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five-and-dimes · 1 year

Text

Sloom

AO3

In many ways, Dream feels inferior to the rest of his family. Which means he struggles when Hob asks to meet them.

Well this took a million years longer to finish than I expected and as usual I struggled with the ending but we gotta call it done at some point, lads, so here we are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dream tries not to think about it too much, because it makes something in his heart ache when he does.

How he was made wrong.

He doesn't understand it- he was born the same way as his siblings, and yet somehow he is the only one… lacking. Everyone else understands humanity, everyone else understands themselves, everyone else doesn't struggle to connect, to speak, to share, to exist in a way that doesn't hurt.

Even Desire, whom he despises so much for all the games they play to torment him…

But then, Desire is only so cruel to him. Maybe that, too, is his fault.

He had thought it was enough to do his job well - to protect the dreamers and his realm and all the power it contains. He can withstand being a bad sibling, a bad friend, a bad husband, father, lover, person (he can withstand it, he can) as long as he is good at his job. He doesn't play games, he doesn't let himself get distracted, he fulfills his purpose, he is good at his job, and that is enough. It has to be.

(And then he fails at that, too.)

(He had made himself good for one thing. Now he is good for nothing.)

He walks with Death, and his elder sister lovingly twists the knife. She reminds him of all the ways he got it wrong, got all of it wrong, and he wonders if she would have bothered to come if he had called at Fawny Rig.

(He wonders if she would have come if one of their other siblings had been captured.)

(He wonders if they all aid each other when he's not looking.)

(He doesn't look.)

She tells him to visit Hob Gadling and it feels like an execution. He feels like he’s bleeding, like he’s being sentenced to a slow death, like all of his wounds are on display for anyone to dig their fingers into.

He feels like he deserves it.

And so he drags his feet, first to the hollowed out husk of the White Horse, and then following a bright line to someplace new, someplace glowing with life and possibility and when he crosses the threshold he feels like a weed. He is too dark for this place, too cold, and when he sees Hob he expects to be kicked out like a stray dog.

Hob smiles at him. Smiles, and Dream feels a little less cold.

“You’re late.”

No condemnation. No cruelty. No accusation or malice or brutality.

Dream is breathless with it.

“It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”

Somehow, Hob’s smile brightens. When Dream sits across from him, he feels, for the first time since 1916- no, since long, long before then- that he is welcome and wanted.

When he came here Dream had braced himself for punishment. Instead, they sit and talk long into the evening. Soft and hesitant, Dream gives Hob his name, and Hob glows like he’s been given the answers to the universe. Bright and enthusiastic, Hob speaks of all he has done in the past century, and Dream listens and lets himself sink comfortably into the warmth of companionship.

Eventually, Dream knows he must return to his responsibilities. It aches to think of leaving this soothing place, but he feels as though a balm has been spread on his wounds. Still hurting and aching, but less so than before.

Before he stands to depart, Hob places a hesitant hand on his wrist.

“Feel free to drop by before 2089, yeah? Anytime.”

There is a long pause while Dream considers that. Despite how kind he had been, it feels inconceivable that Hob would want to see Dream more than he has to. But he cannot deny the way his chest clenches with hope at the idea of feeling this warmth again so soon.

Perhaps it is selfish.

But Dream agrees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time it comes up is on their third meeting in as many weeks.

They are sitting together on a comfortably worn couch in Hob’s flat above the New Inn, next to each other but still with a respectable distance between them. Dream is trying very, very hard not to misstep in his friendship with Hob. And a part of that, he understands, means sharing the information Hob has asked for for so long.

It is a deeply uncomfortable experience for Dream. A part of him (the part that is still, in some way, shivering deep in the Burgess basement) cries that his secrecy is all that has protected him. That Hob, in his human greed and longing, will turn into Roderick the moment he realizes what Dream is, what he could get from him, what he could take from him.

(That same part of him, curled up the cold glass orb of his heart, cries that it’s better to just give it to him.)

And yet, in all that Dream tells him, Hob never turns cruel. He explains his function, his creation and rule over dreams and nightmares, and Hob’s eyes alight with wonder. He describes his realm, his subjects and landscapes and the Sea of Dreams, and Hob leans forward like an excited child.

And, when he stiltedly explains the nature of the Endless, Hob laughs fondly.

“You know, that actually explains so much.”

Dream tilted his head in confusion, “How do you mean?”

Hob waved his hand vaguely, leaning back in his seat, “Well, all your cute little quirks,” Dream resolutely ignores the warmth in his face from being called cute, “how formally you speak, and all the human things that seem to go over your head. Of course human social niceties aren’t natural to you, not only are you not human, you’re as old as the universe.”

Frowning, Dream looks down at his hands in his lap. He thinks, as he often does, of Death. Of her easy mingling with humans, her casual conversation, the way people smile at her. He thinks of his own shy smile and how all it does is make people walk away faster.

He doesn’t think being Endless explains anything about him, actually.

(It occurs to him, suddenly, that maybe it is not that he wishes to be unmade. He simply wishes he had been made right.)

(Or, perhaps, never made at all.)

“Hey.”

A warm hand covers his, and he looks up to find Hob leaning into his space, shooting him a small smile despite the concern in his eyes, “I’m not criticizing. It’s endearing,” he laces their fingers together, soft and gentle, “I like your quirks.”

That word again. Dream swallows, feels the words build at the base of his throat, they are flaws, they are faults, do not be fooled, do not show me mercy I do not deserve.

But before he gets a chance to explain, to warn him, Hob leans in closer, “I like you.”

The kiss is hesitant, he can taste the anxiety on Hob’s lips, the way he clutches his hand a little harder as though bracing to be pushed away. Dream does not have the strength to push him away. It takes every ounce of effort he has just to keep his tears from falling as he melts against Hob, pressing closer and drinking in Hob’s sigh of relief.

Dream stays long into the night, until Hob drifts to sleep in the circle of his arms. He never corrects Hob’s assumption on his nature, the words still stuck in his throat. Choking him.

But not enough to open his mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So," Hob drawled, putting his arm around Dream's shoulders in a way that was clearly trying to be casual and not succeeding even a little, "When do I get to meet your family?"

Several months have passed (several months of opportunities to tell the truth, to be honest, to crack his ribs open and show Hob everything wrong with him-) and their relationship has grown like a blooming flower. Dream feels warm with Hob, and Hob smiles easily whenever he visits.

Dream does not want it to end.

He hums in consideration, even as his entire body tenses against his will. He has told Hob about his family, though not extensively. He has told him their names, and the order of their birth, but not the intricacies of his relationships with them.

(He has not, even once, mentioned his parents. Hob hasn’t asked.)

(One of the first nightmares he ever crafted was that of a child crying for a parent who refuses to turn around.)

Beside him, Hob shifts a little uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he rambles, “I know it’s one of those silly human things, the whole ‘meet the fam’ part of a relationship, but well, y’know me, always curious about your life.”

Hob does that fairly frequently, explaining “human mysteries” or sometimes laughing fondly as he guides his “silly Endless” through whatever social mishap he’s found himself in. Always explaining away Dream’s stumbles with his inhumanity.

And now, he wants to meet his family, and Dream’s chest tightens at the thought of Hob expecting to meet more cold and aloof entities who don’t know where to put their hands and instead being met with Endless who are so much better.

“I… understand,” His speech is as faltering as the rest of him. “If you would like. To meet one of them. I can arrange a meeting.”

Pulling him closer against his side, Hob’s eyes brighten with excitement, even as he checks, “Are you sure?”

Dream nods, barely feeling the kiss on his cheek as he thinks of each of his siblings in relation to Hob.

Delirium and Hob would likely find each other a delight (an irony which does not escape him), both so vivid and full of life, always looking at things in new ways. They are both so bright, so colorful in their own ways. So jarring next to Dream's darkness.

(He pictures Delirium questioning why someone as nice as Hob is with her mean older brother.)

(He pictures Hob realizing he doesn't have an answer.)

He does not think he could bring himself to call Destruction, if he would even answer, but he thinks he and Hob would make fine friends- both turning away from the violence of their pasts, searching instead for ways to grow and nurture.

(Dream had to be punished into changing. Had to be tortured in order to grow.)

(He thinks he grew like a weed. Or perhaps an infection. Just because he is more does not mean he is good.)

If he's honest with himself, he thinks Hob and Desire would get along as well. Hob would probably be good for his sibling in a similar way that he was for Dream, able to understand the soft parts that Desire hides, and them able to share in the joys that life has to offer in a way Dream struggles to, so accustomed to denying his own wants.

(Desire hurt him. Desire hurt him.)

(He has been told that he is worse.)

Thinking about it, he thinks Despair would like Hob. He had the unique ability to truly appreciate despair and understand its value, and Despair had an appreciation for life that Hob could relate to.

(What does it say about him, he wonders, that Despair wants to live more than Dream does?)

Destiny would almost certainly decline any offer to meet, and Dream doesn’t know that he and Hob would be friends, per say, but…

(He imagines Destiny standing before the immortal, forgoing any small talk and telling Hob bluntly that he is destined for things far greater than his broken little brother.)

But, in the end, he knows there was always one person Dream wanted Hob to meet, even if it makes him lose him. So he steels himself and forces the words out.

"Hob, would you like to meet my elder sister, the one who gave you your immortality?"

“Death?” Hob goes a little wide eyed, “Is that- I mean, I can meet her without, y’know…” he makes a crude slashing motion across his throat.

“Of course,” Dream answers steadily, “She can be present among mortals without bestowing her gift upon them. She will not take you. Unless. You ask.”

“No, no, not planning that anytime soon,” Hob is quick to reassure, “Or ever, really,” he tacks on with a smirk and a wink.

Nodding, Dream allows himself to reach out and take Hob’s hand. He will miss this warmth. “I will speak with her, then. And arrange a meeting.”

Hob’s grin is wide and bright, and Dream can feel it as Hob presses a kiss to the sharp edge of his cheek bone, “Excellent! This will be fun, Love! I’ll pick up some of that wine that you liked enough to actually drink- or, would you rather we meet in the Dreaming?”

Dream only barely manages to suppress a cringe, but even so he bows his head, as if he could somehow hide within his own curled spine.

“I would. Prefer to let you meet on your own.”

Hob's smile falters, "What? Why?"

Because I do not want you to see us side by side. Because I do not want to make my lacking more obvious than it already will be. Because I won't survive seeing the moment your eyes turn cold. Because I'm scared.

"I merely wish you to get to know each other without my influence."

He can see so clearly in his mind’s eye, Hob glancing back and forth between the two siblings, one so charming and kind and good, and the other… lesser. Lacking. Dream does not wish to be present for that realization.

Recovering his grin, Hob laughed lightly, "Ballsy of you. Most folks I know wouldn't have the guts to leave their siblings and their partners alone together," he leans forward to play with Dream's hair teasingly, "What if we exchange secrets, eh?"

I'm a liar, I lied to you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-

“That is within your right.”

Hob laughs, startled, and pulls Dream flush against his side, “What a fair ruler you are,” he says jokingly, “Well, I can’t wait. It’ll be endlessly fun,” he winks, trying to get a rise out of Dream.

Dream smiles back. But it’s a little weaker than usual.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dream stares at the ankh for a long time before he picks it up. A childish part of him wants to leave the gallery and feed Hob lies and excuses. Death is very busy, she could not make the time, I called and she didn’t answer, she didn’t answer, it has happened before-

But. What would that accomplish besides delaying the inevitable?

He cradles the ankh in his hands, “Death. I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil.”

“Dream!” He can hear the smile in Death’s voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wish to discuss. A personal matter. Would you care to join me?”

Death steps beside him almost before he can finish speaking, "Of course! What can I do for you?"

She's so casual and easygoing, but a part of Dream can't help but search for any lingering anger or resentment from their last talk. He wonders if she's forgiven him.

(He wonders if he's worth forgiving.)

Straightening, he explains flatly, "Hob Gadling wishes to meet you," he pauses before adding, "In a nonprofessional manner."

Snorting, Death replied, "Well, I could have guessed that," she grinned, "But you're finally letting me meet your little project?"

"He has become. Far more than a project."

"I know, I'm teasing, silly," she shoved his shoulder playfully, "I'd love to meet him! Just tell me when and where and I'll make some time."

Nodding, he considers his options. He is torn between stretching out his time with Hob and simply getting it over with. In the end, he chooses what he feels is a polite and reasonable timeframe.

“One week from tomorrow, in the afternoon. At the New Inn.”

“I’ll be there,” grinning, Death linked their arms together, “I can’t wait, I bet you two are sickeningly adorable together.”

A bitter part of him thinks Death would just be sad to see someone like Hob shackled to Dream.

“I will not be present. This meeting is for you and Hob.”

Death pulls back to look at Dream’s face, frowning in confusion. For a moment she seems to consider her words, before settling on a question, “What’s going on in that head of yours, little brother?”

Dream meets her gaze and answers flatly, “Nothing of importance.”

There is exasperation in her voice as she huffs, “I hate that you really believe that.”

He loves his sister so very much. And he does not have the strength to be yelled at right now.

So he straightens his spine and keeps his voice even, “I will let Hob know of the time of your appointment,” he allows himself to soften, just slightly, “He is looking forward to meeting you.”

“I look forward to meeting him, as well.” Death knows she has been dismissed, and so she gives Dream one final squeeze on his arm before departing back to her duties, a gentle rustle of feathers echoing through the gallery.

For a long moment, Dream stands in his gallery alone, gazing at the sigils of his siblings.

He will go and tell Hob of his upcoming meeting with Dream’s sister. And if he stays longer than strictly necessary, if he presses a little closer than he usually does, he if stares too long at Hob’s face in an attempt to commit his smile to memory, Hob is nice enough not to comment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is not raining in the Dreaming.

Dream does not feel that kind of sadness. There is grief, for certain but… it is a grief he believes he has no right to feel. This is not sorrow, it is justice, a loss of something that was never his to have. He cannot cry, he cannot mourn, he can't, he can't, he just-

The Dreaming is covered in a thick layer of fog.

A white mist, so thick it feels like you could move it with your hands, wade through it, drown in it. Dream is in one of the gardens surrounding the palace, grinding his teeth and trying desperately to make it go away. He had hoped that going outside would at least help clear the fog that had permeated the palace halls. Matthew had flown into a wall twice before resigning himself to perching on Lucienne’s shoulder until the hallways were visible again, and Dream does not think he could survive if another raven was injured due to his weakness.

The week had passed too quickly for his liking, time showing him no mercy. He had visited Hob each day, an unusual occurrence that Hob had raised an eyebrow at but otherwise not commented on. And in all that time, Dream had still not told him the truth. He did not explain that the Endless he was to meet would be nothing like Dream because Dream was nothing like the other Endless, did not confess to having cheated more time with Hob by misleading him about his nature. And now, it was too late. Hob would leave, and Dream would always be a liar.

Sighing, he leans against the tree behind him, looking up and frowning as the fog hides even the leaves above him. Sometimes he wishes he had more control over his connection to the Dreaming. More control over himself. He wonders if this is how humans feel when they wish mastery over their own bodies, their organs, their blood.

The fog is getting thicker.

Growling deep in his throat, Dream presses the tips of his fingers against his temples. There is no reason for him to feel so… lost. He has existed and survived before Hob, and he will continue to do so after. Happiness is not necessary. And besides, he has wanted to be a better person, and would a better person not prioritize their loved one’s happiness over their own? It is an irrefutable fact that Hob deserves better than Dream is capable of, so it is the least Dream can do to not stand in his way.

Pulling his knees to his chest, he wraps his arms loosely around them, feeling as bare and exposed as he had in Fawney Rig, suddenly thankful for the cover of fog. Perhaps, he could allow himself this respite. A moment of selfishness, and then he would pull himself together. Just one night to grieve where no one could see him. Just one night to hide-

“There you are!”

Dream’s head snaps up, eyes wide with a shock he could not hope to conceal.

Because Hob is here.

The immortal is smiling, like he has every other time he’s seen Dream, stumbling slightly through the fog before plopping himself down to sit pressed against Dream’s side. This close, he can see the spark of concern in his eyes even as he throws an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

“Well this is a bit different. You know I saw Merv actually sweeping the fog? What’s crazier is it was working, swept it into a big pile and then pushed it out the front door. I know anything is possible here, but I will admit I did spend a few minutes just staring at that spectacle.”

Throughout his rambling, Dream is aware that he is staring. A quick assessment of his own body alerts him to the fact that his mouth is parted, and he is literally gaping at Hob. How unbecoming.

When he fails to respond to his story, Hob’s smile dims, and the concern in his eyes amplifies, “Hey… is everything alright?”

No. Nothing makes sense. He feels more lost than before. He thinks the fog is getting thicker, heavier, colder.

“You…” He clears his throat, trying to compose himself even a little, “You were. Supposed to meet Death today. Did. Did that. Not happen?” That is the only logical explanation.

But Hob shakes his head, “No, we did, got back a couple hours ago, just took me a bit to fall asleep,” he chuckles a bit to himself, “She’s a riot, honestly, nothing at all like all the skull and crossbones nonsense.” He gives Dream a warm smile, “I can see why you two get along so well.”

Dream is. Dream is-

He opens his mouth, and all that comes out is fog.

“Woah, okay,” Hob jumps a little, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip around Dream’s shoulders tightens.

Fog is drifting from the corners of Dream’s eyes.

He can’t see. He can’t breathe. He feels so lost-

“Alright, hey, hey,” Hob pulls him closer, wrapping him in a firm embrace, “Love, I think we should go to the Waking, okay? Is that alright?”

Dream forces himself to nod against Hob’s chest. His body is no more bound in the Waking than it is in the Dreaming, but sometimes the distance makes it… easier, if only a little, to keep his shape. As opposed to here, where the edges of Dream and the Dreaming often blur together. Like now.

Hob kisses the crown of his head, and Dream can feel him pulling away, waking up, and Dream follows the pull. In the space between realms, he forces his form together, like holding a door shut, like clenching a fist. When he arrives, he is laying on top of Hob, who is splayed out on his couch. Some hysterical part of him wants to scold Hob for not settling in his bed to sleep.

As Hob fully awakens, his arms reach up to embrace Dream, and Dream can’t help but curl his hands in Hob’s shirt. Slow and gentle, Hob maneuvers them to sit up, and when he pulls back, Dream cannot look him in the eye.

“Hey…” Hob cups his face with both hands, rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles on the hinge of Dream’s jaw, and Dream realizes for the first time that he is clenching his teeth together hard enough to crack human bone. He fears what will come out if he opens his mouth.

“You’re alright, dove,” Hob whispers, still trying to coax Dream into relaxing his jaw, “Everything is alright, I’m right here, sweetheart, I’ve got you my love.”

It takes a few minutes, just Hob whispering softly and soothing his fingers over Dream’s skin, but eventually Dream musters the courage to let his teeth separate, parting his lips just slightly. He sags with relief when all that escapes him is a shaky breath.

“There you are,” Hob presses a kiss to Dream’s forehead before tucking his head beneath his chin and pulling him into a hug, rubbing a hand up and down his back.

Ever patient, he waits until Dream is breathing evenly to question him, “What’s going on, dearheart?” He rocks them back and forth as he speaks, “You’ve been off all week. I should have said something sooner, but I thought you were just nervous about me meeting your sister.”

Swallowing thickly, Dream forces himself to answer, “I was.”

Hob pulled back, brows furrowed in confusion, “Okay, but everything went fine? I told you, we got along great.”

“But…”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

Dream feels as lost now as he did in the Dreaming. How does he explain this to Hob? How does he explain it without drawing Hob’s attention to that which he somehow missed? He should be grateful that Hob is still here, how is he supposed to tell him this truth without making him leave?

Is he destined to make him leave no matter what?

Belatedly, he realizes he is still clutching Hob’s shirt.

He lets him go.

“I did believe. That you would enjoy each others’ company,” he explains resignedly, “And I assumed that in your meeting, I would. Lose your favor.”

Had he been looking, he would have seen Hob’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “You thought I would like her more than you?” His voice is heavy with disbelief.

“In a sense…” He had not considered Hob finding romantic interest in Death, as Hob seems to think, “I merely thought that. In meeting her, you would realize…”

(Death never struggled with her words the way Dream, the Prince of Stories, always seemed to.)

Taking a deep breath, he tries again, “We are both Endless. And yet. She is…”

“Different?”

“Better.”

Hob sucks in a breath as though he’s been slapped, “Dream-”

“You think that all the things wrong with me are due to my nature as an Endless,” Dream interrupts, the dam broken as he spills out everything he has been holding back for months, “and I let you believe that. But the truth is, my siblings are not like me. They do not struggle with humanity as I do, nor do they share my penchant for arrogance and cruelty. Death is older than I, and yet you saw her- she is kind, and she speaks normally, and she understands-” His voice cracks, and he has to pause, closing his eyes and forcing his molecules to stay solid. To stay here.

“The problem is not that I am Endless,” he confesses in a whisper, “The problem is that I am… me.”

Dream keeps his eyes downcast, fixated on the texture of the couch in the space between them. He wonders if Hob will chastise him for his deceit or simply tell him to leave, wonders if he will demand punishment or repayment.

One hand laces their fingers together, as the other gently cups Dream’s cheek. Hob does not try to tilt Dream’s face or make him meet his eyes. He just holds him.

“I happen to like ‘you’ very much, actually.”

Hob’s voice is soft as a breath, quiet despite the devastation and sorrow painting each word. Dream closes his eyes as Hob leans forward to brush their foreheads together.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he states firmly, confidently, “You’re not perfect, I know that, the same way you know that I’m not either. But there’s nothing wrong with you.”

The conviction in his voice gives Dream just enough courage to open his eyes. Hob’s eyes are filled with tears and shining with so much love it takes Dream’s breath away. When their eyes meet, Hob gives him a sad smile and brushes his thumb along his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry. For ever making you think you needed to explain away parts of yourself,” He brings Dream’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his trembling knuckles, “I don’t love you in spite of anything. I just love you.”

Dream wants to argue. He wants to give every example from his long, long life that he is wrong, that Dream is defective and unworthy and unlovable.

But when Hob kisses him, whispers “I love you” against his lips, he finds himself… hoping. That maybe Hob is right. That maybe this is another bet he would lose to the strength that is Hob Gadling’s love.

Later, after Hob has held him long enough that he does not feel like he may fall apart, he will give his arguments. Later he will state his case and Hob will not hesitate in debating right back, punctuating his points with soft kisses and fond smiles. And it will not fix everything right away, as much as they both wish it would. But it will feel like a start, like adding support beams to a faulty foundation, like strengthening the parts of Dream that always felt a breeze away from buckling.

But for now, Hob holds him tight and whispers against his hair, “You want to hear a secret?”

When Dream hums questioningly against his neck, he presses a kiss to his temple, “Death isn’t perfect either.”

Dream lets out a barking laugh, and then another, and another, and then he is sobbing and holding Hob like he is the only thing keeping him together because he is, and maybe this outburst is just another flaw of his.

Regardless. Hob still holds him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month later, Hob and Dream invite Death over for drinks. Three very different people sit in hob’s living room, and they drink wine, and laugh, and Hob occasionally scolds Death when he feels Dream stiffen at some of her teasing.

Before she leaves, Death pulls Dream into a hug, patting his back even as he stands stiffly in the circle of her arms, “I was right. Sickeningly adorable, both of you.”

Dream huffs, but feels no real offense or embarrassment at her words. It is still hard to trust that this is real, sometimes. But all night he had searched Hob’s eyes, and even when Death made him laugh or understood some human reference, he still turned to look at Dream with love and joy.

As hard as it is to believe, the truth is that Hob sat with both of them, and when he grew tired he asked Death to leave.

But he asked Dream to stay.

#the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fic #my writing #projecting on characters in the club tonight

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hunny-beann · 10 months

Note

Hi! I love love love your first fic and your portrayal of dream!

Could I request two prompts from your hurt/comfort prompts? Specifically number 11 and number 52?

No Greater Patience

Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

Note: Hi anon! tysm for the request, I hope you enjoy the fic!

synopsis:

Prior to his century long captivity, Morpheus and his wife have an argument so disastrous that even after regaining his freedom over one hundred years later, he still questions whether or not he has the right to seek her out.

And yet, the yearning of an Endless is not so easily ignored by the mind, and he soon finds that regardless of his conscious thoughts, all roads lead back to her.

To you.

Prompts:

(hurt/comfort list here)

#11: Please don’t go. #52: I kept this for you while you were away // It’s been two years // I know

Warnings: A once unhappy marriage(?), is Dream himself a warning? Because he still should be.

Word Count: 4,014

Having the opportunity to visit with Death again had been nice.

Far nicer in fact, than the Lord of Dreams would ever willingly admit aloud.

She had always understood him in a way that none of his other siblings ever seemed to manage, and she was far too aware of his flaws and his past to allow him to continue his typical path of avoidance without a bit of a challenge.

Of course, there had been many a time where that had been less than ideal, particularly when Dream had little interest in dealing with those things, big and large, that always seemed to haunt him so.

Still, it was nice to be reminded of the topics and people that he had neglected to consider throughout his time held captive, like Hob Gadling for example, who Dream was now almost eagerly planning to visit at his earliest convenience.

And perhaps he would have headed off sooner, had it not been for Death's one lingering question regarding her brother's personal relationships...

"Dream?"

She had asked just after he had stepped away upon making his intentions of setting off to visit Hob clear.

Slowly, hesitantly, the individual in question turned to face his sister in response, one brow cocked in question to make up for his persistent silence.

Death sighed a bit, almost looking a little unsure before she finally continued upon realizing how little time she truly had for this particular conversation.

She had a rather important deadline to make, after all.

"Have you seen her?"

She asked gently, a sort of pity in her gaze that immediately made the being standing in front of her bristle in response, forcing down the slowly increasing feeling of anger within him as he closed his eyes and took a single deep breath before opening them once more to find her still standing there, waiting.

He shook his head.

"No. Our last conversation was... less than amicable, and was several weeks prior to my disappearance."

Death took a few steps closer, and placed a hand upon Dream's shoulder, watching him fight off the urge to step away, clearly trying his best not to end their interaction on a negative note.

"Then maybe you should consider seeing her as well. Last we spoke she wanted to ask about you, I could feel it, I just didn't want to push-"

"Sister."

Dream interrupted her, his voice not unkind, but still rather stern, at least as much so as politeness would allow.

"She made it quite clear during our last conversation how little interest she had in seeing me again. I would not think it appropriate for me to seek her out in spite of that."

Death sighed, but removed her hand from her brother's shoulder, watching as he nodded toward her in farewell before beginning to move away once more.

Still, no matter how gently she had attempted to address the tense topic, Death was still an older sister, and how could she possibly call herself by such a title if she didn't do some teasing from time to time?

"You cannot avoid the wife forever, dear brother! Do not forget, you are bound to her until I come to collect!"

Dream rolled his eyes, and though Death could not see that particular movement, she could see the way that his shoulders shifted slightly as he chuckled to himself, his head shaking from side to side as he walked off to attend to his own personal duties.

Except several hours and a visit with Hob later, he found that he could do no such thing, as his mind was far too wrapped up with thoughts of his wife.

Thoughts of you.

He had always loved you after all, hadn't he?

You, a deity worshiped into existence by humans, meant to embody nourishment and nurturing, as that found in the relationship between a mother and child, or an owner and their pet.

You were unending and fierce loyalty, the fire in the pit of the stomach, and the gentle hand clutching that of a child during an afternoon walk in the woods, setting them on the right path while never disallowing an opportunity for adventure.

You were beautiful.

And so very deserving of a type of love that Dream had simply been unable to give you.

Sure, he had always been polite, and at times even kind, but considerate was not an adjective that any would have used to describe him, nor his relationship that he shared with you.

Still, you had found it within yourself to love him anyway.

He was cold, calculating, blunt, quiet, and scrutinizing. Dream saw all, every flaw and every weakness, and though it was a rarity that he would point them out aloud without prompting, it was difficult to know just how much he truly saw whenever he looked at you.

That said, none of that had ever seemed to bother you beyond what you could manage.

You enjoyed his company, particularly back when the Dreaming had been slightly less complex, and he had been able to provide you with conversations and time, both things that he would eventually cease to have very much of as the waking world began to shift and change, thus requiring the evolution of the Dreaming as well.

More people meant more dreaming, and more dreaming meant more of the Dream Lord's attention.

And what he had neglected to realize at the time, was that you were the very first thing to lose his affections, his thoughts, and his actions.

It was as if you had always been expendable without ever truly knowing it until he was long gone, a slight indent in the bed that was only ever filled after you went to sleep and before you woke up, leaving you the possessor of both of your rings as day after day he forgot his on the bedside table until it was nothing more than a habit long forgotten.

Where you had once been the love of The Dream Lord, it now appeared that you were his wife in name and nothing more, and though it stung, you had stuck to your duties for far longer than Dream ever would have allowed you to now.

You had always deserved better, even before the being had shifted his attention's elsewhere, and even if he had not known that then, he could so clearly understand it now.

You had never given up on him, not even when nearly all of your interactions seemed to end in dismissals on his part, or arguments due to his seemingly constant exasperation in general. You wanted your husband back, but he wanted to be the Dream Lord far more than he ever wanted to be a husband at that time.

And maybe he had felt that way, sure, but he never should have said it, at least not in the way that he did.

Because he had seen the way that your face fell and your eyes grew teary. Of course he had, he saw all.

But in spite of that fact, he did not go after you when you rushed off to be alone for the one thousandth time.

And the next time that he saw you, you had approached him at his throne in the evening, and quietly, meekly, in a voice he had never heard you use before, asked for a divorce.

You had looked defeated in a way that Dream had found himself surprised by, eyes shadowed, gaze cast downward, and skin slightly paler than usual in spite of how impossible it would be for you to have taken ill due to your godly status.

And any husband, or at least any good one, would have asked you what was wrong, or what had driven you to wanting to leave so suddenly.

But Dream had not been a good husband, so he had simply grown frustrated with you.

He had accused you of being attention seeking for your "childish behaviors", called your attempts at appealing to his emotions laughable, and had all but sneered in the face of your desires.

You were, after all, the Lady of Dreams, everyone knew you as such, and the idea that you could abandon such a title? It was nearly as unthinkable as him leaving his.

His creations, nightmares and dreams alike, adored you, his siblings, (or rather those of whom that cared), seemed to enjoy or at least tolerate your presence when necessary, and most importantly of all, the Dream Lord could not imagine a world within which you were no longer his wife.

It had been centuries since your marriage, and over a thousand years of knowing you prior to that, after all.

It was almost as if he thought of you as his after all of the time of you living within his shadow as nothing more than a figurehead, the wife of a powerful being who was seldom paid any attention to by the very "man" that she had married.

But to Dream's surprise, if your actions had been for attention, you were all too keen on taking things even further, because when he made these accusations in his usual uncaring and borderline insulting tone, you had shouted at him for the very first time that he could recollect.

"It hurts!"

You had cried, eyes brimming with unexpected tears of both anger and sadness,

"It hurts to know that you see me each day without ever truly seeing me, that you call me your wife while scarcely knowing who I am anymore. If me donning the title of Lady of Dreams is so important to you Lord Morpheus, then fine, call me what you will, but know that I do not consider myself your spouse anymore, and have no intentions of staying here in this suffocating realm with you any longer."

And with that, you had gone, and The Lord of Dreams had not seen you since.

Though he had thought about you plenty, as unwilling as he was to admit it.

Your words had gotten to him, though most primarily when he had been trapped for so very long, forced to consider his past actions and mull over all that he had endured throughout the passage of time in spite of how little it was meant to impact him.

You were his wife still, sure, but now only in name, and over a century had passed since he had last heard your voice or seen your face.

Were you still worshiped as you had once been? Did his nightmares and his dreams know where you were? Had you thought of him or thought to visit the Dreaming in his absence? Had you even known that he had vanished in the manner that he did?

All of these questions coursed through his mind, and thoughtlessly, without even realizing it, he brought himself back to where he subconsciously knew that you would be.

Your home.

Nestled deep within the woods of the waking world, in a rural town within a country rather sparsely inhabited, you still resided, unsurprisingly, to this day, and as Dream approached your door for the first time in centuries, he stopped himself before he could raise a fist to knock on the sturdy old wood.

What was he doing here, bothering you after so very long of giving you the space that you so desired?

Had he not made a promise to himself that he would leave you be now that he understood all that he had done to you? All that he had deprived you of by trapping a being such as yourself in a marriage as loveless as yours had been?

At that line of internal questioning, Dream sighed, and turned to leave, only to hear the door swing open behind him just as he did so, a gasp filling the air behind his back before he quickly spun to face the source of the sound.

There you were, a giggling and bouncing baby at your hip, with a bottle in your hand, staring at the personification of dreams with eyes that were beginning to brim ever so slightly with tears.

"Please, don't go."

You whispered, causing the Dream Lord's eyes to widen ever so slightly,

"I need to talk to you."

And much to his surprise, Dream was quick to oblige, stepping into your abode in only a few simple strides, taking in the familiar yet so very changed space and atmosphere found within the walls of your home.

This was where he had met you well over a thousand years ago by happenstance, though he knew all too well deep down that all things happened for a reason, and that his meeting with you had been preordained by his eldest sibling and the stars long before the humans that had created you had even existed.

It was peaceful here, in the deeper woods with you, in your fire-heated home so hidden from view.

Or maybe, it was you who brought on that familiar peace, you who made his physical form relax in spite of how tireless it was meant to be.

He did not linger on such a thought for very long, for fear of what he might come to realize.

"You look well."

He said almost timidly, eyes cast downward and body language tense as he tried not to consider how similarly you looked even still to the last time that he'd seen you.

Beautiful, as always.

You sighed in response, wrestling a lightly chiming metal pendant out of the hand of the child in your grasp before tucking it into your shirt and away from view.

"With all due respect, my lord, I have absolutely no interest in small talk."

You said quietly, watching as Dream raised his gaze to look at you once more, eyes following intently as you shifted the child at your hip slightly, eyes still not entirely rid of the tears that had so clearly threatened to fall upon the sight of him.

"You disappeared."

You stated in a whisper, sounding almost defeated even as Dream nodded in reply,

"I did."

He said.

You sighed again, and looked down at the child, gaze softening slightly as you raised the prepared bottle to it's lips, watching as it started to suckle with delight, chubby limbs wiggling within your grasp, though you notably did not falter.

You never did, you were far too good with children, a fact that Dream had always felt unsettled by.

He was discernibly not a family man, particularly back when he had married you, and the idea that you were meant for something outside of what he could comfortably provide you with...

"And now you're back."

You said matter of factly, using that same tone as before as the being in front of you was snapped out of his reverie at the familiar sound of your voice, his reaction instantaneous.

"I am."

He said simply, watching as you looked up at him once more, tears spilling slightly in a way that for a moment, caused him to freeze up entirely.

You had never been one for crying, not even throughout the many years where he had harmed you through his lack of attention and desire. What could it have been, here and now that would bring you to such tears upon his simple words?

He moved after a moment, almost instinctively, to stand before you, some longing once believed to be long lost within him bubbling to the surface as he raised both hands to your face, cupping your cheeks in order to wipe your tears away with almost trembling thumbs that had nearly forgotten the once worshiped feeling of your skin beneath their pads.

You sighed shakily, looking him in the eyes for one of the very first times that day as you shook your head slightly,

"How could you do such a thing to me, Dream? How could you vanish so entirely without a word to me or anyone that you knew would be worried for you? How could you turn up here so casually and think to turn away and leave without letting me see the realness of you for myself?"

The Lord of Dreams looked down at you with sadness in his eyes, and moved to shake his own head in response, his hands still soft and warm against your skin.

Alive.

"I did not choose to leave, my dear."

He all but murmured, the familiar nickname he had once used for you finding his lips as naturally as water did a spring,

"And I did not think you desired to see me again after our last interaction. Coming here, it was not something I thought to do. I simply did."

You gazed up at him incredulously still stuck on that first part of his statement,

"What do you mean you did not choose to leave, Morpheus?"

You whispered, horror seeping into your tone as the being in front of you faltered, before finally speaking, shame present in every word that he spoke.

"I was captured by a human, and held against my will for over a century. My freedom, as it stands currently, is new. I did not choose to leave and stay away from my duties, I assure you."

You let out a choked and humorless sounding laugh, shaking your head even further,

"And what you consider upon your exit from such a hell is not of who you want to see, but who may wish to see you? Where has my selfish King of Dream's gone?"

You asked, voice slight and smile lopsided as Morpheus sighed and thoughtlessly traced the curves of your lips with his thumb, finding much to his surprise that the shape remained familiar even to this day.

"I was not fair to you, dear wife, not for a very long time. If nothing else, I wanted to know that I had at least respected your wishes for space, though even that may have been self serving."

You adjusted the child on your hip, before you raised your hand up to your husband's, ignoring the slight way that he shivered beneath your touch.

"Whatever do you mean, King of Dreams?"

You whispered, watching as Morpheus gave a humorless sounding chuckle of his own.

"I mean that even today, I could not bear to call you anything besides my wife. I mean that by avoiding you entirely, and calling that your wish, I am able to ignore the fact that I am still not strong enough to give you the end to our union that you so justly requested. I do not wish to lose you in that way, even if I have lost you in all others."

You hummed softly in response, smile growing gently as you removed his hand from your face, giving him a glance that had him dropping the other to his side before you guided him to your sofa, where you sat the two of you down, you with a child upon your lap, and him with nothing but his most bare self, vulnerable in a way he had not felt since he had been so plainly naked behind glass for what had felt like all of man to see.

Seeking out a distraction, Dream looked down toward the child sitting upon your lap, before moving his gaze back up to yours again.

"The child..."

He began, and immediately, you shook your head,

"He is not mine. I found him roaming the woods a few days back, and have yet to find his mother, even after stopping by the nearest town. I'm hoping to hear word of someone searching for him soon."

You said casually, watching with gleaming eyes as the child took your finger and clasped it within his chubby little fist, his grin revealing his few teeth, just barely poking out from beneath his gums.

Dream could not help but smile softly along with him, though his was merely a shadow compared to that of the child sitting atop your legs.

"I see..."

He replied, and you gazed toward him with noted amusement,

"Were you worried that I had stepped outside of our marriage, Lord Morpheus?"

You teased, watching as the man in front of you rolled his eyes before responding.

"No, I was more hoping than anything else. If you had moved on, then I might find it easier now to do the same."

You looked up at him upon hearing those words, before reaching down to place the small child on the floor in front of you with a sigh, thus allowing you to better face the being sitting at your side.

"And why is it that you are so eager to move past me, dear husband?"

You watched as Dream cast his gaze downward, eyes trained on the child playing nearby in spite of the fact that you could tell his mind was far away indeed, off somewhere that you could not follow, deeply considering every event he'd ever endured in search of an answer to your question.

How nice it must have been, to be so knowledgeable.

"If I were to move past you, wife, then I might finally be able to let you go, and if I managed to do such a thing, it would be far more feasible that you could truly hope to be rid of me someday."

You sighed, and reached for the hands of the individual that you had once known so well, and perhaps even did still, causing him to look up at you in surprise at the sudden contact.

"And if I do not want to be rid of you, dear Morpheus? If I said that after a century I have found it within myself to forgive you for the husband you once were in favor of learning what husband you could be now?"

You watched as the being sitting in front of you stared for a moment, as if in complete and utter disbelief, before he slowly began shaking his head, the corner of his lips raising ever so slightly as he leaned in to press his forehead against your own,

"Then I would say that I have known no greater patience than that of my dear wife."

He murmured, causing you to laugh quietly with a subtle roll of your eyes before you reached upward, pulling a pendant on a chain out from where it had been hidden beneath the collar of your shirt.

Dream watched curiously, not entirely sure of what you were doing, until suddenly you yanked at the chain with such force that it snapped in the back, causing either end of it to come tumbling forward into your palm.

Dream raised a brow in response to your actions, but remained silent, seeing in your eyes that you were all too eager to explain, the glint there unsubtle in a way that he was immensely familiar with.

"I kept this for you while you were away"

You stated casually as you pulled one of two clinking pieces of metal off of the chain, revealing to Dream a sight he had never anticipated having the privilege of viewing again.

There, between two of your fingertips and presented to him with such normalcy, was his wedding ring, and he could see from the subtle glint still remaining in your palm that the other metal piece on the chain had been yours.

He stared in shock, reaching for the familiar symbol of his union to you in utter disbelief, even as the coolness of it's structure wrapped itself around his ring finger as he took it and slid it on to its rightful place upon his hand.

"It’s been more than a century..."

He murmured, his tone betraying his surprise in spite of how little emotion he typically showed, even in vulnerable moments like this one.

You smiled at him, shrugging slightly as you slid your own ring onto your finger again, sighing as if having arrived home after a long day of work,

"I know."

#morpheus x reader #the sandman x reader #dream x reader #dream the endless x reader #morpheus x y/n #sandman x reader #the sandman x you #dream x y/n #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless fic #the sandman fanfic #morpheus x you #morpheus x f!reader #sandman x female reader #dream x fem!reader #the sandman fic #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus fic #morpheus x wife

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lostelfwriting · 7 months

Text

Bury Me with a Rose, We Both Have Thorns (Prologue)

Rating: Explicit

AO3 Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Death & Dream, Dream & Hob, Dream/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Death of the Endless, Hob Gadling, Jessamy, Matthew, Corinthian, Lucienne

Additional Tags: NO Major Character Death, Hanahaki Disease, Terminal Illnesses, Thoughts about death and dying, Decaying Health, Refusing Treatment, Strong Language, Unrequited Love, Enemies to ?, Past Minor Characters Death(s), Protective Death of the Endless, Doctor Human!Death of the Endless, Alternate Universe - Human, Tattoo Artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Flower Shop Owner Hob Gadling, Blood, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word count: 32k

I'm posting the whole work here on the 1st of March, but I strongly reccommend you read it on AO3, where I will be posting one chapter per day. Either way, click Read More or go to AO3 to read the Prologue!

Written for the event @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang. With beautiful art by @five-and-dimes!

It is a slow day at the studio, so while he is waiting for his next appointment, Dream is – like he does almost all of his free time – sketching new tattoo designs to add to his portfolio and listening to music loud enough to completely shut out his own thoughts. He is sketching a snake, having no doubt that it will catch someone’s eye. There is always someone who wants a tattoo of a snake. He pauses to look at his progress and ends up snorting in disbelief.

The drawing is truly a snake, but the reptile is weaving among the stems of flowers instead of a dead branch like Dream had intended. And they are ugly flowers at that. He is pretty sure that he gave a pot of those flowers to his secondary school teacher, who always called him Murphy, even though he hated that nickname. He can’t resist snapping a picture of the flowers with his phone and trying to look up what they are, but once he finds the name – cyclamen – he refuses to look up their meaning. It would surely be something stupid, like forbidden love, or maybe hopelessness.

Even the snake’s scales seem to actually be made of flower petals, and Dream rolls his eyes as he flips the page of his sketchbook. The downside to trying to tune his mind out is that he doesn’t notice when his subconsciousness begins to interfere with his process, and it has led to many flowery paintings in the past months. With a sigh, he starts copying the usable parts of the design onto another page until an insistent thought makes him pause mid-movement.

Just a few weeks ago, he would have been furious if this had happened. He used to tear those ruined sketches to pieces and then go outside into the late winter chill and glare at every passing person who dared to look his way. He wished they all felt as bad as he did, and most of all, his neighbour with his shop opposite Dream’s studio, with its bright, flowery logo.

Today’s drawing incident feels like just a small inconvenience. He feels zero anger, though he might still opt to destroy the sketch later, just for the miniscule satisfaction that the action will bring him. Or maybe he will keep it. Pin it to the wall next to his bed and look at it every night. He will look at the ugly flowers and realise with wry amusement and aching hollowness that he has finally accepted his fate.

He, Morpheus Endeles, is going to die.

He thinks about it and waits for anger or grief to appear, but they don’t. Good. He was getting sick of the self-pity. It has been months since he noticed the first symptom – the occasional cough – as something seemed to tickle his throat, easily blamed on a bit of dust. And then, a bit later, when he lay awake late at night and everything around him was quiet, he heard the soft rustle of leaves as he breathed. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that he had the Hanahaki Disease. He tears the ruined sketch out and shreds it into tiny pieces, enjoying the bit of satisfaction that it brings him. Maybe he is still harbouring some badly suppressed anger. He doesn’t need a fortune teller to tell him that he has no chance of getting affection from the person he hopelessly loves. Because it is his neighbour, the owner of The White Rose, Robert Gadling, a straight man who rightfully dislikes Dream.

+*+*+*+*+

Cyclamen: resignation and good-bye

#my writing #bury me with a rose #centennial husbands big bang #dreamling #hanahaki disease #angst #happy ending

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writethrough · 1 year

Text

The Diviner (Part I)

(Morpheus x Prophetess Reader)

Synopsis: An ordinary outing with Hob Gadling turns sour when you have a vision of someone's death. You must do everything in your power to stop it.

Warnings: Mentions of death

Word Count: 1385

A/N: I'm so excited to share this with you all! My first (intentional) multi-part fic! A massive shout out to the lovely @7-wonders for helping me through this with her insights and suggestions, you definitely made me feel better about this. But still, after reading this so many times, I feel like it's the worst thing I've written, so, of course, that means I have to release it into the universe and let it go. And with that, I hope you enjoy!

Series Masterlist | Part II

You never thought it would come to this, standing before Dream of the Endless, ready to die.

—

Living amongst humans, you hardly crossed paths with the Endless. The only one you really saw was Death. You sought her out sometimes. Immortality was lonely if you didn’t know how to navigate it.

In one particular meeting, she sent Hob Gadling in her place. He became a confidant, even better than Death on some occasions. He was closer to what you were—a human given immortality. And you, a seer, an oracle, a prophetess—able to see the future and walk through it—an ability you never asked for.

Life was a funny, fickle thing.

It had been hundreds of years since you last saw Morpheus. You encountered him and Destiny long ago but would never forget what they did.

In the 15th century, you were strolling through a meadow of wildflowers as tall as trees one moment, only for them to melt away and reveal Destiny and Dream.

That dream had been your last.

It was easy to despise them at first. You watched every member of your family die. You barely aged, and when the whispers began, you fled.

Every new place unfolded into the same pattern. You developed friendships, found love, and built your new life from the ground. You foretold their deaths, fled when people grew suspicious, and returned to watch those you loved lowered into the earth.

It was like breathing to hate them, but unlike you, things changed.

You stopped seeking out the expectations of human life, stopped living day by day, and started seeing the bigger picture.

You hadn’t realized how you could influence your visions until you wandered, not because you had to, but because you wanted to.

Destiny gave you this life because it was what he had to do, and you were able to help stop so many terrible things with it. You managed to evacuate an oceanside village before a flood, left anonymous tips so the authorities could catch murderers, and pulled a woman out of the way of an oncoming car—one that would go on to change the world.

But you couldn’t see everything. You couldn’t see your destiny. You weren’t Endless or all-knowing. And then you hated Destiny more for all the horrible things he let happen—all the people that perished because he refused to interfere—because you didn’t see.

Death and Hob quelled some of your anger. Their stories of Morpheus were more enlightening than you would have liked.

He hadn’t given you this power. He only let Destiny find you through your dreams so he could bestow it. Still, guilt by association was damning. And you always wondered why he helped Destiny in the first place.

But to ask him, he’d have to enter the Waking, and according to Death, that was something he did not do.

That was another thing you missed—dreaming. The escapism that so many needed, you could not partake in. Your days and nights were full of visions. And unlike dreams, you remembered all of them.

—

You’re clutching your side, staring into his blue eyes—your veins on fire.

You want him dead.

—

You appreciated the routine you established with Hob throughout the years—brunch on Sundays, then a walk to your bench at the park.

You were halfway through your meal when he broached a topic that had become a weekly discussion.

“My students would love to hear your side of things.”

An unimpressed look shaped your features.

“My side of things nearly cost me my life,” you said, sipping your tea.

“Ah, yes, I forgot you aren’t privy to a centennial death meeting with Dream,” he said.

“Yes,” you hummed in amusement. “Must be nice to choose when you die.”

“It has its perks.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Now, now, a little respect for your elders!” he laughed.

You raised a brow. “I’m pretty sure age is redundant at this point.”

He shrugged. “As long as I get a birthday cake.”

“I thought you only do that every decade?”

“I was thinking of switching things up. You only live once, you know!”

You both burst out laughing, trying to quiet to not disturb the other patrons.

“Just consider it,” he said after settling. “I think I’m beginning to bore them.”

“You? Never,” you said.

His mouth opened, eyes alight, and then your head dropped forward. You had enough cognizance to catch it with your hands as flashes played behind your lids.

Morpheus trapped.

A silhouette loomed over him.

And Death, leading her brother away.

Hob’s warm hand on your forearms helped pull you out.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “They don’t usually last that long.”

You breathed slowly; your head still heavy.

He said your name.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. “But we need to find Morpheus.”

Hob’s voice lowered. “What’s going to happen to Morpheus?”

You looked up, somewhat steadily. “Someone’s going to kill him.”

—

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be reunited with everyone you lost.

Then why are you petrified?

—

You were in the park amongst a crowd after shooting from your seat and leaving Hob to take care of the check.

It was your best chance to find Death here. There were far too many people for something not to happen.

Hob called your name, running up beside you.

“Did you have to take off like that?”

You scanned the area as you spoke. “I have to warn Morpheus.”

“I know,” he heaved, “But don’t you know when it will happen?”

You shook your head. “I couldn’t tell. It was bright, but it was indoors. And it went by so fast.”

“Okay, what else did you—hey!”

There!

She was good at blending in, but you could sense her power.

And it seemed she sensed yours because she faced you as you approached. And where a smile would normally bloom, a frown took hold.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, clearly concerned.

“I saw your brother die,” you said. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened. “You had a vision?”

“Have you warned him?” You ignored her question.

“I…No, I haven’t.”

“Then we need to. Can you call Morpheus somehow?” Your mind was running rampant, scenario after scenario, and how to combat them playing out.

She said your name. “If it’s my brother’s time…”

“No. There’s no way he's dying if I can help it. I wouldn’t have seen it if I couldn’t do something!” You hated this feeling bubbling up, like constriction from the inside.

Morpheus had been an object of your detestment for so long, but he had also opened the door for you to save so many. The least you could do was protect him in return.

“Okay! Okay,” she said, wanting to calm you. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

Once you were back at your place, Death called to Dream through her sigil. And while you stood, anxious, Hob sat with one leg over the other, a firm look on Death.

“Sister.” Morpheus appeared without a sound. Or perhaps he did make one, and you were too in your head.

He faced you as calmly as the night you met. “Seer.”

You hadn’t seen him in centuries, but had he been this ethereal when you met?

“Morpheus.”

“Why have you summoned me, sister?” Morpheus asked.

“Someone’s planning to kill you,” you interrupted, arms crossed.

His face pinched ever so slightly. “You’ve seen this?”

You nodded.

“Is this true?” Morpheus looked to Death.

She hesitated. “I don’t know. And that’s what worries me.”

“Hold on a moment.” Hob waved a hand. “You’re saying you have no knowledge of Morpheus' murder.” He pointed to you. “And yet you’ve seen it.”

“Then maybe there’s still a way to save you,” you said to Morpheus. “Surely Death of all people has to know when someone will die.”

Death let out a slow sigh. “I hope that’s the case.” Then met your gaze. “The only comfort I take in all this is your vision. It tells me there’s a chance.”

“So, what do we do?” Hob asked.

“We find out who wants Morpheus dead,” you said. “And hope we can stop them.”

Taglist: @sayumiht, @hatterripper31, @snowsatsu, @1950schick, @navs-bhat, @bookshelf-dust, @sapphireonline, @fictional-hooman, @steph-speaks, @ladyredstar1991, @secretdreamlandmentality

If you’d like to be added to any taglists, please comment or message me with the character you’d like updates on.

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gabessquishytum · 11 months

Note

This has been haunting my head forever, but as we all know Robert Smith was the leading inspiration for Dream in the comics with more than a bit of Neil sprinkled in there (and a few other goth rock bands like Bauhaus' Peter Murphy) and I just can't get over the image of a goth rockstar Dream.

It's the late 70s, and our boy Dream is riding a creative high of LSD and pedal effects to the top of the pops. They're calling the band he fronts, name and members are up to you or whoever takes this idea on, Goth bc they're too dark for New Wave but are just upbeat enough to steer clear of Televison's particular brand of Post-Punk. It's a newer label but a fitting one considering how dour and moody the genre has gotten since Ian Curtis's death. One he despises as he claims he's very happy with his current success and how his life is going.

But he's not happy. He hates playing to the newly forming stereotype of his fans, but he isn't. Celebrity Marriages hardly ever last and his relationship with his novelist wife is crumbling around him. He loves his son but the touring schedule is killing all of his free time. He's also pretty deep into substance abuse but he wouldn't admit it to his big sister let alone the random journo who has a camera in his face while he's trying to catch a 5:30 am flight to start his newest tour. He's just burnt out and creatively stuck as the label tries to pigeonhole him into this new subgenre, which he doesn't want anymore. Life, his life, can't be doom and gloom forever even though that's where it looks like it's heading. Forever being hailed as the Nightmare King.

Meanwhile, three radio stations over, Hob Gadling is desperately trying to hang onto life. He's a bit older now than when he first broke out onto the music scene as a rambunctious coat rider of the Sex Pistols, but he's still going strong. Punk has always been his outlet. Life sucks and you keep on living despite it. It tried to kill him not long after he debuted with substance use, but he powered through it and got clean. His wife died in childbirth, but he stuck around to raise his son. He even took a three-year hiatus and completely missed how much the sound had changed from his younger years. Even as post-punk has risen in popularity and the friends he knew have either died or changed their sound completely, he won't give up hope! Punk's not dead and neither is he. No matter how long his hair gets or if he grows out of his leather jacket.

The two meet rather coincidentally. Hob just happens to be opening for Dream on the Europe leg of his tour. Unsurprisingly the tension around Dream's band has become a powder keg and when he finally snaps and fires his guitarist, his bassist also leaves. With half the band gone, Dream considers calling it quits right then and there. Fuck the new album, fuck the last fifteen or so dates. He wants to go home. But Hob sees how close they are to finishing the tour and puts his foot down. They will finish the tour! So he offers up his services to Dream. He's not bad with a guitar and if Dream can cover the bass, then he'll play all night if he has to. Because out there on stage? That's life and he wants to keep making people happy and give them something that might transcend time and space. To never die bc his name is there among the annuls of rock history.

And in time, Dream will come around to his new friend. He will learn to appreciate the zest for performing and living his new friend has. He will also think he has the greatest body known to man and will forever laugh at the terribly done anarchy A Hob has tattooed on his ass, but that's neither for here or there. For now, Dream pulls himself together and gets his bass out from the dark pits of hell the roadies call gear storage. For the show must go on.

Oh god I want an entire novel length story around this. It’s fantastic! I have so many thoughts about these two!!

Hob is falling in love with all the new sounds that he’s hearing. He spent his time on his hiatus being a suburban dad, and now he’s back on the scene is just feels amazing. He can’t get enough of Roxy Music and David Bowie and Elvis Costello. And he’s determined to drag himself back up among those names! He’s got so many ideas of where punk can go! And he’s fascinated by Dream and his band. The lyrics are a little dark and wallowy, but Hob understands that actually people need to hear that. Life in the UK isn’t easy, particularly for young people. They need something loud and desperate and real. Little does he know, Dream feels like what he’s doing is so far away from being real. He feels likes such a fraud. He can’t get off the hamster wheel except by shooting up and passing out.

Hob recognises all of this in approximately 0.5 seconds after meeting Dream. It makes him pretty sad, but he’s determined that he’ll lift Dream out of his funk. If nothing else, he’ll make him love music again.

So when Hob said he was OK with a guitar, he was lying - he's actually a bit of a genius, and it's fair to say that Dream falls a little bit in love with him about half way through the sound check. Instead of hiding in the dressing room and licking his wounds over the band breaking up, he actually watches as Hob opens for him. Hob is very classic punk, it's all very "fuck the government, fuck me up the arse" kind of stuff, but Dream doesn't get bored for a single second. Hob is just that entertaining, and his riffs are insane. Dream itches to write a song for him. And when Hob ends the set with a jokey little song that his five year old son allegedy wrote the lyrics for (lil Robyn is very punk, just like his daddy) Dream’s eyes actually get a bit misty. It's probably all the smoke.

And there's really no time to get emotional! Dream’s drummer, Constantine, thankfully didn't walk out with the rest of them. So somehow, with Hob’s virtuosic guitar skills and sheer determination, plus Dream’s refusal to fail yet again, they actually make a really decent show. Dream feels a tingle of the old spark that he used to get when he first started out - it probably has something to do with the way Hob upends a bottle of water all over his head half way through the show and grins like a maniac.

After the show they crash in a local hotel. Hob calls his kid from the payphone and Dream wishes that he had the courage to do the same. Instead he takes some pills so he doesn't have to feel the high from the show gradually wearing off into nothingness. He doesn't know why Hob comes and sits next to him in the dark, pressing against him from thigh to shoulder. He stays for the whole of Dream’s trip, in fact, humming something quiet and classic. Dream feels quite ashamed of himself, and for the first time he thinks that maybe he'd feel better without the drugs. Maybe.

As the tour gets off to a slow start, Dream starts to notice that Hob is having some kind of positive effect on him. Just little thing. They get breakfast together, so Dream actually eats something, which is unusual. Their little arguments don't get out of hand, because Hob never lets them escalate. When Dream is angry and spitting at the world, Hob is sure to point of something positive. Not that Hob doesn't get sad, too - he just deals with it differently. He goes for long walks, and turns off the news when it gets bad. He gets himself a snack when he's irritable, and laughs about it afterwards.

Dream writes him a near impossible guitar solo and it feels like a "thank you".

They have a sweet, unexpected first kiss. It's 2am and they're standing at the edge of the road, waiting for a mechanic to come out to their broken down tour bus. There's no one around to see, so Dream rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. He's sore, and weary. Hob turns his head slightly and tucks an arm around him, and it just happens. They kiss. It is, of course, the first of many.

And you can bet that Dream kisses that anarchy tattoo a million time, too.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw drugs #cw substance use

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rainbowmoonstonestories · 3 months

Text

Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings | Chapter 18

Chapters: 18/? Fandom: The Sandman (Netflix 2022, minor content from the Comics) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dream of the Endless/Morpheus x F!Reader Characters: Dream of the Endless/Morpheus, Lucienne, Matthew the Raven, Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Hob Gadling, Death, Rose Walker, The Corinthian, other minor Sandman characters, Original Characters. Warnings: 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching, very long chapters to read. Summary: You always dreamed of becoming a successful Fashion Designer, sharing your creations with the world and making your father proud. But with him being very ill and so many costs solely weighting on your shoulders, things didn’t go as planned and you had to take a different path instead. An interesting offer led you to the elder Alex Burgess and you were hired as a new housemaid for a very good pay. However, your kindness and outstanding empathy convinced the man to give you an additional task for a doubled compensation; gaining the trust of Dream Of the Endless, held captive into the basement for over a century. Despite the shock of finding such an ethereal entity stripped of all his clothes and contained into a confined space, you had to accept for the sake of your father. But the more you got to speak to the mysterious anthropomorphic personification who didn’t utter a single word, the more you were lost into his eyes that, conversely, seemed to contain the entire universe. A deep connection formed between the two of you, separated only by a thick layer of glass.

Little did you know, what started like a simple housemaid job was about to change your life forever.

Credits: The moon dividers were made by firefly-graphics

Tagging: @number-0-iz, @emarich7, @jaziona92. If anyone else wants to be tagged in the next updates, let me know! I noticed that Tumblr sometimes won't let me tag everyone for some unknown reason, so if it comes to that I can at least send you a message to notify you.

You can also read this on AO3 if you feel more comfortable!

While on one hand your work in Cape Kennedy was progressing without any hiccup, the situation with the Vortex was beginning to escalate and deteriorate at a very alarming rate. But there was only so much that you, as a mere mortal, could do to assist.

The Corinthian lounged in his chair, his unsettlingly perfect smile unwavering as he examined you through his disconcerting, mirrored sunglasses. You stayed as motionless as a still lake, frozen and unflinching, with your heart pounding intensely in your chest.

Even though fear engulfed you and the Nightmare instilled a chilling sense of dread, you were determined not to present yourself as vulnerable or an easy prey.

"Well, look who we have here," he remarked, settling comfortably and flashing his trademark grin. "Do you remember me?”

"Naturally," you replied, your tone distant and firm. "Thanks for the drink, but I must admit I'm not really into the Black Russian Cocktail.”

He let out a chuckle, seemingly entertained by your biting response. "Ah, such a shame. I thought it might be to your taste,” he said, his voice silky, laced with feigned charm. "But I assure you, I'm not just here to buy you a drink. In fact, I'm more interested in...conversation.”

A shiver coursed down your spine, but you held your stance, your hand reaching for the Moonstone necklace as a form of support. "What do you want, Corinthian?" you questioned, managing to keep your voice steady despite the terror simmering within you.

His grin broadened at the mention of his name. "Straight to the point. I like that.”

He leaned slightly forward, cautious not to breach the invisible protective barrier that the necklace symbolized. "I just happened to be in the area and saw a familiar face. It's always nice to catch up with old acquaintances.”

You narrowed your eyes, not letting his nonchalant demeanor fool you. "Acquaintances? Is that what we are now? Because the last time we met, I didn't even know your name.”

The Corinthian shrugged, pretending indifference. "Names are overrated. It's what lies beneath that's truly interesting. Speaking of which,” His gaze shifted to the pendant in your hand. "That's a beautiful Dreamstone you're wearing there.”

As an entity crafted by Morpheus himself, you speculated it would be easy for him to sense his master's essence residing in the stone. The crystal had not yet shone any light, but it likely wouldn't trigger as long as a secure distance was maintained.

Given his aim to stay under the radar, it was certainly unthinkable to do anything that might catch Morpheus' attention.

Despite this, you were not ready to lower your defenses. You gripped the pendant tighter, your knuckles whitening, until you were overpowered by a terrible uncertainty.

The pendant housed Morpheus' energy, the identical one he employed to craft his subjects. All of them, Dreams and Nightmares alike, including the Corinthian. Would it even function against that creature, or was it destined to stay inactive in the presence of its creator's power?

However, understanding Morpheus as you did, you figured that he wouldn't leave anything to chance.

"You stay away from me," you warned, your voice low but fervent.

He lifted his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. "Easy there. I'm not looking for trouble. Just a friendly chat. After all, it's not every day you run into someone who's so... special."

His tone bordered on teasing, but underneath it lurked a layer of menace.

You shot him a stern look, your heart maintaining its rapid pace. "Why are you really here?”

The Corinthian's smile remained, but a spark of irritation flickered across his face. "Let's just say I'm here on business. But you, my dear, seem to have stumbled into something far bigger than you realize. I wonder...do you even know what you're protecting yourself from?”

You offered no response, your silence serving as a testament to your fear and resolve.

The Corinthian reclined again, his expression contemplative. "You know, the Dreaming is a fascinating place. Full of wonders and horrors alike. It's a shame, really, that some of us can't ever truly escape it.”

Your fingers traced the contours of the Moonstone, deriving fortitude from Morpheus' gift.

You looked intently at him, your jaw set rigidly. "You were meant to stay. The Waking World is not the place for you.”

The Corinthian chuckled with a predatory glint that seemed to emerge on the dark lenses. “Ah, but the Waking World is so much more entertaining. So many unsuspecting souls, so many dreams to twist and shatter. The Dreaming can be quite confining, don’t you think?”

"You're playing a dangerous game here. You know that sooner or later he's going to find you, right?”

He laughed once more, a sound lacking any semblance of mirth. "Oh, but I have plans, my dear. Grand plans. And they don't include being sent back to the Dreaming like a misbehaving pet.”

His presence was deeply disturbing, stirring an urge in you to eradicate him instantly. It would be so easy; you had the means to inform Morpheus, to signal him that his nightmare had reappeared before your eyes. Yet, despite your impulse to act, you were held back by the bustling public scene, brimming with humans immersed in their own lives.

“Dreams are fragile things. And even the most powerful can crumble under the right pressure.”

You swallowed hard. "Be that as it may, you can't hide from your master forever.”

"That won't be necessary.”

At that moment, the suspicion began to creep into your mind that he was not only aware of the forming Vortex, but also harbored intentions of exploiting Rose for his own gain. Perhaps that could provide an explanation for the persistent feeling in your gut.

Alternatively, it could be your paranoia casting a cloud over your perception, and his presence in Cape Kennedy might not be related to the girl at all. However, his hints towards a grandiose scheme were undeniable, and whatever he was plotting, it was improbable that it would result in anything remotely beneficial.

Your phone began to vibrate and ring on the table, breaking the tense silence yet escalating your alertness. Andrew's name lit up on the screen, and despite your strong desire to extricate yourself from that situation, your body didn’t budge.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Your eyes blazed with defiance. "Just so we’re clear, I won't let you harm anyone. Especially not him.”

It was a daring move on your part. What could a mere mortal such as yourself, lacking any supernatural abilities and unaware of this Nightmare's true potential, realistically hope to achieve against such monster?

“We’ll see about that.”

The Corinthian maintained his malevolent smirk, as he rose from his chair and smoothed out his jacket. The ringing of your phone ceased, the screen going dark. "Well, it's been delightful catching up, but I must be going. Places to be, people to see, dreams to corrupt. You know how it is.”

He made a motion to leave, but then halted, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Oh, and one more thing. Give my regards to Dream. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again very soon.”

Your blood ran cold as he continued speaking, gradually advancing towards the door.

“Enjoy your stay in Cape Kennedy, sweetheart. And remember, nightmares can follow you anywhere.”

With that, the Corinthian vanished into the bustle of the street, leaving you in solitude at the bar, your thoughts spiraling out of control.

You exhaled a prolonged, trembling breath of relief as soon as you found yourself alone at the table, your fingers finally releasing their grip on the Dreamstone. The fact that he left you entirely untouched, without even attempting to lay a finger on you, could signify a multitude of possibilities. Was he planning to toy with you a bit longer before erasing your existence from this world? Did he have intentions of annihilating the entire human race, you included, all in one sweep?

When your phone rang again, you jumped in your seat. You allowed the call to continue for a few more seconds, swallowing down your anxiety and only answering it when you were certain you could muster up your voice.

"Andrew, hi.”

"Oh, Y/N, you answered! I'm nearly there.”

"Yeah, I inadvertently left my phone on silent," you feigned. "I'm on my way.”

"Oh hey, is everything alright? You sound strange...”

Apparently, you weren't very good at concealing it.

"I'm fine! Just a bit tired, it seems the jet lag is really taking a toll on me now.”

Fortunately, Andrew seemed to accept your excuse. "Ah yes, of course! Sorry for having you run around like this.”

You swiftly settled the bill for your drink, leaving the undesirable Black Russian Cocktail abandoned on the table. "No need to apologize, I came here specifically for this.”

"Yeah, but I'm not in any hurry at the moment. So if you need to take things slower, just let me know, okay?”

You smiled, exiting the bar and crossing the street, breathing in the refreshing salty air. "Of course, but don't worry!”

"Right. I've just arrived. Are you nearby?”

"Yes, literally five minutes away.”

"Great! I'll hang up now, see you in a moment!”

As you slipped your phone back into your bag, you were taken by a sudden wave of calm and contentment, simply from Andrew's display of kindness and concern. Given the extremely negative energy you had absorbed from the Corinthian, the positivity radiating from your newly-acquired friend served to completely dispel the Nightmare's impact on you.

Nevertheless, the situation was not to be underestimated. Even though Morpheus might have been unaware, the possibility of his own creation plotting to obliterate not just the Dreaming but also the Waking World was a grave matter. It was vital that he be apprised of the looming threats he was up against.

Unfortunately, given his perpetual sense of duty, there was a fear that this revelation might exacerbate his self-blame. The notion of you coming across the Corinthian in London had already caused him significant distress, to the extent that you were fearful of his reaction to finding out that the Nightmare had, in essence, posed an indirect threat to you.

No, it was preferable to keep this information to yourself for the time being. Having a line of communication with the King of Dreams, you had the capability to reach out and converse with him if the need arose. Thus, as you spotted Andrew awaiting you on the most picturesque beach of Cape Kennedy, you made a silent pledge to yourself to monitor Rose as closely as possible, ensuring that no harm would befall the girl and, by extension, all of you.

Andrew couldn't have come up with a better idea. He intended for you to experience the magnificence of Cape Kennedy up close, guiding you on one of the most serene strolls you'd ever taken in your life. The melody of the sea was enchanting, the sky was unblemished, and the ocean was astoundingly beautiful. Owing to the Beach Land that was a frequent destination in your dreams, you had cultivated a deep fondness for the ocean.

Once again, he transported you back to his quarters for a thorough work assessment and outline. Charlotte was even more ebullient than the previous day, welcoming you with a warm hug and presenting another tray of fresh beverages and snacks, which you gladly accepted. Andrew had already given his approval to your drafts and the requested modifications, so technically, a large part of your job was already completed. What Andrew sought from you now was counsel on the overall presentations, along with guidance regarding the advertising strategy.

You were so immersed in the task at hand, surrounded by stacks of papers as you both scribbled notes and laid out plans on your laptops, that time slipped away unnoticed. Dinner had come and gone in what felt like an instant, the sky transitioning from daylight to a dark canvas speckled with twinkling stars amidst your ongoing conversations.

As the day came to a close, Andrew drove you back to Hal's B&B, suggesting you get some rest before the next briefing. A tranquil night was upon you, underscored by the calming whispers of rustling leaves and cricket melodies.

Yet, you couldn't shake off the feeling that something could emerge from the shadows unexpectedly at any moment.

Your footsteps reverberated along the pathway leading to the front door. As you pushed it open, the sound of Hal's voice drifted from nearby.

“There’s not much to do in Cape Kennedy after dark. Or during the day for that matter.”

You stopped in your tracks. His voice resonated with an unmistakable undertone of exhaustion and defeat.

“That’s kinda what I like about it,” Rose retorted in response. “I was thinking, maybe I should move back.”

“Why? To do what?”

The tone of Hal's inquiry made his disapproval abundantly clear.

“I don’t know. Before my mom died, I was gonna go to grad school… and try to become a writer.”

Nonetheless, Rose appeared unperturbed and relaxed, exuding an air of tranquility.

“But maybe it’s like you and New York.”

“God. I hope not.”

“No, I mean, your life is here,” she corrected. “You have this house, people who love you. You’ve got Dolly.”

You generally refrained from eavesdropping, but you felt that interrupting at that juncture would be incredibly inappropriate. Thus, you remained standing outside, right before the slightly open door.

“Rose, do you think I wanna be here? Cleaning after Barbie and Ken? Don’t get me wrong, I love them, they’re great. But if Broadway called tomorrow, I would sell this fucking house.”

The palpable sorrow in his voice touched a nerve. You had experienced similar sentiments once, longing to discard everything you had in pursuit of the fulfilling life you aspired to lead.

“And I would never think about any of these people ever again.”

There was a pause, followed by Hal's voice resuming once again.

“Go to grad school, write a novel… about me, but do it now while I’m still cute enough to play myself in the movie.”

Rose's soft chuckle was barely audible, but the joy it conveyed was unmistakable. It mirrored the enjoyment you felt, prompting a quiet smile to spread across your face.

“’Cause this, was never my dream.”

Soon after, Rose withdrew to the room she shared with Lyta to turn in for the night. Hal continued to clean up the area, the sound of glasses clinking against each other echoing throughout the room. Truth be told, you were keen to have a one-on-one chat with the girl as you hadn't yet gotten a proper chance to explain your encounter. But in that moment, you felt an overwhelming urge to give Hal some words of support, a growing desire in your heart that you simply couldn't overlook.

At last, you walked inside, gently closing the door behind you and advancing towards Hal, who was gathering the last vestiges of the drinks the others had left behind. Catching sight of you, he performed a graceful twirl and greeted you with a smile as radiant as the sun.

"Hi! I haven’t seen you all day. Has your work with Andrew been keeping you on your toes?”

"Somewhat, but things are progressing quite well," you responded.

"Oh, I'm certain. With your talent and his qualities, I can only anticipate the best.”

Shadowing his movements, you nervously bit your lower lip. "Speaking of talent, I couldn't help but overhear your exchange with Rose.”

Hal halted, clutching the empty tray in his hands. "Well, it was just, you know, something I needed to get out of my chest.”

You nodded in understanding. "We need that sometimes. But allow me to remind you that you already have everything you need within your grasp.”

He let out a sigh. "If only, my dear.”

"No, I'm serious. Maybe I don't have the right to say this, given we just met yesterday. And I understand this might sound like empty encouragement from someone who doesn't fully get your struggle. But you are so much more than this life you're discontented with.”

He had already talked about his aspirations with you - his dream to take center stage in Broadway's grandest shows, to become a celebrated star whose name would be remembered by all. Observing how his present life was constricting him, you felt an irresistible need to emulate your mother and extend as much consolation as you could.

You were no deity, no monarch of dreams. But he was a reflection of your past self and everything that persona embodied. Though you understood you were not your mother, you were at least confident in knowing the right words to express.

Hal's shoulders sagged and the new smile he offered was imbued with sadness and resignation. "Y/N, you're so kind to say that. But do you really think anyone would consider a Drag like me?”

"Hal, I witnessed your performance last night. Your voice is spectacular, and your stage presence was so mesmerizing that I couldn’t even blink while watching you.”

"Thanks, darling, But that won't exactly open the doors to Broadway for me.”

You shook your head in disagreement. "You don’t know that.”

He persisted in his skepticism, his countenance marked by desolation, as he found it impossible to conceive a more promising future for himself. You couldn't simply stand by and accept his surrender to circumstances.

“I mean, look at me. I am a living testament to how a life that once felt riddled with misery can transform into everything you've ever dreamed of.”

"Yes, and I love having you here right now. But I'm not like you, Y/N. All I can do is wait and hope that this endless cycle will take a different direction. Rather sooner than later.”

His pessimism didn't surprise you. After all, there was a time when you too were unwilling to believe in the possibility of betterment, bracing for nothing but disaster despite your father's and Hob's efforts to help you see things from a different angle.

"Or, you could cultivate this talent of yours and follow your dreams. Don't let it go to waste, you truly deserve to shine,” you said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

At that moment, something unusual occurred. A warmth emanated from your heart, appearing to radiate along his sleeve. Hal's face transitioned into one filled with wonder and surprise, staring at you as if he'd just seen a miracle unfold right before his eyes.

"Hal, you have your own individuality that defines who you are now, and also who you can become if you don’t give up.”

This time, he seemed to contemplate it, diverting his gaze and pursing his lips. "You do have a unique flair for words, don't you?” he noted, breaking into another bright smile and letting out a profound sigh.

He wasn't the first to compliment your communication skills, which evidently played a significant role in your professional success.

Still, you couldn't help but feel that it wasn't merely a perk you had acquired, but more so a family trait that you had inherited from birth.

"I try, at least.”

"Keep doing that, and you'll go really far in life.”

You chuckled, releasing him and slipping off your jacket. Somehow, as soon as you moved away, it felt like the enchantment had shattered, returning the atmosphere to its prior, ordinary state.

“Just give it some thought,” you suggested.

"Oh, I will. Maybe a good dream will stir some inspiration tonight.”

As you approached the stairs, gradually ascending the first few steps, you flashed a playful yet sincere wink in his direction. "Dreams have the power to do just that.”

If only he, or anyone else for that matter, could comprehend the depth of that truth. If only they could marvel at the wonders that the King of Dreams could bestow upon each one of them, had they dared to ask.

How had the mortal realm managed to endure an entire century devoid of the Dreaming? How had you navigated through countless silent, barren, desolate nights?

However, the elements within the dream realm could be as breathtaking as they were daunting. There were beings as mighty as the Corinthian, who had transformed what was meant to merely mirror humanity's deepest fears into a tangible nightmare in the Waking World.

Upon finding the plush comfort of your bed, you attempted to expunge all traces of those convoluted emotions from your gut. As you drifted off to sleep, you could only wish to find yourself enveloped by the dream figures you held so dear, all except Morpheus who, much to your chagrin, was preoccupied with the quest to locate his Dream and Nightmares.

One of which was tremendously close to all of you in the mortal realm.

As you leisurely strolled along the beach, your father's hand in yours, your younger self dipped her toes into the moist sand along the shoreline. You felt incredibly small and unburdened, reminiscent of the times you used to visit the seaside many years ago. The beach was tranquil, with no one else in sight, just you and your father gathering exquisite seashells and breathing in the refreshing air.

"Be careful there," he teased. "Or else you'll run out of space in that bucket.”

"I can't help myself," you replied cheerfully. "There are so many seashells, I want to collect them all.”

"This really is the best place in the world, innit?”

You nodded emphatically. "Of course it is, we're in the Dreaming.”

It was fascinating how a part of you maintained awareness, while another part seemed to have been transported back to the innocence and simplicity of your childhood.

"Beautiful. Simply beautiful," he observed.

The day was idyllic, reflecting the splendor of the dreamworld. You watched your small fingers digging into the damp sand, extracting more seashells and stones, each one glittering under the sun like a precious jewel.

But it was not reality, it was merely an illusion, a façade on the verge of shattering before your eyes.

Suddenly, a distant rumbling echoed in the sky, a sound that wasn't a novel occurrence.

"What was that?”

Your father appeared completely unconcerned, disregarding the approaching roar entirely. "Mh? What are you referring to, darling?”

“That sound.”

"What sound? All I can hear is the ocean.”

You stopped, causing your father to pause his strides as well. With the bucket's handle clenched tightly in your small fist, you focused on discerning the subtle noises in your surroundings.

Indeed, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, leading you to conclude that what you had heard was merely conjured by your imagination.

Until a colossal fissure, which jolted the entire landscape, emerged in the sand, a hair's breadth away from your father's feet.

"Dad!" You cried out. "We need to get away from here, now!”

“Mh? Whatever do you mean?”

With a trembling index finger, you pointed towards the ominous crack. Despite your frantic warning, he continued to smile - a wide, almost terrifying grin that you had never seen before.

You released his hand, the bucket falling to the ground. "You're not real. None of this is. It's all just a dream,” you repeated to yourself.

"Is that so? Well, I suppose I can't let you leave now.”

What on earth?!

You started to retreat, but he made no move to follow. Your dream father stood there, statue-like, tilting his head and staring at you with an utterly blank expression. You could feel the chaos mounting in you, the urgency to flee and awaken. The crack continued its course, spreading around your father like tree roots.

Paralyzed, you could only watch the horrifying scene unfold in front of you. The sky turned ominously dark and the ocean receded, only to rise again and form a gigantic wave. It towered over you, threatening to crash down imminently.

And then, a hand clamped down onto your shoulder, compelling you to pivot around. Your face, no longer that of a child, was reflected in the Corinthian's round black lenses.

“Give my regards to Dream. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again v͔̠ͬ͝e͕̰̥̦̐ͥͪ̇̓͊ͭ͊ͧ̏̕͢r̵̡͕͕̮͉͙̯̅̇̄ͣ̊̑y̲̼͋͐̓ͅ s̱̭͔̪̩̳̜̹͕̹̩͙̙̪̗̤ͮ̊ͥ̏ͮ͋́͗ͧ̐̽͘͜͟͝͠ͅǫ̷̷̛̙̫̞̳̮͆̒͐̐ͯ͛͡ǫ̙ṇ̵̆ͬ̓͘_̛̬̣̻͙̐̅ͥ̓ͪ̃_̵̶̝̣̝̈̆ͣ̍̉.”

His voice echoed all around you, reverberating in your ears and becoming distorted. The tidal wave crashed, engulfing everything in its path and wiping it all away. You were caught in a maelstrom, spinning uncontrollably, gasping for breath in the underwater whirlwind.

Awakening with a jolt, you kicked off the covers and sat bolt upright, pressing your back against the pillow. Panting, anxious and disoriented, you looked around to anchor yourself and dispel the remnants of your dream hung in the air, creating hypnagogic illusions of shadowy figures and wavering walls. It took a moment of deep, calming breaths and a run of your fingers through your tousled hair to bring your racing heart back to its normal rhythm.

Morpheus was absent, and the idea of slipping back into slumber was out of the question for now. You sprang to your feet, slipped into your cozy slippers, and draped a long open cardigan over your pajamas. A hot cup of tea, you thought, might just be the remedy to calm your frazzled nerves and restore your sense of lucidity.

Making an effort to keep the noise low, you stepped out of your room and gingerly made your way down the dimly lit hallway. You arrived at the main staircase, cautiously descending, with one hand instinctively placed on your chest where the feeling of water filling your lungs persisted.

Distractedly, you moved forward, and the light turned on in the dining room immediatly piqued your curiosity. The table was decorated with a tray full of traditional British biscuits, and a hot teapot was perched on it. A hefty figure was seated in front of the nocturnal treat, humming contentedly while relishing it.

“Gilbert?”

“Oh, hello Miss Y/N! What are you doing up at this hour?”

You smiled, observing his apparent fondness for his cane, which he seemed to carry with him wherever he went.

"I can't fall asleep," you answered. "What about you?”

"I was reading, lost track of time again. I brewed a spot of Chamomile, fancy a cup yourself?”

Given the state your nightmare had put you in, the prospect of a calming cup of Chamomile tea indeed seemed heavenly.

“Yes, please," you agreed. "I would appreciate that.”

"But of course! Would you mind having a sit? I’ll be right back.”

His warm and courteous manners always uplifted your spirits. Even the way he carried himself was full of grace and poise.

The soft sound of him rummaging through the cupboard reached your ears as he pulled out a vacant mug from the kitchen. Upon his return, he presented you with some of his biscuits with a sincere smile, and you felt like a spoiled child in need of a sweet snack to alleviate the tension. Had he possibly discerned your distress?

“Do you often make tea in the middle of the night?” You asked.

The corners of his lips curled upward even more, his mustache following the movement. “Old habits, I suppose. There's something comforting about it, don't you think?”

“Yeah. It reminds me of home.”

Gilbert sat down beside you, spooning a generous amount of sugar into his cup, now promptly refilled. "Feeling a touch of homesickness, are you?”

"Oh, it's more about the folks I hold dear back there. You know, family, friends.”

Gilbert savored a new sip of his Chamomile, licking his dampened lips and appreciating the warm brew. "And a dashing young chap too, perhaps?”

You held back a chuckle, finding "young chap" to be a rather amusing term for someone of Morpheus' stature.

"Let's say there is, in some sense.”

"Splendid. I won’t pry then.”

You truly pondered where this man originated from with his old-world sophistication.

The warmth of the beverage slid down your throat, finally dispelling that dreadful feeling of suffocation. "I love reading, too. It's unfortunate that I no longer have enough time to dedicate to it, but I’m passionate about my job."

"Yes, I did catch a few snippets. You work in the fashion industry, don't you?”

"That's correct. I'm a Fashion Designer, so I handle all aspects of the creative process and general promotion.”

Gilbert cast his gaze downwards, seemingly deep in contemplation. "Creative, that's marvellous. You know, it reminds me of someone I used to know a while back.”

“Really? Someone special?”

"Ah, my dear. He was the very heart of the place I hail from.”

"He’s not anymore?”

Gilbert grew nostalgic. "Oh no, he is. He'd been away for a very long time, you see. Without him, my homeland lost its essence. I left because I wanted to... embark on new experiences, I would say.”

You had a multitude of questions, but given your limited familiarity with the man, you didn't want to overstep any boundaries. You hypothesized that he originated from a quaint English town, and the person he spoke so warmly about was possibly a revered clergyman or a commoner cherished by many.

"Do you plan on returning?" You asked.

"Eventually, yes. I never intended to leave my place, I simply... needed to explore… more of this world.”

His explanation was notably vague, giving you the sense that he was carefully choosing his words to sidestep other topics he seemed less eager to discuss.

But ultimately, that was just a part of his charm.

"I understand. Thank you for sharing, Gilbert.”

"A pleasure, Miss Y/N.”

As you both continued to enjoy the Chamomile and savor the tasty biscuits he had provided, a momentary silence fell between you. Oddly enough, it didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable; instead, it nurtured a feeling of closeness. His presence was soothing, organic, and serene. You could faintly detect an aroma of damp moss and lush greenery emanating from him, along with hints of apples, sea ozone, musk and sandalwood.

Even though you were indoors, your mind was conjuring up the image of a lush green oasis. Unknown to you, the dreadful thoughts of your nightmare had entirely faded from your consciousness.

That was, until he posed the subsequent question, interrupting your mental imagery.

"You said you can’t fall asleep. Is something troubling you, my dear?”

Setting your mug aside, you aligned your back more straight against your chair. "I woke up from a nightmare earlier. It was quite unsettling.”

"Oh dear," he expressed. “Are you all right?”

"To be honest, I’m a little worried about something. But I can’t tell if my feelings are warranted, or if I'm just making everything more complex than it needs to be.”

Gilbert lapsed into a thoughtful silence again, absentmindedly twirling the spoon in his tea.

"Dreams can reveal a fair bit about your-" he cleared his throat. "-our own selves. Our worries, longings, even our darkest truths. They can be quite revealing, in their own cryptic manner.”

For some reason, he seemed to possess knowledge far beyond what any typical human being should. But considering the significant time he spent engrossed in books, his extensive cultural understanding was not surprising to you.

"It's weird, isn't it? Dreams can manifest the most beautiful visions one could ever see, yet sometimes, they can be so frightful that they make you want to never fall asleep again.”

He guffawed. "I've seen my fair share of unusual dreams. Each one is a journey, wouldn't you agree?”

You, more than anyone else, could attest to the spectacular travels one could undertake through their dreams.

But those very dreams you loved deeply, those realms and magical constructs, if not the Dreaming as a whole, were seemingly endangered by a force equally formidable.

As unsettling as the nightmare had been, you couldn't let it deter you from delving into your subconscious mind.

“I do, actually. It’s a little tough, though.”

"Isn't it just? This world's a grand old place, my dear. Just as many marvels to be found as there are true horrors to behold.”

You bobbed your head in agreement, gazing at the remnants of your Chamomile. "You're so right Gilbert. I wish I could remove a thing or two from my memory.”

"I daresay. But isn't that also part of what makes you... well, human?”

His point held weight, considering the lessons you had acquired over the years. All those hardships, all the adversities you had to surmount. Even Morpheus confined to that cage, isolated, insulted, and forgotten. Had you not witnessed all that, you would have entirely overlooked his existence, and inevitably lost the opportunity to understand what it meant to love and be loved by him.

Every fear, all the concerns, all the wonderings and questions. They all contributed to your growth and shaped who you wanted to become.

"Thanks, Gilbert," you voiced softly, "I really like talking to you.”

"Absolute pleasure, Y/N. Whenever you fancy a chat, I'm here to lend an ear.”

Having finished the Chamomile and nibbled the last crumb of your biscuits, you gathered the empty mugs and plates onto the tray. Gilbert generously offered his help, which you politely declined, allowing him to retreat to his attic for some rest (or to indulge in more reading).

You let the water run at the bare minimum, washing the mugs and plates with utmost care. You returned everything to its proper place, gently closing the cupboard's door to preserve the quiet. Gilbert's footsteps were soft and deliberate, until the surroundings became so silent that you couldn't hear a fly.

It was still early, and you didn't know how long Morpheus would take to conduct his investigation. All you could wish for was that no hindrances had appeared in his way.

As you slid back under the covers and settled onto the mattress, you grabbed your phone and plugged in your earbuds. You swiped across the screen, rifling through your saved playlists until you found the specific track you were looking for.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒇

You used to play these melodies when contending with your chronic insomnia, and even if they weren't particularly helpful at the time, you still cherished the calming sounds they produced. And so, you pressed the play button, adjusting the volume to a moderate level, getting yourself comfortable and closing your eyes.

The soft music echoed in your ears like liquid gold. You felt weightless and cleansed, as if the bed had vanished beneath you. When sleep claimed you once more, you felt comforted and at peace, journeying through a variety of pleasant dreams.

The fact that you had no pressing obligations the following day was a stroke of good luck, for when morning arrived, you were still blissfully asleep in your bed. The Dreaming appeared to be just as it always was, granting you unrestricted exploration. You took a serene stroll in the most beautiful meadow you had ever seen, crossed a forest bathed in hues of pinks and reds, and even engaged in conversation with a chatty deer you encountered along the way. At times, the things appearing around you looked odd and somewhat nonsensical, but it didn't particularly bother you.

And then, you were enveloped in a sea of stars, to the extent that you found yourself traversing an actual galaxy. Even though you were walking, you couldn't see any physical ground under your feet.

You weren't sure of your destination, but the energy pulsating through the paradisiacal landscape motivated you to continue, and you simply couldn't resist the call. The dress you wore, so lengthy that it trailed behind you like a royal gown, was imbued with the brilliance of stars and the swirling cosmos.

All that stunning beauty made your thoughts drift towards Morpheus, and you realized how much you longed to see him again.

Distant voices began to form and resonate from the far end of the nebula, where a powerful blue light flashed and expanded. You quickened your pace, walking briskly, until the light became almost blinding, compelling you to raise your hands in front of your face.

And it was fortunate that you did, because a few moments later, you collided with something hard and icy, as solid as marble.

The galactic spectacle had completely dissolved, replaced by a radiant blue fog that began to thin out and dissipate. The pillar in front of you obstructed your view, but it didn't take long for you to recognize the castle's throne room.

How were you able to locate that place again without Morpheus’ explicit invitation?

And then, you recalled his earlier words, assuring you that you were always welcome in his castle. Could it be that this had inherently given you unlimited access to it?

“Do you have any idea what his life is like in the Waking World?”

A woman was speaking, but you couldn't identify her.

“Humans cannot live in dreams.”

Morpheus.

“As long as he stayed there, the child had no life. Nor the chance for one.”

Sensing that you were amidst something significant, you moved your body slightly to the side to survey the unfolding scene. Morpheus, as handsome and majestic as ever, stood a few steps above Lucienne and another figure, a well-defined woman who was clearly far from human. Her skin was dark, akin to a desaturated purple, adorned with fuchsia streaks that pulsed like faint lightning. Her entire body seemed alive, displaying a kaleidoscopic effect that resembled liquid shadows.

“The boy is being abused,” the creature stated. “He’s suffering.”

“You abused that suffering,” Morpheus counteracted. “To build a Dreaming you could rule.”

And then it struck you, the realization that the non-human figure was one of the Dreams Morpheus had been trying to find. Or, to be more precise, one of his Nightmares.

“I had no wish to rule.”

She didn't seem terrifying to you. Even her appearance, while peculiar and potentially intimidating, was actually quite enchanting to look at.

Unlike the Corinthian, which was ironic considering that he bore more resemblance to a man than anything else.

“I merely wish to be a Dream and not a Nightmare. To inspire rather than to freighten.”

The nightmare was seething with anger, filled with pain and grudge against her master.

Lucienne was attentively listening, without uttering a word.

“The choice is not yours to make,” Morpheus responded, calm and unyielding. “We do not choose to be created. Nor do we choose how we are made.”

His statement stirred thoughts in your head. Did he ever contemplate why he came into this universe, the purpose of his birth, his initial creation? Did he ever consider being someone else, something else, instead of perpetually fulfilling his role as the King of the Dreaming?

“That is true,” affirmed the Nightmare with a smirk. “But we can change.”

“No. We are, each of us, born with responsibilities. Even I am not free to choose to be other than I am. Nor is anyone.”

If anything, this only provided an answer to your inner query. Ever since the day you met him, you hadn't considered that his duties and what he embodied could be as heavy as a boulder to him. You knew he had to make exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, decisions. But what if, deep down, he wished to cast aside his metaphorical crown and hand over his realm to another?

“If that were true, why did all the other Dreams and Nightmares choose to leave this place when you had gone away?”

“Not all of us chose to leave, and nearly all have returned,” Lucienne finally interjected.

The creature turned to look at the librarian. “Do you think they came back out of love?” Then, once again, she redirected her focus to her creator. “Or because they were afraid of what you would do to them if they did not?”

You were cognizant of Morpheus' capacity for aloofness and command, and he had even admitted his past errors to you. But as inflexible as he could be, was it truly so erroneous to aim for maintaining proper order within his realm, if it also meant safeguarding the Waking World and its denizens?

“Because I am not afraid.”

You could sense the change in the atmosphere, which had abruptly become chilly and foreboding. Morpheus pivoted completely, fixing the Nightmare with a defiant glare. “You should be.”

You leaned forward just a bit more, taking care to remain unnoticed by any of them. It's quite humorous how you continually landed yourself in undesirable circumstances, which obliged you to stay concealed and listen in on others.

“A Nightmare’s purpose is to reveal a dreamer’s fears, that they may face them.”

You might have been wrong, but even from where you were, you noticed a reddish tint in his eyes. He was in pain.

And also, he was enraged.

His shadow started to shift, advancing along the stairs and extending out, stretching right towards where the Nightmare was positioned.

“Perhaps a few thousand years in the darkness will reveal your fears.”

The shadow made contact with her feet, and the moment it did, she began to pulverize and disappear. Her legs slimmed down, disintegrating like ash, and the rest of her body followed the same fate.

She was scared, but at the same time, she held his stare with bravery and pride.

And you could see that she was teetering on the edge of tears, burdened by the spectrum of missed opportunities.

“Better that than to make others afraid,” she said at the very end. “Even a Nightmare can dream, my lord.”

With widened eyes and a dropped jaw, you watched in sheer disbelief as the creature dissolved right before your sight. Morpheus stood as an image of defeat, quietly enduring the loss of one of his own creations.

“Even a Nightmare can dream.”

In your trance-like state, the only thought that surfaced was, blimey.

Even Lucienne was clearly distraught. How had things managed to escalate to this extent? Why did events have to take that horrific twist, landing Morpheus in such a tough spot? Why all the anguish, the torment, the catastrophe?

Only one name came to mind; Roderick freaking Burgess. What would the scenario be if Morpheus was never captured? If the Dreaming was never deserted, and if his subjects never abandoned their duties?

“You feel her punishment was unjust?”

The way Morpheus immediately sought Lucienne's approval with an expression akin to witnessing his raven’s murder once again (oh, you didn't even want to remember that, much less think about anything happening to Matthew) left you instantly heartbroken.

Lucienne contemplated her reply, then she freed her hands from their entwined position behind her back. “I used to be something else. Before you made me your librarian. We all chance, sir. Even you, perhaps. One day.”

Oh no.

His response was unsurprising. Even though his voice echoed gentleness and respect, you could perceive the bitterness lacing each word he spoke following that.

“Lucienne, I realize that in my absence, you were compelled to make decisions in my stead, and I am grateful to you.”

You sensed that a 'but' was forthcoming.

“But I am back now.” There it was. “You may return to the library.”

Ouch.

That was a lot to take in all at once, and given your empathetic nature, you rapidly absorbed the torrent of emotions floating in the atmosphere. You observed the sorrow in Lucienne's eyes, the despair of feeling obsolete to her King. She retreated with measured steps, leaving Morpheus standing rigid on the staircase.

The regret was unmistakable. His frequent blinking, the strain in his jaw, his hands curling into tight fists.

You let out a sigh, bumping your forehead against the column. If only you could do something, anything, to magically erase all that pain from their hearts. If only-

"I am sorry," he said unexpectedly. "I did not wish for you to witness that.”

Oh. Oh. Of course he was talking to you. You were in the Dreaming, right in the center of his dwelling. It was only to be expected that he would be aware of your presence in his castle, considering you were practically a whisker's breadth away.

With caution, you stepped out of your hiding spot, your gown trailing behind as you moved towards the King of Dreams. The fabric maintained its shimmer, harmoniously matching the cosmic ceiling overhead and the inner lining of his coat.

"I'm the one who should apologize," you declared. "I just wanted to see you, I didn't expect to end up here.”

The instant his eyes met yours, a flicker of astonishment and surprise colored his face. He watched you as if spellbound, descending the staircase to meet you midway. When you halted, merely inches from his face, you gave him one of those smiles he cherished the most.

You were clueless about the depth of his love for you in that moment, of how you looked every bit a queen, his queen, gracefully moving in your natural surroundings.

Your dream dresses were a mirror of your inner self, each more beautiful than the last.

"Wrong place at the wrong time, as we humans like to say," you continued. "Did you know I was here all along?”

“You thought I did not?”

“Touché.”

He lowered his tear-brimmed gaze, the tips of his cool fingers tentatively grazing yours."Are you not scared of me?”

It was difficult to fathom that he was still unsure, questioning the genuineness of your feelings for him. But upon reflection, you couldn't truly fault him.

You shook your head. "My love, I could never be afraid of you. You should know that by now.”

His hands were always so tender, so delicate, and yet so sturdy. His hands rested around your waist, only to glide upwards and adhere to your skin, the dress granting him an ample view of your back. He held you close against his chest, and you melted in his embrace.

“Do you not think Lucienne is correct? About change, about me?”

"Morpheus, I wouldn't want to change a thing about you. I think this entire matter should be handled with care, from all perspectives.”

He displayed a pouting expression, gently rubbing his forehead against yours. “I have my duties.”

“I know.”

And these obligations were eating him up from the inside. Encaged in a glass cell for a century, he neglected his realm and failed to guard the very humanity that triggered the destructionn of the Dreaming to start with. However, upon witnessing the magnitude of his role, you began to doubt whether his sacrifice was worth it. Ruling over the dream domain and protecting the mortal world shouldn't provoke such deep anguish. It was consuming him, devouring his essence.

"Don't be too harsh on Lucienne, though," you advised. "She's the most dedicated being I have ever met, but I’m sure you are aware of that.”

"I am.”

It was quite a shame that she had no clue of the magnitude of his high regard for her.

"You see, when you were still confined to that cage, I had a dream. It was one of my first experiences in this realm, and somehow, I found myself here. In this very same room.”

He listened quietly, his hands softly gliding down to your lower back.

"I was lost. Everything was in ruins, devoid of life. But Lucienne was here, aimlessly roaming the castle, and she found me. The sight of a human standing in the midst of your throne room took her by surprise, after such a long time.”

The way she sustained and persevered for over a century remained a mystery. She deserved a dedicated monument.

"She was so alone, Morpheus. She was waiting for you to return.”

None of his words were intended to diminish her. Lucienne held significant value to Morpheus, not only as a trustworthy librarian but also as a competent collaborator within his domain. He only adopted a defensive stance when the topic of change surfaced, a concept he struggled to grasp given the nature of his own existence.

"And, about the Nightmare you punished...”

“Gault.”

The fact that he still wished for her name to be acknowledged despite his conduct, did not elude your notice.

"I don’t know what happened, and if she did wrong you, it's in your rights to restore the original state of things. But... she appeared honest about her feelings, about her wish to become a Dream. Is there truly nothing you can do about it?”

For an instant, you were apprehensive that he might reproach you merely for daring to discuss matters you didn't completely understand.

But his eyes held nothing but tenderness for you. "Y/N, she was made to be a Nightmare. In order to make her into a Dream, she would need to be undone and recreated.”

"But isn't that a part of any creative process? Altering things that already exist, but no longer fulfill their original purpose?”

“It is different.”

Your smile broadened as you caressed his cheek. "I know that I can't compare what you do with my work in the Waking World. Your subjects have a function that accompanies humans through their personal journeys. But, consider this: everything we make, whether it be clothes, art, music, movies, or novels, it all influences us in one way or another.”

He furrowed his brows, mulling over your words and attempting to decipher the implications of your statement.

"Sometimes, an artist might choose to redraw an old piece to make it better. A writer might opt to remake an entire chapter if it doesn't align with their envisioned perfection A composer could discard a fresh song and reconstruct it from scratch just for that note they didn’t get right. An entire dress can be taken apart, mended, and redesigned.”

Your focus moved to the location where Gault had once been. You could still observe traces of smoke and ash spiraling around the room.

"Gault wasn’t a mistake, Morpheus. She just wanted to be understood, regardless of how wrong that might be.”

He stayed silent, tracing your line of sight as he swallowed.

"Ah, but I'm only human. So, what could I possibly know, right?”

And then, he flashed a small grin. It was almost unnoticeable, barely distinguishable, but just clear enough for you to catch it.

“No, you are observant. Your words are truly valuable.”

You weren't expecting him to affirm your truth, nor to retract the punishment imposed on Gault and reinstate her to her rightful place. But that was acceptable. Because you realized that Morpheus was not simply disregarding your viewpoints.

“You are valuable, too.”

You ran your nails along the collar of his coat, savoring the clear contact, the softness of the material.

"I need you to understand that you're not alone in this. You have Lucienne, Matthew. Even Able and Cain, despite the latter's rough character. And naturally, you have me.”

For him, it was tough to believe that a genuine support system existed behind him. Given all the trials he had to withstand, the burdens he shouldered away from others, and the solitary grief he faced after the loss of his son.

Even now, distancing himself from Lucienne and dispatching his creation into the darkest void, were not measures he felt particularly prideful or content about.

He smiled. "Having you by my side is more than I could ever hope for or deserve, my love.”

You craved him as much as you needed the blood flowing in your veins. You longed for the sound of his voice, so low, smooth, and resonant, his words overflowing with love and adoration for you.

He kissed you, slowly yet assertively, before pulling away and letting you go. But now that he had a moment of tranquility with you, as the day on the other side had just commenced, he wanted you to savor every last minute in the Dreaming, before you ventured back to your world and he proceeded with his investigations.

The final moments in the Dreaming had been unforgettable, with Morpheus guiding you through parts of the castle you hadn't yet explored. But before you fully succumbed to the pre-awakening haze, you chose to contradict your prior decision and confessed that the Corinthian was, in fact, in Cape Kennedy.

The realization that his nightmare had encountered you for a second time, unbeknownst to him and with all the potential dangers it could entail, inevitably sent Morpheus’ mood spiraling downwards all over again. For a moment, you feared that he might harbor resentment towards you for not summoning him at that time. However, when you explained how cunning the Corinthian had been by choosing to meet you in a public place filled with mortals, the Endless pronounced that you had acted prudently.

Morpheus also confirmed that the Corinthian had evidently been drawn by the Vortex herself. That also signified that, should he locate her, things could potentially escalate to an irreversible point for all of you. Therefore, he tried to convince you to head back home, with the aim of keeping you shielded from both Rose's power and the Nightmare's grasp.

Regrettably, you had to reject his suggestion, as your work was far too important for you to merely abandon it. Morpheus attempted to argue, but eventually, he let the topic rest. He made a solemn promise to utilize all his resources and abilities to ensure your safety, insisting that you alert him immediately should anything unusual, or even remotely dangerous, occur in your presence.

Admittedly, having Morpheus concerned for you amidst all that he was grappling with did make you feel quite guilty. Nevertheless, there was no way you could leave Andrew in the middle of the project without a valid excuse. Morpheus understood the amount of effort you had invested in establishing your current career, and the last thing he wanted was for you to lose all that you had achieved.

By the time you woke up, everyone else was already bustling about town attending to their own affairs. The only exception was Lyta who, conversely, was strangely sick and confined to her room, not making an appearance even once.

You seized that day off as a chance to recuperate, with the lingering effects of jet lag still draining you, and the remnants of your tumultuous night further exhausting you. It was approximately lunch time when you noticed Rose crossing the threshold, her fatigued, baffled expression indicating that something was drastically amiss.

"Rose?”

"Oh, Y/N, hi," she said in a distracted manner. "Is Lyta still in her room?”

"I believe so, she was feeling under the weather earlier when I knocked. But, on that note, are you okay?”

Rose shook her head, offering a feeble smile. "I don’t even know, to be honest.”

You could only speculate that what kept her outdoors that morning was linked to her brother Jed. Clearly, things didn't pan out as she had hoped.

"Come on. let's talk," you encouraged her, softly draping your arm around her shoulders and ushering her upstairs.

"Oh, there's no need to, I mean-”

"Yes, Rose. There is," you corrected. "There's something I need to share with you.”

You were aware that Morpheus would have preferred to keep you as distant as possible from everything the girl embodied, but you couldn't just ignore her when she looked so afflicted.

And despite her apparent eagerness to retreat to her room, she consented, trailing behind you and stepping into your chamber without any protest.

You let her settle on your bed, which was still partly unkempt, and you took a seat next to her. "Firstly, tell me what happened."

You noticed her hesitation, stumbling over her words. "Well, I actually found Jed. I went there because I wanted to speak to his foster parents, to see him, and possibly bring him home with me.”

"Let me guess, they didn't permit you to.”

She sighed. "Even worse.”

“Worse?”

"Y/N, I... I went there and the police were swarming all around the house. I found out that the couple is dead, and Jed is nowhere to be found.”

Out of all the things you thought she might say, that was definitely not one of them.

“Wait, what?!”

"I know, it's insane!”

"But, do they know how they died? Was it an accident? Were they killed in their own home?”

How could she be so close to reuniting with her brother after so many years, only to have him slip even further away?

Right then and there, your intuition flared up more intensely than before. Something was undeniably wrong. What were the odds of that happening?

"I have no idea. The police didn't want to disclose any information. I wasn't even allowed near the house.”

You gently placed your hand on her back, moving it up and down in a comforting motion. "I'm so sorry Rose. The silver lining is that he wasn't there, so he's at least unharmed. Right?”

"But now, I don't even know where to start looking.”

What kind of comfort could you give her in a situation like that?

"Y/N, you said there was something you wanted to tell me. But... could you answer a question for me?”

“Of course.”

She pressed her lips together, staring at you with a hint of apprehension. “"Are you real? I mean, you're human, right? I'm not just imagining you.”

You laughed. "I am very much real, I assure you.”

"It's just... you were in my dream. I met you before actually seeing you in real life.”

You nodded. “You did.”

"So... how...?”

You clasped her hand, which felt somewhat cold and trembly. She appeared so fragile and delicate, how could she contain such a potent power capable of not only shattering the Dreaming, but also penetrating its walls and affecting the Waking World?

"Rose, I'm sure you know the answer to that.”

She blinked a few times, permitting you to gently squeeze her hand. “I think so. And you?”

She was testing the waters, probing to see what you might potentially know or be oblivious of.

You couldn't find any valid reason to not tell the truth about it.

“Yes, Rose. I know you are the Vortex.”

For a moment, she appeared flabbergasted, not really anticipating your forthrightness. She stood, pacing back and forth a few times, only to raise her voice in desperation.

"Who are you, really? What's going on?”

Her outburst was more than justifiable. She was separated from brother when she was a teenager, never having the chance to see him ever since. Then, her mother passed away just before she could uncover the true nature residing within her, which could endanger her life, due to the need to eliminate any direct threat against an Endless' realm.

It was unfair, you thought to yourself. She deserved better than what life had dealt her.

"I'm simply Y/N,” you replied. “A human being just like you. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“But how do you know I’m the Vortex?”

Was it even permissible for you to divulge your relationship with Morpheus? Could you be open about your association with his realm?

In the end, you carefully opted to omit the major details.

"I am acquainted with the King of Dreams."

"You know Lord Morpheus?”

“Yes. Very well in fact.”

She returned to the mattress, allowing her body to slump onto it like a sack of potatoes. Her eyes clamped shut, and she took a deep inhalation, only to exhale it out.

"Rose, I wish I could tell you more about why or how you became a Vortex, but not even Morpheus himself has an explanation. All I can say to you is that you need to be careful.”

"All I do is sleep, and all of a sudden I'm in everyone's dream.”

How dreadful it must feel, to intrude upon your friends' subconscious and probe their minds against their will.

"You haven't come across a man with blond hair and dark round sunglasses, have you?”

"No, not that I can recall," she specified. “Why?”

With Matthew keeping a watchful eye on her during the day, you knew that she at least had some form of protection from the Dream Lord. But was that truly sufficient to keep the Nightmare at a safe distance from her?

You couldn't afford to give her one more cause for alarm. She couldn't find out about that creature tailing her, aiming to use her Vortex abilities to annihilate the Dreaming and take complete control over humanity. It was such a hefty load for you alone, understanding how dark and warped the minds of mortals could be and how readily they could be remolded.

For the moment, you wanted her to concentrate solely on her brother, who seemed to be entirely missing, if not kidnapped by someone malevolent for all you knew.

"Let's just hope it never comes to that.”

You blinked a few times, clearing the haze from your brain, as you peered into the distance at what appeared to be a barren wasteland, gloomy and parched. It was dark and cold, reminiscent of a swamp.

What was that place, and why did it evoke a sense of déjà vu?

You glanced around, took a few steps forward, and inhaled the aroma of earth and decaying vegetation. Nothing was there apart from some patches of mud, scattered algae and rocks that either looked shattered or flipped over.

"Yep, I'm afraid so.”

A voice from behind caused you to startle, but when you spun on your feet, nobody was there except for a deer, watching you with a pair of large, glossy black eyes.

"What...?”

"Oh come on. Don't say you don't remember me.”

You were completely disoriented, unable to even recall your own name. But then, as time progressed and the gears in your mind kicked back into action, everything fell back into place.

You knelt down, gently patting the deer's head. "Of course I remember you. I'm sorry, it took me a moment to realize I was dreaming. I must have dozed off on the couch...”

The animal smiled. "Eh, it happens sometimes. No big deal. But I'm glad you're back. Things are really getting messy over here.”

“Messy? What do you mean?”

The deer's expression morphed into one of puzzlement. "Are you serious? Can't you see the state of this place?”

"I do see it," you responded. "Where exactly are we? I know this is the Dreaming, but...”

"Y/N," the deer advanced. "You know where you are.”

That proclamation sent a chill down your spine, and as soon as you looked up, attempting to detect any sign of what the deer was referring to, the surroundings trembled and shook violently. You heard the loud noise of something fracturing, splitting apart. And then you saw it, the same crack from your nightmare, widening and branching out. It continued to broaden, wildly seizing the landscape around you.

The deer was correct, you knew exactly where you were. Merely contemplating it caused your heart to plummet, and your stomach to coil into a painful knot, tugging from every direction.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you were in the Beach Land. Except now, it was just land, bereft of beach, water, and signs of life.

“No… please tell me this isn’t real. Tell me this is another nightmare.”

The deer sighed. "It is a nightmare, in a sense. But I'm afraid this is simply what the Dreaming is starting to look like. All of it.”

You slumped onto the ground, letting your arms hang limply at your sides. "The Vortex did this?”

“I assume so.”

Was your proximity to Rose that late morning in any way accountable for such a significant, vital part of your dream life, to be completely eradicated? Or had she caused such a disruption recently that your nightmare delivered the final blow?

You didn't have the time to figure out an answer, because another earthquake rattled everything again. It was fierce, horrifying, and certainly not something you wanted to see worsen any further.

"You need to leave," the deer told you. "Exit this place before it's too late.”

"But this is a dream, right? Nothing can physically harm me here.”

"That's not the main problem. If the Vortex strengthens, you could be disconnected from this land, if not the Dreaming itself.”

“What??”

Could it really be possible that Rose accidentally set off something so grave? You dismissed the thought; the idea of losing the Dreaming was unbearable. Morpheus. Lucienne. Abel and Cain. Goldie. How could you ever bear to be separated from them all, from the love of your life?

"Go, Y/N. Wake up now. Or else he'll never forgive me.”

He?

“Wait, did you-”

“ሠ𐌀ኡ𐌄 𐌵የ!”

Your eyes flew open, and all you could see was the ceiling of Hal's B&B main hall. No peculiar noises, no tremors of the earth. But you, on the other hand, were profoundly rattled, your heart pounding fiercely in your chest.

And that, wasn't even the full extent of what you were about to confront.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 (currently reading) Go to Chapter 19 (coming soon) ->

#the sandman #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #the sandman fanfiction

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moorishflower · 2 years

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but what if pirate/siren dreamling

(TW for gore and very brief cannibalism mention (is it truly cannibalism if it's your deep sea predator lover taking a friendly nibble of an organ you aren't using))

The problem with having a lover who has multiple arms, Hob muses, is that when one does something foolish, that means there are that many more limbs with which they can hit you. He thinks this as a tentacle pelts him on the top of the head, not hard enough to sting, but definitely enough to bring him to attention.

"Hold still," Dream says, quite casually, in Hob's opinion, considering the fact that he is currently two hands and one tentacle deep in Hob's entrails, and has been rooting around down there for some time, and shows no signs of stopping. Hob has, within the last ten minutes, taken to staring fixedly over Dream's shoulder at the map mounted on the wall of his cabin. Hic sunt monstra, it says, at the very edge of the ocean, and Hob feels a half-drunk laugh bubble up out of him. Christ, if only that mapmaker had known.

"You're lucky my spine's what got hit," he says, "else I'd be screaming and you'd have to knock me out," and Dream hums softly. His voice, even above the water, has a tonal quality that Hob always has trouble defining in any meaningful way. It's like the cry of gulls at twilight, just before they settle into the darkness; it's like the hum of whales moving below the surface of the sea, their huge backs breaking the surf in plumes of silver and grey; it's like the creak of the masts and the beat of the sails when the wind is high and the sky is so clear it feels as though the ship might leave the water entirely.

A siren, Hob had thought, when he'd first found the man washed up upon the strand. One of those beautiful creatures of the deep, what tempted Odysseus and drew men to their dooms upon the rocks.

He's rather certain no siren has ever been depicted with tentacles, though.

Blood slicks Dream's pale arms up to the elbow as he pushes aside loops and coils of Hob's intestines, glistening grey-pink and pulsing faintly in the lamplight. The blood will not stop -- it drenches the bed, despite the oilskin tarp they've laid down, and pours in steady rivulets down onto the planks of the deck. Lucky that the men he's picked to crew his ship all have strong stomachs, for he's sure that some of his blood is going to drip down into the mess, and he is already dreading having to explain himself come morning. It's common knowledge that Captain Robert Gadling cannot die -- he's favored by luck, they say, the Lady herself, he's made a deal with the devil, he's drunk from the pure blood of Christ and now death cannot touch him.

There's a kernel of truth in every rumor, he thinks, as Dream finally reaches where one of the bullets has lodged itself. He knows Dream has found it, because he hears the gentle hum become a clacking of teeth, a chitter of excitement.

"Have you got it, my love?" he asks, and thinks himself wildly magnanimous when he does not try to bite the slender night-blue tentacle that pats vaguely at his cheek.

"You are very complicated inside," Dream says. "More so than fish."

"I'd hope so. How many did that cunt actually fire, anyways?"

"I have found…" There's a distressing squelching noise, and then Dream's hands emerge, gore dripping from his fingers and wrists, but, triumphantly, bearing several blood-drenched bullets. "Three. Including the one. In your spine."

"I didn't even feel you pull it out," Hob says wonderingly. Dream casually drops the bullets to the deck, where they roll, and scatter in several directions, trailing blood according to the whims of the listing ship.

"You would not. Your spine, as you said. Was what got hit."

"Nothing some good rest won't fix. Can you, ah. Pile me back inside, darling?" He looks pointedly down at his belly, still a gaping wound from Dream's careful, knifelike talons.

Dream, ever helpful, but without much of a grasp on human anatomy, slops his intestines loosely back into place, and then sits for a while, the tentacles of his lower half writhing, snuffing along the blood-soaked floor like eager hounds. He tastes it through his skin, Hob thinks -- or something to that effect. He tastes it with his mouth, also, fastidiously cleaning the scarlet from his hands and forearms with a tongue as pink and soft as dawning, and if Hob hadn't spent the past half-hour steadily bleeding out, reviving, and then bleeding out again, he thinks he would find the sight almost unbearably arousing.

You're fucked in the head, he thinks to himself, though not without a certain amount of wry affection. 'Fucked in the head' is one way to describe the man who cheated Death at cards. He blesses every century that passes that she was a good sport about it.

"Am I to your satisfaction?" he asks, beginning to feel woozy, again, the lightheaded feeling of bloodloss so close to drunkenness that it seems an old and faithful friend. Dream pauses with his tongue still partly out, and Hob wishes he were able to move, that he could lean forward and take it into his mouth, and suck the taste of iron from it until all that's left beneath is the iodine tang of the sea.

"Always," Dream says, and lowers his arms, and slinks closer, his upper half as still and calm as a tidal pool, and everything below that a roil of constant movement. He shapes himself legs when he must walk among men, but here, in the relative privacy of Hob's cabin, he rarely bothers. Hob should find that less attractive than he does, perhaps. But he has already established that cheating Death has, in some ways, rendered him insane.

"Then can you please start stitching me up," he says sweetly, with just an edge of gritted teeth. "I'm about to go out again. Good time to practice your. Your." Hob feels his eyes cross. Can feel his heart stuttering.

"Your needlework," he manages to get out, just before his vision blacks, and the last thing he sees is Dream peering closely at him, concern in his eyes, the fractal flare of luminescence sparking across his cheeks in a mimicry of the night sky. Stars, Hob thinks. Death had told him he would sail the stars if he only wanted it for long enough, though she'd expressed her doubts that he would last that long. You'll be asking for me within the century, she'd said. No human is meant to live much longer than that. Your minds aren't wired for it.

Yet here he is. Three hundred years later, and no signs of stopping. Other than the blood loss, of course, but as he feels his heart give a final, thready thump he feels reassured in the knowledge that Dream has, in fact, been practicing his sewing, and has been getting fairly good at it when he helps to repair the sails, and he's probably not going to try and sneak a bite of any of Hob's organs, because he loves him, and you don't eat the ones you love. Probably.

(If he wakes up missing a small chunk of his liver, well. His spine is still broken, and everything below his breastbone is a fuzzing numbness, and it's not like the organ won't grow back, eventually. These are the things he tells Dream, anyways, when he comes to at last, and finds his belly stitched neatly closed, and his otherworldly lover rubbing his gore-sodden mouth against Hob's neck in fitful ecstasy.

"My love," Dream is murmuring, and Hob cannot help but pull him close, and let all the many arms and limbs wind around him, a sweet parody of drowning. "My love, my love, inside you taste of the sea.")

#dreamling #the sandman #fanfic #drabble #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream/hob #tw gore #tw cannibalism

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orionsangel86 · 5 months

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Death and Relationships - Propaganda below!

Some Propaganda...

Death and Lucienne - There's something beautiful about Dream's first raven and second-in-command, someone who died once but never entered Death's realm, finding herself falling for Death. They could easily bond over their mutual exasperation towards Dream. These are arguably the only two people in Dream's life who take zero shit from him and who he actually listens to. Having them hook up would either be really bad for him, or really good, depending on how you look at it. It's a fantastic ship.

Death and Johanna Constantine - This one is just poetic. The mortal who is always flirting with Death due to her profession. It would be relatively easy for Death to cross paths with Johanna - how many brushes with Death has she had after all? It would probably be a complex and bittersweet relationship, but also totally hot.

Death and Lucifer Morningstar - an interesting ship. What do we think about the Devil and Death? Perhaps in this story we have a darker Death, a Death who guides sinners to Hell with sweet satisfaction, knowing she will greet her lover as they are dragged off by demons to eternal torment...

Death and Hob - probably a fandom favourite, Hob caught Death's attention by insulting her inadvertantly to her face. Could her amusement towards his hubris become something more? Could Hob ever accept Death? Even in a way he doesn't expect?

The Corinthian - throwing this in as a crack ship tbh. He's a hot killer who would probably find it amusing to court the sister of his master. Dream would be furious. I doubt Death would go for him, but maybe even she enjoys the odd casual fling?

Death and Wanda - Not gonna lie I want it to be canon. They'd be THE power couple and I have photographic propaganda to support this:

THEY ARE HOLDING HANDS!!! (Don't tell me this is just how Death takes people I KNOW that and I don't care. They are perfect okay!!!)

7. Death and Hazel - I know Hazel is with Foxglove in the comics, but this could easily be an OT3! Plus I also have propaganda to support this:

Let Death be in a polyamorous lesbian throuple for a while. As a treat. She deserves it. :)

8. Death and Dream - Whats the harm in a bit of immortal incest? lol. It was all the rage in Greek mythology... ahem... um... don't come at me okay I have Kirby's backing for this!!!

youtube

9. Death and Nuala - Listen I just adore that fairy and want her to be loved. Plus Nuala fell hopelessly in love with Dream - maybe she has a thing for goths? lmao! It's a very cute ship imo. Death would adore Nuala because who doesn't?

10. Death and Desire - Listen, this is also Kirby's fault (and Mason's) so I'm not saying anything more about it! :P

I wanna hear your best ideas so please let me know your thoughts! :)

#Death of the endless #death appreciation week #the sandman #dream of the endless #lucienne the librarian #johanna constantine #lucifer morningstar #hob gadling #the corinthian #wanda #hazel and foxglove #nuala #desire of the endless #fandom polls #Youtube

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darklinsblog · 2 years

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Sweet Distraction | Chapter I

Summary: Morpheus finds himself at the lowest point in his life, with his son’s passing and Calliope’s departure, the man finds himself looking for a sweet distraction.

Pairing: Dark Morpheus x Human! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Chapter List

The year was 1589, Morpheus had just left Hob Gadling, and he was happy for the man who still had very much excitement to live. But his own personal life, was deteriorating. His son had died and months later his wife Calliope left him, blaming him for the death of their child.

Being honest with himself, he blamed himself as well. The king had hoped for Hob to be a good distraction, and he was for as long as he reunited with him but when he left the pub, the void in his chest would come back.

He started walking with no direction, he simply wanted to keep his mind busy from thinking of his own sorrow and misery, he walked pass a few drunks, and he watched as a man was dragged into a building by a voluminous woman.

A sense of curiosity filled him, he followed the pair, when looking around the room he was greeted by the sight of crowds of people fornicating shamelessly.

Weirdly enough, he stood there watching, until someone poked his shoulder. The tall man turned around finding a stocky and muddy man staring up at him sinisterly.

“Would you like one for yourself? I have just the right girl for you” Morpheus’ eyes shimmered with indescribable emotion, he wanted to decline the promiscuous offer, he should’ve just left, but he stayed.

At the lack of response the man grinned widely. “OI, Y/N GET YOUR ASS HERE” the man roared, the crowd seemed to disperse, allowing a girl to come forward, she had her arms crossed behind her back, looking straight at the floor as she walked, stopping right in front of Morpheus, next to the beefy man.

She was unusually clean for the brothel, she was tiny in comparison to the Endless, he completely shadowed her, he placed his fingers in her chin, forcing her to look up at him, her big bright eyes shined with fear but she was gorgeous even then.

“She is a virgin, my lord” the man peeped, Morpheus looked at the filthy man, then back at you.

Perhaps you were the sweet distraction he needed, the remedy to dull his suffering. It was the most immoral decision he could ever make, but he was at such a low point in his life, he didn’t care. You were immaculate, untouched and he could mold you to his liking, like a new toy, fresh out of the box for him to play with.

“How much?” He asked quietly.

“Two gold coins, my lord”

He paid the price without a second thought, there was no turning back now. You were his property.

Your new master took your hand and dragged you out of your old home. The Lord of Dreams brought you back to the Dreaming, Lucienne was waiting for the king at the veil, as always. But she was taken back by the unknown girl, who was avoiding all kinds of eye contact, she was barely visible as she stood behind the king.

“Lucienne, I do not want to be bothered today, do not summon me unless it’s an emergency. Is that clear?” The librarian frowned confused, but nodded.

“Of course, my lord”

With that he guided you into the palace into his bedroom, while you simply followed him like a lost pup, in many ways, that’s what you were.

He closed the door behind you and his pupils dilated with lust as he looked at you again.

“Sit on the bed” he commanded and you complied, he grabbed your neck softly, having you look at him with those big eyes of yours. “Let’s make things clear. You are my possession, you will be at my disposal, you will not ask me questions or talk unless I allow it” your heart was beating loudly in your chest, scared of the man that was now your owner, scared of what your life here would be like.

“Say you’ve understood” he growled, pressing down on your neck a little tighter, making you gasp.

“Y-yes” you stammered softly, at your response he let you go, but his eyes never left yours.

“Undress yourself for me” you had no other option but to comply, but this time, you were confident enough to stare back at him as you did. You slowly removed your garments, one by one until you were naked in his bed. He inspected your figure, taking in the sight of you, while your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

You looked so fragile, confused but something about all of this was incredibly alluring to him, he let himself be guided by desire as he kissed you hungrily. You reciprocated his actions shyly, as if you felt overpowered by him, Morpheus felt a rush of excitement when he understood he was standing from a place of power, he was the one making the shots here, not you.

He pressed you down to the bed, his weight falling on you, he was shamelessly touching your body, ripping out of you your first ever sounds of pleasure, he could tell by the way you shivered in a mixture of shame and pleasure, discovering the new sensation.

Adrenaline was cursing through his veins, he loved to be the first one to provoke this feeling on you, to make you his. To truly possess you.

You helped him get undressed, goosebumps rose on your skin at the feeling of his skin against yours, his cock rose your lady parts, making your walls clench in anticipation. He sneaked his hand down, between your bodies, introducing two of his slim fingers inside your clit, your walls adjusted to the intrusion tightly, causing him to groan in your ear.

Your legs tensed as Morpheus pumped his fingers inside you, you pulled his hair as you moaned louder and louder by the second. He fastened his pace, your sounds of pleasure made his member go hard grazing your belly.

The temperature started to rise in your whole body, a knot was forming in your stomach growing tighter and tighter. Your legs trembled uncontrollably and as you came undone Morpheus held you.

Your clit was pulsing even after your orgasm, Morpheus spread your legs apart, eager to be inside you, he could not wait a minute longer. He positioned himself at your entrance, your walls clenching due to the overstimulation.

The Lord of Dreams sank into you so deeply you could feel him in your stomach, you well full of him, so full that you had the sensation that before this you were hollow, like he was the part of yourself you were missing.

His hands were placed at your butt, wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing impossibly deeper inside you, he was thrusting into you with such force, the room was only filled with the sloppy sounds of his flesh crashing into yours. His monstrous pace driving you insane.

Your bodies were sweating and your toes were curling, he was keeping you in place so roughly you were certain his hands would be marked on your body for days.

Sooner than he expected you were coming undone again, but Morpheus kept going chasing after his own release, you could only use his shoulders as support, and at last his seed filled you, you gasped at the strange sensation of his fluids.

The Endless sighed in delight, relaxing and laying down on his bed next to you, he was breathing deeply while you looked at the ceiling, processing what just happened.

Morpheus was breathing deeply beside you and you could feel his hot fluids running down your leg, your whole body was aching. This was beyond strange to you, you looked at him for a second or two.

Had you really lost your virginity to this man? Or was this some sort of bizarre invention of yours? Then the reality of it all suddenly hitting you like a brick. You were this man’s fuck toy for as long as he wished.

After having recovered, the tall man got dressed, you sat up straight, covering your body as you watch him walk around the room. At the feeling of your eyes following him he looked at you.

“Clean yourself if you please, I will come back later” he said.

“What’s your name?” You asked before he left, he froze, if you were staying with him, that was practically the only thing you needed to know.

“Morpheus” he spoke softly “You better use it when I return” that was thing he said before leaving you.

You stood up, inspecting the bed that had a mixture of your fluids and a few droplets of blood as a result of your hymen breaking. At last, you decided to follow Morpheus’ suggestion and hoped in the shower, so you could change your clothes and wait for your master to come back.

After all, this was your new life.

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meadowziplines · 7 months

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#IFD2024 Feedback Fest: 10 Gen Sandman Fic Recs

10 Dreamling Fic Recs // 10 Gen Sandman Fic Recs // 10 Femslash Sandman Fic Recs // 10 Fic Recs For Other Fandoms

I have not provided additional cw’s beyond what is in the summary; please check work tags before reading.

I didn’t tend to include authors whose works are already quite popular. Also, it was hard picking these and I love many more fics! And feel free to tag in authors whose Tumblr handles I don’t know.

(G-T)

[G] when only dreams remain by Karalyn/@karalynlovescake (507): Dream has always been drawn to stories, and the stories of the humans whose lives his sister touches compel him.

[G] Readings by lookninjas (995): Rose Walker spends the month before her first book reading (her first reading as a published author of her own book that is being published because she is about to be a published author which she is not freaking out about at all, she’s fine) giving readings in her dreams.

[G] one for sorrow by Morcai (1.2k): And that’s the problem, of course. He cannot focus because there is something wrong. Something, somewhere is wrong. Out of place. Disjointed. He can feel it, like an itch in his teeth, like a whine just barely on the edge of hearing, like any one of ten thousand sensations that dreamers have felt over the eons that are not unbearable, but will not allow peace.

[G] Basement Dreams by ramenlover (509): Jed Walker's past attacks him each night. Luckily he knows someone who can help.

(This whole 'Uncle Dream' series is excellent.)

[G] You Have but Slumbered Here by Eighty_Sixed (36k): Morpheus begins visiting Hob Gadling's dreams. Meanwhile, a growing darkness threatens the Dreaming.

[T] Red Flags and Butterflies by Griombrioch (2.2k): “Rose Walker,” Dream murmurs, announcing his presence. He steps across the carpet and kneels down in front of Rose. This woman who’d stared him down and given her consent to die by his hand. This child who had been forced into all of this because of his sibling. And himself, inadvertently.

The collateral damage from the petty fights of deities.

Twenty one years old.

“You are a child of the Endless. You do not belong on the ground.”

___

Or, the one where I write my need for Rose getting to work through trauma and Dream caring a whole lot about it.

[T] larks and katydids by mightybee4 (8.5k): He was a dream, a story, every fantasy and idea created in the universe. He was the abstraction of ideas, the clarity of thought. His body was formed from dreams made flesh, his appearance ever-changing; but in the circle of runes and glass, his body was no longer dream-stuff.

He was made of skin and bone, nerves and muscles, and he was sure if he dug his nails or his teeth into the soft flesh of his arms he would bleed; not like Despair, whose shedding of her blood was of her purpose, but like any animal ushered into a slaughterhouse, blood pooling indiscriminate and useless, indistinguishable from any others.

or: Dream under the conditions of absolute reality.

(M)

[M] descent by jamais_vu0 (4.5k): once he is done fussing with the raven that flew into his face, roderick burgess looks down at his new prize and feels his breath catch- for the first time, he understands the scope of what he is doing, feels the fragility of the divine cupped in his careless hands.

death should have black wings, he thinks, absurdly clear in the moment- but they are black, with a green shine like an oil slick, each feather tipped in pale gold. a starling’s wings, but vast enough to lift a man in flight, unfolded on the floor behind his prize, pressing up against the very inner edge of the circle. he stares, imprints the gold lacing onto his vision, stars in an aurora-painted sky, and aches with all the things he is not.

(dream of the endless has wings, and is made to suffer for this.)

[M] The Lady, Or The Tiger by jamais_vu0 (4.9k): “Dream of the Endless,” Roderick sneers, and taps the handle of his cane on the glass. Dream of the Endless blinks once, out of sync, but otherwise doesn’t respond. There is something terribly inhuman about him, something Ethel can’t define but recognizes on the same level of awareness that knows there is something lurking behind her in the dark.

They keep a tiger in the basement, in a cage of glass and willpower, she thinks to herself, and follows Roderick back upstairs and does not sleep at all that night.

(or, ethel cripps gets sick of roderick's shit and instead of stealing from him and running away, she frees dream from his cage)

[M] lilacs out of the dead land by tharkuun (7k): Dream of the Endless escaped the Burgess manor after driving every soul within it mad, but it cost him his own sense of self. Now free, he feels too much, he is too much, and he seeks out any way he can to bleed his excesses off and become a person again.

Or: Local Eldritch monster tries to become a person again: the fic.

#ifd2024 #feedback fest #otw #fic recs #international fanworks day #death of the endless #rose walker #jessamy the raven #matthew the raven #hob gadling #roderick burgess #ethel cripps #dream of the endless #dream #morpheus #the sandman #the sandman (netflix)

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kittynannygaming · 7 months

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[The Sandman] Bound - Epilogue

Title: Bound

Word count: 418

Fandom: The Sandman

Pairing: Dreamling, Desunity, Despoe, Hob/Eleanor, Corinthiel, Dream/Past relationships

Rated: T

Warning: NOTHING GRAPHIC BUT Mention of child’s death and adults’ death, mention of suicide, Desire’s scheming

Summary: When you’re 10 (for a human) or the equivalent (for not-human), you’re given (during your sleep) a pet, representation of your soulmate. Thing is, both soulmates need to be born for them to appear. Dream of the Endless thought he didn’t have a soulmate, until a puppy appear near to him while meditating. On Earth, at the same moment, it is the year 1356 and Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling is just born. When he’s 10, he got the poshest, biggest black kitten with a very mean streak. Of course, neither Dream nor Hob see themselves in the other’s pet.

Epilogue: The (many) changes that one little surprise can make.

How having a soulmate and an animal companion changed things for the Endless and Hob.

Things weren’t perfect but they were good.

Let’s begin with Destiny. Everything began with Destiny. 200 years after Dream got out of the fishbowl, his soulmate was born. His companion was a snake-like creature with iridescent scales and 4 eyes the colour of amber named Rainbow. His soulmate (an historian, Mere-phre) was from a planet far from Earth were people could change their gender to adapt to the situation, their companion was a spider named Fatalis.

Death’s soulmate was born a long time ago but they couldn’t met until 2054. Indeed, Death’s soulmate was Hestia, Goddess of Hearth and Home. Death’s companion was her goldfish, Slim. Hestia’s companion was another goldfish named Wandsworth. The two fishes shared an aquarium and their companions, Death’s home. When Death got home, she felt the tension wash away just because of Hestia’s presence.

Dream, the Morpheus version of him, didn’t die. Daniel was always meant to be his successor but now, they could do things at a quieter pace. It was 10 years after the Corinthian was remade that a companion appeared for both him and Daniel. Corinthian had a ram named Cream Puff and Daniel had a wolf named Hunter.

Destruction’s soulmate was a French preschool teacher named Adelaïde Beaubois. When they met, Adelaïde thought his art was his son’s art. It was very awkward but she invited him to teach painting and colours to the 3 to 4 year’s old kids once a week. They absolutely loved him. It wasn’t long before he got an official contract.

Desire’s soulmate, Unity, lived in the Dreaming, after sacrificing herself instead of her dear Rose. She was close enough to Desire’s realm they can meet often. Sugar, the fox met Peacock, the Dove.

Despair’s soulmate was born the 19th January of the year 1809 and was one of Dream’s protegé. His name was Edgar Allan Poe. Despair was surprised when a baby raven appeared near her but she loved Melancholy. Edgar has a very smart rat named Gloom.

Delirium’s soulmate came from a planet not so different of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. She was absolutely smitten with Folly, her white rabbit and Liddell, her soulmate, a metamorph, had a wolpertinger named Hat.

Do you remember that Calliope had a raven has a companion (whose name is Luka)? Well, apparently, it was because she had a Raven (or ex-raven really) as a soulmate. Dear Lucienne, who had a hummingbird named Lyra.

They lived and had adventures and reunions and children. But this is another story.

Ram

Beta: In progress

For @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang

Masterlist

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avelera · 2 years

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I saw very few fanarts about HOPE! Hob and I were disappointed that there aren't many fanfics about this. The idea is so good. Have you ever thought about writing about it? I imagine all Endless would be switched, of course. By whom, I don't know, but Hope is among them. And then we have Dream, an emo poet and artist in ancient Rome/Greece who is having a hard time following the death of his son and separation from his wife. And he still has his family situation. And finally, he finds Hope.

So @fishfingersandscarves is writing this AU right now! I think it's really intriguing, especially since Hob Gadling = Hope Godling has a certain pleasing linguistics to it, as if Hob is hiding in plain sight with his name.

I would probably not write a simple role reversal where Dream is a mortal made immortal and Hob is something akin to an Endless. Mostly because fishfingersandscarves has that on lock already and I don't think I'd have anything to add that matched the quality?

But, I think if I did write this scenario I'd consider a couple angles:

1 ) I'd consider one where Hob has always been Hope, he knows he's Hope, but unlike Dream he lives among people on purpose because he loves them and people having hope is sort of his thing. Why was he in a tavern in London in 1389? I mean, have you seen that century? It was horrific to live through. Hope was right where he needed to be. Dream does not know Hob = Hope but Death knew. She did not give him his wish, she just wanted her brother to meet this other mysterious entity and played along with Hob's "mortality" because she knew Dream would be resistant otherwise.

^^ this is the one I'm least likely to write but I think the idea of Hob knowing he's supernatural and just not bringing it up would be funny and certainly it would serve Dream right for how mysterious he is. XD

Now, for the fic I'd actually write:

2 ) Once upon a time, Hope and Dream were inseparable. It's right there in the name, hopes and dreams go hand in hand. Also, like Morpheus, Hope is a god or divine entity from Greek mythology. Hope, or Elpis in Hesiod's Works and Days is the last entity who remains within Pandora's Box when all the evils are set loose. (Granted, Elpis is female but we can fudge that for the purpose of fanfic. Also, I don't see a need to make Hope an Endless-style being with 6 H-named siblings. Hope/Elpis is one of the children of Nyx, just like Death and Sleep, by the way.)

Now, for the purpose of the fic, imagine one day Hope goes missing. Perhaps it's because of Pandora trapping Hope, perhaps it's like Destruction going missing. One day, Dream's other half, Hope, is just gone. Dream is shattered. Perhaps it marks the beginning of Dream as the dark, brooding figure we know because of course, what are Dreams without Hope? Nothing but anxiety and nightmares and despair. Dream has never forgotten Hope. Indeed, when battling Lucifer, he can still think of no stronger force, no stronger entity than his lost other half, Hope.

However, it turns out Hope isn't dead, or even if he is captured, he found a way out: manifesting from one lifetime to the next as a human, in order to walk among them. He doesn't even know he is Hope, after all, Hope requires that you don't know how things will end, you just believe they'll get better. It is his very nature to believed in without evidence.

But even if Hope doesn't know his own nature anymore, a sacrifice to carrying out his task, Death does know where he is. And finally, at a point where she truly believes Dream might "leave this plane forever" she decides enough is enough and to reunite them. Granted, this isn't the Hope Dream knew, it would be unfair to his current existence to load Dream up with those expectations. He has no memory of their time together. But the love is still there. Hope, or Hob as he knows himself in this life, is immediately attracted to Dream. Dream is attracted in return, but in his case, it just irritates him further, this nagging sense that he knows this person, this nagging sense that Death is trying to force him to make a friend he doesn't want, this nagging sense that he likes this "mortal" regardless, and how dare this man pull him out of his millennia of melancholy at the loss of his other half?

So Dream spurns Hob, he rebuffs his attempts to know him better, he flies into a rage at the very suggestion they could be friends. He hasn't had a friend in thousands of years and he isn't about to start again now with this upstart. But he keeps getting drawn back. He tells himself it's for the 100 years wager but then, that one ended in 1489 didn't it? Yet he keeps returning.

Because of course, Death couldn't give Dream back his Hope as he once was. That person is gone. Those memories are gone. She could only give them a fresh start, Hope as he is now, if only Dream would open his eyes and realize Hope has been right in front of him the whole time.

#dreamling #hope godling

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scifrey · 2 years

Text

Cling Fast: Chapter One

by Loysark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

One Year Later

The problem with Hob Gadling is that–and he will admit to this–he really is a bit clingy.

Always has been.

And sometimes it bites him straight in the arse.

It worked out in his favor in his mortal life. He clung to hope and good hygiene during the Black Death, surviving his mother and siblings, however horrific it was to bury them all. He clung to optimism and discipline on the battlefields of Burgundy, making it out alive when so many others did not. He clung to his conviction that death was stupid and could be simply ignored in the face of the two strange nobles who had challenged him while out for a strongbeer with the lads, and he clung to hope that he hadn't condemned himself once he realized he'd stopped aging.

Hob clings to his humanity, reveling in its triumphs great and small, and mourning in its tragedies. (Especially those of his own making, in which case he clung to those lessons and his grim determination to make reparations and keep himself from falling into such greedy, cruel indifference ever again.)

Child-like, Hob clings to laughter and love, delights in the joys and the people around him. He clings to friendship, refusing to let himself grow bitter and detached from his fellow man. He clings to the comforts of good food, good ale, good people of all and any genders to swive, and clings to his personally-appointed responsibility to ensure those around him have the opportunity and freedom to do the same.

(There are no unhoused and desperate people in Hob's little kingdom of derelict historical sites and spacious parks. The minute he is made aware of a squatter, that person is offered a room above the Inn, a job in the kitchen, fresh clothing and medical care in whatever capacity is required. Addiction and despair are a hell of thing, and Hob knows that first hand.

He clings to the tenants of dignity and kindness, and though his catholic faith has been shaken and worn thin, he still believes in most of the commandments. He strives to treat those around him the way he would have wanted to be treated when he was the one begging on the streets. As for the others, well. Sacrilegious as it may be, Hob now worships another god above the Christian one, in all the profane mundanity of the Inn.)

And of course, Hob had clung to the faith that his Stranger would be there at the White Horse, waiting for him at the end of every century like a feast after a hard day's toil in the fields of life. Even when the Stranger swanned away in the rain in 1889, like the great dramatic ponce that he is, Hob had always clung hard to the desperate wish to see him again.

He'd even clung to the aspiration that he'd somehow, someday, make his Stranger want to stay.

(He'd succeeded in that one, too, though it took longer than Hob thought it would.)

Hob Gadling also clings to his name.

Which, with the wisdom of six centuries and a very pointed email from a script coordinator at BBC Two behind him, was a very silly thing to do.

If science fiction movies had existed in 1389, Hob might have learned sooner that using his own name (or some variation thereof) over, and over, and over again was probably a bad idea. And if not a bad idea, then at least a supremely sentimental and foolish one. But they hadn't.

In 1489, after the relief of learning that he hadn’t sold his soul to the Devil, Hob was struck with the wonder and awe of learning that he could have another century, if he wanted it (like plucking an apple from a tree, just there, easy as anything to just keep on not dying.) And then he was then struck with the horror of the realization that he was going to have to move. To leave.

He could not remain, unchanging, in one place. It was not safe. Already he was talked of, avoided, turned away from places he'd known if he returned to them too often. Caxton's shop gave him reason to remain in London for long stretches of time, but he returned to Essex to tend to his family's graves perhaps too often, and too close together.

There were people yet alive whose parents remembered Hob from their own childhoods. Unchanging Hob. Cursed Hob.

But how could he stay away?

His mother and father were buried there. All of his sisters, and their husbands, and their children, and their children. His little brother John, who had coined his nickname because he hadn’t been able to form his ‘r’s yet, and had died of blood poisoning brought on by an inflamed cut before the boy had learned how to say Hob's name correctly. John was buried under a tree that Hob made sure still thrived to this day, planted from the pips of the apple John had been eating the day he'd given himself the gash playing with their father's scythe.

And the thought of giving up his name, the name that was in parish register, the name of the people he'd once called family, the name that was on gravestones that he meticulously cleaned once a decade, the name that lingered on the map as a single crossroads in the middle of nowhere outside of Maldon that nobody remembered used to have a little cottage by the side of it, the name that only his Stranger spoke anymore…

Well.

That wasn't something Hob was capable of doing.

Hob wanted to know who he was.

He changed year after year, century after century, and the world changed with him. The only thing that stayed the same, amid all the advances, amid all the handkerchiefs and chimneys and playing cards and playwrights and iron works and steamships and personal computers, was his name. His only constant.

It was the only thing he still had.

He couldn't give it up.

Clingy.

And that's how the television historians find him.

“I’m not doing it,” Hob tells Morpheus. The King of Dreams and Nightmares is squinting at Hob's phone, which Hob had thrust into a face with a Here! Read this! as soon as the being had seated himself for their weekly conversation.

They're outside today, the weather sunny without being glaring, and warm without being too hot. They're outside today, the weather sunny without being glaring, and warm without being too hot. Somehow, some spindly Forsythia's broken through the gravel drive in the corner of the Inn closest to their table, though Hob doesn't remember planting it. Maybe it was someone from the horticultural society—he wouldn't put it past them to do some guerilla planting, they're always dropping hints about his window boxes. Doesn't matter, the yellow looks good as a background for Morpheus' goth twink look, he'll keep it.

It's too early in the day for most of The New Inn's afternoon patrons, so they've got the front garden of the Inn to themselves for now. Hob has maneuvered Morpheus so he's sitting in the shade of one of the umbrellas. He may be a powerful eldritch celestial being, but Hob has learned that his nose can burn just as easily as any human with the same complexion.

The bonus of being seated outside means that Matthew can join them. The raven is currently on Morpheus' shoulder, running one beady black eye over the text of the email alongside his king.

Hob watches Morpheus' face for any indication that he agrees with Hob, that this is a spectacularly bad idea.This might even be a situation so bad that Hob has to fake his own death and move on sooner than he'd wanted to.

He'd rather not. He likes The New Inn, he's proud of what he's built in this community, he doesn't want to go anywhere. He's already seeding the idea of a nephew that Dennis hasn't met yet, but who would be just the right age to inherit his uncle's business ventures in a decade or two. If he has to leave now, it would screw up everything.

Morpheus doesn't seem inclined to comment until he's both read and digested the email Hob shared with him, so Hob busies himself with fussing off inside to the bar to pour his own pint. One of the perks of owning the place. Besides, Dennis is busy with training a new server, and Hob is the only one allowed to touch Morpheus' wine, anyway.

He returns to the table with an ale for himself, bowl of unsalted peanuts and a pint glass of water for Matthew, and the sweet vinsanto from Santorini that Hob had imported specifically for his friend, much to both Dennis' and Hob's savings account's mutual disgust. Dennis, because it cost an arm and a leg and he wasn't allowed to sell it to the snobby city boys trying to impress their dates, and Hob's savings account because it cost an arm and a leg.

And Hob should know how much that actually cost, because he once paid for a full-length portrait of himself that included not just an arm and a leg, but two of each, and those of his grown son Robyn besides. Hob doesn't have to wonder where that portrait is right now, because according to the obnoxious email it's apparently back in Gadlen House, which the National Trust was allowing the production team to use for the filming. The portrait had 'gone missing' after Hob had been drowned, and located again in the 1950s among a stash of art a group of on-the-run former Nazis had been trying to offload on the black market.

Hob had been sorely tempted to steal it back for himself when he'd seen the news of the discovery in the paper. But by then he'd been living in a pokey little flat in one of the newly rebuilt parts of London, with no way to restore or properly preserve the painting. Though it pained him, he let it go to the National Portrait gallery, where—after several years of being locked away in a basement for a thorough cleaning—Hob had shuffled along in the line tourists to catch a glimpse of his son's face for the first time in three hundred and forty-six years.

And if he then spent the next two hours weeping on the back steps of Canada House, well, it's not like anyone alive to witness his despair at the time was still alive to tell of it now.

He hasn't been back to look at it since.

He won't be able to avoid it, though, not if he says yes to the plea to join the costumed cast of experts already signed onto Elizabethan Manor House. Which he has no intention of doing.

"It's mad," Hob says when Morpheus finally sets down his phone and takes a contemplative sip of wine. "And it's infuriating besides. I'm not ready to cut this life short. I just hammered out a book deal that should help me get access to research fellows who can influence policy for—" he gestures down the park, at the construction fencing blocking off the degrading shell of The White Horse.

Morpheus flicks an eyebrow at Hob, and he takes it for the challenge the Endless means it to be.

“Oh, come on! Captured or killed, you said, and look,” Hob cuts his hand at Morpheus in demonstration. He doesn’t need to say it. They both know what he’s referring to. “Tell me this is a supremely bad idea.”

"If you really thought it was a bad idea, Hob, you would not be entreating me to confirm it."

Blast. Got me there.

"I dunno, Hobsie, I think it's kinda nifty," Matthew says, hopping down onto the table to help himself to the bowl of peanuts.

"Nifty?" Hob echoes, aghast at the raven's choice of word. "I think it's a way to end up in a lab being experimented on for the rest of eternity."

"Look, speaking as a former human," Matthew offers, "We're pretty damn dumb sometimes. If you walk in there and tell 'em that what they think is true is true, then why would they have any reason to think otherwise?"

"Occam's razor," Morpheus agrees. "They will believe you are the fifteen-times great-nephew of Sir Robert Gadlen the Third because you will confirm it is so. There is no reason for anyone to believe otherwise."

"So wait, hold on—you're encouraging me to do this?" Hob asks.

"Yeah! Imagine, our boy on TV!" Matthew caws, stretching his wings in a very human gesture like punching the air. "You're gonna be a star, baby!"

Hob snorts into his pint. "It's an educational docudrama about life in a manor house in Elizabethan England. Henrietta Butler and Glenn Davies make one of these every year. They film it all in a few months and change up the greenery and clothing to make it seem like time is passing, and pretend they've been living in the past for a full year. It's not a Hollywood blockbuster."

"Not yet," Matthew insists. "But some casting director's gonna see your natural charisma on camera, and scout you, and then bam!"

"You just want me to do movies so you have an excuse to hang around the sets," Hob teases the raven.

Matthew puffs up like a soot sprite and pointedly sticks his beak into the water glass so he doesn't have to answer.

"I for one find these programs enchanting," Morpheus offers. "The inspiration they provide Dreamers is wonderful, and the stories they return to the public consciousness thrive once more. They breathe new life into old tales, and restore Lucienne's books at the same time."

"Yeah, but does that mean it has to be me who does it?" Hob asks softly, spinning his half-filled class in circles between his fingers. "I'm sure they can find some other expert in Medieval and Elizabethan domestic history with, you know, dark eyes and a cleft chin."

Morpheus tilts his head like a bird, curious. "And would you be happy with that, Hob? If they hired someone else to play you in the story of your own life?"

Hob sighs. Morpheus has hit the nail on the head.

Clingy bastard that he is, Hob doesn't want someone else wearing clothes approximating his favorite gold-and-black double, to look into a camera and talk about Eleanor, and Robyn, and poor lifeless wee John as if he had any right to speak of Hob's life and loves like they were his own. He doesn't want them to film in his house, and talk about the way things used to be, and get it wrong. He doesn't want interpreters to, well, interpret.

He wants to share the truth.

Once upon a time, Gadlen House had been what Hob had envisioned Heaven to be. For nearly a century, his life was everything he'd ever wanted, the fulfillment of every dream he'd ever clung to. There was plenty of light, and warmth, and laughter, and dancing. There was more food than he could ever eat, more alcohol than he could ever drink alone, more comfort and fine clothing than he'd ever dreamed of while he was burying his little brother in a peasant churchyard.

Gadlen House held his own private paradise within its walls.

And, he knew now, he had erroneously thought that it was all that his Stranger would judge him on as well. He thought his continued immortality was contingent on living well, and back then he had misunderstood that to mean material wealth, the flamboyance of his successes, and the vigorousness of his family life.

He’d learned in the last year that Morpheus wasn’t judging him at all, had no opinion of his choices and what he did with his life outside of what caused other Dreamers to suffer, and what he did in the world meant nothing to the King of Dreams and Nightmares. There was no mistake Hob could make that would strip him of his Stranger’s gift, though he hadn’t known it.

There was, however, things that Hob could do to make his companion more or less likely to want to spend time in his company. Like the contents of his heart and the kindness of his influence in the world, and the good and generous things he put out into it—

He’d been a boor. Looking back, he can see it. His behavior, as the youth in his survey courses would call it, had been "super cringey" at their 1589 meeting. He'd only cared about showing off, and very little about his table manners besides. He doesn't blame Morpheus for being repulsed.

And the idea that Hob is being offered the chance to rewrite that memory a little, that appeals.

Robert Gadelin the Third was more than he had shown himself to be at the White Horse that night. And he wants Morpheus to know that. Wants Morpheus to see. (And yeah, okay, millions of viewers all over the U.K. too, if he has to).

Hob hadn’t been just brash self congratulations, and talking with his mouth full, and throwing gold at his problems.

He'd been a good and doting father; he'd been a devoted and generously loving husband. He'd read Robyn stories and took him riding. He'd lounged in the solar listening to Eleanor play her lute, and danced with her even when it was unfashionable to dance so much time with one's own wife at a party. He pulled her into dark corners and behind curtains to lavish his love upon her lovely plump curves every chance he got. He’d spent a lot of time with his head up her dress to make her sigh and laugh, or in her lap listening to her accounts of her day. He'd been a fair and thoughtful master, giving his staff the freedom to speak to him,, to be honest about their problems and his own failings, to feel safe enough to entrust themselves to his care, and humble and proactive enough to live up to it.

He'd loved life, and he'd loved his wife, and he'd loved his son, and he'd taken his role as patriarch and patron seriously.

And the world deserves to see that side of the man who anybody who toured Gadlen House know only knew as the Witch Knight who'd been drowned for his attempts to defy God and rebel against the natural order of the world.

Hob wants to see if he can find the little toy duck he'd carved, which used to be pulled along on a string behind his son. He thinks he left it in a chest of things Eleanor had set aside for the new baby—leftover clothes from Robyn, little socks, and tiny bonnets, along with the little golden rattle that the queen had gifted Eleanor when she'd visited the summer Eleanor had been gravid. He wants to crawl along the floorboards and see if the skirting panel in his bedroom still comes loose, see if his sword from Agincourt is still hidden in the wall, and discover what state it's in. He wants to hold the hairbrush that he used to wield in the evenings to smooth out his wife's hair, hold it to his face and try to catch a whiff of the rosemary oil that she would use on wash day.

He wants sit in his chair by the fire in the withdrawing room, and close his eyes, and hear the crackle of the wood, the soft murmur of the servants in the back passages, the laughter of Robyn as the boy learns to walk, learns to sing, learns to read, learns to fence, and ride, and fight, and tell him he's off for a cheeky bit of revelry with a local chit down the tavern—

He doesn't at all want to do any of that with a camera trained on him.

"I'll tell everyone what a hack Shaxbeard was," is how Hob admits that he's starting to give ground to the idea.

"You can try," Morpheus replies with a smirk.

This is now their weekly game. Hob actually doesn't mind the plays the man wrote, especially once he learned that the stories themselves came from Morpheus. What he does resent is that old Billy Boy is remembered as a genius, when all he really was, to Hob's mind, was the hand that held the quill and wrote down what the King of Dreams whispered in his ear. And so they play tug-of-war over the man, teasing all the way.

"What if someone figures it out? What do I do then?"

"They won't," Matthew croaks.

"But what if they do? The world is different now, in little ways. I grew up believing in angels and demons, and, you know, God–” here he gestures ironically at Morpheus, who nods magnanimously with wry humor. “And it turns out they're real."

Hob's since done business with or provided favors to several of Lady Constantine's descendants. And like any good immortal, he pays attention when there are rumors of another like him around. He's met The Bookseller of Soho, and even traded him a few rare first editions when he was looking to fund purchase of the White Horse. Hob thinks he may be fae, with that thistledown hair, but he can't prove it.

"My point is," Hob presses on, "The world is getting stranger and frankly, an immortal human may not be the first thing people think of but the stuff in the shadows is being exposed more and more these days. Nobody seems to remember the kraken rising from the deep, and the rain of fish, and the rising and re-sinking of Atlantis two years ago–”

“The what!?” Matthew asks. “I was human then, I don’t–!”

“The apocalypse that then wasn’t, yes,” Morpheus murmurs. “You are among the few who recall, Hob, because you are Touched by the Endless.”

Hob squints at Matthew, waiting for the raven to make a Touched by an Angel joke, but the bird seem to be too busy having an existential crisis over the world not ending. He’s muttering under his wing.

“Point is,” Hob goes on. “If I slip up, if I give too much away, somebody may actually believe it. The wrong somebody."

"How is this then: I promise to attend the thoughts and dreams of the cast and crew carefully. And if one should begin to presume more than they ought, I will unmake the dream."

Hob sighs and tugs at his ear nervously. Then he reaches out for Morpheus's hand. They have an unspoken agreement, now, to request and offer touch when one or the other of them is feeling unsettled. Morpheus curls his fingers around Hob's, and Hob feels his heart settling.

"I'd feel better knowing you had my back, yeah."

"Then it is done," Morpheus pronounces in that way of his that always makes it sound like Hob's made a deal at a crossroads.

"It is done, I guess," Hob echoes.

Matthew hops up to his shoulder to preen at Hob's hair teasingly. "Next stop, the big screen!"

"Well, the small one at least. Why did you want me to do this so much?" Hob asks.

"You dream of them," Morpheus says, and he doesn't have to add still because of course, still.

It doesn't sound like envy. At least, Hob doesn't think Morpheus is envious that Hob still dreams of lost loved ones. He spends plenty of time with Morpheus—more properly, with Dream—in the Dreaming. There's nothing to be envious of.

All the same, Hob's heart kicks in his throat, and he washes back down with a swig of beer. Matthew's preening becomes gentle and comforting. "Eleanor and wee John, and Robyn?"

"Yes. But the others as well."

"Others?" For a moment Hob is baffled, but then, with a little mortified jolt, he realizes Morpheus is talking about all of his past lovers. "Oh, Richard and, um, Isabella and…" he trails off, realizing that the being across from him may not want to be subjected to a list of his… indulgences.

"Oliver. Miranda. Francesca. Thomas. Agnes. Amanda. Emila. Elizabeth. Caterina. Saoirse—"

"Who's Saoirse?"

"The redhead in New York, 1906. She had the room above—"

"I remember!" Hob yelps, waving Matthew away as the raven chortles with laddish amusement. "God's wounds, no need to itemize every fuck I've ever had, jesu maria."

A little shit-eating smirk passes fleetingly across the corner of Morpheus' mouth. He's doing it on purpose. Twat.

"Would you not like the chance for closure, Hob Gadling?" Morpheus asks slowly. "Many Dreamers find ease to their grief after dreams of saying goodbye to their loved ones."

"I don't need to go to the House for that. They won't be there," Hob says. "That's the problem."

"Their stories remain."

"Their ghosts, more like," Hob says bitterly. He drains the dregs of his pint and wonders if it's more assholeish to abandon Morpheus to go pour himself another, or to text Dennis and tell the new kid to bring him one.

Morpheus shifts and squeezes their joined hands to keep his attention. "No. My sister greeted them both with all the warmth and kindness she bestows upon mortals, and led them gently to the Sunless Lands. You will find no restless, unhappy shades at Gadlen House, if that is what you fear."

Hob's throat tightens at the unexpected assurance that his family is in Paradise. That his selfish begging prayers for them to stay, to not go, to don't do this, to don't leave me here alone were, in the end, unheeded.

"But the stories remain. The wrong ones. Eleanor, and Robyn, and wee John… do you not think that they deserve to be more than just the tale of how they died? Don't you think their story deserves to celebrate how they lived? And do you not think that you deserve to be more than just the drowned Witch Knight?"

Which is just… such a low blow that Hob only barely resists the urge to kick him under the table.

“Fine,” Hob says, letting go of Morpheus to throw his hands up to the skies, to plead with Mother Night and Father Time to see what he puts up with in their son and his familiar. "Fine! I'm convinced. You can stop bullying me now. Give me back my phone, I have an email to send."

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