away from you. It tilted its head, its dark, bead-like eye fixed on yours. It didn't feel like a normal bird; it felt like a sentinel, a guardian who had been waiting for you to notice her.
"It looks like it," Alex whispered, sounding a bit spooked. He took a half-step back. "Fatherâs been trying to have the groundskeeper shoot it for months, but he can never quite do it. The gun jams, or the bird vanishes. Father hates that bird."
You felt a strange pull toward the creature. You reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against a small, smooth white pebble youâd picked up from the driveway earlier. It was perfectly round and milky, like a tiny fallen moon.
"It's okay," you murmured, crouching down so you wouldn't seem so tall. "I won't hurt you."
âWait, birds like shiny things, right? Or was it raccoons? I donât have any food, but maybe...â
The raven hopped closer, its talons clicking against the stray stones in the grass. It didn't show a flicker of fear. You held out your palm, the white pebble sitting in the center. The raven looked at the stone, then back at you, and for a second, you felt a weird tingle in your brainâlike a whisper you couldn't quite hear.
With a quick, graceful movement, the raven leaned forward and picked up the pebble. Its beak was surprisingly gentle, barely grazing your skin. Before you could get the chance to stare at the gorgeous bird any further, she took flight, her wings beating powerfully against the autumn air. She was gone in an instant, heading toward the back of the mansion where the cellar windows were hidden by ivy.
The warning from the Magus stayed in the back of your head, a cold echo of "accidents" and "house rules," but it wasn't strong enough to keep you away. You felt like a moth drawn to a very dark, very beautiful flame.
That night, when the house was silent and the moon was hidden behind a veil of clouds, you found yourself back in the cold, damp air of the cellar. You moved like a shadow, slipping past the guards who were distracted by a shared flask of something that smelled like burnt sugar.
But when you reached the glass ball, you stopped dead. Your heart skipped a beat.
There, resting just outside the glass, tucked against the edge of the lead-lined seal, was the white pebble. The same milky, moon-white stone you had given the raven in the garden.
You looked up at the globe, your breath catching. Dream wasn't sitting with his regal, cold posture tonight. He wasn't looking at the ceiling or glaring at the walls.
He was lying down.
His long, pale frame was curled slightly on the floor of the glass globe, his head resting on his arm. He looked small, vulnerable in a way that made your throat tight. The "oceans of blue" in his eyes were half-lidded, staring vacantly at the smudge you had made on the glass the night before. He looked like he was fading, like a drawing being slowly rubbed out by an eraser.
You sank to your knees, pressing your hands against the cold surface near the pebble.
"Are you tired?" you whispered, your voice cracking. "I... I brought my book. Itâs about a man who went into the dark to find someone he loved. Orpheus. He was a singer, and he was very brave, but he was very sad, too."
At the sound of your voice, his fingers twitched against the glass floor. Slowly, with an effort that seemed to cost him everything, he turned his head to look at you. He didn't move to sit up, but the way he looked at you was different tonight, less like a predator watching a curious animal, and more like a drowning man looking at the shore.
His eyes drifted down to the white pebble sitting by your hand, and then back to your face.
"I saw your friend today," you continued,sitting criss-cross in your usual spot, trying to share some of your warmth with him. "The bird. She brought my gift to you, didn't she? Sheâs still waiting for you in the garden."
A faint, almost imperceptible ripple went through his expression. His jaw tightened, and for a split second, the air inside the basement felt less heavy, charged with a sudden, flickering spark of something that felt like gratitude.
He didn't speak, he couldn't, but he watched you with a raw intensity as you opened your book. You stayed there for hours in the dark, reading the story of the man who looked back, while the King of Dreams lay in his cage, listening to every word as if it were the only thing keeping him from vanishing into nothingness
Morpheus POV
The stone was a small, pale moon against the grime of my cage.
I looked at it until my vision blurred, the white pebble a silent testament that I was not entirely forsaken. Jessamy. My faithful, soaring shadow. She had risked everything to bring a piece of the girlâs kindness to my very feet. It was a gift of hope, and in this wretched basement, hope was a blade that cut deeper than any glass.
I lay upon the cold floor, the weight of a century pressing into my bones. My realm was crumbling, my people scattered, and Iâthe Shaper of Dreamsâwas reduced to a flickering candle in a drafty tomb. Every breath was an effort. Every heartbeat was a reminder of what I had lost.
Then, the girl returned.
She moved like a soft breeze through the stagnant air, her voice a sudden, bright melody that pierced the grey fog of my exhaustion. I did not have the strength to sit, to maintain the mask of the distant King. I could only turn my head, my cheek resting against the cold floor, and watch her.
"I brought my book," she whispered, her face pressed near the glass. "Itâs about a man who went into the dark to find someone he loved. Orpheus."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Orpheus. My son.
The memory of himâof his beautiful, tragic stubbornness, of the blood on the snow and the song that had once moved even the cold heart of Hadesârushed over me. A wave of ancient, suffocating grief threatened to pull me under. I had failed him. I had been the father of stone, and he had paid the price in a darkness far deeper than this cellar...
"And he was so brave!" her voice chirped, sharp and sweet, cutting right through the jagged edges of my memory. "I mean, can you imagine? Going all the way down into the scary basement of the world just to say 'I love you'?"
I blinked, my dark thoughts faltering. She was smiling, her eyes wide with a simple wonder that I had forgotten existed. To her, the tragedy was an adventure. To her, the descent wasn't a failure of prideâit was an act of courage.
"The King of the Dead must have been very grumpy," she continued, leaning closer until her breath fogged the glass. "But Orpheus didn't care! He just played his music. I bet it sounded like stars. Don't you think so, Mr. Dream? I think he was the best singer ever."
I looked at her, truly looked at her. She saw the light where I saw only the shadows of my own making. I wanted to tell her that the story ended in blood and silence. I wanted to tell her that love was a trap and that Orpheus was a fool who couldn't help but look back.
"And even though he looked back," she whispered, her voice softening as if she were telling me a secret, "I think he was happy for a second. Because he got to see her face one last time. And thatâs better than never seeing her at all, right? Itâs a happy story, really, because they loved each other that much."
The bitterness in my throat settled. Her innocence was a shield. She spoke of my greatest regret as if it were a bedtime story meant to soothe a restless child.
I did not sit up. I did not speak. But as she began to read, her voice steady and warm against the backdrop of my long, cold night, the image of Orpheus shifted in my mind. For the first time in an age, I didn't see the severed head or the grieving father. I saw the boy who sang.
The girlâs presence was a small, steady flame. And for the first time since my capture, the darkness of the cellar didn't feel quite so infinite. I closed my eyes, listening to her voice, and let the story of my son carry me away from the pain of the present.
Summary: Sometimes Steve needs someone who looks after him too.
A/N: Oh wow it's been a minute. I'm really sorry I just kind of disappeared, life's been crazy...but I'm back! I got back into my Stranger Things craze with the new seasonâno, I did not like s5âSO! I decided to make a short little Steve tidbit of the end of s4. Enjoy loves!!đ
MASTERLIST
The air in the Hawkins High gym was thick with the smell of industrial cleaner and unwashed sleeping bags. Steve sat on the edge of a bleacher, his head in his hands, until he felt a pair of soft, familiar hands settle on his shoulders.
"Hey, big guy," you whispered, your voice a soothing balm against the jagged edges of his nerves. You leaned down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to his temple. "Youâve been staring at that floor for twenty minutes. The floor is fine. I need to know if you are."
Steve let out a long breath, leaning back into your touch. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," you teased gently, sliding around to sit beside him. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a slightly crushed chocolate bar, a rare treasure in a town under siege. "Found this in the back of the pantry."
Steve cracked a real smile then, the kind that reached his eyes.
"You're too good to me, Y/N. Truly. I don't know what I did to deserve the girl who finds chocolate in a literal apocalypse."
"You carried Henderson through a gate on your back, Steve," you reminded him softly, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. "I think that earns you at least a snack."
"Hey! No fair! Is that Hersheyâs?"
The moment of quiet was shattered as Dustin, Mike, and Lucas skidded to a halt in front of you. Dustin looked particularly indignant, his hat crooked and his face smudged with soot.
"Steveâs an injured soldier, Henderson," you said, your voice full of playful warmth as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "He needs the glucose for recovery. You guys look like you have plenty of energy."
"Weâve been mapping the perimeter for three hours!" Dustin argued, though his eyes softened when you reached out and straightened his hat for him. "And Steve hasn't even checked our work yet."
Steve groaned, though there was no heat in it. "Dustin, Iâm sure your map is beautiful. Did you use the multi-colored highlighters?"
"The situation calls for color-coding, Steve! Itâs tactical!" Dustin turned to you, his expression shifting to one of exaggerated pleading.
"Y/N, tell him. Tell him we need him to look at the coordinates for the 'phase two' sweep."
You looked at Steve, then back at the boys. You reached out and gave Lucasâs arm a supportive squeeze and patted Mikeâs shoulder. "Tell you what. Steve is going to finish his chocolate, and Iâm going to make sure his bandages are clean. If you guys go get some actual food from the mess hallâreal food, not just crackersâweâll meet you at the 'war table' in twenty minutes. Deal?"
The boys exchanged looks.
"Sheâs much more reasonable than you, Harrington," Lucas noted.
"Sheâs also the only reason heâs still standing," Mike added with a smirk.
"Out! Go!" Steve shooed them away, but he was grinning. As they ran off, shouting at each other about who got to mark the next locations, Steve turned back to you. He looked tired, yes, but the shadows under his eyes didn't seem quite so dark.
"You're a saint," he sighed, reaching out to take your hand. He traced the lines of your palm with his thumb, his gaze turning intense and sweet. "They listen to you more than they listen to me. I think Iâm losing my authority."
"You never had authority, honey," you joked, leaning in to rest your head on his shoulder. "You just had a bat with nails and a lot of heart. They love you. I love you. Weâre just trying to keep you in one piece."
Steve pulled you closer, kissing the top of your head. "In that case⌠I think I can handle twenty more minutes of 'tactical color-coding' as long as you're sitting next to me."
"Always," you promised, squeezing his hand. "Now, let's go see those maps before Dustin starts a revolution."
Heyy, I was wondering if you can write a fluffy one shot for Akutagawa x fem!reader? One where their already in a relationship and reader and Akutagawa are on a mission and the reader gets injured?
(You can switch things up if you want đ¤)
The Rabid Dog's Failed Attempt at Bread I Akutagawa Ryunosuke x Reader
Summary: Akutagawa wrestles with his crippling domestic ineptitude in an effort to look after you after you get hurt on a mission.
A/N: To the wonderful reader who requested this six months ago⌠I?, so so so sorry for the delayđ! Life intervened, but I promise the wait was worth it for the amount of soft, grumpy Akutagawa I got to squeeze in here. Thank you so much for the patience and the fantastic prompt! I hope you enjoy watching Ryunosuke grapple with a frying pan as much as he grapples with his feelings, love! đđ
MASTERLIST
The walk back to the safehouse was silent, but it wasnât the brooding silence of a predator stalking prey. It was the brittle, suffocating silence of a panic attack barely contained.
Akutagawa refused to let you walk. The moment the threat was neutralized and he saw the blood soaking through the sleeve of your white blouse, Rashomon had wrapped around you like a protective cocoon, lifting you effortlessly. But halfway back, he had dismissed the ability and gathered you into his actual arms, needing the tactile proof of your weight against his chest.
He kicked the door of the apartment open, his breathing raggedânot from exertion, but from the constriction in his lungs.
"Ryu, please," you whispered, your head resting against the rough fabric of his cravat. "Youâre trembling."
"I am not," he lied, his voice cracking.
He carried you straight to the bathroom, setting you down on the edge of the tub with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. The harsh fluorescent light washed over him, highlighting the sheer terror in his pale eyes. He looked younger like this. Stripped of his composure, his hair messy, his eyes wide and searching.
He knelt between your legs, his hands hovering over your injured arm. He didn't touch you yet. He just stared at the red fabric, his fingers twitching.
"I should have killed him sooner," he rasped, the self-hatred dripping from every syllable. "I was... arrogant. I looked away for one second to clear the path, and heâ" He cut himself off with a wet cough, covering his mouth.
"Hey." You reached out with your good hand, taking his wrist. His skin was ice cold. "Look at me."
He didn't want to. He looked at the floor, at the tiles, anywhere but your face.
"Ryunosuke."
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. The misery in his expression broke your heart.
"Itâs a cut," you said softy. "Itâs not fatal. Itâs not even deep. Iâm right here."
"You are bleeding because of me."
"Iâm bleeding because we have a dangerous job. You protected me from the other ten guys. Now, are you going to help me clean this, or do I have to do it one-handed?"
The question snapped him back to reality. "No," he said quickly, almost desperate. "I will do it. Donât move."
He moved to the cabinet, gathering the supplies. When he returned, his movements were painstaking. This was the "Rabid Dog" of the Port Mafia, a man who could slice through steel beams in a heartbeat, yet he was struggling to open a bottle of antiseptic because his hands were shaking so badly.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He cut your sleeve away with a tiny, precise manifest of Rashomon, peeling the fabric back to reveal the gash. He flinched at the sight of it, his jaw tightening until a muscle popped.
"This will hurt," he whispered. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."
"It's okay, Ryu. Just do it."
He cleaned the wound with agonizing slowness, blowing softly on the skin whenever you hissed in pain. He treated you as if you were made of antique porcelain, something precious and irreplaceable that he was terrified of shattering.
When he began wrapping the bandage, he finally spoke again, his voice barely audible.
"I don't know how to do this."
You looked down at his bent head. "Bandage a wound? You do it to yourself all the time."
"No," he said, securing the clip. He rested his forehead against your knee, his hands still clutching your arm. "I do not know how to... preserve things. My ability is destruction. My hands are for breaking. Every time I touch you, Iâm terrified I will leave a stain."
"Youâre not staining me," you murmured, threading your fingers through the black tips of his hair. "Youâre fixing me."
He stayed there for a long time, kneeling on the hard tile, just breathing in your scent, letting your fingers scratch lightly against his scalp. It was his form of surrender.
By the time you made it to the bedroom, the adrenaline had completely crashed, leaving you both exhausted.
Akutagawa helped you change into one of his oversized shirts, his movements efficient but shy, averting his eyes to give you dignity despite the intimacy of the moment.
When you climbed into bed, he didn't turn his back to you like he usually did. Tonight, the distance was unbearable for him.
He laid on his side, facing you, pulling you in until your forehead was pressed against his collarbone. You could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart beating against his ribs; it hadn't slowed down since the mission.
"Ryu?"
"Sleep," he commanded, though the word lacked any authority. "Iâll watch."
"You need to sleep too."
"I canât." He tightened his arm around your waist. "If I close my eyes, I see the blade again. I see it hitting your neck instead of your arm."
You shifted, wincing slightly, and pulled back just enough to cup his face with both hands. You ran your thumbs under his eyes, tracing the permanent dark circles there.
"I'm safe," you promised. "I'm warm. I'm in your bed. Feel this?" You took his hand and placed it flat over your heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
Akutagawa let out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut. Under your palm, the tension slowly began to bleed out of his frame.
Suddenly, the air around you shifted.
From the back of his shirt, Rashomon emerged. But it wasn't the jagged, red-eyed beast. The black fabric poured out like liquid silk, expanding and fluffing up until the entire bed was surrounded by a wall of darkness.
The tendrils curled inward, draping over the two of you like a weighted blanket. One soft strip of fabric wound itself around your uninjured wrist, while another nuzzled against your cheek, stroking you with a texture like velvet.
"It... likes you," Akutagawa muttered, a faint flush dusting his pale cheeks. He kept his eyes closed, embarrassed by his own ability's betrayal of his emotions. "Itâs calm when youâre near."
"Itâs soft," you smiled, snuggling into the embrace of both the man and his ability. "It knows you're safe now, too."
Akutagawa hesitated, then buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He pressed a singular, trembling kiss to the pulse point there, not sexual, just a desperate confirmation of life.
"Do not scare me like that again," he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with sleep and lingering fear. "I can endure pain. I can endure ridicule. I cannot endure a world without you in it."
"I promise," you whispered, kissing the top of his head. "Goodnight, Ryunosuke."
He didn't answer, but Rashomon tightened slightly around you, holding you fast, as the Rabid Dog finally allowed himself to drift off, anchored by the steady beat of your heart.
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, but it wasn't the light that woke you. It was the distinct sound of a small, frustrated yelp, followed by a faint scent of singed flour.
You rolled over, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the fresh bandage on your arm. The space beside you was cold. Akutagawa was gone.
Curiosity piqued, you slipped out of bed. You padded down the hallway, tracing the smell of battle to the kitchen.
When you peered around the corner, you had to bite your lip to stop a laugh from escaping. Akutagawa was currently engaged in mortal combat with a stovetop.
Akutagawa was in his sleep clothes, his hair a chaotic mess of bedhead. He stood rigidly in front of the frying pan, glaring at a misshapen patty of eggs as if it were an enemy spy he was interrogating.
The sight was made even more surreal by Rashomon. The ability had manifested several tendrils to aid in his task: One gripped a spatula, moving with a jarring mix of precision and confusion. One held a teacup, currently over-steeping the tea into a dark brew. And a third was frantically holding up a cookbook, desperately trying to keep the page open while Akutagawa consulted the instructions.
"It demands low, constant heat," he muttered to himself, a sound of genuine devastation. "Why is it expanding unevenly? This is⌠highly irregular."
He tried to flip the omelet with Rashomonâs spatula-arm, which moved with the speed of a striking viperâtoo fast. The egg tore into shreds.
"Dammit," he hissed under his breath.
"Morning, Chef," you called out softly, leaning against the doorframe.
Akutagawa jumped, spinning around so fast his hair whipped across his face. Rashomon flared out in surprise, narrowly avoiding knocking the teacup out of the air. He instantly tried to regain his stiff composure.
"You are awake," he stated, stepping sideways to block your view of the stove. "Go back to bed. You shouldnât exert yourself."
"I'm fine, Ryu. I heard a crash. What are you doing?"
"I am providing sustenance," he declared, using his foot to kick a small, charred piece of toast under the counter. "You require proper nourishment for tissue repair."
You walked over, wrapping your good arm around his waist from behind. He stiffened for a second before his body relaxed into your embrace, though he kept his gaze fixed on the battlefield that was the counter.
"You really don't have to," you murmured. "I can just do a simpleâ"
"No," he interrupted firmly. He turned slightly so he could look down at you. "You canât. And I must."
His gaze became distant, layered with a quiet vulnerability. "You know I never learned such⌠domestic arts. Survival required resourcefulness, not recipes... You are always the one who manages the warmth of this apartment." He paused, a cough catching in his throat. "But youâre injured on my watch. Therefore, I must ensure youâre cared for. This is my duty."
"Itâs not duty, Ryu," you smiled, reaching up to smooth his messy hair. "Itâs care. And it's very sweet."
"Ridiculous," he scoffed, his cheeks flushing faintly, but he didn't pull away.
He resignedly slid the mangled egg onto a plate. "Here. It is⌠aesthetically compromised," he admitted. "But it is edible. I tasted it to ensure it wasnât poison."
He guided you to the small dining table, pulling the chair out for you. He placed the plate down with the gravity of a man presenting the single most important artifact in existence. The eggs were rubbery, the toast was dark, and the coffee was black as pitch, but he had sliced an apple into perfect, intimidatingly precise rabbit shapes.
"Would you like tea? Iâll get you tea." he stated, marching back to the counter to retrieve the potent tea before you even had the chance to turn the offer down.
He set the cup beside you. His focus was entirely on your good arm, watching every movement you made. When you reached for the cup, he slapped his hand down gently on yours, stopping you.
"Careful," he warned. "Donât strain yourself."
He watched you eat with an intensity that made you feel like you were being analyzed for weakness. You took a bite of the egg, forcing a cheerful smile.
"It'sâŚgood, Ryu. Very... high protein."
Akutagawa let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he woke up. His shoulders dropped slightly, easing some of the tension. "Acceptable."
Suddenly, the air around you shifted. Rashomon, which had been hovering near the ceiling, slowly drifted down. The black fabric gathered itself and nudged gently against your uninjured shoulder, patting you lightly before settling against your back like a warm pillow.
"It's thanking me for surviving your cooking," you teased.
Akutagawa looked away, sipping his own tea (which he drank without wincing, despite its strength). "It is merely reflecting my subconscious protective instinct," he insisted, though a slight, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips betrayed him. "Now finish your breakfast. I must ensure you are dressed before I commence my next missionâfinding suitable pain medication."
He reached across the table, his pale fingers tracing the edge of your bandage. The touch was feather-light, filled with a silent promise.
"We will handle the medication after you are rested," he decided, his gaze intense. "But for now, finish your breakfast. I want you to feel strong before you face the rest of the day."
He watched you take another bite of the egg. When you finished, he rose, circling the table to stand behind your chair. He leaned down, placing a quick, chaste kiss on the crown of your head, the closest he would come to outright expressing the depth of his relief.
"Come," he murmured, his voice softer now that the high-stress mission of cooking was over. "It is time for the next operation: ensuring my charge is comfortable and ready for rest. Your only duty today is to heal."
He took your handâthe uninjured oneâand led you away from the chaotic evidence of his devotion, back toward the comfort of the bedroom.
Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch.8
Chapter 6: (Daddy says)
Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prisonâsilent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past â pieces that may not have been meant to surface.
A/N: Enjoy the chapter, loves! Let me know what you think and if you'd like to be added to the taglist! ;Dđ
MASTERLIST
Four months later, you found yourself back in the car with your father, the road to the Burgess estate stretching long and familiar before you.
Winter had come and gone, but the air still had that leftover bite that nipped at your fingers through your gloves. The trees were waking up again, little buds of green clinging to the tips of their branches.
Your father drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear stick. He had been quiet for most of the tripânot in the grumpy way grown-ups sometimes got, but in the thoughtful way he always was before one of his business trips. You knew the signs: the far-off look in his eyes, the occasional hum under his breath, the little drumming of his fingers when he thought you werenât watching.
âThis wonât be for long,â he said finally, glancing over at you with a smile. âJust a few days. Iâll be back before you can miss me too much.â
You nodded, biting your lip. âWhere are you going this time?â
He hesitated. âSomewhere far. Somewhere I canât take you with me, love.â
That was all he said, but the way his gaze lingered on you in the rearview mirror felt⌠heavier than usual.
The gates of the Burgess mansion appeared ahead, iron and tall, curling into sharp points. As the car slowed, he reached over and rested his hand gently on your knee.
âYou mind your manners here,â he said softly. âAnd⌠if you see something you canât explain, you come tell me later. Not anyone else. Just me.â
Your head tilted. âLike what?â
He smiled faintly, but didnât answer.
Instead, he gave your leg a little pat, pulled the car up the long gravel drive, and climbed out to open your door himself. His coat smelled like the same warm cloves and leather you always associated with home.
âYouâll be alright,â he said as you stepped out. âYouâre a smart girl. Smarter than most people in this house.â
Before you could ask what he meant, Roderick Burgess himself appeared at the door, all polished politeness and shadowed eyes. Your father straightened, his own expression smoothing into something pleasantâtoo pleasant.
âThank you for hosting her again,â your father said, shaking Roderickâs hand.
âAlways a pleasure,â Roderick replied, but his smile didnât quite reach his eyes.
You glanced between them, wondering what was passing silently between the two men.
When your father crouched down to hug you goodbye, he held you close for a moment longer than usual, his coat warm against your cheek. His voice dropped low, just for you.
âRemember what I said, little bird,â he murmured. âOnly me.â
You pulled back just enough to see his face, wanting to ask again what he meantâbut he only smoothed your hair with the side of his hand, smiling that tired, gentle smile that always made you feel safe.
And then he was standing, stepping away toward the car, leaving you with his warmth still clinging to your sleeves.
And as you followed Roderick into the house, your mind couldnât help circling back to that one strange thing heâd said.
If you see something you canât explainâŚ
Why would he think you might?
That very night, you found yourself padding quietly through the mansionâs long, drafty halls.
Youâd only just settled back into the guest room Roderick Burgess always gave youâsuitcase half-unpacked, bedcovers rumpled from where youâd bounced onto themâand youâd given Alex a big hug in the front hall when you first arrived. Heâd looked surprised to see you, but not unhappy.
But then, as you sat on the bed kicking your heels against the frame, the memory came rushing back.
The promise.
Four months ago, youâd told the man downstairs youâd come see him the very next day. Youâd meant it. You really had. But your father had come earlyâearlier than anyone expectedâand then thereâd been the long trip home, and then weeks turned into months.
You hadnât seen him once. Not in all that time.
Now you could feel that promise tugging at you, like a little string wrapped around your chest, pulling you toward the hidden door.
The house was quiet, only the faint hum of distant voices from some room you werenât supposed to go in. You tiptoed to the place where you knew the door was disguised in the wall, glancing over your shoulder every few steps, and slipped through.
The cellar air was cool and damp, smelling faintly of stone and something metallic. The light down here was dimâwhat little there was came from the strange glow of the circle itself.
And then you saw him.
He looked worse. Not much, maybe, but enough for you to notice right away. Paler than before. Thinner too. The sharp lines of his cheekbones stood out more, his skin stretched tight over them.
He was still sitting in that strange, folded positionâas if twisting his body just so could preserve some small piece of dignity.
Taking extra care to keep in the shadows, you skirted around the edges of the room, avoiding the guards posted nearby. When they turned away, you edged as close as you dared to the circle without crossing it.
He must have heard you, because his eyes opened slowly, and his head lifted.
âHi, misterâŚâ
The words came out softer than you meant them to.
A strange shiver ran through you at the way he looked at you. Before, his gaze had been⌠not warm, exactly, but gentler when it landed on you. Now, there was something harder in it. Colder.
It wasnât the same as the pure, cutting disdain he reserved for Mr. Burgess, but it was closer to it than you liked.
Still, he sat up, his eyes not leaving you for even a second.Â
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, twisting your fingers together the way you always did when you didnât know what to say.
âIâm sorry,â you blurted at last, your voice wobbling in the still air. âI didnât keep my promise. I said Iâd come back the next day, remember? But then my dad came and⌠and I couldnât. I didnât forget, though. I thought about you a lot.â
He didnât answer. His eyes stayed locked on youâcalm, unblinking, impossible to read. It made you fidget even more.
You lowered yourself carefully to the ground, sitting cross-legged just outside the chalk line. You tried not to stare too much at the fact that he had no clothesâtried to pretend you didnât see the way his knees were drawn up tight to his chest, his arms folded just so, like he was holding the last bit of himself together. It wasnât like when Alex or your father would sit with you. It was like looking at a statueâexcept this statue breathed, and its breath felt heavy somehow, like it carried the weight of years.
âIt must be cold in there,â you said after a moment, pulling your own coat tighter. âItâs cold out here sometimes, but I get blankets. I could maybe bring you one, but⌠I donât know if theyâd let me.â You cast a quick glance over your shoulder toward the guards at the far wall. âTheyâre not very nice.â
You thought youâd whispered it, but you failed to take into account that you were the only person talking in a stone cellar. One of the guardsâbroad shoulders, sharp jawâglanced at the other. They shared a quick look. You didnât notice the way it softened their faces, or how the taller one gave the smallest shrug before returning to his post.
âAlex says I talk too much, but I think talkingâs better than sitting quietly. Sometimes if Iâm scared at night, I tell myself a story. Even if itâs a silly one. Likeâdid I tell you about the time I found a hedgehog in the garden? I named him Mr. Prickles. My dad said I couldnât keep him because he would miss his family. I guess you might miss yours too, if you have one.â
Still nothing. His eyes were the same, pale and deep, the kind of deep you could fall into without touching the bottom.
âDo you have brothers or sisters?â you asked. âI donât. Well, just my dad. And Alex, sometimes. But itâd be nice to have brothers and sisters, I think. Unless they were mean. Or ate all the biscuits.â
Something, just the smallest flicker, moved across his face.
You grinned at that. âThatâs better. You looked like you were about to turn me into a frog before.â You giggled at your own joke, then clapped a hand over your mouth, peeking again at the guards. One of them had the faintest smirk before turning his eyes away.
You stayed like that for a long time, half an hour, maybe more, filling the quiet with whatever popped into your head. You told him about the new doll youâd gotten for your birthday, about the way Alexâs hair stuck up when he forgot to comb it, about how the pond behind the mansion froze over last week and you saw a bird slip and slide across it before flying away in a huff.
Every so often, you thought you saw something, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, or a change in his gaze, like maybe he was actually listening in spite of himself.
When your legs started to tingle from sitting too long, you slowly stood, brushing dust off your skirt. âIâll come back again,â you promised. âSooner this time. Thatâs a promise. Cross my heart.â You made the motion over your chest, solemn as you could.
He didnât nod. He didnât blink.
But you walked away with the strange, certain feeling that he had heard every single word and that maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to come back.
Morpheus POV
Day after day, he pleaded for gifts that are not mankindâs to receive, nor mine to give. So I remained silent.
Yet not all who came before me wished for power or wealth. There was⌠the child. She asked for nothing but my company, and filled the long hours with her small stories and questions. I did not answer her either. But I listened.
You visited him often after that first night back.
Whenever you could sneak past the guards, you would sit by the circle and chatter about anything that came to mindâyour lessons, the books you werenât supposed to read, the shapes you saw in the clouds, even which biscuits were best for dunking in tea. He never answered, never even nodded, but you told yourself that the way his eyes followed you meant he was listening. And that was enough.
Sometimes you would disappear for a while. Weeks. Once, nearly two months. Each time, it was because your father had come for you, sweeping you up in his arms and taking you back home as if he couldnât bear the thought of leaving you behind. You never stayed there long, though. Eventually, the car would return to the Burgess estate, and so would you.
And every time, the moment you slipped back into the cellar, you would find him exactly where youâd left himâfolded up in that strange, rigid pose, eyes shut as though he hadnât moved a single muscle in all the days youâd been gone.
But when your shoes tapped lightly against the floor and your voice filled the air again, his eyes always opened. Always.
It made you feel⌠important, somehow. Like he had been waiting.
Youâd been talking for what mustâve been half an hour straight, your words spilling out in uneven bursts as you sat cross-legged on the cold floor, chin resting in your palms.
ââŚand then Daddy said if I kept sneaking sweets before supper my teeth would fall out, but I donât think thatâs true, because Alex eats way more than me and all his teeth are still there. Oh! And I saw a fox in our garden one morningâDaddy said it was looking for breakfast, but I think maybe it was just lonely. Sometimes I think animals get lonely too, you know?â
His head had been bowed, eyes shut in that endless, stubborn silence of his. You didnât mind. Youâd gotten used to it. You just kept talking.
âAnd oh! Daddy read me another story while I was home. Not a boring one, a real one. About the⌠the Endless?â You frowned, tilting your head. âOr maybe it was Endless fairies. I donât know. He said they were very old. Older than the world.â
Something shifted. Not in the room, not with the guards half-dozing nearby, but in him.
For the first time in months, he moved.
His head lifted slowly. Then, with a kind of careful urgency, he pushed himself closer to the glassâcloser than youâd ever seen him. His pale hands hovered just above the circleâs edge, his body leaning forward as if he could reach you if he only tried hard enough.
His eyesâoh, his eyes. They werenât cold now. They werenât empty. They were wide, sharp, shining with something that almost looked like⌠hope. And wet, at the corners, like they might spill over.
You blinked at him, stunned. âY-you are listening.â
You blinked, surprised. He had never looked at you like that beforeâso sharp, so sudden, so⌠alive.
âThey had names, I think,â you went on quickly, afraid youâd lose his attention if you stopped. âThere was um⌠Destiny? And, uh⌠Deathâdonât like that one. And a funny one⌠Delly-something. DelirâŚdelir-yum?â You giggled at the way it sounded. âDaddy said she was the youngest, like me.â
His hands twitched where they rested on his knees, eyes fixed so hard on you that it made your stomach flip.
âAnd, um⌠Despair? That was another one. And Desire, too, but Daddy said I didnât need to know what that meant yet. Itâs a grown-up word. Oh! AndâŚâ You squinted, nose wrinkling as you tried to recall. âDestruction? I think? But Daddy said he went away, so maybe he doesnât count anymore.â
âAnd the last oneâŚâ Your voice dropped, softer now, almost like a secret. âDream.â
The word hung in the air like a bell.
His whole frame trembled, though he didnât move away. He stayed so close you could see the faint shadows of stars in his eyes, and for the first time you realized how badly he wantedâneededâto hear every word. His eyes were wide, sad, andâoh. Shiny. As though he might cry.
You pressed a little closer yourself, lowering your voice to a whisper.
âDream. Heâs the nicest one. Daddy thinks so too.â
You smiled, a little crooked, still not understanding the weight of what youâd just given him.
âThey sound like fairies to me,â you said with a nod, certain now. âBig fairies. Strange ones. But⌠I still like Dream best.â
He stayed like thatâclose, trembling, his gaze fixed to yoursâas though your clumsy, half-remembered story had given him something he hadnât tasted in years.
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Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch.8
Chapter 5: (What a Young Girl Should Not Know)
Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prisonâsilent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past â pieces that may not have been meant to surface.
A/N: This is my first time ever making a taglist so I hope I did it right. I'm still overhwelmed by the fact that there are actually people who want to keep up with this story. From the bottom of my heartâthank you so muchâ¤ď¸ Let me know if you'd like to be added to be alerted about future chapters!
MASTERLIST
You returned the very next day.
But not the way you usually did.
Noâthis time was far worse.
Mr. Burgess came with you, his son Alex trailing just behind. Something about setting an example, he'd said. Though for who or what was anyoneâs guess.
As you descended the stone steps into the cellar, the heavy iron doors creaked open. The guards with the bushy moustaches stood ready, only for Roderick to wave them off with a casual flick of his hand.
âYou can go.â
Alex followed closely at his fatherâs heels, loyal as ever, like a dog desperate for scraps of affection. You, however, kept your distance, hanging a few paces back. Your chest felt tight, your heart sitting high in your throat. The mere thought of what Mr. Burgess might do to the man in the orb made your skin crawl.
Roderick didnât pause until he reached the edge of the glowing circle painted on the ground, the same one youâd sat by during those quiet, starlit nights before. Youâd been there to talk. To listen. To keep the stranger company.
Now, everything was different.
Noticing your hesitation, Alex glanced over his shoulder and beckoned you closer. He misread your fear, assuming it was for the pale man trapped inside the sphere. But he was wrong.
You werenât afraid of him. You were afraid for him.
Still, you stepped forward, standing beside Alex and his father. Your eyes drifted to the familiar, twisted position the pale man had curled into. Just like the night beforeâhead tucked beneath his arm, eyes closed, limbs folded awkwardly to conceal his bare form.
Roderick stepped closer, voice low and breathy.
âAre you awake?â he asked. âAre you listening?â
The pale figure didnât stir.
Circling the orb, Roderick moved until he was face-to-face with the man's bowed head. The moment felt thick with something ugly.
âI know who you areâŚDream of The Endless,â Roderick said, each word coated in smug superiority, like a man who thought the universe owed him its secrets.
Your breath caught.
The manâs eyes opened.
Youâd seen anger in them before, but nothing like this. The fury now blazing behind those stars made yesterdayâs look like a flicker compared to wildfire.
âI captured you according to the laws of magic. But it wasnât you I wanted.â Roderick grinned, like he enjoyed twisting the knife.
Alex blinked up at his father, confusion written across his face. You tilted your head too, curious despite yourself. Maybe, finally, youâd get some idea of who or what Dream of the Endless really was.
âI wanted Death to return my son Randall, who died in the Gallipoli Campaign.â
Alexâs expression collapsed. His lips parted, but no sound came. You saw the tremble in his small hand and reached for it instinctively, squeezing gently.
Roderick, meanwhile, kept talking.
âIf you give him back to me, alive and well, Iâll release you. Is that in your power, Lord of Dreams?â
The man in the orb said nothing, but his chest rose and fell heavily, every breath like it cost him something.
âNo, I suppose not,â Roderick answered himself. âSo, then, what can you give me? If I let you go, if I promise to give you back your things?â
Still, silence.
âWhat, power? Wealth? Immortality? Hmm?â
You looked toward the pale man, hoping heâd meet your gaze. But his eyes stayed locked on Burgess.
âIs there nothing you can offer me?â
Nothing.
Roderick scoffed. âWell, have it your way then.â
From within his coat, he pulled out a deep red ruby strung on a leather cordâthe one you and Alex had helped him take from the strange man when he was first summoned.
âUntil youâre ready to speak,â Roderick said, toying with the gem, âIâll enjoy the gifts youâve already given me.â
And with that, he turned and climbed the steps out of the cellar, leaving only the echo of his boots behind.
Alex lingered.
He stared at the man in the orb, part curious, part afraid. And for the first time, Dream looked back.
He raised his head slowly. His eyes, vast and shining and ancient, settled on the two of you.
Something in your chest clenched. It was too much for your young mind to fully grasp, but your heart understood. Every piece of this moment, of this place, was wrong. Cruel. Unnatural.
Alex turned away, already climbing the stairs.
âCome on, weâve got to go now,â he said, reaching for your hand.
You let him take it.
And together, you left the cellar behind.
The next morning, your father came to get you.
You hadnât expected him so soon, he was meant to be gone another week, maybe two, off in some distant country with long names and strange time zones. But there he was, standing in the foyer of the Burgess mansion, still in his travel clothes, with sleep in his eyes and your favorite cookies in his hand.
He looked the way he always did when he came back from tripsâcoat a little wrinkled, tie half-tucked into the collar, hair in need of a comb, but with the same soft, thoughtful face. Laugh lines around his bespeckled eyes. A dusting of grey in his beard that hadnât been there last month when he dropped you off..Â
There was something comforting about the smell of his coat, old leather and warm cloves and faint traces of the hotel soap he always brought home but never used.
âFigured you might want something sweet,â he said, crouching down with a tired smile. âHello, little one.â
You ran into his arms like the world hadnât gone sideways the night before.
He lifted you easily, held you like heâd missed you more than sleep or food or anything else. âYou alright?â he murmured into your hair. âYou okay here?â
You nodded against his shoulder. âYes, Daddy.â
âGood.â He kissed your temple. âLetâs go home, hm?â
He stood and shifted your weight in his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world, one hand supporting your back, the other cradling under your knees. You knew you could walk, but he always carried you anywayâsaid it was a tradition until you were too big to balance on one hip.
Roderick Burgess appeared in the hallway behind him, all in black and stiff as stone. He offered a smile too polished to be real, and your father gave him a nod in return. Too kindly, you thought. Too normal. Like no one knew what had happened underground.
âThank you for looking after her,â your father said.
He stood tall but polite, still holding you in one arm like it was second nature, like you belonged there. His free hand extended toward Roderick, open-palmed and calm.
Roderick gave a small bow of the head, ignoring the gesture. âSheâs a very curious girl.â
Your father let the hand fall gently back to his side. âShe gets that from her mother,â he said with a faint chuckle, and your chest tightened in that way it always did when someone mentioned her.
Roderick hummed, a sound too unreadable for someone whose eyes held so much calculation. âCuriosity can be dangerous in the wrong places.â
Your fatherâs smile thinned. âAnd essential in the right ones.â
There was a pause.
The kind that sat too long in the room.
âShe didnât get in the way of your... work, I hope,â your father added, glancing briefly down the hallway. âI know how important your research is to you.â
âNo,â Roderick said. âShe was... quiet. Observant. I can see she listens well.â
You felt your fatherâs arms shift just slightlyâprotectively.
Then, just like that, the moment passed.Â
âWell,â he said lightly, âthank you again for looking after her.â
No one said anything about the man in the basement. Not him. Not Mr. Burgess. Not Alex. It was like the whole month had vanished into fog.
âDaddy, wait!â
You squirm in his arms, legs kicking until he sighs and sets you gently on the ground. Without a word, you turn and run back toward the front hall, little shoes pattering across the polished floor.
Alex was still standing at the base of the stairs, arms crossed so tightly around himself it looked like he was trying to disappear. He didnât look up, not until your arms suddenly wrapped around his middle.
He stiffened in surprise.
Then, slowly, he looked down.
You were hugging him with all the strength your tiny arms could muster, cheek pressed into the buttons of his sweater vest. You felt him breathe in sharply, then let it out like he didnât know what to do with it.
âBye, Alex,â you mumbled against the fabric. âThank you for playing with me.â
There was a pause.
Thenâhesitantlyâhis arms came down and wrapped around you too. Not tight, but gentle. Careful, like he thought you might break.
âBye,â he said softly, the word catching a little in his throat. âYouâre welcome.â
You pulled back to look up at him, still holding onto his hands. His eyes were red at the edges like he hadnât slept much, and he gave you the tiniest smile, almost embarrassed.
âDonât be sad,â you whispered, like it was a secret just for him. âYou can write me letters if you want. Or I can send you pictures. Daddy will bring me back when he has his next business trip!â
His smile grew, just a little.
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Behind you, your dad cleared his throat lightly, and you gave Alexâs hand one last squeeze before running back to him. âCome on, love.â Â
He picked you up with a quiet grunt, and you curled into his shoulder as he carried you to the door.
He thanked Roderick againâtoo kindly, againâand bundled you into the car before the sun had even reached its highest place in the sky. The trees blurred by, a hundred shades of green and gold, and the sky was too blue for how strange your heart felt.
Your cookies crumbled slowly in your lap.
âDid you sleep okay last night?â he asked, eyes still on the road.
You hesitated. âI had a dream.â
That made him glance over at you. Just briefly.
âGood dream or bad dream?â
âI donât know,â you said.
He reached over and squeezed your hand gently. âSometimes thatâs how the best ones start.â
You looked out the window. Neither of you talked much after that.
Your mind was still tangled in silver stars and red rubies and a voice that had said nothing at all.
It wasnât until after dinnerâafter your bath and your story and your sleepy-eyed protests against bedtimeâthat you noticed the books.
They were on the tall shelf in his study right across your room, the one you werenât supposed to climb. Big, old things with dark covers and spines that gleamed gold when the light hit just right.
Normally, he kept boring books up there. Things about contracts and shipping routes and numbers you hadnât learned yet. But tonight, one title caught your eye as he tucked you in:
The Endless: Myths, Lore, and Invocation.
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
âDaddy?â
He turned from the doorway, silhouetted in the warm light of the hall. âYes, sweetheart?â
You sat up slowly, small hands gripping the quilt. âWho are the Endless?â
His brow lifted, just a little. âWhereâd you hear that word?â
You hesitated. âMr. Burgess said it.â
That made him pauseâbut only for a second. Then he came back into the room without another word, crossing the floor in socked feet, and sat on the edge of your bed with a small sigh.
âOh, the Endless,â he said softly, brushing a bit of your hair behind your ear. âThatâs just an old story. One people used to tell a long time ago. About seven siblings who werenât quite gods, but... werenât quite not gods either.â
You tilted your head. âLike fairies?â
âSort of.â He smiled, that gentle one he always gave when he was about to start a bedtime story. âBut much older. They were called the Endless because they were always around. Even before people. Even before the world existed.â
You squinted at him. âWhat were their names?â
He glanced toward the shelf as if reading them off, though you knew he didnât need to.
âDestiny. Death. Dream. Destruction. Desire. Despair. And Delirium.â
Your heart fluttered at one of them.
Dream.
You saw pale skin and dark eyes in your mind. You saw stars.
âDo you believe in them?â you asked quietly.
Your father didnât answer right away.
And then, instead of brushing it off like grown-ups doâlike they always doâhe nodded. Just once. Not really a nod either though, more like one of those tilts thatâs not really an answer.
âNot exactly,â he said. âBut sometimes⌠I think stories donât come from nowhere.â
You leaned into him a little, resting your head on his side.
âDo you think theyâre scary?â
He shook his head. âNo. Not scary. Just... big. And strange. Like dreams, really. Some say they were made to serve us humans, to help us.â
You thought about that. About how some dreams made you feel floaty and light, like clouds in your chestâand others made your hands shake even after you woke up.
âDream,â you whispered. âHe sounds like the nicest one.â
Your father smiled. âI think he might be.â
You furrowed your brow. âI donât really know what the others mean, though.â
âTheir names?â
You nodded. âI know what death is. But whatâs despair? And... desire?â
Your father gave a quiet laugh and smoothed your blanket. âThatâs good,â he said. âYou shouldnât have toânot yet. They're feelings. Big ones. Those ones are... a little harder to understand. Grown-up words.â
You blinked up at him, chewing your lip. âWhy would someone be a feeling?â
âWell,â he said gently, âmaybe because some feelings are so strong, they start to feel like people. Or maybe itâs just how stories try to explain the things we canât see.â
You thought about that. It didnât quite make sense, but it didnât need to. Not really.
You leaned against him again, your voice softer now, sleep tugging at the edges of your thoughts.
âI still like Dream best.â
Your father tucked the quilt around you a little tighter. âMe too.â
âWill you tell me more about them tomorrow?â you asked sleepily.
âIf youâd like.â
âOnly the nice parts.â
âOf course,â he whispered, leaning down to kiss your forehead. âOnly the nice parts.â
He stood and walked to the doorway. The light behind him was soft and golden, like the last bit of sunset.
âGoodnight, little bird.â
âGoodnight, Daddy.â
And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Hi, Iâm back as promised đ. Can I be really greedy and as for a part 2 of little one?
Itâs her first family dinner back after her imprisonment and she is both happy and nervous to see everyone. Some drama happens where Desire hassles both her and Dream about their capture and a fight breaks out. Their sister hates seeing any of her siblings fighting and meekly gets between the two to try and break them up but ends up getting hurt as a result. Thereâs a lot of hurt, comfort and remorse in the end (and a lot of apologies from Desire).
Thank you đđ
Little One I Dream x Platonic! Reader (part 2)
Part 1 I Part 2
Summary: Dream´s younger sister gets captured by Rodrick Burgess. He simply won't stand for that. The next family reunion goes just as well as expected...it doesn't.
A/N: Hi again hun!! Sorry I took so long, I still hadn't watched season 2. I might've gone a little overboard but I had way too much fun with this đ Be as greedy as you want, your requests are always a joy! Hope you like it, love. (ďžâăŽâ)ďž*:シďžâ§
MASTERLIST
The table stretched long and gleaming, beautiful in that surreal, impossible way that only the Endless could conjure. Moonlight shimmered along the woodgrain as though it had been stitched into the surface itself. Starlight drifted lazily inside crystal goblets, like galaxies caught mid-breath. The chairs were sculpted from fragments of realms, ruins, and passing cloudsâeach one a story, a memory, a world.
It had been ages since they were all gathered in the same place.
But lets go back to where this encounter began.
Death had already arrived by the time Dream was summoned. Destiny received them both with a nod. He had gained two visitors at once, since the youngest of the Endless was still living in the Dreaming with her elder brother.
Death was the first to greet her, arms out, warm and open. âThereâs my girl,â she said, hugging her tightly. âHey sweetheart. You look amazing. Have you eaten? Donât lie.â
Next came Desire.
 In all their elegance and glory, draped in a red cape-like dress that rippled with sensual authorityâan outfit that would make even the wealthiest queens drool.Â
A smile, sharp and knowing, curved across lips painted the color of blood and roses.
âHello, my darling~â they purred, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
Desire always made her uneasy. The feeling was instinctual, reflexive. They were two sides of the same coin, after all.Â
Desire was wantâraw, urgent, reckless. A need that ignited deep in the belly and burned away all reason.
But she was something else entirely. She was Devotion. She was longing and loyalty braided into something fierce and steady. She was the ache that stayed long after the fire, the love that did not waver.
Desire began to move in a slow circle around her, movements serpentine.Â
Their fingers trailed the air near her shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough to feel like static. âYouâve grown more beautiful in captivity,â they murmured, their eyes gleaming with wicked delight. âAll that silence, all that waiting⌠it suits you.â
Her breath caught, but she held their gaze. She wouldnât flinch. Not in front of them.
Desire tilted their head, the smile widening. âTell me, little sister,â they whispered, voice like velvet dragged across a blade. âDid the mortals treat you kindly? Or did they beg for your affection through iron bars?â
A flicker of memory began to rise. Cold stone. The glass orb. The chatter of the guards. But before she could even open her mouth to defend herself, Dream appeared beside her.
He moved without sound, but with all the finality of a closing door.
âThat is enough,â he said, his voice low and hollow, like wind through a cathedral.
Desireâs expression didnât shift, but their eyes sparkled with amusement. âAh, there he is. Ever the gallant brother.â They leaned in closer to her, though their words were now aimed at Dream. âShe doesnât need you to protect her, you know. Sheâs not some porcelain thing.â
Dreamâs jaw tightened. âShe is not yours to torment.â
âTorment?â Desire echoed, placing a hand to their chest in mock offense. âPlease. Iâm merely welcoming her back. Family should be... intimate.â
Death sighed from nearby, already weary of the old games. âCan we not do this? Just for one night?â
Desire shrugged, as if to say there was no fun in restraint, then finally stepped back. They cast one last smoldering glance over their shoulder before turning away to help Despair through the mirror.Â
Despair spotted her almost instantly and offered her a smile and the gentlest touch to her shoulder. âYou look well,â she murmured.
She gave her sisterâs hand a small squeeze. Despair had always been kind to her. They might not have been particularly close, but there was a tenderness there. A quiet understanding. Despair had never once asked anything of her, which, in this family, was a rare kind of mercy.
Destiny was attempting to coax Delirium out of her portrait when it began to weep rainbow-colored sludge, thick and shimmering as it oozed down the frame and pooled onto the floor. With a wet pop and a ripple of impossible color, their most eccentric sister emergedâginger-blonde hair, a chaotic halo, tangled with glitter and debris. Her outfit looked as though she'd once been the ringleader of a gothic circus that had wandered through a dream and survived a war.
Delâs face instantly lit up when she saw her baby sister in the room, bouncing towards her and wrapping her in the tightest hug sheâd ever felt.Â
âYouâre here!â Delirium squealed, clinging to her like a storm made of joy. âYouâre real and not a dream or a shadow or a memory made of string!â
She laughed, the sound muffled in Deliriumâs wild hair. âIâm here,â she said softly, returning the embrace. âI missed you.â
Delirium pulled back just enough to look at her, mismatched eyes wide and swimming with color. âYou were gone for so long. Longer than frogs playing chess. Longer than that time I lost my name in the bathtub.â
There was no point trying to make sense of it.Â
âI didnât mean to be,â she replied gently.
âI know,â Delirium whispered, and for just a moment, her voice held an aching clarity that cut through the madness like sunlight through fog. âIt wasnât your fault. They put you in a bottle, didnât they? â
The image struck her. It was too close to the truth. She felt her throat tighten, but she tried to leave it unnoticed.Â
Delirium frowned, which made her freckles rearrange slightly. âMonsters,â she said gravely, before brightening again. âBut youâre back now! And weâre all here, or mostly here, or at least here enough. Do you want a balloon? Or a squid? I lost track of which is which but theyâre both festive.â
Before she could politely decline her sisterâs offer, a large squidâswimming? floating?âappeared around her, surrounded by glitter and colorful mist.
She reached out to touch the creature but Delirium was already spinning away, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the long, gleaming table.
âCome sit next to me,â she chirped.
And who was she to say no?
That leads us to where they are now.Â
All of them (minus Destruction) gathered around the big table to share a meal because Destinyâs book told him that very meeting would cause a shift in the course of events.Â
She had thought it might go smoothly. Or at the very least, civilly.
That hope died the moment Desire leaned back in their seat, swirling something purple and vaguely sentient in their glass.
âYou know,â they drawled, eyes fixed on Dream across the table, âitâs still impressive how you managed to fumble that whole situation with Nada. Whatâs it been, ten thousand years? Give or take?â
Dream didnât look up from his plate. âI will not discuss that here.â
âOh, but why not?â Desire purred, their voice all sugar and venom. âFamily dinner is the perfect place for ancient betrayals and broken hearts.â
âDesireâŚâ Death warned from her place beside them, her tone firm but tired.
Desire smiled at her with mock innocence. âWhat? Iâm only saying what everyone else is thinking. Itâs not like I sent the poor girl to hell for loving me.â
Dream's eyes flicked upward, his gaze like a winter storm. âYou are baiting me.â
âI donât need to bait you,â Desire replied, lazy and pleased. âYou walk right into it. Every time.â
Death sighed and reached for her glass. âCan we please not do this tonight?â
She stayed quiet, hoping it would passâbut of course, it didnât.
Desire turned to her now, the smile sharpening. âAnd speaking of traps, our dear youngest⌠how was the little glass prison? Cozy? Did they at least give you a pillow?â
Her stomach tightened, but she said nothing.
âOh, come on,â Desire continued, tilting their head in mock curiosity. âYouâve been so quiet. I figured youâd want to share your triumphant return. Or maybe just what it was like being in a fish bowl.â
âDesire,â Dream snapped, his voice colder now, sharper. âEnough.â
But Desire only grinned wider. âFunny how history repeats itself, isnât it? First Dream. Then his little shadow. You two really do take after each other.â
âDesire, please-â she says, trying to get them to stop poking at Dream even though some of it was true.Â
But Desireâs grin only deepened, feline and cruel. âLook at you, rushing to shield him. Thatâs adorable. Almost makes me forget heâs the one who let you rot in that little prison while he attended to his responsibilities as always.â
Dream was on his feet before she could blink, the air around him tightening until it was almost painful to breathe. âYou will not speak to her like that.â
âMake me,â Desire shot back, rising too. Their eyes burned like molten gold, sharp and dangerous. âYou donât get to play the righteous one here, Dream. Not when youâveââ
âEnough-â her voice was firm, but they didnât look up from each other.
The tension climbed higher, like a storm pulling itself together. She could feel itâtwo forces crashing toward each other, both too proud to yield.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She hated this. Hated seeing her siblings tear into each other like this, especially now, after so long away. It literally went against her entire reason for being. She pushed back her chair and moved between them, planting herself in the narrow space separating their looming figures.
âStop,â she said again, louder this time.Â
âBoth of you!â Her voice cracked. âYouâre tearing everything apart!â
Something snapped.
It was suddenâan uncontrolled flare of power, Dreamâs and Desireâs colliding in a violent ripple. It struck her before either of them realized she was in the way.
And she was flung back by the echo of it, hitting the tableâs edge with a sickening crack.
Everyone froze.
Delirium dropped her fork. Despair made a strangled sound.Â
The room went silent.
âI told you,â Death muttered, rising to her feet. Her voice was quieter now, but filled with steel. âI told you to stop.â
Dream dropped to one knee beside her. âLittle oneââ His voice cracked.
Desire stepped back slowly, expression unreadable. For once, they didnât speak.
Death knelt on her other side, helping her sit up. âYou all forget sheâs made of feeling. You forget what it costs her just to be in the room when you're like this.â
She winced as she sat up, her breath hitching at the sharp pain blooming along her ribs. Her vision swam at the edges, colors too bright, too loud. But she forced a small, shaky smile.
âIâm fine,â she said, voice thin but steady. âReally. I justâneed a second.â
Dream looked like someone had carved a hollow into his chest. His hand hovered inches from her back, frozen in place, unsure if he had the right to touch her now.
âLittle oneâŚâ His voice had lost all of its earlier edge. He sounded like someone trying to mend something delicate with hands made for stone.
âI didnât see you,â he said again. âI should have seen you.â
Desireâs mouth was parted as if they might speak, but no words came. Their stare remained locked on the place where she had struck the table. For once, there was no clever remark, no smirk, no armor.
Only guilt.
She tried to sit up straighter, wincing at the sharp pain that followed. âPlease,â she said, forcing a smile. âItâs nothing. Iâm just⌠bruised.â
âYou were flung across the room,â Death said, unamused. âThatâs not âjust bruised.ââ
âI am fine,â she insisted, trying to standâbut her legs faltered beneath her.
Despair was already there, rising with urgency to catch her before she could fall again. âNo,â she said softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. âNo, youâre not.â
Delirium appeared at her side next, still barefoot, a tangle of butterflies hovering around her head like concern made visible. âYou cracked like an egg,â she whispered, frowning at her. âYour heartâs bleeding colors. Thatâs not supposed to happen.â
âI just need to sitââ she tried, but Death was already motioning toward the far end of the hall.
âNo. Youâre done sitting here. You're coming with us.â Her tone brooked no argument.
Dreamâs head snapped up. âI can take herââ
âNo,â all three sisters said at once.
Death gave him a look. âYouâve done enough.â
âWeâll take care of her,â Despair said, voice calm but ironclad.
Delirium nodded quickly, scooping up the glitter-squid with one hand and reaching for Devotionâs with the other. âI have pillows that hum lullabies. One of them smells like oranges. Thatâll help.â
âI donât needââ she began again, but Death silenced her with a look both gentle and immovable.
âYou need to rest,â Death said. âYou can come back when they remember how to behave.â
Devotion hesitated. Her gaze flicked from Dream to Desireâboth frozen, guilty, aching. But neither of them stopped her. Neither of them even tried.
And that hurt more than the power ever had.
So she let herself be led.
Despair steady on one side. Delirium humming nonsense on the other while holding her hand. Death following just behind like a silent guard. The glittery squid floating just behind them all.
Devotion looked back as they led her away, catching the eyes of her brothers.
Dream hadnât moved. His face was carved from guilt and shadow.
Desireâs lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes unreadable, arms folded tightly across their chest.
âIâll be okay,â she said to both of them. âBut next time⌠just listen.â
As they passed the head of the table, Death slowed her pace, pausing beside Destinyâs great chair.
âKeep an eye on them,â she said simply. âIf they try anything else, you stop it. Iâm not cleaning up another mess tonight.â
He gave the faintest nod.
Death didnât wait for more. She rejoined the others, one arm now around Devotionâs shoulders as the four sisters disappeared down the corridor.
The sisters had fussed over her for a time. Delirium had brought a bowl of something that smelled like bubblegum and licorice, insisting it would help. Despair sat nearby for a while, silent and grounding. Death tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, kissed her brow, and told her to rest.
Now, she was alone.
Almost.
The softest knock brushed the air.
She didnât answer, but the door opened anyway.
Dream stepped in.
âLittle one,â Dream said, his voice low, unsure.
She turned her head slowly, the pillow cool against her cheek. âHey,â she murmured, voice hoarse but warm.
He stood just inside the room, hands clasped behind his back like a guilty schoolboy. He looked so unlike the king of dreams in that momentâmore shadow than shape, more sorrow than pride.
She looked up at him, tired but smiling faintly. âYou donât have to look so guilty. Iâm alright.â
âI didnât mean for you to get hurt,â he said. âI would neverââ
âI know,â she whispered.
He looked up, startled by the certainty in her voice.
âI stood between you and Desire because I love you both,â she said. âThatâs not your fault.âÂ
She smiled softly at him. âYou came for me when it mattered. You always do. Thatâs what I remember.â
He took a tentative step closer. âThat doesnât absolve me. You should resent me.â
She smiled softly. âBut I donât. I couldnât even if I wanted to.â
Dream looked up then, startled by how easily she offered it. But this was who she wasâDevotion, through and through. Steady, aching, enduring. Even when it cost her everything.
He sank until he was kneeling on the floor beside her bed, folding in on himself. âI shouldâve protected you. I should have seen you.â
His breath hitched. His eyes shimmered, damp in that way that just made him look even more otherworldly. Slowly, he reached out and when she met his hand halfway, their fingers threaded together like they were made to fit.
âIâm so sorry,â he whispered.
âI know,â she said again. âAnd I forgive you.â
He bowed his head, pressing his forehead gently to the back of her hand. âThank you.â
They stayed like that in silence, the kind that heals instead of lingers.
She rubbed slow circles against his knuckles with her thumb, grounding him like she always had. He didnât speak again, but the quiet was enough. It said everything.
Thenâa knock. Sharper than before, but hesitant.
Dream stiffened immediately.
She tilted her head toward the door. âItâs okay,â she murmured.
He didnât move.
The knock came again, followed by a familiar voice, low and almost shy. âDev? Can IâŚ?â
Dream rose to his feet, his movements fluid but heavy. He looked down at her once more, brushing a curl of hair from her face with uncharacteristic gentleness.
âIâll go,â he said. Not coldly. Not wounded. Just⌠quietly.
âYou donât have to,â she said, touching his wrist.
âI think I do,â he replied, glancing toward the door. âThis moment should be yours. Both of yours.â
She nodded, her thumb brushing over the edge of his hand one last time. âThank you.â
He gave a faint bow of his headâreverent, almostâand then turned toward the door. As it creaked open, Desire stood framed in the light creeping in through the open door.
Dream didnât look at them, but he paused long enough to murmur, âDonât hurt her.â
Desire blinked, then offered a slight nod. Not mocking. Not playful. Just honest.
âI wonât.â
Dream left without another word.
Desire stepped in slowly, softer than usual, and shut the door behind them.
Their usual theatrics were absent; no smirk, no gleam of mischief in their eyes.Â
âYou look like death warmed over,â they said gently, coming to sit beside her. âAnd thatâs saying something, considering she was just here.â
She laughed, hoarse and breathy. âThanks, Dev. Always so charming.â
They smirked faintly, but it didnât quite reach their eyes.
Desire crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, perched carefully like they didnât want to disturb anything. Their fingers tapped once against their knee, then stilled.
âI⌠shouldnât have said what I said,â they said, eyes fixed on the floor. âAbout the bottle. The snow globe. I was cruel. And I knew it.â
She didnât interrupt.
âI thoughtâif I turned it into a joke, maybe it wouldnât matter as much. Maybe it wouldnât feel so big. But it was big. And it hurt you. And IâŚâ They stopped. Their voice caught in their throat, eyes finally rising to meet hers. âI didnât come for you. I didnât even look. I should have.â
Silence stretched between them for a moment, thick with truth.
âI was mad when you disappeared,â they said, voice cracking. âAngry at Dream for not looking after you better. Angry at Destiny for not saying anything. At everything. So I didnât let myself feel anything else. I didnât let myself feel what it meant, that you were gone.â
Her expression gentled. âI never needed you to be flawless. Just to show up when it mattered.â
âI donât know if I earned that,â they murmured.
She gave a tired but warm smile. âYou donât have to earn me. Iâm yours, either way.â
Desire closed their eyes. When they opened them again, they were glassy and bright. âYou always do that.â
âWhat?â
âChoose love. Even when we make it hard. Even when we donât deserve it.â
She reached out, slow and tender, and Desire took her hand without hesitation.
âIâm Devotion,â she said with a tired smile. âThatâs the deal.â
Desire laughed, a quiet, watery thing. âItâs a good deal.â
They leaned in carefully, pressing a kiss to her temple. âRest, Dev,â they murmured. âIâll be here when you wake up.â
âI know,â she whispered.
And for the first time in a long time, Desire meant it.
They stayed like that in quiet stillness. Just the two of them, fingers entwined, no masks left between them. Just love. Just truth. Just Devotion.
They leaned in carefully, pressing a kiss to her temple. âRest, Dev,â they murmured. âIâll be here when you wake up.â
She closed her eyes briefly, then looked up at them with a small, tired smile. âThank youâfor coming.â
Desireâs usual spark softened into something quieter, more real. âIâm sorry it took me so long.â
She squeezed their hand. âBetter late than never.â
She knew the next time there was a family meeting it was likely that things would play out similarly.Â
But with Desireâs hand in hers and Dreamâs presence lingering just beyond the door, she let herself believe the peace might holdâif only for a little while longer.
I made another one! I promise I'll get back to uploading actual stories soon, but I just finished watching this kdrama and I couldn't resist. Hope y'all like it!!
I DID A THING!! This was my first time playing with after effects and WHOO LORD-! That was a ride. I don't exactly love love it but I think it's a pretty good first try â°(*°â˝Â°*)âŻ
â ď¸â ď¸CONTAINS SQUID GAME SEASON 2 SPOILERSâ ď¸â ď¸
Summary: Officer Hwang Jun-ho enjoys a quiet life by your side after the accident.
A/N: I know I'm really late but I just started watching Squid Game and I'm absolutely in love with Jun-ho. This fic is 100% self-indulgent. I just really wanted to give him a quiet morning, a warm meal, and someone to come home to. Hope y'all enjoy it!â¤ď¸
MASTERLIST
The morning sun was soft against your skin as you stood at the kitchen counter, preparing Junhoâs lunch. The radio played some old trot song in the background, filling the quiet apartment with a sense of normalcyâsomething you both cherished more than anything these days. Â
Junho had been different since he came back. Not in a bad way, but in the way a man carries himself after seeing too much. His smiles took a little longer to reach his eyes, and sometimes, when he thought you werenât looking, his fingers would brush over the scar on his sideâa reminder of the games, of the bullets, of the life he barely escaped. Â
But he was here. Alive. Yours. Â
The sound of the front door opening pulled you from your thoughts. Â
âIâm home,â Junho called, his voice warm but tired. Â
You turned just as he stepped into the kitchen, still in his crisp traffic cop uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy from the wind, and there was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheekâprobably from directing traffic near construction sites all morning. Â
âLong shift?â you asked, setting down the knife and walking over to him. Â
Junho exhaled, rolling his shoulders. âSome idiot tried to run a red light while texting. Nearly caused a pileup.â He shook his head, but when his eyes met yours, the tension in his jaw softened. âBut itâs over now.â Â
You reached up, brushing your thumb over the dirt on his cheek. âYouâre a mess, Officer Hwang.â Â
He caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. âOnly for you.â Â
You scoffed, but your heart fluttered anyway. Even after all these years, he could still make you feel like a lovesick newlywed. Â
âSit down,â you ordered, nudging him toward the table. âI made your favorite.â Â
Junhoâs eyes lit up when he saw the spreadâkimchi jjigae, rice, and the side dishes he loved. âYou spoil me.â Â
âSomeone has to,â you teased, sitting across from him. Â
He ate like a man who hadnât seen food in days, and you watched him with quiet affection. This was the Junho you lovedâthe one who hummed in satisfaction after a good meal, the one who stole glances at you when he thought you werenât looking, the one who, despite everything, still found joy in the little things. Â
But then his chopsticks paused over his bowl, and his expression flickered. Â
You knew that look. Â
âJunho?â Â
He blinked, forcing a smile. âItâs nothing.â Â
You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. âTell me.â Â
He hesitated, his fingers tightening around yours. âJust⌠a flashback. From before.â Â
You didnât need him to elaborate. The games haunted him in quiet momentsâthe screams, the blood, the fear. Â
Gently, you stood and moved to his side, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. He leaned into you, his head resting against your chest. Â
âYouâre here,â you murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. âYouâre safe.â Â
Junho let out a slow breath, turning his face into your embrace. âI know.â Â
You held him like that for a long moment, until his grip on your hand loosened, until the tension in his shoulders eased. Â
Then, with a quiet chuckle, he tilted his head up at you. âYouâre going to make me late for my afternoon shift.â Â
You smirked. âOh no. How terrible.â Â
Junho grinnedâreally grinnedâand before you could react, he twisted in his chair, pulling you into his lap. You yelped, but his arms were already around you, holding you close. Â
âYouâre a menace,â you huffed, though you made no move to escape. Â
âYour menace,â he corrected, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Â
You sighed, running your fingers through his hair. âYeah. Mine.â Â
Junho pressed a kiss just below your ear, his voice soft. âAlways.â Â
Outside, the city buzzed with lifeâcars honking, people rushing, the world moving forward. But here, in this small kitchen, with Junhoâs warmth against yours, time felt slow. Peaceful. Â
And for the first time in a long time, you both believed it would stay that way. Â
Later that eveningâŚ
Junho stood at the crosswalk, his whistle between his lips as he directed traffic. The sun was setting, painting the streets in gold, and for once, his mind was quiet. Â
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Â
He pulled it out, smiling when he saw your text:Â Â
> "Donât forgetâdinner at 7. And no letting reckless drivers off with a warning!"
Junho chuckled, shaking his head as he typed back:Â Â
> "Only if you promise not to burn the apartment down while cooking."
Your reply was instant:Â Â
> "âŚNo promises. Love you."
Junhoâs chest warmed as he tucked his phone away, raising his hand to signal the cars forward. Â
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Hi, would I be able to request a platonic Sandman one shot where the reader is Dreamâs youngest endless sister. She gets trapped instead of him in the glass sphere and he comes and saves her. Sheâs naturally very shy and sensitive so the whole situation is devastating for her and he as a result comforts her. Thank youđĽş
Little One I Dream x Platonic! Reader (part 1)
Part 1 I Part 2
Summary: Dream´s younger sister gets captured by Rodrick Burgess. He simply won't stand for that.
A/N: Hi love!! First off, I just want to say a massive thank you for this request â as soon as I read âshy youngest Endless sibling stuck in the sphere instead of Dream đĽşâ my heart melted. I absolutely adored writing this soft, fluffy, big-brother Dream moment, and I really hope it delivered everything you were hoping for.
Also, I want to apologize to everyone for the little hiatus â life got unexpectedly chaotic, and I had to take a short break from writing. Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking around â it means the world. đ
MASTERLIST
The Endless are not meant to be caged.
And yet, here she was.
The glass sphere was cold, unyielding. It silenced everything. Her power. Her voice. Her name.
The youngest of the Endlessâsoft-spoken, seldom seen by mortalsâhad taken her brotherâs place by mistake. A ritual meant for Dream, miscast by mortals too foolish to grasp what theyâd summoned, had ensnared her instead.
No matter the season, no matter the hour. It never changed. She would lie on the floor of the sphere, her knees drawn up to her chest, her long hair clinging to her damp face, staring through the shimmering curve of her prison. The silence, unnatural and thick, was the worst part. Silence wasnât simply the absence of sound in this placeâit was a presence. Heavy. Oppressive. A weight pressing against her chest.
She didnât scream anymore.
The first years, she had. Quiet sobs at first, then desperate wails, calling for her siblingsâDelirium, Despair, Desire, even Destruction, though he was long gone. And most of all: Dream.
But he never came.
Not until many, many decades later.
1916
Roderick Burgess had wanted Death. He had recited the rites, drawn the sigils, sacrificed the blood. He wanted power, immortality, control over the final breath.
But when the circle flared with light, what emerged was not Death.
It was her.
A girl, dressed in twilight. Her wide, shimmering eyes blinked as she looked aroundâterrified, confused. Gentle and strange. She didnât resist when they locked her inside the sphere.
Roderick raged. âThatâs not Death. Thatâs just a young girl!â
âNo,â whispered one of his acolytes. âSheâs... something. Something old.â
And so they kept her.
Years passed. Then decades.
And she stopped speaking.
2022
She heard it first.
A soft hum, deep and ancient, reverberating through the earth.
Then, footsteps.
Real ones. Not the cautious, curious pacing of Burgessâs followers, nor the scraping wheels of his sonâs wheelchair. These were firm, graceful, quietâfamiliar.
She sat up, blinking. Her limbs trembled from disuse.
He stepped into view like a shadow parting the light.
Tall, pale, wrapped in a dark coat that swirled with sandâDream, her brother. His hair was longer. His face, harder than she remembered. But his eyesâthe stormy, star-filled eyesâsoftened the moment he saw her.
He stopped outside the sphere.
And his voice broke the silence.
ââŚLittle one?â
Her lip quivered. She hadnât heard that voice in over a hundred years.
She pressed her palms to the glass. âDream?â
He crossed to her without hesitation, kneeling in front of the sphere, placing his hand flat where hers rested.
âI came as soon as I knew,â he whispered. âIâm sorry it took so long.â
She stared at him, tears springing to her eyes.
âI thoughtâI thought you didnât notice I was gone.â
Dreamâs breath caught. The way she said itâlike she had trained herself not to expect anything from anyone, even from himâwounded something ancient in him.
His fingers curled slightly against the glass, as if the contact alone could undo the damage.
âI noticed,â he said quietly. âBut I was trapped too. Lucifer got to me. I didnât know they had taken you until long after I escaped.â
Her brow furrowed, confused. âYou were⌠trapped?â
He gave a slow nod. âI only freed myself recently. When I returned⌠I felt your absence. Thatâs when I started searching.â
Her lip trembled. âI thought maybe⌠maybe you didnât come because I wasnât important enough.â
âDonât say that,â he said instantlyâgently, but with a firm edge that shook the stillness. âYou are Endless. You are mine. I would have torn the universe apart for you if Iâd known.â
Something in her broke at that, and she let out a small sobâher first real sound in decades.
âI didnât think Iâd ever hear you again,â she whispered.
âIâm here now,â he said, rising to his feet, his tone low and certain. âAnd this ends today.â
He lifted a hand. The air grew still.
Then a fracture split the glassâone thin line, delicate and shimmering like a spiderâs thread. Then another. And another. The hum of Dreamâs power curled through the room like music, threading itself into every crack.
âIâve got you, little one,â he said, looking directly into her eyes.
The sphere shatteredâclean and sudden, like a bubble popped by moonlight.
And she fell forward into his arms.
There was no hesitation. No distance.
He caught her immediately, gathering her to his chest like something sacred.
She made a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob as her cheek pressed against his shoulder. His coat was soft and cool and smelled like midnight and old paper and the first breath before sleep.
âYouâre warm,â she whispered, voice muffled.
âSo are you,â he replied softly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapping fully around her. âYouâre here. Youâre safe.â
She clung to him like a child, fists grasping at the folds of his coat.Â
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her face blotchy with tears and streaked with grime, but her eyes shining now. âYou still call me little one.â
Dream smiled faintly, cupping her cheek. âYou will always be my little one.â
Her voice shook with the next question. âIâm still a bit scaredâŚâ
âOf course,â he said at once. âYouâve been alone too long. You donât have to be brave right now. You just have to let me carry you for a while.â
And she did.
Dream gently lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing. She curled against him, not caring that her limbs were shaking, not caring that she probably looked like a mess.
âYouâre really taking me home?â she asked quietly.
âI am.â
âTo the Dreaming or my realm?â
âThe Dreaming,â he said. âUnless youâd prefer somewhere else. You may rest where you like.â
âNoâŚâ she murmured. âI want to be near you. Just for a little while.â
Dream nodded, his eyes softening again. âThen thatâs exactly where youâll be.â
As he turned toward the door, the ruins of the mansion began to fall behind themâdust, stone, forgotten spells. He didnât look back.
âDream?â she said after a while, her voice small.
âYes?â
âDo the others⌠know?â
âNot yet. But they will,â he said. âAnd I imagine you will be met with hugs and tears and at least one glitter cannon.â
ââŚDelirium,â they said in unison.
She gave a small, sleepy laugh, and Dreamâs lips twitched into something like a smile.
âI want to see them. I just⌠want to be quiet first.â
âThen weâll be quiet,â he promised. âYou can be as quiet as you need, for as long as you need. Iâll keep the noise of the world away.â
She let out a slow breath, eyes fluttering shut. âYouâre really good at being a big brother, you know.â
Dream blinked.
Then, softly: ââŚThank you.â
And with that, she finallyâfinallyâslept.
Not the sleep of grief or exhaustion or magic. A real, soft, dreamless sleep.
The kind only someone truly safe could have.
And Dream, Lord of the Dreaming, carried her home through the starlit veil, one arm steady beneath her, the other still protectively wrapped around her, as if even the sky itself might try to take her again.