#Sandman fic

[merry-moody-missy]

Aw to be chilling out on holiday with Hob and dog 🥰

[martybaker]

Long time no fic, my muse was taking a vacation but I rediscovered this fic concept that I wrote in a fugue state and then completely forgot about, so here’s a snippet.

Setup:

Dream and Hob are college roommates and they keep getting disturbed by their neighbor having loud sex nextdoors.

Solution - they have to be even louder.

——

They are both in their room, with Dream reading a book in bed and Hob at his desk working at some assignment or other when the noises start once again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Hob buries his face in his hands.

Dream lets his book fall on his chest and he rubs at his temples. “Not again,” he hisses.

“This is like the ninth time this week! Don’t they have anything else in their lives going on? School? Friends? Isn’t there more to life than sex?” Hob moans, covering his ears against the sound of rhythmic thumping of a bed frame against a wall and loud moans.

“I knocked at the door again yesterday. The jerk told me to ‘lighten up, ‘live a little’ and ‘get some’,” Dream mutters, teeth clenching.

“Asshole,” Hob agrees, leaving the assignment behind with no hopes of being able to focus, and flops down onto his own bed.

“Why do they have to be so loud?” Dream growls covering his face with a pillow in a futile attempt to block the sound. He does own noise-cancelling headphones, but he left them behind in his family home and he isn’t ready to make that trip just yet.

Hob is even more out of luck, he can’t use noise cancelling headphones, the complete lack of sounds makes him anxious. He actually prefers having Dream in the room when he’s studying, even if they don’t talk, to being here alone. He often studies in coffee shops just for the ambience of the people chatting.

But it’s the principle of the thing. They’re both fed up with being exiled from their own room just because the jerk next doors has a sex appetite of a bonobo monkey.

Suddenly, Hob sits up, eyes sparkling. “They are indeed, very loud, which means - we have to be louder.”

Dream rises an eyebrow, intrigued, and sits up as well. He watches Hob get on his own bed on all fours, pushing against the bed frame, trying to make it rock against the table behind it.

It doesn’t move much.

“Fuck,” Hob says, then takes the two steps to get to Dream’s bed. Dream makes room for him, leaning against the wall to give Hob enough space to lean against the bed frame and test its noise making abilities.

The bed creaks rhythmically as it rocks against the table behind it. “Yours is better,” Hob announces. He stops to give Dream a questioning look. Dream smirks and nods at him. “Go ahead.”

[rainypuppycloud]

It's kind of annoying that of the 4,000 Dreamling fanfics, 85% are about Hob rescuing Dream. I've never seen a fandom with so little variety. I need more alternate universes, where are the cowboys, astronauts, college AUs?

[gabessquishytum]

I wanted to write a little something more detailed based on this lovely ask, so I did - I'm afraid it's not very much, ironically because I'm very much struggling with my own Hypermobility at the moment! But I hope it'll bring joy, nonetheless <3

Love is Stored in the K-Tape

(550 words, rated M, no major warnings apply)

“You know, darling, it wouldn't hurt you to buy k-tape in a colour other than black.” Hob muses – measuring up the tape against Dream’s ankle and then cutting the strip. Dream huffs, and kicks his foot very lightly against Hob’s hand.

“Because the supposed flesh colour is so close to the colour of my skin.” Dream's tone practically drips with sarcasm. And all Hob can think is – he's adorable. Beautiful. An absolute brat.

“Well yes, it would look more like orange against your skin. But the blue would match your eyes so beautifully!” Hob picks up the last strip of tape and peels the back part away. He holds Dream’s ankle, taking care that the joint is comfortable, and applies the tape to the velvety pale skin. A quick kiss to the joint seals the process. “There we are, love. Is that alright? Not itching or creasing too much?”

Dream rotates his foot and gives a regal nod in response. Both of his ankles are taped, as is the outside of each foot (this part is to keep his toes from popping out of place). His right knee has been decorated too. Hob runs his finger over each piece of tape, and then leans in to kiss each one too. Hearing Dream’s little hum of satisfaction after each kiss brings a smile to his face.

“Thank you.” Dream eventually murmurs, when Hob has finished the tour of his joints. He tangles his fingers up in Hob’s hair and tugs affectionately. “For all that you do for me.”

Hob crawls up the length of Dream’s body to kiss him properly on the mouth before replying. “I can promise you that there's literally nothing else in the world that I'd rather be doing.”

“Even so…” Now Dream is blushing, just a little bit. It makes him look delightfilly radiant. He nudges his nose against Hob’s cheek. “Perhaps. I am becoming spoiled.”

“And perhaps. Spoiled is exactly how I want you.” Hob is half teasing, copying Dream’s intonation and the seriousness in his voice. But really Hob is the one who is quite serious, at least about this. He likes Dream to have expectations and demands of their relationship. It makes him feel like he's doing something right.

Dream only says “hmph.” And goes right back to pulling Hob’s hair. Hob has never been more enamoured with anything. He may be, he is willing to acknowledge, a tiny bit obsessed with Dream. This is what he wants: to be allowed to care for his lover and to make sure that he can enjoy sex without pain. It doesn't seem like too much to ask for. 

“Darling.” Hob nuzzles into Dream's oh-so-soft neck, licks the flutter of his pulse, and fails to stop himself from smiling. “Do you think that I could make love to you, now?”

Another one of those beloved regal nods. Dream’s hand slides down from Hob’s hair to the pelt on his chest, and he tugs on that instead. “I will be most disappointed if you do not, after all that effort.”

Hob has no intention of disappointing Dream ever, let alone this evening. And so he sets the tape and scissors carefully aside, to devote every ounce of energy and attention to his unique and utterly perfect Dream.

[rhosyn-du]

Alternative Education - Dreamling

Square/Prompt: A3 - Dubious Consent for @dreamlingbingo, although the consent ended up much less dubious than I originally planned. But the spanking is arguably dubcon, so I’m counting it anyway

Rating: Explicit

Ship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: human AU, age gap, tutor/student relationship, tutor!Hob, student!Dream, spanking, face slapping, blowjobs, hand jobs, face fucking, hair pulling, unnegotiated kink, messy af power dynamics

Link on AO3

Summary: Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. If Hob spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how good Dream would sound begging for his cock, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Inspired by this post. Huge thanks to @gabessquishytum and 🪽 anon for the inspiration for this fic and the sequels that make up half my planned bingo fills. This AU has eaten my brain in the best way.

Thank you @karalynlovescake for the beta and tagging help!

Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. Dream is clever, with a cutting wit and a skill for weaving words that Hob is frankly a bit envious of, and when he’s not being a prickly asshole about one thing or another, Hob actually enjoys his company. Plus, Dream’s parents pay him well enough that he doesn’t need to take on any other regular clients this term, just the occasional one-off to supplement his income—nothing less than a godsend when Hob needs those extra hours if he has any hope of finishing his dissertation on time.

It doesn't hurt that Dream is beautiful. As in, model beautiful. Love songs and fucking sonnets beautiful. The kind of beautiful that, if he were a couple years older and not Hob’s tutee (or hell, just one of the two; Hob’s not a saint), would have Hob angling to take him to bed, or at least to the men’s for a quick fumble. But Hob is a professional—or at least a guy who would really like to keep this job—so if he spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how things might have gone if they’d met under different circumstances, thinking about how good Dream would sound begging for Hob’s cock in that low, liquid-sex voice of his, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Most days, Dream’s tutoring sessions are nothing more than Hob keeping Dream company for a couple hours, and maybe trying to coax a smile out of him when he’s in one of his more sullen moods. Dream doesn’t need a tutor, but from everything Hob’s seen, he could sure as hell use a friend, and Hob is more than happy to be that when Dream will let him, fucked up as it might be that he’s getting paid to be there.

Then, there are days like today, when Hob is sure he earns every fucking penny Dream’s parents pay him.

“It’s a stupid assignment, and I won’t do it.”

Hob sighs. They’ve been through this a dozen times already. “It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.” It is. Hob can’t even argue the point. How Dream’s teacher even got his post with such an appalling misunderstanding of classical literature is beyond him. “It’s the assignment you were given, so it’s the assignment you need to turn in. You’re lucky Mr. Choronzon is giving you the chance to redo it instead of just failing you for turning in something that didn’t meet his requirements the first time.”

“The essay I turned in was good,” Dream protests. “You know it was. You read it.”

“It was,” Hob agrees. There are people in his graduate seminars who couldn’t give that nuanced a take on Ovid. “But it still wasn’t the assignment.”

“The assignment,” Dream snarls, “is stupid.”

Hob folds his arms and leans against one of the ostentatious posts that adorns the foot of Dream’s bed, grateful at least that they’re in Dream’s room today rather than the study, where one of Dream’s siblings might try to weigh in and inevitably make things much worse.

“You said that already.”

“It isn’t fair,” Dream tries. Also, not for the first time.

“No, it’s not. But that’s how things are sometimes. Shit’s unfair and it sucks for a bit and you deal with it, and then you get to move on to the parts that don’t suck.” Hob runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dream, you could be half done with the thing already if you hadn’t wasted the past hour whining about it like a kid who doesn’t want to eat his greens.”

Dream’s eyes flash with indignation, and he tilts his chin up so he can glare down his nose at Hob. “I am not a child.”

“Then stop fucking acting like one!” Hob knows it’s the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth, but he’s too annoyed, too utterly done with this conversation to stop them.

Dream’s lips curl back in a sneer and his eyes narrow to angry slits, a sure sign that he’s started to spiral into a full-blown tantrum. “And what will you do about it if I refuse to bend to your oh-so-exacting standards for mature behavior, Hob Gadling?”

He takes a step forward, directly into Hob’s personal space. It’s a tactic Hob’s seen him use before, though never with him. It’s meant to make him uncomfortable, to give Dream the upper hand.

Hob refuses to let it.

“Will you put me in time-out?” Dream taunts, close enough that Hob can feel the warmth of his breath. “Put me over your knee and then send me to bed without my supper?”

Now that's an image. Hob shakes his head, firmly filing that thought away for later.

“Would serve you right if I did put you over my knee,” he says blandly. “You could do with a good spanking.”

Dream scoffs. “You wouldn’t dare.”

It’s the certainty in his voice that does it. The kind that only comes from a lifetime of wealth and privilege and people bending over backward to cater to your whims. A lifetime quite unlike Hob’s own, and one that means Dream hasn’t the faintest idea how much Hob would dare.

It’s almost comically easy to get a hand around Dream’s wrist and pull him down onto the bed, element of surprise and more back-alley brawls than Hob would admit to out loud giving him the edge he needs to ensure that when Dream lands with a startled cry, it’s roughly across Hob’s lap.

Hob intends for it to be quick. Just a few swats to make a point before Dream wriggles out of his grasp.

That’s not how it goes.

The instant Hob’s hand connects with Dream’s backside, Dream stops struggling. He lets out a strangled, almost desperate sound and then goes completely boneless in Hob’s grasp.

Hob pauses. Then, curiosity piqued, delivers another sharp smack.

This time, the sound Dream makes can’t be mistaken for anything other than a moan, muffled as it might be by the bedding.

Hob sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly and painfully aroused.

He should stop this. If he were to continue, if anyone were to find out...

But. Hob wants. And he isn’t the sort of man to deny himself something he wants when the universe is kind enough to drop it—soft and pliant and plucked straight out of his filthiest fantasies—in his lap.

So he brings his hand down again. And again. And again until Dream is clutching at the duvet beneath them and half-sobbing every time Hob’s palm connects.

Hob’s hand is aching by the time he stops, and Dream is a gasping, trembling mess across his lap. He rests his hand on the small of Dream’s back, waiting.

Slowly, Dream’s trembling eases, and his hands release their death-grip on the duvet. He lets out a long, shuddering breath.

Hob chuckles. “Feeling better, then?”

Dream flinches like the words are a physical blow, and then he’s scrambling to his feet, face flushed, glaring in Hob’s general direction without meeting his eyes. “You’ve made your point."

“Yeah?” Hob challenges. “You’re ready to write your essay, then?”

Dream’s eyes snap up, outrage winning out over embarrassment. “I told you, I will not.”

The outrage probably shouldn’t turn Hob on as much as it does. “That’s the problem with enjoying something that’s supposed to be a punishment. Doesn’t tend to be very effective.”

“You dare to suggest that I enjoyed—”

“I can see how much you enjoyed it,” Hob interrupts, looking pointedly at the outline of Dream’s erection, clearly visible beneath his black skinny jeans.

“Do not mock me,” Dream snarls.

Hob takes pity on him, spreading his legs so his own arousal is clearly visible. “I didn’t say you’re the only one who did.”

Dream stares. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Hob makes a decision.

“Come here,” he says softly.

Dream does, eyes only lifting from the bulge in Hob’s pants as he moves into the space between his legs.

“I think,” Hob continues, reaching out to slide a hand up Dream’s chest and hook it around his neck, “maybe you need a different sort of motivation, yeah?”

“Is that what you think?” The words are haughty as ever, but Dream makes no move to pull away, and his pupils are blown so wide it would be easy to mistake his eyes for black instead of blue.

“It is.” Hob’s grin takes on a feral edge as he feels Dream’s pulse jump beneath his thumb. “On your knees for me, pretty thing.”

It takes only the faintest pressure on the back of Dream’s neck before he’s sinking to his knees with far more grace than Hob would have expected. He looks up at Hob through dark lashes, an unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

“You ever sucked cock before?” Hob asks.

Dream scowls. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Good to know,” Hob says, tracing the sharp line of Dream’s jaw with his fingers, “but not what I asked.”

“Once.”

Hob figures that’s as much answer as he’ll get, but Dream keeps talking.

“Mother insisted that my eighteenth birthday warranted a family dinner, despite the fact that not one of us wanted to be there. When Father sent his PA to let us know he wouldn’t be attending, nearly an hour after dinner was set to start, Mother threw a fit, and I decided I’d rather spend my birthday blowing Father’s PA in the study than listening to my mother’s histrionics.”

Hob is fairly certain his eyebrows have nearly disappeared into his hairline by the time Dream finishes speaking, and he has to swallow twice before asking, “Did you enjoy it?”

“He was very gentle”—the way Dream’s lip curls when he says the word makes it clear it’s not a compliment, and Hob can’t help the way his fingers tighten on Dream’s jaw in response—“and he didn’t last two minutes.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hob croons, moving his free hand to unfasten his pants, “that is a tragedy.”

Dream watches, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, as Hob frees his cock and gives it a few lazy pumps, and then he's leaning in and wrapping those pretty pink lips round Hob's dick like he's absolutely starving for it. Hob lets out a startled groan, and Dream smirks up at him from around his cock.

Hob has the briefest moment of worry that he's not going to last two minutes, and then Dream tries to take just a bit too much, jerking back instinctively as he triggers his gag reflex.

“Easy, pet,” Hob murmurs.

Dream ignores him, sinking back down on Hob’s cock without giving himself any time to recover and immediately choking again.

“Hey,” Hob says, easing Dream back with a firm hand on his jaw. “Much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going like that.”

Dream wrenches out of his grasp and glares up at him. “I thought I made it clear I don’t need you to be gentle.”

“And I’ve got no interest in being gentle with you.” Hob reaches for him again. “Just—”

Dream reacts like an angry cat, snarling and very nearly managing to sink his teeth into Hob’s hand, but Hob’s reflexes kick in just in time to save him from a nasty bite, and Hob uses the momentum to deliver a sharp slap across Dream’s face.

Dream gapes at him, his expression a complicated mix of shock and indignation and raw desire. It’s a good look on him. Hob takes advantage of that shock to get a hand in Dream’s hair, giving it a sharp tug and watching in satisfaction as tears brim in those impossibly blue eyes.

“If you hurt yourself,” Hob explains, preventing any objection Dream might want to make by shoving his cock roughly back into Dream’s mouth, “then I’ll have to wait for you to heal before I do this again.”

He punctuates his point by rolling his hips, fucking into Dream’s mouth until his cock hits the back of his throat This time when Dream gags, Hob’s hand in his hair keeps him from pulling away, holding him in place until the tears gathering in his eyes start to roll down his face. It might just be the most gorgeous thing Hob has ever seen.

“But if you can learn a little patience,” he continues, pulling back enough that Dream can suck in a desperate breath through his nose, “and let me teach you to do it right, then I can fuck your throat as often as a little cockslut like you needs, yeah?”

Dream lets out a desperate sob, and the feel of it around his cock is nearly enough to break Hob’s resolve, for him to just take without any care for whether Dream might enjoy it, except...

“I want to, pretty thing.” I want you, he doesn’t say.

Tears still leak from Dream’s eyes, but his expression is open and wanting as he takes another, shaky breath and relaxes into Hob’s grip.

“There’s a good love.” Dream makes a soft, contented sound as Hob slides his cock in just a bit deeper. “Can you relax your jaw for me, too? Yeah, just like that.”

Dream turns out to be as quick a study in this as he is in any subject he puts his mind to, letting Hob guide him with rough hands and soft words as Hob fucks his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts. Hob is glad to have the distraction of telling Dream what to do, otherwise he’s not sure he’d last much longer than that idiot PA.

As it is, it only takes a handful of minutes before Hob’s instruction becomes a broken string of curses and praise as he loses himself in the eager heat of Dream’s mouth and the sight of Dream’s fucked-red lips stretched around Hob's cock, and the beautiful, needy sounds Dream makes every time he manages to take Hob just a little deeper. Hob only just manages to get a warning out before he’s coming into that perfect mouth, Dream half-choking again trying to swallow it all and somehow still managing to look smug about it even as a line of come escapes his lips and drips down his chin.

“Aren’t you just a beautiful mess,” Hob says, catching the drip with his thumb and smearing it across Dream’s cheek as Dream works him through the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s had in ages.

Dream gives a considering hum and makes a show of releasing Hob’s cock, opening his mouth so Hob can watch the slow drag of it against Dream’s tongue.

Hob lets out a growl and slides off the bed, straddling Dream’s thighs and licking the taste of himself out of Dream’s mouth. Dream kisses him back with every bit of the enthusiasm he’d shown for sucking Hob’s cock, eager hands sliding beneath Hob’s shirt and dragging him close, shamelessly rutting his cock against Hob’s ass.

The angle is terrible for it, and it isn’t long before Dream is whining pitifully into Hob’s mouth, wriggling his hips in a vain attempt to get more friction.

“I’ve got you, pet,” Hob says, working his hand between them to pop the button on Dream’s jeans.

“Yes,” Dream gasps, sounding absolutely wrecked. “Hob, please—ah!” His words bleed into an inarticulate cry as Hob wraps a hand around his prick, jerking him off with practiced ease.

They’re too close for Hob to properly see Dream’s face, so he contents himself with drinking every sound Dream makes from his mouth, greedy for every gasp and whimper, and when Dream comes with a wild sob, he swallows that sound too, letting Dream pant into his mouth until he’s fully spent.

They stay like that for several long moments, Hob leaning back against the foot of the bed, Dream slumped against him, breathing each other’s breath.

Eventually, Dream straightens and, before Hob can say anything, lifts Hob’s come-covered hand to his mouth and starts licking it clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

“Oh,” Hob breathes.

“I wouldn’t want,” Dream says between licks, “to have points docked for failing to clean up my mess.”

Hob huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever questioned your fastidiousness.”

Dream hums in agreement as he sucks the last of Hob’s fingers clean. “But I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your instruction, or that I’m not taking it seriously.” And then he curls himself against Hob’s body, nestling his face into the crook of Hob’s neck. “Patience has never come easily to me, but. I will try.”

It takes Hob several seconds to parse out what Dream is talking about—not the least because he’s also processing the shock of Dream cuddling him—and when he does, he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He’d meant what he said, but he hadn’t really believed Dream might want him to mean it.

“Can teach you patience, too,” he says, bringing his arms up to cradle Dream against him. Fuck. This is such a bad idea, and Hob just...can’t be bothered to care. “There are so many things I can teach you, pet.”

“I have no doubt. Although, I’m uncertain how this is supposed to motivate me to write that ridiculous essay. Not that I’m complaining about your methods.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Hob tells him. “I already know you’ll have it done before our next session.”

“Do you,” Dream says flatly.

“I do,” Hob agrees. “Because if you do, I’ll spank your ass proper pink for you.”

Dream sucks in a sharp breath.

“And if you do it well, I’ll fuck you ‘til you cry after.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which Hob thinks he can nearly hear Dream’s internal debate.

“Perhaps,” Dream allows finally.

It’s enough for Hob to know he’s won. And if he’s wrong, well, he’s got a few days to think up a fitting punishment.

[writing-for-life]

Dream’s Therapist

Parents

The session notes get longer and longer, so I decide to go over all of them again to decide on today’s topic of conversation.

Intake

Insomnia

Nightmares

Emotions

The client is on time (well, 35 minutes early, but my receptionist tells me he brought a book; she is certain it is “Le Mythe de Sisyphe” by Camus, and he reads it in French). When he comes into my office, he wears a black… robe? despite it being 25 degrees Celsius. Surprisingly, he takes it off though and hangs it on my coatrack. There is still no smalltalk, although he asks, very politely, if I could open the blinds a bit more since today, the room is too dark for his liking.

DT: I’d like to talk about your family today. How do you relate to them? (I notice immediate signs of stress and he looks at my paperweight) Take it, it’s fine.

Dream (He takes the paperweight and begins to fiddle with it, turning it over and over and over again): My family is like… a cosmic jigsaw. We should fit together perfectly, and I reckon we do. In theory. From a distance. To all you mortals. But you should never, ever look too closely.

DT: And why is that? What about your parents?

Dream (Silence ensues. It lasts for 9 minutes. I contemplate several times whether to cut it short but decide to let him sit with his thoughts until he is ready): They like to play a game of charade, I suppose. If we communicate at all, it is in cryptic symbols and metaphors….

DT: You like communicating like that, too, don’t you?

Dream (I notice a glare, quickly followed by a violent shake of his head): My father once gave me an hourglass with a note that read, “Your move.” I still have no idea what he was trying to tell me.

DT: Did you ever ask?

Dream (I notice the familiar eye-roll): No.

DT: Why not?

Dream: You would not understand.

DT: Try me.

(Another bout of silence ensues. This time, it lasts 10 minutes, and I decide to finally intervene—he’s not getting a lot of bang for his buck this way. I notice a moment too late I shouldn’t use the word ‘bang’ when relating to my clients, not even in my mind).

Maybe just explain to me what your parents are like.

Dream (I notice a slightly annoyed exhale through his nose): My father has a particular (he frantically turns the paperweight in his hands) …watch that is a source of contention, and he insists on synchronised cosmic events. Well, not really synchronised as you would define it I suppose but… (he shakes his head again). No matter. My mother has a thing for unravelling galaxies and the ensuing chaos. They are not a great match by any means.

DT: Doesn’t sound like it. Are they still together?

Dream: No. They have not been for a very long time.

DT (Divorced parents. It makes sense): And how did that influence your upbringing?

Dream (He laughs. It sounds… I have no clue what to think and try not to show it on my face. He truly sounds like someone who has forgotten how to laugh. I actually feel sorry for him. I remind myself not to show that on my face either): My father is Time, my mother is Night. Do you expect me to relate to them as my role models?

DT: (I notice bitterness that most certainly covers up some hurt and wonder if he tries to be metaphorical, or if he is diving down into the depths of his delusion again): Do you? Or did you at any point?

Dream (He leans back in his chair and spins the paperweight on his index finger. It keeps on spinning. I’m confused): How could I possibly relate to someone who prunes roses before they are fully in bloom and never even smells them? Or someone who permanently entertains herself with moonlight cocktails and star-shaped canapés? My parents are… unrelatable and exhausting.

DT: And is exhaustion all they make you feel?

Dream (The paperweight stops spinning, and the silence lasts for 6 minutes this time): No, they make me feel conflicted. (He didn’t say he doesn’t feel. Good.) My father… might have taught me something about duty and the weight of eternity. But I suppose I might have preferred warmth (he starts fidgeting with the paperweight again and briefly looks at me) over cosmic-level indifference.

DT (I am surprised at the sudden willingness to share his emotional landscape. I still don’t show it on my face. I hope): And your mother?

Dream (I notice a hard swallow before he gazes out the window. His voice is very quiet): My mother paints the skies with stars. But those… nights are lonely. She revels in the beauty of darkness and starlight but never touches the hearts of her children. She never dreams of us (His voice turns quieter still). Or of me.

DT: You don’t know that.

Dream (He looks at me again): Trust me, I do. Perhaps you should remember who and what I am?

DT (I decide to tread carefully): Yes, you told me you are the embodiment of imagination, dreams and nightmares.

Dream: Correct. And I know she doesn’t dream of me.

DT (That delusion is stubborn. As they are): If your parents never gave you what you needed, did you ever try to seek comfort or solace elsewhere?

Dream (I notice he holds on to the paperweight so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Even whiter than they are): For as long as I remember I longed for nothing more than just a fleeting touch transcending cosmic duty. (He looks at me through his lashes before he focuses on the paperweight again) Make of that what you will.

DT (I wonder what’s gotten into him today. The sudden openness is confusing. Not that I’m complaining): I don’t make anything out of anything. Let’s stay with those desires. (I notice he flinches) What do you truly want?

Dream: I… feel adrift. (He seems to think for a moment): Sometimes I envy you humans (Okay, I can work with the delusion). Your families argue about burnt toast and forgotten anniversaries. My family argues about the curvature of spacetime and the existential implications of your socks disappearing in your laundry. You have no idea how these things affect… (He stops himself) Never mind. You have simpler families—Sunday dinners, awkward Thanksgiving conversations, and no cosmic-level crisis before dessert.

DT (I decide to play): I think you might underestimate the crisis potential of our dinners.

Dream: Do I? (He actually smiles.)

DT: Yes. But let’s stop changing the subject (I notice he looks slightly embarrassed, which is surprising) and get back to your wants. If you had to choose one thing you really wanted right now, what would that be?

Dream (His voice is very quiet again): To escape the endless cycle. But my duty binds me.

DT (That took the wrong direction and definitely requires reframing. Change of tack): It seems to me that you think of yourself as a silent observer at times. Or as being responsible for other people and their dreams. At least that’s what I’m gathering, correct me if I’m wrong. (He just looks at me but doesn’t say anything) What if you dared to dream yourself?

Dream (I notice the deep frown on his face before he puts the paperweight back on my desk): It is not possible to dream beyond one’s destiny. And mine is not to dream.

DT: What if that weren’t true?

Dream (Silence again. Quite brief this time): That seems… like a tome bound in too many shadows.

DT: Did you ever notice you relate to yourself as if you were (I’m fishing for the right words here) a book, written by someone else?

Dream (I notice he shuffles uncomfortably in his seat): That would be assuming I had a story of my own, which I do not.

DT: And why would you believe that?

Dream (I notice he taps his foot. Six times): I trust our time is up?

DT: No, although we’re getting closer.

Dream: Good, I shall leave then. (He makes a move to get up)

DT: I’ve got homework for you.

Dream (I notice the eye-roll, but he actually stays seated): The infernal diary again?

DT: No. I’d just like you to reflect on a thought.

Dream (I notice the raised eyebrow): And what thought would that be?

DT: If it is truly paradoxical to allow yourself to dream while thinking you are responsible for other people’s dreams.

Dream: The former seems… highly improbable.

DT: Are you going to think about it though?

Dream (He gets up and looks around the room for a moment before his eyes finally connect with mine again): I shall, despite the very apparent futility of your… experiment.

DT: I don’t experiment with people’s thoughts or feelings. I just encourage them to step back and have a closer look at them.

Dream: I shall try to… forgive me: I will trust your expertise on the matter.

DT (I notice he actually has internalised our last session. At least to a degree): The delusional one?

Dream (I notice he really wants to suppress a smile, but it’s not working): No, the real one.

DT: Same time next week then?

Dream: Yes. And you may still use ink in your diary. For however long you deem necessary…

< Previous Session

Next Session >

[medievalpeasantdreambf]

Selkie!Dream

For a while Hob Gadling falls under the assumption his friend, the Stranger, is some sort of sea-related divinity.

Hob would have quite a few arguments in support of the theory, if anybody were to ask. With his black hair and unearthly pale complexion, the Stranger looks the part of a Brittany-coast ghost.

He’s wealthy and powerful, clearly the lord of some realm, but takes no interest in fighting over land. He’s clearly ancient, and inhuman. He has the powers to preserve (Hob’s still here, isn’t he?), but they seem arbitrary, like he can’t preserve everything he might wish to- or why would he have looked so empathetic when Hob told him of Rovyn’s death? He can use a pouch of some fine earthen powder, salt or sand, to bring old memories up from the depths… His hair floats as if free from gravity, or hangs, solid black and silky as if soaked… Clearly he’s some kind of sea-being.

Hob refines his guesses over time. Every time the man meets him, he’s wearing a long black robe or coat. No matter its material, it looks as soft as fur, as smooth as skin, and fits his stranger more perfectly than even the best tailors could manage. When the Stranger storms out on him in 1889, he leaves behind his hat, marching unconcerned into the downpour. Hob takes it home, drunkenly thinking of- what, hanging on to it for him? When he wakes in the morning, his window is open, and the hat is gone. Even though his- the Stranger had been in here, he hadn’t broken their hundred-years meetings contract: Hob hadn’t stirred from sleep even once that night.

Ultimately, after hearing the man-creature speak with reverence of the prized garment, ever-changing yet always undeniably the same object as his “Sister’s coat”, Hob’s mind settles on one idea : selkie.

They have a reputation for passing their magical pelt along from one woman to another in the family line. Hob is not too troubled by this last detail, as regardless of what human folklore actually knows of selkies, there are already far more surprising matters in their relationship than his friend’s gender.

Come 2022, Dream has explained nothing but follows Hob back to Hob’s place and hangs up his coat.

Hob is deeply moved by the action as he knows how awful it would be for this immense source of power to be stolen. Dream agrees it would be a terrible thing for him to lose the item for being reunited with it brings him so much comfort and he cannot bear the thought of losing this essential part of himself again.

To Dream, it is indeed a gesture of immense trust after the torments he went through last century but not the one Hob thinks it is.

Dream knew his friend’s growing respect and even affection for the coat, he’d noticed and let Hob fold it. Out of sight, he admired the immense care put into gently shaping his belonging into a clean square before petting the fur that still carried the warmth of his body. He kept staring as Hob lifted the pelt to his face, against his closed eyelids and studied him breathing in the familiar smell of his Stranger.

Dream couldn’t help his surprise the day he was standing by the doorframe, wishing his friend a good night when Hob had helpfully straightened the pelt as it was directly laid over his shoulders. If gesture felt like a caress on his naked skin, Dream found out he didn’t mind it so much.

And if some times later Hob discovered Dream’s kisses felt of ocean salt, it turned out he didn’t it mind so much either.

[information]

[withoutyouimsaskia]

The Sandman Works Masterlist

Hello there! I figured it was about time that I made a comprehensive list of all my fics set in the world of The Sandman so here it goes ❤️

Remember Me, Special Dreams

Table of Contents and Playlist - Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Warnings: language, angst, mentions of graphic night terrors. Smut in later chapters.)

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Sometimes It's Fated

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 Coming Soon

Self-insert. AFAB reader. Dark Morpheus. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark Morpheus, smut, possessive behaviour, voyeurism, dub con/non con.)

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One Shots

Healed - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You hurt yourself at home and Morpheus tends to you. (Warnings: injury, blood.)

Fever Dream - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You develop a flu-like illness resulting in fever dreams. Morpheus helps you with the nightmares and cares for you. (Warnings: sickness, nightmares, physical intimacy.)

Decisions - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You and Morpheus are due to attend an Endless family gathering and you ask Morpheus for points on what to wear. (Warnings: physical intimacy, suggestive themes.)

Low - Angst/comfort. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus attempts to bring comfort to a dreamer who is managing depression, while in his cat form. (Warnings: angst, talk of depression.)

Autumn - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus has made you a dream based on one of your favourite things and you explore it together. (Warnings: physical intimacy.)

Don't Stop - Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up... (Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut.)

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[merry-moody-missy]

Hob Gadling been living it up at a Fae Ball with Dream last night….?

[martybaker]

Only Fools Rush In

So the setup for this is that Hob and Dream are professors in their forties at the same university, they’re friends who are very much pining for each other. They’re not oblivious, just taking things slow. Unfortunately, some meddling students and staff didn’t get the memo 😅

There will be more parts to this fic - as the word count kept running away from me I just decided to split it up and post the parts separately, however, I cannot promise when the next part will be completed.

——

Part 1

“Seriously? Where are your gloves? Hat? Scarf? Literally anything to keep you warm??”

Dream scoffs at getting scolded upon sight, taking the few more steps necessary to join Hob at the entrance to the outdoor ice skating rink.

“I’m warm enough,” he argues, earning a disbelieving look from Hob, who takes off his own gloves and grabs Dream’s hand, finding it cold, as expected. Dream snatches his hand away with a petulant pout.

Hob laughs at him. “You’re freezing! And you’re ridiculous! Having a fashion style to uphold is all fine and dandy, but dressed like this you’re just asking to catch a cold!”

“I thought I was here to try ice-skating, not to get a lecture on the way I dress,” Dream grumbles. “Besides, won’t I warm up by the activity? All this fuss is unnecessary.”

He makes for the door of the building where ice skates can be rented, with a ‘the sooner to get this over with, the better’ attitude.

Hob follows, raising an eyebrow at him: “Oh, Mr. Confident thinks he’ll be skating circles around me in no time? We’ll see how you’ll feel about the lack of gloves and padded clothing when you’ll end up on your arse, time and time again!”

Dream rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that was your exact intention when picking this activity, making a fool of me, all for your amusement.”

“Hey, I won the bet fair and square! Didn’t you have a blast when you won the last one, making me shave my stubble clean and draw a fake beard on? The students weren’t able to look at me in class without bursting into laughter!”

Dream cannot help but grin at the memory. “You were able to captivate them with the material nonetheless.”

“Yeah, but I had to work twice as hard to shift their attention away from the beard!”

—

They keep bickering as they rent a pair of skates each, finding a spot on the bench to change into them. Hob demonstrates how to properly tie the skates.

After Dream’s finished, he checks Dream’s work, grabbing onto the skates and testing the wiggle room.

“It needs to be tighter. Tied loosely and your ankles would move about, unsupported. You could get hurt.”

Dream nods, listening carefully. Hob is the expert here, or at least the one with lots of experience to draw from.

“Here, let me help you,” Hob slips from the bench down to his knees, Dream’s foot held in between them, and reties his laces, pulling them tight. Dream blinks rapidly, surprised by the action.

“There, that’s better,” Hob says, looking up and laughing at whatever expression it is that he finds on Dream’s face. “What? No one has ever tied your shoes for you before?”

Dream huffs. “Of course not,” he says, cheeks a little rosier than before, and lowers his gaze down, as if to inspect Hob’s work.

Luckily, Hob doesn’t tease more, he slowly stands up and then offers Dream an inviting hand. “Ready to rock and roll?”

Dream sighs. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” and takes Hob’s hand.

—

The ice rink isn’t too crowded, which is good. Firstly because they have room to move slowly on the ice, with Hob skating backwards and helping Dream learn the ropes without the danger of being run over by someone. And secondly, it means there are less witnesses to Dream’s mortifying struggles.

“Why, again, is this considered fun?” He grumbles, letting Hob pull him forward slowly, feeling extremely embarrassed as he can’t figure out how to move forward on his own without turning it into awkward stumbling rather than skating.

Hob laughs, squeezing Dream’s hands tighter.

“It is fun, it just takes some time to get into it. You’ve gotta lean forward a little, you’re too stiff and upright,” he advises.

Hob explains and demonstrates the right motions to him, over and over with great patience. Dream tries his best to follow the advice, and after a while, it does get better. Hob praises him and asks if he wants to try on his own for a bit, but Dream gives him an anxious look.

“Hmm, maybe you could try with the skating aid?” Hob suggests.

Dream grimaces. “Over my dead body,” he says, prompting Hob to burst into laughter again.

“Okay, got it. No skating aid for grown-up Dream. How about you skate near the boards and I'll be on your other side, so you could have something to grab on when you feel unstable?”

Dream nods.

Hob moves into position on his left side. Dream skates forward a few feet, wobbles and immediately grabs onto Hob’s arm with both hands, holding on for dear life.

Hob chuckles. “That’s alright, you’re doing great! Mistakes and falls are an inevitable part of the learning process!”

Dream glares at him. “Thanks for the tip, professor Gadling.”

Hob grins. “I’m no professor here, just an ice-skating teacher.”

“Whatever. Hold my hand,” Dream commands, and Hob happily obliges.

They do a few rounds like that, and it’s…actually not bad. Dream is getting used to the mechanics of the movement and he’s not that anxious with a steady support by his side.

He tries speeding up, and it works. He maybe even starts to feel a little bit of that excitement that attracts people to practice this activity regularly.

“You’re doing amazing!” Hob says, and Dream cannot help but preen.

He raises an eyebrow at Hob: “What were you saying earlier, about me landing on my arse again and again?”

Hob laughs. “Clearly, you have a good teacher!”

Dream snorts. “Clearly, I am a good student.”

“That you are,” Hob says with a smile, and pulls Dream to skate faster.

And faster.

And Dream stumbles on uneven ice, falling backwards and taking Hob with him.

They both land on their arses.

Hob, of course, reacts to this with laughter. Dream really doesn’t know where that man takes all that optimism from.

“Sorry, my bad, I went too fast!”

“Yes, you do that,” Dream mutters under his nose.

“Pardon?” Hob asks, brows furrowed as he picks himself up from the ice and holds out a hand for Dream.

Dream looks at the outstretched hand but doesn’t take it. “You’ll have to have patience with me, Hob. I don’t have the guts for barrelling into things headfirst anymore.”

“It’s generally recommended to avoid barrelling into anything while you’re ice skating,” Hob jokes. Dream gives him a look and this time Hob does catch on that Dream’s not talking about ice-skating anymore.

His gaze softens. “You can take all the time you need, Dream, I’m not in a rush.”

He plops down onto the ice next to Dream, back against the boards. “Wanna just chill here for a while?”

Dream gives him an unimpressed look. “We can’t sit here, we’re in people’s way.”

“Eh, they’ll make do for a minute.”

Dream shakes his head and pulls them both up to stand again. “I should get back on the horse, shouldn’t I?”

Hob grins. “I think that’s a different sport, love.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “It’s called an idiom, you twit.”

Dream dusts off his gloved hands and picks up the hat that he was wearing. Hob actually forced his own gloves and hat on him before they started and Dream has to admit to himself that he’s glad for them now. Of course, he’s not about to voice that and give Hob the satisfaction. The pompom on top of the hat is silly, but it does keep Dream’s ears warm, so he’s willing to commit this small fashion crime in the name of comfort.

To top it all off, Hob’s knitted Doctor Who scarf is now also in Dream’s possession. He has no objections to that one, though it does look better on Hob.

He would feel guilty for leaving Hob to freeze but the man’s actually wearing a big puffer jacket, zipped up to his chin. And his cheeks are endearingly rosy when he smiles at Dream, which is also, uhm, something.

“Shall we?” Hob asks, and Dream reaches for his hand again. This time, Hob doesn’t pull, but matches Dream’s own tempo.

[punishandenslavesuckers]

Hob tries to be a very normal about the fact that the pretty silver ropes he once tied around the nightmare’s wrists… appear to be rooted like weeds directly into the Corinthian’s spine. One tethered at the center of each rune. They stretch like pale tendon from the tattoos down his back to form the rope loops around his arms.

A friend from the discord shared this art and I immediately wrote a fucked up fic about how binding spells manifest for a mostly metaphysical being. Normal about it. They are kind enough to let me share with y’all. Enjoy the art and the fic. AO3 Link

[rriavian]

Major spoiler warning for the end of The Sandman comics below. Please scroll if you haven't read that far or just if you'd like to avoid them. I've tried to make sure I've tagged properly but just wanted to add an additional warning.

Ok so a while ago @two-hands-toward-the-sun made a post about Daniel Hall and Calliope meeting after he becomes Dream, and it made me curious so I started thinking about what that would be like. Below is the resulting ficlet :)

-

There was a question to be asked when Calliope arrived.

The Furies attack had made its mark, scars left on a realm whole but still healing. Despite that she found the Dreaming felt unchanged; still ever shifting, a constancy in how it reflected every Dreamer, in how it reflected Dream.

That same quality carried, that sense of the new in the old, observed when Calliope met Dream of the Endless in his palace and found him at once so recognisable and yet so very unfamiliar. She found it in hair as white as she knew it had been once before, as she knew it had been so very long ago, Calliope found it in eyes that had never been green but had always been starlit. This was the same sky, just as likely to turn black, currently content to match shades with the emerald hanging around a pale neck, its gold chain glimmering against the now white clothes. It made the pain somewhat easier to feel, made the loss somewhat clearer too, the cut cleaner.

Perhaps it would never heal but the wound wasn’t ragged.

Calliope smiled. “What would you like me to call you?”

For the first time he smiled too.

It was a fine thing for that to be the first thing she witnessed, the first discovery she made of him. Calliope had not seen it on this face—younger, so similar and yet not that at all—watched and learnt the way these features softened and found it lovely. 

“Daniel.” He said; still Dream’s voice, low and soft, not quite like hearing a ghost though, not when the voice of a dream had always been so much more than what was left by the dead. “I chose it.”

There was pride in that.

A child’s. Not immature, just fresh, untainted. Calliope's smile widened even as tears began to well in her eyes. “Very well then Daniel.”

“You may also call me Dream.” He added. 

Calliope nodded. “It’s who you are.”

Another smile.

“It is.”

-

Calliope had been invited.

She found herself curious as to why now.

“What has made things different?” Calliope asked, knowing she was here for more than to attend a funeral. “Morpheus was never ready, you are all he was…”

Daniel waited once she trailed off.

He stood silent while confirming that Calliope wasn’t going to continue. It was only then that Dream picked up the thread Calliope had dropped, it was only then that he revealed that he'd caught it as it fell. “You wish to know what I gained?”

It wasn’t a surprise that he’d untangled her question so effortlessly.

Calliope found that remained just as unsettling as Dream’s perception could so often be. Precise in the way a scalpel was; it cut out only what was needed, went as deep as was required by the wound, cut expertly but it still cut. He was right. Calliope did wish to know what he’d gained, though until he’d said that she’d not been sure it was the right word, the right definition. Daniel Hall had been human. Morpheus had always been Endless.

Calliope didn’t know what to think of the amalgamation of that.

Perhaps she never would, but she could still use a perception all her own to try and find both sides of its coin. “Yes, what you gained…and what you lost.”

“I…” Dream paused but didn't stumble, paused not to find the words but to feel them. “I lost them both. I gained them both. We joined and so became new.”

“Changed.”

“Yes.” He shrugged, so simple a motion for so large a truth. “What is that for one such as me? What can it be. To change is to die, and to die is to change.”

“Our son died.” Calliope said quietly.

“I know.” Daniel said. “I know what that is now.”

“I don’t.” Calliope admitted, her own simple statement for far too large a truth. “Not like a mortal does. How can I mourn when—“

Daniel took her hand. “You can mourn with me.”

Oh.

He was kind, wasn’t he?

So very kind, just like her Oneiros had been. Daniel was dark like him too; sharp, resplendent in it, somehow refreshed like a mortal was after a long sleep, less worn and weary in a world the same as when they'd closed their eyes. The nightmare in him reborn too, as it should be, that cruel aspect rejuvenated because it had never been a wound to cast out. Calliope had never needed to find Dream in the darkness, had never forgot enough of him to try, had known no hand was needed to pull him out of what might be dark but would always be him.

The full spectrum of what a dream was; Dream was as soft as he was sharp, the hand that now held Calliope's was as cold as the action was warm, Dream was cruel—

He was kind.

“It takes time, doesn’t it? For us.” Calliope said quietly, part of her always standing two thousand years away. “How long can grief last when one lives forever.”

Daniel considered that for a moment, heard its threat, its hope. “Perhaps even grief must die.”

“Must change?”

He smiled, this time a little impish, a mischievousness familiar and utterly unique. “Indeed.”

Calliope sighed. “I do not think mine can change the way yours did.”

“No.”

“I suppose that is true for humans too.” Calliope continued, then tested specifics, tested going as far down another thread as she could and wondering if he might once again pick it up. “For other parents. Other mothers.”

Calliope didn't trail off this time, dropped the thread all the same, deliberate and—

It changed hands.

“I have lost a son,” Dream said, his eyes as green as the place where the Bacchante had torn Orpheus apart, as green as the forest that had continued growing nonetheless. “And I have been a son who is lost. I have been taken and I have been taken from. I know what hurts you, Calliope the muse, and I would mourn with you if you’d allow me.”

“You lost a mother.” Calliope realised; breathed it like an ode, where grief expressed the fullest, felt an answer resonate as what could only be given as poetry.

“I am Daniel.” He said, somehow agreed, somehow refuted too, both acknowledged what grief that was and what it couldn’t be. His pause was what lay between stanzas, what inspired the next one to begin. “But I am not Daniel Hall.”

Oh Dream. 

A baby had died—oh that hurt, the thought of Orpheus dead like that, the thought of him having so little time—a mother grieving what could never, ever come back. They had spoken of loss, of Morpheus, of Daniel, because there were really two deaths in this one life. A new pain in that to match what else was gained. Refreshed Dream may be but there was always a burden to bear, always one to carry. That was life, was dreams and nightmares, was balance and perhaps it was restricting to call that a caveat. It was neutrality perhaps, a scale that could tip both ways.

It wasn’t failure that made this hurt.

Calliope nodded. “Then perhaps we can mourn him too?”

Perhaps Dream had tested the dropping of a thread this time. Daniel stilled, looked at her searchingly; eyes now black and aglow with stars, the wonder of looking up at the sky, the wonder of looking down at the earth. They shared that between them. Calliope found herself remembering Orpheus—a child asking to stay up late, an adult asking if she’d like to meet his future wife—remembered a searching look that said I need to be sure.

That said do you really mean it?’

She’d never seen it in Dream, found it now. This fragile sort of wondering, this want revealed as if he’d not yet thought he’d be given the gift. 

As if he’d not known he’d be granted the right. 

Dream nodded at last. 

“Yes.”

[ibrithir-was-here]

Tada!

Commission for @windsweptinred for their amazing fic Metamorphosis, (goooo reaaaad iiiit) with Night!Dream and Time!Hob and their new Endless Babies Eternity and Euphoria! Flowers used are Amaranth for Hob which means immortality, the Queen of Night flower for Morpheus and Forget-Me-Nots for both of the, for constancy.

I adored this fic and getting to work on this, thank you so much for the opportunity and for the beautiful story!

[writing-for-life]

A Collection of My Metas, Fics and Art that Feature the Women of The Sandman

I love the women of the Sandman. I write about them quite frequently, post art about them, write my fics from a female viewpoint (I’m mainly an OC writer though, but I have one-shots and poetry about canon characters).

So since we’ve been talking about them a lot over the past few days, here are all their tags (they contain both official and fanart, and every meta that features them enough for me to tag them), and all my metas, fics and poetry in which they are the main protagonist/character or at least strong focus.

I have posted art for literally all of the women in the Sandman and also written about most of them in one way or another, and you can find the ones that are missing here via my Sandman Tag Library (usually the ones that maybe haven’t been mentioned with a lot of depth or separate artwork). I think it’s normal and fair that we gravitate more towards some characters than others for personal reasons. It’s just the complete erasure of women that often gets to me.

I want to do more, but like every writer and curator, the disinterest in the women of the Sandman is often a bit discouraging. I haven’t given up hope we can change that…

Here they are, in alphabetical order:

Alianora

Dreams of Light (poem)

Alianora’s tag

Barbie

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Barbie’s tag

Calliope

Lupē (short fic, Morpheus x Calliope)

Mother (haiku)

Calliope and Dream (meta)

Calliope’s tag

Chantal

Chantal’s tag

Death

He Hears the Sound of Her Wings: Death as Solace (meta)

Death’s Wedjat Eye: Deeper Symbolism or Random? (meta)

Touching Death or: Why Dream is Not Simply Touch-Starved in The Sound of Her Wings (meta)

Oblivion is not an option—A musical meta about “A kind word and a friendly face” (meta)

All the Endless are buckling under the weight of their functions (David Hitchcock art meta)

Ode to Death (poem)

Requiem (poem)

Comfort (haiku)

Sigil (haiku)

Wings (haiku)

Death’s tag

Delirium/Delight

A sacred garden: Death and Delight (Michael Zulli art meta)

Delirium’s tag

Despair

Despair’s tag

Ethel

Ethel’s tag

Eve

Eve’s tag

The Fates

The Fates’ tag

Foxglove (Donna)

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Donna’s tag

Gault

Gault’s tag

Gwen

Gwen’s tag

Hazel

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Hazel’s tag

Hope

The Sandman Overture and Exiles: Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit—Everything Changes, Nothing Is Truly Lost (Not Even Hope) (meta)

Only Hope calls you out like that (meta)

Hope’s tag

Ishtar

Ishtar’s tag

Johanna

Thessaly, Johanna and a weird meta about musical motifs (meta)

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Johanna’s tag

Killalla

Killalla’s tag

Lucienne

If it is implied Lucien is Adam, what does that make Lucienne? (meta)

Lucienne’s tag

Lyta

Aftermath (poem)

Mother (haiku)

Lyta’s tag

Mazikeen

Mazikeen’s tag

Nada

“Tales in the Sand” in Context of “The Doll’s House” (meta)

Where the Blood Fell, Red Flowers Grew (meta)

Tales in the Sand—Did we find the women’s story? (meta)

God Forbid a Woman Do Anything (haiku)

Nada’s tag

Night

Night’s tag

Nuala

Nuala’s tag

Rachel

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Rachel’s tag

Rose

Rose’s tag

Rosemary

Rosemary‘s tag

Thessaly

Thessaly in the context of second and third wave feminism (meta)

Thessaly’s tag

Titania

Titania’s tag

Unity

Unity’s tag

Wanda

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You” (meta)

Wanda’s tag

Zelda

Zelda’s tag

[xx-vergil-xx]

excerpt from hounds, ch. 48

an old pov returns :) and you will get no more context outta me than that

wanted to offer something, in lieu of posting just yet — progress is not steady but somehow still quite productive? i’ll write three chapters in as many days and then simply Lapse (c’est la vie — i do best bouncing between projects, so it sort of works) anyways, all things being equal, should be on track for my self-imposed january completion :) much love to all of you <3

[zzoomacroom]

Rain Is Coming Down, but the Clouds Will Surely Pass (Chapter 5)

✨✨✨✨✨

Dreamling, Retired Dream, Multi-chapter, Mpreg, Fluff, Smut, Angst

(Start from chapter 1 here)

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 5/12 (~6700 words)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional tags: Retired Dream, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Trans Dream, Fluff, Smut, Angst

✨✨✨✨✨

Chapter 5: 26 Weeks

Today they have a rendezvous with Death.

Hob goes through his mental checklist: he’s put the kettle on and washed the nice cups—the ones for company—and the apple crumble he nabbed from the pub is warming in the oven. He fiddles with the charcuterie board he’s cobbled together, rearranging the cheeses, grapes, and little dishes of olives for the dozenth time this afternoon. He stands back to survey his work, then checks his watch. Almost time. It’ll have to do.

He’s got nothing to be nervous about, really. He’s always happy to see his sister-in-law, despite his aversion to her function, and he knows there’s no need to try and impress her (not that he’s put together a particularly impressive spread, although he hopes it comes across at least somewhat classy). Whatever news or offers she may have regarding their child’s mortality, she’ll let them know regardless of which cup her tea is served in. Even so, his stomach has been roiling all day, and he suspects the prickles of sweat on the back of his neck can’t be blamed on the fact that he’s got the oven on in this suffocating August heat.

He triple-checks that he flicked the kettle on and wipes his damp palms on a tea towel before making his way down the hall. He breathes a sigh of relief at the immediate drop in temperature as he steps into their newly air-conditioned bedroom, where he’s greeted with the sight of his husband frowning at the full-length mirror and fussing with the hem of his shirt. Hob meets his eyes in the reflection as he settles behind him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Morpheus is wearing all black today, he notices. Hob isn’t sure what to make of that, or if there’s anything to make of it at all. It’s not his old uniform of skinny jeans, dramatic coat, and Doc Martens, but he still cuts a striking figure in his soft black joggers and flowy tunic accented with abstract splashes of gold and silver.

“Hey there, handsome,” Hob smiles. “All set?”

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Morpheus gulps and nods. “Yes. I believe so.”

He’s looking more than a bit peaky, and under any other circumstances Hob would suggest they cancel their plans, even at the risk of suffering the wrathful pout Morpheus would no doubt inflict upon him for daring to presume any weakness in his constitution. But this is important, and they’ve already put it off long enough. This will be Morpheus’ first time seeing his sister since last Christmas; Death keeps a very busy schedule, and Morpheus has been reluctant to call on her for reasons that Hob mostly understands, though he may not fully agree with all of them.

“It’s going to be fine, love. I know it will,” Hob says, stroking and cradling his husband’s belly in an attempt to reassure them both. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together, eh?”

Morpheus nods again, sighs resolutely, and shuffles to the chest of drawers where he keeps his makeshift “gallery,” which consists of an ornate antique jewelry box filled with an array of trinkets they picked up at a flea market. The whole thing is adorable, in Hob’s opinion. There’s a tiny leather-bound notebook, a silver ankh pendant, a tarnished gold heart-shaped locket that neither of them ever managed to open, a single earring with a stylized fish hook, and a large glass marble swirled with a psychedelic rainbow of clashing day-glo colors. No need for Dream’s sigil (where would they even find anything like it?) as Morpheus is a natural lucid dreamer and could easily contact Daniel if he ever needed to. Not that he often calls on any of them, but Hob knows that he feels more secure having the option.

Morpheus removes the ankh from the box and sets it on top of the chest of drawers, staring intently at it as he drums his fingers on the wooden surface. Not quite ready then, evidently. Hob stills his restless fingers by taking his hand—he’s shaking, poor darling—and wrapping him in a hug, gently rocking them from side to side.

He may try to hide it, but it’s obvious to Hob that Morpheus is a nervous wreck. His morning sickness has lasted well into the afternoon, and he’s been hovering restlessly around the flat all day—fidgeting, tidying this and rearranging that, checking his hair every ten minutes, and so on. He’s afraid. Hob empathizes; they’re finally getting an answer to the question that’s been hanging over them for months. What if it’s not the answer they want to hear?

But besides that, Morpheus is apparently worried that Death will scold him or generally disapprove of his recent life choices. It’s quite sweet, really, the way he holds his sister in such high esteem. And it’s understandable; Death is absolutely lovely—when he finally met her for the first time, Hob had been pleasantly surprised to find that he liked her right away. Even more shockingly, she liked him too, despite all the things he’s said about her over the years. He’d felt like a right tit apologizing for calling her stupid, but she’d only laughed and told him he had been forgiven the moment he made her brother smile.

So Hob doesn’t quite share his husband’s fear; he can’t imagine that Death will be anything but happy for them. Morpheus firmly believes he’s done some great wrong just by living his bloody life—the same life his sister enthusiastically bestowed on him specifically so he could finally��live after countless lonely, miserable eons of being slowly crushed under the weight of his duties. It’s like—what’s that thing his students are always saying? Like he’s trying to get a good grade in being human, something that’s both normal to want and possible to achieve.

It doesn’t matter whether or not Morpheus’ fear is rational, though. Either way, it’s clearly eating him up inside; he’s so tense, the muscles in his back taut and rigid, unwilling to be soothed as Hob runs his hands up and down his spine. “I can’t do this,” he mumbles into Hob’s neck.

“Oh, sweetheart. You can. I know you can,” Hob whispers, bringing one hand up to the back of his head and caressing his silken hair. “My strong, brave, beautiful husband. You’ve got this, dove.”

Hob pulls back just enough to give Morpheus the most encouraging smile he can muster, although it’s probably not all that convincing. Even if he’s not anticipating a dressing-down from Death, Hob can’t help but be a bit wary of her. As much as he likes Death the Person, his distaste for Death the Actual Thing is so deeply ingrained as to be instinctual, and he’s always a little on edge before her visits. And then there’s that thought he’s been trying in vain to bury for the past four months, clawing its way to the surface once more.

What if the baby is mortal? What if they have to bury another child someday?

Well. They’ll find out, won’t they? Better to rip the band-aid off now. Hob presses himself against his husband and breathes deeply, encouraging him to do the same. “Breathe with me, love. That’s it. I’ve got you, darling. Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”

Morpheus heaves a shuddering breath before extricating himself from Hob’s embrace and picking up the ankh again. “Sister,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving. “I hold your sigil—”

His invocation is interrupted by a deafening whoosh of wind followed by a flurry of wings, like a bevy of doves startled into sudden flight.

“I’m here!” a cheery voice calls out from the sitting room.

Morpheus gives Hob a pleading look, and Hob strokes his trembling shoulders with sweaty palms. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, leaning in to kiss the deep furrow between his husband’s brows.

There’s a noise from behind them—a faint huff of laughter followed by a tiny “aww.” Hob turns to see a kind face surrounded by a profusion of sable curls peeking through the bedroom door.

“Will you lovebirds get out here?” Death grins, sighing in mock exasperation. “As adorable as this is, I’m afraid I haven’t got much time to spare.”

Hob feels his neck flushing with embarrassment, and Morpheus looks like a deer caught in the headlights after having just sucked on a lemon. He opens his mouth to rejoin, but before he can speak, a shrill beep sounds from down the hall.

“Ah. That’ll be the crumble,” Hob says sheepishly. “I’ll just go and fix the tea while you two get settled, yeah?” He squeezes his husband’s arm apologetically before heading towards the kitchen. On his way out the door, he ducks to give his sister-in-law a friendly peck on the cheek. “Good to see you again, love. How’ve you been?”

“A bit worried about my brother,” she replies. “But I see that he’s in good hands.” She turns to Morpheus, beaming as she takes his hands in her own and surveys him up and down. “Look at you! I hardly recognize you, little brother,” she coos. “You look so…”

“Pregnant?” Morpheus deadpans.

“Alive!” she laughs, putting an arm around his back and herding him towards the sitting room. “Human! You look great, Morpheus. You really do.” Morpheus scoffs, but does not hold back the small, pleased smile that creeps onto his face as he lets his sister drag him to the sofa.

Most of Hob's worry drains away at Death's enthusiastic reaction, bleeding out of him like the inky clouds seeping into steaming water as he makes the tea. He hopes his husband is feeling the same. Morpheus rarely talks about it, but Hob knows he still feels awful about Orpheus, and about Daniel and Lyta, and a thousand other things. And he thinks his sister is going to tell him he’s wrong for starting a new family after all that. Hob gets it, he really does. He often wonders what Eleanor and Robyn would say if they could see him now. Would they be hurt that he’s “replacing” them? Would they hate him? And what would they say about all the other cruel, horrific, unforgivable things he’s done? Someone like him probably shouldn’t have a family at all…

He exhales heavily, shaking his head as he loads up a tray with their tea and nibbles. Now is not the time to go down that road.

He walks into the sitting room just in time to see Death giving her brother a playful punch to the arm before pulling him in for a hug. “...No, you idiot! Of course I’m happy for you! And it’s obvious you’re happy, so stop moping, will you?” she huffs, clutching his narrow shoulders tightly.

“Thank you, my sister,” Morpheus mutters bashfully. “As usual, your words are a balm to my conscience.”

Hob can only stand in the doorway, grinning and shrieking internally at how cute they are. His anxiety dissipates further at seeing his husband so obviously relieved; just as he suspected, Morpheus had no need to worry about any judgment on Death’s part. Hob is so caught up in witnessing this rare display of Endless sibling affection that he momentarily forgets the reason for his sister-in-law’s visit and the very real possibility that she may have bad news for them.

He ambles over to the sofa, only spilling a few drops of tea as he sets the tray on the coffee table. “Tea and a bite to eat, if anyone’s interested,” Hob announces, furtively scanning the room to be sure he didn’t miss any of Morpheus’ risqué artwork when he tidied up earlier. Fortunately, the only paintings visible are perfectly inoffensive sunsets and still lifes, and Hob feels slightly more at ease as he nestles into his husband’s side. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Morpheus melts into him, the knots in his shoulders unwinding as Hob slings his arm around him.

“Thank you, Hob. This looks lovely,” Death says, taking her tea and a generous portion of the crumble. “So,” she continues after taking a bite, glancing between them with a ‘let’s get down to brass tacks’ expression on her face. Right, this is it, Hob thinks, tightening his grip on his husband’s shoulder. “Are you having a baby shower?”

“Er…” Hob begins, just as Morpheus splutters and nearly chokes on his tea. Not what either of them expected her to say, evidently. “We hadn’t planned on it,” he says dimly, looking at his husband and finding him equally nonplussed.

“But you have to have one!” Death insists. “It’s been ages since you’ve seen the rest of the family, and they’re all excited about their new niece or nephew. Del’s been beside herself. Literally; you know how she gets. And everyone in the Dreaming—”

“Sister,” Morpheus interrupts, rolling his eyes in amusement, “I do not think that will be necessary.”

“It’s sweet, but we really don’t need any more baby stuff,” Hob chimes in, hoping to rescue his husband from the mortifying ordeal of spending time with family. While it sounds like quite a nice idea to Hob, he knows Morpheus has been less keen than ever on socializing lately (which is saying something; it’s getting to be concerning, really). “Suze—er, friend of ours, think you met her at the Christmas party—anyway, she’s given us loads of things her grandkids have outgrown. We’ve already got more than we know what to do with.”

“Nonsense,” Death asserts. “I’ll talk to Lucienne about it. I’d throw it in my realm, but it doesn’t exactly have the right atmosphere for a baby shower, you know? I’m sure Daniel won’t mind us having a little get-together in the Dreaming.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this,” Morpheus says wearily.

“Nope!” his sister replies brightly.

“Very well,” Morpheus grumbles, looking resigned as he nibbles a morsel of Gouda. “As long as you promise it will indeed be only a ‘little get-together.’”

“Of course! Just the family and inner circle; forty, fifty people tops.”

Morpheus groans dramatically and throws his head back against the cushions, and Hob can’t hold back his snort of laughter. It’s absurdly endearing, the way they act like a pair of perfectly normal human siblings; anyone else witnessing this conversation would never guess that one’s an all-powerful cosmic being and the other used to be just as cosmic and all-powerful.

“Well, I think it sounds wonderful. Thanks, D,” Hob says, earning him a betrayed glare from his husband. Hob shrugs and smiles ruefully at him. It would do Morpheus good to get out of the flat, although if the party’s in the Dreaming they technically won’t be leaving their bed—which, come to think of it, might actually convince him to go along with it. And it would be rude to reject the offer, especially when their child’s future might be hanging in the balance. Speaking of which, Hob is eager to get that conversation over with, but he’s not sure how exactly he should broach the subject. “So, er…”

“You want to know if the baby will be denied my gift,” Death says gently.

Morpheus stiffens in Hob’s embrace. Hob gulps. “Yeah, well, we’ve er. Been wondering, is all. Will—I mean, should the baby be immortal? Don’t imagine there’s much precedent for this sort of thing, is there?” he chuckles, tugging nervously at his ear.

“You’d be surprised,” she smirks. “How about this: the baby will grow up normally, the same as any other human child, and they’ll have my protection until they’re old enough to decide what they want. Then it will be up to them whether or not they want to live forever. They’ll get the same deal I’ve given the two of you unless they choose otherwise. And they may choose to be mortal; you’ll have to be prepared for that possibility.”

Hob lets out a shaky breath. Right. That seems fair. Death’s offer is simultaneously a load off his mind and a whole new source of worry. He can’t imagine any child of his would choose not to live forever, but he supposes it would only be right to give them the option. And at least now they can take solace in the fact that they know what to expect.

Hob takes his husband’s hand and meets his eyes, raising his eyebrows in silent query. Morpheus responds with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. All good, then.

“Thank you, sister. That is a generous offer, and a great comfort,” he pronounces.

“Yeah, that’s—that’s really good to hear,” Hob agrees. “Thank you, Death. Er, I don’t know how we can repay you, but—”

“Don’t be silly,” Death interjects with a wave of her hand. “You’re family. You don’t owe me anything. So. Now that that’s taken care of, tell me, how are you handling prenatal care? Have you been going to Eileithyia again?”

“Yes,” Morpheus says shortly, suddenly taciturn once more. He pops an olive into his mouth, apparently unwilling to elaborate further. It’s still an understandably sore subject, which Death is well aware of, and Hob feels a flash of mild irritation with his sister-in-law for bringing it up.

“She’s been coming to us, actually. Can’t beat the convenience,” Hob chimes in, awkwardly attempting to lighten the mood.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Death replies. “She’s the best there is—on Earth, anyway—and it’s good that you’re mending fences.”

Morpheus scowls at that but doesn’t dispute her words, and Hob squeezes his hand in a silent show of support. He’s glad, too, that his husband just happened to know the ideal person to help them with their medical dilemma, even if they weren’t on the best of terms to start with. Because of course he knows the actual Greek goddess of childbirth and midwifery, and of course there was bad blood between them.

“What do you mean we can’t ask her? She sounds perfect.”

For weeks now, Hob has been agonizing over finding a doctor with a halfway-decent bedside manner who can treat Morpheus and the baby under the radar without asking too many questions. Morpheus hasn’t been much help; if he had his way, they’d avoid that whole mess altogether and he’d lock himself in the bedroom to give birth alone, like a stray cat. So Hob has had his work cut out for him.

And now his husband is presenting him with the answer to all their problems, yet he’s saying they can’t go to her. There’s a story here, Hob’s sure of it, but he’s a little afraid to hear it. “What happened, dove?” he asks softly.

Morpheus sighs—a heavy, creaking thing like an ancient tree toppling over. “She delivered Orpheus,” he murmurs, so quietly that Hob can scarcely hear him over the muffled din of the crowd downstairs. “She is a lady-in-waiting to the Kindly Ones. And a sister of Calliope.”

Ah. Hob can see how that would complicate things. Still, he’s been racking his brain trying to come up with a better solution and consistently coming up blank. “I understand, darling, but are you sure—”

"There is more,” Morpheus interrupts, staring down at his lap. “She—I… sent a dream to her. A portent of things to come. Her son was to be offered up as a champion in battle. Sosipolis—the child—he… he was only a babe, still at his mother’s breast. I…” he trails off, his voice rough.

“Oh, love,” Hob whispers, taking his husband’s hand and intertwining their fingers.

“It was not my wish for him to die. You must understand,” Morpheus pleads, still not meeting Hob’s eyes, “visions of the future are on the border between dreams and Destiny. I was, in essence, only an unwitting messenger—less than that; I was… merely the paper on which the message was written. Nevertheless…”

“Sweetheart,” Hob says, bringing his hand to his husband’s chin and lifting it to look him in the eye, “I know I’m biased, but this sounds like another one of those stories where you blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. Like you said, you were only the messenger. Besides, she chose to do what the dream told her, so it sounds like that was on her.”

“She is a servant of the Fates. She would be a fool to ignore Destiny.”

“Well, then maybe she ought to have taken it up with him,” Hob replies, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. He’s only met Destiny once, and he didn’t much care for him. No sense of humor whatsoever on that one, and he apparently has a history of letting Morpheus take the blame for things that have little to do with him.

“Even so. I… could have been kinder to her.” Morpheus sighs and shakes his head. “When the battle began, the child was transformed into an enormous serpent, and the invaders fled in fear. The serpent survived, but… it was no longer Sosipolis. Not in any way that mattered. Eileithyia came to me then, grief-stricken and enraged. I took no responsibility for my part in her tragedy. Even the boon I offered her was a paltry consolation; I told her to kill the serpent, and her son’s soul would live on in the Dreaming. He would remain a child, and she would never again see him in the Waking World. It was not in my power to offer her more.”

Recognition dawns on Hob as he listens to Morpheus’ tale. He vaguely recalls reading this story in some mythology textbook or other—the bit about the boy turning into a serpent rings a bell, anyway—although at the time, of course, he’d had no idea of his then-stranger-now-husband’s role in the whole thing. It’s always a bit mind-boggling to hear about all the legends, historical events, and even celestial phenomena he’s been involved in, especially when Morpheus talks about them like they happened down the road last Tuesday. Hob is never quite sure what to say, and now is no different.

“Er, that… that just sounds like a tough situation all around, love. And it sounds like you tried to make the best of it; hell, I’d have taken you up on the offer if I were her,” Hob says, rubbing his thumb over his husband’s bony knuckles.

“She did not share your sentiments. She was insulted by the proposition, and she… she told me that she hoped I would know the same pain one day.” Morpheus sniffs and smirks bitterly, his lower lip trembling. “I suppose she ultimately got her wish. In her grief, she eventually killed the serpent. She took some comfort in the dreams of her son, but it was not the same. He was not as he should have been. He should have lived, he…” his voice wobbles as he trails off, and Hob finds himself blinking back tears as he pulls him close, stroking up and down his back.

It doesn’t take a genius to see the parallels to Orpheus, and to Daniel. Hob thinks of Robyn, of the daughter who died before she could ever live, of the child he left behind and never knew. A tangled thread of grief and regret that winds through both of their lives, the same story cropping up again and again… It can’t go that way this time. He won’t let it.

“I’m so sorry, dove. You’re right, things didn’t turn out the way they should’ve. But you did your best. And I understand why you don’t want to ask her for help. We’ll find someone else, I promise.”

In the end, the best candidate Hob managed to find had been a veterinarian with a discreet side practice treating human patients. When he had brought it up to Morpheus, well… if looks could kill and Hob could die, he’d have been reduced to a pile of ash on the spot. He’d almost made a joke about the vet being perfect for his angry cat of a husband, but he didn’t fancy sleeping on the sofa for the next century, so he’d kept his mouth shut.

“I suppose,” Morpheus had conceded through gritted teeth, “I would be willing to speak to Eileithyia. If there is truly no better option.”

Contacting the goddess turned out to be fairly straightforward. Morpheus called on her in much the same way he would call one of his siblings, while holding a talisman that Hob didn’t recognize from the gallery—a small stone figurine that looked a bit like the Venus of Willendorf, apparently the same one he used when he was pregnant with Orpheus. Hob had found it touching that he’d kept it all this time, although Morpheus admitted he hadn’t actually held onto it and had retrieved it from his own dreams with some help from Lucienne. To Hob’s credit, he had only been slightly mystified at this pronouncement and made a mental note to remember that trick the next time he loses his keys.

Eileithyia—who now runs a small private practice in Thessaloniki for people going through difficult pregnancies—had graciously responded to Morpheus’ call and agreed to meet with them at the pub that weekend.

“I’m nervous. Are you nervous?” Hob asks, his leg bouncing involuntarily beneath the table. Not their usual table, but a booth in the back where they will, in theory, have a modicum of privacy.

“For the third time, yes,” Morpheus sighs beside him.

“Sorry, I’m just—”

“Don’t say nervous,” Morpheus snaps. He looks perfectly composed, his shoulders straight and his face that familiar old mask of aloof neutrality that had taken Hob centuries to crack, but Hob knows his husband would rather be literally anywhere else right now (including Hell, probably).

“Sorry,” Hob mutters, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Morpheus gently bumps Hob’s shoulder with his own, and Hob smiles and knocks their knees together in reply.

They sit there in silence for a few long, tense minutes. Hob sips his beer while Morpheus barely touches his lemonade. Hob has never been a particularly introspective bloke, but he’s been making a sincere effort to be better about that, which is exactly why he’s now frantically trying to calculate how he should behave around the literal goddess they’ll be meeting. What’s the right combination of deference, gratitude, and affected nonchalance to avoid embarrassing his husband and himself? He ought to be used to this sort of thing by now, but the giddy thrill of meeting divine beings in pubs never really wears off.

Before he can overthink it any further, a woman slides into the seat across from them. She’s beautiful, in a surprisingly down-to-earth way, and looks casually sophisticated in her long white blouse and loose-cut trousers. She looks like any other middle-aged woman, so much so that Hob is about to politely inform her that they’re actually saving that seat, when—

“Eileithyia,” Morpheus says. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oneiros,” she responds with a curt nod. “You look well.”

“Robert Gadling—er, call me Hob. We really appreciate you coming all this way,” Hob interjects, reaching his hand out before wondering, a split second too late, if Greek gods shake hands or if he looks like an arsehole right now. Fortunately, Eileithyia grasps his hand across the table and shakes it firmly while giving him an appraising look.

“A pleasure to meet you, Hob Gadling. You are the father, I presume?” she asks. Her voice is low and pleasantly accented, with an authoritative and decidedly maternal tone to it.

“Guilty as charged, ma’am,” Hob replies with an awkward laugh.

Suze appears and takes the goddess’ drink order (black coffee), cheerfully oblivious to the fact that she’s speaking to a millennia-old deity, and once she’s gone Eileithyia leans back in her seat, folding her arms on the table. She seems a very no-nonsense sort of person, with shrewd hazel eyes and salt-and-pepper hair swept back into an elegant bun. Nevertheless, her stern gaze is softened by laugh lines, and she actually reminds Hob a bit of his own mother, what little he remembers of her. Formidable, but kind.

Right now, she appears to be waiting for one of them to say something. She doesn’t exactly look happy to be here, but the fact that she was willing to come all the way from Greece must be a good sign, right? Even if she did magically teleport.

Hob clears his throat to begin making awkward small talk, but Morpheus speaks first. “Eileithyia. I… owe you an apology. I am. Sorry,” he says haltingly, like the words are being wrenched from him against his will.

Eileithyia raises her eyebrows. “I have never known you to apologize to anyone. It seems Calliope spoke truly. You have changed, Oneiros.”

Morpheus blanches at the mention of his ex-wife, but he nods and cracks a wry half-smile. “Indeed. I have experienced several significant changes as of late.”

Eileithyia’s face softens as her eyes drift down to Morpheus’ midsection, just barely beginning to swell, and Hob can’t hold back the proud grin that blooms on his face. It’s true—Morpheus has changed, for the better in Hob’s opinion. And he knows very well how hard it is for his husband to apologize; the man’s held grudges for billions of years, so this is big.

“Very well. Apology accepted,” the goddess declares. “In truth, I forgave you long ago. Besides,” she adds gently, “my feud was with Dream of the Endless, and you are no longer that.”

Morpheus’ shoulders sag, in relief or regret or maybe both. “I— thank you. That means… a great deal,” he murmurs.

“So, will you be able to help us, then?” Hob asks.

Eileithyia takes a long sip of coffee before answering. “My abilities are much diminished. There are fewer and fewer worshipers; my shrines have fallen into ruin. However, as long as there are those who pray for a safe pregnancy, I retain some of my power.” Hob nods as she speaks, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation, one that he fully understands and that doesn’t sound like a passage from Homer. “Regardless,” she shrugs, “I am also a certified midwife. I doubt there will be much need for divine intervention.”

“Well, even so, you’ve got at least one new acolyte,” Hob chuckles. “I’ll be lighting a candle every day, or… making an offering? Er, how does this work, exactly?”

“I also take cash,” she says, smiling for the first time since her arrival. “But only in euros. None of your funny English money.”

Hob bursts into surprised laughter. “Yeah, alright, we can do that,” he says, shaking his head in bemusement.

“You are sixteen and a half weeks along,” the goddess says, turning to Morpheus. “We’ll start with visits every four weeks. I will come to you; I imagine that will be simpler than you coming to Thessaloniki. You can accommodate a home birth?”

“I—Yes. That… that would be ideal,” Morpheus replies, looking rather nonplussed.

“Good. We will increase to bi-monthly visits in the third trimester. Possibly once a week if there are any complications, though I don’t sense anything now.” Eileithyia looks Morpheus up and down, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “It’s not twins. Do you want to know the sex?”

Hob gapes at her. “You can tell all that just from looking? And you say your powers are diminished?” The goddess simply smirks and shrugs in reply.

“We would prefer not to know the sex,” Morpheus says, and Hob nods in agreement. “Thank you, Eileithyia. Truly. I… I was not sure you would be willing to speak to me again.”

“I would not turn down an expecting parent in need,” Eileithyia assures him. “I am glad you called for me.”

“I’ve got to say, this is all just fantastic news. We’ve been tearing our hair out trying to find a doctor, so we’re really grateful for your help. What a relief, eh darling?” Hob beams, putting an arm around his husband’s shoulders.

Eileithyia surveys the both of them, her expression thawing into something tender and wistful. “Your man cares deeply for you, Oneiros. I am happy for you.”

Morpheus smiles—a full, broad smile that shows his teeth and lights up his whole face. “Yes,” he replies softly, tilting his head to face Hob. “He is a good man. I am lucky to have him.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Hob splutters, his face heating as he tugs at his ear with his free hand. “I’m the lucky one.”

They hammer out the finer details of the agreement, and Hob can feel his husband relaxing further with each question that’s answered. Apparently fathers are not typically welcome at appointments—something about sacred mysteries and arcane knowledge or some such—which Hob isn’t thrilled about, but they at least manage to talk Eileithyia into letting him be present at the birth.

After they’ve discussed and planned and finished their drinks, a muffled chime sounds from somewhere nearby. The goddess pulls a mobile phone from her pocket and frowns at it. “Ah. A patient is going into labor. I must be going.”

The two men thank her again and say their goodbyes, and as she turns to leave Morpheus calls out to her. “Eileithyia, I… If you speak to Calliope before I do, would you… give her my regards?”

Eileithyia nods and smiles warmly at him before vanishing into the crowd.

So everything worked out brilliantly after all, and Hob couldn’t be prouder of Morpheus for burying that two-thousand-year-old hatchet.

“Yeah, Eileithyia’s been a life-saver,” Hob says, nodding in agreement with his sister-in-law. “If it weren’t for her, we would’ve had to go with one of my, er… underground contacts. And they’re all either glorified drug dealers or so-called ‘doctors’ with questionable credentials whose usual gigs involve extracting bullets from mobsters. And of course anything through the NHS is out of the question.”

“Of course. Can’t have your secret getting out,” Death winks.

“Too right,” Hob agrees before downing the last of his tea. It’s a relief talking to someone who understands. “Only it’s a bit frustrating; not like we can tell any of our friends the real reason we’ve got a midwife making house calls instead of going to an obstetrician like normal people living in the 21st century. Suze keeps trying to talk us out of having a home birth. I think now she thinks we’re just artsy-granola-hippie types. What was it she was asking you the other day, darling?”

“She was impressing upon me the importance of vaccinating the baby,” Morpheus replies. “And reminding me that there is no shame in getting an epidural,” he adds with an endearingly perplexed frown, which only deepens as Death hides a snicker behind her teacup.

“And she’s certainly not wrong!” Hob says. “Still, better that we’ll be dealing with all that in the comfort of our own home. Speaking of the birth, wasn’t there something you wanted to ask your sister, dove?”

A tinge of pink appears on Morpheus’ cheekbones as Death leans forward, glancing between them expectantly. “Ah. Yes, I…” Morpheus begins, stumbling over his words. “Sister. Would you… be there? When the baby arrives?”

“It would be my honor, little brother,” she replies, her eyes shining. “Technically I’m present for every birth, but it’s lovely to be invited.” Morpheus nods, looking a little choked up himself, which naturally makes Hob’s eyes water too. “By the way,” Death continues, “are you planning on introducing the little one to mum and dad?”

Morpheus lets out a derisive bark of laughter. “No. No, I think not.”

“Probably for the best,” Death grins, shaking her head. “Oh, that reminds me, I was talking to Despair not too long ago, and she was saying…”

Hob quickly loses the thread of the conversation as the siblings discuss things that probably happened billions of years ago to people he’s never heard of. He simply watches the movements of his husband’s face, his brow gradually unfurrowing and his eyes creasing with laughter as he listens to his sister’s tales. He’s just so bloody beautiful, so extraordinary. Hob still can’t believe he’s his. He can’t believe he’s sitting here, in his flat, having tea with the former anthropomorphic personification of dreams and the current anthropomorphic personification of death, and they’re talking about literal stars that they know, and their midwife is a goddess, as is his husband’s ex, and…

And what is Hob, compared to all that? Just some bloke who became immortal by accident and knocked up someone so far out of his league they’re not even playing the same sport. The baby is going to be an incredible person, though. Hob is already sure of that. And then he’ll have two extraordinary people in his life, and he’ll still just be some doofus with nothing to offer.

His spiraling rumination is cut short as the two siblings erupt into laughter. Hob laughs along, even though he didn’t hear whatever was so funny. Still, it brings a genuine smile to his face to see Morpheus enjoying himself and looking so relaxed.

“Well,” Death sighs, stretching as she rises from her chair, “I’d better be on my way. Got another appointment nearby.”

“Oh! Wait, you’ve got to see the nursery before you leave,” Hob says, standing up with a groan and extending a hand to help Morpheus to his feet. “Mo’s mural is looking spectacular.”

“Next time. I promise,” she beams, pulling both men in for a hug. “It’s been wonderful to see you, brother. And you, Hob. I’m so happy for you both, really.”

“Thank you, my sister. For everything,” Morpheus murmurs.

Death kisses his temple and whispers something that draws a smile from Morpheus, then turns to Hob. “Take good care of him, Hob,” she says softly.

“I will,” Hob promises, nodding fervently. “Always.”

And then, with a blinding flash of blue light and a fluttering of wings, she’s gone.

Morpheus collapses back into the sofa cushions like his strings have been cut. He looks exhausted. Hob is right there with him. He settles back down beside his husband, gathering him into his lap as he begins to knead out the remaining tension in his shoulders. “Proud of you, love,” he whispers. “And hey, great news from your sister, eh? One less thing to stress about.”

“Mmm,” Morpheus purrs in agreement as he luxuriates in Hob’s touch. “Although I am not looking forward to this ‘baby shower’ of hers.”

“Party pooper,” Hob chuckles, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “It won’t be too bad. I’ll set an alarm, wake you up if it gets too painful.”

“I will hold you to that,” Morpheus replies.

“How are you feeling, darling? Time for a nap, do you think?”

Morpheus considers this as Hob continues to work out the knots in his neck. “No,” he says finally, “I feel. Restless. And I am craving chips.”

“Why don’t we head downstairs for a bite, then? Probably do us both good to get out and work off this leftover adrenaline.”

Hob is half expecting Morpheus to insist on staying here while Hob goes and fetches him some chips (a frequent occurrence in the Gadling household), but to his surprise, his husband nods. “Yes. I think I would like that,” Morpheus says, moving to stand up.

“Brilliant!” Hob exclaims, with a bit more gusto than he’d intended, as he hauls them both to their feet. He can’t help it; getting his husband to leave the flat feels like almost as big a victory as the positive news they’ve just received. “Shall we?” He holds his arm out in an exaggerated show of gentlemanliness, and Morpheus takes it with a roll of his eyes that belies the adoring grin on his face.

Hob has a spring in his step as they make their way down to the pub, arm in arm. There’s nothing, he thinks, that could spoil his good mood right now.

Well. Almost nothing.

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