#SMOTHER MORPHEUS IN LOVE TIME

[wordsinhaled]

so after that devastating ask neil answered about morpheus and calliope’s wedding i was suddenly beset by a MIGHTY need for a dreamling fix-it so... this is that. part headcanon post, part fic, entirely more than i was planning on it being. it got just a bit out of hand and is possibly a bit too sappy but i'm not sorry!!!

-

Hob introduces Morpheus to his longtime friends and colleagues after they’ve been together for a year. Morpheus carries the suspicion that Hob only agrees to wait this long for love of him.

He’s so excited about it, because he loves Dream, and it brings him the utmost happiness to imagine his friends, his loved ones, the people he works with, his students, getting to meet Dream—who hung the moon, as far as Hob’s concerned.

Dream is... less than enthusiastic about it. He hedges about going out for drinks with Hob’s friends, and he’s cagey about agreeing to be Hob’s plus one to the first department mixer Hob’s thrilled to invite him to. He still goes to these things, because Hob is his beloved and he sees how it lights Hob up to have him by his side at them. He’s the picture of gentility each time; shows up looking incredible, asks all the right questions, says all the right things, makes the small talk. He even personally ensures all of these people have pleasant dreams for a week following, for good measure.

But afterwards, he’s always a mess. Tense, withdrawing into himself.

After the third time this happens, Hob cottons on and asks him about it.

“What is it, love? My friends, or my colleagues, do they bother you?”

“On the contrary. Your friends and your coworkers are as lovely as you are, of course. Well—I must admit Dr. Halliwell is... not my favorite, but... by and large.”

“Oh, he’s no one’s favorite. Bloody insufferable, he is. Alright, well, is there anything I ought to be doing differently? To help make you feel more comfortable?" "You are utterly blameless in this, Hob." "That's..." Hob sighs. "A relief, I suppose. But there is something. And if it’s not that, then...?”

And little by little, it comes out. How the last time Morpheus was as serious about someone as he is about Hob, the last time he was serious enough to want to bind himself to someone... her friends and family opposed it. Opposed him. Thought him entirely ill-suited for her. And on their wedding day, the happiest of days, he was so excited to share his joy with his own family, and none of Calliope’s side were there.

“That’s awful,” Hob says, with a few choice swears thrown in for emphasis. “And it must have been hard for her, too.”

“I believe it is a loneliness she still carries. One far greater than my own.”

~*~

It comes out that Morpheus wants to introduce Hob around, too. Wants to bring Hob to family dinner with his siblings and have Hob with him to receive delegations. How he wants Hob to sit beside him in the throne room of the Dreaming. And how Dream wants to know all Hob’s friends, his little found family of students, his colleagues at the university, his neighbors. How he wants to belong in the life Hob has built for himself.

Yet surely, this is bound to end in disaster, too. Surely he is ill-suited for Hob as well, and surely all of those closest to Hob can see it. Are thinking it to themselves. Are biding their time to tell Hob I told you so.

“But... you’ve got to know everyone adores you. They’re always wondering when they’ll see you next. My students are always asking after you. Everyone tells me we're great together, actually. Never seen me happier, wanting to bake things for you, insisting I bring you along to the next thing—all of it."

"Then it is only a matter of time." "Until what?" "Calliope's family were not exactly... incorrect about me, in the end."

"So... what—you think you're ill-suited to me?"

"I am ill-suited to love."

And of course Hob can't have Dream thinking that. It just isn't true.

So he goes out of his way to be even more vocal about the things Morpheus does that are appreciated. To remind him he is loved. To remind him he is welcomed. To remind him just how well-suited he is to Hob, and how much he fits into Hob's life.

So-and-so says hello, he tells Dream, multiple times per week. Hob stops politely turning down the biscuits his favorite TA sends along, and they've always got a note taped onto the Tupperware ("For you and Morpheus") that Hob makes sure Dream sees. (If Morpheus secrets the little Post-Its away in one of the inner pockets of his coat and Hob never sees them again, well, all the better for Dream to keep them.)

~*~

Hob brings Dream to sit in on his knitting circle one week at the New Inn. All his friends are so excited to have Dream model their scarves and gloves and shawls and cardigans. Morpheus stands there for all of it obligingly, feeling the dreams in each and every one of the stitches.

"Brigitte wants to know what you'd like for your birthday," Hob says to Dream one day, after he runs into his neighbor, who is also in the group, and is held up ten minutes by her asking.

"I do not have a birthday," Morpheus says. "Not as such."

"Yeah, but they all don't know that, do they?" Hob grins, cajoling. "Let her give you something."

"What should I ask for?"

"Well, she is getting on a bit, so nothing too adventurous. She usually just knits me something every year. We could just tell her your favorite color." Hob pauses for dramatic effect. "...What's your favorite color?"

"You jest, I hope." "Right," Hob says, voice full of stifled laughter. "I'll tell her. Nothing but black as the deepest midnight for my darling."

Morpheus wears the resulting jumper, a drapey, soft comfort, constantly; and when the armpits pill and if it ever even approaches becoming threadbare he fixes it gingerly with yarn woven of finely-sifted stardust; and Brigitte has only the best dreams of exactly what she wishes to dream about for the rest of her life. It is the least gift he can give her in return.

~*~

When Morpheus finally invites Hob to visit the Dreaming, Hob comes with an easy smile for even the smallest nightmare and an ear to bend for every dream he meets. He brings a profound and open curiosity for everything about the place. Everyone is charmed. Hob is so regular that some of them are baffled. But Lord Morpheus' happiness rolls off him in tangible waves when he is around Hob Gadling. The denizens of the Dreaming can feel that their lord is lighter than he has been in literal ages of his existence.

Everything in the realm is in fragile bloom for the first time in a very long time. The sunshine is resplendent. The air is balmy. Birds sing in the palace orchards. Hardly so much as a drop of rain dares to fall for weeks.

~*~

The first time Hob is invited to a soiree in the Dreaming he frets about his outfit for days on end.

Morpheus is privately amused by it. "You do recall this event is being held in the Dreaming," he says, sprawled on Hob's bed, watching him pass the fabric of two of his bowties between his fingers, one tie black as night and one so dark a navy it could almost pass for black as well. "You do not actually have to dress for it in the Waking. Your dream-self will simply manifest your preferred attire." Hob just scoffs at him. "Of course. But my imagination's got to start somewhere, right? I don't want to accidentally manifest pyjamas with ducks on them just in time to meet bloody Oberon because my mind forgot what a good suit looks like. Can you imagine?"

"I would not allow you to experience any embarrassment in my realm," Morpheus says, possibly with undue vehemence.

Hob glances over at him. "I know, love."

And the ties go forgotten after that.

~*~

“I’ve got something for you,” Hob tells Dream, one day. 

They are in Hob’s living room, sitting on the couch together, Morpheus adrift on a veritable sea of throw pillows. He could, he thinks idly, craft these exact pillows in the Dreaming, replicate their heft and the give of sinking into them, and still they would not offer him such ease. 

“Hob Gadling,” he says, disguising his delight rather poorly, he thinks. “You should not have.”

But Hob is already slipping to his knees on the rug in front of Dream, already pulling a small box from behind his back with a flourish, with the sleight of hand of long-abandoned habit. “Shouldn’t I?” he asks. “You deserve beautiful things."

Morpheus stares at the ruby ring, nestled on its little velvet cushion, for so long and so intently that Hob starts to sweat.

"I know it's been a long time," he says. "For both of us."

Morpheus is still staring.

"Fuck, I had an entire speech planned. Rehearsed it and everything. Gideon told me it was brilliant. But now it's like all the good words've been knocked right out of my skull. All I can think is—I hope you don't run off in the middle of me asking you to marry me." "I will not run off," Morpheus says.

"Good," Hob says. "That's good."

~*~

Morpheus is nervous, at first, about telling people. There is a part of him that wants to hold this joy inside his heart, hoard the buoyant sensation of being loved by Hob Gadling like it is a precious commodity that will disintegrate if he lets it out.

But Hob is generous with his love. He reminds Morpheus of it constantly.

“Dream,” Hob says, one morning, propping his chin on Morpheus’ bare chest to gaze at him. “You’re my fiancé.”

Warmth tingles through Morpheus’ body. “I am,” he says.

“I’m your fiancé,” Hob goes on, and now he’s grinning so wide Morpheus is sure his cheeks must ache. “God, am I really?”

“You are,” he promises, with a little swoop of something like fear, or elation, or both. Surely he cannot just have this joy. It cannot be so simple.

“I am,” Hob says, “the luckiest person in all creation.” He says it as earnestly as if he’s saying a vow, right there in their bed.

Hob’s exuberance is contagious, and Morpheus finds that his own smile comes to his mouth unbidden.

Perhaps it could be so simple if he allows it to be.

~*~

Hob is sitting at the kitchen table, addressing invitations to their engagement party, working his way through a stack of fifty laid paper envelopes. Morpheus sits sprawled in his customary chair next to Hob’s, observing.

“That is a great many people,” he says, plucking the pen from Hob’s fingers once he finishes the current envelope and setting it down before taking Hob’s hand in his, kneading the tension from his palm. “Are you certain they should all be in attendance?”

Hob looks up from where he’s scrutinizing his own calligraphy. He must catch something in Morpheus’ tone, because his face softens from surprise into concern. “Only if you want, love,” Hob says. “You know I’d elope with you tomorrow, if you preferred that.”

“Would that bring you happiness?” Thinking on it, Morpheus is unsure it would bring him happiness, now that it is being offered as an option. Strong as the greedy part of him that wants to hoard their love is, there is also the part of him that hungers for it to be known. To be seen. To be shown.

Hob’s brows knit together, then smooth out again. “I admit there’s a part of me that wants to shout about all this from the rooftops.” He laughs softly. “And there are a lot of people who are happy for us, you know. But—” And here he turns his hand in Morpheus’, so he can hold it properly. “I want you to be comfortable. I could marry you in this kitchen and not tell a soul til after—”

“I wish to have the party,” Morpheus announces, because it is, he finds, true. “And I wish to have a ceremony. Here. And one in the Dreaming.”

“Two ceremonies?” Hob’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Now you’re just being extravagant.”

Morpheus huffs. “You have seen nothing yet of my extravagance.”

He feels none of his usual trepidation at admitting it.

~*~

Their ceremony in the Dreaming is an intimate one. The castle is resplendent with flowers, and the twilight twinkles with stars and carries a hint of magic.

Morpheus presents Hob with a crown made of dreamstuff and a mantle lined with stardust much like the inside of his own coat. Lucienne gives Hob his own key to the library. He dances with Gault in the palace gardens, face lit by the auroras rippling through her wings. The new Corinthian swears to protect him. Matthew perches on Hob’s shoulder almost the entire rest of the evening.

Late in the night, Morpheus and Hob excuse themselves to walk together in the fields of the Dreaming, and to kiss beneath the endless sky.

A fraction of the tightness in Morpheus dissipates, having Hob here. Having him welcomed by his realm. Having his own choice so honored, and Hob so loved.

~*~

There are fifty people at their engagement party in the Waking world, and two hundred at their Waking wedding reception. Most of them are from Hob's side. By the end of the evening Morpheus’ hand is sore from being wrung so many times by well-wishers, he is surprisingly tipsy off surprisingly good champagne on which Hob had spared no expense, and he feels slightly effervescent himself, even in this Waking body.

The gifts table creaks under the weight of all the presents—many of them handmade. There is a hand-painted portrait and a hand-thrown ceramic bowl and a hand-knit blanket for his and Hob’s bed and a crocheted sweater for the dog they do not yet have together. There is a queue to sign the guestbook.

He drifts in the pleasant dreams their guests have for them—Hob’s fellow professors, his research assistants, his former students, his neighbors, his knitting group, his landlord, his philosophy discussion club. These people dream of happiness for Hob; of happiness for them; of happiness for him. There is love in their hearts for Hob, and now, by extension, a new love for Morpheus.

The rest of the old weight lifts from his shoulders that night, as Hob beams down at him, and kisses him long and slow, and whispers “I love you” while his patchwork of family—their family, now—whoop and holler and clap.

#the sandman #dreamling #SMOTHER MORPHEUS IN LOVE TIME

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Eros: Chapter Two

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son’s death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Warnings: Language, Taunting.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Word Count: ~2.8k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

By dinner that night you had nearly drowned yourself in turbulent thoughts and discomfort. Your friends were gossiping while lounging at a table, they were gushing about all the men and woman that had arrived through out the day. Apparently in the celebrations, orgies were a common occurrence among the aristocrats and it was always a guessing game of who would be getting with who, or more importantly, who would get the golden invitations to the orgies with the most powerful people of Athens. You didn’t mind the open sexuality of Athens, it was actually a freeing thought… but you’d spent the afternoon and night in a state of hurt with a very agonized heart.

Why did it pain you so much to see Oneiros in pain? It was clear that he was hurting. Hurting and drowning himself in wine and debauchery to take his mind and being off the fact that his son had died and he’d gone through a divorce. You hated seeing him like that. You hated it so much. But you were well aware that Morpheus had gone through this phase in his life. He’d gruelingly explained it to you on a rainy afternoon after you had pestered him about his past relationships. He was your husband and you loved him so much, yet you still knew very little about his past.

He hadn’t wanted to tell you anything. Hadn’t wanted you to know about his failings in martial relations and love period. But the Endless loved you with every grain of sand he possessed and had explained the sorrows and troubles he’d gone through… minus the time proceeding his divorce. Watching the debauchery unfold in front of you, you fully understand why he hadn’t uttered a peep about his greek era. The greeks certainly knew their way around bodily delights.

“Elpis?” You blinked and glanced at Merope, she and the other girls were looking at you with concerned looks. They had noticed a change in you since earlier, had barely touched food or drink and spent an awful lot of time sitting with a faraway look within your eyes. “You’ve been rather demure since luncheon, is all well?” It wasn’t like you could just unload all your troubles on the three women, no matter how much you wanted to.

“Just a headache,” You informed her before unfolding yourself from your curled position and rising to your feet. You brushed out nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of your dress.  “I think I need some fresh air and to cool down.” Your fingers tugged at your clothes, undoing several pins that kept fabric folded against your body in a decorative way. The silken fabric loosened and draped until it was just barely held together on your body. Now you didn’t feel so smothered. “I’ll be out for a walk, don’t let me keep you up waiting.”

It was clear that they weren’t convinced by your words as you strode past them with your peplum fluttering behind you. It was a hot night in Athens, but the breeze from the Aegean Sea cooled you down as you took a garden path that led straight to the beautiful water. Standing at the waters edge, you crouched down and brushed your fingers through the slightly warm water. This wouldn’t last forever, surely, your Morpheus was probably ripping through realms and universes trying to find you… you just had to deal with his past self until you went home.

Which you didn’t know when that would happen.

And you didn’t like the idea of leaving this Morpheus in pain.

But could you actually do anything about that?

You didn’t exactly have a handbook on what to do when you time traveled.

Destiny will be up your ass if you screwed this up…

Then again maybe this was supposed to happen?

You growled and dropped your face into your hand with a more than exaggerated groan. You didn’t sign up for this time travel bull shit when you married Morpheus! All you had to be, according to Morpheus and just about everyone else in the realm, was his wife. Of course you wanted to be active in the realm and help out the denizens, dreams, and nightmares as their queen, but no one held you to duty.Just as you sighed and dragged your fingers down your face, pulling your eyelids as you went, you felt a tingle in your being and a shiver run up your spine. You rose to your feet and turned around.

Ah.

High above on one of the balconies overseeing the Aegean Sea, lounged Oneiros in all his glory. His tunic was half on his body, revealing a great expanse of his star sculpted physique. His hair was ruffled since you had last seen him. Right. Lucienne reluctantly mentioned that Morpheus had a few hoe eras. This was one of them. Even though he wasn’t your Morpheus, you could still feel his inherent desire and lust. It was certainly directed at you since you had met eyes with him. That both scared and excited you.

“Elpis?” Kynna’s sweet voice broke your stare down with Oneiros. Jarred from holding the lustful gaze of Oneiros, you blinked rapidly. “What are you doing outside all alone? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Kynna!” You softly exclaimed, striding up to the girl and plucking her from the ground. What on earth was she doing out of be? There were half naked adults everywhere! “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“You’re not in bed,” The little girl pointed out like it would make a difference, making your eyebrow pop up. The utter cheek!

“That’s because I was out for a walk, come little one, back to bed, you have a great many activities to do tomorrow.” Continuing to carry Kynna, you entered the large stone building and walked towards her families wing. Your heart throbbed in your chest the entire way to her room.

You sat in your seat stiff as a bored. It was another extravagant luncheon hosted by one of the noble families. You hadn’t wanted to accept the invitation, you weren’t versed in the politics of Athens and certainly didn’t know anyone other than your three knew friends. The only plus side to attending was the delicious food served. You’d spent a lot of time snacking on olives while partaking in wine, and it was nice to eat a proper grecian meal.

Under normal circumstances, the men would eat separately from the woman, but since it was Panathenaia, an exception was made so everyone could mingle and celebrate in shared fashion. As uncomfortable as you were with the flirting and innuendos, you did find yourself laughing at a few crude jokes and well entertained by the conversations you found yourself drawn into.

The men and woman of Ancient Greece were beautiful, impossibly so, but they were also so easy to get along with and forget that you didn’t even belong in this era! Several times you found yourself falling into a place of comfort you should not entertain! So every time a conversation got a little too intimate you pulled back. But that being said, you carried small talk and day to day conversation quite well.

At least until a certain someone arrived.

Your attention was drawn to Oneiros like a moth to a flame. You couldn’t help it. Not when he was the love of your life and the very being you promised to spend the rest of eternity together. Not when you had allowed the anthropomorphic being to place a physical part of his Endless being within your own so that you may spend every moment he had left in time with him.

But he wasn’t yours. At least not yet. That didn’t stop the smoldering looks he sent your way and it certainly didn’t stop the fire that burned deep in your belly until you squirmed in your seat. Gods damn that being for being your kryptonite! Wanting payback for what he was causing you, you began eating grapes. One by one. Allowing your fingers to linger on your lips while you held his gaze.

 It was a rather torturous sight to see.

The purple peplum you had on, held in place by golden pins and a decorative belt that wrapped around your waist. The fabric was just as light as all the other peplums you’d ben dressed in, but at the moment you felt like it weighed a tonne. Feeling suffocated by your feelings, the heavy gaze of Oneiros that seemed to follow you everywhere, and the general sultry atmosphere that enveloped the commons, you had slipped to the gardens for an afternoon stroll. Even with the fresh air you were still struggling to control your emotions.

“I just want to go home,” You softly murmured to yourself, allowing your hand to brush over several hibiscus flowers. “But I can’t even have that. No, someone just wants to fuck with me and my heart by forcing me to live through one of my husbands darkest times.” Sighing, you continued running your fingers over flowers and leaves. Lifting your eyes to the skies, you willed time to go by faster, wishing for the relieving darkness that harkened a sleep that blocked out the visceral agony you felt.

Before you had married Morpheus, you used to be so excited about falling asleep at night. You practically lived two lives, one on earth during the day, and second, more meaningful one in the Dreaming at night. You knew almost all of the denizens of the Dreaming before you had become romantically involved with Morpheus, so your nights had literally been a second life. But then the Endless had finally decided to make his intentions clear with you.

You had been swept off your feet by a blanket of stars Morpheus had weaved himself and courted like a spoiled regency debutant. It had been so extravagant that you had nearly told Morpheus that he only needed to get you flowers and talk to you regularly… but you had quickly found that bestowing you with gifts and words of affection were his love language. He wanted to shower you with gifts. He wanted to bespoke words of adoration to you. You were his universe. He was the being you never knew you needed. Together you felt complete.

Sniffing while your eyes burned, you hastily wiped at your eyes and nose lest you start balling in the middle of the garden and cause an upset. Why were you doing this to yourself? You knew you were playing with fire. Finding yourself and stopping the threatening onslaught of burning hit tears, you cleared your throat and looked up at the flowering pink shrub you found yourself in front of.

Oleander.

Smelling the fragrant blooms, you reached up to take one of the pretty blooms. It was just out of reach, but if you stretched on your tippy toes, you could probably reach it. So you stretched upwards, pressing close to the plant. Your fingers brushed the soft petal, but you couldn’t get a good grasp that wouldn’t tear the delicate bloom apart. In your struggle, you hadn’t noticed his approach and jerked in place when fabric bushed against your back as a pale hand reached over your head and effortlessly plucked the bloom for you.

Freezing in place as your breath caught in your chest, you clutched your hands to your chest. It wasn’t like you could ignore him now. Slowly turning your head, your eye met vibrant blue and you had to force yourself to stay still. Gods all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around his body and never let go! Oneiros twirled the bloom between his lithe fingers, all the while maintaining his intense gaze with yours.

You fascinated him, hypnotized him with your eyes, demanded his heart and passion with but a glance. Yet you never drew close enough to indulge. It was maddening, for Oneiros wanted no other but you. You’d drown out the sharp sting of loss he felt. He was sure of it. But something kept pulling you away the moment he was sure you’d finally break. The Endless offered the plucked flower to you, waiting for you to either accept or refuse it. Given your rather flighty disposition, he half expected you to flee the garden.

But you didn’t.

No. Oneiros was surprised when one of your slightly trembling hands reached to accept the flower. Your eyes were trained on the bloom, and you made sure not to touch him… but your silence spoke a million things.

It was getting harder and harder to avoid interacting with Oneiros. You didn’t know if it was because you naturally gravitated towards him, or if it was because he clearly wanted you. Nothing you did rid you of the pain you felt from him. So you had gone to the baths to try and soak out the stress you felt. It was nearing midnight, so most of the nobles were either indulging in bodily delights, drinking, or sleeping off the alcohol. That meant you could enjoy the public bath house in privacy.

So you slowly made your way into the steamy room and carefully unwound the belt around your waist. Then your fingers plucked the pins from your shoulders and you carefully folded the silk cloth that hung around your body. The steaming water looked inviting as you stepped down into one of the pools, and you sighed at the nostalgia that filled your mind. The bath house pools were much like the large bath you had in the Dreaming, and made memories of relaxing in it cradled within Morpheus’ arms as he told you stories of past dreams, surface within your mind.

You wanted to go home so bad.

“Are tonights revelries not to your appetite?” You jerked in place at the sound of his voice, your head snapping around to see Oneiros lounging in a corner of the bath. Shit. Shit. Shit. It took everything you had not to stare at his naked body leisurely sprawled across the sitting ledge without care. His black messy curls made your fingers twitch for they ached to run through them. Oh, it wasn’t just those curls either, you wanted run your fingers along his skin, trace his muscles, adore the curves and planes upon his otherworldly body, kiss him until you were forced to take a breath… It took you a solid minute to find the courage to reply.

“I do not usually partake in such festivities, my lord,” You replied, a slight tremble in your words. A black eyebrow arched and you forced your gaze to the carved statues of spites mounted at the end of the room. “I am more reserved with my affections.”

“But not entirely opposed as your skin paints a different story,” Oneiros pointed out, his eyes lingering on the faded marks of someones apparent love. Oh yes, someone had the pleasure of indulging in your body. Someone worshipped you greatly and with complete devotion. The marks were subtle, but intentional. Territorial even. The Endless watched as you flushed beneath his scrutiny, and took great enjoyment in knowing that he did have an effect on you. “Who would leave a creature as lovely and delicate as you, by yourself during such festivities?”

“He’s away on business and I do not seek to control him,” You told him, carefully unfolding yourself from your tight ball. Instantly the Endless was drinking in the view of your gorgeous curves and faintly loved skin. He wanted to devour you. You wanted him to stop hurting. So you rose to your feet in the water and slowly sloshed over to him. “Why are you here, my lord?”

Clearly he didn’t expect you to ask him such a question, but nonetheless he humored you after taking a sip of his wine and eyeing your goddess like body. Soft and begging for worship. One he would surely get lost in should the chance arise.

“I am enjoying the festivities, the same as you,” You nearly snorted and rolled your eyes. He may not be your Morpheus, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t pick up when he was lying. You lifted your chin.

“No, you are not,” Now that was a bold statement to say directly to his face, and you could see his eyes darken.

“You dare think to know my intentions better than I?” He questioned back, eyes searching yours to see how far you would push his patience. Your lips were distracting, after your grape stunt he had wanted nothing but to devour them to see if they were indeed as soft and inviting as they looked… as was the rest of your glorious body. Tender curves begging to be caressed, clear skin aching be marked once more, lips that called to be tamed…

“I know enough to wonder why you are here, rather than with the men and women desperately throwing themselves at you.” You informed him before turning to the side and moving back towards your folded dress. You left the bathhouse and a ravenous Endless behind, your heart beating fast in your chest.

Date Published: 1/22/24

Last Edit: 1/22/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

#dream of the endless x reader #morpheus #lord morpheus #dream the endless #sandman x reader #dream the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #the sandman #dream of the endless #the sandman netflix

[landwriter]

hob gadling being so goddamn normal compared to his anthropomorphic husband, in-laws, and husband's social circle that he circles right back around to being the more sus/shady one OR hob gadling keeps accidentally derailing dream's attempts to be King of Nightmares by horny vibes/going "joke's on you, i'm into it"/"promise?" to any and all threats

Hob isn't normal, is the thing. He's not. He never was. He was smouldering with strangeness and hunger long before his future sister-in-law took one look at him and decided he'd be good for her little brother.

He asked her, once, bit drunk, if that was why she chose him: if she'd heard him forswearing her in the White Horse and looked at him, peered into the contents of his soul, and thought: well, there's one at least as stubborn as my brother - maybe they'll be good for each other. She'd just smiled and waited for Hob to take another sip before saying, "Good? I just thought it would be interesting," and twinkled at him when he sputtered. Hob said older sisters were terrors, and they'd toasted to that.

Whether she'd intended or not, they were good for each other, him and Dream. It took them a little bit to realize, a small handful of centuries holding one another at arm's length for fear of what would be seen any closer. Then they'd crashed together anyways, and it had turned out they were matched not just in that bloody-minded stubbornness to keep a decent thing going, but also in all the intensity they'd tried to smother to do so, the roaring hunger and devotion and need; the both of them strange creatures capable of giving so much and greedy enough to take just as much in kind.

On the outside, though, others see Dream, his distance, his power, the thunder of his voice, and don't see it as the armour it is, the necessary carapace protecting the sort of tender feelings that could scorch the entire earth, because he is a vessel for human emotions that are strong enough to live on in stories and dreams, because he is, in that respect, - and Hob gets choked up about this, if he allows himself to think about it too much - fundamentally more human than him, than all of them, the embodiment of every fantasy and fear and tall tale of men, tending to them each night, taking no rest for himself.

On the outside, others see Hob, his banal humanness, and other humans assume the rest of him is the same, and so do most non-humans, except they're baffled by it, baffled by why he is Dream's husband. So he plays it up, because it's funny, and if they're too incurious or gullible to figure out what lays beneath, then that's alright, because his husband figured it out, and loves him for it, and that's all he needs.

Dream didn't understand at first why Hob acted extra human whenever they mingled with other capital-e Entities and inhuman sorts, but now he finds it so amusing as well that Hob wonders how the gig isn't up from the moment anyone sees his twitching smirk. His husband has a terrible poker face, Hob thinks.

He's much better at pretending. In fact, he's so good at performing the petty normality expected of him that it goes full circle and becomes, somehow, magnetically strange to all the fantastical creatures in his husband's social circle.

He had not realized the heady effect of normal human upon non-humans until the time he had gone to a Samhain 'do in the Underhill, in his formal role as Prince Consort to the Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, first of his name, et cetera, and, rather comfortable with those sort of events by then, which were really not that dissimilar to interdepartmental faculty parties, with all the posturing and alcohol, only far better outfits, had, a bit soused on the fantastic elphin mead, accidentally started talking with a member of the faerie delegation about the football tables. At first he thought he'd committed a faux pas when the faerie just stared at him, slack-jawed, but later that night, he'd found himself surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed dryads and undine and fae, gratifyingly holding court on why Billy Wright had been such a shite Arsenal manager. Apparently, it was the highlight of the evening.

It also helps grease the wheels of immortal statecraft, which Hob thinks of as something of a secondary benefit to making his husband smile. He would be a fierce bodyguard and soldier for Dream, in a heartbeat, he would curry favour on his behalf with pretty words and eager gladhanding, but what works out best, he's realized, is when important folk approach them to talk shop with Dream, to head it off with warm conversation about things like Tube construction, ABBA, and sausage rolls, until they look thoroughly disconcerted, before gracefully handing them off to his husband.

Whenever the occasion allows it, he'll skip on the finery too (another thing, he thinks, that he only cares about his husband seeing). Once, a baku ambassador, himself arrayed in glorious golden robes that matched his sharp gilt claws, had been so baffled by Hob's appearance on the arm of Dream, in his ratty old jeans and a United jersey he got as a gag gift once (and, on principle, refuses to wear in the Waking) that the chimera had absently agreed with Dream's suggestion for revised quotas on devouring nightmares.

Dream had been so delighted by that victory that he'd pressed Hob up against the front door of their flat in Islington, the moment they got back in, and laid kisses all over the hideous jersey, murmuring that Hob was a fearsome diplomat, and Hob had laughed and said he was only a distraction, then let Dream drag him to the bedroom anyways to thank him for his contribution.

Some see what's underneath, of course, and Hob's just as glad for that too.

The second time they'd had dinner with Crowley and Aziraphale, well past the food and making excellent headway on the rest of the wine, Dream had been called away on urgent business. Hob thought the night would end there, but the moment Dream left, Crowley had leveled an unsober finger of accusation at Hob and said, "Don't think I can't tell what you're doing."

Hob hadn't needed to try and look confused, but then Crowley leaned in and said, conspiratorially and only accidentally hissing a little, "This 'regular bloke' thing, but you're worssse than him, aren't you? Bet you are. Bet anything," and Aziraphale had genuinely emitted a tiny gasp of affront on Hob's behalf, and Hob was too busy laughing to say that he wasn't wrong at all, while Crowley gleefully swiveled around and said "I told you so, angel. S'obvious. Humansss. Not a normal one among 'em."

It was a lovely thing to say, actually, and all too easy for Hob to forget sometimes, being a particularly abnormal human leading a particularly abnormal life. But Crowley knew what he was talking about. He spent far more time with humanity compared to most of the inhuman lot. When Hob had made him promise to keep his secret from the rest of them - humanity's secret, really - and explained why, Crowley had laughed and laughed and laughed. He thinks it's the moment they became proper friends.

Hob isn't normal, is the thing.

But it's fun to don it like ceremonial garb and be an ambassador of humanity twice over: in truth and performance both. It's fun to be exactly what's expected and still disconcert.

And most of all, it's fun to go back home with his husband, to their terribly normal human flat, and curl up together in their terribly normal human bed, and watch Dream's face flush with pride or amusement as he debriefs Hob on what chaos he's wrought this time, intentionally or otherwise, with his terribly normal human presence, and Hob just laughs, then smiles until his face hurts, because Dream is his husband, wholly apart from humanity and still the most human creature Hob has met, and he knows all the ways that Hob feels like both, too.

#dreamling #the sandman #asks #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #prompt fill #he IS normal in a lot of ways too but you know unreliable narrator #weaponizing ur banality against the eldritch and fantastical #mostly bc ur husband finds it funny #new headcanon: crowley and hob are absolutely best mates #little feral creatures who understand the horrors and delights of humankind alike #hedonists who love modern inventions and distrust large bureaucracies #whose luddite partners are very lovely but fundamentally would rather be in a library reading old books

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Autumn (Sandman One-Shot)

​GIF: Originally posted by @thisgameissonintendo

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender neutral reader

Summary: One-shot. Reader self-insert. Pure fluff. Friends to more-than-friends. Morpheus has made you a dream based on one of your favourite things and you explore it together.

Warnings: Physical intimacy, kissing.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Happy First Day of Autumn Sandfam! Hope you enjoy this one, would love to hear what you think, and also to know which season is your favourite and why. All my love, Saskia <3

Sandman Masterlist

--------------------------------------

"Can I open my eyes yet?" You stifle a giggle with the back of your hand, feeling very much like a person awaiting a surprise on their birthday.

"So impatient," Morpheus replies with a teasing lilt to his liquid velvet voice that sets your laughter free.

"Is that a yes?"

"I am simply adding some final touches."

Ever the perfectionist, you think with a grin.

You inhale deeply, making use of one of the only other senses you could use in this situation. The air is crisp, fresh, with an earthy undertone; you are definitely outside, but where, you have no other clues to help guess.

Morpheus had certainly not given anything away when he had found you sketching in the Dreaming's orchard, charcoal in one hand, half-eaten apple in the other. He had simply told you there was something he wanted to show you.

Curiosity mounting, you had eagerly taken your friend's outstretched hand and promised to not look until he gave the word.

Finally, there is movement in the air beside you. Morpheus' fingers ghost your upper arm to signify his proximity.

"You may open your eyes now," he speaks quietly yet authoritatively by your ear.

You look, blinking to adjust to the sunlight filtering through the swaying branches of numerous trees, before taking the view in properly.

You notice the colours first, their vivacity and variety:

Umber, sienna, scarlet, amber, saffron. All under a pale blue, wispy cloud sky.

Leaves are falling thick and fast. They swirl and undulate in the soft breeze, coming to rest on an already leaf-smothered ground.

Little collections of chestnut coloured mushrooms are dotted next to the tree line. Droplets of dew have gathered on their caps, lending a gorgeous sheen to their already lovely appearance.

Everything you saw was a showcase of autumn.

"You remembered," you say breathlessly, referring to a conversation that had taken place a few weeks ago where you had professed your love for the season and all it entailed.

You look to Morpheus with a sunbeam smile, asking for permission to explore. He nods, extending his arm, communicating that it was all yours.

Your steps into the leafy clearing are gleeful and bouncy, creating satisfying rustling and crunching noises as you go towards the well-established trees. Melodic birdsong echoes from the canopy above you. Swathes of moss begin where the layers of leaves end. You carefully hop onto it and enjoy the way your shoes sink a little into the plush, verdant carpet.

Fingertips trail over the greyish, dappled trunk of a sycamore tree before you move to the tactile, deeply ridged bark of an ash.

You slip your arms around the second tree, close your eyes and give it a big hug.

Everything feels right in this moment.

You open your eyes to see Morpheus watching you from several paces away. There is a twinkle in his deep blue eyes; clearly he finds your display amusing.

The rich autumn colours contrast beautifully against his monochrome attire. None of the falling leaves come close to his person, reminding you that even now, even when he looks to be still, there are a multitude of responsibilities ticking away inside his mind, including the control of the objects within this tranquil dreamscape.

A dreamscape that he wanted to share with you.

It is times like these that you are confronted by the truth of just how special your friendship with Morpheus is. There are fleeting moments where you wish it could be more but for now you are simply an Endless and a mortal who find solace in each other's company.

Pushing yourself away from the tree, you come back into the clearing and find a spot among the leaves to sit. Morpheus joins you after you pat the ground and call his name.

No words are exchanged for a while. You simply pick through the surrounding leaves to find the most vibrant example. A scarlet one, fallen from an aspen is what you settle on. You tuck it in your coat pocket and meet Morpheus' wistful gaze.

"Thank you, I really needed this."

He nods formally. "When you said that you found yourself missing the autumn splendours of the Waking World, I decided to make a version for you to visit at your leisure."

You are taken aback. "You made all this for me?"

"Yes," his tone starts off measured as ever but gives way to something you have never heard before. "Does it have your approval?"

The sudden insecurity is impossibly endearing. You reach sideways to touch the back of his hand.

"Approval? Morpheus, it's - well, somewhere I could only dream of."

He bows his head. "It pleases me to hear that."

"I hope it didn't take up too much of your time to make it all, I know how stretched you can get."

"I cannot deny, it has occupied me a little more than the construction of other recent dreams, however, I believe it necessary to put time and effort into making gifts for those whose pleasure and happiness you find important. You deserve to feel those things, Y/N, and being able to contribute to them in some way brings me pleasure of my own."

You don't know if it the fiery colours around you heightening your reactions but hearing Morpheus talk about pleasure is doing something to you.

It is fuel to the embers that had been smouldering within your body for a couple of months now.

It makes you feel delirious. You find your attention languidly drifting between his eyes and his lips.

Blue to pink, pink to blue.

Then he mirrors your action and it all becomes too much.

"I really want to kiss you right now," you admit, the words rushing out without proper consideration.

"Very well," he answers instantly, not allowing you even a fraction of a second to regret your sudden divulgence.

Doubling down on this approach, he turns his body to face yours and gently cups your face in his long-fingered hands.

He's staring at you so intently, his thumbs run back and forth over your cheekbones, the unwavering attention and sensation causing you to shiver and sigh.

He moves closer and his pupils blow out from anticipation.

Morpheus' perfect lips are now mere centimetres from yours. Fluttery nerves fill your insides. You are so overwhelmed that this is actually happening.

You close the gap, testing the waters with a kiss that is soft and tentative. Morpheus is instantly hooked, initiating a second one that allows you to discover just how skilled he is.

Your hands move up to tangle in Morpheus' unruly hair. At present, you cannot remember how long have you been longing to do this but you are not disappointed by how silken it feels under your palms.

The kiss between you becomes intense, his tongue joining the dance with a bone melting deftness, and soon you want to feel more of his body against yours.

You go to lay back on the bed of leaves.

He pulls away, concern etched in his brows, forehead and eyes that questions if he has gone too quickly.

You smile softly to assure him that all is well.

"Come here." You draw him backwards with you, allowing him to straddle you. During the manoeuvre, his coat falls open enough for you to see the galaxies swirling within the lining.

He wastes no time in leaning down to kiss you once more, starting at your lips and moving to your neck when he senses that you need to breathe.

The touches of his mouth, the feeling of his body covering yours protectively, the weight of his hips aligned with your own; it has you moaning appreciatively.

He withdraws but remains close, astute eyes drinking in every detail and emotion on your smiling face, the halo-like glow shimmering on your hair.

"So beautiful," Morpheus murmurs reverently.

"Your dreams always are," you say, looking past him at the translucent clouds hovering in the sky above you.

His deep voice rumbles deliciously as he speaks his reply, a false admonishment, "You know that's not what I meant."

He playfully nudges his nose against yours. "This dream pales in comparison to you."

You blush as brightly as the leaf that you had stashed within your pocket. Morpheus traces his fingers over the blossoming redness, marvelling in how the extra heat feels under his touch and how his words were the ones that put it there.

"Kiss me, please," you ask in a whisper.

He arranges his coat to cocoon you against the seasonal chill and then obliges you with a deep and passionate kiss that spreads internal warmth right out to the tips of your fingers and toes.

If your winter continues like this, with Morpheus to hold and bond with, it is shaping up to be infinitely more delightful and cosy than any that have come before.

#the sandman #the sandman 2022 #the sandman netflix #sandman #the sandman fic #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #dream #dream x reader #the dreaming #the endless #tom sturridge #fanfiction #consent is sexy #fluff #romance #autumn #fall #oneshot #lord morpheus #gender neutral reader #sandman x you #g/n reader

[jungkookschin]

demigod trials: lust of ichor | five

synopsis: you and jungkook are invited to an extravagant party on mount olympus, ofc you're gonna go all out !

word count: 10k

pairings: son of ares!taehyung x daugher of heaphaestus!reader

genre: cute, SMUT (non explicit), fluff, action

warnings: mentions of apollo being creepy :( (watches jk and yn during seggs), mentions of killing, lots of action

author's note: sooo im back!! this is gonna be very fluffy, but.... the next few chapters are going to be action packed!!

demigod trials masterlist

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | 3.5 | four | five

Your eyes sleepily gloss over the invitation. 

You are invited to our 2000th year anniversary party on Mount Olympus!

A+H

The invitation is made from gold leaf parchment paper, with intricate swirls decorating its edges,  fit only for a Mount Olympus event. 

All you can do is sigh. Of course the gods, in their pretentious nature, would take the time to throw an opulent and extravagant party for a couple who aren’t even together- Aphrodite has been cheating on your father Hephaestus with Jungkook’s father Ares for thousands of years. 

You glance at Jungkook, who can’t help but laugh when you roll your eyes into your skull.  You daintily fall back onto the pillow like the true inferno princess you are before pulling the sheets to your chin. Jungkook puts a knee on the bed, using his palm to sweep back your hair- revealing your pretty forehead. 

“Big ass forehead,” he mumbles, booping your nose with his pointer finger when you start pouting. 

After fourteen hours of sleep in the Hypnos cabin, you’re as revitalized as if you’ve been kissed by Morpheus himself. The sun seeps through the curtains and casts an otherworldly glow on your man, who looks as handsome as ever as he peers down on you with love (even with the toothpaste dripping from his mouth).

Jungkook saunters back into the restroom to spit into the sink, cleaning his mouth before setting his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He clumsily grabs toner from his bag, splashing it onto his palms before he pats the serum into his face. 

You turn on your side, your eyes glazing over him as he looks into the mirror, thoroughly completing his (probably unnecessary) meticulous skin care regiment. And you don’t mean to succumb to misogyny by shaming him for doing something that would otherwise be considered feminine- you’re suggesting that it’s unnecessary because he’s already perfect. 

Jungkook is quite literally half-god. He’s handsome- unbelievably so and you really really think that he’ll continue to be his perfect self for the rest of eternity. He certainly doesn’t need to pat chemicals into his skin to look better. 

His gaze trails towards you, “What? I can’t try to look good for my girl?”

You know he’s half-joking, but you don’t have the heart to even entertain it. “You’re already handsome,” you respond, “You’re perfect. Most handsome guy I’ve ever seen,” you say sitting up on the bed as you rake your fingers through your hair. 

He looks at you from where he’s standing in the bathroom. “Gods, stop being so cute.”

With that, he crawls onto the bed, his face dangerously close to yours as he kisses you. His big strong hands find solace on your upper back as he gently lays you on the bed, lips never leaving yours.

He smothers you with his lips, not even letting you breathe. He laughs, removing his tongue from your mouth before he puckers against your lips and just sloppily shakes his head from side to side.

You giggle against his lips, unable to catch a breath when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. You can’t breathe, but that’s okay. When Jungkook kisses you, you feel so complete, so full that you don’t even need oxygen to survive. He gets you all discomposed, and warm and you love it. Maybe you have an asphyxiation kink or something. 

And apparently he does something to you because it induces a physical reaction from you and  you end up blowing out the tiniest of flames from your nose. The slightest gasp leaves your lips. 

Jungkook pulls back, brows furrowing slightly while he stares down at you. 

You theatrically pout, “I don’t know what happened.”

“Someone’s hot and bothered,” he teases, “Lemme fix that for you baby,” he coos, using his pointer finger and thumb to plug your nose.

Leave it to Jungkook to stick his fingers into your nose. Any normal person would complain about germs blah blah blah or say it’s disgusting blah blah blah but Jungkook isn’t a normal person- he is crazily in love. Compared to slaying monsters in Tartarus? Sticking his fingers in your nose was nothing. He’d wipe your ass with his bare hands if warranted.

“That’s disgusting,” you say, holding onto his wrist.

He mocks you in a nasally voice. “That’s disgusting. Shut up. Let’s go take a shower.”

At that, you instantly perk up. It’s only a well known, common fact that all men look better when they’re wet. And it’s not like you check out other men besides Jungkook, but it’s just a fact. 

Maybe it’s something in the water, but whenever a man re-emerges from water, he somehow transforms into a better version of his normal, ugly, man-like self. Consider it the baptism of allure, where droplets of water enhance masculine features and draw out irresistible magnetism. 

He always emerges from Taehyung’s pool with water dripping from his hair, down his ripping abs, lower, and lower, and you have to resist the urge to lick each and every droplet up. But now, your eyes are only on Jungkook so you instantly perk up, nodding like a puppy when he makes the suggestion. 

He raises his brows at you, beckoning you towards him, and you instantly follow him, throwing your (his) shirt off to join him in the shower. 

Sometimes, you lose yourself in Jungkook. In a world where you’re consistently exposed to monsters who want to eat you, Olympians who want to take advantage of you, and primordial gods who want to kill you for entering their domain (😃),  Jungkook is your solace. 

He holds you like you’re the wings of Icarus, lifting you with a tender strength that dares to defy earthly constraints as he lifts you towards the sun, towards celestial heights. To Jungkook, you are more precious than every ancient relic the gods send demigods on quests after, and he will treat you with such care. 

Another thing is, Jungkook is obsessed with your body- and not because your physical features fall in line with societal standards- but because it’s yours. Every curve, line, and proportion is there because of the things your everyday mannerisms- slashing your sword against his during play fights, slamming your hammer against your anvil,  or running around the training grounds at Camp Half-Blood. 

And with all the training you do, one would think that you would at least come close to his strength, but for some reason you don’t even hold a candle, which is how he easily holds you up, your back pressed against the shower walls with your legs hooked around his waist.

The way Jungkook loves is fiery, hot, intense, just like the way he drinks you up, not allowing you to catch a breath; he doesn’t care if you end up breathing fire into his mouth because he knows he can take it.

When he’s satisfied with your lips, he easily hoists you up, legs resting on your shoulders so he can devour your essence. His eyes remain on you, melting at the way your eyes roll back when he sucks on you just right. 

It’s been years since he’s done this, and he vividly remembers how you just can’t remain composure when Jungkook plays with your body just right. Your eyes are lidded, and you’re losing yourself in pleasure, the sweetest moans leaving your lips.

Jungkook is so good at this, knows how to manipulate your body just right to elicit the sweetest pleasure from your body. “Play with yourself,” he instructs, to which you instantly gush, your hands weakly coming up to tweak at your chest. 

Jungkook’s chest tightens at that. He wants to draw out every inch of pleasure possible, and that’s exactly what he does. When he finally takes you, his eyes remain on yours, and he tells you to keep your eyes open every time they squeeze from pleasure. 

You grab his face, eyes sultrily following his lips, nose, and eyes. “I want to be with you here, forever.” You draw his face to yours, kissing him languidly, and Jungkook thinks he’ll finish right then and there. 

The water cascades down your bodies, falling into your mouths and into every crevice of your body, and right then you’re content. 

-

Jungkook knows that you get tired after sex, so when he sees all the indicators: your eyes becoming lidded, your posture becoming disoriented- he catches you when you fall into his arms. He smiles to himself, can’t believe that you fell asleep right there in the middle of the shower with the warm water falling on your skin. 

Sleeping with wet hair is a no-no, so he carries you bridal style from the shower and to the bed, letting your rest between your legs and against his chest while he uses a hair dryer to dry your hair. You’re out like a light, and he’s okay with that because all he really wants for you is to get as much rest and peace as possible.  

He uses Hypnos’ Sleepy Milk to sedate you further- to the point where you’re snoring with your eyes and mouth open, another indicator that you aren’t going to wake up in a while.  

Who knows what’s yet to come? Sooner or later, you’ll make a trip to the  Underworld to look for the missing children of Hades- or worse- you’ll return to Tartarus to finally face your final foe. 

While you’re with him, the very least he can do is give you pleasure and peace. His girl has saved the world multiple times, she doesn’t need to be a superhero when she’s with him. 

The truth is, during your 14 hours of blissful sleep the previous, Jungkook didn’t get a wink. He refused to take a sip of Hypnos’s sleeping potion. Jungkook always tells you to rest- demigods aren’t invincible, but he’s a hypocrite in the sense that he actually believes that he doesn’t need to sleep.

Being the child of  the war god, he inherits not only the genetic makeup of a warrior capable of staying awake for days, but also the discipline to function without the need for sleep. 

He loves you to death, but you’re incredibly stubborn. He knows that you’ll put yourself in danger if it means saving your friends’ lives, and he simply isn’t going to let that happen. 

During the war with Gaia, he wasn’t smart enough to defeat the primordial goddess- but this time he’ll be prepared. 

Jungkook thinks he’ll stay up a little longer, tweaking his battle plans to perfection, but a simple glance your way disorients him completely. Even with the sleeping potion coursing through your body, you reach towards him, mumbling the drowsiest and cutest “Sleep with me, Kook.”

Okay… maybe he does need sleep. 

He has no choice but to oblige, joining you under the covers while he holds you to his chest, limbs intertwined and hearts beating in unison. 

-

Abruptly your eyes snap open, and you find yourself in Tartarus. The jagged terrain and blood red sky are instantly recognizable, but the air feels heavier, infused with a sense of dread that grips your chest. The pointed cliffs loom overhead, casting desolate shadows across the horizon. 

During yours and Jungkook’s trip to Tartarus, you encountered the Arai. 

According to Greek mythology, the Arai are vengeful spirits that lay in Tartarus, embodying curses and grievances. With every strike Jungkook delivered to an Arai, he willingly absorbed the curse they carried.

When the spirits encircled you during your first trip to Tartarus, it took you a minute to figure out what exactly the spirits were. Jungkook slashed at the first Arai, which turned out to embody the curse of unending agony.

 The curse manifested as excruciating pain that caused Jungkook’s muscles to spasm uncontrollably. He instantly fell to the ground, writhing in pain- you had never seen him like that. 

The excruciation twisted his features into agony, his breaths ragged and shallow as he struggled against the torment. Nearly driven to the brink of unconsciousness, he somehow overcame the sensation, summoning every ounce of his inner strength to rise to his feet. 

With the greatest determination, he unleashed a flurry of strikes, dispatching each Arai with swift precision. 

In other words, it was traumatizing. He took on every curse each Arai embodied, and it almost killed him. 

You felt so useless; you hadn’t a clue how to contribute because you were paralyzed with fear. You genuinely thought he was going to die in your arms until he didn’t. He rose to his feet like nothing happened and you both continued on your mission to the Doors of Death. 

Shift back to present day. 

As you turn your gaze 90 degrees, you behold yourself (Mark) and Jungkook (Jungwon) ensnared within the encircling grasp of the Arai yet again. You were so lost in Jungkook you forgot that you just condemned your own brother to the depths of Tartarus in your stead. 

You scream at Mark and Jungwon who are disguised as you and Jungkook to run. After years of studying Tartarus, you still aren’t sure how Jungkook overcame the Arai and you’d rather not take your chances with Mark and Jungwon.

Nonetheless, Mark and Jungwon should be aware of what the Arai are, and you think everything’s going to be okay until Jungwon unsheathes his sword Cataclysm and slashes at an Arai, falling to his feet and writhing in agony just as Jungkook did years before. 

You scream, but you’re paralyzed with fear, rendering you unable to move.

Mark looks around in confusion, his expression shifting as he witnesses Jungwon's sudden collapse. 

Desperation tugs at your senses as you try to muster the strength to move, to intervene somehow, but again, fear renders you immobile. 

“Y/N wake up!” Suddenly, Jungkook’s urgent voice cuts through Tartarus’s sky, amplifying in volume before it penetrates the atmosphere. 

With a jolt, your eyes snap open, and in an instant Tartarus dissipates like a fleeting dream and is replaced with the cozy blankets of Hypnos’s cabin. 

Blinking rapidly, you find yourself lying in bed, the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the window. The echoes of Jungkook's voice still reverberate in your mind, your head fuzzy and unclear as you process what you just witnessed.

As awareness floods back into your senses, you take in the surroundings—the cozy warmth of the blankets cocooning you, the faint scent of lavender wafting through the air from nearby candles, and the reassuring presence of Jungkook by your side.

With a steadying breath, you turn towards him, finding solace in the way he cradles your face and looks down on you with concern. His eyes search for yours for any sign of distress, and relief washes over you as you realize you’re with him.

"Are you alright?" Jungkook's voice is soft, laced with genuine worry as he reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face.

You nod, offering him a reassuring smile despite the lingering unease that clings to your thoughts. 

You pause. 

“Fuck, Jungkook!”

The urgency in your voice is palpable as you discard the blanket with a swift motion of your forearm.

“We need to get to Bunker 9,” you insist, your voice laced with desperation as you pluck your discarded clothes from the ground. You hastily begin to dress yourself, pulling your panties through your legs as images of Jungwon and Mark with the Arai flood your mind. 

“I had a dream,” you explain, tripping as you shove your legs through your pant holes. Luckily, Jungkook catches you, like he always does.

“Jungwon and Mark met the Arai, Jungkook. They’re not going to survive- I mean I thought that you killed them all when we were there, but clearly they’re still in Tartarus and they’re about to curse our brothers and they could die. We need to get there immediately- we shouldn’t have ever sent them in our place in the first place-”

Lost in your urgency, you're unaware of your own rambling until Jungkook's puzzled expression catches your attention. He retrieves his phone, presenting you with a screen displaying the data transmitted by Mark and Jungwon's rings. “It says that they’re still falling,” he explains, “falling into Tartarus, I mean,” he elaborates when your eyebrows furrow. 

You hastily throw a shirt over your head, before letting out a breathless “What?” 

Jungkook sighs, sitting on the bed before pulling you onto his lap. “Baby, I think you’re anxious.”

“Of course I am!” you groan, “We spent the whole day fucking instead of doing anything!” you mumble in distress, closing your eyes when Jungkook gives you a comforting squeeze. 

“You needed to rest,” Jungkook reasons, “Nothing’s going to get done if you’re not in the proper state of mind. When we get to Olympus for the anniversary party, we can get extra intel about the children of Hades,” he states matter of factly, the confidence in his voice assuaging you and bringing you down from your anxious high. 

You gulp. “Is that tonight?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you feel Jungkook hum into your neck. 

“Fuck, they don’t give us any time,” you grumble.

“That’s a good thing, baby. You have more time to get ready. We’ll leave in an hour.” With that, his large hand cradles your chin and he turns your head towards him, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, taking your breath away. 

He pulls back, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours. “You need to breathe,” he urges, “You’re not in this alone. You have all of us looking out for you. You have me. I’d never let anything happen to you-”

“What about Mark and Jungwon?”

“I’d never let anything happen to them either,” he declares, “Now get ready baby. You need to be in the right state of mind if we’re going to investigate Olympus.” 

He gives you one last comforting smile and you can’t help but grab his face to kiss him again. Gods, you love this man. 

-

Everybody knows that if you want a makeover, you can head to the Aphrodite cabin for a full glam makeover for the reasonable price of 5 drachmas.

When Aphrodite kids graduate from Camp Half-Blood and choose to live in the mortal world, they typically become celebrity stylists, word-class MUA’s, or nail techs for the hugest pop stars.

Luckily, the Aphrodite cabin is a few strides away from the Hypnos cabin, so after tiptoeing out of the Hypnos cabin (to not wake anybody up), you join hands with Jungkook to knock on the door 18+ Aphrodite Cabin. 

The 18+ Aphrodite Cabin is akin to a real life Barbie Dreamhouse. 

As visitors come near the cabin's entrance, they see a lovely doorway with flowers all around it. Wisteria vines wrap around the frame, with clusters of lavender flowers hanging down. Pots filled with ivy and petunias sit by the door, making the scene even more charming and magical.

The sun is setting, and the Aphrodite garden looks beautiful- the kids say one hasn’t truly experienced Camp Half-Blood without taking a peek at the Aphrodite garden. 

You’ve also heard that deep within the garden lies a popular makeout spot for the kids- but honestly you’re too old for that and you don’t wanna know about it. 

The door to the Aphrodite cabin swings open, and you’re met with none other than Vivian. Vivian, daughter of Aphrodite, is around the same age as you and Jungkook, making her one of the oldest girls in the Aphrodite cabin. 

She is the epitome of a daughter of Aphrodite- her skin practically glows with radiance and her features appear like they were delicately sculpted by Aphrodite herself. While some of the Aphrodite kids are certainly stuck up,  Vivian was not among them. Sure, she was snarky at times, but nothing she ever says is with malicious intent. 

The thing is, Jungkook used to fuck around with so many Aphrodite girls, and you just can’t remember if she was one of those girls. 

You whip your head towards Jungkook, frowning with suspicion when he seems overly fascinated with the wisteria vines hanging from the walls. 

You sigh. 

“Hey Viv,” you greet, giving her a friendly hug, “We’re going to a party on Olympus in like- an hour. Can you help us get ready? I know it’s super last minute but-”

She drops her jaw, giving you the Are you serious? look. “Can I help you get ready? Don’t you know we pay people to wear AphroditeWear at fancy events? The Grammy’s, the Oscars.. So a party on Mount Olympus would be…. amazing.”

You smile. “Thanks Viv. Can you squeeze my fiance in too?” you ask, gesturing towards Jungkook. 

Vivan freezes, and she meets eyes with Jungkook. You feel a tangible shift in the atmosphere and it fills you with the faintest sense of unease. 

Nonetheless, Vivian’s features soften and she pulls you in for another hug. “Congratulations Y/N. I’m glad you guys finally made it official. I can take care of you and I’ll have Michael do a fitting with Jungkook.”

You thank her and she smiles with the utmost hospitality, opening the door wider for you and Jungkook to enter. Jungkook holds the door open for you, giving Vivian a tight-lipped smile, “Thanks, Vivian.”

Not the government name. 

Jungkook is immediately whisked away by Michael, a son of Aphrodite who is seemingly in charge of men’s styling while you are sat down at the salon. 

You brush the nonexistent dust from your pants and take a deep breath before you look around. 

The salon is amazing, with plush seating, ornate areas, and soft candlelight. There’s a skincare section, spa chairs for manis and pedis, and of course, the hair styling chair, where you’re currently sitting. 

Vivian doesn’t waste time, curling your hair into voluminous curls that cascade down your shoulders. She applies makeup to  accentuate your features with a subtle smokey eye and a hint of rosy blush that adds a touch of warmth to your complexion. 

“I heard some shit is going down at Camp Jupiter,” Viv starts, “You’ve gone through so much, I imagine that you’d be desensitized to- like- emotion,” she shrugs. 

Your lips curl up slightly. You get what she means. After literally experiencing death, seeing your friends die in battle, and saving the world three times, you’ve seen a lot. Sometimes, you do feel like you’re heartless- or you don’t have the capacity to feel. 

You used to think that you wouldn’t feel as devastated if your friends died in war because of the dozens of close calls. Perhaps Jungkook changed the tide. You don’t think the intensity of your feelings of him ever changed- you just got good at not letting them affect you. 

“But you seem pretty in love, so I guess not,” Vivian shrugs, shaking a bottle of hairspray.

You tilt your head, “How can you tell?”

“Oh please, I’m a daughter of Aphrodite. I can tell you’re head over heels,” she smiles, spraying your hair with the hairspray. “It makes me happy seeing you happy,” she continues, “You locked yourself up in the forge for like a year and nobody ever saw you. We all thought you were depressed.”

You laugh at that. 

“Oh by the way,” Vivian continues, “I heard a rumor that one of my sisters is dating one of your brothers,” she points out. 

“What? No way. Who?”

“Mark,” she promptly responds, “I think I can sense that she and Mark have something going on, I just know it.”

You shake your head. “Mark is single. I’m 1000% sure. There’s no way he would date someone without telling me.”

Vivian tilts her head, “Are you sure you’re not being naive? Mark might be a freak-”

“Gods, never say that in front of me again.”

Vivian giggles, and the conversation continues with ease. 

You itch to ask Vivian about whether or not- in simple terms- she fucked your man. 

As his fiancée, you feel like you have a legitimate interest in knowing all the raunchy details of  his past relationships. Still, the last person you want to be is the overbearing partner who interrogates everyone (and everything) about his past relationships. 

Jungkook  is with you, and he loves you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. 

It’s just that Viv is so pretty, lovely, and graceful. She’s quite literally the daughter of the goddess of beauty while your father is known for being so hideously ugly that his mother threw him off Mount Olympus. 

Vivian’s words pull you from your trance. “So what color dress are you thinking?” she calls from Aphrodite’s closet, which is stocked with luxurious dresses and gowns. 

You bite your lip nervously, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Honestly, you haven’t inherited any of your father’s ugly genes, but Viv objectively did look better than you. 

“I think gold would look nice on you,” she adds, “You can never go wrong with a sexy gold evening gown.”

She unveils a stunning gown made from shimmering gold mesh, featuring an elegant sweetheart neckline. Adorned with glittering embellishments, this dress leaves a magical trail of fairy dust with every  step. The bodice and lower regions of the dress are discreetly covered, while the remainder delicately reveals sheer fabric, adding a touch of allure to its design. 

“She’s not wearing that,” Jungkook strides into the room, fitted with a charcoal-gray suit. The jacket is slim and modern cut, accentuating his broad shoulders while his crisp white button up adds a hint of elegance. 

He looks incredibly handsome, and it nearly takes your breath away. 

Vivian gives Jungkook a distasteful look. “And why wouldn’t she wear it? You’re going to a party on Mount Olympus. She needs something extravagant.”

Jungkook marches over to you, placing a protective hand on your shoulder. “It's too revealing.”

You lock eyes with Viv for a mere second before she rolls her eyes to the back of her skull. “Never thought you were the conservative type, Jeon- but whatever, do as you please. I think Y/N would look nice in it.”

Jungkook looks at you and bends down to give you the softest of kisses. “You look so pretty, baby.”

“You too,” you whisper back, “But Jungkook, can’t I try it on?” You pout at him slightly, looking up at him with puppy eyes.

Normally, Jungkook doesn’t care about your choice of attire, but there are a few aspects that leave him with unease. 

For one, this particular party is being held on Mount Olympus with various gods- gods with lustful gazes that have free reign to do whatever they want whenever they want. 

After Rose, daughter of Apollo, tackled you at Camp Jupiter and accused you of trying to sleep with her father, he knew that even the gods had their eyes on you, which bothered him immensely. 

It’s like he’s pulled from a trance. 

“No.”

You frown at him. “What?”

“You’re not wearing the dress, Y/N. Find something else.”

“But I like the dress, Jungkook,” you counter. 

“You can wear it. With me. In the Ares cabin. But you’re not wearing it to Olympus.”

Your jaw drops. “I don’t need your permission to do anything! I can wear what I want whenever I want. I’m my own person!”

Jungkook sighs, running his palm over his facial features, “Okay, then wear the dress. But as your fiance, I would appreciate it if you didn’t wear it. It’s up to you.”

“Oh c’mon asshole,” Vivian cuts in, “Just let her try it on.”

You nod in concurrence. “C’mon Kook, please?”

His gaze softens as he sweetly gazes down at you, torn between his protective instincts and his desire to see you happy. With a sigh, he relents, knowing that you'll try it on regardless of his opinion. "It’s up to you," he murmurs, his hand tenderly brushing against your cheek.

You smile gratefully and nod, appreciating his concern. "It’ll look good," you assure him, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Of course he knows it’ll look good. That isn’t the concern. 

After all, Jungkook is getting stronger each day, and he would gladly kill a god for checking you out with lustful eyes. 

He locks eyes with Vivian, who raises her brows, frowning, “Aren’t you going to leave?”

Jungkook scowls. “What? I can be in here while she’s changing. She’s the future mother of my kids.”

Vivian’s features curl in distaste. “Okay, well it’s against policy for men to be in girls’ changing rooms so you need to leave.”

Jungkook nonchalantly shrugs. “Who cares? We saved the world twice- just let us be.”

Vivian's frustration boils over and she shoots him a pointed glare. “You always start shit then act like you didn’t just start shit!"

Jungkook scoffs, “Who’s starting shit? What I care about is my fiance and whether or not she feels comfortable in this dress,” he enunciates, redirecting his attention towards you, his words becoming softer and sweeter, “Go on and change babygirl, I’ll be waiting here.”

You blink your lashes, entirely confused for the situation at hand, but you still follow Viv towards the changing rooms, holding your tongue before you say anything you regret. 

Vivian looks peeved as ever, smoothing out the dress gently, a direct juxtaposition to the way she curses between gritted teeth.  “Gods, I hate that guy,” she seethes. 

She takes a moment to collect herself before sighing deeply. “Sorry Y/N. He’s good to you and that’s all that matters,” she expresses with sincerity, instructing you to swivel around to wrap the fabric around your frame. 

You shake your head. “No…” you murmur, “It’s fine. I just wanna know what the beef is… I guess,” you finally bring yourself to ask. 

Viv releases a soft gasp, “That’s right,” she exclaims, like she’s reached a damning realization, “You don’t know what happened.”

You purse your lips and prepare yourself for what’s coming. 

“While you were on Olympus for your internship, that  motherfucker lit our garden on fire! He damn near almost burned down the entire garden! Girl, it was a whole thing. The Ares and Aphrodite cabins were at war. Shit only cleared up when Ares and Aphrodite themselves visited Camp Half-Blood and Aphrodite restored our garden.”

You blink, processing everything before you burst into the hugest smile. 

“Hey!” Viv exclaims, swatting at your bicep, “It’s not funny!”

You force your lips into a straight line, traces of your smile still bursting through the cracks. You wrap your hand around the circumference of her wrist. “No, it’s not that,” you explain, “I just thought that- that you and Jungkook may have, you know…”

Viv takes a moment to process your words before she gasps the loudest gasp you’ve ever heard. “Absolutely not!” she exclaims. 

“Back in high school, Jungkook sister-hopped Seraphina and Lillian,” Vivian continues, “We all made a binding vow to never let him date any of us again.”

You playfully shake your head at the thought. It’s almost unfathomable to picture the entire Aphrodite cabin gathering to scheme against Jungkook. 

“He didn’t want any of us anyways. He’s only ever wanted you. I think the entire camp knows that.” The way she smiles at you is almost motherly, and a wave of fondness washes over you. 

“He had a girlfriend for like a year after I died,” you point out. 

She scoffs, “Oh please. We all know that Sof was a rebound. Love her, but she was a rebound.”

As Vivian finishes adjusting the straps of your gown, her expression softens, and she meets your gaze with a  smile. "But enough about him. Let's focus on you and make sure you feel amazing in this dress."

You nod, grateful for her understanding and support. Vivian would always be Vivian "Thank you, Viv.”

Moments later, you emerge from the dressing room, the golden gown hugging your curves and shimmering under the lights. Jungkook's breath catches in his throat as he takes in your breathtaking appearance, his chest tightening from how beautiful you are .

"You look stunning," he breathes, stepping forward to take your hand in his. "Absolutely breathtaking."

A blush tinges your cheeks as you twirl in front of him, the sheer fabric dancing around you like a cascade of golden sunlight. "Do you really think so?" you ask, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.

Jungkook's eyes soften as he cups your face in his hands, his gaze unwavering. "Of course, stupid," he murmurs, voice filled with love despite him calling you stupid. His thumb brushes gently against your cheek. "But more importantly, you feel comfortable, right?"

You nod, motioning towards Vivian. "I feel great, all thanks to Viv," you say, prompting Jungkook.

Jungkook smiles at Vivian, expressing his gratitude. "Thank you for helping her," he says sincerely, before turning his gaze back to you, admiration evident in his eyes.

In that moment, you realize the depth of Jungkook's love for you – you’re always his first priority. 

Vivian gives you one last hug and sends you on your way towards Olympus. 

-

You and Jungkook have done this thousands of times. The quickest way to get to Mount Olympus is through the Empire State Building, of course.

Camp Half-Blood, situated along the shores of Long Island, is approximately a twenty-minute drive from the Empire State Building—though with Jungkook's motorcycle, the journey can be completed in just ten minutes

On Jungkook's 18th birthday, his father Ares bestowed upon him a celestial bronze Rolex watch that could transform into a motorcycle with a simple press of a button.

You’re cruising through the streets of New York City, your head resting against his back, and suddenly you’re home. You experience the same rush of nostalgia that filled you when you were 19, gliding through the slopes of Athens.

The wind blows through your hair as you take in the stars and the sparkling lights of New York City, making the city look even more beautiful.

With your fingers intertwined, Jungkook and you step into the doors of the Empire State Building. You slide the bellman a drachma and instruct him to send you to the 600th floor, which he does so after ensuring that no mortals catch heed to your conversation. 

Jungkook can’t help but admire you because gods you in that dress is the biggest temptation he’s ever witnessed.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the most extravagant party you’ve ever witnessed. The entirety of Mount Olympus has been transformed into a breathtaking spectacle of opulence and grandeur. 

Nymphs dance gracefully alongside the procession, their laughter ringing through the air like tinkling bells. Centaurs trot majestically, adorned with garlands of flowers and draped in vibrant fabrics. Satyrs play lively tunes on their panpipes, their merry melodies adding to the festive atmosphere.

Above, pegasi soar through the sky, their majestic wings carrying them gracefully as they hold flags adorned with the emblem of love. 

Someone clears their throat, and you turn your head to witness Eurus, god of the East wind descending on a cloud towards you and Jungkook. When you squint your eyes, you see that he has a clipboard in his hand, and you tilt your head in curiosity. 

“Name?” he asks hastily. 

You exchange a bewildered glance with Jungkook before finally finding your voice. "Uh, Y/N," you manage to stammer out, still trying to process the surreal situation.

"Eurus, pleased to meet you," the god replies with a polite nod, though his tone remains impatient. He quickly scans his clipboard before finding your name and checking it off with a flourish.

"And you?" Eurus turns his attention to Jungkook, who stands beside you, equally astonished by the encounter.

"Jungkook," he answers, his voice firm as he meets the god's gaze.

With a brisk nod, Eurus completes his task and gestures for you both to follow him. "Right this way," he says, leading you through the bustling crowds towards the heart of the festivities.

As you walk, you can't help but marvel at the absurdity of the situation. A god checking guests into a party on Mount Olympus? It's unlike anything you could have ever imagined. 

“Hmmm, daughter of Hephaestus,” Eurus thinks aloud, “You and your,” he looks at Jungkook before sneering, “boyfriend are the only demigods invited to this event. Is there a reason for that?”

Jungkook contorts his face, and you respond before he can say anything too rash. “Because we’re in love, and this is a celebration of love,” you say with a sweet smile. 

Eurus smirks at that. “Oh really? This is a celebration of love? Young daughter of Hephaestus, I know that you are no fool. Aphrodite and Hephaestus are hardly in love,” he expresses matter-a-factly, banging his head against his nifty clipboard. 

"I can't fathom why the gods deemed it necessary to assign me the mundane task of checking in a couple who aren't even together!," Eurus grumbles, gesticulating animatedly. "I've been looking forward to my day off all year long!" 

With a resigned sigh, he holds up his clipboard, which morphs into a miniature screen displaying a woman delivering a weather report. "Breaking news: Not a breeze in sight today! Zero wind, absolutely none!"

"See?" Eurus concedes with a frustrated wave of his hand, prompting you will yourself from laughing at how absurd this all is. 

"And that's not all," Eurus continues with exasperation evident in his voice, "I've been tasked with keeping Ares away from the gala all day, which, let me tell you, is no small feat. I mean, he's the god of war! How am I supposed to keep him from sneaking around?" He turns his head theatrically towards Jungkook. 

“Which is why I don’t understand why they would let you in!” he sneers. 

Jungkook shrugs, seemingly amused by Eurus’s anger. “Hephaestus loves me. He practically begged me to marry his daughter,” making you playfully roll your eyes as you nudge him with your elbow. 

Eurus gasps scandalously, “He would do no such thing!”

Eurus guides you towards the gala hall, and you can’t help but do a double-take when you see something out of the ordinary (?)

Towards the left of the entrance sits Ares, the god of the war, trapped in a net, thrashing around to break free. He roars in frustration before his pupils explode into flames, and it tells you everything you need to know. The whole pupils exploding into fire was a mannerism Jungkook adopted from his father- and it only happened when he became extremely angry. 

You glance at Jungkook, who is really trying to hide his satisfaction under a mask of concern. He stays stoic, staring at the wall behind Ares and you can’t help but think he looks cute trying to be all serious. 

Jungkook clears his throat,  "Need a hand, Dad?"

“Absolutely not!” Eurus cuts in, “I had to look for this net in Hephaesteus’s junkyard for hours! It’s the only thing that will contain him. He stays in the net-”

“I’ll kill you right now, asshole!” Ares seethes, eliciting a yelp from Eurus. 

At that moment, you connect the dots, realizing that Ares is currently trapped in the same net your father used to catch Aphrodite and Ares in “the act.” You step forward, running your fingers over the net. 

Hephaestus catching Aphrodite and Ares is a classic Greek tale, but you always wondered how your father created such a net to contain the god of war.

The rope is intricately designed, something you assume was woven from enchanted threads. The rope is also infused with celestial bronze, but you still don’t see how it could trap not one but two gods. Your father is truly a genius. 

Ares bares his teeth at Eurus, who squeals and runs away, probably back to his post at the entrance of Mount Olympus. 

Ares pauses, looking you up and down before he licks his lips. “Damn kid, this your bitch? She’s fine as fuck.” 

At that, Jungkook’s amused smile drops, and he instinctively intertwines his fingers through yours. 

Jungkook's unresolved issues with his father stem from how he mistreated his mother, who was deeply traumatized by the aftermath of Ares's “love”. Only when his mother found love with another man did Jungkook find it in himself to leave her.

His negative behaviors from youth, such as literally playing the entire Aphrodite cabin and his predisposition towards violence can be traced back to Ares's poor parenting and the trauma of his childhood. 

In fact, he’s  only considered Ares’s favorite because of his talent as a warrior, not because Ares actually cares.

He only really grew up because he wanted to be a man for you. You were the epitome of “I can change him”. 

Nonetheless, he felt an inexplicable amount of anger when anyone said anything about you. You’re practically famous around Camp Half-Blood, so he expects people to talk, but hearing this from his own father- he can’t fathom the audacity. 

“You’re literally trapped in a net.”

Ares clenches his jaw. “And? I’ll beat your ass the second I’m outta here.”

Junngkook says nothing, and if anything, his expression conveys a sheen of sadness. Who wants to be spoken to this way by their own father?

After a moment,  Ares finally gives in.  “Alright, I’m sorry kid,” he pleads, “Just let me outta here. Do it for your old man, eh?”

Jungkook remains stoic, staring blankly at Ares. 

“Y/N,” Ares snaps, “I remember you, Hephaestus’s prized daughter. You  got to know a way to get me out of here, right? Do it for your father-in-law!”

You say nothing, tilting your head towards Jungkook. 

“Oh c’mon!” Ares continues, “My girl’s in there! Aphrodite’s my girl! I can’t just keep her in there with Hephaestus!”

In that moment, you realize how much of a gift mortality is. Immortals with godly powers often lack a reason to be kind, as the gods themselves are quite messy.

They didn’t value each other, didn’t value human life- because they didn’t have to. 

You look at your fiance, eyebrows furrowing as you recall when Jungkook was offered the opportunity to turn into a god. 

In history, demigods who fulfilled god-level quests were elevated to “god status”. This is the path Dionysus took to become an Olympian, and how Hercules ascended to godhood.

After saving the world from the titan Kronos at the age of 17, Zeus offered Jungkook the status of a god. You remember how nervous you were when you caught heed of Zeus’s proposal. At that time, you and Jungkook were caught at the beginning of your enemies to lovers transition, and as much as Jungkook annoyed you, you didn’t want him to leave you for Olympus. 

Jungkook became the first demigod to turn the proposition down. You always considered him to be an airhead, but perhaps this was the first moment you realized that there was something more inside his thick skull.

Jungkook treasures mortality, and you find that kinda hot. He finds pleasure in the sensation of a punch to his face, smirking with blood running down his nose.  He relishes in the risk of death during quests, understanding that nothing was assured and that he had to push himself for success. 

He isn’t a pussy who needs the safety net of immortality. He adores the sense of purpose imbued in his mortal existence.

Your man is insane and you love it. 

There’s just something so sexy about a man who has control over his own life. You’d much rather lounge on the shores of Elysium- and you will with Jungkook, your forever boy and two-time (soon to be three) savior of the world. 

-

Stepping into the gala hall, you’re met with the largest room you’ve ever been in. The grand ballroom is filled with minor gods, goddesses, and other mythical creatures dancing on the spacious dance floor. 

With your eyes glimmering at the grand decor and the live-cyclopes band, you need to remind yourself that the reason you’re even at this party is to collect intel on the missing children of Hades. 

You walk around, looking for clues on Hades’ whereabouts.  In situations like this, the symbol of Hades, a helm of darkness would randomly appear, but you aren’t seeing anything. 

Jungkook looks around, at the Greek pillars holding the infrastructure up, the waiters walking around with cups of ambrosia- hold on, is that satyr staring at your ass? 

Sometimes, you don’t realize how beautiful you are, and it bothers him. He thinks he should tell you that you should be more careful or to be more cognizant of your surroundings, but that’s what he’s here for. 

He casually wraps his arm around your waist and looks at anyone who looks at you. He doesn’t glare at the Cyclopes and their wandering eye(s) or the minor gods he was surely stronger than, a simple look their way is enough for someone to back off. 

Curse the fates for having him fall in love with someone so pretty. 

The two of you walk for what seems like miles before entering the next room in the gala hall: the artisan’s workshop. 

Probably at Hephaestus’s request, his henchmen stand in the middle room, intricately metalworking while guests gather around to marvel at the artisan mastery. Sparks fly as metal is shaped and molded into exquisite sculptures and jewelry, 

All of Hephasetus’s mastery forge work is on display, like a museum filled with the best forgery to ever exist in the history of the world. You marvel at the display.

There’s a prototype for amphibious armor- armor capable of moving seamlessly between land and water. You’d have to get on this for Taehyung, your friend and son of Poseidon. He could do wonders with it. 

There’s also the literal Trojan Horse: the same large wooden horse the Greeks hid soldiers in during the Trojan War. 

Each and every item is masterfully crafted by your father, and one in particular catches your eye: a prototype for time manipulation. Even in the realm of Greek mythology, time travel has been untouched, and the gods themselves might not even know the implications of time travel. 

You take a second to marvel at it even more. Its intricate gears and celestial alignments fuse together in a shape of sphere, and it stays locked in its glass case. Two words decorate the cake: Time Travel. 

You just have to know more, but suddenly Jungkook tugs on your forearm when something- or someone catches his eye. 

You follow his line of sight until you see Demeter. 

Demeter is the goddess of agriculture, fertility, and the harvest in Greek mythology. Her daughter Persephone is the current bride of none other than Hades himself. Instantly you connect the dots. If anyone knew anything about the missing children of Hades, it would be Demeter. 

Lounging on a loveseat in Aphrodite’s boudoir, she sultrily sips at a glass of wine, eyeing down the nymph waiter who is obviously uncomfortable as he scurries away from her. At this party, the purpose of Aphrodite’s boudoir is for guests to meet and hook up, essentially. 

The energy she exerts is an older woman entering her cougar era and you protectively tighten your grip around Jungkook’s bicep. 

Guests recline on plush velvet sofas and lounge chairs, sipping on cocktails and indulging in sweet treats. The room is adorned with lavish decor and the soft, romantic lighting creates an atmosphere of sensuality. 

Funnily enough, the moment Jungkook opens his mouth to say something to Demeter, someone cuts him off. 

“Y/N!” 

You almost shudder at the very familiar voice. 

It’s Apollo. 

-

It is definitely true that Apollo made multiple attempts to make you his bride during your stay at Mount Olympus. Last year, you spent the entire year on Mount Olympus, working under your father Hephaestus as he taught you the latest forging techniques and strategies. 

Such attempts included:

Organizing a symphony to serenade you with love songs

Gifting you with three tons of gold

Appearing in your chambers and serenading you in the middle of the night

Luckily, your father, in his protective nature, banished Apollo from his residence and used magical reinforcements to ensure that he would stay far, far away. 

Unluckily, your father isn’t present. 

Jungkook presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dubiously tracing over Apollo’s frame. 

Gods can take on any look or appearance they please, so Apollo can make himself look like the (objectively) sexiest man in the world- which he does. He takes on the appearance of a 6’3 man with brown eyes and tan skin, his jet black hair falling into his eyes as he saunters towards you with his pearly white teeth. 

Nonetheless, you aren’t impressed and neither is Jungkook. He pauses, features curling in distaste, and at that moment he grabs you by the neck, pulling your lips to his like magnetic attraction. He kisses you, and it’s the sloppiest, most disgusting kiss he’s ever bestowed on you- nearly pornographic. 

Jungkook likes to keep it clean. He’s a gentleman and treats you like the lady you are, but you are well aware of his sadistic tendencies, just like he’s aware of your masochistic ones. His saliva drips into your mouth and he pulls away with a line of spit between your lips. 

You take a moment to compose yourself.

“Hey Apollo,” you greet, still somewhat dizzy and breathless from the intensity of Jungkook’s kiss. 

A sly smirk spreads across Apollo’s lips, and he looks right at Jungkook. “Claim her all you want, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

At that moment, it’s like time warps. Everything seems to pause, and the atmosphere turns gray. 

In the next second, everything returns to normal. 

It’s like the air is sucked out of his lungs, but he remains composed. “What do you mean by that?”

Apollo cocks his head, his black hair following into his eyes as throws an arm around your shoulder. 

Again, it’s like time stops and you try to remove his arm from you but you can’t. It’s like his touch is anchored to your skin. Your eyes frantically search Jungkook’s who clenches his jaw as the realization of Apollo’s words sinks in. 

Did… did Apollo watch you and him this morning? 

“Oh don’t look at me like that Jeon,” Apollo pouts, “It almost hurts my feelings,” he muses with a teasing smile before he drops his smile and turns rigidly serious. “Almost,” Apollo enunciates. 

Apollo, being a god, can pretty much do whatever he pleases. He can touch whoever he wants and he can see whatever he wants. 

You squirm against his touch, eyes pleading at Jungkook to do something. When Jungkook catches a glimpse of your doe eyes and the uncomfortability plastered over your body language, something different washes over him, a type of lividity he’s never felt before. 

He immediately unsheathes his sword.

Jungkook carries three weapons with him at all times. 

First, there’s the celestial bronze knife you forged for him when you were ten years old. That particular knife has been to Tartarus and back; in other words, he’s retired it. He only really keeps it for sentimental purposes; he can’t bring himself to let it go. Most importantly, you made it for him so he must keep it with him at all times so he can always have a piece of you with him. 

The second weapon he carries is the celestial bronze Rolex watch on his wrist, which was a gift from Ares on his 18th birthday. With a press of a button, it transforms into a sleek Harley Davidson Motorcycle- he isn’t so sure if it qualifies as a weapon but he has used it to run over some monsters. 

The third weapon is an enchanted blade made from imperial gold. This sword is also something you forged. 

A few years ago, you bestowed Kataklysmós, the first magically enchanted sword to Jungwon, Jungkook’s little brother. Kataklysmós, or Cataclysm has the ability to grant the user with the magical abilities of monsters defeated by the sword.  

In order for its abilities to be activated, the user needs to form a soul binding link with the sword. 

Jungwon was the first demigod to do so, and he documented the entire process in a little Hello Kitty notebook. 

Creating a soul binding link with a magical sword means building a strong emotional connection with it. The wielder focuses their intent and channels divine energy to make the bond stronger. Both the wielder and the sword must accept and acknowledge each other to finalize the connection. 

Anyways, after Jungwon figured it out, Jungkook did it the next day with his magically enchanted sword. 

You called the sword its Greek name: Ichorothilikitimos, which translated to “Lust of Ichor” in English. 

Have you ever wondered if gods bleed? They certainly do- except they don’t bleed blood, they bleed Ichor. Ichor is the golden fluid that flows through the veins of gods, kind of like their special blood.

When Ichorothilikitimos comes into contact with the divine blood of gods and immortals, known as ichor, it sparks intense bloodlust in its wielder. This means that whoever holds the sword feels an overwhelming desire for battle and conquest- sending the user into a bloodlust frenzy. When it happens with Jungkook, it’s like his powers are amplified, and he can take down an entire army single handedly. 

But yes- this weapon is quite literally a god-killing weapon. It’s never been done before, but with Ichorothilikitimos, Jungkook could kill a god with ease. 

While it grants great strength, it also presents a danger of being consumed by aggression. It's a powerful weapon, capable of changing the course of a fight, but it comes with a significant risk.

Obviously, this is a sword only Jungkook could wield. Primarily because he is the only demigod that can even draw ichor from a god, and also because he’s the only other demigod that successfully formed a soul binding link with their weapon. 

When you see Jungkook reach for Ichorothilikitimos, your breath hitches in your throat, but Apollo keeps talking. 

“I’m a god,” Apollo brags, “I can see whatever I want in the mortal world, especially on Camp Half-Blood.”

“I saw you in the bed,” Apollo taunts, “in the shower,” Apollo continues, “and even under the sheets. You looked good. I could do better though,” he declares with a sleazy wink. 

At his statement, you feel disgustingly violated. You feel your stomach churn with revulsion at Apollo's invasive words, each syllable like a dagger aimed at your sense of autonomy.

Jungkook’s nostrils flare, and you wince, looking down when you hear the sound of Ichorothilikitimos being unsheathed. You squeeze your eyes shut, and Jungkook moves with the greatest agility. He nearly slashes Apollo’s arm off- until he doesn’t. 

In a flash, you and Jungkook are transported to another room. 

The fancy room is filled with tall pillars and a sweet smell of roses. In the middle are two big chairs: one pretty and gold, the other strong and iron. Aphrodite, looking beautiful, sits in one, while Hephaestus, looking serious, sits in the other. 

Both are in their more godly form- Hephaestus sits at 36 feet tall while Aphrodite sits at a measly 25 feet. 

“Dad!” you exclaim in relief, hyperventilating from the absolutely horrid encounter with Apollo.

Hephaestus sighs, stepping from the throne until he appears in human form, embracing you sweetly. “Daughter,” he murmurs, “That Apollo… I’ll damn him to Tartarus,” he seethes. 

Apparently, Jungkook feels the same way, seething with anger as his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes shut as he feebly attempts to calm himself. 

Jungkook almost instantly interrupts the moment. “You need to protect your daughter!” Jungkook growls. “How can- how can you let that pervert witness intimacy between your daughter and I?!”

Hephaestus turns his head towards Jungkook. Usually, when a god looks you in the eye, you back down, but Jungkook stares right back at him. 

“You,” Hephaestus starts, “did I give you permission to allow you to marry my daughter? I don’t even remember saying you could marry her.”

“Like I need your permission?” Jungkook scoffs, “I’m the only man Y/N needs in her life- to you she’s just another one of your thousands of kids, Y/N is everything to me.”

You say nothing. Jungkook has a point, and as far as you know, an engaged woman has allegiance to her fiance and not her father. 

Hephaestus appears livid, and you think he’s going to send Jungkook into flames but he sighs and a moment later, you and Jungkook are seated on mini-thrones in front of the thrones of Aphrodite and Hephaestus. 

“This is the problem,” Hephaestus enunciates, “I told you this was going to happen!” he growls, directing his attention towards Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. 

Aphrodite looks beautiful today, with her hair cascading in golden waves and her eyes sparkling like the sea under the sunlight. She’s wearing a red gown and an elegant updo, but her aura exudes one of apprehension.

As far as Aphrodite goes, Jungkook hates her. Aphrodite (again, the goddess of love) has messed with his love life for years; he’s been heartbroken (most likely because of her manipulation)- and Aphrodite was the same goddess who pleaded with Jungkook to return to Camp Half-Blood. 

That means she knew you were alive and didn’t tell him. 

“Jungkook,” Aphrodite begins, “Do you remember what I told you? At the club in Korea, about the balance between gods and demigods?”

Jungkook says nothing. 

“Well, in other words, you fucked that entire balance up!” Hephaestus cuts in frustratedly. 

 “That sword,” Hephaestus starts, inhaling deeply, “Daughter, that sword- what made you think that  forging that sword was a good idea? If demigods possess the capability to kill gods, then the existence of gods becomes meaningless."

“Jungkook, honey, you could have killed Apollo,” Aphrodite says with sweetness laced in her voice in attempts to assuage Jungkook. Clearly, it doesn’t work.

“Well, he deserved to die,” Jungkook bites back, “And Hephaestus, gods aren’t the only beings that bleed Ichor. Titans, monsters, and of course Gaia and Tartarus bleed Ichor. I intend to use this sword to kill the primordial god Tartarus.”

At that moment, you realize that you and Jungkook are a deadly duo, akin to a Mr. and Mrs. Smith. You have the capacity to create god-killing weapons and Jungkook has the capacity to implement the god-killing. 

“Dad, Jungkook would never kill a god,” you declare, “I forged that weapon for Jungkook to kill titans, and he used it to save the world. He’s my fiance, and you can’t address him like he’s a delinquent. Jungkook is the sweetest guy in the entire world.”

Hephaestus has to prevent himself from scoffing, shifting his gaze towards Jungkook who quite literally has fire for pupils- definitely the “sweetest guy in the entire world”. 

Aphrodite holds her tongue. 

“Look,” Jungkook starts, “Here’s the deal. So long as she’s okay, then I’m okay,” he states, motioning towards you. “If Y/N is protected, especially from Apollo,” he seethes, “then I won’t do anything rash. I’ll be an obedient demigod, and do whatever you want- kill any titan or  monster you want. But if anything happens to her, ever, I will burn Olympus down with my own hands.”

It’s quite preposterous for a demigod to threaten a god, but the threat is taken seriously.  Hephaestus and Aphrodite appear physically distraught. 

“Okay,” Hephaestus acquiesces. “Y/N stays safe. To help you on your quest, I’m opening a direct portal to the underworld. The demigod children of Hades are imprisoned in the Underworld with their father. Your eyes will be tricked by the mist but dip yourself in the River of Styx and you will see through it. As for Y/N, she stays here with me-”

“What? No! I’m going with him!”

“She stays here with me and we will forge weapons for you to use. The best weapons of the best caliber- I will ensure my daughter gives you what you need to defeat Tartarus.”

Jungkook inhales deeply and curtly nods at your father. 

You turn to him, “What the fuck Jungkook! You can’t exclude me from this quest! I have to go with you-”

When he faces you, you stop talking. Jungkook is as rigidly serious as ever, and he’s doing the whole flaming pupils thing without even looking angry. 

“Y/N, please,” he urges, “I lost you once and I’m not going to lose you again. Just stay here. You’ve served enough-”

“No,” you respond, “You know I’m not that type of person. I can’t just let you take on Tartarus by yourself!”

Jungkook locks eyes with Hephaestus who just nods, and with a snap of Hephaestus’s fingers, you’re trapped in a celestial bronze cage. You pull against the jail cell screaming, “What the fuck!”

“Dad! Jungkook! Let me out! What the fuck!”

Jungkook stands outside of the cage and looks at you with concerned eyes. “Baby, baby calm down,” he pleads, using his hand to hold your cheek. 

“No,” you cry, “Jungkook, if you do this then it’s over between you and me. I can’t be with a man who doesn’t even trust me.” You begin weeping and crying, and you mean it. You wouldn't forgive Jungkook if he went and saved the world without you. He needs you, and you need him.

At that, Jungkook’s face falls, his eyebrows furrow and he bites his lip in apprehension. The thought of losing you leaves him crestfallen, and he'd rather believe that you're saying all of this in the heat of the moment.

He doesn't have time to contemplate whether you're serious because he's been granted a golden opportunity: a guarantee of your protection by the gods themselves. He can't pass this up.

He bitterly nods. “I’d rather have you safe,” he says before standing up and unsheathing  Ichorothilikitimos. 

And with that, Hephaestus opens a portal straight to the Underworld and Jungkook walks through, leaving you stuck in a cage on Mount Olympus.

#jungkook fanfic #demigod!jungkook #demigod!bts

[gabessquishytum]

Hob works in a rich bitch cafe; it's not called that of course, but most of the restaurant clientele are women who don't have "jobs" and who can eat (and drink) lunch for 3 hours a day. Hob's not complaining - the tips are good and his ass only get pinched a few times a month.

The most interesting group of ladies who come in seem to be some kind of exs club; they all dated or were married(?) to this guy Morpheus. They have a litany of complaints as their monthly lunches get more lubricated -- he's so intense and smothering, except when he's busy and disinterested; the sex is good, when he wants it, but who can tell went that is; he's so moody; he looks better in couture that (we) ever did. The best they can agree on is he's pretty and the moneys good.

Hob kind of feels bad for this guy - these ladies don't seem to ever had respected this Morpheus guy. It's too bad, but it is a bitch club so maybe they are just venting. If Hob wasn't dating this absolutely fantastic guy, Dream (the sex is great, he's intense in a way Hob loves, and Hob enjoys just cuddling him when they both need some quiet time), he might have tried to look this Morpheus guy up -- just to see if he swung Hob way; Hob would have offered to blow the guys back out, at the very least.

Oh well.

It's the monthly Mimosas & Morpheus club 😭😭 and I fucking love it.

Hob watches on in amusement. He's got to the point where he recognises the ladies and even knows some of their Morpheus-related backstory: Nada, the college girlfriend who he proposed to after just one month and then refused to even look at her again after she declined. Titania, who is at least enthusiastic about the guy's skills in bed. Calliope, the ex wife who is perhaps the kindest but also the most savage. There are others who come and go. Hob almost looks forward to hearing their stories.

One day one of the women (Bast? Hob thinks her name is?) is like "I hear he's trying men now. For goodness sake, was it not enough to traumatise the entire female population?" And the girls all laugh, and some speculate that maybe Morpheus was gay all along (Hob takes mild offense at the blatant bi erasure but it's not his place to say anything).

And then he's distracted anyway, because Dream just swanned through the cafe doors! Hob is thrilled to see his boyfriend and greets him, giving him a big ole smooch when the manager's back is turned. Dream looks pleased, but then he looks over Hob’s shoulder and all the colour (not there was much) drains from his face.

Hob follows his gaze and sees that all the ladies from the mimosas & morpheus club are staring back, jaws on the floor. Calliope stands up and quietly calls out - "Morpheus? Is that you? What are you doing here?"

But the moment she speaks, Dream - Morpheus? Slips out of Hob’s arms and flees through the door. There are angry tears in his eyes, and Hob is halfway through following him before someone tugs him back.

"Let him have a moment." One of the women - Jo, Hob remembers. She doesn't come often, counts herself as a hookup rather than an ex, and never pays for her own booze - "He looks good. Better than he used to. Obviously he just needed to find the right bloke."

Hob smiles slightly. He'll go after Dream, anyway. There's no way he'd leave his beautiful boyfriend to deal with this alone. Hob tries to imagine what it would be like to walk into a room full of his own exes and nearly gags.

When he comes back with a reluctant Dream in tow, Hob finds that he still has his job, thanks to the mimosas and morpheus club. They've also bought an entire basket of pastries to apologise and made themselves scarce.

Dream buries his head in his hands. "No doubt you have heard every sin I have ever committed, in vivid detail."

"And I still love you. Even though you do leave your knickers on the bedroom floor for days." Hob grins. "You were just looking for the right bloke, love. I think you found him."

#the sandman #dreamling

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hi could I request kissing in the rain with Morpheus after a fight?; thank you

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

“Is my love not good enough for you?”

In all of his passions, Morpheus can quickly come on a little too strong. Although, ‘little’ should be treated as a diplomatic euphemism. There’s an element of mindless obsession in him, an endless chasm that deepens the stronger his affection is. It scares you. Not because he’s changing into a violent beast of rotten flesh and unrequited love but because you don’t know how to handle it - for every nugget of gold you might think about, Morpheus shoves entire pounds of red diamonds into your hands. While such devotion sounds wonderful on yellowing pages of vintage romances, the reality is quite underwhelming: you feel burdened, pressured, as though there is a debt you have to repay him. And this imagined debenture is slowly but surely killing your love for him.

“I never said that and I never meant anything like that. I said that it feels like you’re smothering me and that’s exactly what I meant by it - you’re going a bit too fast and too strong for me.”

“All that I have given you is a token of my own affection. Human language is not quite sufficient in expressing it.”

“Do you ever consider how your actions make me feel? What am I saying, of course you don’t! You go around guessing what I want or need but never bother actually to ask. This,” you frantically point between him and you, “will not work like that. I don’t want it to.”

And without exchanging any more words, you shut the door behind you and left into the night. Wandering the empty, dark streets of the city, you have not headed anywhere in particular except forwards. Tears are streaming down your face. You couldn’t stop them even if you tried. Shortly after, the rain started pouring as though the night wasn’t cold enough already. A string of curse words leaves your mouth as you hug yourself tightly.

Rid of strength, both physical and emotional, you sit on the curb of some unnamed street you’ve never been to before. All of it is wrong. So very wrong… You have stumbled upon a man who was more than glad to treat you like a queen in a castle and the most rational thing to do, judging by your behaviour, was to tell him off for being too much.

You put your face in your hands. The cold rain was drenching you and you could no longer tell whether your palms were wet with rainwater or your own tears. A shudder shakes your body but you don’t care at the moment. Tomorrow you’re going to wake up with a cold but, again, it doesn’t matter at the moment. Nothing really does.

“I know you can hear me, Morpheus,” you whisper under your breath. “You always do, somehow. I want to make things right. I have to. Please, just… give me a chance.”

You feel heavy material around your shoulders. It smells somewhat sweet and musty like fruits and parchment. The warmth of the garment is a pleasant change from the cold rain. Surprised, you look up only to see Morpheus standing right in front of you. The small area surrounding you is suddenly dry, the rainstorm miraculously avoiding the feuding couple.

“It is unsafe for you to be out at this time,” he states in a voice strangely devoid of emotions. Morpheus appears indifferent as he helps you up from the curb. Is he not as upset as you had expected? “This is me giving you chance.”

You look away for a moment, gathering your thoughts. There is so much you want to say, it’s hard to decide where to start. You already messed up once and although you know Morpheus is lovestruck enough to let you break his heart numerous times, it was simply wrong to rub salt further into the wounds you have inflicted, even if it was not intentional. “It’s just… you don’t love like humans do, you know?”

“Why would I? I’m not human.”

Silence. Part of Morpheus expects this disagreement in the way he’s too familiar with - his heart being shattered, reality-bending love rejected as if it could never be good enough. Like he is not good enough to have a happy ending.

“Look, Morpheus, you’ve got all of eternity to fall in love and get your heart broken only to love again. I’ve only my life, not even a century. I want to be certain before I commit.”

“What would make you certain?” he asks immediately.

Truthfully, it’s a very expected reaction from him. Something about his predictability makes you scoff quietly. “You can’t just make me certain that I want this life. It’s consistency, reliability, trust… Time, Morpheus. I need time. With you; just the two of us being together, no grand gestures involved. I want to know you, not what you can give me.” Staring at Morpheus’s face, you think he looks a little lost as though it was beyond him to disjoin those two elements. A troubled sigh leaves your lips. In the cold night air, the expression of distraught turns into a barely visible cloud of fog. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, Morpheus. I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that. I know you mean well and that you only show just how much I mean to you but I need you to be patient with me. I’m still learning what it’s like to be loved by one of the Endless.”

“As much as I do not like idly waiting, I do have all of eternity to wait until you’re ready.”

His thin hands cradle your face. Morpheus leans in, your noses brushing against each other, but he lingers as though he was waiting. His shaky breath feels hot against your lips. Then, ever so gently, Morpheus tilts your head upwards only to lock you in a desperate, longing kiss. 

You just know he isn’t going to have to wait long.

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

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Younger Gods: Chapter VI

Master list

Chapter 5

Morpheus x fem!reader

A search in the rain, talk over a fire, and a door suggest changes in the wind.

Warnings: blood, injury, stitches

A/N: You are all incredible, and I appreciate every single one of you. FYI, if you're commenting on your reblogs - I SEE YOU. You have the funniest, sweetest, wittiest things to say, but I honestly don't know how to reply without reblogging each chapter into oblivion. So this one's for you. <3

Chapter 6: Sheltering

“Where is the storm god?”

The bard jumped awake under his hand, fighting valiantly through the fog swaddling his sleeping mind, but Morpheus had little patience and no time. He’d felt the storm god’s pain shift in the Dreaming, felt her pain turn to true desperation, and he’d severed the connection before the curse could finish whatever it started in response to his examination.

He did not see her on the couch, though she’d clearly rested under the bard’s protection.

The bard was asleep.

The storm god was gone.

Taliesin scrubbed his face with his palms, sitting up in his chair as Dream pulled back. The bard’s eyes skimmed the room, looking for the same woman Dream came to find. “What happened?”

“I do not know. But she was in great pain.”

“Agh.” Taliesin stumbled upright, raking a hand through his hair as he glanced at the raging storm outside. “Fuck. Let me check. She may be in the bath. Coping method.”

Muttering under his breath, he added, “Let’s not panic just yet.”

As he moved on stiff legs to the bathroom door, Morpheus looked over the nest on the couch. It eased his pricking conscience that she’d woken under love-worn and use-softened blankets, that even if the bard hadn’t sensed her distress, she hadn’t been alone.

He’d seen through Matthew how she huddled on the cold floor in a strange room after she woke from his interrogation in the Dreaming.

He reached down, tracing the indent she’d left in the cushions, seeking heat to tell him how long she’d been away, when a splash of color drew his eye. Easy to mistake as shadows or reflections of the firelight, three drops of red stained the pillow.

Something truly had gone wrong.

“Dream!”

Taliesin stood in the doorway to the cottage’s washroom, a length of red fabric in his hands. Only the red had smeared over his fingers, and the drifting ends revealed the scarf ought to be pale lavender.

“We have to find her.” Still clutching the scarf in one hand, Taliesin rushed through the room, shoving his feet into his boots – beside which the storm god’s still sat – and wrestling one arm into his coat before Morpheus stepped between him and the door.

“Wait here,” he ordered. “She will need help and comfort, and you must be ready to provide them to her.” He didn’t have to say he was poorly equipped to calm the worst of her fears. He spoke carefully, giving time and weight to each word so it would carry through the bard’s own panic. “I will find her, and you must be here when I return with her.”

Taliesin’s throat bobbed, full of words and frantic urges to shout and call until his little friend heard his voice and followed it home. Dream could acknowledge he had not always handled the storm god well, but there would be time for the bard’s tender care once she was secured.

The barest glance at the scarf reminded Taliesin of the blood on his hands, and the bard whined through a shaky breath. Dream could take this decision for him.

“She’s bleeding. Wait for her. Be ready.”

He opened the door, and the storm swallowed him.

They sky tore itself apart. Roiling black clouds churned with thunder, sparked with quick lightning. Bolts struck distant hills, but the torrential rain smothered any fire before it could even begin. Through it all, the wind shrieked. Panic and turmoil given voice.

Yet he was no mere mortal. No human or demi-god. And he walked through her chaos without fear. Even the darkness couldn’t keep him from the task he’d chosen.

He found her in the shelter in the chime woods. Where he’d seen peace and contentment only hours ago, raw anguish ached like an open wound in the sobs echoing between claps of thunder.  The howling wind buried the chimes’ song, but their fragmented shadows blinked over bark and bough in every flash of lightning, twisting in the storm.

As he approached, he better saw her shape, curled up against the woven saplings, hands around her neck. Trying to hold in her pain. Trying to hide.

He recognized it all, and a heavy weight dropped into the pit of his stomach, bitterly familiar. He felt a similar pit in his gut when he failed to reconstruct his throne room upon his escape from the Burgess’s prison. Discovery of his own limits, surprised by his powerlessness, his shattered world crumbling down in a wave of rubble as he collapsed at the foot of the stairs to his throne.

Would she recoil if he approached? Abandon her meager shelter and run into her storm? He did not know if her mortal half would weaken in the cold, but she’d lost more than enough blood to cause concern for her wellbeing. He’d felt it well hot between his fingers in the dream, and the red-soaked scarf she’d left behind practically dripped with it.

Perhaps he should find Taliesin. The bard would have the right words and soft touches to coax her home, bandage the wounds of her heart and mind. The fragile trust he shared with her may not survive an invasion – further witnessing – of her pain.

But he recognized that despair.

It was more than duty that urged him forward.

He wouldn’t put a name to every quick stab of emotion prodding him to approach the shelter and lower himself to the level of his little dreamer, and he didn’t need to.

Wild eyes of a trapped animal flicked up to his, and he rested on his heels, waiting for the woman to rise past panicked instinct. Her breaths shivered in and out, cracking with half-formed cries and gulping sniffles. She didn’t lash out. She didn’t run. They sat in silence while she blinked at him through watery eyes, adjusting to his presence, deciding whether or not she had the strength to bury her agony for the sake of her pride.

In the end, there was too much, and she bowed her head to hide her shame. Her distress.

“You’re hurt.”

“Please.” Her lips trembled around the word, eyes overflowing with their own rain. She looked at him with such hope, such desperation, like he could make it all better with a mere word. “Please tell me I’m still dreaming.”

What comforting words could he offer without betraying her faith with a lie? He searched for good words, something that wouldn’t extinguish that frail light, but she found her answers in his silence. She curled even tighter, until her forehead rested on her knees.

“This is no dream.”

Her shoulders quaked, and the storm cried her grief. Thunder without lightning groaned over the trees, and the torrent fell so hard Morpheus wondered if she meant to drown herself. The trembling shape before him begged for a kind hand, for help. Perhaps he should’ve gone for the bard, but he’d known what she’d need when he made his choice, even if he didn’t consider it as well as he might have.

He would get her back to her cottage, where a friend who knew her well could wrap her in blankets as he clucked and cooed and made tea.

But before she could go home, she must come back to herself, and they sat, once again, alone. Surely if she could trust him with her greatest horror, she could trust him this far? He could not use his sand to put her to sleep as he had before, because her dreams offered no respite from her terror. Whatever he could offer must be given in the thunder and mist of this world.

Tentatively, he reached for her. Slowly. Letting her sense his intent, giving her time to scramble away or bite at his hand.

As his fingertips brushed the frigid cotton of her soaked t-shirt, she went still. Shivers still wracked her frame, but under her body’s response to the chill in the air, she was listening. He’d been so caught up in the finding the right words, but there were better languages to express concern, to offer comfort. Even to apologize. His fingers ran down to the valley between her shoulder blades, spreading to hold as much as he could, his palm pressing against her spine. He could feel her stilted, uneven breaths. Every beat of her heart. It fluttered, ready to fuel an escape, but it steadied with time. With patience.

And when her heart slowed and her breaths grew a little more even, he asked, “May I see your neck?”

The muscles under his hand shifted, and he pressed down softly, assuring her of his presence. Instead of tearing herself away or refusing him, she sat up enough to unpin her arms from between her chest and her knees. His hand slid up to her shoulder as she moved, and when she hesitated, reassuring herself with a self-conscious glance at his face, he nodded. She could continue. She was safe. He had her, and no further damage would come to her in this refuge.

Stiff fingers slowly twitched to life, and there was no denying his relief as her hands peeled away to reveal tattered skin and darkening bruises. She’d carried the damage back from the Dreaming, but the collar remained a nemesis of her sleeping hours.

Her gaze had turned back to the forest floor as she revealed her mangled flesh, and he pulled himself closer, returning his hand to the middle of her back to reclaim her focus. Should she fall any deeper into herself, she’d only find new reasons to ache. New pain, in his experience, always summoned old hurts to mind, and her past stretched full of them. Under the blood, she wore proof of it in her scars.

He thought again of the crossroads, the Fates’ warning, but he had to wonder what they withheld. Perhaps he’d pulled her back in time from a darker fate. Though, he must wonder: onto what new path did he pull her? It seemed as they fell into step, aligned goals in common, she only saw her greatest hurts and fears given fresh life. It cut his heart as well as his pride that he’d failed to keep her safe within the bounds of the Dreaming. She walked in Fiddler’s Green beside the King of Dreams yet remained a prisoner.

A prisoner.

Perhaps that was why his chest hurt as she bared her neck to him, why his eyes burned when she stared – helpless under his hands – as the collar inflicted those marks.

“I know what it is to be trapped.”

He almost startled himself with the words. Perhaps, however, he’d finally found the right thing to say, because she looked at him with a little of the recognition he’d felt when he first caught sight of her in the chime woods. A listening silence cut between them. They both knew the intimacy of shackles, in one form or another, and once seen, neither could ignore the common ache they shared. In the shelter, under the rain, that mattered more than titles or age, power or nature.

They hurt together, alone and protected by water and wood, something hushed and still. Like finding a hand to hold in a dark room – neither could see the whole of the other, but they found one another in the same suffering, and they only needed to exist together to soothe the other.

But she was still bleeding. Sluggishly. Nothing life-threatening. But he could not disregard it, and when a thick red tear pushed out of a broken scab to roll down her neck, he had enough.

“Will you let me help you?”

He needed her permission. Her consent. If she summoned lightning to disappear into the waking world, he didn’t like to imagine what fresh harm she’d bring on herself. She needed Taliesin’s resilient care, and he wanted to return her to her warm home before more blood wept from the holes in her throat. He needed, badly, so see her mended and safe.

Perpetual fear haunted her face, under the despair, deeper than hope. And through it all, she saw him. When he held out his hand, rising from under the woven shelter, she accepted it. When he swept his arm under her knees and pulled her away from the leaves, and loam, and dirt, she accepted that, too. Her shaking hands, weak with shock and blood loss, snatched the collar of his coat, but she made no further concessions to her fear.

She trusted him to bear her back home through her storm.

Despite his relentless pursuit that stoked her fears to the point of desperation.  

Even though he’d failed to protect her.

She didn’t relax into his hold, but she sheltered against him, turning her face into his shoulder against the wind as they cleared the woods. He did not touch her skin, but her warm breath puffed in little gusts against his neck, a sharp juxtaposition against the cold rain that left his skin chilled and sensitive.

He moved quickly across the low hills between the chime woods and the cottage, following the yellow light calling the storm god home through the windows. Taliesin was watching for them, and he threw the door open for Dream to stoop through with his burden.

“Here, here.” Taliesin danced around him to throw a blanket over the couch.

Dream set her down where instructed and stepped back so the bard could work his friendly magic. The wind and rain had plastered a curl of drenched hair to the storm god’s cheek. The bard tucked it behind her ear with one hand as his other pulled another blanket down over her legs.

“Darling, why didn’t you wake me?” Still reaching for a third and fourth blanket to cover her lap and wrap around her shoulders, Taliesin knelt in front of his little friend, resting a hand on the back of her head until she caved to his demand, dropping her forehead into his chest.

“I didn’t want – I didn’t think –” Her shoulders rose and dropped with an impressive sigh. “I couldn’t think.”

“So you ran.” The bard spoke without judgement. He didn’t swaddle his assessment in pity, either. He just wanted to confirm he understood, that she didn’t have to pick herself apart to explain it to him.

She groaned into his tweed vest. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He stroked her wet hair, studying a pile of first aid accoutrements piled on the side table where he usually kept his tea. A steaming bowl of warm water sat beside a pile of towels and washcloths. Behind that were bandages and ointments to prevent infection. Such simple tools to treat the fallout of a curse.

Taliesin guided the storm god up by the shoulders, pulling the blankets around her to keep the chill off as she sat up. “Here now. I need to look at your neck.”

Her head dropped, and Taliesin tutted.

Dream studied the scene, trying to riddle out the bard’s technique as the man began pulling her wet hair out of the wounds. Efficiency. A little distraction. The man only had two hands, though, and he needed them both as he gingerly dabbed a wet cloth against the congealed blood in the hollow of the storm god’s throat, gradually exposing the extent of the curse’s damage.

It looked like something with teeth chewed on her.

The storm god’s hands trembled in in her lap, shaking through the blanket so Dream could see even across the room. She did not look at the bard, even when he tilted her chin up to better reach the gore. Dream thought he could see her pulling away from herself, sinking deeper into her skin, leaving her eyes hollow and glassy with only the flames’ reflection to animate her expression.

“What can I do?”

Taliesin peeped over his shoulder, but he didn’t say a word. The bard turned to the storm god for an answer. It was her trauma, her blood and scars on display. He wouldn’t invite someone else to hold her hand or her attention. She must say those words herself.

Stirring from her stupor, she blinked. Dissociation left each motion slow, sticky with distance. Her eyes flicked from the bard, to the Dream Lord, to the small pile of bloodied cloths growing beside her.

Taliesin waited, crouched beside her, as she lifted her hands free of the blankets, and her fingers brushed over her throat. Over holes too deep to call mere scratches. Over the bruising, testimony to her struggle to just breathe. Over evidence of the curse that trapped her dreams – and now shadowed her waking hours once more.

“What can you do?”

He considered.

And then he moved. Slowly crossing the living area, watching for hint of fresh anxiety, any suggestion he was not wanted in this space, he approached the bard and his rain cloud. Leaving a hand’s width of space – enough for her to lean away or lean into him – he sat on the couch. His hands came over the bard’s, where the man held the hair away from his work, and lifted the rain- and blood-soaked tresses.

“I can help.”

----------------------------------------------

Lord Morpheus ordered any dream or nightmare that came into contact with Deimos and Phobos to come to the palace.

Lucienne could understand why.

The old gods of terror and panic instigated wars as readily as they indulged in the aftermath, and the Dreaming made a fertile field for their powers of alteration and deception. They twisted dreams into night terrors, turned nightmares into self-immolating monsters.

Victims needed a safe harbor where they could recover. Some needed their lord’s attention after tearing themselves – and each other – apart in a fit of terror. All brought news of the two gods’ activities at the borders of the Dreaming, insight needed for counter-measures and better protections.

Her lord played a careful game against them. He could not deny them their nature, and they must cause significant damage to validate the kind of punishments he had in mind. So he waited. Collected the evidence that would destroy them. And in the meantime, Lucienne recorded every detail to arm her lord for the work of reinforcing their borders.

But at the moment, the lord was out. He’d gone – not to the waking world (thank the stars) – in great haste to find his little demigod.

Lucienne understood her lord rather well after millennia of service, and the stories Matthew shared piqued her interest. After scouring the library and coming up nearly empty handed, she’d been curious as well. She hoped her king hadn’t broken the poor thing before she ever had a chance to meet her. Though her lord was usually just, he could also be too quick to act, especially in defense of his favorites.

Unfortunately, her king’s timing remained dismal as ever. He’d been gone a mere hour when a wave of limping, weeping dreams crept into the palace.

Her duties extended to recording the damage, to judging any immediate threats in the king’s absence, and she moved through the small crowd, trying to figure out not only what ailed them, but where they all came from. Had there been a large-scale attack? Had they simply been together at the wrong time?

Not a one spoke to her. They fled the click of her shoes on the polished palace floors, one after another, scattering into the shadows as if they lacked true form. Once she lost line of sight, each one simply disappeared.

Dread snaked into her thoughts.

Where had they all gone?

She set aside her quill and notebook, entirely focused on her search, but no voices echoed back with the noise of her steps. She searched from gates to throne room, peering into every nook and cranny the library offered quiet readers.

Nothing.

No one.

Where was Mervyn? Matthew? Where had everyone gone?

Her voice carried back along empty halls when she called for them.

The heart of the Dreaming rarely kept quiet, but no one laughed outside the windows. No screaming nightmares cackled on the wind.

The wasting death of years alone, without purpose or companionship – nearly without hope – filled her senses.

She could see it in the crumbling walls. Hear it in a breeze that came only to strip away the last leaves from the trees. The sky over Dream’s throne grew dark, and she knew she was alone. Alone and forgotten as the dreamers all lost themselves and faded, leaving the Dreaming to crack and splinter. She walked so carefully, banishing the pride and purpose of the royal librarian’s step for a creeping, soft pace as she begged the floor to hold, for the ruins to keep themselves together just a little longer.

The walls groaned, and she raced out before they could bury her. She stumbled over the fragments of the rotting bridge, darted between shattered remnants of old marvels and faded splendor on her way towards hope. Towards the shore where she’d found Lord Morpheus again – returned, safe, and more or less whole.

But the gates had fallen. And when she finally came to the black sand, only a dried-out husk in a long black coat waited for her, long dead and decayed. Returned, but too late. Come home, but to a dead realm.

Lucienne sank her fingernails into her scalp and screamed.

----------------------------------------------

Morning light found the storm god and both her guests still awake.

Taliesin had to stitch the worst holes shut, but she barely felt the needle. The collar’s thorns caused much more pain, and she liked to imagine she could feel Taliesin’s intent to heal as the delicate point guided the thread through each suture.

With her old friend crouched close on one side and the Dream Lord on the other, she felt unusually calm. Sheltered. The hand Dream didn’t use to hold her hair off her neck rested over several blankets on her knee. Not crowding, but keeping near, listening when Taliesin instructed him to move her hair higher, to shift out of the light.

By the time the sun crept over the horizon, Taliesin was delicately arranging a clean scarf over the bandages. It was like she’d fallen to pieces, like she’d tripped and shattered, and the pair spent the dark hours putting her back together.

She felt like herself, not the frightened child in the sacred grove.

“There now.” Taliesin smiled so the wrinkles around his eyes creased sweetly. “Isn’t that better?”

She lifted a hand, and when he nodded, she stroked the soft fabric protecting her throat. It felt right again. A little tremor deep in her heart still quaked over the collar’s assault, but it didn’t bubble up. It kept itself in the bottomless well of old fears, and no floods drowned her thoughts.

“Yes.” She held Taliesin’s face, returning his gentle affection, and he pressed a hand over hers, holding it to his cheek as he closed his eyes.

“I was so scared this time, rain cloud.”

The fire popped, and a sunbeam cut through the rain on the window with a prism spray of colors.

The Dream Lord, who moved to the window after the last bandage found its place, looked at once perfectly at home and utterly strange in the dawn. He could build anything into a dream, but his eyes burned with stars in the Dreaming, not sunrise.

“This will not happen again.”

In her pocket world, he looked fairly human, but he didn’t feel like one, and his voice still carried the weight of the endless.

“I suggest you stay awake, at least for now.” He shifted from the window, arms folding low as his eyes dropped to hers. “I promised you kinder dreams, but until we determine the nature and source of the curse’s power, it is not safe for you.”

His voice moved over the horror he’d seen like an ocean rising to pull debris into the depths, to wash the sand clean again after a wreck.

She swallowed and felt the bandage’s pressure on her throat.

Taliesin set her hands back in her lap, arranging them ever-so-carefully, before rising.

“Sounds like tea is order, then.”

He left her for the fire, and Dream filled the space. He’d seen so much of her last night, between the dream and the chime woods. She’d tried to be brave, as he’d asked, and she’d forced him to come hunting for her again. It wasn’t such a scary thought anymore, but if she had enough blood in her system, she’d blush over the shame.

He drew a breath to speak, but a flapping shadow and frantic tapping on the window interrupted his thought.

Everyone turned to see Matthew at the window, and Dream flipped the latch a bare instant later. The raven hopped on the sill, struggling to stop cawing and start talking. All alarm and ruffled feathers, he practically exploded with his news. His beak couldn’t move fast enough.

“Boss – caw! – It’s Lucienne.”

Dream stiffened, and his voice turned hard. “What has happened?”

“Caw! Caw! She was on the beach screaming. Caw! Ran through the palace, couldn’t hear anyone, just started acting – caw! – crazy!”

“And where is she now, Matthew? Is Lucienne safe?”

She didn’t need to see his face to feel his anxiety for his subject. With his hands still full of the tea kettle, Taliesin had gone quiet and still as well, watching the conversation with a pale face.

“She’s – caw! – okay. Snapped out of it. Pretty shaken – caw! – up, though.”

“It sounds as though she is not the only one.” Dream’s tone went soft at the edges. Briefly sated with the knowledge his librarian wasn’t in immediate danger, he took the time to consider all the demands on his time.

She thought of all the entities under his control, all the creatures and dreamers who depended on Dream of the Endless. Of all the time she’d taken from them. She’d never felt like such a burden.

“I will return. Though my work here is not finished.” Dream looked from raven to storm god, frown puckering as he decided on a course of action. “Matthew, you will stay here. Watch, and help the bard in any way he requires. I will return.”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stop to say goodbye or wait for thanks. In a few steps he’d cleared the room, pulled open the door, and passed through. Sand rose around him as he walked. He didn’t even pause as he moved between worlds.

----------------------------------------------

Taliesin leaned against the fence, regarding the new, taller doorway. He’d stepped outside to ostensibly enjoy his cup of tea in the fresh air – while it was only misting – but somehow his mug had found its way onto the stone wall behind him.

One arm folded across his chest, supporting his opposite elbow, and his knuckles rested over his mouth, tea quite forgotten.

He distinctly remembered Dream of the Endless ducking to make it through the front door both times the King of Dreams carried his little rain cloud home.

And yet.

When the Dream Lord left that morning, he still had a good three inches between his head and the doorframe. He left upright, with all dignity, and was never in any fear of bashing his head on his way in or out.

It seemed unlikely the Lord of the Nightmare Realm shrank in the past several hours, which could only mean the door had grown. Overnight. Likely subconsciously. Which meant his little rain cloud realized she needed something. That was, at least in principle, how such things happened. It was how the house grew a bed he had yet to enjoy and a second bedroom he doubted his friend would ever voluntarily use.

His knuckles bounced in a thoughtful way against his lips as he glowered with all his power at the same old – now Dream-friendly – door.

Had he not been looking when their guest left, he wouldn’t have noticed a change.

Was he imagining it?

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

As he pondered this architectural quandary, Matthew fluttered down from the roof to join him along the wall. The bird tilted his head, looking for whatever had mystified the bard. When he found nothing exciting, he cleared his throat, claws tapping nervously over the stone.

“Everything okay?”

“I… hmm.” Taliesin tapped his lips a while longer, tilting his own head to reassess what he saw and suspected. At length, he turned to his feathered friend. “You’re a raven. You have sharp eyes. Does that door look bigger to you?”

Matthew bobbed in place. He did his best, but in the end, his feathers puffed up in a human-looking shrug. “I mean – maybe? I usually come in the window, so…”

His rain cloud walked past a window, drying her freshly washed hair. She’d taken ages getting the blood out, and he’d come outside to enjoy his tea in the name of personal space and privacy.

Matthew peered at him, far more interested in the bard than the cottage. “Why?”

Having remembered his tea, Taliesin reached around to snare the handle, but the door stole back his attention before he took a single sip.

“Last night, when your master brought my rain cloud home, he definitely had to stoop to get through.”

“Brought her home?”

Of course, the poor bird was out of the loop.

“Oh, she ran out into the storm. He went to find her. All very Sense and Sensibility, really.” He tried the tea. Cold. Damn. “You know, one idiot carrying another idiot out of the rain.”

Matthew croaked, half-flapping his wings as he processed. “He carried her. Dream of the Endless carried her.” He came to a sudden realization. “Again?”

“Yes.” His companion was beginning to understand, and the tea was past saving. As he set down the mug, he sucked on his teeth. “Is he watching? Just now, I mean?”

“Not actively, I don’t think. Lucienne is really, really important to him. I think he’s pretty distracted.”

A worthy distraction for a king, and cause of great personal concern, actually. But he had time enough to worry. At present, he needed more than anything to make sense of this telling shift in his favorite world.

“Ah. Well then. Perhaps I could solicit your opinion on why a certain little storm god would need a front door particularly suited to an individual of our mutual acquaintance.”

A/N: Now go back and read that last scene with the Wii lobby music. I dare you.

Chapter 7

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader

[mystical-sleepy-musings]

MORPHEUS

Greek god of Dreams and head of the Onerioi

SOURCES

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

"Bullfinch's Mythology"

Author:Thomas Bullfinch

[Theoi.com|https://www.theoi.com/]

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Ethereal Morpheus

The painter of slumbers

The stroke of your brush

Brings to light

Forms familiar

Gossamer in nature

With pictures of conciousness

|Who is Morpheus?|

Morpheus: The Shaper , The Lorekeeper, The One Who Forms, The Raven Haired One and The King of Dreams and Nightmares. Morpheus usually appears in the guse of a human or in the form you are most comfortable with( (he appears to me as Dream of the Endless but with slightly altered features). He is the black winged leader of The Oneiroi, which are the thosuand dream spirits who slumber within the same cave as Hypnos their father. Through the gates of horn and ivory, they fly out like a flock of bats . The gate of horn is said to bring truthful dreams while the gate of ivory is said to bring falsehoods. The Odyssey located the realm of dreams past the streams of Oceaus close to Asphodel Meadows, which is a part of the underworld where the spirits of the dead reside. They are all winged in a way(winged ears or wings on their backs) when not appearing in dreams. He has two other named Oneiroi siblings known as Icelus/Phobetor who is the fearsome one of Nightmares who appears as animals and monsters in dreams and Phantasos the oddly whimsical one who appears as objects in his fantastically woven dreams..the rest of the Oneiroi are unnamed..

|Mythology|

Morpheus sadly does not appear in many myths but some speculate that he was the nameless dream spirit that Hypnos sent out to the grieving Alcyone whose husband Ceyx died at sea after a visit from Iris(who was sent by Hera) goddess of rainbows. Morpheus appeared in her dreams, taking the shape of her dead lover to tell her that he perished at sea. But Alcyone, after seeing her husband's corpse wash up on the shore, couldn't bear this news and tried to end her life, but she and her husband got turned into kingfishers. Also, a neoclassical painting by Pierre- Narcisse Guérin portrays Iris coming within the dark cave, filling it with blinding radiance, and apparently, she also stirs up Morpheus from his slumbers.

|My Experience|(*UPG)

Morpheus is my patron deity, who is like a father to me. He apparently had been watching over me ever since I was little but did not introduce himself until the time was right. Morpheus, to me, appears as Dream of The Endless from The Sandman but with wings. Sometimes, he has dark, inky eyes and wild hair like in the comics or looks more like Tom Sturridge in Netflix's The Sandman. Morpheus is very serious and quiet(I'm like that as well lol) but is very sweet and overprotective as well. He has infinite patience, apparently, which is even more impressive considering I work also with the loud and loveably obnoxious Icelus who is his chaotic brother. He sees me as one of his children and student being a no nonsense mentor and father figure...unlike a certain someone I know who kept messing around by picking The Emperor knowing Morpheus already took that option while we were trying to establish a tarot card for him. His energy is so gentle and calming, making him very helpful if one has anxiety (like me) or trouble sleeping. He likes to hum and give snuggles to me or to the various plushies I have set out for him (I have two squishy unicorns that are filled to bursting with his energy due to him smothering them). I have no words for how freaking grateful I am to have such a lovely deity as my patron!

|Associations|

[IC]*Note this is mostly UPG*

Animals and Creatures

Ravens and crows

Cats

Nocturnal rodents like raccoons and Possums*(upg)

Butterflies

Rabbits*(upg)

Unicorns*(Upg)

Colors*(all upg)

Dark blues

Black

Purples

Some light blues

Teal

Silver and white

Misc Objects

Feathers

Skulls

Keys*(upg)

Paintings*(upg)

Books or poems(*upg)

Anything related to The Sandman by Neil Gaiman*(upg)

For some reason, he loves surreal memes and laughs like a growly Seth Rogan*(upg)

Soft stuffies and plushies*(upg)

Foods and Drinks

Popcorn*(upg)

Chocolate

Calming teas

Blackberries*(upg)

Anything really as long as it's not caffeine(coffee, energy drinks) or overly sugary(like peeps marshmallow candy type of sugary) because in his eyes it's the thought that counts

Incense and Oils

Sandalwood

Lavender

Any calming and lightly scented blends

Planet

Moon

Music*(all upg btw)

Classic and Progressive rock

Funk

Psychedelic rock

Just 60s and early 70s music

Soft rock

Swing and 50s music

He LOOOVES Pink Floyd , David Bowie, The Church , The Doors and Echo and The Bunnymen

He only likes one metal song and that is "Enter Sandman" by Metallica

Tarot card

The Emperor*(upg)

The Moon

Crystals

Amethyst

Selenite*(upg)

Blue agate

Ruby *(upg)

Rose Quartz*(upg)

Herbs and flowers

Mugwort

Hydrangea*(upg)

Lavender

Poppies

Chamomile

#my post #morpheus

[fairisfair]

I’m posting this here although it is for my sideblog batcloak to spread awareness about exactly that: my comic muse based sideblog batcloak.         © + ©

for CALLIOPE* in: simple font! (I thought that fancy font was what everyone deemed “cool” but I read earlier some people find it hard to follow and understand, so I took a break from formatting. If that’s what you require let me know!)

How do you kill a dream?

Those lacking muse have asked Calliope from time to time. Desperate to be rid themselves of an obsession for symphonies when no notes come to mind. Or the poets who shred their notebooks in front of her amid declarations, “nothing will come of it!” She does not plant the spark of creation within, but they ask her to smother it out? Rid me of this thing I have no muse for, they plead, rid me of this dream. 

Calliope understands that longing all too well. For her or eight sisters to be summoned, one of two Endless must exist in a being: desire or dream. Dear muse, they pray: make me a famous poet really meant I desire fame. I want to write a novel sprung forth from loving writing. Even a child’s prayer her dance recital be perfect for her parents boiled down to a dream. 

She found herself sighing through the centuries at how often her duties intertwine with the Endless. If Morpheus bestowed a dream upon a mortal why is she the one picking them up when they’ve ran out of ideas? Her poets barely need her after a broken heart however; at least Desire makes that simple.

How do you kill a dream?

Her wrath after Orpheus’ death was not so vengeful she sussed out how to annihilate his father. No --- they did what many lovers do after their child’s passing --- turned to strangers and then simply turned away. 

She returned home to the shores of her sisters. Her tears ran dry after she rescued what remained of her son and left him with caretakers on Lesbos. In captivity, as decades ached by in the darkness, she found her answer.  

Killing a dream was simple.

You wake up.

#my stuff** #death tw #child death tw #personals do not reblog

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Shifting Wings: Chapter One

Shifting Wings: Before the Raven Matthew, there was Jessamy, and Jessamy came with a little sister by the name of Adrienne. Dream adores his two little Ravens, but after over a hundred years of imprisonment and the death of Jessamy, Dream will find that he has not just lost his companion, but his beloved little Raven Adrienne no longer brightens the halls of his Palace. None of his staff wish to speak of where the Raven has gone, but the silent new resident of the palace is cause for question. After all, she was the one who aided in his release. If none of his subjects would help him find Adrienne, perhaps she could lead him to the whereabouts of the missing Raven. If only the woman wasn’t so flighty and hard to track down.

Warnings: Angsty Teenager Vibes, Feels like a hot Mess but Whatevs.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x FemaleRaven!Reader, NAMED Reader (I like the name).

Word Count: ~2.6k

Masterlist | Next

1722, France

The carriage, packed with furs and pelts of animals from the new land across the great ocean, rattled heavily as you sat next to your sister and gaze out at the receding road. When your father had decided to get into the fur trade blossoming from the new world, your mother had not been thrilled, but supported her husband with his decision and strive to feed his family. It was a silly thought, to bring his wife and two daughter, both unmarried, along with him. But your father trusted no one with your welfare and chose to have you travel with him.

Your sister was one and nine, and yourself one and five, hardly children, but your mother and father kept their eyes on you carefully. You were certain it was because they had lost children before you and Jessamy had come along. To the fever they had told you while their one and only little boy to the water sickness. It was easy to understand why you were so sheltered, but you felt smothered at times and grew into a rebellious spirit. One that drove your older sister Jessamy up the walls of the inns you frequented in your travels.

Sighing rather dramatically, you fell back against the covered animal pelts behind you and stared up at the sky. From beside you, your sister glanced at you with a raised eyebrow. She knew you both disliked and loved the lifestyle you were forced into. Constantly moving from one place to the other, never having lasting friends, or romance. You had reached the age where boys were on the mind and your emotions changed like a breeze in a field. Jessamy laid on her back and twisted her head so she was looking at you.

“Was is it, Adrienne?” She asked you. “What is it that has you sighing with such integrity, little sister?” You let the sound of the carriage rattling and trundling along the slightly worn path, stretch out in a period of silence before answering.

“How are we to have a future Jess?” You questioned, shifting you own head to look at your older sister. “Maman and papa insist on keeping us with them, but do we not have our own lives to live?”

“They want to keep us safe, ma caillem,” (My quail) Jessamy reminded you, understanding your frustration and sympathizing with your feelings of being stuck. “You know they only have our best interests in mind.”

“Yeah, if that means our interests are being old maids with gnarled hands, crooked noses, and with no intentions of ever getting married,” You grumbled out, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Who will want us when we are old?”

“You think negatively,  ma sœur,” (my sister) Jessamy chided you, reaching over to tuck a long curl of hair behind your ear. “You are what is most precious to us.” Your face soured as you disagreed with her words. Most precious? You felt like you were locked away in your own little world because of them. Adrienne do the laundry. Adrienne don’t talk to that boy. Adrienne don’t stray from the carriage. Adrienne make sure you come back before sunset. Adrienne do this. Adrienne do that. Adrienne. Adrienne. Adrienne! You felt like you had no life compared to the girls you encountered in your travels and you hated it.

At least the visit to Versaille had been interesting, you had never seen such splendor in one place.

At the front of the carriage, your father called out to you and Jessamy.

“Saint Cirq Lapopie, right ahead my daughters! I think you shall like this place! There is much to see and enjoy here while your mother and I conduct our business!” You blinked at Jessamy before lurching back into a sitting position and twisting your body around to look at the new town that would be your home for the next month and a half. It was a village built on a cliff right next to a river, perfect for milling barns and other modern advancements of this new century. You were amazed at how fast grain could be turned into flour just by the stream of water.

Your mother constantly preened that the 1700’s would be the cornerstone of new technologies and your father was excited at the prospects of his business expanding in a way so that your family might finally put roots down. You didn’t see the glamor in such oddity and found the constant chatter rather irritating. How long could people go on about some simple invention!? Forever it seemed like… but at least Saint Cirq Lapopie looked like a nice town, certainly there would be others your age living there, so your hopes for a life weren’t entirely dashed.

“It looks adequate, perhaps I might even find a friend for once,” You mused, hanging onto the carriage and you further inspected the looming village. Jessamy rolled her eyes and took your hand.

“Look on the bright side, ma caillem,” (My quail) Jessamy told you, taking your hand again and giving it a squeeze. “Who knows, maybe there’s a cute boy in the village you can get to know.”

You had been sneaking around with Christian for nearly two weeks before your mother caught on. Jessamy, however, seemed to know the moment you had begun to see the local boy from Saint Cirq Lapopie. You had never been able to hide anything from her and had been reduced to an embarrassed mess when she cornered you and Christian while you had been walking through the market. Better Jessamy than papa, but still, your sister was like a guard dog, she didn’t let just anyone near you. Christian had gotten the riot act from Jessamy, with plenty of threats of bodily harm if he ever hurt you, before promising not to speak a word to mamon or papa.

“I received news that Claudia, my cousin, has come down with the plague.” Christian spoke as you sat next to each other at the base of the river, the village high above you. You looked at him with worry. “My aunt fears that the plague will come to the village, have you heard anything from your father’s work?”

“Just whispers I overhear,” You answered softly. “Papa tries not to speak of work or such things when he knows when I am around.”

“So he hides the truth from you?” Christian asked with a frown. “Adrienne, the plague is spreading across France. It is bound to reach Saint Cirq Lapopie at some point.”

“I think he’s in denial, that the village is closed off enough that it will not come here.” You explained, looking at Christian with pursed lips. “You know what he is like, doesn’t believe such gossiping whispers and mamon will always stand by his decision.”

“And what of Jessamy? She is the voice of reason.”

“Jessamy spends all her time working at the mill, I hardly see her anymore.” You said just as the church bells started ringing. Glancing up the hill, your heart dropped in realization that your time with Christian was now over. You stood up and brushed the dirt from the skirts of your dress, Christian followed and grasped your hand.

“Adrienne, please be careful,” He told you, wishing that the village would be spared from the plague, that you would be spared.

“You know that I’m not allowed out much,” You reminded him, kissing his cheek. “I will see you next week, same time and spot, okay? Papa needs me to do some work for him and I won’t have time to see you.” With that you darted off for the path that led back to the village. Your mother was already standing outside your rented cottage, hands on her hips and a firm look of concern upon her face.

“Adrienne!” She called the moment you appeared. “Where have you been!? You know your father and I want you back before the bell strikes six!” She erupted, shooing you towards the door. You could smell the fire from the kitchen as well as the dinner already cooking, and already knew that she would be putting you on chore duty.

You got to working on the chores expected of you, sweeping the floor of the cottage and washing the dishes your mother used to make the stew. You and your mother worked quietly, waiting for your sister to come home and join you… but neither of you expected the door to the cottage to be thrown open as Jessamy rushed in followed by two mill workers hauling your father between them.

“Papa!” You gasped, dropping the broom you had been holding and rushing forwards. Jessamy intercepted you and held you back as your mother led the men to your parents bed and hefted him onto it. “Jess, Jess what’s wrong with him?” You asked, your eyes twisting around to look at her. “What is wrong with papa!?”

“He collapsed at work,” Jessamy explained, hugging you close and you clung to her, tears in your eyes. “Margaretta said that he hadn’t been feeling well all day but thought it was just because he has been working so much as of late.”

“Has a doctor been called? Please tell me a doctor has been called!” You fretted, looking between Jessamy and your father.

“I’m not sure but one will be,” Jessamy answered, stroking your hair while reality set in. Everyone had been hoping the plague would pass by the town, leave it unscathed, untouched. The truth was that it had already come, and it was going to leave a lasting scar.

You were having a hard time getting your bearings, almost like you were having an out of body experience. Then again, you were fairly sure that you had died of the plague, having caught it after your father had contracted it. You remember laying limp on your and Jessamy’s shared bed, hardly able to move. She, too, had caught it and been rendered bed bound. You only had each other to hold onto after the village doctor quarantined the cottage. The plague had been running rampant through the village, and no one was allowed to visit those sick save for the plague doctors.

One moment you had been tiredly closing your eyes to get some rest and the next you were in a strange world flopping around in an equally strange body while your arms flailed. No, not arms. Wings. You were no longer within your human body, but an entirely different one. A bird’s. Your panic had you flopping around much like a fish out of water as the sound of your sister shouting at you to calm down was drowned out by your heart beat. Your wings generated lift and you were clumsily flying through the air, jerking left and right, up and down.

“Adrienne!” Jessamy called from where she sat calmly on a tree branch. “Calm down!”

“Where are we!? What am I!?” You screeched, your eyes swirling around and taking in your surroundings with odd clarity. And the sounds you could hear! Your mind was overwhelmed and you flew yourself into a tangle of branches, leaves and thorns scratching at your feathers. You screeched once more, more in surprise than pain, and wildly flapped your wings to get away from them. Shooting backwards, you tried to right yourself in the air, but couldn’t figure out how your new body worked. You smashed right into the thick trunk of a tree and cried out as blinding pain ripped up your right arm.

You fell to the forest floor in a heap with a brittle call of pain and Jessamy fluttered down to you immediately.

“Adrienne, stop moving,” She ordered you as you rolled around on the ground desperate to get away from the pain holding you captive. Your little body finally stopped moving as your belly rested on leaves and your right limb was awkwardly stretched out in front you. Something was not right, you didn’t need words to tell you that. Jessamy stepped around you and settled by your head, her wise eyes inspecting what had to be a broken wing. Certainly with the way your beautiful raven and opal feathered limb was bent and twisted. “You broke your wing, you need to stop moving.”

“I don’t have wings!” You erupted with a howl but staying still as ordered. There were tears in your eyes from the pain you felt. You’d never felt something so terrible before and it scared you. Scared you just as much as this new world, this new body, did. “What happened? Where are my legs, my arms!?”

Jessamy shushed you and looked around. She had guessed that you and her had passed in your sleep, how else had you been transported to this strange new world? What Jessamy couldn’t figure out, was why you were both in the body of a bird. Had you both not died from the plague and gone to heaven? This was no heaven… but it wasn’t hell either. Your cries of pain quieted down to whimpers, and Jessamy surmised that you must have gone unconscious when you stopped wriggling and making noise entirely.

“Oh, Adrienne,” Jessamy tutted in worry, shifting her own raven and opal colored body. Without your parents to guide and protect you, it now fell on her to ensure that you finished growing up healthy and happy. A challenging task, surely. “But where are we?”

“Fiddler’s Green, child,” A disembodied voice spoke, startling Jessamy and making her flap her wings in defense.

“Who’s there!?” She barked out, her beady black eyes searching the surrounding clearing as she took a protective stance over you. She saw nothing. “Show yourself!”

 “I have no body, little one, for I am the forest and greenery that surrounds you.” Fiddler’s Green replied, pleased to know that Lord Morpheus was already on his way to help the injured raven. The poor thing had no idea what had happened to her.

“What are you then?” Jessamy questioned, cocking her head to the side.

“I am an arcana, one of the three made by Lord Morpheus here in The Dreaming.” Jessamy squinted at the trees, scrutinizing the foliage, and judging nearby bushes for any threat.

“You will explain this to me.” She ordered sternly.

“You have died in your sleep, little raven,” A calm voice spoke out, causing Jessamy to whirl around on her new tiny feet. She hopped over your downed body and flapped her wings threateningly.

“And who are you!?” She growled, hackles raised. “And why are me and my sister here? Why are we birds!?”

“I am Dream of the Endless,” Dream explained. “And you are within my realm, The Dreaming. I shall answer your questions, will you allow me to approach you and your sister? I fear she has greatly injured her wing.” Jessamy stared at this ‘Dream of the Endless’ with a hard gaze, assessing the situation and weighing out her options. She didn’t have much of a choice.

“Very well.”Jessamy said, slightly backing down from her defensive position. Dream approached and crouched down next to Jessamy, who watched his every move. His fingers glossed over the injured wing, and with a subtle whisper of sand along black and white feathers, the injury fixed itself. Then he picked up your limp body and looked to Jessamy.

“Come, we shall speak in my palace.” Jessamy narrowed her gaze before following him, wondering what exactly was this ‘Dream of the Endless’ and could he answer the questions she had. For she had many and all she cared about was keeping you safe.

Date Published: 5/3/23

Last Edit: 5/3/23

Masterlist | Next

#morpheus x reader #lord morpheus #morpheus #dream the endless x reader #dream of the endless #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream the endless #the sandman netflix #the sandman x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman

[midgardsbest]

Imagine: You feel a bit off today and the argument with your boyfriend Loki doesn’t make things better. What happens when a Steve who doesn’t understand British slang and an overprotective father ruin your sweet plan to get him back?

N/A: Hello dearests, enjoy this new Loki x reader imagine and tell me what are your impressions about it. If you wanna. If you don’t then DEATH. TO ALL OF THEM. Jk. Hope y’all got that reference. 🤟

Warnings: BestFriend!Natasha, Thor is lovely as usual, Dad!TonyStark, Boyfriend!Loki, Language, Fluff, Angst and more fluff, a bit of passion, and British reader/use of British slang (pretty easy and self-explanatory)

Words: 1953

Waking up that morning was tremendously hard. You stumbled against any piece of furniture installed inside of your room by your father, Tony Stark. Well, he was your stepfather, technically, but you weren’t particularly fond of the use of that word.

Yawning your way into the kitchen of the compound, you avoided meeting eyes with Steve. He had been more stressed than usual in the last few days, probably given the upcoming mission. He lashed out at you the day before, or at least that's what you thought was happening.

"I think a cuppa would serve you right."

"A what?"

You looked at him as if he were stupid, but you knew it couldn't be that. "A cuppa? It's.. a cup of tea. You don't know that?" Given his expression, either he was a bit dumb or was just done with you for that day. "No. I like coffee. But thank you."

You weren't mad at him, of course. Nonetheless, ignoring him for a bit did sound like a better idea than trying to cheer him up with your British manners, if you could say. He did not look happy about that.

Staring at the emptiness of your black coffee (and almost gagging at the rough taste), you swallowed the smothering ache in your heart. What was it you were yearning for?

You couldn't place in your mind the exact reason behind this suffering, but you soon grew tired of it. With a pair of eyes following your figure left unnoticed, you dragged yourself up to your room to somehow get ready.

"What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know man. Shouldn't you be locked up in your room like Stark- and he's gone. Thanks for the chat, popsicle."

This was boring, wasn't it? It was raining outside. Perhaps if you were in a rom-com you'd be soaked wet, lightheartedly dancing with a cover of dreamy clouds in the sky, glancing at your boyfriend from time to time, pretending you didn't see his "this is the woman I'll marry" eyes consuming you entirely. However, you weren't the protagonist of a rom-com, much less of a poorly written fan fiction. Additionally, your dear boyfriend wasn't officially... well, your boyfriend, and he'd been ignoring you completely. Which hurt, but your pride defeated your consciousness and you didn't want to talk to him about it.

Then, an idea took place in your mind. You had an opportunity to get back your not-much-of-a-boyfriend, the Captain's shy smile and your fun. Some might say even something more along the way.

"I AM DONE. COMPLETELY, UTTERLY DONE."

You slammed the door of Natasha's office, ignoring the frightening look she gave you and pointed to the chair right in front of you with questioning eyes.

"You slammed my door shut, might as well."

Your eyes dropped unnoticeably. Someone would have noticed though, only he wasn't there.

"I gotta do something. Would you help me with it?."

"What would I help you with, exactly? Y/N, if this is one of your unsettled plans..." She leaned back on the chair, tapping the desk with her bare fingernails.

"No! You can trust me on this, Nat. Please do. I'll buy you some nail polish."

"What?"

"What?"

"WHAT?" Tony on the verge of an anxiety attack wasn't exactly how you thought this plan would go, even though him finding out was not part of it as well.

"Boss, your heart rate is increasing critically."

"Vacation's over. FRIDAY, let's go back to the compound."

You could hear their voices on the other end of the line.

You still didn't utter a word, already having made the mistake of asking your dad when he was bound to return from his "job thing" in Rome. You shouldn’t have said that, because "you never care about it", so it was either a party you were planning or a date. Besides, you might've mentioned the mission that you later remembered, you weren’t supposed to know about.

Your leg was trembling now, having realized the crap mistake you made. "Well shit."

"Y/N!"

"Oh, forgot you were still on. Love you, Dad, bye."

Natasha gawked at you, shaking her head slightly, arms crossed in front of her. This plan was a massive mistake. But it was your plan and you wouldn’t give up on it.

Around noon, Stark made his entry into the structure and went straight to your room, knocking on the door half a time and anchoring his feet to the ground with every step. Hiding your uneven breath, and thanking Nat for her wise advice ("just play sick", she said), you raised the sheets over your painted red nose.

Your dad searched for you in your cosy bedroom, just to find your teary innocent eyes full of greed for success. Maybe you did have a fever.

"Sweetheart, why didn't you tell me you were sick? I thought you were gonna run off to a party or something you kids do."

You shifted under the covers. Shit. That was the plan after all. You were going to coerce Steve into partying with you somewhere you knew Loki would find you, like perhaps that club just around the corner where he wore that leather jacket once. Big story. Regardless, it didn't mean much now that he just vanished from your life.

"I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

An aching cough caught your breath. You tried to keep your eyebrows from furrowing at the actual symptom. You never got sick. Not really, at least.

Tony's eyes were clouded with worry, not liking the sight of you in pain.

"This is what we'll do, kid. You get some rest and I'll have Steve make you some tea."

You sniggered: "Just don't call it a cuppa."

As soon as he left the room, Natasha came out of the bathroom. Your eyes felt heavy, but your mind was still somewhere else.

"You'd make a great actress, has anyone told you that?" she grinned. You liked Nat, especially when you knew she was comfortable enough to enjoy spending time with you. She was your first real friend here at the compound. Your father would keep you hidden here when you were younger, and even though he tried his best to never make you feel like you were alone, he wasn't around much, and always left you with Pepper or Happy, who you now knew as your mother and uncle.

You coughed once again, this time harder, and brought a hand on your chest.

Nat stared at you for a little while.

"You're ill."

"Yeah. And the sun's coming out. This day just couldn't get worse. Did I just manifest getting sick?"

When she stood up from the little chair that was at the side of your bed, she gave you a comforting smile, and then she left, leaving you in Morpheus' arms to fall asleep.

"Do you think perhaps it is best to wake her?"

"Don't be foolish, brother. She is much better like this."

"You mean she's comfortable?"

"I mean she's bearable."

"Ughh."

"Perfect! Lady Y/N, you seem to have awakened."

You looked at the Norse brothers standing at the feet of your bed, still feeling dizzy from your remarkable nap. You hadn't slept this good in a while.

"Thor. Yes. Woken u-uh..p." You stood up. You looked at them. You glanced at them once again.

"OH MY GOD." You quickly covered your face with your hands. Gods, Loki was in your room. He wasn't looking at you, but he was in your room. You could feel his coldness reaching up to your veins - and heart, not only making you feel sick in your stomach but also causing a complementary shameful headache.

"Is uhm... something wrong, Y/N?" Thor's warm voice grounded you slightly but never enough.

With a shallow breath, you released your hands, dropping them along with your head. Looking at the silk white sheets, you wondered if strangling yourself with them would solve anything.

"No, thank you, Thor. Could you just give me a minute to uhm... I need to uh... powder my nose."

He smiled. "Ah yes of course. We'll be in the kitchen."

Your breath hitched. You had to do something.

"Wait!" They altered their steps, this time you looked directly into Loki's ice-blue eyes. "Gotta speak. I mean- I- 'd like to speak to Loki. For a minute. If possible."

Thor adjusted the weight on his feet and then nodded, sizing the room with his comfortable aura.

The instant he left, that same energy vanished, leaving you and that subjugating man to war. A conflict formed of rivalry, an uneasy sense of fear for all that was yet to be said and a deep, desperate need for each other in all ways known to your kind.

You soon grew tired of the dreadful silence. "Are you gonna say anything or shall I speak first?"

"Speak." He kept on staring at the window.

You debated if getting out of the bed would be better for this argument.

"Don't. And there will be no such thing as an argument. I'm not going to force your decision."

You blinked at him. What? Did the ice get to his head?

"Pardon? What decision? And who gave you permission to read my mind, Loki? You left me. Alone. You didn't speak to me for a week. Like... out of nowhere. Just like that- What. Decision." You did get out of bed, now showing your white lace robe to him. If he were looking at you, you'd have felt naked under his gaze.

He kept silent for a while and you did not once stop beholding him.

"I thought you wished not to see me again." He finally witnessed you, completely, entirely, just like you knew he would. Just the way you longed for.

"Why? When did you ever get that impression from me? If I did something wrong please tell me but don't just... don't go away from me."

He attentively took a few steps closer to you. It looked menacing but you knew he was just calculating your next move. He was the prey. But it was you who kept still.

"The bar." The bar?

"What bar?"

"Last week, you brought me to a place. I wore a leather jacket."

Your eyes instantly watered a bit.

"Loki..."

"No. My actions were unnecessary and I shouldn't have- I-."

You broke, fully. You gave in to your heart and hurried to him, still too far across the room. You wrapped your trembling hands around him and almost fell whilst doing so. But he held you mightily, adapting to your action like a lock when it finds its key.

"Lokes... why'd you think that?" You tucked your face in his green and golden armour. "I lo- I know you didn't mean that. You didn't do anything wrong. Please. Is that why you weren't speaking to me anymore?"

Glancing up at him, your gazes met, lost in each other like you could both find your way home. "Yes."

You smiled softly. "Don't do that again. Just talk to me next time."

"There won't be a next time". At that, you frowned. Would he never go out with you again?

"What d'you mean?"

He caressed your cheek, hidden emotions revealed by the trembling of the movement.

"I'll do my best to not do you wrong ever again. It is a promise I'll keep as close to my heart as a dagger."

You giggled dreamily. "Please don't put a knife to your heart."

He moved you closer to his touch. "I won't. But if I do it'll be you who holds the handle."

"You cheeky bastard." And to that, he kissed you ardently, air unneeded for your lungs to work.

N/A: Any idea on what might’ve happened at the club? Also… Loki in a leather jacket.

#loki friggason #loki imagine #loki laufeyson #loki fluff #loki x y/n #loki fandom #marvel imagine #mcu x reader #marvel #marvel movies #thor the dark world #thor odinson #tony stark #natasha romanoff

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 3)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

GIF: Originally posted by @sassycherryblossomtree

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dubious/non consent. Physical intimacy.

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: What a full on week! I've had a job interview. Got turned down for said job. Went to a Sandman filming location (Natural History Museum) and watched Dune Part 2 (cannot recommend enough). It took away from my writing time a bit but part 3 is here now, and I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. Part 4 will be coming soon. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

"Y/N, I claim you as my soulmate."

The sentence is a catalyst, fuelling the physical and emotional reactions in both the surroundings and your body.

The wind is gone, leaving a claustrophobic air that crackles with untameable energy. The streetlight above violently flickers and flares, the unmistakable noise of a circuit about to overload emanating with each surge.

You feel these surges within your chest too, stoking the warmth radiating through you to an uncontrollable blaze. The ferocity of the sensation makes you whimper.

The man's hands are still touching you. Cradling your face and holding your hand; he feels the tremble that couples with your vocalisation.

"I understand. I feel it too," he whispers. "Though I imagine it is much more intense for your mortal heart to bear."

He eyes are raven black as he strokes his thumb back and forth over your cheek, before strengthening the hold he has on your face.

"Let me kiss the pain away."

He gives you no time to respond. He leans in the last few centimetres and puts his lips firmly against yours.

At first, contrary to his intent, the pain amplifies. He grunts, indicating that he has felt this spike also yet begins to move his lips regardless. It's like your heart is a balloon and it is being overfilled with air, close to exploding and obliterating you from existence. You then feel as if you are about to black out and want to pull away, and are about to try when the agony starts to subside.

The seduction begins.

The fire is mellowing with each press of his mouth, transforming into a restorative, yet sensuous energy. It's alleviation akin to calamine on a sunburn.

It awakens a primal need in your soul. This man is fundamental to you. He is the only one who can truly protect you from harm. You must remain with him. Give yourself to him.

You act on this revelation and kiss him back with a hunger that you didn't think you were capable of demonstrating.

Your reciprocation sends him into a frenzy. He cages you against the damp wall of the building and kisses you with unyielding, dangerous passion.

His skill is impressive, changing technique frequently to keep you guessing. Smothering kisses, bruising kisses, slower kisses to give you time to breathe. The hand that was cupping your face is now stroking down your side; breasts, waist, hips and back up again.

Tentatively, you raise your free hand to the back of his head and run your fingers through his wild hair. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a satisfied vibrating sigh of sorts that encourages you to dig deeper into the silken locks.

He escalates things by slipping his tongue into your mouth. You feel his lips curl into a smirk as you moan in response. His taste is a potent blend: a smoky base, herbaceous core and ambrosial top notes. You are drunk on it, and him seconds after exposure.

Logic has left you. Schedules and duties cast aside.

The juxtaposition between the present and minutes prior would be frightening if not for how correct all this feels. You had been disgusted and alarmed by his conduct, ready to bring in reinforcements and then all of it had dissipated like dust under a short, sharp breath.

It is not a ridiculous change in behaviour; you were supposed to be doing this. This stranger is all you want.

He pulls back when even his slower kisses are unable to calm your elevated respiratory rate, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth as he does so to draw another moan from you.

The blue of his eyes shimmer with a myriad of emotions. Lust stands out the most along with awe and relief. Your cheeks prickle with a light blush as he continues to stare and document every detail.

"I have been waiting to do that for thousands of years, my precious soulmate," he eventually says in reference to the kiss after absorbing your image for a while.

There's that word again. Soulmate. You hadn't exactly been allowed a period of contemplation when the man first uttered it, too swept up in the fire and his touch, but now with the semi-reinstation of coherent thoughts you begin to assess. It proves difficult. Your cerebral matter feels like a mixture of treacle, sap and epoxy. Trapping words and slowing down your processing power. It would be so simple to let yourself live in this mental mire and be carried along by his whims.

No. You scold inwardly. Ask a question.

"What do you mean by soulmates?" You force yourself to speak.

He guides your palm to rest on his heart and sets up a mirror image with his hand on your chest. "It means that we are bound together, made for one another."

The next question is easier to form. "And what now, given that you've found me?"

"Now," His hips grind into yours. "I will continue with the ritual of awakening you to the metaphysical connection between us, stripping back the shrouds and glamours that have been protecting your mind from the gravity of this gift."

That explained why everything shifted when he first touched your skin.

"Are you going to do that here?" Your brain is really starting to break free of its trappings and you need to ascertain his plan for it sounds like his intentions are of a sexual nature and you are in a public place.

"No, your time in this world has reached its end. I will take you to my realm, lead you to my chambers and I will not stop stimulating you until I have taken residence in your every thought, every cell."

The speed and confidence with which he is pouring forth all of these sentiments, and the near-full recovery of your mental faculties triggers a wave of nausea. Perspiration forms on your nape and ears and your core temperature feels off; warning signs that you get when you are about to vomit.

He still hasn't let go of your hand. You hone in on the softness of his skin, hoping you can use him as an anchor as you wade through the icky symptoms.

Recent events are starting to catch up with you. You replay it all.

Soulmates. Mortal. Thousands of years. Metaphysical. Realm. The unexplainable environmental manifestations. The strange shifting qualities of his eyes. What kind of supernatural devilry had you managed to become ensnared in?

Was he in fact the devil?

You are so conflicted. This being, for you are convinced that 'man' is no longer the correct term, is telling you things that threaten your entire way of life and your heart is pushing you to seek comfort from him!

Then the voices start.

Your sense of balance tilts and you instinctively grasp his forearm for stability. He says your name and you drag your focus from your thoughts to his face. He is looking at you with deep concern.

"Tell me," he commands gently.

"I feel dizzy... And I can hear voices."

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many voices?"

Your eyes are wide as you struggle to understand the relevance of his question.

You stammer out a couple of syllables.

"Breathe," he encourages.

You obey and concentrate on the hubbub.

"Three. Everything is being repeated three times."

The frown lines smooth and he is smiling faintly. "It seems The Fates are vying for your attention."

"The Fates? Like in Greek mythology?"

"The very same."

Was this being a God then?

"They're telling me to close my eyes," you relay as soon as the instruction is delivered.

He nods. "That will be the trigger that transports your mind to their location."

"Will I pass out?"

"No. It will be a temporary connection that keeps your body frozen for mere moments."

"I feel so dizzy though."

"I can hold you while you converse with them should you wish."

You nod somewhat frenetically as a sliver of fear creeps into your mind. "Yes, please."

He lets go of your hand for the first time since you tried to go back in the building, slips his arms around your waist and he pulls you close with a satisfied sigh. The neediness with which you are clinging to him lessens your apprehension just a little.

"How does that feel?" His voice rumbles deliciously through your chest.

"Good, thank you."

"You should close your eyes now. It is best that you do not keep them waiting."

"Okay."

"I'll see you in a few moments."

You shut your eyes.

----------------

The scene you awaken in is all lemon yellows, blush pinks and pastel blues. There's no landforms or structures. Just a never-ending stretch of bedrock, topped with a horizon that is beginning to show a sumptuous sunset.

You squint a little and then notice that there is a actually a point of interest. A lump of rough rock, waist height. There's a divot worn into the top that makes the obtrusion look like a font. For a moment you see a single figure standing at it.

A figure that appears to have three faces.

But then you blink and the number has tripled.

Maiden, Mother and Crone.

The trio block the worst of the sun glare, and the light that isn't obscured is highlighting the translucent layers that overflow from their intricately constructed and adorned outfits. Their curly hair, like the fabric of their clothes, flows freely in the gentle breeze.

You walk towards the group, thinking back to that term in school where you studied Greek mythology. Under no circumstances did you ever think that any of it could possibly be true, yet here you were.

You stop a respectable distance from them and quickly avert your eyes downwards to look at the ruby ring on your right hand.

One of them speaks, "You need not be intimidated by us, sweetness."

"I only wish to pay respect to you, your Graces."

You chance a peek at the Fates and see amusement in their eyes.

"Oh, you are going to fit in very well in his world," the Mother says with a smile.

You don't know what to feel about that comment however you don't have time to dwell on it for the eldest addresses you.

"Come closer. Let us look at you."

And look they did. Their resolute gazes are just as discerning as the stranger's but unlike his, where you knew he was soaking you in, you feel like the Fates are seeing through you.

You don't know what exactly it is that they are looking for but their smiles give the impression of being appeased.

"Has Morpheus told you how this will go?"

"No..." You hesitate before speaking his name, "Morpheus has not."

"He didn't tell you his name, did he?"

"We didn't get a lot of time for small talk," you admit sheepishly.

"We can see that from the state of your lips."

"He always was rather forward with his physical affection."

"Touch starved," the Crone finishes.

You are beyond embarrassed. How swollen were your lips for it to be that obvious? You can almost feel his touch now, it tingles like phantom caresses on the skin of your neck, chest and waist. You swallow hard before further lust can thicken your throat.

The Fates then speak in turn again, explaining the context of your rendezvous.

"You will have the opportunity to ask three questions."

"That is the custom when meeting with us."

"There is no need to rush."

Choosing only three questions will be tough when there are hundreds you could ask. Were you losing your sanity? Was Morpheus a demonic envoy from the underworld sent to corrupt your mind?

You suppose all you really want to know is whether this is real.

"Is he telling the truth about us being soulmates?"

The Maiden answers in a musical voice, "He is. The confluence of yours and Morpheus' lives has been written for millennia. Your souls have been intended for each other since he came into existence. You were never meant for anyone else but him."

You feel like you are about to cry. That last statement cuts deeply.

"All those times that potential partners lost interest or ghosted me. It was because of this soulmates thing," you murmur the statement, aware that you don't need to ask them to know if it is true.

Years of heartache and confusion had been for nothing. The nights spent wondering if you had done something wrong, the days where you threw yourself into your work to distract from it.

You cannot regret all the good things you managed to create as part of your team at the charity yet it is hard to look past the personal torment that countless unexplained rejections caused. You are human after all.

Selfishness rears its head and pushes the next question from your mouth with a tone of indignation.

"Why am I only finding out about this now?"

The Mother takes over, tone caring and brown eyes cordial, "It was not necessary for you to know."

Ire disintegrates into frustration. "But I could have been preparing. Not building a life that I was clearly going to have to give up."

"You would not be the person you are had we given you warning. You needed to live as a human, not as someone who was fated to be with the King of Dreams and Nightmares. Besides, there was no possibility of you being together. For 106 years, Morpheus was the prisoner of a human, and it was the recent end of his captivity that allowed fate to take its intended course. Reaching your potential on Earth gives you a strong foundation from which to guide and influence him in how to best serve humanity, and learn to trust in them once more after what he suffered at the hands of one."

The amount of information you have just received is like a freight train. One after the other, the revelations barrel into you and you take refuge in your mind.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares; not a title you had heard of before. Yet there is a strange sense of recognition. A forgotten memory that barely flickers with life. You ignore the niggling thought and focus on the more devastating one.

This King, your soulmate was held against his will, subjected to suffering. You cannot bear the idea of it regardless of how few details you have at present. Your chest aches and you know your soul is the source.

Fury twitches in your fingers, as fiery as the now burnt oranges and bloody reds of the ever-progressing sunset. You want to know who could do such a terrible thing but you realise that it is not the most important question you could be asking.

You look back to the Fates. You note their proud smiles at your restraint.

"What role am I expected to play in his future?"

The Crone moves to centre stage, "You are to be his everything. Muse. Lover. Queen. Advisor. Confidant."

Your stomach twists.

"Are you ready to return to him?" The Maiden asks, taking you off guard.

You feel like you a patron being kicked out at closing time with half a drink left. A fizzy one that you can't knock back easily.

What you've just been told honestly scares you. It's a mountain of expectation, the sort of thing that could birth an inferiority complex. There's also your self-preservation instinct starting to scream. You've seen darkness in his eyes, felt his physical strength and heard how resolute his statements are.

You have to say something.

"I'm worried about what would happen if I disappoint him, if he would hurt me."

The trio step closer, the scant remnants of sunlight reflect off their perceptive eyes and the metal of their matching earrings.

The Crone speaks solemnly, "It has been well-documented that Morpheus has a ruthless nature. As one of the Endless siblings, he is among the most powerful beings in the universe; equal parts creator, and destroyer."

The Mother touches your cheek with a warm hand. "But you have just as much power to hurt him, sweetness. We have provided you with it."

The Maiden nods in agreement, and takes your hand.

"He deals in fears, yes but his domain also lies in fantasies. He will be able to furnish you with yours. He has been made to be perfect for you."

"But -"

"This is not a loss of agency or an act of surrender. Put aside your qualms, listen to your soul and ask yourself this: do you find him attractive?"

"Yes." He's the most attractive person you've ever seen.

"Do you care for him?"

"Yes." Your reaction to his imprisonment is evidence enough of that.

"Do you want to a chance of happiness?"

"Yes." Deep down beneath all the doubt and overthinking and catastrophising, it's exactly what you want.

You want Morpheus.

"I'm ready," you say calmly.

You take a step back from the Fates and bow.

"Thank you for your time, your Graces."

The sky is an inky violet with daubs of dark blue, the sun is a thin line on the horizon. It sets, signalling the end of the meeting and your time as an ordinary mortal.

"Fare you well," the Fates' voices echo in unison as everything fades to black.

-------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"Deep in my heart, deep in my mind. Take me away, take me away. This is my word, dream maker, life taker. Open up my mind."

#the sandman #sandman #the sandman netflix #the sandman 2022 #the sandman fic #the sandman fanfic #the sandman imagine #morpheus #lord morpheus #morpheus x reader #morpheus/dream #morpheus/dream x reader #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #dream #dream x reader #the dreaming #the endless #the fates #dark!morpheus #dark morpheus #soulmates #fanfic #angst #tom sturridge #saskia writes sandman #Spotify

[flyswhumpcenter]

Memento mori.

It's purposely short because it's an experiment and, frankly, I didn't see it any other way. I just wanted that maximum angst experience I usually don't even dare touching. I like change and variety more than I make it seem. It's also deeply inspired by managician's amazing story, it's a little cold in paradise tonight. This story has got nothing on theirs, it's beautifully written and shaken me to my core every time I've read it, and I wanted to pay it tribute, albeit the relationship I picked is most likely not the best to do so. It's not my best work, so I'm not sure if it's this good of a tribute. I love writing Ruri according to what I got of her personality or speculated about.

----

Arms of Morpheus

Summary: It’s like she’s holding a shadow. Or: Ruri holds her brother against her as they talk for the last time.

Content Warnings: Major Character Death

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V (canon divergence) Relationship: Ruri & Shun (siblings)

Wordcount: 1.2K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo​

AO3 version available here.

------

Tears are running down a young girl’s cheeks, smoking as soon as they enter the cold air, clashing against the freezing zephyrs blowing through what reminds her of the ruins of what once was the paradise she lived in with friends and family.

Gone are the smiles and lights which used to dazzle in her eyes as she held onto her big brother’s hand, his smile shining the brightest to her child self, before they came and destroyed everything in their stead.

Her hands are now trembling with fear and warm, warm from attempting to start a fire, warm from digging for survivors, warm from scratching themselves on the ground, warm from the blood quickly drying on her fingers, red shifting to maroon as her focus is elsewhere.

She’s cold, they’re cold. The top of the tower is a mess of splatters and crackled stone, the setting of a disaster having broken loose and unleashed. The wind doesn’t let down, so do the whispers in her head whispering that it really is all her fault. How could she blame them? They’re right. She’s responsible for this.

There is nothing better for a hunter who has become the monster they swore to get rid off than to be put down, after all.

Yet, despite how monstrous she’s become, she has someone in her arms trying to reassure her. That doesn’t make a shred of sense, she knows it, but she can only see it unfold before her eyes: her brother, covered in his own blood, having the faintest smirk on his face and glassy eyes barely able to focus on hers.

It’s like she’s holding a shadow.

She wants to apologize, apologize over and over again, apologize for a thousand years and into the next life, apologize for everything she has ever done that has brought them to this day, this place, this situation. She doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but she apologizes in her mind anyway.

It overwhelms her to the extent that, in the end, she never verbally does what she’s supposed to do, and keeps her guilt on her heart like an armour smothering its knight.

Ruri, I’m glad we got to reunite.

She can tell he’s being honest, that he really does think that; but the meaning of his words doesn’t reach her heart already shattered. Everyone she’s known is gone: her parents are gone, her friends are gone, her brother is disappearing before her eyes. There is nothing she can do but weep, and even then she can’t do so with the circumstances.

I’m glad I got to see you too, big brother.

It’s not wrong, but the words don’t feel right nonetheless. Not when she’s the direct cause of their melancholic sentiment.

I wish you weren’t crying.

His eyes, despite their lack of focus and foggy irises, despite his complexion inexorably paling, seem to shine with all the life he has left. It aches, it hurts, and she can still tell he’s honest with her to the end. If only that wasn’t the end, if only they still had days to share together, doing silly sibling things, playing card games together, and she realizes she does miss his scolds and overbearing nature. Not for what they are at first glance, because they’re his.

They’re Shun’s, and soon, they’ll be gone like everything else she’s ever known that wasn’t war or desolation.

Ruri, stay strong. Don’t cry.

She sniffles and nods, almost dishonestly, betraying the sorrow in her heart for a bravado she won’t keep for more than a few moments. Better make his send-off a relief.

I’m sorry, big brother. I’m sorry for everything.

She still apologizes, and he tries to frown, but his strength has left him, and so is his warmth. He’s always been cold-blooded, closer to a lizard than a bird in that regard, and yet she’s frightened by how much warmer her skin feels when she cradles him as much as possible against her.

You weren’t yourself. It’s fine.

He puts his hand on her face, leaving some blood behind. The tears won’t stop flowing despite her best intent and efforts.

I’m relieved you’re safe and sound, Ruri. That’s all I wanted.

She knows that’s a lie. Shun wanted to see so much more than just her. He wanted to see their world be reborn, to reunite with their friends and celebrate their freedom coming back, to compete against Kaito and the other Clover Branch students, to see the bright lights and sparkles of Heartland again. It’s a lie, a filthy lie, a little white lie.

That’s wrong, isn’t it?

He puffs.

Doesn’t make me less happy to have saved you, at least.

His voice is low, slow, groggy and has trouble exiting his mouth when it keeps getting interrupted by coughing fits and blood coming out of his body through the wrong exits. Again, nothing she could ever do about it. It’s too late and she doesn’t know how to fix her mistakes, war hasn’t taught her how to bring people to life or from the brink of death.

Thank you, big brother. I’m sorry it had to end this way.

Her own voice is hesitant, filled with sobs she can’t retain. Her words barely reflect what she thinks, and as her arms wrap themselves around his chest because she can’t let his heart stop beating, she realizes how much his demise is unfitting and how bad she’s messed up. This shouldn’t have been the end for him.

Promise me you’ll continue fighting. Free Heartland for us.

She doesn’t know if she can swear an oath to this.

I promise.

She does it anyway.

Good. I’m proud of you, Ruri.

Why? How could he be proud of his own murderer? How could he be proud of someone who let herself get brainwashed and mind controlled as she broke him down, hit by hit, with a maniacal laugh and crazed eyes until he found the fatal flaw and payed for it with his life?

It doesn’t make sense, but her hands can’t clutch her head to clear her thoughts out, too busy cradling him so he goes to sleep decently.

Death is just going to bed for a much, much longer time than usual, after all, isn’t it?

His warmth is almost gone and his eyes close without fluttering back open. The smirk turns into a faint smile, giving her conflicting feelings. She should be relieved to see him so relaxed about meeting his end today, yet she can’t not note how wrong it seems to her, after seeing him killing the enemy if it meant surviving. How could he find his peace in such a sudden ending to all the efforts he’s ever done?

She can’t muster the strength to tell him not to leave her alone in this strange land she doesn’t remember arriving in, not to leave them when they all have a world to rebuild and a future to share in a better context.

She’s not ready when he whispers his last words.

Goodnight, Ruri.

She gives him what could very well be her last smile.

Goodnight, Shun.

 He goes cold in her arms.

#bad things happen bingo #arc-v #ruri kurosaki #shun kurosaki #character death #angst #heavy angst #cw blood #cw character death #brotp: birds of black blossom

[faveficarchive]

Ways to Be Wicked

Part 2 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Callie finds the Lord, Zina’s past comes back to harass her, and Gabrielle is there for love and support (and burgers). 

I never claimed to be your savior. I said I had a dirty mouth. —Garbage, "Dumb"

The trailer formerly known as Zina's sat contentedly on its concrete foundations, sporting a new paint job on its exterior—a blazing red to dazzle and blind the hapless occupants of the trailer park, to let them know that the reticent firefighter who once lived there—and who had quite successfully entertained a string of blondes, one after another, stray housewives on "vacation," waitresses, recent fire victims, high school cheerleaders, the manager of the local Uni-Mart, and finally the factory girl-cum-poet who stole her heart—was no longer the mistress of said dwelling.

Its lone tenant sat inside the fire-red mobile home twirling locks of her white-blonde hair and watched, for the twelfth time in twenty minutes, a little Chihuahua mouth the words "Yo quiero Taco Bell." She gritted her teeth and her flat tummy rumbled. Once again the baseball bat of commercialism had smashed against the addled brow of another complicit, blissfully unaware TV viewer. With a growl she jumped up, snatched the keys to her Camaro off the table, and went off into the night.

An hour later she sat stuffed with the bounty of Taco Bell, and her mind, always chattering, chattering, chattering…well, finally the synapses gave out and she fell asleep.

And she dreamed. A voice, disembodied, spoke to her. Callie, it whispered fervently. Listen. She tossed her head about, hoping to shake the annoying voice. "No, stop," she moaned in her sleep.

Callie! Don't resist me, my child! Who was that? It sounded like…

Callie, you must change your life. Zina has shown you forgiveness, you can show her the same…you must release the rage in your soul, you must purify yourself again.

It was…Charlton Heston! Wasn't he the old guy who played Moses in that movie? And he was speaking to her—the foggy image grew clearer—through the Taco Bell Chihuahua.

You must give yourself over to the Lord, Callie. Let Jesus Christ into your heart.

"No!" she cried aloud again. Silence. She was grateful, and started to drift into a deeper level of unconsciousness…then…

Why not? the voice demanded petulantly.

"I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy!" she wailed.

Ah, but you are, my child. You are worth saving. That's why I'm here. You have the fire within you, Callie.

"I do, I do!"

You must accept Jesus as your own personal savior. And you must go forth into the world and spread my word, for I am the light and the way to salvation. Do you know what to do now?

"I do, I do!"

Callie woke up. Aside from the massive, almost crippling pain in her stomach, she felt great. She rose from her bed, ran to the door and flung it open. A breeze blew back her hair, and the moon glowed.

"Lord, I hear you!" she screamed into the night. "I shall do as you say! From this moment I am born again!!!"

The crickets cackled their approval. The stars twinkled benignly. And a lone male voice, from two trailers away, shouted, "Shut up, you crazy bitch!"

***

Gabrielle laid on the couch and read aloud from the book she held: " 'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…' " She paused and closed her eyes. "Oh, wow…you were so right about this…the more I read it, the clearer and clearer it becomes…" she said to her companion, as she clutched the thin paperback of Howl to her chest.

Cyrene, sitting on the floor, leaned over and handed the joint to Gabrielle, their second one of the day. "See, honey, I told you…you just needed to relax and let your mind open up…" she waved her hands around, and her jewelry chink-ed in affirmation.

"Yeah…" Gabrielle sucked on the joint with a hiss. "When they assigned this to us in class, I just thought it was a bunch of bullshit written by some crazy hippie…uh, no offense, Cyrene."

"None taken, honey." She took the cigarette back from Gabrielle. "Cause you know something?" She took a hit.

"Hmmm?"

"It is a bunch of bullshit written by some crazy hippie!"

They dissolved into giggles, which turned into hysterical laughter once Gabrielle looked at the back cover photo of Allen Ginsburg again.

"Did you know—he was gay?" Cyrene informed Gabrielle, pointing at the photo.

"Really? Wow!" Gabrielle was still at the stage of her young life when one is continually astonished to learn that others in the wide world share one's inclinations.

"The 60s were a great time, Gabrielle." Here she goes again, Gabrielle thought. "Like, you could be gay and no one would care. No labels, man. You could experiment with sex and no one would care…I mean, I am not ashamed to say I had an encounter with another woman." She placed her hand over her heart to signify her sincerity.

"You did, Cyrene?" Gabrielle was impressed.

"Yeah. It was after I broke up with the drummer of Strawberry Alarm Clock. Man, that was a bad scene. Anyway, I kinda didn't want to deal with guys for a while, so I got involved with a chick. It was a beautiful, healing experience."

Gabrielle had ingested enough talk show fodder over the course of many years to know that "beautiful healing experiences" were usually pretty boring ones you could do without. Nonetheless she nodded solemnly at Cyrene. Then she heard a faint rumble. At first she thought it was her stomach. Man, I just ate two burritos half an hour ago….Then the sound grew louder, and more distinct. It was Zina's Harley. She sat bolt upright. "Shit! Zina's home!"

"Damn!" Cyrene crushed the lit end of the joint against the floor using her beer can. Then, in a panicky fit, she used the copy of Howl to brush the roach and all the ashes under the couch.

"Get the Lysol!" Gabrielle cried as she ran to the window. She and Cyrene had been sitting upstairs in her "study." She hoped that if she opened the window it would fumigate the room before Zina's hypersensitive nostrils could detect any aroma.

She flung open the window and looked down. She yelped again. The one flaw in her plan was that the room overlooked the front of the farm house; in fact, it was directly under where Zina usually parked her bike. The noise of the opened window caused her firefighter girlfriend to look up at her in surprise.

"Hi honey!" Gabrielle shouted, at a loss.

"Hey," Zina called up with a smile. She climbed off the Harley. "Anything wrong?"

"No! Nothing! Not at all."

"Why'd ya open the window?" It was cold out.

"I just wanted to say hi to you, baby!"

"You coulda done that inside." Zina was strangely logical at the oddest times.

"I know but, baby, I just love you so much I couldn't wait!" Gabrielle heard Cyrene behind her, her jewelry making the middle-aged woman sound like the percussion section of a Hare Krishna contingent as she waved around the hissing can of Lysol.

"Uh huh," Zina grunted skeptically. Carrying her fire helmet, she headed for the front door. Probably smoking reefer with Mom again, she thought, casting a look at Cyrene's powder-blue Volkswagen bug. As she entered the house she saw Gabrielle coming down the stairs with Cyrene. The little blonde ran right at her and jumped into her arms, smothering her lips with a kiss. The fire helmet dropped to the floor with a clang.

"Man, the honeymoon is never over with you two!" Cyrene said. It had been almost eight months since they had moved in together, six since they had been living at the farmhouse at Effie's behest; Effie, her new paramour, Hank, and her band, the Amazons, were all in Memphis, recording a new rockabilly album.

"How was your day, stud? Want some chicken pot pie?" Gabrielle cooed.

"Yes, please. Let me help you…" Zina carried Gabrielle into the kitchen. Cyrene shook her head. "Crazy kids," she muttered, then dashed upstairs to retrieve the roach she left under the couch.

***

Callie careened down Chakram Creek Road in her Camaro. She sang loudly with the radio: "I fell down, down, down into a burning ring of fire…down, down, down and the flames, they ran higher…and it BURNED BURNED BURNED, this burning ring of fire…" She was on her way to see the one person she was certain could help her in her mission to serve the Lord and save Zina. She had to save Zina, she realized, for the woman, corrupt as hellfire as she was, started her on her Journey to Jesus by giving her a home to live in.

She pulled into the parking lot of the Morpheus Mini-Mall, a desolate little stretch of under-utilized stores and buildings. There was a liquor store, a video store with a yellowed poster of "Ernest Goes to Jail" in the window, a frozen yogurt shop, a fabric store, and, near the end of the complex, a plain white sign on a door, which read "Ares Ministries, Inc."

Callie, of course, expected him to be alone, and he was. Artie, Zina's former friend, ex-sometimes-boyfriend, and maybe sorta either her first cousin or half-brother (Cyrene wasn't talking), sat at a desk in his fake-wood-paneled office reading "Guns and Ammo." He wore a scratchy looking light gray suit he bought at K-Mart for $29.95, and his green and brown knit tie was loosened at his throat. When Callie entered he looked up at her in utter shock, and, disbelieving, ran his hand through his long dark hair and then stroked his goatee. "Callie," he murmured.

"Artie." They stared at each other.

"I can't say I'm surprised to see you here. I always knew you'd find your way to me and the Lord."

Callie blinked. "Really?" She wanted to believe, oh so much…

He nodded solemnly. "My prayers have been answered, Callie. You are here, and I know why. "

"You do?" Callie said impatiently.

"Yes!" he stated firmly. He tried not to look too closely at the cutoff shorts she wore…even in February. He hoped she wasn't here to borrow money again, but he had a feeling, this morning, as he prayed…that God would send her to him. "You are ready to serve with me at the head of Christ's Army, Callie."

"I am, Artie! I truly am! I had a vision last night. The Lord spoke to me, and—"

"—and what did he sound like?" Artie narrowed his eyes and his voice lowered a register.

"Like…oh, that old dude, what's-his-face....You know, Ben-Hur." Wisely she omitted the part about how He looked.

Artie nodded with approval. He knew then her vision was real. "Go on."

"And God said I must spread the word! And I knew, Artie, I knew you were the only soul to help me. And…God said I must save Zina."

"Zina?" His interest piqued at the mention of his ex-lover's/cousin's/half-sister's name. He cursed himself at the hold this devil still had over him. Zina was his cross to bear, she was a test from the Lord, and sweet baby Jesus she looked divine when she was working out. (Sorry, Lord.) He stroked his goatee again. He knew the incredible guilt Zina felt about Callie, about the house in Cirra. Technically, he had been involved in that whole mess, but Callie didn't need to know that—it would only confuse her and detract from her mission. Besides, he'd paid his debt to his Savior. If Callie could use that guilt against her, she could bring Zina into the fold, and they would lead the Lord's Army of Love together! He could do it, with Zina at his side…the cable show would be revitalized, he'd get another book deal, he might even be asked to be a guest host on the 700 Club.…

He stood up and walked to Callie. Grasping her thin shoulders, he said, "Sister, it shall be done. I shall send you on your first mission. I shall send you to save that poor backslidden soul."

"Praise God, Artie!"

"But first…we go shopping."

***

Callie pulled at the tight collar of her white frilly blouse. She wasn't used to wearing something so close to her neck. But, she thought with a sigh, her body was no longer just something to flaunt, to use mindlessly—no, her body was sacred as a church, and it needed to be covered and protected as such. She adjusted the skirt of the light pink suit that Artie had selected for her at Sears. Drawing a deep breath and clutching the new Bible that he had given her as well, she opened the door of the parked Camaro and walked warily toward the farmhouse, the den of iniquity. How much sin has gone on in this place? she thought righteously, remembering its former occupants. Of course, Zina lived here now with that little tart…Callie's nostrils flared at the mere thought of the slut. She stopped. Then she took a deep, cleansing breath. "In with love, out with anger…" she muttered to herself. Steadying herself once again, she walked toward the farmhouse. I am a pillar of strength, I am filled and blessed with love, I shall be strong in the face of evil…she drew another deep breath and rang the doorbell. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall…

Zina opened the door. She wore nothing but a sleeveless white under-shirt which clung to her broad shoulders, muscled torso, and perfect breasts; black lycra shorts clung even more ferociously to her firm, luscious thighs. She cradled a barbell in one hand; a sheen of sweat covered her exposed skin, making her entire body glow and glisten. She shook her damp black hair and fixed her luminous blue eyes on Callie.

…want. She maketh me to lie down in black satin sheets, and…stop stop stop!!!

All thoughts of God had flown from Callie's head, except a brief fleeting thanks to the Almighty for making such a magnificent creature.

"Callie?" Zina said, utterly confused at the presence of her arch enemy. "Uh, is somethin' wrong with the trailer?"

"…zugzug…" She tried to speak but could not. But what were these noises? Hey, I'm speaking in tongues! Cool!

Zina looked her over, taking in the suit. "You got a job interview or something?"

Lord, I am fading fast. Help me! Send me a sign!

Zina shifted a little nervously; in doing so, she gripped her barbell tighter, causing a perfect bicep to flex. Her eyebrow twitched.

It was all too much.

"Oh Zina!" Callie cried. She flung her arms around the firefighter's neck and planted a wet kiss on her lips. Her wildly flailing tongue sought to break the barrier of Zina's warm mouth, but alas, her lips were in as good a shape as the rest of her (thanks to Gabrielle), and withstood the onslaught. She placed the tip of the barbell on Callie's chin in an effort to pry away the born-again beast. Callie didn't know how it happened, but before she knew it she was kissing a barbell. She withdrew, sputtering.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" Zina growled.

"Oh Zina," Callie moaned at the memory of those perfect lips on her own, "I have been sent here to save you, my child." She thrust the Bible into the firefighter's face.

Zina was so shocked at the turn of events that her barbell slipped from her sweaty grasp and fell onto Callie's foot, shod in a pair of pumps from Payless.

"Oh Zina!" This time it was a howl of agony.

***

Gabrielle burst through the door of the farmhouse, expertly carrying a pizza, a six-pack, two bags of Doritos, a two-liter bottle of 7-UP, and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey...with most of said items balanced on top of the pizza. "Honey, I'm home!!" she bellowed. She heard the radio from upstairs, and figured Zina was in her weight room, working out. Her assumption grew even stronger when she tripped over the barbell near the door and sent the precariously balanced food sailing merrily off the top of the pizza as she fell to the floor. She landed on her stomach, the weight of her backpack pinning her down (why did I have to take Fat Novel 101 this semester?). However, she managed to keep the pizza upright. Turning, she glared at the offending object and shouted, "Goddammit Zina, I told you not to leave your weights lying around down here!" Last week she had stubbed her toe on a hand weight that had been on the kitchen floor, for Christ's sake.

The guilty party sauntered down the steps. "Hiya, baby. Sorry 'bout that." Zina proceeded to pick up the scattered groceries. "How was school?"

"Uh…good." Zina noticed that Gabrielle hadn't moved; she laid there on the carpet, staring into space.

"Didja hurt yourself?" she asked, padding over to Gabrielle.

"Zina?" The tone was icy. It was that tone Gabrielle used when she was either really pissed or PMSing big time.

The firefighter gulped. "Uh, yeah, baby, what is it?"

"Why is there lipstick on your barbell?"

***

"Arise from your numb existence, readers. Awash yourself in Christ's beautiful and healing waters, awake in forgetfulness of the sins of the past. For the chariots of war are upon us, Satan's deceptive dreamworkers will rob you of your cradle of hope. Together, we shall embark on a quest for our destiny, to repay a debt and to sacrifice our wrongdoings for the greater good."

—Rev. Callie de Ash, from her book I Didn't Find God, But He Sure Did Find Me, p. 25

Callie awoke from her painkiller-induced slumber. Her dreams had been pleasant enough—she dreamt she owned a Porsche and had won the Indy 500, and then she drove through a huge daisy-filled meadow crushing every single daisy and ran over Gabrielle and a bunch of silly bunny rabbits too and grabbed Zina and threw her in the car and…

…then she was fully awake and staring into Artie's faintly disapproving and totally condescending face. The minister sat at the foot of her hospital bed. "You poor child," he sighed. He moved his chair closer to her, and took her hand. "The demon proved too much for you, didn't she?"

Defeated, Callie nodded sadly. Zina's barbell had broken innumerable bones in her foot and then, while she limped to the car (refusing any assistance from Satan's Handmaiden) her heel got tangled in some weeds and she fell, spraining her ankle.

"Callie," Artie clucked, "this is just as much my fault. I never should've sent you to her. She's a powerful one, Zina is. I have no doubt she will be dragged kicking and screaming into salvation. I know you wanted to be the one to bring her to God, but perhaps…" He stroked his chin. "…perhaps I need to try. At any rate I must confront her, after what she did to you." Callie had told him that the sadistic firefighter had jumped up and down on her foot with her shit-stomping boots, and had even trod upon her pristine Bible!

"I reckon you're right, Artie. I was too weak—too tempted by her. Don't believe anything she says, though!"

"Don't worry, child. I am prepared to battle the devil."

***

Cyrene turned off her sputtering Volkswagen. She grabbed the grocery bag, which contained organic yogurt and tofu burgers (she had been much horrified by the spectacle of Zina devouring a Spamburger last week and began anew her campaign to make her daughter a vegetarian). She got out of the car and headed to the house. With some confusion she noticed that the Harley was there but the Escort was not—she was supposed to be "studying" this evening with Gabrielle—in fact, she had brought her best bong, knowing that they would be tackling Modernism and that Gabrielle would need all the help she could get.

She entered the farmhouse and found Zina sulking in front of the TV, watching NASCAR.

"Hey honey," Cyrene called.

Her daughter grunted.

Trouble in paradise, Cyrene thought. "Where's Gabrielle?" she asked gently.

"At Lila's."

"Oh. Will she be back soon?"

"Nope."

"Aw come on, honey, spill it. Did you two have a fight?"

"Yeah."

Cyrene sighed. It was going to be a long night. "I'll be back in a few minutes." She definitely needed to have a few tokes before dealing with this. Patting her macramé purse, she retreated to the bathroom.

***

"I told you your unnatural relationship would fall apart," Lila said. She held a squalling baby—her daughter, named Tiffani Amber.

Gabrielle sat at her kitchen table, arms crossed. "Shaddup," she snarled at her sister.

Lila blew a stand of hair out of her face; shaking her head sadly, she took the baby into the bedroom for her nap.

Purdy, who had moved in with Lila after Gabrielle moved out, stood awkwardly in the kitchen. He had just got home from work to find his former girlfriend sulking in the kitchen with Lila, his current one, who was berating her sister at every turn. He actually felt sorry for Gabrielle—and he even liked Zina once he got to know her. Every time he saw her they had pretty cool conversations about motorcycles. He pulled two cans of Bud out of the fridge and handed one to Gabrielle. "C'mon, Gab, it'll make you feel better."

"Thanks," she said, taking the can from him. She popped it open and took a big gulp. "Purdy, you don't think I'm…weird or unnatural, do you?" Her green eyes begged for understanding, while her upper lip was covered in beer foam.

Was she weird? He had been surprised by it all, but not too—he remembered that when they were dating he made the mistake of looking through her diary and had read a rather detailed and explicit sexual fantasy involving Kate Jackson. He had found it very…interesting, in a stimulating kinda way. No wonder she always rushed home from school to watch Charlie's Angels. "What? Naw, hell no, Gab. It's your life. Not for me to judge. 'Sides," he added shyly, "Zina's pretty cute."

Gabrielle smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

"Wanna go down to the Saddle and get wasted?"

"Sure!"

***

"Trust me, honey, I had two years' worth of EST seminars."

Zina shifted nervously in her chair. Her mother's attempts to help in these significant arenas of her life left much to be desired. She recalled when, at the age of 12, she began menstruating; she had the typical feelings of confusion and ambivalence about it that most teenage girls encountered. Cyrene chose to mark the occasion with what she called a "feminist ritual": When Zina came home from school one day, sanitary napkin chafing, she found their house dark and eerie, lit only with candles, and "White Rabbit" echoing ominously from the stereo. Cyrene, wearing a purple-red muumuu, blathered something about how Zina will drink her own menstrual blood "because Germaine Greer said it's the true test of a woman." Zina didn't know who the fuck Germaine Greer was, but it was all weird enough to make her think her mother was involved in some cult and so she ran screaming from the house, spending the next month living with Artie and his family, until she made her mother swear that (1) she was not in a cult, and (2) she would cut down on the hallucinogens for a while.

So here she was, sitting at the dining room table with Cyrene, who said that her "under-emoting" child needed to get in touch with her feelings and she would be happy to help her do so. She said it would improve her "communication skills" with Gabrielle…whatever that meant…and that she would learn to "take responsibility" for her actions…even though IT WASN'T HER FAULT that Callie went insane and kissed her, it wasn't her fault that Gabrielle didn't understand this and had hit her…unconsciously she touched her cheek. Never had she been so frightened—not even in a crumbling, burning building—than when Gabrielle had pulled out of her knapsack the thickest paperback book Zina had ever seen, stalked over to her, and swung the mighty Modernist tome—Zina barely had the chance to read the name Ulysses—against the side of her head.

Cyrene sat across from her with a paper and pencil. "Now, I want you to tell me all the things you love about Gabrielle. Be as specific as you like."

The firefighter dropped her dark head against her strong forearms, which were propped on the table. Just like she used to do in high school.

What I do love about Gabrielle? Well, she's got a nice smile…her hair is pretty…she smells good…she makes a great chicken pot pie…yum!…I love her abs, the way they ripple when she's about to come…oh, and the meatloaf is pretty awesome…her skin is so soft…and she's a great kisser…and…and…I love how smart she is, how she figures things out so quickly…I love it that she's so kind…so gentle…like how she cried when she heard about baby seals getting clubbed…I love it when I hear her sticking up for herself and screaming "Fuck you!" at that dumbass sister of hers…I even love it when she recites stupid poetry to me that I don't get at all…

"Sure you don't want a little...?" Cyrene mimicked puffing on a joint. "It might help."

"No," Zina snapped. She sighed in frustration. "Aw, fuck, Mom, I love everything about her," she growled reluctantly. She hated getting all mushy.

Cyrene smiled and scribbled something down on the pad..

***

It was almost 3 in the morning. Zina had slept fitfully since midnight, when her mother had left. However, she was in a decidedly deeper state of consciousness when a noise brutally ripped her from a pleasant dream about becoming the first female quarterback for the Broncos:

"SMOKE ON THE WATER! A FIRE IN THE SKY!"

The entire house pulsated to the sound of Deep Purple. She sat upright, eyes bulging. She groped under the bed for her baseball bat, although it was doubtful the intruders were really thieves. Nonetheless, she thought evilly as she hefted the bat, I'm gonna fuckin' kill whoever is down there.

As she bolted out of the bedroom and approached the top of the stairs, she heard a figure treading lightly toward the top, oblivious to her presence. She snapped on the hall light.

Ed looked up at her, John Deere hat backwards and a little askew on his head. More than slightly trashed, he swayed on the steps. "Z!" he cried in greeting. "Hope we didn't wake you."

The long reach of Zina snared his flannel shirt and hauled him up the remaining few steps, until her snarling face was within an inch of his. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she said in her lowest voice.

"Hey, chill out! We brought Gabby home."

"We?"

She released him and he staggered against the steps, almost falling down until she grabbed him again. He giggled. "Me and Purdy. They're downstairs." He regained his balance and she released him tentatively. "But man…I gotta tell ya…I, uh, got into a little trouble with the truck, Z…"

She leaned on the baseball bat as if it were a walking stick and sighed in resignation. "Don't tell me you wrecked it again."

"Well, not exactly…I hit something."

"A deer?"

He shook his head.

"What? Someone's dog? Cat?"

Again, his head responded no.

She was losing patience. "What then, Ed?"

"A cow," he mumbled apologetically.

She grabbed him by the shirt again. "A cow? Is Gabrielle all right?"

He nodded in the affirmative.

"How the hell did you hit a cow?"

"I tried a shortcut," he moaned. "Look Z, I really gotta piss."

She released him again. "Go, then," she growled, giving him a shove toward the bathroom. She stomped downstairs.

She saw Gabrielle's red-gold hair splayed across the arm of the couch. "Gabrielle?" she called gently as she approached.

The young woman was curled up fetally, clutching an empty mason jar which reeked of beer. She was snoring. Zina took the afghan from the back of the couch and tucked it around her sleeping form.

Purdy was standing in front of the stereo playing air guitar when he spotted Zina. "Hey old buddy!" he shouted, stumbling over to her. He was even drunker than Ed. He flung an arm around her. "We brought your woman home!" he said proudly. With a burp.

"That's great, Purdy. Thanks," Zina replied sincerely, while flinching from the smell of the burp.

Suddenly he started to cry and hugged her. "I love you, man!"

"I love you too," she replied, whatever thread of patience she possessed threatening to snap. "Now get the hell out of here."

***

Alas, she had not gotten Ed and Purdy to leave for another hour; she felt obligated to help Ed wipe cow blood and gore off the front of his Ford pickup (apparently his "shortcut" was through Farmer Draco's pasture). There was a huge dent across the front of it, but she checked out everything under the hood and it seemed to be running fine. When Ed was sober enough to drive, she sent the boys on their way.

Gabrielle was still passed out on the couch when she dragged herself off to bed at 4:30. She had considered carrying the girl up to bed, but didn't want to disturb her sleep. And, frankly, she was pretty tired and had to get up for work in less than 3 hours.

Zina hadn't slept for more than 2 hours when she felt something heavy lying across her body. A sickly sweet breeze, smelling like cough medicine (like Jagermeister, she thought later), trickled across her face. Then she felt something warm and wet against her cheek, like a dog licking her.

She opened her eyes. In the fuzzy light of predawn, she made out Gabrielle's grinning face above her. "Pumpkin pie!" Gabrielle burbled happily.

Zina did not know if this was an endearment or a craving.

"Gabrielle?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Baby, I'm really sorry about yesterday…I got so jealous. I didn't want to come home at all, but Ed and Purdy got me too drunk so I couldn't protest much. Then I read what you wrote on the fridge."

"Huh?"

"You know!" Playfully she slapped Zina on the arm. Then Zina remembered: Her mother had posted the results of their "therapeutic session"—the message that "Zina loves everything about Gabrielle"—on the refrigerator with a Coke magnet.

"It's true," Zina said. It was, and didn't matter who wrote it, she figured.

"Ooooh, I love you, stud muffin!"

***

If you want to woo her

You will surely delight her

With a sweet tasting kiss

From a big ol' firefighter!

--"A Fire in the House of Love," performed by Effie and the Amazons. Music by Effie Phantes, lyrics by Gabrielle Hockenberry

The hangover was so atrocious that to even listen to anything on the radio was horrible. Especially Celine Dion. The lung-devouring wails of the woman were like a hang nail being torn across her consciousness. Maybe I kinda understand now why Zina doesn't like her, Gabrielle thought, switching off the radio with one hand and clutching her head with another.

She was sitting in the kitchen, wincing at the bitter taste of the instant coffee, when the doorbell rang. Still cradling her head, she wandered to the door, wearing her Olympus County Community College t-shirt and the baggy plaid boxer shorts she wore around the house.

A handsome man stood at the door, dressed in a dark suit and tie. His long dark hair touched his shoulders and he had a goatee. He was very striking, she thought, and vaguely familiar. Her mind raced and in her excitement the hangover lessened.

"Oh my GOD," she squealed, taking him by surprise, "you're the lead singer from Metallica, aren't you??"

His dark eyes grew wide with horror. "What?" he said.

"You are! Wow, this is SO cool! Are you lost or something? Hey, my girlfriend LOVES Metallica!! Would you autograph something?" Before he could respond she ran into the living room and retrieved one of her notebooks and a pen. "Okay, could you just write something like, 'Zina, you are an awesome chick' and sign it?"

He rolled his eyes. "I am not the lead singer of Metallica!" he growled. "I'm Artie Guerre. An old friend of Zina's..."

Gabrielle's excitement dissipated and was replaced by mistrust. So this was the infamous Artie. "You're Xena's cousin," she stated flatly, green eyes glinting suspiciously, "or is it half-brother?" she added accusingly.

"Nobody's even proven that," he said, shaking a finger into her face. "Where is Zina? I want to talk to her."

"She's at work, duh. D'ya see her cycle anywhere?" Gabrielle waved her arm around.

"Look, young lady, don't you take that tone with me. I am minister," Artie said proudly.

Gabrielle cackled in disbelief.

"You may laugh all you like, Satan's strumpet, but I know the nature of your relationship with our dear Zina is less than pure."

"Pure?" she snorted. "You're a fine one to talk about pure, Artie. You set fire to a house and slept with someone who might be your sister. So don't you lecture me. I love Zina."

"Love her enough to see her go to jail again, missy? 'Cause that's what's gonna happen unless I get to speak with her!" Artie demanded.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Zina assaulted one of my disciples. Callie."

"Bullshit! The crazy slut assaulted Zina!"

Artie raised one of his black brows. "Really?" asked smoothly. "Well, who do you think a court of law would believe—a follower of God or some dyke with a record?"

***

All Zina knew was that one minute she was looking at a rerun of the Simpsons, and the next she was staring at Gabrielle's midriff. Her little companion, in an effort to get attention, had planted herself in front of the TV. This meant either one of three things:

Gabrielle was horny. (Unlikely, thought the firefighter, scanning the scowl on the young poet's face.)

Gabrielle wanted to have a Sensitive Chat. (Again, that scowl. Nope, she usually gets all puppy-eyed, so that's not it.)

Gabrielle was pissed about something. (Yeah, I think this is the one. Did I leave another weight on a floor somewhere? Tracked mud on the carpet? Did she finally notice the ring of soot I left on the lip of the milk carton the other day?)

Zina was a brave woman, and resigned to her fate. "Okay, what did I do now?" she sighed.

"How come," Gabrielle began slowly, her hands on hips, "everyone you sleep with either dies or goes crazy?"

"Huh?"

"Come on, tell me."

"It's not true…I mean, I slept with Hank, and he's alive and pretty normal, don't you think?"

"Well, he's the exception to the rule, I guess. Although who knows, maybe listening to Effie and the Amazons 24/7 might just push him over the edge."

"...and there was Ed, he's kinda normal..."

Gabrielle blinked in shock. "Ed? You slept with Ed?"

"It was only once, Gabrielle. I just did it to make Hank jealous." She grinned with sheepish pride. "Worked, too."

Gabrielle moaned and shook her head. "I met Artie today, Zina."

"Artie? Where?"

"He came out here looking for you. What a fuckin' nutjob he is."

"No shit, Sherlock. What did he want?"

"He's very pissed about Callie. Went on about how you assaulted her, said he was going to get her to press charges against you…"

Zina threw up her hands (after placing her can of Rolling Rock on the end table) in disbelief. "Fine, let 'em press charges! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"He said he and Callie are willing to let bygones be bygones if you come on his cable access show. He wants you to repent on TV, accept Christ into your heart, and ask for some pledges."

The firefighter's blue eyes grew icy. Which both chilled and thrilled Gabrielle. "I always knew it would come down to this," she muttered.

***

Gabrielle grabbed the ringing phone. "Den of iniquity!" she cried in greeting.

"Jesus H. Christ, you sure are learning big words in school," Effie’s voice responded.

"Effie!!" The squeal reverberated around the house, causing Zina to wince and grind her teeth, and a village of termites to vacate the premises. "How the hell are you! I MISS YOU!!!"

"I’m great, Gab honey. Our new album is coming out next week, with your song on it, of course! Hank loved it."

"Cool. How’re Pony and Sally?"

"Well, they had a rough time of it recently…"

"Uh oh. What happened?"

"Well, uh, promise not to tell anyone…"

"Okay. What?"

"Well, Sally had an affair with Wynonna Judd…"

"No!"

"Yeah! It was wild. But they worked it all out."

"How?" Gabrielle asked, mystified. Pony was not the most reasonable creature on God’s green earth.

"Well, then Pony slept with Wynonna and they decided to call it even."

"Can I tell Zina?"

"Oh sure, what the hell. Can’t quite see Tall, Dark, and Sullen running around telling people."

Gabrielle saw Zina in the kitchen, pulling on her leather jacket. "Eff, I gotta go. I hafta go help Tall, Dark, and Sullen with something…"

"And knowing you two, it’s something in the bedroom. Okay, Gab, I’ll talk to you later."

She hung the phone and ran into the kitchen. "Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go."

Zina gave her a blank stare. "Gabrielle, I don’t want you to come. It might get ugly." She was on her way to meet Artie at Roy Roger’s, in the hopes that they could reach an amicable solution to the Callie problem.

"Oh no, bitch. You’re not leaving me behind. We’re a team, remember? You may need me. And I promised you I’d always support you no matter what." She paused and gazed into her beloved’s deep blue eyes. "I may have been stoned when I said it, but I still meant it."

Zina broke into one of her lovely lop-sided grins. "Okay, baby."

"Besides, I really want a Triggerburger."

***

Artie sat at a table at Roy’s. His tray was littered with the ruins of his dinner. Arms folded, he glared up at Zina and Gabrielle, who were walking toward him. Zina was sucking on a shake, Gabrielle held a tray piled with three burgers and an order of fries.

They sat down across from him.

"You’re late," he growled.

Zina shrugged. Her ravenous small companion ripped the paper wrapper off a burger and started to devour it.

"Dear Lord, what a savage," Artie said condescendingly, looking at Gabrielle’s puffed out cheeks.

"Look Artie, knock off the bullshit. Gabrielle told me what you want. I’m not gonna do it. I’m sorry about Callie’s foot, but it was an accident."

"Hold your tongue, sinner!" Artie raised his hand. "I’ve had just enough of your lies and deception, Zina. You injured a member of my flock. A woman who has turned out to be more valuable to me than I ever could have imagined. I have placed my trust so thoroughly in Callie that I have given over to her the leadership of my ex-gay ministry, Homo Helpers."

***

Callie reached out and gently grasped the shoulders of the young man. "We’ll start out slowly, okay? No nudity at first. I just want you to get an appreciation of the female form."

The young man, terrified, nodded quickly. One minute he had been sitting in the office space of the Gay & Lesbian Student Union at the Olympus County Community College Student Center, then the next thing he knew this crazy chick in a pink suit, with a big cast on her foot, comes in, hits him over the head with a big black Bible, and he passed out. Then he woke up in this strange office with the crazy chick who started babbling to him about being saved, changing his ways, and so on….and he was tied to a chair, the ropes cutting into his thin little torso, clad only in an old Absolutely Fabulous t-shirt. Boy, if I get rope burns on this, Patrick is going to get really suspicious, he fretted.

The crazy blonde, who said her name was Callie, sat on the desk in front of him. She had a stack of photos by her side. "Now don’t be scared…what’s your name again, kid?"

"Chad," he whispered.

"Chad! See, no wonder you’re gay, with a name like that. Okay, Chad, take a deep breath…"

He did.

She held up a photo of Gillian Anderson, wearing a black bra. "Take it all in, Chad. Doin’ anything for ya?"

He stared at the photo.

"Talk to me, Chad. What do you like about her?"

"Uh…that’s a fabulous bra she’s wearing."

"Like to see more, huh?"

"Yeah, like I’d love to see her all in black lingerie. I’m sure it’d be a really kicky outfit. My friend Kevin is majoring in fashion design…"

"No!! Dammit, kid, stop being a fairy and focus on her body! Her face! Whaddya see?"

"They did a good makeup job on her. Her lipstick is perfect. It’s a good shade for her."

"You’re doing this deliberately to drive me crazy, you little brat. Look at her! She’s gorgeous! Look at those knockers! They’re lovely! They’re perfect!" Callie peeked at the photo herself. And became mesmerized. "They’re…oh Lord, they’re divine," she moaned. Defeated once again, she buried her face in her hands.

"Uh…Callie, is it?" Chad ventured gently.

"Yeah, what?"

"Sweetie, I don’t think this is working. Look, it’s Gay Night at Dahak’s Temple. Why don’t we go have a nice drinkie together…"

She looked up.

"Margaritas are half-price," he added hopefully.

***

"Baby, are you okay?" Zina asked anxiously, peering down at Gabrielle. At the mention of the Homo Helpers the little poet had laughed so hard that she spat half-eaten burger all over Artie’s best suit (from Sears) and fell off the seat in a fit of hysterics. Zina’s reaction, given her personality, was more subdued; she had merely blown out some milkshake from her nose.

"Homo Helpers," Gabrielle giggled helplessly.

"What’s so darn funny?" Artie demanded as Gabrielle climbed back into the booth.

"I think you should think ‘bout changing that name, Artie," Zina guffawed. "Have you been getting a lot of calls from people wanting to know where the nearest gay bar is?"

Artie glared at her suspiciously. "How did you know?"

"Just a wild guess."

"It was the best I could do under the circumstances! Nonetheless, Zina, I have Callie all prepared to press charges against you. She can hardly get around at all. It was a very serious injury."

At that moment they saw, from their window booth at Roy’s, Callie’s red Camaro pull up to the stoplight. The crazed blonde took the opportunity to stand up in the car and dance to the throbbing beat of the Pet Shop Boys which emanated from the car stereo. A young man, seated beside her, did the same. The light changed. A pickup behind them blared its horn. Callie flipped him the bird. After another minute of frantic dancing, she finally put the vehicle in drive and they were gone.

The trio sat in stunned silence.

"Who was that dude with Callie?" Zina asked no-one in particular.

"Oh, it looked like Chad. He’s president of the gay student union at OCCC," Gabrielle said. She merrily returned to the task of eating.

"Hell’s bells," muttered Artie. "The Lord is making my work very difficult indeed." He thrust a finger into Zina’s face. "I blame you for this, Zina. Obviously the injury has affected her judgment."

Zina flicked a French fry at him.

"Watch the suit!" he cried. "it’s bad enough your little tart spewed half-eaten cow all over it."

"Fuck off, Artie," Zina drawled in a bored manner.

"You haven’t heard the last of me yet!" He rose from his seat and stalked off. He half-turned to give Zina one last glare and tripped over a poorly placed mop and bucket. He snarled and staggered off.

"Man, he’s just like Snidely Whiplash," Gabrielle complained.

The firefighter laughed. "So which one of us is Dudley Do-Right?"

"You, of course, stud muffin." Gabrielle paused. "Although you’re smarter than Dudley Do-Right…and not quite as goody-two-shoes. You’re more a classic anti-hero."

"A…what?" Zina scrunched up her angular face. "I dunno if I like the sound of that."

"It’s a good thing, baby. Trust me. I learned it in school."

"School? You’re learning about cartoons in school?"

"No," replied Gabrielle haughtily, "I am merely learning how to apply my analytic skills in other fields of interest and art forms."

"Shit…if I knew college was all about cartoons and smoking dope, I woulda gone."

"You don’t need to go to college, baby. You already have many skills."

The firefighter lounged back in her seat. "I have many skills," she murmured to herself, although her beaming companion heard her as well. "I kinda like the sound of that."

THE END

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #femslash #fanfiction

[whatisonthemoonarchive]

There is Comfort and Security in the Matrix

Why were we drawn to these rabbit holes? Are we a type of critter that loves to be lulled to sleep by the siren-song and rambling mutterings of those who call themselves "true"? For the ones who were born into these lies and delusions… Wakeup! Wake from your dreamy slumber! Though it feels so warm and secure. Though it feels at times so right, deep inside you've always known it’s wrong. Look for the cracks in the grand illusion that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth. Seek and you will find, don’t be afraid to pull back the shimmering curtain… You will find that the man behind the curtain is no different from you and me. The wizard is a lie and the wizard is a liar. All that you are and all the good in you comes from your inner self and is in spite of those who say they are “above you”. No one can tell you who you are. Idolize no one, for the unbearable truth is that there really isn’t anyone who can represent the creator to you better than you can. The wizard never gave nothing to the tin-man that the tin-man didn’t already have. When you are in your purest mind, your purest heart. Quiet your mind, breathe deeply, be here, in this present moment. Your inner true self is wise and will guide you out of these delusions, out of the cavernous rabbit holes that were created to smother your critical mind and keep you a slave to their system. You know deep inside that the way you must go is not the easy, comfortable way. Once above ground, breathing in the fresh air, you will have confirmation that you made the right choice for you and for your family. Some of us lived between the rabbit holes and the above-ground for a period, until we came to the realization that once we leave the rabbit holes, we can never go back. After seeing our way out of the trappings of denial, we are left with a dull pain. A pain that comes from the realization that something very precious was callously and selfishly taken from us. Yes, we can never recover these things that were taken and there’s no point in even trying. We are left with one viable option.  That is to invest ourselves completely in the desperate task of creating something entirely new. Something completely apart from that overwhelming reality once created for us by these narcissistic, and sociopathic, life-stealing parasites. They replaced our ignorance with a most powerful lie. I lie constructed solely to keep us at their side as their property, as their Moon-pets. We clung to that lie. We lived and died for that lie. As you realize the truth. As you grow into disillusionment, resist the urge to give in to anger. Channel your focus and pay complete attention to the work of gaining your independence from these blood-suckers. It is scary at times but well worth it in the end. Solutions will present themselves if you are serious and sincere. Pray, meditate and work hard with one goal in mind, to get yourself and your family out their world. -morpheus-