I literally thought of this and wrote it up in an hour and a half. I have no idea if it's good because I'm posting this at 3 AM, but it's here, it's weird, and it's Pinsty. Enjoy.

- Inky

Lucid dreaming was when you were aware that you were dreaming, and could influence it, right? Then Kirsty could call herself a marginally lucid dreamer, she supposed. The 25-year-old knew she was asleep, knew this was all impossible in her realm, and wouldn't quite make sense in the only other she knew of. Maybe it did, in some pocket, but regardless she wasn't there because she did not, she did not, open the box. She was dreaming.

Too bad there was nothing she could do about it.

She couldn't wake herself up. Pinching didn't work, plucking a hair out didn't work, even deliberately kicking a wall did nothing. She couldn't influence the dream or change it no matter how she concentrated; she had control of nothing but herself, and so she was struggling to pull herself away from her surroundings, praying there was some quiet in this dreamspace somewhere, because it certainly wasn't here.

The world around her shimmered in pale gold and black; the ground below her was polished tile, and the walls were gilded onyx framing diamond-patterned windows with champagne-colored glass. She was in a swirling and laughing crowd – a ball – and they danced with merriment in their sparkling black and pale gold regalia, swirling skirts and twirling shoes and finery.

And, of course, blood. There was so much blood.

Kirsty was trying to make her way out of the crowd. As they moved, she could see the revelers for what they were; bones and exposed tissue in fine gowns, mutilated, filled with wires and rings. Metal sang as it scraped against itself in their dances, leaving red footprints and trails from skirts behind them, and the dancers laughed and swirled like nothing was wrong.

This wasn't even a nightmare at this point, Kirsty thought as she finally navigated away from the dance floor. This was just plain weird. She managed to get to the punch table, and in spite of herself, she poured a glass and brought it to her nose. It smelled flowery, and was a clear color somewhere between rose and champagne. Because this dream couldn't just be weird and uncomfortably pretty, it had to be pretentious, too. Still, it smelled normal, and dipping her napkin in it did nothing odd, so she carefully brought it to her lips and sipped. It was tart, and tasted like citrus and flowers. How she knew what flowers tasted like, Kirsty wasn't sure, but there you go.

It was only now, glass in hand, that Kirsty managed to look down and see herself for the first time. She was dressed in black, like the rest; a full dress of something shimmery that reminded her of silk, and the bodice (corset? Top? The part covering her chest) was strikingly familiar to that Cinderella movie she'd seen with her friends in the theater. It had the same hug to her body, the same puffy sleeves that wrapped over her chest and met between her ribs. A single white-gold rose marked the meeting point, dusted with glitter. Her hands were wrapped in long white gloves – opera gloves, she thought.

Kirsty was not going to check her shoes, because if they were glass, she was officially quitting dreaming.

The music – which was almost but not quite earthly and seemed a little off-tune – slowed, as did the dancers. It lulled, then stopped, and as she set her cup down she suddenly felt many eyes on her.

What? She wanted to ask, feeling looks behind bone-masks and wired flesh gazing at her. What do you want?

A tap on her shoulder. She turned, and saw a pale hand extended to her, the thumb and small finger wrapped in leather.

She took it before she recognized it, and by the time she looked up, the Hell Priest was leading her to the center of the room.

She didn't scream. Impossibly, she wasn't afraid. Perhaps she was somewhere deep down, but this was a dream, and her mind was telling her that she was safe in the dream-space. And so Kirsty Cotton let the man with the gridded, pinned head put his arm around her, the other hand still holding hers, and pull her close. He had a calm, distant, but visible smile, and his eyes never left hers.

If she hadn't been so baffled by what he was doing and by what she was doing, she might have thought he looked fond of her.

The music picked up again. All chaos was gone; though the sound could not have been any earthly instruments, it was perfect, and it all but carried her feet for her as she began to move with him. Kirsty followed the Hell Priest, or perhaps he followed her, and the dancers moved in time with utter perfection. They blurred in the corners of her vision, as she was now fixated on him, her expression perfect calm even as a thousand questions reeled through her head.

Did he create this? Is he real? Is he dreaming too? Can Cenobites dream? What does he want? What's the point of this-

His hand left her side to cup her cheek, and that smile – for just a moment – softened into something she dared not call loving.

"It is a gift, Kirsty," he said, and she realized the music had the exact same impossible quality as his voice, "nothing more. My gift to you."

"But why?" He pulled her close again, and they swayed, and now there might as well have been nobody else at all but them. That should have worried her, she thought, that he could make it seem that they were alone. Even if it was a dream. "Why this?"

"To show you," he said simply, and when had he stepped closer because her chest was brushing against his now, "that there is more here than what you know. That my world could be something wondrous to you, Kirsty. It does not have to be a prison."

Slowly the world around them was coming back, and the music was winding down. He leaned towards her, his pins brushing her cheek.

"And you do not have to be a prisoner, Kirsty. Not as you believe. You belong to me."

That smile again.

"And I belong to you."

He kissed her. That was what she would tell herself when she woke up. He kissed her, and she certainly didn't lean towards him as he did, and she certainly didn't close her eyes as he did and allow the pin caps to scrape over her skin. She was about to relax, about to let herself succumb to the strangeness of it, when she was suddenly aware of her sleeves being ripped off her shoulders.

And when she opened her eyes, it wasn't her sleeves, it was her blanket. She was lying on the sofa, and it had fallen to the floor. The TV was still on, the credits to Cinderella playing on mute.

She'd fallen asleep watching it.

Of course she had.

Kirsty pushed herself off of the sofa and groaned, stretched, checked her face. No scrapes. She started walking towards the kitchen, licking her lips. She suddenly really wanted some lemonade, or maybe something like rose tea. Anything that tasted like citrus and flowers, something real to distract her from the fading gold and black of her strange, strange dream.