Noctis Veritas

𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞:

↳ Oneshots — short & sweet (or angsty!) stories ↳ Headcanons — little details & personal takes on characters ↳ Platonic requests — friendship, family, & non-romantic bonds ↳ Imagines/Drabbles/Scenarios — bite-sized moments ↳ Vibes: Fluff ✧ Angst ✧ Comfort ✧ Whump ✧ & more!

✖ 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: ✖

🚫 NSFW (no mature/explicit content) 🚫 Incest/Romantic Familial Pairings 🚫 Culturally Specific Readers (to avoid misrepresentation) 🚫 Yandere (no obsessive/possessive dynamics)

𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

❥ Check my fandom list first! (Open to suggestions—just ask if I know it!) ❥ Requests closed? You can still send ideas for future consideration! ❥ I reserve the right to decline requests—for any reason. ❥ Be respectful—to me, other readers, and yourself. ❤️

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐈 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑

(Fandoms marked with ✧ are my current hyperfixations!)

✧ Bungo Stray Dogs ✧ The Sandman ✧ Squid Game ✦ My Hero Academia ✦ Marvel ✦ Hazbin Hotel ✦ Helluva Boss ✦ Crimson Peak ✦ Stranger Things ✦ Genshin Impact ✦ Heathers

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 prison—silent, 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 — 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!💕😘

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, "’Til 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 perfectly—lying 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?” 

"He hasn't said anything!" you cried, wincing as his grip tightened. "We just... we just spend time together. Please, let me go, you’re 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.”

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 value—otherwise, I can no longer guarantee that the girl’s 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!”

The silence that followed was terrifying. Burgess’s 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 didn’t 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 dark—the 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.

"Oof—steady 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. "I’ll tell the maids you’re 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 Magus’ 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 you’d been running from all day to finally catch up.

‘Papa’, 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 Magus’s hand on his little girl, he would be terrified. He’d be so angry. He’d 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, you’d never see Alex again. Poor, quiet Alex, who lived in his father’s 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 him—his secrets, his power, his dignity. 

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.

‘He was angry for me’, 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.

"It’s only me, lass," Mr. Sykes’s muffled voice came from the other side. "I’ve 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 tired—older 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. "I’ve brought some cold cream. It’ll take the sting out and help hide the color if you have to go out.”

"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. "He’s in his study. Locked away with his books and that ruby of his. He’s in a foul temper, but he’s not looking for you. He’s 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 you’ve 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."

Sykes’s expression softened into something truly pained. "I’ll 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.

"I’m 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. I’ll be back at noon to check on you. If you need anything—anything at all—you 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.

‘Little one.’

You jumped, nearly falling backward, your eyes darting around the empty shadows. "Who's there? Alex? Is that you?"

‘Do not look to the shadows. Look at me.’

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?"

‘I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares. The mind is my kingdom,’ the voice vibrated, softening as his gaze landed on your bruised face. ‘Are you... alright?’

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 face—something that might have been a smile, if the slight quirk of his lips counted as such.

‘You should not have returned,’ he whispered into your thoughts, the voice sounding like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘It is dangerous. The Magus is a man of small soul and great cruelty.’

"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.‘Then read, little bird,’ he said, and you could almost feel the phantom touch of a hand against your hair. ‘I am listening.’

Taglist:

@unhinged-sorcerer

@geekofmanyforms

@terrencelovesyoou

@khaleesihavilliard

@poemfreak306

@elinadenise

@villain-in-the-dark

@randogirl-sup

@queenofstresss

@vexypine

@totallysocially

@sapphireonline

@universallyrascaldreamercookie

@aurelialou

@shybetazoid

@christieweems1995

@princess76179

@darling-eos

@itscatbloom

@randomfandom2013-blog

@thegirlunivers-blog

@wideeyed-wonders

@deeplyenchantedsabotage

@bontensbabygirl

@chugjugg

@aurelialou

🧸 = Fluff

💔 = Angst

🧩 = Series

Bungo Stray Dogs

Atsushi Nakajima

🧩Of 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

💔🧸The Handler (platonic! headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.

💔🧸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.

🧸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europe—with broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.

💔🧸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that you’re stuck with each other.

💔🧸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 you’re not as alone as you feel. I KNOW IT'S OVER (THE SMITHS)

Yukichi Fukuzawa

💔🧸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

🧩Whiskey 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.

🧸Grow Light (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya comforts you when you're gloomy on rainy days.

🧸Cheating Gravity (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya indulges your rain-loving whims.

💔🧸The Handler (headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.

💔🧸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.

🧸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europe—with broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.

💔🧸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that you’re stuck with each other.

💔🧸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 you’re not as alone as you feel. I KNOW IT'S OVER (THE SMITHS)

Ougai Mori

🧸Missed a Spot (oneshot) - You help your husband shave after a long day.

💔🧸Camellia Kisses (oneshot Hanahaki AU!) - You’ve been at Ougai Mori’s side since you were nineteen, first as his assistant and now as a trusted executive. But for years, you’ve harbored a dangerous secret — an unspoken love for him that’s begun to manifest in a deadly condition: Hanahaki Disease.

💔🧸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.

💔🧸Whispered Names (oneshot) - A quiet café, a tired doctor, and a coffee shop owner with an ability. When you enter Mori’s dreams to offer comfort, you uncover the truth behind his nightmares—and who he really is.

Edgar Allan Poe

🧸 = Fluff

💔 = Angst

🧩 = Series

The Sandman

Dream of the Endless

🧩Love 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.

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 prison—silent, 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 — 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!!❤️

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. 

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. "I’ve noticed you’ve 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. 

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 father’s voice echoing through the floorboards: “You’ll never be like your brother. Stop being a nuisance!”

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 you’d been "borrowing" from your father’s 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 drama—how 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 he—the man in the glass—had 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.

"You’re quiet today, (Y/N)," Roderick Burgess’s 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 I’ve noticed you’ve 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 you’d 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 you’d 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. "Father’s 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 you’d 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."

‘Wait, birds like shiny things, right? Or was it raccoons? I don’t have any food, but maybe...’

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 brain—like 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. It’s 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? She’s 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 girl’s 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 I—the Shaper of Dreams—was 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. "It’s 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 him—of his beautiful, tragic stubbornness, of the blood on the snow and the song that had once moved even the cold heart of Hades—rushed 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 pride—it 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 that’s better than never seeing her at all, right? It’s 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 girl’s 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.

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@aurelialou

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 season—no, I did not like s5—SO! I decided to make a short little Steve tidbit of the end of s4. Enjoy loves!!💕

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. "You’ve 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 Hershey’s?"

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.

"Steve’s 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."

"We’ve 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, I’m sure your map is beautiful. Did you use the multi-colored highlighters?"

"The situation calls for color-coding, Steve! It’s 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 Lucas’s arm a supportive squeeze and patted Mike’s shoulder. "Tell you what. Steve is going to finish his chocolate, and I’m going to make sure his bandages are clean. If you guys go get some actual food from the mess hall—real food, not just crackers—we’ll meet you at the 'war table' in twenty minutes. Deal?"

The boys exchanged looks.

"She’s much more reasonable than you, Harrington," Lucas noted.

"She’s also the only reason he’s 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 I’m 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. We’re 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."

(You can switch things up if you want 🤗)

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 delay😭! 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! 💕💕

MASTERLIST

The walk back to the safehouse was silent, but it wasn’t 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 ragged—not from exertion, but from the constriction in his lungs.

"Ryu, please," you whispered, your head resting against the rough fabric of his cravat. "You’re 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 he—" 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.

"It’s a cut," you said softy. "It’s not fatal. It’s not even deep. I’m right here."

"You are bleeding because of me."

"I’m 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. Don’t 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, I’m terrified I will leave a stain."

"You’re not staining me," you murmured, threading your fingers through the black tips of his hair. "You’re 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. "I’ll watch."

"You need to sleep too."

"I can’t." 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. "It’s calm when you’re near."

"It’s 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 Rashomon’s spatula-arm, which moved with the speed of a striking viper—too 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 shouldn’t 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 simple—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. He turned slightly so he could look down at you. "You can’t. 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 you’re injured on my watch. Therefore, I must ensure you’re cared for. This is my duty."

"It’s not duty, Ryu," you smiled, reaching up to smooth his messy hair. "It’s 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 wasn’t  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? I’ll 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. "Don’t 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's…good, 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 mission—finding 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 hand—the uninjured one—and 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 prison—silent, 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 — 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! ;D💕

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 trip—not 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 weren’t watching.

“This won’t be for long,” he said finally, glancing over at you with a smile. “Just a few days. I’ll be back before you can miss me too much.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Where are you going this time?”

He hesitated. “Somewhere far. Somewhere I can’t take you with me, love.”

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 prison—silent, 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 — 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 heart—thank you so much❤️ 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.

No—this 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 anyone’s 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.

“You can go.”

Alex followed closely at his father’s 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 didn’t pause until he reached the edge of the glowing circle painted on the ground, the same one you’d sat by during those quiet, starlit nights before. You’d 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 weren’t afraid of him. You were afraid for him.

It’s 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. There’s a lot of hurt, comfort and remorse in the end (and a lot of apologies from Desire).

Thank you 💖💖

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 😂 Be as greedy as you want, your requests are always a joy! Hope you like it, love. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

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 clouds—each 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. “There’s my girl,” she said, hugging her tightly. “Hey sweetheart. You look amazing. Have you eaten? Don’t lie.”

⚠️⚠️CONTAINS SQUID GAME SEASON 2 SPOILERS⚠️⚠️

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!❤️

MASTERLIST

The morning sun was soft against your skin as you stood at the kitchen counter, preparing Junho’s lunch. The radio played some old trot song in the background, filling the quiet apartment with a sense of normalcy—something you both cherished more than anything these days.  

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 weren’t looking, his fingers would brush over the scar on his side—a reminder of the games, of the bullets, of the life he barely escaped.  

But he was here. Alive. Yours.  

The sound of the front door opening pulled you from your thoughts.  

“I’m home,” Junho called, his voice warm but tired.  

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 cheek—probably from directing traffic near construction sites all morning.  

“Long shift?” you asked, setting down the knife and walking over to him.  

Junho exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Some idiot tried to run a red light while texting. Nearly caused a pileup.” He shook his head, but when his eyes met yours, the tension in his jaw softened. “But it’s over now.”  

You reached up, brushing your thumb over the dirt on his cheek. “You’re a mess, Officer Hwang.”  

He caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Only for you.”  

You scoffed, but your heart fluttered anyway. Even after all these years, he could still make you feel like a lovesick newlywed.  

“Sit down,” you ordered, nudging him toward the table. “I made your favorite.”  

Junho’s eyes lit up when he saw the spread—kimchi jjigae, rice, and the side dishes he loved. “You spoil me.”  

“Someone has to,” you teased, sitting across from him.  

He ate like a man who hadn’t seen food in days, and you watched him with quiet affection. This was the Junho you loved—the one who hummed in satisfaction after a good meal, the one who stole glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, the one who, despite everything, still found joy in the little things.  

But then his chopsticks paused over his bowl, and his expression flickered.  

You knew that look.  

“Junho?”  

He blinked, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing.”  

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “Tell me.”  

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around yours. “Just… a flashback. From before.”  

You didn’t need him to elaborate. The games haunted him in quiet moments—the screams, the blood, the fear.  

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.  

“You’re here,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You’re safe.”  

Junho let out a slow breath, turning his face into your embrace. “I know.”  

You held him like that for a long moment, until his grip on your hand loosened, until the tension in his shoulders eased.  

Then, with a quiet chuckle, he tilted his head up at you. “You’re going to make me late for my afternoon shift.”  

You smirked. “Oh no. How terrible.”  

Junho grinned—really grinned—and 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.  

“You’re a menace,” you huffed, though you made no move to escape.  

“Your menace,” he corrected, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.  

You sighed, running your fingers through his hair. “Yeah. Mine.”  

Junho pressed a kiss just below your ear, his voice soft. “Always.”  

Outside, the city buzzed with life—cars honking, people rushing, the world moving forward. But here, in this small kitchen, with Junho’s warmth against yours, time felt slow. Peaceful.  

And for the first time in a long time, you both believed it would stay that way.  

Later that evening…

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.  

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.  

He pulled it out, smiling when he saw your text:  

> "Don’t forget—dinner at 7. And no letting reckless drivers off with a warning!"

Junho chuckled, shaking his head as he typed back:  

> "Only if you promise not to burn the apartment down while cooking."

Your reply was instant:  

> "…No promises. Love you."

Junho’s chest warmed as he tucked his phone away, raising his hand to signal the cars forward.  

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 — as soon as I read “shy youngest Endless sibling stuck in the sphere instead of Dream 🥺” 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 — 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 — it means the world. 💖

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 Endless—soft-spoken, seldom seen by mortals—had taken her brother’s place by mistake. A ritual meant for Dream, miscast by mortals too foolish to grasp what they’d 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 wasn’t simply the absence of sound in this place—it was a presence. Heavy. Oppressive. A weight pressing against her chest.

I am slowly but surely getting those requests in my ask-box written!

Even so, please let me know in this posts comments what you want to see more of!🥰❤️❤️