a series of sbi oneshots

Dreams Godling (now Phils)

The Godling doesn’t reply, not that Wilbur needed or expected him to. If Dream was anywhere nearby there’s no way he would be letting Wilbur get this close to his little one.

But Dream isn’t here, there’s no one here to protect this precious little life.

“Its awful dangerous out here on your own,” Wilbur tells the little one, “anybody could come by and just snatch you up.” He carefully lifts the Godling into his arms, snuggling him close to his chest. “Just like this.”

A/N : take your fluff and scram

Wilbur finds him in the middle of a field, flowers growing all around him. He’s in the form of a fawn, hidden among the long grasses, even with his gold-white fur.

Wilbur doesn’t often wander around the mortal realm, but he’s glad he did this time.

Carefully, cautiously, he paces across the field and sits beside the little one. He lays still and silent, as if he were a true mortal beast. Wilbur reaches out and gently strokes the soft fur of his muzzle with the tip of a finger. “Hello there little one,” he murmurs, ”what are you doing out here all on your own huh?”

Everyone knows about Dream’s little godling. His very first. It was probably inevitable that something like this happened. Godlings are mischievous, and curious, and they aren’t quite...anchored.

They are little dreamers, barely woken into reality and they have little care for its laws. In their own way, Godlings are more powerful than gods themselves, they are Potential, limitless and untapped. It isn’t until they’re older, until they really start settling down into their Aspect that a caretaker-god can take their eyes off of them.

Apparently nobody told Dream that.

Wilbur smiles to himself, some lessons just have to be learned the hard way, it would seem.

The Godling sneezes, shaking his head and sending his ears flopping around his face.

“Aw,” Wilbur coos, “did you get some pollen in your nose? Poor baby.”

The Godling looks up at him, blinking wide eyes. Shakily, he gets to his little hooves, his tail waggles as he toddles forward, closer to Wilbur.

“Ohh,” Wilbur welcomes the little one closer with an open arm, running his hand down his delicate flank. There is a barely there dusting of darker gold, just enough to make spots visible on the Godling’s coat. “Are you out here all alone?” he asks, letting the little one fold down to sit along his leg.

His thigh is longer than the fawn’s entire body. Precious. He strokes over the Godling’s head, he can feel the tiny, tiny buttons that will be antlers when he is older.

The Godling doesn’t reply, not that Wilbur needed or expected him to. If Dream was anywhere nearby there’s no way he would be letting Wilbur get this close to his little one.

But Dream isn’t here, there’s no one here to protect this precious little life.

“Its awful dangerous out here on your own,” Wilbur tells the little one, “anybody could come by and just snatch you up.” He carefully lifts the Godling into his arms, snuggling him close to his chest. “Just like this.”

The Godling doesn’t put up any protest as Wilbur stands. He only tucks his muzzle into his hooves and rests, peaceful, content.

Dream is a god of life, of creation and harvest. His little Godling would take after him, living in the heart of Dream’s temples, feeding on the latent energy his god-caretaker let off. Wilbur imagines that he will one day be a god of springtime and new life.