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cuubism · 4 months

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By the time half of his nine a.m. class called out sick with migraines, Hob knew something was seriously wrong.

He himself hadn’t even slept at all the night before. It wasn’t impossible for that to happen, despite the fact he was dating The King of Dreams, Lord of Sleep, etc, because Dream refused to outright control Hob’s sleep—which Hob thought was admirably restrained of him, actually. When Hob had asked why Dream wasn’t particular about it as he was about so many other things, Dream had said that ‘the mind’s independent exploration of the unconscious is crucial to mental functioning.’ So Hob being kept up by work or mundane worries was always possible, if rare given the natural effects of his proximity to Dream.

But something about sitting up in bed that night, sleepless, nagged at his mind. He hadn’t seen Dream that day, either. Hob was a little… touchy about risks to Dream, a little hyper-attentive to hints of occult wrongdoing or broad disruptions to sleep. He’d failed to help Dream once. He wouldn’t again.

So it was already prickling at the back of his mind before he opened his laptop that morning to dozens of emails of students calling out sick. Hob himself had been spared any migraines, but all the messages dropped like stones in his stomach. Dream. It must be. Was he captured? Hurt? Did someone summon him again?

He had just sent an email cancelling class and was halfway to the door, not knowing where he was about to charge off to but doing it anyway, when Matthew landed hard on the windowsill and started pecking at the glass.

Hob rushed back over, heart jumping in his throat, dropping his bag. So it was Dream. Something was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded as he wrenched open the window and Matthew tumbled in. “What happened? Where’s Dream?”

Matthew stumbled onto the side table, flapping ragged wings. A couple of loose feathers shook out. “So he’s not here? Shit, dude, I was hoping—”

“Matthew. What happened.”

“We got attacked.” Matthew shuddered. “Boss fought ‘em off, but now I can’t find him anywhere.”

“You can’t find him in the Dreaming?” Hob tried not to let this come out hysterically, but he didn’t entirely succeed.

“The place is fucked— look, if he’s not here, you should just come back with me.” He flapped up and landed on Hob’s shoulder, claws piercing his jumper. “I think I can maybe— yep—”

The world swirled around them in a million colors, flashes of unfathomable places and sounds, and then they were stumbling dizzily into the throne room—or what was left of it.

“Shit, get back!”

Matthew hauled Hob backwards by the collar of his jumper before Hob could go tumbling into a crack— no, a void in the marble floor. It went straight down into infinity, dizzying and unreal. Heart jumping in his throat, he stumbled backward, nearly tripping. Then sucked in a deep breath and looked up and around.

The crevasse he’d nearly fallen into wasn’t the only crack in the throne room floor. The entire castle, the fabric of the Dreaming itself, was rent in concentric circles, a spiraling pattern where the rock and sky had been pulled apart from itself and nothing showed through. Slices in reality—or rather in dreams—where it cracked open into the fundamental void of the universe.

Hob look away from it, horrified, a fierce headache brewing behind his eyes. He kept his gaze trained on the intact sections of the castle.

“Place is fucked,” Matthew repeated—a massive understatement—landing again on Hob’s shoulder, well away from the crevasse. “Watch those gaps. That’s raw nothingness, it’s usually outside the Dreaming.”

“Wasn’t planning on going in them.” Hob walked carefully across the intact portion of the floor, wincing at the gouges ripping open the throne room. If the Dreaming looked like this, then Dream probably did, too. Or something like. “Tell me what happened exactly?”

“Okay, so, according to Luce, a billion years ago, these ancient beings attacked the Dreaming, and—”

——

How

dare

they?

Fools. Arrogant fools. To think that because the Dreaming was newly remade that the Dream Lord was weak. To return.

When last their paths had crossed, he had torn their leader’s spine from its back. He wore its skull still as a symbol, a warning. And yet they dared to return and challenge him again.

He had shown them. They had dug their talons in, held tight with sharp teeth, but he had strong jaws, too. He had ripped them out: root, stem, bone, cell, torn them apart, disintegrated them, shredded them just as they had asked for. It had taken much out of him. But he had shown them.

Now…

Where…

was he?

“Dream?”

Somewhere in the Dreaming…

“Hey, love. Can you hear me?”

…he had been looking for something… respite… he had not found it, quite. He had gone through a dream of burning flowers… through a nightmare of sweet lovemaking… no, that was… not right…

“Dream.”

Hands on him. The gashes torn through him where starlight leaked. Hob had made this place. A dream version of the safest place that Dream knew.

“I can hear you,” Dream murmured. Opened his eyes. The rug on Hob’s living room floor greeted him. Hob’s knees, just in his line of sight, where he was kneeling. Hob’s hands on his shoulder. He was bleeding there, and elsewhere.

Hob touched Dream’s cheek. “Took me ages to find you.”

“You made this place,” Dream said, finding Hob’s knee with a shaky hand and squeezing it.

“Did I?” Hob looked up and around. “It’s just my flat.”

“A place where we spend much time, even in dreams.” He groaned as Hob helped him sit up, leaning him against the couch. The ancient ones were destroyed, cast like so much dust out of the Dreaming, but the damage they had inflicted remained. Including on Dream’s own form.

“I tried to find your dreams,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch, already tired, “after.” He had known that Hob’s mind was a place where he might recuperate from the strain of fighting those terrible creatures, and that Hob, unlike most humans, was familiar enough with the Dreaming not to buckle under the shock of what he saw. “But you were not sleeping.”

Hob studied him with concern. “I wasn’t the only one.”

Dream stiffened. Bad enough, the damage to the Dreaming. “Have I inflicted much harm on the Waking world?”

“No, love, I think they’ll be okay. Once you are. Will you be? The throne room was, well— nightmarish.”

“I will repair it,” Dream said. He was relieved the damage had not spread too far into the Waking, though he would have to examine it himself—Hob would not be able to see the full scope. But Waking world effects were much harder for Dream to fix. And to think that he might have harmed his dreamers…

“And what about you?” Hob asked. He cupped Dream’s face in his hand. Dream still felt inestimably tired. But he had to get back to the core of the Dreaming, not this tiny corner crafted by Hob, no matter how comforting it was, or how much he might wish he could stay, just for a moment longer.

“This is not the first time the Dreaming has been attacked,” he told Hob. “I have repelled them before, and I did so again now. The damage was greater last time, in fact.”

“This may surprise you, but that’s not comforting to me,” Hob said.

“The Dreaming will not fall,” Dream repeated. “You need not worry.” He wouldn’t let it happen again. Not after that first attack, so long ago. Not after his recent absence had done so much damage.

“And what about you?” Hob repeated.

Dream knew what Hob wanted from him, but to leave to the Waking now and indulge himself in proper ‘rest and recovery’ as Hob might deem it was not an option for him. He could not leave the Dreaming in such a precarious state, no matter the effects upon himself.

He stood up, bracing himself on the couch. Hob followed him, alarmed. Dream swayed, then caught his balance and stood tall. The gouges torn through him from the monsters’ claws caught on his shirt and coat, and he winced, despite himself.

“I will not fall, either,” he told Hob. “You needn’t worry.”

Hob sighed, mouth tilting in disappointment, but didn’t tell him off. He traced his fingertips over one of the deep cuts in Dream’s coat, where a claw mark curved over his shoulder, dark blood caught in the edges of the fabric.

“I have rested here for some time already,” Dream told him. Though it had not been a wholly conscious decision to do so.

“Sure,” said Hob. Dream braced himself to again be told that he must rest. Instead, Hob tilted Dream’s head down, and kissed his forehead.

“Lover of mine,” Dream murmured, wrapping his hands lightly around Hob’s wrists. “I am sorry to worry you.”

“Let me come with you?” Hob said, but Dream shook his head.

“Matthew should not have brought you to the palace, it is not safe for dreamers. Nor even for Matthew. When I have mended the borders of unreality, then you can visit there again. I thank you—” he tilted his head at the image of the flat around them “—for your hospitality.”

“Your hospitality,” said Hob. He took Dream’s hands and squeezed them. “Be safe.”

Dream kissed Hob’s cheek, and whispered, with a curl of his power, “Wake, Hob.”

Then he was alone, and so he traveled, painfully, back to the center of his realm.

——

It rent Dream’s heart to see the Dreaming in such a state, flayed, shredded to ribbons. But the active danger had passed. This now was the cleanup after a storm, and his efforts, at least, would improve things, instead of merely staunching the flow of blood.

Carefully, deftly, as a surgeon with a needle, Dream mended the gouges in the Dreaming. Careful not to tug on the raw edges and split them again. The void retreated to its proper space beyond the walls. The Dreaming groaned in pain to be drawn back in from its chaotic spiral, but Dream made it hold. It must hold.

Soon the crevasses shrank to mere cracks in the marble, and the sky into careful patchwork of blue and clouds. Dream’s head ached, like the migraines the attack had given to some of his dreamers. He finally allowed himself to stop, to sink down to the throne room floor and press his forehead to the cold stone. It offered some relief.

He felt when Matthew reentered the Dreaming, and then the flutter of his wings as he landed beside him. To keep him away from the dangers of the fragmented Dreaming, Dream had sent him to survey the damage in the Waking world, and then, when he was finished, to appease Hob with his presence and assure him of Dream’s continued ability to stand upright.

“Uh, boss?” said Matthew, bobbing beside him, tilting his head to catch Dream’s eye.

Dream looked at him out of the corner of his eye, head still pressed to the floor. “Yes?”

“You good?”

“Yes, Matthew.”

Matthew fluttered his wings, and looked up and around at the throne room. “Place looks better?”

“The bulk of the damage is mended,” said Dream.

“Great,” said Matthew. “Well. If you’re done having floor time here, Hob would really like to see you. Like really. ‘Practically threw me out a window to check on you’ really.”

“He worries,” said Dream, with fondness.

“I wonder why,” said Matthew. Dream did not call out his insolence. This time.

He did push himself back up to sitting, then, more slowly than he would have liked, climbed to his feet. “I will call on him. Will you do a brief survey of the borderlands to check for lingering damage? Then, please rest.”

Matthew gave him a look that should not have been possible for a bird, but which Dream understood to be pointing out his own hypocrisy. But Dream did not address it, instead pulling forth a pinch of his sand, and traveling to the Waking.

——

Hob was fucking fretting like he’d rarely fretted before. He was also realizing how common an occurrence this had become since dating the King of Dreams. Fucker. Hob was going to go gray, immortal body aside.

But he would readily admit that he did also admire Dream’s dedication to his realm. Dream would not be Dream if he abandoned the Dreaming in a state—and what a state it had been—for his own needs. That was the person Hob had fallen in love with, a person whose sense of responsibility was as serious as his creations were whimsical. And love him Hob did.

He was still awake, late that night, waiting in hopes that Dream would finish his repairs and return to assure Hob of his well-being, or, luck willing, to rest a while. Waiting. Hob was good at waiting.

And his patience, his tolerance, paid off, for around four in the morning, Dream appeared in Hob’s flat by way of a cloud of sparkling sand. He looked at Hob, still sitting up on the couch, legs stretched out, reading a book. His exhaustion was evident in how long it took him to manage to say, “You are still awake.”

“Yup,” said Hob, setting aside the book. Relieved beyond measure to see him whole. Dream was even still on his feet, though looked decidedly like it would be better for him not to be.

Without further words Dream stumbled over to him, coat and shoes vanishing as he went, and curled up in his lap. He tucked his head under Hob’s chin. Buried his cold hands under Hob’s jumper.

Hob kissed the top of his head, and pulled the blanket down off the back of the couch to drape over him, wrapped his arms tight around his back. “You fixed everything, then?” he said, voice hushed in the night hour. But it was too late to ask questions, for the King of Dreams was already asleep.

#dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing

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mentallyinvernation · 2 years

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AU where Hob gets into an accident that causes him to lose his memories, so Dream has to explain their relationship. Except, because it’s Dream, he explains it really poorly.

This starts with Hob waking up on his second day in hospital, very confused to find a lanky goth perched on the end of his bed (who’s quite possibly an angel, he’s not sure). And the goth just goes ‘Hello, Hob Gadling’ which sounds infinitely better than what the nurses have been calling him (Bob Galden). Hob feels right. Especially when this stranger says it. The only problem is, he doesn’t recognise this cute goth, and cute goth is just sat there staring at him like he’s waiting for Bob - Rob - Robert - Hob to explain what’s going on, which is insane, because how is Hob supposed to know that when he’s the one in the hospital bed with amnesia. The nurses told him he has amnesia, anyway, so he relays that. The stranger looks stricken by such news. Hob apologises for not remembering the strangers name, and asks if they’re friends or something, which is apparently the wrong thing to do, because suddenly the stranger is standing up - there might even be tears in his eyes, it’s hard to tell in this light. But the prospect of this stranger leaving makes something horrible and scared twist in his gut, so he begs him to stay. This is the only person that’s visited the hospital in search of Hob. The only person that knows him - knows Hob Gadling. And Hob Gadling very much needs someone who knows Hob Gadling right now, because he sure as hell doesn’t.

Now flipping back over to dream, he’s catastrophically reeling from the fact his human doesn’t remember him, and unpacking whatever feelings he might have about that sounds mortifying. So, he’s opting to just abort himself from the situation altogether to save himself the grief (disclaimer: it would not save him from the grief). Except, he can’t leave, because Hob is begging him to stay, looking lost and terrified, and there are Certain Thing’s he needs to know. So, Dream sits back down. He explains that Hob is immortal. He explains they met in 1389. He explains their shared curiosity of life brought them together. He explains they attend centenary dates because they’re bound in an arrangement that’ll last until the end of time unless Hob decides otherwise. (‘As in, Til Death Do Us Part?’ Hob asks, sounding vaguely horrified, vaguely awed, and Dream doesn’t think that’s an inaccurate assessment, so he nods). And it’s not that Dream is rambling, because Dream of the Endless does not ramble, but he can’t seem to Stop Talking all of a sudden - like part of him hopes his words might guide Hob’s memories back into the light. So, he keeps going until there’s nothing left to say, and once he’s finished Hob’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“So, we’re married.” Is what Hob takes from all that.

Dream’s too stunned to correct him.

What’s worse, is Hob just accepts that as reality. He spends a solid minute - a minute - fumbling over the initial shock as he processes that information, before taking the lead on Dream’s silence. He launches into a rant about anything and everything his two-day old memory has to offer, smiling again, and then dares to ask questions about their life.

And Dream just sits there internally screaming about the whole thing.

#do they not just act and sound like an old married couple already #The Sandman #dream #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #netflix

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onlybeeewrites · 4 months

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Until The Mockingjay Sings

Requested: no but I love Sejanus and angst and this made me sad

Warnings; major character death, hurt no comfort

Pairing: Sejanus x gn!reader, platonic Lucy Gray x Readers (y’all are besties)

Italicized = flashback

Word count: 1.6 k

You remember the last few hours that you had spent with the sweet Sejanus Plinth so clearly. It was a few days ago, you both had finished dancing at the Hob to the beautiful songs of the Covey. The two of you had been dancing, laughing and singing. It was a beautiful. You swear everything was so perfect.

Then he had walked you home, pressing a kiss to your cheek before leaving for the night. The small kiss from the sweet boy left butterflies in your stomach. Enough to make you smile from cheek to cheek, the redness on your face never ending. It was enough to have your father questioning his intensions, but it was all teasing.

He knew how much you cared for the young peacekeeper. As the bakers of the District, they sometimes (often) came into the bakery for breads, sweets if they could.

That’s how you met Sejanus Plinth.

Poor, sweet, foolish Sejanus Plinth.

How could things have ended so poorly? So quickly? Your mind couldn’t comprehend.

You stood with Lucy Gray in the crowd of people, near the front as you watched you who recognized as Spruce and what you had heard to be his sister. be brought up, about to be strung up on the big old tree. The two of them looked defiant, while also being horrifically beaten. Dried blood and bruises covered their faces and exposed skin. Dirt littered and stained their clothes and hair, and yet they still held their heads high. Honorable. But what had they done?

As Coriolanus’ eyes scanned the crowd, he spotted the familiar head of dark curls that belonged to his beloved Lucy Gray. Though next to her was you, Sejanus’ beloved Y/N. His heart pounded seeing your pained and confused face. You truly had no idea what Sejanus had done….maybe it was better that way anyway. Had you known you would have been up there beside Sejanus. And that would have been such a waste. He agreed that you were good, too good and too kind. Often too much for your own good. But then again, you and Sejanus had that in common. And his mind went back to the moment everything had started to gone wrong.

“You can’t show that you know or saw anything anything, Sejanus. You need to pull yourself together. If we’re all caught…they might suspect Y/N too. And you want to keep them safe right?” Coriolanus’ had asked Sejanus. And Sejanus’ dark eyes had widened at the mention of your name.

No. No, no, no, no. You couldn’t be wrapped up in this. You didn’t know anything about the rebels, or the plan of escape, the weapons, his meetings with Billy Taupe and Spruce. Would you really get caught in the middle of it all if himself and the others were caught? You had no knowledge of anything. You wouldn’t. Your life in Twelve wasn’t all sunshine, but it was better than many.

You had expressed this to him too. That you did what you could for the District. Handing out free bread to those who were starving. Often you have the Covey expired pastries and sweets when you could. You were kind. Genuinely so kind and almost too kind for your own good.

It was ironic for Sejanus to think so, but it was true. You were a good person. One of the few he had met in a long time. And he had sworn to himself and you to keep you safe. He was just about to pull you aside and ask for you to come with him. Away from the districts, to travel up North away from it all. That was until Coryo shot Mayfair. And then Spruce shot Billy Taupe. And it was all going wrong.

Sejanus quickly shook his head, looking at his friend in tears, “no….no they have nothing to do with this Coryo, you know that…” he whimpered with a desperate shake of his head. He failed onto keep from the violence. But he would always make sure you were safe.

Coriolanus nodded, keeping his hands firm on his friend’s face. “I know they don’t, Sejanus. I know. But in order to keep them safe and out of this, you need to pull yourself together. You need to collect yourself and walk back out there like nothing happened. We’re the only lose ends left right?” He asked, and Sejanus nodded again, taking a shaky breath. “Hey…we’re brothers, remember? Brothers...and I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe,”

How that would change so quickly. Coriolanus remained at the front stage of the hanging tree, his gun firmly in his hand while hearing his friend beg for him. Him. Coriolanus Snow. Sejanus Plinth’s best friend. His murderer. And Sejanus didn’t even know. You didn’t even know.

“Please…please coryo…..Coryo…” his voice repeated as he was dragged to his spot, the noise fitting around his neck as the head peacekeeper replayed the recording of the Jabber Jay. You looked on horrified next to Lucy Gray, looking around in shock.

“No….whats Sejanus doing here? He hasn’t done anything. There’s been a mistake,” you say rather in disbelief and frazzled as you watched your boyfriend struggle against the pace keepers before being brought up on stage. You listened in horror as the recording

“No….no there’s been a mistake!” You shout, all eyes moving towards your figure. Lucy Gray’s eyes widened, shaking her head. “Y/N, stop it..” she warned quietly, anxiously.

But you didn’t hear her as the crowd parted to show you. Senjsnus’ eyes widened through the tears. He didn’t expect you to be here. With all his fear he felt, what really made his blood run cold was seeing you. The panic on your face, the disbelief. He never got to tell you everything. The plan to run away together. He wanted to make sure he had everything planned out to the second to make sure it was perfect.

Sejanus wanted to tell you about the life you both could have together. A family. Away from the districts. Away from the Capital. And away from the Games.

"Y/N..." Sejanus gasped, jerking in the restraints, only to earn a warning from the peacekeeper. You weren't supposed to be here. He was scared, but he did not want you to see what was about to happen.

"Sejanus! There's been a mistake! Please!' You called out, the stinging in the back of your eyes as some of the peacekeepers moved. Lucy Gray had seen this. Lil...the girl about to be hung now had done this exact same thing when her lover had been hung. Quickly, Lucy Gray moved forward and quickly pulled you back.

"Y/N, you need to stop or else you'll be up there next," She whispered harshly as you fought her for a moment. How could you remain quiet?

"No....no...no...Y/n! Ma!" Sejanus's voice rang out before there was a sickening crack of several necks as the floor below the three people gave out.

You stared in horror through your tears as the body of the love of your life twitched and swung back and forth by rope that killed hundreds already. You felt like the whole world stopped. Your blood ran cold, and it was like someone had sucked everything from you. The warmth, the love, the hope. Everything that Sejanus had given you, the light and hope for a new and better life, was taken from you within seconds. Who could do such a thing? Sejanus didn't have enemies. None that you could think of at least. But at the moment you couldn't think as you tried to come to terms with what just has happened.

"Oh my god...Sejanus..." You sobbed, feeling your legs give out from beneath you. Lucy Gray was quick to drop down beside you, wrapping her arms comfortingly. Though Sejanus' voice continued to ring out in the air.

The Mockingjays all flew around the crowd and trees, repeating his last words, "Y/N! Ma!"

His voice was scared, desperate for the ones he had loved most. A District boy turned Capital turned rebel. you stared as the ground in horror, tears streaming down your face as your body shook with sobs and shock. Lucy Gray was gently rubbing your back but you couldn't feel it. You couldn't feel anything. Just numb.

So Lucy Gray allowed you to remain like that, sobbing until there was no tears left. Your eyes and face red and puffy, a blank and lost look in your eye. By the time you even got to your feet, a majority of the crowd had left.

"No...don't look," Lucy Gray had gently ordered, keeping your gaze down from the sight of the tree. You were shaking, and nothing like the best friend she had known. She wrapped a supportive arm around you before leading you out of the area without another look behind you both.

Coriolanus felt his own stomach churn as he had heard he snap of his former classmate, his squad member swung behind him, and watched as you had fallen to your knees in pure anguish. As the look in your eyes turned from hopeful and light to a blank and pained look. All for Sejanus. Maybe he had more of an influence than Coriolanus originally had thought. The same boy who had gotten himself into more trouble than he was worth.

The very same boy he had met on the playground when they were eight, the same boy who had given him the gum drops, the one who Coriolanus had almost died for in the arena, the reason he had to kill.

But then he had to remind himself that it was not his fault. He had to report Sejanus, he was trouble, a rebel. Sejanus had been ruining everything with his guilt and urge to help others. But that was all over now. Sejanus was no more.

Poor Sejanus.

Poor sweet, foolish, dead Sejanus.

#onlybeeewrites #x reader #reader insert #hunger games imagine #xgn!reader #sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus plinth #sejanus plinth angst #sejanus plinth x reader angst #coriolanus snow #lucy gray x reader #lucy gray baird #tbosas #tbosas imagine #angst imagines #open requests

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five-and-dimes · 1 year

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Sloom

AO3

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

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

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

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

How he was made wrong.

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

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

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

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

(And then he fails at that, too.)

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

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

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

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

(He doesn't look.)

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

He feels like he deserves it.

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

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

“You’re late.”

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

Dream is breathless with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it is selfish.

But Dream agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know, that actually explains so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

(Or, perhaps, never made at all.)

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

But not enough to open his mouth.

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

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

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

Dream does not want it to end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Desire hurt him. Desire hurt him.)

(He has been told that he is worse.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is within your right.”

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

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

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

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

But. What would that accomplish besides delaying the inevitable?

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

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

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

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

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

(He wonders if he's worth forgiving.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not raining in the Dreaming.

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

The Dreaming is covered in a thick layer of fog.

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

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

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

The fog is getting thicker.

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

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

“There you are!”

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

Because Hob is here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream is. Dream is-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But…”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

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

Is he destined to make him leave no matter what?

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

He lets him go.

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

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

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

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

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

“Different?”

“Better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless. Hob still holds him.

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

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

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

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

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

But he asked Dream to stay.

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

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gabessquishytum · 1 month

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My brain got possessed by the typo (accidental monster Dream from https://www.tumblr.com/gabessquishytum/744409898494853120/okay-au-with-mpreg-monster-dream-is-heavily?source=share), so let's have a pregnant monster Dream now! Dream is an ancient Mara spirit who used to visit people in their sleep and torture them with nightmares. Not anymore, though - he's been depressed for the last millennia or so, and he's in semi-retirement or on an extra-long vacation, and he just chooses some good, solid houses where he hangs out as a monster under the bed. He needs to spin nightmares to feed, but since he's depressed and all, he gets sustenance simply from being near sleeping minds. It's less nutritional, but it keeps him alive, although he starves. He's been living in a nice Victorian townhouse for the last century, and he loves the place. There's a king-size bed with a canopy in the master bedroom, and Dream very much approves of it. All of a sudden, his routine is somewhat disturbed: the house is sold, the previous owners move out, and there comes a new man. Dream is wary of him at first (what if he picks up a bed Dream doesn't like?), but they get on well. Hob - that's his name - is rather unobtrusive. He reads a lot and always keeps piles of interesting books on the bedside table, has a pleasant voice (he often laughs when talking with his friends over the phone and sometimes talks to himself), and even cleans all the dust under the bed. Regularly. Dream is enchanted! His curiosity picked up, he visits Hob in his dream. He doesn't mean to make it a nightmare and just wants to peek to know him better, but the dream takes a surprising turn. Hob...comes on to him. Dream looks essentially like a corpse, with paper-white skin, glowing eyes, and wild black hair, and he's well aware of his looks. Humans are supposed to find him scary. They always do. And here is Hob, who looks at him reverently and wants to fuck him. Dream is very confused, but he doesn't mind at all: while he's never done it, he knows about the things humans like to do in their beds at night. He's lived under those beds long enough, wishing there was someone to touch him lovingly and whisper sweet nothings to him, too…And if he seizes the opportunity to make that wish come true, even if just for one night, who's there to blame him? He lets Hob make love to him and retreats under the bed in the morning holding that memory dear. Hob wakes up with a distinct feeling that he's never had such a vivid (and hot!) dream before and wishes that his otherwordly lover, who was so shy, responsive, and passionate, was real. A few weeks pass in mutual longing: Dream wishes he was someone loveable, Hob wishes he met someone like that in reality. Or at least saw in his dreams again! Soon, Dream feels that his hunger intensifies and walks the dreams of neighbors to feed properly. It gets worse. He's always hungry and miserable, and his lower back aches, and when he takes a minute to think what the hell is wrong with him, he feels a life growing inside and realizes that he's knocked up. Dream considers his options and decides to talk to Hob. He was so gentle and loving with him, after all...Of course, there's no way he would want Dream and his baby if he finds out the truth. Or is it?

Magic monster dream baby conceived from magic dream romance!!! I absolutely love it. Hob sure is in for a surprise, isn't he?!

At first, Dream goes back into Hob’s dreams to speak with him. He's far too scared to just wriggle out from under the bed and confront Hob in the real world. He appears to Hob and explains that he's pregnant, and that it's all real, and Hob is very kind to him. He hugs Dream and kisses him and promises him that all will be well. Still, he gets the shock of his life when he wakes up and finds Dream anxiously sitting on the edge of his bed. When Dream said it was real, Hob didn't quite believe him... until now.

But Hib doesn't freak out. He asks Dream to explain who/what he is. Dream gives an outline of what his species are, how he's supposed to create nightmares and absorb the energy that comes from the fear and dread. He also explains that he hasn't really done much of that lately. And that's he's worried about the baby. He doesn't even know how this pregnancy is supposed to work.

Hob listens carefully and wholeheartedly promises to help. He tells Dream that he must start weaving nightmares again - he needs to eat! He can start on Hob, who really doesn't mind being scared (fear makes him horny, more than anything). As for the baby, well, they'll work it out together. Whether it's half human or all dream, Hob wants the child as much as he wants Dream. He would like to try and make a relationship work between them.

He even shuffles under the bed with Dream to cuddle him where he feels safe and secure. Although he makes clear that Dream is also welcome IN the bed, too.

Dream is just awestruck by the whole situation. Hob seems to genuinely want him, a thing that seems utterly impossible. Dream has long considered himself unlovable, hence his prolonged periods of isolation and depression. It seems impossible that Hob would to build a life with him. But he looks at Dream like he's precious, magical, worthy of love and adoration... is it truly possible that Dream could live in contentment with his baby and this human?

Hob (who is falling more and more in love with every passing minute) sure hopes so.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw monsterfucking #cw mpreg

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tj-dragonblade · 9 days

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For the title ask game - I'd really love to read more of the 1889 rain kiss fic 🥰🥹 I'm so weak for all the anguish and drama 1889 entails

Ah, then let me share with you from closer to the beginning of this thing, where the anguish and drama are strongest!

He centers his attention on this nightmare, to feel out the shape of what frightens Hob so, what about him frightens Hob so. For it is about him, that much is plain to tell; there are few dreamers to whom he is known such that he could be dreamed about, and it tickles at his awareness when they do. It is but the smallest effort to find Hob and step into his Dream, a mere gesture to dismiss the diligent nightmare, his faithful subject, who was directing the dreamscape. It is no effort at all to slip himself into his own shade within the dream, to face the reality that Hob fears him, some part of him, no matter his own feelings on such a revelation. It is not unexpected, after all; he is a creature to be feared, respected, admired perhaps, but not befriended, not sought after for his companionship. It was inevitable that Hob should see this, particularly now that Dream has given him a name, the briefest explanation of function, greater frequency of meetings in which he can observe and discover Dream's faults. (He does not delude himself. He had not expected it to happen so swiftly; Hob is kind, and forgiving, and welcoming in ways that make Dream yearn—but no. Hob was always going to see.) (He was always going to lose Hob's regard.) He is in the New Inn, standing at their table, turning away as Hob rises to follow. "Dream, wait, please don't go—" There is fear in Hob's voice, reedy terror and trembling desperation. Dream does not stop. Dream continues to storm angrily from the pub, as expected of him, as sewn into the fabric of this nightmare. Hob grows ever more distraught as he calls behind him. "I'm sorry, forgive me, I beg you don't go don't leave me—Dream, please!" The last is very much a sob. Enough. He stops, turns. Hob blinks at him from a tear-stained face. Dream plucks at the threads of the scene around them, searching for the words or actions that had transpired before his arrival, but there is nothing. "And for what should I forgive you, Hob Gadling," he intones, improvising while he feels out the shape of this nightmare. The question takes Hob off guard and his brow furrows, his lovely wet eyes blinking several times. "I…I…I did something wrong? I offended you, I made. I made you leave." It is hazy, non-specific in the manner of dreams, but that in itself is very telling. Dream has changed the prescribed course of the dream and Hob's mind is unsure what to do with the shift. Hob is so very different, here, in the grip of his nightmare; he is physically smaller, his usual confidence nowhere in evidence. He is anxious, terrified, wide-eyed and uncertain and trembling, and while Dream had stepped in with the resigned expectation that he would find Hob cowering from the full horror of understanding what Dream is, the true shape of Hob's fear shines startling and unexpected before him as he reaches for it. Hob does not fear Dream. Hob fears losing Dream.

(Previously-shared snippets can be found in the tag!

WIP Title Ask Game

#askmemes #TJs Writing #Sandman #Dreamling #wip: 1889kiss #fun fact this has also acquired the unofficial designation of #The Uke-fied Hob Fic #which is not really accurate and very much an exaggeration #but also not inaccurate ahaha 😅

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virgo-dream · 8 months

Text

Flowing

based on this lovely post and @softest-punk’s ficlet on the reblogs. it scratched my brain so good I actually wrote something!!! this miracle took at least 76 lazari.

dreamling, t4t, fluff, all that good stuff. not beta’ed we die like Hob doesn’t yadda yadda yadda, idk how many words it’s 4:30am and I’m eepy and hungy wow

Dream’s fingers run over the keyboard on his laptop in a staccato rhythm. He feels his fingers clicking against each individual key clumsily, almost as if for a moment, he’d forgotten how words should be strung together. He hits the backspace, once, twice, holds it like he means to suffocate the words on the screen. Like they scare him, like his chest is being torn open by a fictional claw.

It’s not flowing, he tells himself. It hasn’t been flowing for a while now.

Still, he pushes through, typing away, forcing the words out, until a hand much warmer and steadier than his own reaches out, stopping Dream in his tracks.

“Dove, I can hear the cogs turning in your head. What’s the matter? You’ve been jumpy all day.”

Dream’s eyes stay focused on the screen, and time starts to dilate in his mind. He’s not sure why, but his chest tightens. He’s not sure if he’s ready to bring a name to that feeling either. Still, it’s impossible not to look at Hob, whose expression is full of warmth and kindness, and unlike Dream, seems to have his chest open and ready to bring his wreck of a lover into an embrace.

Hob wears the scars on his chest like a badge of honour. A body of his own making, a body Dream could sense from afar even before Hob had started growing into it.

“I… I’m not sure.” The words to describe his anxiety are there, Dream knows that. He’s trying to reach out for them, but he falls short.

Hob’s lips curl into a soft smile as he carefully reaches for the computer resting on Dream’s lap. “That’s alright. But maybe you’ve done enough writing for today. No point in frying your brain like that.”

Dream feels his heart climb up to his throat, hands gripping the sides of the laptop as if his life depended on it. “—I’ll stop. You’re right. There’s nothing more I can put on the page for now.” He shuts the laptop down, pulling it away from Hob and placing it on the nightstand.

He’s got nothing to hide from Hob. He’s got plenty to hide from himself. Dream can tell from how Hob’s eyebrows raise that whatever it is, he’s going to have to face it sooner rather than later.

“…ooookay. I wasn’t going to look, you know? I only want to read what you want to show me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence fills the room as Dream and Hob look at each other. He can tell Hob is not going to push, but oh, how Dream wishes he would. Maybe a push is just what he needs. Maybe Hob is the only person who can do it for him.

Dream looks at Hob’s chest once more. Open, welcoming, light. Free. At his eyes, loving, wanting, sincere. At his arms, reaching out for Dream, wanting to bring him closer, to protect him, to give him strength. “Duck, is there anything you—“

“—could you use they for me sometimes? I don’t think I’m… I don’t think I’m a he. All the time. Maybe.”

Silence now sucks the air out of Dream’s lungs. They stare at each other as his— their words move through both Dream and Hob’s brains. For a split second, Dream feels a surge of fear and shame, the horrifying possibility that everything went wrong and somehow a line was crossed. A line he cannot possibly ignore now.

Before he can dive into any more assumptions, Hob’s arms are around him in a firm embrace, almost crushing. A hand goes to rest on the back of their hair, fingers tangling with the soft, dark strands. Hob holds Dream like they are the most precious thing to ever exist. “—oh duck, I’ll call you whatever makes you feel good. Thank you for trusting me, I know how difficult this is. Thank you, Dream. I love you.”

Hob’s words feel like a soothing balm to Dream’s crumpled chest, that now opens up as they take a breath, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted off their shoulders. Hob’s embrace feels like permission, like comprehension, like support. And love, so much love, so much that Dream doesn’t know what to do with it other than let their hands go to Hob’s softly stubbled cheeks and direct his face to meet Dream’s in the middle, lips crashing clumsily at first.

When Dream opens their eyes again, they are rimmed with tears. It’s okay, though. Hob would not denounce him for crying. Hob accepts it, celebrates their moments of emotional release.

“I know. It’s scary. You did something very big right now. I’m proud of you.” Hob presses a gentle kiss to Dream’s forehead, and doesn’t let of them. Dream is not bothered by it, in fact settling into Hob’s arms, like their bodies were always meant to rest against one another.

Dream wonders if Hob knew all along, like they somehow sensed Hob’s truth years before it came to light.

The next morning, their words are flowing again.

#Dreamling #dreamling fic #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #amazing art #t4t dreamling is somethin else #hob gadling #my writing

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cuubism · 1 month

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physical therapy, part 6.

Hob's been wavering on things like timeline with Dream because, well, he doesn't want to push, but he does obviously want more. There's a lot that he wants, and he thinks Dream wants it too. But Hob can be patient. Definitely. For sure. He's the epitome of patience.

In any case, after a few more dates which are oh so very patient, and in which Dream seems to be gradually coming more and more out of his shell, Hob finally takes the plunge and texts him:

If you want, come over to my place this weekend and I'll cook for you, and adds his address.

He paces nervously while waiting for a response. Dream coming over... he doesn't know how that would end. Well, it would hopefully at least end in Dream eating a proper meal, but other than that...

It's really not so long before he gets a response, though it feels like an eternity.

Okay, writes Dream, with a smile. 🙂 Should I bring anything?

Just yourself, writes Hob.

A shame, for I was planning to arrive incorporeally.

Hob smiles to himself at the comment. Dream is so much brighter once he decides he’s allowed to be.

On the agreed-upon date, Hob spends a truly excessive amount of time getting ready. He’s not even cooking anything elaborate, as he felt convinced he’d wind up fucking it up out of nerves if he did. But really, the quality of his food isn’t the wild card. What he’s nervous about is Dream’s response to being in his home. To being alone. Whether he’ll be okay with it. He doesn’t want to make Dream nervous.

But Dream arrives on time, and he’s smiling when Hob opens the door. He’s also carrying a huge canvas.

Oh!” Hob says, distracted from even kissing him hello. “What have you got there?”

“It is for you,” Dream says, and turns the canvas around so Hob can see it.

It’s a large painting of a rather clever-looking cat, bright colors and bold swathes of paint. It reminds Hob of Dream’s finger paintings, actually, but far more precise in technique. It’s lovely. It’s so cute. And much more playful than Dream’s older art, the pieces he had shown Hob from before his injury.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” he says, and Dream smiles shyly. “I take it your grip’s been feeling steadier, then?”

“Somewhat,” Dream says, following Hob deeper into the flat, as Hob takes the painting and sets it on top of a low bookshelf, propped against the wall. Later he’ll have to hang it up properly. “I am. Enjoying painting again. I think.”

It’s so good to hear. Each time Hob sees Dream he seems incrementally better. Less frozen. More outgoing. And it always makes Hob realize that he’s only gotten to see a fraction of the life that truly exists inside of him.

“I’m so glad to hear that, darling,” he says.

It hurts to think of the version of Dream that might have been there before being hurt. But Hob likes the Dream that he gets to know now.

He leads Dream into the kitchen and bids him to sit down at the table while Hob serves their food, which is staying warm on the stove. Normally, when he invites someone over, he’d offer them wine, but he doesn’t want Dream to get the wrong idea. God, he’s probably massively overthinking things. He’s being totally paranoid, he knows it. But it feels so important that it be right. He’d never forgive himself if he made Dream feel unsafe around him, even if it was by accident.

“I am curious what you’ve prepared to attempt to persuade me to change my habits,” Dream says, after taking a sip of the water Hob’s handed him.

“Something with a lot of butter,” Hob says, and Dream laughs softly. Dream needs it, though. He needs something that’ll stick to his bones.

What he has is tarragon chicken—fried in, truly, an excessive amount of butter—served over rice with string beans. If this can’t encourage Dream to eat real meals, nothing can.

And, gratifyingly, he’s right. Dream devours it, and has seconds. As he eats his own serving more sedately Hob wonders when the last time was that somebody actually cooked for him.

They barely even talk, but Hob doesn’t mind. He just wants Dream to eat.

“You can cook,” Dream says, and Hob laughs.

“Was that in question?”

A light blush graces Dream’s cheeks. “When you first mentioned cooking for me, I had the thought that you were a catch. For that reason among others.”

Hob can’t help himself from smiling—and perhaps blushing a bit, too. “I’ll have to keep it up, and maybe you’ll keep me.”

Dream looks down at his food, but murmurs, “I would like to.”

So Hob takes his hand on the table and squeezes it.

Later in the evening, when they’ve been ensconced on the couch for a while watching mindless telly, Dream’s head on his shoulder, Hob says, “You can stay over if you want. No expectations. Just don’t want you walking home in the dark.”

He’ll walk Dream home if that’s what he really wants, but it’s already midnight and it really might be easier to just stay put.

“Am I allowed to stay over in your bed?” Dream asks, and Hob’s pulse jumps.

“That’s what you want?”

Dream nods.

So, heart still beating hard, Hob says, “Alright. Come on, then.”

And Dream takes his hand as Hob draws him up.

He gets Dream situated with some of his pajamas, which are far too large on him, and with a spare toothbrush and so on, and when they’re finally ready he tries not to be too awkward or nervous as he climbs into bed and gestures Dream to follow, saying, “Come on, love.”

He expects Dream might hesitate, but he doesn’t, just crawls into bed after him and presses himself all up against Hob’s body, laying his head on Hob’s chest. And— God. He’s really decided that he trusts Hob. It puts a lump in Hob’s throat.

He feels like a fucking teenager again, stomach all fluttery just at the feeling of Dream lying against him. In past relationships, Hob had mostly jumped in sex-first, questions-later. But maybe there are more benefits to taking things slow than he thought. It makes every tiny thing feel monumental.

“Comfortable?” he asks, and Dream nods, hair brushing Hob’s chin.

“Yes, thank you.”

Hob pulls the blankets up over them, pets his hair. Dream lets out a long, happy sigh, and snuggles closer.

I’m going to keep you, Hob thinks. “Goodnight, Dream,” he says.

#a nice moment before ANGST #you didn't think we were done with angst did you XD #physical therapy fic #dreamling #my writing #tarragon chicken is a family recipe--thin chicken cutlets breaded and fried in butter with white wine wash and tons of chopped tarragon #i recommend

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the-darklings · 2 years

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──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈.]

summary: "All that's left is a ghost of you."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 7.3k+

warnings: AngstTM, Dream is still Dream (absent) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: happy one-month birthday, tibyim. hope you all enjoy & prep the tissues : )))

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART EIGHT: YEAR 916-994

“My lord. Sir?”

Morpheus permits his lids to flutter open, finding the same bone-deep exhaustion sitting on his chest and back. The multicoloured light that once washed over the pale stone in his throne room is duller and weaker now. More imperceptible. Ashen cloud has settled over his kingdom. All things around him seem to have inverted; even his own palace staff, his own creations.

What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?

Nothing. Not anymore.

“What is it, Lucienne?” he questions mildly, motionless on his throne.

He does not look his librarian's way, for he’s well versed with what he will discover there. A plea, wishfulness, longing. To varying degrees, Morpheus can find those sentiments in every living thing in his realm. It’s as if he’s served an invisible artery he did not know of, and the breathing mass of the Dreaming is all too happy to remind him daily.

As if he did this. As if he wanted this.

Lucienne straightens in his peripheral. “Sir, I’ve come to bring a rather urgent matter to your attention.”

He doesn’t move. “What’s wrong?”

There is a beat of hesitation. “It’s the Wanderer Island, sir. It’s… sick.”

His attention snaps to the librarian at the foot of his dais.

“Sick?” he repeats softly.

“I believe it would be best if you saw for yourself.” Discomfort and sadness paint Lucienne’s face, her arms folded compact behind her back. Even after centuries, some habits are unfading. “If I may, perhaps, make a suggestion, my Lord. It might be beneficial to welcome Wanderer back—”

“Wanderer made the decision to withhold information from me, Lucienne, not I.” His low words slice through the throne room, and with them, the little light emitting from the windows behind his throne gets snuffed out. “It is she who has betrayed my trust and the trust of all those living here. Until Wanderer chooses candour, the gates of the Dreaming shall remain shut to her.”

Same conversation. His siblings were bad enough. Now the staff insists. Do they not understand? Falsity once is falsity always. Universe experiences turmoil. One of the Endless does not simply abandon their post. But for Wanderer to know of Destruction's whereabouts—his brother’s whereabouts—and to not share it with him, the one you always insisted you trust most, stings.

After what transpired with Desire, Morpheus foolishly lulled himself into believing you could be trusted. Perhaps, at long last, he has uncovered a confidant, a soul to share this burden with without concern.

Do his subjects, his siblings, not understand? He did not banish for amusement, for pleasure; even now, on this day, he’s haunted. Traces of you are everywhere. In his kingdom, his creations, his siblings, and even the waking world.

I think you’re lonely.

As if he requires reminders. As if Hob Gadling’s words do not compel forth another voice, so familiar he could pick it out from a sea of billions, no matter what dark hole or galaxy it is thrown in:

Do you ever get lonely?

Lucienne lowers her head, but her words come out strong, insistent: “My Lord, respectfully, perhaps you are not truly appreciating the position Wanderer is in.”

Morpheus slants his head away, his lips compressing. “And what position may that be?”

“That of someone who owes loyalties to more than just you.” Lucienne is already gazing at him over her rounded glasses when Morpheus turns his attention to her. Despite their positions, Lucienne talks as if she’s the monarch sitting on a throne and relating wisdom. “Is it not you, yourself, who has expressed admiration in the past for how loyal Wanderer is towards your siblings? It does not take away from her loyalty towards you, my Lord. Perhaps, there is a good reason for this behaviour. I do not believe Wanderer would willingly withhold anything from you—”

“I have heard enough.”

Lucienne halts mid-word, her gaze lowering, but her shoulders remain straight and tightly locked.

“I am simply proposing that it would be practical—”

Shadows curl around the throne, his fingers curling around the armrest slowly. “It is not your decision to make, Lucienne.” A dangerous, velvety whisper. “You may go.”

Her head droops. Disappointed. So he has existed long enough to disappoint them. So be it.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Ice has enveloped Wanderer Island. Everywhere Morpheus looks, flaky white ice covers the terrain. Snow crunches beneath his boots as he treks slowly through the island, snowflakes floating through the air in shapeless spirals. Periwinkle skies have blackened to a dull, oppressive grey. Flowers have bowed their heads, shrinking inwards. Sour apple grass has shrivelled under severe frostbite. Branches droop low, weighted down by snow and…

“What happened to you?” he breathes.

Underneath the physical matter, he seeks the life, the pulsing core he nestles in all his creations. It takes mere seconds to cup his incorporeal hands around the island’s pulsing heart. Once so bright, so teeming with life, now rests crushed inwards, fluttering weakly in his grasp.

Morpheus leans his hand on the bark of a nearby tree, a faint breath slipping free.

For months he’s refused to visit, refused to so much as consider the island. He'd hoped that if he casts it from his mind, he won't be reminded of you. That, as with all things, he can pry you away piece by wretched piece from his life. Throw each fragment aside and leave them in the past where you and him and together now belongs.

Buried in the ash of ruin.

Where is Wanderer? Comes the pleading, weak whisper in his mind. Where is Wanderer? Where is the one who gave me life?

Morpheus breathes deeply. “I gave you life.”

You gave me a purpose, beloved Dream Lord, not life. You feel cold, my Dream. You feel as cold as Wanderer does.

A serrated blade sinks deep into the soft tissue at the moniker—at the reminder of phantom warmth he’s done all to be rid of. What he won’t give to peel centuries away, so he is no longer burdened by the absence. For it stings, but he cannot hate a memory, only the implication it imparts on him. That there is no together. He’s lost it.

“Tell me who did this to you,” he urges, his words frayed, exhausted.

The most joyous place in the Dreaming is withering. He holds the fluttering life tighter in his palms, protectively, tucking it close to him. His power blankets the island, but it’s useless—unlike others, unlike the Dreaming itself, Wanderer Island was merely shaped by him; its life force came from another source.

A source he's prohibited from passing through his gates.

And if it’s not bad enough already, as if this hasn't demanded too much, taken too much, then comes a faint, fragile declaration:

You did.

And in another breath, equally as fragile: Lonely, so lost, so alone, hurting, you took too much, my Dream—

His fingernails dig into the bark, even if his jaw remains tightly clenched. “I did not mean for this to happen. I wish…”

Do we matter, do we matter, do we—

“You do,” he exhales, so quietly it’s nearly lost. “More than you know. Let me help you.”

Beloved Dream Lord, King of Stars, are you here to destroy me?

Morpheus rests his forehead lightly on the hoarfrost-covered surface. His breath warms and melts the ice, but it will be a momentary relief. “Never.”

But…

The island quivers so terribly that odd, hateful helplessness grasps him.

But…

You already are.

A rustle snaps Morpheus’ head to one side. Corinthian stands in the bleak, snowy treeline. Unmoving. The nightmare’s features remain blank while he observes him. Morpheus hasn’t seen much of his creation since your banishment. According to others, Corinthian hardly leaves the island unless it’s to fulfil his duty. Even occasional dreamers who still stray towards the island find their dreams swiftly souring into nightmares.

Corinthian does not speak and does not move nearer. But in his silence, Morpheus senses the mute resentment, the eroding sense of acceptance for what or who he is.

Morpheus will see and hear even less of his creation in the upcoming weeks and months.

Until one day, Corinthian does not return at all.

“Is there a light at the end of a tunnel?”

“No idea. Never seen it.”

Edward chuckles, a deep, rattling sound croaking through his wrecked lungs. “We must be children to you.”

Your fingers tighten around his weathered ones. The frail skin and bone does feel like dust beneath your hand, but you will not take this final peace from him. “You’re not, Edward. You’re human. You’re my own.”

Edward blinks his watery eyes towards the ceiling, his silver hair nearly blending in with his pillowcase. “It is strange. I feared I might… be afraid. But I am not.”

“Don’t be,” you reassure him kindly. “She’s kind.”

He glances at you. “She?”

Wings rustle behind you, tickling over your cheek and ear and lips.

“Hello, Wanderer.”

Your heart bleeds at the kind, loving greeting. At once, you want to stand and run to her, embrace her and hold her close. Breathe her in and forget the distance between you, the difference you will never be able to bridge.

“Is it time?” you ask instead, wooden in your articulation.

“I’m afraid so.”

Edward looks perplexed by your one-sided conversation. “Who are—oh. You. I see.”

He latches onto one lingering behind you, fear spasming his features. In the end, you’ve learned most are scared, small, and childlike. Hopeful but fearful of what awaits them on the other side.

“Just a moment, please,” Edward pleads.

Death is a benevolent voice and presence behind you. “Go right ahead.”

Edward’s fingers shake around yours, his grip weak despite his effort to hold your hand. “Wanderer. Do you think…”

There’s old man feebleness to him, but you choose to see your friend as he once was—strong, proud and brilliant. All those souls you’ve saved together, all the adventures you’ve shared in. A life unlived because you were not meant for him.

“Yes, Edward.” You put your hand on his, settling him, soothing him. “In another life.”

Happiness shines in his bloodshot eyes, his lungs rattling with a quiet, relieved huff. He gazes at you until the end, until his eyelids slip shut and his hold on you weakens.

Standing, you bend over him, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, your eyes squeezed shut. “Goodbye, my dearest friend.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Death speaks suddenly.

You cannot perceive Edward’s soul, cannot see the intricate nature of life the way Death or other Endless can, but you feel a warmth momentarily on your shoulder when you straighten. It’s followed by fluttering heat against your temple. There and gone.

You push your way from the room just as mighty wings beat behind you, helping your friend pass to the Sunless Lands.

Your foot is barely out the door when she locates you again.

“Did you…”

Death’s face creases with unspoken sympathy.

“Know that Edward loved me?” Your words grind out stringent, tightly leashed. Your dress is too constricting and suffocating. You want to rip it to shreds. Then your own skin off. “Yes. He always joked about courting me, buying me home, and marrying me despite the curse. I thought he meant it in jest. He was a flirt. Then, I was gone for a few decades. For me, it was nothing. For him, it was an entire lifetime. I came back to find him in his sixties, unmarried and alone. He wanted it to be me. The least I could do was stay with him in the end.”

Death’s features crease further, pained. “Wanderer…”

“Anyway,” you mutter dismissively, shrugging as you adjust your large skirt. “Edward had a brother and sister, so I imagine I’ll be dealing with Constantines for centuries to come.”

You set out on a steady trek from the mansion. You both love and hate Death for falling in step with you immediately.

“How have you been?” she ventures.

I haven’t slept in sixty-six years.

You keep your attention directly ahead, mute. Sun beats down on you, sweat beading your brow. Your spine remains ramrod straight despite the discomfort. This is nothing in comparison to things you’ve been through. It’s nothing compared to the bubbling pain in your heart right now. “The usual.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Death says bluntly and your jaw flutters. “You’ve been avoiding all of us. It’s been decades.”

You have. Since your banishment, you’ve done everything possible to remove yourself from the other Endless. The physical toll of trying to cut yourself from them has been immense. You’ve grown accustomed to the curse, or at least you’ve managed to coexist with it to a point where things were almost normal. But now that you’re actively fighting against its will, it’s been set on making each punishment twice as excruciating.

Only now, in Death’s overwhelming presence, it’s stopped its violent rampage through your body.

“I simply got reminded where my place is, Death. I got too ahead of myself. I’m nothing more than a cursed mortal. You’re the Endless.”

Her retort is instantaneous. “Delirium misses you. She needs her friend.”

Your gait stutters, then steadies once more. You refuse to let the panging guilt worm its way through you. “She needs her older brothers, not some stranger.”

Death halts. You don’t. “A stranger? Unbelievable.” In a blink, she’s blocking your path. You stagger to a stop, scowling. “Is that what you believe you are to us? A stranger.”

She’s not letting you avoid her probing stare or hide from her question.

Switching your attention over her shoulder, you respond stiffly, “I believe Desire once summed it up best: a glorified pet with an extended expiry date.”

Death frowns deeply, troubled, bending her head until your eyes meet. “Since when do you listen to what Desire says? Desire speaks only to get under your skin. To get a reaction.”

You say nothing, chewing on your inner cheek. Spring bloom is fresh in the air, bird song chipper and lively, the sky clearest you’ve seen in days. You can’t help but resent it. Edward just died, and with him, another piece of your life.

“Wanderer.” You nearly fold at how gently Death calls your title. “He’s a fool. What Dream did—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her fingers curl lightly around your biceps. She’s regretful, but it doesn't fix the damage done. “Dream needs you. He hasn’t been the same since your banishment. He’s… he regrets it a great deal.”

“Then where is he?”

Birds seem to hush at your whip-sharp question. It burst from you with such keen desperation that you can’t help but shrug off her touch, hurt prickling your skin.

“If he needs me so much and regrets it so badly, where is he?” Your demand shatters the peaceful spring afternoon. Your voice catches, centuries stripped back until, much like Edward before his passing, you’re left terrified and small. “You have no idea what he took from me. None.”

Death says nothing. There’s nothing she can say. If anyone can appreciate just how much you’ve lost, it would be her. Shaking off your emotions, you school yourself. This time you touch her arms, squeezing her forearms once.

“I will always love you. Always.” The light in her dims despite your steely affirmation. Your hold on her slips away. “But please don’t come here, making me feel like the guilty one. I’m done. Your family affairs are yours alone. I’m not getting involved anymore. Morpheus can’t see beyond his pride, which will be his undoing. I’m not going to be a part of it.”

You brush past her, but her subsequent words stop you dead in your tracks: “You need each other.”

It takes effort to swallow the painful lump lodged in your throat. Then do the same with the wad of tenderness you feel spluttering in your chest in concurrence.

“I thought that once, too,” you whisper over your shoulder with a slight, broken smile. “Not anymore.”

You’re gone with a crack before she can say anything else.

“You cannot hide out here forever.”

“I mean, I could,” you drawl tiredly. “Why? Are you kicking me out too?”

Despite the blatant humour, there’s vulnerability buried in your inquiry. Destruction exhales deeply, his broad shoulders rolling with the gesture.

“Never. But my sister was right. Dream needs you.”

You scoff, your shoulders slumping. “Dream doesn’t need anyone, Destruction. That’s the point. If he wanted to fix this—fix us—he would at least try.”

But Dream hasn’t contacted you, or attempted to, in decades. For sixty-six years, you’ve hoped he’d change his mind, see it differently, endeavour to understand. But no. Dream is always in the right. He is too proud, too invulnerable to ponder the possibility of his shortcomings.

He will not permit himself the humility needed for an apology.

“He is not infallible,” Destruction reminds patiently, settling beside you. Next to his brawny figure, you’re no more than a tiny bird, seeking shelter behind a mighty mountain—just two outcasts sharing space. You wish Corinthian could be here with you. “He, too, makes mistakes. I only ask that you give him a chance when he does seek you out. Because he will.”

“Why would he?” you counter.

Destruction levels you with a stare you have a hard time deciphering. It’s old, weighted with a thousand secretive things, and oh so knowing.

“Funny, I—”

You flinch, words dying on your tongue. Another stab from deep within spears through you, and you gasp, doubling over. Something in your pocket burns.

You grasp for the item blindly, flinching at the searing heat rubbing across your skin.

It’s the pebble. Dream’s pebble. It’s so hot you can’t hold it without moving it in your hand.

“What the hell?”

Destruction stands to his feet, focusing on something beyond the horizon with grave intensity. “Dream…”

“What’s happening?” you ask hastily, noting the uncharacteristically solemn expression Destruction wears. “Why do I feel…”

“Something is wrong.” Fire has ignited in Destruction’s usually gentle amber gaze. “Go, go to him. Now, Wanderer.”

Something is wrong. Truly wrong. You sense it long before you snap into the Dreaming, sucking in a desperate lungful of the heated, sweet air. Your home. After what felt like an eternity.

But…

The Dreaming is a location of unparalleled security. Dream had painstakingly pieced together this realm himself and ensured its inhabitants were safe here. Entering this place provides resistance. It always has, even to you, like pushing through an invisible wall. For others, the Dreaming is locked behind an endless maze and formidable Gates of Horn and Ivory. No one enters without Dream Lord’s blessing and decree.

No such resistance met you this time. Stepping into the Dreaming had been more straightforward than going from one city to another, simpler than crossing oceans.

Dread coils your stomach.

You had hoped to simply hop in, check everything is fine, and leave before Dream senses you. Before his wrath can divert your way for your noncompliance. But everything is wrong. Nothing has changed, but somehow everything has.

You set out for the castle immediately.

“Lucienne!”

You spot the librarian in the distance, hurriedly crossing towards the commotion by the castle—

What is going on?

“Wanderer.” Utter shock slacks her features for a breath. “You have returned.”

She doesn't appear pleased to see you. This is the most undone, most concerned you’ve ever witnessed her. The pebble in your tight knuckle hold is icy to the touch. The roar inside your head, so alike to the one you felt centuries ago when Destruction first abdicated his position, is but a muted storm.

“I’m sorry,” you say hurriedly. “I know I’m not allowed to be here, but something felt off. I can’t explain it. I just… what is it? What’s wrong?”

Why does she look so awfully lost, so disturbingly unprepared? But then Lucienne speaks, her voice trembling ever so slightly, and the world as you know it ends:

“He’s gone. Lord Morpheus is gone.”

“Please, remain calm. We are working on getting more information.”

The crowd stirs.

“He abandoned us!”

“Did he leave us?”

Standing in the corner, you listened to the fearful outcries from the Dreaming residents. Lucienne's attempts to appease them have not been as effective as you’d hoped. You do not blame them. After Destruction’s exit, many realms had started fearing the same would happen to them. What happens when your creator grows weary of their duties and decides to depart, abandoning you in the process?

“He is no different than his brother! The Endless do not care for their realms.”

Your frown deepens.

“Dream would never leave you.” Silence shrouds the crowds, and you realise you’ve spoken aloud too late. Their searching, fearful gazes seek you out; several murmurs of wanderer/wanderer has returned/wanderer is here filtering through the air. You soften your features. “He is many things, but have some faith in him.”

“You would defend him?” At the front of the crowd, you discover Gault. Her gaze is unwavering, sober. “Even after he banished you?”

They’re so quiet the breeze blowing through the castle’s structure is audible.

“What happened between him and I is one matter, but he loves the Dreaming.” Your gaze sweeps over the crowd, your words gentle but passionate. They’re just afraid and lost, you remind yourself. So many you’ve known since their first sound, their first breath. “He loves all of you. You should never forget that. If Dream is gone, it’s by no choice of his own.”

And that terrifies you so much more.

“Where is Corinthian?”

The evening had descended upon the Dreaming. Finally, away from the crowd, it’s the first question you ask—demand—because you hadn’t seen him anywhere.

Merv cringes, then scoffs. “Oh boy.”

Lucienne, despite her haggard demeanour, readjusts herself. Her head lowers, and instantly you brace for something awful. Because you know—it’s written in every inch of Lucienne’s pinched yet sympathetic expression.

“He went rogue, Wanderer.”

No. Horror solidifies inside your chest, crushing your heart in a fist. Not him. No.

Take me with you. To the hell with them. You and me.

You and me.

Lucienne continues, each word more crushing than the last, “After your banishment, Corinthian became… darker. Even more uncontrollable. He resented Lord Morpheus for what he did to you. He secluded himself on Wanderer Island. Soon his presence at the Dreaming became more and more infrequent. Sir left to fetch Corinthian from the waking world when he disappeared.”

The first wounding thought comes: did he leave to find me, knowing what Dream would do to him for his insubordination? The second is no less devastating: did he go because he had nothing to lose or believed I’d abandoned him?

Never. You never would. Not a day had passed when you hadn’t thought about him or missed him terribly.

“The waking world,” you croak out because it’s the only tidbit you can latch onto lest you go mad. “I should go. Maybe I can locate him. Both of them.”

Merv shoots his arm out, stopping you. “That’s not a great idea, kid.”

“Why?”

Lucienne sighs, conflicted. “Because it is clear that the Dreaming residents fear they might have been abandoned. Your presence here is giving them hope. Much needed stability.”

Fine. Yes, that makes sense. For them, you will stay. To keep them safe until Dream returns. But…

“Then we should call on the other Endless. If Dream is in trouble—”

Merv shakes his head, a grimace twisting his face. “Kid, be real for a moment. Do you see big brother and his dusty book approving interference?”

No. Destiny would likely prohibit it altogether. Ancient Laws would mandate events unfold as they are written to unfold. If not, the horrors any intercession would unleash would be much worse. Dream would not seek aid from his siblings no matter how wounded or…

It hurts too much even to consider what might have occurred. For one as powerful as him to be made indisposed…

“There is still Jessamy.” Lucienne’s voice cuts clear and calm through your panicked, frayed mind and your glassy stare snaps in her direction. “We might be able to use her to find where Lord Morpheus is.”

Sucking in a steadying breath, you jolt your shoulders upwards, raise your chin, and quieten your mind. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“Wherever he is, Lord Morpheus’ power is completely cut off.”

“Wards.”

Lucienne blinks at your prompt inference. Arms folded around yourself, you stalk back and forth across the library. Merv watches you cautiously.

“Wards?” Lucienne prompts.

“If we’re assuming he was tracking down Cori..nthian to the waking word, then he might have encountered magical prowess.” You mentally curse yourself for stumbling over Corinthian’s name. For months you’ve waited for his return. Surely he’s felt it, if not, then heard about Dream’s disappearance. “But someone who can capture an Endless and place wards to keep him there? This doesn't make any sense. Unless…”

The librarian waits patiently. “Unless?”

Unless they had help. Mortals should not have such power, let alone such acute expertness.

“Nothing. I’ll go.”

“You cannot,” Lucienne argues.

For months you’ve been trying to keep the Dreaming under control together. The three of you had done your best, but the cracks are beginning to show. Desperation is setting in, and unless you do something, things will crumble here.

“I’ll track down Jessamy,” you explain, having already given this due thought. You’ve been up for days, coming up with plan after plan. The Dreaming was once the only place where you could sleep, but that is no longer true. Its power is starting to ebb with Dream’s absence. “I’ll search until I find her. She can take me to Dream.”

“And if there are wards around this building? Does that not mean you cannot enter without permission also?”

You stare at her for a moment, then smile. For the first time in centuries, something like unease ghosts over Lucienne’s features.

“I’ll burn down the goddamn building if I have to. I don’t care.”

“No,” you hiss, blood coating your hands, oozing quicker, harder. “I do not obey you. You obey me. I’m done letting you control me.”

The curse trashes inside your chest, ripping, ripping, and ripping.

“I’m staying,” you gasp, choking down acidic bile. “I’m staying until I find them. You won’t make me leave. You won’t.”

You don’t remember passing out, only waking up in jail with sneering faces glaring down at you.

Then the gunshot.

You seek but to no avail. The world that was once so tiny has become impossibly large. No matter how hard you search for Jessamy, Dream, or Corinthian, you can’t locate them anywhere.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

Jessamy gets killed two years into your search.

“Where did they go?”

Your hollow words scrape against the vacant halls of the castle. You can’t see Lucienne behind you while you gaze up at Dream’s desolate throne, but her quiet devastation is apparent.

“They left.”

A sound rasps from your chest. “Left?”

“Some went after you to search. Others…”

It’s straightforward enough; to draw your conclusions why you returned to a realm half devoid. Emptier, colder, and more lifeless than you’ve ever glimpsed it. The Dreaming is rotting—your home is eroding, and there’s nothing you can do.

Your home.

Your fingers curl. “They deserted?”

Lucienne’s faint sigh doesn’t soothe the anger sparking in your heart. “It’s been years. The Dreaming… is starting to fade.”

As if you can’t tell as much yourself. As if houses haven’t started crumbling, as if the sun barely shines anymore. As if all things once so green and beautiful are now no more than a gutted carcass, barely clinging to life.

“Stop. We’ll find him,” you insist.

“But—”

Your head angles towards the librarian, now so much more than that—a leader in the absence of the realm’s true ruler. “There is no but, Lucienne. We’ll find him. Dream will come back.”

You have time. You’ll find him. Dream still lives because the universe would reverberate with the loss if he were gone. All he’s created would be sand once more. Wherever he is, whatever is being done to him, he still lives.

You’re not sure what Lucienne spots on your face, but it wipes traces of doubt from her face, her resolve restored. “Yes, he will.”

The crossroads are dark and barren—wind whistles through bare branches in an ominous, spine-chilling wail. No clock is necessary for you to tell the time.

3.33am.

Thunder cracks so loudly through the frosty night air that your knees shake where you stand. Light dances over three silhouettes clustered close together.

You bow to your waist, and pretend you’re not frightened out of your mind.

“Great Ladies.”

Kindly Ones let you rest in your low bow for an entire minute.

“Well, well, look who came crawling back for help.”

The Crone’s robes trail over the ground by your feet. Your throat wobbles, sweat cooling against your nape.

“Hush, sister-self,” coos the Maiden, her words sweet and light. She cups your chin, raising your face until you’re standing upright. “Wanderer, we did warn you not to seek us again. No matter how elaborate your offerings.”

Her stare slides towards the bag at your feet. The Crone snatches it with a tetchy sound. Your bandaged hand throbs, blood still clotting beneath the hastily wrapped cloth.

“Look at you, poor dear.” The Mother grasps your cheeks. “You are worn to the bone, love.”

“Of course she is,” the Crone snaps, examining your presents with a deep-set scowl. “This one wanders and wanders until her feet bleed and her shoulders shake. Drop dead and get back up. Is it eternity sweet?”

Your tongue is ash and embers in your mouth.

Another thunder crack, and the Fates stand in a line before you. “Why do you call upon us?” the Maiden asks.

Your eyes lower respectfully. “I require your assistance, my fair ladies.”

“Sweet tongue. Poisonous tongue.” the Crone drones. “You’ve certainly changed your tune. Where did your mortal arrogance go? Have the ages worn it off?”

“I suppose, my lady, yes, they have. You told me the curse would teach me much.”

The Maiden circles you, her sheer skirt trailing over the muddy, half frozen ground. No dirt sticks to the fabric. “Has it not Wanderer?” You’re unsure how to take her curiosity, so you say nothing. “Did you not get what you asked for? To wander forever, to be free. So no chain, no roots may hold you down. So you may not rot in the dirt but float through starlight? You’ve been given a gift no other mortal has ever received.”

That would be hilarious if you didn’t want to scream until your throat was bloody.

“Not like this, my Lady. This isn’t fair.”

The Crone cackles. “Ha! She speaks of fairness. You reap what you sow, child.”

The Mother purses her lips, beckoning with encouragement. “Come, dear, speak your piece. For your fair offerings, we shall hear you but promise no more than that.”

Swallowing shakily, you keep your voice level, determined, “I would humbly beg you, fair Ladies, for your help in seeking out Dream of the Endless. I aim to find Lord Morpheus and free him.”

The stormy wind picks up, blowing frigid and harsh. Your clothes rustle, doing little to keep the chill out.

“Why should we care for the Dream Lord’s plight?” the Crone challenges. Her hawk-like stare nails you in the spot, daring and domineering. “He cared not for ours. His actions are his own.”

You grapple for breath. “Surely the mortal world suffers in his absence, my Lady? Surely you don’t wish that.”

The Mother sighs sympathetically. “Mortals are born and destroyed all the time, dear. Dust to dust. We do not alter destiny. We do not take away free will. Morpheus made his choices. He makes his choice every day.”

They’re slipping from you. You can see it clearly. Hopelessness drives you several paces towards them.

“No. There has to be a way—”

“There it is. That brass.” Your feet turn to lead at the Crone’s harsh exclamation. “The belief you are owed. That rules do not apply to you because you disagree with them. This is what got you cursed in the first place.”

“I won’t know, my lady, I don't remember.”

Old, blistering power bites at your senses, curving your spine in a warning. Courteous words, yes, but their sarcasm is discernible for beings as old as the Three.

“Go, Wanderer.” The Maiden almost sounds compassionate. Almost. If it were not for the wickedness slithering beneath that beauty. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Please.” You abandon any notion of pride, sinking to one knee, freezing dirt presses into your body. “I’ll give you anything. Just help him.”

The wind blows in great, bellowing gusts around you, whipping your clothes around your body. The Maiden lowers herself closer, curiosity glowing brightly.

“Do you love him?” she ponders. “Do you love him enough to give yourself away?”

Do you love Dream?

He might have banished you and been in the wrong, but your anger will never surpass your devotion to him. He’s everything to you—beginning and end. Without him, everything in your life is wilting.

“I pity you, Wanderer.” In a thunderclap, the Maiden stands at a distance, but her words carry on the wind. “You are doomed in loving one such as him. For he will never see beyond his own pride.”

Shaking your head, you knot your fingers together. “He doesn’t have to choose me. I just… I want him to be free. The Dreaming needs him. The waking world needs him.”

I need him.

The Crone peers down at you pitilessly, all but deploring. “Foolish child. Even if you could, there is nothing left for you to give. You are but hollow bones and sheer, misplaced hope. Forget it. Your Dream Lord is lost to you.”

And then you’re alone.

The throne room has started caving in.

Dents in the stone, dust on the ground. The stunning glass-stained windows have cracked. At least they haven’t shattered yet. Despair scorches through you with such uncontrolled fury your body shakes.

This is punishment—true punishment.

Dream is gone, with him, all you hold dear.

Blindly, overcome with some otherworldly fury, you march for the staircase leading to the castle's upper levels—past endless doors and nooks towards your destination. You throw open a door you had learned centuries ago leads to Dream’s private chambers. Dust and darkness greet you. His room lays undisturbed. Agonisingly perfect. As if he had stepped away for a day and not decades. Years spent trying to uncover his whereabouts, bleeding and shredding yourself and for nothing. He’s gone, and he’s unlikely to return. No matter who you go to or how boldly you toe the destiny line, nothing.

Marching towards his wardrobe, you yank the door open, panting for breath.

“Where are you?” you snarl, potent emotion strangling you. “I’m in your room! I’m touching your things! I’m banished, but I’m here. Doesn’t that just make you furious?”

Nothing. Lonesome silence bears your fury, placating it, and you rip his dark coat out, balling the material in your hands. No magic lingers in its hems or stitches anymore, no stars or golden flames. Without Dream, it’s just a coat. No different than any other in the waking world.

You press your face to it, smothering a sob. “Where are you? All that’s left is a ghost of you, Dream.”

Gasping, you pull it closer to your body, stalking back through the silent corridors, each step shredding this awful stillness. There’s no one in the throne room. There’s barely anyone left in the Dreaming.

Your teeth clenched, you march up the winding staircase you’ve never walked upon until now. Reaching the top is a forlorn affair. Dream’s vacant throne openly mocks you, jeering a reminder he’s no longer with you.

You drop onto his throne unceremoniously, draping his coat over your lap. “I’m sitting on your throne, Lord Morpheus! Are you not going to appear and punish me for my insolence?”

Nothing.

The pebble in your hand has formed a near-permanent dent in your palm. Your lips wobble. You bite on them to keep still, bringing the pebble to your mouth.

Over nine hundred years. Not once had you evoked Dream’s name. Never dared to. After Dream vanished, you didn’t dare out of fear. What if he doesn't answer? Could you bear the sheer agony it would bring you?

But there’s nothing else left. You’ve tried everything. You’ve given and bled and…

You unfold your fingers gingerly, gazing at the clear, tear-shaped stone. Up here, on Dream’s throne, you cup it in your hand, holding it close to your heart: your fragile hope, dearest wish, and sole dream.

“I call upon Dream of the Endless. Answer my call, Dream Lord, for you are sworn.”

You hold your breath.

Minutes crawl by. Nothing.

“I call upon Dream of the Endless. Answer my call, Dream Lord, for you are sworn.”

Nothing.

“You are sworn.”

The last word is a half scream, tearing through your vocal cords.

Nothing.

“Dream.” Your voice splinters, barely audible. Pain oozes from each weak breath, stranging your words. “Dream? Please. You promised me. I can’t do this anymore. I… I can’t. Don’t leave me here alone.”

Nothing moves. No one answers.

You slump on the throne, curling on yourself. His coat holds no scent if it ever did hold one—it’s been too long—but you pull it closer regardless. It’s so large it envelopes you. Murky blueish-purple light filters through cracked glass-stained windows.

It’s so quiet. You’re too exhausted to cry, too exhausted to move—there’s nothing left. And then you realise something. It’s not contemptuous silence set on hurting you that encircles you. It’s a mournful, bruised silence. As if all the stars, all the unanswered, adrift dreams and galaxies, far and wide, are mourning the loss of the Dream Lord.

You bury your face in the black, scratchy material. Your lids slip shut, but there are no dreams.

The following morning you head for the House of Secrets.

“Can you tailor it?”

Abel’s bug-eyed stare suggests he knows who this coat belongs to.

“I—uh—Wanderer is this…” His nervous smile shrinks sadly, his hands fidgeting. He forcefully brightens, grinning toothly. “Yes. Of course. I will do my very best.”

That much you don’t doubt.

No one contests your new attire. No one asks why. The few who still linger despite all hope lost understand why. You’ve all developed your own individual methods of coping.

The coat has been altered to fit your shape, but the collar pops as it did for Dream. It rests heavy and secure around your shoulders as it did his. It makes you remember what it felt like to have a home. Just as he did.

And concealed deep in the midnight material of once magical coat lives a small, cold-to-the-touch pebble and a battered figurine depicting a grinning nightmare.

“The…”

The slight, emotional hitch in Lucienne’s voice informs you what has been lost today.

“The library… is gone.”

What could you possibly say to alleviate the despair etched onto her face? There are no words. So instead, you seize Lucienne’s hand in your own. You sit slouched together on the floor, holding hands, and you pretend you don’t feel her trembling. Just as she does the same for you.

“Well this place has certainly seen better days.”

Your hands curl in your coat pockets, but you don’t turn. Prowling steps saunter down the pier, heading in your direction. You’ve been coming here every day for almost ninety years at sunset. Waiting. But your Dream never shows up.

“Why are you here, Desire?”

You sound exhausted.

“My, my, that’s no way to greet your old friend, sweet thing. It’s been so long.”

You haven’t seen any of the Endless for decades. There’s been nothing else on your mind other than getting Dream back, and when they confirmed the Ancient Laws stand—that no, they cannot help you unless Dream calls for aid himself, you had nothing more to say.

On the horizon, the sun barely floats in the sky, thin and hazy.

“Dear me, why are you wearing that ghastly thing?” There’s a sharp tug on the lapel, but you don’t react, glowering silently. “Fine. This place has no protection anymore. Anyone could wander in whenever they please.”

Perhaps Desire implies it as a threat, but frankly, you could care less.

“Are you happy?” you pose abruptly. “Does it make you happy to see the Dreaming in ruins? Dream gone? It affects your domain too.”

Desire laughs; a soft, sultry sound. Cashmere and wanton kisses trailing down on your cheek.

“I’m old, Wanderer. Time is nothing for one such as I.” Desire raises their hand to examine their no doubt lacquered nails, but it’s no longer what you perceive when you gaze at Desire. “It will do dear Dream some good. What happened to you?”

Their tone sharpens, no doubt taking stock of your appearance. Your hunched, faded form, held together by a midnight coat and human hope.

“What price are you paying to stay here, my dear? It’s destroying you.” Desire hums, fingers trailing up your arm. Hurt whorls inside your ribcage, finding no way out. You’ve forgotten what it’s like; to be touched, not hurt. “Even if Dream does return, do you imagine he will thank you for this? A guardian to a broken realm. Don’t make me laugh.”

Your grim, wary smile hurts. “You don’t get it. It’s not about gratitude, Desire. It’s about…”

Your words are devoured by the sun slipping behind the unmoving, inky water.

“Love.”

Desire curls the word like a lush, loving expletive. “Oh, Wanderer, you disappoint me. From all of us… him. So that’s why you hadn’t looked my way in centuries.” Fingers grasp your chin, guiding your face towards them. Except there’s only a faint golden sheen to indicate this is not truly Dream holding you. It’s so cruel how true Desire’s reflection is. How Desire is your Dream Lord down to last detail right now, except you could recognise Dream anywhere. “How long have I been wearing his face? Your deepest desire.”

You jerk from their grasp. Desire may appear as Dream, but the veiled cruelty is all them.

“You may go now.”

Desire smirks, devious and deadly, brushing aside invisible lint. Then they’re gone.

You bite your tongue to stop yourself from calling after them.

The blood tastes sweet.

Wanderer Island is the last to go.

It was inevitable, of course. You’ve had time to prepare. The Dreaming had been crumbling for decades, the decay getting more severe with each passing year.

Still, you held onto hope. Foolishly you tried to adapt your curse logic to it. Nothing could touch it if you just stay away and make no mention of it. Perhaps the frenzied, wild need to see it safe would keep it afloat in the end, keep it secure.

It doesn’t.

One evening, you stand alone on the pier, watching it break into the blackened waters below.

It’s delicate. Tranquil. It breaks apart without a sound as if it doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone with its pain.

No more wildflower fields where you would lay with your head on Corinthian’s stomach gazing at stars. No more long treks with your arms brushing with Dream’s while birds sang and butterflies danced around you. No more home for wandering souls or a friend to greet you on the golden shores.

“Where you go, misery will follow. Where you go, horrors will befall those around you. You will have no home. You will know no peace. Eternity will be your damnation.”

Eternity.

There’s no memory of ending up on your knees, but tears come in a silent torrent.

For the first time in a century, you sob until your chest hurts.

Eternity yawns, infinite and desolate, around you. This time, there is no one here to catch you.

an: it'll get better. promise.

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