#WyWrites

[wyvernquill]

I'm rewatching Anastasia and this convo would really fit in your AU

Hob: look, Murphy, I'm just trying to help Murphy: do you really think I'm an Endless, Hob?

Hob: you know I do.

Murphy: then stop bossing me around

I'm sorry, this ask is already over a year old, but I finally got around to writing a scene based on it! (Plus some Murphy&Gil bits I wanted to put in somewhere, anyway.) Hope you enjoy!

[Mild warning for contemplation of one's potential death, and having once lost the will to life - I wouldn't call it suicidal ideation, it doesn't quite go there, but I figured I'd better be safe than sorry.]

Link to Anastasia AU Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

“Hob.” Murphy interrupts, eyes flashing with frustration.

(Today’s how-to-be-a-Dream-Lord lessons are not going well - not that any of them have, but this one is a particular catastrophe. Gil has already given up on their contrary charge for the evening, and with the way Murphy’s shoulders are up and tension bristles between them, Hob is unlikely to make much more headway tonight.)

“Tell me. Do you truly believe I am him? The Prince of Stories? The Dream King?”

“Yes,” Hob lies, easily, unflinchingly, and with a smile on his face. A good lie has to be treated like the truth, and maybe, one day, it’ll actually turn into one. They’ve been trying so very hard to teach Murphy this, he should know it by now. “Of course.”

“Then, perhaps,” Murphy spits, and despite his feral arrogance, despite the way he holds his head high and squares his slender shoulders, it’s not the regal indignation of a King, but the helpless tantrum of an angry child who’s failing in class. “You ought to finally treat me with the fucking deference an Endless is owed, Hob Gadling!”

(There are tears in his pale-blueish eyes, Hob can see them, can hear the crack in Murphy’s hoarse voice.

Nobody has treated this man with respect in all the years he remembers, that much is obvious. Nobody but his birds. And he knows, they all know, that he’s no prince, that his blood runs red, not blue - runs at all, come to think of it. Endless don’t bleed.

But he wants to be. He wishes he was. Murphy is not Dream of the Endless, but he is ravenous for the spoils of such a role. Desperate to be respected, to be worshipped and revered, desperate to be owed the sort of treatment he has never received.

Hob ought to be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of that helpless hunger for kindness and decency… and he will be. For the rest of his immortal life, he’ll live with the shame of what he did to cheat Death, and still not regret it.)

Hob plasters a smile over his impatience and opens his mouth, gentle, calming words already on the tip of his tongue. Murphy is lonely and frightened and frustrated, that much is obvious. Fine. Hob knew it wouldn’t be easy, to teach their false Dream all he needs to know, and this is not an insurmountable roadblock. If Hob can only reassure him, earn his trust, be his friend, even, it will make everything much easier. Poor thing, lashing out like an injured animal. But Hob can surely coax him into-

Murphy recoils. Flinches back from the admittedly-half-faked warmth, his face, his entire bearing collapsing into itself like a heavy portcullis rattling shut.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, pointing one of his stick-thin fingers at Hob’s face, “don’t you DARE! I have no need for your false pity, and I want no part of it! I want-” the white of his eyes is bloodshot, and in his terror, in his fury, in his desperation, awash in unshed tears “-I want out. This deal is off. Find some other poor sucker to teach how to play Endless, I won’t do it! I’ve had enough!”

And before Hob can say as much as a single word, Murphy has snatched up his coat and slipped out onto the rainy street, Matthew following - but not after awarding Hob with a colder glare than he would’ve thought a mere raven capable of.

Murphy does not manage to flee very far.

He is in an unfamiliar town, with no money, no valuables besides the clothes on his back that are now slightly finer than he used to be; and the winter is cold and deep and stifling. He gets no further than a handful of streets until he slows halfway across a bridge, shaking with cold more than anger, snowflakes dancing around him. It is a quiet, windless night - and it has always calmed him, to stand underneath the dark sky at night, and know that most of the city lies asleep around him.

Matthew settles on the bridge’s parapet, caws. Hops closer, cocks his head to one side. There is a clear question in his bearing, a what now? glinting in his eyes. Birds are open and honest - unlike humans. Liars and hypocrites all.

“...I do not know, Matthew.” Murphy admits quietly. He has taken the coat, but forgotten the scarf in his haste, so he tugs at his collar, to keep the cold air from trickling down his spine. “I truly don’t.”

He does not have the means to return to London on his own - and at the same time, does not have much desire to do so. He had nothing and no-one there, but for the birds. Pockets can be picked anywhere - he could make a new start in this nameless town.

…if only it weren’t winter.

Murphy shivers, feeling his bones rattle with it. The night is calm, but bitterly cold, and it will not end well for him, sitting in the snow until morning. In the dark of winter, he cannot afford a night without shelter, a day without a sure way to come by some food to keep his strengths up. In London, he would have known where to go. Here, he is helpless.

Damn Hob Gadling, and may Destruction take him! Murphy will have no other choice but to crawl back to him, and hope he’ll be kept on as Endless-impersonator. Hope, because Murphy’s made a right pig’s ear of it so far, slow and clumsy to learn, and outright refusing to play at nobility. He will always be a gutter rat, Murphy knows it. They can’t fashion him into a Dream King, and perhaps this flare of temper will prove to Hob once and for all that there is no point in trying.

There is no point in trying.

Murphy gives up on his collar, and rests his hands on the parapet. Matthew caws, and presses his head against his arm, a far better reassurance than Hob’s false smiles. It comforts Murphy, at least a little. He’s not alone, never alone - no matter how lonely he might feel.

Underneath them, a foreign river flows just fast enough to avoid the freeze. The water does not reflect any stars, but the snow dancing over the surface makes it almost look as if. His own reflection wavers and breaks across the waves.

(Some nights, he dreams of a darkened shore and a sea stretching far past the horizon, black waters that fold up into the night sky, indistinguishable from each other. Of a wooden pier, and galaxies swirling underneath.

Whenever he leans out too far, the reflected eyes he meets are not his own, and he wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.)

Murphy shivers again, and savours the last remnants of his pride, before it, too, will have to be cast into the dirt and abandoned.

“I believe you forgot this, young friend.”

Murphy’s head snaps up.

Dreams and nightmares approach without a whisper, perfectly silent at night if they choose to be. Gilbert is no exception; and if Murphy were to pay attention to anything but his heart racing like a startled hare, he would perhaps be a little distressed by the fact that there are no fresh footprints in the snow beside his own.

But it’s only Gilbert, kind-eyed and not-human, holding out Murphy’s scarf like a peace offering.

Murphy does not take it.

“Did Gadling send you?” he asks, wary.

“Robert informed me what had transpired between you two.” Gilbert admits. “But rest assured, I am here on nobody’s behalf but my own - and, well, yours. Frightfully nippy tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

Murphy does not say. He trusts Gil as little as Hob, perhaps even less. A dream attempting to betray the memory of his master seems hardly like a paragon of virtue, and is perhaps even more suspicious than a deceitful human.

(He does, however, take the scarf now. It’s too cold to be stubborn, and when he winds it around his neck, it smells of sunshine on a summer meadow, warm and comforting.)

“And if you truly wish to leave… dear boy, I won’t stop you.” Murphy does not like the way Gilbert looks at him, as if trying to see someone else beneath his skin. He does not meet Murphy’s eyes, if he can help it. “In fact I would send you off with well-earned compensation for your time, and travel fare. Unless…”

Gil steps up to the parapet beside him.

“...unless I can convince you to stay…?”

“Why would you?” Murphy mutters, instead of why would I, if you’re offering to pay me off? “It should be perfectly obvious that I’ll never pass muster.”

“Ironically,” Gilbert smiles, but only at the man he pretends to see whenever he looks at Murphy, “it is well known among the former denizens of the Dreaming that His Lordship was often prone to very similar bouts of pessimism. I have faith in you, Murphy - and so does Robert Gadling. Please, do not leave. I rather doubt we will succeed without you.”

"You…" Murphy struggles with the words, the sentiment behind them lodging uncomfortably in his throat. "You have great respect, even love, for Dream of the Endless' memory. So why do you pretend? Why try to fool his siblings that I am him?"

For a moment, Gilbert seems ready to insist, as always, that Murphy is, or at least might be - but, to his credit, he does not play Murphy for a fool, in the end. Not this time. Not like Hob always, always does.

"You are quite correct. I loved His Lordship deeply, in a way that could never be understood by anyone but a dream and their creator." Gilbert sighs, his soft meadow-green eyes gazing far into the distance of better days, lined by old grief. "He made me to be the Heart of the Dreaming, and he was the Dreaming, so I knew his heart and self better than any other. The loss, when he… you cannot imagine it, young friend. I thought I would wither away and die. I thought that would be a mercy. To live as a dream in a universe that does not contain Dream of the Endless seemed entirely unthinkable, and to be quite frank, I did not think I would survive longer than a year at most in the Waking."

"I understand," says Murphy, quietly, and he does. He is no stranger to the feeling of being so untethered, only floating along with the end looming over him, death - not Death, no longer, the Endless have been cast from their domains - only biding its time.

(In the first year he can remember, Murphy did not think he would see another, either.)

"And yet, the year passed. And I lived." Gilbert smiles, faintly, taking off his glasses to polish them. "I suspect it was humanity which saved me, for all that they robbed me of my home and Lord, as well. I found… such joy, in this world. In my human form, wandering among them. Calling a few select individuals friends, even. Young Robert's companionship was a particular blessing, and I owe him more than he can ever know."

He sets the glasses back on his nose.

"Lord Morpheus is dead." Says Gilbert. Says it like fact, like something too absolute for the sort of dream-creature born of hypotheticals he is, like an unshakeable truth he has resigned himself to. His voice only barely breaks over the words. "And I shall grieve him for all the rest of my days… but I must live to mourn him. Life goes on, young friend, and we must all move along with it. And, well. I cannot speak for Robert's motivations, but the true reason why I have agreed to this mad scheme…"

Gilbert takes Murphy's freezing hands in his own. His fingertips are not lined quite right, they would not leave prints that look even remotely like those of a human - but aside from that, his grip is warm, avuncular, firm, reassuring.

"I fear that his siblings will not be able to live on without him." Gilbert confesses, quietly. "They are not made to accept change and move on from a loss as monumental as what humanity has wrought upon them. To have you… not him, not entirely, but perhaps enough… it is my most solemn hope that it might give them some form of closure at long last."

"So that's what it is?" Murphy laughs, bitterly. "Charitable concern for the well-being of personifications of abstract concepts!?"

"No." Gilbert corrects mildly. "Love. For my creator's family."

Murphy scoffs. His chest aches with it.

"What you, hmm. What you must understand, about Lord Morpheus…" Gilbert seems to be choosing his words very carefully. "...is that, for all that he was often harsh and commanding, he was so very loving, always. My Lord loved with all his self, even if he would attempt to turn a cold shoulder to the world - and I think you are much like him in temperament, young Murphy.”

Murphy does not acknowledge that. He doesn't think he can.

“He loved his family, and he loved the Dreaming, and all the beings in it. I was his heart, or near as, you must recall, I knew the truth at the core of him.

Memories or not, love as he did, and you will be a credit to his name, and a comfort to all who knew him."

(Murphy does not have it in himself to love like Dream of the Endless did. He already struggles to love at all.

But perhaps, for the sake of the entity whose memory he will dishonour, he can try.)

“So. Will you come back and resume your lessons?” Gil asks, very gently. “You may leave, now or any other time, of course you may. But it would be to your benefit, as well as to that of many others, if you did not.”

“I’ll stay,” Murphy forces out. He could blame the way his hands shake on the cold. “For now.”

“Thank you, dear child. Thank you.” This time, when Gilbert smiles, it very nearly feels like it is directed at him, after all. “Now, let’s get you out of this cold, hm? And Matthew as well.”

Murphy lets Gilbert herd him back to their inn, sits through Hob Gadling’s apology and wonders if it was sincere - he can never tell, with this infuriating man - and continues to learn as much as possible about the life of Dream of the Endless.

But he’s slowly realising, if anything will convince the Endless siblings, then it certainly won’t be the trivia. He’ll have to learn to love like the Lord of Stories, for their deception to have a snowflake’s chance in hell.

(Oh, wonderful. As if this wasn’t difficult enough already…)

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #thank you for the ask and sorry it took so long! #maybe at some point i'll go back and also write hob successfully recruiting murphy #but i was a little stuck on that so i skipped the recruitment and wrote this instead #fiddler's green's role in this au is just very interesting to dig into #deception and manipulation is not in his nature and the closest he gets to selfishness is just wanting to live a human life #so why would he agree to help hob with this scheme? #i'm quite pleased with the way i spun it - he really does it out of love and thinks it's ultimately for a good cause #and subconsciously the assurance that gil is doing it out of loyalty rather than as betrayal is very (suspiciously) important to murphy #also very light 1889 meeting parallels with hob and murphy's fight at the start!

[clockworknightmares]

Laurent

| Part one | Part two | Part three |

The sound of heavy rain beating down on the car roof is soothing, maybe even soothing enough to lull someone to sleep. The irregular rhythm, the raindrops running down the windows, the way the lights from the other cars and traffic lights bleed out and spread like watercolors in the rain in Laurent’s vision as he leans his head against the cold window and stares out. 

It’s warm enough in the car to have pulled off the designer jacket he’d found purchased and hanging in his closet when the weather started growing cooler. That’s how most of his clothes show up. That’s how a lot of his favorite worn out university hoodies and torn up jeans disappear too. One day there, the next day gone and replaced with something name brand and needlessly expensive. 

His parents let some things slide. The blue-red pastel dyed ends of his hair, the tattoo, the earrings. After all, a little eccentricism looks good on a child prodigy. People might start thinking he wasn’t fully human. Though- they already thought that didn’t they?

Graduated college at fifteen, masters by seventeen. Four instruments, seven languages and innumerable registered patents. The tech he designs during long sleepless nights is always highly sought after. He's smart, rich, loved, and envied. 

And terribly, insanely lonely.

Laurent fiddles with the watch and leather bracelets on his wrist. “A bit of an unfair advantage to the rest of us, ey Joan?” The newscaster had laughed to his partner with a flash of unnaturally white teeth in his perfect smile, only that morning on the tv as Laurent ate what he assumed was breakfast. “It’s all a bit superhuman if you ask me. Just goes to show those with the natural advantages will always get ahead.” 

They weren’t talking about his wealthy parents or his quick intellect no. Though Laurent knows those two things contributed greatly to where he is now. But no- that’s boring and old and applies to most rich business men or celebrities anyway. The news only ever wants one thing. Something new and sparkly. Or something suspicious. Or something for people to see and say “well of course that’s why he’s successful. If I had that, of course I would be where he is.”

So of course when the news comes out with the outlandish idea that Laurent Irving doesn't sleep, he’s expected to make a statement. A statement that will tear that argument to shreds and make people laugh at all those conspiracies. Except for one thing. The fact that it’s true. 

Laurent Irving hates interviews. His parents kept him sheltered from them as a child, kept the media off his back. But secrecy only makes people more curious, and a reclusive eccentric child prodigy is a pie that everyone wants a slice of. He doesn't like talking about himself. He doesn't like cameras unless he’s taking them apart and putting them back together again. But at the age of twenty, he finally decides to address some rumors. 

He had agreed to one interview. Nothing else. And yet it only caused more stories, more theories, more media hounding him for an appearance. Laurent shut himself in his lab and didn’t come out for two weeks. But the world learned several things about him that day. 

Laurent Irving doesn’t sleep. A rare condition he’d always had, or so he claimed. And he looked it, Despite the makeup team’s best effort, the dark circles under his eyes were visible. He said he passes out randomly maybe every four to six weeks. He had smiled and made a joke about needing a babysitter despite being almost a fully legal adult. 

Laurent Irving didn’t use social media. And yet the interviewer brought to his attention that there were many “stan” accounts for him. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant or whether it was a good thing. 

Laurent Irving doesn’t get out much. He had laughed and commented that he spends a lot of time working, as there’s always a lot of projects that need his attention. He’s a very busy man.

Laurent Irving likes cereal. He eats a lot of cereal.

The interviewer had been charmed, and the appearance as a whole had been a success. But it was never enough, everyone wanted more. More information, more interviews, more pictures, more more more. Laurent had a panic attack in his bathroom and blissfully passed out for a solid twenty-four hours, the first time in almost two months. He didn’t accept any more interviews.

The only meetings he ever had were with clients, board members, potential buyers, investors, and the like. The people who he had to meet for work. The people who wanted to put a face to the young man behind the ingenious designs. 

It’s from one of these meetings that he’s returning from. As he isn’t allowed to drive because of his condition, he is usually chauffeured by his bodyguard Emmet. He likes Emmet. Emmet doesn't tell him not to slouch or lay down in the backseat or take his headphones off. Except- Emmet isn’t driving him today, which is unusual.

“Who’d you say you are again?” Laurent asks, still staring out the window listlessly. The cold of the glass feels good against his cheek and the raindrops reflect the reds of the brake lights. 

“Just filling in for today. Your regular driver called in sick and so your parents sent me.” The man in the driver seat glances back at Laurent, face unreadable. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” He doesn’t trust strangers. “When are we getting back?” He checks his watch again. It’s something he’s been working on, trying to detect and track when his next unconscious spell will happen. So far there’s no pattern and he’s had no luck with it. But it works as a regular watch too. 

They should have already been home.

“Soon. The rain is making everyone drive slower.” 

Laurent may be young, but he’s no idiot. He’s a goddamn genius. And he knows they should have been home by now, rain or no rain. But he doesn't want rumors of “paranoid” to be added to his long list of traits the media likes to add to his name, so he buries the growing tangled anxiousness in his stomach and sits still. He’ll be home soon. 

“Can you go a little faster?” he asks, after a few moments, fingers twisting together in his lap. They itch to work on something. He has to be working on something. 

“You in some big hurry?” the driver asks, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. There’s something off about him. Laurent can’t place it. He’s good with machines but terrible at reading people. “Besides, we’re almost there.” 

Even through the rain and growing inky darkness of night, Laurent doesn't recognize anything out his window. The buildings are dark and unfamiliar and the streets are no longer filled with cars. His driver is slowing almost to a crawl. It’s practically deserted. Laurent slowly grabs his jacket and slides it on. His phone is in his pocket-

“Looking for this?” The driver holds up Laurent’s phone.

“Why do you- g-give that b-back.” His careful voice training is forgotten and his stutter slips back with his panic. 

 “Don’t think I will. I-”

Laurent doesn't wait to hear anymore. It’s foolish, completely and utterly stupid. But he forces the lock on the car door open and jumps. The car isn’t driving fast and he only ends up with a scrape on his leg and a jarred shoulder before he staggers to his feet and runs. He doesn’t know where he is. They could be anywhere with how long they were driving. He has no phone, no sense of direction, and the driver is already out of the car and chasing him. 

Laurent runs. He doesn’t look back, although he can hear the pounding of footsteps on the pavement behind him. His watch. He programmed it to hook up to his phone. He can send a call, a message, something. At the very least it will ping his GPS.

“Call Emmet”, he gasps into the watch. “Call Emmet Greyson.” 

He thinks the call goes through. He hopes it does, but he doesn’t get the chance to find out because he slows, staggers- his vision spotty. No. No no no no- the worst time, please no-

Laurent crumples to the pavement unconscious, miles from home.

He doesn’t feel the arms picking him up and carrying him back to the car. He doesn’t hear the hushed phone call. He doesn't feel the watch on his wrist being unbuckled and taken. 

When Laurent Irving collapses, he sleeps like the dead. 

#new boy! #or more like a revamp of an old one #oc: laurent irving #drabble #angst #exhaustion #kidnapping #failed escape #lonely #collapse #loss of control #wywrites

[theminiummark]

November Writing Update

This month was super busy for me, both personally and professionally, so that really didn’t leave time for writing or the creative process. I still ended up with more output than October.

Total November Word Count: 1640

Total 2017 Word Count: 44,943

I did complete a tiny ficlet that will be posted to the Flash! Bang! Exchange! soon and worked toward completing some WIP. 

What I worked on:

Pocket Player: 189

Turpentine (David/Jake): 163

Singing in the Shower: Pt. 2:168

Flash Bang Fic: 501 Words

Dog Walker Sid Pt. 3: 344

Montreal AU (OMGCP): 275

Hoping to complete some of these fics by the end of the year! (The problem is that I keep getting ideas for new fics. It’s a problem)

Thanks for liking, commenting, and leaving kudos. You are all, and continue to be, the best. 

#wywriting #writing update #accountability post #personal

[wyvernquill]

Another Dreamling Anastasia AU Snippet

So, this AU somehow gained some new traction over the past few days, and I remembered I still had this in my drafts! It's a direct continuation from the last post - the first time their paths cross, though I think I'll save their actual first conversation (already written!) for the next part. Mostly a lot of background and exposition, but I hope it'll be enjoyable nonetheless! Thanks everyone for your enthusiasm for this AU!!!

(Masterpost here!)

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

(I don't know why it just won't let me do the proper tag sometimes... I hope the people Tumblr refuses to let me tag will see the post anyway, I'm very sorry...)

---

There is a fight just about to break loose at the White Horse Inn.

It will happen because of a man; a pale, stick-thin skinny thing of a man, barely more than an ashen, grimy face under a mop of coal hair balanced on top of a ragged black coat, loitering close to the fireplace and trying not to be too obvious about soaking up its warmth. At his feet, half hidden beneath the torn hem-line of his coat, there is a bird, some sort of corvid, following the other guests - and their purses in particular - with its beady little eyes.

The bird’s master is watching, too, watching the inn’s staff collect coins and shove them into their pockets, watching the plates and bowls of food being carried about, hungry, starving-

And then he’s noticed watching, a barmaid muttering a word or two to the innkeep over by the beer caskets - and the moment the man’s eyes find the stranger, they narrow.

And in turn, the moment the stranger notices the hostile eyes on him, he seems to brace himself, something feral in the way his lips draw back from his teeth as the innkeep makes a beeline for him through the crowded pub.

Words are exchanged.

Words are exchanged, loudly.

An arm is grabbed - and the bird jumps up with an angry caw, beating its wings at the innkeep’s face, and the scullery boy runs over to help, as does the burliest of the barmaids.

(There’s that fight now.)

The stranger shouts and scratches and twists as he is dragged through the common room, towards the door, growling profanities in a hoarse, dark voice, while his bird squawks, wrapped in the scullery boy’s apron.

It’s a right mess, but perhaps not an unusual one - the White Horse makes quick work of unruly drunkards (and those who are here to pilfer money rather than spend it), and even as some guests are following the fight in fascination and with half a mind to join in just for the pleasure of throwing a punch, most of their clientele barely spares them a look. Soon, the stranger will be cast out into the cold and the night again, far away from the warmth of a fireplace, or the smell of food, or opportunities for thievery. Nothing special. Soon, it will be just a quiet evening, like any other…

If it weren’t for the fact that, over in the far corner, a familiar man, and a familiar something-altogether-else still managing a rather sound impression of one, have been nursing their drinks for a good hour already, trying to drown their failures in ale.

(The humans have robbed Destiny of his powers, torn his realm from him, burned his book - but destiny still shapes the lives of mortals and immortals alike; and it is that power, which makes Robert Gadling look up from the sad remains of his beer, and, for just a fraction of a second, lock eyes with the vagabond currently in the process of being removed from the premises.

That is enough.

With just one look, the wheels of fate are already set in motion, and our story can begin in earnest.)

"Hey, Gil." Hob nudges Gilbert's arm, not taking his eyes off the struggling, furious stranger. "Over there. Look."

"Hm?" Gilbert blinks owlishly, following Hob's nod to the commotion behind him. "Oh, yes, yes. Ghastly, isn't it? Disgraceful, that some hoodlums cannot conduct themselves in public houses with the appropriate decorum - in my days, I tell you, when the Endless were still-"

"No, look!" Hob cuts him off. "The hoodlum. Look at him, really look."

"Hrmmm," Gilbert makes a sound of polite displeasure, and fiddles with his circular little glasses, peering through them and across the room, where the haggard stranger is spitting abuse at the innkeep even as he is in the process of being shoved out of the door.

And then, "oh, good lord!" Gilbert gasps, and drops his glasses.

"You see it too, then?"

"I… yes. Gracious, yes. Like a ghostly apparition." Gilbert gropes for his glasses with one hand, eyes never leaving the stranger. "The physical resemblance - most uncanny. A good deal more malnourished and, ah… rather grimy, it seems… and yet, overall…"

"A dead ringer for Dream of the Endless, isn't he?" Hob finishes, nodding. “Better than any of the men that auditioned for us, certainly.”

“Heaven help,” Gilbert’s voice is weak with emotion, “even knowing it isn’t him, I feel like… ah, Robert, if he were only given a bath, some better garb… it would be as if His Lordship walked again!”

“Would be?” Hob’s grin is bright and hungry, like a hunting dog smelling his prey, as he pushes himself up from his seat. “Will be!”

“-and if I see either you or yer blasted bird thievin’ in here again," the innkeep snarls, tossing first the haggard stranger, and then a squawking bundle of black feathers, out into the snow. “I’m callin’ the coppers! Y’hear?”

The word the stranger spits back, gathering all his limbs and his dark coat around himself as he staggers to his feet and off into the night, is so filthy even Hob would blush upon saying it. A bit rough around the edges, this man, not exactly the model of a fairytale king - but such things can be taught, can’t they. Hob’s seen a production of Shaw’s Pygmalion, years ago, and if Higgins can make a fine lady out of a flower girl, then Hob and Gil can make a Dream Lord out of some vagabond.

“Begging your pardon, good man.” Hob leans against the doorframe, watching the stranger’s dark shape angrily stomp off through the snow, bird hopping along at his side. “Howsabout this, a shilling for anything you can tell me about the man you just tossed out of your establishment.”

“Whot, Murphy!?” The innkeep blinks. 

Holds out his hand.

Hob dutifully deposits one of his last few shillings in it.

“Thank you kindly, sir, much obliged.” A tip of the hat, and the coin disappearing in the innkeep’s pocket. “Murphy’s one of the local beggars. A filthy thief, too, and no mistake. He’s trained that raven of his into it - heard the city even pays him some little pittance to control the birds in the area! They wouldn’t do it if they knew what he was doing with ‘em. I don’t like seein’ him around the Horse, not with the trouble he’s causing. Stealing leftover scraps from tables I can forgive, might even give him a full meal now and then in the name of charity - but if he goes for the pockets of my regulars, the regulars don’t come back, understand? Can’t have that.”

“Course not.” Hob agrees readily. “Bad for business, a pickpocket.”

“Just so, sir. He’s been in the London area for… oh, eight, nine, maybe ten years? Hasn’t got a trade, not very willing to do an honest day’s work in any case, can’t hold down a job for the life of him as a result. Still thinks himself better than the rest o’ us, anyway. I’d leave him alone, if I were you - he’s vicious as all Hell, bit the kitchen boy once and the lad needed to get his arm stitched up afterwards. And that raven - the thing’s a demon, swear to God. A familiar, like witches have. If we were livin’ in a less civilised age, they’d’ve strung old Murphy up for witchcraft and devilry years ago!”

Hob hums thoughtfully. “Do you know if he has fallen in with that crowd? Not idle hearsay, mind, but facts. There’s still some men in London who practise the Old Arts, does he meet with them?”

(Hob has heard that the old Magus of Wych Cross died perhaps a year or two after his greatest accomplishment; for all his powers that tore Endless spectres from their lofty thrones, in the end he couldn’t defend himself against his own son finally snapping, smothering him in his sleep, and running off with the gardener. Good riddance to the old goat, in Hob’s opinion - but he had a good handful of supporters in every major city, and they can’t all have died with him.)

The innkeep takes his time answering, staring out into the softly-falling snow.

“...not that I know of, sir.” He finally says, cautiously. “He doesn’t meet with anyone, really, ‘xcept the birds. Solitary type, is our Murphy, with no family, and no-one to miss him if he freezes himself to death some night. But.”

A pause.

“There’s something wrong about that man, if you ask me. He has a look in his eyes… whatever it is, it’s not natural. Might be magic. Might be madness. I really couldn’t say.”

“I see.” Gears are turning in Hob’s head, puzzle pieces slotting into place, plans unfolding.

A man sleeping rough, with nobody to miss him or know much of him, fierce and angry and constantly on the brink of starvation, looking just like Dream. A diamond in the rough, and quite possibly desperate enough to actually agree to their mad plan just for a few weeks of guaranteed food and a roof over his head.

Dear God. He’s perfect.

“One more question, about Murphy.” Hob beams, half-giddy. “Where do you think I could find him, say… tomorrow?”

The innkeep’s eyebrows rise up into his hair.

“Can’t see why you’d ever want to,” he mutters into his beard. “But very well. On your head be it.”

He names a nearby small park, where Murphy often goes to feed his birds, and is rewarded for it with another tuppence; and then Hob saunters back to his and Gil’s table, already feeling like he can almost taste the promise of eternal life on the tip of his tongue.

(“We cannot know for certain that he will agree, Robert. He sounds like a most prideful young man - he is much like His Lordship in that regard as well, I suppose.”

“Oh, he’ll agree. I’ve been where he is, Gil, and there were times I would’ve sold my own mother to the devil for a warm meal and a bed to sleep in. Not that the devil would’ve taken the old bat even if I’d paid him, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“That hardly makes it much better. We’d be taking advantage of the poor man’s unfortunate situation!”

“Everyone’s situation is unfortunate these days. And we’d be improving his, on the whole, along with ours.”

“Let it be noted, dear fellow, that I am voicing my ethical and moral quandaries.”

“I really don’t think our plan to scam the Endless is very ethical in the first place, Gil.”

“...now that I cannot possibly argue with.”

“There we are then.”

“However! You will have to be the one to suggest it. I will help you instruct him and present him to the Endless if you do convince him - but for now, I wash my hands of the matter.”

“Fair enough.”)

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #i hope i will put the next part up with less delay instead of just forgetting it in my drafts again... #my tumblring habits truly are atrocious sometimes #but i really like the next bit so i have some motivation to share it soon! #especially because there's been so much new interest in the past 24 hours or so #thank you everyone! it made me really happy!!! #the least i can do is provide some actual hob-murphy interactions in the next bit (plus some matthew because he's lovely)

[wyvernquill]

Finally some more Dreamling Anastasia AU!

(Obligatory link to the masterpost with all the other posts in this AU - it's also pinned at the top of my blog!)

So, it's been... a while... but I've recently finally got some motivation to write a bit more of this. Apologies to everyone really looking forward to the finale/resolution - I've decided to go all the way back to the start of the story, instead. I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!

(Tag list: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-kingdom - since it's been a, uh, really long time, please let me know if you're no longer interested in this AU/fandom and don't want to be tagged anymore, I won't mind! On the other hand, if someone else would like to be tagged in future updates, please let me know!)

---

“Sister… it’s me.”

The man on the dilapidated theatre’s stage shrugs a heavy, moth-eaten velvet coat off his narrow shoulders. It crumples into a dark semi-circle around him, releasing a dramatic cloud of dust.

“Dream… of the Endless~”

.

“Ah. Hm.” A somewhat fussy older gentleman in the empty space usually reserved for the audience adjusts the small circular glasses on his nose, grimacing in a polite and distinctly English way - which he has, once, after first coming to this realm and taking this form, spent hours practising in the mirror - while checking a long list in front of him. “Mr… Carter, was it…?”

“Oh, please.” The man on stage flicks back his white-streaked bangs. “Call me Hal.”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Hal.” The gentleman purses his lips. “That was… not, er. Not terrible, I suppose. And we’re pleased to note that you appear to have… brought your own cloak.”

“Don’t get used to it. Zelda and Chantal only let me borrow it for the audition.”

“Well, it is a lovely cloak. Only, ah, while Dream of the Endless was known to have quite striking eyes, I do think that, perhaps a little less eyeliner…”

“I could tone it down, I suppose, but I really think the performance would lose something without the makeup.” Hal sighs melodramatically. “I can sing and dance too, if you need it for your… what is this audition for, actually? Play? Music hall show? Ooo, one of those moving pictures?”

“Er.” The gentleman fidgets with his cane, grass-green eyes flickering around the empty theatre. “Well-”

“Thank you, Hal.” The younger man beside him interrupts with a winning smile that only barely covers the boredom and frustration lining a rather ruggedly handsome face. “We’ll let you know.”

“Hm.” Hal, clearly enough of an old hand in the acting business to know a polite “you’re not getting the role, piss off” when he hears one, frowns, and bends down to gather up the borrowed cloak, stalking off towards stage exit right with his head held high, not deigning either of the two men with even one more look.

“...I really do not think this will work, young Robert.” The older man mutters, decisively striking through Hal Carter’s name on his list. It is the last. “None of them look even remotely like him. And the voice-”

“I know, Gil. I know.” The younger man, Hob - only Gilbert is proper and precise enough to call him Robert - rubs at his temples, as if to stave off a headache. “They never manage to get the voice right, do they.”

“Ah, if it were only that…” Gilbert sighs, setting the list down. His eyes are soft and unfocused, seeing far into a past that has long since been razed to the ground. “His Lordship, he… he had a certain air about him, you understand. An otherworldly strangeness. He was the dream-maker, and dream-made, and to look at him was to gaze upon infinity.”

A soft scoff.

“Even if we claim that he has been greatly reduced by being turned into a meagre human - no offence, dear friend - as long as he does not have some spark of endlessness about him, nobody who has ever met him would fall for the ruse. And we are attempting to con his family. I simply cannot see any viable path to success.”

Hob does not respond, for a moment, picking up one of the flyers on their table.

It reads:

.

SEEKING Actor, slender, pale, tall, dark-haired, in the 20-40 age range to play the role of Dream of the Endless (method actors preferred). Generous pay and further benefits await. Auditions each weekday at 6pm at the Old Whickber Street Theatre, Soho. Ask for Hob and Gil.

.

“We’ll find him.” Hob insists. “The perfect pretender. He’s out there, I just know it.”

“We are not the first fools who have attempted a, a caper of this sort.” Gil points out, almost gently. “None of the others ever succeeded.”

“Yes. Well. None of the others managed to find and correctly identify the late Dream’s own pouch of genuine dream-sand on sale at the black market.” Hob shoots back, gesturing at the cord just barely peeking out from under Gil’s collar. (They’ve decided it would be safer if Hob comes into contact with the sand as little as possible, and Gilbert has taken to carrying it as closely to his heart as he can manage.) “It’s hard evidence, Gil, it’s a sign, it’s our chance - and it might just be enough. The trick with a good con is really making it look like you’re giving the mark exactly what they desperately want… and there’s nothing in the world Death of the Endless wants more than to have her brother back.”

.

(She wants it so desperately, in fact, that she’s offering immortality to any sentient being who manages to procure Dream for her.

And, well.

There’s nothing in the world Hob wants more than to live forever…)

.

“Your word in- or, well, kept out of Destiny’s ears, young friend.” Gil sighs, collecting his lists and notes and the remaining flyers, tucking them into his coat and reaching for his cane. “In the meantime, how about we go down to the public house and have a bit of a snifter to wash away the memories of all those atrocious performances, eh, my lad?”

“Best idea you had all day, Gil.” Hob grins, clapping a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “Are you buying?”

Gilbert raises one grey brow. “At the risk of provoking a joke regarding my non-human status: in your dreams, Robert.”

Hob laughs; and, together, they step out into the winter night, old snow crunching under their shoes and new flakes beginning to drift, gradually, down from the sky.

.

.

.

It has been a decade since the end of the Endless’ reign.

Ten years since humanity tore Destiny’s book from his hands and burned it.

Ten years since Destruction abandoned his siblings, hiding away in his own, separate exile. 

Ten years since Despair’s first aspect was killed, and another took her place.

Ten years since Delight went mad with grief and became Delirium…

.

And ten years since Dream of the Endless was captured, bound, turned human, and killed.

.

People still whisper about it. Still speculate, trade gossip and hearsay back and forth. Some insist that the Dream King yet lives, hidden away, turned human, just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to return to his siblings.

It’s a lovely legend, Hob supposes. A fitting end and non-end, for the Lord of Stories, to live on in one… but that’s all it is. A pretty tale, which will breathe new life into a myth only for as long as it’s being told. It isn’t true…

…but now, ten years later, Hob and Gil will damn well make it so.

.

.

.

Ten years is also, coincidentally, all that a man a few streets down from the old theatre can remember of his life.

Ten years since he was found, naked and emaciated and bleeding, in a ditch next to some countryside road in East Sussex.

Ten years of fighting his way through a life in poverty, with no family, no friends, no-one to care for him, except perhaps the birds.

Ten years of strange and haunting dreams, blurred faces calling out to him with names he can never remember later but knows are his; ten years of waking every morning with tears on his face and a longing for someplace - and someones - he wishes he could remember; ten years of a woman’s voice begging him night after night to come home to her, to them.

.

Ten years of being much too busy starving and freezing and barely surviving to spare even a single thought to the dying legends of the Endless.

.

This man turns his face up to the sky, snowflakes catching in his dark hair and on his coat like stars glinting in the night; and he shivers, his breath clouding mist-white in the air, curling thin arms around a narrow torso.

(For a moment, just a moment, his eyes glow dark and infinite, a mirror to the night sky and the endless universe beyond.)

And then, he ducks his head down into his scarf, shivers again, and continues on through the snow.

Ten hard years have taught this man better than to waste his time standing about and daydreaming.

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #it's been 84 years...... #i've got a rough draft of a scene or two after this too #endlessly busy with uni of course #and getting back into Good Omens my old love #but i've been feeling like dabbling with this au again lately so why not #and i just HAD to give you Hal doing the iconic coat drop scene #he would have been iconic as drag Dream of the Endless just saying #Hob and Gil are missing out #and the first glimpse of Murphy... I can see it in my mind's eye so clearly #him looking up at the sky with the stars in his eyes and the snow in his hair #and Death forever calling out to him in her sleep #gosh have i missed this au #can't guarantee too much more #but a few more bits are definitely in the works!

[wyvernquill]

One more snippet of the Dreamling Anastasia AU

...in which we witness Hob and Murphy's very first conversation (spoiler: it doesn't go well). Please enjoy!

Link to the Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

---

For a moment, the scene unfolding before Hob makes him think he’s stepped into a fairytale - or perhaps a sweet and strange dream, haunting you ever so gently even after waking.

Once upon a time, thinks Hob, there was a Dream King draped in a cloak of midnight, and he held court over the ravens in a silver-winter forest under heavy, snow-laden boughs…

But then he blinks, and the silly, fanciful vision fades. The cloak is but a dark coat three sizes too large and marked by at least ten years’ worth of dirt and wear, the forest only a small and pitiful park fenced in by roads, and the snow a dirty grey, barely more than half-melted sludge where countless feet have trodden it down.

And the Dream King is only some beggar called Murphy, of course, uncanny resemblance be damned.

But there are ravens. Birds of all kinds, really, the sounds of their wings and their various songs nearly managing to drown out the noise of the city around them. Yet Hob is a practical man, and knows that they gather around their ‘king’ only because they’re clever little buggers waiting to be fed, and not thanks to any strange magics.

(Magic died when humanity rose up and brought the Endless low; and what little survived has fled, concealed itself, and would know better than to enchant a hundred or so birds in broad-if-cloud-dimmed daylight.

Magic died with Dream of the Endless, and all that is left are shadows and cheap facsimiles.

Magic died, and nothing will bring it back.)

And yet… there’s potential there, Hob thinks, as he watches Murphy draw his giant coat more tightly around himself, shivering but still holding his head high and proud, surveying the assorted fowl around him as if they were his subjects. There’s a sharp, delicate arrogance in his bearing that will serve their deception well.

And. Christ alive. He does look like him, doesn’t he. Like the Sandman himself, made flesh and bone and sweat and dirt. Made human. If Hob didn’t know, with absolute certainty… he could swear...

Ridiculous thought. Dream of the Endless would never sink so low as to get himself thrown out of a pub swearing and spitting, human or not.

Murphy’s eyes suddenly snap up, and Hob flinches instinctively, contemplates ducking behind the next tree or the column advertising the latest local plays - but the man’s gaze passes over him carelessly, long neck craning out from the ratty scarf wound around his throat as he scans the sky.

It’s the raven. The large, coal-feathered beast Murphy had with him at the pub, with the clever glint in its eye - and in its claws, it holds a whole loaf of bread, clearly pilfered from some bakery or street stall.

The raven drops the bread into Murphy’s lap, and then lands on his shoulder, cawing and nudging its beak against a sharp cheekbone in a strange avian gesture of affection.

Murphy rasps some sort of acknowledgement in his dark, hoarse voice that Hob is too far away to parse, stroking a finger along the bird’s side, before turning his attention to the bread.

His spindly, dirty fingers tear into it with the hungry desperation of a man who remembers with precise clarity when his last meal was, and also that it’s been far too long since then, and Hob’s stomach gives a sympathetic pang. He’s been there. Not so much recently - but he knows the slow gnaw of starvation, and will never forget it.

(He hasn’t gone hungry since meeting Gilbert, who’d rather skip on his own technically unnecessary meals if it meant his young human companion could eat his fill. Sometimes, Gil even hands Hob fruits he’s seemingly conjured up out of thin air, which are never as filling as the real thing, but taste heavenly enough to stave off hunger for a few more hours at least.

There must be some dream-magic there, something to do with Gil being, in all technicality, a meadow - but Hob doesn’t think about it too much. It’s sweet, the actions of a friend who truly cares, and that’s enough for him.)

Murphy raises the first morsel of bread up to his mouth…

…and feeds it to the raven.

Hob blinks.

Watches, as the man takes his own bite, chewing ravenously, and then tears another bit off the loaf, throwing it to the ground, birds immediately flocking around it, picking for their share.

The process repeats. Murphy goes through the entire loaf that way. One bite for the raven who stole the bread, one bite for Murphy himself, and one for the flocks of birds around him. Halfway through, the raven refuses its bites, presumably full, and from then on it’s one bite for Murphy, two for the birds. It’s already not the largest loaf, and a third of it is hardly enough to sate a grown man’s hunger - strangely selfless, this Murphy character. No wonder he’s thin as a rake.

(Then again, Hob supposes there’s strategy in it, teaching the birds that they’ll be well-rewarded for any bounty they bring him.

Altruism, or shrewdness? Hob wonders.)

Soon, there’s nothing left of the bread. Murphy still looks hungry, but it’s an exhausted, resigned hunger that’s there to stay. Hob doubts the man can remember a time he wasn’t hungry. This city is not kind to the starving, to the poor - Murphy might get a place in a workhouse, if he tried, but Hob doubts that quiet pride still shining through the veil of hunger would let him. And besides, they’re dying institutions, these days, workhouses - the modern world is turning up their noses at anything that might help the destitute, even as it churns out more and more of them. It’s a dark and miserable time they’re living in, and none of the glamorous parties the rich so love to throw these days will convince Hob otherwise.

But, well. If their scheme goes off without a hitch, then at the very least the new ‘Dream of the Endless’ will never go hungry again. Hob’s doing a public service here, if you look at it from the right angle - though he’ll be the first to admit that his main motivation is anything but selfless. Immortality is too rich a prize to pretend he doesn’t want it with every fibre of his being.

And he’ll not get it standing idly by and watching, that’s for sure.

Hob straightens his coat lapels, takes off his hat to comb his fingers through his overlong hair, places it back at a jaunty angle - and walks over to finally officially make this Murphy character’s acquaintance.

“Afternoon,” Hob says, still a few steps away, smile widening into a grin when Murphy’s gaze immediately fixes itself onto him, cold and filled with the sharp suspicion of a man most people go out of their way to ignore, and who does not trust direct address.

(The eyes give him away. Dream of the Endless had eyes like midnight stars, the depths of space and the glitter of distant galaxies eternally reflected in them. Strange eyes, inhuman eyes, endless eyes.

Murphy’s eyes are a pale, washed-out blue-grey, slightly sunken in their sockets, and perfectly ordinary.

No matter - they will already have to sell some cock-and-bull story about Dream having been forced into human form, the eyes will be the least of it.)

“What do you want?” Murphy growls, and that is perfect. The voice. Easily his best asset, besides the overall look. It’s right, scratchy and roughened by disuse, but just as deep and sonorous as Dream of the Endless's was. The harsh tone and tendency to curse like a sailor Hob witnessed at the inn will need to go, to be sure, this man speaks too much like a London gutter rat and not enough like the Lord of Stories - but, well, nothing a few lessons can't fix. Nobody else ever got the voice even remotely right, and this’ll already give them a lot more to work with.

“A moment of your time, m’lord. Nothing more.” Hob affects a cheeky bow, and does not waver under the cold disdain he receives in return. Mr. Murphy’s not a fan of teasing and gentle mockery, evidently - unfortunately, that is about 50% of Hob’s personality. They’ll get on just splendidly, won’t they. “Hob, at your service. Are you aware your lady sister is looking for you?”

A quick blink, even as Murphy’s entire scrawny body and haggard face goes very, very still.

“...I do not have a sister.” He says, only the slightest edge of uncertainty and confusion wavering in his voice. And then, “piss off, Robert Gadling” he adds, uncouth and vulgar, a scowl scrunching up his face. Oh, they’ll need to train that out of him, most certainly.

(Hob has not introduced himself as Robert, and certainly not as Gadling. That Murphy has named him thus nonetheless goes over both their heads.)

“No?” Hob smiles. “You’re not Dream of the Endless, then?”

Another blink - and then Murphy laughs, a horrible dissonant sound that seems like it ought to hurt his throat, the raven on his shoulder letting out a single caw alongside him.

“Are you drunk?” He snorts. “Dream of the Endless is dead. Every child knows it.”

“Every child believes it to be so. There’s a distinction.” Hob tries to take a step closer, but the sea of birds at their feet steadfastly refuses to part for him, so he thinks better of it. “You look exactly like him, you know. You might well be.”

“And you would know that, would you?” Murphy raises an arch eyebrow. “I think I’d remember having once been the personification of dreams.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Memory can be a funny thing.” Hob shoots back. “We don’t remember being born, do we? And some lose track of even more than that. How’s your recollection of your childhood, hm?”

Ah. Jackpot. The moment he speaks of remembering and childhoods, Murphy looks away, uncomfortable. Hit a sore spot there, has he? Memory issues. How interesting. How perfectly convenient.

“...you’ve had your fun now,” Murphy rasps, shifting uneasily, no longer so willing to defiantly meet Hob’s eyes. “I want no part in whatever game you’re intending to play with the London Poor, Gadling. Fuck off, before I make you.”

“Now, now, I really do think we’re on to something, here.” Giving up, Hob knows, is for fools who don’t really want to become immortal. “I’m quite certain-”

“Fuck. Off.” Murphy repeats, and turns his pale, unfortunately-human eyes on Hob again.

So do nearly a hundred birds, feathers ruffling and beaks clacking. The raven on Murphy’s shoulder caws, low and threatening.

Hob swallows, and takes stock of his options. Wonders if tactical retreats might not be just the thing for intelligent men who don’t want to die by bird before ever getting to take their stab at immortality.

“I’m only saying-” Hob tries instead, because he’s a reckless idiot.

Murphy’s eyes narrow, and he spits out a throaty sound like a command, the flock of birds rising as one, led by his personal raven jumping into flight with a sharp battle cry.

Shit.

Gilbert glances up when Hob returns covered in feathers and bird droppings, skin smarting where sharp beaks have pecked at him until he fled.

“I take it young Mr. Murphy was not particularly amenable to your proposal…?” He asks, delicately, lip twitching around a politely-repressed smile.

“Can’t say he was.” Hob shrugs easily, only wincing slightly at the way the movement pulls on his skin. “But I think I can convince him, Gil. Given enough time.”

“If you say so, young friend.” Gil, for his part, does not look particularly convinced either. He rarely is, when Hob first pitches his ideas, but he always comes around.

And so will Murphy.

Hob knows it’s only a matter of time… and, perhaps, some clever bribery.

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #i had this already written so i figured i would just throw it out too #there's one more bit i've got parts of written but i can't make promises #we will see how it goes! #murphy has trained all his birds to steal and shares generously with them #honestly he may be a better boss to these birds than he was for the dreaming... #matthew in particular does deserve bread though. as a treat. #hope you enjoyed their meet-ugly! #(though honestly murphy is quite right not to trust hob) #(a scoundrel like that will just make you fall in love with him and then break your heart) #(but at least he'll help you reconnect with your identity and family so that's nice I guess)

[wyvernquill]

“Oh, silly Stanley! He could draw That Place as much as he liked, he would still never be able to return to it!”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40685247/chapters/102405018

#WyWrites #WyDraws #fan art #tsp #tspud #the stanley parable #stannarrator #had a lot of fun with this one #the frames and butterflies are stock photos fyi #and the 'paintings' are game screenshots of course #the bucket's presence is a bit anachronistic for the fic's timeline #but it felt right to include it #maybe i'll edit this one to look like a book cover later #it has the right layout for it

[wyvernquill]

I am NOT writing a Dreamling Anastasia AU 

  ...but. If I were...

(Edit: I am, find the masterpost here!)

It would not, actually, be a full human AU. The Endless are still Endless, but humanity has risen up against them, to terrible results. Their “domains” are still somewhat intact, so humanity can mostly go on as normal, but the personifications have been torn from them, weakened, have barely any control over them anymore. Their realms have crumbled, their tools are damaged, and they’re in exile...

And Death has offered immortality to whosoever will return her lost brother, Dream of the Endless, to her.

Enter Hob Gadling, vagabond, mercenary, and not very fond of dying as a concept; and Gilbert, a dream who survived the destruction of the Dreaming, and has lived among the humans ever since.

Dream of the Endless has been captured, turned human, and killed. They all know it, everyone does - it would be a pretty story if someone recovered him, a pretty story indeed, finally bringing peace and comfort to his family and the remainder of his subjects, but it won’t ever come true...

...unless someone were to make it true. Of course. Out of pure charitable sentiment, and not for the immortality reward at all.

All Hob and Gil would need is a lookalike they can pass off as “Dream of the Endless forcefully turned human” - and the amnesiac ravenkeeper “Murphy”, misanthropic and eccentric to the utmost, might be just what they’re looking for.

(But the traitor at Dream’s court has not yet given up on destroying him utterly, and is following after them with a razor-sharp knife and three mouths hungry for “Murphy”’s blood...)

---

(A scene I typed out just for funsies, from later in the plot, under the cut - also, tagging @10moonymhrivertam who I believe was interested in this!)

[Context for the scene:

Murphy-pretending-to-be-Dream has already presented himself to Unity, Desire’s Queen Consort, mentioning that he vaguely recalls being saved from captivity by a young guard shattering his glass cage with a sledgehammer. Soon after, he finds out that Hob had ulterior, selfish motives for this plot, and does not take it at all well.]

When Murphy is finally called to stand before the siblings to prove his identity, only Gilbert is accompanying him inside... and he's glad for that. Betrayal rankles in him, the first buds of love trampled brutally underfoot by the man's selfish human cruelty - a lie and a con for immortality! What a low cur! Murphy despises him, and if he does not see him again until 100 years' hence, it will still be too soon.

The Endless siblings await him in a room that seems perfectly cosy, but also painfully small. Beings such as them are made for grand halls, and to see five of them crammed together on a couch and some chairs seems... wrong, almost.

Destiny sits in an armchair hood drawn low, arms curled around the charred and torn remnants of what was once a book. Death sits on the couch, radiating a solemn sort of warmth, while Despair is huddled up next to her, eyes wide and uncertain, with her twin's hand resting protectively on her shoulder from where they are perched on the armrest, the other holding Unity's, who is seated in the second armchair.

("And Despair... oi, Murphy, are you listening?" says Hob's voice in his head, warm with fondness and a broad grin. "Despair was killed but reborn in a new aspect during the uprising. She'll still have all her old memories, though, so remain on your guard even around her."

Oh, those endless lessons. He will never forget a word of them.)

The youngest, Deligh- Delirium is seated on the floor, humming to herself and drawing swirling, colourful patterns onto the carpet. She hasn't as much as looked up at him.

Gilbert steps forward.

"Your Highnesses," he murmurs, politely removing his hat and squishing it in anxious hands. "May I present: Dream of the Endless."

 -

They ask him questions all over again, particularly Death and Desire - hers gentle and probing, theirs sharp and cutting - and Murphy answers as best he can, trying to ignore the longing in those eyes. The hope.

They want, so badly, for him to be something he is not. It is heartbreaking.

And then, finally, Death says "one last test, if you please," and Desire adds, spitefully, "this is the one they all fail," their twin nodding jerkily.

Death calls for Lucienne - ("Lucienne has always been your most faithful servant," Gilbert explains, "a librarian like no other, wise and ever loyal. She remained in the Dreaming, praying for your return, until it crumbled under her very feet...") - and Lucienne strides in.

She freezes, when she locks eyes with Murphy, and there it is again. The flash of hope, quickly tempered, but forever burning.

"The final test." Death instructs her, and with a bow Lucienne sweeps out again, only to return mere moments later with...

 -

...with a raven perched on her arm, white-breasted and fine-boned, dark and keen eyes observing Murphy curiously.

 -

"Jessamy!" He blurts out, and Death nods.

"Jessamy." She confirms, as Lucienne transfers the raven to her. "My brother's trusted companion. Touch her, now, give her a pat - and if she accepts you as her master, we'll know you're really him."

-

(Gilbert feels the tranquil summer day he has in place of a heart sink. This is what it all hinges on, then?

This is something they had no way of preparing Murphy for. No way to influence it. Jessamy will know him for a fraud, that much he is quite certain of, and their game is up, now. Their game is up.)

Murphy rises up, and goes to kneel at Death's feet, on eye level with the raven - and one has to hand it to him, he looks at her so softly, so adoringly, as if she really were part of his mind and soul and heart, the way Matthew is for Murphy, in truth.

He reaches out one trembling hand, all eyes in the room on him.

(Jessamy twitches her wings, gaze fixed on his hand.)

And then he drops it again.

 -

"Jessamy the Raven died as she attempted to rescue me from imprisonment," he says, and his voice echoes, deep and dark as midnight. "Lady Death, you hold an illusion on your arm."

 -

Silence in the room. Nobody dares to as much as breathe.

And then Not-Jessamy squawks, bright and approving - and bursts into hundreds of Delirium's incandescent butterflies, dispersing in the air.

They're all staring at him as Murphy gathers his robes up and returns to his seat.

Death stands. If her gaze was glowing with hope before, it is now like a firebrand on his skin.

"Despair? Bring his tools," she says, too soft to be an order, but with steel underneath it.

Despair scrambles up, and returns in moments with the strange helmet that is the symbol of the Dreamlord's power, and his ruby - cracked, but not broken.

(Gilbert, staring at Murphy as if in a trance, produces the sand pouch, and adds it to Despair's arms. Some thought flickers through his mind that those tools would, all taken together, kill a mere human - but that is not what Murphy is, after all, is he.)

Desire takes the ruby, and drapes the chain over Murphy's neck - and he sees it in their golden eyes, feels it in the tremble of their caress against his neck, that they have never desired anything more than their brother back.

Death takes the sand pouch, and presses it into Murphy's hand, closing his fingers around it with such gentleness - she had thought her beloved brother dead for so many years, dead and gone, and there is relief in every fibre of her being.

And then Destiny sets the scraps of his books aside, and takes the helmet in his hands, bidding Murphy to incline his head so that it might be fitted onto him, and he might recover all his past, present, and future.

 -

Murphy takes a deep breath.

Closes his eyes.

And bows his head.

 -

The helmet slides over his skull as if it was made for him...

And it was.

-

Something changes in the air.

A shifting, like air flowing in to fill up a vacuum.

And something about the-man-who-used-to-name-himself-Murphy changes.

The chapped and broken skin on his hands smooths to the point where his fingertips would not even leave prints; the fabric of his robe sparkles with stars, and floats like mist at nighttime about his form; and when he raises his behelmed head, his spine seems to crack and lengthen, taller now than he was before, too tall and thin to be human.

(Matthew squawks outside the window - and with one beat of his wings he is inside the room, settling on a narrow shoulder.)

 -

Hands that have folded lovingly around so many newly-created dreams and nightmares come up, to lift the helmet off again...

And where Murphy's eyes were a watery blue, Dream of the Endless's eyes are midnight-black, with only a single star each glowing in their depths.

 -

He blinks.

Looks down at his helmet, then up, at the roomful of Endless - his family - all staring at him in something between disbelief and incandescent joy.

"...siblings," Dream breathes, his chest warm and full as it never was when he was human except perhaps when Hob Gadling smiled at him, surrounded now by all of them...

And "BrOTheR!" Delirium squeals in rainbow tones, jumping up from the floor to throw herself into his arms, where she is immediately held.

"Brother," echoes Death, hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes - and then she, too, is folding him in an embrace, and Desire, and Despair, joining... even Destiny rests one wizened hand on Dream's head, tender and brotherly.

Lucienne is crying into a handkerchief from joy, and Gilbert keeps whispering "oh my. oh, goodness. oh my."...

And Dream holds his siblings close to him, home at last.

-

"Robert! Robert!" Gilbert is gasping, having hurried as quickly as he could. "Robert, you will not believe-"

Hob drops his nearly-done cigarette on the ground, grinds it out with his boot.

"And?" He smiles, though it hardly reaches his eyes. "Did they buy it?"

"He's real! Oh, goodness gracious me!" Gilbert rests one hand on his chest, as if to clutch at pearls there. "He is- Robert, he is the true Dream of the Endless! He, he knew that- and when they gave him the tools-"

"Ah!" Now Hob actually laughs. He fiddles for another cigarette, offers the package to Gilbert, who declines with nothing more but a distracted wave. "That. Yes. I knew that."

"You KNEW!?" Gilbert flusters.

"Since the talk with Unity." Hob's lighter takes a few tries to work. Ghastly thing. "It was me, you know."

"I don't follow." Gil blinks.

"It was good work for hired muscle, guarding some prison in a cellar - and they did say that greater rewards were in store. Riches. Fame." Hob grimaces. The cigarette smoke tastes like ash in his mouth, but he takes a drag anyway. "...immortal life. Thought it would be the best work available to me - and it was. But I couldn't stand it, watching him in there."

Hob blows the smoke up into the air, and thinks of a pale, inhuman face behind a glass pane - and then that same face haggard but human, blue eyes twinkling at him with challenge and fondness both.

"I was the guard who took the sledgehammer to Dream's prison. Woke up a few hours later with a splitting headache, and soon enough they were saying they'd killed him when he tried to escape. Quit, ran, and never looked back."

"By Jove!" Gilbert gasps. "Robert! You've saved him twice over, first in the cellar of the Magus - and now! Returning him to his family! Bless you, lad, bless you!"

Hob lets Gilbert grab his hand and shake it enthusiastically, though he can hardly muster up anything more than a weak smile.

"You should- oh, you should come inside! You must tell this story, see Lord Morpheus returned to full form, the siblings shall wish to thank you-" Gilbert babbles joyfully. "And your reward! Of course! Twice earned, my young friend! Twice earned!"

"Hmm. I don't... think I should." Hob carefully ducks out from the arm Gilbert has thrown over his shoulder. "Leave them to their joyful reunion, eh? Give them a little time to breathe before I remind them of... business."

"Ah, but-" Gilbert tries to protest, but Hob is already starting down the street. He should quit smoking - he already nearly has. Only does it when he's stressed, or heartbroken... or both.

 -

He will not bother Dream of the Endless, the man who once was Murphy, with his presence now.

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #no no no i will not write more of it no #but i'm proud of these snippets and the concept #so out into the world they go #also i really enjoy the thought of grumpy and unpleasant ravenkeeper murphy #slowly softening as hob keeps chatting amicably with him #and slowly learning how to act like otherworldly nobility (with some things coming so easily to him as if he'd always known them) #might write a feeeew more scenes of this au? #but i doubt it'll ever be a full fic #feel free to send me asks or some such about it though! #or about anything else really

[wyvernquill]

"Serpent of the Opera, at your service."* *The Serpent actually preferred to go by Crowley, but felt like that was more second-date information. "Charmed," Aziraphale said, dipping his head. "It's a very... interesting choice of occupation, I must say." The Serpent - Crowley, we should say - shrugged in a well-what-can-you-do way.

An illustration for my Phantom of the Opera AU!

#WyDraws #WyWrites #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanart #phantom of the opera au #it's been so long since i last drew them #my art style really changed since then #there's actually some hints at future plot in this art ;3 #image id in alt text

[wyvernquill]

More Dreamling Anastasia AU

Because I must obviously be stricken down for my hubris if I say I refuse to write something. (Masterpost can be found here!)

This one’s an earlier bit, while they’re still trying to teach “Murphy” how to act like Dream, and first encounter The Corinthian - so please be aware that there will be Corinthian-typical mentions of stabbing and blood in this excerpt!

(Tagging @10moonymhrivertam again, and also open invitation for anyone who wants to be notified of new updates to tell me so, and I’ll tag you when/if I write other scenes!)

---

“Do the list again.”

“Hob…” Murphy sighs, visibly annoyed, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and face ducked into his scarf. There are snowflakes caught in the dark tangle of his hair, and Hob wonders briefly if he would accept Hob’s hat, or look at it with the same disgusted grimace he pulled when he was offered one of Gil’s spare cardigans.

“Come on. Again.” Hob encourages. “You’ll need to know it by heart, it has to be ingrained so deeply into you that I should be able to wake you up at three in the night and have you recite it perfectly.”

“Do not dare to wake me up at three in the night!” Murphy snarls, and they will really have to work on that temper - Gilbert is very insistent that Dream of the Endless’s fury was fierce, yes, but quiet, controlled, and merciless in its silence. These outbursts don’t befit a Dream King, and they’ll have to go.

“I was speaking metaphorically!” Hob laughs and holds up his hands defensively. “I know better than to disturb your sleep, rest assured. Matthew would peck my eyes out, for a start.”

(Judging from the look on Murphy’s face, the man would approve of that course of events, and possibly praise his raven afterwards.)

“But the list. Go on, Lord Morpheus, the list.”

Murphy sighs again, turning his face up to the snow-grey night sky. Hob is suddenly quite glad Gilbert shooed them out for a walk, to clear Murphy’s head after another long day of lessons - more lessons tomorrow, and then they’ll be travelling again over the weekend, always busy or on the move. It’s quite lovely, to have this moment of tranquillity, in the dark and the snow, and to see Murphy… well. Less frustrated and harried than he usually is, solemn and thoughtful and with chapped lips from the frost.

“Destiny, the oldest, in the maze, with the book.” He recites, only slightly sullen. “Death, the second, everywhere and everywhen, but always where she’s needed, with the ankh. Dream, the third-”

“Include the names.”

“Ugh. Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms, the Shaper of Form, Kai’ckul-”

“Kai-what?” Hob frowns. He hasn’t heard that one before.

“-Oneiros or the Oneiromancer, and the Lord of Stories.” Murphy continues, undeterred, slogging through the list just to have it be over quicker. “There, the names. Now: Dream, in the Dreaming, with the ruby - and sometimes the helmet and the sand. Always with a raven. Next, Destruction-”

.

“No, please,” drawls a voice behind them. “Tell us more about Dream.”

.

They both freeze.

Hob turns slowly, stepping to the side just slightly, just enough so he will be in range to shove Murphy behind himself, should it become necessary.

“I do so love bedtime stories,” the stranger who has approached them is grinning broadly, in a tan suit and coat much too thin for this weather, and dark glasses - sunglasses? At night!? - covering his eyes. “Though I always like ‘em best when they have gory endings. When the stepsisters cut their feet to fit into the glass slipper in the Grimm brothers’ version of Cinderella? Boy, I could listen to that all night.”

The man is holding a long knife in his hand, the sort not made for cutting anything but the flesh of your fellow man, toying with it - and Hob feels a prickle of fear slide down his spine.

“Who are you, to disturb us?” Murphy snaps haughtily, and Hob would be pleased at the excellent noble-arrogant cadence, if he weren’t suddenly fucking terrified of Murphy getting a knife in between the ribs for his cheek.

“Me?” The man laughs, throwing the knife up in the air, glittering, twirling, before catching it again. “You don’t remember little old me?”

The man’s teeth are too white, Hob notes, too bright, and too *many* when he smiles like this.

.

“I’m your worst nightmare, my Lord,” he says, still smiling - and then lunges forward, knife first.

.

Hob moves instantly, instinctively, without even a moment’s hesitation.

With his elbow, he shoves Murphy back, out of the way, and then bats the man’s knife arm off-course, coming in swinging with the other fist. It connects with an audible crack, but their assailant only laughs, giddy and breathless, and spits out half a mouthful of blood - is there some dripping from his eyes under the glasses, too - before evading Hob’s grip on his arm and dancing out of the way.

“Murphy, run!” Hob shouts over his shoulder, heart beating in his throat, blood up and boiling. He hasn’t gotten into alleyway fights in a year or two, but it’s familiar, the tang of blood, the rush of adrenaline. He’s always liked the brawls where there wasn’t a sharp object involved better, just two men and their fists - but if this madman wants a fight, he’ll damn well get one. Hob’s put better people than him in hospital.

Hob charges forward, goes for a grab at the knife arm again, and manages a short grapple, a kick at a shin, the tip of the knife wavering as they twist against each other, and slicing a red-hot line of pain along the side of Hob’s jaw - the man’s still grinning, holy shit, that’s unsettling - before the other twists himself free again with almost unnatural strength, and Hob has to jump back before that knife goes somewhere vital.

“Well, aren’t’cha quite the fighter, Hobsie?” The assailant says, with his dozens of bone-white teeth bared. “I’m glad. Makes it more fun to carve into you when you struggle a li’l bit.”

“Would love to see you try,” Hob spits back, wiping his cheek, his blood dripping red onto the snow.

They throw themselves at each other again, and the man is impossibly strong, delivering an almost casual punch against Hob’s sternum that knocks the breath out of him, forcing him back a couple stumbling steps.

And Hob knows he should run, too. The best way to win a streetfight is to not be in one, and he’s not keen on getting stabbed. Would be a waste, to die now, when he’s so close to earning himself immortality…

…but he needs to buy Murphy time.

The thought alone, of seeing Murphy dead in the snow, blood pooling around him in and coat spread out like broken wings - he can’t bear it. He’s got the man into this fucking mess, and he cannot let Murphy die because of his con. This is supposed to be a win-win situation for them all, not a threat to anyone’s life!

And if somebody’s life is threatened, it better be Hob’s own. Only fair - he gets the biggest reward in the end, he should shoulder the brunt of the risk as well.

Hob coughs one last time, eyeing the blood-red tip of the assailant’s knife. He won’t die here, he refuses to, and he’ll fight until the bitter end if-

.

“Wait,” Murphy says, and Hob’s heart stutters in his chest.

.

The idiot! The absolute fool! Hob told him to run, why the fuck is he still here!?

Hob gets barely more than a second of panic in before Murphy steps up beside him, glowering darkly at the man with the knife…

And then, in a movement quick as a flash, he throws a handful of salt-grit-sand mix - the sort the city keeps in large containers alongside the streets in wintertime, to make the snow and ice safer to traverse - straight into the man’s face.

The man screeches, voice strangely dissonant, as if it comes from three mouths at once, and jerks back sputtering, dropping his knife and covering his face with his hands.

Hob kicks the knife away, out of reach, on instinct - and then he feels a bony hand curl around his own, dragging him away, and he lets it, running hand in hand with Murphy for dear life.

(There are angry shouts behind them, threats, but Hob never looks back, only squeezing the cold palm against his harder.)

.

They run, and run, and run, until they finally reach the relative safety and familiarity of the street outside their inn, both gasping for breath as they lean against its walls.

“You… need not… have come…” Murphy wheezes, his thin chest heaving under his thick coat, even as his eyes are burning with indignation, “to my… defence!”

“Clearly!” Hob rasps, sliding to the ground, uncaring for the snowmelt soaking through his trousers. “Still… I didn’t want to be standing in front of the Endless alone, in a few weeks’ time.”

He grins up at Murphy - the wound along his cheek burning as he does it - and the sharp retort about being perfectly capable of handling himself in a fight visibly dies on Murphy’s lips.

He crouches down besides Hob, coat puffing up around him, and brings one hand up to cup Hob’s jaw, to turn it and inspect the line of red their attacker’s knife left there. Thumbs the cut, smearing warm blood along Hob’s cheekbone.

“You were hurt,” he murmurs, dark voice almost wavering with distress.

“Shallow cut.” Hob catches Murphy’s wrist before he can fuss any more with the wound, rubs a thumb soothingly over the thin bones there. “I’ll live.”

“Foolish man,” Murphy grumbles - but he’s very nearly smiling as he says it.

Their eyes meet.

They’re both still breathing hard, and for all his haggard, skeletal build and sunken face lined with long years of hardship, Murphy looks almost lovely like this, lips slightly parted and pale face flushed with exertion, looking up at Hob through his lashes as if…

As if…

Hob leans forward, and Murphy does too, something burning bright and smouldering hot between them, lips getting close enough to brush-

.

“ROBERT! MURPHY!” Gilbert slams open the door beside them, and they both jerk apart as if burned.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re here!” Gilbert flusters, wringing his hands on the grip of his cane. “I had the most terrible premonition that my two dear friends were in danger, most ghastly, so I rushed- Robert, are you bleeding!?”

“I’m fine, Gil,” Hob tries to wave him off - to little avail.

Hob is ushered up into their room, sat down, and then berated by Gilbert for his recklessness while Murphy is carefully, studiously, dabbing at Hob’s wound with one of Gilbert’s handkerchiefs and pointedly not making any eye contact.

(Though Matthew is more than making up for that, staring Hob down as if he knows exactly what almost transpired outside the inn’s door, and is rather firmly against the idea of letting it happen again…

Which it surely won’t. It was a mad impulse in the spur of the moment - they both know better, now.

Yes.

They both know better.)

#WyWrites #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #and feel free to send me asks if you want me to elaborate or something #or what i had in mind for other scenes #i'm always happy to chat! #i just couldn't resist an almost-kiss here #and gratuitous references to the 1789 scene #hob and dream fighting to protect each other my beloved #also the corinthian is LUCKY gilbert got the memo a little late #because yes he DOES have a sword in his cane #and he happily would have used it #maybe he will in a later confrontation #because i suddenly have a mighty need for gilbert vs. corinthian sword-knife fencing #matthew kind of likes hob by the way #but after years of protecting murphy on the streets he's just overall wary of others #even if they seem like good guys who let him sip from their beers

[wyvernquill]

“Soulmates.” Hob says, simply, and it feels like old magic to speak it into existence, to forge the bond between them into words at last. “You and I are soulmates. And I think that you are lonely, that you need and miss me when we’re apart... just as much as I miss you.”

“Soulmates.” The Stranger repeats, flatly, his sonorous voice barely a rumbling growl. “Hob Gadling, we are not soulmates.”

Illustration for my fic “Passing Stranger! (You Do Not Know How Longingly I Look Upon You)”, which you can find here on Ao3!

#WyDraws #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #WyWrites #drew in the title as a sort of fic cover just so i wouldn't have to design the look of the actual soulmark #it works well enough i suppose #tried out a new shading style for this one too! #doubt i'll stick to it but it works well on these hands #three chapters of the fic are up at the time of posting this #but i think i'll post one more today #enjoy! #i'm a big fan of tender hand touches #in case you couldn't tell #and of soulmate misunderstandings and angst

[wyvernquill]

Dreamling Anastasia AU Part 3

Part 1 here (the general concept and a scene of Dream recovering his memories and reuniting with his siblings), part 2 here (earlier scene of The Corinthian attacking Hob and “Murphy”). EDIT: there’s a masterpost now!

This one follows shortly after the excerpts in part 1, and references some details from the start of part 2. Hob has been called in to receive his reward of immortality from Death, but, well, if you’ve seen Anastasia, you know how he responded to that...

(Tagging @10moonymhrivertam and @martybaker - anyone else, feel free to let me know if you would like to be tagged in updates, too!)

---

“So this is your choice, Hob Gadling?”

Hob has heard stories about Death of the Endless, of course. Has even seen some portraits of her during his work for the Magus, Wanted posters with instructions on how to bind an Endless, what to look out for.

But all of that is incomparable to being in the not-quite-woman’s presence, to feel the weight of her existence and power press down on you. She is as weakened as the rest of them are, but it hardly feels like it to Hob.

(Or perhaps, what humanity has robbed her of is less her power, and more her ability to conceal it - he wouldn’t know.)

Not that he’s made to be unwelcomed in her presence, oh, surely not - she is warm and kind in bearing, certainly moreso than when they met last, and obviously grateful. And yet…

Well. Perhaps it’s merely Hob’s own guilt and heartache that is constricting his chest, and nothing to do with Lady Death at all.

“Yes, my Lady.” He affects a bow. Perhaps just to avoid her gaze, heavy and burning as a brand. She looks nothing like her brother, of course, but something about her still reminds him of Mur- of Dream. “May I be dismissed, then?”

“You may.” Death extends her hand as if to offer a handshake - but then seems to think better of it, tucking it behind her back. “Well met, Hob Gadling. The Endless thank you for the great service rendered to us - I thank you.”

Hob bows again, swallows down words on the tip of his tongue, thoughts he cannot possibly voice.

Humanity has made a mistake, in driving you all away.

I’m sorry. Please, tell him I’m sorry.

I’ve changed my mind.

Look after him. Please.

Has he changed much? Does he still laugh like a dying vulture? Does he still get cold hands in the snow?

Do you think he will miss me…?

“Well met, Lady Death.” He murmurs instead, and flees from the room.

---

Hob means to say his goodbyes to Gilbert - which soon reveals itself to have been a mistake.

What he finds, walking down a staircase not even halfway grand enough for the residence of six of the once-most-powerful entities in the universe, is not Gilbert, but a small gaggle of Endless, Delirium and Desire crowded around…

…around Dream, one fond hand resting on Delirium’s shoulder as he leans down to explain something to her, Desire instantly scoffing and contradicting him.

.

Hob stalls, and stares.

.

He has never seen Dream of the Endless before. Not like this.

Once, he saw a trapped creature in a cage, and once he saw a human dressed up in finery, but he hasn’t seen Dream.

His voice is even deeper, and much richer, now, Murphy’s hoarse rasp barely audible under a dark velvet rumble, and the robe draped over him falls in a way no mortal cloth ever could. He is still all skin and bones,of course, and a shock of ink-black hair, but the uncomfortable feeling of looking at someone so gangly and slightly sickly in appearance is simply… gone. As if something deep in Hob knows he’s not human, and no longer views him as such.

But it’s not only the physical changes, the added height, the ethereal air, no.

He holds himself differently, acts differently, and if Hob didn’t know they are/were the same person, he wouldn’t recognise Murphy in this entity at all.

There was always something sharp and frank about Murphy, an outcast unashamed of his eccentricities and bad temper, something raw and unapologetic. Murphy was cold and standoffish most of the time, and Hob had loved hi- had loved coaxing him into a tentative friendship, to banter back and forth, to enjoy his sharp wit.

But Dream of the Endless… no, Hob can see it at a glance, Dream is not like that at all.

Murphy would’ve spat a counter at his sibling with a vicious grin on his face, would quite possibly have sicced his raven on them, or at least threatened to.

Dream of the Endless is distant. Is removed. Carefully controlled in his measured riposte. And even when he glances down at Delirium, his smile is warm, is fond… but barely there. A twitch of his lips, a glimmer in his eyes. Murphy had smiled so rarely, but when he did, when he found something worth smiling at… they were full-face affairs, eyes crinkling and all. Honest and open, once the initial distrust was gone.

Hob thinks he can still see the resemblance, perhaps - but buried. Masked. Muted.

What remains of Murphy has drawn Dream of the Endless tightly around himself, like those ridiculous thick and overlarge coats he used to wear, or perhaps like a suit of armour, and will likely hide behind it for the rest of his existence.

.

(And it only makes sense, of course. Isn’t this what he and Gilbert have told Murphy a hundred thousand times? What they have taught him? What Murphy always struggled with the most?

Dream of the Endless must act befitting of his station at all times, they’d reminded him over and over again. He cannot conduct himself however he wants, can’t let himself be governed by his emotions. What kind of impression would that make? He is the King of Dreams, after all. He must reign those impulses in.

Well.

Looks like this lesson has caught on for good, hasn’t it.

And here Hob is, suddenly wishing to have wilful and unashamedly rude Murphy back - or even just a proper glimpse of him.)

.

Hob doesn’t know how long he stands there, eyes fixed on someone he has lost in more ways than one, a walking ghost, a warped afterimage - but it ends when Dream glances up, and meets Hob’s gaze with unerring precision.

And he’s not Murphy, he’s not, not quite, not enough, he won’t allow himself to be him, anyway…

And yet, Hob sees a single star each in midnight eyes, and his heart knows who it will love with every beat he has left.

---

Dream has felt the heavy weight of human eyes on him for a good minute now, but he waits, carefully, to acknowledge it. He chats with his siblings for a moment more, before he first looks up, and meets Hob Gadling’s eyes.

Once, perhaps, he would’ve done so defiantly. With a challenge. A glare, sharp and cutting.

Dream does not glare, not really. His face feels hard as stone, and twice as cold - that is all.

“Excuse me for but a moment, my siblings.” He steps away from Delirium and Desire, ignoring the latter’s knowing smirk, and holds out his arm to bid Matthew land on it.

And then he makes as if to simply breeze past Hob Gadling, only pausing to turn to him when he has passed the other on the stairs and towers over him.

.

(Hob used to look so strong and burly to Murphy’s eyes, powerful. Murphy never needed protecting, but it had pleased him, hadn’t it, when Hob did so. When, at last, someone other than Matthew and his other birds were willing to fight for him.

It had made him feel safe, then.

How strange, to now look at him and see nothing but a human. Small, powerless, inconsequential. A greedy, selfish wretch, who might have betrayed Dream as easily as helped him.)

.

“...Hob Gadling.” Dream says, archly, coldly. “You have received your payment from my sister, I suppose?”

“I’ve… gotten what I deserve, yes.” Hob smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes. Perhaps this is something that has changed, or perhaps Murphy had just been too blind to recognise an insincere smile. “My business here is done.”

“Good.” Dream says, perhaps with too much vehemence. He is so furious with this man, and only more furious at himself for showing it, and for having once been so foolish to care for him.

“I’m… glad, though.” The smile softens, just a little. “That I could help you recover yourself, and reunite with your siblings, Murph-” a stumble over his words “-Morpheus.”

Glad? You are glad to be well-paid, Hob Gadling, do not pretend now to have aided me for anything but your reward! Dream nearly snaps in response - but Lucienne interrupts before he can do so.

“Mr. Gadling.” She bows, though at an angle Dream recognises to be somewhat disrespectful. He has confided the full sordid tale to her, of course, and her opinion on Hob is… not favourable, now. Her eyes are cold, over the rim of her glasses - as are Matthew’s from on his arm. “Please, do not address His Lordship so informally.”

“It is fine, Lucienne.” Dream holds up one hand. He appreciates her attempt, but he has spent many nights curled up beside Hob on a narrow and uncomfortable pallet at some cheap inn, the time for formality has come and gone. “There is no need-”

“No, no. By all means.” Hob interrupts, self-deprecating grin playing around his lips. “Let it not be said that I have denied you the deference you are owed. Not now, after… everything.”

He bows, low and… reverent, truly reverent. Dream is an Endless, he can tell.

“I greet you, Dream of the Endless,” Hob begins, “Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms, the Shaper of Form…”

Oh.

Oh, Hob is reciting-

Something deep in Dream cracks at the familiar cadence of The List, one of the lists, burned into him by hours of repetition.

.

(He is not Murphy anymore. Those are a stranger’s memories.

And yet, he remembers the feel of ice and snow on human skin, human hunger, human fear.

Remembers a terrifying and exhilarating run through cold streets, and an almost-kiss at the end of it.

Those memories are not nearly distant enough for his taste.)

.

He lets Hob recite the rest of the list of names, settles one hand on the bannister to fight the disorientation that comes with the strange double memory of recalling a thousand repetitions of these nearly-meaningless words, and the story behind each of these names, how he has come to be called by them.

There is a silence, after Hob finishes. He’s left out Oneiromancer, Dream notes distantly - perhaps on purpose, to goad Dream into correcting him.

He will not give Hob the satisfaction.

“Well.” Hob sighs, straightening up again. “Since we’re talking, now, I might as well tell you directly - I intend to continue pursuing the man who has been attempting to assassinate you, Your Highness. I think we’ll both sleep easier without the threat of him running about unchecked somewhere.”

“You need not-” Dream begins, but does not finish. The memory of the first night Hob came to his defence in this matter is still too fresh in his mind.

“I know I need not. I would still do it, for you.” Hob’s gaze is soft, hopeful, almost pleading. Dream does not trust it. “Your Highness.”

Dream’s hand tightens on the bannister.

“That is gratifying indeed,” he finally says, voice calm, but some of Murphy’s spite and fury seeping out at the edges of his false barely-there smile. “One may say what one will about mercenaries, but I am glad to hear that my sister is getting her money’s worth out of you.”

Hob flinches back as if struck, and something fierce and still hurt deep inside Dream rejoices at it.

“Certainly.” His smile is a ragged thing, pained, bleeding with shame and hurt. There is still a thin scar on his cheek, a wound Murphy once cleaned and treated. Dream turns half away so that he need no longer see it. “I live to serve.”

“You live - and will go on and on and on living - for yourself, Hob Gadling.” Dream whirls back to him to correct sharply. “You have made that more than clear!”

Matthew squawks angrily at his shoulder - and it halts Dream in his tracks.

He cannot come to blows with Hob Gadling here on this staircase, should not even shout at him, not with Delirium and Desire and Lucienne all in earshot.

This sort of behaviour does not befit a Dreamlord, after all - and it is only one more thing to despise about the man before him, how he reduces Dream to barely better than a human.

“I bid you farewell, Hob Gadling, and would wish you a long and prosperous life,” he half-sneers instead, “but such wishes do seem a little pointless to offer to a self-made immortal, aren’t they?”

He does not give Hob the opportunity to answer, turning away with a swirl of his robe and striding up the stairs with a passing play at indifference.

.

“...if I.” Hob Gadling calls after him, and there is something in his voice, helpless and pleading, that makes Dream halt, and turn again.

“If I were to. To make an appointment with you.” Hob ventures cautiously. “A good many years from now - say, a hundred, enough so that we may let bygones be bygones - to meet at that pub we first saw each other, in London… would you come?”

.

His first instinct is to blurt out a yes - and that alone makes Dream angrier than he can recall feeling ever before. Hob is terribly presumptuous in his hypotheticals, and how much worse that Dream’s fool heart is about to fall for it.

He draws himself up to his full height, and then a little taller still.

“I would not.” He spits the words out, throws them at Hob Gadling’s feet like a duel gauntlet. “I would never. Not in a hundred years, not in two hundred, and not a thousand more!”

“Ah.” Hob’s smile is small, and terribly sad. “Yeah. Figured as much.”

He bows, again, and Dream can feel, rather than see, Despair sliding out from behind a corner, attracted by the tang of tear-salt in Hob’s increasingly watery eyes.

“It is goodbye forever, then.” Hob Gadling tells the steps under his feet, and does not wait for an answer before turning away and leaving.

Good. Dream wouldn’t have given him one, anyway.

.

(It is strange and disorienting, not being Murphy anymore.

He has shed that existence like he has shed an old coat, recovered his true identity, and the memories of those years he spent in a humansuit fit him ill, now. Just like Murphy struggled to envision the thoughts and feelings of Dream of the Endless, so does Dream now struggle to recall the motivations behind Murphy’s actions, to reconstruct how he-but-not-him had seen the world.

Murphy would have held on to his fury for a while yet, but would have taken that chance at reconciliation if it were offered to him, Dream suspects. Because Murphy was oh so painfully human, in his habits and wants both.

Murphy wanted to be safe. To belong. To love and be loved, to be held. Wanted Hob, the way humans want one another, the sort of thing Desire once governed over - oh yes. He wanted Hob, most of all.

He no longer does, of course. No longer has these human, infantile wants for companionship and simple pleasures.

Dream of the Endless desires entirely different things. He only wants…

He wants…

He…

…he’s not…

…quite sure…?

Perhaps it will come back to him someday. These after-echoes of Murphy’s wants - that sudden inexplicable wish to run after Hob and hold on to him - will fade, and he will recall what is appropriate for Dream of the Endless to want.

One day, surely.)

#WyWrites #anastasia dreamling au #dreamling #the sandman #the staircase scene in the original is so delicious i simply HAD to recreate it in this AU #love writing dream all upset and lashing out #while at the same time repressing all his pesky emotions #while hob is just feeling terribly guilty and tries to make up for his past conduct #i have a lot of thoughts about dream and 'human' wants and all #as you may be able to tell #also standing invitation to send me asks about this!

[wyvernquill]

I am BEGGING for more anastasia au. I need Dream to realize what Hob has done for him twice over and reckon with the fact he sent Hob away so coldly! So cruelly! I wanna grab him by his scrawny shoulders and give him a good rattling to get that brain working!!

Soooo this was HIGHLY requested, Dream Finding Out, and while I did write up the Bad Ending version of that already over here, now it's time for the proper scene! All 3k words of it. It got long. Hope you enjoy, everyone!

I also set up a masterpost for the AU here, which I've pinned and will update as I post new parts!

(Tag list: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-kingdom and finally @acedragontype too because of the ask answer included here.)

Dream is given a room.

It is strange and uncomfortable, to live with his siblings, and in such a humble abode. Part of him misses his palace, the endless expanse of the Dreaming, and another part thinks this is far too grand a place for a man who had spent the past few years mostly sleeping rough.

(And yet another part thinks longingly of modest little inns or ship cabins or train compartments, of uncomfortable train station benches barely wide enough for two but now fitting three, his head on Hob's shoulder as they are both dozing off - but he does not pay much heed to that part.

It was a temporary delusion. A lovely dream.

It's over now.)

Still, he is glad for it. In an exhausted, melancholy way, perhaps, but still he is glad. Before… before Murphy, he had thought he would never see any member of his family again (except, perhaps, Death, at the end), would never walk free, would never regain even a fraction of the powers humanity has robbed him of - this is a gift. This little magical refuge-space for what remains of the Endless, the scraps of magic he feels flickering in his ruby, Matthew faithful by his side - it is more than cruel and greedy humans would have wanted him to have, so he is glad.

Though it is not so easy, some days, to remind himself of that.

"Dream?"

"Dear sister." Dream raises his head from a collection of plays he has found in the House's modest library, and gestures to invite Death into the room. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You weren't at dinner, I wanted to check up on you. See if you were alright. And…" Death holds up a plate. "...also to bring you some sandwiches."

"That is kind of you." Dream avoids her gaze. "I merely felt unfit for company tonight. And require no sustenance, in any case."

"Don't you?" Death sets the plate down on the low table next to Dream's armchair, and pulls another up opposite him. "Destiny does, now. Desire too, I think, though of course they don’t like to admit it. Despair feels heat and cold - you've seen her in her new knitwear, haven't you - and Delirium has a human's sense of balance. Very frustrating for her, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Dream glances up, frowning.

"We have been weakened, Dream. Damaged." Death points out, carefully, gently, with a sad smile. "All of us. We are Endless, still, of course, and we will rebuild, recover our realms and tools and powers eventually - but, for now, perhaps for a long while yet, we aren't as we were. New requirements, new struggles. We don't have daily dinners the way we used to have "family dinners" - our brother and sibling need to eat and drink, and we eat with them to show we care and are there for them in their time of need."

"Ah." Dream swallows. "I will… make efforts to attend. From now on."

"Good." Death smiles, approving. "You were missed, Dream. Dearly missed. We are all ever so glad to have you back."

"Even Desire?"

"Especially Desire."

A moment of silence.

Death nudges the plate of sandwiches closer, and Dream takes one, tearing off bits to feed to Matthew on his shoulder - and, when Death raises an eyebrow, to nibble at himself.

(Sharing all his food with his birds was ever Murphy’s habit, and Dream finds it hard to shake, the pattern of feeding Matthew first and foremost.)

"What of you?" He asks, after a tiny bite.

"Hm?" Death blinks.

"What new painfully human need do you suffer from, sister?"

Death grimaces, a little awkwardly.

"...I need to sleep. Every night." She finally admits. "And I was glad for it."

She leans out of her armchair, putting her hand on his knee.

"It made me feel just a little closer to my lost brother."

Dream regards her hand - and then moves his own from the armrest, covering hers with it.

(Murphy used to scoff at Death of the Endless, offering up immortality for the safe return of her brother. Had thought it foolish, to offer so much for a wisp of hope, to potentially give immortal life to someone cruel and undeserving.

He understands better, now, he remembers - Death loves him, and he loves her, and there is nothing else that could possibly matter.)

"Are… are you okay?" Death asks, softly, concern seeping through the gentle lines of her face. "Be honest, now, Dream. Please. I worry, and if there is anything we can help you with-"

“I am well, my sister.” Dream says. And then, for the sake of honesty, “or as well as one can be, under the circumstances.”

Death keeps watching him with something imploring in her gaze, so he continues, haltingly.

“I… I am ill-used to these circumstances, still, which are a great improvement over my time as… my absence, and are yet much worse than what I was accustomed to before.” Dream confesses, slowly. “My people have been greatly diminished, and I grieve for them. I grieve for my home, my realm - as all of us Endless do. I thank you for your concern, sister, but there is no aid you could render me that I do not already receive.”

“I can at least listen and be there.” A last squeeze to his hand, before she leans back into her seat. “And assure you that your people are much better for having you returned to them. They were flocking here even before, and… to be honest, none of us were entirely sure what to do with them.”

“Lucienne has told me as much.” Dream inclines his head in acknowledgement. “And I shall see what can and must be done. More nightmares have survived and returned than dreams, so I must make some anew to restore the balance - or change nightmares to dreams. Gault has already volunteered, and I shall grant her request as soon as I have strength enough in me to attempt it.”

(In the past, he might have refused - but his years as Murphy have taught Dream many things about the self, about change… and about the discomfort of existing as one thing when part of you yearns to be another. He will not change any against their will, as the Magus attempted and half-succeeded to do to Dream - but this is Gault’s earnest wish, and they have all lost so much, must all arrange themselves with these new circumstances.

He should like to gift her a little happiness, where he can.)

“Good. I’m happy for her.” Death smiles. "Speaking of your Major Arcana - Gilbert is somewhat anxious that you're going to unmake him. Or at least I assume as much, from him asking some rather philosophical questions about whether dreams die the same way living things do."

Dream knows, and Dream knows he should. With his powers reduced so, he cannot risk keeping a Dreaming creature close who might be… convinced to scheme against him and his. Fiddler's Green was equally complicit in the plot to trick the Endless, just as guilty as Hob. And yet…

"I cannot find it in my heart to punish him for his transgression." Dream half-sighs, fondly. Dear, foolhearted Gilbert. "It is in his nature to mean well, that is how I made him. He is not greedy and cruel as humans are."

"Humans aren't 'as greedy and cruel as humans are', Dream." Death points out, frowning lightly. "Some are, yes. I can't and won't deny that. Others are kind and generous and loving in ways we Endless can hardly fathom. Would you say all dreams are horrid things designed to frighten only because nightmares exist?"

"That is not the same."

"Isn't it?"

Another moment of quiet.

And then Death says, knowingly, “it’s not about humanity as a whole at all, is it? You’re angry with Hob Gadling in particular.”

Dream tenses at the name.

“Aren’t you?” He shoots back. “It is you he swindled and schemed against.”

“Who is talking of swindling? What schemes?” Death shrugs. “I asked for my brother back. He delivered. Impeccable service is what I’d call that.”

“Pure happenstance.” Dream would have spat out the words, if that sort of behaviour wasn’t so beneath one of the Endless. “He is a man of good fortune, not of sound morals. I despise him for it.”

“I don’t. I won’t.” His sister insists, unwavering. “He protected you, Dream, he saved your life many times over, and without him, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, talking to my little brother, seeing him alive and well. I’m going to be grateful to Hob Gadling until the heat death of the universe, and perhaps, who knows, in whatever comes afterwards, too.”

Dream swallows a scoff.

"Well. I cannot deny that he fought fiercely… to protect his chance at your boon." He mutters bitterly. "That I represented it was but coincidence. Even now, with his assurance that he will eliminate the assassin who has been pursuing us, I am sure he does so only out of self-interest."

"...what," says Death.

"Did he not tell you? There was a man attempting to kill me - I did not recognise him at the time, though I suspect I might recall him now - and Hob Gadling intends to do away with him." Another scoff that Dream cannot suppress, this time. "I should not trust him with it, but he has offered - and with his newfound immortality, he is quite ideal for the task."

"His immorta-" There is something strange and stricken in his sister's face now. "Dream. Do you think- has he not told you?"

It is Dream's turn now, to say "what", a strange sense of foreboding settling in his chest. Death is fixing him with the sort of expression he recalls from accompanying her on her daily business, tender and compassionate and apologetic, on the brink of imparting the worst of news - though there is a private horror in the depth of her eyes.

"Oh, Dream," she whispers, reaching for his hand again. "Dream."

"My sister, what is it that I do not know?" Dream feels himself teeter on the brink of panic, gripping her fingers tightly. "What has Hob Gadling done?"

"He refused the reward, Dream." Death tells him, with grief and condolences echoing in her voice. "He's as mortal as any man."

"No," says Dream.

"No!" he snarls, tearing his hand from Death's, rising so abruptly that Matthew squawks and flutters off his shoulder. "You lie! He would have- he would have said-"

"Lie? I would never lie to you!" Death rises too, anger sparking in her eyes. "I thought you knew! Lucienne said he spoke to you!"

"Not about this!" Dream thunders, pacing back and forth, robe swirling dark and angrily around his form. He has fallen now, right off of the cliff, into an abyss of terror, and feels himself drowning. "Why would he- impossible! He must be- what if he tricked you-!"

Something bounces off of the side of his head. Death has thrown one of the sandwiches at him.

"Give me some credit here!" She snaps. "I'm Death of the bloody Endless, I know if I've given a guy immortal life or not! And I haven't! Because he said he does not deserve a reward for trying to trick us!"

("I would give you another boon," Death had offered, frowning, after Hob's polite and apologetic - and insincere, he had wanted immortality still and was forcefully and reluctantly denying himself - refusal. "Whatever you wish for. You have given me back my brother, I would see you rewarded for it."

"Unfortunately," Hob had sighed, his eyes sad and yearning and wistful, "I want only two things, first and foremost. One is immortality, which I have not earned. And the other is something you cannot give me, kind lady, and without which immortality would not be half as sweet besides." A bitter laugh. "I am sure I needn't say more."

He had not. Death understood.)

Dream blinks at Death once, twice - and then turns away, pressing his bony palms hard against his eyes (they burn and yet leak fluid both at the same time), breaths coming in short gasps.

He does not normally need to breathe, he doesn't think, but he needs it now, the hollow star-cavern of his chest tight and constricted as if it held human lungs, a human heart - which it does not. It cannot. Not anymore.

“Dream-” He hears Death behind him, Matthew’s worried and imploring caw - but all he can think of is wiping Hob Gadling’s precious life’s blood from his injured cheek, and sharing a breath (nearly more) for one slow, tender second. Of strong hands holding him close, of smiles and winks, of that final exchange and the tears in Hob’s eyes.

Farewell forever, indeed! Hob certainly intended it to be, that accursed man, intended to go and die and leave Dream-

“Do it now!” Dream bursts out - and how shameful it is that he loses control of himself so in his frantic desperation, no better than he was as a human - and whirls around to face Death again. “Sister, you must do it now - give him his immortality, he is a fool, he knows not what he rejects! Ignore his foolish protests, he has served you well, has placed himself in great peril for me, give him his reward!”

“I-” Death begins, but Dream does not let her speak. He swears he can feel a heart thudding a panicked beat in his chest, and it hurts.

“My sister, please!” He grasps her hands, his own shaking. “Whoever pursued us is no match for a mortal man, he is throwing his life away, I know it! Do not let him die, do not take him from me-”

“Dream!” Death’s voice is sharp enough to cause him to falter. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Dream wavers, shivers, and Death gentles, though her face remains lined with worry and frustration.

“The reach of my powers isn’t what it once was, I don’t have that level of control over life and death anymore. I could make him immortal if he stood in front of me, but not… not like this.” Dream can tell it isn’t easy for her to admit this, to not be the supportive, steadfast older sister she has been to her siblings through this disaster. “By the Creator, Dream, why couldn’t you have talked all of this out with him sooner!? Now look at the mess we’ve gotten ourselves in!”

“If he stood in front of you? You could shield him then?” Dream repeats, seizing on those words like a cat on an unsuspecting mouse, grasping at them like a lifeline. “I shall bring him before you, then, if that is what it takes.” A breath, shuddering, not as unnecessary as it by all rights ought to be. “Yes, I shall do that. Lucienne!”

He begins pacing again, as Lucienne slips into the room, her eyes flickering only briefly from Death’s harried expression of concern to Dream’s agitation, stopping only briefly at the thrown sandwich now on the floor - before a mask of professionalism slides over her face.

“I am at your service, my Lord.” She produces a quill and book from thin air. “Your orders?”

Ah, Lucienne. He has missed her, even when he didn’t know who or what he was missing, missed her clipped, practical nature, and unwavering support. She will serve him well, in this matter and any other.

(Sometimes, as Murphy, he stole books he liked the look of, hoarded them with vague plans of giving them to… someone or other, he’d never known who.

Those books are long gone, now. Sold, when the hunger and the cold became too much to bear, taken by police constables who’d caught wise of his thievery, or simply lost to the elements. But he knows who they were for, now. At least that.)

“Gather any suitable dream-creatures and tell them they are to find Hob Gadling and bring him here.” Dream instructs her, hoping the sharpness of his voice will disguise the tremor in it. “He cannot have gotten far - concentrate the search on this city, and impress on them that speed is of the utmost importance. Whoever finds him may name their reward, whatever is in my power they may have, I care not - only bring him here.”

A minute uptick of Lucienne’s brows as she notes this down, but she clearly knows better than to question Dream’s sudden change of policy in the matter of Hob Gadling. He will explain it to her - but not now, when time is of the essence.

“And, Lucienne?” Dream calls after her as she is already slipping out of the room again. “Hob is to be brought to me alive, and of sound body and mind. He is to be handled with care.”

“...alive?” She repeats, gaze once more flickering over to Death, brows drawing together. “Pardon me, but I was under the impression that he-”

“He’s not.” Death shakes her head, as grimly as Dream has ever seen her.

“Oh.” Lucienne blinks - and then says “oh!” again, eyes widening as understanding dawns in them. “...I see.”

A curt bow to Dream, to Death - and then she is gone. Dream has every trust that she will organise the search with all due haste and utmost efficiency, particularly now that she has… some inkling, of what has prompted Dream’s sudden concern for Hob Gadling’s person.

“You as well, Matthew.” Dream runs a finger over the raven’s wing. “Go and find him for me. Call on all the birds in the sky, have them aid us in this search.”

Matthew ducks his head, caws his agreement - and with a beat of his wings, passes through the border of this tucked-away in-between space into the human world, leaving nothing but a few feathers behind.

And then it is only Dream and Death.

For a moment, they stand together in silence.

And then Death walks up to him, and wraps him in her arms, wordlessly, a silent reassurance - silent, because they both know that she cannot in good faith promise him that all will be well, that Hob will be safe.

She has no control over it, and neither does Dream.

Dream turns his face into her hair, and understands, now, how she felt for near a decade; waiting, and fearing, and hoping, always hoping, for the safe return of one she loved.

#WyWrites #WyAnswers #dreamling #the sandman #anastasia dreamling au #can you tell that i love death (the character)? #she gets to throw a sandwich at her brother as a treat #thank you everyone for these asks! #i can tell everyone is aching for the resolution #but i might go back and fill in some of the blanks at the start next #the first meeting maybe i've got some ideas for that #i do so love dream experiencing panic though #and feeling so much more human for it #lucienne must have been so confused though #dream went from 'i do not care about hob gadling he is nothing to me' #to 'i will promise anything in my power for his safe return' #in the span of one (1) conversation with his sister #his priorities have been rapidly rearranged there #no time to deny you love the man if he might well be about to die for you

[wyvernquill]

“Please, someone, bring me back there!

My name is Stanley! I have a Narrator! I have a story to finish the way he tells me to!

He is real!”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40685247/chapters/101941587

#WyWrites #WyDraws #fan art #tsp #tspud #the stanley parable #stannarrator #tw hospital #more chapters (and illustrations) to come #oh i do so enjoy writing angst #>:3c #fanfic

[wyvernquill]

WyvernQuill’s Dreamling Anastasia AU Masterpost

because this is becoming A Thing and I clearly need to organise it and pin this for convenience. Will be updated as I post new content!

(I’m adding a link here to my previous pinned post with an old list of my Good Omens works purely for nostalgia reasons.)

.

Main parts (in chronological order within the narrative):

Dream imprisoned and being turned human pre-story

Hob and Gil interviewing candidates to play Dream, first glimpse of “Murphy”

Hob and Gil’s first brief encounter with “Murphy” at the White Horse

The meet-”cute” (feat. Matthew and a bunch of other birds)

Hob and “Murphy” fight, “Murphy” and Gilbert have a heart-to-heart.

The Corinthian attacking Hob and “Murphy”

“Murphy” being brought before the other Endless and revealed as Dream (plus short summary of the AU’s overall premise at the start!)

Dream and Hob arguing and saying farewell on the staircase

Death reveals something important to Dream

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Bonus parts and ask responses:

The “Bad Ending” (warning: strongly implied major character death!)

Ask response: little hints that give away who “Murphy” really is

Ask response: meanwhile, the other Endless

Beautiful art inspired by this AU by @malice-kingdom !

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All of these will be tagged “anastasia dreamling au”, and if you would like me to tag you on new posts, please let me know and I will do so!

One day, this fic will also be put on Ao3 in all its glory, but presumably only when I’m finished with it, so for now it’ll mostly remain confined to here on Tumblr. Feel free to send in asks about it, if you’d like! (Though I may be slow to answer if I want to write a longer scene in response.)

#WyWrites #WyRambles #the sandman #dreamling #anastasia dreamling au #why yes i AM setting this up now because i just finished another big part of the fic #it's 3k words and a scene that has been highly requested in asks #so i very much wanted to do it justice #expect it later today! #malice i hope it's okay that i added a link to your art too #i can remove it if you'd prefer that

[wyvernquill]

Art for my fic My True Love Gave To Me

Happy Holidays, everyone! (Image ID under the cut)

Image ID:

Art of Iruma Suzuki and Asmodeus Alice (”Azz”) from Mairimashita! Iruma-kun!

On the very top of the image, a purple sprig of mistletoe is being held by some sort of talon hanging from above. It is snowing. At the bottom of the image, under the mistletoe, Iruma is kissing Azz, his eyes closed, while Azz’s are open. He is also cupping Azz’s cheeks. Both are blushing, Iruma is wearing his second-year school uniform, and Azz his blue hairtie.

#WyDraws #WyWrites #iruazz #mairimashita! iruma kun #mairuma #m!ik #suzuki iruma #asmodeus alice #and some demonic mistletoe too #i love kissing in the rain and i love kissing in the snow #both this and the fic are gifts for a secret santa exchange #and of course i did them last minute #still turned out nice though!