#retired!dream

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I forgot to post this

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #retired!dream #the sandman #the sandman netflix #my art

[five-and-dimes]

Next to Nothing

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

AO3

Lately, Dream has been experiencing nightmares.

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

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

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

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

The subject of his nightmares.

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

Hob also laughs at him a lot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hob laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet… 

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

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

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

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

He has to do better.

~~~

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

“G’morning, Love. Sleep well?”

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

~~~

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

He wants to go home.

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

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

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

They continue to the table.

~~~

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

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

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

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

Sleep does not return that night.

~~~

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

So far, Dream is not having fun.

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

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

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

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

Dream smiles and nods and bites his tongue.

~~~

At one point, he actually bites his tongue. 

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

Hob is in the next room.

Dream swallows.

~~~

When Dream wakes up, he feels… wrong.

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

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

It probably just takes time.

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

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

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

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

“You alright, dove?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never understands.

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

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

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

~~~

Dream feels worse when he awakes.

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

Hob.

Hob is home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Woah, hey, are you-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing!”

“Dream, hey, just let me-”

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

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

“ Do not laugh at me .”

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

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

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

And he still doesn’t know what that means.

~~~

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

Hob. 

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

Hob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Dream .”

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

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

Only for a moment though.

“Dream…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He holds him tighter.

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #retired!Dream #my writing #One down!! I want to finish one more before the new year #endings continue to be my villian origin story

[mollymagician]

Matthew didn’t go immediately.

When Death visited the Dreaming that day, it was just he and Lucienne she was there to see. A quick visit, she said. Informal. Just the three of them in a quiet corner of the library. Because, she said… if anyone deserved to know, it was them.

She smiled that smile of hers, and he swore something that had been broken in his little bird-sized heart started to knit back together.

He would have been gone in an instant, out the window in a flash and demands on his…er…afterlife?… be damned. But Death crooked a finger at him, and leaned down, conspiratorial, to whisper, “Matthew, give them time, okay? It won’t be easy, at first. He’s going to need it.” A quick hand stroking his back feathers, like an apology.

He coughed and studied the wood grain of the desk . “Uh…yeah. I mean…right. Of course. You…you got it, uh, Ma’am.”

But she was already gone.

So, he gave them time.

A month passed, in the Waking, by his reckoning.

How much time was time, Matthew wondered.

What did ‘time’ mean to someone who was a few billion years old? Was a month enough time for the anthropomorphic personification of everybody’s brain-stuff to become Some Guy? How did that even work, anyway? Did he need to, like, solidify? Like a pudding? Probably not the instant stuff. But what the hell did he know about pudding, he’d only ever eaten it out of a little plastic cup.

While he pondered the pudding-to-Endless equivalency method of time measurement, another month passed.

Then one evening, as he perched on one of the palace spires and watched the sun sinking down towards the rippling mirage that concealed the horizon, his patience snapped completely, without warning, and he found himself winging his way into the Waking before his own common sense could sweet talk him out of it.

He landed on the narrow sill outside of a very familiar window. Mellow lamplight spilled through the glass. He could see inside, across the comfortable living room with it’s well-worn couch and cluttered dining table, to the two figures standing together in the small kitchen.

Holy fucking shit, Matthew thought.

He lunged foreword to tap out that familiar little rhythm on the glass— shave and a haircut— and Hob was hustling over to open it in an instant, grinning like a searchlight. Then he was skidding to a stop in the middle of the kitchen counter and before him was

Before him stood

If possible, he seemed even thinner than before— whatever had happened over the past two months had happened to him hard. But he was also…softer. Was that a thing that could be? Standing in the kitchen in a faded blue (blue. blue?) tshirt and threadbare gray sweatpants and smiling. SMILING. He was Some Guy and he was looking at Matthew and smiling.

He was exactly the same. He was entirely different.

“Holy fucking shit,” Matthew said.

Dream leaned his forearms against the counter, bringing himself down to ravens-eye level and said, “Hello Matthew.”

Very eloquently, Matthew said, “Dude.” Then, the floodgates opened and he couldn’t seem to stop. “DUDE. Fuck…it’s…you! It’s you! Look at that! Holy shit! I can’t even…I mean why am I surprised I died and woke up a fucking bird but I mean…look at you!! FUCK!!” He flapped his wings emphatically and stomped, as best he could with his spindly legs. “Goddammit! These…fucking…ARRGH. No thumbs! An’ no arms! I just wanna…HOB. My dude. Would you help me out here????”

Hob, who had been standing by with the expression of someone who had sprained an internal organ with the effort not to laugh, drew a shaky breath and a hand across his mouth and stepped foreword.

“Okay, I think I see. I get you.” He stepped up to Dream, laid broad palms on his narrow shoulders, and said with great formality, “Dream…from Matthew.”

And tugged Dream forward into a crushing, bone-creaking hug, compressing the breath clean out of him.

Dream squeaked like a squeezed balloon and that…that, more than anything else, made it real.

“Yeah,” Matthew said, “That’s the stuff.”

When Hob released him a solid minute later, Dream staggered a bit and caught himself on the counter, looking slightly stunned. But the smile was back, tugging up the corners of his mouth.

“I…I thank you, Matthew,” He said. “I missed you as well.”

Matthew looked down at his skinny little bird feet, listening to the sound of his claws clicking as he fidgeted. He felt…what was this? Shy. When the hell had shy ever happened to him? Never, that’s when. Fuck that. Matthew cleared his throat and looked up at the pair standing there beaming at him under the gold kitchen lights. “So, uh. What’cha up to? Got any big plans for…uh…for your afterlife tonight?”

“Ah. Hob is teaching me how to.” Dream paused. “Not set the stove on fire. We are making—what is this?” He plucked a small box off the countertop and studied it. “Pudding. Apparently.”

The sound Matthew made would have been pppPPPpppffffftttttt if he’d had lips. Which he didn’t, so the noise that actually came out was more or less indescribable.

“It’s a step up from tinned soup,” Hob said. “Progress is being made.”

Dream slanted him a look and picked up the can of whip cream, fiddling with the nozzle. “I did make perfectly adequate tinned soup. The second time. I believe I will be more than capable of—“ The rest of the sentence was obliterated by the sound of aerosolized dairy product spurting across his face.

Dream sighed.

Hob turned around to face the refrigerator, his shoulders shaking silently, organs once again in peril.

“…Oh man,” Matthew said. “This is gonna be great.”

#Dreamling #retired dream au #the sandman netflix #hob gadling #matthew the raven #retired!Dream #why was it so hard to finish this silly little thing? #why brain why?? #Dreamling fic #my writing

[fishfingersandscarves]

the swaggiest disabled ex-personification in the multiverse

#my art #fishfingersandscarves #the sandman #the sandman netflix #the sandman comics #retired!dream #dream of the endless #dream (the sandman) #doodle #retired morpheus is just like me forreal (POTS haver and proud owner of the worlds smallest amount of chest hair)

[ennas-aesthetic]

Retired!Dream as a Librarian AU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#dreamling #dreamling fic #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman #dreamling au #retired!dream #RETIRED!DREAM IS A LIBRARIAN AND HE IS HAPPY #also goth librarian flirts with university prof by the register #netflix the sandman

[hotcocoabuns]

retired!dream dancing for the first time as a human with hob. late at night, both bathed in the warm glow of hob’s (and dream’s; hob and dream’s) apartment lights, gently swaying to some old tune they hadn’t heard since 1918. easy hands on dream’s waist, hob softly singing along against his ear, pressing grins on his hair. feather-light kisses.

life is good.

#dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #sandman #morpheus #crossposting from twitter with a few tweaks cuz there is no word limit here #also I was feeling very soft that day #retired!dream #human!dream

[notallsandmen]

Retired Dream as Hot Mess Malewife

I think retired Dream / Morpheus would be the most useless malewife in history.

When Death drops him on Hob’s doorstep, the division of labour is pretty non-existent — he’s a former king in friendly exile, and he is very magnanimously allowing himself to be pampered by Hob. But after a while, he would try to help out with the chores when Hob is at work.

However, without being tapped into the Collective Unconscious, Dream’s ability to choose and critically evaluate his sources is… somewhat shaky.

Hob starts him out on a good note, leaving him with a few Marie Kondo books. Things go fairly well, even though Dream ends up colour-coding the wardrobe according to some colour system that human retinas can’t perceive.

But then Hob goes to a conference, and Dream insists that he is perfectly capable of caring for one cat and 20 overnurtured houseplants for five days. What could possibly go wrong?

Dream reads several books on housework, but he can’t seem to finish any tasks before getting derailed by the narrative, turning every chore into one of those endless blog essays you have to scroll through before getting to the damn recipe. Even the simple act of hoovering has to involve a long-winded story about getting out of an MLM scam, forgiving backstabbing siblings, and finding your inner goddess.

Everything escalates when Dream discovers housewife milf porn.

Hob gives up and gets a roomba.

Dream refuses to admit that he hates the roomba with a passion, and instead proceeds to Lady Macbeth-manipulate the cat into throwing up on the roomba until the motor breaks.

Hob throws in the towel altogether and pays for a cleaning service. Dream takes up yoga and comfortable day drinking.

All is well.

#the things I will do to get some dopamine out of doing my damn chores #also #the things I will do instead of doing housework #my dreamling writing #dreamling #retired!Dream #Retired!Morpheus #Retired Dream #Retired Morpheus #Hob Gadling #Dream x Hob #Morpheus x Hob #malewife Dream #everyone has ADHD #retired dream au

[windsweptinred]

Having a Daniel themed fic binge evening. And just wanted to share my absolute favourite piece of Daniel fanart. With Daniel as the new Dream and Retired Morpheus. It gives me all the warm fuzzies in my tum tum! By the fabulously talented @ibrithir-was-here

#dreamling #retired!dream #dream of the endless #daniel hall #hob gadling #the sandman #other people's beautiful art #the sandman fanart

[seiya-starsniper]

Queued up Smurch because I'm ambitious even while I'm on vacation @staroftheendless

Day 23 - “That’s a good look on you” | chest hair | gift

Human body hair is something of a marvel for a newly mortal Dream. 

When Dream was Endless, he found body hair an annoyance at best, unseemly at worst. He never understood why Destruction chose to manifest it, none of their other siblings bothered. 

But now? Now, Dream loves to dig his hands into Hob’s chest hair while he’s riding his cock, and will pillow his face in it after sex. Hob’s cock is also surrounded by hair, and Dream relishes the way it scratches at his face and nose when he swallows the other man down.

Suffice to say, body hair does not bother him one bit. On Hob, anyways.

Today, Dream itches. The texture on his face is not as smooth as he has been used to for many millennia. It takes a full minute of staring at the bathroom mirror before Dream realizes what has changed. 

He’s growing facial hair. And he doesn’t like it. 

“That’s a good look on you,” Hob says, wrapping his arms around Dream and nuzzling their cheeks together. It tickles.

“You did not warn me this would itch,” Dream accuses.

“We’ll get you a razor. Consider it a 'Welcome to Humanity’ gift.”

Hob snorts. 

#dreamling #dream x hob #smurch #sandman fanfic #seiya writes #retired!dream #my absolute favorite dream to write

[goatmilkel]

Retired!Dream where he keeps putting glitter hairspray in his hair, because he wants the stars back

#dream x hob #dream #dreamling #retired dream #retired!dream #dream of the endless #the sandman #morpheus

[illumi-nati-png]

Please go read @ennas-aesthetic Librarian!dream AU

#the sandman #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #retired!dream #dreamling #my art

[deliriiuumm]

you know what’s fun to explore in a retired!dream au?

it’s dream realizing how bad he is at sex now that he’s human.

my headcanon is that dream is exceptionally good at it because he holds the collective human subconscious— he knows exactly what his lovers like, how they want to be held and kissed, etc etc., but take that away and he’s all sharp angles, sloppy kisses, and clumsy, hesitant thrusts (hello? he’s only had a handful of lovers in his 6 billion years of existence?)

now hob— that man has Experience. he’s a 600+ yr old immortal who’s had countless lovers (men & women you can’t convince me otherwise), who literally fucks around & finds out.

imagine retired (and human) dream enthusiastically fumbling with hob in bed, trying to seduce, trying to look ravishing, trying to please. he straddles hob and gazes at him with his dangerously soft, bedroom eyes, whispering filthy promises with his deep, deep voice between kissing and touching.

but somehow, his attempts to seduce fall flat and awkwardly, embarrassingly stiff. he looks so offended when he doesn’t get the reaction he’s been expecting from hob.

and hob— the bastard— purses his lips in a poor attempt to hold his laughter in. finally, he doubles over in a fit of giggles. “you’re so cute, love.”

dream pouts, unable to hide his dismay. but this look only makes hob’s heart grow fonder and he envelopes dream into his arms.

the sound of their giggles vibrates in their chests, echoing across the small bedroom. then they fall silent and gaze at each other’s eyes, their smiles lingering on their kiss-swollen lips. there’s no need for words at this moment.

they think, this is it, this is what being human must be all about.

tldr: hob and dream giggling while having bad and awkward sex mean the world to me ok

ALSO i can imagine hob being an absolute bastard & grading dream’s performance in bed like he’s grading his students’ essays.

“how did i do?” dream asks through his post-coital haze, looking up at hob with his dark, twinkling eyes.

“not bad…” hob pats dream’s head, his lips curling into a menacing smirk. “i’ll give you… 72%.”

fists pound on the pillows. dream whines an ugly whale noise against the crook of hob’s neck, “hOoooOooob…”

(you can find this thread on twitter)

#dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #retired!dream #this is for all my retired!dream truthers *blows you a kiss* #shoutout to ao3 user softestpunk & their “hob is the world’s best lay” agenda #i’m here for it #i live it #i breathe it #sandman meta

[mollymagician]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#Dreamling #retired!dream #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman netflix #I am very sleepy and they are not helping #my writing

[chaosheadspace]

The softness of light

Warnings: drowning, near death experience.

Also on AO3.

The lake was peaceful. In the red glow of the hot July evening the water almost had a siren's call and Dream was glad Hob had managed to persuade him to come. He'd brought a small bag with waterbottles and fruit in plastic containers, watermelon and grapes and peaches. They would be warm and a little soft later, when they would have finished swimming, but Dream didn't mind. Maybe he'd get to see Hob lick his own juice-sticky fingers after they ate.

They had splashed around and reveled in the cool relief of the water. Now Hob was swimming a few laps around the lake, and Dream let himself float on his back, looking up into the cloudless red-orange-gold sky. He was retired for all of three months now. Hob had been very kind, very understanding, and had offered to take him in as long as it would take Dream to adjust, as long as he wanted. Dream wondered if Hob knew that those were two very different timeframes.

A bird flew overhead, through Dream's field of vision. He tried to see what kind of bird it was and turned his head.

A mistake, that's what it was. Dream's body followed the motion of his neck, folded and sunk like a stone, water sloshing and crackling in his ears. Breath escaped him in a surprised gurgle and bubbled upwards. He regretted it immediately, the pressure in his empty lungs cold and agonising.

Fear and adrenaline spiked his blood as he struggled to get closer to the surface again. He was not good at swimming, never had to be. His body was too new, too different. Heavier than Dream was used to. Too heavy. He sank deeper.

Stupid, he scolded himself, reckless. He should have taken the time to learn. He had felt too sure, too safe, because Hob was with him. Hob, who currently was at the other side of the lake.

His body bucked and strained with pointless effort, the need for air overwhelming. Panic gripped him tight, squeezed Dream's heart and made his blood thunder. The harder he struggled, the faster he sank. He was too weak, too inexperienced. He was alone.

Dream gave in. Breathed in. Sucked water and pain into his lungs, the liquid in his throat and mouth denying him a scream. Dream gave up. Let go. He let himself hang in the water, limbs floating. The inside of the lake was eerily calm, soft light and quiet gurgling all around him, like the beginning of a nightmare. It hurt.

The water darkened around him and Dream's lungs spasmed, another bolt of pain. With a soft thud, he felt himself land on the mud at the very bottom of the lake. His thinking grew hazy.

He was familiar with the concept of life flashing before one's eyes moments before dying. As far as Dream considered it, he'd been alive for three short months. No memories from before disturbed his last conscious moments; instead, the first thing his fallible human brain showed him on the verge of death was Hob's face, elated, surprised, as he opened the door and found his friend in front of it.

That was the only thing Dream could bring himself to regret, the missed opportunities to thank Hob. He would have liked to show him his gratitude, in any way Hob would have permitted. He would have liked to let Hob know what he truly meant to him. Three months was a short time. Three months could have been an eternity.

His lungs spasmed again, pain flashing through his chest. The soft, undulating light from the surface grew dim as his vision darkened at the edges. Dream's limbs thrashed without his doing, his body fighting for air again that would not come, disturbing the sludge on the bottom. Despite the growing panic of his body Dream felt calm. He would die. He knew he would from the beginning, knew it from the moment he felt the endless murmur of billions of minds leave his consciousness. Had been content, even, in the knowledge his time was limited. If he only had known how limited.

The pressure and pain inside him grew, his nerves twitched. Dream let go of all shame and pretense. There was no use for them now. He wanted his soul to know a little peace before he would meet his sister for the last time.

Dream imagined Hob's broad, smiling mouth, soft against his own, imagined his hair under his fingers. Yes, he would have liked that. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a dark shape coming towards him.

xXx

When Dream came to, it was to even more burning pain in his lungs, in his throat, in his mouth. His body shook as something hit his back with force.

"Come on," he could hear Hob's voice, "come on, you silly idiot, breathe."

Dream tried to tell him that he tried, would try for him, that he could not. Water poured out of him through his mouth and nose. It was worse than vomiting. It curled his whole body, it felt like fire. Again and again Hob hit him, and again and again water left Dream's body in waves, until finally, finally, there was air again. The air hurt, too, but less than the water and it tasted impossibly sweet, like sunshine and life.

Dream coughed and turned around, clung to Hob's shoulders as his body hacked up the last remainder of the liquid.

"That's it," praised Hob, "that's it, get it out. You swallowed the whole bloody lake, didn't you?"

The coughs turned into harsh pants as Dream greedily sucked in air. All he could focus on was the fact that he was still very much alive, and that Hob's skin under his hands was very warm. Dream sunk against Hob's chest, all restraint spat out with the water. Turning his face into coarse hair and soft skin he let himself cry. Hob wrapped his arms around him, held him, rocked him like a child.

"Sssshhh," Hob soothed, "I've got you. You're okay. I've got you."

Dream wordlessly put his arms around Hob's waist in response. He was glad that he'd been given another chance. This time, he'd make it right.

#cw near death experience #cw drowning #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream x hob #my fic #retired!dream

[bisexualhobgadling]

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

Children's Librarian

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

also it would just be really cute 😌

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #dreamling #maybe he's retired #maybe he's being forced to take a break by literally everyone and shares his Dreaming duties with Lucienne #bonus: Hob becomes a preschool/kindergarten teacher for his next identity and they work together #either in the same school or Hob takes his class to the library once a week #also they're married <3 #children’s librarian dream

[hypertechnica]

straight up refusing to acknowledge star trek: generation’s existence. it didn’t happen

you mean to tell me, after an entire series and SIX movies dedicated to the triumvirate found family, kirk immediately goes missing, and then dies alone 80 years later because of time travel nexus bullshit?

bones and spock never see him again??? ever???

no. kirk, spock, and bones retire and grow old together. they’re married. they have 2 cats and love to play 5d chess with multiverse time travel. that’s the ONLY canon i accept

#deforest kelley was right #they should have just LET THEM RETIRE!!! LET THEM BE HAPPY #IDEC BRO. IM NOT WATCHING THAT MOVIE #star trek #star trek tos #spock #james t kirk #jim kirk #s'chn t'gai spock #bones mccoy #leonard mccoy #mcspirk #spirk #mckirk #spones #i’ll admit the premise has tragic spones potential. but does bones even appear in that movie #i checked he is not in that movie. we don’t even get to see him react to kirk going missing #a travesty. a dishonor #not even getting into kirk’s dream nexus illusion. i can’t deal with this #rainspeak