mademoisellemacabre

[mademoisellemacabre]

Complex Mathematics

a university au

---

If asked a year ago, Hob would have said that what he was looking for dating-wise – such that he was looking for anything – was someone nice, someone kind, someone easy to get along with, someone to build a comfortable future with.

That, he would have said, was his type.

Oh, how horribly wrong he was.

“I do not,” growls Dream, still scribbling unintelligible nonsense on the board, “require your supervision.”

Hob sips on his coffee. A poor choice of beverage, in retrospect, considering it’s 2:35am, but usually necessary when dealing with Dream. Hob needs all the brainpower he can get. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t open a door to another reality and kill us all.”

“That is not possible.”

“I thought maths could solve anything?” says Hob, leaning back in his chair. Actually, Dream had said maths can explain any mystery of the universe, but, details. “‘Sides, I promised your sister I’d get you to eat.”

Dream’s voice drops into an even more annoyed register. “She should not interfere.” He finishes whatever strange equation he was writing with a flourish, and turns to Hob. “Nor should you.”

“You like the company, I know you do,” says Hob. “Even if you won’t admit it.”

Dream looks at him stormily, eyes glinting. Hob has never had a more moody and petulant friend. Not that Dream would consider them as such. In fact, he’d once said Hob made him want to claw his own eyes out of his head so he wouldn’t have to look at him.

But he never actually makes Hob leave.

“Your writing is unreadable, by the way,” Hob tells him, and Dream swivels around to look at his chalk scribbles again. “If you want the recognition for finishing whatever heretofore unsolvable proof you’ve just completed, might want to make it legible.”

“I do not care about recognition,” says Dream, with incredible disdain. “The answers are there in the mathematics. If others cannot see them, that is not of my concern.”

Hob tips his head back with a groan, rocking his chair onto its back legs. “God, you’re such an arrogant twat.”

Dream looks at him in astonishment, and Hob smiles beatifically back at him.

“Last week you were extolling my brilliance,” says Dream, stiffly.

“Oh, I didn’t say it was unearned,” Hob says. “Just that you’re fucking insufferable about it.”

Dream slides into a chair across from him, looking at him like he wants to step into his mind and pick apart his thoughts to find out why Hob says the things that he does. Funny, Hob feels pretty much the same about him.

It must be far too late at night for rational thinking, because he doesn’t catch the words before they slip out.

“I kind of want to take apart your brain to figure out how it works.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “Like you do your devices?”

As a child, Hob had taught himself how a computer worked by taking it apart, piece by piece. Nearly zapped himself to kingdom come in the process. He thinks he might be in the middle of doing the same thing now. Meddling with things made of dangerous voltage. “Exactly.”

Unexpectedly, Dream smiles. “That is flattering.”

Now that they’re closer, Hob can see goosebumps rising along his bare arms. It’s bloody cold in the Maths building late at night. Hob is pretty sure they kill the heat after classes end for the day. Not that Dream prepares for such things.

Hob holds out his sweater. “Here.” He might have worn an extra layer for just this purpose. “You’re freezing.”

Dream takes it with more docility than Hob had expected, and tugs it over his head. It drapes loose over his shoulders, because he never fucking eats anything so he’s a twig. His hair sticks up in all directions with static. Hob wants to dig his hands into it.

Actually, there’s a lot more he’d like to do with Dream wearing his sweater like that.

He’s got it so bad for this idiot.

Dream leans his elbow on the table between them, head propped in his hand. “I still do not know how computers work,” he grumbles. “Despite your attempts to explain.”

Hob grins, because this has been a thorn in Dream's side for ages now and he can't help but find it amusing. The fact that there's a branch of mathematics that Hob is better at must piss him off to no end. “I don’t know why. The maths has got to be simpler than what you do. Must be because it’s all logic-based. Not sure you’re capable of logic.”

Dream doesn’t deny it. “Logic is overrated. What is it meant to explain, but simplistic human thinking? The universe operates on poetry.”

“Poetry? That’s what maths is to you?”

Dream nods, looking strangely vulnerable to have voiced such a heartfelt thought on the subject. “Do you not see it?”

“Frankly? No. But that’s why you’re the maths whiz.” Hob leans on his own hand in turn, looking into Dream’s eyes at an angle. The only poetry I see is the poetry of you, he thinks, but decides Dream would not at all appreciate the sappiness of this comment. “I think you might just have a direct line into the world’s secrets.”

Dream’s nose scrunches up. “That is ridiculous.”

Hob taps along his arm with a fingertip. “You’re just a higher order being that lives on tangent lines and deigns to grace those of us on earth with its presence.”

“You are ridiculous,” says Dream. He doesn’t pull his arm away from Hob’s touch. “And what you said makes no sense whatsoever.”

Doesn’t Hob know it. Nothing about Hob has been making any sense whatsoever either, recently. Particularly not how enamored he is with this aloof, superior being who is, quite honestly, a complete asshole ninety-nine percent of the time.

“That’s just how it is with us normals, honey.”

Dream’s cheeks color at the pet name. “You are not,” he says.

“Not what?”

“Normal.”

Hob presses a hand to his heart. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “I meant that you are—” he starts, hard and fast like he does when he needs to explain why Hob is so wrong in his understanding of what Dream’s said, but then pauses, as if he isn’t sure he likes where that bullet train is taking him.

“You are…” he starts again, tapping his elegant fingers in the air to a rhythm only he can hear – the same habit Hob’s observed when he’s working through a particularly difficult equation. “A stymying problem,” he finally concludes.

It sounds, bizarrely enough, like a compliment. And there is something flattering about holding the attention of someone who normally disdains the company of others. It makes Hob feel…

…well, like maybe he isn’t in this strange dance of theirs all by himself, after all.

It makes him feel bold. He takes Dream’s hand on the tabletop. Waits for him to pull away. He doesn’t.

“You can solve it if you want,” he says. “Or try to. Lord knows I’ve been trying to solve you since we met and haven’t managed it.”

The night presses down on them. The meager lighting of the classroom sets Dream’s face in shadow. Dream, Hob had thought when they’d first met, who fucking names their kid that?

Their inauspicious first meeting had resulted from Dream refusing to give up the classroom he’d covered in his scribbles even though Hob had to teach an undergrad discussion section in there. You know, actual university business? Hob had said. So? Dream had sneered in return.

Hob hadn’t been able to get that scrawny self-important nerd with his black clothes and chalk-covered hands out of his head. So of course he’d gone to bother him again. Retribution, and all that.

“Solve it,” Dream repeats, watching him fixedly. He’s started playing idly with Hob’s fingers; Hob’s not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. His gaze is a very intense thing to be pinned and picked apart under. Dark starry eyes and infinite cleverness.

He’s so damn pretty. Hob is so into him it’s unreal. Apparently, his actual type is brilliant, insufferable gits. Who knew?

“Well, go on,” Hob says.

Dream lifts Hob’s hand, studying it. Hob watches, breathing shallowly. Dream looks back up at him, and Hob can only imagine what expression he finds on his face. Want to the point that it’s pitiable.

Dream tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, taking apart the apparent problem that is Hob. Hob waits for him, waits for him to figure it out. To see if it’s something he wants.

His grip tightens on Hob’s hand. He pulls Hob to him, and Hob goes, leaning across the table and into the kiss.

It’s not tentative. Hob doesn’t know why he thought it would be. Dream is demanding about it like he is about everything else in his life, and again Hob questions why he loves this man – but he does, and it’s good. So good.

Hob must have just been born insane, but if this is the reward then he’s not complaining.

Dream’s mouth is hot against the cold room. Hob holds his face between his hands, nearly overbalancing across the table, and at the touch Dream makes a pleased sound that sends Hob’s heart singing. Dream tips his head up, daring Hob to lean in more, put himself even further off balance for him.

Hob does, of course, but not without a grumble that Dream swallows with a tiny smile. His hand tugs on Hob’s shirt, streaking the fabric with chalk dust. Hob’s not complaining.

He huffs against his mouth, half fond irritation, half laugh. “Bloody difficult, you are.”

Somehow, it’s the wrong thing to say. Dream lurches back like Hob’s stung him. “Is that so,” he growls, and staggers to his feet, mouth just tinted red from kissing but now set in an upset line. “In that case, I will deprive you of the problem.”

Hob watches, whiplashed, as he starts walking towards the door.

Then he gets his wits about him and jumps to his feet after him. “Dream!” God, why does he have to be such a— concern overrides the thought halfway through. “Dream!”

Dream doesn’t stop, shoulders wound tight. Hob follows him out the door at a clip, his heart jumping around in his chest.

He catches him just down the hall, snagging him by his wrist and pulling him to a stop. Dream yanks his arm out of Hob’s grasp, but Hob grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him against the wall, stilling him in shock.

“Listen,” he insists. “For one second, God.”

“Why?” Dream grounds out through his clenched jaw. “So you can taunt me about how difficult I am?”

Hob has called him a dick at least fifteen times with barely an acknowledgment, but somehow this, now, is what’s got to him. Hob is pretty sure he knows why.

“You are the most difficult fucking person I have ever met,” he agrees, but continues, before that pinched unhappiness can settle on Dream’s face, “but you are not difficult to love.”

Dream stares at him, gaze moving around Hob’s face. Disbelief at being read like that, perhaps. Yeah, Hob thinks, I fucking pay attention to you, you nitwit.

Hob takes his face between his hands. “I like difficult, don’t you fucking get it? I like you.”

Dream meets his eyes. Hob hopes he can tell how serious he is.

Slowly, the anger unwinds from Dream’s shoulders. “I… like you as well,” he says, seeming uncomfortable to admit it. Caught having human emotions. How terrible.

“Okay, then.” Hob finally exhales. “Alright. Come here.”

He drags Dream down into a hug, tucking Dream's face into his shoulder. Dream wraps his arms around his back. Hob sighs into him, so relieved.

When they’ve stood there long enough that the remaining tension has melted away, Hob pulls back, ghosting a finger over Dream’s lips. “You aren’t difficult to want, either,” he murmurs. “We got interrupted.”

Dream leans back against the wall, pulling Hob with him. “I would have thought you would want someone…” his lips press thin as he feels for the word. “Nice.”

Hob chuckles, holding him by his hips, pressing a kiss into his neck and whispering there, “Oh, love, where is the fun in that?”

#dream you brat #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling #math au #fanfiction #the sandman

[mademoisellemacabre]

Reblog to hug prev poster (they need a hug)

[mademoisellemacabre]

MOOD!

#fr #rel #rel so much #story of my life

[mademoisellemacabre]

Bohun appreciation post

Because reasons.

“He saw now a young hero, straight as a poplar, with splendid brunette face, and rich, dark, drooping mustache. On that face gladness burst through the pensive mood of the Ukraine, as the sun through a mist. The leader had a lofty forehead, on which his dark hair drooped as a mane above his powerful brow. An aquiline nose, dilated nostrils, and white teeth, shining at every smile, gave the face a slight expression of rapacity; but on the whole it was a model of Ukraine beauty, luxuriant, full of character and defiance.”

“The haughty Bohun refused every guardianship, and was ready to defend his Cossack freedom with the sword. It was said, too, that a smile never appeared on the lips of this strange man. He lived not in Lubni, but in a village which he raised from its ashes, and which was called Rozlogi.”

“If she lays hands on herself, then what? I’ll tear you apart and then myself. I’ll break my head against a rock, I’ll gnaw people like a dog. I would have given my soul for her, Cossack fame. I would have fled beyond the Yagorlik from the regiments to the end of the earth, to live with her, to die at her side. That’s what I would have done. But she stabbed herself with a knife, and through whom? Through me! She stabbed herself with a knife! Do you hear?”

“From among the names of various colonels and Cossack atamans this one had come to the top, and was on every lip on both banks of the Dnieper. Blind minstrels sang songs of Bohun in market-places and shops, and at evening meetings they told wonders about the young leader.”

“He never warmed any place long. (…) at times he lived like a monk, spoke to no man, escaped to the steppe. Then again he surrounded himself with blind minstrels, and listened to their songs and stories for days at a time, heaping gold on them.”

“the world is wide,–one road to him, another to me. I have not known him, nor heard of him; but let him not draw near the princess, or as I live I’ll flash my sabre in his eyes.”

“This is my family, this is my right and parchment, this is my matchmaker and best man! Oh, traitors! oh, cursed blood of the enemy! A Cossack was good enough for you to be a friend and a brother with whom to go to the Crimea, get Turkish wealth, divide spoils. Oh! you fondled him and called him a son, betrothed the maiden to him. Now what? A noble came, a petted Pole. You deserted the Cossack, the son, the friend,–plucked out his heart. She is for another; and do you gnaw the earth, Cossack, if you like!”

“War does not give life to men, but death; therefore I wanted to see you once more before going to the field. And you would mourn over me, for you are my friends from the heart, are you not?”

“If I had not loved you, I should have been free as the wind in the field, free in heart and in soul, and full of glory (…) Your face is my misfortune, your eyes are my misfortune; neither freedom is dear to me, nor Cossack glory!”

#jurko bohun #what a man #thank you heniu for him #ogniem i mieczem #with fire and sword #oim #trylogia #henryk sienkiewicz

[mademoisellemacabre]

hussars? where are the hussars? hussars are cool, can we see them?

Clutching your shoulders. You are my new favorite person, even my brother who has an account named after winged hussars won't let me talk about them anymore.

Anyways it was just a very fast and totally armor inaccurate sketch of Skrzetuski from Trylogia but I almost certainly will be drawing more as I read.

#oh fuck his face #im fucked #so sexy #jan skrzetuski #ogniem i mieczem #with fire and sword #oim #fanart

[mademoisellemacabre]

Dream’s Therapist

Insomnia

I have prepared for the session by pulling up the notes from the intake.

The client is very punctual again, albeit only 15 minutes early this time. I have made sure that my office is not too bright since this seemed to have caused a certain amount of discomfort during our intake session.

Like the previous time, he will not take off his coat, and he does not engage in friendly smalltalk at the beginning of the session. My remark about the terrible weather brings up, “You have no idea what terrible weather is,” or some such like, and I begin the session without further ado.

DT: I would like to start today’s session with examining your current sleeping habits, since you hinted you were suffering from insomnia during your intake.

Dream: Sleep eludes me. But truth be told, I do not have any need for sleep. I inspire, and I have dreams and nightmares to create.

DT: And why do you think that is?

Dream (I notice a certain annoyance in the way he leans forward in his chair): It is my purpose and my function. And I am quite certain I told you this the last time. (I notice the wish to be perceived). As I have already pointed out: I weave dreams and stories. But lately, I have been feeling... uninspired.

DT: Uninspired? Are you feeling particularly stressed?

(I notice he is still rather enamoured with the paperweight on my desk. He proceeds staring at it without replying).

Would you like to hold it?

Dream (I notice his eyes dart towards me, and he looks at me for a moment with rather wet eyes): May I?

DT: Sure.

(I notice the way he picks up the paperweight and then holds on to it not unlike a pre-schooler would engage with a stuffed animal. I decide to carefully explore childhood nighttime memories)

DT: Tell me about your childhood. Did you have a teddy when you were little, or a favourite stuffy that you took to bed at nighttime?

Dream (deadpan): I am the anthropomorphic personification of dreams and nightmares. Stuffies are beneath my notice. (I might have hit a sore spot since he puts the paperweight back on the desk rather unceremoniously)

DT: Have you always believed you are a cosmic entity?

Dream (I notice the way he sharply exhales through his nose): I do not believe I am a cosmic entity. I am Dream of the Endless. I walk the realms of imagination and story, and I conjure dreams and nightmares. How often will I need to repeat myself?

DT (I notice the wish to be perceived again): I am aware of your beliefs. Do you think that all of these… responsibilities are a bit much and might be the cause of your lack of sleep? And before we go any deeper, let me quickly check in: Have you tried the usual, like counting sheep or a warm glass of milk?

Dream (I notice a degree of exasperation): It is usually I who sends sheep to dreamers, even to the ones who would rather opt to count lost socks, and milk is for mortal stomachs. Strictly speaking, your kind shouldn’t even drink cow’s milk, but not to get too involved in human delectations. That is to say (he leans forward in his chair again and gives me a piercing stare): I exist beyond such trivialities.

(The delusion seems to run deeper than I imagined, but I decide to stay on the topic of insomnia for today’s session. A better sleep schedule certainly won’t do any harm and will aid in tackling the deeper issues.)

DT: During our last session, you briefly mentioned that you have commitment issues (I notice he looks at the paperweight again). Take it, please.

(I notice his eyes turn wet once more, and I will need to get to the bottom of why a paperweight made of rose quartz creates such a strong reaction in him, but not right now. He takes the paperweight and this time, he lets it disappear in his coat pocket. I decide to ignore the attempted theft for now).

Is it possible that your problems with commitment extend to other areas of your life? Like committing to a sleep schedule?

Dream (I notice a degree of confusion that seems to morph into annoyance): I assure you, I am extremely committed to my realm. I do not shirk my responsibilities and adhere to… rules meticulously.

DT: I don’t doubt it. Do you avoid the bed?

Dream (He straightens in his chair and looks me dead in the eye. I notice his pupils have dilated considerably, which suggests sympathetic innervation/a surge of adrenaline): No. However, I do not peruse it to… sleep. (I notice he is not sitting still as a statue anymore. His legs are crossed, and his supporting leg is engaged in a tapping motion originating in his foot)

DT (I try not to linger on the uncomfortable silence that is only interrupted by the slight squeaking of the sole of his boot and the accompanying tapping): Did you ever try a bedtime routine that is more to your liking than counting sheep? Warm bath? Reading? Chamomile tea?

Dream (I notice teeth grinding): Chamomile tea tastes like mortal tears.

DT: And smells like urine, not keen myself (I notice a fleeting facial expression I cannot quite place. His mouth twitches). Are you open to suggestions?

Dream (I notice slight hesitation, and I decide to shrug my shoulders and smile. Daring move. He furrows his brow): You may… suggest.

DT: I think journaling might be helpful for a while to see what keeps you from sleeping. Write down whatever comes to mind, from what you have experienced during the day to what you’ve eaten.

Dream: I do not eat.

DT: You do not?

Dream: Well, sometimes I do, but… (He seems to contemplate something for a moment). No matter, I shall… write.

DT (I sense a basic degree of cooperation, which is a start): All day, but especially around bedtime. We can use it the next time and see if we spot any patterns. It might also be helpful with the topic of emotion processing.

Dream (I note he engages in his habitual nose-bridge-pinching, and he closes his eyes. I am fairly certain he is also rolling them behind closed lids, and I wonder if his cooperation has just disappeared into thin air): I already told you I do not “feel”. It is a…

DT: Quaint human invention? Like love?

Dream (I notice his eyes open at alarming speed. He looks annoyed for a moment. He then quirks one eyebrow): You have paid attention to my words after all.

DT: Did you expect me not to?

Dream (I notice uncertainty): Perhaps.

DT: Then why are you here?

Dream (I notice a facial expression that hints at confusion): I… because I respect your… delusional expertise.

DT (I am not certain if that is a compliment or an insult and decide to pay no heed): That does not answer the question though, or at least not in its entirety. Because this is not about my expertise, is it?

Dream (He leans forward in his seat): What is it about then?

DT (I notice he is trying to engage in subversion tactics): You.

Dream (I notice he flinches and immediately leans back again. His eyes are wet, and he does not speak. I decide to give the silence space.

The silence lasts for 12 minutes. One needs to be able to sit with the discomfort on occasion.

He stands up all of a sudden): I trust our time is up?

DT: No.

Dream: Good, I shall leave then.

DT (I notice the same pattern to end the session as the last time. He begins to walk out): Are you going to keep that?

Dream (He turns around): Keep what?

DT: My paperweight.

Dream (I notice he looks flustered and reaches into his coat pocket.): My apologies. (He hesitantly comes back and places the paperweight back on my desk.)

DT: No harm done, we all forget things from time to time.

Dream (I notice he lifts his chin and seems affronted): I do not forget things. Ever.

DT: Well, you just did.

Dream: I… (I notice he blinks thrice in quick succession) Same time next week?

DT (I notice the reversed initiative compared to our last session and choose to reply accordingly): Yes, let us pencil it in.

Dream: You may use ink…

< Previous Session

#aaaaaa #im loving it #dream of the endless #the sandman #fanfiction

[mademoisellemacabre]

Dream's Therapist

I’m not sure if I should apologise for this brain fart in advance, but it just found its way to the page after this. Yes, this is how my brain works (or rather doesn’t)…

Intake Session

The client presented for his intake session on 22/04. When he made his appointment, he showed particular interest in the fact that this is an integrative therapy practice which uses cognitive, behavioural, somatic and Jungian approaches and is also versed in sex therapy. Naturally the ethical kind.

He was extremely on time (that is to say, close to three hours early), but he insisted on spending that time in the waiting area instead of coming back later. My receptionist assured me he did not move from the offered chair during that time and that he, in fact, did not move at all. She occasionally had to check (inconspicuously of course) if he was breathing.

Upon entering my office, he was polite if slightly aloof. He was dressed all black and refused to take off his coat. No problems with personal hygiene could be perceived from a distance. After getting seated, he enquired whether I could dim the lights ever so slightly because it was too bright, to which I agreed.

I noticed his staring at the crystal paperweight on my table for an extended period of time before he, seemingly out of nowhere, asked: “I trust your office is a mere illusion, a fleeting moment in existence?”

DT: Something like that I guess. What brings you here?

Dream: Well, I have these recurring nightmares. Not while I am sleeping, since I obviously don’t sleep.

DT: Obviously.

Dream: I create them.

DT: The nightmares?

Dream: Yes. And all of a sudden, they all suffer from… existential dread instead of helping to get rid of it. Also, my hair keeps getting tangled and knotted all the time, but I am not quite… certain if this relates in any way.

DT: Interesting. And how does that make you feel?

Dream (deadpan): Feel? I don't “feel”. I weave narratives, conjure nightmares, and occasionally attend celestial tea parties. Emotions are for mortals. The hair is inconvenient though.

DT: Right. Let's explore your childhood. Did you have any issues with your family?

Dream (I notice uneasy shifting in his seat): My family? My father, always running late. My mother… (I notice a slight tremble in his bottom lip)… well, she is… dark. My sister, Death, tells me I am a buzzkill, especially at family gatherings. Truthfully, I believe all my siblings are just trying to gaslight me into believing so because I can be… quite entertaining? (I notice uncertainty). Plus, one of them is… let's just say: they are the reason I have commitment issues.

DT: Commitment issues. Let’s expand on that a bit. Have you ever been in love?

Dream: (I notice extreme rigidity): Love is a quaint human invention, like gluten-free pizza or reality TV.

DT (I don’t know what that means and ignore it): I sense reluctance around the topic?

(He stares at the paperweight for a good 3 minutes)

Okay, let's try word association. I'll say a word, and you respond with the first thing that comes to mind. Ready?

Dream: Proceed, mortal.

DT: Sand.

Dream (I notice a raised eyebrow and a slightly tetchy sigh): Golden grain sifting through my fingers.

DT: Pillow.

Dream: A convenient weapon during astral battles.

DT (I momentarily feel confused and lose my footing, to which he reacts with)

Dream: I could show you? (I notice he makes a move to get up from his seat)

DT: That won’t be necessary right now… Word association: Unicorn.

Dream: (I notice grave seriousness) My ex-wife. I think.

DT: That should suffice for now. Let’s briefly discuss coping mechanisms. How do you handle stress?

Dream: Stress? When the universe unravels and the fabric of the Dreaming tears, I binge-watch reality shows. The Kardashians, mostly.

DT: Why the Kardashians?

Dream: Distraction. Inspiration. For all manner of things. Mostly nightmares.

DT (I notice the recurring theme of nightmares): Do you hold any hopes or dreams for the future?

Dream (I notice a nervous twitch around his mouth which he tries to hide unsuccessfully): I am the King of Dreams. Dreams shape reality itself. But if you must know, I dream of a world where everyone flosses regularly and understands general relativity.

DT: Why is flossing important?

Dream: I just like good teeth.

DT: Why general relativity?

Dream: Because it would help. With ships.

DT: What ships?

Dream (I notice eye-rolling and bridge-of-nose-pinching): Never mind.

DT: It’s okay, we can talk about anything that seems important to you.

Dream: It is of no import. Is time up yet?

DT: No.

Dream: Good, I shall leave then.

DT (I feel confused but try not to show it and respect the client’s wish to leave. I’m getting paid either way): Same time next week?

Dream (who is already standing): Time is a mere construct. But yes, let us pencil it in. And remember, reality is just a draft…

Further notes: The client suffers from insomnia and thinks he creates nightmares. He potentially has internalised he is one. He seems detached from his feelings to the point he believes he does not have any emotions and does not seem to relate to being human. He feels misunderstood by his whole family and suffers from the delusion that his sister is Death. He makes another of his siblings responsible for his failed relationships, which has led to the ingrained belief that love is not for him. He seems to compensate with believing he is above others and refers to himself as the “King of Dreams”. I notice a tendency to shirk potentially painful topics. He seems to communicate diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities apart from binge-watching TV, but he seems quite enamoured with the concept of astral battles and general relativity, which requires further exploration…

#ahahahah #oh no #but good for dream i guess #tough beginnings #dream of the endless #the sandman #fanfiction

[mademoisellemacabre]

Starfire by Max Elmberg Sjöholm

#oh damn #its so epic #art

[mademoisellemacabre]

this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

------------

It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough. 

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again. 

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.” 

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look. 

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly. 

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end. 

“So… it is related?” 

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette. 

“Show me?” 

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned. 

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?” 

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know. 

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.” 

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly. 

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.” 

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.” 

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.” 

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.” 

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile. 

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

#oh i love it #and look #dream ACTUALLY answered #he is better and better in this friendship thing #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling #dead boy detectives #fanfiction

[mademoisellemacabre]

CHRIS EVANS as STEVE ROGERS MARVEL STUDIOS' INFINITY SAGA (2008-2019)

#damn he is soooo nice #steve rogers #marvel #captain america

[mademoisellemacabre]

Funny what a little bit of Holocaust denialism will get you trending with.

#history #queer

[mademoisellemacabre]

Reblog if you didn’t write My Immortal

We’re going to find the author by process of elimination.

#my immortal #shitpost #hahahaha #this work changed my life #i was never the same after reading it

[mademoisellemacabre]

thinking about how when you experience a lot of shame in your formative years (indirectly, directly, as abuse or just as an extant part of your environment) it becomes really difficult to be perceived by other people in general. the mere concept of someone watching me do anything, whether it's a totally normal activity or something unfamiliar of embarrassing, whether I'm working in an excel spreadsheet or being horny on main, it just makes my skin crawl and my brain turn to static because I cannot convince myself that it's okay to be seen and experienced. because to exist is to be ashamed and embarrassed of myself, whether I'm failing at something or not, because my instinctive reaction to anyone commenting on ANYTHING I'm doing is to crawl into a hole and die. it's such a bizarre and dehumanizing feeling to just not be able to exist without constantly thinking about how you are being Perceived. ceaseless watcher give me a god damn break.

#fr

[mademoisellemacabre]

the older I get, the more the technological changes I've lived through as a millennial feel bizarre to me. we had computers in my primary school classroom; I first learned to type on a typewriter. I had a cellphone as a teenager, but still needed a physical train timetable. my parents listened to LP records when I was growing up; meanwhile, my childhood cassette tape collection became a CD collection, until I started downloading mp3s on kazaa over our 56k modem internet connection to play in winamp on my desktop computer, and now my laptop doesn't even have a disc tray. I used to save my word documents on floppy discs. I grew up using the rotary phone at my grandparents' house and our wall-connected landline; my mother's first cellphone was so big, we called it The Brick. I once took my desktop computer - monitor, tower and all - on the train to attend a LAN party at a friend's house where we had to connect to the internet with physical cables to play together, and where one friend's massive CRT monitor wouldn't fit on any available table. as kids, we used to make concertina caterpillars in class with the punctured and perforated paper strips that were left over whenever anything was printed on the room's dot matrix printer, which was outdated by the time I was in high school. VHS tapes became DVDs, and you could still rent both at the local video store when I was first married, but those shops all died out within the next six years. my facebook account predates the iphone camera - I used to carry around a separate digital camera and manually upload photos to the computer in order to post them; there are rolls of undeveloped film from my childhood still in envelopes from the chemist's in my childhood photo albums. I have a photo album from my wedding, but no physical albums of my child; by then, we were all posting online, and now that's a decade's worth of pictures I'd have to sort through manually in order to create one. there are video games I tell my son about but can't ever show him because the consoles they used to run on are all obsolete and the games were never remastered for the new ones that don't have the requisite backwards compatibility. I used to have a walkman for car trips as a kid; then I had a discman and a plastic hardshell case of CDs to carry around as a teenager; later, a friend gave my husband and I engraved matching ipods as a wedding present, and we used them both until they stopped working; now they're obsolete. today I texted my mother, who was born in 1950, a tiktok upload of an instructional video for girls from 1956 on how to look after their hair and nails and fold their clothes. my father was born four years after the invention of colour televison; he worked in radio and print journalism, and in the years before his health declined, even though he logically understood that newspapers existed online, he would clip out articles from the physical paper, put them in an envelope and mail them to me overseas if he wanted me to read them. and now I hold the world in a glass-faced rectangle, and I have access to everything and ownership of nothing, and everything I write online can potentially be wiped out at the drop of a hat by the ego of an idiot manchild billionaire. as a child, I wore a watch, but like most of my generation, I stopped when cellphones started telling us the time and they became redundant. now, my son wears a smartwatch so we can call him home from playing in the neighbourhood park, and there's a tanline on his wrist ike the one I haven't had since the age of fifteen. and I wonder: what will 2030 look like?

#damn #story time #food for thought

[mademoisellemacabre]

#everyday #polls

[mademoisellemacabre]

🐿️⚜️

Nape of neck

#the witcher #the witcher 2 #vernon roche #iorweth #iornon #roche x iorweth #iorveth

[mademoisellemacabre]

fathers casually dropping the craziest lore of their lives in the middle of a conversation

#ahahahaha #stories #humanity #story time