#who up slumbering in the arms of Morpheus

[percys-lemons]

the wording here is fantastic also what a cool photo

this image resonates with me

[catiuskaa]

EACH OTHER’S SOUNDTRACK.

summary: the need to know more and to keep listening to the music: attention, the begining of devotion —you have had each other’s from the start.

series masterlist (☆) collab with @dalamjisung !

wc: 3.7k

cw: fluff! using my (10!) years of music lessons, so technical lingo [use of italian], i’m making jisung a pianist, he’s playing lalaland’s piano theme and other piano studios, another soundtrack too (i won’t spoil it!), they are so whipped it’s hilarious, shoutout to debussy, sibelius and rimsky-korsakov, they’re a bit dead but yk contribution is always appreciated

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

His presence made itself noticeable in slow beats of tempo.

Da capo. From the start.

It was a quiet night. Or rather it had been, until the tranquil sound of a piano came from above you. The melody sang to you, unspoken words below it’s charming notes, D natural, F sharp, A flat, A natural, A flat, F sharp, C sharp, the rich tone of the instrument reaching your ears, cheekily waking you up from your short-lived slumber, as if you were the one who was meant to be listening.

Your sleepy brain recognized the melody, and you almost brushed it off to your new neighbour watching that soul-crashing movie, until the tempo started to speed up.

Crescendo. Accelerando.

A new octave joined in, and the melody changed, fluctuated, its sweet sweet tone almost like a stroke, tender, kind, and loving. Like a summary to the first half of the movie, the melody was cheerful, and almost cheesy when it doubled, now being accompanied by a lower version of itself. Until it started turning lower, deeper, faster, faster, and then, it exploded.

You couldn’t listen to the music anymore. It wasn’t a matter of notes or melody when all that was there was an artist screaming to be heard, and for a second, it almost felt like he was right in front of you, a scale, large and strained, yet beautiful, being tortured out of the piano as the instrument seemed to yell what the artist couldn’t.

And alas, it stopped.

Lonely nights you spent waiting for his piano, as his music, calm and tranquil, charmed you in the arms of Morpheus. And when soon after, summer weather arrived, it only worsened. Summer nights were always hot, so it was understandable that he kept his window open, and because the both of you lived in the same crappy studio-room departments, only a staircase away from each other, same thing went for you.

But today —tonight— you were sweaty and awake, yearning for that mysterious pianist to lull you back to sleep. You couldn’t help but need more. Maybe not sleep, solely a peek. A bit over a week had passed, so maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late for introductions.

Well. There was only one way to know.

Surreal. It’s how it feels when you stand up and halphazardly grab a jacket and a hair clip, to at least pretend you had the energy to do your hair propperly before heading upstairs.

Your steps don’t echo when you head outside, warm in your squirrel-themed loafers, completely different to the door, whose loud bang when it closed caught you by surprise, fully waking you up.

Making your way upstairs seems harder than you had though way back when you were half asleep, but you push through until you’re in front of his door. Your fist is barely an inch away from the wooden surface, and there’s nothing stoping you now until there is.

The piano comes back.

If it’s a popular tune, much like the one he had just played, you didn’t recognize it. Being this close was different. Closer. Closer. The music reverberated underneath you, sneaking under the wooden door, as if calling you in, an invite.

Your arm falls limp by your side, your body frozen, held hostage by the sound some unknown hands produced just a few metres in front of you as the realisation hits.

You don’t dare. What if opening the door ends the music? And running back down the stairs, a small part of you wonders if you ever will. But, worry not. In between you and me, dear reader, no one can run away from the power of a meet cute.

It’s late morning already when you get out of the shower and dry your hair. You’re early for work, you always are, so you relish the small fragment of time remaining between the moment you are ready and the moment when the rest of the world is. Turning on your record player, settling the vinyl in place, gently and ever-so-slowly placing down the needle to free the music from its plain and rounded cage, letting it flow through your whole apartment and out the windows.

Scheherazade dominates every space of your studio apartment, filling up each and every corner with its sound. The now familiar melody of the violin claims its throne and rules over the kingdom that it has conquered, as you move along the space it has claimed, far from being solely yours when the bassoon slowly creeps up.

Largo e maestoso. Fortíssimo.

What you never expected —let alone imagined—, was being interrupted by a knock on the door.

The orchestra doesn’t mind it. How could it, when its sound thoroughly overpowers that of the door. Whoever had knocked had been hesitant, at least the first time, because then its intensity heightens.

“Coming!” You claim, because what else could you say? So you quickly put on your shirt and messily tuck it under your long skirt that reaches just below you knees, wondering whether it could be your landlord or not, rushing to the record player to lower its volume until you finally rush and open the door.

A mix of vanilla and cinnamon. The scent of his cologne hits you and you can’t help but blink hesitantly.

What welcomes you behind the door isn’t the middle-aged man with hearing problems that smelled of the warmth homemade lemon pie left behind, having tasted it yourself already hundreds of times before whenever his daughter made it. No, it was far from whatever you could’ve guessed.

And a small part of you wonders if it could be him, which is almost revealed by the first thing he utters, that threatens to give him away, if the suit he’s dressed in hadn’t already.

The pianist.

“The tale of the Kalendar Prince?”

It’s almost a mumble, one that could almost end up hidden by the music that still sounds, a combination of notes that turns the melody melancholic, a slow-paced yet not quite ritardando, F sharp, G sharp, A natural, and a scale that follows, a soundtrack to your first encounter.

“Rimsky-Korsakov.” You nod with a hesitant smile, confused as to which could be the reason for him to stand before you.

He smiles, and you find it impossible for any chord or melody to describe what it does to your heart. It’s heart-shaped brightness softens you, and your hand gingerly lowers from the door, your grasp weakened by the force of the feeling that overcomes you.

“I’m much more of a Debussy kind of guy.”

He says it almost as if the sentence had unwillingly escaped from his lips, wondering if such a statement should’ve been left in the back of his mind, not wanting to upset you.

You could kiss him.

Instead, you sheepishly chuckle. “Is there something I could do for you?” It’s a faint attempt to ground yourself. He’s a stranger, the closest stranger you’ve ever met. Like a language you’re no longer fluent in but still remember how to read. The language, a combination of sounds.

The sounds of music.

“Right.” His snicker comes out bashfully, and you wonder how could he had escaped from your pocket. “I, uh, my name is Han Jisung. I moved upstairs a week ago.” He propells his hand forward, his eyes gente and kind, a shy dust on the colour of his irises.

You smile, and the shy dust weakens when you grab his hand, overpowered by a glow you don’t dare to try and decipher.

“Pleasure to meet you.” It so was. You followed suit, introducing yourself.

His grin doesn’t falter for a second, and you wonder how fast one could be charmed by someone else. Pretty fast, judging by how reluctantly you let go of his soft grasp, his hands in pristine condition, and funnily enough, his nails painted black with pink stars, a shade of pink similar to your own.

It’s almost as if, for a second, he forgets why he’s there, until he lets out a low chuckle.

“I hadn’t presented myself, but meeting you, I’m not sure if you could help…”

You blushed, a shy bit confused. “Try me.” Your tone is playful, and surely enough, —maybe it wasn’t just for your tone, but that, you didn’t know— he matches, his cheeks dusted with pink.

“Okay, then.” He giggles, killing you slowly. “This is the only white shirt I have, and I need one today, but I didn’t know it needed cufflinks.” Jisung shows you, the cuff of his sleeves open, no buttons on sight. “I doubt you have men cufflinks.”

You nibble with your lower lip, and while pondering, staring at the wooden floor of the hallway, staring to something that Han couldn’t see, you miss the way his eyes soften and his pupils dilate, as if wanting to observe you, much like the way a musician hears a piece for the first time, the familiar notes mixing to create something new.

“Maybe I don’t, but…” you mumble with a cheeky smile, and it disarms him.

Confidently, you too miss the way his eyes never leave your silhouette as you walk to the door on the other way of the hallway.

You knock, and with a flick of your hand, usher him to your side.

“Hey, Artie?”

There’s a shy beat of silence, your music not travelling far away from your apartment.

“If it’s the IRS, Artie isn’t here!”

You can’t help but laugh at the way Jisung shows his surprise at the low and chirping tone that replies to your sweet call.

“A kind neighbour?” He questions teasingly, looking down at you slightly, barely noticing the sudden closeness in between you.

“The landlord’s wife.”

He doesn’t have time to react before the door opens, and a short, old woman appears, the strength on her unexpected, but her grin softens at the sight of you.

“Remember me? Gina’s friend?” You smile sheepishly, proving yourself by mentioning her granddaughter’s name.

“Of course I remember you, silly,” she grins, chuckling. “These bones of mine may be old, but I couldn’t forget such a pretty face like yours. And your flower shop is still my favourite.”

Jisung’s eyes soften when he looks at you. Her wrickled yet soft hands craddle your face, and you giggle. But then, she squints her eyes at Han, pursing her lips.

“Who is this young man? Your boyfriend?”

You know you��re a cheeky bastard when you speak before him, stopping him from correcting her.

“He needs cufflinks. You think Richie will mind if we borrow a pair?”

Artie doesn’t miss the blush that settles on both Jisung and you.

“Kids flirt so weirdly nowadays.” She mumbles, a little confused, but she enjoys the way it flusters you two.

“Wait here. I’ll see if I can find ones that aren’t covered in batter or flour.” Her grin feels teasing when she heads back inside.

You looked at Han and answered the question he had written on his expression. “They own the bakery that’s under this building.”

It was almost as if you couldn’t stop looking at him. The way his cheeks rounded when he smiled at Artie. How his laugh reverberated between the walls of your apartment when you told him the woman’s name was Artemisa and he hadn’t expected it. How his pianist fingers trail on the edges of your vinyls, swiftly looking at your collection, making appreciating comments and initiating banter.

He already had his cufflinks, but Jisung just couldn’t seem to leave.

“Oh, shit.” Sadly, even if he hadn’t left, you had to go. “This was fun.” You chuckle, and he smiles too, nodding. “I uh, I’m kinda late for work.”

“Did I keep you from leaving?”

His eyes are tender, and the softness of his voice weakens you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you hesitate, wondering if you should really go to work.

“No! No, gosh, you’re fine.” Yes, he was. That was part of the issue, honestly. “I lost track of time. But… it was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” he grins, taking your hand in his again. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who likes music almost as much as me.”

And reluctantly letting go of his hand again, you rush downstairs, heading to work.

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

You can still smell the mix of flowers and different types of green on you. Its scent lingers on you and you cherish it, walking back home slowly on a warm summer night.

Lost deep in thought, as always. Gingerly skipping as you make your way through the street, relishing the way the moon beams, stepping on the little traces of water that the summer showers had left while you were still in the flowershop. It’s by no means cold, but your hands never leave your pockets.

That’s how you notice that you hadn’t picked your keys before you left home.

You curse, your mood a bit pissed off, but you shrug and accept it, still a bit lost in the depths of your mind when you get close to your apartment complex.

It may seem like leaving without your keys happens a lot —and sometimes it did, to be honest— by how organic it feels when you jump and lower down the fire escape stairs and grunting lightly you climb them, not allowing them to fall to the floor completely so its easier for you to put them back in place. It’s dull and boring. It’s the end of the day and the start of the night.

But then, as you go up the stairs, you start hearing the piano.

It’s different from what you have heard from him before. You recognize the piece, the trickiness of Sibelius, the speed of the music, the pacing and how it gets faster and faster, in an accelerando that almost makes you walk faster up the stairs, and you can’t help but smile, basking in the glowth of the moon and what now seems to be your soundtrack as you go up the fire escape stairs and plan to head through your open window.

But when you turn to face the window and groan slightly when trying to open it, the music stops.

You must have focused on the music too much, because you got into the wrong fucking house.

“Shit, Jisung.” You mumble, even if your leg is stepping into his living room already.

“Oh. You are here.” He giggles. “Thought I had fallen asleep on the piano again for a minute.”

“I was just… and then I heard you play, and I, uh…”

Staring at the floor, looking for something that could justify the sudden break in, you miss how Jisung gets close to you and helps you lift the old window higher, smiling.

“It’s okay. I could use the company.”

The sincerity on his voice stops your scheming, leaving you with no excuse, and you take your shoes off and leave them by the window, feeling like some cartoon character who had followed the scent trail of a homemade pie, floating behind it.

It’s silly. And if you were in the right state of mind, and not sleep deprived like usually, you’d probably feel a bit self-concious. Yet when you retell it to Jisung, the whole story just seems funny. Stupidly funny. So funny that he almost spills the cups of decaf coffee he makes for the both of you.

Taking your jacket off, you sip from the coffee mug he hands you, your heart cheekily spinning inside you when your fingers brush against each other.

He scratches his eyes, thoroughly amused, as he sits back on the piano stool. Even to you, the motion seems organic from the outside, and you wonder how many times could he have done the same action, how many scratches had the wood below it taken from settling the stool just right, in the space enough to be in front of the correct note and scale, close enough for his arms to rest on the black and white keys comfortably, and far enough so that it forces his back to stand in a position that won’t make him end up with crippling backpain.

“What were you playing before?” You smile as he too sips, warming his hands by holding the coffee with both.

“Before you entered a private property?” He snickers, and you snort, rolling your eyes.

“I haven’t heard you play like that before.” You are avoiding his eyes, because the moonlight does nothing but make him even more handsome, and you’re flustered enough already.

“I knew that the piano could be heard.” He mumbles. “The couple upstairs already told me off the first day, but when I told them I was a musician, they turned full-on proud parents mode.” He chuckles, and you snicker too, crossing your legs and sitting comfortably on the armrest of his sofa, so to face him. “I was wondering if you’d come tell me off too.”

You just blink at him, blushing. “I liked it.”

He blushes, and changes the topic, sheepish.

“It was Sibelius. What I was playing before you dared tresspass my property.”

“Very funny, pianist.” He snickers, and your heart screams at you to hurry up and start looking for an engagement ring. “Weren’t you a Debussy guy?”

“Absolutely. Nothing beats Debussy.” He nods proudly, as if the dead musician had been a close friend. “Like this one.”

You can’t distinguish the melody, but the light melancholy of it gives away Debussy in a second.

“Debussy is a trickster,” he says lowly, still playing. B flat, C natural, D natural, G natural, and then back down. “He always makes one think he’ll be going easy. Until he keeps going.” You enjoy the way he lets the music flow, the feeling that gives you uncomparable to that of your vinyls, because nothing could beat a real-life interpretation. You smile at the difference in tones, in the way the cadences complete each other.

The music continues, and his hand follows the other. Easily, the long piano fills his apartment with its music. It’s efervescent, how it turns dramatic, how he plays with the intensity, talent flowing over how his fingers move along and over the keys, the skill of a musician showing, playing by memory.

Jisung’s enthralled on his play, and you know it by how he takes a second to look up at you after you move closer. The mug he gave you is settled next to his, on the piano, and you both giggle shyly when he moves and gives you a bit of space to sit on the piano stool next to him.

He keeps playing, and for a second, it takes you back to your own apartment, threatening to lull you to sleep.

You don’t, though. Gently, you clap when he finishes playing, and you chuckle when he bows, overly exaggerated.

“Teach me,” you say, smiling, in your eyes a glow that matched that one he had hours ago, below your doorframe. “Something easy.”

He ponders for a second, and gingerly takes his mug and finishes his coffee, brushing your shoulders together when he takes the mug and when he settles it back next to yours.

His hand comes and he lays it over yours. Han doesn’t speak, and you don’t either, not daring to interrupt. You hold back a shiver when you notice his breathing hitting your neck, instead focusing on how his hand moves yours.

“D natural, G natural… B… no, B flat, D natural.” He announces in a low mumble, pressing each key with your fingers, smiling when he sees you nod, so concentrated. “Try that a bit faster, apprentice.”

You snicker, and even if he tells you to try it on your own, his hand barely leaves yours when you try it yourself.

“Good.” He grins. “Now,” he starts, his tone still low, speaking gently a bit over your shoulder, and his hand back to where it belongs. Back on yours as he keeps playing. “D natural, C natural, B flat, A natural, B flat.”

“Wait,” you giggle, finally recognizing the piece. “That’s Howl’s Moving Castle!”

He smiles, unable to do anything else as he stares at you giddy self while you play the simple melody back again and again. You giggle, and smile at him a wide, toothy grin that kills him.

But as your eyes meet each other’s, your smile gently fades away.

His skin seems to glow under the moonlight that enters through the open window, it’s almost impossible to look away. You lean backwards slightly, impressed, and he moves to you, your arm hugging your waist, not letting you fall from the piano stool.

Han swallows dry, the force he uses to save you pushing you further against him.

You’re a mess when he looks away, and both of you miss each other when his arm falls back to his side. Standing up, you head back to the window, sitting on the windowsill to put your shoes back on.

He’s going to kill himself if his hopeless romantic heart doesn’t do him the favour, drowning him for ruining the moment. The mugs you two used, the rim on yours slightly stained by a faint pinkish shimmer, tug at his heart strings.

“I uh, thanks for letting me in. Sorry to have barged in, too…” you cringe at your tone, staring at the floor again, your hand on the window, still sat on the windowsill, a moment from stepping outside.

And once more, he approaches you. But this time, his hands don’t reach to the window to help you open it further.

With the shy music you two just played still lingering in the air, Jisung bends down and reaches to your cheek, and presses a bashfull kiss on your lips.

“My window will be open for you.” He grins, blushing like crazy.

He doesn’t tell you the title of the Debussy piece he played a moment ago. He knows, though, as much as he knows what inspired him to play it.

You.

Reverie. A dream.

A dream come true, on a warm summer night.

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

kats, a flutist —very much piano enthusiast, as little as I can play it—, who can figure out notes as they sound (it’s called perfect pitch!)

catiuskaa, august 2024 ©

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[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: Chapter Two

Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: You've got narcolepsy and have been visiting the Dreaming daily for years. Then its Lord and King finally return and he doesn't know quite what to think of you.

Warnings: None.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x Narcoleptic!Reader, for you dear @aralezinspace.

Word Count: ~2.6k

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The hum of the fluorescent lights above you is almost hypnotic. Each keystroke on your keyboard feels heavier than the last. Your eyes drift to the corner of your screen, where the clock ticks agonizingly slowly. 5:17 PM. You stifle a yawn, fighting the drowsiness creeping in.

"Hey, you alright?" Kate’s voice snaps you back to reality. Her cubicle is adjacent to yours, and she peers over the divider with a concerned look.

"Yeah, just tired," you reply, rubbing your eyes. "Got that neurologist appointment today."

"Still having those...episodes?" Her eyebrows knit together in worry.

"Yeah." You glance back at your monitor, pretending to focus on the spreadsheet in front of you. "Hoping they can figure out what's going on."

She nods sympathetically before retreating behind her partition. The hum of office chatter and clattering keyboards fills the air again. You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. The movement does little to shake off the heavy blanket of fatigue draped over you.

5:23 PM. Time crawls as you fight to keep your eyelids from drooping. The anticipation of your appointment mingles with a lingering curiosity about Morpheus.

"Don't forget to log those hours," Dave from accounting calls out as he passes by your desk, clutching a stack of reports.

"Got it," you respond automatically, though you're not sure if you’ll remember once he’s gone.

You glance at the clock again. 5:25 PM. The minutes seem to stretch into eternity when you're counting down to something important—or trying not to fall asleep at your desk.

A soft buzz from your phone draws your attention away from the screen. A reminder for your appointment flashes up: 6:30 PM at Dr. Rosen's office.

You gather your things slowly, double-checking that you’ve saved all necessary files and logged out properly. The process feels routine but surreal, like you're going through motions disconnected from reality.

5:30 PM now. You stand and sling your bag over your shoulder, nodding goodbye to Kate as she gives you an encouraging smile.

“Good luck,” she says quietly.

“Thanks,” you reply with a weak smile before heading toward the exit.

The cool air outside hits you like a wake-up call, momentarily shaking off some of the exhaustion. You make your way to the parking lot, thoughts drifting back to Morpheus and what answers Dr. Rosen might provide today.

But for now, all that matters is getting there without drifting off into another unwanted slumber. You arrive at Dr. Rosen’s office a little early, the waiting room is sparsely populated. It is a later appointment. The receptionist greets you with a polite smile as you check in. “Please have a seat. Dr. Rosen will see you shortly.”

You nod and find a chair near the window, the dim light of early evening casting long shadows across the room. The hum of a nearby aquarium and the soft murmur of other patients’ conversations create a soothing backdrop, but you fight to stay awake.

The door to Dr. Rosen’s office opens, and a nurse calls your name. You stand, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety as you follow her into the examination room.

“Dr. Rosen will be with you in just a moment,” the nurse says, closing the door behind her.

You sit on the examination table, your legs dangling over the edge. The room is sterile and brightly lit, a stark contrast to the dim, dreamlike world you’ve grown accustomed to. You fidget with your hands, waiting for the neurologist who has become a lifeline in your struggle with narcolepsy. Ignoring your support in the Dreaming.

A knock on the door precedes Dr. Rosen’s entrance. He’s a tall man with kind eyes and a reassuring presence. “Good evening,” he says warmly, taking a seat on the stool opposite you. “How have you been?”

“Tired,” you admit with a tired smile. “But that’s nothing new.”

Dr. Rosen adjusts his glasses, scanning through your file with a furrowed brow. "I see you've tried several treatments already," he notes, glancing up at you. "Any changes?"

You shake your head, the weight of frustration pressing down on you. "Nothing's worked so far. I still have the episodes, and they're getting worse."

He nods thoughtfully, setting the file aside. "Describe these episodes again for me. Any new symptoms?"

You take a deep breath, trying to recall the most recent occurrences. "It's like I just...slip away. One minute I'm here, and the next I'm in this dream world. It feels real, like I'm living a second life."

Dr. Rosen's eyes narrow slightly, a mixture of curiosity and concern. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "This dream world—can you describe it? What does it look like? Feel like?"

You hesitate, searching for the right words. "It's...different every time. Sometimes it's a vast city with towering buildings, other times it's a dense forest or a desolate wasteland. But it always feels vivid, more real than any dream I've ever had. I can touch things, smell the air, even feel pain."

Dr. Rosen nods slowly, taking in your words. "And these episodes—they happen without warning?"

"Yes," you reply, frustration creeping into your voice. "I could be in the middle of a conversation or working on something important, and suddenly I'm gone."

He scribbles a few notes on his pad, the scratch of pen on paper filling the silence. "Have you noticed any patterns? Specific triggers that might cause these episodes?"

You shake your head. "No patterns that I can see. They just...happen."

He sets his pad down and looks at you intently. "We might need to explore some new avenues for treatment," he says thoughtfully. "There are advanced tests we can run to get a better understanding of what's happening in your brain during these episodes."

"Like what?" You ask, both hopeful and apprehensive.

"An overnight sleep study would be a good start," he explains. "We'd monitor your brain activity while you sleep and see if we can identify any abnormalities or triggers."

You nod slowly, considering the idea. "Anything that could help," you say quietly.

Dr. Rosen smiles reassuringly. "We'll figure this out," he says firmly. "In the meantime, try to keep a detailed journal of your episodes—what you're doing before they happen, how long they last, anything you can remember about the dream world."

"Okay," you agree, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in a while.

He stands and offers his hand. "We'll schedule the sleep study as soon as possible," he says as you shake his hand.

You thank him and make your way back to the waiting room, feeling slightly lighter despite the uncertainty that still looms over you.

As you step outside into the cool evening air once more, you can't help but wonder what answers await in the depths of your own mind—and what mysteries still lie within the world of dreams.

For now, though, all you can do is take one step at a time and hope that Dr. Rosen's expertise will lead you to the answers you've been seeking for so long. You only hope that the treatment doesn't take away the friends you've made in the Dreaming.

The Dreaming has undergone a remarkable transformation. The once barren and broken realm is now vibrant and full of life, the colors brighter and more vivid than you ever remember. Flowers bloom in technicolor splendor, the sky is a brilliant azure, and the air is filled with the sounds of laughter and music. You step through the familiar meadow, your heart swelling with happiness as you take in the renewed beauty around you.

As you walk, you can hardly believe your eyes. The decay and desolation that once plagued this realm have vanished, replaced by a lush, thriving landscape. Your footsteps are light on the soft grass, the path ahead leading you towards the heart of the Dreaming—the grand palace where Morpheus resides.

Entering the palace, you marvel at the pristine marble floors and the intricate stained glass windows, now restored to their former glory. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the cold, desolate halls you had grown used to. You make your way towards the throne room, eager to see the one who made all of this possible.

As you approach the grand doors, they swing open, and you step inside. Morpheus stands at the center of the room, his presence commanding yet serene. His silver-blue eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.

“Welcome,” he says, his voice deep and resonant, but not entirely friendly. “What brings you here today?”

You smile, unable to contain your joy. “I wanted to see the Dreaming. It’s beautiful. I can’t believe how much it’s changed.”

Morpheus’s gaze remains intense, his expression guarded. “Indeed, it has. But what I wish to know is what you are doing here. Why have you come?”

Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. “Ah, there they are!” Cain’s voice booms as he and Abel enter the room, their faces lighting up with recognition.

“Hello, dear friend!” Abel says, hurrying over to you. “We were just talking about you.”

Morpheus raises an eyebrow, his suspicion deepening. “You know this mortal?”

“Of course!” Cain replies with a rare grin. “They've been visiting us for years.”

“Practically family,” Abel adds, beaming.

You feel a rush of gratitude for their support. At least someone would stand up for your presence. “It’s true. I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember.”

Morpheus’s eyes narrow slightly. “And yet, I do not understand why you have been granted such access to the Dreaming.”

Before you can answer, Lucienne appears, her presence calm and reassuring. “My lord,” she says, bowing slightly. "You have nothing to worry about their presence. I can confirm, they have been visiting our realm since early childhood. They pose no threat." Threat? Why would he consider you a threat!?

You watch as Morpheus considers Lucienne's words, his expression softening slightly. "Very well," he says at last. "But I must warn you, the Dreaming is not a place for mortals to linger. You must be careful."

His warning hangs heavy in the air, but you can't help but feel a sense of relief. At least he didn't banish me. Morpheus’ gaze settles on you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, his silver-blue eyes never leaving your face. You can sense his discomfort with your presence, but you also detect a hint of intrigue—as if he respects your courage (Or foolishness?) for venturing into his realm time and time again.

As the evening wears on, you find yourself growing more and more tired. The Dreaming's magic is powerful and intoxicating, but it also drains your energy like nothing else. You excuse yourself from the gathering, thanking Cain and Abel for their hospitality before finding a bench to lay down. You close your eyes to get some rest.

The transition between worlds is jarring—one moment you're surrounded by vibrant colors and ethereal beauty, the next you're back in your mundane office cubicle. The contrast is stark and disorienting, leaving you feeling both exhilarated and exhausted at once.

You log off your computer and gather your things, ready to head home for the night. As you leave the office building behind, you can't help but feel a prickle of longing for the Dreaming—a place where you can forget about deadlines and appointments and simply exist in a world of wonder and possibility. Without narcolepsy.

But as much as you love visiting Morpheus' realm, there's no denying that it comes with its own set of risks—risks that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Maybe it's time to start exploring other avenues, you think to yourself as you make your way home through the darkened streets. Maybe it's time to find a different kind of escape.

Cain and Abel flank you, their enthusiasm contagious. Cain’s hand clasps your shoulder, guiding you through the grand palace doors and out into the village. Abel chatters excitedly about all the new developments.

“We have so much to show you!” Abel’s eyes sparkle with excitement.

The village is a tapestry of bustling life and vibrant colors. Cobblestone streets wind between quaint houses with flower boxes in every window. Laughter and music float on the breeze. It’s hard to believe this was once a desolate place.

“There!” Cain points toward a charming little bakery nestled between a bookshop and a toy store. The sign above the door reads “Delightful Dreams.”

“You have to try their pastries,” Abel insists, practically bouncing on his feet.

You step inside, and the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet confections envelops you. The interior is warm and inviting, with wooden beams and cozy nooks filled with plush chairs.

Cain gestures toward a display case filled with an array of treats. “Pick whatever you like. It’s on us.”

You scan the options, finally settling on a delicate pastry dusted with powdered sugar. Abel grabs a similar one, while Cain opts for a hearty slice of pie.

You find a table near the window, sunlight streaming in and casting playful patterns on the wooden surface. As you bite into your pastry, the flavors explode in your mouth—a perfect blend of sweetness and buttery richness.

Abel grins at you between bites. “Isn’t it amazing? This place is like a dream come true.”

Cain nods in agreement, savoring his pie. “It’s been a long time coming, but worth every moment.”

You giggle at Cain’s surprisingly upbeat mood, the atmosphere light and joyful. For a moment, all your worries melt away, replaced by the simple pleasure of good food and good company.

Out of nowhere, the bakery fades away. Your eyes snap open to find yourself back at your desk at work. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights overhead greets you once more.

Kate peers over the divider again, concern etched on her face. “Hey, are you okay?”

You blink, disoriented but managing a weak smile. “Yeah… just drifted off for a second.”

She frowns slightly but nods. “Well, make sure you get some rest tonight.”

You nod back absently, your mind still lingering in that vibrant village with Cain and Abel as you return to your spreadsheet. You glance at the spreadsheet, but the numbers blur. The dream lingers, and you feel the weight of it pulling you back. You try to shake it off, but your mind keeps drifting. The contrast between the vibrant Dreaming and your dull office is stark.

Kate’s voice snaps you back. "Hey, focus. Deadline's coming up. Don’t want Karen jumping on your case.”

You nod, forcing yourself to concentrate. You manage to input a few numbers before your eyes grow heavy again. The room starts to waver.

A sharp sound jolts you—an email notification. You open it to find a message from Dr. Rosen's office: "Sleep study scheduled for Friday night."

Relief washes over you. Maybe this will finally provide some answers.

The day drags on, and you fight to stay awake. As soon as the clock hits five, you gather your things and head home. The streets are a blur of lights and shadows as you make your way through the city.

At home, you collapse onto your bed without even changing out of your work clothes. Sleep takes you quickly.

Date Published: 7/17/24

Last Edit: 7/17/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Summary: You beg Bucky for ten more minutes in bed with you. Pairing: Bucky x f!reader Word count : 1.5k Warnings: fluff

This was the exact reason he hadn’t wanted a phone. The infernal sound that was coming out of it often made him regret the need for the obnoxious device.

Bucky moaned as he reached over to snatch the offending gadget from its place on the nightstand to silence the alarm before…

“No,” you begged shamelessly, slipping your arm around his bare torso in a feeble attempt to keep him from climbing out of your shared bed. “Staaay.” This time, your plea was laced with tiny kisses pressed repeatedly against his shoulder blade.

Who was Bucky to say no to such a pretty plea? Normally you were enveloped so far in the arms of Morpheus, that his alarm barely roused you from slumber, but today you were surprisingly determined to keep him in your arms.

Naturally, Bucky let you encircle him, hating that he had to be the responsible voice in the bed that morning. “Doll, I have to-”

He was silenced by your soft fingertip across his lips in an effort to hold his objection had the chance to gain any momentum.

“Come on, Buck. Just this once, pleeeeeease?” you pouted and whined. "Ten minutes."

Bucky rolled his eyes in response to your theatrics and sighed dramatically for your benefit. “I have to go take a shower, or I’ll be late to meet Sam.”

Your arms tightened around him, nuzzling into his ear, unable to hide the grin which had spread across your face. He could feel your cheek rise with your smile against the back of his neck and he could tell how determined you were to keep him exactly where he was. Should he just be resigned to his fate?

“Just ten more minutes, Bucky!”

Wistfully he glanced down at the phone in his hands and then to your arm around his waist. Using the tip of his flesh finger, he delicately traced a line from your elbow down to your wrist and lingered on the back of your hand. His touch tickled your skin, making you wriggle closer towards his back. 

Bucky considered his morning routine, all the tasks that he completed before heading out to save the world with Sam. What surprised him was how much he actually looked forward to the time with a man who he had found extremely irritating. That wasn't to say that Sam was any less irritating now, but he would probably miss being called tin man and cyborg if he stopped hearing them. Not to mention that his mother had taught him the importance of being punctual to meetings, professional or social alike.

His thoughts of Sam were pushed aside as your lips continued their gentle assault on the back of his neck, your sweet voice pleading with him and bribing him with your affections. He made an attempt to rise, but you moved your hand up over his chest, splaying your fingers across his sternum and pressing yourself against his back so that he pulled you up along with him as he sat up in bed.

You continued to litter kisses down his spine, pressing your lips along the bony staircase on his back. An involuntary sigh escaped Bucky’s mouth, reveling in the feeling of your soft plump lips on his skin. Then, to your immense surprise, he gave in to your entreaties.

"Just ten minutes, okay?"

You nodded, your chin tapping his shoulder with each oscillation. He didn't want to spend the next ten minutes checking how long he had, so he delegated the task to the dreaded device which kept him from his best girl. 

10:00

He entered the time on his phone, putting it down as the clock started counting down.

09:59

09:58

09:57

09:56

Bucky lay back down, not daring to entertain sleep, but there was no reason he couldn't be comfortable. He fluffed his pillow before settling back into it, smiling as he felt the weight of your head in his chest. 

Happily, you settled into your favorite place, your spot, snuggled under Bucky's arm. No matter your surroundings, you always felt at home squashed between his arm and chest. Bucky always thought that you were the perfect shape, molded, created just for him. 

He marveled at how your face fit into the hollow of his neck, smiling at the way you ghosted your lips against his Adam's apple, how your abdomen pressed against his side, how you let him curl his vibranium arm around your back and hold you as close as he could. He delighted in the sensation of your thigh on his as you draped your leg over his, then under in a tangled mess until he couldn’t tell where one of you began or the other ended. Not that he wanted to, he was happiest when you were together, unified.

Bucky looked down as you heaved a contented sigh, a rush of warm air blew across his chest. He brushed a few stray strands from your face, fingertips grazing your temple. He waited with bated breath for your reaction, relaxing as you snuggled closer under his touch, urging him to comb his strong fingers through your tresses.

Gods, you were beautiful.

Bucky already knew that, but sometimes it washed over him, bowling him over like a powerful wave. He remembered the first time he had caught a glimpse of your beautiful smile, your luscious locks framing your face with utmost perfection. You were wearing a floral jumpsuit, an item of clothing you'd had to explain to him. Your eyes had sparkled with mirth as you'd regaled him with details of newfangled fashion notions. He saw the passion behind your eyes as they shone with the brightness of a thousand suns. He knew he'd be able to spend hours listening to you talk and laugh about shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. 

It made him smile, picturing the first day of his new life, a life with you where he was begged for an extra ten minutes of his time. You couldn't make it any easier for him, to appreciate everything you offered him. What was ten minutes in return.

Bucky pressed his nose onto the top of your head, getting a whiff of the citrus shampoo you always used, fresh from washing your hair the previous evening. He loved how you would send him off on his missions with a few drops of your favorite perfume on one of his handkerchiefs. It amused you that he kept them, but was glad that you could send him off with something that reminded him of you.

He didn't think it was possible but you wiggled in even closer, your arm pulling on his other side. Carefully, Bucky reached over to cover your bare shoulder with the duvet. Despite the chill in the room, it was you, always you that offered warmth to the depths of his soul.

He noticed how your breath had started evening out, slower, deeper. He could feel your heart beating against his chest, its strong steady rhythm grounded him, kept him from losing himself to the wildness of his wintery thoughts. He felt calm, the morning bird’s chirpy melody seemed to have faded into the distance, your warmth enveloped his being, how…

This reverie was cut short by his alarm going off again.

Devastation could be the only apt way to describe how Bucky felt in that moment. This proved the point he had known about phones.  But what broke his heart the most was the whimper that left your lips as he reached out to stop the antagonizing sound. He knew how much worse your reaction would be when he tried to get out of bed.

Bucky knew that as soon as he left the warmth of your shared bed, you would huddle deeper into it, wrap your arm around his pillow, a poor substitute for his majestic form. He knew what his day had in store for him, the violence he saw, the fear, the depravity of humankind. Every morning he would crave those extra ten minutes before facing the madness the world had to offer. Ten minutes with you in the Elysian Fields would never really be quite enough.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different today. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. He had done the same for the last few days. There was no reason today should be any different. But it was different. Today's start would have to wait.

“Ten more minutes.”

This time, the words were Bucky's. He held you as though his life depended on it. And in a way it did. He was nothing without you. 

Naturally, you did not object, instead, you tangled yourself back around him even tighter than you had before. Feeling elated by his change of heart, Bucky proceeded to pepper your face and forehead with a storm of sweet kisses, even letting his eyelids flutter shut when you slid hands up his back to bring yourself nearer.

Sam could wait. Ten more minutes with you would be well worth it.

[dragon-kazansky]

Symphony of dreams

Morpheus x Female Reader

Now awake, it is time to rebuild The Dreaming. The Corianthian is still loose in The Waking World, and Morpheus is trying to make up for lost time. Your husband has a lot to learn.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Warnings: Starts off pretty steamy.

Chapter Four - Never let go

☆☆☆

Morpheus and you did not leave that room for several hours. Matthew had offered to come fetch you both, but Lucienne advised Matthew to leave you both for a while. There was a lot of time to be made up for.

Matthew understood what she meant.

You lay in the bed as you look up at your husband. He hovers over you, looking at you with soft blue eyes. She reaches out to touch his bare shoulder, stroking along his neck with gentle fingers.

He leans in and kisses your lips softly. You listen to quiet breaths as his lips move from your lips to your neck. His hair tickles your chin as he moves further down to your collarbone.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips move down to your chest. His kisses are soft and warm. They have been missed dearly.

Though you have no aspect of time passing, he has spent a century locked away put of reach. He has felt every second pass by without you.

No longer.

You gasp softly as he moves further down. He commiting every inch of you to memory. It almost feels like he had never been away at all.

You become a tangle of limbs as the kissing turns into something greater.

It only after, when you're laying naked and wrapped up in one another, that you finally get the chance to speak. You have reunited and in the best way possible.

"Tell me what happened."

Morpheus presses his lips to the top of your head as he recalls all that has happened. He tells you of the moment he was captured, his escape, Gregory, Constantine, his trip to Hell, and to moment he got his full power back.

"Oh no, Jessamy..."

"I am sorry. She tried to help me."

"Do not apologise. She was very brave. She made us both proud."

He kisses your head again. "I have Matthew now."

"Good. You need a raven."

"I do not need a raven."

"You are the dream lord, and the dream lord has a raven."

He sighs in defeat. He knows he can not argue this with you.

"Very well."

You chuckle softly.

"I am sorry about your ruby."

"Why?" He asks, brows knitting together. "My power was released back into me after it was shattered. I am whole again. I am the one who is sorry. I lost my ring."

You look at his hand.

"Make a new one."

"It won't be the same."

"It doesn't have to be. Morpheus, you don't need a ring to show you are mine. You just need to love me."

"I do. I do love you."

You smile and reach up to stroke his cheek. He tilts his head into your palm, chasing your touch. He needs your warmth.

"I am sorry for leaving."

"Morpheus, if you apologise one more time, I'm going to push you out of the bed."

He chuckles softly and leans in, kissing your lips. "No, you won't."

You smile as you return his kiss. "You're right I won't."

☆☆☆

You walk hand in hand with Morpheus into the throne room. It hasn't yet been rebuilt. You smile as you approach Lucienne and Matthew. You reach let go of Morpheus to reach for Lucienne's hands.

"Lucienne."

"My lady," she smiles and bow her head.

You chuckles and wraps your arm around her. She is caught off guard for a moment but accepts your hug. You take her hands into yours again and smile at her. "Thank you."

"What for, my lady?"

"For looking after everything. For looking after me."

Lucienne looks a little awe struck.

"I heard you. I could hear you talking to me. Though my slumber was without dreams, I could hear your voice."

"My lady..."

"You stayed. You looked after me. Looked after the realm. I can not thank you enough for that."

Lucienne adjusts her glasses. "It was the least I could do."

You shake your head. "It was everything. I am honoured to have you as my friend and companion here."

Lucienne smiles.

"My husband is grateful too. He just doesn't know how to say it." You say, looking at Morpheus. He pretends not to hear you as he approaches the steps to the throne.

Your eyes turn to the raven. You smile as you gaze down at him.

"You must be Matthew. Its nice to meet you."

"You too, my lady." He bows his head with respect.

You look back up at Morpheus as he stands with his hand open and slightly raised at his sides. He takes a few deep breaths. You remain standing with Lucienne and Matthew as Morpheus uses his power to rebuild The Dreaming. He starts with the throne room.

The rubble and glass lift from the ground and slowly start to return to where they once were. Walls are rebuilt, the windows are mended, and the floors become clear of any debris. Bit by bit, the palace is put back together.

Morpheus lowers his arms and looks up at you. "The rest will be rebuilt in time."

You smile softly. "Take your time. Don't overdo it."

"Do I ever?"

"Sometimes."

Morpheus smiles softly at you and returns to your side. "We should take a walk."

You reach for his hand and then turn back to Lucienne. "I'll catch up with you again later."

She nods once and watches you walk out of the throne room with Morpheus.

☆☆☆

"Where are we going?"

"For a walk."

"Yes, but where?" You chuckle softly. Morpheus looked at you with a tesing smile. It wasn't often he did smile, but you found it easy to make him do so.

"To see some friends."

You chuckles as you follow him.

It's only when you see the two houses that you smile and let go of his hand. You hurry on ahead.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

You wait a few moments before the doors open on each house. A head pops out of each. You smile at the brothers.

Cain and Abel exit their houses and approach you.

"You're awake!" Abel smiles. "My lady."

The brothers both bow to her.

"It's good to see you both again." You smile at the pair of them. The brothers look at each other and then back at you.

"We're so glad you're awake!" Abel cheers.

"Yes. It is good news indeed."

"I want to apologise for Gregory, but he helped Morpheus greatly by what he did. It was very brave of you to let him go."

The two fall quiet.

"But I also hear you got a new friend." You smile.

"He's called Goldie." Abel calls for him. The baby gargoyle comes over. You chuckle softly.

"Hello Goldie."

The little gargoyle makes a little noise.

Morpheus just watches you silently from behind. You talk a little more with Abel and Cain and then take his hand once more. You wave to the brothers as you both walk away.

☆☆☆

"Fiddler's Green is gone?" You ask, looking at the vacant space the beautiful meadow once was.

"It seems he took his leave after I did not return."

You turn to Morpheus. "You blame yourself?"

"He never leaves his post before."

"Morpheus, it's not your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself."

"Everything happened because I left."

"No. No." You shake your head as you reach for his hand and hold them close to your chest. "I blame The Corianthian. If he had not left for the Waking World, you wouldn't have had to chase after him. You wouldn't have been trapped."

"We don't know that," he says.

"Let me have faith in the fact that it was just one thing after another. Things just did not go to plan, and a century was robbed from us. We're together again now."

"But he still out there," Morpheus reminds you.

"Yes, and you also have all your power back. You will find him again. I am certain of it."

Morpheus falls quiet. You reach out and caress his cheek softly. "Please don't blame yourself any more."

He says nothing as he looks at you. You do the only thing you can think of to cheer him up. You lean in and kiss him softly. You feel Morpheus melt as your lips touch his.

He's very soft when it comes to his wife.

"Everything will be okay. Let's take one issue at a time."

He nods softly.

You smile and kiss him again.

☆☆☆

The library had returned. Lucienne was beyond pleased, but that meant she had a lot of work on her hands. You offered to help her. At first, she refused your help, but you insisted. Lucienne lost that battle.

Books were stacked everywhere. You helped Lucienne take account of all the books that had returned. There are so many dreams, so many lives.

Matthew was perched on the table. He would fly off to find other books Lucienne asked for. It was quite nice spending time with them like this.

"So this is where you disappeared too."

You smile as you look up and find your husband walking over. You left his side about an hour ago while he went off to rebuild some more of The Dreaming.

"I figured I'd let you concentrate."

"That you did, but I found myself missing you when I was done. Having spent a century away from you, I dare not wish to spend another second apart."

You chuckle softly and glance at your companions. Lucienne is pretending not to listen, and Matthew isn't even attempting to pretend.

"Is that so?"

"Do you not feel the same?" He asks softly.

You look back at him. "Of course I do. Morpheus, I slept through that century, but believe me, knowing we spent that century apart breaks my heart." You walk closer to him and take his hands in yours.

"I'm sorry I keep mentioning it."

"What did I tell you about apologising?" She chuckle.

He smiles. "You'll push me out of our bed."

"Yes. Now hush. I think Lucienne and Matthew can take it from here. How about we go spend more time together? Assuming you're done for the day?"

He smiles again. "I would like that."

You take your leave of the library while holding his hand. Lucienne and Matthew watch you both leave.

"He seems happy," Matthew points out.

"He is," Lucienne smiles gently. "He always is when he's with her."

Matthew cocks his head to the side slightly. "I don't think I've ever seen love like that before."

"No. What they have is quite special."

☆☆☆

Morpheus stops you from walking and pulls you closer. He settles his hands on your hips and looks at you softly.

"What is it?" You ask, keeping your voice quiet.

"I just want to look at you."

You stare back at him, admiring his features, too. His pretty blue eyes, his pink lips, his strong jaw. He's handsome. A dream. A real dream.

"The entire time I was trapped, you were the only thing that kept me going. I thought about you constantly. It may sound cruel, but I am somewhat glad you slept through the whole thing. The thought of you here missing me hurt. I worried about you every single day," he confesses.

"Morpheus, you don't have to worry anymore. I am right here in front of you." You take his hands and place them on each side of your face.

"I know. I see you."

You smile and gaze into his eyes. "I see you too."

Morpheus wraps both of his long arms around you and pulls you in close to his chest. "I'm never letting go," he whispers in your ear.

You smile.

"Neither am I."

Morpheus takes the opportunity to steal another kiss from you. You happily oblige, wanting to remind your husband just how much you love him.

☆☆☆

@missdreamofendless - @mischievousvillainy - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy - @emarich7 - @lollipopsandlandmines -

[sunny-mercya]

Ordinary Godly

Apollo x Male Reader

Fandom -> Percy Jackson Series

Masterlist

Percy Jackson, who has fought a variety of Monsters and argued—even battled at some point—with the Godly deities of the mighty Olympus, had expected everything—when stepping into the home of Jason and Will, with the rest of his little friends troop—but nothing like this.

Seeing you, the deity of tranquility and slumber—another brother of Hypnos—for the very first time in actuality—was a weird experience of meeting for Percy.

»THERE YOU ARE! MY TWO PRECIOUS SUMMER BOYS! OH, NICO! I GREET YOU TOO, COME HERE!«

You had emerged from the Kitchen, baggy clothes—consisted of a large tee with the print of some band name and lyrics quote and pyjama pants—covered in what seemed to be flour and cocoa powder.

Your voice was loud, filled with thrilling excitement of joyfulness. Taking Jason and Will into your arms, hugging them tightly against you and giving each of them more than just a few kisses to the cheeks and head. Nico had been pulled into this as well, suffering through much affection as well.

You're radiating more hyperactivity energy and child like behaviour off, than the emotions you're meant to send out.

Walking into a home, in which Jason and Will had grown up with their two godly parents, which looked so damn mundane humane—that Percy had to take a double check on that Cookie Tin-can, filled with sewing stuff.

It confused him. If they all had learned one thing of being Demigods—half children of godly blessings, which sometimes could be seen as a curse though—that none of the gods and goddesses—their other parentally half—live like a ordinary human.

Always exotic enormously flashy, expensive, but never dare to boring and dull—than a god whose dull and pathetic unnoticeable, could not be worthy for eternity of mighty existence.

Yet, Percy thought, both the house and you are a stark contrast to what they have been told. Simple and ordinary.

»Are we sure this is really a deity?« asked Percy in a hushed whisper, leaning down to Annabeths ear and elbowing her in the side.

»I haven't seen Demosonos personally, but I highly doubt Jason and Will wouldn't recognised their parent.« she whispered back, keeping wary glances at them—some Gods can't be trusted.

Nico who had managed to free himself from the suffocating hug of love, stepped back to them and hissed in the same hushing voice of whispers;

»Do you two have any death wishes? Don't upset them.«

I mean, Percy thought—letting his gaze wander back to you—if we do so, what would happen? Ares, Zeus, Hades, Athena and his own father—Poseidon—are much more scarily and worthy of being called merciless fighters.

You on the other hand, looked—truthfully—weak. Percy could for sure, probably, take you down in seconds.

After all, from what he could gather, you're more than just a minor god—even less than minor, a subcategory inside a subcategory—unworthy to be mention with the same breath of saying Nxy, Hypnos and all the way to Morpheus.

Still, Percy is after all confused to why their Prophecy and Quest is, to seek you out and ask for your help.

Lesser Gods aren't helpful, they're more a nuisance.

~~~

»And this must be your other friends? Right? Perseus and Annabeth?« the question was more towards your sons.

You stepped towards the two teens, Will had already pulled Nico away to the Sofa and Jason had gone to the Kitchen, greeting loudly his other dad.

Percy and Annabeth felt both a bit uncomfortable with your vacant stare and the friendly smile on your lips.

»Uhh, It's Percy actually, I don't liked to be called Perseus« Percy didn't know, why of all the things he could say, decided to say this—but he did, mouth being faster than his brain again—and Annabeth elbowed him hard in the rips, a tiny gaps of breath intake left her lips.

The friendly smile never wavered from your lips, nodding at them—they couldn't tell if you had even listen properly, vacant glint still in your eyes—head dropping a bit to the side.

»Aah! You want some tea and Sweets? C'mon, c'mon, now don't be shy you two, take a seat. Will be a dear and help me« clapping your hands, you ushered the two teens to the Sofa, skipping already to the Kitchen.

»I will explain later a bit,« with that being said, Will stood up as well.

Neither of the three said anything, looking around the living room with more interest than addressing the current situation—or more issues perhaps?

»I thought you knew what he is like Nico....I mean with you being Wills boyfriend, you are prone to meet his parents«

»Hey hey, don't come at me now Chase. I only have met Mr. [Surname] like three times and that was in the city.«

»Small tip of advice, don't be so stiff. Relax a little or Pa's gonna worry again« they hadn't noticed Jason, who have come back from the kitchen with a tray of Tea cups and Kettle.

Will following soon after with a Tray of sweets and pastries, setting it down on the coffee table. They both getting comfortable on the sofas—Jason on the main big one, while Will had sat with Nico on the right mini sofa and Percy and Annabeth on the left—again.

Nico instantly following Jasons advice, relaxing his body and sliding just a bit down.

When Apollo had entered the living room, Annabeth and Percy gasped loudly in surprise. Standing up they bow their head or more like, Annabeth forced Percy to do as well.

»Lord Apollo!«

»Since when did you become a Lord? Aren't you a God?« you asked in amused surprise, taking a seat as well.

»Apparently just now, love« Apollo shrugged, Will started to laugh and Jason sighed in disappointment, shaking his head—so much for giving advice to his friend, to not be so formally stiff and causing tension.

~~~

The hours passed and Percy and Annabeth had relaxed over the times. Coming to the conclusion that you aren't one of the tricky gods—like Ares—who likes to use them as soldiers.

You asked them various questions, be it about the quest or some daily things; like what's your favourite TV-Show.

It wasn't long till you slumped, actually passing out from something akin to exhaustion and sleep, body leaning against Apollo—who had long wrapped an arm around you in a protective manner.

Jason stood up, taking your legs and moving them onto the couch. Getting a blanket from the footstool—where are tower of them was stacked—and covering you a bit to the hips with it.

Percy couldn't help himself but to stare at the marks—he first took notice of them when you handing him a gummy-bear—which covers your arms, starting from your wrist and ending somewhere at your neck or collarbone.

He had seen these types of Marks before. Racking his brain for the information he had read about or being told from.

Oh.

Percy jumped up, snapping his fingers and pointing—accusingly—at you. Head turning to Annabeth and again his mouth had been faster than his brain.

»That's THE DEMON OF OLYMPUS!« he had shouted it so loud, that your body jerked up—stirring awake is what you begun, already mumbling something sleepily out of context.

Apollo moved you quickly into his arms, shushing you gently back to the dreamlands and humming a little tune of it.

A mess had started to erupt between them all.

»I know! It's still highly disrespectful to point that out, seaweed brain!« Annabeth slapped him hard against the shoulder.

»Do you have a death wish, Jackson? Do you want us get killed?« hissed Nico, giving a glare, sitting uptight again and body going absolutely rigid stiff.

The worst part for Percy was probably the disbelieving disappointment frown on both, Jasons and Apollos—though his frown looked more like concealed bubbling anger—face.

Apollon stood up with you in his arms, ready to walk out. Will was about to stand up as well, wanting to go with his father.

»I'll take it from here boys. I expect from you two to inform your friends properly now, to ensure that such outrageous behaviour won't happen again.«

»Wow, way to go Percy. Upsetting one of the kinder gods in just one go.« Will wanted to laugh, to make it seem that it wasn't that bad, but his laugh came more like a strangled cry out.

»How many times did we, did I, told you to keep your mouth shut in more than just one occasion?!« chastised Annabeth, giving him another shoulder slap.

»No, honestly Percy, be fucking glad Pa had another slumber episode of his or you would....I don't know, but it wouldn't be nice.«

»But he's the Demon of Olympus! Isn't he not? The marks of Zeus's banning are a clear sign of it. I don't get why we need help from an evil deity who also deceives everyone to believe he's being known as a lesser god«

»Even for you Perseus, that's a new personal low! How dare you to say such horrible things about my Pa.« Jason stomped off, the anger radiating off and his face slightly red from it.

Will had decided to inform Percy properly about his dad's complete and historical story. He didn't want his parents to be offended—or feel upset and angered—after all they need their help and support for the upcoming—already starting—quest.

You're the brother, a child from Nyx, of Hypnos. It is true, your actual deity personality, form and power is akin to one of chaos—you're a personification of weather—raging storms to be exact—and a sneer of demonic vileness petty violence.

During a darker time in history, Zeus had strikes you with lightning—sealing your actuality, banning them for a balance—and splitting you into what you are now; god of tranquility and slumber.

The splitting had also caused a turn in personality itself. Making you more childish, airhead and forgetful. Kindness from you, comes not completely naturally—feeling more forced without meaning to, though you do love and this was a genuine one.

»Yeah okay, but why is Demosonos—uh, [Name], with your father, Will?«

»They're married?«

»Why?«

»You're officially demoted from Seaweed brain to dumbweed brain.« muttered Nico, pinching the bridge of his nose.

»They married for like years and that's because out of actual love and I'm not gonna tell you their sappy love story.«

»Still I don't get how like Lord Apollo, who blends like the sun, is being married freely to someone like him, a actual demonic person«

»I–oh my fucking god, Percy. My dads are married because they love one another, completely smitten they are, how hard is that to understand?!« Will groaned in desperation, taking a handful of biscuits again—had he almost eaten the whole bowl.

And Nico thought, how a great way to upset a God and already dooming their quest in the very beginning.

~~~

Jason felt hesitant, as if he were five again and didn't wanted to disrupt his parents sleeps because he had a nightmare, to step into the bedroom.

Respectfully he knocked a few times on the door, before opening it and stepping inside.

The bedroom was almost shrouded in complete darkness, except for the dimmed nightshade next to the bed.

Apollo had acknowledged his son, didn't say anything though—to occupied to lay in bed next to you, hand supporting his head as he drove his fingers through your hair.

A cooled washcloth was placed over your face. You hadn't started to sweat, sign of upcoming fever, but Apollon didn't wanted to risk it—doing a prevention beforehand.

What most, be it his own kind or humans, didn't know is that Zeus lightning strike to you has caused more than just a split personality—created a rift in your health, leaving you vulnerable and weak and prone to sickness.

Apollo couldn't do much about it. Not even with his powers of healing, leaving him a pit of despair and self-hatred whenever you got sick.

»Do you know the actual, not that stupidly outrageous idea of us gods being unfaithful, I mean some truly are, reason, why we have decided to let you and Will and all your other siblings been born from Humans?«

»No,« Jason shook his head, debating with himself if he should sit or lay down next to you, in the end he chose a mix of both.

Jason had sometimes wonders why it always had been that way—being born from humans and a deity—even though gods and goddesses could bear children just as well.

When he had been younger, wasn't all that long ago in his early teen years—memory still fresh in mind and sometimes upsetting him—he had accused his father, they had another argument that day, he never had loved dad in the beginning and being unfaithful to him—cheating with woman's and only seeing you as some kind of trophy.

That day was the only day and time where Jason had seen Apollo with actual anger on his face. The kind of anger which bubbles in you till it turns into hatred and pettiness.

»It's because your dad wouldn't survive the procedure of giving birth and I mind you, the whole explanatory of the aspect itself of how we gods and goddesses giving birth and the many various ways to do so, is chaotic complexing on its own.«

»You mean, dad would die? But you are immortals and immortals aren't meant to die«

»Yes and no. Even though we're immortals of eternity, there are still ways—ancient barbaric ones—to kills us or at least in a sense of us being dead. No, no, Jay, the reason isn't death, he just wouldn't survive.«

Jason furrowed his brows, not understanding what his father meant or trying to tell him.

»You well aware of what happened to your dad, his history. Zeus had strike him down, leaving him in the few hours of unconsciousness—which had caused a spurt of utterly violent storms throughout the land—vulnerable and unable to defend himself against any sort of danger and hostile.«

»Are you trying to tell me that, Zeus had, you know—with dad?«

»Dear lord! Jason! Absolutely not! Don't ever think of such disgusting scenarios and manners again.«

Apollo sighed deeply, not having expected his Son to come to such conclusions. You stirred again, your hand coming up to your face and taking the washcloth off.

Bleary you opened your eyes, trying to make out where you are and who you are.

Apollo, praying silent apologies already, leaning down to you—pressing a soft kiss onto your lips and with a quick whisper of humming lullaby, brought you back into the grips of slumber. Unconscious you rolled onto your side, over to him and into his arms.

»You put him into force sleep! Didn't you told us to never use our powers of sleep in such forceful ways? It's a rule number one!«

Apollo raised a brow at his son, who looked absolutely mortified for a good minute and turned into distasteful disappointment.

»Now now, my son, don't give me such gaze. I too am not proud of what I did, but it had to be done. It's still a sensitive topic and I don't want to cause a distress, disturbance or even distrust perhaps. Now, where was I? Aah yes—«

»So like I said, during the hours of unconsciousness, a wave of sickness rolled over—custody of Pandora's box being opened—and infected painfully your dad. Leaving him, once he had woke up, in a whimpering withering anxiety filled mess.«

»And that's how you meet Dad then, right?«

»That's a story for another, but yes. Anyways, to what I'm trying to say is, your dad is still too vulnerable and weak—sickness prone, to be able to handle the whole procedure of giving birth. I mean we tried it once and only, but.....let's just say, dad still has scars from it. And thus the reason why we and perhaps most of us gods, decided to let our children been born from humans.«

Jason gulped, trying to not choke on his tighten up throat. He hadn't been aware of it, how the true story had happened, but it all makes so much sense now.

The times you got so bedridden, unable to do anything but sleep, that Will cried for days and nights thinking you're about to die from incurable illness.

Or when Will had been still a child, having gotten a nasty flu and you had to take care of Will and him—Jason himself had been in some bad mood the whole week to even consider to help you out as he was the older brother after all—all on your own, because his father had been away for business trips—and you looked so exhausted and ready to pass out any minute, that Jason hadn't even question back then why you took pills after pills and chugged cups of coffee.

Jason understands so much better now, why you never got angry—like he had been, when founding out—when Apollo had intercourse with yet another woman.

He understood why you're so prone to sudden collapse of exhaustion and slumbering sleep during the day or in the middle of doing something.

And then he felt a rush of rage through his blood.

You didn't deserve to be treated like this, to be frowned upon down or with that false kindness the other deities treated you with.

You didn't deserve to either called a demonic being or naively dumbling of airy forgetfulness.

Jason hated it. Hated them, the ones above and those below. How dare they to make you feel so unwanted and filling you with seeds of self-hatred and anxiety—when you give nothing but pure love to him and his siblings.

Jason wasn't blind, his father neither—though the man chose to completely ignore it, when you once again had puffy red rimmed eyes—when you had cried in the bathroom during nights and mumbling things to yourself, Jason didn't want to repeat.

Jason decided, this prophecy wasn't worth it to bring you once again pain and remind you of the haunting past.

If it meant to sabotage the quest, he would do. After all his loyalty and love belongs to only you and not to the greater ones above, who hadn't even the slightest fuck to give about their children.

[kydrogendragon]

Lecture

Lecture for Day Five of Dreamling Week

Relationship: Dream/Hob Rating: Teen Words: 3614 Warnings: Alcohol Poisoning, Hospitalization Ao3 Link Thank you to @zzoomacroom for the beta on this fic!!

It starts with a call.

Hob’s phone buzzes against the nightstand once, twice, thrice before he startles from his slumber. Morpheus’s arm is flung across his chest, fingers digging into his sides as Hob shifts. He leans over, stretching a hand out to pick up his cellphone. Hob chuckles as Morpheus groans and nuzzles his face into his side. He picks up the phone, pressing the far too bright green button on the screen and sets the device against his ear.

“’llo?” He answers, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Hello, is this Mr. Gadling speaking?” a woman’s voice chimes in his ear. There’s background noise, people talking urgently in the distance. Hob frowns.

“This is he.”

“My name is Sarah, I’m a nurse here at St. George’s hospital. Your sons, Robyn Gadling and Orpheus Gadling just arrived here about half an hour ago.”

Hob’s stomach drops. He sits up, heart racing in his chest. One hand reaches out and snags Morpheus’s arm shakily. A million scenarios race through his mind. A car wreck? They’d just gotten their own cars, finally. Did they go for some late-night joyride? Did they sneak out and someone tried to mug them? Or worse, did one of them try to . . . he knows Orpheus had been having a hard time with school and friends lately . . . but surely he wouldn’t have tried . . . he’s been doing better, he said he was doing better? Why weren’t they home? Where did they go? Oh god, is it fatal? Are his boys alive?

There are tears streaming down his face. He’s vaguely aware of Morpheus’s voice calling to him, frantic, his husband’s hand shaking him gently, but worriedly. The nurse’s voice calls out to him. Hob blinks, the world getting clearer as the stuck tears fall. He takes in a shuttering breath.

“Fuck, sorry. Are . . . are they okay? What happened?” he manages, finally. Hob turns to Morpheus, blue pleading eyes meet his. Hob just pulls him closer, tucking his husband’s head under his chin.

“Your one son, Orpheus, is fine. He was drunk still when the ambulance arrived, but not to a degree we were concerned about. He was the one to call 999. Your other son, Robyn, had a blood alcohol content of .38 percent—” Hob’s heart stops “—He’s okay, at the moment, and we predict he’ll be fine after spending the night. It’s a good thing his brother had called us, though. Much higher and it could have been fatal.” He lets out a strangled breath as he holds Morpheus tight. He can feel his husband’s arms wrapped around him equally tight. Hob bets he could hear the nurse from how close they are.

He clears his throat before talking. “Okay . . . okay, thank you. Thank you for calling. We’ll be down there immediately.” Hob hears the nurse say something—probably a farewell of some sort—as he lets his cellphone slip from his hand onto the bed. They both stay there for a moment, Hob’s heart still racing in his chest.

“Hob?” Morpheus’s voice says quietly in the silence of their bedroom. “Would you like me to drive there?”

And it’s then that his brain decides it can’t hold back tears anymore. The image of his son, of his Robyn, lying in a hospital bed, not even eighteen yet, wrecks him. It’s worse knowing just how close it could have been to him lying in a mortuary drawer instead. And Hob would have slept through it all, not knowing that his world had been destroyed. And now his husband, his wonderful, thoughtful and caring husband who hates driving with a passion, offers to drive because he knows Hob would probably get them in an accident if he’d tried to drive right now. And for some reason that just does it.

He sobs into Morpheus’s shoulder both in fear and in relief. He knows he’ll cry more once he gets there, but Orpheus will be there, no doubt terrified as well, as Robyn too, once he comes to and Hob needs to be strong for his boys, so he has to cry now. He cries, body-shaking sobs, as he clings to Morpheus’s form until the tears finally dissipate and his head clears.

Hob sniffles, rubbing his nose and eyes on his arm. Morpheus’s hand finds his face, thumbs delicately wiping away what Hob missed. His husband leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead, gentle and sweet, before sliding out of the duvet and walking to the closet to fetch them both clothes.

The drive to the hospital is a blur. Streetlights pass overhead, lighting the car with shades of golden white at random. The streets are wet. Puddles of green and red and yellow lights reflect out of them. Morpheus is behind the wheel. A duffle bag rests on Hob's lap filled with spare clothes for both of their sons along with water bottles and snacks and phone chargers and anything else they may need.

This is how they handle things, Hob’s come to realize. For most days, when life is simply life, Hob relishes in the minutia of it all, of being prepared and making sure things are going where they need to go and doing what they need to do. It’s a reason he enjoys teaching. The quizzes and tests provide an easy sense of accomplishment with checkmarks and rubrics and set results. Morpheus, usually, works on a more whimsical flow with little structure and whims that easily change to fit what he needs in the moment. Oddly enough, it works well between them. And, it seems, when things like this happen and the worry and stress are too much, all the systems Hob’s build for himself, all routines and structures fall away and he’s left floating like a leaf in the wind.

Had it just been him, had Morpheus not been here, he would have gotten to the hospital, one way or another, but his mind would have been left behind. He’d have been frantic, cut loose, running off emotion and stress. Probably would have turned up without a shirt and still in nothing but his boxers. But Morpheus becomes his structure. He becomes a ship in the ocean that he can cling to against the unpredictable rapids. And his husband navigates it with ease, following steps that in hindsight are obvious, but were previously hidden to Hob.

He does not know how he would survive without him.

They must have parked at some point and Morpheus must have wrangled him from the car because he’s currently staring at his husband’s back, the gray duffle bag slung over his shoulder as he guides Hob by hand down the far too bright hallways of the hospital. The air in the white corridors is chilled and despite the fact that it’s two in the morning (he thinks, at least that was when the call came in), the place is alight with people—mainly nurses. Morpheus stops in front of a room and turns to Hob, tears held firmly in, but still glossed over the surface of his eyes.

Fuck. Hob’s heart sinks. He’s been so lost in his own head he hadn’t even asked Morpheus if he was okay. Hob gives his hand a squeeze and musters up something close to a smile while he can because he knows he’s gonna lose it again once they step foot inside this room and he sees Robyn.

“Are you ready?” Morpheus asks him, eyes trailing over him. Hob takes a deep breath in, holds it, then releases it. He does that once more—advice Morpheus had given him after they’d taken Orpheus to the A&E when he’d bumped his head on the school playset pretty badly and Hob proceeded to freak out. Then Hob nods. And Morpheus is opening the door and leading them both in.

The first thing Hob hears upon entering the room is Orpheus’s raw voice calling for them both. The second is the steady beeping of the heart monitor attached to Robyn. The third is his own voice breaking as he steps closer to the hospital bed.

He stumbles over, feet moving on autopilot, as he collapses at the side of the sturdy bedframe. Robyn’s eyes are shut. There’s an oxygen tube running to his nose and an iv dripping into his arm. His skin shines with sweat, his hair damp, but he’s breathing. And his eyes flutter under his eyelids. And all Hob can feel is the rush of relief as he reaches out and holds his boy’s hand between his own.

Hob rests his head against their clasped hands, head tilted to stare up at his baby boy. There’s anger, brewing beneath all the pain and worry and fear, and Hob knows he’ll need to step away to get the worst of it out before he talks to his sons, but for now, he lets himself float here, in-between emotions where all he needs is his son’s pulse under the tips of his fingers, and to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

***

“Dad?” Orpheus says, voice hoarse from tears and disuse. His wide eyes follow Hob as his husband collapses beside Robyn’s form. Morpheus’s heart clenches in his chest at the sight, feeling helpless. This is not how either of them saw this night going.

He walks over, kneeling beside Orpheus who sits on one of the hospital room’s chairs. Morpheus takes his son’s hands in his own and speaks. “Orpheus, let us give your dad a moment with Robyn and get you into a fresh set of clothes.” His eyes fall down to the soiled shirt Orpheus wears, smelling of cheap liquor and wet from the rain. His son nods, eyes still glued to where the rest of their family rests, but allows Morpheus to gently guide him up and outside of the room.

They walk in silence for a moment, wandering down the brightly lit hallways until they reach a free bathroom. At this late hour, it’s empty. He closes the door behind them with a quiet sigh before setting the duffel bag onto the sink counter. Orpheus stands, watching with a blank expression that Morpheus catches in the mirror, as he fishes out the set of clothes he’d grabbed for him along with the old grocery bag for Orpheus’s old clothes.

He turns, handing the stack over to his son. Orpheus takes them and quietly locks one of the larger stalls behind him. It’s now, while his husband is away and Orpheus is busy, that Morpheus allows himself a small moment to breathe. He grips the counter with his hands and sags against it, chin to his chest. He cannot cry yet, there is still much to be done, but he allows himself a handful of ragged, gasping breaths, silenced only by the noise of the bathroom fan.

The stall unlocks and Orpheus emerges, eyes red from tears. He walks up, bag in hand and sets it on the counter. Morpheus pulls his son tight against his chest and loses the battle as Orpheus sobs against him. Tears fall down his face. He presses his nose into the top of his son’s head and thanks whatever god is listening that the two of them, despite it all, are safe and alive.

They both stay there, Morpheus rubbing his son’s back, whispering gentle words to him, allowing the tears to fall freely between them both. Time passes until he hears a snot-filled sniff against his chest and he feels Orpheus step back and out of his hold. He lets his arms fall, raising one to wipe his own face clean.

“I’m so sorry, father, I—It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I don’t know how it happened, I swear—”

“It’s okay,” Morpheus says, cradling his son’s face in his hands. “It is okay. Breathe.” Orpheus takes a shuddering breath in as he nods. Morpheus sighs as he leans forward and presses a kiss to his son’s forehead.

“You called for help. You got your brother here in time. I am so proud of you for that,” he whispers against Orpheus’s skin. “We will have a further conversation about this, but for now, all I need to know is this: are you okay?”

Orpheus nods, tears welling up in his eyes once again.

“Good. And are those that you were with okay?”

He sniffs, but nods once more. “After Robyn . . . after he passed out, the others got freaked out, so they either stopped drinking or went back home.”

“Good. That is. Good.” Morpheus prays that no other parents need deal with what they are currently experiencing, but he trusts his son’s judgment. Whatever alcohol was in his system, Orpheus seems level-headed now. He takes a breath. The details of the night are less important at the moment. They all will have a lengthy conversation about this later. The main priority now, however, is ensuring that both of his sons are okay, physically as well as mentally.

He wraps his arms around Orpheus once more, giving him a firm squeeze. “Come. Let us check back on your dad.”

***

Hob sits on the edge of Robyn’s bed when Morpheus and Orpheus return. He turns, eyes raw from tears. He gathers a weak smile onto his face to greet them as they close the door behind them. Orpheus steps forward, but stops, wrapping his arms around himself instead. Hob’s smile falls. He can only imagine how Orpheus is taking all this (now that his brain has come back online to some degree and allows him thought beyond being able to see and feel Robyn). He lifts his arms, spreading them out and Orpheus comes running.

He wraps his arms around his other son, gently rocking him as he holds him close. Orpheus doesn’t cry, not much at least, though Hob suspects he had plenty of time to do so with Morpheus already. He simply sniffles here and there and clings close. Hob meets his husband’s eyes over Orpheus’s shoulder. The room is filled with red eyes and somber tones, the sound of Robyn’s stable and persistent heart-beat and the sniffling noses the only noise.

It’s a few hours later when Robyn opens his eyes. Orpheus lies flat on the bench seating along the window, a thin hospital blanket draped over him. He rests on a pillow Morpheus pulled from his duffel bag—Hob jokingly called him Mary Poppins after pulling that thing out. They sit in chairs dragged closer to the bed, simply watching, Hob’s hand in Morpheus’s.

Hob’s heart skips a beat when brown eyes meet his at 5:09 in the morning. Robyn groans as his eyes flutter open. He stares up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, before gazing around the room. His brows are furrowed and he winces as he moves his head. Then, his son’s eyes find his. They widen, flitting back and forth between him and Morpheus.

“Dad? Father? What—”

Hob jumps out of his chair and is leaning over the bed to wrap his son in a hug (still mindful of any soreness he may have) and prides himself on not immediately breaking down. He hears the creak of the mattress behind him as Morpheus, he assumes, sits on the edge of the bed.

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” Hob whispers into Robyn’s hair, peppering kisses to the top of it as he speaks. “Christ, I’m so happy. I was so worried. Fucking hell, Robyn, never scare me like that again!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Robyn says into Hob’s shirt. He leans back—no longer nearly smothering his son—and sits on the edge closest to him instead. He reaches out and cups Robyn’s cheek, thumb rubbing lightly over the oxygen tube. “Where . . . wait, am I in the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah you are,” Hob says, glancing over to where Orpheus was laying. Their other son stirs, eyes opening sleepily from the noise. He sees Robyn and quickly sits up, eyes now wide. Hob gives Orpheus a gentle smile before turning back. “You’re lucky you had your brother with you. He’s the one that called 999.”

Robyn’s head snaps to Orpheus with anger. “You called them? What the hell!”

“Robyn!—”

“You were passed out!” Orpheus cries.

“Yeah! Like drunk people are sometimes, I didn’t need to come to the bloody hospital for it!”

“You weren’t responding, I was worried—”

“I thought you had my back!”

“I do!”

“Come on now, boys,” Hob says, looking between the two of them.

“No, you just wanted to get me in trouble with Dad and Father cause you were mad that Eurydice was talking to me the whole night and not you—”

“That is not true!”

“Boys, just stop it!” Hob cries, pushing Robyn back against the bed from where he’d angled himself up to fight with Orpheus.

“It is and you know it! You were jealous that the one person you came to the party for liked me more than you so you wanted to get me in trouble with our dads and so you could look like a hero to Eurydice!”

“Robyn . . .”

“I never should have invited you—”

“Enough.” Morpheus’s voice echoes in the room. Hob turns to see his husband standing in the center of the room, jaw tense, as he slowly looks from Orpheus to Robyn. Hob knows his husband has looks that can kill, but this stare is on another level. Maybe it’s the early morning sun barely peeking through the window, maybe it’s the dimmed hospital lights, but the shadows over his face make him look downright nightmarish.

The boys silence themselves, both looking away from anyone. Orpheus, more hurt than anything. Robyn, still pouting in anger. Hob sighs and slumps back down in the chair. The relief he’d felt seeing Robyn looking around quickly fades into frustration and anger, especially after that fight. He rests his head in his hands and takes a moment to breathe before he starts yelling in return.

“Robyn,” Morpheus’s voice calls. “Your blood alcohol content was .38. Anything .4 and higher is potentially fatal. Had your brother not been there or had anyone not called for help tonight, we would be getting a phone call telling us our son was dead rather than just in the hospital.”

Hob lifts his head in time to see Robyn’s eyes widen in fear. He pales as he turns towards Morpheus. His heartbeat on the monitor jumps.

“. . . what.”

“We could have lost you.” Morpheus steps closer, circling to the other side of the bed and takes Robyn’s hands in his own. “We could have lost you,” he whispers.

Tears well in Robyn’s eyes as he turns back towards Hob and Orpheus. Hob takes a breath and nods. “It’s true, love. Tonight was a close call.”

“Oh.” Robyn visibly deflates and lets himself fall back against the pillows. Morpheus lifts a hand and runs it through his son’s hair. The tender act still sends a warm feeling through Hob’s body, despite the grim circumstances.

“You should apologize to your brother,” Hob says, voice low, the adrenaline and fear of the night now fading away. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically.

Robyn nods and turns towards Orpheus who’s still perched on the bench by the window. “I’m sorry, Orpheus. I . . .” Robyn sighs. “Thank you. For saving me. I . . . I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Orpheus looks down, hands in his lap. He fidgets with his fingers and shrugs with a single shoulder. “’s fine.”

“It’s not, though.”

Orpheus just shakes his head, turning to look back out the window instead. Hob sighs quietly. Clearly this night hasn’t just been tiring for him, but for everyone. Not that he’d ever thought otherwise, mind, but it hurts to see his sons like this. He’d been so grateful at how close they’d been when he and Morpheus got together. They’d truly been best friends, it was a miracle.

He stands, glancing between the two boys then turns to Morpheus who still stands beside Robyn, one hand in his own. There’s something to be said for the language that two people can create between each other. He’d always thought it was a bit of a joke when long lasting couples claimed to be able to read each other’s minds or know what the other was thinking from across the room, but after twelve years of marriage and three years of dating before then, Hob believed them.

Morpheus nods to the question on Hob’s face and turns to grab the duffel bag. He pulls out Orpheus’s old clothes and hands them to Hob before sitting back down in one of the chairs. Robyn watches them as Hob steps close and wraps an arm gently around around his son. He gives him a firm kiss to the forehead before stepping back. “It’s late. I’m gonna get Orpheus home. Your father’ll be here and we’ll be back later, I promise. That okay?”

Robyn nods. “Okay.”

Hob smiles and turns towards Orpheus who’s already standing and holds out a hand. He walks closer, his arms crossed over his chest, and Hob pulls him in for a quick side hug before guiding them towards the door. He stops briefly to give Morpheus a kiss on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thanks, love”. Then, they’re out the door. Hob glances back, looking at Robyn connected to all the tubes and wires and Morpheus beside the bed, blue eyes turned towards their son. Robyn’s words, the first words out of his mouth after waking up in the hospital, come back to mind and the anger bubbles back up. He takes a deep breath and closes the door behind them.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FLUFFBRUARY FICLET] Shampoo

Rated: G Word Count: 541 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, established relationship, retired Dream, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, he just doesn't speak it so plainly, scent, processing life changes

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 1 downy clinic nuance Day 2 engagement scent jam

On AO3

"Hmmmm," Hob purrs drowsily, nuzzling into the nape of Morpheus' neck, pulling Morpheus closer against him. "You smell nice."

Morpheus allows himself to be spooned into Hob's embrace beneath the blankets, nestling into the curve of Hob's body behind him, the warmth of Hob's arm around his middle. "Was my scent unpleasant before?"

"Not at all, not at all." Hob sounds languid and pleased, drunk with the lassitude of encroaching slumber and utterly content. "You used to smell amazing. Indescribable, but amazing. Clean and clear, like…like starshine and midnight frost in the middle of the forest in winter, that kinda thing."

"And now I do not." He can hear, in his own voice, the same bittersweet pang that colors nearly every thought of Before compared to Now. He is happier, of that there is no doubt; there is little to regret in having relinquished his duty and taken up a quasi-mortal existence with Hob. But that does not mean that he does not feel the loss of what he had been, that he does not feel lesser, inadequate, in small and everyday ways, in spite of his relief.

"Well, no," Hob agrees, gently, and presses soft lips to the back of his neck. "Now, you smell human. Touchable." He noses up into the downy hair at the base of Morpheus' skull and breathes in deeply. "You smell like my shampoo, and like the lotion you picked up from that little boutique last month." Hob's arm shifts closer about him, and Hob's mouth brushes the juncture of neck and shoulder, skirts the collar of the tshirt that Morpheus has donned for bed. "You smell like new clothes and comfortable old jumpers and clean sweat and just the faintest touch of rain and right now there's toothpaste in the mix too, and—mm." Hob buries his face in the back of Morpheus' shoulder, worms his other arm around Morpheus' chest and hugs him tightly, breathing deep, scenting him fully. "You smell like Morpheus, my Morpheus, and I love you."

Morpheus hums a small sound in acknowledgement, and brushes gentle fingers over Hob's upon his stomach, rests them there. It pleases him that so many of the scent elements just named by Hob are elements of Hob himself, small ways in which he might consider himself marked by Hob, marked as Hob's.

Hob, who has welcomed him into his life full-time without batting an eye, who waited for him in faith that he would return, who loves him. Hob, who treats him with more kindness than he is rightly due, who holds him while they sleep.

Hob, who thinks he smells nice.

"G'night love," Hob says then, pressing one more kiss to the base of his neck, and Morpheus settles. In only a moment Hob's breath has evened out, slow and deep; Morpheus listens, matches himself to it, lets sleep rise up to claim him safe in the circle of Hob's arms and the cradle of Hob's body.

His last thought as he slips into his old realm, a visitor, is that whatever trepidation he may continue to feel at this change, whatever he may count as lost, that which he has gained in Hob is entirely more precious, and entirely worth it.

= Started: 2/1/24 Drafted: 2/2/24 Posted: 2/2/24

[seiya-starsniper]

2. Eye contact across a crowded room

From blossoming romance writing prompts!

Friend I've been waffling on this ask for days because I had way too many ideas and couldn't settle on just one ahahha. I hope you enjoy the one I did eventually pick! blossoming romance writing prompts

---------

Morpheus absolutely hates flying.

The seats are too small for his long, spindly legs to comfortably stretch, the food options are limited and often terrible, and there is almost always a crying child somewhere on the plane.

But flying is a necessary evil for a popular book author, especially when he goes on tour promoting his latest novel across the US. His agent tries her best to book as many trains as possible for his trips across various cities, but the Amtrak only goes so far, and for some cities, it is even more expensive and longer than a flight.

So Morpheus grumbles and complains, but ultimately goes where he’s told. 

He is on his last flight, the one that will take him home to New York City, and he is miserable. His initial flight was too early, and then later delayed, which caused him to miss his connecting flight. It is hours before he is able to board the next one home.

When Morpheus finally lands, he is itching to leave the plane. The itch grows and grows until he is finally in the terminal, bleary eyed and under caffeinated, wanting nothing more than to drop dead in the passenger seat of his agent’s Prius and slumber until she drops him off at his condo. 

But as Morpheus exits the terminal, he does not see Lucienne anywhere. He looks left, then right, then out past the areas where she would normally be.

Panic flares in Morpheus’s mind. Where is she? Is she all right? Is it possible she got held up in traffic? But no, even on the worst of days, Lucienne has never once been late to meet him in his arrival home. Morpheus frantically scans the airport lounge once more, anxiety building as he continues to fail to see her.

But then his eyes land on Hob Gadling, and Morpheus’s entire world halts to grinding stop. 

Hob is another agent at Lucienne’s agency, and Morpheus knows that he and Lucienne are close. Morpheus and Hob have spoken a total of six times, all at publishing events at Lucienne’s behest, and Morpheus guards the memory of each interaction like a dragon jealously guarding its hoard of gold.

Hob does not see Morpheus right away, but it is clear that he is looking for someone. Morpheus tries to remember if there were other authors on his flight, wonders who it is Hob is waiting for, fighting back the urge to fantasize that Hob is here for him. 

When their eyes finally meet from across the terminal, Morpheus feels as if a live wire has run through his whole body. 

Hob has always been an expressive person, and even from more than 20 feet away, Morpheus can see the other man’s surprise slowly morph to recognition and then finally into unrestrained delight. He raises a hand to wave at Morpheus, clearly trying to get his attention, as if Morpheus hadn’t already spotted him. As if Morpheus could possibly ever miss the most brilliant and shining man he’s ever met. 

The rest of the airport fades to background static as Morpheus glides through the crowds of people, determined to move his feet to get to Hob, to reassure himself that this is real and not a dream. 

When they finally reach one another, Morpheus practically folds himself into Hob’s open arms. The other man smells like aftershave and coffee, and it’s only then that Morpheus realizes Hob has a to go cup clutched in one hand. 

“Car service for Mr. Endless?” Hob asks cheekily, handing Morpheus the to-go cup. Morpheus takes a cursory sniff before sipping cautiously. The coffee is hot, but not so hot that it burns his tongue, and it has just the right amount of milk and sugar in it. 

“You are not Lucienne,” Morpheus notes, his own lips quirking upwards, not quite into a smile, because he is still exhausted and miserable, but somehow, Hob’s smile is keeping the worst of it at bay.

“Yeah, about that…” Hob trails off, then sighs. “Her sister went into labor about 3 hours ago. Bit earlier than expected so she had to leave suddenly. She was trying to arrange a car to get you, but well, I happened to be around and I remember you hate getting in strange cars so, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Morpheus says, voice full of wonder. 

Hob’s returning smile is brighter than the sun. “Let’s get your bags sorted then, shall we?” he asks. “I’ll take you to breakfast too, if you’re up for it.”

“I would like that,” Morpheus answers, already planning for how he can convince Hob to take breakfast at his condo instead.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hi! Can you write a Morpheus x reader where they have a big family (like five kids, with one on the way) and have been married for like 12+ years with their oldest kid being born a year into their marriage and it’s just Morpheus being a dad and him and the reader being a family with their kids (oh! Like a scene where their kids interrupt him during his serious work wanting to hang out with their dad)

Papa! Papa!

Dream of the Endless x Reader

Summary: Just a normal average day in the Dreaming with 1 mom, 1 dad, 5 kids and 1 on the way [sips tea] [butterfly fluttering] [dumpster fire] [caveman music].

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: fem!reader, wife!reader, mom!reader, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy symptoms/pregnancy struggles, 💀children💀, soft dad!dream, my ideal husband!dream, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: I LOVE SOFT!DAD FICS (so much so i got carried away T_T) IM SO EXCITED I CAN FINALLY WRITE THIS. also, holyeaglefanlawyer since you made another req with a similar prompt, i might make that a p2 but lol it's at the very end of my req list so lskfha;sfsah so. also i had to think of 5 NAMES ASHFAHSF:LASFHAS: DEAD T_T i hope yall like em please names are so hard. i put so much thought into their names gosh ALSO ALSO i describe the features of the kids, but they all register this way mostly because of dream's mystical-ness ya feel, not so much because of yn ok? ok good night im dead now Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9 @sloanexx

My eyes rip open at the ear breaking screech that rings through the whole of the Dreaming. I am certain my eyes are blood shot in exhaustion, and yet I power through. I huff as I place a hand on my round belly. I slowly maneuver up on the bed I laid for a nap.

Ah. Naps. Ironic I could not find slumber in the dwelling of the Dream Lord.

I suck in a breath as I internally debate which child busted their lung out in protest of goodness-knows-what this time.

I put on my fuzzy slippers when I get to the side of the bed. I push myself up and sigh as I get to my feet, slowly making my out of my bedroom, my final place of refuge.

Farewell peace, or whatever semblance of it I had.

The moment I exit, there are a chorus of screams, groans, and giggles.

I make it to the entrance of the throne room. Immediately, I see the scattered toys and hundreds of children sprawling the area. Literally. There were a hundred plus children sprawling the area, all copies of my son-

"Noor, please," I shake my head, placing my hand on the child's tiny shoulder, "we talked about materializing copies of yourself."

"Mama!" he says in excitement, dropping the toy horse in his hand, coming up to me, sealing his arms around my legs.

I smile down at him, my little Noor. I brush his golden hair back, bright like the stars, much like what his name meant, light.

"Gadiel and I are playing armies though," the fourth born pouts, pointing across the hall where about a same hundred copies of his older brother, Gadiel, was stationed. He turns to me, gripping me tightly, "I don't want to lose to him again. He- aw!" he cuts himself off, turning to his left, "Hey! THAT HURT!"

I watch as Gadiel and Noor begin to struggle against each other from across the hall, pulling at each other's clothes, smacking each other's face.

Well, I didn't know what I was expecting, but this looked about right.

"BOYS!" I call out sternly.

The copies of my sons all turn to me as my voice echos in the hall.

"Mumma?" a whisper sounds by my ears, undoubtedly my youngest making herself known to me, though she was nowhere near me, and was lost in the sea of her brothers.

All at once, Gadiel and Noor's copies begin to disappear until it is only the Noor by my thigh, pressing his face into me while tears fled his eyes, and Gadiel, a good few feet across the hall, who was quickly making his way over.

Now that the ocean of boys were gone, I spot in the corner, on a carpet, littered with stuffed toys, my daughter, Isra, who was already looking at me, grinning from ear to ear, "Mumma!"

I watch her stand on her tiny legs, her shiny, dark hair, bouncing with every step she took. Journey of the night, the little girl's name meant. I gasp at her journey towards me when she nearly falls.

Gadiel notices my reaction then turns to where I was looking, spotting his little sister. He stops in his tracks, making a u-turn for her, helping her come to me.

I let out a breath at the sight, "good boy."

Upon hearing the praise, Noor looks out at his younger and older siblings, brows furrowing, "mama, he hit me!"

I turn down to Noor, who pulls away from me to point accusingly at his brother again, "he hit me," he repeats then begins to point at his body, "here, here, here-"

"NOT AT THE SAME BODY!" Gadiel cries out, as he holds Isra's tiny hands up while she walks in front of him. "Mama!" he calls, "he hit me too!"

"Mumma!" Isra babbles breaking into a giggle.

I meet my little girl halfway, breathing in deeply before carrying her in my arms. I grunt at the weight of it all, but I push past the heaviness when my daughter giggles and grabs my face, affectionately nuzzling into me.

"Mama look!" Noor complains, pointing to his face, "I think I have a black eye!"

I raise my brows as I look at the boy's spotless face. Gadiel then follows suit, twisting his arm around, pointing arduously at his elbow, "LOOK! HE INJURED ME!"

"THAT'S YOUR BIRTHMARK!" Noor angrily growls.

"AND YOU RUINED IT!" Gadiel bites back.

I sigh, blinking slowly in exasperation. I am calmed when Isra begins to speak nothings to me in her high pitched voice, full of splendor. I swoon at her baby talk.

I smile and nod, "yes, my girl, Gadiel and Noor have been naughty."

The boys do not even hear me when I say this.

God is my fortune, that is what my third born's name means. I must remember that--I have to remember that. God is my fortune. God is my fortune. God is my fortune. God is m-

"Silence."

The two boys jolt in their spots upon hearing the echoing sound of the deep voice of their king.

The next moment, Irsa is taken from my arm. I turn to my right, finding a kiss placed upon my cheek, "my queen, I told you that-"

"PAPA! GADIEL HURT ME!" Noor shrieks, running up to his papa's legs.

"HE HURT ME TOO!" Gadiel runs towards the man he got his blue eyes from.

"Silence!" Dream calls, looking down at his sons, who were now swatting each other. It does not work the second time around.

I release a breath, intervening, "boys."

Still nothing.

"ENOUGH!" Dream says, pushing between the boys, looking down at both of them. Isra, blissfully unaware of it all, begins to aimlessly pat her father's face, just as he begins chastising the two, "it's bad enough you woke your mother-" he stops a moment when the toddler's finger finds its way into his mouth. Dream pulls her arm back, wiping her hand on his collar, "I will not have you show such disrespect by quarrelling before the both of us."

"But papa," the two say weakly in unison.

"No rebuttals," Dream calls, "now-" Isra cuts him off when her hands flails over to his eyes, poking them unintentionally.

Noor slaps a hand on his mouth. Gadiel's cheeks expand as he holds back his laughter.

"Papa," I call, "let me-"

"It's ok, mama," Dream turns to me, raising a hand as he readjusts the child in his arm. I watch as he turns to the boys, who were now hunched over closely to each other, muttering and giggling amongst themselves, surely making fun of their father over what their sister did to him.

"Now," Dream starts, "apologize to each other."

The two let out hushed chuckles as they separate. The seven-year-old presses his lips, "we already did," crossing his arms.

The five-year-old nods his head, struggling to cross his arms, but succeeding eventually.

"Well, I did not hear it," the ???-year-old says to his boys, shaking his head. The three-year-old in his arms rubs her cheek on his shoulder. I coo at the sight of it.

Noor and Gadiel turn to each other, muttering sorry once, turning back to papa after.

"Good enough," papa says, "very well then, begone," he shoos them with a hand.

The two perk up, now off the hook. Noor runs away first, giggling about playing in Fiddler's Green. Gadiel raises a hand, gesturing that Noor should wait. Gadiel turns to his papa, motioning to his jaw, "papa, you have drool on your chin," then runs away with his brother.

I inspect Dream's face, but the man wipes his chin of any evidence before I could spot it.

"I am uncertain if I enjoy how quickly they turn into friends and foes," Lord Morpheus orates as her daughter yawns and begins to nuzzle in the crook of his neck.

I rub her back then caress his cheek, "does it matter if you enjoy it? It's not like it would change the fact."

"I am Shaper of Forms, am I not?" he says, stepping closer, hand coming up to my side.

"Ahhh," I sound, "just like how you said you'd make the twins go to sleep, only to find your powers don't work on them."

Dream turns away, brows raising at the memory, "it's not that my power does not work, it's because their own power that-"

"PAPA, I DID IT!"

The two of us turn our sights to the lanky eleven-year-old boy, waving his hands victoriously as he stands on the throne.

Dream grumbles then points, "off."

The boy drops his hands, jumping off the throne. His twin sister's mocking chuckles are faint in the air.

Dream turns to me, muttering softly, "children."

I snort as my husband leads us to his desecrated chair. I take his free hand and lean into him, continuing his words, "you wanted."

He narrows his eyes , "I am offended by the lone notion."

I break into a laugh. I tilt my head and correct myself, "we wanted."

Dream grabs my hand, placing a kiss at the back of it. He then brushes his hand on my protruding belly amorously, "yes. Every single one."

"Papa!" our eldest calls, meeting us halfway as he excitedly jogs over, "I did it! I got us back here using my own sand!"

"I helped him though!" our second-born calls, one leg thrown on the armrest of her father's throne, "he nearly got us stuck in a vacuum."

Orion rolls his eyes, "did not."

"Did too!" Aurora stomps both her feet on the ground.

"DID NOT!"

"DID T-"

"Silence," Dream mutters under his breath, as not to awaken the napping child in his arms. It is effective to the older children though.

Dream takes the boy's face into his large hand, rubbing his thumb on his cheek, "very good, my son, you have done me proud."

Orion beams, the stardust freckles on his skin shine like the very constellations of his being.

Aurora rolls her eyes, lips curling as she pushes her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around herself, "I did it first though!"

"You did, indeed, my daughter," Dream turns to her, making his way to his throne. The chair widens as to make room for the both of them, "I am proud of you for it," the king sits next to his princess, "and for the assistance you gave our prince."

Aurora turns to her papa. With Isra in one arm, Dream throws the other arm over Aurora's shoulders, pulling her close. His older daughter's hair flutters with a halo like the borealis as she leans into him lovingly.

"Orion, can you make me a cushioned chair with two pillows?" I huff, leaning on my son's shoulders, feeling exhaustion creep up on me.

Dream and Aurora turn to Orion, who then says, "I'll make them the softest, mummy!"

"Moron!" Aurora quips, "she doesn't like super soft pillows."

"Language," I call to my daughter as my son turns to me.

He verifies, "how soft do you want your pillows, mama?"

Aurora pulls away from Dream, walking over to us with a grunt, "let me do it."

"No! She asked me!"

"But you don't even know how-"

The two are silenced when a sofa chair manifests to my side.

"Oh, thank goodness," I sigh, walking over it to sit myself down, "my feet are killing me."

The twins shoot a look of daggers to the man on the throne, exclaiming both at once, "PAPA!"

Dream shrugs, "I know my queen's preferences better all of you combined."

Aurora makes a face, placing a hand on her hip, "psssh, you forgot it was her birthday last time!"

"Yeah," Orion agrees, "and you only thought of giving her a gift because you saw Gadiel and I making decorations!"

"And then you decorated the whole castle yourself!" Aurora exclaims.

"Not cool," Orion ends.

Dream purses his lips at the memory, "I made sure to keep the throne room empty for you to hang your crafts."

"Papa!" she cries, "that's not the point!"

"You shouldn't have manifested decorations," Orion mumbles, "you should have made some with us!"

Dream, in all his power, was nary a match to his twins when they ganged up on him. He rubs Isra's back, pouting in thought, "you know I'm not good at crafts."

Aurora rolls her eyes as Orion shakes his head. "We can help you, papa," they say at the same time.

"You're the one who keeps telling us to practice," Orion calls.

Dream- 0.

He sighs, "I am defeated."

"Yeah," Aurora says, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well," Dream says, turning his gaze from the twins, "I do hope you enjoy..." he trails off upon seeing the blissful form on the chair.

"Mama fell asleep," Aurora pouts.

Orion, catching this as well, rubs his hands together, "I can bring mama to her bed-"

"No!" Dream calls, waving his hand, doing the deed himself, "you must not attempt to do such a thing! Do you understand?!"

The twins turn to their papa, alarmed by his grave tone, "your mother is pregnant and you both are just barely capable of bringing yourselves back and forth to the Dreaming."

Orion frowns, as does his sister, "but you said you were proud of us, papa."

"I am," he says, standing from his throne as Isra sighs in his arms, "but mama is not like us, remember? She could get hurt, and your baby sibling could get hurt too."

The girl remembers something because of that. "Oh, papa!" Aurora calls, "we have something to tell you."

Dream knits his brows, "what is it?"

Aurora turns to her twin, nudging him. Orion has no clue what she is talking about. She waits a moment, makes a face, then grunts in annoyance. She decides to tell him herself, "we think mama is pregnant with twins!"

"What?!"

Orion suddenly remembers, "oh. OH! Yeah, yeah! We saw a vision about it."

Dream gulps, clutching the babe in his arms.

"Oooooooh!" Aurora calls excitedly, "I hope they're both girls!"

"NO!" Orion complains, "one of them at least has to be a boy."

"Ew no! There are enough yucky boys in this family."

"You're yucky!"

"YOU'RE YUCKY!"

"YOU'RE LITERALLY A BUGGER!"

"EW!" Aurora shoves Orion, "YOU'RE PEE!"

Orion cringes, "WELL YOU'RE POOP!"

Dream rubs his face, internally planning the best way to break the whole 'carrying twins news'. He releases a breath.

"Children," the king calls, "are you sure of your vision or is it just twin propaganda?"

[meadowziplines]

#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.

[undiscovered-horizon]

hello, could i request a part 3 of the one-shot you wrote about corinthiano having a crush on Dream's s/o

Lucienne asked Morpheus what rumors were circulating that made him have Corinthian eyes on the queen? I want to know how Morpheus would react?

[PART 1] | [PART 2]

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

Bizarrely, Lucienne looked over her shoulder before approaching Dream. The throne room was empty, as always, but this time, with the newly-found knowledge, she couldn't help the whispers of suspicion clouding her judgement. Yes, the chateau simply reeked of nothingness but did it really? There, in the corner, right where no one bothers to look, was it actually a shadow or a set of prying eyes?

"I wanted to inquire about the rumours, lord Morpheus," she spoke quietly. Strange - it wasn't like the walls of the palace had ears or anything close to that.

His thoughtful gaze lifted to look at her. "What rumours?"

"About your spouse, my lord?" she coaxed. Morpheus remained silent, his eyebrows only knitting closer together. Assuming that it was part of the facade, Lucienne sighed as she decided to reveal her cards. "I heard there's possible... animosity among creatures of Dreaming. I came to ask if there was anything I could do."

Still sitting on the hardly comfortable steps, Dream straightened his back. Lucienne knew something was afoot when he intertwined his hands. "Who told you that?"

"I stumbled on Corinthian, when-"

"Where is he?" he cut her off. Morpheus rose to his feet, his demeanour suddenly changing. His shadow twitched and curved. Lucienne's eyebrows raised. If she wasn't so baffled about the abrupt shift, she might have retorted something equally challenging.

"I don't know." Her voice came off absent. "Is everything alright?"

"No, Lucienne," he nearly gritted through his teeth. "Nothing's right. He thinks he can lay hands on something that can never belong to him."

Without further explanation, Morpheus marched through his palace. The echo of his rushed footsteps sounded nearly sinister and soon enough he had disappeared around a corner. Lucienne's eyes lingered on the hall in which the king had disappeared. After a moment of tense silence and no sign of his return, she decided to carry on with her duties: whatever avalanche she had accidentally started, she was sure to hear its climax and conclusion as soon as they happen.

At the same time, you were happily strolling through a meticulously cared-for garden - unaware of your husband's frantic search for you. The day was absolutely gorgeous, without clouds or a cold wind. It seemed that early spring had arrived in Dreaming, too.

Taking a deep breath, you could smell the faint aroma of nature being reborn: first flowers were blooming, bees and butterflies shyly peeked out of their winter hideouts. A sparrow flew past, her flight high and proud, unafraid of rain as it was nowhere in sight. Small, forest critters run threw the neatly kept shrubbery in the gardens, making the shaped hedges shake slightly. With timidness that befits all that is genuine and innocent, nature was waking up from its winter slumber.

"Thank you for coming with me, Corinthian." Affectionately, you gently squeezed his arm. It was adorably old-school of him to offer it to you while going for a walk; it was one of those times when you could notice Morpheus's essence in his own creations. He was akin to an artist, leaving their characteristic quirk in each of the works, not always on purpose.

"The pleasure's all mine, your majesty."

A heavy sigh left your lips. The spring, the 'rebirth' of the world, Corinthian's sweet persona... It was all awfully nice but it wasn't exactly what you wanted. Although it might sound crude, this whole situation was like buying knock-off pralines which taste only reminds one of how much different the original is. I wonder what he's doing, you thought. Perhaps he'll be done soon. But that was merely wishful thinking.

"Is something the matter?"

Corinthian's voice shook you out of your own pondering. The sudden call to reality nearly made you trip over your own feet but he was quicker, protectively putting his arm in front of you - ready to embrace your waist should you lose your balance. Perhaps, he even wanted you to.

You looked at him but your gaze fell equally fast. A pang of embarrassment hit your ribs. It wasn't exactly nice of you to spend time with someone all the while thinking about another. Corinthian deserved to have his efforts appreciated. Despite that, your heart continued to yearn. "I know he's busy and that if he could choose, he'd spent time with me but I can't help it..."

At that moment, it was difficult to believe that it wasn't you who had no eyes. There he was, right in front of you, literally risking his neck just to be in your presence, putting aside his supposed duties to make sure you're not sad and alone. At the same time, you're wondering about a man who gives you his attention only when it's convenient for him. How noble of a king.

"I'm afraid I can't relate but I do understand. You just miss your beloved." The word nearly made him audibly gag. How could you not see this whole perplexity for what it truly was: that you were settling? What demon had to possess you at some point to make you humbly accept mere scraps?

One of them would create a whole world for you while the other would gladly burn a world if only you asked. And perhaps that has made all the difference.

"I should probably talk to Morpheus about that but I know that there simply isn't much he can do about this," you spoke while continuing your walk. Noticing that you were staring at the ground beneath your feet and not the blooming saffron, Corinthian's chest tightened uncomfortably. He relaxed his hand when he noticed he had been holding it clenched into a fist. "He'll only worry, you know how he is. He's got enough on his plate as it is."

Yes, a disagreement would be quite convenient... But could he actually do it? Promote himself from a stranger in the audience to one of the pieces on the board? Actually, it was a little too late to ponder that and Corinthian realized it only at that moment. He was falling down a chasm and as it befits a freefall - he was only gaining speed. Some part of him, however, wished not to stop.

"That's generous of you," the nightmare praised. A strange thing to happen, truly.

With a soft smile on your face, you looked up at him. It was obvious he was trying his best to better your sour mood. Honestly, the sole thought of his effort made you happier. No matter how awful he was supposed to be by design, he cared. Perhaps his insidious design made that all the more heart-touching. "You really know all the right words to say, Corinthian."

"A vice I must accept."

The joke elicited a giggle from you. Although it was a short burst of happiness, he basked in it like a contented lizard soaking in the sunlight. You were to him as spring is to the world, shaking him awake from the bitterness of winter.

These seconds of careless bliss made both of you miss the sound of steadily approaching footsteps. The day of judgement must always come.

"Corinthian," Morpheus called out in a low, stern voice. His skinny face and thick eyebrows already gave him a strict appearance but at the moment, some inexplicable shadow made him look nearly sombre. "I need to speak with you. Leave us, my love." It was an order, not a question.

The nightmare continued to smile despite his days being counted. He was unsure who he wanted to fool more: himself or the Lord of Dreams. After all, both of them could tell he reeked of fear.

_____ A/N: Been going through some kind of fanfic allergy. Can't read them or write them. At the same time, I've been feeling more inspired and/or motivated to write more of my original stuff so here's a snippet of "Before dark falls":

But she's not sad anymore. She's staring into the red-orange flame consuming the wood and the corpse. In some twisted osmosis, that same fire starts within her. It bites into her sore muscles, warms cold bones. Wreathes inside her chest, blowing apart her lungs and ribs, whispering disgusting deeds unknown even to the gods of war. Líadan is furious. She demands revenge.

[hobicomeholla29]

Slumber - One Shot - OSH

Pairing: Businessman! Sehun x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count:1.4k

Warnings: none

Rating: PG-13

A/N: As always, this was reviewed and edited in the middle of the night lol so please bear with me if you see any mistakes or typos.

Summary: Sehun is always traveling and you're both, for the most part, used to it, but there is always the craving for each other that never goes away.

♡♡♡♡

When did you fall asleep? You couldn’t recall… not even the feeling of sleepiness registered in your memories, yet consciousness returning to you is what reminded you of your current state.

At some point last night, you had fallen asleep while waiting for your fiancé to return.

You hoped to stay up until his arrival, yet the weight of the day’s events had quickly sold you out to tiredness without your consent.

This business trip had been one of the longest ones he’s ever had, and it had been announced out of the blue too.

Not sure of how long it had been since you’d fallen asleep, all you could now focus on was the warmth that embraced your entire being. You wanted to think that the fluffy white duvet you bought two months ago was to thank for the pleasant feeling, yet you didn’t have the energy to go clear your doubts.

Even though sleep was nice, something within you fought for awakening, your mind reaching towards the present with urgency.

Your senses were overwhelmed as they perceived everything a little bit clearer than before, capturing the low hum of the A/C that almost lulled you back into Morpheus’ lair.

Soft peppering on your shoulder kept you in the now, an easy pattern forming on your skin. Shoulders, back, neck and repeat, a delicious feeling that engulfed your senses to the max of its capacities.

You sighed in contentment as goosebumps rose, covering the areas receiving such sensual ministrations. You involuntarily shivered and your toes curled in the process, you were sure that the rays of sunlight on your body couldn’t have caused all this havoc.  

In the back of your mind, a reminder played, since you fell asleep without notice, you had slept with your hair untied, which meant that the braids you had gotten done were probably all messy now, it was a bummer that after such a long time, he would have to see you with your hair in such state.

Unconscious of your actions, you felt some type of guilt and rose a hand over your head to pat down the possible loose strands of curly hair, however, something else occupied the spot as if sensing your thought process before you could act. The haze of sleep kept you confused about your surroundings, but you were certain that the sensation was of a warm palm stroking your hair.

It felt nice...safe and the caress caused your body to move on its own, your head nudging the warmness above it.

A sound similar to a deep chuckle came from behind you, a rumble that reverberated from your back through the rest of your body, that’s when you really started to awaken.

The warmth that surrounded you came in the shape of a strong arm around your waist, a gentle hand accompanying it as it caressed your stomach in an up and down motion.

The humming of the A/C was not alone, as a raspy voice accompanied it to lull you back to sleep.

And then you realized that the peppering sensation came from soft lips, lips that left trails of warm kisses on your skin, lips that brought you to your senses, lips that only meant one thing…

With newfound energy from your non-planned nap and a strong will to see who you hoped for so long, you turned your body around in his embrace, just as you felt him throw his long leg over your body.

"You're home" was all you could form, grogginess from sleep seeping into your voice, but you needed to know if this was real or if you were still in dreamland.

"I am" He stated, as he once again ran a hand over your unruly hair. The hoarseness of his voice telling you that he had probably been asleep too.

He absentmindedly played with your hair, and it brought back memories of when he had confessed that he loved your curls. Even when they were uncontrollable due to encounters with pillows, he knew how much you stressed over getting your hair done, but to him it was just as  beautiful when you’d just let it be.

Eyes still closed, you buried your face in his chest and he chuckled once more at your cute reaction. You could hear the deep rumble coming directly from his chest, fully awake now, you could enjoy the sound much more.

"I missed you too baby" he said as he kissed your temple and caressed your sides. "Wanna go have breakfast together?" he asked hopefully.

The moment he had landed, he wanted to do everything with you, for you. You had offered to pick him up, but he couldn’t do that to you, not when his flight landed at 3am, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to see you fast and do everything slow, just so it would last.

You ran his question through your mind for a minute, balancing out being here or there, yet the answer was simple, you wanted to enjoy him just a bit more, just you two, no one around and no distractions.

"No..." With the amount of time you took to finish your answer, he probably thought you had fallen asleep again do you answered "I wanna stay here in bed...cuddling…with you" You were mumbling now, closer to sleep than you had thought, but he knew, you were always a bit of a sleepyhead.

"Ok" he said sweetly, caressing your cheek, wishing you would open your eyes just for a second, to see the sparkling brown orbs he’d missed so much.

It had been a long time since he'd been able to see your face to face, work keeping him away from you for far too long.

Wanting to be a little selfish, for just a few seconds, he nudged your nose with his in an attempt to get your attention a bit longer. And just before he gave up and gave into your wants, as he wished for so hard, your sleepy eyes opened, only for him to cherish.

You stared at him in confusion, a small pout playing on your lips as well, his eyes scanned over your face, studying every detail he had missed for so long.

He inched closer to your face and kissed your temple at first, then moved to your eyelids to check if so he could get his fill of you, but he still wasn’t satisfied, and he wasn’t able to hold back, so he pressed his lips to yours and they were as soft as you remembered them, sweet in flavor, they made it easy for you return his affection.

Your hands found their way to his chest, relishing the feeling of finally having him under your fingers. You missed him so much, your actions weren’t yours anymore and as his tongue parted your lips effortlessly, you both sighed in content, putting all your built-up emotions in this moment. It was slow, languid, and filled with passion, he didn’t have to be away from you now.

He held your neck to keep you in place, enjoying you like it was the first time.

He pulled away shortly after, a smile on his lips. He didn’t want to wake you to the point where you wouldn't be able to get back to your slumber, so he settled for caressing your curls once more, but not before planting a final kiss on your forehead.

His eyes bore into yours, pure adoration for you in them. He lied to himself, he did want keep you awake and savor every waking moment with you before he had to leave once more, but he had to endure for now, since his reward for these short hurtful times apart would be much better. He would be able to wake up to you like this every day, take care of you like you deserved, he would fulfill that desire, no doubts about it. Just a couple more trips overseas and he’ll be able to give you the world, he promised.

"I love you" he said to your now droopy eyes.

"I love you too, Sehun" you mumbled before giving in to sleep. This was happiness, you were his happiness… but for now he had to wait until you were awake to shower you with his love, so for the time being, he wrapped both of you under the white duvet and let you both surrendered to slumber in each other’s embrace.

“Good night baby”

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 8: the vigil, pt. 1 | 3.3 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Gadling summons Death for a..."friendly" chat.)

In the dark, Hob poured himself a drink. Downed it. Poured another.

It was an old scotch that flowed from an old, dust-stained bottle as Richmond slumbered beyond the frosted window, blanketed in winter’s silence. And as he raised the fiery amber to his lips, he spoke an old, old language naught heard in centuries, spoken now only by himself and the dead.

“I know you can hear me,” he said and rooted himself in the burn as he swallowed. “Show yourself.”

There came the sound of wings and then eerie stillness.

“Hello, Hob.” A pause. “I like the new beard.”

Hob was about to start throwing dinnerware again.

“You like the—that’s what you have to say to me?! After everything?” The silhouette in the once-empty window met his ire easily as he rose from the chair beside Morpheus’ bed, still covered in the man’s blood and filth. His glass tumbler struck the coffee table like a judge’s gavel. “Explain. Now.”

The shadow followed his pointing, rock-steady hand to the sofa bed, and quiet reigned, save for the thud of Death’s boots as she passed from the snow-blurred glow of the streetlights into the room’s undisturbed dark.

Hob watched her come and tried not to break out in a cold sweat.

“What I said the last time we met was true,” she said and tilted her head to make out details of her once-brother’s face in the night as she neared. “The wake, the funeral—it was all real.” She met Hob’s eyes once more as she stopped an arm’s length away. He barely stifled the urge to step back. She seemed so much denser, so much sharper, so much colder than she had at the Faire.

She looked like her brother once had.

“The Dream of the Endless you knew is dead,” she promised and indicated the person buried beneath blankets, clothes, and ice packs. “That…is his second chance.”

She made to quietly pass Hob, to take a closer look at the bed herself, only to stumble back with a startled grunt as Hob’s palm slammed into her shoulder and shoved her away.

“Second chance?!” he seethed. His hand had gone numb, fading fast all up his arm, and he put it out of his mind like a deer staring down headlights. “You lot call that a second chance?!”

Death glared. When she stepped forward again, this time bearing down on Hob, he met her as she came.

“Do not raise your voice with me, Robert Gadling,” she warned.

“Oh no.” Hob shook his head; his lip curled in disdain. Stupid. Arrogant. Hiding his terror behind ill-earned belligerence as he always had, asking for it as he always had. “You get no goodwill from me this night.”

He was taller than Death. Broader than Death. Here, now, standing toe to toe with her, he was looking down into her face. His hand could encircle her wrist easily, though she clearly sported muscles of her own. She’d put up a fight, but victory would, in the end, be his. He had killed with his own hands before people of her size. It was easy, she…

…she with those bottomless eyes lined with black and with shadows that spread behind her like breathing lungs or wings shifting in wait.

How could he be so much smaller than something in this shape?

He gritted his teeth. His fingers ground against one another in their pale-knuckled fists; his thundering heart and the thirst for fight it carried on every beat sang in his ears.

Gwen was in the bedroom. Gwen was in the bedroom.

He had to stop. Now, while he still could.

“What did you do to him?” he ground out.

Death side-stepped him with deliberate care and held their eye contact as long as possible until she passed him by entirely in favor of Morpheus—just to make it abundantly clear to the man that she could do as she wished and there was nothing Gadling could do about it.

“We gave him life,” she answered. “Free from function, from obligation, from the family.” Her once-brother shivered and wheezed on the makeshift bed. Her lips pressed into a fine, grim line. “We gave him the freedom to write his own story, like he always wanted.” She shook her head, and her final words tasted as bitter as they sounded. “He chose this.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hob returned, closing the space between them again. “No one chooses this, I didn’t choose this—”

Death laughed, cold and sepulchral, and touched a hand to her forehead as her mouth twisted into a torn sort of smile. “My brother is not you, Hob.”

His jaw clicked shut. Death’s hand passed from the plane of her brow deep into her hair, and she sniffed a couple times as she fussed with her curls.

“We gave him what he truly wanted. He,” she pointed to Morpheus, “decided to wallow in his pride rather than face what was given to him. To take the easy way out, again. To give up.” Her eyes glittered. Hob found it hard just to swallow past the lump in his throat; to look at his friend would have been impossible. “He doesn’t get to do that, not anymore. Not after Nada, not after Orpheus, not after Hope, not after the Halls.”

Those names were not his to know, Hob knew. Not like this.

He memorized them all the same, filing each away in that part of him that collected things he would have been better off forgetting. Things like Lord Morpheus. Dream of the Endless. Oneiros. The King of Dreams and Nightmares. The King of Cats, too, apparently. Every honorific, every title spoken at that funeral now festered in his mind, and these new names joined them in that lockbox of contraband knowledge.

He wrenched his attention to his Stranger’s tortured form as Death recovered her usual self, from that vague smile to that even, lecturing-big-sister tone of hers to boot.

“I gave him your gift. Nothing more, nothing less,” she explained. “He chose to do this with it. And I’ll not let him shirk the lesson.”

The living corpse slumbered fitfully on, none the wiser to the conversation of comparable gods above him. Hob’s gut turned with that same, sickening twist, that hot poker of guilt and disquiet that severed and seared even as it drove deeper within him.

But I asked for the gift.

“You brought him back without his consent—”

“I did it with his consent.”

“The new him doesn’t count,” Hob hissed.

Death was unmoved. She regarded him with something close to chastising pity in her shadowed face.

“There’s no new and old, Hob,” she chided, no less firm for the kindness of her correction. “They’re one and the same—a semicolon in an ongoing sentence.”

If that’s so, how’s there two of them? Hob wanted to bite back. His teeth cut into the edge of his tongue instead, his jaw tightening and grinding in spasms of muscle and bone.

“Well,” he managed after a time, as frosted as the windowpanes. “Seems he’s changed his mind.”

“He hasn’t even stopped to consider what this is,” she returned, and Hob recognized the stance she was adopting from his students as they prepared to dig in on a point—that plant of the feet, the shift of the weight, the square of the shoulders as the hands came up to emphasize the voice. “I know I’m preaching to the choir on this, but life sucks sometimes. We fuck up, and we hurt people, and we do the unspeakable.”

God’s wounds, but her eyes were black holes, drawing him in and consuming all until there was nothing but this moment, her words, and the space between them. Morpheus was forgotten; Gwen was no more. There was only them and the truth only they knew.

“But we don’t get to just wipe our hands of it all and walk away from the consequences. I left him with the Prodigal, you know? I figured if anyone could help him through this, it’d be the one of the family who walked away from it all to live his own life. Morpheus,” she indicated her once-brother, pulling him into the vortex of an existence that was this argument, “refused him. So, then the Prodigal left him in Richmond Green. Near the New Inn.” She paused, just to ensure the words were sinking into the man’s thick skull opposite her. “Near you.”

Hob swallowed. His eyes burned; he dared not blink and blamed it on the hearth’s smoke.

“He…chose…this.”

This. Starving, freezing, burning. Wasting away under elements as uncaring as gravity and the turn of the Earth. Dying endlessly of a thirst easily slaked. Drilling his bones through his own skin from within not because movement was prohibited but because he couldn’t be bothered to move, raising a Petrie dish of infection and disease within his veins and lungs like devoted husbandry when all he had to do was go to a pub he’d been to before and ask after Gadling…

He chose this.

Hob’s iron will, that righteous, self-important indignation worthy of the stained-glass portraits high upon the walls of cathedrals, guttered like a candle.

Death watched the shift in him with exhausted eyes that assured him she knew his grief well, consoled him that his sudden uncertainty and distress was well-trod territory.

“You called my brother a coward, once.” The wind howled against the glass. Hob’s hand curled at his side. His fingers dug in on themselves, his grip tightening on the invisible, as he watched Morpheus burn from the inside out in self-immolation. The blizzard deepened. “You were more right than you knew.”

Hm, Hob Gadling said as he still refused to blink and focused oh so carefully on breathing.

For some time, hm was all there was to say. All the while, Death waited, patient in the dark.

“Will you ever take your gift back from him?” Hob eventually asked.

Death’s hands clasped, held loosely together at her lap by laced, black-nailed fingertips.

“If he learns the lesson and still wants to end, then yes,” she answered, “I will take it back. But no sooner.”

Hob took in the sunken cheeks, the skeletal eyes, counted the ribs he could see beneath the ice packs and the shuddering, rapid-fire breaths that stretched the skin between each fragile bone. He counted every jut, every hollow, mapped out the overwrought existence that should not be that currently suffered in his home. Death followed his attention and nodded to herself, glancing to her feet.

“Tell my little brother it’s time to quit the tantrum and get to work.”

Hob listened to her footfalls as they drew slowly away and bit his cheek in a flash of copper.

“Your whole family’s fucked.”

Death stopped. She stared at the window ahead as the worst snowstorm Richmond-upon-Thames had seen in a century raged frigidly on. She counted the flurries and the hands her various aspects reached for amid its cold: the forgotten, the unlucky, the despised…the ones who had burned one too many bridges as they fell so spectacularly between the cracks of the world and now paid the highest price it could demand.

“Why do you think we all eventually leave?” she returned in a soft voice that was impossible to read. “But I’m the big sister.” Death met Robert Gadling’s eyes over her shoulder, her face a back-lit shadow haloed by the streetlight’s glow as it refracted upon a million flakes of ice, softened by her hair’s concealing volume.

Her breath spilled in a fog from her lips, like a phantom’s sigh.

“I always leave last.”

And there came a pulse of a moment, a pause between the breaths, a skip in-between the beating of his heart’s chambers, when Hob saw in the entity before him something so frighteningly common—a single slip in the mask that stripped away the inconceivable and left only the human.

He saw the eldest girl in a set of nightmarish children without parents, a daughter struggling to stand at the head of a dysfunctional family that sought to cannibalize itself in the name of reputation and entitled duty, trying with the purest of intentions to fill the role of mother while needing one herself. He saw a child abandoned, a smile that hid a loneliness, a gentle hand that was self-serving in its kindness because it learned early on there was no love to come from inside its ghastly home. Tough love, manipulative, cruel love, had been the only kindness within those walls, the only language spoken by its siblings for it was the only language spoken by the parents. And try though she might have to bring the love of the outside world to those inside, to this day that callousness remained the only understood tongue among those abandoned, damned children.

And Hob understood.

Horribly, he understood.

“I do sincerely wish him the best,” she whispered. “He…” She chewed her lip, lingering for a final time upon the blankets and ice packs. “He was always my favorite. Good luck, Hob Gadling. We’ll meet again.”

There came a rush of wings and a sudden shadow as something outside passed before the streetlamp, and Hob Gadling let out a shuddering, long-held breath as the light returned and he found himself alone. He sagged forward to plant his hands on his own knees with a groan and gulped down air as if he’d just run a marathon. His body trembled; a cold sweat broke upon every inch of skin, and his spine both crawled and numbed, the bewildering clash of sensations spreading along his nerves like a freezing fire.

“Gwen,” he called—gasped? Whispered? He couldn’t be sure. His ears rang. “We’re clear.”

The bedroom door creaked open at a glacial pace, and Hob glanced at it as he straightened up, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair and trying to school his racing heart back to calm.

Gwen peered about the living room, her high school baseball bat clenched in her hands and cocked at the ready.

Hob blinked. And a slow, delighted grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Were you planning to hit her? With that?”

Gwen eyed her bat and faltered as she crossed the threshold, torn between maintaining her defense and recognizing the ridiculous futility of it all.

“I…um.”

Hob laughed, low and long and smiling all the while, and went to meet her.

“God, I love you,” he grinned and reached for her mighty weapon.

She rolled her eyes and let him grab the bat with one hand while the other went to her hip.

“Shut up,” she huffed.

He kissed her deeply, pulling her close by the small of her back, and then marveled at the bat in his grasp.

“Planning to clobber her of all things with a bat—”

“I said shut up!” She snatched it back, swatting him in the gut with it, and he laughed as he fumbled playfully for the length of wood until she relented.

His grin softened to a quiet, sincere smile that in time eroded away to exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled in much the same way and gave him another softer, more fleeting kiss. “This is just the start, y’know?”

He sighed and drew her along into the living room with an arm around her waist and the bat hanging at his side.

“I know.”

“Should we take shifts watching over him?”

“Nah, love.” Hob pressed one last kiss to her temple and handed the bat back to her as they arrived at Morpheus’ bed. “He doesn’t know you, and I suspect a strange face in the middle of the night would go poorly for you both right now.”

She caught his chin as he moved to sit at his Stranger’s side, and Hob stilled as he allowed her to turn his head gingerly to and fro, examining the wounds their feral houseguest had dealt him in the tub.

“You’re already scabbing over,” she murmured. Her thumb swept over the deepest scratches, and only the barest twinge of pain registered along his weathered skin. Gwen sighed, and Hob almost leaned after her hand as her touch fell from him. “Here’s hoping he heals as fast as you.”

“Yeah…here’s hoping.” He squeezed her hand and tipped his head toward their room. “Go shower and get to bed, love. I’ve got this.”

She squeezed back and pulled away, Robbie’s touch drawing out as long as possible as his fingers caught along hers all the while.

“Don’t forget to call off work on Monday,” she warned as she retired. “Probably the whole week, if we’re being honest.”

Something clunked behind Hob’s harried eyes, something in that overwrought brain of his grinding and breaking altogether.

“Shit,” he blurted. “Final exams.” Gwen sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “They’re on Wednesday, and I haven’t got a TA—”

“Robbie.” She held up her hands to stem the flood of frantic words about to pour from his mouth as the remembrance of the rest of the world and his fragile existence within it collapsed atop his head. “We’ll handle it. Just…” She gestured helplessly to their living room, “buy what time you can.”

“Yeah.” He ran his hands through his hair again and grounded himself in the spikes of pain where he passed over the wounds from Morpheus’ nails. “Thanks.” She headed for the bathroom, and he called softly after her. “Gwen!”

She paused and turned back to him.

“I love you,” he said.

His chest ached with the depth of it. His eyes shone. Gwen smiled back, tender and soft.

“I know. Love you, too.”

The door clicked shut after her, the water began to run, and only the Immortal and his Stranger remained. Hob fetched the rejected bowl of soup from the kitchen island, forgoing a new spoon in favor of a couple more chunks of bread as any self-respecting soup-enjoyer knew to do and settled into the armchair beside his friend. He pulled one of the throw blankets from the basket between them over his legs and drew his socked feet up onto the thick upholstery. And as he finally allowed his body to relax, his aching muscles slowly losing their tension and his frayed nerves finally hitting the wall to collapse in bits on the floor, he poked at his meal.

It had since gone cold, but it was a puréed thing that Hob knew from centuries of experience would taste just fine either way. As he dipped the bread into the soup and brought it to his lips, he hesitated. He looked to Morpheus, to the shock of dark hair and the increasingly restful face that peaked from beneath it, replaying in his mind his earlier, abysmal effort to feed the man. He recalled touching the bread to those fragile, split lips, that very bit of bread that he now held at the ready before his own mouth.

He recalled dreams from centuries past…natural things, hungry things that had filled his darkest nights and kept him company through those loneliest hours.

He touched to his mouth that which had touched his, bit down, and did not look away.

He’d been right. The soup was just as good cold.

He made quick work of the rest of it before setting the emptied bowl aside on the table and shifted again in the armchair, pillowing his head on the backrest and his own arm until he was half-curled, half-draped in the chair with a clear view of his unconscious companion. The hearth continued to crackle and burn at his back, casting the room with shadows and soul-warming oranges and golden-yellows. And he allowed sleep to tug at him like an insistent child, lulling him into darkness. His Friend, his Stranger, was alive.

He was safe.

There was nothing more to do tonight than allow what came next to pass.

Lulling turned to drifting turned to plummeting like a stone, and Hob Gadling succumbed to the call of dreams.

[theseancekid]

lcsthings​:

@theseancekid / starter call.

DESPITE WHAT SOME BELIEVE, Morpheus allows dreamers as much privacy as can be afforded. Some of the matters seen in slumber are intimate, painful, and pleasurable — of which he has no right to view. But sometimes he feels a pull to otherwise mundane wanderings only to find a tear in his land. Small though it may be, the potential for it to grow & cause an even greater disturbance is not a chance he’s willing to take. Again. The situation surrounding Daniel Hall is not something he wishes to experience once more.

THIS IS WHY THIS DREAM IN PARTICULAR INTERESTS HIM. Mediums have the ability to connect with the dead; it is an ability that has fascinated him long before his sister explained its occurrence ( & that she had found the whole idea charming, something he didn’t understand — but then again, Death was always a mystery even to her brother ). But their power is only something they can manipulate in the waking world, as the dreaming is his realm & has no place for the dead. Only powerful Mediums can pull the spirit of lost ones into their slumbering, a rare incident that causes more trouble than it’s worth.

THIS WAS NO DIFFERENT. Klaus Hargreeves dreams of his past lover. It is a bittersweet recreation of memories, old longings long since buried. But where most only remember, it appears the spirit of David Katz has been pulled from his rest to ease the ache this boy could not soothe. Whether he knew it or not, David was imprisoned here. No matter how happy the spirit may appear, the dead are not meant to walk, even in dreams. “Klaus Hargreeves,” he calls, a voice that echoes along the bar walls, the occupants that writhe & fling their bodies in dance all ceasing their movements & falling eerily still. A moment later, they are gone, leaving it empty save for the scrawny form of Klaus & the looming figure of Dream standing before him. “You are harming the natural order of the dreaming. The dead do not belong.”

EYES, A SLIT OF SILVER IN AN EXPANSE OF DARK MATTER, FALL UPON THE STILL FORM OF DAVID KATZ.“By intention or not, you’ve pulled this spirit from its rest. Whatever you think he is, he is not the same as you remember.” Should this entity stay here it, it would not only become corrupt, a horror worthy of nightmares but also taint this very realm. He couldn’t allow that. “You must revoke him. Send him back to where he belongs. Would you deny your lover peace?”

     Dave’s blue-speckled eyes look so pretty in the amber light. They always look pretty, but especially so right now— especially so when they’re fixed on Klaus. He’s saying something inconsequential over the boom of music and his words a slurred with crappy booze and the palm of his hand feels fucking huge when it comes up to cup the side of his face, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he nuzzles into it for a moment, feels the scratchy callouses from months of scraping through the jungle brush. He’s still gentle, though. It feels impossible, the way those hands slide over the side of his face, down his jaw and over his neck, as if Klaus is the most precious thing on this earth. 

He can hear the echo of his laughter as the room blossoms in bright bursts of yellow and orange, like a slow moving sunset across their skin. And it’s Dave, finally, who gathers the courage to lean in for a kiss. It was always Dave. 

He pulls Klaus close, and even after all this time Klaus doesn’t move, can’t comprehend that someone like Dave really truly wants him. He’s paralyzed, overwhelmed, blindsided by the undeniable reality that this kind, funny, beautiful man likes me, and I like him too. But Dave’s lips are soft, and the music is soft, and everything is soft, just like he remembers. He could live in this moment forever, curled up in the comfort of Dave’s arms and shielded against the noise and the chaos and the cruelty of the outside world forever. 

Klaus Hargreeves. 

And somehow just like that, the moment is shattered. The booming call of his name strikes some primal fear right in his core, and he whips around to find its source. Confusion, rage, disbelief all give way under the crushing weight of terror that washes over him as he suddenly finds himself face to face with the dark stranger. 

Klaus can’t quite comprehend what he’s saying, but there’s something that hardens in him, something that makes him step in front of Dave as soon as those dark eyes are set on his lover.

“What the hell are you talking about, he isn’t dead! He isn’t...he isn’t...” There’s a sinking feeling as soon as the words are out of his mouth and suddenly he’s filled with knowing, with a dread older than time itself. The memories flood in one unrelenting wave— the rattling hail of gunfire, the mud crusting over his tired limbs, the very last rasping breath leaving Dave’s lips as Klaus gripped his body with a sob.

He knows what he’ll see as soon as he turns around, but he does it anyway, and his heart fucking aches as soon as he catches sight of his Davey, who is just a little more pale than before. Soft pink lips are now turning blue, and as his shirt begins to dampen with a crimson pool, Klaus is at his side in an instant, trembling hands petting over his cold, cold flesh. “HeyheyHEY, stay with me, Dave, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not...I’m not leaving you, I can’t leave you again, please, PLEASE stay with me...” But even as he says it, he can feel Dave beginning to fade, like a gentle breeze, slipping through Klaus’ fingers each time he tries to catch onto him.

"NO!” he lunges at the stranger, vision blurred by tears, muscles aching to rip into something. “That’s not fucking FAIR, you can’t take him! GIVE HIM BACK, YOU BASTARD!”

@theseancekid / starter call.

DESPITE WHAT SOME BELIEVE, Morpheus allows dreamers as much privacy as can be afforded. Some of the matters seen in slumber are intimate, painful, and pleasurable — of which he has no right to view. But sometimes he feels a pull to otherwise mundane wanderings only to find a tear in his land. Small though it may be, the potential for it to grow & cause an even greater disturbance is not a chance he’s willing to take. Again. The situation surrounding Daniel Hall is not something he wishes to experience once more.

THIS IS WHY THIS DREAM IN PARTICULAR INTERESTS HIM. Mediums have the ability to connect with the dead; it is an ability that has fascinated him long before his sister explained its occurrence ( & that she had found the whole idea charming, something he didn’t understand — but then again, Death was always a mystery even to her brother ). But their power is only something they can manipulate in the waking world, as the dreaming is his realm & has no place for the dead. Only powerful Mediums can pull the spirit of lost ones into their slumbering, a rare incident that causes more trouble than it’s worth.

THIS WAS NO DIFFERENT. Klaus Hargreeves dreams of his past lover. It is a bittersweet recreation of memories, old longings long since buried. But where most only remember, it appears the spirit of David Katz has been pulled from his rest to ease the ache this boy could not soothe. Whether he knew it or not, David was imprisoned here. No matter how happy the spirit may appear, the dead are not meant to walk, even in dreams. “Klaus Hargreeves,” he calls, a voice that echoes along the bar walls, the occupants that writhe & fling their bodies in dance all ceasing their movements & falling eerily still. A moment later, they are gone, leaving it empty save for the scrawny form of Klaus & the looming figure of Dream standing before him. “You are harming the natural order of the dreaming. The dead do not belong.”

EYES, A SLIT OF SILVER IN AN EXPANSE OF DARK MATTER, FALL UPON THE STILL FORM OF DAVID KATZ. “By intention or not, you’ve pulled this spirit from its rest. Whatever you think he is, he is not the same as you remember.” Should this entity stay here it, it would not only become corrupt, a horror worthy of nightmares but also taint this very realm. He couldn’t allow that. “You must revoke him. Send him back to where he belongs. Would you deny your lover peace?”

[the-darklings]

❛ if i kissed you, i don’t think i’d be able to stop. ❜ for dream/wanderer please ✨

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader (wanderer)

wc: 791

notes: used up the last prompt from my initial reblog, so keep an eye out in the future since I might reblog another list. for now, enjoy some Sexual TensionTM and playfulness between the duo.

dream & wanderer series: part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

Morpheus doesn’t enjoy games. He doesn’t permit himself childish fancies for idle amusement, suitable only for wasting time.  

His siblings—Desire, at least, though Delirium, too, no doubt—would point to him being dull. Vapid and concerned only with the state of his own affairs. It is not an altogether wrong conclusion. He places his own, their wellbeing, and the safety of his dreamers above all else. Oftentimes even himself. 

You have taught him, century by century, value in a different types of games. The tantalising, heated games of fleeting, charged stares and transient touches that leave even one such as himself… wanting.

Desire would be delighted by his blatant liability. However, it doesn’t feel much like weakness right now, following your figure several paces behind. You speak no words, heave no sighs—this is a game, and a thousand years have made you quite adept. Perhaps those early days by Desire’s side taught you much—too much—and if it weren’t for the devotion unmatched, for all those trials passed, Morpheus might find it discomforting. Even suspicious, for his sibling has meddled plenty in the past. 

“Wanderer.”

The castle is shadowed at an hour this late, with muted sounds of slumber and rest. Time passes here but does not match that of the waking world precisely. Right now, his creations rest. He senses each one, restful and at peace under his protection. 

Only one remains, he thinks wryly, eyeing you intently, drinking in the slopes and the lines of your figure. Restless and light-feeted, you push ahead steadily as the waves that lap the shores of the Dreaming, a dark coat sweeping over your figure with each step taken. Quiet pleasure reverberates through his chest at the vision. His creation. His…

“Wanderer.”

The title rumbles deeper from his chest, his fingers curling at his sides. Two weeks, walking other realms and meeting other creatures, all but absent from here. You greeted him earlier with a light peck to his cheek—there and gone in a blink, and now an entire day has stretched by and…

“Is something wrong, Lord Morpheus?”

Your words are light and impishly innocent, and Morpheus warps from one step to another, cutting distance through raw matter making up the Dreaming. What Morpheus so painstakingly moulded by hand and will so long ago, it’s hard to remember what or who he was back then. Before you.  

His arm settles around your waist, loose but unyielding, halting you both in a sweep of causal power that leaves you shuddering in his embrace. 

“Lord Morpheus?” he echos, quietly displeased. “Since when?”

You don’t turn or shift in his hold, and this steely patience might as well be his older brother, Destiny, for it is equally impressive and... frustrating. The silent corridor is barren apart from you and him, and Morpheus tightens his hold marginally, sensing the steady warmth from your body seeping into his own. His head lowers, breathing deep, his mouth settling lightly on your shoulder. 

“I missed you, Dream,” you say quietly, and his breathing slows, listening attentively. “I always miss you. Each second I’m away.”

You spin in his hold unhurriedly, his head lifting from your shoulder. He leans his head closer be face to face with you. Your breath fans his lips, warm and sweet, and Morpheus’ fingers sink a little deeper, a little more greedy and intent. Your mouth ghosts over his chin, your nose skims his cheek, and his eyelids flutter close. 

Patience. It’s about patience, and Morpheus is old; he has it in abundance. He knows this game.

Your words are a loving murmur, “Would you kiss me, Dream?”

“If I kissed you,” he rasps. “I do not think I’d be able to stop, stardust.”

For you are a great many things, but his self-control is tested by your mere presence. And why should he deny himself lips sweeter or more loving than yours? The love he senses in your smiles and touch alone are enough to mangle him. After so long, this. 

A velvety, lingering kiss brands the corner of his mouth. Hot, loving, piercing and all-consuming. The simplicity of it is devastating, precious. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe. 

He drags them to the side, to the shadows that chase at their heels as the Dreaming ripples, and your quiet laugh is caught in your throat, hands clinging to his shoulders and coat, body-to-body. 

“You lose,” you whisper in a sing-song voice, victorious. 

And it suits you, that victory, that glow, and for that happiness, he can bow his head. Alone, for the only one he truly needs. When it is you and him, he can afford it. 

“For you?” he breathes, grasping your face, his thumb swiping across your bottom lip. “Every time.”