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auroraborealyss · 2 years

Text

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬' 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐈.

⊹ pairing: morpheus x reader

⊹ summary: the much awaited, i-went-to-hell-for-inspiration, morpheus' love languages part 2: nsfw version. how he expresses his love languages when fucking you

⊹ tags: nsfw, morpheus is an adoring, reverent, woman-worshipping Endless who's always on his knees, the king of dreams is a giver

⊹ warnings: explicit language, explicit content (obviously), minors stay back (not that ever stopped me. if you are a minor, just know that sex might not be like this and do more research)

⊹ word count: 3027

⊹ previous part: morpheus' love languages part i.

⊹ now playing: take me to church by hozier

words of affirmation though he isn't the most vocal as an Endless, he does become vocal as a lover. or, specifically, he wants you to be. remember when i said he likes it when you talk to him? this applies here. (of course, by the time he's done with you, you won't be able to form words. but he'll accept desperate mewls of his name.)

call him by his name

not dream, but morpheus

gasp, groan, grunt, scream, whimper, murmur — every adjective of ‘said’ — say it in that way. he loves when you say his name and he the different ways you say it is akin to music. and if you whisper it right in his ear, his name hot against him so he can feel your desperation, he might just give you what you want and fuck you harder and faster

you tried to hold your moans back once

biggest mistake of your life

it doesn’t matter if you were only trying to hold back because you were in the library and mervyn, lucienne, and matthew were just three shelves down having a very serious meeting

though normally private in pda, perhaps that day morpheus was too frustration in being king and just wanted to be your lover. only a king had to worry about looking good in front of others. as your lover, all he had to worry about was pleasing you, and hearing the sounds you make was his signal that he was doing well

you thought that the sound of the shelves being rocked, your heavy breathing, and a book falling every now and then was telling enough what you were doing, and yes, you were a bit embarrassed to be found in such a compromising position with your skirt bunched up to your waist, one leg hooked around morpheus, and your head tilted to the sky as he attacked your neck

so when you bit down on your lip and slapped a hand over your mouth to hide your moans?

he is insulted (and you know how petty he gets) and fucks you even harder and faster than before

hoists both of your legs around his waist so he’s even closer and hits a spot in you that has you moaning obscenely and seeing stars. there’s no use hiding or explaining that away, but you don’t even think of the others anymore. all you can focus on is how he slams repeatedly into you again and again, one had rubbing furious circles on your clit, whispering orders in your ear to never deprive him of your sounds ever again

that as his lover, he owns every part of you (he definitely owns me), including those delicious sounds he purposefully and rightfully earns

and when you start making those sounds again, he is so fucking pleased with himself that he gets even harder

your hand falls from your mouth on its own and finds his hair, tugging on it, harder and harder as you reach your peak and he follows shortly after when you clench around him—all done with a loud cry of his name from you and your name coming out as a pleading grunt from him

when the two of you finally catch your breath, you peek around the shelves and find them gone

morpheus smirks at you before dragging you to the table for part two since “they’re not here anyway.”

always asks for consent

no matter how caught up he is in his emotions or pleasure, always asks you if you’re doing alright and if he’s doing alright touching your body

this man has a praise kink. tell him he’s doing well

tell him he’s fucking you so good as tears run down your cheeks and he’ll all but cum in you in that moment

tell him you were made for him as he bottoms out in you, and he’ll flip you over to your stomach and have his way and ruin you, leaving you a rambling mess who’s only coherent thought is his name

“you can take a little bit more of me, can’t you?” he whispers against your ear as you bite your lip to hold back your whimpers as he pushes inch by inch further, deeper, closer, into you. “you’ll do that for me?”

“you’re gonna make me cum” > “i’m going to cum”

he’ll make you squirt in thanks for reminding him that you’re orgasm is a product of his hard work

did you see how he pleaded with calliope to let him help her? imagine him begging to let him make you feel good

"i can make you feel so good, my love," he whispers as he puts one nipple in his mouth, suck and bite it gently, tugging on it, before releasing it and going to the other one. "let me?"

praise talk is his dirty talk. more into overstimulation and praise rather than edging and degradation cause he’s too in love with you to ever say those things or have you think, even for a second, that you are anything less than too good for him

type of person to say “i love you” as he fucks you

at the most intense moments, like when he’s about to orgasm, he mindlessly rambles out pleads for you to always stay with him and he needs you and you’re the only thing he needs (say less)

so tell him you need him. tell him only he can make you feel this good. because he’s definitely a giver, and the best compliment you can give a giver is to thank them for their service and tell them they’re doing a good job

physical touch this is an Endless who falls hard and intensely in love, as we see with his past lovers. it stands to reason that he'd fuck the same way. he makes sure that he is touching every inch of your body and you are touching every inch of him

has a thing for walls

likes to fuck you against them. either your back to it with your legs wrapped around his waist, or the side of your face pressed against it with your hands on either side as he takes you from behind

he will also eat you out with your back against a wall. makes it his personal mission to make your legs woozy enough that you literally collapse and he has to hold you up or you’re falling on the ground

overstimulation

worships your body

kissed every inch of your body once

on the days that you don’t feel the most confident, he’ll whisper his gratitude towards those parts against your skin until you believe him

is still a sucker for eye contact

looks up through his lashes as he eats you out

looks down at you as he fucks into you

but just because he wants to be gentle and passionate with you, doesn’t mean you can’t be rough with him. in fact, he welcomes it

tug his hair hard as he eats you out and you’ll hear the most guttural groan which you’ll feel vibrate in your cunt

dig your nails down his back and his hips will snap against yours in a speed that reminds you your lover is not a man, but an Endless

suck and bite his neck and enjoy watching him gasp and tighten his grip against your hips, enough to leave his handprint on your skin

however, there is one time you can elicit some roughness from him, and that’s when you ride him

you’ve ridden him on his throne

it was your idea the first time, and his idea every time after

legs on either side, his arms wrapped desperately against your waist as you slam down onto him and he slams up against you

he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head backwards (see gif as example), exposing the column of your neck which he can mark and litter with kisses and bites

a very passionate lovemaker and puts emotions other than lust into it. when you two have sex, he doesn’t just do it to get rid of frustration or because he feels lust for you, but because he loves you enough to want to share this other part of him that so few get

is the type to link your hands together while he slides in and out

presses his forehead against yours when on top of you. he expects you to do the same when you’re on top

if he’s not waiting at your cunt with an open mouth as you orgasm, then he’s kissing you, as if to swallow the sounds of pleasure you make and further drowning in you

can unclasp your bra with one hand

pulls your underwear down with his teeth

bites on thighs

and neck

and chest

i’m not saying this man cries during sex (not that there’s anything wrong with that). but he does constantly have glassy/teary eyes during the show, so don’t be surprised if he gets a bit overwhelmed with his feelings for you and shed a tear or two

just kiss it away

acts of service he's always worshipped you before his capture, but after, he turns into a sinner looking for absolution from the only higher being he'd beg from. and the first step to absolution is looking for it on his knees

the first time you have sex after you reunite, he begs for forgiveness for being gone from you so long in his throne room

sits you on his throne and sinks to his knees before you

doesn’t even bother locking the door because he has no shame in anyone seeing him beg for absolution to you

and he doesn’t hold back from it either, alright? this Endless is making the most obscene noises as he loudly slurps and groans at the taste of you and moans at the sounds of you and ruts against his throne at the feeling of you, you, you

the first time you cum, he doesn’t stop and keeps fucking you with his tongue until he triggers a second one less than a minute later

he’ll add a finger soon enough

crooks it at just the right spot that it presses against the spongy part of you that makes your back arch off the throne and cum for the third time. at this point, your cum has started to drip off his throne, and he thinks about adding it as a design to his chair (you slap him on the back of his head as a no)

inserts another finger and starts pumping it in and out, in and out, even doing a scissor motion every now and then. you come the fourth time

the fifth time, he does all that plus play with your clit with his tongue. flicks at it, sucks on it, does everything you can possibly imagine be done with a tongue and two fingers until you squirt

and he still drinks it all. he takes those two fingers and uses it to scoop up all your cum and drinks it all

he always swallows whatever he’s able to draw out of you and whatever you’re willing to give him

and don't forget to sit on his face

he'd be more than happy to die underneath you, smothered by your thighs and cunt

if you try to do hold back and hover over his face, he'll ask you first if you like to squat over chairs rather than sit on them, before grabbing your things and pulling you down and not releasing you until he's done

if it isn’t clear yet, this man is a giver. gets genuine pleasure when he is the one to give you pleasure and can probably cum just from seeing you orgasm from his ministrations (he has and has no shame in it)

it might be how his possessiveness shows. knowing that only he can give you orgasms that intense is something he prides himself on

probably why he doesn’t mind when others look at you. all he’s looking at is your reactions, and you never show interest. you never give them the looks or sounds you make with him, and that’s enough that he just sits back, smirks, and pities the poor person who tried to hit on you

quality time as kim namjoon says in all night: "we keep all the party in this room all night. we don't wanna put it on the brake, hold tight."

the first time you reunite, he eats you out for hours

only stops because your body literally cannot go any longer and you might pass out (he debates whether he wants you to but lets you rest)

but the first time he fucks you, he doesn’t stop until you’re a whimpering, drooling mess who’s only thought is morpheus

and you do pass out

he’s there when you come to, and he starts again

morpheus rarely does quickies. he’s too intense and long-term for that. he likes to take his time to worship you and he doesn’t want to end because he ran out of time or he has an appointment with someone else. when he’s with you, you’re all he’s thinking about

however, he does like to take his time teasing you

and by that, i mean he can give you little teasing touches all day to get you worked up

hand on your upper thigh when eating with others

presses his front against your back as he reaches for something in the cabinet

might even touch you through your underwear without giving you too much—just to keep you wanting and waiting

he can last a pretty long time, and sessions with him usually involve you cumming so many times that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to cum again (you will. he’ll show you)

always engages foreplay. involves a heavy make out session coupled with groping that leads you to being wet enough that he can just slip inside you

likes to fuck you where its comfortable for you—bed, a couch (walls are his guilty pleasure, though)

will fuck you anywhere in the dreaming, though, cause it’s all him

might even be more intense for him since he can feel whatever surface he’s fucking you on and how hard he’s fucking you or how tight and desperate you’re holding on to the edge of that table

morning sex isn't as common since that's when you wake up from the dreaming

night is definitely prime time for sex

you know you're in for a long time when you have sex before you're even in the dreaming. when that happens, you better hold on, since you'll wake up more exhausted than before you slept

gift giving could be into toys, but he has to be the one who made it and he has to be the one using it on you. but why would you need toys anyway when you can have his cock

might be offended if you think he needs to use a toy to get to orgasm, as it suggests that he’s not enough

and if you say you want a toy just for the times he’s busy, he’ll tell you that he’s never too busy to give you an orgasm and proves it to you in that point

you’ll have to tell him that you can’t take enough if you want him to stop

rather, he uses toys to overstimulate

vibrator on clit while his tongue searches deeper in your fold or vice versa

the gift he does like to give you is lingerie

he gives you an assortment of different colours in different materials

his favourite is whatever makes you feel the most confident

gives you lingerie that is meant to be ripped off you

when he rips a set of lingerie that you actually really liked, he’ll apologize with kisses and promises that he’ll make you more before fucking you senseless

buys you lingerie from la perla. when you wear it to sleep and you arrive in the dreaming in it, he preens in delight

sometimes, he’ll give you lingerie from the dreaming while you’re in the dreaming. that’s completely under his control, and he can make it disappear in an instant

speaking of giving you toys in the dreaming, if he makes it, that he can get behind cause he has absolute control over it. his finger becomes the remote

that little underwear he gives you? with no warning, starts to fucking vibrate during dinner with lucienne. doesn’t ease up until you get up, flushed and with wobbly knees, and run to the hallway where you cum with a poorly concealed moan

when you return to the table, he looks to you with a knowing smirk. thankfully, lucienne remains unaware (or at least has the courtesy of pretending to be)

in the waking world, you like to wear his clothes after you wake up. in return, he takes your underwear

when you fuck in the dreaming, you wake up drenched and with a wet spot on your blanket. he sends you a new blanket as an unfelt apology which he’ll ruin the next night anyway

back to his greatest gift to you being his cock

i see him longer than wider (but not long enough to hurt you. 27-inch dick fanfic writers, stay back). you know, keeping in theme with his whole lean yet lanky physique

might be long enough that you can’t deepthroat him completely, though he appreciates the attempt

but the one time you steel yourself and manage to take him in all whole

nearly cums in your mouth immediately

wouldn’t expect you to do that all the time, of course. but on the special occasion that you want to put the focus on him, that’s the way to go

the way to morpheus’ heart is not through his heart, but through swallowing

all in all, this Endless is guaranteed to find his pleasure in yours, so make sure to tell him that he's doing well, keep your moans loud and uncontrolled, and he'll fuck you out of this universe

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗆, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾 — 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗋, 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝖾.

𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅-𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 (𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌). 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧!

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @aurorarevenclaw1927

#the sandman imagine #morpheus imagine #morpheus x reader #dream imagine #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #sandman fanfiction #dream fanfiction #sandman imagine #sandman headcanons #morpheus headcanons #the sandman #morpheus smut #dream smut #morpheus love languages #i'm not going to hell because i'm already here and wrote it in hell #written in hell

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seiya-starsniper · 3 months

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"Oh I'm dreaming of you again. If I wouldn't be dreaming and if you would be really here, then I would tell you I love you."

*slides $5 across the table* dreamling. you know what must be done.

Ayyyy I FINALLY got around to doing this one! 😅😅 Starting my birthday off right with a present for you! 💖💖

[AO3 Link Here]

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When war comes to the Endless Empire, Ser Robert Gadling, known simply as Hob to his men, is on the front lines of the defense effort, fighting for his monarch and the love of his life. The second title is a secret he keeps close to his breast, for there are no scenarios in which a Knight would be deemed the type of lover fit for a King.

The war is long and brutal. The Morningstar Kingdom had timed their invasion well, choosing to strike in the heat of summer, ideal conditions for soldiers who were born and raised in lands far hotter and more unforgiving than Hob had ever known. Their forces are fierce, but Hob’s are fiercer, for they have something to protect, mothers and wives, sons and daughters.

Hob only has his King. Orphaned at a young age, Hob was recruited as a foot soldier into the royal army as soon as he was of age, and his quick thinking and heroics on the battlefield earned him a coveted place in the royal court, right as the Endless family had established themselves as monarchs of the realm.

Try as he did to be polite, Hob did not fit easily into a life of court politics. He could not hide his brusque mannerisms, his frank manner of speech, and it was that attitude that endeared him to King Morpheus years ago, establishing a unique friendship most other nobles would sneer at.

Hob never cared for noble opinions before King Morpheus, and to this day he still did not. It is his king’s face that he sees in his mind’s eye as he cuts down the Morningstar’s soldiers, pushing their forces further back. It is his king’s voice that rings in his ears as he and his men march through the pouring rain, caked in mud, blood, and sweat. It is his king’s eyes that Hob sees in the moments after an arrow pierces through his armor, knocking him off his horse and rendering him unconscious.

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When King Morpheus receives word that the battalion Hob was leading had fallen in battle with no known survivors, he nods solemnly and dismisses the messenger, along with the rest of his court to give those who had lost a son, brother, or lover, time to mourn.

What his court does not know, however, is that once the throne room is empty, Morpheus collapses to the floor and weeps. He weeps for his fallen people, for the lives that this pointless war has cost his kingdom, but in particular he weeps for Robert—no, Hob Gadling, his oldest and most treasured friend.

Hob had been one of the only members of Morpheus’s court that did not treat him like the outsider he was when he was appointed king. When the Endless came to power, they divided the small municipalities into their own kingdoms, placing each of their seven children as the reigning monarch. Dream had suffered many cutting remarks and passive aggressive attacks, but Hob had been open and honest with him, even if their relationship did not start off in the most positive manner.

To know now that Morpheus would no longer hear Hob’s laugh, would never again be able to break bread and share stories over a warm open fire with him, that he would never feel the warm touch of the other man’s hand upon his shoulder, was more than the king could bear. He retires early to his bed, and spends the next days alone in bedchambers, claiming a sudden illness, but in truth, he is mourning for what could have been, what he was too cowardly to reach for, what he could have had, if only he’d been brave enough to confess how he felt.

And now, it was too late.

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When Hob finally escapes his imprisonment behind enemy lines, he leaves a trail of bodies in his wake, including the head of the Morningstar King. He steals a horse and rides away into the night, desperate to return to his men and tell them that everything is over. The war is over. The Morningstar and their warriors will trouble them no longer.

When he comes across the nearest army camp flying the Endless flag, he heads immediately for the general’s tent. But instead of finding his second-in-command, he finds King Morpheus there, sprawled across what was once Hob’s bedroll, a cup of some unknown liquid in his hand. When he sees Hob enter, he freezes and drops the cup immediately, and the smell of cheap liquor fills the air between them.

“Oh,” King Morpheus whispers in a broken tone that absolutely breaks Hob’s heart. “I'm dreaming of you again.” As Hob steps further into the tent, he can see the king’s brilliant blue eyes are stained red from crying, and his cheeks too are covered in tear tracks that criss-cross along his face. It is breathtaking and beautiful, agonizing and unbearable, all at once.

“I am no dream,” Hob says softly as he approaches his king. Had he put those tears on his lord’s face? Had Morpheus thought him dead the entire time he’d been imprisoned?

“Oh but you are, for why else would a dead man stand before me and haunt my grieving heart so?” Morpheus replies, his breath hitching now as his body threatens to start sobbing anew. “Why else would I see you, if not as a reminder for every unspoken word, every regret I hold for not confessing to you you my deepest desires?"

Now it is Hob’s turn to gasp, his heart beating wildly in his breast. Surely there was no way that Morpheus was alluding to sharing the same desires as Hob. But then, why else would his king be here, in Hob’s tent, laying amongst Hob’s things, acting as a grieving widow, if he didn’t not feel like one himself?

Hob takes another step closer, and though Morpheus startles, he does not flinch back from him. Hob then kneels down in front of his king so that they are eye to eye, and steels his nerves for what he plans to say next.

“What would tell me, my liege, were you not caught in the thrall of a dream?” Hob asks. “What words do you hold in your heart that you could tell me before?”

Morpheus chuckles, and it sounds like shattered glass.

“If I were not dreaming?” he asks. “If I wouldn't be dreaming and if you would be really here, then I would tell you I love you, Robert Gadling.”

Hob he gives up all semblance of self control and brings his hands to his king’s face. Morpheus gasps at the touch and Hob wants to kiss him, wants to pull this beautiful, wonderful man into his arms and never let him go.

“You’re—” Morpheus breathes, his eyes filled with tears once more. “You’re alive.”

Hob nods. “It is not a dream,” he says. “Touch me, and feel that I am real.”

Morpheus lunges towards him and seals their lips together in a kiss. Hob kisses him back, uncaring of the fact that any random soldier could walk in at any moment. All that matters to him now is that he and Morpheus are reunited, that he is alive, and in love with someone who loves him back. That is all that matters, for tonight.

#dreamling #dream x hob #hob x morpheus #the sandman #sandman fanfiction #seiya writes dreamling #seiya's birthday prompt fills #gonna be posting fics every few hours!

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ebellaart · 1 year

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so after reading banana daiquiris by @avelera i had this image in my mind and it needed to be released.

#the sandman #if ur not into dreamling u can consider this alternate ending for comics #if u are into dreamling… just go read the fic alright #sandman #sandman fanart #dream of the endless #destruction of the endless #hob gadling #sandman fanfiction #morpheus sandman #dreamling #pleeeeeease #the sandman netflix #neil gaiman

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the-darklings · 2 years

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on my hands and knees begging for a crumb of dream's pov when wanderer called for him? 🧎‍♀️

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader (wanderer)

wc: 1k+

notes: I really gave you a choice between the biggest comfort scene in this story & a literal pain fest after two back-to-back pain fests & you all said hold that thought. spoilers for part 8 of tibyim if you're not caught up.

dream & wanderer series: part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

Is is the cruelty of humankind that will be the last of him?

For one such as he, an Endless, who does not change, does not fall the way gods humanity chooses to worship do—death is a sister, a familiar face.

This is worse than passing into the Sunless Lands. He is not where he is needed; he is locked away, removed from his realm, tools, and function. His dreamers. What horrors are they experiencing due to Roderick Burgess’ greed? His infantile need to gain for himself that which does not belong to any mortal man.

Morpheus does not know. Time passes here, same as everywhere, but there is nothing outside his glass prison. The power that once cloaked him as his coat of flame and starlight is ash in his hands. There is nothing in this cold prison but suffocating wards. Jessamy's blood speckles the floor when his cruel mind wishes to play a trick on him. Lucienne’s books rustle in his ears. His dreams and nightmares breathe and exist around him.

Sometimes Wanderer laughs in his ears, and during those times, Morpheus wishes for unconsciousness he grants his dreamers. It would be simpler to flee if he had another way out.

There is no such relief. Morpheus envisions, dreams, and paints his subjects so often in the dark and the cold metal and glass that he can imagine them real. He can imagine them here. There is no way to reach them now, even if he wished for such a thing, and he does not. He will find a way himself, nor will he place his own in danger.

Captured. Unable to flee. His essence is all but stolen from him by mortals who know not what they’re perpetuating.

Is this how it felt, stardust? Is this how it hurts?

Morpheus, King of Dreams, hears no response in the dark engulfing him.

His captors age. With each passing day, their desperation grows and festers, for they are beginning to sense their mortality, gnawing them from the skin down to the bone.

“Do you reckon he’s some poor bloke ol’ man hates, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“Blimey, Greg, don’t tell me it doesn’t interest ya?”

“Whatever that thing is, he ain’t human, you dumb bastard. He never eats, never drinks. Fucker never even pisses! Some abomination. God help our souls.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

To torment me.

“You made me up in your mind. Does that mean you miss me, Dream Lord?”

The gentle teasing rakes through his chest.

Every day.

“You threw me out, Dream.” Quiet, vicious words. “You took everything from me. You deserve this. You did this yourself.”

For this judgement, Morpheus discovers no retort.

—Dream of the Endless—answer my call—

Morpheus jerks.

A jolt races through his body, every sense snapping back to life. Could it be? Has someone located him? Is someone attempting to conjure him, evoke his name? His siblings would not call for him, then who—

I call upon Dream of the Endless—

Something in Morpheus’ chest stills—ices over, then sears and burns. That voice. After centuries he would recognise it in his very soul.

Have I made you up once more, Wanderer?

But no, it cannot be. Even over the sounds of a clamorous party upstairs, his chattering guards who are hardly paying him any heed, Morpheus can barely hear the call. Faint, echoing through some far away tunnel. How—

The pebble. Of course. His power was concentrated in that stone, similar to how his dreams and nightmares are crafted. Unfading.

—you are sworn.

Old power clangs through him, burning at his core. For he is sworn and has given that pledge to but one. All these centuries, he’s hoped for a call, for a plea for aid. For he could not reveal that when called upon, as an Endless, he is bound by Ancient Laws to answer. There is a reason the other Endless do not involve themselves with mortals and do not get entangled in their lives. No rules prevent him from helping a cursed mortal if it is to fulfil an oath.

Morpheus’ head lifts towards the light, attempting to see beyond this plane, fingers seeking.

Perhaps he could follow, wrap himself in a shard of his power and hop through dreams until he’s home.

Dream.

He presses his slayed fingers into the glass. Nothing.

“Wanderer.”

His lips scarcely move with the name. His guards are paying him no mind; still, the name seems to ricochet through his cage.

Why do you sound so sad? So devastated and lost? His name, spoken with such soul-crushing sorrow, saddens him greatly. Morpheus wishes, then, to mangle this cage with his bare hands, but there’s nothing. His hands are frail, as good as mortal, even while vengeance beats its war drums through his mind.

Are you hurt? Dying? For centuries he’s awaited a call, and now…

Dream? Please. You promised me.

No, no. Morpheus’ fingers curl against the glass, his glare reflected in the dull light. His silhouette trembles. What horrors have befallen you? He cannot see anything, sense anything other than a whisper of your voice inside his mind. He’s cut off, bound, and weak until the wards are broken and his tools returned to him.

I can’t do this anymore. I… I can’t. Don’t leave me here alone.

Despair crawls through his mind and soul, slumping his physical body. The sheer weight of those words is crushing. There’s such naked vulnerability in them, such heartbreaking surrender. It is but a reminder that while you have, and continue to become just a little more Other each time you meet, there is still a fiercely human heart beating in your ribcage—one that feels so much, one that loves so much.

Gently, sadly, the voice diminishes, splintering and cracking.

Stay, raw instinct demands.

His knuckles sit white against the thick glass. Wards flare with wicked fire, smothering his request. So comparable to the request he’s subconsciously transmitted after the battle, drained and weakened, when he first slipped into Roderick’s trap.

For in his moment of greatest need, it had not been his pride Morpheus called upon, but a name. Not any God or Creator, not even his family of the Endless.

It had been a gentle title, a title for one who walks in starlight—the one he’s hurt unjustly.

Wanderer.

#the sandman #sandman x reader #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #netflix sandman #morpheus x fem!reader #dream x fem!reader #netflix the sandman #morpheus fic #sandman fanfiction #fic: today i bury you in me

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Note

Hello, can I request a Morpheus x reader where she's wearing Morpheus’ coat, and he's absolutely amazed and attracted by that? Thank you ☺️

A/N: thought of writing something like this for Corinthian also? Lemme know if you'd like that!🌺

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

Breathe in.

A scent of lush, exotic fruits and a slight mustiness of old books. The material is heavy and slightly coarse but the lining feels like satin, delicately brushing against your skin. Something rustles in the pockets. For a second, you consider fishing out those strange treasures but the thought is quickly dismissed - it's impolite to snoop. Besides, whatever Morpheus carries in his coat is something he considers he might need at any given moment, so, perhaps, it was best for you to not play with them.

The garment is a little too big for you, so Morpheus takes a moment to roll up the sleeves. He does so silently, in swift motion as though he had done it countless times - like it was something obvious. His aloofness flusters you and you wonder if he thinks that a certain level of charity is expected of him or if he's simply following his heart's desires without letting reason interrupt this quiet confession of affection. One of his hands lingers around yours, threading your fingers together, and only then does he continue the stroll.

Your lungs are full - you breathe out.

Breathes in.

Morpheus keeps looking at you, indulging in some strange urge he has only just discovered. The coat is slightly big on you (Could he drown in you the way you're drowning in this black material?), virtually hiding your physique as though you are a secret he keeps away from the world. He ponders that thought - can he? Can he actually keep you all to himself, a treasure he never shares with anyone like a well of serenity that never dries?

It's as if he's seeing you for the first time but that doesn't make sense, right? Morpheus has already spent countless hours admiring the miraculous whim of the universe that made you reciprocate his infatuation. Perhaps it wasn't as much seeing you as seeing what the two of you might be one day as though giving you his coat granted Morpheus a glimpse into the future - into days where there is no longer 'him' and 'you' but a third entity, an inextricable union or a tide that mixes the ever-changing seas of what each of you is. His heart flutters at the possibilities and could-bees; seeing you, Morpheus is staring into his future and it is filled with gentle touches, quiet giggles and this overpowering sense of safety.

When you take his coat off, a sad parting that has to happen, will your smell linger on the black material and keep him calm whenever he puts the garment on? Or maybe when he leans in to kiss you, he'll smell pomegranate and antique books on your neck? Will he belong to you or will you belong to him? Truthfully, Morpheus doesn't care - either way, you're bound to each other.

His lungs are full - he breathes out.

Between exhales and inhales, those short seconds when creatures tread the line between death and life, most think about their desire for oxygen, a dull pain in their chest reminds them that they are not yet deceased, but lovers so often get things confused and think about each other instead.

#the sandman fanfic #the sandman imagine #the sandman netflix #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #morpheus sandman #sandman x reader #sandman x you #sandman fanfiction #sandman imagine #morpheus imagine #morpheus x you #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless

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zzoomacroom · 4 months

Text

Hey guys, soooo I have never written fanfiction in my life, but this just fell out of my brain for some reason. I don't know what came over me, but here's a little crackfic drabble for ya. Just a thousand words of Matthew being a complete idiot. Enjoy! (Yes, I know this premise has been done to death, but I'm having fun so shhhh)

Edit: now on ao3!

.......

So there Matthew was, just minding his own business, catching up with Merv in the gardens outside the palace, when a goddamned nuclear bomb went off.

"JEEZUS FUCK!" Mervyn bellowed, his cigarette dropping from his open mouth and into the pile of leaves he'd been raking. Matthew squawked and catapulted himself ungracefully to the top of the nearest tree.

Oh, so not a bomb then, thought Matthew as he watched the stunning display of fireworks that had erupted above the palace, gold and crimson embers now drifting lazily towards the ground. Still, what the hell was that all about? He would have to ask the boss--if there was some kind of celebration happening in the Dreaming, he wanted to join the party! Hopefully he'd be off his feathery tits on dream champagne before the day was over.

Matthew launched himself from the tree branch, ears still ringing as he made his way up to the palace. He soared through an open window to the throne room. Hmm, empty. So where was the party? He made his way to the library--Lucienne would know what was up.

"Heya, Loosh," he called as he circled down to the table where Lucienne was occupied with cleaning up a puddle of ink that was spilled all over the yellowed scroll she had been writing on. "What was up with the fireworks?"

"Hmm?" she glanced over to him, preoccupied. "Ah. That sometimes happens when...actually, it's probably better if you don't know. For your own sake," she adds pointedly, peering over her glasses at him.

Uh, wow. Ouch. "What? Aw, come on, don't leave me out of the loop. Ravens aren't invited to the party? Wait, why aren't you at the party?"

Lucienne stared at the raven, confusion and irritation mingling on her face. "What party? Lord Morpheus is in his private chambers, there is no--"

But Matthew was already hopping off the table and flying towards the nearest window. So it was a private, VIP kinda thing, then. He was a little hurt that he wasn't invited, but no matter. He would slip in and infiltrate the event, just in case the boss needed protecting from a disgruntled fae or something. And if he managed to dip his beak into some unattended booze, he felt he was sneaky enough that no one would be the wiser.

"You really don't want to know!" Lucienne called out exasperatedly as he flitted away, not looking up from her work. "Don’t say I didn't warn you!"

Yeah, yeah, he'd been to parties full of snooty elites before. Whatever weird shit they were into couldn't be any worse than what he'd seen during his recent trip to Hell. He circled upwards towards the highest tower and perched on the balcony outside the boss's private chamber. There was definitely something happening in there, judging by the noises coming from inside. It sounded like things were getting crazy--a shout, glass breaking, a thud like a body hitting the ground, a screech that may or may not have been human. Shit, the boss man might be in trouble! Good thing Matthew was here to...well, he wasn't really sure how he could help, but he'd figure something out. And he just really, really wanted to know what was going on! Curiosity may kill the cat, but the raven should be fine, right?

He darted into the darkened room and blinked as his eyes adjusted. Oh. No party, then. The boss was standing in the middle of the room, looking even more like he'd just sucked on a lemon than usual. His robe flicked around him and drooped off one shoulder, like he'd just hastily pulled it on (was that...a tentacle peeking out from under the hem?). And was he sweating? He didn't normally sweat, did he? And hold on--did he have cat ears?? Matthew stared, and just as he noticed the ears they receded down into his disheveled mop of hair and disappeared.

"What is it, Matthew?" the Dreamlord demanded icily.

"Uh...sorry to interrupt whatever...this...is, but I thought maybe you were in trouble. And I was just wondering what was up with the fireworks. Scared the bejeesus outta me and Merv," Matthew explained.

The boss looked confused for a moment before answering. "Ah. My apologies for the disruption," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm even as Matthew failed to get the hint. "The matter has been handled. You need not come to my defense."

At that, a poorly-stifled chuckle sounded from behind a marble pillar. "Sorry," the pillar mumbled sheepishly. The boss shot a withering glare at it and the pillar instantly dissolved into a pile of sand, revealing...

Ohhhh. "Um...hi, Hob," Matthew said with an awkward wave of his wing, wishing very much that he could dissolve into sand right about now. Hell, that may very well be his fate soon enough, based on the way the boss was glaring at him.

"Hey Matt," Hob replied with a bashful smirk. He was mostly naked except for an Elizabethan ruff, white knee-high stockings and a pair of 18th century shoes with little bows on them. And he was wearing the boss's helm. But not on his head (cool, cool, not like Matthew had followed the boss to Hell to get it back or anything). Oh, and he also had cat ears. Wonderful.

"Ya know, I better get going, I think Merv may need some help with--oh, yep, he set the garden on fire." Matthew peered out the window down to where Mervyn was currently shouting at no one and flailing around a steadily growing conflagration. "So I should go deal with that. Just wanted to check in, glad everything's good here. Uhhh nice to see you Hob, Boss. Not that I, uh, saw anything. Okay bye!" Matthew zoomed out the window before either of them could say anything else. God, he really needed a drink now.

.......

Morpheus continued to glare at the spot where Matthew had been perched as Hob came up and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Right. So where were we?" asked Hob, apparently unphased by the whole incident.

"I think we should take this to the Waking if we wish to avoid any further interruptions," Dream replied through gritted teeth.

Hob chuckled and started to massage the knots out of his lover's shoulders. "Yeah, probably. Kids, right?" he sighed.

Morpheus raised an eyebrow at him. "Matthew is not my child."

"Isn't he, though?" Hob replied with a grin, peering over Dream's shoulder to watch Matthew and Mervyn frantically darting around the flaming pile of leaves, making no progress whatsoever in putting out the blaze. Morpheus merely sighed in exasperation.

#the sandman #sandman #sandman fanfic #sandman fanfiction #sandman crack #sandman crackfic #fanfiction #crack fic #dreamling #matthew the raven #mervyn pumpkinhead #lucienne the librarian #dream of the endless #morpheus #lord morpheus #hob gadling

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just-french-me-up · 1 year

Text

Harmonies

@hardly-an-escape recently had this FABULOUS idea of acclaimed writer Morpheus who secretly publishes popular romance novels under a pen name, who shamefully gets off while listening to voice actor Hob Gadling acting out an explicit scene from one of his romance stories. I would say my hand slipped but this was 100% planned and thought through.

Morpheus refreshed his inbox. Early afternoon, Lucienne had told him. He gave a quick glance at the clock. 5:42PM. Early afternoon was fading into late afternoon one second at a time, with nothing to show for it.

Morpheus refreshed his inbox. Again.

This is stupid, he thought, frustration seeping in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Surely, they had not finished editing or formatting the whole thing yet, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. Perhaps they had forgotten. Morpheus didn't usually request to be sent the beta recordings. He was more than happy to let them do their job unencumbered, trusting Lucienne to green light everything once it was done. Truth be told, he was barely involved in the whole audiobook side of things, except for, well, writing the damn thing in the first place and having his pen name slapped on the cover. Lucienne had arched an eyebrow at him when he'd asked for the latest recordings out of the blue, but had not been overly curious. A good thing, really. Morpheus carefully avoided any occasion that required him to lie through his teeth. This, no doubt, would have been one of them.

His phone buzzed, startling him.

[6PM 09/05/2023 – The Kindly Ones – Edit Zoom Meeting]

Morpheus turned off the reminder. Too many fires at once. That was his problem, his sister had told him once. Stretching yourself thin until you're see-through, she had said. She was not wrong, of course, although Morpheus would not admit it to her face. She would be far too smug about it.

He refreshed his inbox.

Inbox (1)

Morpheus froze and stared at the screen. There it was. Finally. His pulse racing, he reached for his headphones, struggling to plug it in in his haste. The file was slow to download, the recordings accounting for more than half of the book. Morpheus' fingers tapped impatiently against his desk as he watched the bar crawl to the finish line.

5:51PM.

Surely he could allow himself a quick browse through the file. The meeting with his editor―his other editor―wouldn't start for five more minutes, if not more, should they run a little late on their side. Morpheus found himself wishing they would. Unprofessional, a little voice admonished him.

He opened the file. It had been divided into sections, each corresponding to a chapter. Skip. Skip. Skip. He knew what he was looking for. The book had come out a year ago or so. He still remembered the outline well enough. For a while, he heard nothing but the initial breath of the voice actor, one for each chapter, before he would skip ahead. When he finally let the recording play, the voice engulfed him in its warmth.

Although Morpheus had been the one initially weaving the words and sentences together, they found another dimension and depth in that voice. He was rediscovering his work on someone else's tongue, and the effect left him... intrigued. A few voice actors had given life to the words on the page over the years but this one... This one breathed a soul into the story like none had ever managed to before.

When Morpheus had learnt Robert Gadling would narrate another one of his books, he could not resist.

The beta recordings were rough, lacking the polish of the final product, leaving intakes of breath in and other little imperfections editors would cut out. Morpheus could hear every huff, every chuckle when Gadling would stumble over a word and correct himself, going back to the beginning of the sentence. He could picture the smile on his lips then, the playfully apologetic look at the tech team. He had looked up pictures of him online, once. His face matched his voice: warm, inviting, with a hint of mischief. Suave, even. Morpheus had then closed the tab, embarrassed at his own thoughts.

The scene he had skipped to was professionally relevant, or, at least, he tried to convince himself it was. He had always understood sex scenes to be a tricky thing, for actors. At least, when it came to traditional acting, it was a shared awkwardness, a simulacrum of pleasure played by multiple people who could find solace in the fact that they were all on the same vulnerable boat, camera crew included. Now, voice actors... Acting choices could either make or break a sex scene. It required a subtle mix of smoothness and confidence few could manage. The last thing he wanted was for his words to sound clumsy and awkward, when the goal was quite the opposite. It was Morpheus' authorial prerogative to check every aspect of the audiobook fit his vision, after all.

As the chapter began and Robert Gadling's voice filled his ears, Morpheus imagined him in his recording booth, alone. Some audiobooks had multiple actors playing different characters, but this one only had him credited. There were slight fluctuations of tones, accents and speech patterns, as he switched characters. Morpheus listened intently.

"Gabriel gave a fleeting look downward. Nathan's shirt was soaked, revealing hints of the skin underneath. He tried not to stare, but only managed to do so through conscious and continuous effort. 'You should change your shirt before you catch something,' he told Nathan, his tone as casual as he could manage. 'You could borrow one of mine.' "

The acting was good. There was tension in the words, in the tone. The characters sounded like different people, even though they were played by the same man. Morpheus continued. In the book, things heated up quickly after a long, tentative courtship. He braced himself for the following scene, replaying the words in his head from memory.

" 'It smells like you.' Gabriel stared at him, stunned, unable to look away as Nathan stood in front of him, his own t-shirt and boxers for only garments. 'What?' he managed, his throat dry. 'It smells like you,' Nathan repeated, lifting the fabric to his nose with a smile. 'I like it.' Gabriel's gaze trailed down Nathan's body, only now noticing the growing outline of his cock aga―"

Morpheus paused. He had written those words. He knew those words, from having read and reread them a few dozen times during the writing and editing process. Yet he had never heard them. Especially not in that voice. Even the narration was sensual, almost cheeky, dripping with lust like honey. Clumsy and awkward it was not. It was.... something else entirely. Shaking off the feeling, Morpheus hit the 'play' button again.

" ―inst the taut fabric of his boxers. 'I like it,' Nathan repeated, slowly reaching for his cock through the thin fabric, his fingertips brushing the shape of it, well aware of Gabriel's undivided attention."

The rest of the scene followed, word for word Morpheus' work, yet somehow completely new to his ears. He sat there, enraptured, his eyes staring into nothingness while the rich, luscious voice surrounded him, filled him until it became his only focus.

A lewd, enthusiastic hum rose from the headphones, making Morpheus jump. Every word he had been anticipating thus far, but artistic license? It fitted with the narrative well. Too well. Not Gadling's first brush with erotica, he immediately guessed. He played it again for good measure. The sound was deeply erotic, with just enough warmth and breath. Real. It sounded real. It was followed by a breathy sigh Morpheus could almost feel at the back of his neck. God.

He played it again. He could feel the sound, the anticipation, the desire, the pleasure. Gadling conveyed it with such ease it felt genuinely intimate. Arousing, even. Morpheus ran his hand against the front of his own trousers, feeling the very real erection pushing against the hard fabric. This was ridiculous. Yet he could not stop. The scene kept playing, Robert Gadling's voice purring in his ears, words like caresses and gentle tugs, and he could not help but cup his cock through his jeans, seeking friction. He imagined him in the recording booth, leaning over the microphone, his features fitting the suggestive sounds, his lips wet from running his tongue over them. If he could just get a little further in the scene―

His Zoom alarm went off. Instantly, Morpheus removed his hand and his headphones, his back stiff as a board, a cold wave of panic rushing through him. Fuck! He gave himself a quick look through the camera of his phone. He was blushing slightly, to his utmost annoyance. Nothing he could not blame on bad webcam settings, he thought. The rest could be concealed easily enough. Especially when he was only visible from the waist up.

It was with a slight flush and a distracting, frustratingly hard erection that Morpheus answered his Zoom call, his mind scattered between book royalties, publishing dates, and Robert Gadling's voice still deeply embedded in his skull.

It was hours before Morpheus found a minute of free time. Night had fallen, the evening spent in front of a screen or on the phone, discussing the imminent release of his upcoming novel, one whose cover would feature his actual name, this time. Book releases were always exhausting affairs, between planning podcast appearances, book signings, press tours, and the likes. Morpheus disliked the fanfare of it all, the exposure, but could hardly complain. There were worse flip sides of the coin, out there.

At least writing under a pen name saved him the hassle, with the other half of his published work.

Lying on his bed, fresh out of the shower, Morpheus sighed, staring at the ceiling. He felt both exhausted and wide awake, his coffee-fueled brain refusing to quiet down. There were a few things the editor needed his input on in person, tomorrow, something to do with the cover art. He'd promised himself to write, too. Perhaps clean the flat a little. Too many fires at once, his sister's voice echoed in his mind.

His phone buzzed again. Incoming email from Lucienne.

Listened to it yet? Thoughts?

Plenty. Enough to know it was good. Enough to keep the reader listening. Enough for him to want to go back for more.

Going through his emails, Morpheus found the link to the beta recordings, and downloaded it onto his phone. He reached for old earbuds in his bedside table drawer. Where were we?

" 'Come here.' "

The latent desire in that voice was enough to get Morpheus right back where he had been, a few hours ago. Lying on his bed, he kept listening, swallowing hard at any well-placed sigh, any improvised grunt and whimpering sound. Was it even improvised? Did he plan on adding those? Did Gadling discuss it with the adaptation team beforehand? Marked the exact spots where he would do it in the printed script?

" 'You're so beautiful like this, love. Look at you.' "

God.

" 'I have thought about you like this. Hard under me. For me.' "

Hesitantly, Morpheus reached under the waistband of his pyjamas, finding himself hard already. He blushed at his own embarrassment, alone in his bedroom, his hand wrapped around his cock, his own words spilling in his ears. Vain, perhaps. Awfully self-absorbed. But deep down, he knew it was not that. Not really.

" 'Do you want me, Gabriel?' Can you feel I much I want you?' "

He hated himself for including so much narration in this passage, keeping him from the lascivious heat of Gadling's voice, waiting for the dialogue to return like a starving man begs for food. How could he do that? A wanton moan reverberated in his ears, quickly echoed by one of his own, harmonies of pleasure filling his head and his room.

" 'Fuck, you feel so good!' "

Why did his editor even let him publish that? Morpheus' mind was bridging the gaps between dialogue bits, ignoring the narration in favour of more pleasurable mental stimulation. He pictured Robert Gadling in his recording booth, focused over the microphone, his lips pressed into a sinful hum, his eyes closed. Gadling next to him, his mouth pressed against his ear, spewing new words, ones he did not write, ones of his own.

" 'Let me see those eyes.' "

Morpheus whined against his pillow, both from pleasure and frustration. He hated this. This was... mortifying, and yet he could not stop. He arched his back, chasing his pleasure.

" 'Fuck! I've waited for this for so long.' "

Morpheus came in his pyjamas in a muffled grunt, the release helping nothing with the shame spreading through him. It brought him some clarity, at least. Disgruntled, he yanked the earbuds out of his ears, Robert Gadling's voice reduced to a hushed whisper, the siren's song finally muffled. He looked down at himself, suddenly aware of the mess he'd made. Great. Fantastic.

His phone buzzed again. It was Lucienne.

Do you want the edited files once they are done? They would love your feedback before they start trimming it down.

Morpheus sighed, struggling against the brightness of the screen.

Yes, tell them I would like them.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream x hob #dream/hob #sandman #sandman fics #sandman fanfiction #smut #my writing #the brain worms were too real and too demanding #so they made me do it #in my defense it was pretty fun to write #also i know nothing about the publishing or the audiobook industry #most of this is just adlib #Morpheus finally meeting Hob for the first time #being absolutely unable to handle Hob's voice without getting a hard on #now that's a thought

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ohallthecrushes · 9 months

Text

"Elegant and subtle"

A/N: it's short headcanons. Sorry about the joke below. It's just hard not to think about his growing, overwhelming, delicious D- devotion... ok, I'll stop now.

Summary: Ways of how Morpheus approaches you, his romantic interests, to show you his growing dick, sorry affection.

Nothing too obvious, my dear, he won't say he has feelings for you, nah-ah. Not at the beginning at least. Not until he's sure, you'll reciprocate his affection.

Considering his enigmatic character, he may approach the situation with a sense of subtlety and elegance,cause those are the ways thatt befit the Lord of Dreams.

Since he has difficulty with expressing emotions directly, he may use dream symbolism or metaphorical language to convey his feelings.

For example, he can send you cryptic dreams that mirror your shared experiences or create dreamscapes that resonate with you on a deeper level. Through these dreams, he can subtly reveal his admiration and fascination with you.

You will wonder however... Did he spy on your dreams to know your desires and likes so he could create the perfect dreamscapes for you? I won't say yes, but... He won't tell.

You will find small well thoughtful gifts around your flat, something you only briefly mentioned you'd like to have.

If you don't know how to flirt, it's ok, it doesn't matter. Your blushing cheeks and soft smile in his presence are enough for him to know you welcome his romantic gestures.

If you are aware of your own issues and awkwardness when it comes to romance, then so is Morpheus. He's attentive and observant. But don't worry. His approach is gonna be patient and understanding. He will demonstrate that he respects your boundaries and independence and that he values you as an equal, showing empathy for your struggles (with a more practical way of course).

Is there a specific nightmare or a memory that haunts you often? Poof! It's gone.

Do you need his help with anything? Poof! It's done.

Morpheus will also listen attentively to your thoughts and feelings, allowing you to open up at your own pace without pressuring you. His nonjudgmental nature and willingness to accept you as you are can foster a sense of trust and comfort, making you feel less out of hhis league.

the ethereal and mystical nature of Morpheus' realm can allow for unique and romantic experiences. It's inevitable that he will invite you to explore the Dreaming with him, to share the beauty and wonder of his domain, forging a deeper connection through you mutual fascination with the dream world.

Even though it's all subtle, it is hard to miss all those romantic signs and gestures.

And even if you,for some reason, still don't see them or refuse to see them, Morpheus will find a more subtle way, though still elegant and romantic, to show you his interest and how serious he is about you.

#fanfiction #morpheus #morpheus x reader #sandman fanfiction #sandman x reader #the sandman #headcanons

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rippersz · 1 year

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥’𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝

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(A fem!reader x Lucifer Morningstar NSFW one-shot)

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Lucifer.

The sweetest end to a life of misery. The dimmed light at the end of a dark tunnel. The succubus of depraved dreams.

The very reason why you begged to be sent to Hell.

And, coincidentally, the very reason why you wanted to stay.

For, really, what was the use of residing in Heaven when God’s hair didn’t fall in perfect blonde curls? What was the use of dipping into paradise when the Lord’s eyes weren’t so piercing? Or when the Almighty’s lips didn’t curl up at the ends, like a mischievous cat that felt hunger clawing at its lungs? And what was the point of staying in nirvana when the lights hurt your eyes? And when the angels’ symphony was simply too damn loud?

That’s just it.

There is no point. There never was.

In your opinion, although the air smelled of sulfur and death and rotted campfire smoke, Hell was a much better place. It was warmer, for starters. And it was… it could be… eerily silent. You realized that early on into your job when you began cleaning Lucifer’s chambers on a daily basis. Because outside of that private space, the world was filled with the faintest screams of the damned. Constantly. Every day - morning to night, even though time in that realm worked in strange ways and could not often be measured. If you cared more, you were sure you’d find it maddening. But you didn’t care. There was no reason to. Because unlike those subjected to whatever punishment they deserved, you were favored. Sort of. Kind of. Well, maybe not entirely, but enough. You were favored enough.

After all, no one would expect Lucifer Morningstar to have a maid. Someone to polish the floors, wipe down the columns, sweep the stairs, make their bed and tend to the flames whenever they burned. Someone to dust the surfaces and make sure nothing was out of place. Someone to keep the Lightbringer’s world tidy.

And yet? Yet, there you were. Breathing in the strange hot air, sweating slightly in your constricting white uniform, getting down on your hands and knees or stretching tall or nearly bending over backwards to clean anything you could. To make sure that they wouldn’t notice a lack of proper upkeep because you took your job very seriously and to do something wrong or to miss a small speck of dust was to be crucified. No pun intended.

Though looking beyond that- looking beyond your ‘duty’ and your life… there was something else. A different sort of loyalty simmering beneath the surface of your skin. Begging to reveal itself any time you were around your employer. Your Master. You never said it, but you thought it. Often. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ ‘No, Your Majesty.’ ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ always translated to ‘Yes, Master.’ ‘No, Master.’ ‘Thank you, Master. Thank you so so much.’

You were almost certain that no other servant they had wished to refer to them as such, but you didn’t care. It was, after all, difficult not to be affected by them. By their power. By their mere existence. They were the rebellious. They were the dark. They were the end and the beginning. The bringer of light and death. They were the anti-Christ… the anti-life, as they had even claimed to be. And although you’d never admit it, that strange familiar heat that warmed and bubbled within your heart, was the very reason why you defected. Heaven may have taken you first, yes, but upon realizing how utterly… empty… it seemed, you realized it wasn’t what you wanted. It wasn’t fulfilling. It wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t exciting. And you hadn’t met the Creator, no, but that didn’t matter. When you complained, begged, argued, the angels grew sick. ‘Throw them to Hell, then. The silver city doesn’t need any more traitors.’ And it was then to the traitor’s realm that you went. Falling from the sky, sent by the Heavens; tumbling to the floor, received by Hell. Upon arrival, you wondered briefly if you had made a mistake. The air was too hot, the sounds were too much, the world was too gloomy. But then you looked up. Bruised and aching and breathing heavily on that marble floor, you looked up…

…and felt divinity for the first time ever.

For there- illuminated by flames and standing tall and lit with a glow that God simply didn’t have the power to take away- was the Lightbringer themself. Lucifer Morningstar. Goodness they were taller than you could ever imagine. And far more graceful… far more lethal. With great leathery wings of midnight and contrasting pale skin as smooth as porcelain; with strong tapered fingers and long limbs and such a sculpted side profile… you could do nothing but stare. In awe? Perhaps. Wonder? Most certainly. Love? Well… was that really possible? To love The Devil at first sight?

“What do we have here?” A voice, rich and deep and knowing filled the stagnant air; and thus confirmed that yes, actually, one could fall in love with Lucifer Morningstar a second after meeting them.

—

But memories such as that were only ones you held close to your chest when trying to sleep at night. No one would ever know them. No other demon, no other Lord, no other damned soul. For any memory, any dream, any wish you had where Lucifer’s name was mentioned were ones you wanted all for yourself. Yes, there were people (demons) out there who would understand your… infatuation, for lack of a better word, but that didn’t matter. In fact, that was exactly the reason why you wanted to keep such thoughts to yourself. Jealousy was the death of lovers, and Lucifer was a being you wanted all to yourself.

Well… as if that were possible.

Really, the only time you spent together was in your head. And outside of that, you merely passed them in the hall, reported to them in the morning and evening (hard regarding Hell’s time-zone but you figured it out), and showed up when summoned. Of course all you discussed was work and any upcoming events that the palace needed to prepare for, but other than that - nothing. Nothing at all.

You tried not to take it personally. The Devil was busy and you were just their maid. You kept their home tidy and they compensated you with room and board. That was that. And you tried to accept it, really you did; you tried so hard not to drape yourself over their bed when you cleaned it and you tried not to imagine what those cold fingers would feel like dragged upon your skin… but when you were waxing the floors on your hands and knees and the clicking of their heels could be heard from down the hall- your mind lost control. It ran rampant. It turned fuzzy, dripping into a strange ‘shut-off mode’ that focused solely on Lucifer. Solely on Lucifer and solely on the desire that ran through your body at the very thought of them.

Them… with those strong wings and long fingers and soft jawline… with those sharp high heels and that penetrating gaze. Knowing everything, seeing everything. Spiraling with something sultry, burning right through you, matching the dark wickedness of their lips. Oh those lips… they made an appearance quite frequently within your dreams. Caressing the hill of your shoulder, pressing to the soft insides of your thighs… such gentle perfect lips, literally carved by something divine. Admittedly, they seemed flawless from afar, but you knew the truth. You knew that there was a single scar on the right side of their upper lip; it blended in with the paleness of their skin, but your eyes had memorized its location. Your eyes snapped to it when they spoke. Your eyes traced its shape; wider at its northern tip and thinner toward the bottom, where it ran into the delightfully pink flesh of their lip. Your eyes stroked the tiny flaw and yearned to feel its depth beneath your tongue. Your eyes… and your eyes only. For no one, perhaps save one or two powerful beings, had gotten as close to them as you had.

It was one time, when you had first started. Mopping wasn’t that hard of a task, but at the time you were inexperienced and unaware. Specifically when The Devil themself was standing behind you, observing your attention to detail as you wet and re-wet the same spot over and over again. And it was only when they cleared their throat, gravelly and low, that you had gotten a fright. You nearly jumped 20 feet in the air as you let out a gasp, turned around, stepped back, and of course promptly fell right on your ass. You would always remember the confusion that swirled around in your little mind as Lucifer stood over you, watching with amusement. They were pressed against the world, as tall as a skyscraper, larger than life and stronger than destiny. Stronger than fate. Stronger than any other seraphic being to ever exist. And you were nothing beneath their heel. You were nothing in comparison to them. And for some reason- for some twisted, maddening, intoxicating reason- you found that inexplicably attractive. You found that unbelievably desirable. You found that far more bewitching than anything else in the world. And whether they noticed that or not didn’t particularly matter as, in the next moment, they leaned over. Bending at their slim waist, placing one hand on their hip, reaching out with the other and delicately wrapping cold fingers around your jaw. The touch made you short-circuit, causing your eyes to widen like a scared puppy’s as you stared up at them with wonder and fear and a myriad of other exhilarating emotions. You weren’t sure if they could see the way your heart was surging within your chest, pushing at your rib cage and begging to be swallowed whole and torn apart by those perfectly imperfect white teeth, but- again- it didn’t matter. That wouldn’t have stopped them from the way they tugged you forward, dragging you through the soapy water; or from the way they leaned down, slow and scary, purposefully making you wait for their words. And you played into it all, hanging on by a thread as your throat bobbed with the effort to hold back a sudden whimper.

Then soft lips parted; blue eyes, tinged with a brown and green ring around the pupil, stared; and you noticed the scar in that second. You noticed it and you felt your mind melt out of your ears.

“Careful, maid,” The Devil purred, “wouldn’t want you to break anything now, would we?” And although it was just a moment, being there with them like that felt like a lifetime. You remembered that their breath smelled of figs, and wine, and something akin to metal - blood, you had guessed some time later. And because you didn’t have a response then, Lucifer let you go. They pushed your face away with a strong hand, leaving you to scramble and press back onto your palms. The feeling of their touch lingered as they stepped away, donning their familiar sneer, and clutching their hands before them. “Clean this up,” and they turned to leave, “Otherwise you’ll have more than a few broken bones to nurse.”

And once again, you were left alone.

—

For some time after that, you were sure you had dreamed it. The mind, after all, could conjure powerful images when knee-deep in admiration; and you were well-past that point. But upon seeing the scar again in the light, when they were looking over one of their flames, you realized it had been real. It had all been real. And thoughts of them continued to create mountains in your head, and make your fingers twitch while you fell into dreams, and left a searing heat boiling in the depths of your abdomen when you woke up. It was terrible. It was everything. You wished you could feel their touch again. You wished, all the time, that you didn’t have to imagine their longer fingers pressing onto your tongue and making you drool. Or that you didn’t have to infer what it would be like to kneel before them and put your lips to their leathery boots and kiss and lick away the ash and dust that gathered there. And for as much as you did enjoy fantasizing, thinking such things was beginning to mess with your job; keeping you distracted as you nearly burned yourself against the fire while cleaning the bowl that held it.

Sometimes, only when you were alone in bed, you wondered what it would have been like if you hadn’t asked to be sent to Hell. Perhaps you’d be pampered amongst the clouds; drinking anything you wanted and feasting on anything you wanted and feeling the love of anyone you wanted. Or maybe you’d still feel the emptiness that overcame you when you first arrived at those pearly gates. Maybe you’d still feel unsatisfied and cheated and terribly curious about what lurked on the other side of mortality. What sludged along beneath Earth and the Heavens. Yes, maybe you’d still yearn to be in Lucifer’s grasp; even though, in that timeline, you never met them.

Goodness, what a terrible thought. To have never met the Lightbringer? To have never seen their smirk or their glare or that damned scar on their lip? That sounded horrid. Honestly you preferred not to exist at all rather than be devoid of their presence. So thank goodness it was all just a thought; a dip into the wonders of ‘what could’ve been’ - and thank goodness you fell asleep each night within that hot air, breathing in the scents of Lucifer’s domain, and knowing that somewhere nearby they paced the halls or lounged within their chambers. That knowledge in particular was rather nice; it was comforting to know you were safe; claimed by the second most powerful being in the universe. There was a hierarchy within the palace, yes, but that didn’t matter. You were their maid. No one could touch you.

And if anyone dared to test that theory… well you had become aware of the consequences some time ago. The group of important demons due at the palace during that time weren’t very nice to you. From wandering eyes to thinly veiled threats- they had smelled your ‘fresh blood’ the moment they stepped into Lucifer’s hall. But then promptly forgot where they were. And who they were talking to. And who owned the person they were talking to. Safe to say, only someone with a death wish would comment on your white uniform.

But despite that, you wore it with pride.

The mark of the prettiest Angel- having fallen and survived. Pure white, reminiscent of the highest honor; the softest wings, the most saintly color. You wore it and you wore it well. The skirt was knee-length and comfortable, the puffy sleeves were short and didn’t chafe, and the collar was high, hugging the sides of your throat in a similar fashion to the one beautiful garment that Lucifer wore from time to time. You enjoyed the thought of matching with them… you enjoyed the implications of being theirs. And although you weren’t allowed to wear any jewelry, that never stopped you from admiring the pieces they owned. Resting comfortably in an ornate box that sat atop their dresser were different types of rings and even one or two necklaces and a single set of earrings. They were all made of real gems/silver/gold, but you knew that The Devil didn’t particularly care for riches. They had it all. One less diamond wouldn’t kill them. And that was, perhaps, another reason as to why you couldn’t help but feel weak when they slid into your mind.

Such a powerful being… so nonchalant… and they spoke so slowly… so deeply… and they walked with such height… and had the prettiest lips… and the longest fingers…

“This doesn’t look like cleaning to me, little maid.”

Your heart did a somersault within your chest as you looked up. Your eyes were wide. Their eyes were heavy-lidded. Amused. Looking down at you as they stood with their fingertips pressed together in front of their waist, standing and haloed by dark wings. All you could do then, stuck beneath their attention, was swallow harshly and try to control the sudden shaking that overcame your body.

You’d been caught red-handed. Literally. Standing beside their bed, staring at the silk blood red sheet that ran against your palms, held tightly in your hands. It was halfway off the mattress and spilling a bit onto the floor, and you were caught in the middle of your own mess. A change of sheets rested on an armchair behind you, but that didn’t matter. You were caressing the fabric with your thumbs. You were basking in its softness. And you had lost track of time, too focused on your own memories- your own depraved thoughts- to realize that The Devil themself could walk in at any moment. It was their room, after all. Complete with a large four-poster canopy bed, a distinguished vanity, a set of armchairs and a table, bookshelves that lined the far wall, and two other doors that led to their bathroom and closet. It was, admittedly, your favorite place to be in the entire palace. The fireplace was always burning - the colors of the room were a good mix of onyx, crimson, and gold - and the smell there was far different than the smell in any other part of the underworld. For instead of anguish and sin, the air toyed with the light scents of freshly blown out candles, jasmine, and vanilla. Every time you walked in there to clean, you took a deep warm breath and resisted the urge to curl up on their bed and take a nap.

Though as you stood before them, on the other side of their half-covered mattress, you wished you had previously dared to fall asleep there before. It would have been a fascinating story to harbor after being banished, considering The Devil most likely didn’t care for those who caressed their divine bedding.

“Just what exactly were you doing?” Their voice came again, breaking your mind’s descent into the clouds and instantly yanking it back down to Hell.

A quick nervous glance up told you that Lucifer wasn’t angry. No, they were more amused than anything else. But then again, that seemed to be their constant state of existence around you. As though you were a dumb little puppy who didn’t know how to do much beyond cleaning and when they caught you thinking, they thought it was funny. And perhaps it was funny. You did often lose your voice around The Devil, so you may just as well have acted like a scared little animal in their presence…

…was that what you were doing then? Glancing every which way, unable to make eye contact, feeling the heat of the fire seep into your skin? Shaking slightly and secretly wishing that they’d grab you by the arm, throw you onto the bed, and have their wicked way with you?

Well… the more you thought about it, the more time you wasted. So you swallowed your tongue and cleared your throat.

“I was- um- cleaning, Your Majesty,” you bowed your head and clutched your hands in front of you.

A small hum filled the air. You felt your heartbeat on your tongue.

“Are you certain, little maid?” They spoke softly, deeply, running their fingertips along the edge of the mattress before pulling their hand back and assessing the state of their skin. “Because to me, it seemed as though you were rather… distracted.” And Lucifer smirked upon seeing the cleanliness of their fingertips.

And while they did that, feeling a strange sense of pride and lust curl up within their being, you felt your heart drop.

Distracted….

of course…

…They knew.

They knew.

One could never keep anything from The Devil; so why in the underworld did you think you were any different? Why did you think you could keep something like sin away from the Lightbringer’s eyes? They were always so careful with words - always so choosy - always one step ahead… and they knew.

They knew about the needy little dreams that plagued your nights. They knew about the blush that you woke up with, and the shake in your knees when you got into the shower and found your own hands wandering from your chest to your thighs. They knew about the heat that bubbled between said thighs, and how the ache- the terrible burning enticing ache- pushed you to take care of it in the only way you knew how. With searching fingers and light touches and soft moans muffled by the white fabric of your pillow; with distracting thoughts and lewd whimpers and sinful pleas- begging and begging and begging the Lightbringer, The Devil, to pleasure you until your heart melted against your insides. They knew about all that and they knew about the little whispers you spoke to yourself when the water spilled from behind the curtain and dripped down your face and created the perfect cover up.

Or… what you thought was the perfect cover up.

In reality, it seemed there was no place in Hell that The Devil could not reach. That The Devil could not hear. That included your shower. Your bath. The bed you writhed in at night when you imagined their teeth attacking the flesh of your chest. And your tummy. And your thighs. And your neck and calves and back… And in a similar sense, they heard every single thing you murmured to yourself when the flames in your room were extinguished. The faint cries of ‘Master’ as you let the soap slide down your arms; the muted whines of ‘Yes yes yes right there-’ as the steam pressed to your bathroom mirror; the mewls that escaped from your wanting lips, hugging the tile of your shower, incriminating you with every little noise…

Oh they heard it all.

And because of that- you were completely and utterly fucked.

“My my… such a strong heartbeat. One could even say you were- frightened.” Their voice was closer than it was before, and when you blinked, you found that they were slowly- slowly slowly slowly- crawling onto the bed.

Your body froze as you watched two large hands press into the mattress, swiftly followed by a knee. They were clad in a rich mahogany leather; an outfit that clung to the muscles in their arms and legs, spanning broad across their chest and still leaving room for their wings. Oh those wings… Twitching gently as they stalked toward you. You, being their prey. You, being their victim.

And as soon as that realization clicked into your slow silly little mind, you did the only thing you could think to do when filled with terror: you begged.

“Pl-please, your Majesty- I- I am so so sorry for my behavior. I have been inappropriate and- and- disrespectful and stupidly idiotic. I promise you it will not happen again, please, I am begging you- please understand, I-” you stopped.

You stopped, abruptly silenced by the slim finger that pressed itself to your lips. Their skin was just as chilled as you remembered it. And their eyes, when you looked up into them, were far more entrancing than they had ever been. As if The Devil simply could not help the way their very soul reacted to your submissive behavior. ‘Such a silly little maid,’ they were probably thinking to themself, ‘such a silly little maid with her silly little outfits and needy little sins. The poor thing had no idea that I heard it all….

…And the poor thing has no idea what I will do to her because of it.’

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Hope you enjoyed! I will be working on requests for a bit now and taking a short break from my other fic. I have not watched The Sandman so if some things are wrong, I apologize. I do hope I also did well with Lucifer’s characterization. If I did not, I again apologize. Thank you for reading. - Ripley

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#fanfictionwriter #lucifer morningstar #lucifer Morningstar sandman #the sandman #sandman lucifer #sandman fanfiction #lucifer Morningstar x reader #Lucifer Morningstar x Y/N #Gwendoline Christie Lucifer #fanfic #gay fanfiction #gwendoline christie #oneshot #fanfic oneshot

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bi-bard · 2 years

Text

Rogue Nightmares - Dream of the Endless Imagine (The Sandman)

Title: Rogue Nightmares

Pairing: Dream of the Endless X Reader

Word Count: 1,068 words

Warning(s): nightmare

Summary: (Y/n) had been stuck in a loop of the same nightmare for weeks. When someone finally comes to save them, everything begins to change.

Author's Note: Guys. I love this.

PART TWO HERE!

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I never understood how real a dream could feel.

That was until I had the same dream every day for two weeks (or longer, I wasn't sure of the exact starting date). Well, less a dream and more a nightmare.

It was always the same. Down to the last detail.

I would find myself outside in a forest. It would be dark, and I wouldn't be able to see past the trees closest to me. Then, there would be some kind of roar through the woods. From there, I would start running. Through the forest and the darkness, trying to not trip on roots and plants.

I would eventually make it to some kind of house. I would manage to close and lock the door, but the creatures would start slamming into the door and clawing at the windows. Just as the door gives way and the windows break, I would wake up.

That's how things usually went.

However, on another endless run of the same nightmare, I didn't wake up when the creatures broke in. I let out a yell and went to run away, but one of them caught me by the ankle. I was about to fight back when I saw someone else standing in the building.

On the other side of the room was a man. He was wearing all-black, and he was alarmingly calm. I furrowed my eyebrows. I wasn't concerned about anything other than this man's presence now.

"Who are you," I asked.

The room was suddenly empty. Like that small ounce of awareness was all it took to end it all. I pushed myself off the floor.

The man seemed shocked that I noticed him. His posture straightened a little bit and his eyebrows furrowed. I tried to not seem scared, but a mysterious man suddenly pops up in your nightmares and just watches it happen... it just doesn't give an impression of comfort.

"Who are you," I repeated, taking a few steps forward and trying to appear tough.

"I have many names."

"Wow, how mystical," I replied sarcastically. "What can I call you?"

"Morpheus."

"And why are you in my dreams," I asked.

"I was coming to protect you," he explained. "You shouldn't be able to notice me. Not truly. How did you?"

"You're a guy standing in a long black coat with the haircut of an emo band from the 2000s," I shrugged. "You're hard to miss. Even in my nightmares."

His eyes scanned over me with very little shame. He was trying to find answers about me without just asking me. I shifted a little bit and crossed my arms over my chest.

"What were you protecting me from?"

"A rogue nightmare."

I scoffed. "You make that sound like nightmares are living creatures."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Oh my God," I muttered. "So, umm, how does a nightmare go rogue?"

"This one seems to be feeding on you," Morpheus started walking around me, studying the room. "Your fear and panic. For its own entertainment. It left as soon as you pointed me out."

"Why," I turned to watch him move. I let my eyes scan him now. "Why was it so scared of you?"

"Because this is my realm."

"Realm?"

He turned back to me. "The realm of dreams. It's mine."

"Oh," I nodded. "Sure, okay, that makes sense."

He offered a small grin. I felt myself grin back. I had no real reason to trust this guy. I just did because it felt right. Like it was the smart thing to do.

"Will it come back," I asked. "The... The nightmare. Will it come back?"

"Yes."

I felt my shoulders tense at the definite answer. "How are you going to stop it?"

"You have no reason to worry-"

"You said that you were going to protect me," I stepped up to him. Probably too close but he didn't seem to mind. "I want to know how you're going to protect me."

"I have to catch it."

"How do you do that?"

He sighed. "You have to go through the nightmare again."

"I was worried you were going to say that."

The next night, I found myself running through the trees again.

But this time, instead of running into the house, I took a very sudden turn to the right, rounding the corner of the house and leaving the creatures to storm in.

I slowly moved to look back around the building's corner. They were disappearing. All of them. Just vanishing. And then, everything was silent.

I waited a minute to see if anything else was going to happen.

Nothing. No noise or lights or anything. It was over.

I let out a shocked laugh when I realized that the plan had worked. I took off running into the house, finding Morpheus standing in the middle of the room. I only stopped for a moment in the doorway as we looked at each other. Then, I sprinted forward and almost tackled him in a hug.

He slowly hugged me back.

"Thank you," I muttered.

"It's my responsibility."

"Doesn't matter," I stepped back to look at him. "You probably saved my life. Let me thank you, dammit."

He smiled a little bit. "You're welcome."

The two of us fell silent. We were both just looking at each other. I could think of so many situations where this would've made me so uncomfortable. But with him, it wasn't like that. It almost felt natural.

"You should be able to sleep without constant nightmares now," he explained. "However, the chance of you having a nightmare is not gone. I cannot promise something like that."

I nodded.

I stepped forward again. His eyebrows furrowed at me. I leaned in hesitantly and kissed his cheek. It was only a peck. Probably less than a second.

His eyes went a little wide as I leaned back. I had to hold back a chuckle at the confused look that was clearly on his face.

"I hope to see you again, Morpheus."

He seemed to ignore what I said. "This dream is over."

"What-"

"This dream is over," he waved his hand in front of my face.

I woke up back in my bed. I blinked the sleep from my eyes before sitting up.

I chuckled to myself and laid back down.

I knew somehow that I was going to see Morpheus again. Somehow.

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Author's Note: I have a part two planned for this if anyone wants to read that.

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Masterlist (Includes links to All Writing Challenges)

What I Write For

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#the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman imagine #sandman imagine #sandman fanfiction #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless fanfiction #dream of the endless imagine #x reader #fanfiction #imagine #morpheus x reader #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus imagine

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auroraborealyss · 2 years

Text

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬' 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬.

⊹ pairing: morpheus x reader

⊹ summary: how morpheus, dream of the endless, the king of dreams, or as you know him: your love, expresses his love

⊹ warnings: some explicit language, but mostly none (however my inputs are slightly out of control in this one—case and point: this note)

⊹ word count: 3107

𝗴𝗶𝗳𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 you are talking to the king of dreams. the Endless who's responsible for seeing what people dream about, what they're scared of, and managing it. this is also the same Endless who thought it would be a fun idea to put his power into three of his favourite things. of course gifts is going to be his main love language

as the lord of dreams, of course his first instinct is to give you whatever you want. to create whatever you wan. he genuinely finds pleasure in creating something himself to give to you

(dare i say a kink)

has definitely fashioned a dream after you. whatever impact you have on morpheus (make him warmer, kinder, see the beauty in humans and their short but well-lived lives, etc...), that dream because that for others

no need to buy new clothes when he can just make you whatever you want

you want the top half of that one dress but the bottom half of another? check your closet.

you want the new book from your favorite author but it doesn’t release for another six months? check your mail.

you want that chocolate that was discontinued? check your cabinets?

even if you’re not in the palace of the dreaming at all times, he insists that you live in one in the waking world. so he buys/inspires an architect to make you your dream apartment/house

if its an apartment and you live by yourself? still gets you a three bedroom for no fucking reason other than he wants you to be comfortable. there used to be a hill that blocked your window? your architect was inspired to demolish it. you want it back? your architect is inspired to build one

if it’s a house, insert lazy river (honestly, if i had the money to waste and spend, i’d get one for myself. alas, the only lazy river i get is when my sink overflows) cue to you casually floating on a donut floatie while reading a book, doing laps around your house over and over again

if you do a form of art, you’ll get a room dedicated to it. a library. a painter’s studio. a photography room. sculpting nook. all of it and more.

there is nothing you could want that he could not give you

and never ever bring up money unless you want a mysterious and rude amount of money deposited into your account to wake up to

he'll also go to great lengths if you need a particular item (exhibit a: him going into the lake to get gifts for the fates. he did all that for his items, so imagine what he'd do for you)

but you want to know what the best gift he gives you?

his coc

𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲 this man will be begging for you to let him do things for you. in this essay—

(did you see the calliope episode? because that part of episode 1.11 is basically exhibit b for this section)

someone said something mean to you? bam. they will be plagued by nightmares of someone he loves saying those things to him until he dies.

if you’re a better person than him and won’t let him mentally torture people for as long as he likes and thinks they deserve, he’ll omit telling you that he’s torturing people. what you don’t know, won’t hurt, right?

but if you’re flirting with the line that is morally good and you do consent to letting him torture people, he might show you his progress on them and their decaying sanity

“look at what i have done with the love i have for you.”

you still get nightmares when you sleep, not because he wants to hurt you, but because nightmares can actually help you. dreams can inspire us to be better, but so can nightmares. for example, being visited by a nightmare that shows you your fear of failing that test makes you wake up and be motivated to study. what he does do for you is restrain the nightmares? he lets them scare you enough to act as a motivator, but not extremely that you are crippled with fear and anxiety

protective morpheus (currently sobbing)

when you wake and leave the Dreaming, he’s gone but there’s always a cup of coffee with you

acts of service also include making others do acts. rather than get a phone, forces matthew to carry messages between you and him instead.

if you're studying and need information on something, he'll have lucienne prepare a stack of books, and maybe even notes, for you to see to when you return to him in the Dreaming

but the biggest act of service he can do for you is meet your friends

lets you drag him to parties and dinner and brunches

might not socialize (probably will not), and you might find him standing in the corner becoming a shadow, but he won't bother you to leave until you want to

he'll watch you the whole time

takes care of your drinks (and everyone else's)

or, he might follow you around like a shadow. no matter who you talk to, he'll be standing beside you, an arm around your waist

if you're a social butterfly, he admires that about you

if you're more socially introverted, he'll hang out with you in the shadows and leave when you want to, even if you've only been there for five minutes

basically he's a simp—and he might actually proudly admit to being one because who's the one who's dating you in the end?

𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 before his confinement, he wasn’t the most physical person. he wouldn’t pull away, but he didn’t reach for you either, though he always secretly liked it. after his imprisonment, he begins to reach for you. not just that, but he begins to crave your touch. touch is how he reminds himself that he is with you, you are with him, and that he is free

in public, it’s limited but clear that you’re together

the last thing he needs is hearing matthews’ teasing squawks in his ear about morpheus being the endless version of a cat

when lucienne catches pda, she’ll at least be respectful and dignified and not comment, though she will be grinning like a cheshire cat and her eyes will keep looking

your arm around his when walking around

his hand on your back

then your lower back

brushing your hair out of your face

sitting close enough for shoulder and legs to touch

standing close

(once again, I bring up the calliope episode—someone stop me from rewatching that over and over again)

did you see how close they were standing? then, when you thought they were close enough, he takes an even closer step? that. THAT.

whatever concept you have of personal space, a personal bubble, this man is inside it. yes, your arms might be linked while walking. but your sides will be pressed together.

and while it might appear that you're the one who links your arms together, he is the one who already has his elbow slightly bent and held out towards you

when you do hold hands, his thumb brushes over your skin absentmindedly, as if feeling your warmth isn’t enough and it’s a constant reminder of him that you’re there

but when you do the same to him, or gods help him, you squeeze it, he, with every fibre of his being, will feel it and nearly stop from the overwhelming feelings that threaten to send him to the ground

so keep it sparingly

...or not

kisses in public..truthfully, he's probably leaning towards no. full on make out sessions? probably not. when you guys are saying goodbye, i’m seeing more of a tight, slightly awkward dip of the head—a farewell not

but, bringing that calliope episode up once again, he won’t don't anything if you were to initiate it.

kiss on the cheek? you better hold that position for a few fucking seconds so you can let that man close his eyes and savour the intimateness that is the feeling of your soft lips against his cold cheek.

why don’t you press your forehead against the side of his head while you’re at it? you know, when you’re done kissing him but before you pull away. think of it as giving him a few seconds to revert back to cold, formal morpheus, dream of the endless, and not your boyfriend/partner

stares at you when you’re not looking

stares at you even when you're looking

stares down at you when you're asleep in his arms

stares up at you when he's down on his knees between your—sorry, wrong fic

imagine those intense eyes just looking at you and not looking away, not ashamed at taking in the beauty that is his partner

he has no qualms when someone is staring at you, because how he can be blame them

but he does have qualms when their gaze turns into a leer. that's when he'll send a couple nightmares their way for a few directions. not to mention, he'll turn his gaze from you to glare them down, and because they have now deprived him from admiring you for the few seconds this last, he blames it on them and gives them a...gift (and a visit to desire if he finds out they had something to do with it)

on the rare occasion that he's actually using his throne and sitting on it rather than dramatically sitting on the steps after he spread his coat out around him, he might let you sit on his lap (nothing more...in public)

not straddling him—god no—but sitting horizontal so your legs are over his lap and your side is against his chest with your arms around his neck and his arms around your waist

he does that when he needs to relax

he might whisper his problems and insecurities in your ear

but in private—in private—this man is draped over you

he’ll be like a cat who actually likes his owner and will curl up on you

if you’re cuddling, you’ll lie with your head on his chest and his arm around your shoulders, maybe playing with your hair

he may or may not use a bit of his sand to help you sleep if you’re having troubles entering his realm, but with him drawing random shapes on your skin or the steady rise and fall of his chest, or, if you're really lucky, he's reading aloud in that quiet, low, asmr voice of his, you're gone all too quickly

he always feels a bit stiff when the cuddle session begins, but after you lie down on him long enough, his limbs soften before gripping onto you tighter

but back to that no-such-thing-as-a-personal-bubble with him

walls

bringing into evidence, exhibit c: episode 1.03 with johanna constantine

why does he have to be so physically close with everyone (that isn't me)

likes to walk you backwards until you hit a wall

once you hit that wall, he may or may not take an even closer step

then closer

and even closer, but his arms are still in his pockets because he's cool and edgy like that (and intimidatingly hot)

close enough until he's kissing you

then he'll press against you to be even closer

we can unpack the trauma that being separated from everyone he loves for 100 years and being physically separated by a wall of glass some other day. for now, enjoy his closeness

because basically, close is still too far for him

𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 not 24/7 hanging out, because he is the king of dreams and he has a realm to run, but he does spend his time with you wisely, and just because you're not with him all the time, doesn't mean he isn't thinking about you all the time

his favourite thing is the two of you being in each other’s presence but working on your own things. he appreciates it more than he realizes, and during the times you sit to the side as he makes new dreams, he’ll sometimes put aspects of you in them—intentionally or unintentionally

when you aren't together, he'll still be consumed with thoughts of you

he thinks of you all the time, actually. and because of that, he also talks about you all the time, sometimes subconsciously. and sometimes with no reason at all—or perhaps the only reason he needs to bring you up is because you're you and he's in love with you

"y/n did extremely well on her project, did you hear?" "did you hear about my report on the rogue nightmares, sir?" matthew asks. "she worked very hard on it. i'm proud of her."

thinks about you when doing research in the library with lucienne

wonders about you when going on walks with death

mentions you on dinners with hob

dates with him doesn't have to be the most exciting thrilling thing. in fact, he likes living in domestic bliss with you. doing dishes together. helping you with laundry. watching a movie. people watching. walking your pets.

he usually leaves you alone when you’re awake and uses that time for his duties while you’re busy doing awake things anyway, but when you do fall asleep and are in the dreaming, that’s when the two of you are always together, stuck at the hip (and we're back to the closeness)

takes you out to dinner everyday where he listens to you talk and rant about your day and give you suggestions. he eventually does the same with you, and you become the first person he goes to whenever he needs consultations for his problems

insert jealous hob when he finds him and you eating and morpheus actually talking to you and not just sitting there quietly like with him

but hob gets over it (he doesn’t) and sometimes he’ll join dinner with you guys.

family dinners in his realm with you, hob, death, lucienne, marvin (and only because you invited him), matthew (though morpheus gives him a dog bowl rather than a plate)

during the moments the two of you are together, he treasures and cherishes it

and during the moments when it's just the two of you together, he'll definitely make it worth both your while

drawing it out (if you know what i mean)

and i mean, teasing you for hours and sessions that go until you wake—

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ha no. did you see how emotionally constipated this man was? how he can't tell calliope he still loves her, admit to hob that they're friends, and ask for help from death? words are not the dream king's weapon

the most you get is a term of endearment, like my love or my beloved

always 'mine' though

but this Endless is not about to spout off a pride and prejudice speech at you, so don’t bother waking up early and going for a hike. just sleep and hang out with him in the Dreaming instead in silence

however he does have a beautiful voice—one that as his partner, you are allowed to take advantage of. cue making him read pride and prejudice at you (especially that speech: “you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love…i love…i love you. i never wish to b parted from you from this day on.”) you with his head on your lap, him sitting against a tree with the branches over the both of you for some shade. one hand is holding up the book, the other is absentmindedly twirling your hair. when he finishes the line, he looks down at you, slightly amused but completely enamoured, especially at the giddy expression on your face, and he dips down to kiss you

he tells you that he inspired jane austen to write that speech for you—it’s up to you if you want to believe him or call it bullshit

while he might not be giving love confessions every three seconds, he does give you compliments. and not just when you do something that warrants a compliment, but randomly. because to him, everything you do is majestic and needs to be acknowledged as so

"you're beautiful" when you're in casual clothes, sweats, pyjamas, (or bare)

"what would the world do without you?" when you hold open the door for an elderly couple

and you know he says it against your ear, voice low, his whispered words hot and heavy. maybe even a little raspy—

but just because he might not be the chatterbox on the block, doesn't mean he doesn't want someone talking to him

so don't give him the silent treatment, because when he does, he becomes insufferable to everyone

he's all curt to lucienne. snappy with matthew. demanding with poor marvin. sharp with cain and abel. rude with death. threatening with desire.

no one has nice dreams and nightmares become so much worse

not you, of course. you're still sleeping perfectly fine, but you realize something's wrong when you meet up with your friends and one of them hasn't slept in days while the other hasn't woken up in days

if it's his fault, it might take death for him to realize his mistakes and apologize to you. again, no long speech, just the simple words, "i'm sorry. i was wrong. please forgive me, my love." and considering this man's flaw is his ego, that is more than enough

and if you tell him to say it on his knees he will as he whispers it against your—

but if you're at fault, he won't back down until you apologize. however, he won't leave you alone. he'll always be there in the corner of your eye, waiting for you to apologize. and when you do, he'll purse his lips, nod, and say nothing. but you'll know he's already forgiven you when his eyes soften and he gives you that soft smile that's reserved for so few people

he might not talk to you, but he does want you to talk to him, so ramble away

let's not get started on what he says in private, but i'll tell you this. he isn't so silent anymore, and he will definitely appreciate whatever you tell him in whatever form—and might even strive to create and draw such sounds from you

a plea

a cry

a groan

a whimper

a scream—

in conclusion, this man will love you with every piece of him. (and if i could, i would do the same morpheus please just give me a chance)

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 1.06 𝗍𝗈 1.11. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 this 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽?

𝗂'𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 14𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝖿 𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾, 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘶𝘴' 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘸 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯

𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧!

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seiya-starsniper · 2 months

Note

"I love your smile" with dreamling from the gentle prompts

Hello I am 8 million years later answering this anon, sorry for the delay, I hope you enjoy it!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Also available on AO3

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It’s the kind of perfect spring day that the poets used to write about. Cool in the morning and warm, but not hot by mid-afternoon. There are sparse clouds in the sky, and the air is fragrant with the smell of flowers, of new life, of new beginnings. The fact that this perfect spring day also falls on a Saturday means that Hob Gadling is out with his camera, photographing every leaf, every small creature, happy couple, and passing vehicle that catches his attention.

And of course, his boyfriend.

It may be a beautiful and warm spring day, but Dream Endless is dressed like it's still the middle of winter; black jeans and black Doc Martens paired with a black tee and black pea coat to complete the ensemble. Hob had managed to talk him out of wearing the black scarf, at least. He knew Dream ran cold even in the summer, but the scarf would have definitely been too warm for today. In contrast, Hob is out in just a plain white t-shirt, cargo shorts and sneakers, and he’s certain that the two of them must strike their own kind of picture walking side by side through the park. Perhaps he’ll ask someone to snap a photo of them on his phone later.

Right now though, Hob’s having too much fun taking photos of Dream. Dream feeding the ducks with the small bag of seeds he’d brought along for just this purpose, Dream stopping to admire the various sculptures scattered throughout the park, Dream stopping to re-lace his boots.

“You take far too many photos of me,” Dream tells Hob eventually, rolling his eyes as he stands back up.

“What can I say?” Hob laughs, snapping another photo of Dream’s unamused face. “I love your smile.”

“Hob,” Dream says, leveling a flat stare at him. Hob continues to click away. “I am not smiling in any of the photos you’ve taken.”

He’s right, but only by a technicality. Dream hasn’t smiled once while looking at Hob’s camera. But the ones where he isn’t paying attention to Hob’s lens, well. That was a different story. But Dream didn’t need to know that right now. Later in the day, maybe.

“I know this may be hard to believe since it ruins that whole tortured poet look you’ve got going on,” Hob quips back at his boyfriend, amusement clear in his tone. “But you do smile.” He says it like he’s sharing a secret, and Dream looks at him in disbelief, before he sighs in exasperation. It's a fond exasperation though, Hob’s learned to tell over the years.

“Come. We are missing the goslings. We must catch them before they swim away,” Dream says, grabbing Hob by the hand and forcing him to put the camera down to rest around his neck. They walk over to where the geese and their recently hatched chicks are idling, and Dream approaches them slowly, kneeling and eventually sitting on a patch of dry grass closest to the pond’s edge. The geese eye him warily at first, but then Dream pulls out some seeds from his pocket, scattering them away from his person and sitting still as a statue while they slowly approach him.

Hob stays back away from where Dream is sitting; geese seem to hate him for some reason, but Dream has yet to meet a bird that doesn’t instantly take to him. It’s one of the things that Hob had noticed about the other man.

They’d met a little over two years ago in this very park, and Hob had been enraptured by Dream feeding the pigeons. He’d only meant to snap one or two photos of the strange goth man, but then one of the pigeons had flown up onto Dream’s shoulder and cooed happily as the man fed it straight from his hand. Dream’s smile had been small, but absolutely radiant in that moment. Hob fell in love at first sight.

Dream, decidedly, had not. He thought Hob to be a nuisance, had thrown a fit about having his photo taken without his knowledge or permission when Hob approached him. Hob had promised to not post any of the photos anywhere, and even offered to delete all of them if Dream saw them and really hated them that much. It would’ve killed Hob to delete such stunning photos, but he would’ve done it.

Luckily for him, Dream had softened when Hob had shown him the photos, then demanded Hob print them for him for free. Hob agreed, and then, because he had absolutely no self control around beautiful people, had asked Dream if he’d let Hob buy him dinner as an additional apology. Dream turned him down, and then also refused to give Hob his name when asked. Hob was hopelessly charmed.

After bringing the other man the agreed upon photos a week later, Hob promised not to photograph him if they ever ran into each other again. Dream looked at Hob like he didn’t believe the other man, but Hob kept his word, and for a time they maintained a pleasant, but distant acquaintance whenever they happened upon one another on days when the weather was nice.

It was Dream, surprisingly, who decided to approach Hob with a rather lucrative offer a few months later.

“I’m interested,” Dream had told him.

“In me?” Hob asked, surprised and flattered all at once.

“In your photography experience,” Dream clarified, though his cheeks had pinked at Hob’s words. “My sibling is getting married in a few months and they have yet to find a photographer they like.”

“Well, I can give you my website so you can show them my portfolio—”

“They’ve already seen it,” Dream interrupted him, blushing all the way from the tip of his nose down to his neck. “I—they wanted me to ask you if you’d shoot for their wedding. Personally.”

The rest, they say, is history. Hob hasn’t stopped photographing Dream ever since—with permission, of course.

In the present, Hob watches Dream’s patience and gentle tenacity pay off. The goslings eventually crowd around him and chirp happily, while the parental (Mother? Father? Hob can’t tell) goose angrily hisses at every other passing person who gets too close. They seemed to have claimed Dream as one of their own.

Hob’s camera clicks away until he hears a low warning beep signifying that his memory card is full.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have taken that 25 minute video of Dream feeding the crows the other day. But well, they’d all crowded around him and he’d looked so happy. The crows looked happy too, probably because Dream may as well look like them. It was cinematic art, and Hob would not be convinced otherwise.

When Dream eventually runs out of seeds, he bows his head and holds out his empty hands, a universal sign for the end of their interaction. The geese seem to realize quickly he will no longer feed them, and so they wander off into the nearby lake, the babies eagerly and awkwardly following their parent on tiny legs still unused to traveling by land. Hob waits until they’re all safely in the water before he takes a seat next to Dream.

“Have you finally tired of photographing my face?” Dream asks before resting his head on Hob’s shoulder.

“Never,” Hob answers with a small laugh. “I ran out of memory.”

Dream lets out a dramatic sigh. “Finally.”

“Oh hush, you,” Hob replies, jostling Dream with his shoulder. The other man groans at having been disturbed, and Hob takes the opportunity to wrap an arm around Dream’s shoulder, before planting a kiss to his hair.

“Show me?” Dream asks, reaching for Hob’s camera. “I want to see just what it is you find so fascinating about watching me feed waterfowl.”

Hob chuckles.

“Everything, love,” he answers honestly as he pulls up the photos for them to review on his camera’s tiny screen. “Absolutely everything.”

#dreamling #the sandman #sandman fanfiction #dream x hob #hob x morpheus #seiya writes #seiya writes dreamling

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Younger Gods Master List

Morpheus x fem!reader

Dream is protective of his ravens. A good Samaritan discovers this the hard way.

Read on ao3

Chapter 1: Just Don't Bite Me

Chapter 2: Lightning in a Bottle

Chapter 3: Darker Fates

Chapter 4: This is an Intervention, Darling

Chapter 5: More than Enough Reason

Chapter 6: Sheltering

Chapter 7: Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 8: Better Things to Fear

Epilogue 1: The Storm God's Name (18+)

Epilogue 2: Quiet Storms (18+)

MORE EPILOGUES COMING SOON (Prompts welcome)

#morpheus x reader #dream x reader #sandman fanfiction #Younger Gods #YoungerGods

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐕𝐈𝐈.]

summary: "Matters of this realm are not for you to consider."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 7.5k+

warnings: brief violence/blood, Corinthian is his own warning, we're hitting the big time rush angst, Dream is still Dream (insult) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: i'm just... hahahaaaaaaa. enjoy.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART SEVEN: YEAR 619-850

“Do you imagine stopping one shipment will change anything?”

Gliding your tongue over your bloodied teeth, you shrug half-heartedly. In part because you could care less what this pompous man concludes about you. Another part—a brazen, reckless side that’s been steadily honing to life with experience and age—craves to see this man squirm. Your fellow humans are no longer so indifferent to your presence. They’re becoming more knowledgeable. Nowadays, they welcome you with distrustful, knowing stares. Those with old family names whose ancestors you might have encountered previously. But there’s also apprehension. Fear. That one’s new.

That particular emotion is cherished when faced with such men.

“Sure it will,” you drawl, licking your bloodied mouth again. “They’re free people now. You don’t have any right to them or anyone else.”

Subdued wrath laces every syllable, and each word rips from your mouth with pointed accusation. Your people have come to this. Carting off other human beings like merchandise. Things to be sold. To be treated as lessers. For wealth. As if they won’t all decay and die in a few decades. It makes you sick with fury. You had such faith in them, such hope—that they would grow and improve, achieve wonders and help one another. So fiercely you’ve defended them to the other Endless.

And this is your reward.

“My father warned me about you,” the man continues, regarding you through narrowed eyes. His fine coat, stitched with golden threads, rustles when he lumbers over. The guards holding you jerk your body, keeping you upright. “The Conjurer. The Trickster. The Many Faces Witch.”

“Yes, your father was a piece of shite, too.” A yawn pulls at your mouth. The man’s lined face tightens at your dismissiveness, deepening the grooves etching into his pallid, leathery skin. “You people need to work on something better than a witch. It’s outdated.”

"Silence your wretched tongue," he hisses, stalking closer. Oh, he's getting braver. The merchant's gloved hands ball into fists at his sides. He's taller and stronger. Your body, in comparison, is all but battered, but there is no fear in you. For one such as he, that is a far greater insult. "I will discover where you hid them and who helped you. Do not think I will not."

Your lip throbs when you dig your tongue into the fleshy, torn skin. Copper on your tongue tastes like nothing and everything.

“You’re most welcome to try, Mr… hm, I honestly don’t remember your name. Neither will history.”

Merchant’s face turns purple, nostrils flaring. Blinking innocently, you await the strike. Usually, it’s a backhand. Deliberate and savoured. Humiliation is vital in breaking spirit. But it stopped working on you a long time ago. You’ve been stripped naked, paraded around, and degraded so many times you’ve stopped counting. Or caring.

He can hit you. He can mock you and abuse you all he wants, for however long he wants. You will get back up and continue helping people because they deserve it. It is not for some pampered, greedy man to deem otherwise. Decades from now, you’ll still be here when he’s no more than an ailing husk of a man.

He wants to hit you. It’s written in the harsh, shuddering way he swallows down his breaths. The holding cell is utterly silent aside from his occasional spluttering huffs.

“I will cut out your tongue, you insolent—”

The cell door swings open with a metal creak behind him.

“You called for me?”

The new man is younger, clad in finely-stitched royal blue, augmented coat. Folds and ruffles locomote around his lithe body when he strides forward, hands resting folded behind his back.

“Constantine, yes.” The merchant straightens, impatiently waving his hand for the newcomer to join you. His ring-clad finger digs in your direction. He won’t see you cower. You’ve experienced many such condemnations. “This creature. I want this one dealt with.”

The younger, blonde man raises a ponderous, curious brow, a crafty sheen reflecting through his irises.

“Your meaning, sire?” he prods innocently.

"She is not… normal, Edward. Not human." The merchant's expensive shoes slide through the grimy cell floor when he veers in Edward Constantine's direction. "Your family deals with these matters, do they not?"

"My mother, Lady Johnna, would not take kindly to your implication, sire." Edward smiles pleasantly as he speaks. He's unfairly handsome; in a pale, nonpareil way that flustered most souls he encounters. Cupid's bow mouth; wheat-coloured hair like that of his mother; gentle, narrow features and lulling voice. But all Constantines you've encountered have something wicked pulsing beneath their skin. It's what makes them so powerful, so excellent at their craft. "And I assure you, if you were dealing with a demon, you would know by now."

“How?”

The man’s snarling question sends spittle flying.

Edward puckers his lips in mock thought. He then grins brightly. “You would be rather dead, sire.”

Old, powerful Latin spills from Edward’s mouth, the mischievous grin sliding clean from his face. His focus narrows, well versed in his craft.

One of the guards holding you chokes abruptly. Heaving, sobbing retches leave him, his hold on you loosening. Shoving away, you bury your elbow in the other guard’s ribcage, grabbing his pistol while he’s too winded to react. You promptly knock the weighted weapon across the guard’s temple. The dazed man goes down like a falling tree, his mouth agape while he sprawls across the cell floor unconscious.

The merchant holding you prisoner stumbles back at the commotion, sweat beading his brow at the power shift. He looks on the verge of throwing up. “What—what is going on—stop!”

Pale, twitching hands rip from the guard’s gaping mouth, something crawling from inside his body. The man squirms pathetically, plunging to his knees. Faint, smug smile curls Edward’s mouth, all but victorious, while the Latin continues reverberating against the dank stone.

“I order you to stop!”

The guard explodes. A wet, squelching sound hits your eardrums. Then only a pale, gnarly-looking creature rests curled on the gore-covered floor.

“You’re late, Constantine.”

The ire in your voice causes Edward to bow his head apologetically.

“My apologies, fair Wanderer.” His grin is downright roguish. “Perhaps if you offered me a kiss as a reward next time, I shall hurry.”

The merchant chooses that precise moment to empty his stomach, fainting a second later. While you do not intend to shoot him, it does comfort you to level your newly acquired firearm on him. His judgement will not be in your hands. You have no right to it. His sentence will be at the hands of those he tried to trade for personal riches.

Sighing, you stare down at the convulsing demon. “Wrong host.”

Edward clicks his tongue. “Yes, quite. It turns out the old coot is just a regular cunt.”

You step forward, hesitating. The demon snarls loudly at your proximity. Hissing and spitting, it springs back up, leaping forward instantly. Its slimy, boney form crushes you to the ground, pinning you there.

“Wanderer—”

“No! Finish it.” The order rings piercingly through the saturated, cold air. It’s a testament to how much Edward relies on you because just as the demon’s jaws part to sink into your flesh, guttural, commanding Latin resumes. The demon’s half-humanoid body cracks under sheer power, light opening up in swelling circles around you. The wind howls through the tiny cell. Portal straight to Hell. “I’ll be fine! Do it! Help them, Edward!”

The wind wails deafeningly, light burns through your vision, tears blurring everything in sight.

Invisible power closes around you in an unyielding fist, sucking you down, down, down—

The demon wails above you, its claws sinking into your arm and stomach for support, flailing as you both plummet. You choke down a yelp of pain when blood starts gushing, the demon’s claws dug in too deep. Portals, dimensions, blurring hues, cold, hot, hot, hot—

In its rawest form, the universe rushes and slides around your body. Every knock and snag nearly breaks bones. Edward’s enchantment is sending you speeding down straight to Hell, but you’re using the curse as an anchor. An excruciating, ill-fitting buffer that slows your descent into an agonising shredding.

Your nails hook deliberately in the slimy, cold skin of the demon. Snarl forming, you jerk.

The knock sends you whistling through the universe's raw matter, but in a different direction. You plummet to the ground with cracking bones. A rare cry tears from your throat when your body flops to a resting position, jolting at the sudden impact.

You’re in a cemetery. Black clouds roll overhead, faraway thunder vibrating through the air. You manage a bloody, victorious smile.

“Human ssscum. Come here.”

The rattling, hissing voice gets accompanies by eager claws at your skin. Your pistol is long gone, lost in universal transit. Your hands are all you have left.

“No pleasss for help?” it coos and caws gleefully.

Words form, but it’s the pleasant voice behind you that responds: “You talk too much.”

Metal blade sticks clean through the demon’s gut. It screeches—a piercing, haunting sound—for it’s no ordinary blade that guts it. Black liquid gushes from the demon’s belly; its greyish skin marred as it crawls backwards, slobbering and snarling in a frenzied symphony.

The nightmare crafted by the King of Dreams himself stands above you, a black halo assembled from shadows and lightning crowning his pale head.

“Corinthian.”

Your chuckle sounds a tinge manic, relief slumping your limbs into the supple dirt beneath.

Corinthian’s head tilts marginally in your direction, but his focus stays entirely on the demon sitting erect on its hunches. Its tongue lolls to the side—a disturbing sight paired with its humanoid features.

“Puny nightmare,” it gloats, black liquid coating its bent, rotting teeth. “You dare to challenge me? I am Bifrons, Earl of Hell. You think you can prevail against one sssuch as I?”

A slight, cruel grin edges Corinthian’s face. His dual blades flip through the air, adjusted and firm in his relaxed hold, an extension of him.

“Let’s find out.”

It’s a blur. The demon is sly, its long limbs and small but robust wings serving it well, but Corinthian is liquid metal. More fluid than water and more vicious than any serpent. If the blade doesn’t sink in, it cuts and cuts and cuts. In seconds, the demon is covered in its own deformed version of blood, dripping heavily onto its hooked feet.

One blade punches clean through the demon’s wing, pinning the creature to a burnt tree behind it. The demon flails, bucking.

“You’re in the Dreaming.” Corinthian shapes each word with calm, pleasant malice. “The Nightmare Realms are my domain, and you’re a long way from home, my friend.”

The wind, the lightning, even the demon’s pained bleats—every sound and sensation hush to an abrupt suspension.

You sense his arrival in the clearing before he so much as utters a word. “Corinthian, enough.”

Dream’s deep, unwavering command glides through the charged, unnaturally still air.

Corinthian glares at the demon’s beady eyes, his teeth bared and face crinkled with enraged disbelief. “This thing—”

“Enough.” You cringe at the frigid bite in Dream’s timbre, struggling to sit up. “I will deal with the demon.”

If they continue at this, it’ll devolve into a disaster.

Your mouth wobbles, pain lapping at your senses. “Cori.”

The blade poised in Corinthian’s graceful hand quivers at the subdued plea, keen for the killing blow. His mouth contorts, shaping a hollow, wide grin. A tense moment crawls by. Then his arm drops to his side.

“As you command.”

He doesn’t bow. A strange sensation prickles your skin at the observation, but you brush it aside.

Black blocks Corinthian from your sight. Power sizzles across your skin. Achingly familiar, absolute. It’s everywhere, embracing you in blankets of everlasting comfort. Cold, bitter night and sun-dripping sleepy daydream simultaneously.

Cold fingers skim over your swollen cheek. The air around you cools by several degrees the longer Dream King drinks in your torn appearance. “Wanderer.”

Sorrow traces the whispered moniker. Why is it that when you’re alone, these tragedies slide clean off you, but when Dream peers at you with such unspoken despair, it hurts so bad? Is it because his comfort is so vastly different from others? Or perhaps because with him, there is no escaping anything. Because Dream’s hands touch and linger with a gentleness that wrenches something hurt and bleeding deep inside you and lays it bare.

“Hey, Dream.”

Dream Lord imparts no words, decrees no commands. He simply sweeps his midnight, flame-edged coat across you, and you’re both gone.

“I’m fine. I told you, typical trouble.” A more pressing question springs to mind. “Where is Corinthian?”

Dream of the Endless sweeps a searching look over your healing body, mutely unsatisfied. Even though you’ve slowed down, he resumes his steady trek through the sweeping castle corridors.

“I will speak with Corinthian later,” he responds. “He acted outside his function.”

Something in your chest ices over at the carefully light way Dream articulates those words. Springing on your tiptoes, you hurry after him, wincing at the everpresent discomfort.

“Outside his—” Swallowing your frustration, you reach for the Dream King, folding your fingers gently around the crook of his arm. His black coat warms your hand when you touch it, sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Dream halts at the light contact, pinning you with a stormy stare. “He tried to protect me. He did this to protect me from a demon.”

But Dream Lord has retreated, leaving the ruler of the Nightmare realms behind. Stony, stubborn, uncompromising.

“As monarch of this realm, it is my duty to handle these transgressions,” Dream clarifies. “Corinthian acted on his own accord. You do not slaughter the Earl of Hell without invoking wrath from Lightbringer.”

“Then why give them free will in the first place?” Your fingers tighten around his arm. “Don’t give me that look. You heard me.”

Dream exhales softly, his head bowing closer. “I was coming for you.”

You’re unsure why that sentence pulls a pained laugh from your chest. Feeble and scratchy. Your hand slips away from him, and with it, the more benign light with which Dream was regarding you does so as well.

“Yeah, before or after that thing killed me?” Damage is so blatant in your strangled question that you’re almost embarrassed by it—that you would be so apparent in your emotions after centuries together. “You haven’t been there in the past, Dream. Corinthian was. I can’t stand by while you punish him for keeping me safe.”

Dream’s pale, handsome features stutter at the not-so-subtle reminder. Does it trouble him? The knowledge that once you didn’t call for him because you didn’t believe he would come, but now you never do because being alone, relying on yourself, has become the norm. Calling for his aid no longer crosses your mind.

“Do you suppose Corinthian did this from the goodness of his heart, Wanderer? Or because it was a prime opportunity to indulge in his savagery?”

Dream’s soft conjecture lances clean through you, balling your heart in a merciless fist.

“You mean savagery you instilled in him?” Your shoulders hunch, defensive. It’s challenging standing against him when he’s like this: looming, all-powerful, ancient dust and brimstone. But the poor, naive soul who once found themselves in his gardens, at the foot of his mercy, has long since grown up. “You made him this way. You make them all for humanity. To serve them. Corinthian just did.”

Dream’s stare darkens, sliding away dismissively. “I do not expect you to understand the intricacies that come with Hell’s wrath—”

“You don’t expect me to understand.”

The gallery you’ve halted is quiet enough to hear a feather drop.

For years, you were trapped in Hell. You’ve tasted their cruelty and bloodlust; experienced firsthand the unending list of methods they use for torture and how they delight in it.

Dream’s soft mouth parts. “I did not mean to imply—”

“No, you implied enough, Morpheus.”

He leans back at the hard bite of his true name. It’s so rare for you to use it, and rarer still, for it to be spoken with such… disappointment. You’re too blind to his faults. Perhaps Desire was right in saying so. Or maybe you’ve always seen them but never cared because you care for him. Your fondness for the lonesome Dream Lord outweighs the logical, critical part that’s all survivor now.

Or does it?

You brush past him. “Excuse me.”

He doesn’t stop you.

“I’m an idiot.”

Your groan is met with a contemplative hum from your nightmare companion. Wanderer Island is blanketed by flimsy cloud cover today; the sun blazes hot and bright onto the sand, trees and flowers encircling you. You chew absently on the sour apple grass, your fingers knotted in the undying pasture beneath.

Corinthian deliberately bobs his leg, jolting you where your head rests on his thigh, your arms wrapped tight around yourself.

“You challenge him.” The nightmare pauses in his whittling, his attention straying over the water towards the rest of the Dreaming. “Dream doesn’t like hearing the truth. The only truth he cares about is his own. He’s selfish like that.”

You say nothing. Just as you’ve never pointed out that Corinthian has all but migrated to the Wanderer Island. It’s the one place you are guaranteed to find him no matter how much time has passed. Shelter for those lost and seeking. It applies to him as much as you.

You examine his profile. Each line, pore, and curve of his proud visage. “He won’t punish you for this. I won’t let him.”

Corinthian lightly scratches the tip of his blade into the half-finished wooden piece snug in his palm. “He already talked with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

He reaches out and flicks you on the forehead. Hard. “Nothing to concern your pretty little head with.”

Slapping your hand over your stinging forehead, you propel yourself upwards, shooting him a glare. His tells are as apparent to you as yours are to him after centuries together.

“Corinthian.” His name, spoken with intent, drags the nightmare’s attention your way. “What did he tell you?”

A light breeze ripples the tree branches you’re resting under—molten spots of sunlight smear and dance across Corinthian’s cheek through cracks in the leaf cover. For too long, he’s altogether quiet. Dread coils around you in a suffocating grip.

“That if I stray again, he will unmake me.”

Of course. You knew you. Even before he spoke aloud, you knew.

“I don’t believe him,” you hiss, dragging your hand over your face.

The tiny stabs caused by the still healing flesh hardly register.

Corinthian peers up at the sky, relaxing in his spot. “Ah, tough business.”

You cast a suspicious glance his way. “You’re not even a little bit concerned? If you keep pushing Dream’s boundaries, it will implode in your face eventually.”

The nightmare rubs his thumb over his newest piece. “Nah, not even slightly concerned. He won’t dare to unmake me.”

This once, you take the bait.

“Do you know something I don’t… or?”

Your reflection appears puzzled in the distorted, dark shine of his glasses.

“If Dream unmade me, it would break your heart.” Unequivocally self-assured. Your heart skips several beats. Corinthian swishes his blade from side to side playfully. “He knows as much. Why else do you think I’m still around? I get away with things others won’t dare to dream about. Told ya, truth bites.”

He taps the blunt edge of the blade against your nose. You don’t react to it. No, instead, you mull over his hypotheses, his conclusions, the weight in your pocket becoming unbearable.

“Funny timing,” you mutter absently. Your hand closes around the figurine in your pocket, now significantly more ragged than when Corinthian first gifted it to you. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for some time.”

Another item has been living with the figurine in your dark pocket. Pinching it carefully, you pull it out, proffering it to the nightmare wordlessly.

“A ring?” A slow, crooked smirk bites into Corinthian's cheeks. “Oh, now Dream will unmake me for sure.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Hilarious. It’s not for that. Put it on.”

Still smirking, Corinthian accepts the offered object, slipping it on his finger. With much pleasure, you watch that haughty, charming smirk slide from his face. The nightmare’s body goes incredibly still, a deep, nonplussed frown taking shape.

“What is this?”

This is the first time you’ve heard the nightmare sound so serious or carefully controlled. The silver band on his finger doesn’t stand out. But wearing it, specifically for him, you imagine, would be a rather peculiar experience.

“A small piece of humanity for you to hold,” you say with a small smile. “I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.”

“You prefer people. Not me.”

“I prefer their stories. Their worries and hopes. Give it time, Cori.” You drag your feet closer to your chest, hugging them to you. Corinthian is still staring down at the ring on his hand. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of them. But sometimes I love them so dearly I remember why I still walk amongst them. Now you have that in this. From me.”

A small segment is packaged from you—your very soul—into his ordinary ring. So he experiences what it’s like.

“Desire helped me make it,” you add when the silence becomes too profound and heavy.

Dragging his thumb over the ring, Corinthian snorts. “The flashy one.”

You match his grin. “You two should meet. And I never did give you a Dreamfall present, so.”

His brows lift, the strange bout from moments ago shaken and laid to rest. “Should have waited for the next one. You’re a tad late.”

You lean over, grabbing for his hand.

“Fine, give it back.”

The nightmare yanks his arm back, wiggling his fingers. “Don’t think so,” he concludes slyly.

“Wanderer.”

Wanderer Island warms with delight at Dream Lord’s impromptu arrival. Your grin withers, your tongue nervously dragging over your teeth.

“I hate it when he does that,” you mumble, standing to your feet. Corinthian eyes his creator with a neutral but nevertheless shadowed expression. “Have you noticed it? He always says your name with that tone when you’re in trouble. Talk to you later?”

The nightmare finally reacts. “Sure thing, trouble.”

His drawling, ponderous reply does not reassure you.

Flames kindle brighter around Dream’s coat, orange and red sparkling at his feet. His otherwise black apparel and unruly hair make for a fond, beloved memory. He’s unchanging in an equally frustrating and comforting manner.

“Dream.”

His jaw flexes, relaxing somewhat. It takes you several seconds to deduce why. When you parted ways last, you left with an impersonal farewell, calling him Morpheus. You haven’t done so in centuries.

Dream slopes his chin towards a blossom-covered path behind him. “I hoped we could conclude our earlier conversation.”

Never one to admit he’s in the wrong.

Without a word, you set out down the path he gestured towards, butterflies fluttering past your head. One lands directly on your shoulder, and you hold out your finger, delighted when the butterfly flutters over immediately.

“You misunderstood my meaning,” Dream begins, his footsteps near silent behind you.

Another butterfly lands on your outstretched hand, but no smile graces your face. “Did I? You don’t interfere with the curse. I’m perfectly aware. It’s my destiny. We’re all born into our roles. There is no escape. I get it.”

Dream cuts around you, his coat rustling behind him when he blocks your path. “It is not that I do not wish to help,” he insists, his words tight. There’s a beseeching edge in his low intonation, a plea for understanding perhaps. “It is that I cannot.”

Your smile is faint and sad but understanding because of course you understand him—your stubborn, lonely, weary Dream Lord.

“That’s fine, Dream. You have duties. You won’t risk the Dreaming. And you shouldn’t. Not for me. Are we done—”

You jump when he grasps your hand in his. Sand strokes your skin, your eyes widening at the gliding sensation. He holds your startled stare, burning through you. Dream’s grip loosens as swiftly as it formed, but your hand is no longer empty. Your fingers splay, stupidly missing his touch, sand trickling to the ground. A miniature, transparent stone sits in a teardrop shape in your palm. “What is this?”

Dream takes a while to respond.

“A pebble from the Fiddler’s Green. In it, I have deposited additional power beyond that of an unadorned creation. My power.” Your head jerks up, staring at him wide-eyed. Dream strides closer, so close you feel his breath on your mouth. “I cannot interfere in my siblings’ affairs, Wanderer. If anything should befall you in their realms, there is nothing I can do. But the waking world… is fickle. You do not dream; therefore, I cannot locate you, but with this, I can.”

You’re so speechless that no words come to mind, leaving you spluttering on a pathetic, “I… I shouldn’t…”

Twin stars rage in Dream’s eyes. He carefully folds your fingers back over the stone. “I need not stress how imperative it is you only use this in emergencies.”

“Why? Why now?”

Why make such a drastic gesture after over seven hundred years together? Was your suffering not enough before? Or did something change in how Dream views the curse? Views you?

“Because I made you a promise long ago, and I do not commit to such deeds lightly.”

A promise? Oh.

Would you come for me?

Yes.

Promise?

You never did hear his answer back then. You had assumed Dream never responded at all. Endless do not pledge themselves to such commitments.

Days of no food or water, near constant beatings, but it’s a tiny stone denting your skin that causes tears to well in your eyes. They don’t fall, but you’re sure Dream hears them when you choke out, “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”

Dainty contact caresses your cheek, tingling and light. You raise your head, savouring his thumb sweeping over your skin. Your breath catches at the conflicted, intent way Dream peers at you. “Wanderer… I…”

“What’s wrong?” you breathe.

Tell me, be open with me, let me in.

Dream swallows, working a kink in his jaw. His piercing stare lowers, latching onto your mouth—

He forcefully turns away, muttering, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Flames flare brightly around his coat’s hem, and he’s gone in a breath.

Butterflies explode in a mad circle around you at the Dream Lord’s departure, their featherlight wings kissing your skin. Wanderer Island seems to shudder a breath, settling back into place.

You clench the stone in your hand so hard your skin turns numb.

“Morpheus. Dream King. Oneiromancer. I bid thee welcome.”

Mighty wings extend in either direction behind the powerful silhouette, showcasing the fallen angel’s full, terrible might. Even for one such as him, power emitting from Maker’s once most beloved angel is immense.

Morpheus inclines his head marginally, his helm tucked close to his side. Anything less than face-to-face with the netherworld ruler would be considered an insult. “Lucifer Morningstar. I thank thee, Lightbringer, for your welcome.”

Lucifer’s slight smile belies the malevolence festering beneath it. “Tell me, Morpheus, what brings you to my domain? Enlightenment, perhaps?”

Hell boils with cruelty unprecedented and hatred unmatched, sins unpaid and torment everlasting. In this, Morpheus finds these lands unchanged. Fluttering reminder flees through his mind that Wanderer had suffered here. For such long years.

He may be required to keep to the accords when dealing with infernal regions, but it does not mean he will be quick to forget such slights.

“I have come to return one of your adrift terrors.” His hand lifts, and the wretched demon falls out from the rushing sand. The wounds Corinthian has inflicted on the creature have not faded. Lucifer regards one of their demons with callous indifference. Its claws are still covered in what was once red blood. Dream’s voice slips into soft, cold caution. “Demons may pass through the Dreamworld, that is the agreement, but they do not attack my own. I request, Lightbringer, that you see to it we do not have a repeat of such incidents in the future.”

Lucifer circles them in their luxurious silken robe, their fingers steepled.

“Bifrons, are Dream Lord’s allegations true?”

Torchlight illuminates the demon’s broken shape.

“Yesss, your majesty.”

Lightbringer halts before him. Morpheus edges his chin higher to meet their cunning stare. “Describe this being you attacked.”

His self-possession prevails, giving up nothing, but Morpheus sees right through Lightbrnger’s objective.

The slow, satisfactory smile grows at the demon’s detailed description, curling beautifully across the former angel’s mouth.

“Ah, not just any old creature dwelling in your dream clouds, then.” Vindictive pleasure glimmers through Lightbringer’s deceptively composed countenance. “The Wanderer. Oh, Morpheus, you are becoming rather soft for that one.”

They circle again, their majestic black wings whisper over the floor as they add a contemplative, “Though I suppose you always were the sentimental one.”

“I did not come here for a social call.”

Soft. What presumption. As if Wanderer is a weakness. Instead of a soft spot, something tender and free, leaping through stars and into his awaiting home.

“No, you did not.” Lucifer glides a sudden, purposeful step forward. Their eerily angelic smile remains perfectly intact. “Fear not. Bifrons will be flayed for what he has done. Blood unjustly shed will be repaid as the old laws would demand.”

He no longer wishes to linger here. Even the dreams lapping at him insistently, reaching for him as starved branches would call for the sun, for life, taste of nothing but ash and rot.

“Then I bid thee farewell.”

He bends his head in another slight bow. Ceremony only, but it is a necessity. Beneath the calm mask, chafing irritation prickles his chest.

Placing his helm back over his head, Morpheus edges backwards, a handful of sand slipping from his pouch and into his awaiting palm.

“It never ends well, Morpheus.” Sand engulfs his knees, slowing with Lightbringer’s saccharine words. “Mortals falling in love with the Endless. The control that gives them spells ruin. And it especially won’t end well for that one. Cursed. Tormented. We will have your Wanderer one day, Dream Lord. You left one here quite willingly already. I’m sure we will find room for the Wanderer just fine.”

Love? It’s foolish to even contemplate it. You would not love one such as him. You are far too clever, and he…

No. He is done with love—and all it entails. Even if your soul is destined for Hell, Morpheus will see to it that Lightbringer awaits until the end of times for it.

“Eternity is a long time to wait, Lightbringer.” Sand slithers along his body, so Morpheus gently reminds, “But I suspect you know as much already.”

He’s gone just as Lightbringer’s features crack open with fury.

The news reaches you in between dimensions. One foot in and one foot out. Such a feat should not be possible, but such is the power this news carries, spreading through the universe. It’s as if a part had been broken from you and crushed.

Destruction of the Endless has abandoned his domain.

Your knees fold beneath you, hand over your mouth. You’re not entirely sure where you ended up.

A hand grasps your shoulder. “Wanderer? Heavens. Wanderer! Mother, come quick!”

Edward sounds frazzled, his eyes visibly bulging. At long last, the dreary walls of Fawney Rig come into focus. Your head rings so loudly, that you desperately drag your fingernails over your forehead.

It’s not until much later that Edward informs you that the reason for your sore throat is relatively uncomplicated.

You were screaming the entire time.

“Do you hate me for what I’ve done?”

“I don’t.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

The large, muscular arm tightens around your shoulders. You don’t miss the slight tremor there. “Forgive me, Wanderer. Others… do you they…”

Sunset paints the panoramic vista around you with gushing golds and reds.

But you cannot lie to him. “Yes, I think they resent you for it. Some more so than others. But give them time. One day they’ll understand why you did it.”

“Not Dream. He believes we cannot change our nature. Perhaps he is right.”

He says it so knowingly your heart cracks.

“Dream is wrong. And before you ask, no, I won’t tell them. It was your decision. I respect that.”

“You can’t tell anyone, my dear friend,” Destruction reminds kindly. “I beg you never attempt it.”

What is more powerful? An ancient curse or aspect of the Endless? You suppose one day you could try and find out. See what tears you apart first.

Gazing at him, you rest your cheek on Destruction’s broad shoulder. “I’m not telling them because you’re my friend. Idiot.”

Destruction’s warm, booming laughter compels a smile from you. “I have missed you, dear Wanderer.”

I missed you too.

“I told you, it won’t kill you.”

Having said that, even you can admit you’re painfully winded. Leave it to Dream to build a castle with the biggest staircase you’ve come across in any dimension in over eight hundred years.

Challenging an Endless to a physical wager is a sure indication of your hubris.

“You are certain?” Dream poses lightly.

“You’re so not funny.”

The accursed Dream Lord even manages to sound a shade smug about it. Or at least far more so than usual. Gatekeepers bow deeply to their Lord upon your entry to the castle side by side. You wave at them until they’re no longer visible.

Cracking your neck, you endeavour to relax and luxuriate in the knowledge you’re back at the Dreaming. The curse has been painful since the beginning, but lately, since Destruction’s departure, it’s as if your very bones feel ill-fitting. Your skin is a thin, worn cloak. Whatever disorder Destruction’s departure caused in this universe, even your curse is acclimating.

“Are you well, Wanderer? You have been more distracted as of late.”

You’re certain your surprise shows. That he noticed, even more so that he asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Curse stuff.”

You enter the throne room, where Dream purposely slows you both down.

“Has my sibling’s departure made it worse?”

It’s an effort to hold back from flinching. Every time Dream brings up his younger brother, an imperceptible noose finds its way around your neck. “No. I mean, Olethros is fine. It’s not his fault—”

Dream halts dead in his tracks. Too late, you realise your mistake. Your heart plummets to your stomach.

“Olethros…” Dream rasps. “My brother did not share that name with you before his departure. You have seen him recently. You know. You know where Destruction is.”

Dream draws closer, his scrutiny crushing. For the first time in your long existence, you stumble a step back from your Dream Lord.

“Don’t ask me about that,” you choke out, fear audible in your shaky voice. Hot, scalding destruction licks up your spine in warning, in reminder. “Please don’t ask me about that, Dream.”

You’re not sure what’s worse: how betrayed he looks or how determined he appears to dig deeper. “Why did you not tell me?”

Your head is shaking before he’s finished. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

Merv and Lucienne come into view, halting mid-chatter when they spot you, but you’re too choked up on dread to pay them any heed. Neither does Dream.

“His duty… he has to fulfil it.” Dream takes another step closer, and you stagger backwards again. “You must tell me.”

Your mouth is so dry you fear you’ll choke on your own tongue. “No.”

Distantly, you hear Merv mutter oh, boy, but it’s swallowed by the deafening silence that veils the throne room. Muted purple light pouring from stained glass windows blinks out, devoured by the steadily building cloud cover outside.

“No?” Dream repeats so softly you want to crawl from your own skin.

It hurts. It hurts not telling him, but you can’t. Even if you tried, Destruction assured no one would locate him again.

“You good, trouble?”

Not once have you dreaded Corinthian’s presence at your back until now. His arm brushes against yours, but you don’t remove your attention from Dream.

Dream Lord finds Corinthian’s presence less than palatable. “Leave.”

You can’t help but bristle at his authoritative tone. “Don’t take this out on him.”

“Where is my brother, Wanderer?” Dream’s features darken, shadows pooling in the crevices of his handsome face. “You will answer me.”

He sounds so soft, but that immemorial wrath trembles through each word. Your mouth remains clamped shut.

Corinthian chuckles sardonically at your side. “You can’t order this one around. Not yours to play with.”

Dream’s pale, lightning stare cuts to the nightmare at your side. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. “You forget yourself, Corinthian.”

“Stop it, both of you.” You shove your shoulder between them. Behind Dream, Merv hovers awkwardly on his heels, unsure if he should interfere. Even Lucienne appears bewildered as to what action she should take. Jessamy’s low crows echo like doom bells across the throne room. “I can’t tell you, Dream. Please, just trust the fact I can’t.”

Please, please, stop asking me—

But there are few traces of your Dream Lord to be found. No gentleness, no reluctant attempt to understand, or his exasperated patience. Only Nightmare King, one of the Endless, stands before you and your spine nearly bends under his suffocating presence.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Dream questions, each word a cutting caress.

Your tongue refuses to work because you both already know. Destruction is a beloved friend. So not even for Dream, not even for the one you trust most, would you betray that plea for acceptance. Because how can you judge someone who wishes to be free? Who wants to be something more outside his destiny? Who wants to create instead of destroying?

Cold realisation washes over Dream’s features. With it, the invisible tether binding you together snaps in two. Here, at the end of everything, you will choose your conviction, hope, and integrity over him. You can’t tell him, but you also won’t. And it snuffs out the unspoken affection you’ve glimpsed in him for centuries in a single wink.

“That is what I thought,” he concludes emptily.

“Well, for once, somebody doesn’t dance to your tune,” Corinthian bites out.

Dream doesn’t move. The Dreaming moves around him, gliding him closer. “Hold your tongue.” He halts when you shove in front of the nightmare. “Wanderer.”

Warning laces your title.

“You’re not touching him. I won’t let you.”

Words stumble from your mouth in a rush, but you stare directly at the Endless, your head unbowed.

Faint breath tickles your ear. Corinthian’s brief laugh vibrates against your back. “Oh, let him show us his true colours.”

But Dream is no longer paying attention to his creation. He’s staring down at you with the same distant nothingness when he first came upon you. Nothing.

You are nothing to him.

“Won’t let me? Matters of this realm are not for you to consider. You have also forgotten yourself. You are a guest here in the Dreaming, nothing more.” Those words strike you harder than any physical blow or kick ever has. You would take a thousand more kicks, a million more, just to have him take those words back. “But these privileges, too, can be revoked. So, I will ask you one last time: where is my brother, Wanderer?”

You recognise the olive branch. If you just tell him now, all will be forgiven and forgotten.

Once again, it’s about his damned pride.

“No.”

Dream’s unnatural stillness makes Corinthian tense behind you.

“No…” The single word sounds like a betrayal on his tongue. Nothing has ever hurt more than this. Your stomach roils, but still, you stand, staring him down with a glassy stare. You would rather he were screaming at you.

“You would forsake us, this realm and all it has offered you, in favour of secrets? Lies?”

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you’re clenching your clothes. “I care for you.”

Supernovas flare and burn in his irises. “Do not speak to me of care.” It’s a lash on bare skin, salt in the wound, an agony you sense ripping you from inside out. “Desire has no place in the land of dreams. But have it your way.”

His coat sweeps over the pale marble, embers flaring as he ambles towards the stairwell leading to his throne. Merv physically slopes backwards when the Dream Lord brushes by him. Lucienne grips the ledger in her hand in stunned silence.

Dream climbs his stairs one at a time, deliberate in his actions, but when he pauses, that is when fear floods your body.

Your Dream Lord gazes at you over his shoulder—not angry, not bitter, he looks, then, simply devastated. Exhausted. Utterly betrayed. Perhaps hurt. Then, whispers of vulnerability, imagined or otherwise, disappear like smoke, leaving nothing but endless emptiness behind.

“Wanderer, you are henceforth banished from the Dreaming. Take your secrets and your curse, and begone.”

Lucienne marches forward. “My lord—”

A single, swift look from the Dream King cuts her speech short.

No. Surely he won’t. The Dreaming is all you have. It’s all you ever had—

“Dream.” His name, called a thousand times, loved just as many, cracks to splinters on your tongue. “Please, I can’t.”

He doesn’t pause, striding up the staircase with single-minded, dogged purpose.

Pained desperation unleashes a simple request, “Don’t make me leave. This… the Dreaming is my home.”

You’re my home.

Dream halts, almost at his throne, and you silently beg for him to choose you in your mind. But the foolish hope is not done forming before you know what will transpire next.

There is no changing the Lord of Dreams.

Dream sits down on his mighty throne. You’ve been in this position many times, but this is the first time he’s looking down at you, not at you. “Go, or I will have you removed.” The exact words as when you first met, but you’re not strangers this time. Or are you? “When you are ready to cease your artifice, you may return.”

So, never. Because you can’t justify yourself, and he never listens. He will never listen.

It’s over.

You have no idea where to put your hands, where to place your feet, how to walk or form a thought.

Wobbling, you spin around blindly, putting one leg in front of another.

“Kid—”

“Wanderer.”

“That is enough.”

A single command promptly silences Merv and Lucienne. Your steps echo deafeningly as you stagger from the throne room. Outside, the Dreaming has turned bleak and cold. Over the snowcapped mountains on the horizon, lightning splits the purple back skies.

No one is in sight. Trembling, you raise your head hopefully towards the Gatekeepers, but they avert their gazes. You think you read silent regret and sorrow in their powerful faces. Not that it matters.

It’s over. Where do I go?

Footsteps approach from behind. Somehow you already know who it is without having to check—the only one who is not afraid to disobey even at a time like this.

“You’re just going to let him do that?” Corinthian hisses.

Your feet move mechanically while you descend the staircase. You’d been so happy to return, to see Dream again just minutes ago. You had just laughed and joked with him. You…

“You heard him. He…”

—wants me gone.

“Fight back.” Corinthian grabs you by the shoulder, shaking you once. “Fight back.”

Your tiny smile is defeated, cracked and shattered. “He’s the Endless, Cori. He… he doesn’t want me… here.”

He doesn’t want me. Why would he? You don’t belong in his life. A stray, a curse, you’re nothing—

“Then take me with you,” Corinthian proposes abruptly. You blink, uncomprehending. His grip tightens around your bicep. “To the hell with them. You and me.”

“What?” you croak out.

Lightning strikes above head, thunder clapping seconds later—the Dreaming trembles from the frenetic energy. “Take me with you,” Corinthian says breathlessly, his fingers curling around your shoulder, holding you close. “To the waking world. You’ve brought other objects with you in the past. This time, we go together.”

You pull from his hold, staring at him blankly. “It doesn’t work like that. Outside the Dreaming… the journey alone. I rip through dimensions, Cori. It’s meant to harm me. What if it destroys you? No, I can’t risk that. Your place is here.”

A hissing, disbelieving sound slips from Corinthian's clenched teeth.

“Here. I’ve never belonged here. Not with them or him. Neither of us does.” But we did, you and I, together. A breathless laugh puffs from the nightmare’s mouth. He paces backwards, a sneer warping his expression. “Even now… still, you would rather obey his rules.”

The barely leashed disappointment, the sheer betrayal you hear, guts you.

“Wait, Cori—”

Your hand sails through empty air.

“... don’t go.”

Don’t leave me here alone.

But you’re alone on the stairs leading up to the castle you once believed to be your home.

Nothing, and no one, answers you back.

an:

y'all wrongfully assumed nothing bad can happen between these two before Dream's capture, and I'm saying bet. this is still pre-capture!Dream we're dealing with after all. he's truly dumb as bricks, and we love to hate him for it.

also, sorry if this was a lil clunky I wrote most of it in one sitting and will be doing a lot of travel over the next few days, so I wanted to get this out before I have to leave because I won't be able to update till Wednesday at the earliest, but we're truly in the trenches now.

#the sandman #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream x reader #sandman fic #morpheus x fem!reader #sandman x reader #dream x fem!reader #netflix sandman #sandman fanfiction #the sandman netflix #reader insert #fic: today i bury you in me

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