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“Brother, I stand in my gallery and hold your sig–”
“Come through, sister mine.”
The stressed tone of his beloved sister’s voice has Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, King of the Dream and Nightmare realm, etc. etc—
[If you insist on using my persona for such entertainment, I must demand that you use my titles correctly, mortal. This is demeaning in the extreme.]
—stepping rapidly through a fold in the Dreaming to appear in his own gallery, arriving just as Death alights in the dark and starry room that holds the doorways to his siblings' realms.
Death looks—well, frankly Death looks awful.
[The Endless are not so fragile and changeable as to show stain as a human does. This is simply inaccurate.]
She’s wringing her hands, her brow is creased, and there is an unusual pinch to her mouth. Not at all like the gentle, joyful creature that Dream had recently seen when he accompanied her on a walk through the mortal realm. They have been spending much time together in such a manner, ever since they were reunited following Dream’s captivity.
Never in that time has Death been anything less than wholely content.
“What distress has befallen you, sister?” Hesitantly, Dream places his hands upon her shoulders, offering her cautious affection as a means of support. He has been informed that such things are. Important.
[I do have some sense of social mores, thank you kindly. Despite popular theory, I have maintained some relationships throughout my existence. I even raised a child and was appropriately affectionate with him.]
{A note from the Royal Librarian: 'Appropriately affectionate' is an evolving precept, Sire.}
Death sighs, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers over them as if to soothe the pain of a headache that she should not be able to get.
[At least you acknowledge the flaws in your story device.]
“It’s not me, Dream, it’s—” Death shakes her head, chasing the words she has to say out of her mouth. “It’s your–your human, Dream. You need to go and get him, he’s making me mental.”
Dream’s mouth settles into a moue—
[I do not moue, mortal]
—of distaste, a series of confused expressions following each other across his face. “My… my human?”
Death huffs and stomps her feet. “Now is no time to be evasive, Dream. I am very aware that you two are lovers. Hell, most of the cosmos is aware at this point, with the way he keeps showing up in people’s dreams.”
[This is patently false. My relationship with Robert Gadling is strictly platonic.]
The anthropomorphic personification of the human unconscious is not technically able to blush, but if Dream would allow such a thing, he would be doing so right now.
[I would certainly not be!]
“I have no idea what you are referring to, sister.”
Death settles a heavy look upon him, the elderly sibling affection of I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.
{A note from the Royal Librarian: You captured this very well, I think.}
[Lucienne!]
“Listen, little brother, deny your romantic attraction until you’re blue in the face, but Hob Gadling has perished of a myocardial infarction seven times in the last two hours, and so help me, if I have to go over there one more time—”
“He has WHAT?!” Dream booms, suddenly infuriated. “Sister, what evil has befallen him? Why did you not fetch me sooner? Nevermind, I must go—”
And just like that, Death of the Endless is left standing alone in the gallery of the Dreaming, slightly emotionally scarred by the day’s interaction with her future brother-in-law—
[I simply must insist you cease romanticising my friendship with Robert Gadling.]
—and supremely irritated with her younger brother.
What has she unleashed on the world by getting those two together?
To say Hob’s flat smells like a locker room might be charitable. A brothel might be more accurate.
[Humans are disgusting. You should have smelled London at literally any point in the last thousand years.]
Dream, who does not often notice such things, as he does not always remember to equip himself with a functioning nose—
[This is true. Why have one when you don't need it?]
{A note from the Royal Librarian: I would like to waylay any potential rumours this may cause. I promise that Lord Morpheus does not have a flat reptile nose... The majority of the time.}
—comes up short upon entering Hob’s home. It is a place he has entered many times, even without Hob being present, in the course of their still-new relationship, but never has he been so assaulted with the scent of human sweat and semen upon arrival. He wrinkles his nose.
What sort of tragedy could have befallen his lover to leave things in such sensory disarray?
Reminding his form that he does not require oxygen, Dream simply ceases breathing—
[If I was actually in such a situation, I could have simply done away with my sense of smell, mortal. This is an oversight that does not align with your previous insight.]
— and picks his way through the flat, which seems to be in a typical state of disorganisation, extending his senses in search of his lover.
[I really must insist you stop with these lies in regard to my romantic endeavours.]
{A note from the Royal Librarian: Sire, I do believe that you protesteth too much. We all know.}
There is no clue for long moments until—
A faint groan echos through the space, and Dream moves like a flash, arriving outside the bathroom door just as the noise crescendoes into a long moan and then a pained, stuttering breath and then–nothing.
Silence.
For a terrible moment, Dream hesitates, wondering if there is another in the bathroom with Hob. Another person contributing to the thick evidence of sex in the air.
But no.
Death had been clear that Hob was in distress. Whatever it is, he needs Dream’s assistance. He pushes the door open.
[Your story pacing is a touch off. You could have built the actual suspense more here, rather than distracting with unnecessary and personal details of my private thoughts.]
Nothing. Absolutely nothing on this earth. Could have prepared Dream to find Robert Gadling, curled up into a foetal position in his bathtub, covered in come. And laying in a puddle of it, from the look of things.
[You are crude and impertinent, mortal.]
Dream pauses in the doorway, wondering if the mysteries of humanity are worth exploring in this case, even for the sake of his love.
[I cannot help but agree, however.]
Finding Hob in no… understandable distress, Dream merely lingers in the doorway for a moment, observing. It is important, he has been told, to not rush into situations without a full understanding of the circumstances.
(Dream will never admit it, but he stands in frozen shock, unable to overcome his surprise for long moments, thus prompting his clinical ‘observations’.)
After a moment, Hob’s over-extended heart gives a shallow thumb and then restarts. Hob comes alive with a gasp, his skin taking on his regular healthy hue as he is reanimated. His prick, previously lying flaccid in a puddle of spend, comes back to life with him, hardening rapidly and taking on the dark red hue of imminent completion, with no apparent stimulus.
[You have missed several key adjectives which would improve the description here. You truly do not do Hob's penis justice at all.]
{A note from the Royal Librarian: This is a direct contradiction to your earlier objections-}
[Do not interrupt, Lucienne.]
{A note from the Royal Librarian: I give up.}
A low, pained noise emerges from Hob’s ruined throat, his back arching as his muscles contract with a rapidly approaching orgasm.
Truly perplexed, Dream takes a step forward, and here Hob notices his presence. He looks upon his lower, with large, desperate brown eyes, vocalising a strangled, hopeless gurgle as he comes. And comes. And comes.
Before dying once more, with very little fanfare.
[Overly dramatic, with not enough elaboration.]
Dream ponders if he has somehow stumbled into a bizarre corner of his own realm, where is it possible for him to be trapped in a dream without knowing it.
Regardless if this is some sort of mental phantasm or not, Dream resolves to end it. Striding forward, he takes hold of Hob’s detachable shower head, turning the tap on full-blast and spraying Hob down mercilessly.
(Later, Hob will call him cruel for not remembering to warm the water. Dream will heartlessly insist that if Hob can consort with mermaids, then he gets what he deserves.)
[An important observation, mortal.]
Hob–poor, long-suffering, over-stimulated Hob–resuscitates with a howl, loudly protesting the cruel application of frigid water. Dream mercilessly endures, rinsing Hob off as efficiently as possible. He isn’t particularly experienced in bathing other people (or, indeed, himself, for that matter)—
[As noted above, I was a parent. I am aware of how bathing works.]
—so it’s not exceedingly efficient, but it must do the job because Hob stops coming and dying long enough to rip the shower head away from him.
The soggy immortal sits back against the edge of the tub, glaring at Dream in unnerved confusion.
[I do enjoy the way you have over-turned the common bathing-your-partner-for-comfort trope. Very interesting.]
“Perhaps,” Dream says, retreating a step, “I should give you a moment if you are no longer in imminent threat of perishing.”
Hob’s only response is a low, embarrassed moan. Dream wonders if he has misplaced his inexhaustible ability to run his mouth.
[An impossiblity.]
Dream is sitting on Hob’s bed with a glass of water when he ventures out of the bathroom and flops facedown on the bed. He had considered making tea, a certain component of human comfort routines, but Hob has once told him he made the worst brew known to man, so Dream had chosen to desist in his case.
[Who is telling you these things!]
Hob takes the water with trembling fingers, swallowing the whole lot down in one long gulp. He is still naked, his skin now clean and dewed with water. He is radiating his typical warmth, so Dream surmises he indulged in a more temperament shower in his absence.
“Lover mine,” Dream rumbles, stroking a hand along Hob’s side. “Would you like to share how, exactly, you got into the situation I discovered you in?”
“No,” Hob says firmly, hiding his face in a pillow.
Dream hums, his fingers trailing up the steps of Hob’s ribs. He shudders, and Dream catches the edge of a grimace on the visible part of his face. He withdraws, watching Hob from a safe distance.
“Hob Gadling, you know that the moment you return to my realm, your records in the library will be updated to include this day's activities. I shall merely extract the information from there if you deny me.”
Hob gasps loudly, sitting up to stare at Dream, face painted with a comical level of betrayal. “You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Dream would not—
[I really would.]
—in truth, but what matters is the small amount of doubt needed to leverage Hob’s confession in this situation. It is for his own safety, Dream justifies. He cannot prevent a repeat of Hob’s earlier state if he does not know what might have caused such an… odd occurrence.
Hob sighs petulantly, turning over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “Fine. Well. You remember I spent a few weeks at the beach a couple of months ago?”
“I recall.”
“Well, I made a few new friends while I was there.”
“Friends,” Dream repeats dryly.
“Yes, friends, prince of darkness. You know, people who make being alive pleasant and enjoyable. Anyway, these particular friends happened to be of the… aquatic variety.”
Dream’s eyes narrow, a hard frown marring his brow. “Mermaids,” he says flatly. “You befriended mermaids. The most troublesome species upon this blighted planet.”
[Admittedly, you have managed to correctly assume my stance on such matters. However, I am considering updating my opinion. Humans are clearly more aggravating by far.]
Hob levels an accusatory finger at his face. “We’re going to talk about you failing to mention mermaids exist later, Dream of the Endless.”
[Their existence is clearly documented throughout the mythos of human history, how was I to know that Hob failed to look beyond the assumed fiction of those stories?]
Dream makes an eloquent noise that one might call a grunt if one were feeling particularly brave.
[Pardon me?]
“Well, they told me a story just before I left. About how they like to… enjoy themselves–when they are feeling particularly randy.” Hob only manages to sound somewhat bashful as he recounts this, his tone still full of curiosity, despite the deadliness of the experience.
Dream. Well, Dream bursts out laughing. It’s a terrible noise. Horrendous. As if the child of a banshee and a donkey was getting fucked by the Kraken.
[This is debasement. I demand that you answer for yourself, mortal.]
Hob watches on in bemusement, knowing Dream has likely put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Dol-dolphin secretions.”
[It is absurd to suggest that dolphin secretions could have such an effect, never mind that I would be aware of such a scientifically incorrect piece of information. I cannot imagine what sort of mind would-]
[A note from the Royal Librarian: I believe it is in reference to an internet meme, sire. It is meant to be taken in jest.]
“Yeah,” Hob admits wryly, shaking his head slightly. “In their defence, they did warn me that it normally kills humans. I just didn’t think it would work quite so well, in my case. I think I must have come at least a dozen times before my heart gave out the first time. It was just a compounding problem after that.”
Dream howls.
Resigned to his boyfriend’s terrible, honking hysteria, Hob climbs under the covers and waits for him to calm down. He is oddly full of affection, and considering this is the life he leads, he can’t even question it at this point.
Later, Hob tries to convince Dream to give the dolphin pussy jelly a try.
First, they argue over him calling it that.
“That is obscene, Robert Gadling. You demean the entire dolphin species thus.”
“You can’t distract me by being a pedantic arsehole, love.”
“Would you care to wager on that?”
This goes on for some time. Dream does not agree to try it out, no matter how Hob cajoles. But he is a patient man, and immortal besides. He has time to wear him down.
[Hob's attempts failed, and I will not be taking anything further questions at this time.]
[Although perhaps I should tell you about the time Hob got ahold of some hyena pheromones.]
(Hob Gadling, PhD: Dream, NO)