#grimoire challenge thing

[paracawsal]

didn’t think I’d have *that* much to say about something I do mainly on the fly but hey. guess I did lol

#witchy ramblings #my talking #grimoire challenge thing #i guess it just seems that way because its second nature at this point lol

[thatdruidgal]

New Year's 2024 Grimoire Challenge!

Let's start off 2024 with a month-long grimoire challenge!

I know that I love to always gather new information for my grimoire, and so I wanted to share this challenge with you.

For the entire month of January, complete one of these activities every day in your grimoire. If you have already completed the question, expand on the information you already have!

There is a beginner level and an advanced level for witches of all stages. If you'd like to, post your responses to the questions here and tag it with #branwens grimoire challenge! I'd love to read all of the wonderful information you find, so tag me too, if you'd like.

Farewell and good tides!

January 2024 Grimoire Challenge

by Branwen (@thatdruidgal)

Plants - Beginner: What are the correspondences of five plants that grow in your local area? Advanced: Come up with a new combination of plants to burn in your next ritual.

Heritage - Beginner: Where do you come from? What types of magick did your ancestors possibly practice in their homeland? Advanced: What were common for your ancestors (eg. food, clothing, daily life)?

Practices - Beginner: What is the difference between closed and open practice? Are you permitted to learn about any closed practices? Advanced: What are 2 open practices that you don't follow? What are some similarities with your practice?

Energy - Beginner: What is energy work? How would you begin this practice? Advanced: What are the four energy types, and how can you connect to each one?

Water - Beginner: What are the uses of moon water? How can you make it? Advanced: How would adding moon water affect your favorite potion recipe?

Altars - Beginner: How could you represent each of the elements on your altar? Advanced: What colors are you not currently using in your altar? Which elements do those colors correspond with?

Salts - Beginner: What benefits do you get from moon salt? How do you make it? Advanced: Research cleansing salts and add the recipes to your grimoire.

Omens - Beginner: What are five ways to bring yourself good luck? Advanced: What are recurring signs you've noticed recently? What sort of message do they bring?

Animals - Beginner: What is an animal(s) that you have always felt a strong emotional bond with? What are their traits? Advanced: How has your spirit animal helped you in the past? How have you communicated with them?

Astrology - Beginner: What are the correspondences of the planets? Advanced: In what ways have you been affected by the planets recently? How can you better their influence in your life?

Crystals - Beginner: What are the correspondences of your 5 favorite crystals? Advanced: What other crystals could have improved your last spell? What are some of the substitutes that could have been used instead?

Cleansing - Beginner: What cleansing methods can you use for your crystals and tools? What methods can you NOT use for certain crystals or tools? Advanced: What crystals require extra cleansing? What crystals cleanse other items?

Recipes - Beginner: Find a recipe that helps you with a problem you've been experiencing recently. Advanced: Find a recipe for you to use during the next moon phase.

Spirits - Beginner: What are the five types of spirit guides? Advanced: How can you better connect to the spirits around you?

Motivation - Beginner: What are some easy witchy tasks that you can do when you have low energy/motivation? Advanced: What are easy-to-perform spells or rituals that help boost your energy? Are there any common ingredients? Create a new spell with these.

Divination - Beginner: What are 5 types of divination that you find interesting? Advanced: What type of divination have you used most often? How can you improve your practices by adding crystals/items?

Healing - Beginner: What plants are used in your favorite medicinal tea? What are their correspondences? Advanced: What is a local plant that has medicinal properties? How would you use these in a spell or potion? What other correspondences does this plant have?

Candles - Beginner: What is your favorite scent of candle? What correspondences does that scent have? Advanced: What colors of candles do you burn most often? How would burning a different color of candle affect your atmosphere or your next ritual?

Sigils - Beginner: What are active ways to activate a sigil? What are passive ways? Advanced: What symbols (eg. celtic knots) work as sigils? What are their uses?

Offerings - Beginner: What are suggested offerings for spirits during the next Sabat holiday? Advanced: What things do you normally offer the spirits as offering? What is their favorite offering?

Sabats - Beginner: What are the eight Sabats? Advanced: What are some of the correspondences of the Sabats? What rituals are best done during these times?

Plants - Beginner: What are the bloom times for your plants? Advanced: What other plants can you grow in your climate? What are their correspondences?

Recipes - Beginner: Find a recipe for a tea/potion you'd like to make. Advanced: Find a recipe for a Sabat-specific item.

Warding - Beginner: What are 3 easy ways to ward an area? Why would you want to do that? Advanced: What are ways to refresh your wards? What are ways of warding that you haven't tried yet?

Enchanting - Beginner: What is enchanting? Advanced: What are the easiest materials to enchant? What are the hardest? (eg. iron doesn't stick to magick)

Fae - Beginner: What are things you need to be wary of when interacting with Fae? Advanced: What are signs that Fae are near? Describe 5 different kinds of Fae.

Zodiac - Beginner: What are your zodiac signs? (sun, moon, ascendant, etc) Advanced: How do each of your zodiac signs affect you? What is another type of zodiac (eg. Chinese, Celtic), and what is your sign there?

Personal Beliefs - Beginner: State 5 things that you believe to be true about the universe. Advanced: What are your beliefs on creation? On karma? On dieties? On planes of existence? Be detailed.

Practices - Beginner: What are 5 different spells or rituals that you've been looking forward to try? What are the ingredients? Advanced: How did your last 5 spells go? Did you get the results that you wanted? How can you improve your practices in the future?

Types of witchcraft - Beginner: What are 10 different types of witchcraft? Which of those appeal the most to you? Advanced: What types of witchcraft do you not follow? Are there any that you haven't researched?

Crafts - Beginner: What is knot magick? What is something you could make with this magick? Advanced: How can you incorporate knot magick into your everyday life? (eg. doing hair, bed routine, fiddling)

#2024 grimoire challenge #2024 #happy new year #grimoire challenge #witchy stuff #witchcraft #pagan #druidry #paganism #green witch #witchy things #grimoire #druidcraft #witches of tumblr #witchblr #baby witch #Branwens grimoire challenge

[thehazeldruid]

Should I run a Grimoire Challenge for 2024?

#grimoire #grimoire challenge #witchblr #witchcraft #witchy #witchy things #witchcraft challenge #witchy challenge #book of shadows #book of magic #book of spells #witchblr stuff #witch things

[kentnaturaltribrid]

Might add more later on a secondary page if needed, but for now it’s filled with most of the important and interesting pieces of content that should be available to answer most of the queries on magic such as the main one of “What is magic?” Or similar quelling. Regardless, it’s still a work in progress.

#2024 grimoire challenge #2024 Monday Grimoire Challenge #2024 Grimoire writing #2024 January Grimoire challenge Winter #January 2024 Grimoire challenge Mondays #2024 Grimoire written #2024 writing grimoire #2024 Winter writing grimoire #2024 magic topics #witchy vibes #witchy things #witchy #magic writing #writing magic journal

[2024-grimoire-challenge]

January Week 1

Welcome welcome to the 2024 Grimoire Challenge! Time to really get started everyone! This week will have a lot of stuff all jammed in. So buckle up, grab your grimoire and your supplies, and let’s get to work!

Monday

Name your book - this may seem silly and you definitely don’t need to name your book. Not properly at least. Other than “my grimoire” or “book of shadows” or what have you, which is totally fine. But some of us might feel the need to give it a proper title. “The Basil Grimoire” or “Hazel’s Handwritten Workings” something, anything, that ties the book to you and your craft. Make a title page! If you feel so inclined. If not, that’s fine too.

Definitions (New Page) - ritual and spell. Let’s define a few things. Make a page specifically for definitions, that we’ll add to through the challenge. Let’s start with a couple simple definitions. Define spell. And define ritual. Within the confines of magic, witchcraft and your practice. What is a spell? What is a ritual? What are the differences?

Study (herb) - Pick another herb from that list we made, and dig into the details. Make a page for it on its own, or add its info to another page! Whatever works for your craft. The questions to ask for these study prompts are going to continue to remain the same. Where did it come from, where does it grow, how does it grow, what are its mundane and practical uses. What are the myths and legends and stories surrounding the herb? What are its magical properties and why/ how do you think the other information you've learned about it have influenced its magical associations?

Tuesday

Outline/ index (New Page!) - it helped me a great deal to have an index or outline to my grimoire. I started this as a file on my computer as my grimoire grew and changed I could more easily manage it and rearrange it as I saw fit. Then eventually I could make it into a handwritten copy.

Study (gem) - Like our herb prompt, the gem prompts are going to always use the same outline and questions. Where does the gem come from? What is it used for in a practical and mundane sense? What are its physical properties? What are any myths, legends or stories? Where and how does it form? How does all of that relate to its magical correspondences and what does the herb mean to and for you in your craft?

Spellwriting 101 (New Page!) - make a new page dedicated to spellwriting. This is going to be one of those prompts that is focused on you and your craft. How do you write spells? How do you set them up? What components do you use? What is the format? How is it done? What does it require? From materials to timing and circumstances? Write it all out in your lab notebook. Make it a work in progress. Not all spells are going to work out the same or function the same as you perform them, but having a general layout and method helps to focus your practice.

Wednesday

Common tools - What are the common tools in your craft? That is, you don't need to have a list of every single tool ever used in witchcraft, just the tools that you use in yours. Both regularly and less regularly. What are they used for specifically? What purposes do they serve in the magical and practical sense? Are they ceremonial and symbolic or do they serve an actual physical purpose? (i.e. a wand used to direct energy serves many purposes, while an incense burner could literally just be that, an incense burner)

Year outline/ calendar - not everyone celebrates the same days, holidays or even the same holidays the same way. What are the special occasions and days in your calendar? Mark them and when the proper season/ holiday comes around, we can make pages dedicated to those days. This week this will simply be a list of these days, while later we will actually make pages for them individually. Think of it like the Wheel of the Year, Yule to Midsummer and so on. What days are important to you and your practice? Are they actual holidays? Or simply days of power like the full moon? Or is it simply days that are significant for other reasons, like the anniversary of the day you began practicing witchcraft?

Practical - tool usage - practice using your tools. For example if you use a wand. Practice using it to direct energies or whatever it is you utilize it for.

Thursday

Altar design/ work space (New Page!) - make a page dedicated to your altar and its setup. Why are things where they are? The reasoning can be simple as “that’s where it fits” or you can give it a more meaningful reason. Candles in front of or behind something to represent some purpose. Do you have items that represent the elements? Deities? Different sources of power or directionality? Different colors for different meanings? Why is your altar the way it is?

Practical - cleansing space - practice cleansing your space and tools. This is of course a physical and 'energetic' cleansing. Tidy it up, redecorate your space, clean the tools if they have dust or ash or anything on them. Sometimes it is good to have a clean start.

Friday

Personal practices - this is just a thought provoking prompt tied in with the Journal prompt below. What are some of your personal practices that you've brought into your witchcraft? Anything from little habits from your every day life to things brought from religion or family traditions. No matter how hard we try, we carry within us echoes of things not related to our practices into it. And that is totally okay. Recognizing them, acknowledging them, and truly incorporating them can be a huge step toward understanding ourselves, our beliefs and our practices all around.

Journal/ introspective/ meditations - Think about the above and write any of it down that you come to terms with. Self understanding is important in and outside of witchcraft.

Thank you all and I hope this week's prompts aren't too overwhelming! Stay tuned next week for the next set of prompts!

-Mod Hazel

#2024 grimoire challenge #grimoire #grimoire challenge #paganism #witchcraft #witchblr #witchy #2024 gc #book of shadows #dark academia #occult #occultism #magick #magic #witch challenge #witchy challenge #book of magic #grimoire info #grimoire inspiration

[konigbabe-interact]

drinking game gone wrong

Pairing: MOC!Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Word count: 3.6k

Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; oral sex; fingering; top!dean; MOC dean; p-in-v sex; drunk sex; cunnilingus; unprotected sex; gendered female reader; gendered female anatomy

Summary: You and Dean give into each other after months of mutual pining with the help of the Mark.

Currently only active as @konigbabe.

The heat radiating between you was undeniable, and you felt yourself getting lost in the moment as you tangled your hands in his hair. His lips met yours in a passionate kiss, the taste of your desire still lingering on his tongue as it explored your mouth. His hands moved to your waist, caressing your curves and igniting a fire that seemed to consume you both.

“No,” Dean bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. The room seemed to heat up from the intensity of his anger as he threw a book at the wall, the hard edges creating a sizable dent. "There has to be a way, Cas," he added, the desperation in his tone palpable.

Sam and you exchanged a tired look; this was one of the numerous times Dean erupted in anger within a day. The Mark of Cain was taking its toll on him; it was becoming more challenging to keep his temper in check. You all knew that you had to find a cur. Soon. Before Dean's condition deteriorated even further.

“I am sorry, Dean. I understand how frustrating this must be for you. I know about a grimoire that could possibly contain a spell that could help. I'll do my best to look for it and try to find it as soon as possible, “ with that, Cas disappeared; leaving Dean completely frustrated, Sam and you both at a loss for what the next step should be.

In the end, Sam suggested they call it a night, but the look on Dean's face could have killed him if looks could kill. After a few minutes of tense and uncomfortable silence, it was blatantly apparent that the brothers were in need of some breathing room and a little bit of space between them; especially on Dean’s side.

Sam gazed at you with a hopeful expression, as if hoping for some sort of agreement, yet you offered no response. He nodded solemnly, rose with a heavy breath, and bade his farewell, vanishing from the room. You were left alone with Dean, whose head was already buried in a magical tome, oblivious to the stifling quiet that had descended between you.

Rising from your seat, you ventured to the kitchen, grasping two glasses and a bottle of aged scotch. Returning to Dean, who sat across the table, you placed a full glass before him, filling it with the amber-colored liquor.

Dean looked up from the book, his gaze on the liquor before he shoot you a look of disinterest; then he continued reading it without giving it a second thought.

“M’not interested, we have more important things to do,” he dismissed your offering, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Come on, Dean," you implored, your voice gentle with understanding.

"Just this one night and I promise we'll get back to the research tomorrow. But can't you, just for one night, take a break and enjoy yourself? I'm asking you as a friend, please," you pleaded, your gaze sincere. You could tell he was struggling with his decision, and you gave him the chance to think it through.

Finally, he sighed and took the glass in his hand.

“Just one night," he replied, his voice heavy and weary. He downed the liquor inside and you knew, despite the somberness of the situation, that you had won the battle.

"Just one night. Nothing more," he said and took the glass in his hand, ready to swallow the liquor inside. You stopped him from drinking, looking him in the eye with a knowing smirk, "Just drinking is mundane. What about a game? Spice up the night?"

He paused, considering the suggestion, then set the glass back on the table.

“All right. I'm game. What did you have in mind?” his voice had a slight edge of amusement, a sign of his willingness to go along with the suggestion and make the most of the night.

"Two truths and a lie," you suggested, Dean's eyes crinkling with mirthful delight. He smiled knowingly, his eyes sparkling with mischievousness. "This should be interesting," he said, his baritone voice taking on a more serious tone.

You watched as his expression turned thoughtful, his brow furrowing with concentration as he gathered his thoughts. He leaned forward, the light of the crackling fire reflecting in his eyes as he began to speak.

You could almost feel the anticipation radiating from him as he waited for you to start. He seemed to be studying you as if he could see into your soul. Taking a deep breath, you started, your words filling the space between you with a sense of mystery. Dean remained silent, his face betraying no hints of what he was thinking. As you made your way through the game, the atmosphere in the room slowly shifted, becoming more inviting and intimate.

It was now Dean’s turn, and the expectation weighed heavily in the air. Dean cleared his throat, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“My first truth is that I’m allergic to cats,” he said, “my second is that I have a fear of heights,” the sparkle that shimmered in his gaze was echoed by the bright blue of the ocean. He looked deep into your eyes, the sparkle in his own intensifying, and a feeling of anticipation in the air. Leaning forward, he rested on his elbows as he whispered softly,

“But the third truth I’m not so sure I’m ready to tell you,” he said, his voice soft and inviting.

“What is it?” you asked, feeling the warmth of his presence.

“The third truth is that I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the day we met,” his voice inviting, gaze never leaving yours, “I think it’s time I finally do.”

Your heart raced as Dean's piercing gaze met yours, and his voice, so seductive, only made the tightness in your chest grow.

“Dean, I don’t think that’s the best idea,” you breathed, but the atmosphere around you was charged with electricity. He was devouring you with his eyes and you felt the heat of his breath caress your skin; he inched closer to the table between you, his face dangerously close to yours.

You could feel the anticipation of his lips on yours. Finding yourself leaning in, longing for the kiss you both knew was coming; your brain turning into a cloud of haze. Knowing well enough once you overstep this line, there was no coming back. The liquor heating your chest; warming your heart, you felt the invisible threat pulling you towards the man opposite you.

And at that moment, all that was left was the possibility of what could be, of what you wanted more than anything.

“Dean,” you swallowed. His eyes met yours, dark and piercing, lips curving into a knowing smirk. You wanted him. You wanted to feel his body against yours, his lips on your skin, exploring every inch of you. You wanted to be taken away by his touch, lost in a world of pleasure and desire. You wanted him, and you knew he wanted you, too.

The air around you seemed to hum with electricity, and neither of you moved. The tension was palpable, and you could feel the heat radiating off of his body. Your heart raced and you felt dizzy with anticipation.

Finally, he stepped closer to you, a hand reaching out to brush your cheek. You shivered at the contact, and he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low and commanding.

You nodded, unable to form the words in your mouth.

“Say it,” Dean repeated himself.

All you could manage was a breathless, "Yes; yes, I want this."

He smiled, and you felt his lips press against yours. The kiss was electric, filled with raw desire.

Desire; spreading through your body like a raging storm. It consumed you; the intensity of it leaving you breathless. You felt it in your core, radiating outward to your fingertips. Every inch of you was alive, awash in passion and yearning. You wanted to be touched, to be loved, to be taken. You wanted to let go and give in to the sweet, sweet bliss of pleasure Dean was offering.

You felt yourself melting into him, lost in the moment. You knew you wouldn't be the same after this.

His hands trailed across your curves, a spark of heat igniting your soul. Your thoughts were a blur, nothing but him consuming your mind as seconds felt like an eternity. The hard, cold material of Dean's mattress pressed against your back, and you felt a primal connection, one that shook you to your core. His hands moved with purpose as they explored your body, the heat of his touch sending waves of pleasure through your veins. The moment felt like a dream, a dream that you never wanted to wake up from. His hands were like a whisper, a silent command to surrender to the pleasure he was giving you. You felt yourself yearning for more, the intensity of the moment making you desperate for his touch. You felt yourself becoming lost in the sensations, a blissful surrender that left you trembling and wanting more.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured against your skin before kissing your neck again. The sensation sent shivers through your body and you couldn't help but moan in delight. He slowly unclipped your bra, revealing your bare breasts to him. Dean wasted no time in taking one of your nipples in his mouth, igniting a flame within your core. Heat radiated from him as he pleasured you in the way he had always wanted to.

You grabbed a hold of his hair, pushing his face further into your body as you gasped for breath. His hands glided down your body, teasing and exploring until he finally found your sweet spot. You moaned louder, your body trembling in pleasure as his fingers worked their magic. You wanted him more than anything, and he wanted you too.

Dean’s touch was electric, sending sparks of desire through your veins as he ran his hands over your curves. Moans filled the room; he moved lower and lower, each touch more heated than the last, tongue dipping in your belly button before his lips met the lines of your pants. His breath was warm on your skin as he unhooked the button of your jeans; hands tugging at the fabric, pulling them off in one swift motion.

You gasped as he kissed your thighs, feeling the warmth of his lips move on your heated flesh. Dean’s fingers moved expertly, exploring every inch of your body with passionate purpose.

His name left your lips in a quiet but desperate whimper, feeling his fingers trace the middle of your soaked underwear, fingers circling your caching nub through your underwear.

“What do you me to do?” Dean's eyes smoldered as he looked up at you from between your quivering thighs, his arms securely tucked beneath you as your heels dug into his back; his words hang in the air, heavy with desire.

“I-, want your tongue,” you exhaled; your breath coming in shallow gasps as you felt his hot breath on your wet core.

“To do what?” he pushed, voice deep and husky, eyes laced with mischief.

A shiver ran down your spine, goosebumps rising on your skin as your hands gripped the fumbled sheets.

“Taste me,” you whispered, a hand coming up to tangle in his hair as you drew his head closer to you.

“With passion,” he murmured against your center, tongue flicking out to tease you. The material of your underwear was dripping with your juices by the time Dean finally took it off. He moved with confidence, and you were lost in it, in him.

A cold breeze hit your soaked pussy before Dean’s tongue laid flat against the whole center, nose brushing against your clit as he devoured you like a man starved. Gasping for air like there was never enough oxygen, he licked and kissed you in slow, gentle circles, his tongue exploring your edges; curiosity taking over him.

Moaning softly into the room with your hand groping his hair for dear life, Dean sucked at your sensitive bud, the scrape of his finger on your inner walls sending a heatwave through you.

He kept up this slow, gentle rhythm for some time, making sure to pay attention to every single reaction of yours; adjusting his technique according to your reactions.

The room was filled with the smell of your arousal as he slipped a finger inside, gently caressing your velvet walls. His breath quickened as he felt your tightness around his finger, his cock pulsing in anticipation of what was to come. He teased and tantalized you, pushing you to the brink of ecstasy; each stroke sending you higher until you were begging for more. Dean obliged, surging inside of you in a powerful wave of pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby,” his words demanded, sending you over the edge.

When you finally peaked, he didn't stop; Dean kept working you through your orgasm, lapping at your juices as you laid in blissful exhaustion.

Dean's lips moved hungrily along your body, sending waves of pleasure through you. His tongue flicked and teased your sensitive flesh, lingering in the areas that made you moan with delight. The heat radiating between you was undeniable, and you felt yourself getting lost in the moment as you tangled your hands in his hair. His lips met yours in a passionate kiss, the taste of your desire still lingering on his tongue as it explored your mouth. His hands moved to your waist, caressing your curves and igniting a fire that seemed to consume you both. You felt his arousal pushing against you as you surrendered to the pleasure of his touch.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his lap as you pounced on him. He moaned as you pressed your lips to his, tasting the sweet mixture of your desire again. His hands moved up and down your back, sending sparks of heat through you as he deepened the kiss; his hard arousal pressed against you. You finally pulled away, smiling as you looked into his eyes, both of you lost in the moment.

Dean’s hands moved to your hips, gripping them firmly as he moved you against him, the sensations of pleasure overwhelming you. He leaned in again, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck as he whispered in your ear, “ride me.”

You shivered in response, knowing that this night was going to be filled with pleasure that you’d never felt before; you knew that no matter what happened tonight, it was going to be something you would never forget.

“Want to taste you too,” you murmured as his lips found yours again; you melted into his kiss as he explored your mouth with his tongue.

“Another time,” he said as his lips left yours, “but not tonight.”

Dean looked into your eyes, his gaze penetrating and intense; a rush of desire coursing through your veins. His hands gripping yours, he pulled them up to the neck of his shirt, inviting you to take it off and reveal the sculpted flesh of his torso, the anti-possession tattoo decorating his chest. As the fabric pooled onto the floor, you ran your hands along the contours of his body, eagerly seeking the skin to skin contact. His lips locked with yours, the urgency of his kiss sending heat through your body.

He pulled you aside, eagerly discarding the remaining items of clothing left on his body; his gaze searing into yours as his cock sprang free from its restraints, the head looking achingly engorged as the light reflected off the drop of precum. You could feel your desire for him growing with every passing moment; craving to feel him inside of you.

Something feral, almost instinctive, took over you; carnal impulses compelling you to take a seat atop him, locking his cock between your bodies; your fingers dancing over his length, savoring the slickness of his precum as his lips left a trail of hungry kisses down your neck; it felt animalistic, the two of you, consumed by each other's lust.

His fingers left a scorching, passionate imprint on your skin, like a brand that would never fade away. He made you feel alive and wanted, claiming your body and soul with his passionate touch. You could feel yourself melting under his gaze as he claimed every last inch of you, leaving you longing for more.

“Condom?” he asked, voice thick with desire. You shook your head, feeling a rush of heat flood your cheeks.

“Pill,” you whispered.

Dean chuckled, his eyes smoldering with desire as he let his fingers trace the curves of your hips.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

Bracing your thighs on each side of his hips, you lifted yourself up, hand aligning his cock with your entrance. Your skin prickled with anticipation as you straddled him, the heat between your legs electrifying.

The spongy head of him opening your entrance, welcoming him in as a grunt left his kiss-bruised lips, pressed against your throat. Pausing; savoring the sensation of him for a moment, you stilled before lowering down onto him, feeling every inch of his thickness fill you up.

“Fuck,” he cursed, “your pussy was made for me.”

With your hand on his chest, you could feel Dean's heart pounding against your palm as you stayed seated on his cock, the thick length of him pressing against your womb; and he could feel it too, your heat sucking him in.

Another curse left his lips, “you need to start moving, baby.”

Your body was completely under his demand; moving in a steady rhythm, hips swaying in time with his. You could feel the heat radiating between your bodies, a crescendo of pleasure building as your movements increased in intensity.

Your hips moved in slow circles. Dean’s hands moved from your hips to your lower back, pulling you closer to him. Moans and grunts mixed together, the room’s temperature rising, the explicit sounds of your wetness shamelessly filling the quiet night.

Hands on his thighs, leaning back, Dean’s gaze shifted to the place you were connected; he watched you take him in, your slick walls spread wide to accommodate his size, his cock completely soaked by your wetness as the mix of your arousal dripped on his lap.

Leaning down, you kissed the man deeply, tongues entwining in a passionate embrace as his hands gripped your breasts, fondling and playing with the soft flesh. Arching your back, you pushed to create more friction between your bodies before Dean’s hand moved to your achingly longing nub of nerves, spreading your juices over it while he toyed with it.

His breaths grew heavier, your moans louder as you both moved together in an unstoppable, passionate dance. Your body rocked and writhed as he drove you to the brink of ecstasy, and when he finally let you reach the peak of pleasure, you opened your mouth in a silent scream of pure delight. Dean's touch had been like a drug, and now you were completely addicted.

His hips continued to thrust upwards, riding you through your high as his stare stayed locked on your body; he admired you, devouring every detail of your body with his eyes. The stretch marks on your thighs, the noticeable stab wound on your stomach from the witch hunt you went on a few months ago that he wanted to kiss away, or the small bird tattoo under your right breast that made him want to trace with his tongue. He wanted to remember every part of you, to be able to recall each detail and feel the same desire he did now, if not more.

Dean slowly raised himself up and pulled you into his arms, his lips on yours before you could even take a breath. His tongue caressed your bottom lip, asking for entrance which you eagerly obliged, granting him access to explore your mouth to its fullest. His fingers sought out the curves of your body, exploring and inviting a passionate response from you.

You felt Dean's cock swell inside you as his breath became ragged; knowing he was near, you ground your hips into him, keeping him deep within your walls, reveling in the feeling of his head kissing your insides. The intensity of the sensations was almost too much to bear, but you welcomed it, wanting to feel every inch of him.

The feel of his hot, pulsing cock inside of you made your inner walls quiver with pleasure, a low moan of delight escaping your lips as Dean's thrusts became more erratic and urgent. His head burrowed into your chest, warm breath fanning between your breasts as his hands clutched your hips, pushing himself even deeper into you. His body trembled as his climax neared, his moans intensifying as the waves of pleasure took over. Finally, with a loud grunt, Dean released his hot seed deep inside of you, his trembling body almost collapsing into yours.

Both of you stayed still for a moment as you could feel the cum slowly dripping out, staining Dean’s thighs. Your breathing filled the silence, and then Dean reached out and ran his fingers along the length of your arm, sending shivers of pleasure through your body; his touch gentle.

He pulled you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body as his lips brushed yours softly; it was like a silent understanding - you both knew that everything changed at this moment.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean x reader #dean fic #dean smut #supernatural x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural smut #dean winchester x you #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfic #spn #spn fic #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #smut #Dean winchester #dean winchester x reader smut

[lyranova]

Heyyy! Could you write a yami x reader where his s/o is aware of Charlotte's crush on him and she feels self conscious and competitive (kinda like vanessa) but yami is totally oblivious as usual and thinks smthg is weird

Hiya anon! Of course I can, and I apologize that this is a bit short but I still hope you enjoy~!

Word Count: 777

Warning: None

———

Yami watched as the young woman trained in front of the Black Bulls hideout. She had been training for hours on end, and when she wasn’t training it was like she was showing off her other skills. She challenged Vanessa to a drinking contest, Magna and Luck to a sparring match, and even challenged Charmy to a cooking competition!

The strangest thing of all though, was the way she challenged Charlotte Roselei to all of those things as well. It was like she had been practicing with the Bulls just so she could challenge Charlotte.

“ Hey Finral,” Yami suddenly called out as he turned away from his girlfriend to look at the Spatial mage. “ What’s going on with her?”

“ Oh,” Finral said as he looked out the window as well. “ Well, to be honest, I think she’s feeling a little, erm, self-conscious.”

“ ‘Self-conscious’? About what?” Yami asked with a confused frown, he had never known her to be that way. Finral suddenly looked sheepish and scratched the back of his head.

“ I think…it has to do with Captain Roselei’s crush on you, Captain.” Finral said nervously and that only made Yami’s confusion grow.

“ The Prickly Princess has a crush on me?”

“ You didn’t know?!” Finral asked in surprise before nodding. “ Yeah that tracks to be honest.” He muttered under his breath and Yami glared at him.

“ What did you say, Hot Wheels?”

“ N-Nothing Captain Yami sir!” Finral said quickly and nervously before changing the subject. “ A-Anyway! I think that’s what has her acting this way, she’s feeling competitive and self-conscious with Captain Roselei.”

“ Well that’s stupid.” Yami muttered with a shake of his head. “ They’re two completely different people with different skill sets and personalities. So I don't know why she’s trying to compete when there’s no competition.”

“ Sir?” Finral asked with a confused frown before he watched Yami walk out of the hideout and go towards his girlfriend.

Yami watched as she shot another spell at the tree and whistled in an impressed fashion.

“ That was a good shot, but I don’t think the tree appreciated it.” Yami said as he watched the woman take a deep breath and put her grimoire away.

“ Yeah well the tree had it coming,” She joked as she walked over to her cantine and took a sip of water. “ What are you doing here? Didn’t you have a mission with Finral?”

“ I pushed it back a bit, Wheels is tired from taking the other brats to town earlier.” Yami explained with a shrug before he crossed his arms. “ Anyway, Finral told me why you’re training so hard, he said you’re trying to compete with Prickly Princess.”

“ That loud mouth,” The woman muttered as she glared at the Hideout before letting out a sigh. “ I’m not competing with her per se-.” She began but Yami cut her off.

“ Good, because there’s no competition between you two.” Yami said firmly, and the woman looked up at him as her heart sank. She knew what he was going to say, and so she closed her eyes and braced herself for his words.

“ Because you always come out on top in my opinion.”

The woman’s eyes shot open and looked up at him, he had a big grin on his face and he reached out to pat her head gently. She was very confused, in his opinion, she outranked Charlotte Roselei? How did that make any sense?

“ You both have different personalities and skill sets, and as much as I like Charlotte, I like you a lot more. You’re brilliant, kind, determined, you treat me as an equal and you’ve never talked down to me or judged me because I was a foreigner.” Yami said as he patted her head again. “ You push me to be a better man and Captain, and you always have my back when I need it most.”

“ So, stop comparing yourself to Charlotte and stop being so self-conscious. Because at the end of the day, I’m in love with you, got that?” He asked and he watched a smile appear on the woman’s face.

“ Yeah I got it,” The woman said with a nod. “ I’m sorry I’ve been acting…weird about it lately. I just let everything get to me.”

“ It’s not your fault, and I should be the one apologizing. Honestly I shoulda noticed it sooner and realized that it was because of Charlotte. I’ll talk to her about her crush when I see her tomorrow, so don’t worry.” Yami said firmly as he walked over and stood beside her. “ C’mon let’s go get something to eat.”

The woman nodded and the couple walked back up to the Hideout.

———

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a good day~!

#asks #anon🌟 #black clover #black clover x y/n #black clover x you #black clover x reader #yami sukehiro #sukehiro yami #yami x reader #yami sukehiro x reader #sukehiro yami x reader #black clover yami #yami black clover #black clover oneshot #black clover fanfiction

[avelera]

Sandman Meta: Hob has exactly zero way of figuring out who Dream is (before they reunite)

More than once in a fic I've written from Hob's POV I've had readers note their astonishment that Hob has not yet figured out Dream's identity, even if Dream does not reveal it himself.

Even in fics of mine where Dream reveals his name, like in Giving Sanctuary, I have Hob be slow on the uptake when it comes to the extent of Dream's powers, even things like being able to enter and control dreams, and the reason I do this is carefully considered and based in the fact that Hob would have no way of knowing who Dream is or by extension what he can do.

So I kind of want to take a step back and address in detail just how actually impossible it would be, objectively, for Hob to figure out who Dream is in a world that doesn't have The Sandman comic for him to read to figure it out.

This is, of course, because, from a Doylist angle, Neil's "Dream of the Endless" is not based in any single mythology. Indeed, Dream as we know him is cobbled together from at least three or more different mythological figures, none of which combine to actually form the "Dream of the Endless" we see in the show or read in the comics. The Endless are completely made up for the comic and the Sandman, Morpheus, and Oneiros are all from wildly different mythologies and none of them actually overlap to form the complete picture of who Dream is as an entity in the Sandman show or comic.

So even if someone straight-up told Hob that the person he meets is the Sandman, Morpheus, or Oneiros (btw, there is no singular figure of "Oneiros" in Greek mythology) he would still not be able to put together the full picture of who Dream is. Even if he's given the name "Dream of the Endless" to work with, those words combined don't mean anything on their own if you don't have what an Endless is filled in, because it was made up entirely for the comic. (Of course, a fanfic author absolutely could make up such a book for their fic but it would be a creation for that fic, serving a purpose within that story like to tip Hob off, though I think it's entirely reasonable to make up a book in the Sandman world that goes into detail on who the Endless are. The Magdalene Grimoire, btw, is not that book. It only talks about Death. Death is a figure in many mythologies including the Christian one, but Dream is not. Even Burgess needs the Corinthian to tell him who Dream is in the show, and he's an occultist.)

Couple all of this with Hob's personal experience with Dream, encountering him as part of a wager with Dream's sister Death to see if Hob could bear a life of immortality, you get far more clues that would send him hurtling off into a totally incorrect direction before you'd get anything close to the truth, if we assume only the books available in our world are available to him.

So the reason this is a bit of an irritation for me that there's this idea that Hob has "all the clues" to figure out who Dream is because it smacks of a logical fallacy.

Basically, it's easy to see that the answer to a complicated math problem is "obvious" if someone just hands the answer to you. But challenging people to actually solve it themselves could be quite a bit more complicated. And in this complex formula solving for "Who the fuck is Hob's mysterious stranger?" there's actually so many blank X's of unanswered questions that I genuinely think there's no way for Hob to solve this equation without someone giving him the answer.

Let's go through this systematically, using just what Hob knows as observed on screen in the show.

1389 - a pale man in all black with a ruby at his throat approaches Hob's table and challenges Hob to meet him there in 100 years. He then smiles enigmatically and leaves.

That's it. That's all Hob has to go off of. He never sees Death, he has no idea about the wager. As far as he knows, Dream gave him immortality. It would be the most logical conclusion given that the day before Hob didn't have immortality and the day after, presumably, he does.

1489 - The only confirmation he has is actually seeing Dream there in 1489 and the first thing he asks is, "How did you know that I'd be here?"

Dream does not answer him. Hob takes a few stabs at guessing his identity which reveals his Christian European context: are you a wizard, or a saint -- to be clear, these are two types of human magic users that make sense to Hob for his context. The only other figure he can think of is The Devil. He doesn't ask if Dream is a pagan god or a faerie, he assumes a man with arcane or divine magic, or the Devil.

Dream says that he's not the Devil, much good that would do if he was a Devil who could just presumably lie to Hob, and says he's interested in Hob's experience and implies that he will grant him another 100 years of life. He is sarcastic and unimpressed about Hob's wonder at the world. He doesn't even actually show much interest in Hob being in the printing business. He only shows a spark of interest in Hob's continued desire to live, and then immediately takes off.

1589 - The only new information Hob gets this year is 1) Dream is supremely uninterested in food or the wealth Hob has earned, or his family, and 2) puny little Will Shaxberd, a crap playwright with no shot at becoming anything more, suddenly becomes a famous playwright. He would eventually become a renowned playwright in his day but keep in mind, Shakespeare didn't actually become mega famous centuries after his death. In his day, many people thought other playwrights like Marlowe were better.

My point is, from this Hob doesn't necessarily get even the pieces to determine that Dream likes art. It might seem obvious to us because Dream is Prince of Stories, but that's not the offer Dream gives Shaxberd. He just asks if it is Will's will to create dreams to spur the minds of men. Yes, we know that Dream wants Will to make dreams for him, but in Hob's context, Dream is just asking what Will would sell his soul for, just like he overheard Hob saying he had no intention of dying. From this perspective the only strong conclusion Hob can draw is that Dream grants wishes.

From this, Hob could conclude that Dream is a djinn/genie, or perhaps a faerie, but there is absolutely nothing to indicate he's associated with dreams or literature directly besides a mention of creating dreams nested in the context of asking Shaxberd what he wants, giving him a supernatural gift much like the one Hob believes Dream gave him.

At this point, the domains of Dream's power are very muddled for Hob because he doesn't know Death gave him immortality. So as far as he knows, Dream can give immortality AND make an amateur playwright into the greatest writer who ever lived. Putting these two things together does not bring you naturally to the domain of dreams by any stretch.

(I will note here, that in Giving Sanctuary, I had Hob learn that "Death" is Dream's sister before he learns Dream's name. There, his initial conclusion is that Dream must therefore be Famine, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the one known for wearing black (and not eating seems like a clue with Dream too) my point being that having another, small piece of the whole puzzle still would probably send him flying off in the wrong direction given his cultural context.)

1789: The next time Hob gets any hint that Dream has powers is with Lady Johanna. He uses his sand to show her her, "old ghosts". Note, she does not fall asleep but rather begins to hallucinate.

The Sandman myth has its origins of Scandinavia and it is first written down in in "Der Sandmann" a context that Hob might have access to, if he's very well read, in the early 1800s. By the way, the description of the Sandman in that book bears a striking resemblance to the Corinthian, because he eats the eyes of naughty children, and very little to Dream beyond the use of sand in his magic.

There is absolutely nothing to link the Sandman to Morpheus the Roman God of Dreams, who was made up entirely by Ovid in the Metamorphoses and never mentioned anywhere before that. That's because Neil Gaiman was the first to link those two mythological figures.

And on that note, there is no Oneiros attested to in Hesiod. The mention of Oneiros is actually to the "Oneiroi" an entire tribe of dreams and nightmares who are the children of Night (Nix). There's Hypnos (Sleep) who is the brother of Thanatos (Death) but that is about as close as we get to the Endless in any other mythological source besides the comics. And again, Dream does not put Johanna to sleep, he makes her hallucinate.

1889- Again, there is precious little to go off of. Dream is tight-lipped as ever. The only thing he gives away is that Lady Johanna later helped him with a task, a fact Hob is visibly annoyed and I daresay jealous about, and when he lashes out he refers to himself as, "One such as I."

But "One such as I," only reveals something Hob already knew: that Dream thinks highly of himself. That doesn't actually reveal that Dream is even magical, he could just be nobility or a powerful immortal magic user and refer to himself that way. Hob already knows that Dream is magical, and immortal, and probably some sort of high born or aristocrat. He's probably known that since 1389 given how Dream was dressed and given that giant fuck-off ruby (which actually might make Hob, in that day, wonder if Dream was a relation to the Black Prince)

That's it. That is the grand total of everything Hob has seen of Dream.

Hob in the comic will eventually admit, in The Wake, that he figured out who Dream was on his own. But this is after Seasons of Mist when Dream toasts him in Hob's dream and Hob wakes up with the impossible bottle of wine on his bedside. He has another encounter too with Dream where Dream eventually accedes to Hob's request to make the men who killed Audrey, his dead girlfriend, know who she was. Presumably, Dream makes them dream of her.

So Hob in the comics by the time we get to The Wake has more to go off of to make the link to the Lord of Dreams. Hob as we see him in the show, has had much less to go off of.

Even if you give Hob one piece of the puzzle, like one of the names like Morpheus, or The Sandman, or Oneiros, that still doesn't help give him the whole picture. The word "Endless" would be meaningless. He would have to have read at least three pretty obscure books that span a period of 2,000 years (between Hesiod and Der Sandmann) to get the three books that Neil primarily drew from to combine these figures into the Dream of the comic.

Look, my point is, unless someone gives the answer to Hob, and explains the full extent of what the Endless are, he's got little to go off of. Arguably, not enough at all to solve for "X" as to who Dream is, even if he's given more pieces. This would be a tough problem to solve.

#the sandman #sandman meta #hob gadling #dreamling #1689 fic #Giving Sanctuary

[the-darklings]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?” 

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

.

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well. 

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly. 

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome. 

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead. 

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right. 

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check. 

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context. 

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines. 

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in. 

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out. 

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.” 

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking. 

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

.

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

.

A thousand reflections stare back at you. 

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch. 

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms. 

.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace. 

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope. 

A beautiful dream. 

.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face. 

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds. 

It’s answer enough. 

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order. 

.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat. 

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock. 

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing. 

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?” 

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it. 

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently. 

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow. 

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look. 

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns. 

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean. 

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them. 

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest. 

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction. 

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you. 

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable. 

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread. 

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

.

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades. 

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this. 

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones. 

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you. 

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves. 

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now. 

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green. 

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds. 

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up. 

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm. 

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now. 

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach. 

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it. 

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition. 

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns. 

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop. 

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either. 

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood. 

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny. 

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye. 

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily. 

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close. 

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed. 

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire. 

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now. 

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing. 

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been. 

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.  

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement. 

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both. 

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume… 

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need. 

You had foolishly believed you were friends. 

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice. 

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun. 

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence. 

“Fun.” 

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired. 

It makes it worse. So much worse. 

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing. 

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of. 

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching. 

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.” 

No one laughs. No one responds. 

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens. 

.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia. 

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first. 

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned. 

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another. 

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body. 

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there. 

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing. 

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak. 

“No.”

You turn to go. 

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw. 

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood. 

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly. 

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you. 

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice. 

Fine. You’ll find another way. 

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.  

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach. 

And then, impossibly, you see him. 

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you. 

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion. 

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief. 

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course. 

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

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you. 

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last. 

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you. 

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly. 

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents. 

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk. 

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you. 

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there. 

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you. 

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence. 

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood. 

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey. 

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his. 

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in. 

.

Motion. 

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. 

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension. 

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.” 

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe. 

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing. 

.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

.

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

.

Blank page. 

Blank page.

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction. 

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her. 

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

.

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase. 

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm.  Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest. 

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable. 

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step. 

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed. 

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light. 

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from. 

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life. 

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also. 

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear. 

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything. 

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle. 

“What are you doing?” 

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely. 

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone. 

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening. 

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole. 

.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again. 

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep. 

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now. 

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him. 

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad. 

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you. 

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass. 

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere. 

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life. 

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless. 

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained. 

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream. 

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet. 

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains. 

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse. 

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.” 

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth: 

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light. 

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need. 

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord. 

.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests. 

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils. 

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream. 

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?” 

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply. 

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions. 

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away. 

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone. 

.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent. 

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase. 

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm. 

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.  

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept. 

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.” 

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched. 

But not this time. 

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words. 

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out. 

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape. 

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair. 

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to. 

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is. 

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.” 

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.  

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway. 

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another. 

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures. 

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits. 

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show. 

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

.

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet. 

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here. 

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.  

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word. 

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor. 

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused. 

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true. 

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin. 

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes. 

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly. 

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps. 

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point. 

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it. 

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity. 

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping. 

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths. 

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier. 

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact. 

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you. 

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation. 

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon. 

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness. 

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed. 

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand. 

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you. 

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand. 

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile. 

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure. 

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare. 

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke. 

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze. 

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.  

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment. 

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly. 

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger. 

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous. 

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely. 

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly. 

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

.

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.  

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.  

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it. 

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists. 

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair. 

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it. 

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it. 

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you. 

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him. 

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows. 

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment. 

“Yes,” Dream replies. 

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him. 

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety. 

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse. 

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale. 

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.  

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you. 

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference. 

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face. 

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

#the sandman #dream of the endless #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman netflix #sandman imagine #morpheus imagines #morpheus x fem!reader #dream x fem!reader #sandman fic #fanfiction #sandman netflix #sandman neil gaiman #morpheus fic #dream fic #tom sturridge #fic: today i bury you in me

[silvyavan]

Some of yall ain't ready to hear this (partly because I'm sleep deprived) but Asta is literally disabled in the Canon premise and it IS contextually important.

Asta, being manaless, is literally not able to do many things which in BC universe can be considered basic household skills or if he can, the way he has to do it would culturally be seen as a more roundabout and tiring way of doing it.

Broom Flying is a literal main form of transportation in Clover, similar to a bike and Asta cannot fucking use that. My midget king had to fucken experiment with his sword to turn it into a mobility aid to fly like everyone else. Hell, we get it in the first episode that any form of chore that Asta does "normally" (as per the audience) is something that Yuno can do in quick succession due to his magic. Is magic picky on what you can do with it in terms of household duties? Yeah, but every magic has SOME form of relevance in the household.

Antimagic can't count because its only useful against malicious mages or traps which, all in all, can't really offer a lot of flexibility. Hell, Asta could only figure out how to fly outside of Black form 2 whole ass years after he got his grimoire. And even then, NONE of Asta's swords are creation or healing spells, so Magic Knights technically IS the only place he can utilise his grimoire in.

Communication devices and other mana tools, chores that, by magic standards, need magic to be done efficiently and quickly, even FOOD (Heart Kingdoms coconut water being only sweet if you have high mana).

Even the poorest peasant in the boonies has mana. Asta does Not.

And even if he could get stronger and adapt antimagic to straight up anything, Devil Binding ritual and recent arc in Hino shows us that, physically, there are some limits he can't break. Actual, BIOLOGICAL, burnout and lack of professional tutelage/help reasons.

It also puts a lot of his social/inter-political challenges in a bigger depth and with more nuanced realism.

The nobles refuse to acknowledge him as a possible candidate for being the Wizard King because they see him as physically incapable of holding up the mantle, much less actually being one. The court throws him under the bus because its much easier and comfortable for them to sacrifice one orphan who can't even use mana than to make a massive rift between the population and the military when the kingdom is vulnerable, since they believe they wouldn't be losing anything. Hell, most of the captains don't even acknowledge him as an asset until Asta straight up busts his ass/arms with massive feats.

It also adds more value to his relationship with the Black Bulls and Yuno. Yuno DOES acknowledge Asta as a rival, and a very serious one too. His lack of mana isn't a reason for Yuno to be condescending or dismissive of him.

Black Bulls are also, in some part, similar to him and as such, inspiring them to be better as well (Noelle's mana control difficulties, Finral's spell execution and energy consumption issues, Henry's curse, everyone's literal trauma holding them back).

#black clover #black clover manga #asta black clover #silv writes #black clover theory

[flyawaybird444]

[11:11] make a wish

✩•̩̩͙*I see forever in your eyes*•̩̩͙✩

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⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

{Description} Stray Kids with a spiritual S/O

This was just a ✨shower thought✨ i had earlier, and I figured it was the perfect thing to kickstart my blog or whatevs 🤷🏻‍♀️

{Warnings} None? Maybe religious themes? Tarot reading?

——— ⁺⋆ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⋆⁺ ———

When you first brought Hyunjin home, he spent a long time looking through all your crystals. He was interested to learn what they were, but he didn’t really care about the spiritual properties. Our boy just likes pretty things ok TT

Even years later he still loves going into crystal shops and apothecaries to see the handmade jewelry and other trinkets. He 100% thinks it’s so cottagecore. He takes candid polaroids of you while you’re meditating or walking around your favorite metaphysical shop because he thinks you’re so beautiful when you’re in your happy place, and your devotion to it is attractive to him. Hyunjin really likes candle spells because he says they’re romantic. He asked you once as a joke if you put a love spell on him and you said yes. He didn’t realize you were kidding at first and had to contemplate his life for a second.

Han is always happy to talk about the things you love. He likes the surface level stuff like crystals and meditation/manifesting, and even some spell work, but do not show this man any type of divination because he will be terrified. You once pulled out your pendulum to ask it a question, and as soon as it started swinging he was ready to call a priest. He’d probably take a lot of convincing to let you read his tarot cards. He has a lot of anxiety about the future as it is, and he also doesn’t understand how a deck of cards could possibly know him that well.

Supportive boyfriend award goes to Felix on this one. He wants to know anything and everything, will ask to look at your grimoire, wants you to read his tarot cards literally all the time.

“Y/N, I don’t know what i wanna eat for dinner, can you ask your cards what i should have?”

“I- Lix that’s not how that works”

He absolutely love’s apothecaries and metaphysical shops because he says they feel happy inside. You ignited such a love for incense in him, when you guys go out he always smells like smokey vanilla and it’s great.

Chan Is an old soul. If he hasn’t already delved into spirituality himself, he’s the most likely to become spiritual when he starts dating you. He’s very respectful and mature about it, and knows not to touch anything on your altar. Chan also loves to meditate with you in the mornings. You told him once that you felt a connection with the moon, and since then he always sends you photos of the moon when it looks pretty. 110% he wants to get high with you and talk about your ideas on the afterlife and the multiverse. Tarot readings help ease his mind when making tough decisions, so every now and then, the two of you will sit down with a glass of wine and do a reading.

Changbin doesn’t believe in it at first. He thinks tarot readings and divination is an act, and he’s definitely the type to ask the typical “well how do you explain __” questions. Then the day you gave him a really detailed tarot reading and the situation played out exactly as the cards said it would the following week, he started to realize it was very real. He’s really interested in divination because it challenges his logical brain. He likes looking at the forged weapons at your local metaphysical supply shop, and is secretly dying to play with the Tibetan singing bowls.

For Minho, he likes candle spells, but not for the same reason hyunjin likes them. He thinks they feel powerful when you do them, and that’s the thing he likes most about your practice. Wants to learn about hexing. He likes the comfort in your protection spells, and he thinks money and luck spells are really cool. He once watched you do a money spell and then find a $100 bill in your coat pocket, and he was sold immediately. Tries to manifest really random things into happening like finding stray cats to pet when he goes on walks.

Seungmin is so attentive with you, and he’s supportive boyfriend number three out of the group. He’ll ask you questions all timidly because he doesn’t wanna accidentally offend you or sound dumb when he doesn’t know something. He also frequently brings home cool rocks he finds for you because he knows you like them. Seungmin likes that you’re grounded and connected to the earth, and really loves going on nature walks to forage with you.

Jeongin is confused. But he’s also easily impressed by everything you do. The first time he sees you open a circle before doing a spell, he’s so hype.

“WOW NOONA THAT IS SO COOL, but also what is it?”

He acts like you’re doing a magic trick when you’re reading his cards. Will literally give you a round of applause when something you say resonates with him. He’s also the type to want to touch and play with literally everything in the apothecary. Once, he accidentally put his candy wrapper on your altar without thinking and was paranoid for like a month after.

[AN: Hi, if you like this ily and you should send me requests for more. Mwa 💋]

#stray kids #skz #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz fluff #idol x reader #kpop #skz headcanons #lee felix #bang chan #han jisung #hwang hyunjin #sub!skz #dom!reader #lee know #yang jeongin #kim seungmin

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, animal death, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: In honour and love. 2562 words.

Author’s Note: We pick up where we left off.

1986

“You’re welcome…”

Your feet were planted so solidly on the ground it was as though you’d grown roots. He took the few steps needed to almost close the space between you.

“Why… why are you helping?”

Oh.

Your body had an almost visceral reaction to his voice. It was more than a familiar sound; it felt like home. You wanted to cry. “I... I… Uh- That’s hard… to explain…”

He looked you up and down, then accepted your answer with a nod.

“I need to… need to bury him,”

“Let me,” the man moved faster than you, scooping the dog’s body up and holding it against his chest.

“Oh… No… He can’t be dumped somewhere. I need to bury him. He deserves to be honoured.” You could feel embarrassment bubble up, something you weren’t used to. It was easy to talk about the craft around witches. It was easy to hide it from humans with clever language. It was entirely illogical, but you needed him to understand what you were saying. You were afraid he’d laugh or deny you this rite.

The man looked from you to the dog. “I know where to go. If you’ll take us,”

“How… Do… Do you remember? Being a bat?”

He nodded. “I am… starting to.”

As the vampire dressed in borrowed clothes, ones that fit more poorly than the last, you picked the best apple in your fruit bowl and a piece of Apache Tear obsidian from your crystal collection, stashing them in your bag.

You checked outside the trailer for nosy neighbours. The coast was clear and you walked to your car. The man had never been in a car. He’d seen them. Knew, in theory, that he just had to sit in it. Still, it presented a challenge.

When you unlocked the passenger side door and opened it for him, he stood awkwardly for a second. “Unless it's close enough to walk?” you asked him. He shook his head and got into the car, holding the dog’s body like a security blanket.

As you drove out of Forest Hills, you stopped at the main entrance. “Which way?”

The man nodded north.

You turned the radio on to fill the silence, assuming there was no conversation to be had.

“You do not belong in this place,”

“No. I don’t,” you agreed. “I used to be. Before the town, before… this lifetime… I lived here with my sisters,”

“They are not here now,”

“No. I’m the only witch here,”

“A witch,” he repeated, nodding to himself.

“Do you know what that is?” you asked.

He looked at you, his eyesight unaffected by the night. “I… may,”

“Oh… Okay. Well. Are you remembering anything else? About what you are?”

“I need blood.”

Of course, he’d know blood. “You will die without it. Well… A kind of death. Eventually. That would be very painful for you though,”

“Yes,” he said, like he knew that. Perhaps the thirst for blood was so innate that the knowledge he’d die without it was too. “Vampire.”

The word startled you. It was still surreal. It was as if a Tasmanian tiger or woolly mammoth were to walk out in front of your car.

He was a vampire. A vampire you had helped. A vampire you had taken a living thing to, to kill. It hadn’t occurred to you until then that you could have simply healed the ridgeback. You could have healed all the animals in Hawkins Kennels, instead you took one to its early death and devoted time to a vampire.

You focused on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“Do you know your name?” you asked, needing the conversation as a distraction. Once telling him yours, you waited, but he shook his head. “We might need to give you one. Or, at least, a nickname.”

Between your limited knowledge of the roads of Hawkins and the fact he’d only ever seen it from the sky, it took a while to locate the place he intended to bury the dog. It wasn’t unpleasant driving empty streets with him though. You wondered if it should have been.

A partially overgrown road, unpaved and a threat to your car tires, was where he lead you. As natural landmarks began to come into focus, the moon’s rays the only light for miles, you felt the growing sense that you’d been to this place before.

When your car came to a dead end, you cut the engine. “Is it far?” you asked.

The man shook his head and waited for you to open his door.

He walked in front of you, flattening a path. Over the tall grass you could see you were coming to a wooded area. You smelt the oak before hitting the edge of the trees.

“Was this a witch?” the man asked, stepping out of your way.

Before you, constructed between two tall sycamore trees was a doorway of sorts. Hundreds of branches and sticks had been used to create a near-perfect circle. They were woven and stuck together to build an arch over and under. A gateway to the woods, not one that defied science, but still an oddity seemingly supernatural in origin.

“How… how do you know this place?”

He had no answer, so he stayed silent. It was just one of many parts of the flatlands, of Hawkins, that as a bat he watched over. He liked the forest doorway though, as much as he’d ever been able to like anything.

“I think… I think I’ve been here. I think I made this,” you said, voice dropping low.

“You cannot remember?”

It made no sense. You should have been able to remember. An unsettling feeling washed over you. Someone had been tinkering in the vampire’s mind, dislodging memories and letting them freefall. Surely, you didn’t have that in common.

When you didn’t answer his question, he asked another. “Is this a place… to honour?”

The dog.

“Yes. Yeah, it is.”

You took the lead, walking through the forest gate and looking back to see what would become of a vampire crossing a witch’s threshold. Nothing. Whatever magic had been there was long gone.

Not far from the gate, you stopped. The vampire understood, carefully placing the dog on the woodland floor. He stayed knelt on the ground and began to move sticks and brush out of the way. His movements gained momentum and soon he was moving faster than your eye could read. He was a blur, then he was standing next to a deep grave, the soil of which was dark under his fingernails.

You nodded when he looked to you for approval, then he laid the dog in the ground. While the vampire buried his victim, you gathered tokens from the nature that surrounded you.

Upon the grave, you laid butterfly weed and echinacea flowers, the apple, and obsidian.

“Hel, comforter in grief,

We ask you to receive this soul.

They lived pure, good, and true.

Hel, watcher of the dead,

We ask you to receive this soul.

Go peacefully now, no lament, no sorrow, nor rue.”

Standing side-by-side with a hexed vampire, you committed the dog to the earth not with a spell but a blessing, and grieved for the oath you’d broken.

“Go now,” he spoke. “I will come soon.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the vampire had gone from your side into the night. You waited in the car for fifteen minutes, the heater blasting stuffy air onto you. When he didn’t return, you drove home alone, only to find him perched on the roof of the trailer.

“That seems very dramatic,” you told him as he followed you inside. He was silent and all but invisible out there, still it seemed even an amnesic vampire couldn’t forget to have an operatic flair.

The trailer was warm and the artificial lighting soft. When you turned to him, you could see it on his face. The colour high on his cheekbones. The red on his lips. He’d found his way back to you, by way of more death.

…

1836

He watched you while you built the gate. Although he wouldn’t reveal himself, you could feel his curious gaze. It sent electricity buzzing through you, though you would burn at the stake before admitting that to yourself.

When he felt sure no townsfolk or coven members were joining you, he sauntered through the field, parting the long grass at will.

“Little witch. Why are you playing with sticks?”

You paid him no mind, which you knew would drive him crazy. He walked through the gate and around it, poking at the branches and making noises of discontent.

“If you aren’t going to help, you can go be a nuisance to your own kind,” you warned him, a stick pointed in his direction.

He swiftly grabbed the stick, tugging it hard, pulling you into him. It was the first physical content you’d made. The stick was forgotten as his cold hands wrapped around your upper arms, your chest pressed to his. He looked down at you, bared his sharp teeth in a smile.

“You don’t want me to go. Do you?” Your blown pupils were answer enough. He grinned again. “How can I help?” he asked, voice softening as he let you go and stepped away.

“I need… more…”

“More…? Sticks?”

You nodded dumbly.

He stayed close, within your sight, and moved at the speed of a human. You steadied yourself, regained your composure, and continued with your task.

The circular doorway would allow humans and witches to pass safely through the woods. It worked like a protection spell, once through it the individual would exist within a bubble, the bubble would take them through the dense and dark forest untouchable to vampires and foes.

On the other side of the woods, your mother had created one just like it, though she preferred to work in the daylight. Your penchant for twilight walks and midnight magic had, so far, gone unnoticed by the coven. Moonlight was a strong conductor, after all.

When the doorway was complete, holding strong against push and pull, you considered sending the vampire away. Somehow though, your magic felt stronger when he stood next to you. So, he stayed.

“Bloodline magic, far and wide,

Enchant this doorway so friends may hide.

Leaf and petal, wood and stone,

Protect our friends, return them home.”

You painted a circle of salt, sage, ground black cat bone, and mud around the doorway while reciting the spell. Then stood on the opposite side to the vampire.

“I dare you to cross through,” you said to him, a coy smile warning him of your witchy mischief.

“You wouldn’t be trying to kill me, would you, little witch?”

“If I were, it would not be with sticks and stones.”

He laughed, then considered you, his head cocking to the side. “If you want me to cross through, it will not be for free.” It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to walk through the circle, but the damage he would sustain was a mystery. What price would he put on shame or pain?

You huffed and crossed your arms. “What do you want? More stolen apples that you can’t eat?”

“A kiss,” he replied.

Your expression stayed playful; you held your nerve. He didn’t miss the way your breathing hitched though.

“For that, I want more,”

“Of course, you do,” he laughed, motioning for you to continue with a wave of the hand.

“Your name. A kiss will buy me your name.”

The vampire was quite pleased with himself for having held back that detail. He had predicted it would become useful. Witches and their silly little words and silly little names. It was all so important to them.

“You have yourself a deal.”

You clapped with joy, then bowed at the gate. “Please cross this witch’s threshold,”

“Oh, I do love it when you speak so filthy,” he quipped.

Tentatively, he approached the gate, waiting to feel his skin burn or something mystical and unholy. You watched amused at his sudden caution.

“Nothing will happen until you cross through,” you told him, trying to hurry him along.

He shot you a dark look that ought to have frightened you. Instead, you giggled.

The vampire took a useless breath in and jumped off the ground. He hit the circle like it was a brick wall, then was sent on a harsh rebound from the trees and into the tall grass.

You covered your face to conceal the laughter, waiting for him to reappear, ego bruised.

The wind whistled through the air and you thought perhaps you had pushed the vampire too far. Carefully, you followed his path from the gate out the woods and to where the grass began.

“Oh, vampire!” you called sweetly.

His voice came from all around you. All-encompassing whispers of, “Little witch, little witch, little witch!”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

The whispering stopped. You walked into the tall grass and found him lying on his back, casually lounging.

“Have you come to shower me in kisses?” he asked, fluttering his long eyelashes as you.

You knelt next to him, leaning over so your arms were either side of his head. “Give me your name,” you demanded, eye to eye with him.

“When I was born into this world, my mother named me Edward,” he said so casually, like it had never been a secret.

“Edward,” you repeated, a tone in your voice that made him smile.

“Are you disappointed? Would Molech suit better? Abaddon? Paimon? Or perhaps Lucifer Morningstar is what you expected?”

You looked down at him and saw through the shallow humour. “There’s a boy in the village. His name is Robert. It means bright star. His mother calls him Bobby and he answers when she calls,”

“Are you trying to distract me with a lesson?”

“Edward is of Old English origin. It means both fortune and guardianship. Which, in your case, does not fit quite right.” You didn’t reveal that his name was relatively new in human history, leading you to conclude he was not an Ancient vampire.

“Do your arms tire, Amabel? May I take this weight from you?” With vampire speed, he sat up, pulling you over him, your legs straddling his lap.

The game was fun. You held your arms out straight, letting them lean on his shoulders. “My assertion is that like Bobby, you will answer to a different name. I think I will call you… Eddie.”

You half expected him to argue. Instead, he smiled tenderly and snaked his arms around you. “You can call me whatever you want, little witch.”

Eddie listened to your heart, how it began to beat faster as you leaned down and ran the tip of your nose against his. His lips touched yours, his cool to your earthy warmth. You had kissed witches and humans and a few fae folk too. Nothing… absolutely nothing compared.

You rolled your hips against him, begging to be held tighter, instead he maintained the space between you, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against yours.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, in a moment of honest vulnerability.

Willing yourself not to cry, you left his sorrow unanswered and instead, leaned in to kiss him again.

End Note: Not me agonising over US English versus Australian. The Grimoire and timeline have been updated (links at top of post). Reblogs encourage me to keep writing! And, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Fic Taglist: @kaitebugg03 @paranoidmunson @munsonsbait @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl

#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Vampire!Eddie #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Witch!Reader

[mentality-project]

BBC Merlin x Reader - My Startled Stoat

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Pairing: Merlin x Reader

Summary: So, I came across this meme thing on Insta comparing pics of Merlin against stoats and the resemblance was uncanny. And then there was a comment about imagine if there was an episode where Merlin turned himself into a stoat by accident and Gwen and Gaius had to hurry to turn him back. And I said challenge accepted...

——

Merlin would’ve sighed if he could. This wasn’t exactly the result that he had intended. What was he going to do? He certainly couldn’t stay like this...

His ears perked up at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Merlin!” You called out as you walked through the part of the woods that the court physician had sent him to, “Gaius said that he sent you to gather herbs and that you were to return hours ago. Where are you?”

You stumbled as you trod over something, causing you to look down. A basket full of herbs and Merlin’s boots...along with all of Merlin’s clothes. Well, at least you were in the right place. But where on earth was Merlin?

“Merlin?” you called out again, looking around for him.

The sound of rustling cloth drew your attention back down and you got the shock of your life when a stoat popped out of neckline of Merlin’s shirt. The animal scuttled forward and came to a stop in front of you. You blinked down at it, eyebrow raised at the unusually tame behaviour. There was also something about the colouring that struck you. The creamy underbelly and dark brunette fur, coupled along with the eyes. The stoat possessed the most brilliant blue eyes that you had ever seen. You knew those eyes. They were just like -

Wait. No...

Slowly, you lowered yourself down onto one knee, peering closer at the stoat’s face.

“Merlin?” your voice had taken on an incredulous tone.

The stoat bounded forward, placed its paws on your knee and nodded. Your eyebrows nearly shot right off your forehead as you slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Oh my god...”

——

“GAIUS!” you called out as you came charging through the door, basket of herbs in one hand and Merlin’s clothes in the other, “Gaius, help!”

The physician hurried over towards you, worry etched into his face, “What’s wrong? Where’s Merlin?”

You set the clothes and boots down on the bench before placing the basket on the table and reaching inside to thrust the stoat-Merlin in front of you.

“Here.”

Gaius raised his eyebrows, looking back and forth between you and Merlin a couple of times before meeting your eyes. It was only when you nodded firmly, lips pressed together in a straight line that Gaius realised that you weren’t joking.

“Oh, my...quite the predicament.” Gaius remarked with a weary sigh.

You set Merlin down on the table with care before turning back to Gaius.

“What are we going to do?”

Gaius sighed again as he folded is arms across his chest.

“Find some way to undo what has been done, I suppose.” Gaius shot the stoat a disapproving look, “At the very least, I hope that this will be a memorable lesson as to why magic should be practiced with caution.”

Stoat-Merlin had the good grace to bow his head and look ashamed. Gaius pursed his lips before turning his attention back to you.

“I have a few patients to tend to before I can go to the library to see if there’s a book that can help us find a way to turn Merlin back. In the meantime, I suggest looking in the grimoire I passed down to Merlin. No doubt that whatever mischief he’s gotten himself into now came from there.”

You nodded and watched Gaius leave, turning to Merlin once the door was shut.

“Well? Where do you keep this grimoire?”

Merlin bounded to the other end of the table, rearing up on his hind legs to look pointedly at his bedroom door before looking back at you.

“I see...” you pressed your lips together before swallowing, “Let’s go.”

You picked Merlin up off the table before making your way up the stairs. Merlin squirmed out of your arms, paws scrabbling across the floorboards as you hesitated in the doorway. You had never been in Merlin’s room before, let alone the room of any man, for that matter. Just the idea of being in Merlin’s room felt strangely intimate. But what other choice did you have? You exhaled as you crossed the threshold.

“Where do you keep it, Merlin?”

Stoat-Merlin circled around a certain spot, making a scratching sound as he pawed at the floor.

“Hmm...” you hummed as you knelt down, tapping on the wood.

The hollow echo had you raising your eyebrows.

“Right.”

You pressed at the boards, eventually working out how to prise up the lid to the hidden compartment. You set it aside before reaching down to take out what could only be the grimoire wrapped in a linen cloth.

“You really are full of secrets, Merlin.” you murmured as the book was revealed before your eyes.

You moved to sit on the edge of Merlin’s bed, book resting in your lap as you flicked through the pages. Stoat-Merlin moved across the bedsheets in a jittery manner, almost circling you. It must be so frustrating for poor Merlin…he probably knew exactly what page and spell you needed to be looking at, but had no way of being able to communicate that to you. After a few moments you paused in your turning of the pages, sighing in frustration.

“I’m afraid I’m not of much use...I don’t know what I’m meant to be looking for, let alone where to start.”

Stoat-Merlin blinked up at you with his wide blue eyes before nudging your hand with his head. You smiled at the gesture, it was almost as if he were trying to encourage you. You and Merlin continued to stare at each other for a few minutes before you spared a glance at the book only to look back at him.

“Did you want to give it a try? See if you could do a little…you know.”

You wiggled your fingers back and forth between your eyes and the grimoire in a poor imitation of Merlin using his magic. Stoat-Merlin blinked and you weren’t sure whether or not he was thinking about how much of an idiot you were. Stoat-Merlin soon turned his gaze to the book lying open in your lap and continued to surprise you when his eyes suddenly went from blue to gold. You jumped as the pages started to move, almost as if an unseen hand was flicking through them furiously. When the pages finally settled, your sent Merlin a sidelong glance of approval.

“Good job, Merlin.” you smiled as you scratched the top of his head, just behind his ears.

Your smile widened as you watched the stoat close his eyes, seeming to be thoroughly loving the attention. The moment was short-lived when his blue eyes snapped open and he tried to shake his head away. You laughed as you withdrew your hand, more than certain that Merlin was doing the stoat equivalent of pouting.

“Sorry...now, let’s see where it all went wrong...” you murmured as you inspected the spells in front of you, “Oh, look! These pages are stuck together. Guess that’s probably why...oh.”

You trailed off as you leaned closer to inspect the mix up, “Oh, dear...interesting little pickle you’ve gotten yourself into, Merlin.”

You sighed at the forlorn look those blue eyes were giving you.

“Come along, then. Let’s see what we can do about it.” you stood with the grimoire and made your way down to Gaius’ work station, Merlin’s stoat body bounding along behind you.

—

You were crushing up the ingredients needed for the reversal potion with a mortar and pestle when the unmistakable sound of a disgruntled prince roaring Merlin’s name sounded down the hall. You froze as you locked eyes with Merlin, panic radiating off the both of you. Of all the times for Arthur to come looking for his manservant...

Abandoning the task at hand, you scooped up Stoat-Merlin and circled the spot where you stood, desperate for somewhere to hide him. In your panic, you decided to hide him in the first place that came to mind. But not before apologising for what you were about to do. You held up Stoat-Merlin to your face, looking him in the eye.

“I’m so sorry.”

And with that sincere apology, you proceeded to shove Stoat-Merlin down the neckline of your bodice. You froze as Prince Arthur threw the door open, clasping your hands together behind your back. Thankfully, Stoat-Merlin had stilled beneath your clothes. You were however, very aware of the heavy thump of his heart as it beat in his tiny furry body against your breastbone.

“Your Highness.” you greeted the prince with a slight bow.

You did a subtle shuffle as you straightened, praying that your upright body was enough to hide the grimoire lying open on the table behind you.

“Have you seen Merlin?”

“No, sire,” you lied blatantly, “I’m looking for him myself.”

“Where is he?”

“Out running errands with Gaius, I suppose. Shall I tell him that you’re looking for him when he returns?”

“Yes, and when you see him, tell to report to me immediately.”

“Of course, sire.”

You bow in farewell as the prince leaves, sighing in relief when the door shuts behind him. You gasp at the feeling of Stoat-Merlin squirming against you, reaching a hand into your clothes to pull him out.

“I’m so sorry!”

Stoat-Merlin has his head in his paws, unable to look you in the eye. You on the other hand, look at him with desperation; your cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, Merlin! But we couldn’t risk Arthur seeing you in this state and...and I panicked…” you wrung your hands together, cheeks flushing scarlet, “at least I didn’t tell him you were at the tavern…”

Merlin’s paws dropped to his sides and he scuttled over to stand beside the motar and pestle, eager to get this over with. You pressed your hands over your face as you took a breath, willing the heat to dissipate from your face before striding over. You followed the last of the instructions; scooping out a spoonful of the paste into a bowl. You carefully measured out the correct amount of water before stirring it all together, the paste soon turning into a bittersweet smelling soup.

“Bottoms up, Merlin.” you grimaced as you slid the bowl over in his direction, hoping for his sake that the potion would taste better than it smelled.

Stoat-Merlin lapped up as much as he could before bounding over to you. You scooped him up, holding him close as you leaned over the book. You had thought it best that you be the one to read the spell out loud, seeing as stoats couldn’t talk. Hopefully if Merlin read the incantation as you said it, that would be enough to undo the mess of a spell he had made.

You didn’t notice the glow in his eyes as you read the spell, but what you couldn’t ignore was the loud, smoky explosion that happened immediately after. A yelp left your mouth as the force of it knocked you to the ground. Oh, god...the spell had gone wrong, horribly wrong. You felt heavy and pinned down, and you wouldn’t know the extent of your predicament until this confounded smoke cleared up... "Oh."

It was the only sound you could make as you found yourself face to face with a very human, very naked Merlin. You kept your eyes locked onto his and refused to let them wander as your hands found his shoulders. "The spell worked...?" "Yes." Merlin's voice sounded deeper than you were used to, it made your heart skip a beat. You didn't say another word as you pressed your hands over your face to give Merlin privacy. You felt his body leave yours and heard the sound of his clothes rustling as he got dressed. It was only when Merlin pried your hands away that you dared to open your eyes. "Are you hurt?" Merlin asked as he pulled you to your feet. "N-no." An awkward silence hung in the room as you and Merlin struggled to hold each other's gaze, both desperate to break the silence but not knowing what to say. You thanked your stars when Gaius walked in, grateful for the interruption. For the rest of the day, despite your best efforts, your thoughts continued to be plagued with thoughts of blue eyes and crushed velvet.

#bbc merlin x reader #not my gifs #bbc merlin fanfiction #merlin x reader

[kentnaturaltribrid]

🪞🌕🗝️🌷Sorry if it looks like it was done extremely fast. However, been working on trying to get some of a few plants around to be growing more of and came across this, but so far it’s been only 4 days roughly so nothing yet, but since there’s more than enough time for the plants, decorated and updated the pots with the year of planting and that’s about as far as could go so far. Of course, waiting for them to be ready will take maybe another 13 days or so, depending on how the other plant in the vicinity reacts from the first set, then also waiting on how they will respond to the timing which should be roughly around the same timeframe during either Fall or late Spring, depending upon if it will take 12 fruits and or 5-10 sprigs of the herb. Though, will have to see on that one.

🪻🌻🍂🪐

#witchblr #grimoire pages #grimoire writing #Grimoire 2024 Challenge May #Grimoire May 2024 #Herbal pages written #Herbal magical pages #herbal witchy pages #witchy vibes #witchy things #witchy #witchcore #witches #season of the witch #witchy stuff #witchy items #witching hour #herbal witch #herbs and plants

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Nine

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.2k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

As they neared this outcropping of something in the corridors of nothing, a figure emerged before them — first as shadow, then as sound, and then a lonely silhouette. Tall, trim, standing in a practised poise before the doorway, he had ceased his work inside and came to greet them.

“Mio Barone,” said the man, bowing from the waist. “Che onore.”

“Ambrogio,” he said, greeting him in English for Tom’s sake. “Working late, I see.”

“As always. It is a pleasure,” he replied in perfect English.

He was a thin old man in a black suit buttoned tightly up and down, with wrinkled leather shoes. When he straightened from his bow, he seemed more like a floating face on a lithe shadow. What wisps of hair remained around his head sat behind his ears like bird nests, but his face was far less soft. Pale eyes, thin lips, a sunken face as cold as death.

“Tom,” said the Baron, “this is Mr. Ambrogio Oso. He helps us with many matters. An invaluable servant. Ambrogio, this is Tom Riddle.”

Tom looked him up and down and smiled thinly. Only Ambrogio’s eyebrows moved, quirking ever so slightly. He would make a remarkable corpse, thought Tom. “A pleasure,” he said, offering his hand.

The man reluctantly stepped forward and shook it — just once.

“Quite cold down here, isn’t it?” Tom noted. “Must be a nice change during the day.”

“Yes, we didn’t come down here to discuss the weather,” said the Baron. “Show us to collection B-1786.”

Ambrogio nodded and turned on his heels, leading them into the office. “This way, please.”

Tom followed, but his gaze lingered on the wall facing the door, where those tall red drapes were hanging. Slightly parted, they seemed to lead into another, shorter corridor. This place was more of a museum or a warehouse… He wondered if it had anything to do with that auction he’d heard Frederico mention to her during lunch.

The office was broad and wide, with three desks of which only one seemed busy. The walls were thick with old maps and photographs, and empty spiderwebs hung in the corners with no insects in sight. The place smelled like death and naphthalene. Crates gaped open all around, some covered discreetly with a shrowd, others not at all. There were books inside them mostly, but there were other items too. Elaborate bottles of red glass reinforced with blackened silver, candleholders, daggers, and cups.

Tom raised his head slightly, throwing a look from the corner of his eye upon that busy desk. Mr. Oso was in the middle of research involving a medieval ritual, it seemed, amid a medley of notes in both German and Arabic, fresh ink shining darkly beneath a green lamp.

Ambrogio went to one of the crates behind a corner and shuffled a few heavy things inside. He came out carrying three heavy tomes, each with a piece of paper sticking out of their pages, and set them on the nearest desk.

Tom didn’t wait for an invitation, he approached. Ambrogio stepped aside, hands tucked behind his back.

“So, I take it you want me to review these, Baron?”

“I want you to authenticate them, Tom.”

“I see…”

He threw his eyes over their covers. One was a copy of The Book of Abramelin, another was the Grimoire of Pope Leo, and last was the Grand Albert.

There was nothing untoward about the request, nor about the books themselves, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch them just yet. They looked old, too old. If it were up to him, he’d find it safer to look over them with magic.

“And the books I brought with me?”

“I will agree to a trade if you will serve me in this manner.”

“And then?” asked Tom, cocking a brow over his shoulder.

“Then, if you wish, you may continue to serve me.”

Tom scoffed and turned. “I already have an employer,” he said, tucking one hand in his pocket. “I’m only here for a few books, that is all.”

“Very well, then,” the old man shrugged, tapping the pipe against his coarse old palm. His assistant looked calm, but her eyes shifted nervously from the Baron back to Tom. “If, after this simple task, you will wish to end our collaboration, you may.”

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was fairly irritated at having been dragged out at this hour only to be given orders and obfuscations. And he wasn’t any closer to getting either of the remaining two books he needed.

“How long do I have?”

“I want a report ready in three weeks.”

“And what if they will prove to be forgeries?”

“Then you may keep them for nothing.”

“I have no use for fakes,” he chuckled.

“I doubt that,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. “Are we agreed?”

Tom looked from the Baron up to her. Behind him, he felt the shard of Ambrogio’s attention.

“Alright,” he said. “Although I expect payment during this time. Upfront.”

“You can discuss that with my secretary,” said the Baron, waving for the girl to push his wheelchair out. “Come by my office tomorrow.”

Tom watched her lead the old man from the room and reached down for the books. A pale hand stopped him, gripping his thin wrist so fast the blood froze in his veins.

“The books stay here,” Ambrogio said. “Baron’s orders.”

Tom clenched his jaw. It would’ve been far easier for him to analyse them in the comfort of his room where he could run detection charms for traces of stray magic, but perhaps there was some merit to working here. It would give him ample opportunity to explore this hidden and rather expansive part of the shop.

“So be it,” he smiled, yanking his arm free.

“Ambrogio,” the Baron called, “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Baron. I shall see you out.”

Tom stepped back into the corridor. The vampire — for that is what Ambrogio was — followed.

“No need, no need,” said the Baron, fat arm waving as his assistant pushed him forward. “You probably wish to go home. Rest. Tom?”

“Yes, Baron?”

“We’re leaving. Come.”

“Right away.” He turned to look once more at Oso and saved a toothy smile for him. “I look forward to our collaboration.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. Riddle, to manage you,” he said.

Tom chuckled, and with one last scathing look, he left.

II

The chauffeur was waiting for the Baron outside. He and Tom helped load the old man in, and then he was left behind with his assistant as she closed up the shop.

“You shouldn’t have promised him that,” she said once they were alone. “Three weeks isn’t enough. The research alone would take one month, let alone writing a report.”

“I know men like him,” said Tom, waiting for her to secure all the locks. “They love ambitious, overachieving youngsters. Reminds them of the children they never had. Gives them something to brag about. Besides,” he added, “I can do it.”

“He doesn’t want children,” she said with a faint smile as she turned, joining him on the cold empty street. “He wants servants.”

“Same thing, in their eyes.”

He helped her put her coat on, and then they began to walk together toward the tram station.

“I just worry that you’ve —”

“I know,” said Tom, a strange feeling gripping him. “But I have everything under control.”

She looked at him with soft and tired eyes above a fading smile. “At least that makes one of us.”

Tom frowned. “Who is this Oso, anyway? Has he always worked down there?”

“Always. He’s been there since long before I was hired.”

“And he works alone?”

“Mostly.”

“At night?”

She shrugged, her shoulders squeezed up to her ears as if she were a frightened bird. “Sometimes. Honestly, I don’t know his comings and goings. Sometimes he’s there during the day, sometimes he’s not.”

“You visit him down there?” Tom asked with a cocked brow.

“No, in fact… in fact, I’m not really supposed to go down there without a reason. There’s a telephone…”

Tom nodded, piecing it together. She seemed not to know her colleague was a vampire, and now he wondered if even the Baron knew.

“So, what sort of person is he?”

“Ambrogio? He’s… a professional,” she said, shrugging again. “He’s private, doesn’t really have a sense of humour.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“And he likes things to be just so. Hates it when people touch his things or…”

“Or ask him any questions?”

“Yes,” she chuckled.

“I’ll be sure to do a lot of that, then,” smiled Tom.

She looked up at him, smiling now as well, her cheeks a little fuller and her eyes alight, but sad and… worried. Tom frowned. There was that feeling again, that spasmodic odium whenever she looked at him so softly and smouldering with the unspoken. She was afraid for him — not of him, but for him — and Tom didn’t know what to do with that. He had no point of reference. Nothing to compare it to.

“Let me walk you home,” he offered, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “You can tell me all about the mess I’ve gotten myself into on the way.”

That got a chuckle out of her, at least. “You know I live quite far, and it’s already late.”

“I don’t mind.”

She smiled at him, and it caught — he smiled back.

III

She made no mention of Clement or what happened to him, but it was clear to Tom she greatly feared the Baron. From the tremble in her voice to the way she hugged herself, he could tell she had some kind of trauma. Something about how she sat when they were in the tram together, close enough she had to whisper, body curled in on itself, told him she needed to be held. Tom kept his hands firmly, very firmly, on his lap.

“So Ambrogio never goes upstairs?” he quietly asked.

“Never since I’ve worked there. I’m glad, honestly. He’s a little creepy… But the Baron greatly depends on him.”

“How is he paid?” Tom whispered.

“What do you mean? You mean how much?”

“Y-yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot, I expect.”

“Right.”

“He’s dangerous though. Don’t underestimate him, even if he’s old and frail,” she whispered back, her voice warm against his neck.

“Oh I’m sure,” Tom chuckled.

“I’m serious!” she insisted, speaking quietly but a little fearful now. She was so secretive, even if they were the only people on the midnight tram. “I think… I think he worked for the Mafia before.”

Tom laughed at that. It felt oddly refreshing… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so sincerely.

“I’m serious!”

“Alright,” he chuckled. “Forgive me. I just… doubt it.”

“I know, I know. Their oath is supposed to be for life, right? But maybe this is why he works at night. Maybe he’s in hiding.”

“Mmm,” Tom nodded with a smile.

He could feel her at his shoulder, her body close to his and warm against the chilly night. How different it was from the day… Fragrant and alluring like a calm spring day, but dark and empty. Only the two of them existed.

The tram came to her stop at her station, far from the city centre. They got off, Tom going first to hold his hand for her.

“You’re certainly right about one thing, thought,” he said after they started walking down her street. “He is dangerous. Best keep away from him.”

“I do,” she nodded.

“Good,” said Tom. And he almost promised to take care of Oso for her but stopped himself at the last moment. How stupid that would be,he thought.

They walked in silence down the street, which looked even more squalid at night, both lost in their own thoughts.

“What is it?” Tom asked as they neared her building, unnerved by the silence.

“I just wish you hadn’t walked me back,” she chuckled, “that’s all.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging you for where you live. I’m only quiet because I was thinking.”

“Just following me blindly then?”

“To the grave,” smiled Tom. “Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”

She laughed anyway. “You’re a little strange, Tom… But I like you anyway.”

“You mean you like me in spite of it?”

“Perhaps. But I still like you.”

She looked at him in a peculiar way, as if his eyes could keep her warm, and although her lips turned upward there was a strain to it. She was trying not to smile too brightly…

Tom swallowed the knot in his throat and shuffled his feet on the ground. They stood right in front of her building.

“Well, here I am,” she sighed. “Home again…”

“Is it really?”

She didn’t answer.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” said Tom. “And many days after that.”

“You still have time to reconsider,” she said. “You haven’t signed anything yet…”

Tom laughed, the sound playing through the empty streets. “You speak of your employer as if he were the devil.”

“What, do you think you’re the only one that gets to do that?” she chuckled.

He blushed a little. She remembered what he’d said that night when he complained. It had been stupid of him to drink all that wine, stupid of him to talk. But he was glad that she remembered… He was almost touched. At least, he wanted to be.

“Good night,” he said. “And try not to worry.”

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

[2024-grimoire-challenge]

February week 1

Energy Work

This next few weeks we are going to be dealing with rather a lot of definitions and new pages. These definitions can either all go on one page so that you have a sort of dictionary of your own within your grimoire, or you can leave the pages separate and have each definition on each separate page.

Lab notebook/ new page- Definition - what is Energy Work? How do we incorporate it into our craft? How does it work?

New page - Visualization- what is visualization? What does it actually mean and how does it work? What is its purpose and how do we do it? How do we practice getting better at it?How does it work and help us within the context of our craft?

New page- Energy Manipulation -start with the basics and work your way deeper into it. How does one sense energies? See them? Feel them? How does one begin to manipulate them? What methods are used?

Monday

Grounding - define grounding within the context of energy work. What is it? How do you do it? What forms are there? What is the purpose of grounding? How does it help us in our craft? What herbs, gems and tools are associated with grounding?

Charging - define charging within the context of energy work. What is it? How do you do it? What forms are there? What is the purpose of it? How does it help us in our craft? What herbs, gems and tools are associated with charging?

Centering - define centering within the context of energy work. What is it? How do you do it? What forms are there? What is the purpose of it? How does it help us in our craft? What herbs, gems and tools are associated with it?

Research- pick another herb off your list! Find out as much information as you can. Mundane and magical, historical too!

Tuesday

Sending, receiving - is it possible to send and receive energy? How is this done? What purposes does this serve? How do we use it in the context of our craft? What associations does it have?

Raising - Define raising energy. How does one raise energy? What is the purpose of raising energy? How do you perform it?

Channeling - Define it. What is energy channeling? How does one do it? What is the purpose? How does it work and help us in the context of our craft? What are some associations for channeling?

Wednesday

Astral work - Define astral work. What is it? How is it done? What are various methods? What is the purpose? What are some things associated with it? What is its history?

Energy fields - Define it. What are energy fields? How do you sense them? Can you manipulate them? How do you sustain them? What sustains them? What do we do with them?

Research - pick another gem or other magical item/ component/ ingredient and research as much as you can about it!

Thursday

Replenishing - How does one replenish their energy? What are the methods you use? When and or how often do you do it?

Sensing - how does one sense another person’s or another source of energy? Are there different methods? Are there tools that can help? What all things can you sense energy in?

Friday

Meditation - what is meditation? There are various philosophies and techniques. If you prescribe to one, which is it? How do you accomplish it? What is the purpose of your meditation or meditation in general? Are there tools that help you meditate?

Auras - what are auras? Define them. What do they look and feel like? How do you sense them? Can you manipulate them?

Dream Work - What is dream work? Lucid dreaming isn’t the only way to work with dreams. What methods of working with dreams are there? Do you journal your dreams? What are dreams, to you?

Phew!!

We made it. That was a lot of definitions this week! The next couple weeks will have a lot of definitions! Along with the normal prompts. Again all of this is just meant to inspire research and creative thinking as well as actually inspire creative decoration ideas and organization for our grimoires! Don’t feel obligated to do it all week by week. The challenge will stay up after the year is over so we can all look back and utilize it!

-Mod Hazel

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