MR

□ • 25 • he/him • chicano trans writer & artist •

[writingdose]

this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.

being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.

whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.

[sweet-hedonist]

Fall on me like night

Armand x reader

You can’t sleep.

Armand helps.

WC: 3.5k

I wrote this instead of sleeping.

"You haven't been sleeping."

What an astute observation, you think to yourself snarkliy, and you're sure he hears the thought.

It's true. Over the past 72 hours, you've maybe gotten a combined 4 hours of sleep. When you signed up for interviewing vampires, you knew it would be atypical hours. And honestly, you were pretty nocturnal yourself. But this was…different.

This was insomnia. Plain and simple. You couldn't fall asleep. Once you fell asleep, it wasn't an issue really. You'd toss and turn but you'd get some rest. Better than none.

It was the falling asleep itself that was the problem. You were still exhausted, ready for sleep, begging for it, but it would not come.

"Give the man a prize. Observant as ever, Armand." Your eyes are lidded in both fatigue and annoyance. The living room is pretty dark, save for the small lamp on the table beside you and the glow of the tv. It's some nature documentary about deep ocean creatures; you'd thought the relaxing visuals and the ambient water noise would coax you towards sleep. Nope.

None of your usual tricks were working. Not tea, not a hot bath with lavender, not weed, not doubling up your anti anxiety meds (don't try that at home kids), nothing was working. And it was starting to affect your job. Louis had asked you were alright a few times now, even Daniel had checked in on you. It was awkward, the pity felt weird. Or maybe it wasn't pity and it was simply concern, you know, a thing that people can feel towards you. The fatigue was making you depressed, sad.

"It's hard to miss, I haven't been attacked during our sessions in three days."

"Consider yourself lucky, it's only a brief respite." Your head rests on a pillow, your body splayed out on the enormous couch.

"I'll be counting the seconds until you've recovered." The fondness in his voice still catches you off guard.

It's been a bit since your first solo session, and since then…progress has certainly been made. He's been more amiable towards you. An undercurrent of tension playing just beneath the surface. But it hasn't…worsened things, or made things awkward. It's almost as if you're both playing a game, and it's one you both enjoy immensely. You still want to win, of course, but that's the fun in it: the other person is trying to win just as hard.

Not to mention the night you stumbled home drunk just before sunrise…

He watches you momentarily, from the edge of the living room - he loves to perch, you've noticed - before walking over to the couch. With a touch of his hand to your calves, you shift them off so he can sit. What catches you completely off guard is his grip around your ankle. He sits, gets comfortable, and places your legs on his lap, hand resting on your lower calf in a way that can only be described as possessive. Perhaps protective, if you're looking at it kindly. Your skin prickles and your ears get hot. He's never been so casual with touch before. Your nerve endings are screaming in satisfaction and agony simultaneously; satisfaction because any touch is like heaven to you, and agony because it is not enough. Thank god you've gotten a little better at shielding your thoughts.

"I'm sure we could have the good doctor prescribe you some sleeping medicine?" He offers, gazing half-heartedly at the TV as images of an angler fish flash on the screen.

A noise of frustration escapes your throat, "They don't work on me, unless it's a full blown sedative. Normal shit like Valium has no effect on me. My physiology is odd." Lots of things don't work on you; sleeping medicine, lots of allergy medicine, local anesthetic, caffeine. Who knows why. Maybe god decided to play a practical joke on you.

Armand seems surprised by that, "Really?"

"Really. Why do you think I reeked of weed last night? Usually I can smoke a little and conk out. But this time…it's different." He tenseness underneath your legs and a stab of regret runs through you.

"Not because of anything in particular, relax. Nothing about our recent sessions or anything that's happened here is causing it. Sometimes I just…can't sleep." You do your best to assuage his anxieties. It's funny. You know you're not his favorite person, but he seems to want to…protect you from certain things. Ugly truths or unsavory scenes, violence, cruelty, etc. He's an interesting creature.

"Yes, the scent was quite overpowering."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." His thumb has pressed into the meat of your calf absent-mindedly, pressing and rubbing in small little circles. It's…nice.

The screen goes red, as the image of Vampyroteuthis Infernalis, or 'The Vampire Squid From Hell' appears on screen.

"Why are you watching this? Will it not give you nightmares, seeing such fearsome creatures before bed?"

"I'm currently living with two fearsome creatures who I see before bed every night, so no." You smile gently, and even though you don't turn to look at him, you can feel the smirk settle on his face. His thumb nail digs into your skin playfully, a warning far too teasing to be sincere.

"Funny."

Silence lapses momentarily as you stare at the undulating form of the squid.

"Is it odd to hear about creatures named after you? Or…be confronted with vampires in pop culture?" It's a question you've been meaning to ask. He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts - he always does this when you ask him these kinds of questions. Like he's taking the time to actually give you a meaningful answer. You shift, no longer laying on your side but on your back, leaning against the pillow you've stuffed against the arm of the couch. You can see his face now, painted in the colorful glow of the TV.

"I can see why humans named it such, the Vampire Squid From Hell. It is quite fearsome." His hand has shifted to your shin, letting the tips of his nails drag back and forth over your skin, featherlight. It's strangly comforting.

"As for pop culture…it's interesting, more than anything, to see what humans come up with in terms of story. The lore isn't always accurate but it's…nice to see us represented in different lights than just 'monsters'."

"Mm. Have a favorite?"

"I'm partial to A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, despite how new it is. The original Nosferatu is interesting enough, though I'm not a fan of German expressionism-"

"No you like the romantic era of art. Classical." You interrupt him, not unkindly.

"I do. Though I seem to remember you do as well." He's picked up on your avoidance of talking about yourself sometimes and seems to have made it a part of his life's mission to turn your own questions back on you as often as he can.

A sigh escapes your lips, "Yes, you remember correctly. Bram Stokers Dracula was a formative film for me. Still tear up a little bit."

"That explains quite a lot. I believe you would say 'that tracks'." The smile is audible in his voice. You sit up slightly, and narrow your eyes at him, mouth agape. He turns to you eyebrows raised and smiling, the picture of amusement.

"I can't believe you just used modern slang. Who are you and what have you done with the Vampire Armand?" You playfully admonish.

"One can only hear something for so long until it bleeds into their own vernacular." He counters.

"I could kick you right now."

"You won't." And he's right. This is too nice. You slump back down, arms crossed indignantly, glancing back at the TV briefly. It strikes you, how so many people might call these creatures monsters, and how beautiful you think they are. That seems to be a running theme for you. Finding beauty in the monstrous.

"A lot of humans often use vampirism as a metaphor. Queerness, otherness, love and consumption, sexuality. Not for nothing, I think vampiric media is some of our best. It certainly resonates with a lot of people. I don't know if that's comforting or not, but there are swathes of people who are more than sympathetic to you." Your eyes droop a little, but you're no less tired.

A deep breath has his chest rise and fall, though he does not require it.

"It's not comforting but it's not…discomforting. It baffles me, that humans could sympathize with things meant to kill them."

"Humans will sympathize with anything. We pack bond. We stare at monsters and ask if we can pet them, stare at wild animals and ask for cuddles. Why should that instinct stop at vampires?" You should be writing this down. You should be recording this. It's good stuff, but you wouldn't dare move. Wouldn't dare break this moment of peace with him.

He eyes you again. "Speaking from experience, are you?"

"Of course." It's your lack of hesitation that has him thrown. Your complete unabashed confirmation.

He's not looking at you now, eyebrows furrowed and staring ahead at nothing.

"It's a part of who we are, as predators. Everything about us is disarming to our prey. It is how we are made. Any sympathy might just be the result of evolutionary manipulation on our part." His tone is melancholy. It doesn't suit him, though you know from the interviews that he seems to be melancholy quite often.

"You underestimate humans ability to connect. Maybe it's because you've been so far removed from them." It's not a judgement. Just an observation. He knows it too, turning to you. Just looking at you, maybe looking for something.

"Not all of them are as kind in their assessment as you." His hand has stilled, just holding your ankle softly. It's a welcome feeling.

"Then seek out the kind ones." You know it's advice that you should be taking yourself. Your loneliness, your anxiety, they are so massive within you that they threaten to swallow you whole. You should be seeking out the kindness. Instead, you retract into yourself, fearful of possibility, fearful of change and of future, of rejection and fearful of what could go wrong. Your thoughts must be loud or you must have not been concentrating because Armand is rubbing you calf again, giving you a concerning look.

"Your sleep deprivation is worsening your mental state." It's not a judgement, just an observation.

"I know, I'm aware, but that doesn't make it go away." Your response is sad, full of understanding, and hopeless in a way. It's moments like these where you feel as if there is nothing you can do but soldier through, as unhealthy as that is. But it's how you've lived your life.

You're both silent for a few minutes, just existing in each others space. It's nice. The fish swim by on the screen, a nautilus, bioluminescent sea cucumber, copypods that shoot glowing goo out into the open dark water.

"I might be able to help you sleep, if you're amenable to that." Armand breaks the silence. His voice is tentative, small, a drop in a bucket.

What? Your eyes shift to his in question, "Help me sleep?"

"Yes. It wouldn't be hard. Or uncomfortable for you." He seems to be genuine, though he hasn't looked at you since he's said it.

You're not quite sure how you feel about having a vampire jn your head. It's happened before, and you can't make up your mind on how to feel. On one hand, it's miraculous. Being able to hear his thought that he shares with you, the sheer power he has, it's awesome in the literal sense of the word. On the other, it's terrifying. The being perceived of it all, the fact that he's in there and could do anything. Dangerous.

And yet.

"You want to help me sleep. Why?"

He sighs, "For one, your depressing thoughts are loud. Don't, say you're sorry. You have no reason to be." He silences you before you can apologize, your mouth snapping shut.

"Additionally, it doesn't feel right to spar with you when you're like this. Feels unfair. Like you better at full health." He's smiling again, and it's a pretty thing.

"Only if you're comfortable, of course." Ever the gentleman. Turning it over in your head, you sit up, eyeing him. He eyes you back.

At this point, you'll try anything.

"Alright. But not out here. I'll wake up with the worst crick in my neck if I sleep on this couch." Slowly, and with great effort, you swing your legs up off of him and off the couch, loving to a sitting position. Absentmindedly, you click off the TV and just sit there for a moment.

"Am I standing yet?"

A laugh, "I'm afraid not"

"Goddamnit." And you're standing. Your whole body aches, protesting leaving the warmth of the blanket snd the couch, protesting the movement.

"Ok." You sigh, and turn to walk to your room. Armand follows behind you, not too close, not hovering.

Your room is an extension of you. A bit messy, a little unorganized, but so very you. It reminds you of your college dorm, in a very fond way. It feels familiar, even though you've only been here for a little while. Walking in, you sit on the edge of your bed, fish out a pill from the little orange bottle on your nightstand and swallow it with a swig of your water bottle.

Armand is stuck in the doorway, watching you, looking at the room.

"Sorry it's a little messy."

"Don't be sorry, it's very you."

Warmth spreads through your chest. To be known, and all that…

He stays there a little longer, and your brows furrow. Armand hasn't been in your room before.

"Don't tell me you need an invitation." There's a lilt to your voice, and he's rolling his eyes at it.

"I don't need one, no. But I wanted to give you the chance to. This is your space. You haven't entered my bedroom." He shrugs to seem nonchalant but you can tell, he's incredibly chalant, old fashioned thing that he is. 500 years old..god, you forget sometimes, how different of a time he is from.

"Thank you. You're welcome to come in Armand." You say as you pull back the covers, sliding yourself under them, rubbing your legs together like a cricket.

He enters the room and you suddenly understand why he was giving you the benefit of inviting him in. Armand in your room is…well it sure is something. You pray to god you haven't left out anything embarrassing for him to pick up on, but that's the least of your worries.

A vampire. In your space. That you allowed in. There is something that started buzzing in the atmosphere somewhere as soon as he stepped in. Jesus, how will you sleep now. His fingers catch on the edges of the balled up bedsheet you threw onto your dresser.

"No sheet?"

"No, it makes me too hot and gets tangled up in my legs." He nods, like it makes perfect sense. You sleep on the left side of the bed - it's at least a queen - farther from the door. He walks over to the opposite side, and sits on the edge.

"It would be better if you got comfortable first."

"Right." You crawl down further under the covers, arrange your pillows how you like them, and move to lay on your right side, so you're facing him. He's brought himself fully onto the bed, leaning against the headboard casually, one leg stretched out and one bent, his elbow resting on it.

"Ok…you're not just gonna…snap and I'm out right? That would be…jarring." You blurt out, suddenly nervous.

He chuckles, low and warm. "No. Close your eyes." You oblige.

You feel the bed shift as he leans over to shut off the light, plunging the room into darkness. A fan whirs somewhere, the white noise a necessity for you to fall asleep, vampire compulsion aside.

There's a vampire in your bed, and you're line with him in the dark. Terror should be seizing you. You should be running, screaming. But it does not, and you don't. In fact, you feel safer than you've ever felt before. And in this moment, you don't care about how that might make you ducked up or insane. Right now, you're just excited to sleep.

Featherlight at first, his fingers brush over your forehead, your brow, smoothing away any tension. They eventually find your hair, skimming over it gently.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time." He starts, voice syrupy and dreamy and like a velvet robe. You knew what compulsion sounded like, knew what it felt like.but instead of fighting it like you had before, you slowly, very slowly, welcomed it as he continued.

"You have been searching for me, all your life, especially recently." His hand moving lazily over and through your hair, playing with it. The repetitive motions lull you further into relaxation along with his voice.

"With every sunrise seen by tired eyes, every cup of coffee that fails to rouse you from your fatigue, and every aid that has failed you, I have been waiting." His words weave a web around you, the beginning of one, but you don't feel fear. You're still aware of things, still present in your own mind, but things have…filled. Rough edges have been smoothed out as his words wash over you.

"I know you seek me. The warmth of a blanket, the softness of hands on your skin, the gentle drift from conscious to unconscious. I am here now, and you can cease your search." Tension in your body is melting away, limb by limb, everywhere. Your breathing begins to even, and your eyelids are so heavy you could not have opened them even if you wanted to.

"And who can blame you? You have been unfairly kept from me. But it isn't your fault. Not at all, not even close. Sometimes these things happen. But it's been long enough, hasn't it?" It has, you think to yourself, and a part of you aches. To be spoken to kindly, sweetly, gently…it's beyond words, how nice it feels. Nice isn't even the correct word, but you don't think there's a word out there that properly describes what you're feeling.

"Yes, it has. But you don't have to worry anymore. I'm here now. Nothing will harm you, there is only you, and me, in this space. Nothing waiting to swallow you up, in fact, it doesn't exist here. You are free of it. Let it go." And you do. You have so much worry. Bundled up in your chest, knotted up in your blood vessels and arteries like a cats cradle. You're protective of it, strangely; it's been with you all your life. But you let him pick apart the tangles and loops, let him comb through them with deft hands.

"You don't have to fight. You don't have to be strong now. Let it take you, let yourself be. Let yourself rest. You deserve it. It is as easy as breathing for you." And it is. It's all falling away with every exhale, every pass of his fingers through your hair, on your scalp.

"Like coming home after a long drive, like sitting down after hours standing, like coming home to the person you love…" his voice has both quieted and intensified. Like it's a gentle whisper coming from inside your head.

"Let go. You are holding on so tightly. Let go, and slip into dreams. Into watch. I'm here now. Rest." And with no hurrah, no warning or sign, you gently slip into unconsciousness, the last thing you feel being his hand in your hair.

He stays for far longer than you'll realize, long after your breathing has evened and your mind has slowed to that of sleep. Staring at you, as if you were some mysterious work of art.

Sympathetic to vampires…finding beauty in monstrosity. You perplexed him.

With the grace and agility that could only be attributed to his vampiric nature, he rises. Barely making a sound. He stares at you a moment longer and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and smooths the hair away from your face on last time, hand lingering on your delicate cheek.

"Rest well." He whispers your name like a prayer, guilty and reverential, before slipping away, further into the penthouse. But not before feeling the waves of peace, and safety, and affection rolling off of you.

He feels it, bottles it, and stores it deep in his chest cavity, and it's almost enough to warm his whole body.

[lestattdelioncourtt]

MISS WORLD / ARMAND 🦢

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٭ this was such a joy writing and i hope i captured armand's character the best i could!! <33

cw: slightly heavy themes, drug abuse, alcoholism, implied sa, angst, reader has depression and does self deprecate often, some fluff, clara's cringey writing (word count: 2,644) !! (btw this is set in the 70s!! 70s armand ilysm)

summary: when two people who have been preforming their whole lives meet, who will break first?

"Let's rerun that." You enunciated, leaving everyone in the rehearsal studio sighing.

"We have rerun it—four times." Your director spoke. "It's almost nine and I need to get home."

You scoffed at him, and then turn to the group, reluctantly sighing and giving up.

"Fine." You walked over for your bag and left the studio.

Just a few weeks ago it was announced you would be Odette in Swan Lake, even with your audition being done half high, you still got the role. You only did the drugs for confidence you told yourself, believing it so guilt wouldn't consume you.

You drove back to your apartment, some radio station blasting some song you've heard millions of times. Life always felt like a loop these days. You didn't even know whether if it was Monday or Wednesday.

You drove into the parking lot of your apartment complex, stepping out of your car to smoke a joint. You could practically hear your mothers voice.

"Too much like your father."

You never wanted to be like him. He was a dead beat. And from what you remember as a kid? He wasn't kind.

You extinguished the joint with your thumb before picking up your bag, and walking inside.

You walked into your apartment, dropping your bag by the door. You slowly layed down against your bed, letting the haze from the joint curl up into your mind. Your gaze flickered over to the television remote, turning something on to leave noise within the room.

You closed your eyes, your vision going dark. You needed to relax with everything in the upcoming week. Opening night. If you weren't perfect, what were you? Why let your mother win this war over whether moving to San Francisco to pursue ballet was right or not? You let those thoughts circle over and over and over.

"Failure."

"Like your dad."

"Overachiever."

"Worthless."

The next day you had time before rehearsal so you decided to stop by the library to pick up a history book for your college class.

While skimming over the books you notice one familiar name.

Daniel Molloy.

Your childhood best friend who turned into an author. You and him grew distant in high school, but you were always there for each other through shitty times. He was somewhere upstate last you heard from him. Now he's a writer.

You grabbed his book off the shelf before moving on. You decided to move on and look through the books they had over history. While trying to find a book, you notice some old hookup of yours from a while back in your peripheral vision, who was approaching now.

The experience with him was horrible. He was rough, and it kinda left you fucked up for a good while.

You evaded him and snuck around one of the bookshelves, accidentally bumping into someone.

Shit.

You look up and are greeted by a man who's face is dimmed by the broken light fixture above. You pull back to see his face which is partially covered by his dark curls that frame around his jawline. Before he can speak, you walk off from embarrassment, muttering a quick sorry before walking out of the library.

You storm out to your car, opening the door and slumping down into the front seat. A terrible feeling pricks at your eyes—you pull out a pack of cigarettes. Your shaky hands slowly lighting one before bringing it to your lips.

How could you embarrass yourself again? You thought. What's gonna happen when the show comes around and you embarrass yourself onstage.

You dropped the cigarette out the window, driving away from the library.

You went out to the dance studio early, you needed your mind off shit and what better way was drugs and dance. You open your purse to get a cigarette, but one significant thing was missing—your journal.

It was a tattered, broken thing, but nonetheless you'd been writing in it since practically middle school. It was the only thing you had since before your life turned shit. You inhaled sharply before light a cigarette.

In the studio you tie up your pointe shoes, letting your legs stretch out before standing and warming up. You walked over to the record player, letting the main piece play as you began to dance.

You let yourself feel the character—you became the Odette. Everything felt a blur, you never missed a turn though. You felt perfect—then there was a shadow in the mirror. You fell out of your turn, your head turning to the back of the room. Nothing.

This fucking dance was going to kill you.

You walked over to the record player and restarted the vinyl. Sinking back into the role of Odette once again. Then there were footsteps. Your director. The music stopped abruptly, you paused your dance to turn to him.

"You're here early." He said, gazing over you with a look regard. "Why?"

"I had the free time. I want to be perfect for the show. I will be perfect for the show."

He sighed, giving you a once over before pulling a chair over to the record player, sitting down.

"It's funny you constantly say that—we both know you dance circles around half the girls in this company. But besides that, what makes you believe you're not perfect?"

You paused, you felt like you were trapped in some display case. You mutter out a lame excuse.

"I fall out of turns, I am offbeat-" Your words spill out before he pauses you.

"So have the greats, Anna Pavlova, Margot Fonteyn, even Natalia Makarova. But wanna know why they continued? Ballet was their passion. I picked you for the role of Odette because of your passion. I would hate to see you burn out of that passion."

You try to speak but are interrupted by him again.

"I'm giving you the night off—go out somewhere, go home even. Do not burn yourself out though. It would be a shame to lose someone with a talent like yours."

You hesitantly nod, biting the inside of your cheek from the spiking anxiety.

"Okay, Thank you, sir."

You grabbed your bag and walked out of the studio to your car.

You knew he was right—you had been overworking yourself since you got the role. But you couldn't falter on stage, you had to be perfect. You had to finally prove your mother wrong, you had to show her you weren't your father, you were going to be something—you were going to be someone in this world, and you weren't going to give a fuck about what she said about it.

You drove off, the blinding lights of San Francisco rushing beside you like a river of neon luminescence. You pulled into the parking lot of a bar you used to go to. You walked inside, the smell of liquor confusing your senses. You walked up to the barstool. Your director said to take a break tonight, so why not get fucked up.

A few drinks in and it all felt like a mistake, your senses were bombarded by the crowds inside and the thunderous noises being made. Your body slumped down slightly, until footsteps approached you.

"Are you alright?" A calm voice in this catastrophic place—it felt like a lifeline. Finally you looked up. The man you had bumped into earlier. You could see him better now, even with your fuzzy vision.

His dark curls had still framed his jawline, he was dressed nicely—nicer than most guys in the bar. His eyes were a lovely cognac color—quite an odd color for eyes but nonetheless quite bewitching. His eyes seemed deep, like he had been through so much in life even though he looked quite young. The auburnish color of his eyes reminded you of the autumn, back when your grandparents would take you out to the forest near your house when your parents fought—the trees and their leaves were left with the burnt orange color of which his eyes now stared at you. He looked as if he wasn't even from this century. He gave off this otherworldly aura, he had a regal way about him.

You leaned up finally to speak, "Yeah, I'm alright, are you? I'm still so sorry I bumped into earlier."

His lips had crooked up into a small, faint smile.

"You have no need to apologize. " You had heard him better that time, you had realized he had a lilting French accent. "Armand." He spoke, leaning slightly closer.

Armand.

You felt weirdly drawn to him even after a minute of interaction. It was a strange feeling, yet you couldn't help but ignore it. Before you could reply with your name, he interrupts you.

"I already know your name." Confusion washed over you before he pulled out your journal from your bag. Your eyes lit up.

"Oh my God, thank you so much... Shit, I thought I had lost this forever. Where did you find it?" Your voice was slightly croaky from the drinks earlier, but nonetheless your happiness shined through it.

"You had dropped it when you bumped into me, before I could point it out you had run out the door." You flip through the pages while listening—your eyes still beaming. "If you're curious, I did not read it. Just the name on the cover."

You looked back up at him, a small smile creeping onto your face. "I cannot thank you enough, seriously... "

He sits on the barstool next to you, his eyes roaming over you—taking note of the slightly smudged mascara, and the clear sight of exhaustion in your eyes.

"Are you sure you're alright?" There was a hint of curiosity in that melodic voice of his, but something else that signified he had already known the answer.

"I've had a shitty day." You fiddled with the journal in your hands. "Life has to go on though."

"I was curious." He stated. "After you had bumped into me suddenly and then ran out of the library."

You take a sip of your drink, trying to avoid his gaze. "Saw an old ex is all, tried to get out before he could try and strike up a conversation with me. " You finally look up at him—there was no sign he was bored of you, there was a look of gentle understanding.

He nods before speaking in a gentle voice, as if not to scare a wild animal. "Why drink yourself into oblivion?" Before you could argue back he speaks again. "Why add onto the stress you already have? Why add more worry?" His penetrating gaze sent shivers throughout your body. They way he spoke and looked at you made you feel like the only person in the whole world.

"It's all I know how to do... I don't know how to cope healthy." Your voice is softer, more reflective now. You take another sip of your drink, your throat feeling like fire as you swallowed. You turn back to him. "Life hasn't always been kind to me. I don't know how else to cope with it."

Everything starts to build up, the head splitting noise of the crowd, the heat inside the bar, and his sharp gaze still upon you. You breathing starts to pick up slightly, your hand gripping the bar table. "I'm sorry." You breathe out, grabbing your jacket and walking outside.

You walk down the alley, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. Your hands shake slightly, until you look over and see Armand approaching you.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable, I was simply curious. " His voice echoed throughout the alleyway, causing you to standup straighter.

"It wasn't that... it was just loud. I got a bit overwhelmed." You bring the cigarette to your lips before exhaling. "It was also annoyingly hot in there."

"I understand. Life here can feel like you're drowning." You look back to him, fumbling slightly in your pockets for another cigarette for him. You offer your lighter along with it. You watch as he lights the joint, bringing it to his lips before exhaling. "It can all be unnerving, the bright lights, the noise. Like harsh winds during a storm."

You nod, your gaze catching his again. "I came here to get away from my mother actually—I wanted to be a ballerina. Now that I am one... it doesn't seem all perfect, not matter how hard I try." You slightly lean against the wall for support, the effects of the drinks starting to take over.

Armand's gaze roams over you, a hint of concern in those citrine eyes. "Do you have anyone you need me to call? Is there anything I can do? You don't look like you feel well."

You stumble slightly. Your words starting to slur. You drop the cigarette and crush it. "I should be fine... I think. I wouldn't have anyone to call if I weren't anyways. I think I need to get home... "

He stops you before you could stumble again. "I can walk you home. If you would prefer. I would rather not have you roaming the streets of San Francisco at night while intoxicated.

You sigh reluctantly, not wanting to have someone to depend upon getting home. Yet, he was right. You finally nod. "Yeah, uhm my apartment isn't far from here."

You two finally started walking, Armand's hand always seconds away to grab your shoulder if you stumbled.

"How long have you lived in California?" You asked, your voice quiet as the night around you.

"A few years now... I used to live in Paris. Life had other plans so now I am here." Armand replied, the moon making it appear as if his eyes were glowing.

You give a soft smile to him. "That explains the accent." He offers a gentle smile in return before you spoke again. "I've always wanted to go to Paris... it is deeply rooted in the arts. I would like to move there at some point."

"It isn't as loud as San Francisco. The art is quite lovely." His eyes hold nostalgia now, his voice melancholic. "It is truly a beautiful place. I would gladly give an itinerary if you do go."

A laugh falls from your lips. "I may have to take you up on that offer, Armand." You fidget with your jacket. "I'm from Modesto. I just need away from California in all honesty. It is predictable, it's getting dull and boring. I need something new in life."

Armand nods, his curls slightly bouncing. "Life can get tedious... living in the same place for such a long time. I agree. Life can grow lacking without new experiences."

You look up to see your apartment nearing.  "That's exactly what I'm thinking... I want something new.  Instead it just falls into a continuous loop day after day."  You finally reach the complex.  "Here's my place.  You slowly walk closer to the building before turning back to Armand, who seemed slightly sad the conversation was over.  

"Thank you, Armand. What you did was very kind." You smile tiredly. "I would love to do it again anytime you're free. "

He returns your smile, the street lamp overhead illuminating the two of you. "I may have to take you up on that offer. It has been a while since I have found myself craving to continue a conversation with someone. You are very interesting."

You laugh, "Thank you, for walking me home, and returning my journal." You begin to walk up the stairs, the shadows of the two of your bodies growing further from each other. You look back once more to him, those amber eyes giving a soft look to you before you turn back and walk inside your apartment.

hiii, i hope u enjoy this cause i loved writing it!! ik they didn't kiss or anything but for pt. 1 I wanted to develop emotional intimacy before all else!! love u guys smm <33

[ilikepuns]

nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping

chapter 1 of 3: can't take my charm

note: description of panic attacks, severe survivor's guilt, animal death (heavily described, but no gore is mentioned), hints of character death, vampires and revenant vampires exist, reader is Going Through It, armand and daniel are Weird

You didn't even know the world had ended.

You lived on a small plot of land with your parents. Eventually, they retired and traveled the world, leaving you with the house that you had grown up in and intended to live in for the rest of your life.

It wasn't small by any means, you had enough room for a small garden and a shed in the back where you housed all your father's tools. You and your mother always teased your father about his lack of impulse control when it came to buying work equipment. He never made any quips back, he would just scratch his head and go back to work. This extended to the amount of household supplies he would purchase at stores.

You suspected he had an underlying need to always be in control, and that piled up quite literally in the amount of toiletries and canned food that had stocked up. Looking back, you had to give your father credit.

Without his paranoia, you might have never survived this long.

In the beginnning, all you heard were whispers of something killing animals. Briefly there was panic that it was another pathogenic pandemic, but it was quickly discovered that was not the case.

It was people.

People with fangs deep enough to puncture any vein in the human or an animal's body. People who were no longer stopped by bullets or any other weapon that others used on them. People that spontaneously combusted in the sunlight, slowly killed by fire, and who were basically walking corpses.

You laughed until your sides hurt when you realized what they were. Vampires. They were real, not something from stories or sparkly actors on TV. They existed and they stopped at nothing to get what they wanted. You were tempted to throw out your merchandise of a famous franchise with those same creatures, but you decided to keep it; to remind yourself that irony can still exist in this godforsaken new world.

It was almost evening, the sun sinking lower over the flat terrain that spanned as far as the eye could see. You sat in one of the rocking chairs your father had made for you and your mother. She was always fond of sitting outside whenever the cooler seasons came about. You sticked to sitting in your own chair. The wind caused the empty chair to rock back and forth to make it seem like someone else was sitting beside you.

You tapped your foot and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Birds were less commonplace. You assumed that it was because of the lack of humans in the area that caused the vampires to eat animals instead.

The sun had finally set.

There was nothing at first, at least that you could hear. But in the far distance you were able to catch something moving. It was one of those…weird ones. The kind of vampires that looked more like a corpse than a human. And it was heading towards your home. Without wasting any time to potentially catch its attention, you bolted out of your chair and deadbolted the door behind you.

You ran to the very back of your home into your room, locking and barricading your door as well. Superhuman strength or not, the precautions you took would buy you some time. But your main hope was that it would find the empty field that made up your backyard, maybe get stuck in one of the many holes you dug at the start of your lone survival.

It was silent, with no sounds of it trying to break in. You moved as quietly as you could to the window next your childhood bed.

As you peered out between the blinds, you prayed to whatever God was still listening that it would just go far far away from you and your home. That you wouldn't have to do what you had been doing whenever a vampire wandered onto your land.

Unfortunately, you saw its form stalk into your field of vision.

Its skin was pallid and rotting. It was balding as well, the lack of hair exposing a putrid scalp and cracked skin. No doubt it smelled grotesque as well.

You kneeled and reached underneath your bed for a box. Inside was all the material you used to…get rid of them.

You grabbed the alcohol bottle and stuffed a piece of cloth inside of it, grabbing a lighter as well. You lifted the miniblinds and opened your window. The thing was still limping in your field, not alerted to your presence just yet.

Carefully, you leaned the upper half of your body out the window, bottle in one hand, lighter in the other. You flicked the lighter, sparks flying but not igniting. By the fourth try, you were panicking. The thing still hadn't seen you, but your fingers were shaking from the fear that it might.

In your haste to set fire to the cloth, you dropped the lighter. Cursing internally, you give up on getting rid of the zombie and shut your window and blinds as quickly as you could.

You had successfully killed three vampire…zombies? All the previous times were via molotov cocktail and all three times you had forced yourself to watch them burn in the field.

The smell of their burning flesh and their piercing screams have followed you ever since. To rationalize your decision, you told yourself that they weren't even human anymore. Their brains no doubt shut down the moment they pursued flesh and blood in place of other food.

They weren't human, and you were doing them the favor. From afar, of course.

Sitting on the ground in front of your now closed window, knees to your chest, you wondered what your parents would think of you now. Their only surviving child, hiding like a coward and using molotov cocktails to kill people vampires in the name of keeping themself safe.

You would laugh, but instead you froze any and all movement the moment you saw a shadow cover you from outside your window.

You covered your mouth muffle your gasp. The shadow was moving, its noises audible despite the glass barrier. You flinched as you heard a thump against the window, and your hand found the alcohol bottle once more. Despite a lack of ignition, you grasped onto it in case you needed something to throw.

Your heart was pounding, sending blood rushing to your ears and the overpowering feeling of adrenaline coursing through your veins. The whitekunckled grip you had on the bottle caused a dull pain that your nervous system ignored.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the shadow disappeared, and you heard nothing from outside.

You slowly stood and looked out between the blinds.

Nothing was there. You were safe, at least for now.

You sat on the edge of your bed, still clutching the unlit makeshift explosive. It wasn't until much later, when you finally made your way into the restroom that you realized you were crying.

—

The next morning would be better, that you could be certain. You would make it better. Given the isolated nature of your home, you had to rely on the provisions you already had.

You tried your hand at scavenging a couple weeks back. You barely made it to your first house before you turned back.

The smell was awful.

Luckily, thanks to your father's paranoia, combined with your perpetual anxiety about your safety, you rarely ate full meals. You prefered to eat little snacks here and there, and it seemed to do the trick.

You were getting worried about water, though.

While you collected rainwater in barrels near the side of your house for recreational along with nutritional use, you were down to one barrel. And you promised yourself you'd only start drinking the water bottles you had in case things got more dire. You stared at the ceiling of your bedroom, still laying in your pajamas.

"Today is going to be just fine. You'll see. " You whispered. Optimism, despite how inconvienent it was in a world like this, was one of the only things keeping you going.

You sat yourself up at the same time you heard a gunshot go off.

You sprang up, hesitating before running towards the front door of the house. You peered through the peephole, then the side window that was covered by a curtain. From there, you could see a person running through the land, being chased by what looked like a pack of wild dogs.

You removed yourself from the window and backed away from the door.

"Please don't come here. Please don't come here. " You whispered once more, clasping your hands together like that would help your pleas come true. You continued taking steps backward, eventually turning before-

BAM! BAM! BAM!

You jumped as the knob of your door began to shake.

"HEY! Is anyone here?! Oh God, please!! " It was a male's voice, maybe around your age. He banged on the door again, and you covered your ears.

Bringing someone in, risking your safety for a man you didn't know wasn’t smart. But you don't think you could live with yourself if you just let a person die on your front porch.

You unlocked a side window leading to your roof and your bedroom window. You picked up as many rocks on the ground as you could and shoved them into your pockets. The sound of barking and the man's pleas grew louder as you climbed to the top of your house.

You caught sight of the dogs just as they were about to make it to your front yard. You dug into your pockets, took aim, and began throwing the rocks.

You felt bad for them. They were diseased, likely infected by rabies and whatever else those monsters brought to the world. The rocks seemed to grab their attention away from the man, who had quieted, and towards you instead.

They snarled and snapped, trying to climb up the side of the house and tear you apart. But that didn't happen. Instead, you army crawled to the other side of your home near your bedroom, clambered your way back in and went back to the front of the house.

You pressed youself as close as possible to the door for him to hear, clearing your throat.

"They're far enough away now, you can go. " You said.

"Please let me in. " He begged, and you chewed the bottom of your lip.

"I can't do that. " You replied.

"Can't or won't?! You don't know what it's like out here, man, I just need a place to stay! " His tone shifted to one of desperation and you knew you made the right choice not opening your home to him.

"I'm sorry. Please go. " You responded and began walking away once more. Like you should've the first time.

"Oh, come on! Come on, open the door! " He slammed what sounded like his palm against the door, but you continued on.

You shut yourself in your room and took to reading a book to take your mind off of the only other person you had seen in weeks. The same person who might have been eaten alive by dogs or vampires or who knows what else because of you.

You made it ten pages before the noises ceased entirely.

By the time you made it onto the porch, the man and the dogs were gone. Well, most of them.

There was a dead dachshund on your porch.

You recognized it as Caramel, one of your neighbors dogs. You never interacted with your neighbor much, but Caramel was always outside running around, a little happy bundle of energy.

And now here he was, as still as you ever saw him, on your porch. You didn't want to think about how scared he must've been in his final moments. Instead, you took a towel from your bathroom, wrapped his little body up, and took him to your backyard.

You laid his body gingerly on the ground and began digging a hole as fast as you could with your hands. Despite knowing that the vampires were only active at night, you wanted to spend as little time as possible outside. The rooftop attack alone had your mind moving on autopilot and at risk of shortcircuiting. But this was for Caramel, an innocent dog that just wanted to survive, same as you.

As soon as you dug as deep as you could manage, you placed Caramel into the hole. Taking a deep breath, you tried not to sob as you began covering the towel with dirt. That notion failed almost immediately as your eyes became more blurry the more dirt you added.

A twig snapped somewhere in the distance, and that was it.

You bolted, hands covered in dirt and sweaty from the adrenaline pumping through your being. You slammed the door behind you and locked it before slumping down into a pile of sobs and dry heaving.

You couldn't even bring yourself to give a dog a proper burial; what kind of a coward were you?

That question, along with many others, went unanswered as you attempted to lift yourself up. It took a couple of tries, but you did it. You needed to eat, maybe drink some water, too. You opened one of your limited supply of water bottles and took a shaky sip. There was a can of peaches staring at you from the corner of your food stack. You grabbed it and popped it open, inhaling their sweet smell. You sipped that, too, chewing on your peaches on the floor.

No amount of optimism would have helped you turn this into a better day.

—

A few days went by without incident. On the fourth day, as you were contemplating trying again to go out and scavenge, it rained. You almost started shouting with joy, but you stifled that in favor of a fist pump. You watched your open barrels of rainwater fill up and overflow from your kitchen window. You'd have to go out and lid them once it stopped raining before anything had a chance to lay their eggs in the water.

With scavenging off the table, you busied yourself with organizing your food supply. Then you organized your clothing. Eventually, though, with how limited your space was, you had nothing left to sort.

Pleased with how tidy everything was, you settled into your bed. You pulled the blankets to your chest, one of your favorite, well-loved books in your hands.

You began reading out loud, mostly for yourself, since you didn't want to go hoarse from not speaking very often, and to fill the house with something more than your noises of distress.

The pattering of rain against the house and the rumble of thunder was nostalgic. It reminded you of spending nights like these between your parents when you were still small enough to sleep in their bed.

You were on the cusp of fully letting sleep overttake you, book falling from your grasp when-

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You immediately jolted up, pulse skyrocketing. At first, you thought you were hallucinating, the stress of your situation finally breaking you, when you heard it again.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It was a polite knocking that you were no longer used to hearing.

You started to shut your door, barricade, cover your ears until everything stopped.

But then there was a little voice in your head telling you that the person knocking wanted to help you. Perhaps they just were just checking if you were in danger, and you should let them know you're okay.

You shook your head, not even recognizing that train of thought. What if they were dangerous? Or they knew you were alone and vulnerable, and they wanted to hurt you in order to take the house for themselves?

The risk was too great.

But so was rejecting possible aid. Not everyone had bad intentions, and there was no harm in asking behind the safety of your door.

There was no harm in asking.

There was no harm in asking.

You blinked, and all of a sudden, you found yourself with your hand on the unlocked front doorknob. Before you could question how you could walk from your bed to the door without realizing it, you were already opening the door.

It wasn't just one man knocking.

On your porch, soaked from head to toe, were two men. One of them was younger, with dark curls and piercing golden eyes. The other was old enough to be your grandfather, with silver curls and sunglasses on the bridge of his nose.

Before you got the urge to slam the door in their faces, the younger man spoke.

"Hello there. I apologize for the interruption, but would you mind if we come in? It's awfully wet out here. " His tone was polite, but his eyes...

They weren't blinking.

Your head was feeling light, suddenly, but you managed a slight shake and responded,

"Uh…I'm sorry, but I can't let you in. "

"Why not? You got the room. " The older man said, his arms crossing over his chest.

"I just, " You swayed, but you caught yourself. "Don't feel comfortable-"

"Letting strange men into your home? " The one with dark curls finished for you. "I can assure you, we are not a threat. " He took a step forward, and you wanted to bolt into the safety of your room. But you couldn't.

"Listen, I think we'd all be better off you just let us in, okay? " The other one spoke.

You blinked, trying to gain your bearings in front of these men, but it was getting harder and harder to stay on your feet.

Against your better judgment and everything in your body screaming at you to run away and tell these men to do the same, you relented. You moved to the side, allowing both of them to enter your home without any more conflict.

As soon as you bolted the door behind you, the queasiness you were experiencing vanished. You stood straighter, staring at the men staring at you.

You gulped.

"Are you two gonna kill me? " You asked, eyes flickering between the two of them.

They looked at each other at the same time before sliding their gaze to you.

"No. " The younger one responded, finally remembering to blink.

"Not unless you give us a reason to. " The one with silver curls bluntly stated.

You almost collapsed on the spot, but you somehow found the strength to continue standing. You nodded, trying to play along with them in hopes that they would find your submission to be favorable.

"Uhm. There's another room in the back, next to mine. " You pointed to the back of the house, and neither of them reacted.

"Mine has the open door, the other one has a bed, some dry clothes you two can change into. " Those clothes were left behind by your parents when they moved out. They claimed it was something to remember them by, but you knew that it was just old clothes they didn't want anymore.

"Is it just you living here? " The older man said increduously. "I thought someone as jumpy as you would've kicked the bucket by now. "

"Daniel. " The other man said, and you were stunned at how demanding his tone was compared to before. The older one, Daniel, only put his hands up in defense.

"No offense, but I mean, " He gestured at you before clearing his throat. The younger man was glaring daggers at Daniel. You wanted to leave as fast as you could, but Daniel prevented you from doing so. He stuck out his hand to you and said,

"The name's Daniel Molloy. This, " He jerked his head to the man behind him, "Is Armand. No last name, as far as I know. How about you? "

You stared at his hand before taking it. His grip was strong, and as you shook hands, you introduced yourself with your name. Just go along with it, you told yourself, maybe they'd move on in the morning.

"Thanks for letting us in, that was smart. C'mon, Armand, let's get out of these duds. " Daniel put his hands in his pockets before sauntering through your space like he owned it. Armand followed close behind, staring at you until it was physically impossible.

It was the moment you heard the door close that you lost it. You collapsed onto the ground, catching yourself on one knee and trying your best to regulate your breathing.

This was the first time in several months that someone else had been in the house other than you. The first time you had talked to anyone other than yourself, and occassionally the inanimate objects in your kitchen. And now, everything was going to be out of place and wrong and you can't fix it because you can't just put these men in a spot because you can't trust them!

You can't even trust yourself, much less a couple of strangers who could do God knows what to you!

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to stop your heart from beating a thousand miles a minute. You told yourself to breathe until you were able to do it automatically again.

You were fine. They hadn't emerged yet, and they weren't going to hurt you. As long as you didn't give them a reason to, you reminded yourself.

What that meant, you had no clue. And you sure as hell had no intention of finding out.

author's note: oh my gosh that was a lot of exposition, sorry!! ik people are here for armand and daniel, and i apologize for their absence except near the end :'( i really wanted reader's headspace to be established before i go straight into the relationship they kindle with armand and daniel!! also, twd is a really good show!! thank you so much for reading, i'll see you in chapter 2!!

[ilikepuns]

hiii can i request armand x older vampire!reader :)

OH BOY CAN YOU!,!;? YES INDEED!!!

note: Oh Dear God this is long, yellowjackets!inspired coven, armand is Weird, mentions of self-harming during a psychotic episode, doomed yuri, reader should be at the club, blood-drinking with dubious consent, shitily translated French, unedited so i apologize for any mistakes!!

There was only one way to determine whether or not you would get a night to yourself. It was the way things had always been done and will continue to occur long after you were gone.

During the early hours of the night you and the rest of the coven had drawn cards. Instead of the usual fifty-two card deck, there was three missing, all of the queens except one. The queen of hearts. If you so happened to draw that specific card, that meant you had earned your night off.

The early years of your childhood and subsequent formative years faded from your mind decades ago. One of the only things you can recall is the feeling of someone, likely your mother or father, tucking you into bed. An overwhelming feeling of acceptance and care was also low in abundance.

Four hundred and seventy-five years.

What a life you have lived, almost half a milennia. You acclimated to vampirehood relatively well, by your maker's standards. She affectionately referred to you as 'my sweet one', due to your first years as a fledgling.

It was also your maker that appointed you as coven leader after a successful reign of at least several centuries. You had no clue how truly old she was, only that you looked back on the terms of endearment and favor she showed towards you with suspicion.

If she truly loved you, why wouldn't she have taken you with her? The neverending amount of pressure you faced while being coven leader had you contemplating abandoning coven life altogether.

The double-edged nature of being a leader was taking its toll. You ate less to provide more blood for your members, you upheld the laws with a solemn obedience, and mentored the younger, less experienced members. It was exhausting.

Your members, your supposed family no longer looked at you as an equal. They revered the very ground you walked on. You sensed their fear every time you entered a room.

Regardless, this was no longer the case. At least for the night.

You left your second in command, an older vampire named Dawn, in charge of the coven as you entered the Parisian night air.

You admired the artistry of the city, its lamplights illuminating the cobblestone streets and passerbys. You contemplated on what you would do with an entire night to yourself. The opportunity presented itself in the form of a younger man's thoughts as he passed you.

"Je ne peux pas attendre de voir une autre représentation ce soir! J'ai entendu de bonnes choses à propos de ce théâtre! "

Despite your many years on Earth, you never had a chance to further your formal or impersonal education. Most of your communication with the Paris coven was through Dawn. She had learned the French syntax through force. She had many conversations with victims and friends alike, and she was always willing to extend her services to assist you.

You were grateful for her. Your accent left much to be desired and you could never quite figure out how to translate certain words from your native language, often because there was never a proper word for it.

Thankfully, you did have context clues. Representation and theatre were the couple of words you manage to parse through. That meant there was entertainment nearby. You contemplated whether you were still socially capable of attending a soirée, but you put those thoughts to the side.

This night was for you. And you would spend it how you wanted.

Newly determined, you followed after the young man and his date. The two of them reminded you of contented puppy dogs, clambering all over each other with little regard for how they were percieved. They were…cute. You couldn't remember the last time someone willingly showered you in praise and love.

The walk to the theatre was not far, and you stopped in your tracks when you realized who operated it.

Armand. The Parisian coven leader. The leader who Dawn recounted spoke with a terrifying amount of control and coldness. He reigned over his coven for centuries and with an iron fist.

Despite being only a handful of decades older than him, you felt intimidated. You heard of how ruthlessly he upheld the laws, and how callous his coven could be to outsiders.

Turning on your heel, you began to walk away as casually you could. But a shout of your name stopped your movements entirely.

"Ah, yes, I thought that was you! " An Irish accent slipped through the small crowd of people entering and exiting the theatre. You turned around to see a man with curly hair parted down the middle, face painted white and faux fangs sticking out cartoonishly. This must have been the Sam Barclay Dawn told you about.

At your confused look, he bowed his head in greeting. "Good evening to ya! I hope you were coming to watch us perform on this fine night. " He propped his fists on his hips, cocking his head to the side.

"Or did your boss tell ya not to dilly-dally for too long? "

You blinked. "Boss? You mean Dawn? "

He breathed out a slight laugh in disbelief. "Well you sure are a cocky one, aren't ya? " He flicked one hand to beckon you to the entrance. "C'mon in. Fellow…artisans such as ourselves get half off on tickets. "

You followed him to the ticket booth. "May I ask what show is being performed tonight? " You handed him the euros as you asked.

Sam's eyes sparkled in the moonlight. He ripped off the ticket stub as his fangs, his true fangs, poked out.

"The best kinda prize is a surprise, darling. " He winked as he handed your ticket to you. "You enjoy the show, y'here? "

—

You had no idea why a vampire as young as Sam would talk to you so casually, but you chalked that up to his nature. Perhaps he simply spoke to everyone like that.

The interior of the theatre was heady with the sensations of mortals mingling. Their excitement and eagerness for the show intrigued you.

You settled into a seat in the far back, not wanting to draw any more attention than you already had. While waiting for the performance to start, you probed the minds of audience members for an idea of what was in store.

There was a handful of repeat attendees, the passionate ones gaggling at the very first row.

Before you could reach more than a vague understanding of what would soon occur, you felt a shift. A presence attempting to grasp your attention.

You looked up and there he was. Armand, the coven leader and 'artistic director' in mortal eyes.

"Eyes to the front, puce. "

You complied quickly. It was an instinct driven by a long-forgotten compulsion to obey when faced with authority. A feeling you hadn't felt since your maker's departure.

"It is always a pleasure to welcome a new vampire to our humble theatre. " His word were laced with a practiced politeness.

"And since you are not accustomed to the customs of other covens, I will forgive your informality. " So it seems like it wasn't just Sam's nature.

"Thank you for being so forgiving, sir. I will do my best to respect you and your coven to the best to my ability. " It seemed like that answer satisfied him. Barring your mind from any other influence, you reached out to Dawn. The only sign you received that signaled she was listening was a sharp feeling of fear resonating from her side of the psychic link.

"We have much to discuss when I return, Dawn. If I suspect you will flee, I will send the others after you. "

With that message recieved, the show began.

The lights were dimmed and a live band began performing a fanfare for the opening act. Screams echoed throughout the room and the lights flickered on cue.

"Ladies and gentlemen! " A voice rang out. "Madames and messieurs! " A figure appeared on stage, draped in a black cloak to thunderous applause. You gazed out among the sea of humans and looked at their unassuming enthusiasm.

His face was handsome, if a bit weathered. The brightness of his eyes was only compounded by the spotlight that appeared as he continued to monologue.

The melodramatic nature of the play mixed with the jaunty music playing was jarring. You had truly never seen anything like it in your life. Even the silliest of plays paled in comparison to the Theatre de Vampires. Santiago, you learned through the shouts, was a good opener.

You could truly see yourself enjoying your evening.

"Um..boss? Dawn tried to climb out of her window. But don't worry, I stopped her! What do you want to do with her? " Missy. One of, if not the most devoted of your members.

You sighed through your nostrils before responding. "Restrain her in the cellar, but do not harm her. I have some things I need to ask her. " You paused before adding, "Good job, Missy. "

You could feel her preen with joy at your light praise. "Of course, boss! You're so good to me-I mean us! Uh, I'll go ahead and do that thing! Right away! " She had more to say, but you cut off the mental conversation early.

Discreetly as you could, you stood from your seat at the end of the row and circled back to the exit.

"Leaving so soon? " Armand's voice permeated your mind. You paused in the threshold of the doorway.

"My master beckons me. I do hope that you will allow me to leave to avoid any possible conflict. " You hoped that your excuse would suffice.

"Of course. Do give your master my well wishes. " You tilted your head up at where you assumed Armand to be, and nodded. You could only assume that he returned the gesture, since you left and sped away back to your coven faster than any human on the street had enough time to process.

—

"Is she conscious? "

Missy met you at the door, and you sidestepped her instantly. She made no complaint and simply responded.

"Yes, boss. The other girls wanted her to draw cards, but I told them to wait. "

"Good. " You turned, bypassing the vampires bowing to you. Finally, you made it to the stairway leading to the cellar holding Dawn. You opened the door, almost tearing the hinges off in the process, but that barely registered to you.

Right before you began your trek down, Missy lightly tugged on your shirt. You turned to look, eyes ablaze.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, boss, but…make it hurt. " She met your gaze briefly before lowering it once more. "I don't know what she did, but if it's something that made you angry, then she deserves it. "

You almost pitied the way she trusted your judgment wholeheartedly, if that wasn't exactly what she was meant to do. You said nothing and gingerly removed her hold on you.

The stairs were rotting and creaky, but you made no attempt to hide your fury as each step you took increased in force.

In front of the staircase was Dawn, tied up with no light behind her eyes. The sight of her would have made you sick two days ago. But tonight flipped everything you once thought about her on its head.

You kneeled to meet her dull gaze.

"Dawn. You and I both know something is very wrong. Now, I have an idea of what you did, but I need you to tell me everything. From the very beginning to now. If I even suspect, if I feel like anything you say is embellished in any way whatsoever, I swear to God, I will drag you up those steps and light you on fire in front of the entire coven. Do you understand? "

She gulped. You motioned for her to start. She licked her lips and began.

"I didn't think that you would mind. It started back in England, when you had that run-in with the bear? You needed rest and they were so cruel, and we couldn't look weak so I just blurted it out that, " She choked up, but you grabbed her face, nails digging into her cheeks.

"What did you tell them, Dawn? "

She blinked, and you saw tears brimming. "That I was the coven leader. " She whispered. Your unbeating heart clenched. "And? " You urged.

"It was just supposed to be one time! I-I just wanted to protect you, protect the coven! And-and then after we starting going to foreign places you said you didn't speak the language of it just kept going and going! I am so so so so sorry. I promise, I won't ever-I'll take it all back! I'll make it known that I am nothing, nothing compared to you! " By the end of her rambling, you had stood, looking down at your once trusted lieutenant.

Her snivels and groveling had you questioning whether you truly knew her at all. You held out your hand and she stopped her pleas.

"You are going to be punished for this. I'm not sure how, I'm not sure when, but you will pay for this transgression. " You tried to keep your voice as level as you could to hide the fact that you were fighting tears.

"No…"

"NO!? " You grab Dawn's hair and force her to look up at you. "You parade as a coven leader for God knows how long, and you have the gall to tell me no?! Have you lost your fucking mind?! " Dawn was shaking her head, but only barely, as the grip you had threatened to scalp her entirely. You only stopped as you heard her whisper.

"I deserve to die for this. Please, just kill me. I can't live with the guilt any longer. "

You dropped her as she crumpled onto the ground, hard. Her sobs ricocheted throughout the space as memories filled your head. How had this brave, intelligent, and loyal individual you once called your friend devolved into this mess?

She screamed at you to kill her as you ascended the stairway once more. The coven had gathered, crowding you to ask for an explanation on Dawn's confinement. You faintly registered Missy's voice demanding the rest of the girls to stay back and allow you to space, but everything was muffled by the blood rushing your ears.

You ignored the faint cries of confusion as you left them behind you, out the door onto the streets of Paris once more.

—

"Armand, sir? Are you there? I'm afraid we're going to have to talk. "

"I prefer the term maître, puce. And why would I allow an audience with you, perchance? "

"Because it is I who is coven leader, not Dawn. I would like to explain the situation face-to-face, if it's not too much of a bother. "

"…Not at all. Please, allow yourself in when you arrive. I will be waiting in my office. "

"Thank you, maître. "

—

Sam met you once again, but that air of playfulness was gone. Only formalities and stiff demeanors were what you were met with at the empty theatre. Except Santiago had a thinly veiled smirk, and you could've sworn you saw him wink, but that was of no importance.

You and Sam stopped in front of a door. "This is it. " He said, lacklusterly.

"Thank you, Sam. Please tell the rest of the troupe that I'm very sorry I couldn't stay and watch the performance. " He stared at you open-mouthed for a moment before nodding once and walking away.

You were about to knock, but was met with a soft 'come in' from inside.

As you opened the door, you made sure to keep your eyes downcast. Perhaps he would be more likely to listen to you if you made yourself smaller.

"A strange strategy you are employing, " His voice made you swallow.

"Sorry, I don't know why I'm not more…assertive. You'd think with how old I am, I'd be more comfortable bossing people around. " You laughed humorlessly.

You couldn't tell, but it seemed like Armand was intrigued.

He hummed. "Please, sit. " He gestured to an empty seat next to where he sat. You obeyed and sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation settle on your shoulders.

"I can't believe this is happening. "

"And what exactly is happening? "

You flickered to him, making contact with his chest covered by a crisp button-up before looking down again.

"It seems like my second in command has gotten a little too comfortable in giving orders. So much so that she decided to act as leader in the faces of other covens. " You rubbed a hand over your face.

"When she told me I was devastated. And then she asked me to, " Your voice broke unexpectedly and you saw Armand cock his head as you continued. "She asked me to kill her. " You finally made eye contact with him. He had a look of slight disbelief.

"I know that everyone is looking to me for answers but, " You shook your head. "I don't have one for this situation. I still lov-I don't want to hurt her. I know I have to, but I just can't. "

Armand pursed his lips. "And what would you have me do about it? "

You blinked, eyes blurred with tears. "What? "

"Are you asking me to do your duty as a coven leader? That would mean defying the very laws we keep in place-"

"Oh, no! No, I'm sorry, that's not what, " You deny. "I would never ask someone to do something like that for me. I just wanted your guidance. "

He looked genuinely stunned for a brief moment before you continued. "Dawn told me you are, forgive me for saying this, a ruthless leader. I thought that once I explained everything to you, you could tell me what to do or where to go from here. " That last part spilled out of you accidently, and you could tell Armand was speechless.

In a last ditch effort to appeal to whatever sympathy he still had, if it even existed, you laid a hand on his. You felt him stiffen, but you remained.

"I have never, in my over four hundred years of life, would have expected to be faced with something like this. Punishments, solitary confinement, starvation, yes. But destroying my closest friend? I'm sorry, but I can't do it. I won't. " You finished, feeling resolved in your choice.

"Then you are a fool. " Your eyes widened, and Armand realized what he said and began to backtrack. But it was too late, you stood from your seat and he quickly followed suit.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend, I simply meant-"

"I understand what you mean, maître. " Your eyes held slight hostility that gave him pause. "Forgive me for taking up your time. I will take my leave, now. " You bowed your head and exited the room.

Armand was frozen. A small part of him, a remnant of his human years expected you to lash out. That coldness reminded him that there were still beings much powerful than him.

But almost none of them were as hesitant to kill disobedient vampires as you were.

—

Your trek back to your coven was suffocating.

On one hand, if you killed Dawn, you would solve the problem. No more misconceptions would happen, your authority would no longer be questioned, and you would be upholding your status as coven leader.

But that would mean killing your closest friend. The one who had been there almost since the beginning. The woman that helped you rise the ranks and convinced the other vampires to join. You told Dawn everything, and she in did in turn.

You couldn't imagine a life without her. But you were being forced to now.

You were met with Missy outside the door, hands clasped and head hung low. Immediately, you were on edge, practically flinging yourself to her. You grabbed onto her shoulders, forcing her to look into your crazed eyes.

"What happened? What did you do, Missy? "

Her mouth gapped, eyes blown. "W-When you left, everyone was so scared and worried. No one was calming down even though I told them to! We-we didn't hear her until it was too late. "

"Too late? Missy, what do you mean too late? What does that mean? " You didn't realize you were digging into her flesh until she lifted your hands to guide you inside.

You smelled her before you saw her.

Dawn. Your best friend and trusted confidant, burned to a crisp on the floor. Your coven went silent at the sight of you. Most of them hid their faces, some were emotionless.

The last thing you remember was falling to the ground and screaming.

—

You aren't sure about how much time has passed before you wake. You were back in the room you shared with the rest of your coven, you recognized it from the wood pattern of the ceiling. But something was wrong. You couldn't sense anyone from the coven in the building.

A hand began stroking your hair and tilting your head back to coax flesh into your mouth. You just assumed it was eager Missy wanting to bring you back to health, and started suckling.

The hum that came from the person you thought was Missy, however, was masculine and low.

Your eyes shot open, pausing your feeding to look at who it was.

Amber pupils stared down at you.

"Armand? " You croaked out, throat sore from unuse.

"Yes? " He tilted his head.

"What are you doing here? " You tried to sit up, but a splitting pain burst from behind your eyelids. He shushed you and once more guided you to drink. You were deeply, deeply perturbed, but in an effort to appease him that you didn't fully understand, you complied.

"I was retrieved by your member, Missy. She was distraught, saying you were 'out of control' and 'going crazy', " His voice changed to mimic Missy's cadence, and you were disturbed by how easily his accent faded.

"When I arrived, you were catatonic, covered in blood. " Your eyes widened, but he continued. "No one was hurt. Except yourself. You were bleeding seemingly from everywhere, I've never seen anything like it. " You were about to open your mouth to apologize, but he kept his arm firmly in place.

"Me and Missy took it upon ourselves to nurse you back to health. " He shook his head, likely reminiscing on Missy's tendency to suffocate with love. You unlatched your mouth from his wrist, hoping he would allow you to talk. He obliged and you began.

"Maître-"

"Armand, for you. "

"…Armand. Thank you for helping me get better, I truly appreciate it. But now that I'm awake and better, I think it would be best if you returned to your coven. I'm sure they're wondering where you are by now-"

"You mean our coven? " His eyes were surprisingly playful for someone who spent a good amount of time watching over an unconscious vampire.

"What? " Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth.

"For the time you were out of commission, I have taken it upon myself to integrate your coven and mine as one. Now, it wasn't my idea, Missy does have a way with words-"

You stopped his explanation by wrapping a hand around his throat and bringing his face uncomfortably close to yours.

"Armand. How long have I been unconscious for that you made the decision to combine our covens? "

His throat made a slight gurgling sound. "Two months. "

You gasped and released him from your hold. You ran your fingers through your hair, grasping the strands tightly.

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This is a dream, a big, nasty dream-" His hands wrapped around yours, gently guiding you to let go of your scalp.

"This is no dream. You are awake and alive. Listen to me, " He tilted your head up and his face was so fond you almost flinched away.

"Everything is going to be fine. Everyone has acclimated to this change rather well. And your members have missed you very much. " You controlled your breathing before responding.

"What does this make me? " He furrowed his brows. "Am I even a coven leader anymore? Or are you.." You trailed off, unwilling to ask the question just yet.

Armand smiled. "I was under the impression you wanted a hiatus from leading. But I am open to sharing the position, if that pleases you. "

You gulped. Finally, a chance to break from this position that has caused you so much pain and heartbreak. It only took losing your best friend to get you that.

You should've never come to Paris.

author’s note: istg i blinked and this popped out LMFAO uhhh yeah i have no excuse for this, i really wasn't expecting to write this much, i just really like the concept!! might do a part 2 if there's a demand, but other than that, thanks for reading!!!

[cupcakescolors]

hexcodes related to apples.......... (Red apples preferably, so.. red ones.. red coluors....) 🍎

here you go!! i threw in three green ones but (again) feel free to ignore those!!

#F12017 (FRUIT [fruit])

#991912 (PPIPIN [pippin])

#FE1100 (FELL00 [fell])

#901502 (POISON [poison])

#C6442E (CRMNE [carmine])

#FF6E54 (FFRESH [fresh])

#6A1A00 (GALA00 [gala])

#1EAF00 (LEAF00 [leaf])

#0A991E (0APPLE [apple])

#00B17E (00BITE [bite])

#500337 (SWEET [sweet])

#C12159 (CRISP [crisp])

#B61647 (BRIGHT [bright])

#C62252 (CRMSN [crimson])

#B10022 (BLOOM [bloom])

#F12E54 (FRESH [fresh])

#AB1730 (ABITE0 [a bite])

#B10522 (BLOSM [blossom])

#5A262E (SANGNE [sanguine])

#C64452 (CRMSN [crimson])

#A91C1D (APLCID [apple cider])

↓ key ↓

0 -> 0 / O / U / V 00 -> 00 / OO / W 1 -> I / L 2 -> N / Z 22/44 -> M 3 -> E 4 -> H 5 -> S 6 -> R / G 7 -> T 9 -> Y / P / J 12 -> IN / R

[reid-sam]

TOM STURRIDGE as DREAM OF THE ENDLESS/LORD MORPHEUS

THE SANDMAN | 2.03 - More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold

[leighanne]

tom sturridge as dream of the endless.

THE SANDMAN 2.03

[reid-sam]

TOM STURRIDGE as DREAM OF THE ENDLESS/LORD MORPHEUS

THE SANDMAN | 2.02 - The Ruler of Hell

[cardansriddle]

Across the Dreams - (Morpheus x fem!reader)

Summary: You meet him in your dreams. You do not know him or his name, you only know that he returns to you every night, taking you in ways you crave but do not understand.

warnings: dream sex but it's not very explicit. not proofread.

A/N: I (nervously) present the long anticipated morpheus one shot. This is for all of you little rascals in my inbox asking me to get done with it and post it. Hope you enjoy and lmk what you think!!

༻♛༺

You do not quite recall when exactly you started seeing him. Maybe it was on one of those nights you were so exhausted your limbs melted into your bed like they belonged there more than they belonged on your body. Perhaps he came to you then, slipped through the cracks of your half-forgotten dreams, weaving himself in your fantasies that never quite made architectural sense.

All you know is that he was there.

And he was there every night.

You always felt him before you saw him. The shadowed edges of your dreams would forge into the shape of him—him who was tall, lean, little more than the glimmer of pale skin visible beneath the dark coat that brushed the floor of your subconscious and somehow stirred even though there was no wind.

His wild hair fell in black, inky strands that framed the sharp edges of his face but never seemed to settle. It was as if the air refused to touch him, or maybe it was him who refused to belong to the air, or perhaps he owned the very air around him. His skin was pale—not the delicate pallor of the sleepless, but the absence of sunlight itself, as if he had stood untouched for centuries beneath a sky that forgot how to burn.

And then there were his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

His eyes were so incredibly black, like bottomless pits that offered you a glimpse of the vast darkness of the cosmos. And there were stars in his eyes. You did not see them at first. You had to step closer. You did not remember deciding to move, but you did. Your feet dragged forward, slow and helpless, and when you lifted your gaze you saw it— the faintest glimmer of stars trapped inside his eyes.

The sight of them was enough to pin you in place the first time. Because that was when you realised.

He was old.

Not old in the sense of years or decades. No.

He was old in the way stories are old. Old in the way stars are old. Old in the way you were never supposed to see, or know, or touch. But you did.

The first time, you remember you were hesitant. You remember how slowly you had rose your arm, your fingertips sparking with something desperate, aching to close the impossible space between you and touch his skin. You remember how his dark eyes had followed every movement of your hand, brows twitching—the faintest ripple across his otherwise unmoved face— as if amused, and also surprised, perhaps even outraged at your presumption that you could dare touch him.

He stopped you.

He caught your hand before you could complete the touch, his fingers cool as they closed firmly around yours, pressing your hand down as if to remind you. Of what, you did not quite know back then.

It was only later, after countless times of seeing him in your dreams that you realised. When you first touched, it had to have been on his terms.

His gaze slid over you—not with tenderness, but with a kind of distant permission, the way one might allow a flame to flicker a little closer to the drapes just to see what happens.

His other hand rose with deliberate slowness, trailing up to graze the edge of your jaw. His touch was impossibly cool, his skin like marble—unforgiving at first, but yielding in the places where he chose to let you feel him. His thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and he looked at you as if you were not entirely real. Funny, considering how he was a man made of shadows with the entire cosmos held in his eyes. You remember the weight of his fingers against you. You remember leaning into it.

You did not know his name. You did not ask.

After that first encounter, the dreams pressed closer, hotter, rougher—your body pinned beneath his as he claimed you against the wall of some crumbling hall, the slick grass of a forest that flickered in and out of coherence, the ground, the marble floor of a castle, still and perhaps never making architectural sense.

You never begged him to stop. But you did beg him not to leave.

And he did not. Night after night, he returned. He touched you like he knew the notes to the strings of your body, and your soul and body sang for him in response. He filled you with his essence, and hoped his seed would take. You knew because he whispered it in your ear like a dirty, secret confession. Every night.

Overtime, you learned to claim him too. You shed your shyness, climbed him boldly like his lap was your throne to sit on, and touched him like it was your birthright.

It went on for months.

And every time you woke from these dreams, you could always feel the lingering echo of his touch, as if it had been seared into your skin. You spent your waking hours in turmoil, thinking about your dreams, about him. You were getting addicted, you could barely function during the day without wishing you could fall asleep, fall into the arms of your dream man. You started going to bed earlier. You started skipping plans. You started craving sleep like it's a drug and he is the nameless dealer.

The days shrink. The nights length.

But it does not matter, not anymore, for every time you fall asleep, he is waiting. Like tonight.

The moment your conscious enters the Dreaming, his weight settles over you like velvet and iron, but you do not mind, it is an ache you ache to bear. Like every night, he claims you. He takes you against the trembling edge of reason, until the line between you and him feels like it was never there.

You still have not asked for his name. You fear what would happen if you spoke it aloud. You don’t know if you are dreaming, or if the dreaming has devoured you whole.

But you want to know, you need to know it for your own sanity.

So once he had his way with ruining you, you decide, for the first time in months, you decide to voice the question. Your lips part, your breath shallow against his palm, still cool against your jaw.

"...Who are you?"

His head tilts, just slightly, the faintest quirk of his mouth appearing as though the question itself amused him more than any answer he might give.

His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, slow and thoughtful.

“That is not a question you should ask.” His voice curls into you, soft and dark and ancient.

But you do not back down. "You have absolutely ruined me for anyone else. I believe I deserve at least the curtesy of knowing your name." The words rush out before you can stop them. and even you are surprised at your own bravery to be so direct with him.

His brows lift, a flicker of something behind his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or patience thinning.

So you decide to soften your request. "Please," you swallow, pulse thudding in your throat.

“You may call me…” A pause, deliberate one. “…Morpheus.”

You whisper it back to him, testing the shape of it in your mouth. "Morpheus."

His gaze darkens at the way his name falls from your lips. You fear for a moment he might pin you beneath him and have his way for the second time in one night. But he does not. He quenches the fire rising beneath his skin instead.

“Careful,” he says, his thumb pressing just slightly harder against your lip. “Names are powerful things.”

It sounds like a warning, one you think you need to heed, but before you can say anything in response, you jolt awake suddenly.

Once again, alone, in your bed.

You release a heavy sigh and look at the ceiling helplessly. You ask the heavens how long you can bear to live like this— living in your dreams, dreading your waking hours. How long you can continue being in love with a man who does not exist.

You close your eyes and imagine him. "Morpheus," you whisper to yourself wistfully. You half expect him to be there when you open your eyes, and you laugh at yourself with pity when he is not.

You push the covers away, and decide you need to start getting on with your day.

You’re still heavy with the weight of last night’s dream when you step outside. The city hums around you, a thin, irritating buzz—car horns, rubber on asphalt, hurried footfalls. You barely notice them. It is him you are thinking about. His hands, his mouth, his breath against your throat. His name.

You approach the crosswalk, waiting for the sign to change. And then, the air shifts. The sound of the city drops out like someone’s cut the wires.

With furrowed brows, you slowly lift your head. And then—

You see him.

Your body freezes. Because it is him. Across the street. Standing perfectly still, untouched by the blur of people rushing past him. He’s wearing that long, black coat—the same one you’ve clutched in your fists, the same one you’ve felt brushing your bare skin in sleep. His hair falls in black waves around his face, just as it does when he leans over you, when his hands pin you to the floor of the dreams.

His skin is impossibly pale. His eyes are—

Your breath catches.

They’re the same. The same impossible, depthless black, the same faint shimmer of stars caught in the dark.

He’s real.

He’s real. Here. Now.

And he’s looking at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

The corner of his mouth twitches, just enough to be deliberate. Enough to tease you, or perhaps taunt you, you do not know. You do not care to know. You need to cross the road to him. Now.

The crosswalk signal changes.

Heart hammering, throat burning, you take a step towards him.

A car horn blares somewhere behind you.

When you blink, he’s gone.

༻♛༺

[sobadbad]

Morpheus & Matthew THE SANDMAN [2022-2025]

[gifs-by-renegadesstuff]

Morpheus, Dream of the Endless 🤍

THE SANDMAN | 2.06 “Family Blood”

[suenodemuerte]

Is it just me or have you all read fanfic that is basically the first 2 episodes of Hazbin that was just released?

[monikanarnia]

THE SANDMAN

S2.E10 ∙ Long Live the King

[favorite-characters]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕞𝕒𝕟

Tom Sturridge as 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬 • 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 (shr. Allan Heinberg / S02 / 2025)

[suenodemuerte]

Warming Flame

PAIRING: Morpheus, Dream of the Endless & Elpis, Deity of Hope (Reader-Insert)

CW: Very Slight Angst to Comfort, Emotional Distress & Reassurance, Dream being emotionally constipated, Gender-Neutral Character, Not Beta Read

RATING: Mature-Audiences Only, MDNI

SUMMARY:

Quiet night for two anthropomorphic embodiments; Dreams and Hope, where they share a few words to express any feelings not communicated about Dream’s imprisonment.

Author’s Notes: Elpis is an androgynous deity of Hope, embodying and embracing whatever perspective the beholder may have. Their name/title is derived from the Greek word of Hope. Will be posting Character Info at some point. Can be read as self-insert considering no real details to gender or looks besides vague descriptions of looks that have to do with abilities and/or related to their role. Anyway, please enjoy.

Dividers By: @/firefly-graphics & @/enchanthings

The study was quiet, save for the faint scratching of a quill against parchment. Dream sat at his desk, his attention fixed on the intricate lines of ink filling the page before him. The flickering lanterns cast long shadows across the room, their soft glow competing with the dim but steady light from your lantern.

You had perched on a stool in front of the desk, legs crossed, idly finishing up an embroidered artwork of simple little flowers. The image was of the sun that you had previously carved with stitches into the small square of thick canvas fabric. Now, you wanted a variety of flowers to form a circle around it. You often came to the study during times like this—not necessarily to speak, but simply to exist in the companionable silence.

Tonight, however, the silence felt heavier, laden with an unspoken energy.

“Do you ever feel like it’s too much?” You finally asked, your voice soft, as though hesitant to break the quiet.

Dream didn’t look up from his writings though questioned, “Too much?”

“The weight of it all. Your duty. Your purpose. Carrying the dreams of every soul who has ever lived… and will ever live.”

The quill paused mid-stroke. He took a moment before he sat the writing utensil down carefully, his long fingers lingering on the top of the desk as though grounding himself.

“I endured a century without purpose,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “Before, I thought I understood the weight of my role. But only in its absence did I grasp its true burden and responsibility. My purpose was questioned and picked apart during that time, ultimately causing me to lose sight of my role. After my escape, I found my purpose isn’t one of isolating service to the dreamers. I need them as much as they need me. I serve them to better humanity, not the other way around.”

You straightened slightly, the threaded needle of the color periwinkle was held carefully between limber fingers. “You’ve never really spoken of your captivity.”

Dream leaned back in his chair with stiff posture, his eyes distant, his expression unreadable.

“There is little to say. A century of confinement. Mortals, foolish and desperate, sought to imprison me for their own ends. Roderick Burgess wanted power, immortality… anything but the truth of what he had done.”

“And what truth is that?”

Dream let his eyes wander up to meet your gaze, his eyes shimmered like distant constellations. Those eyes were brightened as they were casted against the faint golden light of your lantern of Hope.

He was a creation that watched the world with the quiet intensity of someone who sees too much yet says too little.

“That no mortal can live without dreams. Or hope. They are entwined. Roderick Burgess did not care to understand the damage he caused—to the Dreaming, to his own kind.”

You lowered your gaze, your voice tender amongst the distance. “I knew something was wrong the moment you disappeared. Hope flickered in ways it never had before. Mortals turned to me, desperate, but it wasn’t enough. Without you, their dreams were broken. And without dreams, even hope began to crumble.”

Dream’s gaze darkened with a sharpened narrowing of his eyes and a slight downward tilt of his chin, “You held them together.”

“Barely,” you admitted, voice trembling, a rare crack in your sturdy composure. “I felt like I was failing them. Like I was failing you.”

“You did not fail,” Morpheus’s tone was rich and low, words enunciated with precision. “You endured. And so did they.”

You lifted your eyes to his, flickering along the contours of his facial structure. Your eyes seemed to glaze with iridescent, unshed tears. There were feelings of guilt and remorse within the confines of golden amber. “But I couldn’t save you.”

For a moment, Dream said nothing. Then, slowly, he stood, walking along the edge of his desk until he was standing before you.

“I did not ask to be saved,” he said, his words were of a soft, slow melancholic cadence. “But even in the dark, when I thought I would never escape, I felt your presence. Faint, but constant. A thread that refused to break.”

Your lantern flared, its soft golden light washing over the room much more that it had previous. Your symbol gave away your emotions away more than you would have liked. You did not stand, though sat your miniature work of art on the desk to give him full attention, glassy hues meeting his.

“It wasn’t just me. It was your own hope, too. You might not see it, Morpheus, but it’s there. Even in you.”

Dream’s eyes searched yours, the slightest of furrow to his brows spoke volumes of quietly intense emotions that were often held back behind the detached look he favored.

“You think too highly of me.”

“And you think too little of yourself,” You replied, your words carried timeless depth having seen the Endless in his earlier years of reigning as King of Dreams.

For a long moment within the silence, your gazes locked—Dream’s a swirling galaxy of blues and purples, and yours, a warm, golden glow of oranges and yellows. The space between you both seemed to hold its own gravity, silent but charged with unspoken understanding.

“Perhaps,” Morpheus’s deliberately subdued response continued, “you are right.”

Your lips curved with a beaming smile, your skin laminating with warm tones of cadmium yellows. “Hope and dreams. We are stronger together.”

Dream inclined his head, the faintest curve of his lips suggesting agreement. The weight of his usual stoicism seemed lighter, as though a long-held burden had shifted, even if only slightly.

As Morpheus returned to his seat and you picked back up your embroidery project, the study fell into a quiet stillness once more. But this time, the silence between you was not heavy—it was whole, resonating with a warmly shared compassion that stretched beyond words.

[suenodemuerte]

Trying to get my inspiration back. Glad this is catching eyes since the new season released last month!

[haniwrites]

BAD DECISION! ; 1 ⊹ . ݁ morpheus, dream of the endless

description: reader finds unexpected comfort in the lord of dreams - tenderly and quietly.

parts: part one ; part two

note: season two emotional damage got to me and i just want to write angst with a comfort, romantic ending ;) i haven't written in a long time so excuse my grammar, punctuations and an excessive obsession with descriptions. it's loosely inspired by my current favourite song bad decision by esha tewari hehe! do give it a listen.

tw: i talk about struggles with mental health, possible self-harm, distressing emotions, so do read with caution.

the sole act of living felt like an act of survival, where god's plan became watching you fail at almost everything you do. you take one look at your unmade bed and the static ringing in your ears as you head to your college classes. every outside stimulus felt like a sharp knife whittling away at everything warm and alive inside of you, leaving the space hollow. every futile attempt to stop it was like pressing wet cotton inside the aching space - desperate, sodden, and slowly rotting away. you felt like a rip-off of your childhood self, a constellation of hopeless ambitions and decaying memories of when you truly felt unadulterated happiness.

you could have been anyone, but here you are, trapped in a city equivalent to your rotten core and studying a major that you couldn't care less about. the life that you so desperately wanted slipped through your fingers before you even knew how to hold it and something about that revelation clawed at every inch of your skin. you gritted your teeth at the injustice you were dealt with, but immediately choked on guilt a few moments later.

"this doesn't make any sense.." you quietly remarked. "people have survived worse things." you don't get to be angry. you don't get to hurt like this. your parents handed you everything like a beautifully crafted plate of food, and your friends were kind to you in ways you couldn't even fathom, like the honeyed rays of the warm interlude in summers. the world had been gentle to you, yet you felt undone in ways that felt inconsequential.

in your dreams, you lead an exciting life, a world full of childish wonder and just enough elements that put a halt to the feelings that overwhelm your waking hours. although the fleeting reminders of the same feel like a drug-induced vertigo when you wake up, you cling to the mercy of the world that existed beyond. it felt like you were meant to just be here instead of the real world.

that is when it began, a downward spiral, where all you did was elongate the sleep. at first it was nothing. a skipped class here. a long nap there. what was a nature-given habit turned into something you did alongside breathing, a necessity, an addiction of sorts. your days blended into one, and everything else became a distant memory. until one night, between the blurry outlines of your dream, a voice cut through, soft but distant.

"you have lingered here far too long."

you turned, confused, whether this was a fragment of your imagination or a hallucination due to the wires in your brain finally giving up on you. "it's.. this is just my dream." you responded, your throat suddenly feeling dry. how are you even feeling anything? "isn't it?"

"yes," the voice answers, "and no." you flinch when his figure appears in front of you, between a whirlpool of what seemed like sand. you were taken aback but also filled with curiosity as you stared at him intently, captivated by his lightning-blue eyes with pinpricks of speckled silver. his face was a mix of strange tenderness and quiet severity, and his presence felt vast. you weren't scared, but you weren't comfortable either. it was a feeling you couldn't pinpoint, or maybe multiple emotions you didn't recognise.

"who are you?" your voice wavered as you took a few steps back, unnerved by his towering existence. he tilted his head, hands crossed behind his back, as he responded, "you wish to only exist in a realm that does not belong to you," there was a tinge of harshness in that statement you did not quite understand.

"is this supposed to be a warning for sleeping too much? because you still haven't told me who you are." you bit the insides of your cheek and stared even though you didn't mean to. if you couldn't fight for your place in the outside world, the least you could do was fight for it here.

he looked at you too. for morpheus has seen dreamers of all sorts, but few so...dedicated. he felt strangely obligated to know more about you, a mortal who carried so much loneliness that he couldn't help but answer her pleas. something in you had resonated with morpheus in ways even he couldn't fully grasp.

"i am dream of the endless." he finally responded. his voice was deliberate and heavy. "and you, dreamer, are trying to build a home in my realm. that is not something i can allow to happen." he walked slowly towards you, a certain melancholy glossing over his features.

you wanted to laugh at yourself and at him. this bizarre hallucination, which turned out to be some ruler of the dream world (you think?), was now banning you from dreaming. "wouldn't me dreaming or staying here.. like keep your realm working? technically, you need me? don't you?"

you talked back, crossing your arms, fingers crossed that he doesn't unleash some curse upon you. it was just a dream, and this is probably your mind making up things to scare you.

"i am real... as real as you. and i am not angry but you seem lost." he let out a sigh, his lips curving slightly. did he just read your mind? it was enough to shut you up. nobody had ever said that to you, the word "lost". it was mostly just people talking about routines, meditation, do this... do that. never "lost". you had talked about your struggles with your parents, friends and even your therapist. you had been consistent in trying to change the way you lived, tried every damn thing to break the knots in your neurons that twisted and stabbed at every thought, injecting it with poisonous nonsense that breached your daily routine. however, you were strangely enamoured by his presence, the way he carved you out in a single sentence, simple vowels.

"i didn't ask to be found or seen. i just... i just need to escape. even if it's for a while." and this was true. you did not wish to talk about or process the emotions that overwhelmed you, you simply needed a distraction, a safe haven, something that you wish to call your own.

"no" he agreed. "but you came here hoping someone would. you wish to disappear but not die. you crave peace and silence, so you decided to seek refuge in me, in dreams."

you looked around, hoping that you would be transported back to your magical fantasy of warm-hued countryside dreams. your childhood room, maybe, the smell of your dusty journal, and your pencil scratching the pages as you wrote about your new classroom crush. but all you saw was grey and him, standing in all black with sand ebbing around. his words hurt you sharper than they were probably meant to.

"you must think i'm incredibly weak to wish for a painless end. a fictional end." you respond, feeling guilt and slight embarrassment wash over you at his very honest observation.

morpheus has had countless conversations with dreamers who had lost their way and were more than happy to be redirected as they sought guidance from him. this one took him by surprise; acceptance was not usually the first response he got from mortals. it also slightly pained him, hearing the way you felt about the conversation, about yourself.

"i do not think that way." he said, moving closer to you, his gaze softening as he takes in the brevity of your feelings. "i may not wholly understand you but i have seen enough souls lose their mind trying to bury their pain in dreams. i simply do not wish for the same outcome to befall you."

"why does it matter to you? if the dreaming is your realm and you really do own it, i am an insignificant human being. why care? just let me be." you whispered, your voice cracking at the end of the statement, not knowing whether it was a question or quiet begging. tears rimmed the corner of your eyes, stinging like it would in real life. something was giving out inside your chest and you only knew it was your frail heart.

"you become a part of my realm every time you dream, it makes you my responsibility. every being in my realm deserves and is under my protection."

he somehow knew the exact answers to every question you had, and you believed him. it was the kind of trust you had never been able to extend to yourself. he didn't look at you with disappointment or pity but with recognition. it felt like you were seen quietly, without judgment, still becoming. still learning to find your footing on the uneven ground.

"sorrow and grief are not just shaped by tragedy. it can be slow, all-consuming, eroding away at meaning over countless years. that even in a life where you have been handed comfortable experiences, it is possible to suffer." he continued, looking away, staring at something in the distance. his head was tilted down, not out of resignation but out of respect.

"what..what do i do?" you asked, your voice now voice dripping with an agitated desperation

"you are already yearning for something better. asking questions and for now that is enough. but i'm afraid you must wake."

"no.." you said sharply, instinctively. "just a while more. please."

he looks back at you with utmost patience and sadness in his eyes. his eyes that you haven't been able to look away from. he was a beautiful, enigmatic god, and you were begging for your place in his realm. "i have seen the tenderness of your dreams, but it's rather unfortunate that you cannot live in them."

you gave in. there was nothing you could say back, knowing he was right. you were not a ten-year-old girl anymore, riding her new bicycle without a care about what was happening around. you felt the warmth of his presence, almost like he was holding you without making contact.

"i don't think i can make it out there," you said, choking on your words. "i have tried and i have failed again and again."

dream raised his hand, "yes, i know." and there was nothing dismissive about it. but it was all he said. in that moment, it was all you needed to hear. just somebody who knew. the silence between the two of you did not feel awkward; it was comforting, like the hush between oceanic tides right before they kiss the shore. he waited patiently for you to be ready.

"i'm scared." you admitted, tears rolling down your cheeks as your hand hovered over his. you looked up to him through tear-soaked lashes, his gaze still. it made it easier for you to breathe when he watched you with his beautiful blue eyes. they were like light filtered through water, dappling and iridescent.

"you may come back later." he offered, "to rest, to just be. you are welcome here, but for now you must wake." you blinked hard, but couldn't say anything. you weren't sure who dream exactly even was, but one thing was certain: the aching feeling of yearning was already blooming within you. you wanted to see him again, and he gave you permission to find your way back.

you nodded slowly at his response and gingerly placed your hand in his before slipping away into oblivion.

when you opened your eyes, the static was still there, your bed was still unmade, but you cracked the curtains open, seeing the slant of sunlight capture little speckles of dust that suspiciously resembled sand. you wondered whether he was just a figment of your imagination when you noticed something sitting on your nightstand. something you haven't seen before.

it was a small hourglass with midnight-colored sand suspended in mid-air inside it. you reached for it and touched it. it felt cold in your warm, sweaty palms. real. you moved it, but the sand stayed caught between motion and stillness.

in that moment, you could swear, just for a second, that you felt him.

proof that he had been there. that he had seen you, heard you, and chosen something to leave behind. you weren't sure if anybody would believe you, but it didn't matter because it wouldn't change a damn thing.

for the first time in ages, you didn't dread being awake. you clutched the hourglass to your chest and just lay there, breathing, as you processed the events that had unfolded. you didn't know what you were waiting for. only that you wanted to see him again, and the wanting hurt. but even though it hurt, you were still there, and that probably meant something.

note: so i wanna make this a four-part series? maybe more idkk. i am honestly so lovesick over morpheus i just cannot accept this ending. obviously im gonna write some more fluff now and slowly build the relationship. i hope ya'll like it, and i would love to hear your thoughts and feedback ! take care, and i'll post the next part very soon !!

credits: the pictures are from pinterest so credits to the respective owners.

the divider is from @hyuneskkami :))