#greatful morpheus

[frankendeth]

Dream of the Endless + small Death i didn't want to cut out

[densewentz]

In His Spot Day 10 (Fursona) and 11 (Yandere) got lumped together and shaken into some Dreamling fluff! (feat. some particularly unfortunate grad students)

[quibvsposts]

i’m absolutely obsessed with Regency au Dreamling from the wonderful fic, Risk and Reward by @signiorbenedickofpadua

[excali-bruh]

I am hope. | Dream | The Sandman, written by [redacted].

I can’t lie, I’m in a huge creative slump at the moment (massive burn out, you know how it is), and though I’m not completely happy with this piece it’s the first thing I’ve been able to finish for weeks now. Gotta start somewhere, right?

[tsintotwo]

Tom Sturridge in interviews: Fidgeter's Handbook edition

[roguelov]

… am I really about to draw Dream as a mermaid (or as a octopus man)? … yeah I think I am

[writing-for-life]

Art by Mindy Lee

[izzy2210]

Clean-shaven

Based on @watercubebee's perfect perfect art, I love it so much I can't even, so here, a gift!

--

Hob is positively baffled when he finds his Dream in his bathroom, looking in the mirror, running his hands over his cheeks. “What are you- Is that a beard?” Dream nods, almost looking as surprised as Hob. “I think your, humanity, is rubbing off on me,” he studies himself in the mirror again, “I do not mind it, I think.” That makes Hob smile, wrapping his arms around Dream’s waist, “You’re handsome like that, duck. Do you want to keep it?” he asks, nuzzling his face in his neck, and Dream looks at him, puzzled. 

“I.. do not know. Yet.” 

“That’s alright, duck. Let’s do today with your beard, and you’ll see if you like it or not.” He turns Dream around by his waist, cupping his face, the stubble pricking in his palms. He runs his thumb over Dream’s cheek, looking at those pretty, pretty eyes. “Do you think I look good?” he asks, it sounds almost insecure. “Of course I do, duck. I love you. Let’s go eat breakfast, alright?” he asks, pressing a chaste kiss on Dream’s lips. “Alright.”

—————————————

At breakfast, Hob keeps glancing at Dream’s face, and acts like he doesn’t see it when he runs his fingers over his cheek every time he takes a bite. “You look pretty, duck, don’t worry.” He chuckles, and dream looks up at him, eyes wide. “I- It feels.. weird. And nice. I haven’t quite got the words for it yet.” Hob chuckles again, “Am I gonna get a poem about your beard later? Wouldn’t mind that.” He nudges Dream, who blushes a little.

“Oh, are you shy? So suddenly?” Hob smirks at him, and Dream shoots him a glare, not an unfriendly one, though. “Oh come on, love,” Hob stands up, setting their empty plates in the sink, he’ll clean those later. 

“Are you teasing me?” 

Hob jumps at how close Dream’s voice is, and shivers happily when his slender fingers dig into the plush of his hips. “Maybe.” It’s the truth, he doesn’t exactly know what his plan was, it’s hard to think straight when Dream of the Endless his pulling your hips against his. 

His voice is gravelly, and tickles just as delightfully as his stubble. Hob throws his head back in a desperate attempt to look at him. “I do not think that is the right answer, my love. T’was a simple yes or no question, dear. It cannot possibly be that hard, can it? Would you,” his hand creeps up, running his fingers over Hob’s throat, who exhales shakingly, blushing like crazy, “try again, for me?” Hob whimpers, and apparently that’s the right answer, because Dream flips them, letting Hob push him against the wall. 

“You are so hot like this, duck, it’s insane..” he smiles, while Dream pushes his hand on the back of Hob's neck, bringing him closer for a kiss. “Dream~” he moans, tangling his fingers in Dream's shirt, pushing himself impossibly close to him. 

“I believe that you like how I look, then?” Hob can hear the tease in his voice, and when he opens his eyes, Dream is looking through his lashes, right at him. “I do, very much. Love you, duck.” He presses his nose against Dream’s, closing his eyes, enjoying the moment. “Mmh.” His hum vibrates ‘till it’s deep in Hob’s chest, entering his heart, it’s frantic beating trying to capture the sound. They’ve been together for however long, they don’t count the years, they count their moments, and there aren’t enough numbers for that. 

Dream lifts Hob’s chin, making his lips fall open so easily, like it’s breathing that he’s doing. “Duck-” Hob’s moans and whimpers get swallowed by Dream, who feeds on it. 

“I love you, fuck, baby..”

“I love you too.” 

—————————————

“Do you wanna shave it, though?” Hob lays in bed, Dream’s head planted firmly against his chest, Hob’s fingers scratching at his hair. “I do. I like the feeling, but I like a clean-shaven face better. What do you think, my love?” Hob shrugs. “It’s not for me to choose, duck. I’ll help you shave, tomorrow, alright?” he asks, and Dream nods. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” Dream opens his mouth to protest, he can’t get hurt after all, but Hob shushes him. “Go to sleep, love.” “That is funny. Normally I am the one who says that after you have worked yourself exhausted.” Hob laughs wholeheartedly, “I remember that. Drooled all over a student’s paper. It was worth it though, we had a good fuck after.” He chuckles, and Dream buries his face in his chest. “Go to sleep, love.”

[miss-what-a-d0ll]

𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵

[ingary]

Crochet Dream is judging you

[webonchin]

So uh.

I had a moment

Textless version below

[notallsandmen]

I think there is an unspoken agreement in the Dreaming that every time Dream has had library sex, Lucienne gets to fuck Gault on his throne when he’s away

[lenreli]

Day 27 - Purgatory

[AO3]

All around him, there’s white ― though, not white, just, a lack of anything, a bright void as Hob looks around, confused, and definitely knowing he’s ― asleep, yes. “What’s with this?” 

“A blank slate,” a deep voice says, curling into his bones as suddenly there’s pressure next to him, a shimmer in the nothingness, and suddenly Dream is there, Hob’s brain aching at seeing Dream’s black robes, too black against the bright void around them. 

“Okay. And why a blank slate?” Hob frowns, focusing on the blue-black of Dream’s eyes, an anchor of colour in the entirety of nothingness. And almost like a purgatory, a place he’d think he’d end up in if he ever died, pure nothing and nothing to do, nothing new to do or learn.

Dream blinks, a pale hand holding onto his, and something sparks between them, lightning arcing under his skin as it makes its way through his body. “To see what you’d do.” Dream says as he leans down, pressing a kiss onto the inside of his wrist, lashes black and long as blue eyes stare up at him. 

“I’m not an artist,” he croaks, and Dream gives him a sly smirk, eyebrows raising in challenge. “But, of course, I can try.” And, in dreams, he with the spark under his skin, that he can use anything to bring colour and life to the void. “I have an idea, if you’d let me,” he whispers, pulling Dream close by the jaw.

Dream tilts his head, listing closer until they’re kissing, Hob’s hand going down to a pale throat, “you may,” Dream answers, then pulls away suddenly, and Hob blinks, looking at the bright sparkling red now on the void, a stroke of paint from Dream’s voice. “My…” Dream’s eyes widen, a stroke of black appearing onto the void, and Hob’s surprised to see a splash of red on Dream’s cheeks. 

Hob smiles and kisses Dream, sweet and deep as their clothes unravel, vanishing into nothing as they moan into each other, the sound of Dream’s voice making sparkling reds and blacks appear onto the void, which Hob isn’t paying much attention to. “So beautiful,” he whispers as Dream lets out a shiver moan as Hob’s fingers go into Dream’s cunt, watching as Dream arches up and into his hand. 

“Hob,” Dream cries out, the word making a bright stripe of magenta appear over their heads, bright and sparkling as and more strokes of colour appear as he wrings more sounds out of his lovely partner, the void transforming into a sparkling mix of blacks, reds and magentas, but Hob is more focused on tugging out every sound to care about that as he nibbles at Dream’s collarbone, pale hands tugging his hair as Dream comes and begs and comes even more.

[rey-jake-therapist]

After watching 8 mediocre episodes of a show that was so poorly written and acted I couldn't be bothered to care for most the characters (I only really liked one lol) and what happened to them, it felt SO GOOD to rewatch The Sandman yesterday 🖤

Once again my breath was taken away by the gorgeous, unique cinematography, by the incredible music, by Tom's deep, sensual and yet a bit frighteningly voice, by his starry stare the first time we see his face... by all the actors' great acting, by his smile when Lucienne touches his hand and tells him he's home again... By everything. Seriously, it was a healing experience and I can't wait to be tonight to pursue it 🤍

[littledreamling]

Something that's been rotating in my mind like pastas in a microwave lately is : how does Hob's brain, and particularly his memory, works with his elongated life ?

this is prompted by one of your latest reblogs regarding Hob's memory, the fact that's you're actually a student of science, and because I'm pretty sure you wrote or reblogged material for an AU in which Hob became a neurosurgeon instead of a History professor in modern days, which leads him to study people suffering of the sleepy sickness, which in turns leads him to Dream's identity, or something, but I cannot find it again on your blog and maybe I'm mistaken and this sounds completely out of the blue, apologies

Because, correct me if I'm mistaken but our brains aren't fully developed until ~30 years old, which is why it's easier to learn during this period of our lives. But then it retains a considerable plasticity and we may reprogram entire neural pathways for purpose they weren't initially generated to fulfill still (like when someone goes blind and they develop extremely acute hearing or sense of touch because the part of their brain previously alloted to vision has been reprogrammed for hearing/touch instead). Right ?

Which means Hob's brain and memory is functioning just as fine as any 33 years-old's, since he is sparred the decay of his grey cells. But also ... Hob's brain, and memory is, ultimately, finite. There's only so much grey matter his skull can hold !!

He has probably started establishing sorts of "well-memorising" rituals at one point in his life, to make sure not to forget certain precious memories ... and it's probably a non-negligible reason why he got into History too !! He gets to make a living out of churning and reflecting on the past and keeping it vivid.

But there are also parts of his brain, memories and skills that necessarily get overwritten by new memories and skills ? And of course, our brains aren't like hard drives, entire sections of his memory wouldn't suddenly be wiped out. Some memories and skills would simply wither away at the outskirt of his brain, rustying until they get vacuumed into oblivion ... but what do I know about how amnesia work ?? I'm just a Japanese undergraduate and a librarian who writes !!

But combining that with a warped sense of time passing ... Hob used to be excellent on horseback. Of course, he's ridden more horses than any rider throughout his life as a soldat and a bandit, and later as a knight. Sure his title was honorary, and he was no longer a warrior then, but one didn't carve out a niche in England's nobility for themselves, let alone hosted the Queen, without virtosity in horseback fox-hunting.

Then time passes, centuries come and go, and it's been a small eternity since Hob last rode a horse. And he misses it, but he's a busy man, and one does business much more easily inside of a coach than on a horse's back. Plus it's fine, riding a horse is like riding a bike, one simply doesn't forget how to once they've learnt it. Speaking of which, bikes are fantastic !! Such elaborate mechanic would have looked like witchcraft to actually-33-years-old-Hob and yet, it's one about anyone can afford in these days and age ...

Before he realises, centuries have passed without riding a horse. And then Hob finds himself invited to monitor a Renaissance Fair as an historian, and there is jousting on the program, and he somehow finds himself arguing with the knight-wanabees over the inaccuracy of their horses' harnessing, and all they can respond is that historically-accurate harnessing wouldn't be safe for them to ride with, and Hob finds himself oddly riled up by this, and he might not say it, but he thinks loud that "Ah ! Back in my days, people didn't need all of that frill, because we knew how to ride horses," as he climbs on one, intending on demonstrating the ease of today's riders ... and almost breaks his arm in his fall upon a few steps from his mount.

Hob Gadling might know how to ride a bike nowadays, but no longer a horse ...

Uh I might have wandered off a bit here, but my point is, for all the enthusiasm Hob carry with him throughout his immortality, an abundance of oblivion for an abundance of novelty and experiences is a price of which payment he cannot escape.

And that is quite dampening ... but I had to inflict this upon you because I want to hear your thoughts on it Ꮚ•ꈊ•Ꮚ

I’m actually screaming and crying about this, you have no idea. I’m going to try to keep this short because I have about four projects due tomorrow so I can’t devote an hour to pouring my heart and soul into this ask like I want to but this is actually making me go feral!!

First and foremost, I should say that… we don’t really know how memory works in the first place, even in regular humans. I mean yeah, we understand that memories go to short term and then get transported to long term, and there’s a whole lot that goes into that, but it’s kind of a squiggly, imprecise method (and I’m sure there are others who could offer far more insight than me, and I’d love to hear it!) so comparing Hob’s memory to ours is a little difficult, to say the least. But let’s for the moment, assume that his memory works the same way: he can only hold so much information in his brain. You’re absolutely correct about the brain’s plasticity and the fact that Hob would’ve been given his immortality pretty much at the height of his brain’s functioning power (as long as you subscribe to the headcanon that he was ~30-35 at the time of his and Dream’s first meeting) so yeah, he’d have a pretty good memory! But like you said, not infinite. He’s only human, after all, and this is where I blacked out and my angst brain took off in leaps and bounds (sorry @levi1088 for spamming you out of the blue and also making you sad, I’m about to do it again) because thinking about Hob’s memory, about what he’s lived through and lost and forgotten will always make me feel like my ribs are being ripped from my chest, so I’m going to endeavor to make you feel the same way because I’m evil like that

I can’t even begin to fathom all of the things Hob has forgotten over the centuries. Names, places, skills, scents. He always told himself that he’d never forget the sound of a blade being unsheathed or the gasp of air that a man makes when his lungs have been punctured, but he eventually does. When he watches period war movies, he criticizes the sound effects, claiming inaccuracy, but he also can’t remember what it really sounded like, only that it didn’t sound like that. He told himself he’d never forget his sisters’ names, but he forgot them long before he learned his letters (working at a printing press doesn’t necessarily mean he knew the words he was printing, especially because the majority of what he would’ve printed would’ve been in Latin, not English) and with no records, their very existence has disappeared into smoke and grave dirt. Can you imagine the moment when he realized he couldn’t remember his mother’s face? Or Eleanor’s? Or Robyn’s? When he realized he could no longer remember the scent of his childhood home or the sound of his father’s laugh?

His memory isn’t any better than ours! And I’d like to comfort you (and myself) by saying that Dream could conjure up those things in the Dreaming, but he can only draw from memory; once Hob no longer remembers it, it’s gone forever. AND THEN!! The warping of memories!! Every time you remember something, it gets rewritten in your mind, so even if Hob remembered every detail about his life (which we’ve already established that he doesn’t), he probably only thinks he does, because those early memories have been warped beyond belief. And he can’t go back and check because his parents were nobodies, his siblings all died in the plague, his friends died in war. None of them got portraits painted of them, none of them could afford the paper to keep diaries or sketchbooks. There’s absolutely no record of his childhood or home town or family or friends; he’s well and truly the only one left and god, doesn’t that just kill you?

But then (because I’m an incurable optimist and as much as I love angst, I love happy endings too) there’s always a silver lining. Hob is immortal. He’s lost everything. Every single item, every possession, every name, every single person except for one has been lost. He’s had six hundred years to come to terms with the fact that he will inevitably lose everything he currently has and that has to be okay. It has to be, because what other option does he have? He can’t be sentimental with objects because the constant sense of temporariness of every aspect of his life would drive him insane. Delirium would probably take up permanent residence at his flat if he constantly worried about everything he had lost over the course of his long life.

And I have to believe that this applies for memories, too. Hob strikes me as the type to let those kind of things roll off his shoulders like water. There’s nothing he can do about it, so why bother worrying about it? He lives his entire life in a completely transitory state; his memories are the least of his concern (as someone with pretty severe memory problems, this is a mindset that I have been forced to adopt because I, too, would drive myself absolutely insane trying to remember everything I had forgotten. If it’s important, it’ll come back to me, and if it doesn’t, someone will remind me. If neither of those happen, it’s usually none of my concern and 99% of the time, it never comes up again). And like, yeah, it sucks that he can’t remember his mother or his friends or his house, and he mourned those losses when they happened, but he’s constantly replacing those memories with new ones. He’s so invested and intrigued with the world around him and he’s always gaining new experiences; his memories come and go like the tides and he no longer gets upset at the loss of them, or at least, he no longer holds onto that mourning for longer than the emotion warrants; he grieves their absence and then he moves on.

Additionally, his memory might be finite, but the life lessons he’s learned and carried from one lifetime to the next are not. He doesn’t have to remember where he learned how to pick pockets to remember that he knows how to do it, if that makes sense. Some things transcend memory.

This might be a convoluted analogy, but I like to think of memory as a window looking into anroom with a timeline on the opposite wall. Wach person has a window to look through and they can only see the section of the timeline that corresponds to their life. The window can never get bigger, not for anyone. You can only hold a lifetime’s worth of memories. And the same goes for Hob; his window doesn’t stretch or expand any larger than anyone else’s, but it moves when no one else’s does. His window has the ability to slide along the wall, constantly replacing the memories that disappear from view with new ones. We’re all stuck with the lifetime we have, with the memories that we can create in the 70-90 years that we have (if we’re lucky). We all have our window, it’s just that Hob has the ability to shift his window to a new perspective, a new era of time, a new life. And I think he would think that was pretty cool

[disc0bandit]

found a new brush in my settings and thought "what's the easiest thing to draw to try out this brush" and turns out the answer is Dream