#kati writes

It’s a child’s thing, and just as well since you were a child when you had it; long before you even knew what typing was or how to craft a story.  With great reverence, you lift the precious plastic thing into the dappled sunlight beneath the tree.  Turn it this way and that to inspect it, to recall the lines of it and the weight of it in your hands.  You remember it much heavier, in the hands of a little girl all of nine or ten.  Something in so minute a difference swells in your chest, makes it more real.

Vibrant color flutters in your peripheral, pulling your attention to the incandescent butterfly crossing your path.  You turn to follow it, watching the rainbows of its wings shimmering in the speckled sunlight.  And your wonder only grows when you see where the little creature leads you.  A desk, set amongst the wildflowers, chair pulled out so invitingly.  The butterfly alights upon a stack of clean white paper that awaits you and the typewriter in your hands.

With a delighted grin, you take the offered seat, placing the machine down gently.  Your kaleidoscope companion flutters lazily when you pull a sheet from the stack beneath it, but settles right back in while you spool the paper into the typewriter.  It’s been so long, you’re surprised you remember how, but you find things moving with practiced ease.  And like many a dream, the letters and symbols on the keys don’t seem quite right.  Yet, your fingers find their appointed places just the same.

The keystrokes flow from you in a fervor, your excitement tangible.  And while the inky symbols appear on the page in different fonts and sizes, hardly recognizable to the eyes, you know exactly in your heart what you type.  You think in a place like this, that’s all that really matters.

Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless…

A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves above you.  It even buffers against your little butterfly, sending it flittering into the air in a delicate twirl of color before the lively thing disappears into the grassland.  Anticipation thrums in goosebumps along your skin as you turn in your seat.  Feeling him before you see him.

“You called for me, little writer?”

Your smile grows at the sight of the Dream Lord mere feet away.  To say he looks out of place in such a natural scene isn’t entirely accurate.  If anything, his presence seems to bring everything into sharper focus, the romantic haze giving way to something more palpable.  His kingly countenance commands the attention of the entire world around him.  But his eyes are on you, curious and amused as he regards you.

“I suppose I did,” you tease, rising to your feet to greet him properly.  “I’m actually a little surprised you weren’t here already.”

“I thought, perhaps, you could use a reprieve from my company.”  His eyes never leave yours as you stand before him, lip quirking ever so gently.  “Our last encounter seemed to trouble you.  I wish for you to be at peace while you are in my realm.”

Though his voice holds a playful lilt, there’s enough sincerity in his words to set your cheeks ablaze.  Perhaps a reprieve is in order, though nothing quite so harsh as his absence.  You settle for turning to eye the greenery around you, to catch a breath.  “Very peaceful… and gorgeous.  Is every place you make here so beautiful?”

To your surprise and delight, Morpheus beams with pride and surveys the land beside you.  “I take great care in the things I create.”

“Like my typewriter?”

His attention cuts to you from the corner of his eyes, finding your smile there seems to ease him, though his head still ducks a little in chagrin.  “Pray you, forgive me for taking the liberties.  I’d only hoped to encourage you.”

There is something so soft about this ethereal creature beside you, that without thinking you reach to touch the sleeve of his black coat.  His head turns to regard your fingers, then your face, but he makes no move and you make no mention.

“Thank you.”  And you can only hope to sound as sincere as you feel.  “I can’t even imagine how you…”

You trail off, a realization dawning on you with a gentle gasp.  “Half of dreams are memories, aren’t they?  Whether mine or someone else’s.”

At this, Dream turns back to you fully, and the warmth of his expression nearly knocks the breath from you.  “You’ve found me out, little writer.”

It’s his turn to reach for you, with one graceful twist of his wrist, he finds your hand with his own, thumb grazing against your knuckles.  “There were a few different writing instruments in your memory, but this one seemed to have the most meaning.”

“That is… incredibly thoughtful.”  And finding yourself yet again at a loss for words before the King of Dreams, you settle for the ones that stick and swell in your heart.  “Thank you.”

If your ineloquence bothers him, Morpheus gives no sign.  In fact, he bows his head regally, bringing the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss.  “I’m happy it pleases you.”

You try to school the giddy grin that overtakes you.  It wouldn’t do, to just melt entirely right in front of him, not when he’s just arrived.  And sure, he told you he wants to court you, but he’s still the King of Dreams and you don’t want to look like a complete… Holy shit, you’re being courted by an Endless! What the –

“Will you walk with me, then?”  That soothing voice interrupts the start of a good mental spiral.  And judging from the tilt of his head as he looks at you, he is well aware of it, too.  Still, you’re thankful, even if it takes you a moment to recover yourself.  “That is, if you’ve no intent to write at the moment.”

“Absolutely.”  

Your nod is all eager relief as he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow.  How easy it is to follow his lead down the gently beaten path.  Sneaking a glance at him, you note just how proudly he walks, yet there’s nothing so severe in his face.  It’s formal, old-fashioned, some might even say a little stiff, but…. Somehow, this feels as intimate as any kiss upon your knuckles.  At least, if this Morpheus truly is anything like the one from your stories.

“Speaking of being pleased,” you eventually say, smiling when he crooks an eyebrow at you.  “I finished writing another story.”

His head tips in acknowledgement, but there’s a playful glint in his twinkling eyes.  “Yes.  You should be pleased.  Though… Matthew was quite saddened you had not worked on his tale first.”

The memory of your last meeting strikes you then, the gentle jibe of jealousy on his part and the fond look he’d given you.  You wonder briefly if you look the same when you say “Well, I only follow where the inspiration leads.”

This seems to tickle the Dream Lord, a sharp amused snort shaking his shoulders slightly.  It’s hard not to raise your chin in a bit of triumph at having elicited such a response.  

“Actually,” you dare to add, bolstered by the easy camaraderie.  “What I meant was I thought you’d be pleased to hear I finished it.”

“I am pleased indeed,” Morpheus assures, though he gently slows you both to a stop beneath another tree, a lush willow near a sweetly babbling creek.  “I was already fond of this particular story.  But you should take pride in your crafting.  It was… quite beautiful.”

The compliment lights you up like nothing else.  “You really think so?”

“Yes, Little Writer.”  An indulgent smile curls the corners of his mouth.  “It felt every bit the dream it was meant to; fever-pitched and ethereal.”

“I’m so glad you liked it.”  You beam, barely able to meet his gaze, fingers curling more firmly around his elbow lest your bout of giddiness send you reeling.  “I was a little worried since you didn’t really make a full appearance…”

“But I was there.  In the sand and the stars.”  His hand finds yours again, engulfing it with his fine pale fingers.  Something thick in his velvet voice feels like a promise, drawing your attention to his glimmering eyes so intent upon you.

Though, you do manage a bashful smirk.  “I didn’t think you danced.”

“I confess, I do not.  But that does not keep me from enjoying the sight of you doing so.  A wild and free thing.”  Dream tips his head closer to you, his little smile conspiratorial, and you’re struck by it as much as the sight and sound of the willow’s branches beginning to move; twisting and twining into a soft curtain of green to surround just the two of you.  “Is that how you wish for me to court you?  Shall I help you dance among the stars?”

“I…” The reminder of his intentions flutters in your stomach, a nervous, airy chuckle squeaking its way out of your throat.  “I don’t think I’m much of a dancer either.”

By the twitch between his brows, you think Morpheus means to argue, but he only offers a placating nod.  “Very well.  Then what else shall I offer you?  What might you wish of me? You need only ask.”

“I think you offering yourself is more than enough,” you guffaw, the giddy absurdity taking you.  

But when a ghost of an expression crosses his lips, as though surprised and flattered by your words, you find yourself suddenly much more sobered. It calls to question the smallness you feel before such an Endless being.  That you’d be so lucky to capture his attention, let alone his favor. And because he liked your writing of all things?

“I suppose I might ask…”  You suddenly feel a little ridiculous, but the curious arch of his brow serves to pry your bottom lip from between your teeth.  “Well, you said you like my stories.  For whatever reason, you enjoy my writing.”

“I do.”  

“And you’ve read every story I’ve thought of, written or not, because they’re all in your library?”

The slightest nod of his head seems to urge you on, eager to follow where you’re going with this line of thought.  “But then, why does it matter if I actually write them in the Waking World?  If they’re already here, you already have them to read whenever you want.”

Dream straightens a little, lips pursing as he seems to mull over his answer.  You get the feeling he knows exactly why, but perhaps is less sure how to put voice to it.  And there’s something beautifully mundane and endearing about the little crease of concentration between his brow.  

“Stories fuel the unconscious which, in turn, fuels The Dreaming,” he begins, slow and measured, as if weighing each word on his tongue.  “The more stories there are, the more people who read them, the more robust it makes this realm.”

There’s no denying his sentiment, of course, but… but something still tickles at the back of your mind.  Teases out your curiosity with an amused huff. “Can’t that be said of any story, though?  Why these?  Why mine?”

The Dream King’s dark crown tilts back at a regarding angle, only the softness of his features keeping his demeanor from aloofness.  A softness that melts some of the stiff angles of him, until he moves your hand from the crook of his elbow downward to cradle between his own. “When I first took notice, you were standing at the Gates of Horn, staring in, but too frightened to walk through.” 

He levels his gaze with yours, expression gentle and imploring.  “I merely opened the way.  You took the steps that lead you here, to this place.”

To me, your brain supplies.  And your stomach swoops, uncertain if it was your own voice in your ears or his.  With a gentle shake of your head, as much to hide your flushed skin as to express your confusion, you reply. “I don’t understand.  I thought the Gates of Horn were for true dreams.”

“Your words may be fiction, but there is truth at the heart of them.”  No small amount of pride flashes through his eyes, gaze hot upon your cheeks.  “I see it in the way you write The Dreaming.  And in how you speak of my siblings.”

“That… didn’t come from you?”  You blink in surprise at the thought.  Certainly you recognized the other Endless in your little fics. Despair, Delirium… They’d presented themselves quite naturally in the narrative.  You only assumed it was the influence of the Dream Lord himself.

“No,” he insists, amusement tinting his voice.  “Yet you write them as I know them to be. And the way you write me…”

Here his eyes finally stray from yours; flitting down to your hand in his, where his thumb traces the ridge of your knuckles, before finding you again through the dark rim of his lashes, an almost timid smile curling the corner of his lips. “Flattering as it may be, there is a realness to it that I can only hope to strive for.”

You’re not sure how to process this.  This Endless cosmic being enjoys the way you write him, is flattered by it… Aspires to it.  With dawning realization, you gasp.  “Dream of a Thousand Cats.” 

It’s the Dream King’s turn to look puzzled now, lips parted in silent question.  But you know, in the way one can only know such things in a dream.  And the thought alone leaves you awed.

“You hope if enough people read the way I write you…” A smile tugs your lips; the clench around your heart both fond and bittersweet in equal measure.  “If enough people dream it, then it will always have been true.”

Whatever sourness threatens Morpheus’s features is quickly released with a lighthearted huff. “Quite the clever little writer.”

A part of you wants to keen in triumph, but this Endless being before you looks caught out enough, you don’t dare to rub it in.  And you feel rewarded for it by the unexpected twinge of vulnerability in his velvet voice. 

“Do you think it selfish of me?”

“I…” Your fingers squeeze his a breath tighter, to reassure him or settle yourself, you’re not quite sure.  “If you think it’s a better version of yourself, then who am I to judge?  Of course… I might be a little partial to the way I write you.”

Any hint of uncertainty you might have imagined in him evaporates against the spark of fondness in his eyes; the brilliant blue of them fluttering behind your ribcage. “Another reason, then, to live up to it.”

You can’t help but think your knees ought to be buckling beneath you.  Perhaps in the Waking World, they would.  But here, with your hand in his, you managed to inch a little closer, your own boldness flushing you. “Can I ask something else of you?”

“Name it.”  There’s a quiet eagerness to it you might have missed beneath the obliging tip of his head. Except you’re a little too focused on him in this closeness.

“May I…”  It catches in your throat only a beat, slipping out before you can lose any more nerve.  “Kiss you?”

The curious twitch of his brow has you bracing, but then his face lights up in amusement.  “Is it not customary for the suitor to request the first kiss?”

If your laughter is quaking breathless, you still find a way to smile at him playfully. “Times change, my lord.”

“Morpheus,” he corrects gently, offering a gracious smile at your flash of confusion. “My station is deserving of respect and reverence, but when we are alone…”

It seems the Dream Lord’s turn to pause a thoughtful breath before speaking in a quiet voice meant just for you.  “When it is only the two of us, I need only be Morpheus.  Your Morpheus.”

His tone itself is enough to melt you, but his words… Those steal the air right out of your lungs.  You have to lick away the dryness from your lips before you can respond.  And even then, it’s little more than a reedy whisper. “Then, may I kiss you… my Morpheus?”

“By all means.” 

Dappled sunlight catches in his glimmering eyes when he leans in ever so slightly closer.  An offering.  And that voice thick with a promise you can’t quite name, but want to hold him to more than anything.  With a steadying hand on his chest, you close the meager distance, your lips finding the cool, pale expanse of his cheek.  The kiss is chaste, but his sharp breath and the way his jaw clenches beneath it makes you wonder if you’ve scorched him.

Yet, you barely manage to part from him -how ever reluctant- before Dream’s delicate fingers find the curve of your neck; stilling you as he turns his face to yours.  Your noses bump gently, parted lips sharing the same shaky breath as they brush together.  And when you make no move to pull away, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, Morpheus, your Morpheus, seals his mouth over yours…

—

Your Monday morning alarm is quite possibly the most hideous sound you’ve ever heard at this moment.  Sure, you picked it because it would be enough to wake you without startling you silly first thing in the AM, but that hardly makes up for it pulling you from such a wonderful dream.

It’s left you in a strange state of longing, coupled with a clench around your fluttering heart.  With a twinge of sadness, you realize the details are quickly fading, but you manage to grab your phone.  Once the alarm has been silenced, you tap your note app and start typing what little is still solid in your mind.

The tall dark-haired man, his soft pink lips on yours, a butterfly with stained-glass windows for wings… your old typewriter?

That last one brings a confused smile to your face.  How absolutely silly… How lovely.

And yet, even knowing this now, you still feel an urgency to duck into one of the classrooms.  Like you’re expected.  And you don’t want to disappoint whoever is waiting.

But what is through the door is no classroom.  It’s really unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.  The marble tiles seem to glow, bathing the place in a surreal light that travels up the half dozen chiseled columns and archways.  Archways that seem to magically dissolve into a purpled midnight sky where a ceiling ought to be.  It dances with an aurora borealis in vivid greens and electric blues that nearly stop your heart as you stare in wonder.

The sound of a book closing draws your attention back downward.  A large ornately carved table commands the center of the place, the darkest wood of it matching the brimming bookcases that line the walls.  At one end of the table sits a singular high-backed chair, and in it, a man with a leather bound tome in his pale hand.

Dream.

You realize he must have been watching you since you came in, but when your eyes finally settle on him, the ghost of a smile crosses his face as he tilts his head.  “Ah, there you are.  I have been waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” you mutter offhand, attention torn between the marvel above you and the Dream Lord as you draw closer.  “What is this place?”

“There’s no need for apologies.”  He stands then, looking every bit the ethereal king you know him to be, but there’s something endearingly mundane about the way he cradles the book in his hand and straightens his shoulders formally.  “Welcome to my library.”

That takes you aback.  This place is much too small to be The Dreaming’s library, no way all the stories of the collective unconscious could be housed in these beautiful, but decidedly close quarters.  As if reading your mind, or perhaps just the puzzlement on your face, Morpheus adds “This is my private collection.  I thought it to be… less overwhelming.”

You stop beside the table, glancing up once more at the colors dancing above you both, and fix him with an incredulous look.  “Right, much less overwhelming.”

His gaze follows yours up to the lights a moment, falling back to your face with the slightest quirk at the corner of his lips.  And it almost seems like the flickering blue has been caught in his eyes as he rounds the corner of the table to approach you.  Your mind takes you back to your first meeting with this Endless and you realize that blanket of calm has returned.  Except where there was once fear, something else rests in your chest.  Something else you’re not quite sure you have a name for just yet.

“I wrote the thing,” you offer, remembering the last dream and the story ideas that had flooded your mind. How he had already known them as sure as anything you’d actually put to paper.  “The angsty one.”

“I know.” Of course he does, how could you have possibly thought otherwise.  But there isn’t any smugness in the look he gives you as he stops a scant arm’s length away.  It’s softer.  It’s… kind.  “I am pleased to hear it. Now, what shall your next one be?”

The book he’d been reading is still in his hand; he raises it in acknowledgement before setting it on the table between you both and you suddenly know that’s it. That’s the book that holds all your stories, everything you’ve ever written and everything you’ve never written.  Without realizing, your hand finds its way to the cover, itching to open it, to know.  But you stay yourself, fingers feeling along the spine wistfully.

“I don’t know.”  You shrug a little, letting your hand drop to your side as you look back up at him.  “Matthew, maybe?”

Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, surprises you with a half-annoyed little huff.  “He will be flattered, I’m sure.”

Your lips draw thin as you try to contain yourself, peering at him curiously.  “Jealous?”

Perhaps you were too bold, because your heart drops at the affronted way he raises his chin, brow cinched and lips parted as if to retort, to deny.  But the spark in his eyes softens first, followed slowly by his expression, into something that feels almost playful.

“Are you laughing at me?”  He squints at you, studying you, though his mouth quirks gently.

“No!” It comes out so sharp and fast you nearly startle yourself.  This only seems to amuse the Dream King more.  “No, of course not.”

His gentle hum is enough to soothe any worry in you.  Though not quite enough to dispel your look of chagrin or the heat in your cheeks.  Those you try hiding with another glance up at the color dancing across the glittering sky above.  It’s beautiful, wondrous, and threatens to make you feel so small.  Except…

“Can I…” You pause a moment to look at Dream again, not exactly sure where the ember of curiosity has come from, but feeling it fanned by the way this Endless watches you so intently.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

The confused pinch between his brow really does make you laugh this time.  Though it’s more at yourself than him; nervous, delirious, uncertain.

“Why give me all these ideas?” you continue with a little shake of your head.  “Why show me these things?  This place?”

“Because I wish to read them.”  As though it is the most obvious thing in the world and not some mystery tickling at your brain.

You guffaw at that, momentarily dumbfounded by what feels like a celestial joke. Spinning on your heel to escape his constant starry gaze for a breath, you take a few aimless steps.  “Okay… then why me?  There are plenty of people you could get to write for you.”

Morpheus’s fingers wrap around your elbow, gently urge you back toward him.  His eyes study you like some fascinating puzzle he can’t quite sus out.  “You humans are so strange.  Half hope, half doubt.  Never knowing quite which side to fall on.”

“You’ve never doubted yourself before?” You’re not sure where such words, such bold familiarity comes from, but out it tumbles in a gentle press; a little plea for empathy.

This gives him a moment’s pause before a soft smile warms his pale features.  “Perhaps that is why you, Little Writer. Or that I whisper these things to you and you build worlds with them. As sure as anything I build in The Dreaming.  It is your words I want for my library.  I will keep them well here.”

Speechless.  Something aches inside you at his sincerity, at the way he speaks his last sentence like a reassuring oath. He asks for your words and yet there are none in this moment you can piece together in response.  

But this doesn’t deter the Dream King.  He merely steps closer, cool fingers tracing electric  down your arm to settle at your wrist.  And his voice is somehow deeper in its quiet, its intimacy.  “Let others have their dreams and inspirations.  Let me be yours.”

“Mine?”  It comes out unbidden, a choked whisper into the space between you, more longing in it than you realize.  It deepens the ache in you, finding that feeling of wonder and smallness in his glittering eyes, as striking as the vaulted ceiling above.

Realization seems to dawn on Dream’s face and his soft, amused chuckle hums in your chest.  He knows.  He sees your ache and your smallness.  But he doesn’t back away, he doesn’t back down.  Instead, delicate fingers clasp your near trembling hand.

“I thought I’d made my intentions quite obvious,” he muses, perhaps more to himself than anything, raising your joined hands to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles.  “I mean to court you, Little Writer.  If you allow it.”

“Court me?”  You blink, shocked, flustered.  Skin all too alive under the barest brush of his lips.  Feeling all too like some dumbfounded parrot with the way you can only repeat his words that strike you hardest.

The barest hint of concern etches his features, though his gentle touch never falters.  “Are my advances… unwelcome?”

You nearly find yourself repeating him again in your haze, but you catch it, gaping mouth snapping shut as you force yourself to a more coherent answer.  “Not unwelcome. Just unexpected.”

This seems to please him.  You can almost feel it in his touch, it hitches your breath ever so quietly.  That pleases him too, his mouth tilting smug.  “Have I overwhelmed you?”

“Oh, maybe just a little,” you manage to snark back at him, earning a wider grin that heats your face like the sun. Your eyes scan the room again, across the starry ceiling, trying to calm your wild heart.  “I’d hate to think just how overwhelmed I’d be if you’d picked some place else.”

“Then my apologies are in order,” Dream murmurs gently, fingers slipping from your hand.  But before you can protest, they’re silencing you with a touch at your chin, holding your gaze on him lest it wander again.  And it’s all so very soft you could melt.  “Morning breaks in your realm.  The Waking World calls you.”

“Can’t I stay here,” you whisper, though you can feel the truth of his words, see pinks and oranges starting to leech into the starry night beyond his dark mess of hair.

“But then who shall write these stories for me? Or for my dreamers?”  His quiet tease does nothing to change your mind. Yet still you feel yourself slipping away, eyes heavy, fluttering closed at the feel of his thumb grazing the curve of your lips.  “Go, Little Writer.  I’ll be here when you return…”

Your eyes blink open slowly to sunlight streaming in through your bedroom window.  Some black bird flutters past and brings a wistful smile to your face.  What a wild dream. Your old high school.  A gorgeous, dancing sky.  A dark-haired man with stars for eyes.  

Maybe gardening isn’t the best metaphor.  You know actual gardening takes patience and care and hard work to achieve something beautiful.  But at this point, you’d settle for weeds in the crack of a sidewalk just to have something.  You also know that weeds can be beautiful too.

Instead of deleting the three measly sentences, you decide to… repurpose the document.  If you can’t make a whole story just yet, you can at least throw these fic ideas into a Google Doc and maybe try plucking something up later.

Let’s see…

- Your cat gets the drop on a raven, but you save it and decide to take it home and patch it back up. Unbeknownst to you, the raven belongs to the King of Dreams, who comes looking for his companion

Hmmm… not terrible. But really, how would your lazy chonk of a cat manage to capture some mystical bird?  The little tubbers can’t even capture flies worth a damn.  Maybe the cat is magical too somehow?  Are you a witch and the cat your Familiar?  That’s worth exploring later maybe.

- You’ve trained as a dancer since childhood, but after years of chronic illness (chronic pain and fatigue syndrome? fibromyalgia?) the only place you can still dance is in your dreams, and it’s there that Morpheus becomes enamored of you

That has some potential.  Write what you know, right?  But while you know chronic illness, you don’t really know any dancing.  This is the sorta shit that happens when you hear songs like “Tiny Dancer” while on your drive to work in the early morning.  How would you even write about dancing convincingly? Like are you going to have to Google dance terms to try sounding legit?

But the thought of even his slightest of smiles, even the barest hint of adoration makes your tummy flutter

- Cockworship.  Him splayed out on your bed (or his bed?) chiseled from the finest marble, adoring him this god, this endless being, this personification of dreams itself… and his breathless rasp of “Only you may worship me this way.”

Okay, that one has your cheeks heating up and you’re tummy flipping.  What a lovely image.  And certainly a mutual or two would absolutely love it as well. But… well, smut’s been a little difficult for you lately. Plus, you hardly ever write good smut.  There’s always more feeling than you intend because you love a good backstory.  Maybe you could try a Porn with Plot sometime, but today doesn’t feel like that day.  Perhaps if you get a weekend alone with a bottle of wine one day…

- You dream-walk into a library, expansive and filled to the brim with every book and story ever written or ever going to be written, every life story, every flitting thought, more knowledge than you can ever dream of… What is this place? The Library of Alexandria?

“No, far more than that.” “Will I remember when I wake up.”

“Only you of the Waking World knows that.”

An awed, hushed whisper “I hope I remember…”

The dialogue could use a bit of work, but it’s a start at least.  Maybe this one?  You’ve always dreamed of seeing the Library of Alexandria, of knowing every story, of knowing everything.  What a draw!  Anyone who reads or writes would feel that in their bones.  But why would a mortal walking through such a fantastical library garner the attention of the Dream Lord?  Like, what is so special about You?  I mean, yes, in real life people fall in love randomly all the time.  Who knows what attracts people to other people? But still, you have to be able to convince yourself before you can convince others.  What could a mortal possibly give a divine being?

- You’re a mortal, with Lord Morpheus, but he decides that it’s too dangerous/not good for either of you to continue being together (is this too much like that Twilight book? anyway) Not only does he abruptly break things off with you, but he also banishes you from the dream world, worried that it would be too tempting for either of you, but this leaves you with terrible sleep and in a depression, so much so, you turn to a full bottle of sleeping pills

“Am I so cruel?”

Your heart stops, plummeting into your stomach so fast you’re surprised you don’t hear it whistle and crash like a cartoon character going over a cliff.  Looking up from your laptop, you see him. Your dream -er, The Dream.  Those first three sentences feel right, somehow.  It’s not dark like in your imagination, but the same effect seems to wash over you.  Even as you look at your laptop again, you find the words and letters a jumbled mess.  The hastily crafted sentences strewn about haphazard and incoherent.  Has all this just been a dream?

Something pulls your attention back to him, to Dream.  That pale brow clouded by the pinch of curiosity between them.  He’s waiting for your answer, and while there is patience now, you feel it will not last forever.  And somehow, you know exactly what he’s asking.

“Not cruel, but…” You lick the dryness from your lips.  His words are always so measured, so calculated in your head, that you feel he deserves the same from you.  “Reserved? Aloof, maybe.  Like sometimes you don’t know how to feel so it’s easier just… not to.”

His glossy eyes go distant a moment, and then without a sound he moves, closing the distance between you until he can perch on the end of your bed, one long leg hitched up on the mattress with the dark fabric of his coat pooling around him. “You see me as cold. Uncaring.  You think I would condemn a lover to such torment for the mere crime of being mortal.”

“Haven’t you before?”

You’re not exactly sure where those words come from.  But they’re right, just the same.  Even if some latent part of you didn’t know for sure, the look that crosses his face proves the truth of it.  The way his eyes avert, jaw working beneath the cold marble of his skin.  There’s a ripple of anger in whatever blanket covers this dream of yours, but there’s shame in it too.  Self-doubt.  But your heart breaks from it of its own volition.

“You save them. In the end.”  The admission brings his gaze back to yours, the sharp lines of his face softened somehow, hopeful.  “Despair or Death - or both - warn you what’s happening and you show up to stop them before it’s too late.”

He nods slightly, knowing, the almost imperceptible quirk at the corner of his lips nearly wistful.  “You will not find my realm with these.  Only the Sunless Lands await you at the bottom of this bottle.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs.  His words… they’re yours.  The ones that came to you while thinking up with this angsty little fic idea.  Hearing him actually say them was all you’d imagined and more.  “You read my mind?”

“I read your stories,” he corrects.  “Every story finds its way to my library.  Written or unwritten.”

“And you read them all?”

Some of his regal posture returns as he regards you.  “I am eons old, The Dreaming and its library are extensions of my being.  And yet, even I could not fix my eyes on every work conceived of by all of consciousness.  Only one of my siblings could.”

“Destiny.”  Your understanding seems to please him.  And that serves to embolden you.  “Then why read mine?”

The Dream Lord’s head tilts slightly, considering.  “It is not often I see myself written about so plainly.  With truth.  And hope.”

That heat creeps across your cheeks again and you snort a laugh at yourself.  “There’s no way I could have captured you that well.”

“Closer than you realize.”  There’s something else in the glistening of his eyes, distant stars dancing in an ocean of blue with something akin to mischief.

It’s only then the thought occurs to you. “Have you read… every story I’ve ever written?”

He gives a curt nod.  “All you have ever written and all you have never written.”

You swallow hard, thoughts harkening back to the lewd image you had of him sprawled across a bed beneath you.  Though this time it is more solidified, silky sheets the color of the midnight sky with his skin a glowing moon amongst the stars…  

Your lips part to speak, but he is already rising to his feet.  And he knows.  You can feel it.  He knows exactly what you’re thinking and that amuses him too.  “You’ll awaken soon.  And I have duties I must attend.”

“But…” But what? But then he’s standing before you, the distance closed in a blink the way only dreams can move.  You crane your neck to meet his gaze only to find him descending towards you.

Cool knuckles whisper across the curve of your cheek, making your eyes flutter closed just as the feel of soft lips meets your forehead…

You jolt awake in your bed, limbs as warm and heavy as the laptop across your stomach.  The dream lingers in your mind even as you rub the sleep from your eyes.  How fucking weird.  How fucking Meta.

Ah well. You were up now and it didn’t seem like too much of the afternoon had passed.  A little nap never hurt anyone.  But now it was time to get down to business, that erratic urge to create buzzing through you like it hadn’t done in years.  You only hope this time you can buckle down and get something done for a chance.

Opening your laptop, you see the cursor flash on the page.

Gotham was notorious for its high caliber villains and criminal masterminds.  But sometimes, it needed help against a more mundane criminal element.  And though the Batman usually watched over the city from the rooftops like some animated gargoyle, perched and waiting for his signal, he was not above a foot chase in its dark, damp alleys.  Pursuing the last of a jewel heist crew who’d fled when his colleagues had been grabbed by Gordon’s men.  And if this fleet-footed thief had a lead on the newest big case, all the better.

It was the sound of a dog barking and a subsequent shout that drew Bruce around a sharp corner in the alley.  Sure enough, he found his suspect far down the way, flailing and shouting at the stray dog that charged him.  The man landed a solid kick to its head that knocked the animal back a few steps, but that was not enough to deter it as it lunged again.  As The Batman swiftly moved closer, the man, caught between the Bat, a dog, and a privacy fence, pulled a gun from his belt and fired wildly into the alley around him.

At least two rounds struck Bruce in the chest, hard enough he could feel the sting of it through his armor as he powered forward.  The growling dog lept and another rapid fire of bullets rang out just as The Batman grabbed the man to disarm him.  There was a minor scuffle, but the man proved no match for The Bat and was soon knocked out and restrained.  A nice little gift for GSPD when they caught up with him.

But something out of the corner of his eye stayed his call to them.  During the altercation, adrenaline running high, Bruce hadn’t noticed that the dog’s growls had ceased.  He turned to find the poor thing laying in a puddle, the water tinged red around it and staining its… her fur even darker.  With a regretful sigh, he crouched to examine the creature.  Some sort of bully mix, a block head and floppy, beaten up ears.  A stray, probably since birth.  He laid a gloved hand on her ribby side and could find no sign of life.  One of the bullets had torn through her forehead and down through her chest.  If any solace was to be found, it was that she most likely hadn’t suffered, the shot killing her practically in an instant.

Still, it weighed heavy on Bruce’s heart.  He couldn’t help his gentle pat on her flank.  “Good girl.  I’m sorry.”

The sound of high pitched whining came from behind him and Bruce’s brows knitted in concern.  Another quick look over the dog and his shoulders fell. Oh no…

It wasn’t difficult to find them, the three little puppies tucked away in a tunnel of trash bags near the dumpster.  They were fluffier than their mother, though all three shared at least some of her dark fur.  One had white toes, another a pointier nose and a patch of white on its chin, the third a pair of floppy ears that did not match the sharpness of its siblings.  They didn’t cower from him, even when Bruce scruffed one so he could inspect it closer.  The plump little thing whined, tail tucked up between its dangling legs, but even at this odd angle it tried its best to lick at Bruce’s face.

—

At 7 the next morning, the first of the shelter staff were arriving at Gotham City Humane.  They were all but deaf to the cacophony of barking and meowing that always filled the building in the morning when the animal care team came in.  Hungry mouths to feed and dirty runs to clean and broken little hearts and bodies to be mended.  There were so many, and more came every day.

It was no surprise to find a box of puppies in the night drop cages.  More often than not, someone would bring in a stray or just decide they didn’t want or couldn’t have their pet any longer.  But even after years of working in such a place, the shelter attendant cooed at the little dears as she carried them to the exam room.  Two very young puppies with dark fur.  One with little white toes and the other with floppy ears.  Both whining and pawing at the side of the damp box.  No doubt hungry, despite being just past weaning age.

Your hand reached carefully across the short distance to touch him, not wanting to wake him, but pausing only when the lean muscles of his back tensed beneath your fingertips. It used to be enough to jolt him awake, but now they eased under the familiarity of your skin against his.  You took a sort of endearing pleasure in the fact he’d come to soften with you over time.  

His skin was pale as could be, flitting through darkness as he did like the namesake of his alter ego.  Thin lines of scarring marred the pallid landscape, each jagged ridge an echoing stab in your heart.  But it was the dark smattering of freckles that garnered your attention now.  Your heart soft for the delicate sight of them in so vulnerable a state.  The Batman wore armor, but also was the armor, just as “Bruce Wayne” was its own armor for the soft lines of melanated skin speckled across the harsh sprawl. Layers upon layers.  A matryoshka doll of defense against the world.

Your lips found each dark dot even as your knees tucked in behind his.  The scars had had their tender share of affection.  This soft morning scene and the way your heart filled your chest demanded your adoration for such intimate little specks.  Gotham needed Batman, the public had Bruce Wayne, but this… this inverted constellation belonged to you.

It wasn’t long before Bruce began to stir beneath your ministrations.  And your heart skipped a beat as the tight ropes of muscles all but melted into you.  With a soft groan, he leaned toward your touch and you eagerly took the press of him back against you.  You nuzzled at his skin, mouth lazy along the line of his shoulder blade as an arm snaked beneath his own.  The softest jolt told you it was only a matter of time before he fully woke, but you took the opportunity of wrapping yourself around him as best you could, fingers curled against his rib cage and knee hiked over his hip.  Just wanted to drag these quiet moments out with him before real life pulled you away from each other once again.

Your name tumbled from his mouth in a sleep-rough voice so endearing you could’ve swooned.  You hummed a gentle affirmative against his spine, expecting the jig to be up and your little bubble of softness to burst.  Instead, Bruce’s rough fingers laced with yours across his chest, his other hand palming at your thigh as if trying to tug you over him like a blanket.  You chuckled fondly at him, squeezing him a little tighter, ever enamored with his little acts of vulnerability even after all this time.

“Mornin,” he husked against his pillow, dark hair a mess across his face when you leaned up to look at him.

“Rough night saving the world?” You smiled gently, planting a kiss on his shoulder that had him relaxing even further into you.

With a quiet hum, he finally lifted his head from the pillow in a vain attempt to look at you over his shoulder.  Exhaustion and the remnants of black paint darkened the skin around his eyes.  “Just Gotham First National.”

“A bank robbery,” you questioned, somewhat amused.  “How very old school.”

“Tell that to the guy with a rocket launcher.”

You were upright in a flash, heart rate spiked as you looked him over, fingers frantic along his skin as he turned onto his back.

“M’alright. M’alright,” Bruce assured.  His own hand reached up to cup your cheek, a soothing thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.  It was your turn to melt a little.  “Just a bad bruise.  Cracked rib.”

Just as he said, there was a mass of angry red and purple blooming across his rib cage.  Not for the first time you were grateful at just how sturdy his armor was.  Still, the relieved sigh that left you was shaky with concern.  Your hand carefully splayed across the darkened skin, wishing you could heal it with just a touch.  And even worse, one of the precious black stars of your constellation was being drowned out by it.

“Your poor freckle,” you mused with a pout. Not even the furrow of confusion between his brows stopped you from leaning down and dropping a tender kiss on the spot.  He squirmed in discomfort, though from pain or the spot usually being a soft one for you, you weren’t sure in the moment.

His little snort was plenty amused though, lips a lopsided tilt when you looked up at his face, sleep laden eyes just awake enough to roll at you.  “My freckle? Really?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”  Your pout deepened for effect, even as your finger poked gently at his side.  Of course, the crinkle of his nose told you more parts of him than just that bruising must be sore.  You decided to make yourself comfortable against him now, stretching your legs out along his as you lighted another kiss around his sternum before resting your chin there to look up at him.  “Gotham gets the Bat.  The Man and his freckles are mine.”

Something warm and tender crossed Bruce’s face then and you could’ve spent hours just staring at the way the lines of worry and exhaustion seemed to fade as he smiled at you, replaced by the creases at the corner of his eyes.  For a moment, looking all the world like a man as beautiful as him really ought to.  And there was no small amount of pride in you as his swollen knuckles ghosted along your cheek.  “Yours, hm?”

“Mhm.”  His relaxed grin was too infectious to ignore, but almost too pretty to bear.  It still flushed your cheeks whenever you were graced with it.  Instead, you opted to tuck your face away against his chest, lips seeking out his skin and reveling in the way his muscles contracted under your touch, anticipation more than pain.

“Mine..” You shifted to pepper kisses further and further down his abdomen.  A new one punctuating each of your muffled words. “All…” Ending in a little nip just below his navel that had his breath hitching beneath you, turning your grin triumphant as you looked up to lock eyes with him again.  “Mine.”