Chameleon Junkie

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[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * JASPER HALE HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

pre-relationship / discovery of the bond

jasper knew the second you walked into the room.

not just “noticed”, felt you. like gravity shifted, and suddenly his entire existence narrowed down to you.

the first time your scent hits him, it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs. not because it tempts him. no, it calms him.

at first, he was terrified of it. not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t think he deserved it.

“i’ve done things i don’t want her to even imagine,” he tells alice one night, eyes dark with guilt. “how can i be the one meant for her?”

he keeps his distance at first, almost painfully so. you’ll notice him staring but always retreating when you look his way.

he’s constantly using his empathy to gauge your feelings, fascinated by your emotional landscape. you feel bright to him. alive.

he accidentally mirrors your emotions often, because yours are stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. your joy makes him smile without realizing it.

alice helps him understand it. encourages him, gently. “you don’t get to keep punishing yourself forever, jazz. maybe this is the beginning of something better.”

he keeps finding excuses to be near you. quiet glances from across the room. walking slower so he ends up next to you. little things.

and the first time you touch him? just a casual brush of your hand when you pass him something? he feels peace. real, complete peace.

getting together

he’s old-fashioned, so expect subtle southern gentleman behavior. opening doors, standing when you walk into a room, offering his arm.

jasper is incredibly careful with you at first.

he doesn’t touch you unless you initiate it, terrified of overstepping or triggering a memory you haven’t shared.

every date is deliberate. thoughtful.

a hand-picked book he thinks you’ll like. a midnight walk under the stars. a letter slipped into your bag with a dried flower.

he’s a subtle romantic. not loud or flashy, but deeply poetic. he sees your soul, and treats it like something sacred.

he insists on asking for your permission every step of the way, even when he knows you’ll say yes. he likes hearing your consent. it grounds him.

he’s incredibly attentive. you won’t even need to say what you’re feeling, he just knows and acts accordingly.

overstimulated at a party? he’s already gently guiding you to a quieter spot. feeling insecure? he’s whispering how proud he is to be yours.

protective jasper

extremely protective. not overbearing, but there’s a very specific tone in his voice when someone upsets you and everyone learns quickly not to test him.

if someone flirts with you in front of him? you don’t even have to react. jasper’s stare alone is enough to make them regret breathing.

he doesn’t lose control, but it’s chilling how calm he is when warning someone off. his southern charm vanishes, replaced by cold steel.

“you okay, sugar?” he’ll ask, even though he knows you’re angry or upset, he always gives you the space to name your emotions.

his body reacts before his brain when he senses you’re in danger. one second you’re just talking to someone; the next, jasper’s in front of you, eyes dark.

you’re the only one who can calm him down afterward. a touch. a word. one look from you and his shoulders drop.

he won’t fight unless he has to. but he will place himself between you and danger without hesitation.

and afterward, even if he didn’t get a scratch, he’ll come back to you and ask, “did i scare you? are you alright, sweetheart?”, his only concern is you.

even when there’s no physical danger, he’s protective of your emotions. if someone makes you feel small or disrespected, he’s the first to validate you.

he’s especially protective when you’re sick, injured, or emotionally overwhelmed.

when you’re sick, he’s gentle to the point of obsession. he reads every label, follows every instruction, makes sure you’re hydrated, warm, and resting.

“you just rest, honey. i’ve got everything else covered.”

carries you to bed. reads to you in that soft, slow drawl. kisses your forehead like it’s holy.

little moments

he hums old civil war-era lullabies under his breath without realizing it when he’s relaxed around you. it’s soft and hauntingly beautiful.

he calls you “darlin’,” “sweetheart,” and occasionally “sugar.” but when he’s really soft or overwhelmed? he just whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

he traces your face with his fingers when you’re asleep, memorizing it over and over like he still can’t believe you’re real.

whenever you laugh, his entire expression changes. the stoic, brooding mask slips and he looks young again. alive.

jasper thrives in stillness with you. he’s lived through chaos, through war, through fire and pain. quiet domestic life is heaven to him.

loves slow dancing in the living room with you, especially when it’s quiet. no music, just the sound of your heartbeat and the feel of you in his arms.

has an old journal where he writes about you. bits of poetry, little memories, sketches of your smile. you don’t know about it. yet.

he brings you trinkets from his travels. old coins, pressed flowers, strange books like a crow in love.

loves the feeling of your heartbeat against his chest when you fall asleep on him. it’s the only sound that ever silences the ghosts in his head.

if you cry, he hurts. it’s not just emotional, it’s physical. he feels the ache in his chest and wants nothing more than to take it from you.

“let me carry it, sweetheart. please. you don’t have to do this alone.”

when he feeds, he always tries to finish quickly so he can return to you. being away from you too long makes him tense, restless. he needs you to stay grounded.

his love language

i. physical touch

touch is his primary love language because after years of cold detachment, being able to feel love physically again is everything.

he always has a hand on you: resting on your lower back, fingers laced with yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

in bed, even if you’re not cuddling, some part of him is always touching you. ankle to ankle, hand to your waist, his chest against your back.

ii. acts of service

jasper does little things to make your life easier, always quietly.

he’ll fix something without you asking, make your tea just right, or track down a book you mentioned once.

never asks for credit, either. he just wants to take care of you in the ways you won’t even notice until later.

the first time you thanked him for something small, like charging your dead phone, he gave you this soft smile and said, “you don’t have to thank me. loving you is the easy part.”

iii. words of affirmation

jasper’s not the most vocal at first, but when he does speak, it means everything.

he’ll tell you you’re brave, kind, strong, and the light of his eternity but always in that quiet, emotionally-heavy drawl.

“you have no idea what you mean to me, darlin’. none.”

his kisses

jasper’s kisses are intentional. always. whether it’s soft and slow or heated and desperate, he never rushes, he savors.

he kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your soul, not just your lips.

his favorite spot to kiss you (besides your lips) is your forehead. it’s protective, tender, and makes you feel cherished.

when he’s overwhelmed by how much he loves you, he kisses your hands, your knuckles, your palms, your fingertips, like you’re something fragile and sacred.

he also kisses the inside of your wrist, where he can feel your pulse. it calms him.

after a nightmare or a bad day, he kisses your temple with a whispered, “i’ve got you now, darlin’. you’re safe.”

when he kisses you in private, it’s slow and deep, like he’s trying to convey everything he can’t say.

when he kisses you after being away? he cups your face in both hands like he needs to ground himself. his voice goes low and reverent:

“missed you like hell, sugar.”

the first “i love you”

jasper doesn’t say it quickly. not because he doesn’t feel it, he feels it constantly, but because he knows what those words mean, and he doesn’t take them lightly.

you feel it in everything he does long before he says it: the way he looks at you like you hung the stars, the way he memorizes your favorite songs, how he tracks your moods without a word.

the first time he almost says it, it slips out mid-sentence: “i just—god, i love—” and he cuts himself off, lips pressed together. you pretend not to notice to spare him.

the actual first time is quiet.

maybe you’re sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, and you say something that makes him laugh. something small, but genuine.

he leans in, voice soft and raw:

“i love you. and i know what that means, sugar. i don’t say it ‘cause it’s easy—i say it ‘cause it’s true.”

he watches you like he’s bracing for impact. and when you say it back? his entire body relaxes, like he’s finally home.

angst potential

the idea of accidentally hurting you terrifies him.

he disappears sometimes. not to run from you, but to protect you from his darker moods. when he feels himself slipping into old war-born rage, he retreats.

some nights, he distances himself just to be sure you’re safe, and it hurts both of you.

“i love you more than you’ll ever know,” he’ll whisper against your hair when you sleep. “but i still don’t know if i deserve someone like you.”

there was a moment, early on, when he snapped during a hunt, overwhelmed by thirst, and afterward he wouldn’t let you near him for days.

“i saw myself in the mirror,” he whispered, hollow. “and i thought: ‘she can’t love a thing like that.’

you had to pull him back to you. remind him he’s more than a soldier. more than a scarred past. that you choose him, always.

you’re the one who helps him forgive himself.

and eventually, he lets you in fully. lets you see every scar. because loving you makes him want to be better. not just for you, with you.

his greatest fear is losing you because he believes the universe gave him one final chance at peace. and if you’re gone…

“i won’t survive it, sugar. you leave, and that’s the end of me.”

[7-wonders]

I Only Have Eyes for You (String of Fate pt. 10)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!Reader

Summary: Morpheus finally makes the next move in his quest to properly court you.

Word count: 6.9k

A note from the author: Morpheus POV, baby! I truly love writing from his point of view; he's so verbose and in love. In a perfect world, this would have been out last week, but hitting a deer and insurance taking a whole week to decide whether they were going to fix my car or total it (they're fixing it, yahoo!) took up too much of my brainpower. Next couple of chapters might take a bit longer than a normal update, as I really want to publish the next two back-to-back for reasons. As always, I sincerely hope that you enjoy, and I would love to hear from you! Feedback makes my world go round :)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

From the moment Delirium had departed Morpheus’s realm in a flurry of glitter and butterflies, her advice has been perpetually stuck in his head. It remains as he is on the Shores of Creation, as he surveys the more infrequently-visited areas of the Dreaming, and as he sits alone in his rare moments of solitude. There is a certain…merit to what she suggested, and he would be lying if he pretended he hadn’t thought of it before. To find you in the Waking and profess his intentions as a suitor towards you is an urge that is getting more difficult to ignore by the hour. His duty, however, always coming first, means that he is unable to manifest in the Waking until said responsibilities take him there.

This time, it is Death who calls upon him in the Waking, seeking his assistance in dealing with two spirits purporting to be detectives. The young men have been, in their words, “solving a case” involving a demon who thrives in the Dreaming, escaping into its victims’ nightmares and feeding off of their terror. Having developed a fledgling working relationship with his sister and knowing enough about her to have knowledge of her siblings, they asked Death for help in contacting Morpheus about this issue.

The work itself was fairly straightforward: when brought into the Dreaming, Edwin Paine and Charles Rowland quickly identified both the dreamer being terrorized and the demon doing the terrorizing, and Morpheus made easy work of dispatching the intruder back to Hell. But it was the questions raised by the afternoon’s events that had Morpheus accepting Death’s invitation to go on a walk afterwards—“to decompress,” she suggested. 

She loops her arm through his the moment he agrees and pulls him along a sidewalk path before he can change his mind, and Morpheus starts to think he may have been duped.

“Nice kids, right?” Death begins.

Morpheus is not sure that is how he would describe the eccentric duo (and especially not for their sarcastic mortal friend), but it is clear that his sister is fond of them. “I suppose.”

“You don’t sound as though you agree,” she notes, as perceptive as ever.

It takes Morpheus a few moments to think of the best way to say what he is thinking. As they continue to walk, they receive many strange looks from various mortals, most uncharacteristically directed towards Death. The hats and coats of those staring let him know that it is meant to be fairly cold today: he, in his usual long coat, fits in, while the woman wearing a sleeveless shirt and looking entirely unaffected by the weather warrants such looks.

“You knowingly let these boys remain on this plane rather than taking them to the Sunless Lands?” Morpheus finally asks.

“Yep!” Death says cheerfully.

“It is not…a mockery to you? A spurning of your realm, your function?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not some reaper out on a mission to capture all the souls of those who perish. I can’t force people to come with me, nor do I want to. Their afterlives are their own, their fates something entirely unknown even to me.” She turns her head to look at him, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Speaking of fate…how’s that going?”

Morpheus sighs. He knew there was some ulterior motive to this walk. “Delirium spoke to you,” he surmises.

“She popped by for tea the other day—we had a very lovely chat! She told me all about her visit to the Dreaming, how nice you were to her.” Death playfully bumps her shoulder against his. “How she hopes that you listen to her.”

He looks at Death dubiously as he goes over the events of earlier in the context of what he has just been told. “Do not tell me that you manufactured a crisis that required my assistance just to get me to the Waking.”

“I would never! Your help was very much needed and appreciated. It is, however, fortuitous that Charles and Edwin had to be met in the Waking before they could be granted entry to the Dreaming, since I know how hard it is to get you out of your realm without good reason.” Death sweeps an arm up, gesturing around her. “And now you’re in the Waking!”

“I am,” he agrees.

“You know who else is most definitely in the Waking right now?”

Do mortals feel the same level of fond annoyance towards their siblings as Morpheus is feeling towards his right now? “I do.”

Death is quite pleased with herself, if her radiant smile is anything to go by. “Funny how things work out, huh?” She looks down at her bare wrist, pretending as though there is a watch there. “And wouldn’t you know, I’m late for my next appointment!”

“Are you now?” he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Terribly so, I’m afraid.” She sighs dramatically, as though she regrets having to leave him here and not like this was her plan all along, squeezing his arm fondly before letting go. “Have a lovely afternoon, little brother.”

Even though she has done nothing but exasperate him today, he cannot help but smile as she prepares to leave. “Farewell, my sister.”

While Morpheus would very much like to go back to the Dreaming solely to spite Death, he cannot deny that the opportunity he has been waiting for has arisen. He is a patient being, but unlike him, his patience is not endless. After being so close to you in your dream—touching you, comforting you—that patience has well and truly reached its end.

It is time to act on what he wants.

At this point in your deepening soul bond, it takes almost no effort to locate your current whereabouts. You are only a couple of blocks away, and Morpheus manifests in front of what must be a coffee shop. Immediately, he sees you, sitting next to the large windows and focused on the work in front of you. The mid-afternoon sun is bathing you in shades of gold, a work of art made real. Though the image is one that he could admire all day, being this close to you only mildly dulls the ache of want.

The door to the shop opens as a patron leaves, and Morpheus takes the opportunity to step inside. You are mere inches away from him now, yet still unaware of his presence. He needs a reason to be in this shop, though—it would look odd for him to enter solely to talk to you. A glance around the store reveals paper cups held by many of the customers scattered around the shop, and one appears in his hand with a simple look. Feeling as prepared as one can when about to court a soulmate, he stands in front of the table you are situated at.

“Good afternoon,” he begins when you look up, stopping immediately as you smile and hold up a finger to indicate that you need a moment before removing devices from your ears, though he is clueless as to what they are for. Humans and their inventions, he supposes.

“Hey, stranger! Long time, no see,” you say cheerfully.

“Good afternoon,” he starts once more, attempting to sound casual and not at all like he has been imagining this meeting for over a week. “I hope that I am not intruding, but I would have been remiss to leave without greeting you.”

“Not at all!”

You pause for a moment, evidently weighing something over.

“Are you on your way somewhere, or do you have time to join me for a bit?” you ask finally.

The invitation to join you is a welcome one, and Morpheus only lets the smallest smile slip past his demeanor. “I have no pressing engagements.”

“What are you drinking?” you inquire once he’s seated opposite you.

Morpheus freezes. What does a mortal normally order from such an establishment? He has been caught entirely off guard by this simple question, and it takes him longer than he would like to figure out how to respond. “...Coffee,” he settles on.

The humor in your eyes makes him believe that this was not the correct answer, but you smile regardless. “Yeah, I figured as much. First time here, then?”

“Yes. I had business with my sister in the area, and thought that I would take the opportunity to experience something new.”

“That’s nice that you get to see your sister for work! Are you two close?”

“Out of all of my siblings, she is the one that I am closest to.”

“How many siblings do you have?” you ask curiously.

“Six.”

“Six!” That number, so unusual in a modern age where large families are an anomaly, stands out to you, and he nods to confirm it as such. “Let me guess. You give off either oldest or middle child vibes. Am I right?”

This is not something he has given too much thought to, though both Death and Desire like to tease him about how he supposedly emulates a number of the traits of the so-called ‘middle child.’ “I suppose I would be considered in the middle.”

You smile proudly at being proved right. “Knew it.”

Morpheus glances down at the open book balancing on the edge of the table. “Have I interrupted your studies?”

“No, you’ve given me a much-needed reprieve from endless thesis rewrites.”

“I hope that it is progressing better than it was when we last met.”

“Well, my first draft of my third chapter kind of sucked, so that threw a wrench into my plans.” You remember a different last meeting, one mired in the reality of the Waking and that night at the New Inn, and are unaware that he already knows this.

“I am sure that it did not…suck.” His distaste for crass language must come through, if the way that you hold back a laugh is anything to go by.

“That’s nice of you. It definitely was not up to my usual standard, but the rewrites are going much better.” 

“Might I read what you have written?” he asks, genuinely interested in the contents of your work. After all, this has been a running theme the entire time you have known each other, and your passion for the subject you have chosen to study fascinates him to no end.

You look at him, stunned. “You…you want to read my thesis?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? It’s not like any of the books you get to read at work—this is very technical and boring.”

As he holds a waiting hand out across the table, he is confused by your words for a brief moment before remembering his fake mortal career. Ah, yes. To you, he works in publishing. “I would not offer if I did not mean it.”

“I only have it on my computer. Is that okay?”

Though he has never used a computer before, he has to imagine it is not that difficult, and nods his assent. You turn the computer towards him, and after staring at the device uselessly for a few seconds, he gleans enough knowledge from the Dreaming of how to use a personal computer to be able to begin reading successfully.

Immediately, it is clear that you have devoted yourself to learning as much as you can about the history of stories and their evolution. Your knowledge shines through, making what most would consider to be a particularly dense work engaging. Much like the stories that you are analyzing and comparing, you craft one of your own as Morpheus reads the pages of your seminal work. Even if you were not his soulmate, he would find himself impressed at just how persuasive your writing is.

The speed at which he reads is far faster than that of any human, so he pretends to keep reading after he has finished until an acceptable amount of time that one would take to read a work of this size passes. When he slides the computer back towards you, you look up at him, attempting nonchalance to mask your eagerness to hear his feedback.

“You make a very compelling argument,” he says, a relieved grin splitting your face at his words.

“Yeah?”

“I particularly like how you rely on differing translations to prove your point that, even when stories are written down, they can be changed from one language to the next. I can understand why this has taken up so much of your time. Such dedication in the face of an arduous feat is commendable.”

Your smile softens as you look at him, taking in the praise. “Thank you, Morpheus.” 

Oh, how he loves it when you say his name. 

“The entire grad school experience has been…far more arduous than I anticipated. I didn’t expect how completely it would take over my life. I’d be lying if I said I won’t miss it when I graduate, though.”

“Do you not receive much opportunity to enjoy pursuits outside of your studies?”

“Some, but not nearly as much as I did in undergrad. Boy, did I take that for granted. I try to read books that aren’t history-related, get out in nature a bit, see some of the sights I’m lucky enough to be living near right now. The British Museum has a special exhibition going on about communication through the ages that I want to go see, but I either haven’t had time or I haven’t been able to find anybody to go with me when I do have time. These days, it feels like if I’m not busy, then my friends are.”

“Why not go alone?” he asks, remembering many fond occasions of exploring by himself the great museums, temples, churches, and galleries throughout time.

“Um, lately I tend to swing back and forth between ‘doing things by myself is fun!’ and ‘social anxiety is going to kill me.”

“And right now it is the latter?”

“Very much so.”

The confession is eye-opening, but not for the reason that you might think. No, within your words, Morpheus sees opportunity. He has spent far longer toiling over the perfect modern ‘date’ (how…common the courting process has become) and how best to ask you than a being of his age ever should. In fact, before learning that it is now cold outside, his best idea had been to invite you on a walk.

But now? Knowing that there is an event of interest to you, and that you would prefer somebody to join you? To not seize such an opportunity would be a grievous error on his part.

“If you are reluctant to visit alone, perhaps you would be open to my accompanying you?” he suggests.

Your eyes go wide, shock sending you silent as you work to understand what you’ve just been asked. “You’d want to come with me to the museum?”

“I enjoy museums, and it has been quite some time since I visited this one. I would also very much enjoy your company.”

“I’d like that a lot, but—well—” You pause, gathering your thoughts. “Can I ask…we’re friends, right?”

“We are?” He is pleasantly surprised to find that you already see him as a friend.

“I thought we were,” you say cautiously.

“I would agree.”

“But…if I were to hope that this could be an outing for two people who maybe want to be more than friends?”

Immediately, you seem to regret the question that you have just posed. You brace yourself as though waiting for a harsh impact, closing your eyes to soften the blow you perceive to be coming. Clearly, you believe yourself to have stepped out of line, to have said something that would warrant a response opposite to what you are hoping for. This is, of course, the opposite of reality: the knowledge that you also want more out of this…friendship pleases him greatly. 

Morpheus smiles slightly, and the action has your eyes locked on him. “Then I would say that you beat me to it,” he informs you. “I was glad to see you today because I have been hoping to ask you on a date.”

“Really?” you squeak. When Morpheus hums, your beautiful smile lights up your face once more. “Wait, what was your date idea?”

He shakes his head, playing coy to hide the fact that he did not have a particularly viable idea. “We shall save the surprise for the second date.”

“Pretty presumptuous of you to already be assuming you’ll get a second date,” you say teasingly.

“Call it a hunch.” If one can call a soul bond that has been written in the stars a hunch.

“Can I get your number?” A number? The term’s modern connotation escapes him, and his face surely shows as such. “So that we can coordinate?”

Your hand goes to your cellular telephone as you speak, and he gathers that this is what you are referring to. “Ah. I am afraid that I do not own a cellular device.”

“Old school. I like it! Sometimes I wish I could just chuck my phone in a river. I think we’d all be better off not having 24-hour access to pocket-sized supercomputers. Give me a second.”

The string of words you have just said makes little sense to him, but you turn your attention back to your computer without noticing his confusion, fingers flying across the keys.

“The museum is open until 8:30 on Fridays,” you note. “Would meeting there this Friday at 5 work for you?”

“Yes, that will work just fine.” He would rearrange the heavens in an instant were you to ask it of him; ensuring that he will be available on Friday evening is nothing.

“Awesome, let me just buy the tickets online quick—”

“No need.”

He stops you before you can finish your sentence; the mere thought of you paying for anything is absolutely ludicrous, and though he has no concept of modern currency, there are still many connections among the so-called Other that would be honored to complete any task for one of the Endless.

“I would be a poor excuse for a gentleman were I to make you pay for anything. I shall procure our admission to the exhibition,” he declares.

“Alright, then.”

You look down at the table, obviously flustered by his statement. Such a reaction intrigues him—is it not the responsibility of the one who has asked to court another to provide for them?

If this is your reaction to something as small as museum admission, what would it be were he to pull stars from the sky and string them on a necklace for you? How would you look when presented with the finest fabrics, the sweetest fruits, the freshest flowers? Will you hide your smile when he whispers love poems into the softness of your skin? Will you laugh your nervous laugh that endears him so when he sits you on his throne and kneels before you, begging you command him as your loyal subject?

Such beautiful fantasies steal the unnecessary air from his unnecessary lungs, and he subtly takes hold of the bottom of his chair to ground himself in this realm. 

“It’s a date,” you say, unable to hide your joy as you do.

Morpheus tries to stay far, far away from his father’s domain. But right now, knowing that multiple days stand in the way of finally getting to court you, he is wishing that, just this once, he could manipulate time.

•••

Friday blessedly comes around in the Waking.

In the Dreaming, Morpheus is trying to determine how early is too early to show up at the museum.

There is no need for him to ‘get ready’ for your evening; he merely needs to imagine what he is envisioning for his appearance to make it so. After taking all of thirty seconds to do just that, he has now found himself with both an abundance of free time and nervous energy.

It has been a long time since he has found himself nervous; long enough that he had all but forgotten what it feels like. The way that energy seems to thrum just below the surface of his skin, the inability to remain on one task for an extended amount of time, the drifting thoughts imagining all of the potential ways this evening could go. Nerves are not something that he is used to, nor is it a particularly comfortable sensation. But when it is you who is making him feel this way, he cannot help but welcome the sensation.

Are you feeling the same right now? Worrying about how you look, if you have thought of enough topics for conversation, and wondering if the evening will go well? While part of him hopes that you are anticipating this just as much as he and wanting the evening to go perfectly, he wishes that you would know that merely spending time together on this ‘date’ is already perfect to him.

Eventually, Morpheus finds himself in the library, attempting to read a book in the hope that it will help to pass the time and calm himself, and not to keep stealing glances at the clock, set to London’s time, which he has manifested to sit on the table.

Key word: attempting, though this is made all the more difficult when one’s raven has never quite grasped the traditional relationship that a being has for their sovereign.

“Big night! How are you feeling?” Matthew says after finally gathering the courage to fly from his perch atop one of the shelves to land next to the clock.

“I am fine, Matthew,” Morpheus responds, proving how fine he is by refusing to look up from the book that he is deeply invested in.

“Right, and that’s why you haven’t turned a page for twenty minutes.” Has he really been lost in his thoughts for that long? “What are you guys doing, again?”

Morpheus meets his raven’s eyes. “We are going to a museum.”

“Nerds,” Matthew mutters, though Morpheus is not sure what the term means.

“Matthew!” Lucienne scolds from around the corner, where she’s shelving this week’s new works. After a moment, she appears, pushing an empty cart and looking sternly at the raven.

“What, you’re gonna look at me and tell me that I’m wrong?” Matthew protests, wings ruffled in indignation. “Going to a museum is a decidedly nerdy activity, especially when you’re trying to woo somebody!”

“Then it is good that both parties have an interest in visiting a museum, and that you are not one of those parties.”

She disappears down another aisle, and Morpheus assumes that will be the end of her involvement in this matter. He turns to Matthew, intending to ask what ‘nerds’ are, only for the librarian to appear once more, cart filled with more books and appearing slightly less aggrieved.

“Your evening will go fine, my lord, I am sure of it,” she says a bit begrudgingly. 

It is no surprise that she does not seem to want to have this conversation with him—Lucienne has been privy to his very best moments, as well as his very worst. Romantic entanglements have never ended well for him, and she has always been left to deal with all aspects of the storms that rock the Dreaming in the aftermath, both physical and, shameful as it is for him to admit, emotional. After the Titania affair reached its ugly end, Lucienne had made it very clear to him that she had had enough and that he either needed to work on controlling the storms or find a new librarian.

Luckily for her, romance was the last thing on Morpheus’s mind in the past few centuries—then, of course, there was his forced absence from the Dreaming, and with it the concern that there would be no realm at all for any storms to drench. When Nada turned him down and the rain returned, she seemed to pity him more than anything, that old threat forgotten in the pursuit of ensuring that Morpheus was alright.

That she would still seek to reassure him in a matter which she has long grown tired of is touching and much appreciated. “Thank you, Lucienne.”

She glances at the clock next to him. “I believe half an hour is an acceptable time for one to be early to a date.”

“Yes?” A strong wave of relief overcomes him when she nods, effectively putting him out of his misery—the thought of sitting in the Dreaming any longer has quickly become agonizing.

He stands, sending the book and the clock to his chambers with a lazy lift of a finger, and straightens his outfit once more. Matthew caws once and opens his beak, intending to speak, but Morpheus is gone before he can utter a syllable.

(“I was going to tell him good luck,” Matthew grumbles, staring at the grains of sand drifting in the air where Morpheus once stood.

“He knows,” Lucienne assures him kindly. “Now, it has been quite some time since the upper shelves have been dusted, and only one of us has wings that can allow us to easily reach said shelves.”

“Aw, man.” Matthew flies from the table to the cart, hoping for at least a free ride in exchange for his help. “Lead the way, then.”)

•••

It has been more than two hundred years since Morpheus visited the British Museum—then, it was housed within the Montagu House, and he had ventured to the Waking to see the Rosetta Stone in its new home. The tablet was far less grandiose than it had been when it was first inscribed, large chunks of it lost to time, but it was still quite a sight to see, to watch many of the world’s greatest scholars and linguists come together to try and decipher the foreign (to them) languages.

This British Museum, though new to him, is familiar—the various architects charged with creating this imposing building dreamed the very first sketches in his realm. Beyond that, he knows well the Greek architecture with which Europe had so found itself fascinated by during the Georgian era. The pediment adorning the top of the structure, showing the progress of civilization, has him outside studying a building that most are simply rushing to get inside. Once he has had his fill of that (the wristwatch he has manifested for himself lets him know that fifteen of the thirty minutes he must wait for you have elapsed), he stands next to one of the Ionic columns and resolves himself to wait.

His waiting pays off when he sees you hurrying across the courtyard, eyes sweeping the scene in front of you—presumably to look for him. Once you do spot him, you slow your pace to a more casual walk, waving as you approach.

“And here I thought I was going to be the early one,” you say in place of a greeting, smiling as you do.

His own lips curve into a smirk at the way in which you are trying to appear as though you are not nervous. “Apologies. Time sometimes escapes me, and I find it is easier to simply be early.”

With you finally in front of him, he can take you in fully, and it is a sight to see. You have put in as much effort as he has into ensuring that you look ready for a ‘date,’ and he already knows that the great works of art that wait inside the museum would pale in comparison to you.

“I fear mere words would not adequately convey how lovely you look tonight,” he compliments you.

His words have the desired effect, and you laugh nervously in response. “Thank you. You look very handsome.”

Neither of you moves for a moment, simply basking in the novelty of each other’s company. There is a reason for the museum being suggested as the evening’s outing, and Morpheus is quite looking forward to seeing the exhibition (or rather, seeing you see the exhibition). 

With that in mind, he gestures towards the entrance.

“Shall we?” he prompts, waiting until you move to follow.

There is another reason that he enjoys mortal concepts such as museums, galleries, cathedrals, and the like: artifacts, paintings, poetry—everything crafted by a human hand is imbued with the creators’ very dreams. Stepping into the museum is like sampling a fine wine and savoring each flavor within the blend. Here, dreams of lost love paint the canvas. There, tragedy guided the sculptor’s tools. On the next floor, fond memories of a mother’s careful guidance helped to weave an intricate rug. He gets lost in the dreams for a moment, enjoying the effect that the Dreaming has had on everything in this museum.

Your gasp pulls Morpheus out of his thoughts, and he looks to see you pointing towards a large display case that is already getting a fair amount of attention from the other patrons. 

“They have a Gutenberg Bible on display!” you exclaim.

“You have never seen one before?” he asks.

You shake your head. “You have?”

“Numerous times.” 

One of the Bibles even remains in his personal collection, saved from one of the monasteries ransacked and destroyed during Henry VIII’s schism from the Catholic Church.

“Is that where we should begin?”

You look at him as though he has said something ridiculous. “No, that would ruin the whole flow of the exhibition. We’ll start at the beginning.”

The declaration pleases him, for he is also of the belief that this sort of exhibit must be experienced sequentially. Truly, you are meant for each other.

None of what he is seeing is new to him. The earliest examples of cave paintings were attempts to illustrate what humans had been seeing in their dreams, just as pictograms were meant to share stories that had been imagined. But to see the exhibition through your eyes is to see it anew, and he finds himself watching your reaction more than actually looking at anything the museum has presented as you make your way through history.

Finally, something that is not you catches his eye, and he smiles sardonically at the mistranslation of a piece of poetry from the village of Deir el-Medina. Has modern education truly become so lax that the British Museum is hiring scholars who cannot even translate this dialect into English?

“The translation is wrong,” he says quietly, aware that you two are not alone in this exhibition.

You look at him curiously, unsure if he jests. “What, you speak Ancient Egyptian?”

Naturally, but he is enjoying how intent your gaze is, and teasingly makes you wait for a moment before reciting the poem as it was written.

“So what does it mean?” you ask.

He makes sure to keep his eyes on yours as he speaks, wanting to see every moment of your upcoming reaction play out on your face. “‘To hear your voice is pomegranate wine to me: I draw life from hearing it. Could I see you with every glance, it would be better for me than to eat or drink.’”

It is mere recitation, of course. But as he translates the poem to a language you understand, it feels very much as though the language of his (metaphorical) heart has been spoken aloud. You exhale shakily, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that, on some level, you understand that this is what he feels for you.

“That’s beautiful,” you say finally.

“Yes,” he agrees, though it is not the poem whose beauty he is taken by.

When you realize this, you smile weakly and turn suddenly back towards the wall on which these examples of early love poems are displayed, trying to focus once more on the displays. Morpheus hides a smile at the knowledge that he has made you this bashful, joining you again in your slow walk through the exhibition.

The closer you get to the object that first captured your attention upon entering this room, the more noticeable your excitement becomes, until you are practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you try to peer through the crowd that has gathered in front of the Bible. Though he cannot read your thoughts, he can practically see your thought process play out in the way that you glance at the other patrons of the museum, then to the spaces between each one. It is clear you are going to attempt to dart through them in the hopes of making it to the front of the case, and Morpheus is content to simply stand back and watch as you achieve what you set out to see when you first suggested this event.

So content, in fact, that it does not register with him immediately that the pressure he feels around his hand is because you have taken hold of it. He stares dumbly at the sight, struck by how right it feels to have your hand in his finally, and how easily such a fantasy has been realized. You turn to look at him, just as shocked at having grabbed his hand as he is at having his hand grabbed.

“I’m so sorry!” you apologize, releasing his hand so that you can pull your own away.

That is the last thing that Morpheus wants at this moment, and he boldly locks your fingers together before you can pull away. “For what?” he asks, making it clear to you how such an action has landed with him.

Such boldness pays off in the way that you bite your lip to unsuccessfully hide your smile, as well as the gentle squeeze you give his hand. “For…nothing, I guess.”

Upon finally being in front of the case, it seems as though you have forgotten all about the thrill you just experienced. You stare at the Bible, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape in wonder as you take in the sight before you. Morpheus, meanwhile, is attempting not to stare openly at you, instead glancing out of the corner of his eye as he keeps his face forward.

“It’s just amazing,” you finally say, more to yourself than anything. Morpheus directs his attention towards you, waiting for you to continue. “Before Gutenberg, books often took years to complete, and they were usually financed by and created for the Church. There was no mass literacy; reading was entirely tied to your station in life. Then, somebody wondered if there was a faster way to produce a book than writing the entire thing by hand, and changed the course of history. Not even from the content, either! Just its mere creation.”

The weight of the history that you are inches away from, the simple book that changed so much about humanity, seems to hit you, and you shake your head as though you can scarcely believe such a moment is happening. Your view on your world, your history, is unusually introspective and informed for one of your kind. Your mind is a remarkable thing, and Morpheus endeavors to spend the rest of his immortal life learning exactly what you think about and why.

“You know all of this already, of course,” you guess.

“But you are correct, and I enjoy hearing it from you. Human ingenuity is rather remarkable. They started with nothing but the land around them, and from that came fire, and housing, and clothing. They are always…seeking more, always testing the boundaries of what they know to be possible.” Though he has not always been particularly fond of humans (especially given recent events), their tenacity can never be doubted.

Your eyes narrow, thinking about what he has just said. “‘They’?” you ask. Morpheus is unsure of what you are referring to, and you elaborate. “You said ‘they,’ like you’re not a human.”

It is clear you are joking, but Morpheus cannot help regretting the slip of the tongue that you have so easily caught. Now, he must again come up with an excuse for why he has spoken in such a way. “I suppose I meant early humans, those from long ago.”

“Makes sense,” you agree, though you appear not entirely appeased. “Let’s let others have their turn.”

As you move away from the crowd gathering yet again around the Bible and towards the rest of the exhibition, your hands remain locked. The only time you do let go, it is because the 20th and 21st century portions of the room are just as illuminating and new to him as the beginning was to you. He spends a good amount of time studying the various artifacts of telecommunication—the television sets, as well as the small keyboards on earlier cellular telephones, are of particular interest to him—and you leave him to his learning, happy to continue on without him for the time being.

“You looked at the BlackBerry just as cluelessly as I looked at the cuneiform,” you note when he rejoins you.

“As you said, it is remarkable how such an ordinary object can have such significance.” A facet of the truth, and one that, once again, does not go unnoticed—whether you are extremely perceptive or it is yet another effect of the soulbond, he is unsure. He takes your hand again, and you smile at the action. “Before we leave, is there anything you want to see one last time?”

“Now that you mention it, I did forget to take a picture of the Bible,” you say, eyebrows raising in pleasant surprise as Morpheus diligently accompanies you—unaware that simply being in your presence is contentment for him, and that he would happily follow you to the ends of the universe so long as you continue to hold his hand.

The ‘date’ comes to a close far too soon for his liking, and the chilled London evening greets Morpheus as the first non-you sensation that he is aware of upon reemerging from the museum. Rain is dampening the landscape, so the decision is made to remain under the covered entrance to stay dry—though there is most assuredly a reluctance for the evening to end on both of your parts.

“Was the exhibition everything that you hoped it would be?” he asks.

“It really was, and so was the company.” You wink at him, and he recalls fondly the first time you directed such an action towards him. “Thank you so much for the lovely evening, I’ve had a great time.”

“I have been to this museum many times now, but the pleasure of your company has made this visit one of my most memorable.”

A soft laugh escapes you. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

The dreams he could create from the simple pleasure of this moment—the two of you, standing together and simply enjoying each other’s presence after a night spent doing an activity you both enjoy. 

You look at his lips, and your daydreams, usually a whisper he must focus to hear, are practically screaming now—wishes for the night to continue, for his hand to remain in yours, for this outing to be the first of many. Overpowering all of those, however, is your yearning to kiss him. A yearning he very much shares, and one he feels helpless to act against.

He leans towards you, forcing himself to exhibit restraint until he receives your assent. “Forgive me for being so forward, but may I—”

“Yes,” you interject eagerly.

Such permission snaps his restraint as easily as one would snap a twig, and is all that he needs to hear before he presses his lips to yours. An action that he has performed countless times has been remade into something special, something almost sacred. The warmth of your body against his is electric, and he wraps a hand around your waist to pull you closer to him as his other hand cups the softness of your cheek. You respond to his actions eagerly, bringing your hands to his shoulders to reduce any modicum of space between you.

Now, every lovestruck story he has ever begrudgingly listened to from a happily soulbound being makes sense. He finally understands what they all mean when they say that having a soulmate makes the universe feel as though it is righted, even when you did not know it was off-kilter in the first place. This is what he has been missing from every other relationship in his endless life. The passion of finally kissing one’s soulmate after so long spent in pursuit of true love, the influx of emotions, is almost more than he can bear, and as he kisses you deeper, he hopes that you feel the same—or, at the very least, that you feel exactly how hopelessly he is already in love with you.

You are the first to pull away, only so that you may breathe in deep, stuttered gasps. As you catch your breath, the grin you begin to sport makes your face shine while you stare at him. He is unsure of his next move; should he say something, and pop the bubble of bliss that you’ve found yourselves in? Stand here with you in the shadow of the British Museum through the long hours of the night, until the impending sunrise begins to paint the sky? Whisk you off to the Dreaming, consequences and hard conversations be damned?

Your mind, meanwhile, appears made up.

“So, what was that second date idea?” you ask, and he huffs out a laugh before leaning in once more, next move crystal clear.

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtoclearmedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least

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[7-wonders]

Pomegranate Wine (String of Fate pt. 9)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!Reader

Summary: You have another encounter with Morpheus, but this time, neither of you is letting an opportunity pass you by.

Word count: 5.6k

A note from the author: Up until now, I've tried to keep the location of this story deliberately vague (even though the mere existence of the New Inn implies that it's in the greater London area), as I've never been to the UK and didn't want to err in my descriptions of the area. I had to bite that bullet when it came to this chapter, though, and did far more research for my silly little fanfic than I would have thought at the start of this writing adventure. Special thanks to @somewhatsunshiny and @blugeist for sharing their knowledge with me!

As always, I sincerely hope that you enjoy, and I would love to hear from you! Feedback makes my world go round :)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

As a student, it’s almost a rite of passage to embark on a quest to find the best off-campus study spot. On-campus certainly has its perks: it’s centrally located in case you’re meeting up with a group, and you have a bevy of favorite hiding spots scattered throughout. But when so much of one’s daily life is spent on campus, getting out when you can becomes a necessity.

You spent a good chunk of your first month and a half of grad school trying the different coffee shops in the general vicinity of campus, and your search started to make you feel a bit like Goldilocks—this one burned all of their coffee, that one was too noisy, and the other one featured microaggressions from the baristas when you dared to sit down and not just immediately leave upon getting your drink. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily for your wallet), coffee shop owners see dollar signs when looking for real estate near universities, giving you lots of options to explore.

Finally, after your search was getting close to hitting the double digits, you found it—the perfect coffee shop to study in. Green Bean Espresso looked like any other unassuming storefront from the outside, but the inside was the exact opposite. Art from local artists decorated the walls, handwritten signs with cheeky drawings advertised the various specials, there was ample seating (comfy seating, at that), and the playlist was always on point. It’s eclectic, unique, and one of your favorite places to spend time.

It’s a place that you find yourself at once every couple of weeks, if not once a week. Sometimes you’re not even in the mood for a drink; you just find it a nice place to hang out. At this point, it’s a little embarrassing how familiar you are with the baristas, and vice versa. At the beginning of the semester, for instance, you spent at least half an hour hanging out by the pastry cases and hearing all about Janie’s summer (well, winter for her) back home in Australia. And when you ordered three extra shots of espresso one day last semester, Darius frowned and asked if the all-nighter was that bad. 

(It was.)

You’ve been in more frequently lately, finding the atmosphere of the shop more conducive to your rewrites than that of anywhere on campus or your apartment. It’s been just a bit over a week since you were dealt the blow that your most recent chapter was not up to the standard of the rest of your thesis, and you like to think that you’ve recovered pretty well. After taking the time to create a detailed outline for this chapter, you felt much better about the new direction you were taking your seminal work, and are finding this less daunting a task than originally thought.

As you’re looking through one of your texts to try and find the quote that you highlighted last night, you can see movement towards you out of the corner of your eye. Glancing up, you’re surprised to see none other than Morpheus standing at your table, holding a cup and apparently on his way out. His lips are moving, but you belatedly realize that the music playing in your ears is preventing you from hearing what he’s saying, and you sheepishly hold up a finger as you remove your earbuds.

“Hey, stranger!” you greet. “Long time, no see.”

“Good afternoon. I hope that I am not intruding, but I would have been remiss to leave without greeting you.”

“Not at all!” 

Were this a normal run-in with somebody that you know, this would be where the interaction ends. You’d wish each other well, then each go back to your respective afternoons. 

But this isn’t just anybody. This is Morpheus, with whom you’ve had such an odd, intense connection since you first met. You don’t want this interaction to end, not when it’s been a month since you’ve last seen him. With that in mind, you make your decision. 

“Are you on your way somewhere, or do you have time to join me for a bit?” you ask.

“I have no pressing engagements,” he says, taking the seat opposite you with a slight smile.

“What are you drinking?” you settle on as your ice breaker to try to make this feel like a normal conversation. Drink orders always tell a lot about a person, and you’re curious what you can glean from Morpheus’s answer.

He stares down at his cup for a moment, then back up at you with a confusion in his eyes that makes you press your lips together to hold back a laugh. “...Coffee.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Not at all the answer that you were expecting from him, and it’s throwing you for a bit of a loop. “First time here, then?”

“Yes. I had business with my sister in the area, and thought that I would take the opportunity to experience something new.”

Is this the same sister that he mentioned when telling the story of how he met Rob? “That’s nice that you get to see your sister for work! Are you two close?”

“Out of all of my siblings, she is the one that I am closest to.”

You immediately pick up on the subtext. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Six.”

“Six!” you exclaim in disbelief. Morpheus nods. “Let me guess. You give off either oldest or middle child vibes. Am I right?”

He thinks for a moment, and that’s how you know his answer before he speaks. “I suppose I would be considered in the middle.”

“Knew it,” you say cheerfully.

It’s now that Morpheus seems to take stock of your laptop and the books spread across the table. “Have I interrupted your studies?”

“No, you’ve given me a much-needed reprieve from endless thesis rewrites.”

“I hope that it is progressing better than it was when we last met.”

“Well, my first draft of my third chapter kind of sucked, so that threw a wrench into my plans.” You get an odd sense of deja vu while you say this, like you’ve had this conversation with him before.

“I am sure that it did not…suck.” The word sounds foreign coming from him, and it makes you hum in amusement.

“That’s nice of you. It definitely was not up to my usual standard, but the rewrites are going much better.” 

It certainly helped that you shared your fears of not finishing your third and fourth chapters before the end of the semester with Rob, who thought you were rather silly for thinking he would possibly deny you an extension request. Now, with the weight of a looming deadline off your shoulders, you’re able to simply focus on putting together the best chapters possible.

From across the table, Morpheus seems to be considering his next words carefully.

“Might I read what you have written?” he asks.

“You…you want to read my thesis?” you check, mildly awed. Nobody wants to read a graduate student’s thesis, least of all the grad student writing said thesis. The fact that somebody working in publishing, a field where he likely does nothing but reading for eight hours a day, wants to put himself through more reading—academic reading, at that—when not required to is surprising.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“You sure? It’s not like any of the books you get to read at work—this is very technical and boring.”

He smirks and holds out a pale hand in your direction, making it clear that he wants you to hand over the requested reading. “I would not offer if I did not mean it.”

“I only have it on my computer. Is that okay?” For some reason, he doesn’t seem like the type to be overly familiar with technology. When he nods (a bit hesitantly, you note), you scroll to the top of the document and turn the laptop around to face him.

His blue eyes, which have caught the afternoon sun and are sparkling like a clear ocean, focus on the screen in front of him, beginning to take in the work you’ve poured yourself into over the past year. Having anybody read your thesis is a little daunting, let alone someone doing it in your presence. You try to act busy on your phone so as not to rush him, but take in none of the aimless scrolling that you’re doing on autopilot while you sneak glances at him.

It’s only when he sits back in his chair and slides the computer back towards you that you fully look away from your phone. Not wanting to seem overeager, you simply turn it around to face you once more and look to him expectantly.

“You make a very compelling argument,” he begins.

A grin appears before you can stop it. “Yeah?”

“I particularly like how you rely on differing translations to prove your point that, even when stories are written down, they can be changed from one language to the next. I can understand why this has taken up so much of your time. Such dedication in the face of an arduous feat is commendable.”

“Thank you, Morpheus,” you say warmly, feeling on top of the world. “The entire grad school experience has been…far more arduous than I anticipated. I didn’t expect how completely it would take over my life. I’d be lying if I said I won’t miss it when I graduate, though.”

“Do you not receive much opportunity to enjoy pursuits outside of your studies?”

“Some, but not nearly as much as I did in undergrad. Boy, did I take that for granted,” you tack on, Morpheus huffing out a quiet laugh. “I try to read books that aren’t history-related, get out in nature a bit, see some of the sights I’m lucky enough to be living near right now. The British Museum has a special exhibition going on about communication through the ages that I want to go see, but I either haven’t had time or I haven’t been able to find anybody to go with me when I do have time. These days, it feels like if I’m not busy, then my friends are.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly, evidently questioning something you’ve just said. “Why not go alone?”

“Um, lately I tend to swing back and forth between ‘doing things by myself is fun!’ and ‘social anxiety is going to kill me,’” you say, laughing a bit nervously as you share a sliver of vulnerability.

“And right now it is the latter?”

“Very much so.”

He remains silent for a few moments, though you can tell he’s weighing something over. “If you are reluctant to visit alone, perhaps you would be open to my accompanying you?”

It’s your turn to go silent, and you blink a couple of times, trying to figure out if you’ve heard correctly. “You’d want to come with me to the museum?”

“I enjoy museums, and it has been quite some time since I visited this one. I would also very much enjoy your company.”

Heat rises in your face at the idea of spending actual time together, and not just running into one another. Are you crazy to read a potential implication within his words? “I’d like that a lot, but—well—” you sigh and try again, “can I ask…we’re friends, right?”

“We are?”

Oh shit, have you completely miscalculated? “I thought we were.”

“I would agree.”

“But…if I were to hope that this could be an outing for two people who maybe want to be more than friends?” You begin to close your eyes, embarrassed at being so forward. 

There’s no way he actually likes you in that sort of way. He’s enigmatic, endlessly interesting, and probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, you’re just a typical graduate student—living in a constant state of stress and simply trying to make it through your program largely unscathed. Your eyes zero in on the small coffee stain on the hem of your shirt. You doubt Morpheus has ever spilled anything in his life.

People like Morpheus don’t get together with people like you. That’s simply not how the universe works. 

Yet, to your immense surprise, right before you brace for rejection, he smiles. “Then I would say that you beat me to it. I was glad to see you today because I have been hoping to ask you on a date.”

“Really?” He hums his assent, and you smile in disbelief. “Wait, what was your date idea?”

He shakes his head. “We shall save the surprise for the second date.”

“Pretty presumptuous of you to already be assuming you’ll get a second date,” you tease.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Can I get your number?” He looks at you, obviously puzzled. “So that we can coordinate?”

“Ah. I am afraid that I do not own a cellular device,” he says, a little embarrassed.

“Old school,” you note impressively—truly, even down to the way he refers to a cell phone. “I like it! Sometimes I wish I could just chuck my phone in a river. I think we’d all be better off not having 24-hour access to pocket-sized supercomputers. Give me a second.”

You pull up an empty tab, as well as your calendar, searching in the former for the British Museum’s hours and the latter for your schedule for the foreseeable future.

“The museum is open until 8:30 on Fridays. Would meeting there this Friday at 5 work for you?” you ask.

Morpheus, unlike you, needs no schedule to check. “Yes, that will work just fine.”

“Awesome, let me just buy the tickets online quick—” 

“No need.” You look away from your laptop in confusion. He does know the special exhibitions cost money, right? “I would be a poor excuse for a gentleman were I to make you pay for anything. I shall procure our admission to the exhibition.”

“Alright, then.” You cast your eyes to the table for a moment, the elation of the moment so strong that it’s left you a little breathless. When you look back up, you’re thrilled to see that Morpheus looks as though he feels the same. “It’s a date.”

•••

Such elation refuses to leave you, even after you and Morpheus part ways. It’s simply impossible for you to wrap your head around the fact that he likes you—and wants to go on a date! Even as you meet up at the library with Georgia and Connor—the latter needing help looking through a number of particularly dense texts to try and corroborate an argument he’s making in his dissertation—your head is still in the clouds, enough so that you don’t notice Georgia calling your name until she smacks the back of your hand with her highlighter.

“Ow!” you exclaim, turning towards her in betrayal (the shock hurts more than the actual hit).

“Ground control to space cadet? I called your name twice.”

“Sorry,” you apologize. “What’s up?”

“I was going to ask about class tomorrow, but I think the better question is what’s up with you?” Georgia asks.

“Huh?”

“You’ve had this weird smile on your face all night, and you’ve been reading the same page for at least five minutes.”

Part of you wants to say nothing. After all, what if your evening with Morpheus is a bust, and it turns out you’re better off remaining newly-minted friends? You don’t want to get her (and your) hopes up, but your excitement for your plans feels impossible to keep to yourself. “I have a date on Friday,” you divulge.

Connor’s head whips up from the book he’s looking through as Georgia gasps. “A date? With who?” she demands to know.

“Morpheus, Rob’s friend.” You lean your chin on your hand so that you can attempt to cover your smile, but the damage is done as Georgia lets out a pleased guffaw before remembering her location.

“Nicely done, babe!” She holds out an appreciative hand, which you happily high-five.

Connor, meanwhile, is watching this interaction with a furrowed brow. “I thought you said that you didn’t want to date while you were in grad school,” he says dubiously.

“I did,” you agree, remembering your declaration after your first month of grad school that modern dating was dumb and far too immature for a grad student to be partaking in, swearing it off as a distraction you didn’t need. “And that’s what I thought. But, I don’t know. There’s just something about Morpheus that makes me want to get to know him more.”

“What are you guys doing?” Georgia asks.

“We’re going to that exhibition at the British Museum that I’ve been wanting to see.”

“Did he ask you?” You nod, and she squeals. “You have to let me know how it goes—I need to live vicariously through you.”

“You went on a date two weeks ago,” you point out.

“Yeah, and it sucked. Just like the one the week before, and the talking stage that I had for the entire month of September. I’ve had such bad luck in the dating world lately, and I just know a man like Morpheus wouldn’t let you down like that.”

“Can we get back on track, please?” Connor asks gruffly. “I’d like to find these stupid quotes before the library closes.”

“Of course,” you say, meeting Georgia’s eyes in confusion at his sudden personality change. She shrugs, casting a glance his way before going back to the book she was reading. You start to do the same, but the buzzing of your phone stops you before you can.

It’s a text from Georgia, whose sneaky fingers have typed a quick message before Connor could notice. 

“We’re getting coffee this weekend to debrief, and you’re not allowed to skimp on ANY of the details!”

•••

Your last class of the day on Fridays ends at 1, which gives you plenty of time to go home and have an existential crisis about what you’re going to wear and the fact that you’re about to go on your first date in almost two years. As you stand in front of your closet, rifling through your clothes in the hopes of finding a perfect outfit, anxiety begins to flood you about this evening. Is Morpheus going to like you when you spend more than ten minutes together? Are you going to have things in common to talk about? Is he the type to want to speed through an exhibit, barely glancing at the signs and just taking in the objects?

(God, you hope not)

Finally, you cobble together an outfit that’s cute, but doesn’t make it look like you’re trying too hard. Your hands shake as you dress yourself, and you have to periodically remind yourself to take deep breaths. You really, really want tonight to go well. Morpheus is the first person you’ve liked in a way that could turn romantic in a hot minute—most of the dates you’ve gone on in the preceding years have been first dates stemming from dating apps, where they take the feel of an interview for a job you don’t particularly want rather than time spent with someone who you could potentially see a future with.

Wait, can you see a future with Morpheus? No, you’re getting way too ahead of yourself, and you shake your head in an attempt to physically rid your brain of the thought.

You leave later than you would have liked, agonizing a bit too long over whether to wear a coat or not. Glancing at the weather forecast and the sky itself, you decided that you could forego the coat, knowing your route to the museum, but took an umbrella in case the prediction of rain came true. Still, you arrive at the museum five minutes early, only to find yourself already beaten by Morpheus, who is standing just outside the doors and people watching.

“And here I thought I was going to be the early one,” you say in what you hope comes off casually cool.

Morpheus’s lips turn up ever so slightly. “Apologies. Time sometimes escapes me, and I find it is easier to simply be early.” 

He appraises you for a moment, though it’s not lecherous in the way that some men stare at a person they find attractive and make their skin crawl. Rather, it feels like he’s appreciating you, the effort that you’ve put forth. 

“I fear mere words would not adequately convey how lovely you look tonight.”

Heat rushes to your face as you giggle shyly, unused to such beautiful compliments. “Thank you. You look very handsome.” And he does, his typical all-black ensemble looking like he’s come directly from Milan. Is his hair naturally this artfully messy, or does he take his time to make it look this way? you wonder.

You’d be happy just standing here with him, but you arrived on a mission, and Morpheus gestures to the entrance of the museum. “Shall we?”

Museums have to be one of the best ideas that humanity has ever come up with. It’s an entire building dedicated to the pursuit of understanding different facets of the world (and sometimes beyond) and posing questions that you likely never would have thought of yourself—how could somebody not get chills when standing among objects that are hundreds to thousands of years old, touched by hands from civilizations long ago?

This exhibition is laid out sequentially, starting from the earliest forms of communication and working its way through time. Even still, you can see a giant display case in the middle of the room that takes your breath away, and Morpheus looks at you curiously when you gasp.

“They have a Gutenberg Bible on display!” you point towards the case in excitement. You had read that they would have one, of course, but to actually be in the same room as one is thrilling.

“You have never seen one before?” he asks.

You shake your head. “You have?”

“Numerous times.” The life he leads is endlessly fascinating to you, but before you can express that, he speaks again. “Is that where we should begin?”

“No, that would ruin the whole flow of the exhibition. We’ll start at the beginning,” you decide, even though there is a small part of you that wants to just park yourself there for the foreseeable future.

The exhibition begins in a way that you would expect, expressing how humans have always had a need for connection before detailing one of the earliest examples—cave drawings in places such as Lascaux, France, and the American Southwest. From there, you fall into a careful rhythm of examining everything your eyes see, from the artifacts to the pictures to the accompanying text surrounding them, drifting through the room and taking the time to properly appreciate each new sight.

To your immense relief, Morpheus is not the type of museumgoer you were worried about, nor is he one to attempt to make conversation and distract you from the exhibition itself. His pace seems to match yours, though sometimes you get a bit farther ahead, or he does. You move together throughout the room, each experiencing it in your own way, with the knowledge that your thoughts will be shared afterwards.

The first words either of you speaks to each other come when you’re standing in front of a smaller exhibit discussing poetry and other forms of art. You’re reading about a village of tomb builders in the Ancient Egyptian village of Deir el-Medina, staring at a scrap of papyrus on which one of these builders recorded one of the earliest love poems, when you feel Morpheus at your side.

“The translation is wrong,” he notes.

You cast an intrigued glance towards him. “What, you speak Ancient Egyptian?”

He hums noncommittally, purposely keeping you guessing as he looks once more at the papyrus. Then, he speaks what you assume is flawless Ancient Egyptian, if the ease with which the words fall off his tongue is anything to go by.

“So what does it mean?” you ask, hushed.

His eyes meet yours, not needing to refer to the text in front of him to translate. “‘To hear your voice is pomegranate wine to me: I draw life from hearing it. Could I see you with every glance, it would be better for me than to eat or drink.’”

Even though you know he’s merely reciting what’s been written, it feels like he’s saying the words directly to you, as though they’re being spoken from the heart, rather than read from another source. It makes your own heart stutter in your chest, and you become acutely aware of your proximity to him.

“That’s beautiful,” you finally manage to speak, hoping that you don’t sound as out of breath as you feel.

“Yes,” he agrees—and oh my god, does he look at your lips when he says that? Did you imagine the quick flick of his eyes down? 

You smile nervously, unsure of what to do with the strong emotions kicking up inside you like a whirlwind, and turn back to the wall in front of you, trying to remain very interested in an example of Sappho’s poetry. After a moment, you see Morpheus out of the corner of your eye doing the same. As you continue through the exhibition, you’re far more aware of Morpheus’s presence next to you than you were previously.

You’ve been very intent on taking your time, wanting to give the entire exhibition its time to shine, but now that the object that first caught your eye is so near, you can’t hide your excitement. Nor, it seems, can a majority of the other museum patrons. A crowd has gathered around the Gutenberg Bible, meaning you’ll have to expertly weave your way through if you want to see it in all its glory. 

Just before you take a step forward, you remember that you’re not alone. Even though Morpheus has seen such an item before (multiple times, you’re reminded), surely it doesn’t get old to be in front of one? You wrap your hand around his on instinct, meaning to pull him with you to the front. His hand is cold in yours, and then you realize that you’re holding Morpheus’s hand and look back to see his surprised face.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize hastily, starting to pull your hand away.

Before you can, though, he adjusts his own hand and interlaces your fingers. “For what?” he asks, eyes betraying the smile he’s trying to keep hidden.

His reaction is a pleasant surprise, and you bite your lip in an unsuccessful attempt to keep it from showing on your face. “For…nothing, I guess.”

The crowd is thankfully beginning to disperse, making it far easier for you and Morpheus to get to the front than you had originally anticipated.

Then, you’re face-to-face with one of humanity’s greatest inventions.

Without knowing its history, it would look like any other old Bible. The Latin is beautiful, cramped, and entirely foreign to you. Each page has two neat columns of text, with new paragraphs starting with an ornate, colored letter. The pages themselves show hardly any of their actual age, having been restored exquisitely. It’s just a book, and yet, it represents so much more than that.

“It’s just amazing,” you note, not entirely meaning to speak aloud until you’ve already done so. When Morpheus looks at you, you elaborate. “Before Gutenberg, books often took years to complete, and they were usually financed by and created for the Church. There was no mass literacy; reading was entirely tied to your station in life. Then, somebody wondered if there was a faster way to produce a book than writing the entire thing by hand, and changed the course of history. Not even from the content, either! Just its mere creation.” 

You shake your head, the surreality of the moment hitting you. When you look at Morpheus, he’s staring at you with a look of…well, you don’t want to get too ahead of yourself, but what seems to be a look of wonder on his face. That’s the only possible way to describe how softly he’s currently looking at you.

“You know all of this already, of course,” you note.

“But you are correct, and I enjoy hearing it from you. Human ingenuity is rather remarkable. They started with nothing but the land around them, and from that came fire, and housing, and clothing. They are always…seeking more, always testing the boundaries of what they know to be possible.”

It’s an accurate commentary, but it’s not what catches your attention. “‘They’?” you question curiously. He tilts his head, unsure of what it is you’re referencing. “You said ‘they,’ like you’re not a human,” you joke.

He hesitates for a moment, and your interest in what should have been a simple response piques. “I suppose I meant early humans, those from long ago,” he finally says.

“Makes sense.” There’s definitely more to his use of ‘they’ than he’s letting on, but another surge has started to build around you, and you’re going to face some elbows sooner rather than later if you don’t move. “Let’s let others have their turn.”

Notably, neither of you let go of the other’s hand even after moving to the next part of the exhibition, which is relatively free of people.

While there’s nothing as striking as the Gutenberg Bible for the rest of the exhibition, there are still plenty of interesting artifacts the museum’s curated for this. Even more interesting is just how intently Morpheus looks at the items of the 20th and 21st centuries, as opposed to those at the beginning. By the time you’re standing in front of a case with one of President Barack Obama’s BlackBerrys inside, he’s studying the keyboard curiously. 

“You looked at the BlackBerry just as cluelessly as I looked at the cuneiform,” you note with a slight laugh when he catches up to you at the end of the exhibition, having left him to his pondering.

“As you said, it is remarkable how such an ordinary object can have such significance,” he explains. 

While you don’t doubt that he means that, the more time you spend with him, the more it becomes clear that the thoughts he chooses to share with you are only a mere fraction of all he’s thinking about. For whatever reason, he chooses to keep the rest to himself, but you want him to know that you want to hear whatever it is that’s on his mind. Before you can voice that, though, he takes your hand once more, and it sends all of your own thoughts fleeing your mind.

“Before we leave, is there anything you want to see one last time?” he checks.

“Now that you mention it, I did forget to take a picture of the Bible,” you say sheepishly, Morpheus happily letting you lead the way back for a quick photo op.

Night has fully enveloped London when you step outside, and the forecasted rain is pattering gently onto the ground ahead of you. You and Morpheus remain dry for the time being, standing next to one of the large columns and simply enjoying each other’s company.

“Was the exhibition everything that you hoped it would be?” he asks.

“It really was, and so was the company.” You wink at him, reminiscent of the first time you met. “Thank you so much for the lovely evening, I’ve had a great time.”

He smiles. “I have been to this museum many times now, but the pleasure of your company has made this visit one of my most memorable.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you note, his eloquence making you swoon just a bit.

While you could ask him about his favorite part of the exhibition or about his other visits, there’s something that you want more than idle conversation. There’s no doubt in your mind this time that Morpheus looks at your lips, and you realize with glee that he’s thinking the same thing.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” he begins, leaning towards you ever so slightly, “but may I—”

“Yes,” you interrupt him, the press of his lips against yours coming almost immediately after you give your consent.

His lips are surprisingly warm, a direct contradiction to his chilly hands—one of which has moved to cup your cheek, the other wrapping loosely around your waist. Your own hands rest on his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. He kisses you with a mix of tenderness and passion that quickly becomes intoxicating, and it makes you shudder under his touch. 

You didn’t know a simple kiss could feel so consuming, so overwhelming in the best possible way. Even deeper, it’s like something you didn’t know was missing had been returned to you. You’re entirely comfortable here, with him, like this, and wouldn’t mind being kissed by him for an eternity.

Unfortunately, breathing is a necessary function of being a human, and it’s one that you’ve neglected for long enough that your lungs begin to burn and your head starts to spin (though that one might just be from the kiss itself). You pull back from him reluctantly, nudging your nose against his as you take a couple of much-needed breaths. His eyes are blazing as he looks at you, like stars twinkling in the night sky, and their intensity sends heat through your entire body.

“So, what was that second date idea?” you finally ask, smiling cheekily as you hear him chuckle lowly before you lean in to kiss him once more.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtoclearmedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica @iamempty13 @magravenwrites @jojuwu @thrtorturedpoet @thelady-of-dragonfire @goodsoup19 @ladynightingale @scmdsblog @greycloudsy @shondlenoodle @starlitsapphire @morphune @wildflowerandsage @sysibat-blog @seeker38 @bae3triz

[7-wonders]

Of Soulmates and Sisters (String of Fate pt. 8)

Summary: The careful order that the Dreaming has been restored to is interrupted.

Multiple times.

Word count: 5.1k

A note from the author: I meant to get this published two weeks ago, but then the double whammy of family time over the holidays and being struck down with covid for a week (who tf gets covid in 2026? embarrassing!) ensured that I missed my self-imposed deadline. Apologies! This chapter really sets up the fun part of this story, and I'm so excited for the ride we're all about to go on.

I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, and would appreciate hearing from you; comments make my world go round!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

After so long spent trying to restore the Dreaming to its former glory, Morpheus’s beloved realm seemed finally to be back in order. No tremors or cracks rocked the landscape from a vortex threatening to destroy the universe, no rogue nightmares attempted to usurp their ruler, and no wayward dreams abandoned their posts to walk the Waking. No, his days and weeks had settled into something familiar, something normal, which, perhaps, should have been the first sign that something was about to happen: after all, one can never be bored when one is Endless.

But hindsight, as the mortals say, is 20/20.

It is when he is in his throne room, sitting on the steps and conducting research on modern fears experienced by large swaths of the Waking’s population to gather inspiration for new nightmares (the fear of plague never truly went out of style, though the newer fear of nuclear apocalypse is certainly intriguing) that Morpheus feels it, though he is at first unsure what it is he is feeling. For a moment, he simply feels that something is…off. Within himself or his realm, he is unsure. Then, there is a sharp tug at his chest, and he is awash in feelings that are not his own.

Feelings of determination, of indignation, are vastly overpowered by abject panic and terror. It is a sharp departure from his own stagnant, content emotions, and it takes Morpheus a moment to wrest back control over himself. Unsteadily, he leans back against the cool stone and rubs a hand against his sternum, taking note of the residual pain that lingers. Just as he begins to wonder how and why such an instance occurred, the answer strikes him: those strong emotions could only belong to you, and they’re currently being experienced while you’re in what is supposed to be the safety of his realm.

Though he does not consciously keep track of your whereabouts—in fact, he attempts to make a concerted effort to avoid knowing where you are and what you are doing, all too knowledgable of the fact that he could very easily abuse such power in a moment of weakness—he is always passingly aware of your presence in the Dreaming, much like a mortal is always passingly aware of the fact that they are breathing. It is not something one consciously thinks about; rather, it is something one simply knows. 

And now, he knows that you are frightened, far more than one should be when having a typical nightmare.

For the first time since he gave in to proximity, to want, and entered your dream on the night you met, he uses his power to determine your location; an action that takes a mere moment. To his surprise, he finds himself standing on a dock in the rockiest, most tumultuous part of the Sea of Dreams, watching as you desperately fight against violent waves that draw you back into the hold of the frigid water the moment you breach the surface.

While the scene is distressing to witness, he knows what you do not: that nothing in the Dreaming will harm you. What he does not know is how you ended up here, where so few dreamers dare to tread. Your fear spikes once more, a palpable lightning strike to his chest, and all questions are forgotten in favor of removing you from such a fear-inducing situation. The dock expands in a blink to be mere inches from where you are struggling, and he takes a firm hold of your hand when it appears again, pulling you easily from the water.

You immediately roll to your side, instinct taking over as you violently cough up the water that you had inhaled in your attempts to swim. He feels helpless simply watching you, and dries the water from your person with barely a thought, so that by the time you sit up and go to wipe the water from your face, there is nothing for you to worry about. Only, you appear slightly worried at not finding any water obscuring your vision, and stare at your clothes, now dry as well, curiously before noticing him, your bewilderment only increasing at the sight.

He is not quite sure what to expect of your reaction to seeing him—everything about you, down to your mere existence, has been a surprise. Naturally, your defeated groan falls in line with those standards.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” you lament.

He attempts to hide a smile at your reaction. “Like what?”

“You know.” He does not, and it takes you a moment to figure out how to say what you mean, your hand gesturing between both parties in the meantime. “I save you from being hopelessly lost on campus. You save me from embarrassing myself in a crowded building. Apparently, you just saved me from drowning.”

“You would not have drowned,” he assures you.

Fear, this time most assuredly his own, rushes through him as your eyes narrow in apparent displeasure, though he knows not the cause for your action—he merely spoke the truth. “Did you not see the way that I was actively drowning? Like, unable to breathe or get out of the water? That’s the literal definition of drowning,” you argue.

“It may have felt that way, but things are often not as they appear here. I can promise you that you are completely safe.”

Morpheus follows you as you stand, a hand held out ever so slightly before he is conscious of doing so, waiting in case you require his assistance. For a long moment, you study him, and he longs to know exactly what it is you are cataloging about him.

“Why would they do that?” you ask finally. He does not know what you mean, and you elaborate when you realize this. “Those women, why would they push me into the water?”

The dock begins to feel less steady under his feet as he immediately becomes wary of your words. “Which women?”

“You didn’t see them?”

When he shakes his head, you sigh, and he mourns the disappointment he has apparently caused you.

“I don’t know. Three women, like a grandma, mom, and daughter.”

The Fates. It is not surprising that they were in the Dreaming—provided they do no harm, the Ladies move freely through the realms, as is their right, no matter how much of an intrusion the ruler of said realm feels it may be—nor is it surprising that they, it seems, were involved in Morpheus finding you. It is, however, disheartening that they have chosen to go after you, rather than him.

“Did they say anything?” he presses.

“Yeah. It was all really cryptic; about paths I know of and the ones that I don’t, and that I’ve been ignoring their gifts? It didn’t really make sense to me.”

It may have seemed cryptic to you, who has never dealt with anything like this in your mortal life, but for Morpheus, who has spent eons dealing with all manner of powerful beings, the Fates’ actions are as clear as crystal. They are not happy with the way that you and Morpheus have handled the situation you have found yourselves in, and have intervened to ensure it receives the outcome they have planned. The Ladies correctly assumed that by putting you in danger within the Dreaming, he would have no choice but to come to your aid.

“That would explain how you ended up here, though I know not why they pushed you into a tempestuous ocean reserved for those who are plagued by indecision,” he admits.

Tentatively, you raise your hand. “Guilty as charged.”

Your reaction piques his curiosity. “Really?”

When you laugh, the sound holds none of its usual warmth. “You have no idea the day that I’ve had.”

“Tell me of it, then,” he urges.

“You don’t actually want to hear about my day,” you say dubiously, clearly not believing him.

“I assure you, I do.” 

To prove it as such, he changes your location to one of his favorite spots in the Dreaming: his personal garden, of which few know the existence. He watches as you eagerly take in the new and wondrous sights you’ve found yourself surrounded by, your awed reaction pleasing him greatly.

“Where are we? How did we get here?” you ask.

“This is my personal garden. I thought…that you would be more comfortable here.” He chooses his words carefully, answering only a small part of your question while stroking a leaf on the vine next to him to feign nonchalance as he does so.

“But where? I know for certain that I fell asleep in my living room. This shouldn’t be possible.”

Once again, he is faced with the conundrum that has plagued him for almost as long as he has known the truth of what your relationship will be. The thought of telling you the truth is extremely tempting, but now—when you are clearly facing problems of your own, problems that he is hoping you will confide to him—is, unfortunately, not the time. He does not want to lie to you, but decides once more that careful wordsmithing will have to do for now.

 “Do you trust me?” he asks finally.

“I shouldn’t,” you respond almost immediately. “We don’t know each other well enough for that.”

“But do you?”

He certainly hopes that you do, and your nod confirms it.

“Then please trust me that I will give you the answers you seek in due time.”

“What do you consider ‘due time’?” you ask.

“Would you like to sit?” he offers instead, sweeping an arm out in the direction of the stone bench next to you.

You take a seat, but it is clear that you are not pleased with his obfuscation. “Are you going to join me?”

“If you would like me to.”

When you reach out to pat the empty space on the bench next to you, he joins you. You remain silent for a spell, and he finds himself, not for the first time, wishing that he could know what it is you are thinking about. Are you considering what to divulge? Are you weighing whether to talk to him at all? He will take whatever it is you choose to give him, even if it is the most concise of explanations, and remain patient as you decide.

His patience pays off in ways he could only dare to hope when you decide to confide in him. It has been many ages since somebody had last seen Morpheus as somebody worth sharing vulnerabilities with—long enough that he forgot how honorable being a confidant is. You divulge the problem you are facing, along with your worries: that you will fail, that you will disappoint those in your life, that you will make an incorrect decision and find yourself regretting it. He knows all of this already, of course; your dreams and nightmares are vast, vibrant, and almost impossible to ignore, even if you were not his soulmate. But to hear it straight from you provides more clarity than a direct peek behind the curtain ever could.

Morpheus has never been a being for whom conversation comes easily. He frequently says things that, to him, sound logical and sensible, but that end up coming across as blunt or rude, unintentionally offending whoever he is speaking with. Talking to you, however, carries none of the awkwardness that it typically does with any other. His responses require hardly any second thought, any worries as to whether what he is saying is something useful or worthwhile, or if it is going to cause emotional wounds. You are the other half of him; of course, he knows how to speak to whom he has longed to do so for thousands upon thousands of years.

Even better, you take his words to heart. You listen to his words, see the value in what he is saying, and allow him to comfort you (something that, in your dejected state, is sorely needed—it is hard to see how sad you look, to hear the defeat in your voice). For a being not typically seen as good at conversation, Morpheus is feeling quite accomplished.

As the conversation continues and the amount of time you spend in one another’s presence lengthens, the magnetic pull that Morpheus feels every time he is near you only increases, until even you seem to feel it. Your bodies move closer together, both of you unable to resist the pull until your knee begins to brush against his. He stares for a moment at your clasped hands sitting in your lap, at the way that you pick at the skin around your nails without even realizing you are doing so, and thinks about how easy it would be to reach over and take them in his own. Are your hands warm or cold? Are they calloused or smooth? He did not get the chance to find out when he pulled you from the Sea, and now, he longs for nothing more.

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts.

What a question to ask one such as he—what a question to ask him, who has been completely at the mercy of fate since the moment you winked at him in the New Inn. A tempting urge comes to mind—to take you in his arms right here, to show you exactly what fate has in store for you. “You are my fate,” he wants to say, the words on the tip of his tongue. “I love you so wholly and completely that it both terrifies and thrills me, and if I had a heart, it would surely beat only for you.”

Regrettably, he must hold himself to his earlier decision. “I have no choice but to.”

“I didn’t think I did before tonight, but now…” You trail off, shaking your head just slightly. “There’s a lot that you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“There is much that I wish to tell you, though I know not how.”

“Like where we are?” You circle back to your original question.

“Among much else.” A flash of black catches his eye as Matthew appears out of the bushes behind you, raising his wings and making it clear that Morpheus’s presence is needed. “I have indulged for far longer than I should have, and I must return to my responsibilities.”

It is a shame that your time together is coming to an end so soon. He wishes to make certain that your mortal mind will remember something from this encounter—mortals rarely remember what happens in their dreams, and though he has the power to grant such memories to remain with a dreamer, he knows that he has already overindulged and acted unwisely. Then, a thought comes to him of something that he has longed to do since the last time that you met. A longing to touch you, truly and intentionally, and an action that would have seemed out of place in the modern setting you found yourselves in. But here, in his realm of hopes and fantasies?

If the Fates want him to act, then act he shall.

“Are you calling me a distraction?” you tease, your laughter falling to the wayside when Morpheus holds a hand out towards you.

This move is a gamble, and he waits with bated breath to see how you will respond. Finally, you place your hand in his, the sensation of your skin against his just as addicting as he remembers—a sense memory he has replayed time and time again in the preceding weeks. He relishes the trust that you continue to display towards him, squeezing your hand ever so slightly and running his thumb along the skin of your knuckles. Your breath, already coming out in stuttered gasps, gets caught in your throat when he raises your hand to his lips and gently kisses the back of it, eyes locked on your own, widened in shock, the entire time.

You slowly pull your hand away from him when he releases you, covering it with your other and holding it close to your chest—holding his kiss close to your heart, he realizes with joy.

“Sleep well, and worry not about what troubles you,” he assures you. “We will meet again, and when we do, I trust that you will feel more clarity and confidence in the path that you are meant to take.” He does not merely trust—he knows that it will be so.

You open your mouth, clearly intending to speak, but he ends your dream before you have the opportunity to do so, watching as your form disappears in front of him. Then, and only then, does he let out a stuttered breath of his own to mirror your earlier one.

Morpheus sighs quietly, deeply, eyelids fluttering closed. If he had the time, he would focus on committing every minute detail of your interaction to his endless memory. As it stands, however, a brief moment of contemplation is the largest crack in his composure that he will allow when knowing that there are eyes on him, and he instead opens his own and turns them once more to the foliage opposite him.

“Yes, Matthew?” he calls.

Matthew reappears from the bush guiltily, flying over to take your place on the bench.

“I’m so sorry, boss,” Matthew apologizes, genuinely regretful of having to interrupt. “But we’ve got a situation out front. The guardians have captured an intruder.”

“An intruder?” Morpheus asks, the rosy haze of romance dissipating in an instant.

“That’s all that I know. I was just told that there was an intruder and I needed to come find you.”

Are the Fates still unsatisfied after throwing you into the Sea and letting you believe that you were going to drown? Perhaps, but the Ladies know how to present themselves officially to the monarch of a realm according to the respective laws and customs, and allowing themselves to be captured is not that. Left with no choice but to find out for himself, Morpheus stands. “Let us see to this…intruder, then.”

The intruder, dangling from the wyvern’s mouth and giggling madly, is, as it turns out, not an intruder at all. Morpheus appears next to Lucienne, who is staring up at the sight with a furrowed brow—furrowed in annoyance or confusion, he is unsure.

“Is that…” Lucienne starts.

“The lady Delirium, yes,” Morpheus confirms, staring up as well.

Hearing her name, his younger sister waves at the trio below with a large grin. “Hello, Dream!”

“You may release her, Wyvern,” Morpheus commands his guardian, who gently lowers the youngest of the Endless down to the ground and attempts to apologize—attempts that are quickly rebuffed as Delirium assures him that she enjoyed ‘the swingy bits’ and…kisses him on the snout in parting.

“I always thought that I ought to have a pet,” Delirium notes, skipping down the steps. She looks well, Morpheus notes, her tan trench coat covering a fairly normal ensemble and nothing otherworldly growing out of any pockets.

“The wyvern is not a pet.”

“What about your blackbird?”

“Raven,” he corrects. “This is Matthew.”

“I remember Matthew!” She crouches down beside the raven, the two arguing about whether Matthew actually had met her as he and Lucienne share a glance.

“Has she ever done anything like this before? Just showing up out of the blue?” Lucienne asks quietly. “I can’t recall.”

“No. For all of her…unpredictability, Delirium typically understands the dynamics of our family well.”

Until now, it seems.

“Why are you here, my sister?” Morpheus asks Delirium, hoping to bring her attention back to what must be the matter at hand.

“I came to see you!” she says cheerfully, sitting down next to Matthew. “I mean, to talk, not just see.”

“You have a gallery for that,” he reminds her gently, to which her response is to rock back and forth on the stairs with a pout on her face. Such antics he would typically find to be irritating, but today, they are…mildly charming.

“I know. But if I called and you said no, that would mean you wouldn’t talk to me. And last time I called, you said no. And the time before that. So I thought that if I just showed up, then maybe…”

He should turn her away, or, at the very least, he should insist that she contact him the proper way and wait for him to grant her admittance to his realm. But as he looks at her, mismatched eyes sparkling with hope, and feels Lucienne looking expectantly at him…he cannot find it in himself to do either.

Love has made him soft, he muses as he sits at the opposite end of a long table laden with candles, waiting patiently for his sister to decide what non sequitur to begin with.

“I came to see you yesterday, but you were gone,” Delirium starts, holding her hand over one of the candles’ flames.

He raises a brow, confused by her words (though that is a common feeling when she speaks). “I did not leave the Dreaming yesterday.” He had not left the Dreaming in a number of days, in fact.

She looks at him in confusion. “What day was it raining terribly, then? You must have been in a very bad mood that day, for it to have been raining that much.”

The last time the Dreaming saw that amount of rain—indeed, any real amount of rain—was the night that Nada had left the Dreaming, the night that he first met you.

“I was worried, you know,” Delirium continues, not at all concerned that Morpheus has not yet formed an answer. When he tilts his head, she continues. “To visit. You’re always so scary. But now…” She studies him, a grin on her face. “Dream, you’re smiling.”

Is he? A quick check of his muscles reassures him that his face remains impassive. “I am not.”

“Not on the outside, silly! On the inside.”

On some level, he very likely is. The emotional high of his interaction with you has yet to truly wear off, the electric thrum of touching you, of kissing a part of you, still buzzing under his skin. Delirium reads him remarkably well—always has. Being seen in such a way, especially when one does not want to be, makes him uncomfortable, and he attempts to steer the conversation. “Why did you try to come here that day?”

“What day?” she asks, and Morpheus sighs patiently.

“The day that you originally came to see me.”

“I was thinking about things,” she begins. “About why everything feels so wrong. It all keeps moving, and it won’t stop, and I just want it to stop. And when it doesn’t, I think, ‘what if it gets worse?’ And then I try to remember a time when it didn’t feel this way. And then I remembered, it was when he was here.”

Immediately, Morpheus knows the he to which Delirium is referring. “Our brother.”

She stares into the flames, tears brimming at her eyeliner-darkened waterlines. “I would go and see him, and no matter how bad things got, he would make it okay. But now he’s gone, and everything is broken.”

“What do you mean?”

“Destruction’s realm is still there. Things are still being destructed. But nobody’s in charge of it. It’s out of control. I mean, look what happened when you left your realm.”

He bristles at the ease with which she says such a thing, as though he were not captured and held prisoner for over a century. “I did not leave my realm by choice.”

“No, I know. He left because he wanted to. That was so long ago. What if he’s embarrassed to come back? Or what if he’s been captured the way you were? Or what if he’s sick, or has amnesia—”

“He left. He chose to leave us.”

Part of Morpheus wishes to be far more callous when discussing his brother’s actions. Much anger has been harbored over the abandonment of Destruction’s realm—the abandonment of his family. Yet, as those words hang on the tip of his tongue, he cannot bring himself to say them.

He’s always believed Destruction’s choice to be going against what had been written for him in the Book—after all, the Endless were created to be their functions. The thought of leaving one’s function, yet continuing on as a living being, was simply unheard of. But now? After finding out firsthand how quickly one’s fate could shift and bring about something that had heretofore seemed impossible for their kind?

Perhaps it was meant for Destruction to leave his function and the family, just as it was meant for Morpheus to find you.

“We must respect that,” he says, “and we must honor his wishes.”

The dam breaks, and tears fall down Delirium’s red-rouged cheeks. “I miss him,” she cries brokenly.

Morpheus stands from his seat, crossing the room so that he may kneel patiently in front of his sister. “I know that you do.”

“I wish I could talk to him. Find him, yell at him, bring him back.” Her tears slow, and she looks up from the table to meet his gaze. “I came here that day because I wanted you to search for him with me, so that I wouldn’t get lost while searching for him—you know how easily I get distracted—and then we could do all of the yelling and talking together. But…things will happen if you leave to search with me. Destruction leads to destruction. And I cannot do that to you now, not when you’ve finally found what you’ve always longed for.”

Naturally, Delirium has also found out about his new life update. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Destruction, in his self-imposed exile, had managed to learn the news as well. His sister has started trying to clean her face with her hands, and Morpheus produces a handkerchief from his robes, which she takes with quiet thanks.

“We met, you know,” Delirium says as she wipes away her remaining tears.

“Who?” Morpheus asks, even though he already knows the answer.

She says your name, confirming his suspicions. “I didn’t go on purpose or anything! I was already on the university’s campus—college students really do love their hallucinogens—and when I noticed that it was your mortal sitting there, well, I had to go and say hello.”

Morpheus wrinkles his nose at her phrasing. “My soulmate,” he starts, meaning to kindly warn Delirium away from any more interactions with you. Not because he believes that she will do anything malicious, but because she cannot keep a secret for the life of her, and he would prefer that you not find out the truth of your relationship from his sister.

“—Is very nice! Very, very nice. Kind, too.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Delirium—”

“You were just together, weren’t you?” She gasps, shades of her former self coloring her face. “Were you on a date?”

“No, we were not.” Much to his chagrin.

“And the Fates are quite upset about that?” she asks, having, once more, seen things that others can not. 

Morpheus stands and shakes his head ever so slightly to clear it—the sensation of talking to Delirium for an extended time can often end up disorienting. “I do not want to discuss this with you, my sister.”

“I think you do!” she insists, standing up as well. “I think you’ve been waiting for someone to come along and ask you about this situation, and for that someone to be truly interested in hearing about it.”

Once more, she has read him like few can, seeing through any sort of wall that he could even attempt to put up, and he allows her a slight smile. “If you are feeling better, I would see you back to your own realm.”

She rolls her eyes even as she smiles, knowing that Morpheus has reached his limit on emotional vulnerability and allowing him to show her out of the room and towards his gallery. “Yes, yes, of course, you’re busy, I’m busy, we both have functions to get back to. You know what you need to do, though, right?”

There are innumerable possibilities for what Delirium could believe he needs to do, and he does not know where to begin (though he has an idea of what it might be). “What?”

“You need to go to the Waking and ask your soulmate on a date, Dream. Oh, it would be so romantic! And you were once quite good at that type of thing.”

He looks at her quizzically as they enter the gallery.

“Don’t look at me like I don’t know what I’m talking about. I know loads about romance! Love makes everybody go a little crazy.”

“I will take your words under advisement,” he says patiently.

She claps her hands together in excitement as the veil between their realms cracks like glass. He could just let her go, wishing her well and not seeing her again until the next family meeting. Yet, something in him hesitates at that plan. Her suffering, her sadness, has always cut deeper than the rest of his siblings’ various woes, though he knows they all feel the same about her—whether that be due to her very nature or because she is the youngest, he is unsure.

“Little sister,” he calls, Delirium turning to look back at him right before she enters her realm. “I know that we do not share the same relationship that you and Destruction had. But…you are always welcome in my realm. Provided you follow the proper protocols for visiting, of course,” he tacks on.

She stares at him in awe, a smile slowly growing on her face. “You really mean it?”

“I do not—!” He is cut off by Delirium rushing at him and throwing her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug. His arms hang uselessly at his sides for a moment—physical affection has never really been ‘his thing’—before slowly wrapping them around her. “I do not make it a habit of saying things that I do not mean.”

“You’re a good big brother, you know,” she says as she pulls away from him, schooling her face into something mockingly serious. “When you’re not being so scary.”

He cannot help but smile when he realizes that she’s imitating him (and rather well, at that), and it remains firmly in place long after Delirium has returned to her realm as he thinks over her advice. A date. He does not know that he has ever actually dated before—though the grand excursions to various fantastical corners of the universe could, perhaps, be considered dates at the most basic level, which is a romantic outing wherein two beings get to know one another.

But what the mortals consider dating? That, he has assuredly never done, and it is, unfortunately, this that he must quickly become familiar with if he wants to finally take the next step and declare his intentions with you.

More research is surely required.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtoclearmedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica @iamempty13 @magravenwrites @jojuwu @thrtorturedpoet @thelady-of-dragonfire @goodsoup19 @ladynightingale @scmdsblog @greycloudsy @shondlenoodle @starlitsapphire @morphune @wildflowerandsage @sysibat-blog @seeker38 @bae3triz

[7-wonders]

Dream a Little Dream of Me (String of Fate pt. 7)

Summary: A tough day turns even stranger when you close your eyes for the night and find yourself in an improbable series of dreams.

Word count: 7.4k

A note from the author: It was my birthday yesterday, but you guys are the ones getting a present in the form of the longest chapter yet 🎉 And boy is it a good one; I'm positively giddy for you all to read this!

Yes, this chapter title was used as both an episode title and a title of an issue in the comic series, but it fits so well here that I have no choice but to use it. Also, reminding you again that when certain beings refer to you as young or pretty in this fic, it's all entirely neutral because these are entities who are unfathomably old! I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, and would appreciate hearing from you; comments make my world go round!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

When your weird week to end all weird weeks culminated in another simultaneously thrilling yet embarrassing interaction with Rob’s enigmatic friend Morpheus, you’re left feeling thoroughly rattled at the new and unfamiliar feelings it’s left you with. Why can you not seem to get him out of your head, no matter how busy you are? Why is it that every time you see him, your heart flutters in your chest and you feel breathless with simple proximity? What is it about him that makes you so eager to get to know him, to want to put yourself in a position where you’d like him to know you?

These are questions that you’re determined to push to the back of your mind rather than find answers to. You don’t need these distractions right now, not when you’re hitting one of the most crucial points of your academic career. Finishing your degree is far more important than any man, and thankfully, the universe seems to get the message that you would like not to repeat the weirdness you’ve just gone through, please and thank you.

It’s almost a relief when the following Monday passes without incident, with even the devil’s advocate you’ve had your wary eye on choosing to put actual thought behind his answers during the class discussion instead of testing what inflammatory statements get a rise out of his fellow classmates. Life quickly settles back into the routine that you’ve become so comfortable with—hectic to be sure, with all of your various responsibilities, yet somehow a little boring. Things may be basically the same, week in and week out, but that’s just how you like it.

Autumn tries its hardest to hold its ground as midterms pass, but the creeping chill of winter is slowly, yet surely, encroaching on its territory. As you hurry across campus to make your afternoon meeting, you’re glad that you heeded the weather forecast and dug one of your heavier coats out of your closet. An icy wind rattles the branches of the large trees, now bare and devoid of foliage, students and faculty alike hustling to make it to the warmth of a building. Snow has yet to make an appearance, but slick patches of ice on sidewalks formed by overnight condensation herald its imminent arrival.

Said slick patches of ice almost claim a victim before your very eyes—Georgia, coming from the library, runs up to you when she spots you, seemingly unaware that this is not an environment conducive to running. She shrieks as she slips on the ice, sliding towards you and grabbing your arm in an attempt to right herself.

“Careful!” you warn belatedly, tugging at her own arm to stop her from doing any real damage to either herself or you.

Once she’s sure that she’s not going anywhere, Georgia smiles at you. “Hey! Was hoping I’d run into you.”

Ryan appears from the same direction, walking much more timidly than your friend. “What the hell, Georgia? You said you were going to wait for me!”

“That was before I got outside and realized how bloody cold it is.” She shivers for emphasis, even though you’re all experiencing the same temperature. “Besides, a slow march towards doom is made all the better when you’re with somebody about to experience the same fate as you.”

You knew this was coming the moment that she texted you yesterday to ask when your mid-semester advisor meeting was, and you found out that it was at the same time as hers. “You’re so dramatic! We’ve had to do check-in meetings at the beginning, middle, and end of the semester since we started here, and you’ve survived all of them just fine.”

“Barely survived, thank you,” she corrects. “It’s not my fault that I’m a mid writer who’s just trying her hardest!”

“You’re not mid!” you insist.

“The many red pens that have been sacrificed to make edits to my thesis say otherwise.”

While you want to argue and remind her that everybody gets a good amount of edits to their theses, it’s an undeniable fact that Georgia’s advisor is a little hard on her—certainly harder on her than Rob is on you. That she has dyslexia certainly doesn’t help her case, and she often ends up with a few grammatical errors on each draft.

“I’m not ready to get reamed by Meghan because I still suck at Chicago-style citations,” she whines.

“I checked your citations last week, and they looked perfectly fine.”

“Are these advisor meetings that bad?” Ryan asks trepidatiously, quickly fearing his meeting tomorrow.

“No,” you assure.

“Yes!” Georgia says at the same time.

“No. They can be stressful, of course, but they actually are pretty helpful for making sure that your thesis is progressing the way that it’s supposed to.”

“You’re only saying that because you somehow managed to get the world’s best advisor. Hell, Rob’s not even my advisor, but he’s still offered to read my thesis before the semester’s over.”

Well, she’s not wrong, and you shrug in such acknowledgement. Rob’s help as both a teacher and a mentor has been indispensable, and you truly couldn’t imagine getting through grad school without him.

The building where the history department’s offices are housed and a good portion of the degree’s classes are taught welcomes your group with its warmth when Ryan opens the door, letting both you and Georgia file in before he follows you.

“While I’d love to hear more about all of the ways I can stay up worrying tonight, I have to get to class,” he says wearily, rolling his eyes just slightly (at the fact that he has class or because of the fearmongering, you’re unsure). “See you guys later.”

You wave as he starts to climb the set of stairs to the second floor, calling out, “You’ll be fine for yours, just as Georgia and I will be for ours!” When he disappears, you turn to face your friend as you head down the hallway towards your advisors’ offices. “Great, you scared the poor guy.”

“I’m just being realistic.” She smiles impishly, knowing just as well as you that she purposely went a little over the top, before making a face as she stares down her advisor’s door. “See you on the other side?”

You squeeze her shoulder reassuringly as you move past her. “Good luck.”

“You too!” she calls, disappearing within.

Rob’s office is a mere two doors down from Georgia’s advisor, Meghan Jessop’s, which means that your walk to his is just a few steps. The door is open, as it always is when he holds office hours, but you still give a cursory knock on the frame before entering. “Hey, Rob.”

Rob looks up from his computer, smiling when he sees you. “Good afternoon! Close the door behind you, would you please?”

The first time he told you to do this, it was the first month of your first semester of grad school. You were hopelessly lost on how to handle a class of students while also dealing with your increased workload from your own studies, and sought Rob’s help in coping. The moment the door closed behind you, you worried you had screwed up and that you were surely about to be lectured and kicked out of the program.

(The first month of grad school was…rough on your nerves)

Now, you know that the thing to fear most during your meetings is that Rob is feeling particularly chatty, and you inevitably end up losing an hour to gossiping with him about campus happenings.

“How did midterms go for you?” he asks as you sit down on the other side of his desk.

“Good! The presentation of my progress on my Archival Methods project was a little nerve-racking, but presenting in front of Dr. Keller always is.”

“Should I feel like I’m failing as a professor that my midterm wasn’t one that you stressed over?” he jokes.

“I’m far more comfortable with your method of testing than I am with Dr. Keller’s.” Rob, like most history professors you’ve had throughout post-secondary schooling, doesn’t give out traditional tests. Rather, he presents his students with a number of prompts related to the course material, from which they’re expected to write four short essays, each one consisting of four to five paragraphs. It also helps that you’re not expected to finish all of them in one class session like a traditional test; you work on them on your own time, just like any other assignment.

“That makes me happy to hear. I don’t want any student to fear my classes because of harsh tests or grading.” The concern is classic Rob: when students are doing badly in his classes, he tends to make it a mission to figure out how he can help to get them to a level where they’re going to pass, even if the student couldn’t care less. “Now, let’s get to the real reason you’re here, which is your thesis.”

“Should I pull it up on my computer?” you ask, already beginning to reach for your bag.

“No need.” He shuffles through a couple of folders before producing the three chapters of your thesis that have already been handed in. “So the first two chapters, which are the ones we spent the majority of last year writing and refining, are good. At this point, I would consider them done. Your most recent chapter…

He flips to the beginning of your third chapter, and your heart drops when you see the dreaded red pen having made plentiful corrections on just the first page.

“Uh oh,” you laugh nervously, realizing that the minor edits and formatting issues of your previous chapters end here.

It’s not even that you’re a particularly good writer who never experiences any setbacks! It’s simply that you and Rob have historically been on the same page regarding your thesis. Since the day you presented your proposal to him, he’s always seen your vision for this project and has simply attempted to guide you as you try to make it a reality.

You attempt to focus intently on the paper in front of you to hide your face, which surely reflects that the sky is falling around you because your chapter is evidently terrible. Before you can, though, Rob meets your eyes.  “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You try to act ignorant, but he sees through it immediately.

“Don’t start to beat yourself up! I did not say it was bad, because it isn’t. In fact, I like the majority of this chapter and what you’re trying to build towards. It simply doesn’t feel like a chapter in your thesis—it feels like a different work entirely, just shoehorned in.”

You nod and remind yourself that Rob isn’t doing this to be mean; he genuinely wants you to succeed and get your degree while also producing a quality product. “Okay.”

“Let’s go over my suggestions, so that you can see what I’m talking about?” he prompts, smiling kindly at you. 

This takes over half an hour, and unfortunately, you can see exactly where he’s coming from. The majority of this chapter had been written after you woke up with a burst of inspiration following a period of writer’s block (the day after your last interaction with Morpheus), and it’s clear that the high of finally getting the theoretical monkey off of your back and getting to make your deadline overshadowed you giving it a good proofread and making sure it connected with both your previous chapters and your planned fourth chapter. It’s not rife with spelling errors or anything that would say that you were suddenly sloppy in your writing; it’s simply…a work that, at this point, is entirely its own rather than part of a whole.

You’re more than a little frustrated at both your own carelessness and the fact that you’ve already started writing your fourth chapter based on where you left off with its predecessor, which means that you’ll have to basically rewrite one and a half chapters in just a matter of weeks. The mask of neutrality you’ve tried to craft is no match for your strong emotions, Rob repeatedly reassuring you whenever he sees how dismayed you remain throughout his explanations. Even more embarrassingly, you’ve had to surreptitiously thumb away a couple of ashamed tears, and you desperately hope he either didn’t notice or continues to pretend like he didn’t. 

By the time Rob finishes talking you through his last edit, you’re feeling thoroughly abashed. Your face burns, a headache is quickly forming behind your eyes, and all you want is to go home so you can have a good cry before attempting to fix this mess you’ve made.

“Does all of this make sense to you?” Rob asks, and you nod. “I promise I’m not trying to be harsh on you, and I want to remind you that this does not mean that your thesis is bad, nor does this mean that you are not a good student or writer.”

“I know,” you mumble, picking at the sleeve of your shirt to keep from looking at him.

“Every student eventually hits a bump in the road when it comes to their thesis; I was starting to worry you were a little too good at this whole grad school thing,” he says lightheartedly, and you smile weakly at his unwavering faith in you.

“Thanks for all of your help,” you say, grabbing the copy he’s made his edits on. “I really do appreciate it, even if I don’t look like I do.”

“That’s quite alright,” he assures. “There’s another point to this meeting, if you’re not feeling too emotionally battered.”

You are, but you’re not about to tell him so, and instead look up as you’re slipping the thesis into your bag. “What’s that?”

“Well, you’re getting close to graduation; the end is in sight. Have you given much thought to what awaits you afterwards?”

God, as if this meeting couldn’t get any worse; now Rob wants to talk about your future? That great big unknown that’s plagued you since you finished your first year in May and realized that the next would be your last before you needed to figure out a plan for the rest of your life?

“Um, probably not as much as I should,” you admit. “I’ve just been focused on trying to graduate. There are so many different fields that I could end up in, so many different jobs that I could see myself doing. I also know how oversaturated the field is and how terrible the job market is right now. There’s…a lot to consider.”

“Like what?”

“Like if I settle for a job outside of the history field if I can’t get one in it. If I sacrifice a high-paying job for a low-paying one simply so I can do something I’m passionate about. I’ve thought about getting my doctorate too, but I worry that I’d be doing it for the wrong reasons—if I’m just trying to delay the inevitable by putting myself through more schooling, or if having one would actually help my career aspirations.” These are thoughts you’ve harbored for a while, but haven’t verbalized to anybody for fear of their reaction. Rob, however, is very easy to talk to, and you know that he wouldn’t judge you for any of this.

“Obviously, I can’t tell you what to do—only you can do that—but I can say that most of the people who are meant for a PhD program, who are doing it for the right reason, are those who question if they are. I can also tell you that many of the research questions you posed while trying to figure out your thesis would make a really good dissertation.”

That does make you feel a bit better about what you’ve just been through. “Really?”

He nods. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” Rob pauses, considering what to say next. “I’m not trying to influence your decision in any way, but I do want you to know that I applied for funding for a PhD student at the beginning of the semester. Funding which I received, and, if you decide that you would like to continue your schooling, as well as if you’d like to do so here, funding I’d love to go to you.”

Now you feel like crying again, but for a completely different reason. Rob’s always believed in you, but to know that he has so much faith in you that he believes that you could successfully get your PhD—that he’s gone so far as to secure funding specifically with you in mind—is both touching and heartwarming.

It’s also a little frightening. Could you live up to his expectations? Could you handle the increased workload, the extra years of schooling? It’s a lot to think about, and it leaves your stomach churning and nausea beginning to rise as you do.

“I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I know you don’t usually take on PhD students.” The word among your fellow students is that he’s one of the few professors who likes sticking with teaching undergraduates, and thus does not make a point of positioning himself as an advisor for graduate and PhD students unless said students (like you) approach him first.

“You’re very welcome. Again, I don’t want to pressure you at all, and you would not hurt my feelings if you decided that you wanted to enter the workforce after this year, or if you wanted to get your PhD at another institution. You have plenty of time to think things over; applications don’t close until mid-January.”

A knock sounds on the door, and you look at your watch to see that an hour has somehow already passed.

“Ah, I’m afraid our time’s up. Are you feeling alright? I know that this meeting has been…quite the emotional rollercoaster.”

“I’m okay,” you confirm, shrugging your coat back on as you stand up and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Can I offer you a bit of advice?” Rob asks, stopping you as you reach for the doorknob. You look back at him and nod. “Rest for a bit when you get home. You don’t need to jump right into rewrites. Your thesis will still be there after you take care of yourself.”

You truly do appreciate his concern for your well-being. “Thanks, Rob. For everything.”

“See you tomorrow,” he calls as you open the door, sliding past the sophomore waiting outside and silently wishing them a less eventful meeting than the one you just had.

You leave the building in a daze, glad for the cold weather, which provides a much-needed shock to your system and helps you to feel like part of the world once more. That meeting had been nothing at all like what you expected: the lowest of lows, and the highest of highs. Now, you’re left with even more questions than you started with, and with more to think about than you wanted. It leaves you surprisingly determined—to pay your thesis the proper attention and finish it, as well as to put good thought towards what you want in the next season of your life.

Across the quad, Connor stands talking with a couple of his friends. He notices you at the same moment you notice him, and starts to wave at you. You look away quickly, pretending that you didn’t see him. You don’t have time for niceties and seeing friends, nor do you have any more time to waste on campus.

No, you’re on a mission.

•••

Naturally, you don’t heed Rob’s advice at all when you arrive home, beyond fixing yourself a quick meal that you only take a couple of bites from before settling on your couch with your computer. You’ve pulled basically every text you cite or plan to cite in your thesis from their various hiding spots, spreading them out on your coffee table and the floor so that you have easy access to them. This isn’t the first time you’ll have knocked out an entire essay/chapter in one marathon stretch, and you doubt it will be the last.

There’s a new need fueling you—to get this right and correct your mistakes and carelessness, yes, but also to prove to Rob that he didn’t make a mistake in applying for PhD funding with you in mind. You may not yet know what you want to do with this new information he’s given you, but you do know that Rob doing what he’s done is an honor.

Your pace is already slower than you’d like as you do a first look over your chapter, parsing through what you’ve already written and seeing what you can take into this new draft. It’s heartening that you end up with more usable sentences and paragraphs than you originally thought, and you go to work at making sure your second chapter moves seamlessly into your third. A candle is lit, and your favorite type of study music plays in the background, the ambiance helping you get in the studying zone, as the clicking of your keys while your fingers fly over them lulls you into an odd sort of trance.

The buzz of your phone pulls you out of it, and you become aware of yourself for the first time. Namely, that multiple hours of straight work have now passed. Secondary to that, you realize that your emotional day has left you quite tired. A yawn escapes you, tears brimming to your lashes from the force of it. The sensible part of you says that you should go to bed; that your chapter will still be here in the morning for you to work on. The delusional part of you says that you can totally finish at least half of this chapter before going to bed, and that’s the part that starts to win out.

Would it hurt your progress that badly to close your eyes for just a moment? To give yourself a twenty-minute rest and recharge a bit before hitting your goal? It’s an acceptable compromise in your mind, and you quickly set a timer before leaning back against the cushions and finally allowing your eyes to shut. 

(You do blow out your candle, though, just in case, which should probably signal to you that you intrinsically know that this is a battle you’re about to lose).

It feels like you’ve merely blinked when you become aware of the fact that you’re no longer in your living room. Where once you were lying down, now you’re standing at the entrance to a great forest, fog curling lazily along the ground. Before you stretch four paths, each turning away from the other and winding farther and farther down until you can no longer see where they’re meant to go. The thought of choosing any of them is intimidating, and you decide to turn to see what your other options are.

Distressingly, you find that you’re actually in the middle of this forest like the ones from fairy tales—that Little Red Riding Hood ventured through, that Hansel and Gretel encountered a witch in, where Snow White ran from the hunter, wild and untamed, and already menacing just from looking at it. The paths are all around you in every way you turn, inescapable. Some overlap, while others remain solitary, but all of them eventually lead to the unknown. The trees seem to be growing larger, their branches hanging down lower and lower until you start to feel the world shrinking around you. Soon enough, you’re going to be forced to pick a path, to start towards something entirely unknown to you when you don’t even know which direction you want to go. You turn one more time to see if you can find freedom, and that’s when you see them.

Three women stand before you, women who weren’t behind you just a moment ago. Each woman has the same dark, glittering, intuitive eyes, the same curled hair, but the similarities end there. The woman on the left is clearly the youngest, while the woman in the middle is at least twenty-five years older; however, she’s also at least twenty-five years younger than the woman standing on her other side. All three look at you with varying expressions, but it’s the oldest’s evident rage that has you backing up a couple of steps.

The youngest says your name in a way that implies that she’s very familiar with you, even though you know for certain that you’ve never seen any of these ladies before. “We’ve been waiting for some time to meet you, dearest, but it’s been quite hard to reach you. Busy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Um…sorry?” you halfheartedly apologize, though you’re not sure what for.

“You’re facing quite the conundrum. You flatter us with such an elaborate crossroads, poppet, ” the second, who looks like she could be the younger’s mother, smiles at you.

How does she know that just from standing in this forest with you? “What’s going on?” you ask.

The oldest woman scoffs. “Come now, child, don’t ask useless questions! Prove to us that the correct choice was made.”

Anger flares in your chest. Who is this woman to decide that the questions you’re asking are useless? “Okay, then answer my ‘useless question’ if you want me to understand what choice was made,” you snap.

She smirks just slightly, and you get the feeling that you’ve passed some sort of test. “Pretty and spirited. That will serve you well.”

The three women begin to speak in turn, from youngest to oldest. “We’ve given you the gift of a lifetime.”

“The gift of many lifetimes.”

“The gift that many spend their whole lives searching for.”

“And you haven’t even noticed it!” The youngest pouts. “That hurts our feelings, you know.”

“What gift?” you wonder incredulously.

“‘What gift’,” the middle of the three mocks. “We know you’re smarter than that, love. What’s been new in your life lately that hasn’t been there before?”

You think for a moment, because even at the midway point of the semester, it still feels like everything is new. New classes, new assignments, new faces—

“Morpheus?” you question, focusing on the newest and most strange of those faces.

“There we go,” the oldest proclaims. “Perhaps my sister selves didn’t make a mistake.”

Out of the three, you think you like her the least. “What does Rob’s friend have to do with me and my life?” 

“You are far too focused on those paths that you know are available to you—teacher, scholar, worker at an inane, mortal job—that you have not given yourself any time to discover the paths that are now inevitable,” the middle woman explains, gesturing behind her. “Paths that are right here in front of you, yet paths you don’t even know exist.” 

“And you do?” you question, crossing your arms over your chest.

The youngest chuckles. “My dear, we are the ones who put you on such a path, just as we put everybody on their paths.”

You’re far more confused now than you were at the start of this baffling interaction, but just as you start to think of more questions to ask, the women begin to speak in turn once more, only this time from oldest to youngest.

“No more. You have asked your allotted questions.”

“It’s a shame, too. If you had asked the right ones, we could have told you of his true nature.”

“Of what awaits you.”

“Of your fate.”

“After all, the life that you once thought you were to lead is long gone, now. We could have offered you some guidance on what to expect.”

The youngest steps forward with a smile. “Go now. And don’t keep turning away from what, or who, is right in front of you. Your inaction is displeasing to us.”

Then, she puts her delicate hands on your shoulders, squeezing for just a moment before she gives you a firm shove backwards.

You’re expecting to fall on the ground that you know has been behind you the entire time, but the ground is not what you find. Instead, you’re plunged into icy depths, an ocean engulfing you before the shock of falling can even register. The chill of campus this afternoon, a time now so long ago, has nothing on the freezing waters you’re now trying to fight as the waves viciously rock you and try to claim you in their depths.

And fight you do, treading the choppy waters and trying desperately to get back to precious air. The surface is right there; you can see the light from the sky shining through, but every time your head breaches the water, another set of waves shoves you right back to where you started. Panic is quickly building—is this how you die? Drowning in a vast, unknowable body of water, your body never to be found?

You stretch your hand out towards the surface once more, lungs burning as you try one last frantic attempt to free yourself. Only this time, the ocean doesn’t work against you to continue to try and claim you as one of its victims. 

This time, a hand clasps around yours tightly, smoothly pulling you out of the water and away from danger as if it takes no effort at all. You’ve never felt so relieved to feel harsh wood slats under you as you’re pulled onto what’s evidently a dock, immediately rolling onto your side and coughing up more water than should ever end up inside a person’s lungs.

When you finally feel like you can breathe again—an action you’ll now never take for granted—you sit up and go to wipe the water out of your eyes to allow yourself to see once more, only to find that your face is now dry. So are your clothes, too, and you stare in wonder at the sight before becoming aware of somebody else’s presence.

Morpheus is crouched in front of you, anxious eyes locked onto you as you try to make sense of the situation. He must have been the one to pull you from the ocean, but what is he doing here? What are you doing here? Where is here?

You groan tiredly, not wanting to deal with any of this right now. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

His lips twitch as he tries to fight a bemused smile, obviously not expecting this reaction from you. “Like what?”

“You know.” You gesture helplessly between the two of you for a moment, trying to find the words to describe your meetings. “I save you from being hopelessly lost on campus. You save me from embarrassing myself in a crowded building. Apparently, you just saved me from drowning.”

“You would not have drowned,” he insists.

You shoot him a withering glance. Is he really trying to mansplain drowning to you right now? “Did you not see the way that I was actively drowning? Like, unable to breathe or get out of the water? That’s the literal definition of drowning.”

“It may have felt that way, but things are often not as they appear here. I can promise you that you are completely safe.”

You shakily pull yourself to your feet, Morpheus following your movements. He looks…different here, in this unknown place. Not physically, of course, beyond the fact that his clothes here are more regal—he’s wearing what looks to be literal robes, like some sort of king.

Here, he looks far more at ease than you’ve ever seen him, comfortable in his own skin in a way that he just naturally wasn’t the few times you’ve met him.

“Why would they do that?” you ask, making Morpheus look at you in confusion. “Those women, why would they push me into the water?”

“Which women?” he asks, suddenly seeming paler than he already is.

“You didn’t see them?”

He shakes his head, and you sigh. Of course, not.

“I don’t know. Three women, like a grandma, mom, and daughter.”

“Did they say anything?” he questions seriously.

“Yeah. It was all really cryptic; about paths I know of and the ones that I don’t, and that I’ve been ignoring their gifts? It didn’t really make sense to me.” You notably omit that they also mentioned him by name, deciding that you’ll keep that card close to your chest and see how this interaction plays out.

“That would explain how you ended up here, though I know not why they pushed you into a tempestuous ocean reserved for those who are plagued by indecision.”

You raise a sheepish hand. “Guilty as charged.”

Stars twinkle in his eyes as he tilts his head in curiosity. “Really?”

You laugh a little bitterly. “You have no idea the day that I’ve had.”

“Tell me of it, then,” he invites.

“You don’t actually want to hear about my day,” you say, calling his bluff. There’s simply no way that this is happening right now, that Morpheus is in front of you and wanting to hear about your troubles like somebody closer to you than he is.

“I assure you, I do.” 

Just as suddenly as you were in the forest, or that you were fighting strong currents, you’re now standing with Morpheus in a picturesque garden. All manner of plants grow here, from the daintiest of flowers to the longest and most unruly vines. A large fountain spouts bubbling water in the middle of a small circle free of vegetation, and a swarm of butterflies with iridescent wings fly lazily overhead. It’s the definition of peace, of serenity—a private hideaway from innumerable, pressing duties.

“Where are we?” you ask, eyes drinking in the impossible sight before you. “How did we get here?”

Morpheus runs a finger along a leaf that looks as soft as velvet. “This is my personal garden. I thought…that you would be more comfortable here.”

That’s very nice of him, though it only answers maybe 20% of the question. “But where? I know for certain that I fell asleep in my living room. This shouldn’t be possible.”

The hesitation on his face is obvious, and it takes him a few seconds to speak. “Do you trust me?”

“I shouldn’t. We don’t know each other well enough for that,” you retort.

“But do you?”

Hesitantly, you nod. You don’t know why you do—it’s not like you make trusting people you’ve only met a couple of times a habit—but some instinctive part of you simply knows that you can trust him.

“Then please trust me that I will give you the answers you seek in due time.”

“What do you consider ‘due time’?” you press.

He smiles, gesturing to a stone bench. “Would you like to sit?” he asks, answering your question with another question.

“Are you going to join me?” you counter as you take a seat, coming to terms with the fact that you won’t get the answers you want today.

“If you would like me to.” You pat the empty spot next to you, and he gracefully sits beside you. His questioning look does the opposite of what it should, and instead makes you feel comforted in this space. He doesn’t rush you or prompt you to start speaking. 

He simply waits and watches you with those unfathomable blue eyes.

“Where do I start?” you think aloud.

Sighing heavily, you tilt your head back to stare at the cloudless sky and bite your lip as you consider if you’re really about to spill all that you’re going through to a man who can barely be called an acquaintance. But he’s been genuinely interested in everything you’ve had to say in your previous encounters, in a way that few are nowadays. If there’s one thing you’ve learned in the short time that you’ve known Morpheus, it’s that he is quite the listener.

Further, it’s obvious that this is a dream. The things that you wouldn’t say to him in real life can be said here, in the sanctity of your mind, because it’s not real. You’re simply imagining this scenario, imagining a version of him. With that knowledge, you make up your mind on your next action.

“My thesis sucks,” you blurt out. “I had a meeting with Rob today and that was the brunt of it.”

Thunderclouds start to rapidly build from out of nowhere as his expression goes stormy, and you look up in surprise. “He said that to you?”

“No,” you hurry to explain, “that’s mean of me to imply, especially when he spent the whole meeting assuring me of the opposite and telling me that it was fixable. But reading the chapter along with him as he showed me his edits? Yeah, it sucks, and it’s all my fault.” You scoff bitterly. “As you can see, I don’t do well with failure.”

“Nor do I,” Morpheus admits, making you smile. “I doubt that your writing was that bad.”

“It wasn’t poorly written in the sense that I had a bunch of grammatical errors. But it was…careless. Sloppy. I was stuck on that chapter for so long that the day I was finally able to write, I just wrote and wrote before handing it in. I didn’t even proofread it!” you bemoan. “I always proofread my assignments. And if I had, then I would have noticed that it didn’t tie in to my previous chapters at all. Re-reading it, I don’t even know where I was going with it. It feels so separate from the rest of my thesis.”

“But you can fix it,” he says kindly, reminding you of your earlier words.

“I can, but it’s going to be a tall task. We’re already past the midway point of the semester, which means that I have to rewrite a chapter and a half in just a few weeks. It’s…” you sigh deeply, tiredly. “It’s just a lot to deal with, especially coupled with all of my normal classes and assignments.”

“Would Robert grant you an extension, were you to ask?” Morpheus suggests. “I have never known him to be unreasonable.”

“He probably would, but I would feel like I was letting him down if I couldn’t get it done in time, especially after the other part of our conversation today. He asked me what I want to do with my life, which is, like, the million-dollar question. And after I fumbled out an answer about there being so many things to consider, he.” Your words run dry as you recall his gesture, and you have to clear your throat before speaking again. “He secured funding for a PhD student, specifically with me in mind.”

Morpheus immediately picks up on the fact that you are not thrilled about a situation that should be thrilling. “You do not sound pleased.”

“I am! It’s an honor that he thinks I can handle a doctoral program, that he sees potential in me, and wants to keep being my advisor.” 

“And yet?” Morpheus prompts, knowing that this isn’t the end of your speech.

“I’m stuck,” you admit helplessly, staring down at your shoes. “I don’t know what to do or what I want. There are so many different ways my life can go, so many different choices that I can make—that I have to make—and I’m stuck. Paralyzed by fear and indecision. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I find myself unhappy in ten, fifteen years, regretting the path I chose?”

He remains silent for a moment, clearly thinking over his next words. “We have only known each other a short time, but I already know you to be extremely driven and passionate. I do not believe that any choice you make regarding your future could lead to ruin, because ruin is not meant for you. You are meant for far greater things in your life than failure of any kind.”

“How can you know that about me from just a couple of conversations?” you ask weakly.

“Remember what I said about trust?”

“It was only a few minutes ago, so yes,” you say, unable to resist teasing him, especially when you see his soft smile in response

“Then trust me when I say that I know.”

At some point throughout the conversation, you each slowly began moving towards the other, until now, your knee brushes against his, and your hands, clasped together on your lap, lie mere inches from his. The pull that you’ve felt towards him since the moment you saw him, a soft, proximity-based tug that’s been heretofore easy to ignore, feels undeniable now, a magnetic force of opposing polarity that you’re helpless against. It’s almost intoxicating how you feel around him, and you think you would be happy spending hours just sitting next to him. Everything about this scene feels soft, dreamy, as though the scene has been painted in watercolors, and it lowers your guard in a way that you wouldn’t allow if you were awake.

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask, thinking back to the words of the three women.

He looks at you so tenderly, with a look you’ve never seen another person make towards you. “I have no choice but to.”

“I didn’t think I did before tonight, but now…” Either this is the oddest, most nonsensically vivid dream you’ve ever had, or there’s a deeper meaning here. You’re willing to bet that it’s the latter. “There’s a lot that you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“There is much that I wish to tell you, though I know not how,” he confirms.

“Like where we are?”

“Among much else.” His head turns to look at something behind you, though when you turn, you can see nothing but the rustling of leaves from a bush. “I have indulged for far longer than I should have, and I must return to my responsibilities.”

“Are you calling me a distraction?” you joke, a laugh getting caught in your throat when Morpheus holds an elegant hand out towards you.

Slowly, you slip your hand into his waiting grasp. His hand is cold, but not unbearably so, and the gentle squeeze he gives your own as he runs his thumb reverently over your knuckles quickly banishes any thoughts other than “oh my god, is this really happening?” from your head. Your heart, which had already started racing, is galloping within your chest as he raises your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it like a hero from a romance novel. 

A choked gasp escapes you, held captive by the heat of his gaze, which hasn’t left you the entire time. When he releases you, you draw your hand to your chest, holding your other one over it as though to protect the sensation you still feel tingling through your nerves.

“Sleep well, and worry not about what troubles you. We will meet again, and when we do, I trust that you will feel more clarity and confidence in the path that you are meant to take.”

You go to speak, to ask him to stay, to press for answers, but you wake with a gasp before you can. You’re still on the couch, where you started, and your neck hurts. Sitting up with a groan, you idly rub at the back of it as you try to recall what you just dreamed, frustrated at how fast you’re already forgetting it.

A forest. Three women. Riddles. Drowning. And…Morpheus. The part of the dream you wish to remember most, yet the part of the dream that is already disappearing like fog in the sun, and you furrow your brow as you fail to connect these odd flashes. 

You fumble for your phone to see how close you are to your alarm going off, only to find that, despite what you remember, you must not have actually hit ‘start’ on your timer. It’s been at least two hours since you fell asleep, and it’s now the early hours of the morning. So much for finishing half of your chapter before you went to bed.

With no choice but to call it, you pull yourself up from the couch and start to shut everything down so you can get ready to actually go to bed. No matter how hard you try to recall the strange dream you had, it appears lost to your subconscious, and your only hope is that maybe the dream will pick up where it left off when you go back to sleep.

The only part of the dream that you can recall, that sticks with you as you go through your night routine and until you finally lose consciousness and fall into a dreamless sleep, is the odd sensation of a heated phantom press of lips to the back of your hand.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtoclearmedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica @iamempty13 @magravenwrites @jojuwu @thrtorturedpoet @thelady-of-dragonfire @goodsoup19 @ladynightingale @scmdsblog @greycloudsy @shondlenoodle @starlitsapphire @morphune @wildflowerandsage @sysibat-blog

[7-wonders]

Interlude: Nuala (String of Fate pt. 6)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

Summary: The Dreaming’s newest resident has some…thoughts on recent developments concerning the lord of the realm.

Word count: 4.8k

A note from the author: Approximately two people told me it might be cool to hear from Nuala's perspective and expand upon what she's surely feeling, so naturally, I ran with this. Truly, I love Nuala so much, and I'm really excited to peek into her mind. (There will also be a couple of other interludes throughout the story, so this suggestion was perfect)

I also want to note that, though Nuala refers to you as a child in this fic, I am not giving you an age! Anybody under the age of, like, 200 is a child to her (and I'm fairly certain none of you are 200 years old 🤨)

Enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts; hearing from you guys makes this all worth it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

After getting over the initial shock of being “gifted” to Dream of the Endless by Queen Titania in the hopes that it would sweeten Faerie’s request that Hell be left empty (and being duped into serving as an emissary by her brother, whose betrayal still stings when she thinks of it), Nuala, formerly of Faerie, was finding her new life in the Dreaming to be much to her liking. She no longer had to wear an uncomfortable glamour at all hours—the Dreamlord disliked such magics in his realm, and did not require a court of ethereal Fae to sit around like ornaments for his amusement, as Titania and Oberon do. Where the Court of Faerie was full of rules that one must always adhere to and strict schedules to follow to the exact moment, there was none of that here.

“Make yourself at home,” the Dreaming’s librarian told her when first showing her around the palace. “Explore, do the things that you have always enjoyed. You are no prisoner here. We work, yes, but we also live.”

Nuala quickly followed this advice to the letter. It had only been two days since Cluracan left her behind, but she was already finding there was plenty of exploring to do. The Dreaming was just as beautiful as Faerie, perhaps even more so, and certainly far more vast. She had only just started venturing out into the small village surrounding the palace, wanting to take her time and truly get everything there was to offer out of each new sight, sound, and interaction. The creatures that called this realm home were also far, far nicer than those inhabiting her homeland, and she only needed these first two days to know that. While she was quickly put to work helping various staff members around the palace until a good fit could be found for her, she was also given plenty of time to enjoy her sudden newfound free time.

With nothing but opportunity in front of her, Nuala decided to start with a project that served both as sustenance and enjoyment. It was all too easy to convince the pumpkin-headed Mervyn to set her up with a small patch of land, seeds of her choosing, and the necessary tools. Though almost everyone warned her that the groundskeeper was brusque and hard to get along with, those warnings went unheeded. Having always made friends everywhere she went since she was a wee thing toddling after her brother and his friends and trying desperately to keep up, she simply saw such warnings as a challenge. Sure enough, after only a few conversations, she managed to break through his rough exterior and find…a personality that was still rough, but one that was willing to show her where to find the materials she was searching for and give her free rein of her new garden with only a “I’m not cleanin’ up after ya, kid.”

Many of her kind looked down on physical labor, especially so when almost everybody had some sort of nature manipulation in their arsenal. After all, there was no need to mess up a fresh manicure when one could just wave a hand and make their favorite blossoms appear. But in a world of superficiality, Nuala enjoyed such efforts. Having to hone her skills with time and practice—actually doing the work of tilling, planting, watering, and weeding by herself—made the payoff just as sweet as the scent of the flowers she cultivated. 

In Faerie, her little garden was her escape from the stifling court, a secret hideaway that only she knew about. Though she’s only been in the Dreaming for a few days, she knows that this will not be hidden out of necessity. Now, she can enjoy gardening simply as a hobby, and as another way to make herself feel like she’s actually a contributing member of the staff.

Nuala’s hunched over one of the neat little rows of dirt she’s created, carefully dispersing violet seeds that will hopefully bloom in a variety of purples, when a shadow forms above her and blocks out the sun. For a moment, she worries that the bad weather of two days ago has returned. One of the palace’s staff, The Fashion Thing, sighed heavily when asked about the phenomena and explained that the weather in the Dreaming was directly tied to the Dreamlord’s emotions; as a result, deafening thunderstorms with rain like she hadn’t seen since before Faerie closed their realm off from the mortal world reflected the heavy emotions that Lord Morpheus was experiencing after Queen Nada left for the Waking. But the weather cleared almost as swiftly as it arrived, and there had been no signs of it returning.

When she looks up, she’s met not with darkening thunderclouds gathering, but with the figure of Lucienne, the Dreaming’s librarian (and, as she was fast learning, Dream of the Endless’s right-hand woman). Under her strict adherence to formality, Lucienne was actually quite friendly and had immediately set about making Nuala feel useful in her new role. Though she smiles politely, there’s obvious stress in the ramrod straightness of her posture and the way that her fingers tap on a ledger she’s holding.

“Hello, Nuala. Are you busy at present?” Lucienne inquires.

“Not at all.” Nuala stands and wipes her hands on her trousers (another aspect of life in the Dreaming that she’s quickly coming to enjoy—getting to wear trousers!) to clean any remaining dirt. “What can I do for you?”

Lucienne hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out her next steps. “How good are you at keeping secrets?”

Nuala raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “I served in Queen Titania’s court for centuries.”

That answer is self-explanatory, and she nods with a flash of a small smile. “That you did. In that case, I require the discretion that you’ve surely honed over such time.”

“Of course.” Lucienne turns on her heel and begins to walk towards a door leading inside, Nuala hurrying along to keep pace with the fast-moving librarian. “Might I ask what the matter is?”

Lucienne remains silent as they continue their journey, long enough that Nuala begins to wonder if she went unheard. At the entrance to the library, however, she stops, looking the Fae in the eyes.

“It would appear that Lord Morpheus has…well, found his soulmate.” Dismay drips from her tone, though Nuala knows not why. 

“Oh!” She says, startled. It’s all that she can think to say as her ears begin to ring, heart pounding even faster than usual until she can practically feel it against her skin. A soulmate? Lord Morpheus has a soulmate?

“I am retrieving titles for him related to the subject, and will need your help in both carrying them and going through them,” Lucienne continues, unaware of Nuala’s emotional turmoil. 

Nuala blinks a couple of times when she notices Lucienne waiting for her response, hoping to kickstart her brain into remembering how to speak. “Yes, I—I can help.”

“Good,” she says absentmindedly, mind already on what she’ll need to look for now that she’s secured help. “Follow me.”

And so she does, trailing down countless aisles that all seemingly look the same, but that the one leading her knows better than anyone. As Lucienne peruses titles and separates them into stacks, piling one in Nuala’s arms and the other in her own, her previous words continue to toll like a bell inside Nuala’s head. 

Soulmate. Dream of the Endless has a soulmate, one whom he discovers almost immediately after Nuala becomes a resident of the Dreaming. The news is bitter medicine on her tongue, coating her insides and refusing to let her forget it.

“I was unaware that the Endless could have soulmates,” Nuala finally speaks when Lucienne’s searching seems to be nearing an end, her voice only barely betraying her.

“We were all unaware, including the Endless.” Lucienne’s tone is clipped, as though this is going to end up being a mess that she will have to clean up.

“You do not seem pleased by the news.”

Lucienne sighs, and when she turns to look at Nuala, there’s a heaviness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “It is not that I am displeased. In fact, if this is true love, then I am quite happy for them both.”

It’s quite obvious that this is not the end of what she wants to say, yet silence hangs overhead as she once more thinks about how she would like to say what she wants to say, ever the pragmatist. “But?” Nuala prompts.

“But I have been there for almost every one of Lord Morpheus’s romantic entanglements. I have watched as new love has burned brightly, and been a witness to breakups just as fiery. Every time, the relationship inevitably ends, and every time, the realm suffers terribly for it. He suffers terribly for it. The storms that you experienced the other day were quite tame in comparison to some other breakups, though I believe if I hadn’t put a stop to his…solitude, it may have reached such levels.”

“You worry for him,” she concludes.

“I do. After Calliope, after—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head before trying again. “I did not see him for almost an entire decade. We communicated entirely via letters, and only when absolutely necessary. I tried, believe me, but if it did not concern something vitally important to the realm’s wellbeing, I received no response. Nobody, save his raven at the time, knew where in the Dreaming he had holed himself off. His work was still completed, of course, and new dreams and nightmares were created. But for ten years, he was in such pain that he did not feel like he could face anybody, even me.”

Lucienne’s tone wavers just slightly as she speaks, staring fiercely at the books in her hands, so that her expression is unknowable. Those ten years, Nuala realizes, must have hurt her just as much as they were hurting Lord Morpheus.

“If such a reaction was simply from losing the relationship of a goddess he loved enough to marry, then for both our sakes and his, I hope that he and his soulmate have many lifetimes of love and happiness. I fear that the realm may not survive the rejection of a soul bond.”

So that is it, then. Nuala’s ideas of finding love, crushed. They were foolish ideas in the first place, she knows. Just because she had fancied him since the moment she saw him in 1593 didn’t mean she had some claim over him, that she deserved his love simply by virtue of having waited her turn. But she is a romantic to her very core; how could she not have believed this to be a second chance at making a meaningful first impression, at finally getting a love story that was unable to be tainted by the Court that she had called home her entire life?

Nothing could stand in the way of soulmates, of true love. She doesn’t want to stand in the way of that; why would she, when she still hopes to one day find a soulmate of her own? She will push her own feelings aside, then—just as she’s always done—for the good of the realm, and for the good of Lord Morpheus.

She, unlike the Dreaming and its lord, will surely get over a heartbreak.

•••

The tentative peace she has found from such a decision is, naturally, shattered in a matter of minutes when Lord Morpheus reveals to Lucienne and Nuala that his soulmate is a mortal.

A mortal? It would be far better if she were losing him to a powerful god or goddess, some unfathomable, unfairly beautiful deity whom she would have believed she had no chance of measuring up to. But a human? This must surely be some cruel joke that the Fates are playing on Lord Morpheus, payback for thousands of years of perceived grudges against him and his family. Why would a human be the soulmate to one of the Endless?

The revelation is a dagger to her heart, slaying her like some great beast. She numbly takes the book Lucienne has given to her, halfheartedly going through it as she continues to process the news. Even as her heart breaks, she still tries to be engaged in the tasks at hand. “Sweet Nuala, always so eager to help,” Queen Titania always used to say with a sly, cruel smile as she pawned all manner of undesirable tasks off on her.

Such eagerness to help must simply be ingrained into her very being. She mentally bats away the image of her former queen’s barely hidden amusement and tries harder to focus on the words in front of her, relaying any pertinent information as it comes across the pages.

After the trio makes it through all of the gathered books with little to show for it, Lucienne returns to the shelves in the hopes of finding books that may be more helpful to them than the ones they’ve already looked through, leaving Nuala alone with Lord Morpheus. Where mere hours ago, this would have been a position she was thrilled to be in, now, it’s simply a reminder of what she will never have, and she continues researching to avoid actually having to look at him.

“‘Soulmate bonds can be physical just as much as they are emotional,’” Nuala reads from the book in front of her, the fourth such one she’s gone through, “‘with bonded pairs being known to exhibit symptoms such as longing, an increase of thoughts about the being on the other end of the bond, and a need for proximity that rises the longer a pair goes without seeing each other. In rare cases of a creature bonding with a mortal, such symptoms may be heightened.’ Yet another case of something that may or may not happen, I’m afraid.”

Lord Morpheus sighs. “I fear that lived experiences are all that lies in these books.”

“‘Tis frustrating to be getting nowhere,” she agrees hollowly.

“What does Faerie believe of soulmates, Lady Nuala?” His insistence on continuing to give her a title she no longer has the right to use is much appreciated, and the gesture makes her smile.

“It’s one of the most sacred bonds across all the realms, of course. Every pantheon and plane of existence recognizes and reveres the soulmate bond, every being hoping that one day they’ll find their own. Humans have made deals with a great many fae in the hopes that they’ll be granted their soulmate. That’s not in our power to do, of course; only fate decides how, when, and if a soulmate is found.

“We’re frequently characterized as tricksters—tales say that we purposely obfuscate our speech to capture humans, or that we lure them back to Faerie so that we can have our way with them for what seems like the blink of an eye, as hundreds of years pass in the Waking. For some, that’s true, but they are the minority. Fae revere the soulmate bond. We crave a love that can withstand all of the betrayal, gossip, and deceit of the Court. A love that cannot be ended on the whims of those more powerful than us, who seek only to have a drama or a tragedy play out in front of them for their merriment.”

“You speak as though from experience,” Lord Morpheus notes.

She does. How many relationships has she seen destroyed because Titania was bored, because Oberon decided that he wanted another partner? How many times did she and another Fae begin exclusively seeing each other, only for Titania to suddenly rely heavily on Nuala’s presence by her side because she could not bear to see her happy? “I think it’s jealousy, if I may be frank. Not even Titania and Oberon have a soulmate bond, though you already knew this.”

“I did?” He sounds surprised.

“For Fae, at least, a bond would make a party terribly ill if they tried to seek romantic affection from another party.” 

She is, of course, referring to the affair carried on for some years between him and Titania. That relationship and its end were still the stuff of legend in Faerie; one only had to mention a simple “remember when…” to renew the gossip and amusement that once filled every square inch of their realm.

Matthew appears right as Lord Morpheus begins to be embarrassed at the reminder of that ill-fated entanglement, ending the conversation and instead shifting it to Matthew’s newfound knowledge of the situation at hand. Lucienne returns soon enough, and Nuala finds herself giving…advice on how best to court. Selfishly, she had still harbored hopes that what had been experienced was wrong, that a mortal simply caught Lord Morpheus’s fancy at the wrong time (she believes the modern term is rebound).

But as the group speaks, sharing their own knowledge on the subjects of romance and courting as their ruler listens intently, Nuala can clearly see the burgeoning love and passion that all new soulmates carry within them in the expressive depths of his eyes, in the way he tries not to smile at the reminder that happiness and true love are within reach. Still, she smiles as she speaks. Still, she interacts, giving tips and advice, because it is what she has always done. Put on a brave face, even when inside she’s breaking.

Sweet Nuala. Helpful Nuala. Always putting others before herself Nuala.

///

As weeks pass like clouds drifting in the sky, easily and without stopping, Nuala begins to feel like some semblance of herself again. She throws herself into work, helping wherever Lucienne points her, as well as getting to explore the realm she now calls home. The citizens of the Dreaming are just as varied and colorful as the ones of Faerie, but, for the most part, are much kinder. She finds herself smiling, truly smiling, and laughing more often in the brief time she has lived here than she had for the entire last century back home.

It is easy to forget about the pain of losing a chance at making real a long-held fantasy when the object of said fantasy is scarcely around. Lord Morpheus, Lucienne told her one day when she was helping to shelve a number of new titles, is probably the busiest of the Endless, save for his sister, Lady Death. She has not seen him since that day in the Library, and perhaps that is for the best. At least until the wounds over her heart that she has been harboring scab over and heal.

She’s returning from the gardens carrying a basket of various herbs requested by Taramis, the palace cook, when she hears voices in a small room off the grand receiving hall. Eavesdropping would be a terrible habit to pick up, and she almost keeps walking, but Matthew’s voice stops her. The raven never says anything truly boring, after all, and it would be a shame to miss one of his classic “American-isms,” as Merv calls them.

She peeks into the open door to see Matthew, perched on the back of a mirror and nodding approvingly at Lord Morpheus, who checks his appearance over in the reflective surface. 

“You look great, boss, really! Nothing at all like an all-powerful nightmare king.” Lord Morpheus remains silent, and Matthew looks up, catching Nuala in the act. “Am I right, Nuala?”

Nuala’s cheeks heat up, fair skin surely already turning pink at the embarrassment. But under that, He must be off to see his soulmate in the Waking, then. That would be the only possible reason why he is dressed down in clothes that would not arouse too much suspicion that he is something Other.

Lord Morpheus turns to look her way. “Lady Nuala?”

It takes her a moment to spur herself into action, nodding in agreement with Matthew’s observation. “Very mortal, my lord.”

“See?” Matthew cheers. “You’re overthinking this. Remember, you did just fine the last time! And also, you’re literally meant to be together, which means that your general off-putting nature—sorry, no offense meant—”

Lord Morpheus glares at his raven, but Matthew is undeterred.

“—is probably, like, attractive to your soulmate!”

Once more, the two look at Nuala, seeking her opinion on a matter she wants no involvement in. “I would not use those same words, but the sentiment would be the same. If you are fated to love one another, then your traits and personality are nothing to be worried about.”

Lord Morpheus appraises his reflection once more, then nods ever so slightly. “I should be departing now. Hob is surely waiting for me.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Matthew caws excitedly. The phrase sounds like it’s one that is common among mortals (American mortals, at least), but it is unfamiliar to both her and Lord Morpheus, and Matthew sighs when he realizes this. “Movie reference.”

“Of course,” he says, already reaching for his sand.

“We really need to get a movie section in the Library,” Matthew bemoans as their lord disappears.

“Matthew, do you know anything about Lord Morpheus’s soulmate?” Nuala asks, unable to stop herself from making what is sure to be a terrible mistake.

“A little bit.” He says a name that must belong to you, apparently unaware of the fact that one does not freely offer up names to Fae. “One of Hob Gadling’s—the boss’s bestie—students. They met at the pub that Hob owns. Seems nice, but I didn’t get close enough to actually hear what the lovebirds were discussing.”

“Ah.” 

She immediately regrets her decision to know more. With just a couple of sentences, she is back in the library, the jealousy she worked so hard to tamp down enveloping her once more. There’s a burning in her chest that seems only to grow, and she props the basket on her hip so that she can rub at the skin with one hand. 

“Taramis is surely growing cross with me, the longer I keep her herbs away from her,” she lies. In fact, the chef had told her to take her time, that there was no rush, but right now, Nuala will use any excuse possible to try and put distance between herself and these feelings.

Matthew, thankfully, believes her. “Oh yeah, don’t wanna piss her off! I’ll see ya around.”

She doesn’t return his goodbye, instead marching towards the kitchen and quickly dropping the herbs off in the large pantry, sneaking in through a side door to remain unseen. She cannot stand to see anyone right now, lest they ask how she is and find that she cannot hide the ugly jealousy that has quickly taken over her entire being.

Though now that she thinks on it…

•••

There is only one being in all of the worlds who could commiserate with what Nuala is going through right now, and he is currently staring at her through the mirror—a Fae’s preferred method of interrealm communication. For however vain and airheaded Cluracan can be at times, he’s always, above all, been a good listener. Though she would like to be still upset with him about his knowledge that she would not be returning to Faerie with him, she knows better than almost anybody that it is impossible to say no to the rulers of their realm. When they ask something of you, you do not question it; you simply ask how they would like it done.

“Dear Nuala,” Cluracan greets, only a little surprised by her call. “Something troubles you.”

He knows her too well, just as she does him. “You cannot tell anyone what I am about to tell you,” she says seriously, hearing Lucienne’s request for discretion in the back of her mind. “This is to remain a secret.”

“Yes, yes, this stays between us,” he acquiesces.

“Lord Morpheus found his soulmate,” she reveals.

Cluracan’s eyes light up, jaw dropping ever so lightly in surprise. “You don’t say! Do we know the lucky—”

“His soulmate’s a mortal!” she interrupts, unable to stop the words now that they have started to pour out. “They just…stumbled across each other one day, and that was it. He’s in the Waking right now, having another meeting.”

Cluracan frowns at her unexpectedly harsh manner of speaking. “You’re not happy about it.”

“I have tried to be—those here who know only wish the best for him, and since I’m counted among those, I should as well. Yet, I cannot,” she admits. “I have loved him for hundreds of years, since the moment I first laid eyes on him, and I thought…I thought…”

“But you knew you were not his soulmate, sister.” He is not being rude by saying this; he is merely stating facts. Were they soulmates, there would have been a sign at that original showing of the play that Lord Morpheus had commissioned for Queen Titania.

“No, I’m not,” she agrees. “But nobody believed the Endless could have soulmates. In trying to make the best of my exile, I suppose I believed that prolonged proximity to him and the opportunity for him to get to know the real me could be my chance at a love that, for once, would not be tainted by our court.”

“Oh, Nuala…”

“And now—” she breaks off, scoffing. “A mere child, somebody who knows nothing about the world save for a narrow, mortal view, gets everything that I have ever wanted.”

She’s ashamed that she even feels this way. You cannot help how you were born, and you did not choose to be anybody’s soulmate, let alone Dream of the Endless’s. But right now, her hurt needs a target, and you, the faceless figure in her mind that you are, cannot fight back.

“I am sorry that you are experiencing such hurt,” her brother sympathizes. “Do you want to come home? Enough time has passed that I believe Titania would allow you back were I to petition her.”

For a moment, the thought of fleeing her problems and returning to what she’s always known sounds appealing. Then, she remembers exactly what has made her come to appreciate her new home so quickly in the first place. “No. Besides this matter, I’m actually quite enjoying it here.”

“I’m happy to hear that!” His smile grows softer. “It will get better, you know.”

“I hope so.”

Cluracan shakes his head. “I speak from experience. Do you remember Elowen?”

It takes her a second to put a face to a name, but the memory of a fun, fiery wood nymph she last saw a good two hundred years ago comes to her, and she nods.

“We had only been seeing each other for a couple of years, but I had already started thinking of courting her. I felt that we had a future together, and she told me she felt the same. Then one night, when we were at a harvest festival, another fae walked up to her. He addressed her by name, and much to her and my surprise, she did the same. Soulmates, who intrinsically knew each other’s names before they were properly introduced.”

This new knowledge surprises her; she simply thought that the sparks fizzled out, that her brother had found another pretty thing to chase after, and forgot all about Elowen. “I did not know that was how that relationship ended.”

“I don’t believe anybody beyond the three involved parties does. Except you, now.”

It’s an unexpected vulnerability from Cluracan, and in this moment, it’s much appreciated. She opens her mouth to tell him so, to say that she is sorry for how it ended, for the pain that he must have been in without her knowing. Before she can get a word out, though, he holds up a hand.

“You need not apologize. It was a long time ago now, and I did not tell you this for you to feel sorry for me. I told you this because I want you to know that I truly do understand how you are feeling, and that I know for certain that one day, you will not hurt as you do now.”

“In that case, I will take your words to heart.”

“As you should with everything I say,” he declares airily. Suddenly, the sentimental moment is over, and he is back to the annoying, lofty brother she has always known and loved. “Now, tell me all that you enjoy of life in the Dreaming! Your friends, your enemies, what life is like as a member of the staff and not as part of a court. I’m quite curious.”

Nuala happily obliges and finds that the more she talks, and the more she remembers all that there is to look forward to in her new life, the waves of jealousy begin to abate slowly.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtocleaemedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @thegirloftheirdreams @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @hiraethmae @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @saturnhas82moons @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica @iamempty13 @magravenwrites @jojuwu @thrtorturedpoet @thelady-of-dragonfire @goodsoup19 @ladynightingale @scmdsblog @greycloudsy @shondlenoodle @wildflowerandsage @sysibat-blog @flynwys @peterpangirl21

[7-wonders]

Scenes from a Pub (String of Fate pt. 5)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

Summary: Things rarely go according to plan for Morpheus, even something as small as setting out to have a conversation with you.

Word count: 5.1k

A note from the author: I already know that I've completely ruined all momentum this story had by taking so long to get the next chapter out and as a result this will get like a hundred notes, so 🙃

If you're still here and still reading, I sincerely thank you and hope that you enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

To say that Morpheus is not the best at understanding emotions is, some would say, just barely scratching the surface of the truth, which is this:

Morpheus is hopelessly inept at understanding emotions, both his own and others’.

The vast majority of his relationships have ended either because of his intensity or, as one lover put it, his “callous disregard for every being” around him. Friends are hard to come by, and the one few he does have have stayed despite his lashing out at the vulnerability that comes with being truly known by another. Even his familial relationships have been both strange and murky, either at separate times or together. The Endless are known for many things—being a functional family is not one of those.

If there was one positive that came out of his imprisonment, it was the knowledge, the reminder, that he does feel. Often, he feels too much, but he still feels all the same. Not only does he feel his own emotions, but he also feels every single emotion the dreamers carry with them when they enter his realm (fear, joy, anger, tranquility, just to name a few).

It is Thursday afternoon in the part of the mortal world where the New Inn sits, and in a matter of hours, Morpheus will see you once more. As he stands before a large mirror, checking and rechecking his appearance, he finds that he feels unexpectedly, unfamiliarly, nervous. Your last interaction went well, but he believes part of that lies in the surprise of it. There was no expectation that he would actually get to speak with you, and he simply had to trust his instincts; now, he has manufactured a situation where he will most assuredly get to interact with you, and he is already overthinking the many avenues a potential conversation could go down.

Never has he found himself so unsure of his every next move, and the newness of it all is a little jarring. Perhaps finding his soulmate has driven him mad? It seems to be the only possible explanation as to why his usual confidence has been replaced with the second-guessing that usually only plagues humans, or beings lesser than he. But perhaps this is simply what it is like to find the one thing that he has spent his entire existence hoping for. Desperation to make sure that he will not lose it, whether by his words or his actions.

Seeking out reassurance on the matter would be futile, he believes, for he has nobody to reach out to. None of the siblings with whom he is on good speaking terms has much experience in such matters, and that is if he feels comfortable enough speaking about the subject to them (which, beyond his older sister, whom he would hate to drag away from her duties with something as trivial as his attempt to woo his soulmate, the answer remains none). He dares not ask Lucienne—she has made her thoughts on the matter of his love life obviously clear, many times over. That she agreed to help research soulmates on his behalf was nothing less than a small miracle. 

Whilst Lucienne is the only one to whom Morpheus would willingly go, there are others (rather, other) who share none of the reverence towards him that most of his subjects do and will give him an opinion whether he asks for it or not. Upon being conscripted by the Librarian to give his mortal perspective on the matter, Matthew had taken it upon himself to see the meeting through, immediately returning to Morpheus’s side when the Dreamlord returned from his ‘errand.’

“That went really well!!” Matthew praised, settling onto the ground of the throne room as though he had been summoned.

“You were not meant to follow me, Matthew,” Morpheus said semi-sternly.

“I wasn’t following anybody, because you didn’t tell me where you were going. I was just in the Waking to spread my wings when I happened across you. Total coincidence.”

Matthew did not lie, but Morpheus knew that there was no such thing as a coincidence in this matter. No, Lucienne had surely told him, which gave Matthew the confidence to believe that his opinion was worth invading his lord’s private life to see that he was actually following through with what was necessary.

An invasion that continues with no compunction as the raven perches on the back of the mirror and nods his head approvingly.

“You look great, boss, really! Nothing at all like an all-powerful nightmare king.” Morpheus must give Matthew a look that reads as unconvinced, for Matthew looks up for a second opinion. “Am I right, Nuala?”

The fae, on her way from one task to another, has paused in the doorway to watch the scene in front of her. She blushes when attention falls on her, embarrassed to be caught spying, but remains standing in place nonetheless.

“Lady Nuala?” Morpheus asks.

After a moment, Nuala nods stiffly. “Very mortal, my lord.”

“See?” Matthew crows, drawing the attention back to him. “You’re overthinking this. Remember, you did just fine the last time! And also, you’re literally meant to be together, which means that your general off-putting nature—sorry, no offense meant—”

Morpheus levels him with a look that says that he is a little offended.

“—is probably, like, attractive to your soulmate!”

Both Matthew and Morpheus turn once more to Nuala, who likely never imagined that her new life would involve moderating such conversations. “I would not use those same words, but the sentiment would be the same. If you are fated to love one another, then your traits and personality are nothing to be worried about.”

They are both right, but still, doubt lingers over Morpheus like a shroud. But he has run out of excuses to delay his leaving the Dreaming, so he must either wear it or drown in it.

“I should be departing now,” he decides. “Hob is surely waiting for me.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Matthew caws excitedly. When both Morpheus and Nuala look at him blankly, he sighs defeatedly. “Movie reference.” 

“Of course.” 

One of the biggest developments he missed during his imprisonment, and one that those who know of the media seem to always remind him that he is woefully behind on.

“We really need to get a movie section in the Library,” he hears Matthew mutter as his sand takes him to the front entrance of the New Inn.

As expected, Hob is already seated at their usual table, a stack of papers in the process of being graded in front of him and a red pen resting between his fingers. Centuries of knowledge have attuned his senses far beyond those of a regular mortal, and he recognizes almost immediately the presence of something Other just as Morpheus begins to move towards their meeting place.

“Good evening, Hob,” he greets.

“Morpheus!” Hob smiles, gathering up the papers and beginning to organize them in a folder. “Good to see you, as always. Busy week for you?”

Where before that fateful 1889 meeting, Morpheus would have seen such questions as inane, now, he sees them for what they are—an opportunity to begin a conversation. And begin a conversation they do, passing their time as two old friends would; by discussing anything and everything. Morpheus has come to hold their talks post-imprisonment, and the insight into both the Waking and himself that it provides, in high regards.

Hob is in the middle of recounting his ongoing battle with the students who staff the campus library and their refusal to, as he puts it, “actually search through the bloody archives for requests instead of standing in a stairwell on their phones for five minutes before telling me they can’t find it” when the door to the pub opens and Morpheus’s own senses know immediately who has entered.

You seem intent on passing through the room without anyone noticing you, which is an impossibility when one knows Hob Gadling. The man in question smiles and waves, and you return the gesture without missing a stride. When your eyes meet Morpheus’s for just a moment, he can see the stress lingering in the tightness of the slight upturn of your lips as you try to match your advisor’s smile.

“As I was saying,” Hob’s voice draws Morpheus’s attention away from thoughts of what must be plaguing you, “I say to the kid, ‘unless the book’s been checked out in the five minutes it took me to walk over here after confirming its availability on this library’s website, that means it’s in the building somewhere. And I really would appreciate you taking a harder look this time.’”

“Did the student have the wherewithal to be embarrassed that you were calling their bluff?” Morpheus asks, attempting to be fully engaged in his friend and not in who he would be able to see if only he would turn his head to the right.

Hob scoffs. “Not at all!”

And on he continues. Though he would never ascribe such a moniker to himself, Hob is quite the storyteller—has to be, to keep the Prince of Stories’ attention across so many centuries. Even still, Morpheus cannot help but devote a small segment of that endless attention to stray daydreams. Dreams are loud in a place of recreation such as this, and yours are surely no different. Though part of him believes that he should not peer into the parts of your mind you believe to be secret, he is a greedy creature, and he cannot resist the opportunity to know what you crave.

Sure enough, the delicate, gossamer threads of your daydreams soon begin to speak of a longing to escape from your friends momentarily—a whisper that he cannot help but to hear. Once the decision forms in your head, Morpheus makes one of his own.

“I believe that I would like a refreshment tonight,” Morpheus says.

“Okay!” Hob begins to stand. “Red wine, or—”

He holds out a hand to stop his friend. “I can procure it myself.”

“You sure?” Hob asks dubiously.

Morpheus allows himself a slight smile as he rises from his chair. “Yes.”

Nonchalance is difficult for him, but it is an affect he attempts as he moves through the room and towards the bar. He turns to look when a voice calls your name, and watches as you receive a request from another seated at your table. It is obvious that your mind and body are on two different pages, unaware of the imminent threat of another so close behind you. Inevitably, you trip over another patron’s foot, arms pinwheeling at your sides as you try, and fail, to regain your balance.

Logically, Morpheus knows that a minor spill such as the one you’re about to take would barely injure you. Yet, he cannot help but think of the sound of his sister’s wings, that gentle whoosh signaling finality, signaling the end. Humans are so very fragile, after all, and die from all manner of calamities, falls among them. Who is to say that you would not hit your head against the cold, hard floor and fall unconscious, never to wake up? That a tumble would knock free some undiscovered clot that would proceed to travel to your lungs and cause an embolism?

Not even the Endless can manipulate or avoid their sister’s realm, and such knowledge has him surging forward without a second thought.

He catches you easily, stopping your fall before you get anywhere close to making contact with a surface that is not his arms. You look up at him in surprise, chest heaving from the shock, and it takes you a couple of moments to fully recover.

“Hi,” you finally greet as though you simply walked up beside him, so reminiscent of the first time you spoke to him in your dream.

“Hello,” he responds, righting you and ensuring that you remain standing. 

The woman whose foot you’ve tripped over anxiously checks on your well-being, and you turn just slightly in Morpheus’s grasp to answer her. Though he should take his hands off of you, he finds that he cannot. If merely being in your presence was a balm to his lovestruck soul, touching you is bliss, a drug that he can already feel himself becoming addicted to.

Your attention soon returns to Morpheus, and he drinks it up like a dehydrated man at a desert oasis.

“Thank you for saving my ass. Literally,” you laugh nervously.

“I would not see you injured.” He does not make it a habit to speak in lies, but especially now, with you. To see you injured would cause injury to himself, too.

“The only thing that would have been hurt was my dignity, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

You look down, finally seeming to notice his hand on your arm, and he releases you from his hold rather reluctantly.

“I was just on my way to grab a drink,” you explain, successfully completing your journey to the bar.

“I was as well,” Morpheus confirms, making you smile slightly.

He watches as you converse easily with the bartender, Margaret Hughes, about whether you will change your order from what you are known to stick to. When you confirm that your adventurous streak will come another day, the woman’s dark eyes turn to him.

“And you, handsome?” Margaret asks. “A glass of red wine that you’ll touch maybe once?”

He did not realize that people other than Hob took much notice of him, his mannerisms. Such knowledge would make him flush were he mortal. But he is not, so he simply tries his best not to act surprised. “Yes.”

Margaret smirks, proud of how well she knows her patrons. “I’m on it.”

Then, Morpheus is finally left alone with you. For a moment, he believes that he has the right words to begin a conversation with you, and starts to speak. Then, he stops, panicked and plagued by indecision. 

How does he begin? What does one say in a situation such as this? When has he ever found himself speechless? Finally, Matthew’s initial advice from last week comes to him, and he latches onto it as the first tenable option.

“How…are you?” he tries.

Thankfully, you smile, a glorious sight. “I’m good! It’s been a busy week—weird week too, honestly—but it’s almost over, and in the meantime, I get to enjoy a night spent with my friends.”

“How is the work on your thesis progressing?” Morpheus asks.

That lovely smile disappears in a flash as Despair’s shadow begins to creep up on you, her hook gleaming from the dark. Her actions are not malicious, he knows. She is not consciously seeking you out for some nefarious plot meant to negatively affect him; no, his sister is merely performing her duties, enjoying the emotional torment that she is able to so easily scrape off of mortal students. While he knows that he should let this play out as it naturally would, he cannot watch you fall victim to her realm, not in front of him.

Morpheus catches a glimpse of his sister in the reflection of the bartop, and she looks at him in shock. He stares back at her, silently warning her to find a new target; that this mortal is off-limits. After a moment, she nods, confusion evident on her face, before she disappears. He will have to answer for this behavior, he knows; watching the way your shoulders become lighter without Despair lingering, though, is worth it. He shall endeavor to send you dreams of inspiration tonight, hopefully keeping her influence when it comes to such a matter far away from you.

“Not nearly as good, but that’s a problem for tomorrow,” you settle on saying. “How are you?” 

“Me?” he asks, as though the question has been posed to a crowd and not simply himself. 

You nod in response.

Such a question is more than a little surprising. After all, beings do not ask how the Lord of Dreams is. They ask how they may be of service or how the realm fares—questions that are well in line with how one interacts with a ruler. But rarely does somebody care enough about Morpheus as an individual to inquire as to his personal well-being.

“I am well,” he confirms.

In his mind, this exchange of words has been an adequate conversation. Morpheus has learned more about you—namely, that your thesis is not going the way you had hoped—and you have learned that he is well. Therefore, he has accomplished ‘getting to know each other a bit,’ as Matthew referred to it.

By the way that your lips twitch in amusement, he guesses that you do not feel the same.

“It was really nice of you to go out of your way to find that copy of Canterbury Tales for Rob,” you settle on beginning with. “He’s been looking for one for years, so naturally he’s been showing it off to everybody like the prized possession it surely is now.”

“I believe one would say that that is what friends are for,” Morpheus says, echoing Hob’s own words.

“Have you two been friends for a while?” It appears that, for as much as Morpheus is enjoying learning about you, you feel the same regarding him.

“Oh, yes. He is my oldest and dearest friend.”

“How did you meet, if you don’t mind me asking?” you ask, hopeful for a story that Morpheus is happy to provide.

Margaret serves your completed beverages before he begins, and Morpheus takes his wine glass in hand.

“It was in a pub, much like this. Robert was…in his cups,” he would not speak poorly of his dear friend in front of his student, even if said dear friend had described himself as ‘shitfaced’ during their initial encounter, so he leaves it to you to laugh and imagine the level of inebriation your professor was experiencing that fateful night, “and issued a challenge rather loudly. My sister and I proceeded to wager on whether or not it would come to pass.”

“Who won?”

“The verdict is still out.”

“So you’re not a professor,” you pivot the conversation. “What do you do for work?”

Morpheus pauses. While he knows that asking how one spends their days is a typical question when getting to know another, he simply had not realized that he would be prompted to answer such a question.

In this moment, he wishes to simply tell you the truth. To reveal that he is the king of dreams and nightmares and that you are his soulmate, the missing piece of himself he has spent billions of years looking for. But to do so would bewilder and distress you, especially here. No, he must be careful when and how the matter is discovered. Such an explanation requires more thought than just casually blurting it out.

“I suppose one could say that I deal in stories,” he decides on. It is not a lie; rather, a facet of the truth.

The grin that you wear in response makes the obfuscation worth it. “No way! I can’t believe you didn’t mention that last week! That explains how you managed to track Canterbury Tales down so easily. Are you a writer?”

“No, but I have had a hand in the creation of many stories.” Again, another half-truth, but one that you take at face value.

“Publishing, then,” you guess eagerly.

“As you say,” he speaks into his glass before taking a quick sip to prevent himself from having to speak more than that. Anything to keep from confirming or denying your guess.

Your eyes narrow just slightly as you think. “Anything that I would—”

A figure appears beside you. “Hey!”

“Oh!” You startle. “Hey, Connor.”

“Sorry, you’re, um, kind of holding my drink hostage.” Connor Kennedy has chosen this as his excuse, but Morpheus knows his dreams in an instant. The mortal has had romantic airs about you since May, and sees Morpheus as a threat—if only he knew how true that was.

“Oops.” 

You slide the beverage to him and start to turn back towards Morpheus, only for the mortal to remain standing in place, much to both your and Morpheus’s dissatisfaction.

“Are you going to keep chatting with your…friend?” Though he looks at Morpheus in an attempt at derision, he is careful not to meet his gaze. “Because if not, I could use your help making sure Kylie and Georgia don’t eat Ryan alive for his opinions about Victorian-era love.”

“I thought they agreed with him?” you ask, not believing his flimsy excuse.

“He’s quickly getting too big for his britches. You know how some first years are when they’re emboldened by having one correct opinion.” 

It is obvious that you wish to remain at the bar with Morpheus, but politeness wins out. “I’ve once again monopolized your time with Rob! I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing for you to apologize about, for you have done no such thing. For now, though, we must go our separate ways.” He cannot hide the disappointment in his tone, but he delights in seeing you bite back a smile at the realization.

“Thank you again, for catching me.”

Were this another time, he would gently take your hand in his and kiss the back of it, ever the gentleman. In this modern world with its customs still unfamiliar to him, he simply settles for bowing his head. “Enjoy your evening.”

“You too.”

Even with goodbyes having been said, it takes a moment before Morpheus feels as though he can move once more. His early assumptions about you being the sun and he, a helpless planet, seem to be extremely true. He is entirely at your command and is not at all upset at the realization. It is only at the urging of your…friend (and oh, how he loathes to call this mortal boy that) that you begin to walk away, freeing him to do the same with a wave goodbye.

When he returns to the table, he finds Hob with his chin propped up in his hand and a smile on his face, having watched the entire interaction.

“Talk about right place at the right time,” Hob notes.

Immediately, Morpheus knows that he cannot lie to Hob any longer. But he also wishes to share this newfound happiness with, as he just said to you, his oldest, dearest friend. Tentatively, he takes his seat once more.

“Hob, I must confess that I have been dishonest with you. I—”

“I know,” Hob says gently, kindly.

“You…do?”

“I have known you for over six hundred years now. And never have I seen you become so suddenly and obviously starstruck as you were that night.” Hob laughs lightly. “I may have started my immortal life as dumb and illiterate, but I am most certainly neither now. Further, you are not nearly as sly as you think you are, though I have thoroughly enjoyed the excuses you have come up with to make your presence seem like a mere coincidence.”

“Oh.” Were he to have the capacity to blush, he would surely be doing so now. As it is, he settles for focusing on turning his glass around and around by its stem to avoid the embarrassment of looking his friend in the eyes.

“I’m not mad, Morpheus,” he says, words that immediately soothe. “In fact, I’m thrilled. There could not be a better match for you, and vice versa.”

Morpheus is pleasantly surprised to hear this. “You believe so?”

Hob nods. “Your…soulmate,” he cannot help but smile widely, “is kind, witty, funny—and that’s just the beginning. You’ll balance each other out wonderfully.”

The approval from his oldest friend is far more needed than he realized it would be, but there is something that needs to be said. “Still, I must sincerely apologize for using our friendship as a means to an end. I have relished every opportunity to see you, of course. It has simply been…fortuitous, to see two people who matter greatly to me on the same occasion.”

“Two birds with one stone, I get it. Trust me, I have been a wingman hundreds of times.”

“You are taking this remarkably well,” Morpheus notes.

“I have dealt with far weirder in my years than my best friend being soulmates with one of my favorite graduate students. So long as you don’t forget that spending time with your old pal Hob is the reason you met your soulmate in the first place, this will remain at the bottom of my weird scale.” 

Hob has always been an open book of a man, and Morpheus can see the complete sincerity and joy on his face as he takes in the confirmation of what he has surely known for weeks now. It is an immense relief to have finally been able to tell someone dear to him about this secret, and to receive nothing but approval in return.

Morpheus huffs out a near-silent laugh. “How could I ever forget such a thing?”

•••

It was only a matter of time before the word got out to his other siblings that their brother had found his soulmate. So while it is not surprising to hear the clicking of heels behind Morpheus as he leaves the pub, he is disappointed that it had to happen so soon.

“You know, you never struck me as the type to be a cradle robber, but here we are, I suppose,” a saccharine voice calls out teasingly.

It would be extremely immature to roll his eyes, which is why he closes them instead so that nobody may see whether he does or does not do such an action. When he opens them once more and turns around, he sighs deeply. “Every creature is younger than we are, Desire.”

“Yes, but a mortal? Who’s only a few decades old?” His younger sibling holds a hand to their chest as if scandalized, but the curve of their red lips says otherwise. “Are you having a mid-existence crisis?”

“I would ask that you cease making jokes at my expense,” he says, already tired of their games.

Their lips turn to a pout. “Oh, don’t be so dour, big brother. I just came to congratulate you.”

“Despair told you?” Morpheus assumes, cursing his sister and her inability to keep anything from her twin.

“No.” While he would normally assume that Desire is, as per usual, lying, he can see their genuine surprise and confusion, expressions so unlike them. “Despair knew before I did?”

“She inadvertently saw us tonight. How did you find out, then?”

Desire laughs. “You’re joking with me, surely.” 

“I do not joke,” he snaps.

“Your desires have been seeping through every crevice of the Threshold since you met your little soulmate. And not even desires of the carnal nature! No. You simply…want. Love, companionship, devotion.” They fake a shudder. “It’s extremely cloying, y’know. So sickly sweet, I fear I may drown in it.”

He knows that he should not rise to Desire’s taunts, but the thought of Desire already trying to taint this relationship, after they have ruined so many of his, is more than even he can bear. “Tread lightly, my sibling. If you have come to threaten me or mine—” Desire’s loud scoff cuts off his warning.

“Threaten you? I can’t tell if you’re being deliberately ignorant and cruel so that you make me say it, or if you really are this dense.” When he remains silent, they sigh. “Dream, I’m jealous of you.”

That stops him in his tracks, the third time tonight somebody else’s words have done so. “Jealous?”

Desire, held to none of the decorum their brother has, rolls their eyes. “You think I don’t want those same things—love, companionship, devotion? That the knowledge that we’re able to have soulmates, just as any other being can, hasn’t made me re-evaluate my life? I’m Desire! We are all, each of us, beholden to the other’s gifts. Of course, I desire the same as you.”

The rare vulnerability being displayed by his sibling takes Morpheus aback. It’s not as though he was unaware of the fact that he, like his siblings, can experience death and delirium, despair and desire, can harbor hopes and dreams, has his fate written in the Book just like every other being. He has simply never considered that Desire, so known for their trickery and blatant disregard for the emotions of almost everybody around them, cared to desire the same as he.

“So no, I didn’t come to threaten you.” Desire slinks forward until mere inches separate the two siblings. “I came to warn you. It won’t be long until every creature on this plane and the next knows that you’ve found your soulmate.”

Morpheus’s brow furrows. “I have told no one, save for those closest to me.”

“No offense taken,” Desire snarks as Morpheus realizes a moment too late that he has said something that would likely upset them. “Neither you nor Lucifer told a soul about the key to Hell exchanging hands, did you? Yet every pantheon on damn near every plane of existence found out within a matter of hours and came knocking on your door. Secrets are extremely difficult to keep in our world. If your desires were that loud, imagine what else is being put out into the universe?”

It is a grievous error on his part that he has not already considered this. No, he has been so wrapped up in how best to approach you, to make you fall in love with him naturally, that he has completely neglected the truth of the matter—that he has many, many enemies who would love nothing more than to wound him so deeply that he would never recover from such hurt.

“Be careful,” Desire warns once more, unexpectedly softer than before. “I understand that the situation is…delicate, what with the pesky mortality thing and all. But you need to figure out a way to break the news gently, and soon. It will protect both of you in the long run.”

“Thank you, Desire,” Morpheus says, his sibling’s eyes widening at the unexpected phrase coming from his mouth.

“You’re welcome, I suppose,” they respond, a little unsure of what to say. 

Neither of them is particularly good at being siblings who do not outright hate each other, so they stand facing each other awkwardly for a moment as they both try to figure out how to proceed. Finally, Desire rigidly pats Morpheus on the shoulder, nodding once before starting to walk away.

Morpheus watches as they leave, their heels once more echoing down the street far louder than a mortal’s pair would. “And maybe keep your desires a little quieter!” They shout without looking back, discontent with leaving the situation on a heartfelt note. “Just something to think about.”

Much to think about, indeed.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtocleaemedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @thegirloftheirdreams @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @hiraethmae @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @saturnhas82moons @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica @iamempty13 @magravenwrites @jojuwu @thrtorturedpoet @thelady-of-dragonfire @goodsoup19 @ladynightingale @scmdsblog @greycloudsy @shondlenoodle

[7-wonders]

Falling for You (String of Fate pt. 4)

Summary: Normalcy is hard to find this week, though, as you come face-to-face with Morpheus once more, you're starting to get the sense that 'normal' doesn't exist anymore.

Word count: 4.1k

A note from the author: Our first reader-suggested romance trope! I'll put in the tags what it is so I don't spoil you here, but it should hopefully be obvious. Thank you to anon for the suggestion! This series is so much fun to write, and I've got some really great stuff planned. Thanks for sticking with me, even as I get the updates out slower than I would like!

As always, I hope you enjoy reading, and would greatly appreciate hearing from you about your thoughts on this!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

“But I know things that none of you knows. Things about us.” –Delirium of the Endless

To say that it had been a weird week was an understatement.

From the moment that you woke up on Monday and realized with horror that you hit ‘snooze’ instead of ‘stop’ when your phone’s alarm went off and found yourself rushing into your first TA class of the week right as the class was scheduled to begin, things had been off. On the positive side, your Intro to Medieval Europe students were finally engaging in meaningful discussions that didn’t just consist of one-word answers! On the negative side, you encountered your first ‘devil’s advocate’ of the semester, who decided to question if perhaps the Black Plague was necessary for controlling population numbers (you shuddered to think about his opinions on the most recent pandemic). By the time you decided you needed to step in and managed to wrest control of the class back from him, a full five minutes had passed, and one of the students who was finally engaging was clearly trying to start hotly debating him—and by the smirk on your devil’s advocate’s face, he was happy to try and rage bait her.

By the way that the students once again lapsed into bored silence for the last ten minutes of the lecture, the crowd of mostly freshmen easily smelled the blood in the water that was your bewilderment and took advantage of it. Definitely not your finest moment in your young teaching career.

In your own classes on Tuesday, you were faced with the typical innocuous questions in a master's level course that should have led to thoughtful discussions, but were instead devolving into full-on arguments; tensions were already high among your fellow second-year grad students, with everybody keenly aware of just how much work needed to be finished before graduating and just how quickly your anticipated graduation date was already approaching. It was a stressful time for everybody, but you haven’t found yourself that heated on a topic like museum repatriation for a while.

(Not because it wasn’t an important issue, but because typically, the historians that you interacted with at this point in your academic career were all on the same page about repatriation)

Besides staring at a blank document and cursing the writer’s block that had left you stuck on the latest chapter of your thesis since the beginning of the week, Wednesday should have been low-key. Naturally, you forgot that you signed up to work a shift at the history department’s table at the campus’s activities and curricula fair—an opportunity for students to check out the different opportunities available on campus, including those who were still undecided on their majors or deciding on potential paths for grad schools—until the member of your cohort who you were meant to be relieving texted to ask where you were. You were thankfully already on campus, so you hustled from the student union to the campus green and prepared to spend two hours of your day sitting at a table and smiling at students who tried desperately to avoid eye contact.

The interactions that you did have were pretty normal—most involved students who were really only in it for the freebies stopping by and pretending to look interested while grabbing some candy and a pamphlet, but you did have the opportunity to talk up the graduate program with a few upperclassmen who were genuinely considering a master’s degree. Towards the end of your shift, a younger woman in a black military parade jacket and a black tulle skirt, with piercing heterochromatic eyes, one green and one blue, approached the table. 

“Hi, are you interested in learning more about the history program?” you asked for what must have been the twentieth time, surely sounding a bit robotic by now.

“No!” the woman said with a bright smile, running a fishnet-gloved hand over the various offerings on the table.

Your own smile faltered just slightly, unused to such bluntness from students doing the university version of trick-or-treating. “Oh!”

“I just wanted to say hello,” she said conspiratorially, like she had gone behind somebody’s back to be at the fair.

For a moment, you wondered if maybe you had met her at some point and were supposed to be familiar with her. Was she a student from last year, perhaps? Maybe one who sat in the back and didn’t contribute much? 

Maybe that was the case, but you highly doubted that. This was not the type of woman that people forgot. No, with her eclectic style and frenetic energy, she would be impossible to lose in any crowd.

“Well, hello,” you greeted, feeling bad that you couldn’t remember her.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked after a few moments of quiet.

You tilted your head. “What is?”

“When good things happen to the people we love.” Her eyes flickered down to your hands sitting atop the table, and for a moment, you would swear that they were both an intense blue.

“Yeah, it is lovely,” you responded tentatively, unsure where she was going with her words. The whole conversation felt discombobulating, as though you were trying to have a conversation with somebody while having a high fever that would leave you unable to remember the details later on.

A loud pop sounded from behind you, and you whipped around to see the remains of one of the balloons in the large balloon arch falling sadly to the ground. When you turned forward once more, the woman was gone, replaced by multicolored bubbles wafting lazily in the air.

“What the fuck?” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head a few times to try and clear it of the sensation that it was stuffed full of cotton.

Now that the calendar has done its job and once again faithfully brought you to Thursday evening, you’re all the more relieved to meet up with your fellow graduate students, drink, and talk about your weeks—y’know, something normal. There are some weeks where happy hour feels like a begrudging obligation, and others where it feels like your only salvation. This week, it is most decidedly the latter.

When your eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting from entering the pub, you’re relieved to see you’ve hit that sweet spot where you’re neither the first to arrive (which would mean you would have to ward seat-stealers away from your table awkwardly) nor the last (which would lead to everyone ribbing you for tardiness). As you make your way across the room, though you have no reason to believe that this week will be different from the prior two, your eyes flick to the table that your advisor calls his own whenever he patronizes his own business almost against your will. To your immense surprise, you find it occupied by both Rob…

…and Morpheus.

To say that you hadn’t thought about Rob’s enigmatic friend in the days since you talked to him would be the boldest of lies. After the initial embarrassment towards your words and actions faded (because why should you be embarrassed about being exactly who you are?), you did what a historian-in-training does best and analyzed every detail available in your memory, both big and small. The heated intensity in his gaze every time you looked at him, counterbalanced by his outwardly chilly disposition. How comfortable it felt to have him in step next to you. His careful cataloguing of Rob’s office and all the treasures that it held.

The way that he listened to you so intently, as though every word you said was important.

To call it a crush would be juvenile and, you believe, incorrect. You have had a grand total of one conversation with him—an interesting conversation, to be sure, but also fairly surface-level. No, perhaps fascination was a better word. He’s handsome, yes, but looks alone don’t make a suitable partner. You know that you were just barely scratching the surface of who Morpheus is when you piqued his interest with your thesis and evoked such a thoughtful response from him, and now, you’re intrigued by the mystery of who he truly is.

After the way your week has gone, though, you’re happy to leave the mystery solving for another day.

Although the hope is to skirt through the room and past the table unnoticed, Rob clocks you almost instantly, smiling and waving. You repeat the gestures, locking eyes with Morpheus for just a moment before you keep on your original path, lest you be swept into the cerulean depths of his eyes. Georgia’s saved a spot for you next to her, and you force yourself to focus on greetings and idle small-talk while you wait for the rest of the group—not on how easy it would be to tilt your head to the left and catch glimpses of Morpheus out of the corner of your eye.

It’s fine, you think firmly to yourself. The night can still be normal, even with them here!

Normal is, of course, relative. A white Christmas is the expectation for large swaths of the world, but for others, such an event would mean climate devastation. Your cohort devolving into an argument about the true nature of Queen Victoria’s relationship with John Brown? Weird for some, to be sure, but normal for you, even if the ferocity of the debate is starting to give you a headache.

“You can not be serious,” Kylie, a first-year PhD student who hopes to write her dissertation on the evolution of legal rights in the Gilded Age, throws her hands in the air. “She was literally buried with a lock of his hair and his mom’s wedding ring!”

“She mourned Prince Albert for the entire forty-odd years that she outlived him. There’s no way she had room in her heart for another lover,” Georgia rebuts, fingers absentmindedly tearing a straw wrapper to pieces.

“Lots of widows and widowers manage to find love again while still feeling the exact same about their deceased spouse, though.”

“I think you guys are forgetting an integral part of the puzzle, which is that he was her servant. Let’s say there was a relationship; it was still based on power imbalances and, dare I say, coercion.” Ryan, in his first year of grad school and just ‘figuring it out,’ timidly jumps into the fray.

The group considers this for a moment, Connor going so far as to hum and stroke his chin ponderingly in an attempt to make Ryan nervous (not a difficult thing to accomplish).

“Good point,” Kylie concedes.

Ryan blushes from the praise, and you sigh tiredly. You love this weekly tradition that’s sprung up among people you call both peers and friends, truly, and you’d likely be joining the conversation on any other week. But tonight, you were hoping to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around history and thus remind you of your dreaded thesis, the next chapter of which is due on Monday.

“If this is going to be how tonight goes, I need another drink. Can I get anybody else another while I’m up?” you ask.

A chorus of shaking heads and murmured ‘no’s greet you, and you stand to make your way to the bar. A cold front has moved in this week, causing people to seek indoor activities—in this case, judging by how packed the New Inn is tonight, that activity is hoping that the warmth of alcohol running through veins might replace the vanishing summer sun. As you weave your way through the crowd, you’re stopped by somebody calling your name.

“Add a rum and Coke to my tab, will you?” Connor calls, hands cupped around his face in the hopes that it projects his voice. When you nod and give him a thumbs up, he grins and clasps his hands together in thanks. “My hero!”

The path from your group’s usual table to the bar is so familiar to you at this point that you could likely make it there blindfolded and walking backwards. Even when you’ve turned around to listen to Connor’s order, your body is still working on muscle memory and unconsciously taking a couple of wayward steps behind you before you remember that it’s far too crowded tonight to even attempt such a move.

This realization comes too late when an errant foot crosses your path, and you catch yourself on the extremity before it can register as a threat to your balance. A choked gasp escapes you as gravity immediately claims your clumsiness for its spoils, and you go falling backwards. You brace yourself to land in embarrassing fashion, already thinking about how you’ll try to get out of here with a few scraps of your dignity intact and as little attention on you as possible, when a pair of strong arms grabs you before you can hit the floor.

The adrenaline that began coursing through you the moment you tripped only serves to send your heart thundering into overdrive as you stare up into Morpheus’s stormy blue eyes, which trace over your face in concern. One of his arms supports your lower back, while the other stretches across your body so that his hand grasps your bicep. The realization that he’s touching you (and the small voice in the back of your head that is yelling about how good and right it feels) has your brain short-circuiting, and you have to fight to remember how the English language works.

“Hi,” you finally manage to get out.

“Hello,” Morpheus greets softly.

He tilts you up until you’re standing firmly on your feet once more, steadying hands remaining on you as though he doesn’t quite trust gravity and its effect on you anymore. For a moment, the room narrows, until it feels as though you and he are the only occupants—perhaps even the only two on the planet.

“I’m so sorry!” the woman whose foot you’ve tripped over shatters the moment, coming into view as she anxiously looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! I wasn’t watching where I was going,” you assure her. She nods dubiously before deciding she’s done her due diligence in checking on you and returns to her conversation.

Your attention goes back to Morpheus; though, has it ever truly been off of him since you realized you were in the same location?

“Thank you for saving my ass. Literally,” you tack on with a slight laugh.

“I would not see you injured.” He says this earnestly, as though he were saving you from certain death rather than a tumble to the floor.

“The only thing that would have been hurt was my dignity, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

When your eyes drop to your upper arm, where one of his hands still firmly rests, he belatedly realizes that he did not, in fact, let go of you, and does so thusly. Is it delusional to think that you can feel your skin tingling under the memory of his touch?

“I was just on my way to grab a drink,” you explain lamely, stating the obvious as you finish your journey (forward-facing this time) to the bar.

Morpheus, to your surprise, follows you. “I was as well.”

You lean against the bartop and smile when you catch Maggie’s attention. A single mom in her 40s who bartends on the evenings her kids are at their dad’s, Maggie doesn’t put up with anybody’s shit—which makes her perfect for handling the colorful audience that comes through the New Inn’s doors. She puts a finger up in the direction of the customer she’s been idly chatting with before making her way over to you with a grin.

“Let me guess, the usual?” she questions, making you flush.

“One day, I’m going to order something completely wild, just to throw you for a loop,” you declare.

She raises an unimpressed brow. “And as for today?”

“...Yeah, the usual,” you admit. “And a rum and Coke on Connor’s tab, please.”

Her eyes turn to Morpheus. “And you, handsome? A glass of red wine that you’ll touch maybe once?”

He looks similarly embarrassed, all too seen under Maggie’s watchful gaze. “Yes.”

“I’m on it.”

You try to keep your eyes on Maggie’s deft movements as she pulls three glasses from their various racks, but eventually, they track towards Morpheus, who’s already looking at you. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but no words come out. You press your lips together to hide your amusement, choosing to wait out his indecision rather than be the one to initiate a conversation.

“How…are you?” he asks finally, though it sounds both like a question directed towards you and a phrase he’s unsure if he’s saying correctly.

You smile encouragingly, in case the latter has any bit of truth to it. “I’m good! It’s been a busy week—weird week too, honestly—but it’s almost over, and in the meantime, I get to enjoy a night spent with my friends.”

“How is the work on your thesis progressing?” Morpheus inquires politely.

Your smile falls. “Not nearly as good, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. How are you?” you ask, pivoting to a different topic of conversation in the hopes that you can outrun the despair that this writer’s block seems intent on bringing upon you.

“Me?” He’s genuinely surprised—like nobody ever bothers to ask him such a question. In response, you nod. “I am well.”

The air is quiet between you as it appears that Morpheus is content with that being the extent of his week, but you refuse to let this conversation die out. Not when you finally have him in front of you after a week of second-guessing your recent interaction and imagining all of the ways you would have liked it to go differently.

“It was really nice of you to go out of your way to find that copy of Canterbury Tales for Rob,” you settle on beginning with. “He’s been looking for one for years, so naturally he’s been showing it off to everybody like the prized possession it surely is now.”

Though you’re sure you’re not telling him anything he doesn’t know, Morpheus smiles just slightly. “I believe one would say that that is what friends are for.”

“Have you two been friends for a while?” You’ve only seen him three times now, but surely there’s a history between the two—has to be, for Morpheus to have known about Rob’s long-running quest.

“Oh, yes. He is my oldest and dearest friend.”

“How did you meet, if you don’t mind me asking?” you prompt.

Maggie slides your respective drinks across the bar, and you both quietly thank her. Morpheus picks up his glass, long fingers curled elegantly above the stem, and stares into the burgundy liquid as he remembers.

“It was in a pub, much like this. Robert was…in his cups,” he looks at you with a smirk, and you stifle a laugh, “and issued a challenge rather loudly. My sister and I proceeded to wager on whether or not it would come to pass.”

“Who won?”

“The verdict is still out,” he declares.

You wonder what Rob might have said to capture the attention of both Morpheus and his sister. Knowing him, it was most definitely something audacious.

“So you’re not a professor,” you note, the information you’re learning about him making you greedy for more. “What do you do for work?”

He hesitates. “I suppose one could say that I deal in stories.”

You gasp, a grin taking over your face. “No way! I can’t believe you didn’t mention that last week! That explains how you managed to track Canterbury Tales down so easily.” And how he got right to the heart of why you’re passionate about stories in a way that even a good number of your friends who have listened to you talk about the subject at length haven’t. “Are you a writer?”

“No, but I have had a hand in the creation of many stories.”

“Publishing, then.”

“As you say,” he says into his wine before taking a sip. Is he nervous? Maybe he works for a huge publishing house and is constantly pestered by people asking him to look at their manuscripts the moment they find out what he does for work.

“Anything that I would—”

“Hey!” a voice interrupts.

“Oh!” You jump, looking to your other side where Connor stands. “Hey, Connor.”

“Sorry, you’re, um, kind of holding my drink hostage.” He gestures down at the aforementioned drink, the untouched glass beading with condensation.

“Oops.” 

Sheepishly, you push it in his direction. He takes the drink with quiet thanks, but chooses to remain next to you rather than going to the table and allowing you to continue your discussion.

“Are you going to keep chatting with your…friend?” he asks, casting a wary glance at Morpheus. “Because if not, I could use your help making sure Kylie and Georgia don’t eat Ryan alive for his opinions about Victorian-era love.”

“I thought they agreed with him?” you question dubiously.

“He’s quickly getting too big for his britches. You know how some first years are when they’re emboldened by having one correct opinion.” 

While you would love nothing more than to keep ‘chatting’ with Morpheus, you’ve both come here with other obligations tonight, and you look back at him apologetically. “I’ve once again monopolized your time with Rob! I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing for you to apologize about, for you have done no such thing. For now, though, we must go our separate ways.” He sounds as disappointed as you feel, and the thought pleases you to no end. 

“Thank you again, for catching me.”

He bows his head nobly, accepting your thanks. “Enjoy your evening.”

“You too.” 

It takes a moment before both you and Morpheus actually move, the glow of learning more about somebody interesting and finding connection in a new person keeping you both in its warm embrace. Only when Connor politely bumps your shoulder do your feet spur into action, and you give Morpheus a parting wave before actually following your friend.

“You good?” Connor checks in quietly.

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask, assuming he’s talking about you almost falling.

“You got stuck having to talk to Rob’s scary friend,” he laughs. “I was sent by the troops to make sure that you didn’t get snatched up by the bogeyman—”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap.

His expression, previously joyous, quickly crumples into confusion. “What?”

“Stop talking about him like that. He’s actually really nice.” It’s a little surprising how vociferously you’re defending this man that you don’t really know, but it feels cruel to allow people who don’t know him even less than you to talk about him in such a way. Not only has he been nothing but nice to you, but you also don’t see anything ‘scary’ about him.

“O…kay? Sorry, I guess,” Connor apologizes reluctantly. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“We’re not. But do you think somebody scary would have jumped in to catch me when I was about to land on my ass?”

You don’t wait around to hear the answer that you both know, steering ahead of him and sitting in your original seat with a huff. Georgia turns to you in concern, putting a hand on the back of your chair.

“You okay, love?” she asks.

You very nearly snap at this. Was Connor being serious when he said that he was ‘sent’ by the rest of your cohort? Was everybody here that worried that you were talking to Morpheus that they felt the need to save you from a situation you needed no rescuing from?

“You almost ended up with quite the bruise!”

Oh. Just like that, your anger quickly leaches out of you—for the most part. You should have known that Georgia, at least, was concerned only for your physical well-being.

“I’m okay!” you assure. “Only mildly embarrassed that I almost wiped out in front of the entire bar.”

“Lucky you that a knight in all-black armor just happened to stroll by,” she teases, looking in the direction of Morpheus and Rob’s table.

You don’t dare to follow her lead and glance in the same direction, because part of you knows that, if you did, you would find Morpheus looking right back at you.

“Lucky me,” you agree.

And when you wake the next morning to find that the path to completing the newest chapter of your thesis that had been hopelessly blocked for days is finally clear, you think that maybe there was some good to be found in this weird week, after all.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtocleaemedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @thegirloftheirdreams @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @hiraethmae @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @saturnhas82moons @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread @its23-07 @lordbugs @aceitunanostalgica

[7-wonders]

The Fundamentals of Romancing One's Soulmate (String of Fate pt. 3)

Summary: Morpheus learns more about what a soulmate bond with a mortal entails, and finally gets to talk to you.

Word count: 7.2k

A note from the author: I fear I included too much in this chapter, but once I started writing I couldn't seem to stop. Thank you all so much for the love on the previous parts—I read all of the comments and tags over and over again, unable to believe how lucky I am that you all are reading and enjoying this. Like I said last time, I'd love to hear any romance tropes you'd like to see in this story! I've gotten a few really good suggestions that I'm excited to include as we get further into this ride.

As always, I hope you enjoy reading, and would greatly appreciate hearing from you about your thoughts on this!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

He does not mean to end up standing outside the doorway leading to your dream. Yet somehow, Morpheus has found himself here all the same, one hand hovering above the doorknob as he fights a war within himself as to whether he will make the situation better or worse for himself by giving in to what he wants.

In the hours after returning from Destiny’s realm, Morpheus was determined to work as he normally does—diligently and without any distractions. The Dreaming is nearly back to the grandeur and power that it was before his absence, but there was still room for plenty of improvements (improvements that were, unfortunately, put on hold when he became the owner of the key to Hell). Nothing has ever come between him and his responsibilities, his duties; he will not let that happen now.

He started at his personal desk, hoping to respond to petitions from various factions of the dreamfolk hoping for his aid—a group of nightmares requesting a hearing to address infighting that could not be peacefully resolved and a cadre of children’s dreams wanting to discuss a potential takeover of one of the old, abandoned skerries of the Dreaming, to name a few. While other rulers have often complained about having to hear the problems of the denizens they ruled over, it has always been one of the most cherished parts of Morpheus’s job. If he did not have a good relationship with his dreams and nightmares, then there would be nothing of substance for the dreamers to experience when they entered his realm.

No matter how big or small, major arcana or not, all of his dreams and nightmares were important to him, and all of their petitions deserve a well-thought-out response.

Well-thought-out responses he provided, until he reached a petition that involved a few dreams whose specialty is soulmates. This, naturally, caused him to start thinking about you, and suddenly he had lost an hour to thinking about your soft smile and the way that you had looked at him without an ounce of fear—so unlike every other mortal in the pub, who avoided even looking at him lest they flinch at the sight of somebody so obviously Other than they.

That he could be so easily thrown off the tasks he had been working on at the mere mention of something relating to you was mildly distressing, and he decided that putting space between himself and these thoughts was the best course of action. There were plenty of half-finished creations on the Shores for him to continue crafting, after all. With the return of his tools, of his power, of his realm, so too had his creativity returned. He seemed to find inspiration at every corner these days, taking to keeping a small notebook within his pockets to write down ideas as they came to him.

For a time, he was successful at working on his creations. The physical act of creation, of shaping and tweaking and crafting until it was to his liking, was a deterrent against any unwanted thoughts. As he sent one of the new dreams off to explore and learn, he looked through the portal and saw doors leading to other dreams.

It would be all too easy to find one door in particular, a part of his mind suggested. It is, after all, early in the morning in that part of the Waking. Most everybody is asleep, including…

He shook his head to clear the thoughts, but it was too late. He could already feel exactly where your sleeping mind was dreaming, though he knew not if the bond had enhanced his already-existing ability to find any dreamer at any time.

His mistake, he muses as he finally opens the door, was assuming that he could resume work normally. But nothing can be normal now, not when he’s discovered that he has a soulmate.

Morpheus finds himself in the back of a lecture hall, cloaked in shadows and invisible to all as he watches you attempt to teach a class. It’s quickly obvious to him that this particular dream is a result of stress—the walls quake ever so slightly with anxiety, threatening to gradually close in around you as you stumble through your words. Still, you persist with a nervous smile on your face, even as it becomes evident that this is a subject you are unfamiliar with.

Though there is a part of him that is tempted to change your dream to something kinder, he knows that to do so would be to go back on the promise he just made with himself. He could not let this bond, no matter how life-changing it may be, get in the way of performing his duties and responsibilities—chief among said duties and responsibilities, of course, is allowing dreamers to face whatever their minds are deeming important enough to dream about. To you, apparently, that is teaching even when you should be the one being taught.

Up front, your eyes cast over the assembled students, ostensibly to check for questions and engagement. It’s a well-practiced movement, and it should be a routine sweep, but something near Morpheus catches your attention. Your gaze freezes, and you tilt your head curiously.

“Hi,” you call out. “Are you lost?”

For a moment, Morpheus is unsure of who you are talking to. After all, it could not possibly be him—not when he knows that he’s still hidden. Yet, as he stares back at your intuitive eyes, which have once again captured him and made him your devoted acolyte with barely a glance, he knows that logic has no place in this new world he’s found himself in. Apparently, the powers that he has considered basic have no effect on you.

There is no time to ponder the soulmate bond and all that it may or may not affect, not when you tell the class that you will be right back and proceed to start moving to climb the steps towards him. Panic, novel sensation that it is, seizes him; he’s not ready to truly face you yet, to look at you and try to explain the gravity of the bond that has connected you when he does not fully understand such a bond either.

It’s both cowardly and shameful, but there is only one thing that he can think of doing to wrest some semblance of control over his life back from the Fates. Quickly, he raises a hand to end your dream, leaving him back on the Shores where he started.

He’s simultaneously exhilarated and terrified, the two creating a cocktail of compelling emotion that he could easily become addicted to. To be constantly reminded by forces more powerful than he that the soulmate bond is not a figment of his romance-starved imagination, yet faced with the potential implications of having a soulmate (a mortal soulmate, at that) when one is Endless, is perhaps more vexing than even the whole affair with the key to Hell. There is so much unknown about the situation, and he knows that he cannot yet act. 

No, first, Morpheus needs to research.

•••

There is nowhere in all of the realms that Morpheus feels more comfortable than in his own. The Dreaming is his, after all; his very essence is the lifeblood that sustains the dreams and nightmares and everything they inhabit. It is the ground that they walk upon, and the very air that they breathe. He has taken great care to ensure that every part of his realm is perfect, to his specifications. It is his home.

At least, that is what he tells himself as he sneaks (him, sneaking!) through the Library, lest somebody discover him and ask questions that he does not yet have the answers to.

It is far too optimistic to believe that Lucienne will be tied up in other tasks—his librarian is, above all, dedicated to her craft. Instead, his plan is to find as many books relating to the topic of soulmates as he can in as short a time as possible, then escape once more to his study so that he can read in peace. By no means is this plan a perfect one, but it does seem like it will be the easiest. The Library may contain every story, both written and not, but it is still his. How difficult can it be to find books?

The answer, he learns defeatedly, is very difficult. He has been wandering the shelves for what is sure to be the mortal equivalent of hours now, with only one tome to show for it. Every time he thought he had finally worked out how the library was organized, he would round a corner only to find that the genres were entirely different from what he had just been perusing. Nonfiction relationships became astronomy just as quickly as science turned to classic Russian literature. It’s mind-boggling, and Morpheus is stuck between attempting to determine which way to turn next or just giving up and taking his meager findings back to his study.

Lucienne, naturally, picks this moment to find him.

“Lord Morpheus,” she says, surprised at finding him, rather than him finding her, which is the usual order of things. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?”

“No, I am simply…doing some research.” He attempts to sound nonchalant, but can tell by the way that Lucienne pinches the bridge of her nose as she adjusts her glasses that he does not succeed.

“And as your librarian, I can help you procure books that might assist you in your research.”

Morpheus realizes that the cover of the book he is holding is facing outwards just as Lucienne gets the idea to look at what book he’s already found in order to help hone her upcoming search, and he hurriedly tries to turn it in his grasp before she can read it.

“A Beginner’s Guide to Soulmate Bonds?” The amused smirk on Lucienne’s face falls as she reads the title aloud, and she turns her gaze back to Morpheus in confusion.

Coincidentally, Morpheus finds the ceiling of the library to be quite interesting.

The cavernous room goes silent, Lucienne attempting to make sense of the situation as Morpheus weighs the merits of disappearing in a puff of sand.

“Is this…personal…research?” she asks finally, knowing that she must tread delicately.

For a moment, Morpheus is tempted to lie. To do so would be beyond childish, however, and he knows that Lucienne would see right through him and thus think him especially so. Reluctantly, he looks at her once more. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Two days ago, when I was in the Waking,” he admits.

Lucienne hums, nodding. “That would explain the sudden change of weather, then.”

Despite the embarrassing situation he’s found himself in, Morpheus cannot help but smile ever so slightly as Lucienne demonstrates once again that she knows her lord better than almost anybody else. Of course, Lucienne would know that nothing so simple as a visit to an old friend could yield the picturesque climate that had replaced the torrential downpours and thunderstorms the Dreaming had briefly found itself engulfed in.

She glances down at a ledger in her hands that is quickly becoming covered in text. “I’ll admit that I’m not the most well-versed in soulmate bonds, but there are signs, yes? To confirm it as so?” Morpheus nods, and she continues. “You saw a sign?”

“A physical string of fate, connecting myself to my soulmate,” he confirms.

From within her coat, Lucienne produces a pen and makes a note on the ledger, muttering something unintelligible under her breath. “Well, if you’re looking for materials on soulmates, you’re in the completely wrong wing for it. Strings of Fate and Other Signs from the Universe, for instance, is near the entrance of the library.”

“Yes, it appears that I am not…as familiar with the shelving system as I thought.”

“Which brings us back to me asking if I might help you find a book,” she says patiently, humor glinting in her eyes. “Give me just a few minutes to pull some relevant texts.”

“I can help—” Morpheus begins, despite knowing that he would not be able to provide actual help.

Lucienne shakes her head. “That is not necessary.”

She’s already disappearing between the shelves when a thought has Morpheus calling out to her. “Lucienne?”

She pops out once more, waiting expectantly.

“Some books on recent courting rituals would likely help as well, I believe,” he requests sheepishly.

•••

As expected, Lucienne returns with a bevy of books—so many, in fact, that she has enlisted her new favorite helper, Nuala of Faerie, to help her carry them to the large table Morpheus has commandeered as his own.

“This stack—” Lucienne begins, punctuating it by setting down the books she’s been holding, “contains books that cover the basics of soulmates—the formation of a bond, theories on how they come to be, what to expect when a bond has formed, and so on.”

She looks to Nuala expectantly, the faerie setting her own books down far more gingerly than Lucienne, as though she believes that she will be scolded for not having the lightest of touches.

“And these cover courting and romance in the modern age.” Lucienne pulls out a chair and takes a seat opposite Morpheus, Nuala hesitantly sitting next to her. “Shall we begin?”

“What are you doing?” Morpheus asks as Lucienne pulls a book off the stacks.

“Helping you, of course.”

“I did not expect you to be so open to the idea of my having a soulmate, Lucienne,” he cannot help but tease, knowing she feels the exact opposite.

“Do not mistake my interest in a research topic to be an interest in your love life, my lord,” Lucienne retorts, though he can see the fondness in her eyes while she says it. “Are we looking for any particular topics or passages of information?”

It is obvious that she is not going to take no for an answer, and Morpheus decides that he might as well use the extra sets of hands. “A general overview of what a soulmate bond entails, as well as specifics as to how a bond affects each side. And…bonds forged between beings and mortals.”

Lucienne and Nuala look at each other in alarm, the latter asking a question before her fear can catch up to her. “Is—”

“My soulmate is a mortal,” Morpheus confirms.

Lucienne grimaces. “Oh dear.”

“Death and I visited Destiny, who told us that previous assumptions were incorrect. No cosmic harm will come to anybody by pursuing this bond.”

It is obvious that the sentence is unfinished. “But?”

“But mortals do not know about soulmates, which is why I am here.”

“My, we do have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

She flips the cover of her book open, Morpheus and Nuala each grabbing a book of their own and doing the same after a moment.

The pile of books diminishes far faster when there are three sets of eyes doing the reading. The library remains quiet, save for the flipping of pages and the infrequent interjections of the three patrons as each comes across a bit of information relevant to Morpheus’s situation in their journeys through pages.

Unfortunately, much of it is what he already knows: theoretical. Soulmates have existed for as long as there have been beings to seek companionship and love one another, which means that the phenomenon has been studied for just as long. Still, there is no one definitive answer as to how a bond forms, nor is there anything that could be seen as ‘standard.’ Every culture, every pantheon, every realm has its own mythos behind soulmates. Soulmate bonds are unique to every pair, and remain a mystery, even with modern science and its many wonders.

Morpheus is starting to resign himself to having to learn more about a soulmate bond by actually interacting with his soulmate, but Lucienne, still steadfast in the belief that there must be some sort of concrete answer hidden amongst the pages filling the library, has disappeared down the stacks once more in the hopes of finding a book relevant to them. In the meantime, Nuala continues to dutifully read through each book. 

“‘Soulmate bonds can be physical just as much as they are emotional,’” Nuala reads from the aforementioned Strings of Fate, “‘with bonded pairs being known to exhibit symptoms such as longing, an increase of thoughts about the being on the other end of the bond, and a need for proximity that rises the longer a pair goes without seeing each other. In rare cases of a creature bonding with a mortal, such symptoms may be heightened.’”

These have been the rare glimmers of information that may actually be uniform, but they are still frustratingly vague.

“Yet another case of something that may or may not happen, I’m afraid,” Nuala says, looking at him apologetically as though it is her fault that there has been little progress.

Morpheus sighs. “I fear that lived experiences are all that lies in these books.”

“‘Tis frustrating to be getting nowhere,” she agrees.

“What does Faerie believe of soulmates, Lady Nuala?” Though she was no longer a member of the Court of Faerie, Morpheus still affords her the title that she deserves, had her queen not forced her into exile.

Nuala smiles. “It’s one of the most sacred bonds across all the realms, of course. Every pantheon and plane of existence recognizes and reveres the soulmate bond, every being hoping that one day they’ll find their own. Humans have made deals with a great many fae in the hopes that they’ll be granted their soulmate. That’s not in our power to do, of course; only fate decides how, when, and if a soulmate is found.

“We’re frequently characterized as tricksters—tales say that we purposely obfuscate our speech to capture humans, or that we lure them back to Faerie so that we can have our way with them for what seems like the blink of an eye, as hundreds of years pass in the Waking. For some, that’s true, but they are the minority. Fae revere the soulmate bond. We crave a love that can withstand all of the betrayal, gossip, and deceit of the Court. A love that cannot be ended on the whims of those more powerful than us, who seek only to have a drama or a tragedy play out in front of them for their merriment.”

“You speak as though from experience,” Morpheus notes.

She dips her head just slightly, the most that she’s willing to acknowledge the topic, whether on behalf of herself or somebody that she cares for. “I think it’s jealousy, if I may be frank. Not even Titania and Oberon have a soulmate bond, though you already knew this.”

“I did?” He did not realize that he did.

“For Fae, at least, a bond would make a party terribly ill if they tried to seek romantic affection from another party.” She trails off, cheeks turning pink as she hints at the…fling that Morpheus and Titania partook in centuries ago. 

The brief affair was no secret—not even to Oberon, though he cared not what, or whom, his wife was doing when he had paramours of his own—but after an end so disastrous that Titania closed off Faerie’s border to the Dreaming for a time, nearly nobody was bold enough to actually speak of it.

Matthew lands on the table by Morpheus’s elbow, interrupting what was sure to turn into an awkward conversation.

“So! Soulmates are real, huh?” he says. When he meets Morpheus’s inquiring gaze, he hops backward just slightly. “Uh, Lucienne let it slip. Said you might need a human’s perspective. Well, former human, but still.”

Mere days ago, Morpheus would have shrugged off all of the help that he is currently receiving, but especially the suggestion of a human perspective on any issues in his life. Now? Morpheus will take all of the help that he can get on matters in which he finds himself hopelessly unversed.

“I have never made it a point to fraternize with mortals; indeed, if anything, I made it a point to distance myself from them. And now, I must attempt to…romance one,” he admits.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of Casanova?” Matthew asks. The apparent reference goes over Morpheus’s head, but Lucienne, who has returned with hands devoid of any new books, bites her lip to hold back a smirk. “I heard all of the, uh, talk from your many guests when they were supposed to be vying for the key to Hell.”

Naturally, the many pantheons and realms had taken the opportunity of being guests of the Dreaming to gossip about its Lord. “It has been some time since I partook in a…dalliance with another. Even longer since an actual relationship.”

“Well, what was it like the last time you courted somebody, then?” Lucienne prompts.

Morpheus thinks back to those halcyon days of his early relationship with Calliope, when, for the first time, somebody did not see him as Endless. No, back then, he was simply a man—or, as close as one of his kind could get to being a man—attempting to woo a woman.

“To court a goddess is no small feat,” he begins. “It is a carefully choreographed dance, a chess match between two grandmasters. You are…declaring yourself a worthy suitor, and showcasing your strengths as a partner. Gifts, elaborate declarations of love, heroic deeds in her name. All of these could be given, and still, it was up to the one being courted to decide if these were enough.”

Even now, so long after their marriage ended acrimoniously (though he was glad that their last meeting ended with the promise of finally talking things through), he still holds the glint in Calliope’s dark eyes and the quirk of her full lips as she finally deemed him a worthy future husband among his cherished memories. He earned the right to love her; with his wit, with his power, with his show of all that he could offer to her if only she were to take his hand in marriage. It was just as satisfying a win as when he battled the Old Gods out of his realm, crafting the skeleton of one into his helm.

He can only hope to one day see such a reaction from you.

“Oh, mortals don’t expect any of that!” Matthew remarks cheerfully. “This’ll be easy, then.”

“How would you suggest I approach first courting my soulmate?” Morpheus asks dubiously.

His three denizens ponder this.

“Flowers?” Nuala suggests first. “Humans like flowers, though not as much as Fae, of course. When we court, we usually present beautiful bouquets of flowers every day, each species of flower saying something that our words do not. Yarrow for everlasting love, red tulips for passion, yellow jasmine to speak of the receiver’s grace and elegance.”

Lucienne is next. “The old ways of courting are still seen as rather romantic and chivalrous—many contemporary novels set in a historical time period write about this favorably. Perhaps that would impress your soulmate?”

“Wait, wait, wait, let’s take a few steps back here before we jump straight into grandiose gestures,” Matthew says hurriedly. “Have you actually, oh, I don’t know…talked to each other?”

“We did not…have the opportunity,” Morpheus responds. 

Matthew sighs heavily, his beak clacking in disappointment. “Well, I think you should start there. The other stuff—flowers and declarations of love—is going to be very freaky without it.”

Morpheus stares at his emissary blankly. “You believe that we should…talk.”

“Y’know. ‘Hi,’ ‘how’s it going,’ ‘my name is.’ The basics!”

“It is a good idea, Matthew, but it would involve Lord Morpheus somehow coming across his soulmate in the Waking and having to make it look natural,” Lucienne says, leaving off the part where Morpheus would assuredly fail at making anything ‘look natural.’

Matthew has an answer almost immediately. “It doesn’t have to be some big affair! It could be like a romcom, where you two just ‘happen’ to bump into each other! Not–not that I like them, of course. I’m just familiar with them.”

“A ‘romcom’?” Nuala asks.

Matthew looks aggrieved. “Romantic comedy. It’s a genre of books and movies that a lot of people like, but that’s not the point!” He turns his attention to Morpheus once more. “You don’t need to immediately go up to your soulmate and say, ‘hi, we’re meant to be together, please love me.’ Just talk. Get to know each other a bit. I obviously have no clue how it was in other times and realms, but on modern-day Earth, that’s how you establish a solid foundation to a relationship.”

The idea is not a bad one by any means; starting by simply getting to know one another sounds better to Morpheus, too, for whom soulmates and modern mortals are completely foreign. Still, he is not typically in the Waking, which means that he will now have to make up excuses to find himself there—the difficult part of all of this.

“The plan is acceptable,” Morpheus says, surprising both Matthew and Lucienne. “The next time that I find myself in the Waking, I shall make it a point to…say ‘hi’ to my soulmate.”

“Great!” Matthew cheers. “You’ve got this, boss. I have faith in you.”

•••

What Lord Morpheus does not know will not hurt him, Lucienne thinks to herself later as she, Matthew, and Nuala make bets on when the Dreamlord will finally give in and go to the Waking. Nuala, who knows the least about their Lord by virtue of her being new to his service, bets a month. Matthew believes that he shall make it six weeks before finally giving in. Lucienne, having been around for almost all of his doomed relationships, gives it two weeks.

•••

It is fifteen agonizing days before Morpheus can bear being separated from his soulmate no longer.

The books had warned of this, of course. That beings and creatures who bonded with a mortal often found themselves more affected by the physical symptoms of a soulmate bond than, say, a minor goddess who found her soulmate to be a nymph, or a god and a goddess from different pantheons. There was no concrete answer as to why, of course, but the running theory seemed to be that mortals did not have the heightened senses and general knowledge of a bond to be able to feel the effects of a bond and participate in the traditional bonding experience. Thus, the feelings of affection were reflected back onto the being.

Still, Morpheus had not expected to feel this way. He is Endless, after all—so much more than all other species. 

But with every passing day, he can practically feel the bond continue to deepen and establish itself as something not to be ignored. It’s still just as frightening and exhilarating as when you saw him in your dream, the prospect of love outweighing the fears of rejection.

Morpheus descends the stairs to the entry hall of his castle, Lucienne trailing behind him as he dictates his plans to her.

“I will be in the Waking for a short time to leave a book with Hob Gadling,” he says, holding up said book. “In the meantime, I leave the realm in your capable hands.”

His immortal friend had long been on the hunt for one of the copies of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales that he printed while apprenticing for William Caxton and his printing press in the hopes that he could show off a first edition to one of his classes (without making mention of whose hands actually crafted it), and mentioned to Morpheus that if he came across one, he would greatly appreciate it. 

It was fairly easy to locate when one knew which avenues to take—the angel that owns A.Z. Fell and Co. has varied tastes and has been on Earth longer than almost any living being, giving him plenty of time to source books with all of the dedication and impeccable taste of a seasoned wine connoisseur. Matthew had visited him yesterday on the Dreamlord’s behalf, first to inquire if such a book was in Aziraphale’s possession, and to acquire it if so. The asking price was fair for such a piece (Morpheus’s offer of one of Christopher Marlowe’s later drafts of Tamburlaine, complete with the playwright’s notes still on the parchment, Matthew told him, was eagerly accepted), and the raven returned with the requested book in tow without issue.

Now, there was only one thing left to do.

“Is that the only reason?” Lucienne presses.

“Yes,” Morpheus replies a tad too hastily. “It will be a quick errand.”

If rolling her eyes were not improper, Morpheus has a hunch that Lucienne’s would have made a full rotation. “Mhm. And if you just happen to bump into a certain someone?” 

“A coincidence,” he assures.

“Of course.” She tries to look unimpressed, but cannot help but smile. “Good luck with your errand, then.”

Morpheus nods and reaches into his robes to produce a small pouch, from which he produces a handful of translucent grains. With a flick of sand, he’s off to the Waking.

•••

If Morpheus were to be honest, he’s not sure that he wants to see you. 

That’s technically a lie. He wants to see you, of course. But perhaps from a distance, where you do not know that he is near, rather than face-to-face. He has not yet figured out what to say—if he tells you the truth of who he is and what the universe has decided for both of you, or if he should choose to act as though he is not Endless, lying to you in the process. The fear of rejection also still lingers closely behind him like a specter. Mortals often find themselves immediately unnerved by his (and his siblings’) otherness, making it a point to interact as little as possible. What if that extends to you as well? You did not fear him when you were merely looking at him, but what if an actual conversation proves to be too much?

As he attempts to maneuver through the university’s campus, though, he is starting to believe that he may not see you at all. He intended to meet Hob at his office and leave the book there—Hob did, after all, say that he was welcome to ‘drop by’ at any time. But when he arrives near Hob’s location and finds himself standing in a hallway outside of a door, he takes a peek through the glass to see his friend standing at the front of a classroom and lecturing animatedly—decidedly not the time for an old friend to appear. He shall just have to find Hob’s office the mortal way, then.

As it turns out, this is easier said than done. The university’s campus is fairly large, and the stately buildings make no indication as to the rooms that lie inside. He finds a large map in the middle of an alcove, but it means nothing to him when he does not know which building Hob’s office is in. Still, he holds some hope that, by staring at it long enough, he might divine the answer. Anything rather than admitting to the reality, which is that he is hopelessly lost.

A figure approaches from his left, and he tries not to immediately resort to escaping back to the Dreaming at the prospect of interaction with a human. “Hi! You’re Rob’s friend, right?”

The voice is recognizable right away—how could he ever forget the sound? But when Morpheus turns his head to see you standing right next to him, after so long spent thinking about you and imagining how a potential interaction with you would go, he uncharacteristically forgets how to speak for a moment and can only nod in response.

Your friendly smile falters just slightly, and Morpheus realizes that his outward reaction was probably not an ideal first impression. “Are you…looking for him?”

“I am hoping to leave a book with him, but am unsure of his current whereabouts,” he says, finally managing to produce words.

You glance down at your watch. “Rob’s still teaching a class, but should be done in about twenty minutes.” 

Twenty minutes is not that long—his sister was right when she said that the Endless have all the time in the world—but there is still the matter of locating Hob Gadling’s office, which he is no closer to finding than he was when he first stepped into the Waking.

“I’m actually on my way to his office to drop off a couple of things,” you say, seemingly sensing his helplessness. “I could take you there? If you don’t know the way?”

Opportunity has presented itself, and he would be a fool to turn it away. “That would be much appreciated.” 

“Great! This way, then.” You turn back towards your original path, Morpheus falling in step beside you.

 It is almost surreal to be so close to you after imagining and longing for such a situation for two weeks. The research he conducted did not lie about how blissful it would feel to simply bask in your presence, and he knows that he would happily follow you to the ends of the earth if only you allowed him to follow this close. When he gets greedy and tries to peek at you, he finds you looking right back at him.

You’re shy as you first introduce yourself, unsure of how to act around this stranger—though he knows that his general disposition is not doing him any favors in this matter. When he asks you a question about your studies, though, he can see that he has discovered one of the keys to your heart. You light up almost immediately, giving him a basic overview of your thesis before he asks yet another question, and you realize that he is truly interested in learning more about this.

He watches, enraptured, as you speak more confidently, hands gesticulating as you periodically glance at him with shining eyes to ensure that you are making sense, that his interest has not waned. How could it, though? He would listen to you talk about the most banal of subjects—the weather, perhaps, or human economics—simply so that he could hear your voice.

But no, he is fortunate enough to get to listen as you talk about something that you are deeply passionate about. To get a glimpse into how your brilliant mind works is a treat. To learn that stories held your interest, to the point that you had dedicated your studies to it? That was proof of divine intervention, proof that your impending romance was written in the stars.

When you realize that you have found yourself in front of Hob’s office, you cut yourself off from talking about your thesis.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” It is clear that you are embarrassed, focusing on finding a set of keys so that you can unlock the door in an attempt to rid yourself of the feeling. “I just get excited to talk about this subject.”

“You need not apologize.” Truly, he hopes that you never again feel embarrassed to talk about anything in his presence, especially something that you care about. “I asked you a question, and I was happy to learn from you. You are, after all, attempting to become an expert in this subject, correct?”

You let out a small, halfhearted laugh, obviously not believing him. “Yeah, I suppose.”

The door to the office is unlocked, and you make your way towards what is presumably Hob’s desk while Morpheus takes the opportunity to look around. Hob has opened his home to Morpheus a few times, and he is pleased to see that the immortal man’s office is decorated much the same; his personal collection, lovingly displayed for himself and others to admire. He smiles slightly at the daguerreotype on the wall, discerning eyes able to pick up his friend’s face amidst the other soldiers.

“Have you ever been in here before?” you ask.

Morpheus turns to look at you. “No. Robert was, perhaps, overconfident in my abilities to navigate the university to find his office when he told me I could simply leave the book here.”

A breath of laughter leaves you. “Glad I was around to rescue you, then, so you could explore a bit. I love his office, it’s like a museum.”

“His home is much the same; a testament to life, created by a man grateful for every minute of his own.”

You consider the statement, a smile forming as you do. “That’s such an accurate description of him.” 

Something catches your attention, and you produce a cellular device from your pocket to look at its surface.

“I have to get going. My class is on the other side of campus, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late,” you explain. 

Morpheus finds himself thrilled at the regret on your face, neither of you wanting this interaction to end.

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of anybody’s pursuit of knowledge,” he says.

“Are you going to wait for Rob in here, or do you need me to walk you out?” you ask.

For a moment, he considers leaving with you, but he would like to see Hob’s face when he sees what Morpheus has brought him. “I shall wait.”

“Okay! I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

You rock backwards on your heels, unsure of whether you should say something else before you leave, or if Morpheus is going to say anything in return. His lips cannot help but quirk up at the very human action, made all the more endearing by the fact that you are the human doing so, and your eyes widen in surprise at the sight.

“Bye,” you squeak, turning on your heel and quickly exiting the office. Morpheus can hear your shoes pounding against the floors as, it seems, you run out of the building.

He stares fondly at the space you just occupied before migrating to the window in the hopes that he might catch a glimpse of you. It is not a long wait, and when you do appear, you lean against the wall and bury your head in your hands.

Your abashment, it seems, has only increased, though he knows not why. How could you feel such a way after a conversation that has only served to make him more infatuated with you? He wishes that there had been more time for him to assure you that nothing you had said or done—indeed, nothing you could ever say or do—would lower your status in his eyes. Instead, he watches as a mortal woman appears and begins to comfort you.

Movement sounds from behind him, and Morpheus reluctantly draws his eyes away from you and to the sight of Hob Gadling smiling at him.

“My friend!” Hob greets warmly. “What a welcome surprise it is to see you! What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“I found the book that you have been searching for,” Morpheus says, producing the copy of Canterbury Tales from his coat.

Hob’s face lights up as Morpheus holds out the tome, and he takes it gently in his own hands.

“Well, look at that!” He carefully flips the book open—although, thanks to good care and preservation by the previous owner, the book does not show nearly how old it is—and angles it so that Morpheus can see the small design near the bottom of the title page—a simple H and G, with a sword piercing through both letters. “My printer’s mark. I was so thrilled when Billy Caxton told me I got to make one of my very own. It was the first time in my life that I created something, after so long spent being a soldier and a mercenary.”

Hob is silent for a few moments, nostalgia washing over him as he thinks of a life long past. Morpheus tries his best to stay out of his friend’s fond daydreams, focusing instead on the papers you have left on the desk—a copy of an answer key for a test, and what looks to be your aforementioned thesis.

“Thank you for this,” Hob says finally, sincerely. “Truly. You didn’t have to go through the trouble of searching for this on my behalf.”

“It was not nearly the chore you are imagining it to be,” Morpheus assures.

“Still. I owe you one.”

Morpheus smirks. “I am not of the fair folk, Hob. I do not deal in debts.”

“Of course not, though I did once think you one.” This is not a surprise; Hob told him months ago of all the manners of creatures he believed his mysterious stranger to be at one point or another. Vampire, Fae, angel, demon, witch. None of which comes close to capturing all that Morpheus is. “You did me a huge favor, though, and as your friend, I would like to repay it at some point.”

Hob reverently traces his printer’s mark once more before closing the book to place it on his desk and looking at Morpheus once more.

“Not that I’m not thrilled you’re here, but how did you get in?” Hob asks. “I may be getting up there in years, but I know I didn’t leave my door unlocked.”

“Your graduate student granted me entrance,” Morpheus says truthfully.

“Ah, I should’ve known,” Hob responds, very familiar with your kind and helpful nature. 

Much the same as you did minutes ago, Hob’s own cellular device buzzes in his hand, and he curses under his breath.

“I wish I could stay to chat, but I have another class. Can I walk you out?”

Morpheus nods his assent, following his friend out of the office and waiting for him to dutifully lock the door before the two traverse down the hallway and towards the exit of the building.

When they reach sunlight once more, Hob attempts again to repay the favor that Morpheus has done for him. “Are you sure there’s nothing that I can do for you in return?”

Morpheus is about to turn him down once more when he realizes that there is something that Hob could do for him, though guilt envelops him as the idea percolates in his head. He would not be using his friend if he were to ask for what he is thinking about. After all, he does enjoy seeing him more often than once a century. Still, it feels slightly…dishonest to lead Hob to believe that there is no ulterior motive to what he will ask.

“I would see you, if you are amenable. Thursday next, perhaps? At…our usual spot?” Morpheus proposes, attempting to sound casual and as though he does not remember that you and your fellow graduate students meet at the New Inn every Thursday.

Hob lights up. “I would most definitely be amenable. Thursday next, then! I look forward to it.”

“I do, as well. Farewell, Hob.”

“Bye, Morpheus.” Hob waves, then turns to head for a different building.

Morpheus turns as well, to find a quiet place where he can return to the Dreaming and count down the days until he can see you once more.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtocleaemedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @thegirloftheirdreams @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @hiraethmae @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least @darling-eos @deeplyenchantedsabotage @saturnhas82moons @the-ace-of-wrath @stilestotherescue @cinnagirlworld @readersdelirium @pinkpookiebear @chugjugg @pinkest-marshmallow @toucanpirate @takeaseat-andread

[7-wonders]

Meet Cute (String of Fate pt. 2)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x Reader

Summary: You meet a stranger in a pub, and (unbeknownst to you) everything changes.

Word count: 5.1k

A note from the author: I truly was not anticipating the avalanche of love that I received on part one—I am so grateful to you all for reading and wanting more. I'm very excited to write a fun, romantic soulmate fic for our favorite Endless lover boy! The Prince of Stories deserves a romance for the ages—on that note, if you have any romance tropes you’d like to see in this story, I’d love to hear them and see if they’re a good fit for the general outline I have planned :)

As always, I hope you enjoy reading, and would greatly appreciate hearing from you about your thoughts on this!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

Thursdays are typically one of your favorite days of the week, thanks to the history graduate students’ weekly happy hour. It was originally born out of a universally terrible week last semester, when everything was going wrong for everybody, leading you and your cohort to decide that the only way to cope was to get together, drink, and air your grievances. Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be very therapeutic and just what a bunch of busy, stressed grad students needed. Thus, Thursday night grad student happy hours at the New Inn quickly became tradition.

The location of happy hour was chosen solely due to the proximity to campus and the desire to support a small business, and definitely not because it’s owned by the history department’s own Dr. Robert Gadling (inherited from his late grandfather), who always gives your crew 20% off on your weekly outings.

Though you’re at the New Inn early today compared to a regular Thursday, you’re also running late to the study group that a few of you decided to put together for today. Dr. Raquel Keller is just as brilliant as she is brutal, which means that the term assignment for her Archival Methods class is a bit of a doozy. It’s still fairly early in the semester, but you know if you don’t get started brainstorming for your project now, you’re already going to be considered as falling behind in Dr. Keller’s eyes. 

You don’t mean to be late, of course, but the horror that is grading freshman essays will do that to almost anybody. One essay in particular was so rage-inducing that it forced you to stare at the wall for a few minutes lest you write feedback with your red pen that you’d surely regret, which is why you’re very happy to see your advisor sitting at his usual table when you walk in.

Robert Gadling (“Please call me Rob, no need for any of that Dr. Gadling business”) notices you almost immediately and raises a hand to wave, with his usual friendly smile on his face. Your group is tucked at the large table in the corner by the windows that they typically haunt, meaning you’ll have to walk by him anyway to get to where you’re going. Might as well rip the bandage off now, you think as you come to a stop at his table.

“Hey, Rob!” He has a friend with him tonight, a dour man in all black currently scowling at his drink. You’ll endeavor to be quick, then.

“Now, my favorite TA wouldn’t be taking advantage of my pub to work on homework for my class that you haven’t done yet, would you?” he asks, falling back on one of his favorite jokes of the new school year—the man’s full of dad jokes, and you’re usually who he tries them out on.

“I’m your only TA this semester,” you respond, as per usual.

Rob chuckles and waves his hand in the air. “Semantics!”

“But to answer your question, a couple of us are meeting up before the history grad students’ weekly happy hour to work on our term assignments for Keller’s Archival Methods class. I would never work on your homework in front of you!”

Rob’s friend has glanced up, and you wink at him to let him know that you have 100% worked on homework for Rob’s classes at the New Inn (What? You’d feel bad for completely ignoring this guy when you’ve just monopolized his time with his friend).

When your optic nerves finally reach the thinking part of your brain and you finally process who you’re looking at, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your jaw from dropping. The man sitting before you is devastatingly, otherworldly beautiful; with his high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and regal nose, he looks as though he’s gotten lost after leaving a runway and ended up among mere mortals. His skin, so pale that you wonder for a moment if vampires maybe are real, stands out in stark contrast to his messy, jet-black hair and matching black ensemble.

But it’s his eyes that truly captivate you, an arresting shade of blue that makes you feel as though you’re frozen under his icy gaze. They sparkle even under the ambient lighting of the pub, galaxies hidden within his irises that you could spend hours exploring.

Glasses clanking together as a bartender receives a crate of clean dishes breaks you out of the spell you’ve found yourself under, and you blink a couple of times in the hopes that it clears your head. Why are you here again? When you look at Rob once more, you’re reminded of the reason and can only hope that you weren’t staring at his friend for as long as it felt.

“Um…I’m glad I caught you, actually,” you say, trying to turn your sole attention to the matter at hand. “I was grading your Intro to Medieval Europe essays, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure I caught plagiarism again.”

His face falls. “Seriously? Who?”

“Tom Wyatt, from your 9 a.m. Tuesday/Thursday. Not only did he forget to remove ChatGPT saying ‘certainly, here’s an essay,’ but there’s also a sonnet about oranges.”

As a hopeful deterrent against plagiarism, but more realistically, as an easy way to catch it, Rob always put a prompt in white at the end of the essay prompts on the class websites. For this assignment, he tacked on a command to “write a sonnet about oranges.” Students who actually wrote their assignments would never see it, but an AI chatbot programmed to respond to all commands from a block of text being copied and pasted?

Hook, line, and sinker.

“Damn, that’s frustrating.” He sounds just as aggrieved as you feel. How hard is it to write a freshman-level essay on how the Catholic Church benefited from feudalism? “That makes how many for you?” 

“This would be number four that I’ve caught.” At barely a month into the semester, too.

“Who needs GPTZero when I’ve got you? Bring it by during office hours tomorrow and we’ll have a look, alright?”

“Sure.” A voice calling your name has your head snapping up, and you see a couple of your fellow grad students beckoning you over to their table. “I'd better go. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You chance one last glance at Rob’s friend and find those piercing eyes of his already on you, smiling at him even as your heart pounds. When you turn and make your way across the room, you push away the ludicrous thought that you can feel icy pinpricks on the back of your neck.

“Hey, guys,” you greet, landing in an open chair and opening your backpack to take your laptop out.

“What, you don’t get enough of your advisor during school hours? It’s only September, and I’m already wishing that Keller just randomly decides to take a sabbatical in the middle of the school year,” Connor, a second-year PhD student with a focus on geopolitics in World War Two who’s decided to help you out since he knows how Keller’s classes work, bemoans.

You laugh. “I would have just said hi and moved on, but another student plagiarized their essay, and I wanted to let Rob know.”

Groans go up around you. “Fucking AI, man. I worry about how dumb the world is going to be in ten years.”

“Ten years? That’s very optimistic of you.”

“I’m surprised you went over there at all, what with his scary friend sitting there too,” Georgia, in her second year and with a thesis focusing on economics influencing fashion, says.

You raise your eyebrows. “Scary?”

“Yeah, looks like the boogeyman or something.” The other grad students nod, a couple of them casting furtive glances at Rob’s table to see what is, apparently, a specter from their nightmares.

You keep quiet, because what are you supposed to say? ‘I think he’s really cute’? ‘Are you guys blind?’ You’re not a teenager who can’t control their hormones and crushes on every attractive person they see, and these are your peers in academia.

(Plus, cute feels like a massive understatement)

Still, you can’t help but glance one last time at the table as conversation shifts to the term assignments you’re meant to be working on in the first place, only mildly disappointed when you see that he’s already left. Oh well, you think, attempting to turn your focus towards powering on your computer and navigating to Keller’s class website. Time to put the handsome stranger out of your mind and get on with the rest of your night.

Much easier said than done, though, especially when your head hits the pillow and you finally fall asleep.

The scenario you’re in is immediately recognizable as one of your regular stress dreams; though, all of your dreams lately seem to be stress dreams now that the school year has started. You’re standing at the front of a classroom you’re a teacher’s assistant for, only to find that the class isn’t history. Sometimes the class is a foreign language you don’t speak, other times it’s math or science-related. Tonight, apparently, you’re meant to be teaching microbiology.

You try your hardest to bluff your way through the class, first by attempting to make sense of the writing on the whiteboard, which, by virtue of this being a dream, is unreadable. When that doesn’t work, you switch to pulling from the meager knowledge of biology that you have from high school and the gen-ed biology class that you took as a freshman in college. 

While you’re stuttering about the mitochondria, you chance a glimpse around the room. The faces of the students watching you are never fleshed out and are usually just blurs interspersed with one or two students that you’ve taught before, but old habits die hard, and you still like to make eye contact with your students even when they don’t have eyes. Your own eyes are drawn to the back of the classroom when a flash of black catches your attention.

It’s him. The man from the pub, looking just as handsome and serious as a few hours ago. He’s more in focus than the rest of the classroom—everything about him as though you’re awake and standing in a room with him. He seems just as surprised to see you as you are to see him, as though he wandered into this classroom by accident while on the hunt for another one.

“Hi,” is all you can think to say, stopping your half-assed attempt at teaching a subject you only know the basics about. “Are you lost?”

He remains silent. Maybe whatever he’s here for, he doesn’t want to talk about it in front of your students (obviously, that’s not the case, but your sleeping mind, which is currently in teaching mode, is treating this entire situation like a regular school day)? You should probably address this.

“Give me just one moment,” you say to the class before making your way to the steps to the back of the lecture hall.

The man’s surprise only increases as he watches you move towards him. When your foot reaches the first stair, he makes a movement with his hand—

Your eyes snap open to the sight of your ceiling fan spinning circles above you. The dream is already slipping through your fingers like wafting smoke, and you sigh as you turn it over in your mind, examining it from every angle while you still can.

It’s been a while since you’ve been…interested in anybody. Sure, you have crushes on celebrities, on fictional characters from television and movies and books. But actual dating? Taking a second look at somebody and thinking that they could be a person you might imagine yourself being romantically interested in? 

You don’t have time for that—not when you’re working so hard to get to where you want to be in life. Life feels more than fulfilling for you right now; you’re studying in a field you’re passionate about, getting to research, write, learn, and teach (even if each individually causes you grief at times). You have a good group of friends and peers, most of whom are also trying to make their way through academia. It’s a time in your life that you’re trying to savor while you’re in the middle of it, knowing that one day you’ll be missing this period.

Romance, you feel, would only slow you down. But is it so bad to have a harmless crush? To find a stranger in a bar so attractive that you can’t help but have a one-off dream about him? 

No, you don’t think so. After all, there’s comfort in knowing that you’ll never see this man again, that the endless depths of his eyes will never analyze you and somehow know that you’ve managed to conjure his form in your sleeping mind.

A large yawn interrupts your thoughts, and your eyes start to flutter shut against your will. Maybe you can fall back asleep for a bit before you have to be up? One glance at your phone screen reveals you’ve woken up a mere five minutes before your alarm is set to go off, and you shove your head under your pillow to groan miserably before throwing your blankets off of you and getting a start on your day.

•••

As expected, the handsome stranger begins to fade from the forefront of your mind as your usual daily life marches on. There are classes to take, classes to teach, papers to mark, and a social life that you continue to try and have despite it all. It’s a complicated juggling act, but it’s one that you’ve managed to balance well. It’s a relief, honestly, that the dream was a one-night-only affair, lest it throw everything off.

Logic tells you all of this, and you agree with it. Yet, there’s still a part of you that can’t help but eagerly look towards Rob’s usual table on the next Thursday, feeling a sliver of hope that the scowling man dressed like a member of the Addams family will be there too. When you see nothing but two empty chairs sitting at the table, it’s only a mild letdown.

•••

The university’s campus is beautiful during all four seasons, but is particularly lovely during the fall. The sun is still shining, but it’s no longer uncomfortably hot. Leaves have started to turn autumnal shades of red, orange, and yellow as the trees prepare to shed in anticipation of the winter months. There’s a steady stream of students, either heading to and from one building to the next, or taking advantage of the conditions by studying or relaxing outside. The campus green is practically alive with activity—with a newly curated “fall faves” playlist playing in your ears on your walk to Rob’s office before class, and plans to treat yourself to a favorite drink from the on-campus café after, you think that this might be your idea of a perfect fall day.

A skateboarder attempting to slide across a bench draws your attention, and you find yourself mildly impressed when he lands the trick. He grins when he notices you watching, throwing up the horns as he skates past the small alcove and away. You look back at the bench to marvel at just how he did that when a sight more surprising than any skateboard trick stops you in your tracks.

There, staring at one of the large campus map signs posted in the alcove, is the man who was sitting with Rob at the New Inn a couple of weeks ago. It’s startling to see him here, in a place you consider yours; almost like seeing a teacher outside of school for the first time (perhaps not a very good simile in your grad school years, now that you regularly see at least one teacher outside of school). He’s just as handsome as you remember from both your brief encounter and the dream, only this is no dream. Your eyes quickly snap away from him and ahead of you at the realization that he’s only a few feet away from you, and not some distant memory.

You should just keep walking—you are on a mission, after all—but he looks genuinely lost. With a sigh and only a bit of hesitation, you turn around and approach the sign.

“Hi! You’re Rob’s friend, right?” you ask, knowing very well that he is.

The man turns away from the sign to look at you for a long moment before he nods.

Okay. Not the best reaction, but you won’t let that dissuade you. “Are you…looking for him?”

“I am hoping to leave a book with him, but am unsure of his current whereabouts.”

His voice. Oh god, his voice. Sonorous like you’ve never heard before and as smooth as silk; if he doesn’t narrate audiobooks, he definitely should look into that as a potential career path. It leaves you feeling almost as flustered as when you first looked into his starry blue eyes—paired together, it’s a deadly combination.

You check your watch to remind yourself of Rob’s Wednesday schedule, grateful for the opportunity to avert your gaze for a moment and get yourself under control. It’s 10:35, which means that he’s discussing Chaucer in his Medieval Literature course.

“Rob’s still teaching a class, but should be done in about twenty minutes.” He nods again, seemingly unsure of his next course of action. Lucky for him, you’re far too helpful for your own good. “I’m actually on my way to his office to drop off a couple of things. I could take you there? If you don’t know the way?”

“That would be much appreciated.” Though he doesn’t speak very loudly, his voice carries easily through the breeze.

“Great! This way, then.” You turn back towards your original path and immediately cringe internally.

Great? My best response to him was great?

The man falls in step next to you, and you wage a battle with yourself as you try to decide if it would be worse to allow the silence to persist on the entire walk or to fill the silence with boring, meaningless small talk. You see him glance at you out of the corner of your eye at the same moment that you glance out of yours, and smile nervously upon being caught.

“I didn’t get the chance to actually introduce myself the other night when I stole Rob from you for a bit,” you say sheepishly before giving him your name.

He inclines his head in your direction. “I am Morpheus.”

It’s a name that you weren’t expecting at all, but somehow, you already know that it fits him perfectly. Of course, this man would be named after a Greek god; to name him something common would be a disservice to him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Morpheus,” you say warmly.

While you’re expecting the conversation to end there, Morpheus only glances in front of him to make sure his path is still clear before looking to you again. “You are H—Robert’s student?”

“Mhm, he’s my graduate advisor.”

You interviewed with a few different colleges and universities during your graduate school hunt, but none of your prospective advisors could hold a candle to Robert Gadling. He was immediately engaged in your areas of interest, hearing out your potential ideas for a thesis, and explaining how his skill set would be able to help you get your degree. When you managed to get full funding from this university as well, the decision was rather easy.

Compared to what you’ve heard from some of your friends at different schools across the globe, stuck with advisors who have received tenure and thus checked out from doing any actual advising, you’ll never regret the choice you made.

“He’s one of the best teachers I’ve ever had across all levels of schooling,” you say, unable to not compliment him, especially to his friend.

“That does not surprise me in the slightest.” His lips quirk up ever so slightly, and you get the feeling that this is his version of a smile; in that case, it’s easy to see that Morpheus is very fond of Rob. “Is your area of focus on the Medieval period as well?”

“I think the Medieval period is interesting, but no. My thesis is about oral traditions and examining what information is lost when they’re put on paper.” That’s the 30,000-foot view of it, at least.

His eyes turn bright, curious, and you squirm under his focus as you look nervously in front of you to make sure he’s not going to hit anybody with his inattention. 

“You enjoy learning about stories?” Morpheus asks.

You can’t help but grin at the unexpected question. “Oh, yes! Storytelling is one of our earliest forms of communication, and every society across all of human history has its own stories and folklore. Before there was any written language, before there was an idea to elaborate on what was being said by painting illustrations onto the walls of caves, there were simply people sitting together and coming up with stories. Stories to entertain, stories to warn, stories to educate. It’s fascinating.”

“I feel much the same,” he responds. “Stories…connect. The elder generation warns the younger about dangers in the forest by speaking of bloodthirsty monsters. Warring factions may find that they have common ground upon realizing they believe in the same mythos. Friends keep one another company in the long hours of the night around a fire by making up tales of bravery and heroism.”

Finally, it feels like somebody is speaking your language, and you nod in excitement. “Exactly! And there’s something magical about how stories can be so powerful that they can transcend the time and place they were first thought up. Romeo and Juliet just finished a run on Broadway after being written in England in the late sixteenth century. The Odyssey was first spoken in around the eighth century BCE, and one of the biggest directors of the twenty-first century is filming a star-studded adaptation today. Stories are kind of time capsules, when you think about it.

“It was hard even to narrow down a research question for my thesis, to be honest. If I could have, I’d just analyze the history of stories, but you need an actual research question for—”

Rounding the corner to see Rob’s office door cuts you off, embarrassment flooding through you as you abruptly realize that you’ve been talking this poor man’s ear off for almost the entirety of the walk to the history department’s offices.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” Heat rises in your face, and you focus on finding your keys and unlocking the door rather than wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “I just get excited to talk about this subject.”

“You need not apologize,” Morpheus assures. “I asked you a question, and I was happy to learn from you. You are, after all, attempting to become an expert in this subject, correct?”

His words make you feel a bit better, but you’re only able to let out a halfhearted laugh and a “Yeah, I guess,” as you swing the door open and step inside.

To the average outsider, Rob’s office would be considered messy. The bookshelves are stuffed full with both textbooks and historical texts he finds handy for teaching and researching, and a variety of papers litter every flat surface one might use for writing on. Rob, though, knows exactly where everything is; in your third semester as his graduate student, you start to believe you’re getting there.

Your favorite part of Rob’s office, though, has to be his decor. Everything that’s not school-issued is vintage and sourced by him, from the velvet Art Deco club chair by the window to the Victorian-era globe that sits on a shelf in the corner. He even has a literal broadsword hanging behind his desk that is, supposedly, an heirloom that has managed to stay in the Gadling family for hundreds of years. You’re still finding little treasures tucked around the room that you’ve never seen before, like the small, ornate snuffbox from the 1770s sitting on an upper shelf that you came across last week when looking for a spare copy of the Medieval Lit textbook.

Morpheus starts a slow lap around the room as you lay your backpack on Rob’s desk so that you can grab both the proposed answer key for his Intro to Medieval Europe pop quiz (he hates to give pop quizzes, but his 2 p.m. Monday/Wednesday/Friday course has been particularly dismal when it comes to even bothering to pretend to take notes) and the rough draft of the first 15 pages of your thesis, which you’re particularly nervous about leaving in the hands of somebody who’s not you. 

While you could have just emailed both of these documents, Rob enjoys having physical copies of almost everything and makes it a requirement that essays are to be printed out and handed to him in class so that he can have adequate space to leave feedback. In the matter of the work-in-progress that is your thesis, you’ll take as much constructive criticism as you can get.

“Have you ever been in here before?” you ask, noticing Morpheus’s eyes lingering on a small daguerrotype of a group of American Civil War soldiers on the wall by the bookshelves.

“No. Robert was, perhaps, overconfident in my abilities to navigate the university to find his office when he told me I could simply leave the book here.”

A huff of amusement escapes you. “Glad I was around to rescue you, then, so you could explore a bit. I love his office, it’s like a museum.”

“His home is much the same; a testament to life, created by a man grateful for every minute of his own,” Morpheus says eloquently.

“That’s such an accurate description of him.” Truly, your advisor always has something good to say, even when a situation may call for a bit of doom and gloom; faced with the way that AI is wreaking havoc on academia, for instance, he simply expressed gratitude that you were good at catching such uses.

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and when you look at the screen, you see that it’s almost 10:45.

“I have to get going. My class is on the other side of campus, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late,” you say apologetically. 

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of anybody’s pursuit of knowledge.” Morpheus doesn’t speak like anybody you’ve ever met—in fact, he speaks more like a character from a book than anything—but it doesn’t carry any of the affectation that it would were it coming from anybody you’ve met.

“Are you going to wait for Rob in here, or do you need me to walk you out?” you ask.

“I shall wait,” he decides.

“Okay! I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

You rock awkwardly on your heels, unsure of how to end this interaction. When his lips quirk up at you this time, and not a mention of his friend, you panic.

“Bye,” you squeak, ducking out of Rob’s office and practically running out of the building, if only to get some distance between you and the mortification chasing after you as it attempts to engulf you.

(And, if you’re truly being honest, to put some physical distance between yourself and the enigmatic man you’ve just walked through campus with)

When you make it outside, you lean against the stone exterior and bury your head in your hands. You can feel your cheeks burning beneath your fingers, and you can’t help the forlorn groan you make as your brain forces you to recall every painful moment of your interaction with Morpheus.

“What’s wrong?” somebody asks.

Peeking between your fingers, you see Georgia standing in front of you, sipping on the straw of the large iced coffee in her hand. In her other hand, she holds your favorite drink, having taken the silence when she texted you to ask if you wanted a drink (since you were otherwise occupied) as a yes—bless her.

“I’m an idiot. The most handsome guy I’ve ever met in my life talks to me, and I infodump about my thesis to him!” you wail. 

“The grad student curse,” Georgia commiserates, handing you your drink so that she can lean against the wall next to you and pat a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I was DD once for my friends this summer and was not feeling like being out at all, so I decided to post up at the bar with a book about fashion during the Great Depression, as one does.”

“Oh no.” You can already tell where this is going, both dreading and anticipating the next part.

“A guy came up to me to ask what I was reading—he was obviously flirting with me, only I didn’t realize it, so I proceeded to spend the next ten minutes talking about feed sack and flour bag dresses.”

When you begin to laugh, her smirk widens into a grin.

“I wish that I were joking. It’s like a disease! We get to study what we’re passionate about, but the cost is that we’re unable to talk about it like a normal person.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say when you get your laughter under control.

“Pssh, he wasn’t even that cute, anyway, my smarts simply did the job for me and scared him off.” Georgia links an arm with you, pulling you away from the wall and out of your despair. “What I’m trying to say is that if someone can’t match your freak from right out of the gate, then that’s not a person that you want in your life, friend or otherwise.”

Wise words, presented in a way that’s so uniquely Georgia. 

“Sorry to have laughed at your misfortune, but it did make me feel better,” you assure her.

She pumps a Breakfast Club-esque fist in the air victoriously. “Then my mission’s accomplished.”

“I still think I might walk into traffic, though.” You make like you’re going to walk to the parking lot (you won’t, obviously), and she yanks you back.

“At least wait until you graduate. It’d be a shame to have done all this work and not be able to put that you have your master's degree in your obituary.”

You give the suggestion a blink of consideration. “Good point.”

“Man, I am just full of great advice today,” Georgia marvels, walking with you in the direction of your next class. “Perhaps I should switch to psychology instead of history?”

“Please don’t, I don’t want to have to pay for advice you’ve been giving me for free.”

Georgia throws her head back in a laugh, platinum blonde hair shining in the sun. “Oh! Speaking of therapists, I don’t think I told you how mine rightfully read me for filth and called me out the other day.”

You’re happy to simply listen to your friend talk as you head to class, the warm day making it impossible for you to feel any icy pinpricks from a watchful gaze on your back.

•••

Tags: @universallyrascaldreamercookie @lucidlonging @omg-hellgirl @darkened-writer @totallysocially @hopingtocleaemedschool @lucycarlisleswife @adrestlyd @imagineslendk @thegirloftheirdreams @ultimatreality @the-garbage-central @dilfsandtherapy @saltyluminaryvoid @naty-1001 @megscabinetofcurios @saturnssrings @deniixlovezelda @marsmallow433 @dreamingdream @thecraziestcrayon @tendersolstice @hiraethmae @kpopgirlbtssvt @last-but-not-the-least

[7-wonders]

String of Fate

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x Reader

Summary: Two of the three Fates don't like the ending that has long been written for Dream of the Endless, and endeavour to change that by bringing him in contact with his soulmate. While such a decision saves Morpheus's life, it also changes everything he thought he knew about the natural order of the universe when he discovers that his soulmate is a mortal.

Word count: 5.6k

A note from the author: I've had this soulmate idea stuck in my head for a very long time, but I worried that I would be unable to write it because it was out of character/I couldn't figure out how to get it to work. Then the first six episodes of season 2 dropped, I saw how much of a yearning, sad, pathetic lover boy Morpheus actually is (thinking specifically of the look he gives Nada when she comes to him in the Dreaming for the first time), and the hesitation on the faces of the Mother and Maiden before Morpheus's string is cut, and went "oh I can work with this."

Not sure yet if this will be a true series with chapters or just a series of one-shots, but there will be more parts (I've already started writing them)! I’m honestly really nervous to release this just bc of how ambitious it is haha. I so hope you enjoy reading, and would greatly appreciate hearing from you about your thoughts on this!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Official String of Fate playlist

In a pocket realm masquerading as a cottage sit three women of varying ages, each appearing to be about twenty-five or so years older than the woman sitting on her right. The youngest, her tight curls shiny and skin clear of any blemishes, sits next to a spinning wheel and works at coiling her latest yarn into a ball. The next, a woman whose gray streaks and smile lines begin to betray the years she looks to have lived, continues to knit a scarf made of fine, black wool. The last, her white hair and wrinkled skin just barely scratching the surface of how old she truly is, idly pets a calico cat in her lap as she peruses the front page of what looks to be a newspaper.

The women are known by many names. The Gray Ladies. The Kindly Ones. The Fates. Maiden, Mother, and Crone. But at this moment, in this space so sacred to them which exists outside of the jurisdiction of any of the beings that they oversee, they are simply sister-selves.

“The Oneiromancer gave the key formerly belonging to Lucifer Morningstar to the angels,” the Crone notes blithely, summing up what she’s been reading.

“Where it should have been all along,” the Maiden says. “The Silver City cast Lucifer out in the first place and sent them to oversee Hell. Might as well finally have to clean up their own mess.”

The Mother sighs. “Speaking of messes, poor Morpheus must have one of his own to clean up after hosting all of those pantheons and realms in his very seat of power.”

“‘Poor Morpheus,’” the Crone mocks, rolling her eyes. “The last thing any of the Endless need is our pity, but especially him. No, the only thing he’ll be receiving from us is what his prophecy foretells.”

Though all three of the Ladies possess powers of Sight, the Crone has a special aptitude for events which have not yet come to pass. She also holds grudges like no other and still bitterly recalls the whole matter with Circe and the Dream King’s role in it, and has thus been keeping a particular interest in the length of the scarf currently being knit.

The Maiden, who has a memory longer than most and vividly recalls just how deeply the Sandman loves his son, despite how it may, at times, have looked otherwise, winces just slightly at the reminder of what is coming. Though the action was minute, the Mother, who is perhaps most like the name given to her in that she always wants the best for her ‘children,’ notices, as she always does.

“The oldest battle will begin, and—” the buzzing of a timer in another room cuts the Crone off. “Ah! That’ll be the cookies. One moment, lovies.”

The cat jumps off her lap as she stands from the couch with an agility that one would not expect from someone looking to be the Crone’s age and heads into the kitchen to begin preparing tea. 

“I’ll be sad to see this one end,” the Mother laments, running a hand down the rows of neat stitches. “Our sweet sister-self would call me a softie if she were in here, and maybe it’s true. How can I not be, though? Dream of the Endless is changing, though he once believed that impossible. It’s slowgoing, of course—”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from him,” the Maiden notes with a small smile.

“Nor I. But there are futures out there where he is given the chance to change fully, futures where he accomplishes a whole lot.” This isn’t a mere guess; in the same way that her sisters can keenly recall the past and peer into the future, the Mother sees the potential paths of everybody who walks Destiny’s garden.

It comes to both Maiden and Mother at the same time that neither of them particularly wants to see Dream of the Endless’s story end in such a way as the Crone has been anticipating. 

The Maiden glances through the door, where the eldest-presenting of the three has disappeared to the kitchen. “There is…something we could do, you know.”

She gravitates towards a cupboard near the window, opening it and beginning to search through what looks to be an infinite supply of yarn until she finds the skein she’s looking for. After checking the identification tag that every skein carries, so as not to get any mixed up, she hums satisfactorily.

For a species so full of themselves, human mortals only know about five to ten percent of what they would consider to be the Universe’s mysteries. What’s waiting for them after death (whatever they decide), if there’s a god (many), if they’re the only signs of intelligent life out there (hardly, and it’s a stretch even to call the human race intelligent). Another one of those mysteries is that of love. Is there such a thing as true love, as soulmates? Though they are familiar with the concept, even going so far as to attempt to label their loves as soulmates, they truly do not know if the person they are attaching themselves to is the one meant for them.

If only they knew what almost every other species capable of higher thought does: that soulmates are very real, and finding one’s is not nearly as much of a guessing game when one’s senses are heightened. Currently, Morpheus and his soulmate do not meet. While Morpheus dies, his soulmate goes on without ever having any idea of his death. There would be a few relationships before a perfectly normal and loving marriage, but his soulmate would never know the all-consuming love of being fated to someone. Now, however…

“Oops.” The new yarn is dropped in the Mother’s lap, and sparks emit as it bounces against the other yarn.

The Mother grins, scandalized. “Naughty petal,” she teases.

“Quickly now, before she returns,” the Maiden urges, returning to her seat and becoming very interested in her own project once more.

The Mother’s deft hands go to work, relying on thousands and thousands of years of practice to begin to knit the new yarn into the well-established pattern already created. By the time the Crone returns, there is no feasible way for the yarns to be separated without stepping into one of the few domains they have no power over.

Her outrage and indignation can do nothing now, for the fates of two have been combined into one, and the future has already been set in motion.

•••

Dream of the Endless is, as he is told that the youth of today say, going through it. A simple family dinner (though is anything truly simple when it involves any of the Endless?) proved to be the catalyst for attempting to reverse one of his most regrettable and shameful decisions, only for his journey to turn into a cosmic fiasco when Lucifer Morningstar abruptly retired and gave him the key to Hell, a key that he neither wanted nor needed. Still, he dutifully oversaw the various pantheons and realms as they each vied for the key, if only to ensure the safety of the woman he originally sought to free.

Although he did not necessarily expect Nada to unilaterally forgive him for what he had done, Morpheus did hope that she would understand the sincerity in his actions at present. The opposite was true. She…struck him. Dressed him down as though he were a mere child. Still, he offered her what he once did ten thousand years ago, for his love for her had not diminished in those ten thousand years: the chance to rule by his side. The Queen of the First People, always so eloquent with words, turned him down with a barb that cut so deeply, Morpheus wondered if the wound left behind would ever heal. 

“I wonder if your kind is even capable of love,” she said to him, chin held high and looking every inch the ruler she once was.

Morpheus tried to defend himself, to make her see that he did love, and that he loved her. His efforts were futile, and she cared not what he had to say. She wished him well, ever the diplomat. Then Nada was gone, to see what the Waking had in store for her, leaving behind only devastation and loneliness, those old friends. 

That was mere hours ago, the Dreaming almost immediately becoming drenched in torrential thunderstorms thereafter. Morpheus made his way to a balcony at the top of the palace, content to let the rain drown him. Lucienne, however, would not stand for it.

“My Lord,” she said tersely, black umbrella shielding her from the brunt of the storm, “perhaps solace is not the best thing for you right now.”

Perhaps she was right, but Morpheus, who was in no mood to listen to helpful solutions, glowered as he stared off ahead into the distant mountains. “Then what would you suggest?”

She thought for a moment, then sighed. “I am sure Hob Gadling is worried after your last interaction, where you told him that you may miss your next meeting. And he has said that you are always welcome.”

Pride and anger almost have Morpheus shoot the idea down before Lucienne can finish speaking. However, as he thinks about it, he realizes that there might be some merit to her suggestion. Hob Gadling had faced many triumphs and challenges throughout his long (for humans, that is) life, matters of the heart surely being one of those. Might the immortal man have some wisdom for a situation such as this?

Now he sits in the temple Hob had inadvertently created while waiting for his oldest friend to return, the New Inn, hand loosely curled around a stem of red wine that he has not yet touched. While the majority of him wishes still to be drenched in rain, another part appreciates the way that the Waking feels real. The Dreaming is real, of course, but he can manipulate every aspect of his realm. Here, he is master of none, and experiences the sights and sounds of a small pub on a Thursday night as any being would.

Morpheus had not gotten the opportunity to ask Lucienne the question he had been meaning to pose to her before he left the Dreaming. So, here in the Waking, he finds that opportunity. “Do you believe that I am incapable of love?”

From across the table, Hob Gadling cocks his head in thought. “Did the woman—did Nada say that to you?”

Morpheus nods. “They were some of her last words to me before she…left.”

The immortal sits quietly to compose his thoughts, taking a sip of his drink and staring up at the ceiling until the words he believes will comfort the Dreamlord, while also telling the truth, come to him. “She’s speaking in anger, my friend. You did an objectively bad thing to her, and she has every right to react towards you in whatever way she sees fit. But,” he says quickly, knowing that Morpheus is a breath away from angering, “she is wrong. Do you not love your realm, the dreams and nightmares that you create? Do you not love the dreamers whom you oversee? Your family, your…friends?”

None of that is romantic love, of course, but Hob is right, as he so often is. Morpheus does experience love in every one of those instances—sometimes begrudgingly, but he does love.

“You speak true, my friend,” Morpheus acknowledges, feeling his sister’s realm loosen its hold on him just slightly as the shadows of Despair begin to shrink.

Hob grins and opens his mouth to speak, but movement from the front of the pub captures his attention, and he instead waves. A mortal approaches their table—braver than most mortals in this pub, who have, so far (as is usually the case when he’s in the Waking), taken one look at the Endless and shied away in fear.

“Hey, Rob!” the mortal greets, using a name Hob must be going by in this century.

“Now, my favorite TA wouldn’t be taking advantage of my pub to work on homework for my class that you haven’t done yet, would you?” he asks.

“I’m your only TA this semester.” The sentence conveys that this is a common line for Hob, who chuckles and waves a hand nonchalantly in the air.

“Semantics!”

“But to answer your question, a couple of us are meeting up before the history grad students’ weekly happy hour to work on our term assignments for Keller’s Archival Methods class. I would never work on your homework in front of you!”

The mortal looks at Morpheus and winks, letting him in on the secret shared between student and teacher that homework for Hob Gadling’s classes has absolutely been completed in this building before, and with one quick movement of an eye, Morpheus feels himself come undone. 

(In that little pocket realm masquerading as a cottage, two of the three Fates giggle and congratulate themselves on their impeccable timing, while the third sulks as she stares into the fire.)

The concept of soulmates is not rare among beings like himself. Indeed, out of all the species capable of higher thought, humans are the only ones who believe it to be a mere myth or fairytale (humans, of course, believe almost everything that they cannot understand is a myth or fairytale, which is why the other specieses don’t bother with them the majority of the time). To them, it’s a word one would use to describe the one whom they love most in the hopes that there are some forces of the universe out there steering them towards true love. 

Most of the gods and goddesses, fae, beings, and creatures of all kinds, who have spoken about it in his presence mention a number of “signs” that average humans, with their dulled senses and limited use of brain capacity, miss. Sometimes it is simply a feeling, as though the universe has been tilted off balance the entire time, and meeting one’s soulmate has righted it. In other cases, electricity seems to spark the first time soulmates touch. Some have known their soulmate’s name before they properly introduce themselves, and others know exactly what their soulmate’s first words to them will be. He has even heard rare tales of seeing the Fates’ work itself, strings of fate connecting soulmates when they’re first in proximity.

Morpheus has never doubted the existence of soulmates, nor has he doubted the experiences he has heard. No, what he has always questioned has been the intensity of such a bond. How powerful could true love actually be, to change the life of one so powerful? Surely, a soulmate did not exert that much sway over a being of myth and legend?

He has been in love before, of course—with Alianora, with Killala, with Calliope. For a moment, when he rescued Nada from Azazel, he allowed himself to hope that such a second chance was his sign that Nada was his soulmate.

Now, he knows that those loves were pale imitations of the love that one has for a soulmate. A single wink has transformed everything that he thought he knew about life, and where he once saw no future that did not involve taking his sister’s hand, now, he sees only possibility. It’s not just a mortal who stands in front of him now, one of seven billion faceless creatures that occupy his realm for a third of their short lives. 

No, it’s you. 

Morpheus comes to know your identity immediately by virtue of you being a dreamer, yet he thinks he will not truly be satisfied unless he hears it from you directly. For a brief moment, a black string appears around his wrist, stretching and morphing into a silver one as it loops around your own. Then, it’s gone, leaving behind only the startling realization that Dream of the Endless has met his soulmate. 

You bid farewell to Hob as Morpheus watches helplessly, uncharacteristically breathless when you, the deity he now worships faithfully, deign to smile his way before leaving. He is a mere planet sucked into the orbit of a bright, shining sun as his eyes follow you across the room, watching as you greet your friends at a large table. When you toss your head back in a laugh while removing a computer from your bag, he regrets that he’s too far away to hear the sound.

“My friend?” Hob’s voice is the life preserver he needs to pull himself out of the ocean he’s found himself treading through, and finally manages to look away. “Is everything alright?”

Morpheus is unsure. On the one hand, it seems as though he has finally found what he has spent nearly his entire, endless life searching for, right when he had decided that it might be time to stop altogether. On the other hand, the intensity of the bond forming…frightens him. Further, you’re a mortal, which means that he risks once again ending a civilization of humans thanks to his romantic aspirations. Instead of answering Hob’s question, he asks one of his own. 

“You have lived a long life,” Morpheus begins, trying desperately not to sound as shaky as he feels. “Surely you have heard of the concept of soulmates?”

Hob’s smile turns soft, wistful. “Of course. Some immortals think that it’s the universe or whoever giving them something to make unending life bearable; others, like myself, are simply romantics who are charmed by the idea of having a love to follow them from life to life. I’ve heard your lot have a much easier time finding soulmates than us regular ol’ immortals, that your heightened senses show you things the rest of us can’t see.” His brow furrows in thought as he digests the rather odd change in subject. “Why do you ask? Did…did you believe Nada to be your soulmate?”

Morpheus is relieved that Hob hasn’t made the connection between his oldest friend’s sudden odd behavior and the appearance of his student. “Yes,” he answers truthfully. “For a time, I did.”

None of his previous feelings matter anymore, though, now that the answer to his happiness is sitting across the room. 

“Forgive me, Hob, but I must end our meeting sooner than I hoped. There are…matters that I must attend to.” He needs to leave, for if he does not, he fears he may occupy this chair all night and watch you in a manner that would be considered ‘creepy’ by today’s standards.

To his credit, Hob does not act like their meeting is being cut short. “No worries at all. You know you’re welcome any time.”

“Thank you for your hospitality and counsel.”

Morpheus hesitates before leaving, defenseless against fate as his gaze is drawn back to you once more. After a moment, he opens the door to the pub and steps back into his own realm.

The ornate stained glass windows of his throne room do not allow him to see outside. But Morpheus does not require windows to know that the weather has already cleared, from booming thunder, bright lightning, and gale-force winds to clearing clouds and hesitant rays of sunlight beginning to dry the drenched landscape of the Dreaming. His realm’s weather is a direct reflection of his own emotions, and as he staggers to sit on the steps leading up to his throne, hope begins to warm his own waterlogged heart.

A soulmate. He would be lying if he were to say he hadn’t ever imagined the possibility of there being someone out there fated for him. Hob Gadling had called himself a romantic when explaining what he knew of the phenomena, and though Morpheus would never use the word to describe himself, he does think it apt. For all that he has been a being so devoted to his duties, he has also longed for someone to share those duties with.

If what he has seen is true, and he truly has become the first of the Endless to have a soulmate, then there is much to consider. There is only one person equipped to help him with this (only one person whose help he wants with this), even if she has never been through such an experience herself, which is how he finds himself in his gallery, staring ahead at the ankh placed in a frame.

“Sister,” Morpheus calls. “I must speak with you.”

“Hiya, little brother,” Death’s voice sounds from her sigil after mere seconds. “This a quick matter?”

“I would prefer that you come through, if you have some time.” Though no day can ever be slow when one is an anthropomorphic personification of a vital universal concept, Morpheus does hope that today, at least, is not busy for his sister.

“I always have time for you,” she says fondly.

One moment, there is nothing but air in front of him. The next, his beloved sister, her trademark smile the antithesis of the all-black ensemble she always sports. Said smile falters when she takes in Morpheus’s affect, likely resembling that of a wounded animal.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Death asks, placing a hand on his arm. “I figured you would be sad after the whole Nada thing—”

Wonderful, Morpheus thinks distantly, word of my rejection has already spread beyond the boundaries of the Dreaming.

“—but this is…not sadness. I’ve seen you sad before. A lot, actually.”

He tries not to take offense, for he knows that she speaks true.

“You have,” he agrees. “And you are correct.”

“Well, out with it then. What’s got you in such a state?”

He has to make an effort to say the words, a part of him worried that it might not be true if he actually voices what he’s just experienced. “It appears that I have…found my soulmate.”

Death’s smile slides off her face in shock before quickly reappearing, somehow wider than before. “Shut up!”

Morpheus’s brows furrow as anger rushes through him. “I beg your pardon?”

When she begins to laugh, those thunderclouds that were only just banished begin to build again over the palace. The Endless were never technically children, but at this moment, Morpheus feels every bit the little brother that he is as he perceives his eldest sister to be making fun of him.

“This is no joke, my sister.” His voice booms through the gallery, making the frames shake just slightly.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way! You unintentionally quoted a movie, that’s all—remind me to show you that movie sometime, same actress as the one in Mary Poppins! I’m simply trying to say how shocked I am.” Death’s eyes shine as she looks at him. “Dream! Your soulmate? You’re sure?”

“The string of fate all but confirmed it.”

She squeals, a high-pitched shriek that echoes through his gallery, stopping suddenly when she realizes her merriment is not shared. “Wait. Why are you not excited? I thought you would be more excited!”

“It would appear that my soulmate is…mortal.”

Enthusiasm deflates out of her like air being released from a balloon. “Oh. Well. That is a problem, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he agrees, even though that feels to be a massive understatement. His soulmate being a mortal is more than a problem; it’s a tragedy just waiting to happen.

Death’s eyes flick around the room before she looks at Morpheus again. “Y’know who would be able to help us with this?”

He knows exactly where she’s going with this and wants no part in it. “Sister, no—”

“Destiny!”

“It is alright, truly—” 

The last thing he needs is another of his siblings involved in this situation, specifically the one who can tell him what he fears to hear, but his words fall on deaf ears as Death stands in front of Destiny’s sigil.

“Hello, big brother!” Death runs a finger along Destiny’s frame. “May we come through?”

The reply is immediate. “You are both meant to be in my realm at this time.”

“Ooh, lucky us.” Death grins and takes Morpheus’s arm so that he cannot escape, stepping into Destiny’s Garden as the fabric between realms gives way upon their eldest brother’s invitation.

Destiny of the Endless stands before them, looking as he always does—wearing his robes and carrying his Book, stern and acting as though he carries the weight of many worlds on his shoulders (which is technically true). Out of all of his siblings, Morpheus speaks the least to Destiny, for he knows that there will never be room for a friendly conversation if the Book does not require it.

“Death. Dream,” Destiny acknowledges with a slight nod. Death darts over to give him a kiss on the cheek, and though he tries his best to keep his face as stonelike as the statues surrounding the garden, his lips still twitch up just slightly at the affection.

“Brother,” Morpheus greets. “Need I explain the situation to you, or has your Book explained it already?”

“Yes, I know what has happened.”

“Then you know that our sister believes you have answers to a number of questions.”

“Do not hide your curiosity behind our sister’s actions. You also want answers.”

Even though he knows Destiny isn’t being malicious by saying it, Morpheus still feels chastised and has to fight the urge to lower his eyes to the ground. “Yes,” he says, a little quieter than before, “I do.”

“Your path has stayed the same for centuries now, with little variation.” Destiny opens the Book to a page that must contain Morpheus’s story. “Yesterday, that changed.”

He gets the feeling that the debacle with the key to Hell has something to do with his story changing. “I was not supposed to meet…”

It’s impossible to bring himself to say the word to his brother, to breathe life into his hopes in front of one who could so easily crush them.

“No. But for reasons that I do not understand and cannot say, forces intervened. The moment that you left the Dreaming, it was providence that you would meet your soulmate.”

Though he knows that he must temper his emotions, that there is still a large part of the equation that has yet to be solved, this confirmation that the string of fate Morpheus saw connecting you to him was not a trick of the eye, that the sudden intensity with which he found himself falling for you was not mere desperation to be loved after crushing rejection, is a gift. 

“The first of the Endless to find their soulmate!” Death says beside him, likely almost as happy as he is, simply due to one of her siblings finding happiness. “And here I thought that the Fates simply enjoyed being cruel to us because of our power.”

“There is still the matter of my soulmate’s mortality,” Dream reminds both his sister and himself.

This, he believes, is where the fantasy comes to an end. Death may be pleasantly surprised that the Hecate allowed him a soulmate in the first place, but he worries that their cruelty lies in the linking of his soul to a mortal’s. There will be no falling in love, no learning another in every way that matters. There will be no marriage, no everlasting partnership. No, he will be forced to know that there is someone out there for him, but that making a move would ensure your demise, and likely the demise of many others. He will be forced to watch from afar as you go through life without him, until eventually his chance at true love takes his sister’s hand and journeys to the Sunless Lands.

“We are forbidden to love mortals, lest we bring about their ruin.” His voice sounds hollow as he repeats this unwritten law, matching the hollowness that he is soon to feel for the rest of his endless life.

Death smiles sympathetically, but does not seem as heartbroken for him as he might have imagined. “I have a theory, if you’d be willing to hear it?”

Morpheus nods. “By all means.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while, honestly, and the past few days have made me consider that there might be some weight behind this idea. Though we, the Endless, all have our different purposes, our main one is to serve humanity. Humans hold quite a lot of power, even if they don’t realize it. They decide where they go after they die, and their belief, or lack thereof, gives the gods power. Beings with power like to believe that we have control over humans, but if anything, they have control over us.

“Nada and the First People believed that to love an Endless meant devastation for them. Might that be why the First People were wiped out, and not because it’s an unwritten law?”

Morpheus has never considered this, and mulls the possibility over. Desire, specifically, had courted a mortal in order to sire a child in the hopes of Morpheus spilling family blood. Though they did not love Unity Kincaid, he knows from Unity’s own words that she loved her ‘golden-eyed man’ very much. Yet there was never the end of a civilization due to her love, nor did there seem to be any natural consequences for such a union.

Is Death right? Has Morpheus been living under a misguided belief all this time?

“Destiny?” Morpheus asks, yet again, afraid to know what his brother might say. “Is she correct?”

“The Gray Ladies, for all of their aforementioned cruelty and disdain towards us, respect the concept of love; they relish playing matchmaker. It is one of their favorite parts of their function.”

Their other favorite, of course, is when their services as the Kindly Ones are invoked.

Morpheus must uncharacteristically swallow to clear his throat. “So it is true? I will not bring about the end of modern civilization by pursuing my soulmate?”

Destiny remains silent, and Death whoops excitedly.

“That’s a yes!” she declares, wrapping an arm around Morpheus’s shoulders and squeezing—the closest to a hug he typically allows. “Thank you. This visit has been everything I hoped it would be.”

“It is time now for you both to depart,” Destiny responds. He’s not being rude by ushering his siblings out of his realm; it is simply what the Book demands, and he must follow that steadfastly.

“Yes, of course, we’ll let you get back to it. Farewell, Destiny!” Death bids, waving once before disappearing through the tear in the veil that will undoubtedly lead back to the Dreaming.

“Thank you, brother. Truly.” Morpheus would thank him more profusely than this, but it would be in vain. Destiny knows just how thankful Morpheus truly is.

“Dream,” Destiny calls as Morpheus has one foot back in his realm. 

He turns to look at his older brother, only to see the fond twitch of his lips typically reserved for Death or Delirium directed towards him.

“Good luck.” 

It is not the usual foreboding tone of someone who knows what is to come and is merely conveying the necessary information as required by his function. No, these words are sincere, are well wishes that one would give to someone they care greatly about, and he appreciates them all the more as a result. 

Morpheus nods gratefully, then makes his way through to the Dreaming, where Death stands beaming with her hands clasped in front of her.

“You have a soulmate,” she breathes, awed.

“I do.” While he knows he should be visibly thrilled, he cannot help but to remain serious as he works to fully digest the information, works through what it actually means for him and his future.

Death notices this, as she always does, and takes his hands in hers. “You get to be loved, Dream, just like you’ve always wanted. Don’t be scared of this gift that you’ve been given.”

But he is scared. Terrified is a better word to describe how he’s feeling. What if you deny him as Nada has done? What if the gravity of a soulmate bond, of loving one of the Endless, proves too tall a task for you? He could not bear it if his love—if the reveal of so much beyond the world you’ve been raised to know—were to cause you fear. He cannot get this wrong, will not get this wrong, yet…

“I know not how to court in this day and age, let alone court a mortal,” he says weakly. It is a flimsy excuse, of course, and one that Death sees right through.

“You’re asking the wrong being, since it’s been a good two hundred years or so since I’ve been truly involved with anybody. I’m quite sure that there’s some information on modern dating rituals—it’s called dating now, by the way, not courting—in that ginormous library of yours. Your raven was recently human, too, wasn’t he?”

He need not say anything, for they both know the questions are rhetorical. She squeezes his hands softly before releasing them and stepping towards her frame.

“I’ve got to get back to work, okay? But please don’t doubt yourself. You deserve this! And you’ll figure out how you want to approach this situation; you always do.”

Death has always had an unshakable faith in him, even when he does not believe the same of himself. “I appreciate your wisdom, as always, my dear sister.”

“Bye, Dream.” She opens her own rift between realms, likely to the Waking. “I expect to hear all about this soulmate of yours when we meet next!” 

Then Morpheus is alone, left to his own devices as he tries to figure out where one starts when they first meet their soulmate.

[strawlessandbraless]

5x18 Point of no Return // 15x18 Despair

The journey from I happened to him to I’ve got you

[heldbybarnes]

Okay so…Reader rides Bucky’s thigh without even realizing she’s doing it (like during a movie night) and when she finally cums, Bucky’s like “sweetheart… i didn’t even TOUCH you” and then drags her to his room for the real thing

HELLO HELLO HELLO IM HERE

---------

Movie nights with Bucky were supposed to be harmless.

They always had been. A blanket, a bowl of popcorn, your legs draped across his lap or your head on his shoulder, his body heat a comfort rather than a threat. You’d done this a hundred times with him — letting his presence smooth the edges of a long week, letting the low rumble of his voice pull you out of your own head.

But tonight you’re wound tight.

Maybe it’s how long it’s been since you’ve been touched the way you really need to be. Maybe it’s the way Bucky isn’t paying attention to anything but the screen, all heavy warmth and steady breathing, broad thighs spread the way they always are.

You’re not trying to do anything. You’re not even thinking about it. You’re just shifting, adjusting the blanket, trying to get comfortable. He’s warm. He’s solid. Your hips naturally angle toward him.

And then there’s pressure.

Right between your legs. Firm. Reliable. Too good.

You freeze. But he doesn’t notice — his eyes are still on the TV, jaw ticking as he chews a piece of popcorn. He’s so relaxed you melt a little, letting your body lean in, leaning over his thigh just enough to—

Oh.

Oh god.

You should stop. You should. Because your clit is throbbing, and the seam of your shorts is dragging perfectly, painfully over the muscle of his thigh. Because your breath is catching and your lips are parting and you are very, very obviously using him.

But he hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t looked over. Hasn’t moved. And something about that — about the fact that he’s just there, big and quiet and easy to hide against — loosens every bit of sense in your body.

You shift again.

Your core pulses.

Your thighs tremble.

You keep watching the movie like nothing’s happening, like you’re not grinding yourself stupid against your best friend’s leg, like the heat isn’t building with every tiny unconscious roll of your hips.

Your breathing gets shallow. You try to hide it. Try to keep your movements small, subtle, something that could be mistaken for fidgeting. But every drag of friction lights you up a little more, makes your nerves spark, makes your vision blur around the edges.

Bucky clears his throat.

You nearly jump off him.

But he just shifts his weight, settling deeper into the couch. And in the process… his thigh flexes.

Sweet. Fucking. Relief.

The contact sends a shock through your whole body. Your hand flies to your mouth before you can swallow the sound, a pathetic little whine muffled against your palm.

You can’t stop now. It’s not even a choice anymore. Your body is already chasing, already trembling, already dripping through the thin cotton between you and him.

You rock a little harder.

His thigh is huge. Solid. Perfect. Heat rolls off him, straight into you, straight into the place you need it.

Your pussy clenches hard enough to make you dizzy.

Bucky shifts again.

His thigh tenses again.

You’re so close you can barely breathe.

“Just— just a second,” you whisper, not even sure who you’re talking to, pressing your forehead to the blanket, letting your hips find the exact angle you need to fall apart.

The movie keeps playing.

Bucky keeps breathing.

And you come.

Hard. Silently at first, then with a strangled gasp you try —and fail— to smother. Pleasure rips through you, your legs shaking, your whole body bowing over his thigh as heat floods your panties, your core spasms uncontrollably, your breath breaking on every exhale.

You ride out the wave helplessly, your fingers digging into the couch cushions, your thighs clenching around his, your cunt pulsing in the aftermath as wetness spreads warm and humiliating through your shorts.

You’re still catching your breath when the room goes quiet.

Too quiet.

You blink. Look up.

And Bucky is staring at you.

Not shocked.

Not confused.

Just… dark. Focused. A little wild around the edges.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through the couch cushions.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You open your mouth, to apologize, to explain, to beg the earth to swallow you, but he tilts his head.

“You just came.”

Heat rushes up your neck, choking you. “Bucky, I—I didn’t realize I was—”

He lifts one finger.

You go silent immediately.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, more like a warning this time. “I didn’t even touch you.”

You swallow hard. Your thighs are still trembling around him.

His eyes drop to the mess between your legs — the damp patch you can’t hide, the way you’re still pressed against him like your body doesn’t want to let go.

Then he looks back up at you.

And you know you’re in trouble.

“Up,” he murmurs.

You barely process the word before he’s guiding you off his lap, his hands surprisingly gentle, helping you stand on shaky legs. He rises too, towering, close, heat radiating from him like a second skin, and he doesn’t break eye contact for a single second.

“Bucky—”

“Shh.”

He takes your hand.

Not roughly. Not sweetly.

Purposefully.

And then he’s walking you backward down the hall, slow enough to let your panic and your arousal twist together, fast enough to make your breath stutter.

When your back hits his bedroom door, he cages you in with one arm above your head, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear.

“You’re gonna tell me exactly what you were thinking,” he murmurs, “when you were grinding that pretty little pussy all over my thigh.”

You shiver violently. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean— I just—”

He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

“So desperate you didn’t even know you were doing it?” he asks softly.

Your face burns. “Bucky…”

He hooks a finger under your chin and lifts until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“You came,” he repeats, “without me. Without my mouth. Without my hands. Without my cock.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

“And now,” he whispers, brushing his lips over your jaw, “you’re going to come with me.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

He backs you toward the bed, one step at a time, his voice the only thing anchoring you.

“You’re gonna ride my thigh again,” he murmurs, “but this time you’re going to look at me while you do it.”

Your breath hitches.

“And after that?” He smirks, hands finding your hips, dragging you flush against him so you feel exactly how hard he is. “I’m going to make you come so many times you forget how you managed without me.”

You let out a broken sound — a plea, a surrender, something in between.

Bucky kisses you.

Hungry. Claiming. Like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And when he finally pulls back, he whispers against your lips,

“Sweetheart, movie night’s over.”

He lowers you onto the bed.

“Now you get the real thing.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Prove It

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦ ✦summary: Dean says he can't be with you. That he's too much of a risk, too old, too tired, too whatever. But then he doesn't stop acting like he wants you. It’s probably because he does.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s) angst, pining, rejection but it's not real rejection he wants us, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions, shameless and proud smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, thigh riding, light masturbation, dean's dirty talk (that's it's own warning), blowjob, face riding, big dick dean, cowgirl, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie), he’s a little bit of an ass during sex too but in a hot way, love confessions, fluff✦ ✦wc: 10.7k✦ ✦author's note: love him raw and older (who said that).✦

It’s cold outside, and you’re not going to be the one to break first.

Dean is drumming his fingers on the wheel, and you can feel his gaze every few moments. It sears on your skin like a burn, and lingers long after he clears his throat and looks away. You can see him run a hand through his hair, from the very corner of your eyes. His knee is bouncing like a restless child.

You just keep staring ahead, forcing everything in you to be made of marble.

If you break first, that defeats the whole point. You didn’t do anything wrong.

You didn’t.

You’ve played it over and over again in your head. You’d looked at yourself in a mirror after, to check if you’d had something smeared on your cheek, or your clothing had been too baggy, or if there was maybe just something sharp in your features Dean didn’t want to cut himself on. But there had been nothing. And you’d been so, so sure.

There had been months, of wanting it and saying nothing. Wanting Dean and sewing your mouth shut. He’d call you sweetheart and you’d pull yourself to the level of a waitress who brought him his pie. He brought you snacks from the corner store without asking, and you go to be something that occupied his mind, a parasite that didn’t ask for more than attention. His hand would grace your lower back as he walked past, and you’d stand taller. Promote yourself to maybe a soft body he could find warmth in.

“What do you call a group of owls?” You’d asked him over breakfast, and he’d grinned up at you.

“I don’t know, a hoot?”

“No, that doesn’t fit.”

“Fit what?” He’d leaned to the side, squinting at your computer. “Oh. I, uh- Thought you were asking me a riddle or something.”

You’d snorted, turning the screen for him to read. The crossword was almost fully done, but there were always three or four you couldn’t get until the very end. Usually you ask Sam, but Dean had been there. And you’d liked how close he had to be, to read the screen. His knee bumping yours under the table, his breath on your neck. Your vison had gotten a little blurred and vivid. Everything in you had narrowed down to Dean.

Somehow, you’d managed to keep your voice steady. “What kind of riddle would that be?”

“I dunno, you asked it.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s why it was so lame, sweetheart.” He’d drawled, and you’d bitten the inside of your cheek to try and stop a flush. “Maybe it’s parchment.”

“Parchment-“

“Fancy paper-“

“I know what parchment is.” You’d snapped, and his grin had widened. “But it doesn’t fit, there’s no l in parchment. And a parchment of owls doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, a parliament of owls doesn’t sound any better.”

You’d blinked at the screen, then Dean’s slightly grumpy, mostly teasing expression.

He’d raised his brows. “You thinking something?”

“I- No, but-“ He’d been so close. If you’d tripped sitting, you wouldn’t fallen right into a kiss. “How’d you get parliament?”

“I can see the other clues.” Dean had shrugged, reaching past you to tap the screen. “This one’s gotta be an accord, ‘s a kinda car that’s pretty shit, but it’s got that exact axel and horsepower. Then this,” he’d looked at you, eyes shining, and you’d blinked at him a little like a baby deer seeing the sun for the first time. “Rocket ball rifle. That’s a Winchester, sweetheart.”

You’d laughed, but it had been weak and breathy. “Good work.”

Dean had sat up, looking back to his pancakes with a grin. “Thanks. Not just a pretty face, y’know.”

He’d said it like a joke, so you’d bumped his shoulder. You’d kept your words light, because he needed them like that.

But you’d been dead fucking serious.

“I know. You’re the whole package in a very handsome bow.”

Dean had laughed, but you’d felt his gaze for a while after. When you’d glanced over, he’d looked away and coughed. There had been a blush creeping up his neck, and you’d smiled to yourself.

You’d made him feel good, just as his friend. And that’s enough. Had been enough.

Then the baby slipped.

It hadn’t been dramatic. You’re sure he’d never even noticed.

I’ve got it, baby.

He’d patted your leg and stood up. You’d gaped after him, your whole world wiping and rewiring and adjusting to new code with each passing heartbeat, pounding in your ears.

Dean didn’t call anyone baby. You’d never heard it in a low drawl for some bar hookup, all the gorgeous women you’d envied until it made you sick. When he used to bring them back to motels and you’d pretend you needed a walk, you’d never hear it moaned or whispered in dirty talk.

Not that you were listening.

But he’s loud. And it used to be the only line to sanity you had.

It’s easy to fall for Dean. It’s magnetic. You think you felt it the first time he offered you a hand, and your whole body had started to warm and blister like you’d been shoved into an oven. It had faded the first few weeks of knowing him, burning up fast, a wildfire of desire that swept through you until you spent every night with hair stuck to your brow and the sheets stained with sweat.

When it had faded, you’d hoped it would be nothing more than a pile of shameful ash. Dean wouldn’t never have to know that the kid he’d taken under his wing was a little pervert who listened to him have sex, then cried in the shower after. Nobody would ever have to know.

But there’s this thing. Where sometimes the fire ripping through the world isn’t to destroy. It’s to help grow. The flames curl into tightly locked seed pods, open them up, and make room for a new forest to grow.

And Dean is kind. And funny. And handsome, and strong, and loyal, and sometimes you want to punch him in his perfect, stupid face because you never stood a chance.

Loving him in silence was harder than wanting him. Wanting him could be satisfied with makeshift men. The right height and build, similar hair and a few scars, their faces Dean’s when you close your eyes.

Dean used to mutter that he didn’t like you sleeping with so many older creeps. That they only wanted one thing from you.

“I only want one thing from them.” You’d told him, and his jaw had ticked.

“You shouldn’t be looking for it there.”

“Why not-“

“They could be your father,” he’d snapped your name, glaring up from his beer bottle. The label had been picked clear off and crumpled in his hand.

You’d leaned back a little, brows raised, and he’d let out a slow breath. Shook his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“Dean-“

“There are plenty of-“ His brow had furrowed. He’d glared at the bottle, like your taste in men was it’s fault. “Lotta other options. You don’t have to settle for some creep that’s eyeing you up like fuckin’ meat.”

You’d wanted to laugh. You might’ve, if Dean hadn’t looked like he was one word from breaking his own teeth.

“It’s a two way road, Deano.” You’d hummed, and he’d looked like you punched him in the gut.

You don’t know if he noticed. How you stopped sleeping around after that. Phantoms of attention were nothing, compared to the tiniest hit of Dean’s concern.

There was no dare to fool yourself. Nothing you were clinging to, about having a chance. Dean didn’t see you like that. How could he.

You were a little bit of a devoted heretic. You’d made your alter at the foot of a god, and you just liked that you were allowed to stay. If he kicked you, you’d tumble down and crawl back up until he crushed you completely. A single scrape of his touch was more than most were offered.

Being Dean’s friend was enough. Something he cared about was a rush of it’s own.

And you’d been ready to sleep alone for a long, long time. To keep all your love gathered in your chest, and let it bleed into every little thing you did. It wasn’t angry love. Wasn’t bitter for being left to fester.

Mold grows. Weeds can be beautiful flowers.

You covered every little thing in your love for Dean, until you were sure it stained over your skin like a tattoo. Everyone seemed to see it but him. Sam knew after you screamed for him on a hunt, when he’d gotten driven onto some rebar and you’d felt your own chest split open. Jack gives you strange looks whenever he visits, and when he asked you just waved him off. Even his fucking dog looks at you like you’re some sad, pitiable little fool.

But Dean was happy with you. As his friend.

Then he called you baby.

And the world stopped, and rewound. A cassette tape reaching the end of a track and flipping itself over, letting you listen to the song one more time.

Letting you notice what you’d missed, too absorbed in your own love—it was a loud, consuming thing—to look outside your head.

Dean had stopped sleeping around too.

He touched you, maybe more than you touch him. Bumping your shoulder, thighs pressed under the table, a hand brushing through your hair when he walked past.

You’d counted them as nothing. You’d drowned in the luck of his thoughtless motions, but baby.

He kissed your forehead before he split off from you on a hunt. He knocked on your door when he had a nightmare, like he had nowhere else to go. At the grocery store, he’d linger a step behind you like he was guarding you from the peanut butter on the shelf and the slabs of beef in the butcher’s display. Close enough you could feel the heat from his body. Too close to be an accident.

You’d asked Sam.

Sam had coughed, and told you to talk to Dean.

You’d asked Sam again.

He’d begged you not to.

“Dean will kill me,” he’d whined like a child. “And I kind of like life now? Like, we’ve got really good things going, and I don’t want to die over Dean’s stupid secrets-“

“So Dean has secrets.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. Sam had flinched.

“Um- Yeah. Which you should talk to him about, because I know nothing about them.”

“Sam-“

“Just- Whatever you’re thinking, that’s it. You’re right.” He’d sighed. “Please don’t make me say it. You’re both grownups. Make him use his words.”

You’d snorted. “Make Dean use his words-“

“You have more power over him than you think.” Sam had shrugged, voice dropping under his breath. “Like, a lot more.”

“What are we talkin’ about?” Dean had walked into the kitchen, looking between you and Sam, and you’d coughed.

“Nothing.”

“Relationships.”

You and Sam had spoken at the same time. Dean had raised his brows.

“Alright, what’s goin’ on-“

“Are you seeing anyone?” Sam had shouted, before you could gut punch him hard enough to shut him up. “Or, you know- Thinking about anyone, or anything with anyone, or- What the fuck-“

A spoon had gone flying, hitting Sam square in the jaw. He’d rubbed the hurt, gaping at his brother, and Dean had just shrugged.

“Oops.” He’d said flatly. “Hand slipped.”

His eyes had been narrowed. Sam had dropped it.

And the loop playing in your head had become obsessive.

He felt something. The more you played back and analyzed, the more certain you’d become. It might not be the concrete, resolved adoration you felt for everything that even stemmed slightly from Dean, but it was something. Something big enough he’d go to you first, in any room. That he’d hug you like he was trying to pull you into his chest, and breathe you in so heavily you felt a little stupid for missing it.

Enough you’d been willing to take the risk.

But not enough for him to say yes.

That day plays in a blur now. Your confession. His expression, like you’d shot him pointblank.

His head, shaking, and every color in the world inverting as he told you no.

You were wrong. He didn’t want that.

Just the night before you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, but still been lucid enough to feel him pull you closer. He’d kissed your brow. Whispered something you hadn’t been able to make out, but had sounded soft. Affectionate. It was the same tone you used, when you told his sleeping form that you loved him, just to try and offer yourself a little bit of control.

It’s gone now, though.

Not the love. That’s boiling and bubbling over the edges, an ocean put under a flame. There’s so much of it you might be about to choke, because you can’t let it show anymore.

Dean told you no, and you tried to shove it into the cavity of your chest and lock it up.

But it was too big. Too much, to have your heart broken and all your love just… stalled. No where left for it to go.

And you didn’t do anything wrong.

Dean sent the mixed signals. Dean told you no, then expected everything to be fine. He said he wasn’t into you like that, then followed you to the bar the next night and stopped you from numbing the pain in another man’s body.

So he earned this silent treatment.

And you’re not going to be the first to break.

Your fingers fidget in your lap, and it’s the only movement you allow your body to have. It’s more for warmth, than anything else. Dean doesn’t get to see your discomfort. How ever cell in your body is trying to drag you into him, to forgo dignity for his touch. For the heat rolling off his body, that would cure you of this cold fever in a few seconds.

Dean coughs, stretching too causally to be natural, and his arm ends up around the back of the bench.

He’s like a radiator. Your shoulder almost slumps into the slight brush of his fingers, into the comfort they offer.

You lean forward, forcing a distance. You won’t break.

Dean can be stubborn. You’re going to give him a run for his stolen money.

“You think this is the guy?” He asks, withdrawing his arm.

You just shrug. Dean sighs.

“If you don’t, we can just go get a drink. Night’s almost over anyway, isn’t much he’d be able to do-“

“I want to wait.” You say, and you didn’t know your voice could sound that cold.

Dean tenses up at your side, then nods. “Alright. Guess we’re waiting.”

You huff, and neither of you try to speak again. When the guy comes out, you track him to the vamp nest and make quick work. It’s barely a hunt worth breaking a sweat over, not with Dean swinging his machete and your dead man’s blood bullets. When you’re done, there’s some dirt and guts on your jacket. Your nose wrinkles, and you feel Dean’s presence before you hear him.

“You alright?” Dean sounds worried. You just wave him off.

“Yeah.” You mutter, tossing the stained jacket in the trunk. “Just cold.”

“You can take my jacket-“

“I’m good.”

Dean already had his jacket half off, and he pauses. You turn away, not wanting to see whatever look was on his face.

You climb into the car, waiting for him to catch up. When he opens the door, his jacket is fully gone.

He shoves it into your hands without a glance. It’s warm like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him, and your fingers curl into the fabric against your will.

“Dean, I don’t want this-“

“Well, you got it.” He snaps, and you hold it tighter.

“I’m not going to wear it-“

“Don’t care.” He starts the car, shooting you a glare. “Toss it, burn it, see if I give a shit. It’s yours.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t a curse or a plea.

The air feels like it’s getting more and more wired, with every passing second. It waves with heat, and starts to clog up your throat. You can breathe, but everything is sticky. The tension resting in your throat, swelling to keep words from spilling out of your throat.

Dean keeps looking at you. You wish he’d stop. Wish he’d make this easier on you, by not flexing his hands every three seconds and seeming like he’s going to reach out. To touch you, when your skin has gotten so, so cold.

When you get back to the motel, Dean goes right to the bathroom, and you stand uselessly in the center of the room. You still haven’t let go of the goddamn jacket.

You look at the door, and hear the water running. He’s taking a shower, and Dean takes long showers. 

You shrug on the jacket. And you were right.

It smells just like Dean.

Leather and amber, something a little spicy and a deep, comforting, unnamable scent that’s just Dean. It’s even stronger than the lingering musk of his cheap aftershave and cologne. You don’t even know why he bothers with that stuff, when he’s a natural aphrodisiac.

You wrap your arms around your stomach, staring at the bathroom door. It almost feels like he’s there. Like he’s hugging you and telling you everything is going to be okay.

And you sway on your feet, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time since he told you no. You’d shut it all down, refused to let yourself cry over it, and now-

He was your best friend. He’d acted like you lingered in all his dreams, the same way he lingered in yours.

And he told you no, and wouldn’t even give you the space to let your love die.

You don’t think it can die. But you’re not strong enough to leave him. Even with all this pain, you don’t want to. You refuse to be another person who leaves Dean, just because he won’t sleep with you.

But you can’t be here right now. Not while the wound is open and raw.

There’s a bar, just down the street. You text Dean that where you’re headed, and leave with his jacket still wrapped tight around your body.

It’s a fairly crowded bar. Enough people that the noise in your head can be drowned out, enough business that they keep good stuff in stock. You drink, but not enough to lose control. That’s not the goal.

You’re trying to get yourself to the point that you can return the smile of the man down the bar. He’s not bad looking. Dark hair and eyes, warm looking skin, a casualness to his stance that’s welcoming. He’s got broad shoulders. Big hands.

He’d be a good night.

But he’s not Dean. 

You need to be just tipsy enough to pretend that he is.

And it’s pathetic. You should be trying to get over him, but it’s like trying to drag your feet out of quicksand. The more you struggle against it, the more you think about every reason to stay in love with him. The way he sings loudly in the car, grinning at you the whole time. His dumb little bow-legged walk, and how he never breaks pace when he’s carrying you to the car after a bad hunt. His jokes, how safe you feel when he’s next to you, how even when he turned you down he hadn’t been cruel.

He’d just said no. You got it wrong. That’s- I’m not doing that to you.

You take another drink, breathing heavy through your nose. Wearing the jacket was a mistake. You can smell him all around you, and it’s a tantalizing, sadistic way to torture yourself. You swallow, looking up to the yellowed bar lights like they can offer you some strength.

They just stare back, and your eyes burn.

Maybe you should just go home. Call it a night, wallow in the bathtub until you either get it together, or sink under the water. Dean could save you. He’d bring you to bed and comfort you, then just leave you again. You’d be naked, and he’d have no interest, and you rub your eyes because you won’t cry in a public bar, you won’t-

Dean says your name, and you freeze.

“What the hell are you doing?” He’s not shouting, but it’s worse. “I come out and you’re just gone, you got any idea how much that freaked me out-“

“I texted you.” You don’t turn around. He doesn’t get to see the tears, still stinging at your vision.

Dean scoffs. “That’s not enough and you know it. Your phone coulda been stolen, you could’ve gone out then gotten grabbed, you- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you damn near gave me a heart attack-“

“Sorry.” There’s a stone-like lump, settling in your throat. “But I’m fine, Dean. And you could’ve called.”

He grunts, and you see him move into your periphery. You bow your head lower. You don’t want to see him. It will only make the pain worse. 

Dean mutters, your name. You don’t look up.

“How many drinks have you had?”

You shrug, and he sighs.

“Are you… feelin’ okay?”

“I feel amazing.” You mutter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your tone.

Dean swallows. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Neither of you move. You take another drink, and Dean’s voice becomes strained.

“Look, I- I didn’t mean to yell, just- Come on-“

His hand lands on your shoulder, and you shove it off.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I don’t care.” You spit, finally letting your gaze turn on him.

He leans back, eyes widening slightly, and it immediately hurts. You don’t want to hurt him. But you’re too tired to stop.

“I was just- You worried me-“

“I’m fine.”

“You’re getting drunk-“

“You get drunk all the time.”

“That’s- It’s not the same- I’m not-“ He runs a hand over his face. “We can fight about this back at the room, okay, let’s go-“

“No.” You hiss, and something tight flashes over his face.

He says your name, and you shake your head, looking back to your glass.

“Leave me alone, Dean.”

And you want him to fight. You want him to tell you he’s not going anywhere without you, because you never want to go anywhere without him. You’d sew your hands together, stick your shoulders together with glue, wrap around his back like a growth just to remind him how amazing he is, all the time.

You’d fight for him.

But Dean doesn’t. He nods.

“Sorry.” He mutters, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard. Not the deep drawl that he uses to tease and joke with you.

Just… Heavy.

Defeated.

And he apologizes, and walks away. You look over your shoulder, and find him staring back. His throat bobs, his hands fist at his sides, and he leaves.

Leaves you. Alone.

You down another shot, and it burns your throat with your eyes. You won’t cry over this. He’s allowed to not want you, and you’re going to be mature about it, and go sleep with someone else.

It takes another drink, but you walk over to the man on the other end of the bar. It feels like you’ve been moved into an autopilot, all your smiles too tight on your face and your voice far away. You bat your eyelashes, and lean forward without recoiling at how not Dean he is. He tells you you’re pretty. You laugh, and tell him he’s not so bad himself.

He puts his hand on your lower back as you walk to the parking lot. He’s a local, with a house not too far he’d like to show you. If he notices how you arch away from the touch, he doesn’t say anything.

And under the parking lot lamps, you can just see his silhouette and pretend it’s Dean.

But then he brushes your hair from your face, and leans in for a kiss. It’s an instinct, to turn your cheek. You’ve made it all the way to the car, and his heater is running, but the burning feeling over your skin isn’t from desire.

It’s prickly and sore.

Shame.

You mumble a sorry, the world moving so fast everything turns to a blur, but it might just be the tears pricking in your eyes. You try to take off your jacket, to cool down and collect yourself.

But the smell of Dean is gone, and now you’re sick, and you-

You can’t.

You just can’t.

It’s with scrambled apologies and a flushed face, that you run out of the car. There’s no excuse for it. Nothing that you can say to rationalize fleeing the moment like it’s a crime scene, running from a kiss like it threatened death. But you feel sick.

He’s not Dean.

When you get back to the motel room you’re out of breath. Your fingers are numb and there’s bile in your throat. The shame burns under your face, and your lips are wobbling pathetically. You’d rip the love out of you, if it wouldn’t feel like carving out a piece of your soul. You’d stay away the whole night, if you didn’t know the world would slow back down the moment you saw him.

He told you no, but he’s still your Dean. The world is safe with him. And you like loving him, you do, but right now you just…

You hate yourself. Blame yourself.

Wish you were anything else, that you loved him a little less, so the wound could be cauterized without splitting itself open.

Every movement just splits it open. And Dean isn’t going to come and stich it back up.

You take a ragged breath. Collect yourself by your throat, refusing to let your guts just spill all over the ground for Dean to see. For him to think he has to clean up, when you’re trying so hard not to blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing to you. He told you to stop. And you can’t.

All the mixed signals earned your silence, but not your wrath. You’re grabbing your heart and throttling it, because you don’t want to be mad.

But you open the door, and Dean is still up. He’d sprawled on his bed, watching TV, eyes locking onto yours before you’re even in the room. You try to ignore him, and kick off your shoes. He pauses his show.

“You have fun?”

You shoot him a glare, but his expression is unreadable. There are long shadows on his face that only make him more handsome, and you can feel the anger clawing up your chest.

He raises his brows in slight challenge, and you’re too exhausted to ignore the bait.

“No.” You snap, tossing off the jacket. “I didn’t.”

If Dean has a reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry.”

You snort, and his lips twitch down.

“What’s so funny-“

“You’re not sorry.” The words fall out of you, lined in venom.

And he shrugs.

Dean just shrugs, like that’s all your love is worth, and something inside you snaps.

How dare he. How dare he stomp on your heart and treat you like a child, and how dare he make you keep loving him by putting water on your beside table for your hangover and staying up just to make sure you get home safe. He’s a good man but he’s being so cruel and it’s only just to you. Like you deserve some punishment for loving him. Like he’s daring you to bite him back.

You can bite.

You can rip something in him, and make it almost half as deep as he’s buried himself into you.

“It’s your fault, you know.” You cross your arms, glaring at him across the room.

He chuckles, looking back to the TV. “Yeah, whatever sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that.”

That makes him go rigid. His eyes fly back to yours, and you mimic his challenging look.

“What,” he stares at you, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Don’t call you sweetheart-“

“Yes.” You raise your chin, and he sits up.

“I- Why?”

“Why?” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why do you think, Dean? Why on Earth wouldn’t I want you to call me sweetheart, when you fucking- You-“

He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach.

“No, you- You keep-“

“Is this about you askin’ me to-“

“Of course it’s about that!” You scream, and Dean’s hand fists on his leg. “You turned me down, Dean, you said no, and that’s- That’s fine, you’re allowed to- To not want me-“

Dean moves slowly to his feet, watching you carefully. “Sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that!” You scream, taking a large step back. “Don’t talk to me like that when you don’t mean it, Dean, it- It’s awful-“

“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you-“ He swallows, reaching a hand for you before yanking it back. “Look, I just- I didn’t think-“

“You didn’t think? You’re not stupid, Dean, how could you not think that you rejecting me when I- I’d been so sure, when I love you-“

“Don’t.” His voice raises suddenly. You flinch a step back, pressing your back to the wall.

Dean’s face falls in second, and he moves forward, arms flexing like he’s trying to control every movement.

“Baby, I-“

“Don’t yell at me.” You whisper, blinking away your tears.

He swallows, voice strained. “I know, I didn’t mean to-“

“You’re the one who said no, Dean.” You mutter, staring down at his knees. “You told me I was wrong, but- You follow me to bars and you call me sweetheart, and- and Baby-“ You wipe your nose, sniffing through the words, all your anger just evaporating into hurt. “You can’t do both. You can’t. It’s not fair.”

“I know.” He says immediately, taking another step forward. “I know, I’m sorry, just- Don’t cry. Don’t, I’m not worth that-“

“Yes, you are.”

Dean falls completely silent, and you look up to find him barely a foot away. Every muscle in his body flexes, his chest heaving like the air is thin. He’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re there. You tip your head back against the door, and give him a tired smile.

“You’re worth everything.” You whisper. “I- I still love you, Dean, and you don’t have to feel it back, but- I love you, and you-“

“No.” He almost chokes out the word, face twisting like he’s in pain. “You had a crush. That’s not love, it’s-“ he shakes his head. “You got rose colored glasses, alright? I’m not some kinda hero that’s gonna live up to the fuckin’ fantasy-“

“It’s not a fantasy.” You snap. “I love you, I know I do-“

“I promise you don’t.” He grunts. “I drink too much, I don’t go to the doctor and I got no plans, I’m an old ass who sleeps with a gun, hell, I’m old enough to be your dad, that’s not love-“

“Stop telling me that!”

Dean blinks at the certainty in your shout, and you push up on the wall, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what a crush feels like, and I know what love feels like, and I- I feel better around you, Dean!” Your voice cracks. “You make everything better, you make me feel- Feel wanted, you make me smile and you make me happy, and I- I love seeing you because it tells me I’m going to be okay.” The tears are falling again, and Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You’re being such a dick but I still love you, and I- I think- I think I need space because you can’t- You don’t have to want me but you can’t act like I don’t know what I want, because I know, and it’s you, it’s just you-“

Your voice breaks fully, and Dean moves.

He crashes forward, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you like he thinks you’re going to disappear. You squeak, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he presses closer.

His body is draped over yours, warm and sturdy. His mouth is certain, moving against yours like a wave. Pulling at your lower lip then sucking, open and passionate. You’re trapped between him and the wall, and your knees get weak from the force but he wraps an arm around you, keeping you afloat as your head starts to spin.

“De- Dean-“

“It’s just you,” he grunts your name, speaking between frenzied, wet kisses. “It’s only you, been you since the first time you smiled at me and it was like the sun was finally fuckin’ shining, there’s nothin’ else, no one else- Son of a bitch, you’re the only thing that gets my ass outta bed in the morning some days, just fuckin’ you.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, drags his lips in a hot line down your neck. You shiver, pulling him closer and trying, so desperately, to be sure this isn’t a dream.

“You- You said-“

“I know what I said.” He pulls back, taking your face between his hands. “Thought-“ He laughs dryly. “Hell, I still think, you’re better off running around with someone your own age. Someone who’s got a future, who can give you things-“

“You can give me things.” You whisper, staring up at him. He swallows.

“I told you, I’m old with ten bucks to my name, and I don’t think I’m hittin’ the lottery any time soon-“

“But you have you.” You smile at him, reaching carefully up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I want, Dean. That’s all you need to give.”

Dean’s eyes close, screwed shut as he breathes through his nose. He grabs your hand on his cheek, holding it there with a crushing grip.

“Do you want me?” You breathe out, still not fully trusting that this is real.

He nods, and tears slide down your cheeks.

“I- I need you to say it, please-“

“I want you.” He rasps, eyes locking onto yours. “And I don’t just want you, sweetheart, I- I-“ His jaw flexes, like he’s gagging on his own words.

You wait, and he presses further over you, consuming your whole vision. Your hand is guided over your head, and when you reach with it’s opposite to wrap around his neck, he takes that one too. You’re caged between his massive chest and the wall, your fingers scraping at the back of his hand, and he looks at you like the stars have been poured into his bathtub. Like he’s being offered the universe to drown in, and he’s just trying to build the courage to drive.

“I can’t stop calling you.” He mutters, and your breath hitches. “I call for you in my sleep, call for you when I think I’m running outta luck and I gotta start saying my prayers. Call for you on every hunt, even when I know you’re gonna be okay. Think about shouting for you when you leave the room, stare at my phone when you go away and hope you call me, so I’m not being a fuckin’ pervert.”

“You- You’re not a-“

“Yes, I am.” Dean brushes his lips over yours, and you gasp softly. “Things I think about doin’ to you aren’t winning me any sainthoods. Call for you there, too. When I got an hour to myself, just me and my imagination, and you.” He kisses your cheek, then under your ear. “Sometimes I get so loud I think you’re gonna hear. You don’t look at me after and I worry I’ve lost you forever. Can’t lose you, sweetheart. Can’t.” His voice falters slightly, and he draws back.

Drops his brow back against yours, all the teasing confidence waning in a second. His voice is raw. Pleading and hopeless.

“You- You don’t have to forgive me, alright? I thought you’d be better, thought you just got swept up in something, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His expression is bare, filled with so much pain you feel it echo in your chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, but don’t- Don’t go. Please.” He grabs your hip like it’s his last anchor in a storm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything, give you anything, please-“

You can’t stand it anymore. The pain in his voice.

So you press up, and kiss him.

It’s a little faster than Dean’s kiss. More chaste, too. A tiny press of your lips over his, and an attempt to draw back. But Dean is faster, and strong. He grabs the back of your head, ducking down to meet you and kissing you with such a fervor your legs give out.

He catches you. His grip squeezes on your hands, and he pulls you upright in a second, his mouth managing to never leave yours. You gasp, rising up to trying and meet every bit of heat he can offer. You open your mouth, and he takes full advantage, pushing his tongue over yours as his knee slides between your legs.

You moan, rolling your hips, and Dean squeezes your wrists. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles as he tugs on your hair gently. Just enough to tip your head back, and allow him further access.    

Dean kisses you like he’s done it a million times before. Your head is spinning with the passion, but he never breaks pace. When you start to run out of air—whining against his lips and straining at his hold on your wrists—he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping gently as you try to collect yourself.

It’s a pointless endeavor. Every brush of Dean’s teeth, every flick of his tongue, they send a bolt of lightning through your body. You’ve never been taken this high with just kissing, but it’s Dean. He could be taking about diseases and you’d want to climb him like a tree.

You’re not doing much climbing right now, though. There’s a pressure building between your thighs, and you’re mostly just fighting yourself from humping him like an animal.

It’s hard, when he’s making out with a sensitive spot under your jaw. You’re not even sure how you manage to speak.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“Not God.” He teases. “Just me. Call my name, sweetheart, let me hear it-“

You try to, but it turns into a strangled moan when Dean’s hand drops from your head to your hips. The firm squeeze of the skin, his fingers dancing over your inner thigh, it’s too much. You start to rut against his jeans in tiny, uncontrolled movements, and it only makes all that building need worse.

Dean groans, pushing his knee further up. It’s overwhelming, the mix of relief and desperation the motion brings. You squeak, grinding down onto him, chasing more, more, more-

“That’s it.” He mutters, encouraging and low. “That’s a girl, fuck my leg, come on-“

You moan, and Dean molds his lips back over yours. It feels like where he’s supposed to be. How he’s supposed to be.

So completely with you.

Almost yours.

And it gnaws at the back of your head, even as release builds in your core. He apologized, he said he wants you, but- But-“

“Dean,” you bite down another moan, the coil wound too tight. About to snap, when he starts to push his knee up in time with every roll of your hips. “Oh- Dean- We- We still need to talk-“

He stops immediately, and you almost whine.

“Right.” He grunts, wiping his mouth with his free hand. Your thighs clench around his knee, core still throbbing, and he smirks. “Talk about what, baby?”

You scowl. He knows what he’s doing, the asshole. “We- We can’t just sleep together-“

“Who said we were sleeping together?”

You flush, your eyes going wide, and Dean sighs.

“No, sweetheart, I was just teasing, come on-“

You turn your face, flushed with embarrassment. Dean leans forward, kissing up your jaw gently.

“I wanna sleep with you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you press your lips in a thin line. “I do, Christ- You got no idea, but if you’re not ready I’m not rushing anything.”

He presses his brow against the side of your head, lips brushing under your ear.

“I don’t wanna ruin this,” he rasps. “It’s the first good thing I got, you- You’re the only thing I’ve never-“ He shakes his head. “I still got you, alright? I got you. We can talk if you wanna talk, and I’ll keep my mouth shout. But I want you. Want you so much it hurts.” He rolls his hips up, and your eyes dart to his as you feel the proof.

Hard and thick through his jeans. Rubbing on your inner thigh, making your thoughts run away with all kinds of ideas. With the image of him sliding in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your nails dig into his wrists, your breath picking up, and Dean notices.

His eyes soften, even as his tongue flicks over his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and you drag the words from the molten pit of your stomach.

“You.”

Dean’s face flashes, his voice getting hoarse. “How.”

And you know. He’s not just asking about this. About your bodies woven together, or his hand gliding under your shirt.

So you smile, and turn your head to fully kiss him. Slow and soft, enough to soothe the tension in both your bodies. Dean lets you lead this kiss, dropping your wrists to weave his fingers through your head.

Your voice is gentle and soft, when you speak into his mouth.

“However you want.” You whisper. “I’m yours.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and before you know what’s happening you’re being picked up off the ground. Dean carries you to your bed like you weigh nothing, muscled arms wrapped tight around your body and kissing you with less and less control each second.

You’re not tossed onto the bed, but placed down like something precious. Your arms rise, trying to hold on as Dean stands up, and he doesn’t seems all that willing to let go either. When you yank on his hair, scratching at his neck, he groans.

Falls back over you, herding you up the bed with desperate, unrelenting kisses.

“Brat.” He grunts, bullying you back against the headboard. “I was gonna get undressed, gonna take my time, but you’re just that needy, huh? Need me so bad you can’t give a man five seconds?”

You shake your head, his every dirty word shooting right to your already dripping cunt.

You’re sure you’ve ruined this pair of underwear. Dean certainly isn’t helping, with his wandering hands. Squeezing your hips and thighs, teasing your sides with featherlight touches and knuckles grazing your breasts. He presses his tongue flat on your neck as he sits you up against the headboard, and your legs fall open at the sheer display of strength. He’s folding you and moving you like you’re a doll, all while touching you like you’re a diamond.

“Too long.” You gasp, grinding up against his knee. It’s moved back between your thighs, as Dean grabs your face between his hands and rises over your body.

He stares at you in wonder, lips swollen and eyes shining.

You blink at him, core still dragging against him. You’d been so close before, so so close, and you might be about to cry from desperation.

“Dean, please.” You beg without caring, and his fingers dig a little into your neck. Your head spins with desire, and you grab his wrists, fucking up into his leg. “Please, it- It’s been so long, I’ve needed you so bad, fuck- Dean-“

Your whining is cut off with one, long and searing kiss. It’s shockingly sweet, for what a wreck you are below him. Dean grins against your lips, swaying you back and forth, unmoved by your little whimpers and squirming. When he pulls back, it’s with the control of a man who knows what he wants.

You.

Dean’s seen the world, and he wants you.

“Take off your clothes.” He mutters, smiling at you as he pulls away. His voice is deep and dangerous. It sends a thrill of desire through your heat.

Then he leans back, and you try to follow, but he doesn’t let you. Dean press a hand flat over your stomach, and gently pushes you back against the headboard.

“Ah,” he smirks, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach. “No touchin’ right now, baby girl. Want you to show me.”

You swallow, voice small and breathy. “Show you?”

“How much you want it.” He mutters, those fingers dragging right over your core. “How much you want me.”

Then, right as he’s pressing at your core through your pants, he pulls back.

Dean sits on the bed, thick thighs spread, watching you expectantly.

“Strip.” He reminds you, and you nod.

And you don’t know how you find the confidence, under the intensity of his gaze, but you move. You peel off your shirt, then unclip your bra.

“Good girl.” He grunts, and you shine under the praise, sitting up a little taller. Dean jaw tightens, and he rubs his thigh as he stares at your breasts. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he looks almost feral.

That’s how you find it. Dean wants you, wants to see you, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful. You feel beautiful.

Watching Dean nostrils flare, watching him palm himself and hearing his low groans, you’ve never felt more beautiful in your life.

You peel off your pants, then your underwear. Lean back against the headboard and watch Dean seem to fight himself. He strains, leaning forward like he can’t help himself. He’s still trapped in his jeans, but you can see the hard outline of his cock, and your pussy flutters at the sight. Slowly, watching his thick hand move back and forth on his length, you drag two fingers through your pussy lips.

“Oh.” You gasp, tipping your head back. “Dean-“

He makes a sound close to a growl, and your fingers dip into your heat. They pump slowly, and you look under your lashes at the tent in Dean’s pants. You clench, hips pushing up to offer yourself a better angle. Dean groans, croaking your name, and you move a little faster.

“Fuck, Dean-“ You moan, words pouring wantingly from your mouth. “I- I want your cock so bad. Want you to fuck me, make me stupid, want to feel you-“

He hisses, eyes flashing as he scrambles with his belt. “Jesus, you can’t just fuckin’ say that shit, baby-“

“But I want you.” You pout at him, pulling your fingers out to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Want you to fill me up, Dean, please-“

You push up and start to crawl across the bed. Dean freezes, watching you with wide eyes as you settle between his legs. You press your face into his thigh, right against his half-pulled down pants. He grunts, his hand shooting into your hair, and you let your body sink into the mattress. You kiss over the seam of his pants, along his hips, over his cock.

He hisses, twitching under your touch. You snake your hand down your body, pushing your ass in the air as you start to finger yourself again.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and you hum, pressing your nose into his balls as you fuck your hand. “You’re killin’ me, you’re- Chist-“

You lick him through his underwear, moaning as you rub your clit back and forth. Dean’s hand fists, but he doesn’t push you further. You can tell he wants to. That he’s still trying to be respectful and loving.

But that’s not what you want. Dean’s a marvel of a man, and you want all his attention. You want to choke on it, to be covered in his marks, to never have to doubt what you mean to him again.

You moan against him, wiggling your ass and pressing your own face down. Your lips graze under his balls, and you roll onto your back. Spread your legs, rubbing your clit and letting your legs spread wide for Dean to see your mess of arousal. He grabs your breast, kneading and rolling your nipple, and you giggle with an almost dizzying pleasure.

Dean’s hips jerk forward, and you use your free hand to pull at his boxers. You need to feel more of him, need to have as much as him as he’ll let you take while you’re in control. Dean’s hips slam forward, when your fingers wrap around the base of his thick cock, squeezing your tits tight enough you squirm.

You need two hands, to get him fully out. One to move the fabric, the other to try and guide him where you want. When he’s fully freed, you grab his knee for support and like as firm stripe up the underside of his dick. He’s beautiful, right down to the thickness in your hands. You didn’t know someone could be beautiful like this. You’ve certainly never seen a cock you wanted to worship.

But it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.

You squirm, tipping your head back so you can lick his head. Dean pushes further up on his knees to accommodate you, moaning your name. His hand slides down your body, the other bracing him somewhere near your ass.

“Fuckin’- Fuck-“ He groans, and it gives you a little extra push. You wraps your lip around him, flicking your tongue over his weeping slit.

His hand grabs your inner thigh, and you feel his whole body tense as he seems to fully realize how turned on your are. You squeak around him, when his thumb drags over your clit, and he jerks into your mouth.

“Sorry.” He grunts, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, I’m- You’re so wet.” He sounds wrecked, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you moan happily. Grab his thighs, as his thumb starts to circle your clit in tiny, fast strokes.

You hum, unhinging your jaw, and Dean groans. He bumps against the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes roll back with pleasure.

Then he shifts slightly. Leans down, his warm breath fanning over the heat of your cunt. Your nails dig into him, and you think you’d scream if your voice wasn’t being stolen by his cock. You’re only breathing out of your nose, lightheaded from the way he’s using your mouth.

Dean kisses over your clit. Wet and open mouthed, lips moving like he’s in a trance.

He moans, and repeats the motion. His arms lock around your legs as he spits on your pussy, spreading them wider before his whole face presses into your core.

And you’ve heard about him. Even just rumors, of how he’s learned to play a body over the years.

The stories do him no justice. This might be better than heaven.

Dean eats your pussy like he’s been training for it. Like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win. His tongue drags, his beard scraping your thighs, and his hands splay on your ass to keep you exactly where he wants. His tongue licks, fast and tight on your clit. His nose rubs against your entrance, his hands squeezing as he pulls you up, hits deeper, and you can feel that heat in your, about to explode.

He feels it too.

And he pulls back.

“Hold it.” He kisses your clit lightly, then spanks your pussy. “Gonna make it good, sweetheart, but you gotta hold it.”

You moan around him, but it’s a sound of desperate agreement. You trust him.

Holding it feels almost impossible, but fuck if you aren’t going to try.

“Good girl.” He slaps your pussy again, pulls himself out of your mouth and rolls you both over with a small grunt. Suddenly he’s flat on his back, and you’re being manhandled up and around.

Onto the top of his chest.  

You push at his shoulders, and he just chuckles, catching your hands easily.

“Dean, what are you-“

 “Having you sit on my face.” He kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re gonna love it, baby, trust me.”

You swallow. “I- I might crush you-“

“Noble death.” He shrugs, grinning when you glare.

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“I’m serious. You’re not gonna hurt me, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t want to, that’s another conversation, but don’t hide from me just cause you’re worried I can’t handle some good fuckin’ pussy on my face.”

Jesus Christ, that almost makes you cum on it’s own. Dean beams when you nod nervously, starting to crawl further up. He guides you further, a playful glint in his eyes, and kisses the very inside of your thigh.

“Remember.” He winks, and your fingers shoot into his hair. “Don’t cum.”

Your mouth falls open, and Dean yanks you down.

Any snapping words you had are driven from your mind in a second. He was right. You do like it.

It’s even better than being under him. He’s still got you in a tight hold, pinning you on his face as you try to wriggle away, but the pleasure is so overwhelming you can’t do anything else. It’s like a warm, sentient vibrator has been trapped against your pussy. Dean groans and kisses you with a wet open mouth, the sound rolling through your body. Even as your writhe over him, gasping his name and making loud, choked sounds you didn’t know your body was capable of, you’re pulling at his hair trying to get closer.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to stop yourself from coming. He’s keeping you on his face, but not restricting your movements. Every time you try to chase more, he moans. You look over your shoulder and find his cock still at attention, fucking the air like he can’t help it.

That almost tips you over. You gasp, eyes rolling, and-

Dean pulls you off. Sits you back on his chest, reaching up to play with your tits while you gape uselessly.

“Dean-“

“Soon.” He promises, pinching your nipple gently. “You’re doin’ great, baby girl. Doin’ so good for me.”

That does exactly what he wants. The burning need in your core wanes, but not enough to kill anything. You’re just pulled a little off the edge, grinding onto his broad, thick chest as he plays with your breasts.

Then, again, Dean picks you up and sits you back on his face. This time one hand doesn’t leave your breast, continuing to tease a nipple while Dean groans against your pussy. You shove at the arm locked around your back, but his fingers just tickle your side, and make you drop right back down with a scream. He laughs as your thighs start to tremble, and you stop fighting it, even for play. You’re wound too tight, you need it too much-

Dean stops again. Smiles at you, and kisses your knee near his head as you try to shake yourself out of the daze. Then, again, when you’re settled, he pulls you forward.

This time you’re limp over him, grinding desperately down on his mouth. He groans, letting his hands wander. Dragging up your spine, one cupping the back of your neck as the other splays possessively on your lower back. You get to the edge faster that time.

And Dean stops again.

You don’t know how long he does that. You lose track somewhere around the fifth, when you’re a sobbing mess of desire.

“Dean, please-“ You whimper, pulling at his hair as he guides you back down. “I- I can’t- Can’t hold it, I need to cum, please-“

“Soon, sweet girl.” He reaches up, wiping a few tears from your cheeks.

You lean into his warm, calloused hand, and he smiles. Something reverent and soft settles on his features, almost jarring in the mix of sweat and sin filling the room.

“You have no idea.” He mutters. “How beautiful you are.”

You swallow, lips parting. Dean drags his finger over your lower lip, rubbing a calming circle on your lower back.

“You need to come?” He asks gently, and you nod.

“Please.”

“Alright.” He picks you up again, moving you further down his chest. To his dick, big and dripping with pre-cum, pressing against your ass as you stare at him. “Take what you want.”

You stare at him, and finally see the tiny smirk on his lips. He’s still playing with you. And when you pout, he laughs, dragging your down into a long, deep kiss.

“I’m not young anymore, baby.” He teases, kissing your nose. “This is what happens when you decide you wanna fuck a dinosaur.”

You glare at him, shoving his chest. “You’re no a dinosaur-“

“And you’re not coming till you ride my cock.”

A new, heavy determination fills you. You stick your tongue out at him, pushing up on his chest, and he just smiles at you like you’re an angel.

“You’re such an ass.” You mutter, letting a little affection drip over your words as you sit up on your knees.

Dean laughs, grinning easily up at you. “Yeah, but I’m your ass now. You said you love me. No take backs- Fuck-“

There’s a jolt of pride, as you line Dean up with your hole and sink onto him in one movement. It’s only because he’s prepped you to the point of near ruin, but it’s working in your favor now. Dean grabs your waist, tipping his head back with a long moan as you just sit on him for a second.

The stretch burns a little, but it’s perfect. You didn’t know you could be this full, feel someone so everywhere. The sensation darts from your pussy to your toes, your lips, your fingers sinking into his chest as you just try to breath. It’s not too much, but it’s more. Enough that you think you could come just by being filled with him, if he let you stay there long enough.

But you’ve been teased too much, tonight. You need release, or you might start crying for real.

You swivel your hips in experiment, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman-“

“’S big.” You mumble, repeating the movement. Every thought is slowly draining from your head, leaving only an instinct of Dean. “Oh- Oh my god-“

You find a good angle that drives right into your g-spot, and start to grind down. Dean says your name through his teeth, grabbing at you in a way that’s going to bruise in the morning.

It goads you on. You pick up your pace, trying to drag yourself back up to that edge Dean brought you to like it was nothing.

His cock is dragging and pressing inside of you, and it’s too much for you to let go of him. You moan, staring down at Dean, and that helps a little more. His muscles ripple below you, his head tipped back and lips gently parted as he watches you move on him. You can see his restraint again, as he just rubs your body and mutters low, rumbling encouragement.

“That’s it, baby girl.” He squeezes under your ribs, that awe shining in his eyes. “So fuckin’ tight on my cock, taking me perfectly. Never felt this good, sweetheart, never fuckin’-“

You drag forward, clenching around him, and he moans. Tips his head back with fluttering eyes, but still doesn’t just rut up into you. You whine in frustration, movements becoming short and uncontrolled as you get closer and closer.

But it’s not enough. Your thighs feel like jelly, and you can’t quite get yourself there. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard, but your mouth his hanging open and you can barely breathe through the feeling of Dean buried inside your cunt-

Dean grabs your jaw, forcing your glazed eyes onto his. His mouth twitches as you blink, and his voice is only sweet, as he murmurs your name.

“Sweetheart, you having some trouble?” He coos, and you’re mostly just shaking above him now. “Need some help.”

You can only nod, clawing at his chest hopefully.

Dean grins, and drags you down. Your mouth falls over his, and you moan openly, collapsing totally into his embrace.

His arm slides around your lower back, and you squeal as he rolls you over one more time. You’re pressed into the pillows, your legs nudged open, and Dean thrusts slowly, giving you a pace to adjust to the shift.

He’s deeper like this. Folding you under him to hit spots you couldn’t, kissing you so lovingly the whole time. You’d expected him to drill you through the mattress, but there’s no rush to his movements at all. 

Dean’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it. Buried in your pussy, dragging everything out of you like a professional. His cock slides in and out of you, and it’s an even more lewd picture than you’d managed to imagine before. He presses all the way down to his balls, circles his hips, then pulls almost all the way out. It’s not slow, but it’s not rough. And it makes you only putty in his hands, staring up at him as he starts to pull a burning, powerful feeling from deep in your gut that no one else has ever been able to give you.

Stars dance at your vision, and Dean kisses you lazily. Firm, but slow, tasting your every moan and whimper like it’s his favorite pie. You grab his face and he hums. His thrusts start to get a little uneven, pressing deeper every time you clench around him. He moves one hand between your bodies, rising up to watch you below him with an adoring gaze.

You’re beyond words, when he starts to rub your clit. You don’t think you remember how to speak.

Dean leans down, his head pressed into your cheek as he kisses your neck, watching you start to roll below him. He groans as your pussy flutters again, that heat getting impossible to hold down.

He kisses you, words gentle but firm against your mouth.

“Now, baby, soak my cock like a good girl, cum for me, come on-“

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your body spasms, Dean’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. He groans as you gush around his cock, fucking you through it with shorter and shorter thrusts until he’s kissing you with teeth and spit, pumping his release into your abused, oversensitive pussy.

You make a tiny sound of protest, as the feeling of him overflowing in your cunt forces a tiny, mind-numbing orgasm through your body. Dean kisses you gently, moving you with light hands onto your side. For a second, you think he’s going to try and leave. You grab his arm, twisting to give him a pleading expression.

He frowns. “Sweetheart, you gotta clean up-“

You shake your head, giving him your best doe eyes. He sighs, and lies back down, huffing in a amusement at your wide smile.

“Can’t even smile and still bossing me around,” he mutters, kissing your neck.

You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs, kissing that too.

Then he pauses. Leans up, something serious shadowing his eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat. “You know, right? What you mean to me? That I…”

He trials off, swallowing, and you smile. Reach over to cup his cheek, beaming at him with everything you have. Every bit of love in you, finally able to just flood into him.

Dean mouth twitches, and he nods. Bows his head, wrapping an arm tight around your stomach.

“Good.” He mutters, and you know.

He’s never meant anything more in his life.

“Cause I mean it.” He rasps, kissing your cheek. “It’s only you.”

✦End note: toxic trait i think i could pull dean winchester but i could you guys plz understand.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[imperhius]

[imperhius]

[satellite-evans]

imaginary girlfriend

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Clark Kent has a girlfriend, but no one at the Daily Planet believes she’s real. Until he finally introduces you.

Word count: 3.4k+

Warnings: flufff

A/N:

Hey guys!!! I’m back with another Clark Kent fic!! The hiatus I took really helped me feel better, and I want to thank you all for your support and kindness. It means the world to me. I wrote something short and sweet to help get the writing flowing. Please tell me what you think! Hope you’ll like it!

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Clark had never meant for it to turn into this.

In fact, if someone had told him that one small slip of honesty would detonate like a gossip grenade in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, he would’ve laughed—gently, politely—and then absolutely done anything else with his mouth.

But it was a Tuesday.

A perfectly normal, quiet Tuesday—the kind where the newsroom was burning like fire with tension and deadlines. The air smelled like burnt office coffee, old printer ink, and the faint stress-sweat of people who hadn’t slept since Sunday. Keyboards clacked. Phones rang. Someone was swearing at the copy machine again.

Clark was packing up for the day, gathering the last of his neatly typed notes and tucking his pen into the pocket of his shirt. He was humming under his breath—a habit he didn’t realize he had when he was thinking about you.

Warm. Content. Happy.

And, unfortunately for him, noticeable.

“You heading out early, Kent?” Lois asked, not even looking up. Her eyes were glued to her laptop, fingers flying like she was trying to out-type the devil.

He should’ve lied.

He absolutely should have lied.

Told her he was going to the dentist. That he was finally replacing the broken lightbulb in his kitchen. That he was volunteering at the community center. That he was doing laundry. That he was doing anything that did not involve another human being who could be grilled for information.

But Clark was honest. Painfully so. Reflexively so.

And the truth slipped out as naturally as a breath.

“I have dinner plans,” he said.

Lois didn’t react at first. She just typed faster.

Then Clark made the worst mistake of the week.

“With my girlfriend.”

Silence.

A sudden, violent, newsroom-wide silence—like someone had pulled the plug on reality.

A ripple ran through the bullpen. Heads turned. Chairs squeaked. Papers rustled.

Lois' head popped up so fast Clark swore he heard her neck crack.

“Girlfriend?” she repeated, eyes narrowing like she had just smelled a scandal. “Since when?”

Before Clark could formulate a sentence, Jimmy—who had been leaning back in his desk chair scrolling through photos—jerked so hard he flailed. His chair wobbled, his elbow slammed into his desk, and his camera flew out of his hands and hit the floor with a very expensive-sounding clack.

“Dude—what?” Jimmy blurted.

And like a bomb had gone off at her desk, Cat swirled around dramatically in her chair from across the room, her blonde hair bouncing with enough force to backhand someone.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice pitched high with disbelief, “did Farmer Boy just say girlfriend?”

Clark immediately regretted being alive.

He cleared his throat, aware that half the bullpen was now listening.

“Yes,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Girlfriend. It’s not… new new, but—”

Lois pointed her pen at him like she was cross-examining a criminal.

“What’s her name?”

Clark blinked. “Lois—”

“Her. Name.”

“I’m not giving you her name.”

Lois smirked in triumph, slamming her laptop shut. “Oh. Ohhh. How convenient.”

“It’s not convenient,” Clark insisted, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s private.”

Cat scoffed. Loudly. “Kent, darling. Sweetheart. Sunshine. You work in a newspaper. Privacy is a myth created to sell home security systems.”

Jimmy crossed his arms. “Look, no offense, man, but I’ve known you for years. Years. And you have never—never—mentioned a girlfriend.”

“I’ve mentioned her!” Clark argued, even though he knew it was futile.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Once. Right now. In this exact conversation.”

Lois stood up, hands on her hips, expression a lethal mix of curiosity and incredulity.

“Okay. Let me make sure I understand.” She took a step closer, circling him like a shark. “You, Clark Kent—whose idea of flirting is apologizing when someone bumps into you—have a girlfriend you have never brought up, never shown us, never introduced us to, never posted about, and yet now suddenly you’re leaving work early for her?”

Clark opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Opened it again.

Still nothing.

This was becoming an unfortunate trend.

“She just… likes her privacy,” he tried lamely.

“Oh my god,” Lois whispered, horror washing over her face. “She’s Canadian, isn’t she.”

“What? No! She’s not Canadian!”

“Right,” Jimmy said solemnly. “And I totally have a British supermodel waiting for me at home.”

Cat raised her hand like they were in a boardroom. “For the record, I vote imaginary.”

“Seconded,” Lois said immediately.

“Thirded,” Jimmy added, already typing something into his phone, probably starting a betting pool.

Clark stared at them, mouth hanging open, heart pounding—not with fear, but with sheer, bone-deep exasperation.

And from that point on, they decided—collectively, aggressively—that you did not exist.

One week later, Clark was walking home through the early-evening Metropolis glow, the sky soft lavender over the skyline. His tie was loosened, askew from where he’d tugged at it repeatedly during the day. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His messenger bag hung off one shoulder, heavy with notes he knew he wouldn’t touch tonight.

He was tired—but in that good way. The way that came from knowing he was heading home to you.

To your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth. To the way you always kissed him hello like you meant it.

He’d been thinking about you all afternoon—your hands in his hair, your smile when he walked through the door, the way you sometimes wore his shirts around the apartment, the sound you made when he kissed your neck—

He sighed, cheeks pinking even in the cool evening air.

He just wanted to be home.

That was the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Jimmy Olsen.

Clark stared at the screen.

He considered letting it ring—he really, truly did. But ignoring a friend felt wrong, and Clark Kent was, unfortunately, helplessly decent, even when it was inconvenient.

He answered.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

“Clark.” Jimmy’s voice was suspiciously upbeat. Too upbeat. “How’s it going, man?”

Clark narrowed his eyes at no one. “Good. Heading home.”

“Mmmhmm,” Jimmy said in the tone of someone who was absolutely not believing him but pretending to. “Big night with the lady, huh?”

Clark stopped at a crosswalk, pressing the button even though he didn’t need to.

Why did he tell them you existed? Why?

Jimmy continued, “So, how’s your girlfriend doing?”

Clark frowned. “She’s good. We’re cooking tonight.”

“Cooking,” Jimmy repeated slowly. “Right. Got it. Sounds legit.”

“It is legit.” Clark’s voice came out sharper than he intended.

Jimmy burst out laughing—loud, delighted, unhelpful. Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear.

“Dude, I’m messing with you!” Jimmy managed between wheezes. “Relax! I’m just saying—Lois has a bet going.”

Clark froze in the middle of the sidewalk.

“A bet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said—and Clark could hear the grin in his voice. “We’ve all got money on the table.”

Clark resumed walking, slower now. “…What do you mean?”

“Well,” Jimmy said proudly, “Cat says your girlfriend is one hundred percent imaginary. Lois says she’s imaginary and you made her up to avoid after-hours staff mixers because you’re a giant nerd. And I said maybe—maybe—you’re seeing someone but she’s, like… a chatbot.”

Clark blinked. “A… a what?”

“You know,” Jimmy said cheerfully, “like those AI girlfriends you can text at 3 a.m. and they send you motivational quotes and call you handsome.”

Clark gripped the phone harder. “Jimmy.”

“I’m just saying!” Jimmy said. “If she’s real, let us meet her.”

“I will,” Clark said automatically, even though his stomach swooped uncomfortably. “I just haven’t—”

“Haven’t made her up yet?” Jimmy supplied helpfully.

Clark shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jimmy. She’s real. We’ve been dating for months.”

“Okaaay,” Jimmy said in a tone that very clearly meant I do not believe you at all, Clark Kent, but I am willing to humor your delusion.

“Then prove it.”

Clark stopped dead.

“Prove it?”

“Yeah!” Jimmy said, as if it were obvious. “Invite us over! Let us meet her! Lois will bring a lie detector. Cat will bring tequila.”

“No,” Clark said automatically. “Absolutely not.”

“Unless, of course,” Jimmy added innocently, “she’s. Not. Real.”

Clark inhaled.

Exhaled.

Counted to five.

Considered super-speeding to the moon.

But then he remembered your voice this morning—soft, teasing, your fingers in his hair as you kissed him goodbye.

Do my kisses feel real to you, honey?

And in that moment, Clark knew you’d just smile at him, kiss his cheek, and say yes.

Clark clenched his jaw.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Jimmy repeated, shocked.

“Dinner,” Clark said, rubbing his forehead. “My apartment, next Saturday, 6 pm. All of you.”

There was a moment of stunned silence—and then Jimmy whooped so loudly Clark startled.

“YES!! Lois owes me twenty bucks either way!”

Clark sighed. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”

“Bye, man! Tell your imaginary girlfriend I said hi!”

Clark hung up.

Stared at his home screen.

And muttered to himself, “I’m in hell.”

And that was how Clark ended up standing in the hallway of his apartment, staring into the mirror like it was a hostile witness. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Twice. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he fussed with his shirt collar before fussing with it again, as if neatness alone could protect him from Lois Lane’s investigative instincts.

He leaned in closer, whispering to his own reflection like someone practicing for trial.

“They’re going to like her. They’re definitely going to like her. Right? They like… nice people. She's nice. She's nice—”

His voice cracked a little.

“…they have to like her.”

From the kitchen, you stuck your head out, hair pulled back loosely, your sleeves rolled as you stirred whatever delicious thing was simmering on the stove. You watched him with an amused, fond little smile—the one that always made his heart go soft and silly.

“Clark,” you said gently, “sweetheart, you need to relax. It’s just your friends.”

He turned, wide-eyed. “They’re my only friends.”

You gave him a sympathetic look.

“And,” he added, as if this was crucial, “they’re reporters. They treat fact-checking like a competitive sport. Lois once fact-checked a birthday card I sent her.”

You blinked. “…She what?”

Clark nodded solemnly. “She thought the rhyme sounded suspiciously familiar and wanted to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized it.”

You laughed—warm and bright and soft in a way that melted the tension right out of him like sunlight on snow. He loved that sound. He loved you. He didn’t know how to express it without kissing you breathless.

So instead, you walked over and stood in front of him, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. “Let them inspect,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Let them interrogate. Let them poke and prod. I’m real, aren’t I?”

Clark breathed out slowly, his shoulders loosening. Something in him untangled—something that always did when you were close.

He dipped his head and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, long enough that time blurred. Long enough that the simmering anxiety boiling in his chest cooled instantly. Long enough that if you’d asked him his own name in that moment, he might’ve forgotten it.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment like whipping a rug out from beneath him.

Clark jerked back, eyes wide. “They’re early.”

You grinned. “Perfect.”

“No,” Clark whispered, “not perfect—”

“Perfect,” you insisted, squeezing his forearm. “Let’s blow their minds.”

He stayed frozen in place, somewhere between dread and awe, as you padded lightly toward the door, your steps quiet on the hardwood floor. He swallowed hard, actually tugging on his shirt as if bracing himself for a hurricane.

You pulled the door open.

Three jaws hit the floor.

The room stilled, like even the air was holding its breath.

Lois blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes went from you—standing gorgeous and real and impossibly confident—to Clark, who was ten feet behind you, looking like a deer caught in fluorescent headlights.

“Holy—Clark?” Lois said finally, sounding personally betrayed. “Kent. Kent. You?”

Jimmy was slack-jawed, clutching his imaginary pearls like it had betrayed him. “Dude. No way.”

Cat put a manicured hand dramatically to her chest. “Kent. Kent. Explain yourself immediately.”

Clark made a noise reminiscent of a squeak.

You smiled pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe like you were hosting a magazine photoshoot instead of a confrontation between your boyfriend and three deeply suspicious coworkers. You’d thrown on Clark’s soft plaid shirt, the one you stole more than he wore. It hung just right—oversized, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone so the slightest hint of skin peeked through.

Lois caught that detail. Her eyes widened.

Jimmy swallowed audibly.

Cat muttered something like, “This boy needs to be studied.”

“Hi,” you said warmly. “You must be Clark’s friends. Welcome, come on in.”

Lois walked in first, suspiciously slow, eyes darting back and forth between you and Clark like she was searching for the trapdoor. Like maybe you were a paid actress. Or a hologram. Or a fever dream.

“So,” Lois said carefully, “you’re real.”

You deadpanned, “Last time I checked,” and Lois actually snorted.

Jimmy finally entered, lifting his camera instinctively before catching himself. “I mean—Clark, man, why would you hide her?”

“I wasn’t hiding—!” Clark sputtered, voice squeaking a little.

Cat swept inside like a fashion hurricane, pointing dramatically toward you. “Clark Joseph Kent.” (He winced; she always added the middle name when she wanted to bully him.) “This is not a ‘casual mention’ girlfriend. This is a parade her around, rub it in everyone’s face girlfriend.”

You laughed—bright, musical, genuine.

Clark’s heart squeezed, something tender and helpless blooming under his ribs. God, he loved you.

“Clark didn’t hide me,” you said, stepping closer to him. “We were just… keeping things ours for a little while.”

As you said it, you glanced up at him—the soft, affectionate kind of look that made his breath catch. He stepped forward without thinking, sliding an arm around your waist in a claiming-but-gentle way, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into him. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was relieved. Grounded. Home.

“Exactly,” he murmured, cheeks pink but eyes proud.

Lois narrowed her eyes at him, but a faint grin tugged at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll allow it. But only because she’s too good for you.”

“Hey,” Clark protested, flustered and red-eared.

You patted his chest, smirking up at him. “She’s kind of right.”

He ducked his head with a shy, crooked smile he only ever gave you.

Soon everyone was crowded into the living room—Lois on the armchair with her legs draped over the side like she owned the place, Jimmy cross‑legged on the floor fiddling with his camera lens even though it definitely didn’t need fixing, and Cat perched elegantly on the edge of the couch like she was preparing to interview royalty.

You’d laid out snacks—actual snacks, not Clark’s version of snacks (meaning: whatever was in the fridge and also possibly oatmeal). The room smelled like warm garlic bread, honey butter, and that candle Clark always said reminded him of you.

The atmosphere turned bright, warm, easy—almost shockingly easy, considering Clark had spent all week imagining worst‑case scenarios. You laughing. Them interrogating. Him fainting.

Lois sipped her drink, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living? And is it something that explains why you haven’t run screaming from Kent’s sweater collection?”

You grinned. “I’m a psychologist.” You told her, while Clark watched the tension drain from Lois' posture. She nodded, impressed despite herself.

“Okay,” Lois said. “So you’re smart. Great. Hate that for me—I really wanted ‘imaginary’ to win the bet.”

Jimmy jumped in, eyes bright. “Do you like movies? Because Clark pretends he’s cultured but he fell asleep during Citizen Kane.”

Clark groaned. “It was one time—”

“You snored,” Jimmy added.

Cat, meanwhile, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “Where’d you get your shirt? It’s adorable.”

Clark choked on his drink. You patted his knee. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “It’s vintage.”

Clark silently thanked every Kryptonian god you didn’t clarify whose closet it was “vintage” from.

But every now and then—when Lois was mid‑rant, when Jimmy was telling a story with his whole body, when Cat was giving you unsolicited fashion advice—Clark found himself glancing at you.

Just a flicker, a check‑in, an instinct. And every time, without fail, he saw it.

That soft awe in his own eyes reflected back. That gentle, stunned I can’t believe she’s real. I can’t believe she’s mine. He had to look away before someone noticed, because the last thing he wanted was for his friends to see him looking like a man who’d stumbled into heaven.

Unfortunately, Lois Lane noticed everything.

She leaned over to him during a lull in the conversation and muttered—loudly enough that everyone probably heard—“Kent… you’re punching so far above your weight I’m getting altitude sickness.”

Clark sighed. “Thank you, Lois.”

“It’s not a compliment, it’s an investigation,” she shot back, but she was smiling—genuine, warm. Not a single hint of skepticism left.

Jimmy raised his glass toward the two of you. “To Clark’s very real, very beautiful, very patient girlfriend.”

You laughed. “Patient is right.”

Clark groaned. “You’re all impossible.”

But when he looked at you again, you were already looking at him—eyes soft, amused, full of something warm that made his pulse skip. And suddenly the teasing, the nerves, the entire week of dread felt stupidly small.

Later, after the door closed behind the last guest and the apartment finally settled into silence, you and Clark practically fell onto the couch.

The shared blanket was crooked from earlier but neither of you bothered fixing it—you just dragged it over yourselves, legs tangling instinctively, like magnets that had spent the whole evening politely staying apart for company.

The coffee table was a disaster zone: empty glasses, snack bowls, napkins Lois kept forgetting she dropped mid‑rant, and Cat’s lip gloss, which she’d left beside a half‑finished glass of wine like she meant to claim your vanity next.

Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against your shoulder—warm breath fanning your skin, his whole body relaxing like someone had unplugged a month’s worth of tension.

You gently threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “What?” you asked, amused already because he was clearly trying not to fully laugh.

“They really didn’t believe you existed,” he murmured, voice muffled, half‑laughing, half‑mortified. “Jimmy kept staring at you like you were CGI.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Until I opened the door and blinded them with my beauty?”

Clark snorted—actually snorted—before quickly burying his face in your neck like he could hide the sound. “I mean…” He peeked up at you, cheeks rosy, glasses askew. “That did happen.”

You smirked, tapping his nose lightly. “You know, you could’ve just shown my picture or something.”

Clark froze at that—not offended, not flustered, but something warm and intense blooming behind his eyes. He lifted his head fully, looking at you like you were the one who invented starlight.

His hands slid up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with the kind of tenderness that made your pulse flutter.

“I know, but I think I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone,” he said softly, firmly—like it was a vow he’d been waiting to make out loud. “ This is the first time where I feel at ease in a relationship, you’re… where I belong.”

The words melted right into the center of you—sunlight, warmth, something steady and grounding. You felt it in your ribs. Felt it in your heartbeat.

Your voice was gentler when you spoke. “Come here.”

You cupped his cheeks, mirroring the way he held you—soft palms, soft eyes—and pulled him in. “And you’re where I belong,” you whispered. “Always.”

Clark kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent—as if the whole week of stress had been building to this moment. As if every joke, every doubt, every “imaginary girlfriend” comment finally dissolved under the reality of you in his arms.

You could feel him smiling into the kiss, could feel the relief radiating off him like warmth. Could feel the way he melted when you threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled just a little.

Clark tugged the blanket higher over both of you and pulled you into his chest, the weight of him warm and grounding and entirely yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.

“For what?” you asked.

“For being real,” he said with a soft laugh. “And for proving it so dramatically.”

You laughed too, snuggling into him. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

He tightened his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

Not imaginary. Not unbelievable. Not a joke or a rumor or a bet.

Real. Here. And his.

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