Archive of Our Own

Cross had always been careful. He knew the rules when it came to Fae; not to step into circles of mushrooms, nor to eat the fruit they offered, and never to stray from the path. 

And above all, never to cross them. That was just common sense. 

The fae were not to be trusted. Everyone knew that. They were tricksters, cruel masters and inhuman things. Tales of their cruelty lined the pages of old tomes, and watered down stories passed down from mother to child still yet made for sleepless nights. 

It was not difficult for Cross to follow the rules. He always did, be it the ones carved from legends or the unspoken ones of his father. It was safer, that way. Though he did not spend much of this time deliberating over the Fae.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t fear them. He simply had his priorities.

He wasn’t the kind to command attention like his father. Nor was he blessed with the charismatic optimism of his brother. He was taken out of the orphanage to be housed as a candidate in the Palace solely because his skill with the sword caught the King’s attention. 

And though he had been prohibited from leaving the halls, though he missed the sun he had once been able to bathe in so freely as long as he did his chores, though he missed being able to act without having ten sets of eyes watching him, here he was fed thrice a day, given clean clothes and shelter. That was enough.

The King had adopted children one by one in the years prior. None of them were tied to him by blood. Cross knew very well his place in this Court as one of them; his crown was based off merit. 

He’d learned early on that the King valued utility above all else. If he outlived his usefulness, he would be discarded. The only thing his father wanted from him was his strength, and his obedience. They had fierce fighters by the hundreds. So the only thing he really had was the latter. 

Cross wasn’t among the more popular Princes. That was by design. He knew when to lower his gaze, when to hold his tongue. He knew when to step back, step away.

If he disobeyed instruction, he would lose his worth. And with time, he learned to whittle away the hesitation that was sometimes as good as refusal in his father’s eyes. 

He did not look kindly upon softness when it didn’t serve him.

Cross had made the mistake, once. In the first few years as a mere candidate, long before he’d been crowned, he had rarely been summoned on his own to the throne room. But one day, he was inexplicably sent for.

There had been no explanation, no reason, just an order. But Cross had dressed quickly. A summons from the King, in any form, meant something that demanded attention. Quickly, he made for the throne room. 

The large doors to the throne room opened just as he approached. And he stepped in. Cross felt his breath hitch as he crossed the threshold. 

The king sat at his throne, hands at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Cross didn’t dare approach until he was motioned forward. His boots echoed across the cold, marble floors as he crossed the distance.

His heart pounded in his chest as he knelt before the King. The King’s gaze, cold and distant as always, swept over him. There was no warmth in it, no affection. Just an inscrutable judgment.

He was given his command: A servant had been caught stealing. He was to deal with the matter. An arm, or a leg. Your choice. There was no room for argument at all. But that was as per usual.

The servant was already waiting for him in the dungeons. When Cross arrived, the boy was already chained up in a darkened cell. His sweaty hands gripped the bars. He could not be older than ten.

Cross could hear his shallow breaths as he lifted his head. There, he saw the fear in the servant’s eyes, heard him whimper as he saw him. He didn’t know him. But the boy was not so stupid as to misunderstand the role of an armed man approaching his cell. 

He almost lost his composure. 

He heard himself ask for the crime. His voice, clipped and hard, seemed so far away. The boy did not deny it. Foolish boy. There was no chance he could avoid punishment if he confessed. But a lie would likely lose him his tongue, too. 

His hands were at his sides. He did not know what to do.

No, he knew perfectly well what. He just couldn’t do it. Which would be more merciful? The boy would need his arms to carry cargo. But if he lost a leg, it would be much more difficult for him to carry out the everyday menial asks. And in a place like this where everyone had to pull their weight and more, it could mean losing his place and keep entirely.

The world was closing in around him, and he hated this— hated this. 

He knew these things happened. He’d learned to close an eye. There had been braver souls than him, and he’d seen at least two dismissed for the audacity.

He unlocked the cell, unsheathed the blade and gently held the boy’s arm in place. The boy began wailing. 

Cross took an arm. It was just closer. Easier to slice off. Easier for a clean cut. 

The poor boy; shaking and sobbing, staring at the floor. Cross called for a healer. The King had heard, and later when he returned to the throne room he regarded him for a long moment in silence. Not unlike the way one might inspect a blade fresh from the forge.

He could still feel the ghost of the boy’s trembling arm beneath his grip. The wet slickness of blood splatter. 

“You will do,” The King said at last.

And that was it. He was crowned a proper Prince, among the chosen from the list of candidates. He’d passed the test, even if he hadn’t realised what it had been at the time. 

It would be nice to say he could never forget about the blood staining his hands. But there was more he was expected to do. The devil had idle hands, or something along those lines. And so Cross was sent out, again and again, to carry out his orders. He learned to keep his shoulders squared, words measured, face blank. 

He was given more and more freedoms, here and there. Larger quarters. More alone time. 

Some evenings he spent with his brother. They were closer than the rest, having come from the same orphanage. Contact between candidates was discouraged, but as Princes they were free to mingle as they so pleased.

They’d drink, or they wouldn’t. They’d speak, or they wouldn’t. There was something so comforting about existing in the same space without needing to fill it. For once, he didn’t have to measure his words or think too much about his next move. 

He could just breathe.

It was intoxicating.

There was something about those evenings that made the rest of the court feel further away. The walls of the palace, with all their expectations and rigid rules, seemed to fade away. It was just him: Sans, and Papyrus. He would forget, just for a little while, about the things he had done

But they had new names, now. Cross, or X. 

He was, after all, the tenth candidate to be accepted.

***

He received several pieces of information in a short span of time. 

One, there was a border dispute. He was to resolve it. In his opinion it sounded petty, but he had heard of men who rose and fell for less. He had seen men who had thought they were invincible, who believed their place in the court was secure, only to disappear when they were no longer needed. 

The King was methodical and precise. He didn’t keep people around who didn’t serve his interest, whatever that was.

The thought made his hands twitch with the faintest of tremors.

Two, it was with the Fae.

What the fuck.

Cross nodded his assent, keeping his face blank. There were iron and protective wards in their walls, but a border dispute would take him to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, past the walls and into the wild where the power of the Fae was strongest. He had countless questions, but knew he wouldn’t get any answers. The King would never show any sign of fear, or even acknowledge the risk. 

But there was a risk. He had heard whispers about them. Beings that lived outside the rigid rules of his world, unpredictable as they were dangerous. 

He knew just enough to avoid trouble by avoiding contact. But this would make it impossible to avoid contact.

Cross packed his things, and when the time came, left the palace with a small party of soldiers and advisors heading for the borderlands. The journey would take weeks, and the further he traveled from the comforts of the palace, the more and more keenly he felt his own fear.

The iron on his person did nothing to squash it.

He thought, and thought all day and night, until even his dreams were full of thinking.

Surely, he thought to himself one night, this is not a new way to dispose of the heirs he no longer deems worth the time?

He talked endlessly with the advisors sent with him. They had brought dozens of precious treasures of gold and silver as cargo, so there was talk if they should send ‘gifts’ (though not in name lest they offend the Fae for the insinuation).

It was a stupid idea. He didn’t say that, he held his tongue, but barely so.

He saw how they looked at him, uncertain and afraid. He was never among the popular heirs. Even his brother’s charm garnered more supporters than his silent assent. Cross was never good with his words.

If the King sent Cross here, then the King already believed peaceful resolution infeasible. 

Contrary to what the advisors thought of him, he did read up on the old Fairytales. Since he was given the order, he spent many nights pouring over ancient tomes that spoke of the Fae’s capriciousness, their cruelty, and their near-untouchable power. Fae were not beings to be reasoned with, at least, not easily. 

And definitely not emotionally. 

There had been a story of some woman centuries ago. She must have been a romantic. The creature, beautiful and otherworldly, had appeared one night under the pale moonlight. It had spoken to her with promises of love and eternity; to her, it was everything. It must have been Fae.

And so, she had fallen, utterly and irrevocably. They had quickly married thereafter, what feeble dowry her family could muster sent with her to the Fae lands, though surely no gold could shine as brightly as the lovestruck maiden’s eyes. 

She smiled so brilliantly on her wedding day, that it was said that in her joy, she was just as beautiful as the otherworldly thing sent to collect. 

Then she disappeared. That was to be expected. Surely a human who’d been granted the wonders of the other world would never deign to come back. Surely her family grieved, but they tried to swallow their sadness and be happy for their dear besotted girl. 

One autumn evening, a traveler stumbled upon her. There tangled among the roots was a figure draped in what remained of a wedding gown. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, without the flush of blood or pulse, because she had been turned to stone. Her fingers were curled out as though reaching for something. Someone. But they grasped only air. Her eyes, once bright, once full of love, had been hollowed out. Instead now they were filled with clear quartz. Beautiful, shimmering stone.

Logic was a no-go. But neither was emotion like love. To try and press the shape of a Fae’s love into the fragile shape of a mortal heart would only lead to collapse. In many ways love was more dangerous. You would never leave their care, never return home. 

To them, you would never be a person at all. Just another pretty thing to keep. To them, mortals were but fleeting creatures. Playthings, distractions, bugs. 

There was only one way to get them to spare you for long enough to be listened to.

He had to catch their attention. 

The Fae spoke archaically, fantastically, but they were also known to settle disputes by force. If Cross could not bring them to listen, he could not get them to reason. If he couldn’t broker some form of peace, then he was nothing more than a temporary distraction. 

He wasn’t so foolish as to think he had the whole picture. But he didn’t think he was useful enough to the King for him to come rescue him if he failed here. 

If he was reticent about his upcoming demise, his party was remarkably obstinate. 

Cross could feel it in the heavy air. The soldiers at his back, the advisors by his side, all of them unwilling to engage with the Fae. There was no enthusiasm, no hope of a peaceful resolution. Only the bitter, resigned acceptance that they would likely all die upon first contact. 

They were all unwilling. 

He hadn’t had any choice either. So he couldn’t entirely fault them for the reluctance.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. 

The first hurdle he had to cross was to catch their attention. The easiest way to do that was through a Fairy circle. 

Fairy circles were nonexistent back home. Any mushrooms that grew too close would be unrooted with the right precautions, but maybe it was much too costly for the people living near the borders. Maybe too dangerous, too. 

It was unfortunate they had to be one of the Kingdoms neighboring the land the Fae had claimed as their own. Luckily for him, his talents had nothing to do with politics, so he was free to know nothing about the shifting borders and ever-changing allegiances of the Fae. 

But even he knew the delicate peace between the Fae and the human kingdoms was never truly stable. It was rare for the Fae to press the peace, but only because they lived such long lifetimes their whims were spread out across decades and centuries. Now they were pressing the borders again, claiming more and more of the countryside.

(The land, it was said, had once been a desiccated wasteland. Barren and lifeless, its cracked earth stretching endlessly beneath merciless sun. No rain had fallen for generations, and the wind, dry and harsh, carried with it only dust and sorrow.

But that was before the Fae had come. They arrived, and brought with them beauty, life, and will.)

So greedy, though they already had a Realm of their own.

If worse came to worst, crossing the border would definitely get him noticed. But then he might as well step into the Fairy circle, because he’d be stolen right then and there. So it would be easier (and safer) to contact the Fae near the circle. 

Cross knew what he had to do, loathe as he was to enter alone. He had been ready to try and cajole the guards into leaving him to his own devices for but an hour, had been prepared to argue the wisdom of going to the Fae himself, but no one fought him on the matter. 

He hadn’t even been given any resistance as a courtesy. They were all only too willing to leave him be, it seemed.

It took a mere day to locate a Fairy circle. 

Well, that was less work for him.

He brought with him a couple gifts, and kept some iron on his person. But he put away the sword made of iron; something made for offense would definitely offend. The iron anklets and wristlets were less of a risk, albeit still risky, being made of iron.

But if he met with the Fae unprotected, he’d quite be dead. So he had to compromise. 

Cross walked along the clearing carefully, mindful of where he stepped. If he crushed some pixie underfoot he’d probably mar his chances of success even further. It was a lax rule to never step off the path, but a rule nonetheless, so it was fortunate the Fairy circle was already along the road.

The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting pale patterns across the moss-covered earth. The veil between the mortal world and the Fae realm was thinnest at night. 

If he didn’t return by daybreak, they were on strict orders to retreat. To think of him as lost. If they could read between the lines, they would probably happen to disappear. If not, if they decided to return with a failed mission, that was their prerogative. 

His boots sank slightly into the soft moss as he continued onwards. He could feel the air change, the hum of something thrumming. The forest flanking him on both sides was getting denser and denser.

Surely it was not just the moonlight following him. Surely, if he dared to hope, there were already Fae watching him. Every rustle of leaves, every crunch in the underbrush. Waiting for him to make a mistake.

He acted as if he’d seen nothing. It would not do to show his hand too soon.

It was much too late in the night for it to be evening mist, so it was just mist.

He soon found the Fairy circle. The ring of mushrooms was untouched, shining brilliantly in red and white. Cross exhaled slowly.

This close to one, he certainly wouldn’t go unwatched. 

He knelt just at the threshold, careful not to break the circle. Never step into a Fairy circle, or you will be lost from this world. 

“By my King’s word, and by the old customs, I seek an audience with you Fair Folk.” He called out to the woods. The practiced phrasing was so awkward in his mouth, but he did not think it wise to deviate from the script he’d been taught so soon. Not until he crossed the first hurdle. Everything had to be perfectly neutral, devoid of him.

Silence. That was to be expected. He ignored the prickling of being watched and continued, “I come with no ill will.”

More silence. Wind curled around him, lifting his hair, tugging at his clothes. 

Suddenly bells began to toll in his head. Distant, ringing, piercing through his careful thoughts. The first whisper in his head was dripping in tones. 

No ill will? My, then what it is I sense on your bodice?

He kept his head bowed. “Only as a precaution. I wish to live for long enough to deliver my King’s wishes.”

Yes, and the clang of bells made him exhale. I know of your King. He is an ambitious man, no? If only he would learn to keep his will to himself. 

The winds died down.

He did not move. He did not speak, because the noise in his head pierced through any coherent thought he could muster and he did not want to make the mistake of haste. 

Ambition, the voice echoed. It burns, doesn’t it? Like fire, but with no warmth.

The wind picked up again, brushing past his face, tugging at his clothes.

“What do you want?” He asked, the words slipping from his lips despite himself.

Leave.

“I came for a reason,” He said, his voice already hoarse. “I cannot leave until I fulfill it.”

Your King’s will has already been felt. 

A distant chime rang out, discordant and hollow.

You are but a shadow passing through. Leave.

He wouldn’t.

The ground beneath him shifted. No, not the ground— the air, thickening, twisting. The trees blurred at the edges of his vision, their gnarled forms stretching impossibly tall, their branches scraping at a sky that no longer looked like the one he had entered under.

Are you a fool? The voice pressed against his skull like a vice. Your loss will serve no one, merely hurt yourself. 

“I ask for an audience,” He said simply, “And it appears you’ve granted me one.”

The bells tolled again, closer now, a low, warbling chime that made his vision blur at the edges.

I truly wonder what he has done to earn such loyalty.

He almost laughed, but he didn’t. 

The mist parted. Shimmers, in the air, flashes of light. Heat rising from stone, then a figure stepped out of the light. Tall, inhumanly graceful, with eyes that glinted like stars.

The Fae was beautiful. Too beautiful. If he had not been forewarned, perhaps his resolve may have faltered, if only because of how unsettling it was. It was as if a blind man’s idea of beauty had been carved into existence and left to breathe. 

Their form was shifting at the edges, gold dripping from the flowing fabric at their wrists. 

The slight glow cast over the grass was not quite gold, not quite silver, shifting with the light like water catching the moon.

Like the shape of a dream half-remembered. 

Then, in a soft sigh, the light swept back to reveal another skeleton like himself. 

“Will you listen if it comes from a face like yours?”

The Fae’s voice had lost none of its amusement, but now it was quieter. Almost tender. He had crossed the first hurdle.

There were no bells ringing in his head, and yet somewhere in that lilting voice, he could still hear toiling bells. The Fae tilted their head, hollow sockets catching the dim light. 

He could not help but notice that, though he was still on his knees, the Fae was resting cross-legged.

“Well? Speak.”

He reached for the small bundle tucked beneath his cloak. With deliberate movements, he unwrapped it, the soft rustling of fabric filling the quiet air.

First, an exquisite golden brooch with a pale amber stone set in the centre. Next tumbled out a silver hairpin, long and slender, curved gently at the end like a slender branch where a small ornament of delicate filigree of tiny silver flowers bloomed. A gold chain linked to a single sapphire as deep and blue as a midnight sky. Beside it a comb crafted from pale ivory, lined with pearls.

He let the Fae survey the inventory for a few moments. He sat back on his hackles. He met the Fae’s curious gaze. 

“My father is a clever man. He chose these jewels for I, so I could show my sincerity.”

Cross sighed. 

“I will not give them to you.” 

The Fae's golden pupils flickered in a sort of surprise blink. He didn’t know them, but he knew his own face. If you did not show the Fae what you expected of them, if you were careful with your first contact, they would mimic your face rather than craft one out of your fears. 

It was an advantage he could not afford to circumvent.

“As is your right,” The Fae said softly. “I know how much you mortals love to lust for riches.”

He shook his head.

The shifting light of their form filled in where the shadows should have been.

The Fae mused, “Is that so? Then what is it that you seek? If you truly wish to fulfill your King’s will, you would know it would be easier for you to try to bargain with your trinkets.”

“I want something else.” 

“You could try,” They continued offhandedly. “It is a pretty set.” 

“I’m sure it’s nothing to you.” His voice stopped. He could not lose his resolve. “I’ll trade with you.”

The bells tolled again, closer now, a low, warbling chime that made his vision blur at the edges. It was the Fae’s version of a laugh.

“First you say you’re here to deliver a message. Now you’re here to make a deal? Not quite a liar, but close.” 

A ghost of a smile settled over his. “My father is the King of Ilyria. He claims a dispute that you Fae have claimed land of ours.”

The Fae’s grin quickly widened. “Oh?” They laughed; a clear sound. “I am also a Prince. How fitting. Are you here to bargain for your people?”

He opened his mouth. But he could not lie.

“I’m here to bargain.”

“I should warn you,” They said amicably, “I am beginning to bore of you.”

He straightened. It was useless to try and hide his fear now.

“My father claims this is our land. That you Fae expanded your territory without reason or provocation.” He kept his voice steady. “He wants your withdrawal.”

The Fae Prince scoffed. “Without reason? What reason do we need? We lived before you ever were, this world is more ours than yours. What greater provocation could there be but your countless greedy nations? Do we need a reason to claim something already ours?”

He was caught between the golden pupils, pulsating and dilating. He forced the words out, “I agree.”

His father’s voice echoed in his head— duty, legacy, power. But the Fae’s golden eyes burned through him, and he knew he could not lie.

A pause. The bells had stopped ringing.

“Which is why I know I lack information. So I want to make a deal.”

That caught the Fae’s attention. 

The Fae tilted their head, a slow, deliberate movement. 

A deal. The word itself was a delicate thing, a thread spun from mortal desperation and Fae amusement. It was not an offer lightly made nor lightly accepted.

“And what,” They said consideringly, “Will you give in return?”

He could hear the advisors, speaking headlessly as they always did in his head. Some suggested coin, but gold meant nothing to those who could spin straw into gold. His first instinct had been blood, to offer his services but that too felt much too crude and presuming. 

He could give up his name, but that would be much too obvious. If he had come here to let himself be snatched away in an instant he would’ve never come at all.

“What would you take?” It was dangerous to ask a Fae that. Often times the price they named was far greater than the one one could pay. 

They laughed. “Oh, Prince. I want so much more than you would ever be willing to give.”

Oh, you don’t know me. “What else?” He asked.

The Fae’s laugh dipped into a smile. He surveyed him.

“You’ve been decent company. I’ll be kind.” A Fae’s kindness wasn’t kind at all. But he didn’t dare interrupt, he needed something from the Fae, and he was going to play their game. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, and in return you tell me what I want to know.”

They were being much too obvious. 

But that was what he wanted, no?

“Deal.”

The Fae’s eyes gleamed.

He thought he would’ve felt something. Something wash over him, maybe, any sign of the contract made. But the gold flash dimmed back to the cool glow and there was no change at all. 

“We’ll take turns asking each other a question. Shall we begin?”“

As if he could, or would want to, say no. He nodded his assent and snatched the first question. “Who is my King to you?”

“Very prideful.” Their voice ran smoothly. “Too proud to beg, too proud to kneel. But not too proud to send you in his place.”

That told him absolutely nothing. 

“That wasn’t an answer,” He said flatly.

The Fae's grin widened. “But it was. My turn. Why did he send you?” 

“He won’t miss me if I fail.”

The sharp edges of light seemed to blur into each other for a split second. Like frost melting at the edges of glass. Their lips parted as if to say something, then closed again.

They studied him for a long moment.

“That sounds terribly sad,” They murmured. “A terrible sort of existence.”

“There are others.” 

"There are always others.” From their face, they were either concerned or annoyed. Whatever it was, it was cooling into something more subtle. Something almost unreadable.

"And do you think," They asked, voice as lilting as the wind, "That any of them would have come in your place?"

It was the sort of question that should’ve stung. Would they have done the same for you? After all his mission was to secure peace for them all. His victory was theirs, but his failure would be his own. 

The thought settled over him. 

He thought of the court. The advisors. The soldiers who stood behind the King like shadows, silent and waiting. He’d given out plenty a command before, and been the one to fulfill it too.

"No.”

The Fae smiled, and this time it was unedged.

“Then I suppose it was always meant to be you.”

“That’s two questions. Will I survive this conflict?””

“That depends,” They said. The slow drawl was teasing. “On what you’ll do next. If you’ll try to resolve it, or win.”

The distinction made him pause. There was a right answer for him, but if he mentioned it, it would reveal too much. This wasn’t nearly over yet. He hadn’t gotten his guarantee. “What’s the difference?” 

The Fae’s lips quirked up, a manner so unlike himself despite them wearing his face. “The yield.”

“Am I enough to end this war?”

For the first time, the Fae did not answer immediately. 

“You are not as alone as you think.” Their voice softened, just a little, like the night thinning into dawn. “I know what we have planned for your King. His head will roll by the next storm. But you seem smart enough to know that. Tell me, do you truly wish to help him?”

“There are people I care about,” He said finally. Carefully. "Your war will kill them."

The Fae hummed. A soft, melodic sound. "That is not an answer to my question. What do you want for him?"

He paused. “What he deserves.”

The soft tinkling of bells. 

The Fae’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Their gaze fell to the mushrooms. It was a boundary that they could not cross. With a sort of rapt fascination, Cross watched as they pressed a hand against some sort of invisible barrier, their touch bringing a shimmer that exposed the light rippling right under their fingertips.

When he looked back, the Fae was staring right at him.

"Then I will give you what you need,” They murmured, "If you give me what I want."

The words slotted into place. The shape of the bargain, clear.

“I have one question left.” He exhaled, steadying himself. “If I were to bargain for peace, in any way, would you accept?”

The Fae chuckled. “Your King doesn’t want peace. If he did, he wouldn’t have threatened my brother. Perhaps I would consider it for a price.”

Cross swallowed. “And what is it you want?”

The Fae smiled, and it was sharp and soft all at once.

“I think you know.”

And he did. 

“Is this a second deal?”

“Would you like it to be one?” They laughed. “That can be arranged.”

“There are nine other Princes. Their lives, souls and minds are not to be touched. Whatever massacre your kind’s planning, they must be spared.”

“So it shall be.” The Fae tittered. “But what about you, Noble Prince? You speak as though you have already been lost. I wonder if you even know what you’re offering.”

Cross shrugged off his coat. The garment, weathered and worn, took a torn second to fall to the floor. That left his undershirt on.

The Fae let out a soft sigh. 

The sound of rustling filled the air. He glanced behind, and not surprisingly, the trees had curled in to block the clearing. 

“Your name?”

“You may call me Cross.” The Fae didn’t even seem disappointed that it wasn’t his true name. Their mouth opened slightly, and light shone through it. 

“Say it, Cross. I don’t take things that aren’t mine. I don’t take things that aren’t offered to me.”

“I’ll give you what you want, and you’ll give me what I need.” It wasn’t a question. The laughter was bubbling in Cross’ throat, so absurd and so happy at the success. 

“You may call me Dream.” His voice was dripping honey, sweet and gentle. “And it’s a deal.”

He glanced at the Ilyrian emblem sewn into the forgotten coat, and stepped over it. 

Dream pressed an open palm against the invisible wall. “Come to me,” He said gently. “You already know how.”

And Cross did. He lifted his foot, stepping deliberately over the threshold. 

The light shattered like glass. 

Dream caught his wrist before he could think twice, fingers impossibly warm against his skin. The heat curled upwards, travelling up his arm, and he gasped as the heat tickled his throat. 

He watched distantly as the iron cuffs rusted and fell off him

Because, from the beginning, he had never had any plans of leaving this forest. 

The heat grew. He looked to see Dream gently kissing his throat. He exhaled, eyes falling away; the world outside the circle blurred at the edges, distant, unimportant. The air shifted, thickened. 

Dream tilted his head, golden eyes glinting beautifully. “You understand, don’t you?” His voice was low, coaxing, as if there was any need for that at this point.

He let himself be pushed closer, what had to be a hand grasping the back of his skull. Dream hadn’t forgone his skeletal form, but his pupils sparked into stars. His fingers traced the curve of Cross' jaw, touch feverish, and his own face burning up.

He turned his head to brush his lips against his palm. 

That peeling laughter like bells. 

He felt his clothes drip away in a soft rustle, as if they were liquid. The dissolving cloth pooling at his feet. Then he was pressed into the ground, and the world tilted with him. Dream followed him down in a slow, weightless descent, like a star slipping from the sky. 

His warmth bled into Cross’ bones, golden light curling around the edges of his vision. Fingers traced down his ribs.

“Stay.” As if he had anywhere else to go. His hands found purchase against Dream’s back, gripping tight enough to feel the tension in bone.

Cross exhaled, felt his chest cave in. “I’m here.”

Dream leaned in and kissed Cross.

That lit a fire in his stomach. He felt it seep into his marrow, curling under his ribs, something bright and aching spilling into him. Something that tasted like devotion, spilling through all the cracks in his moral code and filling in something he was starved of. 

The purple glow cascaded across the ground. The magic was in his gut, ready to gather, though its glow was easily swallowed up by the golden light.

Dream’s laughter hummed against Cross’ teeth. His hands traced upward, curling around the back of his skull, holding Cross there. He didn’t realise his breathlessness until Dream pulled back, just enough for their foreheads to press together.

“May I?”

Cross’s pulse was racing. The question hung between them. As if they had not just made a deal for this.

Dream's longing gaze searched his face.

“Obviously.”

Dream’s lips curved into a soft smile. The purple light coalesced into ecto-flesh. 

Dream held him, skull settled into the crook of his shoulder. His warm hands moved from his shoulder to his stomach. Circles, traced into his ribs. Cross closed his eyes as his hands moved down to where his ecto had formed. 

Part of him thought it would hurt. This was a payment of sorts. He’d already gotten what he wanted, this wasn’t for him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone took another’s pain for their own pleasure. Oh, what sordid tales there were in the Court.

Fingers brushed against his inner thigh. He made a small noise as they parted them. He could feel touch against his—

“Ah.” 

He forced himself to breathe. Dream had risen, knees around his torso. He hadn’t even realised he had formed it, but Dream had his other hand around his cock. The touch was gentle, but— he couldn’t flinch away, but he must’ve, because the touch was so tender and he couldn’t help himself. He recovered quickly; the touch was barely there, loose enough that he could pull away if he wanted to.

“I—” 

His throat tightened. Dream’s fingers curled just slightly, and he didn’t know if he wanted him to move closer or move away. 

“Too much?”

No, he could take more. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to; he knew he would have to surrender, but that didn’t mean it was easy. 

“Faster.” He didn’t say more. 

It might’ve been worse if Dream spoke as he worked him open, he thought. He had been so gentle that he’d almost forgotten it wasn’t some faceless power drawing the sensation out of him, but rather another bearing down on him.

It was easier to accept the surrender, like this.

Cross shuddered, breath hitching. It wasn’t painful. It was tender, aching, foreign. 

He was hard. His cock throbbed as the touch coaxed him into letting down his walls, he felt like prey, he was being worked open and he knew how this looked but his throat was dry and all his efforts were going to not making a noise.

Dream shifted. The touch came quicker, quicker. He made a sound, then bit his lips shut. 

He thought of sugar. Crumbling sugar. Molasses.

The touch receded. The breath tumbled out of him. He was burning; sweat dripped down his temple. 

His eyes flew open. 

Mouth pressed against the skin of his cock; wet and so warm. He cried out, it was so sensitive already and Dream had an inch of his cock in his mouth, back arched. Cross slid up. He blinked and blinked and he couldn’t blink the tears out of his eyes. He barely registered the soft sweet moans from the Fae through the growing haze. 

He hit a spot that made him gasp and grind down. For an instant he felt bad as the head of his cock surely hit the back of Dream’s throat. He certainly made a surprised mph, but then there were light bells ringing away in his head. 

Good boy. You’re doing so well.

He thought of prey. He thought of predator. He thought of—

He releases. He choked so hard on the pleasure he almost started gasping. The rush of humiliation soaked up to his collarbone, he was flushing; Dream let him go. 

He stopped leaking, but the moment stretched. The purplish stickiness stained the ground beneath them, whatever fabricated reality Dream created for them to fuck in without him losing his mind. 

As he wearily looked up Dream wiped away a drop of purple from his mouth. 

Cross was truly going insane. 

Dream rocked back from his knees to his heels. He was tired. He was far too shaky to say anything. 

“Going quiet again?” Dream reached for him, and suddenly he was in his face again. He cupped Cross’s chin, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. “What are you thinking, love?”

“You have strange taste.”

Dream blinked, caught off guard for the second briefest moment. “Strange taste?” he echoed. “Oh, dear, you wound me.”

Honestly, he hadn’t expected to get away with running his tongue but the achingly pleasant afterglow had killed any voice of reason in his head. Ah well, at least he was having fun.

“You liked the jewels. Maybe I should’ve tried that.”

“Wishful thinking,” Dream replied/

“Years of life. A cherished memory.”

He sighed wistfully. “I’d much rather have you.”

He wanted to close his eyes. Shut them in his face, but then he thought of something else.

“There was a woman who’d married your kind. I remember the story. The Fae promised her she would be loved, and less than a decade later she was found left in a grove with her eyes turned to stone.”

Dream smiled. “I promised you no love. If I were to do the same—” His hand lifted up, gestured at his eye, “It would be less of a betrayal.”

“And there I’ll be, ten years later, a fossilized discovery in the trunk of a tree.”

Dream frowned. His lips parted, but the words never quite came because Cross closed the distance with a kiss. When he finally broke away, Dream said with wonder, “I don’t understand your kind at all.” 

Cross laughed a little. It was a quiet sound, strained at the edges. He couldn’t help it, it had been so long since he’d been free to. 

“You’re trembling.”

Cross scoffed, but his breath had caught. “It’s cold.”

Dream’s head tilted, considering. “Liar.” His hands brushed against his jaw, but didn’t hold it in place. “So afraid,” He murmured. “Even now.”

“Sometimes fear is good. I’m sure you would agree.”

Dream’s lips parted in the shape of a laugh, but no sound came. “If only that King of yours was as wise.” This time he smiled tenderly, the ghost of the touch against his jaw growing warmer. “I could still do it, you know.” His fingers trailed down Cross’s throat. “Pluck you from your body like a pearl from an oyster. Hollow you out.”

“There’s another story I remember,” He said with the same smile. “There was once a boy that sought something forbidden. He went where he was not meant to, and was taken away.”

Dream’s expression was unreadable. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. That’s where it ends.”

Dream laughed, low and quiet. His fingers pressed just a little deeper; like this, he could probably feel his pulse. “You test me, love.”

Cross’s smile was thin. “Then kill me.”

Dream’s grip tightened, just for a second. And then, with a sharp exhale, he let go.

“Ah, love.” A shake of the head, a low chuckle, but his eyes were still burning. “That would be such a waste.”

“Yes,” He agreed. “Especially since you’re not quite done.”

“Yes,” And it was a hiss-sigh-cry as he lunged forward. Cross was suddenly yanked away, free falling as his breath caught in his throat. Down, down, down he went, head-first and feet-up.

He’d kept his composure. He hadn’t made a single noise, though maybe he’d stopped breathing.

“There we are,” Dream said happily. He blinked. and there he was. Standing before him, soft, delicate, terrifying Dream. He made a soft titter. “Did I scare you? I wanted to be here, for this.”

The ground beneath him was no longer solid. He was on his haunches. Cross glanced to his left. To his right. 

Before, the air had felt crisp, harsh almost, carrying weight and direction. Now, it was thick, like swimming through mist, like breathing in water that didn’t drown. The light, too, had been clear, sharp even; colors defined, shadows sharp and purposeful. Now, everything blended. Colors blurred together, mingled like liquid paints on a canvas.

Before, everything had been a soft haze, but now he watched transfixed as he touched the surface beneath him. It felt liquid, but it didn’t ripple. It stretched on like the surface of a lake, and in the smooth surface he saw reflected a sky filled with stars. 

“Well, properly here. I don’t mind wearing your face, but allow me to indulge.”

He looked up. He blinked. Dream was dripping gold from his eyesockets. He was still skeletal, but he swore the angular bones had smoothened to be softer. He wasn’t entirely sure. 

Then again, it was his face. He glanced around. The world was stretched, warped around him.

Well. You certainly look more Fae.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dream said softly. “I work very hard on my dreams.”

Cross was about to say something when he got distracted. The clear liquid beneath him had looped up, around his wrist, and was yanking it upwards. His heart skipped a beat as the loop tightened, and he instinctively tried to pull back.

“The dreams I make,” Dream continued, his voice softer now, “Are my art, my love. I shape them, mold them until they are perfect. Until they bend and stretch to fit what I want. What I need.”

As Dream took a step forward, the air thickened, curling around him like the mist. The space between them seemed to compress, becoming smaller and smaller. 

Cross tried to steady himself. He was always good at keeping his cool, but just as he felt like he could breathe again, his other wrist was caught. The liquid had snaked up his arm without him noticing, its slippery, clear tendrils winding around his wrist and yanking his other arm away. 

Dream wasn’t touching him, but the liquid beneath his thighs was sliding down. 

“Sweet boy. Let’s make sure it won’t hurt, alright?”

As if a little sweetness could distract him from being pried open. His hands curled into fists.
“Let go.”

It grazed his rim, thin but inscrutably there. He might’ve shuddered, he’d might’ve flinched when it gently pressed in. Cross tried to push away, but a swift yank later found that his bound arms made it impossible to move that far. He could struggle slightly, though. There was just enough give for him to yank back.

Dream made a soft noise. He was closer. “I haven’t even started.”

Bastard. He’d gone through worse. The intrusion didn’t quite hurt, but it felt strange. He was holding himself together far better than earlier. 

(His cock was much more sensitive, maybe he ought to dissolve the magic there so Dream wouldn’t have the same leverage.)

“Do you want to be a Prince, Cross?”

It took a second, but he snapped onto the thought quick enough. “I am a Prince.” 

He could still hold a conversation, so that was nice. 

“Oh? And what kind of Prince gives up on the King so easily?”

The tendril inside him curled up. Cross exhaled sharply. “Very funny.”

“I thought so,” Dream said lightly. “I’m not so familiar with your mortal laws, but I’m quite sure openly disdaining His Majesty is quite the offence.”

“I hadn’t.” His breath stuttered for just a second.

“That’s not what I heard,” Dream corrected smoothly. “You must know he isn’t willing to take risks. If he hears a whisper of treason, well.” His fingers traced idle patterns in the air, and the length around Cross’ wrists tightened. “What I’m trying to say,” he continued, voice warm, almost indulgent, “is that you’ll have nowhere else to go. So you don’t need to put up a front. Not with me.”

Cross bit the inside of his cheek. The tendril— he could feel it thickening, scraping against his walls. He wouldn’t make a noise, but he could feel himself being filled up, and the edges of his vision were growing blurry. 

“Why?” His voice was already hoarse. “What do you want?”

His golden eyes gleamed, the liquid dripping from them tracing the curve of his cheekbones like tears. “Dear Prince, you need to start asking the right questions.”

They drew out the title for long enough that any sweetness on their tongue turned sour. 

“You could force it out of me. Why—” He gasped. “Why not just carve it out of me, your pleasure? Why take the time to coax me out?”

'To them, you would never be a person at all.’ 

He was long ready to lose himself. Long ready to forget everything, forget his name, forget his will. He wanted to close his eyes, lower his head so he didn’t need to see the beautiful pity on the Fae’s face. But something was holding his head up, and he couldn’t blink away the sight of golden tears slipping down his face like molten light.

“I don’t make choices lightly. And I don’t take things I don’t want.”

He touched his cheek, and the tendril inside him pulsed against a very sweet spot. He cried out, and Dream bent down to kiss him. 

“The man you served was trying to find a way to cheat death.” 

It took Cross a moment to realise that he was talking about his father. 

“What?” It was what he wanted, a distraction, but the whiplash still made him dizzy.

“Oh, yes,” He said listlessly. “He was so irritating. Truly the worst of mortal scum. He would not leave us alone. Imitation truly is no proper version of flattery.”

Cross sucked in a breath as liquid pooled in the hollows of his joints. The grip on his throat tightened, and a strangled sound slipped from his lips.

“I want to hear you, Cross.” Dream’s voice was velvet. “You’re perfect like this. You’re perfect for me. Look at you, sweet boy, hands above your head and writhing for me.” 

His cheeks burned with shame. He wanted to retort something, but the words caught in his throat. Anything he could’ve said was crushed by the pulsing, insistent need Dream was drawing out of him.

He couldn’t look at him— couldn’t bear it. He could feel himself crumbling under each touch. 

“Let go, Cross.” As gentle as it was, it was still a command. “You’ve been holding on for so long. Let go for me.”

Cross could feel the pressure building, the tension winding tighter inside of him. Something took hold of his cock, so tight and god, he knew he should’ve dismissed it. And still, he fought it. He fought Dream, even as every part of him screamed to release, to surrender.

"Let go," he repeated, each word dripping with an insidious calm. The heat swelled again, almost unbearable now.

Cross couldn't hold on much longer.

“I know what happened to that boy.”

The words didn’t quite pierce through him. It took him time, to latch onto the meaning. He tried to, tried to push past the raw searing tension tearing through him.

“What... what do you mean?” He forced out, voice barely a whisper.

“The boy that sought the forbidden. My mother made him into my brother, and then she created me for him.”

He laughed sourly.

“Ah, well. At least I have someone of my own, now. Do you know how pretty you look? Coming undone?”

He didn’t know what made him shake his head, because he could already feel himself teetering. That cursed pressure was right up against the spot that made him see stars. 

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The world lit up. The liquid heated up rapidly. Every nerve in his body felt like it was alight and ignited. His vision blurred, flickering with lights and colors, each one more intense than the last, until all he could focus on was the aching, rocking into him.

He moaned despite his best efforts. 

The warmth spread, radiating from the center of him outward, until it felt like his entire body was burning from the inside out. 

He let go. He came, spilling warmth, wet everywhere and still leaking below. He was so, so tired. 

He wanted to scream when Dream dragged him closer, into his lap. At some point his wrists had been released, and he noted with mute disbelief that there were no bruises at all. 

“I’m tired, Dream,” He said. “It’s been twice, I can’t come again, please—”

“I’m doing you a favour, Cross.” His eyes sparkled dangerously. “Isn’t that what you came here for? To entice a Fae enough that they’d accept your offer, even when you yourself think you’re nothing?"

He closed his mouth. He looked away (oh, at least he could do that now).

“Clever, clever boy.”

Because, from the beginning, he had never had any plans of leaving. 

He wanted to retort, but he saw it in his eyes. Dream knew.

“Isn’t this what you want? A Fae to be so infatuated with you, wanting to carve out every inch of pleasure from your fragile form before leaving you to dust? Oh, wait, no.” Dream ran a thumb over his cheek, thoughtful. “Only after turning you to stone.”

He silently rocked back. 

Falling in love with a Fae was dangerous. But using it against them to get what he wanted—

“If it had been a lesser Fae,” He said gently, “It might’ve worked.”

He’d wanted to burn the whole Palace down when he’d been ordered to handle the Fae. But he’d thought better of it. He then thought of running away, but no. His brother was still there. The only way to avoid retaliation from the King was to pretend he had lost. As if he had done his utmost.

“Oh, love. I’m willing to play the role if it makes you happy.”

He couldn't help it. He laughed. 

He might’ve worn a crown but he’d never been the type of person to care for the people. His father deserved all the ruin in the world, and if it meant letting his nation crumble, so be it. 

Only the others didn’t. He’d spent too much time with them, gotten to know them too well. His mistake.

He just hadn’t expected Dream to keep him for so long. Weren’t the Fae supposed to bore of mortals in the blink of an eye? He’d been ready to die, or go insane just as the others trapped in each fairytale had. It was a long time coming for him.

“I could ask my brother to spare your father, dear Prince. Just say the word.”

It was hell, living under him.

“Let me pretend.” He closed his eyes, and rocked into Dream. He felt Dream’s magic snap around him, and let out a breathless sigh as the cock wedged into him. It might’ve hurt if he wasn’t already so slick there, and besides, he was sure any discomfort would’ve been torn away from his fractured sense of reality the moment he showed any signs.

He was sorry that he would not return to his family, some of them were decent. But not sorry enough. He had done what he could for them.

Goodbye, Father. He couldn’t even pretend to be sad. I never knew you.