Love Me Like the End is Coming I Dream x Reader
Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4 I Ch. 5 I Ch. 6 I Ch. 7 I Ch. 8
Chapter 8: (Little Bird)
Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prison—silent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past — pieces that may not have been meant to surface.
A/N: YESSS finally some more interactions between little reader and Dream!! Loved, loved, loved getting to this chapter. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did writing it. If you'd like to be added to the taglist just let me know in the comments or send me a message, loves. Thanks again!💕😘
MASTERLIST
Day by day, you read to him. Sometimes he would close his eyes and breathe in the rhythm of your voice; other times, he would stare at you until you were interrupted by a loud yawn from a guard, prompting you to whisper, "’Til next time." You often wondered if he truly listened or if he even understood the words, but you liked to think he did. It made you feel as though you were making his involuntary stay a little less miserable with your presence alone.
You had grown careless. Enraptured in your stories, you had missed the soft clink of a cane on the stone steps and the dark figure of a man watching you from behind the stone pillar every night. The guards never paid you any mind, and you were always careful to be tucked in bed by the time Mr. Sykes passed by your room with your nightly mug of honey milk.
But tonight was different. You were lying on your stomach, your chin propped up by your hands, kicking your heels back and forth as you read from a weathered book of Greek myths. Inside the glass, the King of Dreams had done something he had never done before. He had lowered himself to the floor, mirroring you perfectly—lying on his stomach, his pale chin resting on his thin arms, his starlit eyes level with yours. It was the closest you had ever felt to him. A silent, glass-walled slumber party between a girl and a god.
You were just reaching the part where Herakles escapes the underworld when the air in the cellar turned freezing.
"A touching scene," a voice rasped, dripping with malice.
You scrambled to sit up, the book thudding against the floor. Roderick Burgess stepped out of the shadows, his silver-headed cane clicking sharply against the concrete. The ruby at his throat pulsed with a rhythmic, angry light.
"Mr. Burgess!" you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat.
"I have watched you for three nights now," he said, stepping into the circle of light. He looked down at the prisoner, his lip curling in a sneer. "In all the years I have kept him, he has never moved for me. He has never mirrored a human soul. And yet, for a child and a book of fairy tales, he humbles himself to the dirt."
Dream didn't move. He remained on his stomach, but his gaze shifted from you to Burgess, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.
"Tell me, girl," Burgess hissed, reaching down to grab your arm, hauling you to your feet. "What has he said to you?”
"He hasn't said anything!" you cried, wincing as his grip tightened. "We just... we just spend time together. Please, let me go, you’re hurting me!"
"Do not lie to the Magus!" Burgess roared. He shoved you toward the glass, right against the edge of the seal. "If he won't speak to me, perhaps he will speak to you.”
He fixed a cold stare on the glass sphere, his voice echoing with a terrifying authority. "Return my son and grant me the immortality I am due, or offer me a tribute of equal value—otherwise, I can no longer guarantee that the girl’s stay under my roof will remain... comfortable."
The fear that had been holding your tongue suddenly vanished, replaced by a white-hot spark of protective rage. You squirmed out of his grip and looked at the man who treated his own son like a servant.
"He won't tell you anything because you're a bully!" you screamed, trying to pull away. "You're a mean, greedy old man who just wants to hurt him!”
The silence that followed was terrifying. Burgess’s face went from pale to a mottled, violent purple. His eyes widened, his nostrils flaring.
"You forget yourself, you little brat," he whispered.
CRACK
The slap came so fast you didn't see it. The back of his hand cracked across your cheek with enough force to send you spinning. Your head slammed into the stone pillar behind you, and for a second, the world went black. When your vision cleared, your face felt like it had been branded with a hot iron.
Inside the globe, Dream didn’t move to stand. He stayed low to the floor, calculated, refusing to give Burgess the satisfaction of a struggle that might put you in further danger, but his gaze was a death sentence. While his body remained still, his eyes went utterly dark—the blue depths vanishing into two endless, starless voids of pure cosmic fury. The very shadows in the cellar seemed to crawl toward the glass, responding to a rage that felt like it could level the mansion.
You ran blindly, the corridors of the mansion blurring into a smear of dark wood and flickering candlelight. The sobbing breaths caught in your throat, tasting like salt and the metallic tang of the blood inside your cheek. You just wanted the safety of your blankets, the comfort of the dark where no one could look at you with greed or strike you with hatred.
As you rounded the corner toward your room of the house, you crashed headlong into something solid and warm.
"Oof—steady now, steady!"
A silver tray clattered, the heavy ceramic mug of your nightly honey milk wobbling precariously but staying upright in a pair of steady, aged hands. You recoiled, a small cry escaping your lips as you shielded your face, expecting another blow.
"(Y/N)?" It was Mr. Sykes. He stood there, his brow furrowed in confusion, the steam from the milk rising between you. But as the light from a nearby sconce hit your face, his expression shifted from surprise to a grim, weary horror. "Oh, child. Dear girl, look at me."
He set the tray down on a side table with a trembling hand and reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from your face. He didn't have to ask who had done it. There was only one man in this house with the temper and the cruelty to leave a mark like that on a guest.
"Come," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of pity and fear. "Into your room. Quickly now, before anyone sees."
He guided you inside and shut the door softly, leaning his back against it for a moment as if to bar the rest of the world out. You sank onto the edge of your bed, your small frame shaking with the aftershocks of the cellar.
Sykes moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency. He disappeared into your washroom and returned with a basin of cool water and a clean linen cloth. He pulled up a chair, his joints creaking, and began to gently dab at the corner of your mouth where the skin had split.
"It's... it's my fault," you hiccuped, flinching as the cool water hit the heat of the bruise. "I called him a bully. I told him he was mean."
Sykes let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest. "You spoke the truth, little one. But the Magus has never had much use for the truth. Especially when it comes from someone with a heart as soft as yours."
He wrung out the cloth and folded it, pressing it firmly but gently against your swelling cheek. The cold was a blessing, dulling the rhythmic throb that had begun to make your head ache.
"You mustn't go down there anymore, (Y/N)," he said, his eyes searching yours with an earnest, desperate plea. "He is a dangerous man, and that... thing in the basement... it brings out the worst in him. Promise me you'll stay in your room tomorrow. Let the swelling go down. If your father saw you like this..."
He trailed off, the weight of the secrets he kept for Roderick Burgess visible in the deep lines around his mouth. He picked up the mug of honey milk and pressed it into your hands.
"Drink this. It has a little something to help you sleep. No dreams tonight, hopefully. Just rest."
He patted your knee one last time before gathering the basin and the soiled cloth. "I’ll tell the maids you’re feeling unwell and aren't to be disturbed. Sleep now, child."
He slipped out as quietly as he had entered, leaving you alone in the dim room. You huddled under the covers, clutching the warm mug, the silence of the room feeling louder than the Magus’ yells in the basement. Your cheek burned, a physical reminder of the Magus's shadow, and as you drifted into a heavy, medicated sleep, your last thought was of the dark, star-filled eyes that had watched you fall.
The tea Sykes had brought was long cold, the honey settled in a sticky, amber pool at the bottom of the cup. You curled onto your side, pressing the unbruised side of your face into the pillow, but the silence of the room was too loud. It allowed the thoughts you’d been running from all day to finally catch up.
‘Papa’, you thought, a fresh hot tear escaping and soaking into the pillowcase.
You could almost see his face, the way his forehead crinkled when he was worried, the way he always smelled like old books and pipe tobacco. If he saw your face now, if he saw the purple shadow of the Magus’s hand on his little girl, he would be terrified. He’d be so angry. He’d pack your trunks in the middle of the night and whisk you away from this cold, grey house before the sun even rose.
The thought of leaving should have been a relief, but it felt like a lead weight in your chest. If you left, you’d never see Alex again. Poor, quiet Alex, who lived in his father’s shadow and tried so hard to be brave. But more than that...
Your thoughts drifted down, past the floorboards, past the heavy stone foundations, into the damp dark of the cellar.
If you left, who would read to him? Who would tell him about the birds in the garden or read to him? The Magus only wanted to take things from him—his secrets, his power, his dignity.
The image of him lying on his stomach to match your height flashed in your mind. He had looked so human for a second. So tired. A small, hiccuping sob shook your shoulders. You were just a little girl, and he was... something else. Something ancient. But the way he had looked at you after the slap, the way his eyes had gone dark with a rage that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world, haunted you.
‘He was angry for me’, you realized, your eyelashes damp and heavy. He couldn't move, and he couldn't speak, but he wanted to stop it.
You wondered if he was sitting there now, staring at the empty space where you usually knelt. You wondered if he missed the sound of your voice. As sleep finally began to pull at your limbs, heavy and grey, you felt a crushing sense of guilt. You had promised him you weren't afraid, and then you had run away.
"I'm sorry," you whispered into the dark, your voice a mere breath. "I'll come back. I promise I'll come back."
You drifted off then, the pain in your cheek fading into a dull hum, your last conscious thought a prayer that your father would never find out, because the idea of leaving that man alone in the dark was more frightening than any slap the Magus could ever give.
The morning sun was too bright. It spilled across your duvet in mocking, golden ribbons, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. You groaned, shifting beneath the covers, but the movement sent a sharp, rhythmic throb through the left side of your face.
When you finally gathered the courage to slide out of bed and look in the vanity mirror, you winced. The bruise had blossomed into a deep, ugly plum color, stretching from your cheekbone down to your jaw, your cheek swollen and puffy. It looked like a permanent shadow, a mark of your "disobedience."
A soft, rhythmic knock at the door made you flinch.
"It’s only me, lass," Mr. Sykes’s muffled voice came from the other side. "I’ve brought some tea and a bit of toast."
You hurried to the door and turned the lock, pulling it open just a crack. Sykes looked tired—older than he had the night before. He carried a silver tray, the steam from the teapot curling into the cool morning air. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped in, his eyes immediately finding the mark on your face.
He let out a heavy, weary sigh. "Sit yourself down, darling. Let's have a look at you."
You sat on the edge of the unmade bed, clutching a pillow to your chest like a shield. Sykes set the tray on the nightstand and reached out, his thumb gently hovering near the edge of the bruise.
"The swelling's set in," he murmured, his voice thick with a guilt he couldn't quite hide. "I’ve brought some cold cream. It’ll take the sting out and help hide the color if you have to go out.”
"Is... is he angry?" you asked, your voice small and raspy from crying. "Mr. Burgess?"
Sykes paused, his hand shaking slightly as he poured the tea. "He’s in his study. Locked away with his books and that ruby of his. He’s in a foul temper, but he’s not looking for you. He’s frustrated that the prisoner still won't give him what he wants, even after... well, after last night."
Sykes handed you the teacup, his fingers lingering on yours for a supportive second. "I told the house staff you’ve caught a nasty chill and aren't to be disturbed. You stay up here today. Read your books. Hide away for a bit."
"I left my book downstairs," you whispered, remembering the volume of Greek myths lying abandoned on the cold cellar floor. "The one with Greek myths."
Sykes’s expression softened into something truly pained. "I’ll fetch it for you later, when the guards are changing shifts. No one will notice." He sat in the small armchair by the window, watching you take a hesitant sip of the tea. "You shouldn't have gone down there, (Y/N). Not because you did anything wrong, but because men like Roderick... "
You looked down into the swirling amber liquid of your tea. You wanted to tell him that the "prisoner" had a name, but the secret felt heavy and precious, like a diamond you had to keep hidden in your palm.
"I’m sorry you have to stay here, Mr. Sykes," you said softly.
He gave a dry, hollow laugh and looked out at the rolling English countryside. "We all have our cages, lass. Mine is just made of old debts and bad choices. Yours shouldn't be."
He stood up, smoothing his waistcoat. "Eat your toast. I’ll be back at noon to check on you. If you need anything—anything at all—you ring that bell, you hear?"
You nodded, offering him a small, weak smile. As he closed the door and the lock clicked back into place, the room felt suddenly very quiet.
You touched your cheek, the skin feeling tight and warm. You wondered if he was still angry on your behalf, or if he was just as lonely as you were, tucked away in your separate cages, waiting for the world to change.
The next night, the bruise was a deep, ugly violet that stretched from your cheekbone to your jaw. You had stayed in your room and played cards with Mr. Sykes during the day, but now, in the darkness of the cellar, you let it show. You had to come back. You had to know if he was okay.
The guards were whispering, looking at the glass with wide, frightened eyes. The atmosphere in the basement felt electric, as if a storm were held captive behind the stone walls.
You knelt by the glass, your breath hitching. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears. "I shouldn't have been so loud. I shouldn't have made him angry at you."
Suddenly, a voice echoed.
It wasn't a sound, not really. It was like a vibration in the back of your skull, a resonance that felt like the tolling of a great, silver bell under the sea. It was deep, cool, and carried the weight of a billion years.
‘Little one.’
You jumped, nearly falling backward, your eyes darting around the empty shadows. "Who's there? Alex? Is that you?"
‘Do not look to the shadows. Look at me.’
Your head snapped toward the glass. Dream was sitting perfectly still, his back straight, his eyes locked onto yours. His lips were pressed together, unmoving, yet the voice in your head was clearly his. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing you had ever heard.
"You..." you breathed, your hand flying to your mouth. "You're talking? In my head?"
‘I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares. The mind is my kingdom,’ the voice vibrated, softening as his gaze landed on your bruised face. ‘Are you... alright?’
The sheer impossibility of it made your head spin. You stared at him, seeing the way the stars in his eyes seemed to swirl with a sudden, sharp concern.
"I-I'm fine," you stammered, your fingers ghosting over the bruise. "It doesn't hurt that much anymore. I was just worried about you."
A strange, flickering shadow of an expression crossed his face—something that might have been a smile, if the slight quirk of his lips counted as such.
‘You should not have returned,’ he whispered into your thoughts, the voice sounding like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘It is dangerous. The Magus is a man of small soul and great cruelty.’
"I couldn't leave you alone," you said firmly, plopping down onto the floor. "I promised I'd finish the story."
There was a long silence. You felt a gentle warmth spread through your mind, a sensation like being tucked into a soft, velvet blanket on a cold night.‘Then read, little bird,’ he said, and you could almost feel the phantom touch of a hand against your hair. ‘I am listening.’
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