Work Text:
The castle tower was tall—so tall that one could see the clouds drifting past the window.
Nightmare leaned against specially made cushions, his purple eyes fixed on that window. It was sealed by golden magic—not the crude confinement of prison bars, but something far more refined: sunlight could stream in, the breeze could enter, and birds could even perch on the sill to sing. Yet, he could not leave. He would never leave.
His body sank into silk and down feathers, like a puppet carefully laid to rest. A white robe covered his maimed limbs, yet it could not hide their contours—the abrupt flatness below the shoulders, the unnatural truncation at the tops of his thighs. Three months ago, when Dream had carried him back from the battlefield, those wounds had still been bleeding. Now they were healed; the pink scar tissue was as soft as a newborn’s skin—and terrifyingly sensitive.
The door opened.
Dream walked in, his golden wings folding behind him like a cape. He carried a tray holding a tea set and medicine vials. He moved gently, as if afraid to disturb something, yet Nightmare knew that this very gentleness was a form of violence—a violence that left him unable to resist, unable to feel anger.
"How are you feeling today?" Dream asked, placing the tray on the bedside cabinet.
Nightmare did not answer. He turned his head away, continuing to gaze out the window. A bird landed on the sill, cocked its head to look at him, and then flew off. Coming and going freely—as was only natural.
"I brought some new tea," Dream continued, seemingly oblivious to the silence. "It was shipped from the south; they say it helps with phantom limb pain."
"I’m not in pain," Nightmare said, his voice flat.
"You cried in your sleep last night."
Nightmare’s shoulders stiffened for a moment. He *had* cried; in his dream, he had felt his non-existent hands burning, twitching, and screaming. But he would not admit it.
"That was just your imagination."
Dream sighed. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. Nightmare could feel that heat drawing closer—a warmth he both craved and feared. "Look at me," Dream said, gently turning Nightmare's chin with his fingers. "Don't look away."
Nightmare was forced to turn his head and meet those golden eyes. They used to fill him with fear and rage, but now they stirred a strange sense of sorrow within him. Dream had changed—or rather, something between them had shifted. It was no longer a dynamic of hunter and prey, nor of light and darkness, but something far more twisted and intimate.
"Why?" Nightmare asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why bring me back? Why take care of me? You could have just..."
"Could have what?" Dream asked, his thumb tracing the corner of Nightmare's mouth. "Killed you? Handed you over to those who wanted to study you? Let you die on the battlefield?"
"That would have been a release, at least."
Dream’s fingers tightened, his grip firm enough to cause pain. Yet, that pain was real—a proof of life—and for that reason, Nightmare felt a strange sense of gratitude.
"I won't let you die," Dream said, his voice low and carrying a dangerous sort of tenderness. "You’ll be safe here. From now on, we can be together forever. You don't have any objections to that, do you?"
Nightmare looked at him, a trace of mockery flickering in his violet eyes. "Together forever? As what? A pet? A prisoner? Or a receptacle for your guilt?"
"As my lover," Dream said, his tone as calm as if he were simply commenting on the weather.
Nightmare was stunned. He hadn't expected Dream to say the word so directly. For three months, Dream had cared for him, held him, and kissed him, yet had never used that term. That cautious, guilt-tinged tenderness had been like a veil, obscuring the truth beneath. "You're insane," Nightmare said. "You've completely lost your mind. I'm Nightmare—I'm the Guardian of Negativity, I'm your enemy, I—"
"You're the one I love," Dream interrupted. "You always have been. I was just too foolish before; I thought that hunting you down, changing you, and 'curing' you was what love meant. It wasn't until I saw you lying in a pool of blood—until I realized I’d almost lost you—that I understood... Love isn't about changing someone; it's about acceptance. It's protection. It's possession."
His fingers slid into Nightmare's hair, gently combing through the dark strands. "That’s why I brought you back. I cut off all your ties to the outside world, I made those who hurt you pay the price, and I built this perfect cage. Here, you are safe. Here, you are mine."
Nightmare felt a shiver run through him. It wasn't out of fear—or at least, not *just* fear. The obsession in Dream's words, that mad, possessive desire, coiled around his heart like a rope. He should have been angry; he should have loathed this twisted form of "love"—but he didn't.
Because he was so lonely. Because when he had lain on the battlefield, feeling his life draining away from his severed limbs, the last person on his mind was Dream. Because during these past three months, whenever phantom pain kept him awake at night, it was Dream who held him, soothing those non-existent nerves with golden magic.
"But I can't hold you anymore," Nightmare said, his voice trembling. "I can't walk beside you anymore. We can't hold hands. I can't caress you or pat your back the way I used to."
He tried to lift his arms, to show those empty sleeves, to display the absurdity of his mutilation. "Look, Dream. Look at what I’ve become. I can't even sit up on my own. How could I possibly..."
His voice choked off. Tears welled up in his purple eyes—the release of a breakdown he had suppressed for three months, the collapse of the strength he had forced himself to maintain. "How could I possibly be with you? I’m just... a cripple. A useless wreck who can’t even offer an embrace."
Dream looked at him, his golden eyes filled with anguish. It wasn't pity—Nightmare could tell. It was something deeper, as if Dream were enduring that same pain, that same sense of helplessness.
"You can," Dream said, his voice hoarse. "In other ways. Just as you are."
He leaned down and buried his face in the crook of Nightmare’s neck. Nightmare felt warm droplets land on his skin—Dream was crying. Dream—forever strong, forever righteous, forever standing tall—was weeping.
"...Oh, don't cry..." Nightmare whispered. Instinctively, he tried to raise a hand to wipe away the tears, only to realize he no longer had hands. The realization struck his heart like a knife. Yet, he didn't pull away. He rubbed his shoulder against Dream’s cheek and gently brushed his lips against the curve of Dream’s ear—using the only parts of his body he could still move to comfort the one who was weeping.
"I can't wipe away your tears anymore," Nightmare said, offering a lonely smile even as his own tears flowed more freely. "So please, don't cry. Don't let me see you crying, because I... I can't do anything about it."
Dream lifted his head; his golden eyes were red and swollen, and tear tracks stained his face. He gazed at Nightmare—at the man trying to comfort him despite lacking hands—and a wild, overwhelming love surged within him.
"You don't need to wipe them away," Dream said, using his fingers to clear the tears from Nightmare’s face before licking the saltiness from his own fingertips. "We can lick each other's wounds. That’s our way, isn't it? It always has been."
He pressed his lips to Nightmare’s—a kiss tasting of tears, bitter yet real. Nightmare stiffened at first but soon began to respond. He parted his lips, allowing Dream’s tongue to enter; the sensation of that intrusion drew a soft whimper from him.
Dream’s hands began to move over Nightmare’s body. He undid the white robe, revealing the form beneath. Moonlight spilled in through the window, illuminating the incomplete parts of him—the smooth, rounded stumps at his shoulders and the pink scars at the tops of his thighs.
"You are beautiful," Dream said between kisses. "Do you know that? In my eyes, you have never been more beautiful."
"You're lying," Nightmare gasped. "You're lying. I'm a monster now—I'm..."
"You are mine," Dream interrupted, his fingers tracing the contours of the severed limbs. "Perfect. Whole. Because this is who you are now. And I want you, Nightmare. I want you—not for what you can do, but simply because you are *you*."
His fingers slid to the severed area at Nightmare's waist, where the skin was most sensitive. The lightest touch made Nightmare arch his back and let out a sharp gasp.
"Here..." Dream whispered. "Does it still hurt here?"
"No..." Nightmare shook his head, his cheeks flushed. "It's a different sensation. It's too sensitive... Don't..."
"Don't what?" Dream asked, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Don't touch? Or... don't stop?"
His fingers continued to roam over that sensitive skin as he leaned down to press his lips against Nightmare's chest. Nightmare’s breathing grew ragged; his incomplete body writhed on the bed like a fish out of water.
"Dream..." he called out, his voice a mix of longing and fear. "I don't know... I don't know if I can still..."
"You can," Dream said, lifting his head; desire burned in his golden eyes. "Let me prove it to you."
He stripped off his clothes, revealing golden skin and glowing wings. Nightmare gazed at him, his throat going dry. Even in a moment like this, Dream was achingly beautiful—radiating a brilliance that was almost too dazzling to look at.
Dream climbed onto the bed and knelt beside Nightmare. He carefully adjusted Nightmare’s position, propping him up against the soft cushions, before cradling his hips—those incomplete, beautiful hips. "Look at me," Dream said. "Don't close your eyes. I want you to see how I love you. All of you."
Nightmare opened his eyes and looked at Dream. He watched as Dream produced a golden, magical lubricant, coated his fingers in it, and reached toward his rear. As the first finger slid inside, Nightmare gasped, his body instinctively tensing.
"Relax," Dream whispered, his other hand stroking Nightmare's severed limbs in a soothing caress. "I won't hurt you. I swear. Never."
His fingers moved within Nightmare, searching for that specific spot. When he found it, Nightmare let out a sharp cry; the intensity of the sensation nearly undid him. He threw his head back, exposing his throat—a vulnerable posture that only fueled Dream's desire.
"Can you feel it?" Dream asked, his voice hoarse. "Can you feel me?"
"I can..." Nightmare wept. "I can feel it, Dream... it's too much... too intense..."
Dream added a second finger while leaning down to kiss the sensitive stumps. His lips brushed against the pink scar of the right leg, his tongue tracing its texture. Nightmare let out a long, drawn-out moan—a sound unlike any he had ever made before: broken, desperate, and filled with pleasure.
"Don't... not there... it's too sensitive..." Nightmare gasped, yet his body responded in kind; his maimed limbs tried to wrap around Dream, pulling him closer.
Dream didn't stop. He continued to stimulate that internal point while caressing the stumps with his lips and tongue. The dual stimulation drove Nightmare to the brink of madness; tears and sweat mingled on his skin as his body shuddered violently.
"Please..." Nightmare finally choked out, his voice thick with tears. "Dream, please... come inside... I want you..."
Dream withdrew his fingers and aligned himself. Both of them trembled as the tip touched the entrance. Dream pushed forward slowly, his movements gentle—almost reverent.
The entry was slow. Nightmare’s body was tight; although the trauma of the past three months had healed, the muscle memory remained. Dream could feel that resistance, could sense Nightmare’s trembling and ragged breathing. He paused there, his forehead resting against Nightmare’s.
"Are you okay?" Dream asked, his voice strained.
"It hurts a little..." Nightmare said, his voice shaking, "but... but it feels good. Keep going... don't stop..."
Dream began to move. His motions were slow and tender, each thrust accompanied by caresses upon Nightmare’s severed limbs. He kissed the stumps and licked the sensitive scars, letting pleasure wash over the pain.
"Can you feel it?" Dream gasped. "Can you feel me, Nightmare?"
"I can..." Nightmare wept, tears sliding down his cheeks—tears of joy. "I can feel you, Dream... you're inside me... you're everywhere..."
Their bodies were entwined; golden light merged with black mist, creating a strange, new color. Dream gazed at Nightmare’s expression—that look of pain, pleasure, and desperation—and felt a satisfaction unlike anything he had ever known.
This was not conquest; it was devotion. This was not possession; it was belonging.
"I love you," Dream said between movements, his voice hoarse and sincere. "I love you, Nightmare. All of you. Broken or whole, in pain or in joy... all of you."
"I love you too," Nightmare replied, his voice breaking. "I hate you, Dream—I hate that you made me this way—but I... I love you too..."
Those words seemed to flip a switch. Dream’s movements became more intense, more desperate. He held Nightmare close, as if trying to meld him into his very flesh and bone—as if to prove, in this way, that they were still alive, still together, and still possessed one another.
When the climax finally came, Nightmare let out a long, piercing moan; his body shuddered violently, and his severed limbs wrapped tightly around Dream. Dream released his energy at the same moment; a burst of golden light erupted and intertwined with the black mist, forming a beautiful pillar of radiance beneath the moonlight.
They collapsed onto the bed together, gasping and trembling, their sweat soaking the silk sheets. Dream did not pull away immediately; he remained deep within Nightmare, draping his wings over them both to create a small, warm world of their own.
"Does it hurt?" Dream asked, there was a note of concern in his voice as his fingers gently caressed Nightmare’s cheek.
"...It doesn't hurt," Nightmare said, his voice heavy with a contented weariness—that rare, genuine happiness. "It's good. It's good, Dream."
Dream gently pulled back, used magic to cleanse them both, and then cradled Nightmare in his arms. Nightmare curled up against his chest like a satisfied cat, his remaining limbs resting against Dream’s waist.
"From now on, we can be together forever," Dream whispered. "As long as we stay here—as long as you're with me... you'll be safe. No pain, no danger. Just us."
Nightmare fell silent for a moment, then murmured, "But I can never hold you again."
"You can," Dream said, tightening his embrace. "In this way. With your body pressed against mine, with your breath, your heartbeat... This is an embrace, Nightmare. This is *our* embrace."
"What about caressing you like I used to?" Nightmare asked, his voice muffled. "Patting your back, comforting you when you were sad... I can't do that anymore."
"You can do it in other ways," Dream said, kissing Nightmare’s forehead. "With your lips, your eyes, the way you speak. I don't need hands, Nightmare. I only need you."
Nightmare looked up into Dream’s eyes. In that expanse of gold, he saw sincerity—and the absolute resolve to give up the entire world for his sake.
"...Ah, don't cry..." Nightmare whispered, rubbing his cheek against the corner of Dream’s eye to wipe away a tear, a lonely smile touching his lips. "I can't wipe away your tears anymore."
"Then let me wipe yours, Nightmare," Dream said, using his fingers to clear the tear tracks from Nightmare’s face. "We tend to each other's wounds. That is... that is our way."
Outside the window, the moon rose higher, casting a silvery glow into the room and illuminating the intertwined figures on the bed. The castle tower was tall—high enough to touch the starry sky. Yet, within this small room, inside this golden cage, two broken souls had found each other. Nightmare closed his eyes, feeling the beat of Dream’s heart—that strong, steady rhythm affirming the presence of life. He felt a peace unlike any he had known before, a sense of calm that came from finally being exactly where he belonged.
"Dream," Nightmare whispered, his voice tinged with drowsy contentment.
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow... I want it to be like this tomorrow, too. Is that okay?"
Dream smiled—a gentle, doting smile. He tightened his arms, cradling Nightmare within the softest part of his embrace. "Yes. Every day. Forever. As long as you stay here, as long as you’re with me... we’ll be together forever."
"That’s good," Nightmare said, his voice growing fainter. "That’s good..."
He drifted off to sleep, a rare, serene expression resting on his face. Dream gazed at him—at this person who had once been so lively and restless, but was now broken and incomplete—and a complex surge of emotions rose within him.
He knew it was twisted. He knew this kind of "love" was pathological—a form of imprisonment, of possession. But he didn't care. In this shattered, imperfect world, he could at least protect this person; he could at least love him; he could at least keep him forever.
That was enough.
Dream closed his eyes, folding his golden wings tight to shield the one in his arms within that soft, safe embrace.