#Retired Dream of the Endless

[moorishflower]

A Fridge Full of Jam

Having a bad memory day today and so I wrote it out w/Dream

Sorry fav blorbo you get to experience the Horrors

He is walking back home from the park when he gets the text from Hob.

Cottage pie for din love

Could u pick up 1 large onion + sum garlic on way home? ta

Dream looks at the message. There is a corner market between where he currently stands, stock still on the kerb, and the New Inn, where Hob currently is. He could, quite reasonably, stop there and purchase the items that Hob has requested of him.

Another message comes through as he is contemplating.

Sum tomato paste too pls

I love you!

He finds himself smiling at this last text. Hob has had many, many years to perfect shorthand of all varieties, but he has never once shortened 'I love you.' It is always the full declamatory sentence, complete with full stop or exclamation. There is something heart-rendingly lovely about it.

Dream stops at the corner market on his way back. Hob has furnished him with an identity of his own, now that he is human, complete with debit card, and money to make purchases, and a driver's license that he still hesitates to make use of.

(He once knew how to operate a car in theory, but that, along with billions of years' worth of other knowledge, is one of the things lost to him now that he is human.)

The market is not busy this time of day. Summer has come upon London, blanketing the great city in a smog of humidity and incipient rain. It is the sort of weather to drive most people indoors, where they might at least seek the relief of a fan, but Dream is not bothered. He is cold, almost always, and it is during weather such as this that he is allowed the luxury of short sleeves. During weather like this, he takes long walks in solitude, and goes to the park to feed the birds, and sometimes there are other travelers to accompany him, but more often than not he is alone.

He prefers that, some days. The crush of humanity is not nearly so pressing now that he no longer contains all of its dreams and nightmares within his own head, but it is sometimes, still, overwhelming.

Dream checks his phone. One large onion, garlic, and tomato paste. Is there anything else that they need while he is here? Strawberry jam, perhaps. He eats it on his toast each morning, so they are bound to be almost out. There is a specific garlic-parmesan salad dressing that Hob likes, and which this market happens to carry. He picks up a bottle and puts it in his basket, along with a jar of jam. Do they have crisps at home? He thinks they do, but is it the sort that he likes, or is it the sort that Hob likes? Hob prefers sharp flavours. Tomato. Salt and cider vinegar. Dream enjoys simple fare. He picks up a bag of Walkers 'roast chicken' crisps and studies it, then drops it into the bag.

He moves down the aisle.

The clouds have broken by the time he leaves the market, though not for the better. Rain patters in the gutters, dampens his hair and sticks it to his skull as Dream hurries home, a shopping bag in each hand. The New Inn is not far, but it is far enough that he is wet through when he ascends the steps to its front door, stamping his feet to knock loose any mud or debris that might cling to his boots.

"Welcome to the–oh, hullo, Dream," the hostess says. She is a petite, smart young woman named Anne. Once, he would have known her greatest fantasies. Now Dream knows that she attends university at King's, and that she had Hob for one of her professors last term, and that she is somewhere in her early twenties...and that is all. "Out doing a bit of shopping?"

"Hob is making cottage pie," he tells her. She smiles. Hob's employees – they are not technically his employees, but they all refer to themselves as such – observe his relationship with the Inn's proprietor as though they are a much-beloved television show. It is strange, to be the subject of a story in which his own opinion is entirely unwanted.

"Enjoy," Anne says, and Dream nods at her, and ascends the stairs to the second floor, which Hob has claimed as his own. The front door is unlocked, and so Dream lets himself in.

"That you, love?" he hears, floating from the kitchen. Dream follows the sound of it, stopping in the doorway. Hob is there, standing over the stovetop, a pot of water boiling and the pale, oblong shapes of several peeled potatoes bobbing about within. When he looks up, he smiles. "'Course it is, you never answer right away."

"I will endeavor to do so in future," Dream says. He sets the bags on the table and begins to unpack them, laying the items he purchased in a neat row so that he may put them away with utmost expedience. Hob temporarily disengages from the stovetop to look over his shoulder.

"Jam?" he asks, reaching around Dream's hip in order pick up the jar. "We've already got jam."

Dream peers at it. He uses it so often. Every day. He tries to think of how much had been in the jar when he had taken it out of the fridge that morning, but draws a blank. "But...I eat it every day," he says. His voice, even to his own ears, has the unpleasant texture of a whine. Plaintive. Hob takes him by the hand and leads him to the fridge.

"See?" he says, and there, in the fridge door, is not only one, but two jars of strawberry jam. One is not even opened. "Remember? You bought more a week ago."

He does not remember. It had happened a week ago. Dream stares at the jars. His hands feel very loose; he is suddenly glad that it is Hob who is holding the new (the third) jar, because he thinks if it were him he would have dropped it by now.

"I...forgot," he says. In that moment, in the aisle, it had seemed impossible that they should have enough. He uses it every day. It had not even crossed his mind that he might have already bought some earlier.

"Hey," Hob says. "Come here. It's all right, yeah? We'll find a recipe to use jam. It's fine." He puts the jar down on the counter, and Dream finds himself being drawn into a hug. The kitchen is steam-warm, and Hob smells like raw potatoes and fresh herbs. Dream presses his nose to the curve of Hob's neck and blinks back useless tears.

"I forgot," he says again. Hob runs a soothing palm up and down his spine.

"You know," Hob says, "I read something the NHS published a bit ago...about how depression affects memory? Basically, how prolonged periods of, ah, stress and anxiety can stunt how your brain makes new short term memories?"

Dream tries to tug away, but finds himself held fast. Hob's hand splays flat against the small of his back.

"It's all right," he says. "It is. You were...I mean, my memories of after Robyn died are like Swiss cheese. And you had all that great big Endlessness to rely on before, but now...it makes sense, is all I'm saying. And it's all right."

Dream makes a sound – he is not wholly certain it is a dignified sound, nor good-tempered – and this time does not try to pull away, but buries his face into Hob's clavicle.

"How do you stand it?" he asks. He means the wild swing of moods. He means the instability. He means the being human of it all. But there is no easy answer to any of these questions. The shortest, of course, is 'you just do.'

"Lists help," Hob says. "Alarms. Things like that. And sometimes you just roll with the punches." He sways to the side, hooking his fingers around the jar of strawberry jam and making room for it in the fridge door. "Sometimes you've got three jars of jam."

(Later, when they are eating their cottage pie sans tomato paste, because Dream had remembered he liked roast chicken crisps but not the final thing that Hob had asked of him, he will try to reflect on the wisdom of this. Love, he will think, is an unlocked front door, a sentence with a full stop, and a fridge full of jam.)

[signiorbenedickofpadua]

This Dream Is Over (Another Has Begun) - Read on AO3

Pairing: Dreamling

Rating: Explicit (Explicit content is skippable)

Finished length: 113-114k

Chapters: 23/23

Tags: Fishbowl Rescue, Retired Dream/Morpheus, Unity Kincaid is the new Dream of the Endless, Getting Together, Learning to be human

Summary:

The last person Dream expects to see in Burgess' basement is Hob Gadling, who has apparently been asked to consult on the restoration of the historic manor. He is pleased when his old acquaintance helps free him without a second thought, despite their past squabble, but he is horrified to realise that breaking the binding circle does nothing to return his powers to him, and that he cannot return to the Dreaming after having been released from his cage. Weak, confused, and distressingly human, he consents to being taken back to Hob's home to be cared for until he can regain his strength. When he falls asleep that night (which he should never have had need for), he finally finds his way back to his palace, only to find someone else sitting on his throne, wearing his ruby, and claiming his name as her own — Dream of the Endless.

[mimisempai]

You will always be my priority

Summary

Hob and Dream are considering the idea of having a pet. While Hob is enthusiastic, this is not quite the case for Dream.

Series : The life of a retired Lord of Dreams

On Ao3

Rating G - 609 words

"Dream, would you like for us to have a pet?

They were in the living room, as they almost always were at night, in their favorite position. Dream rested his head on Hob's lap while Hob read.

They had never discussed pets before.

"I'm not good enough for you anymore?" asked Dream in a sulky voice before he continued without giving Hob time to answer, "I mean, I can turn into a cat or even a dog, so I don't see why you would want one. Besides, a pet needs to be taken care of. With your classes and mine about to start, it would be a lot of work, wouldn't it?"

"But I wouldn't mind taking care of it, you know," Hob replied softly as he began to play with Dream's hair, his lover relaxing as always under the touch.

"But then you would have to take less care of me," Dream replied with the same pouty tone that made Hob smile fondly. 

Dream was much more open about his feelings now, and Hob really enjoyed it. Sometimes he tried to hide it a little, but most of the time he didn't hesitate to express the depth of his thoughts, even the most childish ones.

"You will always be my priority, my sweet lord, you have no reason to be jealous." Hob continued to run his fingers through Dream's hair. He honestly didn't know which of him or Dream would miss it more if he couldn't do that anymore. The gesture soothed him as well as Dream.

Dream seemed to ponder for a moment and replied gently, "I won't stop you if you really want one, but not one that wouldn't fit in our life."

Hob shook his head and said tenderly, "Dream, it doesn't work like that. You know I won't make the decision alone, and I only want a pet if you want it too. I won't force anything on you. It's together or nothing. Even for this. And if you don't want it, I won't hold it against you."

He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Dream's head.

Dream sighed, "I know, I... actually sometimes I worry that you're depriving yourself of things just to satisfy my whims when I'm not making any effort."

Hob resumed his stroking of Dream's hair and replied softly, "It's not about that at all, Dream. We're discussing it, I don't feel deprived of anything, and I'd rather you tell me clearly when you don't want something. It's a two-way street... always. I will never hesitate to tell you."

Dream relaxed again before saying, "I do want a pet, but not too big, and I want to choose its name. The only non-negotiable condition is that if we get one, and I mean us, together, you are not allowed to stop stroking my hair like that," Dream's tone was so serious that Hob found it hard to hold back a laugh.

"You really don't have to worry about that, as long as you allow it, this humble human will never get tired of stroking your beautiful hair, you'd have to cut off my arms to stop me, and even if they were cut off, I'd do it like this..."

He made Dream lie down on the couch, straddled him and leaned over Dream's neck, burying his head in the black hair, which made his lover laugh out loud. 

Yes, Dream had nothing to fear, he would always be Hob's priority.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Dreamling Masterlist here

[bisexualhobgadling]

Dream of the Endless would be a great professor, but you know what else he'd be amazing at?

Children's Librarian

Kids are full of stories. He would absolutely love to hear them and help nurture that creativity. The really young ones could be read to and have nap time. Parents would love him. Kids would love him. Hob would love him.

also it would just be really cute 😌

[illumi-nati-png]

I forgot to post this

[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

My main HC for Morpheus is he lives and just retires from the stress of being Dream.

He gets convinced to just live for himself and choose his own destiny without the expectation of his existence weighing him down.

Hob helps him, both of them moving into a cottage where they learn to coexist and Morpheus learns how to be human without the added stress of a city life.

He reads books, new ones having to be thoroughly digested rather than just instantly available in his head like a goddamn robot.

Maybe he helps Hob plant seeds and realises that it's somewhat close to breathing life into new creations and helping them grow into their desired functions, immediately addicted to the feeling of mud under his nails and stains on his clothes because he's creating a life without needing a purpose for it.

They go down to the beach, and yeah it's not like the Shores of The Dreaming but he still has his spade and bucket and by fucking Christ is he going to make the best sand castle ever, Hob, stop laughing!!

He builds and builds until he's tired and worn out and sweating pints, but there's a version of the castle - his home, even if it's not his anymore, even if it didn't feel like home, not really - standing proudly in the sand. And he stares at it, realising that the dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach is still there, but it's not as suffocating as it used to be. He's not weighed down by the unconscious minds of everyone, he gets to create for the simple pleasure of creating.

He gets to go back to the cottage, curls his feet under him and drinks hot chocolate as Hob cooks in the kitchen. Music's playing in the background as the fire roars in the hearth.

He feels safe.

He feels content.

He feels loved.

He's happy.

(And maybe a certain Angel and Demon buy a cottage close by, causing an all-out garden war between the Resident Goths on whose plants are better?? Which then creates the Annual Garden Competition. Both Hob and Azi are chilling and having cake whilst the Resident Goths are fighting over the last seedlings).

I just want the dweebs to all be happy.

Is it so much to ask for??

[hardly-an-escape]

tonight I am thinking thoughts about retired!Dream. about human Dream, weak and exhausted, dropped off on Hob Gadling's doorstep like an abandoned housecat.

I am thinking about Hob and Dream not immediately falling into bed, into a relationship, into orbit around each other. I am thinking about Hob turning his office into a spare room, teaching Dream how to be human, how to be independent, introducing him to new experiences and new people, and then basically sending him out free in the world once Dream knows enough to survive on his own. about Dream wanting this, wanting that freedom, that self-determination.

about Dream renting his own flat. cooking his own meals. choosing his own experiences, trying out everything under the sun completely on his own terms because he’s an adult with agency despite technically being less than a year old in human terms.

I’m thinking about Dream traveling. sending postcards and letters back to Hob in London from Cambodia, from Chile, from Butte, Montana. about Dream dating; about his first sexual adventures in a human body being with people he met in pubs or at the library or on Tinder. about Dream falling in reckless human love and getting his heart broken when the other person didn’t feel the same. about Dream making mistakes, making bad choices, getting hurt – never so badly that it scars him, never so deeply that it really damages him, but enough that it hurts – about Dream learning how to come to terms with that pain in his own right.

I’m thinking about Hob stepping into his role as Dream’s steadfast touchstone instead of the other way around. about Dream continually returning to the safe harbor of Hob’s care before he strikes out again on his own. I’m thinking about the patience and devotion and the longing Hob feels as he watches Dream explore; the highs and lows he experiences alongside him; how he wants Dream so fucking badly and will never, ever, push to have him until Dream comes to him of his own free will. because he will not have Dream if he feels beholden. I’m thinking about the iron lid Hob has to clamp down on his own desire, because that’s not what Dream needs from him.

until… it is. because there’s only one way this can end. I’m thinking about Dream realizing that none of his explorations, none of his liaisons, have brought him as much joy and satisfaction as Hob has simply by being his friend, by being there for him. I’m thinking about Dream, returning to Hob, choosing Hob, because he independently comes to the conclusion that they are, in fact, meant to be. about how much deeper, how much more meaningful that choice will be, coming after months or even years of journey and growth and self-discovery.

about what it will mean to Hob, to know that Dream has come back to him, has chosen him, over everything else; that after all his myriad human experiences he has determined that Hob is who will complete his human life and bring him the most joy. and then they make out disgustingly and live happily ever after.

[five-and-dimes]

Next to Nothing

Dream knew that retiring from Endlessness to live a human life with Hob Gading wouldn't be easy. He wasn't expecting Hob to laugh at him so much though. (In which there are misunderstandings, Dream hides things he shouldn't, and being human is hard.)

AO3

Lately, Dream has been experiencing nightmares.

He says ‘experiencing’ instead of ‘having’ due to the nature of his sleep. Despite making the difficult decision to become human, to share an immortal, human life with Hob Gadling, certain aspects of himself have remained. One of those aspects is that he simply cannot be overtaken by dreams. He is always aware of when he steps into his former realm- like returning to a house he no longer lives in but still remembers which floorboards creak and how to open tricky doors. He is incapable of not recognizing himself, even from the other side of the mirror.

Some nights are dreamless- The new incarnation of Dream of the Endless, Daniel (and Death, once she learned of his lucid dreaming), worried that being in a constant state of awareness would prevent him from properly resting, which was the whole point of his retirement in the first place. As such, half the time he floats between realms, peaceful and relaxed. But sometimes dreams or nightmares are drawn to him. And while it had been awkward at first, his former subjects standing before him like any other mortal, he encouraged them to fulfill whatever scenario they had been driven to. Even if he could not be lost in it, he knew they were drawn to him when he was feeling something he needed to face. That was their purpose, and he would always be proud of them for fulfilling it. 

And so it was that for the past week and a half, Dream had entered his former realm and been faced with nightmares about Hob’s laughter.

Despite himself, he jerks awake, dragging himself back into the Waking, a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he gasps in the dark, the echoes of laughter still ringing in his ears. He brings a hand up to his mouth, stifling his heaving breaths, berating himself for being so affected despite knowing it was a dream. As his breathing evens out, he turns his head on his pillow and finds himself nearly nose to nose with Hob Gadling. His best friend, his partner, his lover.

The subject of his nightmares.

Luckily, Hob has always fallen deeply into the Dreaming, and so his snores remain steady and undisturbed by Dream’s restless awakening. Letting his hand drop from his mouth, Dream turned fully onto his side, gazing at the sleeping immortal. He brushes a lock of hair away from his face, letting his fingers caress Hob’s cheek softly, taking comfort in the way he nuzzles against his skin even in his sleep. Dream has been human for just shy of two months, and Hob has been a kind and patient guide in his new life.

Hob also laughs at him a lot. 

He had no disillusion that adjusting to human life would be easy. He had fought with the decision for ages before Hob had finally taken his hands, kissed his face, and begged for him to stay. He could not be Endless anymore, could not stand it, was rapidly approaching an edge that he had no qualms throwing himself over. But Hob. Hob had pulled him back. And so he had let himself be separated from his Endlessness and fell into Hob’s arms to start his new life, and he had expected difficulties, he had . But he had not expected the laughter that followed.

Laying in bed with Hob now, Dream reflects on his time as a human. 

There had been the night he attempted to help Hob with dinner and burned his fingers on a hot pan. He had shrieked, staring horrified at the way the skin had bubbled and turned a vibrant red. Hob had held his hand under a stream of cold water and laughed as Dream stutteringly questioned if his skin would fall off.

“Might peel a bit, but nothing you won’t recover from. Afraid it’s a common happenstance in a kitchen this small. No need to be so theatrical about it!” He teased and laughed and Dream had flushed with embarrassment, scrambling to pull himself together.

He came close to hyperventilating when he got a splinter from the stair railing leading up to Hob’s flat, and Hob had laughed as searched for the tweezers.

“That’s nothing, Love, nothing at all. Just a bit of wood, not the end of the world, yeah?”

And Dream had bitten his tongue to silence himself but all he could think about was that there was something inside him. Something foreign shoved beneath his skin, he could see it, and it felt wrong wrong wrong like a parasite, like a poison. For the next two days he struggles to eat, to drink, he gently rebuffs Hob’s attempts at love making. He does not want anything inside him, does not want anything outside to invade the meager shelter his body provides.

A day out at a fair gives Dream some sort of sickness, whether flu or food poisoning they couldn’t be sure, but Dream spent hours in the restroom, curled over the toilet. His stomach clenched painfully, violently rejecting any attempts at drinking water or ginger ale. He kept heaving, even when he was sure he must be empty, hollow, so sure that the next thing he would vomit would be his organs. There was nothing left.

Hob laughed.

“You won’t be coughing up your stomach tonight Love, I promise,” he kept a hand on Dream’s back, rubbing soothing circles only ever broken up by his chucking, “It all feels far more dramatic than it actually is. You’d probably feel better if you focused more on breathing than catastrophizing,” he grinned.

He hits his elbow on the edge of a bookshelf and nearly screams, a kaleidoscope or sensation and pain shooting up his entire arm, and he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand, he’s bumped into things before, he’s experienced bruises (experienced the horror of blood pooling under his skin, spilling out of his veins and spreading in vibrant colors across his flesh) but this is different, like needles have filled his arm all the way down to his hand. Hob rushes in, sees him curled over, clutching his elbow, trying to make the sensations stop, and bursts into laughter.

“Oh, oh Love, you’re alright,” he pulls at Dream until he is standing up straight, running a hand soothingly (patronizingly) over his arm as he giggles, “Discovered the funny bone, have you? Probably one of the worst designs of the human body.”

Dream wants to cry. It’s not funny to him. 

Strangers keep putting their hands on his shoulders or back as they move around him, and he jumps and flinches and glares and Hob laughs and laughs and laughs, “No harm, Love! Folks can be a bit casual about physical contact these days, no danger in the market, darling.”

Every time, even all these weeks later, the laughter hurts. It cuts him in a way he knows he would be judged for, would be chastised for, would be despised for. His undesirable, loathsome, insufferable pride clearly just as much a problem now as it was before. It is a stinging, aching pain to be laughed at, jeered at, mocked. 

And yet… 

His biggest fear- the thing that makes him tremble and cry deep in the Dreaming where no one can see him, the thing that makes him hide his face in his pillow and hide from Hob even as he sleeps- is the thought of what will happen when the laughter stops .

When he stops being a joke and becomes just a burden.

At least now he is able to provide amusement to Hob, no matter how much it makes his chest clench with shame. But surely the novelty will wear off. Eventually, Hob will come to resent Dream’s weakness, his fumbling, his stupid, worthless helplessness. He cannot be happy having to constantly take care of his lover, always having to guide him through situations that should be simple and easy. Hob shouldn’t have to constantly hold his hand.

Dream lifts his head from his pillow, ignoring the damp spot where his tears escaped despite his best efforts. His nightmares have meaning.

He has to do better.

~~~

When Hob wakes, he grins and leans in to give Dream a kiss.

“G’morning, Love. Sleep well?”

Dream nods, leaning his forehead against Hob’s, “Yes. I slept just fine.”

~~~

Dream and Hob are on the couch, curled together and watching something that Dream stopped paying attention to a while ago. There is a pressure in his head, throbbing and painful and the light of the television only makes it worse. He wants to press his fingers against his skull, wants to dig into the sides of his temples until the pressure is released, wants to hold his head in his hands until it feels less like his skull might split down the middle. He knows what a headache is, but the knowledge does not comfort him. He still feels his breath catch at the idea that there is something wrong with his brain .

Hob shifts next to him, “Alright, love?”

Closing his eyes, Dream nods, “Yes. I’m just. Tired.”

~~~

Hob has taken Dream out to a bar tonight, always excited to show Dream places outside of the New Inn. And Dream doesn’t mind, truly. Even before becoming human, he had been trying his best to view the world more as Hob did- as experiences and opportunities and curiosities. It is easier with Hob beside him, always open and eager to share his love for life. 

They are moving through the crowd hand in hand, making their way towards an open table in the back, when Dream feels a hand grab his arse.

Sucking in a breath, he whips his head around to try to find the offender. It is a warm night, and Dream had left his long coat at home, comfortable enough at the time with just a long sleeved shirt, but now he wishes desperately for the shield of more fabric, shivering in his own skin. Only… only Hob was supposed to touch him there. Hob, who was always gentle and considerate, never possessive or threatening like this touch had been. He cannot identify the culprit in the mass of bodies around them, dozens of people whose dreams and intentions are lost to him, and suddenly everyone feels like a threat.

He wants to go home.

“Dream?” Hob tugs at his hand, drawing his attention back from where he had frozen in the middle of their journey, “Everything okay?”

Hob’s eyebrow is raised, and his lips twitch at the corner, like the laughter is already building in his throat, just waiting for Dream’s latest foolishness, ignorance, stupid, stupid, stupid Dream.

“Yes,” Dream forces a smile, “it’s nothing.”

They continue to the table.

~~~

It is still dark out when Dream wakes, not from a nightmare, but from an intense, sharp pain in his leg. 

He gasps, curling up and frantically grabbing at his calf, feeling the way the muscle has tensed. Tears spring to his eyes as he grips his flesh, desperate to get the muscle to release. He doesn’t understand, it doesn’t make sense, he wasn’t doing anything, he was sleeping, why is his body doing this, what did he do wrong ?

Slowly, too slowly, he feels his leg begin to relax, though the echoes of pain remain. Beside him, Hob sleeps on, and part of Dream wants so badly to wake him, wants to know what happened and why. He wants, very badly, to be hugged. 

He turns away from Hob, keeping one hand on his leg, bracing for the pain to return at any moment.

Sleep does not return that night.

~~~

Hob is covering a shift at the New Inn, and he encouraged Dream to join him downstairs, excitedly going on about karaoke night and what fun Dream would surely have.

So far, Dream is not having fun.

There are bright, colorful lights illuminating a small makeshift stage, and everyone sings so loudly. Dream thinks the microphone must be unnecessary yet each person who takes a turn bellows directly into it, the speakers around the space thrumming with noise. When Hob manages to step away from his work to check in on Dream, they are forced to lean close to each other and yell, actually yell, Dream feels his throat becoming raw as the night goes on, his own voice carving him up.

He smiles at Hob and insists that he is having a good time.

When the night finally, finally ends, and Hob and Dream make their way back upstairs to the comfort of their flat, Dream almost stumbles when he realizes that the noise hasn’t stopped. There is a ringing, and he doesn’t just hear it, he feels it, and it’s inside his head. They step inside and it is silent but it’s not, the ringing follows him, like something from the evening has wormed its way inside his ears. He wants to press his hands against his ears, wants to scratch at them, to get whatever has invaded him out . 

Hob yawns and smiles at him, “What a night, huh?”

Dream smiles and nods and bites his tongue.

~~~

At one point, he actually bites his tongue. 

The pain is sharp and abrupt, quickly accompanied by the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth, and he doesn’t know what to do, that’s his blood , spilling into his own mouth, warm and sickly. He wants to spit it out, wants to press a hand to his tongue, wants to cry out just to know that he can, that he hasn’t damaged himself and invited another hundred years of silence with his own teeth.

Hob is in the next room.

Dream swallows.

~~~

When Dream wakes up, he feels… wrong.

He feels warm, but not a comfortable warm. Not the warmth of his perpetually cold body being bundled in blankets and Hob’s arms. No, it is an internal warmth, he feels like he’s radiating it, like the temperature of his blood has risen and now his skin is too tight. He has the strange compulsion to remove his shirt, to expose his arms and stomach to release some of the warmth. Sitting up, he blinks at the strange feeling of heat behind his eyes, and he realizes that his mouth is dry. He feels like a desert. 

The solution feels easy enough, though, and he stands to make his way to the kitchen. His limbs feel a little… floaty. But surely that too will be fixed by the glass of cool water he pours for himself. He gulps it down, and it hits his stomach heavily. He does feel better, but the heat has yet to dissipate. 

It probably just takes time.

He is filling his second glass when Hob wanders out of their room, rubbing his eyes and looking gorgeously sleep-ruffled. 

“Morning beautiful,” he greets, moving next to Dream to kiss the top of his head, “Ah, I had the same idea,” he grinned, grabbing a glass for himself to fill with water.

Dream sighs internally. Yes, this is nothing. Just another nothing.

The morning continues as normal, but Dream still feels… off. He cannot quite bring himself to finish the breakfast Hob has so kindly laid before him, and still the heat in his body persists. He finds himself drinking more water, his mouth drying rapidly each time he puts the glass down. Hob seems to still be waking, yawning between bites and grumbling about doing more zoom classes next term and sighing in relief that tomorrow is the weekend.

“You alright, dove?” 

Dream nearly flinches, hating that Hob had noticed anything. “Yes. I simply find I do not have much of an appetite this morning.”

“Want me to make you something else?” Hob offered.

“No, I’m fine,” Dream shook his head, “I will eat more once I’m more awake,” he insisted.

“Hah, I know that feeling,” Hob grinned, “Any plans for yourself today?” he inquired.

Currently, all Dream wants to do is go back to bed, but he tries to think of what he would do on a normal day while Hob is out, “I think I might go to the library. I have some books on hold that have come in.”

“Oh, lovely!” Hob grinned, “In that case, would you mind stopping by the market on your way home? There’s a couple things I keep forgetting to grab.”

Dream inexplicably feels like crying. Now he has to leave the house, he cannot claim later to have changed his mind, Hob has asked something of him and he cannot refuse him. Not after everything.

Smiling, he nods, “Of course. Just make a list for me, please.”

It feels like the blink of an eye and then Hob is kissing Dream chastely on the lips and hurrying out the door, leaving Dream alone in the quiet of the flat. For too long, he simply sits at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, wanting to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away but knowing that he can’t. That he shouldn’t.

It’s nothing.

Finally, he steels himself and stands, getting dressed on autopilot and tucking Hob’s grocery list into his pocket. As he steps outside, he pulls his jacket tighter around himself. His face feels warm, but his body is shivering, no matter how he tries to make it stop. The walk to the library feels longer than usual, and when he arrives he finds he has no desire to wander the shelves or to sit and read as he usually does. He simply collects the books he has reserved and turns to leave.

By the time he reaches the market, he feels nearly out of breath, and his body aches in a way that it does not usually after a mere walk. Deep in his chest, Dream is frightened. He feels like his body is simply failing him, like a machine with rusted gears and sparking wires. 

He shakes his head vigorously. This is nothing. It’s nothing . It is a human thing and he is overreacting, worrying for no need and acting like a scared child.

Hob would laugh at him. And Dream would deserve it.

Straightening his back, he tries to force normalcy upon himself, grabbing a basket and swiftly collecting the items Hob has requested. He pushes through the discomfort in his body, telling himself that the faster he finishes, the faster he can return home. 

When he exits the market, the sun is shining, and he thinks the weather must be warm, they are approaching summertime, and yet still he shivers. Gripping his bags tightly, he grits his teeth and makes his way home. He has always had strange temperature regulation, he often feels cold, this is nothing unusual. The persistent heat behind his eyes is nothing. The way he occasionally sways as he walks is nothing.

It takes him too long to climb the stairs to the flat, but eventually he makes it. He uses the last of his willpower to put the groceries away, hands trembling slightly. He realizes he is breathing heavily, and there is a rattling sensation in his chest. 

Stumbling into the bedroom, everything feels wrong. He wants to take his clothes off, can feel the fabric sticking to his skin from sweat, but he can’t stop shivering. When he breathes in his lungs feel like they’re crackling, like the soft tissue of his insides have hardened and begun to crumble. His body hurts, like he has fallen down the stairs but he hasn’t done anything, he doesn’t understand .

He never understands.

Crawling beneath the covers, Dream curls up and berates himself. This is nothing, just his new human body doing strange human things and Dream being a fool, like always. He will fall asleep, and when he wakes it will have passed, and he will continue on as he has every day. Even if he doesn’t understand , he knows , he knows he has to be better. The point of his becoming human was for him to change, to be less overdramatic, less petty, less prideful, less, less, less .

Dream has been a human for nearly three months and he is still too much. No amount of humanity can change that, it seems.

So the least he can do is conceal it. Folding in on himself beneath the covers, too hot and too cold and aching and afraid, he takes a breath and pretends that nothing is wrong. He falls asleep hoping he can pretend hard enough.

~~~

Dream feels worse when he awakes.

The heat is overwhelming, and he is not sweating, his skin dry and tight and hurting. His chest feels like it’s cracking with every inhale, and he aches down to his marrow. Distantly, he hears a door open and close. Blearily, he glances at the clock next to the bed and sees that it is mid afternoon, around the time Hob returns home and-

Hob.

Hob is home.

Even through the haze that feels like it’s smothering his thoughts, Dream still manages a panicked lurch to sit up. He can’t let Hob see him like this, he has to pull himself together, he has to be better -

“Honey, I’m home!” Hob calls out cheerily, the same teasing greeting he gives Dream every time he returns from anywhere, regardless of how long he had been gone. Swallowing, Dream struggles to force a response out.

“Welcome back,” He winces at the scratchiness of his voice, and the pain that came with trying to make himself heard. He hears footsteps approaching the bedroom and forces his legs over the side, trying to pull some semblance of normalcy around himself.

When Hob opens the door, he is smiling, “Afternoon nap kind of day?”

Dream nods, smiling, “It was. How were your classes?” His voice is still scratchy, but it can easily be explained away by having just woken.

“Pretty mellow all things considered-" He flips the lights on idly, Dream flinches minutely, the lights seemingly stabbing his overheated eyes, and as the room becomes illuminated Hob’s eyebrows raise.

“You look a little flushed, Love,” he smirks mischievously, “Sure you were just napping?”

Oh, Dream can’t even think about sex right now. He’s trying so hard not to shiver violently in front of Hob and he feels like his insides are boiling and everything hurts and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Almost without thinking, he lurches to his feet, “I’m just. A little warm. From the blankets.” The room is spinning, it must be, because he is certain he is walking straight and yet he suddenly finds himself bracing himself against the wall.

If his thoughts weren’t so scattered, he might have noticed the smile fall from Hob’s face.

“Woah, hey, are you-“

“It’s nothing,” Dream gasps, pushing himself forward until he is stumbling past Hob out of the room, “I just. Need water.” Water made him feel a little better earlier, right? He clumsily bats Hob’s hands away when they reach for him.

“Hey, Love, are you feeling alright? You don’t seem-“

“Everything is fine,” the whole flat is swaying like a ship on the sea. He keeps one hand against the wall as he makes his way to where he thinks the kitchen is. He’s so hot. He’s so cold. When he blinks he sees the sink in front of him and veers towards it.

Hob is not laughing. He does not know if that is a good thing.

“Dream…” Hob follows closely, and Dream can’t see it but panic is starting to shine in his eyes, “Love, tell me what’s wrong-“

“Nothing!”

“Dream, hey, just let me-”

“It’s nothing!” Dream snaps. He is dimly aware that he can no longer hide his shaking, that he is clutching the kitchen counter desperately. 

Hob moves closer, hands held out as though approaching a wounded animal, “Dream, you’re not-”

“ Do not laugh at me .”

Dream had meant for it to be a command, but what comes out is a plea . Voice thready and weak, and there is water on his face and he does not know if it is sweat, or tears, or both. His knees buckle, and suddenly he is on the floor, Hob’s arm around his waist to keep him somewhat upright. 

Sobbing, he is too tired to even try to disguise his desperation, “ Please ,” he begs, he begs, “please do not laugh at me.”

Everything feels blurry and fuzzy. He thinks he feels Hob pulling him into his arms, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face, wiping at tears and speaking in a soft voice. And as he feels his vision darken at the edges, feels everything start to fall away, his last conscious thought is that he still cannot hear Hob’s laughter.

And he still doesn’t know what that means.

~~~

The first thing Dream becomes aware of as he drifts back into consciousness is the gentle sound of water. His brow furrows, and he wonders if he has somehow landed on the Shore of Dreams. A shiver runs through him, and he becomes aware that he is wet, submerged in cool water from his shoulders down. There is a band of warmth though, holding him securely around his waist, keeping him from falling under. His back is pressed against something firm and soft. The more he wakes, the more he recognizes it.

Hob. 

It takes more effort than he thinks it probably should, but Dream forces his eyes to open. His eyelids feel heavy, and his eyes feel warm, but he manages it. Glancing at his surroundings, it feels like his brain is running at half speed. He is in a bathtub- Hob’s bathtub- their bathtub- the lights are dimmed, and he is naked- no, he’s shirtless, his boxers are still on. His breaths are raspy and loud in the quiet, and when his head flops forward on his neck, he sees two strong, hair covered arms holding him around his middle.

Hob.

He blinks slowly, wants to say something, an apology, he thinks, but another shiver wracks his body and a soft whine escapes him. Hob pulls him closer, shushing him and whispering next to his ear.

“You’re alright, Love, everything’s alright. I know it feels cold but it’s not, I promise. We just need to get you cooled down, alright? I’m right here, dove.” He brings a hand up to pet softly down one of Dream’s limp arms.

“Wha-...” Dream’s tongue feels heavy and dry in his mouth, the words catching until he can’t remember what he was going to say in the first place.

Hob hushes him again, jostling him slightly as he reaches outside of the tub to a glass of water placed on the floor next to him. He holds it up to Dream’s mouth, gently tilting his head back when Dream’s arms continue to be uncooperative.

“Just take small sips, alright? Come on, sweetheart, just a little.”

Dream still feels… far away. He can’t decide if his body feels heavy or weightless, full of cotton or full of lead. But with Hob’s encouragement he’s able to drink some of the water, loosening his tongue and soothing his throat that he hadn’t even realized was sore. Hob places a couple pills in his mouth between sips, and Dream swallows them meekly, too consumed with trying to pull his thoughts together to be anything but docile and pliant in Hob’s hands.

Finally, as Hob places the glass back on the ground, Dream manages to ask weakly, “What happened?”

Hob swallows thickly behind him, his arms tightening just slightly around him as he leans down to speak against his skin, “You passed out. You had a very, very high fever, Love.” There’s a long pause, perhaps waiting for Dream to respond, but Dream doesn’t know what to say.

“Sweetheart,” the word is choked out, “why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

And this, this cuts through to something in Dream, and he pours all his meager energy into explaining, “It’s nothing. I know-... I know it’s nothing. Nothing. Won’t make a big deal over nothing. It’s nothi-”

“It’s not nothing ,” Hob interrupts, voice almost sharp, “Dream, I almost took you to the hospital. You were burning up, I was afraid you’d have a seizure or something!”

Dream’s eyes are burning, and it’s not until he feels the tears drip down his face that he realizes it’s not the fever. “Didn’ want to overreact,” his breath hitches, “‘M always overreacting. Always getting it wrong,” and here, he dips his head to his chest, his mind too muddled and miserable to filter, “Didn’t want you to laugh at me again.”

He regrets the words as soon as they pass his lips. He has already burdened Hob with his weakness, and now he will be disgusted by Dream’s pride, so fragile he cannot stand the joke he has become. Against his neck, he feels Hob inhale shakily a few times, gathering himself, and Dream wonders if this is the moment he finds out he is too much for Hob, just like he was too much for everyone. Maybe he finally found the limit of Hob’s love.

“Dream,” Hob’s voice is soft, heartbroken, ashamed. He tightens his arms around Dream’s chest, placing a gentle kiss to his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

Sluggishly, Dream shakes his head, because no, that’s not right, “No, Hob, you-”

“Listen to me,” Hob interrupts, voice pleading, “I swear to you, I was never, ever laughing at you.” 

It is a sick kind of irony that Hob’s words make Dream laugh. It is rasping and weak, and dissolves quickly into sobs.

“You should laugh at me,” he confesses, “I failed as an Endless, and now I am failing as a human.”

“That’s not true,” Hob sounds devastated, “That’s not true at all-“

“I should have known that becoming human wouldn’t fix me,” Dream barrels on, barely taking in Hob’s words, “It’s me, I just- I’m always failing, I cannot do anything right -“

“ Dream .”

He chokes on the next sob. His whole body still hurts and his head is still fuzzy but something in him manages to break at the harsh way Hob snapped his name. Hob so rarely got angry. Maybe this is something else Dream has ruined.

Dream can feel the way Hob’s chest expands with a deep breath, Dream’s own body moving with it, the water rippling around them. Hob’s arms loosen and more tears spill down Dream’s face at the sensation of being let go.

Only for a moment though.

“Dream…”

There is no anger this time. Only a deep, deep sadness. Hob adjusts his hold, gently maneuvering Dream in the tub until he is curled loosely in Hob’s lap, one hand guiding his face to press against the crook of his neck. His other hand sweeps up and down his spine soothingly. Dream sniffles weakly, so relieved to be held and still not understanding.

“You’re not failing,” Hob whispers into his hair, “You didn’t fail as an Endless, and you’re not failing now, I promise.” There is desperation in his voice, “Please, love, you have to believe me. You’re doing wonderful. I’m sorry for laughing. I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you weren’t succeeding. You chose to do something very different, and just because you struggle sometimes doesn’t mean you’re doing badly.”

Dream swallows thickly, eyes burning with tears of disbelief. Hob rubs soothing circles across his aching back, tucking Dream’s head beneath his chin as he whispers, “The truth is,” his voice drips with sincerity, “The truth is that being human is scary . I’ve been doing it for 600 years and it still frightens me sometimes. I can’t die, but there’s still the pain, the illness, the uncertainty of it all. Everytime I think I know what I’m doing I feel like the whole world gets flipped around and I end up stumbling to reorient myself.”

A quiet sob breaks through his words, and it takes Dream a moment to realize that it had come from him. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but he knows that what Hob is describing is… familiar.

It is how he has felt every day since becoming human.

Hob kisses his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, pulling Dream impossibly closer, “I thought… maybe laughing would make it less scary,” he confesses, “I only ever laughed because I thought maybe it would comfort you. I thought if I laughed, if I made light of the situation, you’d see there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. That I was there, and we were together. I just didn’t want you to be afraid.”

There is deep regret in his voice, “But that doesn’t change that being human is scary, and it is hard. I never should have minimized that. And I’ve never, ever , thought you anything less than the bravest person I know.”

This time, the sob is not quiet. Dream clenches his eyes shut, dipping his head as more sobs escape him, his chest heaving with them as he shakes in Hob’s arms. If he had the strength he would curl up around himself, pull away from comfort he does not deserve, but he is too weak and so Hob keeps them pressed together.

“I do not feel brave,” Dream chokes out, “I feel… pathetic . And weak, and, and useless . Just a dead weight for you to carry.” He feels his face growing hot, and he does not know if it is the fever or the overwhelming shame. He does not know if it matters.

“One day… you will stop finding it funny. You will lose patience, you will grow tired of caring for me, you will grow tired of me , I can’t-” Hob tries to shush him, but Dream shakes his head, his words becoming breathless as he tries to speak through his sorrow. His fear.

“I can’t keep burdening you,” he gasps desperately, “I can’t lose you-”

“You won’t,” Hob interrupts, his voice gentle and firm, “Not ever. Dream, Love, it’s not a burden to care for you. I want to help you. You chose to stay with me, and I’m choosing to stay with you.”

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel possible that Hob would choose this. But his tears have sapped what little energy he had, and Dream finds himself sagging in Hob’s arms, and Hob holds him like he means to stay. Like he doesn’t plan on letting go.

“Hob,” he croaks out, a shiver wracking his frame, “I don’t feel good.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart,” Hob presses kisses against his hair. 

He holds him tighter.

~~~

Dream dozes against Hob’s chest for an undetermined amount of time, only waking when Hob moves to drain the tub and dry them both off. Blinking, he finds his head is clearer, and while he is still warmer than usual, he no longer feels like he is burning from the inside. He feels more in control of his limbs as well, but Hob still insists on helping him dress.

“The meds are definitely helping. You can have some more in a few hours, but for now I think sleep will do you a world of good.”

Sleep does in fact sound amazing, so Dream nods amicably. 

When he’s better, Hob will gently pry all the things Dream has held back for weeks out of him. Dream will cry and confess to all the things he doesn’t understand, to all the things that scare him, and Hob will not laugh. Hob will share stories of his own fears, past and present, the things he still doesn’t understand himself even after 600 years of being human. When something new and strange happens to Dream, Hob will start asking him to explain what he’s feeling, to explain his fears, and Hob will talk him through it until, by some miracle, eventually they are able to laugh together about this strange thing called humanity. Time will pass and Dream will grow into his new life with Hob beside him, and they will be scared together and they will be happy together and they will live together.

Tonight, Hob holds Dream through his fever, and Dream sleeps, and his nightmare doesn’t come because he is not afraid.

[mollymagician]

Hob Gadling talked to himself, sometimes. When he was alone.

It was a habit, he’d say in the rare times he’d been caught at it. Silly habit. Just ignore me. Hashing things out with my own self. A white lie. Himself wasn’t who he was hashing anything out with. Hob spoke to his Stranger, sometimes. When he was alone.

There was never enough time in their brief meetings, was there, to package a hundred years worth of the world into words. The great story arcs made the cut, but in between the little stories got told anyway. In any quiet part of the day when he found himself alone, Hob would catch some of the details spilling out of him. He practiced sometimes, the particulars of a good tale he was afraid he wouldn’t remember. He couldn’t keep it all, but maybe, he thought, his Stranger could hear him. Sometimes.

A centuries-long habit, one he had despaired of ever breaking, though he’d realized recently that he wasn’t doing it anymore.

Because the thing was, when hob spoke to him aloud-spoke to the idea, the wish of him-over all those centuries, it was always as though he hovered just over his shoulder. A quiet aside to an imagined presence that could in truth be anywhere, but somehow lived in his mind and heart just behind and to the left of him, only just out of sight.

It takes him a little time to realize that this is where Dream stands now, more often than not— when he follows Hob up the stairs from the pub in the evenings after they’ve had too much to drink, laughing, a steadying hand planted between Hob’s shoulders— when he followed him, all newly human, into Situations and Experiences that Hob was determined he try—when he pads up silently beside him in the dim early morning kitchen, to wrap his arms around Hob’s middle. Like today.

He seems to have found that spot, a patch of reality worn threadbare by hundreds of years of quiet longing, and slipped into it unknowing.

“How did you know that was there, hm?” Hob murmurs drowsily, tea kettle in one hand and eyes barely open. “That spot was just for you.”

Dream rested his chin on one warm shoulder and hummed. They swayed a bit, half-asleep.

Dreams breath puffed against his ear (real. real now) and murmured, “Thank you for saving me a place.”

[fishfingersandscarves]

the swaggiest disabled ex-personification in the multiverse

[theaceace]

Hob is woken, not by the shrill cacophony of his alarm or the sunlight hitting his face where they'd forgotten to pull the curtains last night, or even the warmth of Morpheus' hands and mouth, but by the sudden dip in the mattress as another person flops onto the bed with them.

Several lifetimes' worth of instincts see him jolting awake in an instant, heart racing and sweat already beading on his back and brow. Hob may not be able to die, but he's been ambushed in his sleep more than enough times to be getting on with, ta very much, and he's not keen to do it again. Suddenly he's twenty-five, and exhausted after days of marching on Troyes, feet sore and heart sorer, waiting on a battle that never came. He's twenty-eight, and the knife that flashes in the darkness misses his throat only because Herry has ears like a bat and enough blind-foolish loyalty to leap on their attacker's back. He's seventy-three, and lying barely-conscious among the dead that need burying or burning, and he knows that he needs to rouse himself even with the arrow still in his chest, or he'll be burnt or buried with them. He's two-hundred and sixty-four, and they've come to the home he'd made for his family, to drag him from the bed he had shared with his wife some thirty years before, and haul him away as a witch.

He's gripped now by the same fear, and it has him up and moving, one hand fumbling at the bedside table for anything with enough heft to dent a skull before he realises that none of his attackers have ever smelt like peaches.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts just enough to free his face from the clutches of his pillow.

“That key was given to you for use in emergencies, my sibling,” he says, voice thick with sleep and the cotton pillowcase.

Desire stretches luxuriously between them and smiles, fox-sharp, at Morpheus. They roll their head to look at him – beneath the perfume and sweat and wet pavement smell of them, Hob catches a sour waft of alcohol.

“Oh but my dear brother, this is an emergency,” they say, and – look, Hob has been drunk enough to recognise the exquisitely deliberate care at the edges of their words. He huffs a little, pushes himself up so that he can slap a hand on the bedside lamp and blink furiously against the sudden light. It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, and he rubs his hands over his face in a vain effort to convince himself that this is some new nightmare that Daniel is testing out, before he gives in to the inevitable and turns to examine their guest.

"And what could possibly be so pressing at –" Morpheus snatches Desire's wrist up to stare blearily at their watch "– two thirty-seven in the morning? That could not be expressed in a phone call or wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Do you know, brother mine, how many partners I found to dance with? Whose desire for me, once so integral as to be a given, I had to simply guess at? To read in the curve of a smile or the enticing lull of a question? I didn't know them, not a one, and can you guess, sweet Dream, how many of them took me to their beds?"

And Hob has heard quite enough of that. He stretches and tosses back the sheets, while Morpheus shoots him a filthy glower that softens immediately into a plea for respite with his sole visible eye. Desire either doesn't notice this silent communication, or doesn't care.

“None!” They crow gleefully, clasping their hands, and Morpheus scowls as he's jostled in place.

It's not that Hob wants to leave him to fend for himself against his sibling, only that he doesn’t fancy being in the firing line when Morpheus inevitably snaps and thumps Desire with a pillow.

Doing an admirable job of ignoring Morpheus' wounded expression, Hob groans and lurches himself in the vague direction of the kitchen. Might as well put the kettle on for this.

"Jasmine or apple tea, love?" He calls. No sense having any caffeine now. If they're lucky, Desire will wear themself out quickly and they'll be able to go back to sleep before the alarm goes off.

"Apple, if you would," Morpheus replies.

"Ooh, I'll have jasmine if you're making."

"Didn't ask you!" Hob shouts back, already adding a spoon of sugar to the third mug he'd fetched down for them. 

“Oh, so forceful! You know, if you ever get tired of my stick-in-the-mud brother here…” Desire trails off meaningfully, and Hob snorts, smiling a little to himself. They know full well it's not going to happen, however much or little they remember about his desires, and even if he were – impossibly – to change his mind about Morpheus, they'd get bored of him soon enough. 

He sets all three mugs on a tray, and grabs a pack of chocolate digestives while he's at it. Morpheus would never admit to being fond of them, but he doesn't need to. Hob's watched him absent-mindedly devour most of a packet while he pecks one-handed at the keyboard. Besides, Desire could probably do with something to line their stomach. 

“Is being human always this delightfully contradictory? So baffling and solid and… damp?” Desire asks, lifting their head just enough to peer at Hob as he re-enters the room. It's a moot question, of course. They've been human long enough now to know that the answer is, largely, yes. 

“Often. But do you know, my sibling, the very best part of being human?” Desire turns lazily to look at Morpheus, smiling wide. Their lipstick today is dark purple, and smudged at the corners of their mouth. 

“Mm, do tell. You know how much I crave your… wisdom,” they say, rolling the words indulgently over their tongue. Hob sighs and nudges Morpheus’ book to one side so he can set the tray down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“It is that it is no longer against the Old Laws for me to do this,” Morpheus says, planting one foot against their side and shoving hard enough that they topple off the bed with an outraged squawk and undignified thump. There's a blessed moment of stillness, the same kind of breathless anticipation that Hob remembers from the battlefield, before the charge and the mud and the pain. Then they pop back up over the side of the bed with a cry and launch themself at Morpheus. He'd be more worried if he couldn’t hear the laughter in their voice, nor see how their outstretched hands target Morpheus’ ribs and armpits, rather than his eyes.

Hob's sisters have been dead for centuries now, but he remembers this well enough.  Maybe if the Endless had ever been anything like children, they might have gotten all of the murderous posturing out of the way before they grew up enough for it to be a problem, he muses. Still. Better late than never.

He takes a sip of his own tea and grabs a biscuit. Lord knows he won't get a look in once Morpheus has finished trying to jam his elbow into Desire's stomach and realises they're there.

“It was never against the Old Laws for you to be a bastard, which is lucky because you always were one!” Desire gasps, writhing away from Morpheus’ pointy limbs. Hob's been at the receiving end of those elbows before, and even when Morpheus is being gentle, they're decently sharp. He wonders idly if either of them'll tire of this before their tea goes cold, and decides not to intervene either way. Serve them both right if they have to drink cold tea.

“You tried to kill me!”

“Don't tell me you're still hung up on that?”

“I am, because you tried to kill me!”

“Well it's not like it worked!”

Not really the point, Hob reckons, but then again he's had plenty of mates that have tried to kill him. 

“More by good fortune than good judgment,” Morpheus hisses.

“Oh, so you admit to your poor judgment?”

Hob snorts, and the wounded look Morpheus swings towards him would fell a lesser man. Hob takes another biscuit.

“Ha!” Desire takes advantage of his momentary distraction to lock their arms around his shoulders and blow a loud raspberry against his cheek. Hob doesn’t think he's entirely successful in hiding his smile. Morpheus doesn't even try to hide his look of disgust. 

Well, he had to learn the downsides of being an older brother at some point, Hob supposes. 

Judging that the worst of the scrapping is over, he perches on the edge of the bed and pats Morpheus’ flank idly. Desire, loose-limbed with alcohol and triumph, flops over him to reach for their tea. Morpheus magnanimously doesn't jab his fingers into their exposed side.

“Thank you, Robert darling,” Desire says, eyes half-lidded as they drink. It comes out far less coquettish than Hob imagines they intended; too genuinely content. Morpheus sighs, and frowns, and doesn't quite do a good enough job of hiding his own ease as he sits up and leans against Hob. 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night?” Morpheus asks. There's nothing of the dignified dreamlord about him now, with his hair flattened on one side and just a little lank, and pillow creases on his cheek. He peers at Desire, half of his weight still supported by Hob, who takes another slurp of tea and polishes off the last of his biscuit. It's still unbelievable, sometimes, that he may see his dour and distant old stranger like this. Something tangible, something grounded, something he can hold. Unbelievable, too, after the way they had almost parted, after the way Morpheus had almost –

Well. Doesn't bear thinking about, really.

“Mm, yes, if you'll have me.” Do they have to work to make everything they say sound like a double entendre,  Hob wonders, or does it come naturally? He's not entirely sure they even notice they're doing it. 

“You're always welcome,” Hob says. “Guest room's all made up, and there's a spare toothbrush under the sink you can have.”

“How very kind. Dream, dear, isn't your man kind?”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Ta, love,” Hob says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Desire rolls their eyes theatrically, as though that might mask how their expression softens. “Now drink your tea, I'd like to get a few more hours’ sleep before I need to get up.”

Morpheus grumbles but straightens up, plucking his mug from the nightstand and cradling it in one hand while he reaches for a biscuit with the other. 

“Should we expect any of our other siblings to join us tonight?” He asks, managing somehow not to spray crumbs everywhere as he does so, which is a bit unfair. Hob has centuries more experience talking through mouthfuls of crumbly biscuits, and he still can't do as good a job of it. “I take it you did not venture out alone this night.”

“No I didn't, but don't worry,” Desire says, tilting their head back as they drain their mug, a neat ring of purple left behind on the ceramic. “My sweet twin is unlikely to make an appearance. I certainly hope, at least – she went home with that little exorcist friend of yours. If she comes here, then something’s gone dreadfully wrong.”

They grin, cat with the cream pleased at the expression on Morpheus’ face, and flick their hand in something like a wave. “Well, goodnight brother! Robert.”

They flounce away towards the spare room, and Hob presses his smile into the curve of Morpheus’ shoulder.

“I hate them,” Morpheus grumbles. Hob kisses the bony jut of skin where his t-shirt has slipped, once, twice.

“No you don't,” he says. Morpheus sighs, sets his mug down, and returns to hold Hob's face still for a proper kiss. Not that Hob would try to get out of it. 

“No,” he agrees softly, pulling Hob down with him for a cuddle onto pillows that still smell a little of peaches. “No. I do not.”

[moorishflower]

Hey here's a snippet from the retired Dream/Hob/Daniel fic for those interested <3 n for you @fulcrvm!

Hob moves to the bedside, carrying with him a mug and a plate, both of which he sets down upon the table. The mug smells hot and sweet, and the plate contains a single slice of toast, thickly-slathered with butter and fruit preserves.

Morpheus’ stomach makes a curious rumbling noise; he can feel the ripple of muscle there when he puts his hand flat upon it, and Hob smiles. His smile is so brilliant, and he thinks, for the first time, that perhaps a month of this, of this tenderness and this affection, will be enough to sustain him on his journey to whatever awaits him beyond the Sunless Lands.

“Finally hungry,” Hob says. He sits down on the edge of the bed, hands twisted into his lap. “Was starting to get worried. You going to try and eat?”

Eating, eventually, will bring with it a whole new host of problems. He does not want to think about this body converting food into energy, and the complicated process required, and the waste it will generate.

He also cannot deny that the smell of the food is…appealing.

“Friend at work makes homemade jams,” Hob is saying. He has picked the plate back up and is holding it out to Morpheus, encouragement writ large upon his expression. “This is…cherry, I think? Cherry and orange? Looks like there might be marmalade bits in there. She’s a bit of a mad scientist.”

Morpheus wonders at the wisdom of subjecting this new stomach to fruit-based mad science, but, in the end, the ceaseless cramping in his belly wins out. He picks up the slice of toast and must lean far over so that he may take a delicate bite of it, hovering over the plate so that he does not drip jam onto the sheets. He hears Hob sigh in relief. Then, all of his attention is focused upon his tongue, and on the texture of the toast between his teeth, and the sharp-soft crumbs that stick to his lips as he tears off his small bite and chews. The jam is tart, tingling upon his palate, but the sweetness chases after, washes over his tastebuds. Cutting through the jam is the savoury warmth of the butter, half-melted, coating his tongue in a layer of delicious oil and dripping in a fine golden line down the curve of his bottom lip. Hob watches his face, studying him, as Morpheus licks after the single drop.

The bread, he thinks, is merely a mechanism with which to convey butter and jam. Perhaps this is why the toast from before had held no appeal.

[cuubism]

on watching your god become human

--

"I don't believe you are meant to be here, Corinthian."

Corinthian is certainly not meant to be here. He's not sure where the impulse to slip from his cage came from; he's pretty sure that was supposed to be written out of him when Dream reconstructed him from the ashes of his rebellious former self. Maybe when you make a being of wanting, the wanting for itself comes back, whether you like it or not.

"Fuck that," he says. "Neither are you."

Morpheus observes him placidly from where he's sitting on Hob Gadling's couch, sipping a cup of tea. Humans are alternately entranced by or repelled by the Corinthian, depending on their particular complexes, but Morpheus -- human, human Morpheus -- is neither. He knows the truth of what the Corinthian is, and doesn't fear him, even though Corinthian could step over there and bury a knife in his throat and this time, it would stick.

"Maybe not," Morpheus concedes. Dead, he's supposed to be dead, Corinthian thinks. "But I am. Are you going to sit, or just ogle?"

Corinthian might just stare at him. Morpheus looks exactly the same as last Corinthian saw him, except that he is fucking human, and every time Corinthian looks away from him and then back, his stomach jolts like he’s missed a step on the stairs.

"Depends, are you going to call the cops on me?"

"Is that how you saw me?" Morpheus asks. "As jailer and persecutor?"

"...No," Corinthian admits. In his former life, in the end, maybe. In the way an adherent chafes against the strict, incomprehensible strictures of his holy book. But Morpheus -- Dream -- was much more than some rules meant to circumscribe him.

"Regardless, I won't 'report' you," says Morpheus, with a half-smile. His eyes are sharp and knowing as ever where they track Corinthian's movement across the living room as he sits down in the armchair across from the couch. But he's lacking the thrum of power Corinthian is used to. The gravity well of belonging that always let Corinthian know he was near, that drew him in. It's disconcerting. "As long as you don't go around carving out eyes, after this. I would hate to see you unmade."

Corinthian has more important business here than that. Besides, he isn't interested in being taken apart again.

"I'll pass. Pretty sure that kid would dissolve me like that."

"Are you somehow implying that I was lenient with you?" says Morpheus. "Although, I suppose he did not create you."

"If you wanna get technical about it he did," says Corinthian. That well of power has transferred over to Daniel, now, those ancient brushstrokes of creation now following the path of his hands. But it feels wrong. The Corinthian does not want to be Daniel's creation. He wants to be Morpheus's. He has always been Morpheus's.

"Technically," repeats Morpheus, a spark in his eyes as if he knows exactly what Corinthian is thinking. "I still consider you mine."

This sends a confusing rush of emotions clanging through Corinthian's being. Not that that is an unfamiliar sensation, around Morpheus. Pleasure and indignation war within him. "You have no power over me anymore."

"Don't I?"

Corinthian grits his teeth. He doesn't know what to do with this Morpheus. Whether to hate him, whether to mourn him. Whether to drag him back to what he once was, somehow. "You're nothing, Morpheus.” He intends this to sound cruel. It doesn’t, quite. “You were a world." My world. “Now you're nothing."

"I've accepted that," Morpheus says, which is not the response Corinthian had expected, and gives him no satisfaction. He wanted Morpheus to lash at him. To punish him, the way he might once have, for his rebellions. Instead, Morpheus just watches him evenly, as if this behavior is no surprise to him but doesn't bother him anymore. Because it’s not his responsibility anymore. Because he’s human.

Once, Morpheus had been an entire dreaming universe. One the Corinthian inhabited. Once he had held Corinthian's fabricated heart in his hands, crafted each ventricle from dreamstuff. Corinthian was carved from a piece of his soul. A piece that he didn't want, Corinthian had thought, at his first life's end. A piece that he wanted too much, Corinthian thought, when reborn. He had thought he could see straight through to Morpheus's heart, that he was a part of him, that he understood. He had thought he knew everything.

And now Morpheus is sitting in the Waking world like a human, as a human, and Corinthian thinks desperately on the boundless creature he once knew and wonders what he didn't see.

"Some hypocrite you are," he accuses. "Unmaking me for wanting to be different."

"You'll notice I didn't use it as an opportunity to murder people," Morpheus says drily. "However, perhaps that has some merit. But tell me: would you give up what you are to be here? Not as a nightmare walking free in the Waking, but as a human?"

This gives Corinthian pause. Once, he had roamed the Waking world as a terror, had gorged himself on power. Had held men at his mercy and relished in it. It would not be quite the same, would it, to be one of those men himself.

"I don't know," he says.

"It's not so easy a trade to make," Morpheus says, setting down his tea and holding out his hands, palms up, hands that once could have stripped the Corinthian back to dreamstuff, now useless against him, "to give up your power for freedom."

Corinthian isn't sure if this is what he intends, but he lays his own palms over Morpheus's.

His skin is warm. Soft. Human. Corinthian could never have touched him like this, before. Not that Morpheus had never touched him. But it had not been like this, with hands open.

"I tried to destroy you," he says.

"So you did, my creation."

"Did that hurt?" Corinthian had meant it to. At the time.

"When you make something with your own hands and it decides it hates you," Morpheus says, gaze without its old stars but still fathomless as he looks down at their joined hands, "yes, it hurts."

The thought gives Corinthian no satisfaction now. "I never hated you." I loved you. "I worshiped you."

"I don't require worship."

"I loved you, and you unmade me." He stands without meaning to, and looks down at Morpheus from above. Morpheus doesn't follow him to standing, just observes him, face tilted up. He looks, if anything, sad. Corinthian recalls, from a distance, the expression of disappointment as his former self was unmade.

"And then I made you again," Morpheus says.

"Better?"

"More suited to your purpose."

"Like you did with yourself?"

Morpheus blinks and looks away, thrown by the accusation. "I--"

"Ripped yourself apart and threw away the piece that wasn't working?" For Daniel is Dream but also not, and it's the not that keeps sticking in Corinthian's guts like a bite of tough meat, impossible to digest.

"Is that not what you wanted?" Morpheus says. He seems discomfited by the Corinthian's words. "You did tell me to change."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want some random kid running the place that you made." He doesn't know, anymore, exactly what he wanted, only that now he wants Morpheus and seeing Morpheus here, like this, leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, carves fault lines everywhere he stands.

"I've been assured Daniel is doing a fine job."

Corinthian huffs in frustration. "Sure, yeah, fine."

"What do you want of me, Corinthian?" Morpheus asks. They're still fucking holding hands. Morpheus hasn't pulled away. His hands are weightless in Corinthian’s grip. “Absolution? I granted it when I remade you. Guidance? That is no longer mine to offer."

Love? Corinthian thinks, disgusted with himself. I don't fucking know. He's not even sure why he's here, only that he had to see. Had to see all of this for himself.

“You can’t give me anything, Morpheus. You're just a human now." The word scrapes over his throat, he might cry with rage, it's so intolerable. “You were so—”

"So?"

Beautiful. Monstrous. Terrible.

He is still beautiful. Corinthian has always thought so. Was he made to feel this way? Maybe. But that doesn't change the feelings. Once, Morpheus was beautiful in the way of a distant, inhospitable planet, seen only by craning your neck up to the sky. Now, Corinthian is walking in that landscape. He's unused to having to be wary of where his footsteps tread.

He squeezes Morpheus's hands, hard, and when he lets go the skin has gone white, blood chased away by the pressure.

Corinthian stares at the evidence of his touch. Morpheus is vulnerable to him now, as vulnerable as any of the men the Corinthian's former self had killed. Corinthian is more powerful than him, except that Morpheus is right, Corinthian is still in thrall to him and would only destroy himself by destroying Morpheus now.

He had not yet even accepted the idea of Morpheus as something that could be killed. And now he must contend with this as well, this bloody human thing.

Barely thinking about it, he steps closer, until he's standing between Morpheus's spread knees, looking down at him. He takes liberties he had always wanted to, slides his hands up Morpheus's throat, cradles his face with thumbs hooked under his jaw to tilt his head up further. Morpheus doesn't stop him. He doesn't even move. Just watches him with that all-knowing gaze, still every inch the king even if he's pulled his kingdom out of himself and given it to another, no longer holding such tight control and instead waiting to see what his creation will do.

"What do you want of me?" he asks.

Corinthian leans down and kisses his god.

His lips are soft. He tastes of tea. Corinthian doesn't get smited by the heavens; no void swallows him whole. He digs his fingers into Morpheus's hair. Sweeps his tongue into his mouth, feels the pulse of blood against his thumbs.

Morpheus doesn't kiss back, exactly, but he does let Corinthian take what he needs from his mouth. And when Corinthian draws back with a nip at his lower lip, Morpheus's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded as if he has drawn some pleasure from it himself.

"I could destroy you," Corinthian murmurs, still close to his lips, even knowing that he could not. "Like this."

Morpheus gazes up at him. "Could you?"

His voice no longer echoes with the distant turning of planets, but Corinthian's being still resonates at its frequency. Perhaps it always will, even if he has a new master now. Corinthian wants him and he could have him, like this, he could debase his former god and make this human body his own; he knows how to bring ecstasy as much as he knows how to bring terror, and he could lay waste, could have Morpheus gasping and begging for it, could deliver his worship and rage at last and ruin him for human lovers. He thinks human Morpheus, hands off all reins, might even invite it. And Corinthian would have him after all of that chasing.

But Dream is gone. That Daniel kid doesn't matter. Corinthian's Dream is gone.

"What do I want from you?" he repeats. Hands still on Morpheus's jaw. "Let me go."

Morpheus smiles, and it's not the smile of a human, but of the creator of horrors and nightmares. It rings a bell of recognition in Corinthian’s ribcage, like calling to like, for all that there is no power in the connection anymore. "I have no leash on you."

Your existence is a hook in me, Corinthian thinks.

He kisses Morpheus again, a flat, chaste, but lingering kiss, then pulls back. When he does Morpheus's expression looks soft, human again, and it's unbearable.  

Corinthian steps back, releasing Morpheus's face. "You're supposed to be dead. Do me a favor, and finish the job."

He turns to go, but Morpheus catches him by the wrist. A light grip Corinthian could easily pull out of, but doesn’t, letting himself by held as much by the lump festering in his throat as by Morpheus’s fingers. "Corinthian."

“What.”

Morpheus kisses the underside of his wrist, a motion that feels both proprietary and beneficent. I don’t need your charity, you half-god thing, Corinthian thinks. He doesn’t pull away, but he also doesn’t look. If he doesn’t look, he can almost pretend that it is Dream kissing him, and that fantasy, that terror, is a well-worn path. If he pretends, then he doesn’t have to stumble through the feral woodland trail that is his king becoming human.

Morpheus’s lips are still brushing his skin when he says, “Even when you went astray, you were always my favorite."

Oh, fuck you, Morpheus, Corinthian thinks. How dare he say such a thing when he left. When he made himself human. When he unmade Corinthian for daring to try the same.

He pulls his hand from Morpheus’s grasp. Doesn't respond, or look back. Maybe he'll return, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll finish the job Morpheus started. Or the one he himself started, in daring to touch his lips.

For now, feeling only more jumbled up than when he arrived, he leaves the flat. Leaves Morpheus to his human life. And lets the door slam shut behind him.

[mimisempai]

The life of a retired Lord of Dream

Series of oneshots

I want it all

The one who knows me

The best part of the day

Let me carry some of your burden

You will always be my priority

Sweet Mornings

I love the way you shut me up

Content

Proud of you

You’re important

You own only me

If elevators could talk

Here comes the sun

Celebration

Exactly where I want to be

Fulfilled

Craving for your touch

I want to make all your dreams come true

[ennas-aesthetic]

Retired!Dream as a Librarian AU

Both @ineffablyendless and I spent a night brainstorming on what we think Retired!Dream would be doing (you know, if he walked away like Destruction did and decided to live life not tied down to impossible responsibilities), and we immediately agreed that he would LOVE being a librarian. So here's a collection of our Retired!Dream as a librarian headcanons:

Surprisingly, joining the library wasn't Hob's idea.

The first few months after he left his duties and responsibilities as ‘Dream of the Endless,’ Morpheus had gone into a bit of an existential crisis. He has basically lost his entire function, which was the anchorage of his whole being and identity. If he is NOT the manifestation of the collective unconscious and the Prince of Stories, then who the hell is he?

(He has no idea where Destruction has gone, too, so it’s not like he can tap him and ask casually how to start living his life as a human. Dream is drawing on a blank, and is completely lost on who he should be and what it is that he wants to do.)

Hob is there for him during those months. He is gentle and kind and patient; he tells Dream that he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and encourages him to try various things. Crafting, painting, writing. Dream has a natural affinity to the arts (of course) but none of them seem to stick (and the Bohemian starved-artist persona was more Destruction’s thing, anyway. Dream may be a ‘human’ now, but the pettiness went nowhere, it seems.)

Hob tells him that he will NEVER mind Dream going out of the flat when Hob’s off to teach at the University. Encourages it, even. He tells Dream that he does not need to be cooped up in the house, that he can go wherever he wants. Dream often stays in, anyway, (because he has got nowhere to be), until he could not take the constant ennui and boredom any longer and books out of the flat.

He goes around the locale for a bit, explores the town he and Hob live in. Inexplicably, he is drawn to the local library.

Stepping into the library reawakens a small part of him that has been dormant ever since he left the Dreaming. Stories had always been his domain, and it is there that a tiny part of his soul (if he has any) is moved – as if the place has put him under its spell. He browses the shelves, reads through books and novels that he has read a thousand times. Often, though, he is content sitting at the little visitor’s nook, looking at readers of all ages exchanging and accepting stories and tales, and feeling a forgotten part of his heart twinge with bittersweet calmness and serenity.

Haunting the library became a daily ritual. And as it is with humans and rituals, the staff become more and more used to him the more he frequents the place. Slowly they integrate him into their tight-knit band of librarians. Dream finds himself in deep discussion with various people over folktales and legends and stories, and they are entranced by how much he knows, endeared by his seriousness and aloofness. It is in conversation with the head librarian that he finds out they are always accepting volunteers. Would Dream like to be one?

When Hob finds out he is overjoyed. It was a no-brainer, really.

And that’s how Dream became part of the staff of the local library.

Sometimes Dream wonders how he had gotten here. Oh, if only his subjects could see him now. If only Lucienne could see him now. He was the owner of the Dreaming’s vast, endless library, sure, but as Monarch he had left the more menial tasks to Lucienne. Which, he realizes, was quite the “dick move” (as Hob puts it), on his part. He gets taught how to shelve books using the Dewey Decimal system, how to administer fines for books that are way past their return date, find the exact shelf for Fortunately, The Milk that a child had wanted for forever, how to wrangle silence with a vehement ‘sssssh!’ and a death glare. The last part he could do with ease, but the others not so much. He resolves to be more appreciative of Lucienne’s work over the millennia, if he ever sees her again.

But the work itself is pleasant, an anchor. He never had a sense that being a librarian is a chore. In fact, the task seems to keep him fixed, hinged on an axis of purpose and drive. After months of senseless brooding he is happy he has this at least, to define the fuzzy boundaries of his identity. He is still crafting who he wants ‘Morpheus’ to be, but it gets easier, a day at a time.

And the people, to his bemusement, love him. He is surprised at the ease of which he gets accepted into the brood, and realizes that people are so much kinder than he could ever have thought. There is Lissa, who is going through her bachelor's degree in Sociology, but who heads the Weekly Library Scavenger Hunt and frequently asks Dream’s help to cut up various visual aids and decorations for their bulletin boards. There is Annalee, who sometimes brings him coffee when they exchange shifts. They help him with the shelving and sorting at the end of the day, and they enthusiastically drag him in to help organize the monthly Slam Poetry competitions. Rupert, an elderly man who comes to stay at the library all day, and who does not forget to ask Morpheus how he is doing. Charlotte, the matronly Head Librarian who notices Dream not eating or taking breaks at the right time (his relationship with food has been complicated and rocky since his imprisonment at Burgess’), and clucks at him like a mother hen for skipping meals.

It’s… it’s a community. Dream has found himself a community: people who CARE about him, who allow him to be part of their little found family, who do not cower away from him or act as if they’re walking on eggshells around him. For once he has found himself an actual, healthy support system. Hob says something about Dream resonates with them: how aloof and awkward he is, how utterly serious and straight-faced he is about the job. They give their kindness so freely that sometimes Dream thinks that there is a catch (because there always was.) But sometimes kindness is brash and natural and emergent - it shows up wherever, whenever, just because.

(He is loved by the community, too. They are obsessed with him, this awkward, no-nonsense, goth librarian in doc martens and earrings and black nail polish. Whose partner, a genuine University professor, comes over occasionally to give historical talks and seminars. This skinny, goth, queer librarian who can and frequently glares people to death for the slightest perceived misdemeanor but blooms like a fresh flower for every nervous child who has questions about books. He’s done so well that they upgrade him from volunteer to full-time librarian, of which Morpheus accepts graciously.)

Another thing the community is obsessed with: Morpheus’ Children Reading Programs.

He was not in charge of Story Time Tuesdays. Peter was, except Peter wanted to move back to Brighton to be closer with his family. Morpheus takes the mantle when he volunteered to adlib a story on the behest of one of his fave kids. Of course, unbeknownst to literally everyone else, Morpheus is in his element. He does not just read: he performs. He takes the voices very seriously, and he is an excellent storyteller, weaving a tale of dragons and knights and pegasi so enrapturing the entire floor goes dead quiet hanging on to his every word. When he is finished they erupt into incredulous, awestruck applause.

Story Time Tuesdays become a hit. The kids are apt listeners and a great audience, and adults come over once in a while to sit in, too. Sometimes he does not even need a book. He's like a fucking bard. An old-timey rhapsode who could string one story into another with ease. EASE. He could recite them as though he himself was there for each and every one. (And he was. HE WAS.) The children love him completely.

He is so good at storytelling that the library club affectionately nicknamed him the Library's "Prince of Stories." This sends Hob to hysterical tears.

One time the kids suggested he tell the story of Mr. Sandman. This is the one time he is taken aback, the one time he sputters as he insists Mr. Sandman doesn’t have his OWN story, because he was the storyteller. He does not have a story of his own.

The kids call BULLSHIT on this, because somehow Dream trained them all into believing EVERYONE has their own story. Hob, bastard that he is, who has made a habit of getting off the university early to listen in on Dream’s Story Time Tuesdays, yells "YOU'RE RIGHT!" So Morpheus is delegated into the sidelines as he watches the kids make up a story of their own for once, about a dream magician named Mr. Sandman with a dragon best friend who goes on a quest to leave his island.

Mr. Sandman becomes a recurring character in all of Dream's adlib stories now, at the kids' insistence. He’s the magical godmother and the helpful NPC that helps the heroes on their quests. The other librarians who are secretly compiling all of Dream's adlib stories are naming it "Sandman Stories". The kids dress up as "Sandman" on Halloween and Dream is beginning to realize the children perceive Sandman to look a lot like himself.

He also DID NOT have a complete breakdown in the bedroom he and Hob share, about how the children are adamant that Morpheus has a story of his own, despite believing for entire eons that he has none. It's still hard to reconcile his issues on self-worth, remember that he deserves kindness and compassion. But Hob is there to help him get through it, and the kids continue insisting that the Sandman is a real character with a story of his own that MATTERS. That he has a life worth living, a tale worth telling.

And slowly but surely, he starts believing that, too.

We have SO MANY MORE librarian!Dream headcanons that we haven’t touched on yet! If you have questions + want some more these hit us up! 

[illumi-nati-png]

Please go read @ennas-aesthetic Librarian!dream AU