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indireneedofsleeeep · 7 hours ago

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Part 3 of the Widower Hob/Sex Worker Dream verse, because I am still in the mood to make these boys work for it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

TWfor this chapter: attempted sexual assault.

“I’m sorry.” Dream’s voice cracks, rough like gravel. He stands in the doorway, avoiding Hob’s eyes as he continues in a rough whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Hob holds the door open, the words hitting the back of his brain like a brick before they finally register. All Hob can think is, blood and tears and what the fuck.

“What the fuck?”

Dream flinches, and takes a step back, body curling around itself like a wounded animal. Hob immediately panics, the sharp spike of it settling right in his stomach where nausea is already pooling, and he raises his hand.

“Shit,” he says, and then again, “Shit.” Dream finally looks at him, his eyes glossy, tears drying on his wind bitten cheeks, eyeliner Hob’s never seen him wear dragged down with them.

Hob wants to scream.

It must show on his face because Dream takes another step back, and it finally spurs Hob into action. Because Dream looks scared but there’s also an anguishing hesitance about him, like he thinks Hob will throw him out, and that rips Hob’s heart to shreds.

“Oh, gods, I’m—- please, I’m sorry. Come in, please?”

Dream watches him for a long moment, fingers curling into his palms. After a dragging breath, his shoulders slump in something that holds equal relief and exhaustion, and he steps inside the apartment. He makes a beeline to the couch, legs and body wobbly, more a drag than a walk.

Hob closes the door and slowly counts to ten before he can finally follow Dream.

He finds him on the couch, body curled in on itself like his spine is too heavy for him to bear. Hob sits on the other end of the couch, and takes in Dream. He bites back another scream as he can finally look at him.

His lip is split, skin raw and already purpling, and there’s blood drying and caked down his chin. The same bruising color blooms on his right temple, stark against his deathly pale skin. His hand is pressed to his ribs over his tightly pulled coat, and Hob wonders at what he would find there, and then wants to puke at the mental image.

“Dream,” he says, and Dream does not react. His gaze is far away, glazed over as he stares at the empty coffee mug on the table. Hob takes another deep breath, and says again, softer. “Come on love, look at me.”

Dream finally looks up. “I—“ he stops, swallows. The cut on his lips moves painfully with each word. “I’m sorry. I should not have come here—“

He suddenly stands up, sways in place for a second and Hob is there immediately, hands hovering over his shoulders. Dream is shaking, and Hob is scared that one wrong touch will have him crumble to dust.

“Yes you bloody well should have,” he says, and Dream just stares at him with wide eyes. “We’re friends, aren’t we? And friends help each other. I—“ need, the word stuck behind his teeth. “Want to help you. Please, love.”

Dream shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“Please,” Hob says again, hands finally resting over Dream’s shoulders. It pulls a sharp exhale from Dream, but his body sags into the touch. His gaze drops away with a sniff, but he nods.

Hob’s own breath tumbles out of him with almost overbearing relief.

“Okay,” he says. He pulls his eyes away from the blood on Dream’s mouth, and says, “I have a med kit in the bathroom, we need to get that cleaned up.”

Dream does not fight him, just nods again and follows Hob quietly. Once in the bathroom, Hob closes the toilet seat and gestures for Dream to sit down. He does so, clumsily, like his knees have given out. Only when Hob is sure Dream will not run away, does Hob move to search through the bathroom cupboard.

When he turns around, he almost drops the med kit.

Dream has taken off his coat. Underneath he is not wearing his usual fluffy sweaters, but a silver sheer tank top, one strap almost dangling off his bony shoulders. It is old, but well cared for and beautiful, contrasting with the too tight jeans, but it makes Dream look smaller, somehow, the points of his bones fragile like glass all around the curve of his shoulders, the visible line of his sternum.

If Hob had any doubts as to how Dream ended up hurt, they die a slow, painful death.

Hob takes another deep, steadying breath and opens the med kit on the edge of the sink, and pulls out the bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he says, gently tilting Dream’s face up. Dream’s eyes settle blankly somewhere over Hob’s right shoulder, and he shrugs.

When Hob was a child, a swallow had flown in his grandmother’s kitchen, and in its panic, had crashed into the windows over and over again until it finally exhausted itself. He remembers its panicked breathing, the weird angle of its wing as it sat pushed against the wall.

Dream looks just like it, his shoulders moving with shallow breaths, the fragile edge of his shoulder blades like a bird’s broken wing.

Hob presses the cotton bud to the cut on Dream’s lip, and it must sting, but the only telltale sign of it is the quick tensing of Dream’s jaw muscles. Hob continues, keeping his movement gentle, cleans the cut and then the caked blood. He checks Dream’s temple, clears the blood away too, the cut there thankfully smaller.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, if you don’t want to,” Hob says into the silence that has curled and rested around them like suffocating morning fog, and Dream’s eyes flicker towards him for a moment.

He shrugs again, and the strap finally falls down his biceps. He makes no move to pull it back. When his lips part, they stick to each other for a moment, cracked and dry.

“He is— was a regular,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “He always paid well for— for my company. Even rented out motels for the full night, let me sleep there after— After.” He swallows, and Hob watches the painful bob of his throat. “He was. Rough. But— I could. Handle it.”

He swallows, and Hob wants to press his fingers to the soft skin of Dream’s throat. Maybe even bang his head on the tile walls until he can forget those words. Instead, he drops the now bloody cotton balls into the sink, and pulls out a pack of wet tissues.

“He had a party tonight. Said he wanted entertainment, that he was gonna pay well,” Dream continues, and lets Hob tilt his head and clean the makeup off his cheeks. The black eyeliner strips off his skin easily. “It was gonna be— it was not supposed to end like this.”

He looks at Hob then, like he needs Hob to know, to believe him. Hob cups his cheek in his free hand and nods, unsure of what he can say to make it better, but it seems to work. Dream takes a deep breath, gaze dropping in sync with his shoulders.

“I was going to— act pretty for them, suck their cocks and then leave.” Dream’s mouth curls in dissatisfaction. “I know how people like them are, what they are. They want the attention of a pretty, young face, want to feel like they own the world and the body in front of them and. I can do that. I’m good at that.” He laughs, and it’s humorless and broken.

“But, something happened. They were drunk, drunker than usual and— and they started getting too rough. My regular tried to—“ he stops, breathes an angry exhale. His anger is a horribly bright thing, tensing every muscle of his body. “They wanted to fuck me without a condom. Take turns. I don’t do that. I don’t. I may be a whore, but I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He looks at Hob again, fiercely pleading for Hob to believe him. Hob nods, the movement quick and panicked, and Dream holds his gaze for a bright, shuddering second. A tear slides down his face, catches in the thumb Hob still has caressing his cheek.

“They did not take my refusal lightly,” he finishes. His voice tightens, the edge of a sob forcefully pulled to a stop. Before Hob knows it, he’s pulling Dream into a hug. It is awkward, his own body curled over Dream’s, Dream’s face pressed to his belly.

“Dream,” Hob says, his fingers sliding through Dream’s hair, catching in the cool, sweat soaked knots at the base of his neck. “You need to— fuck, call the police or something.”

Dream shakes his head and pulls away, and he sniffs angrily, wiping at his nose with the back of his right hand. His knuckles are scraped raw, a purple bruise coming to life over the back of his hand.

“No,” he hisses, and before Hob can open his mouth to protest he says, “I took their money and then sucked their cocks. Do you think the police will take kindly to that?”

“But, they tried to—“

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, shoulders shaking. “I broke my regular’s nose. Think I twisted another’s finger. We both know none of them will come out of this with blood on their hands.” Then, barely inaudible, “They’ve never helped— before.”

Hob bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming at the implication of those words.

He wants to fight Dream on it, fiercely, angrily, but he knows Dream is right. He hates it, his stomach twisting with a wave of nausea, of fury, but Dream is right. He sighs, and slides his palms down Dream’s throat in what he hopes is reassurance.

“Okay,” he says, even as it hurts him. “Okay, love.”

Dream sniffs again, and when he breathes in, it makes his body tremble like a twig.

“Oh,” Hob says, eyes widening. “You’re freezing.”

“It is fine.”

Hob shakes his head, and cups Dream’s face in his hands. Scared blue eyes look up at him.

“You can stay here the night,” Hob says. “Take a warm shower, I’ll bring you a change of clothes, leave them outside the door. You hungry?”

Dream bites at the inside of his cheek, searching Hob’s face with an edge of desperation. Hob just watches him back, unflinching, and finally Dream sighs and nods. His spine seems to unfurl, thread pulled at the corner and the whole thing unraveling at once.

“Good.”

Hob pulls back, hands dropping from Dream’s skin, and he thinks he imagines the sway of Dream’s body after him. Before Hob can think it through, before he can stop the ridiculous thought, he leans down and places a soft kiss to Dream’s forehead.

“Take all the time you need,” he says and walks out of the bathroom before Dream can react, catching just the sight of wide blue eyes as the door closes behind him.

He stands in the hallway, breathing like he’s run a marathon, heartbeat loud like a symphony behind the cage of his ribs. After a minute, the sound of the shower turning on fills the silence and Hob wipes at his face with a sigh.

“I am a fucking idiot,” he whispers into the darkness before he finally moves, in search of the comfiest clothes he owns. At the edge of his hearing, he is sure he can hear Eleanor’s indulgent, soft laugh.

He takes a deep breath and moves, knowing that if he stops right now he is going to punch a wall. A search of his dresser and he finds a pair of soft flannel pajama bottoms, a cotton t-shirt several sizes too big, and the oldest hoodie he owns, faded pink but he doesn’t think Dream will mind. He leaves the clothes at the bathroom door, and goes to the living room.

When he sits down, the trembling, tumbling sharp energy in his chest is still there. He presses his palms to his thighs to still them, but it does not help, not really. Every part of him itches to do something, desperately so. Either call someone, scream, punch a wall, find the men who did this and make them bleed.

Instead, he sits and waits.

The shower goes on longer than expected. At one point, Hob wonders if Dream’s fallen asleep in the warmth, not that he would blame him, even as worry churns in his gut. He’s just about to get up and knock on the door when the water shuts off, and the door creaks open for a moment, then closes. Another five minutes pass before the bathroom door finally creaks open again.

Dream makes his way slowly to the living room, damp hair clinging to his neck, bare feet carefull over the hardwood floor. He’s dressed in Hob’s clothes, the hoodie’s sleeves falling past his fingers, the hem of Hob’s bottoms dragging behind his feet. He looks softer, somehow, stripped of the grime and make-up and the glass sharp edges of before. There’s a flush to his cheeks from the heat of the shower, and it makes him look maybe not better, but less bruised.

He also looks bone deep exhausted.

Hob doesn’t speak, but he does pat the seat next to him.

Dream hesitates in the doorway and Hob’s heart clenches, but then Dream comes forward slowly, sitting down with a quiet exhale. He curls his legs under him, maintaining a breath of space between them.

“I put my clothes in the hamper,” he says after a moment, voice low and hoarse. “I’ll wash them in the morning, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Hob says, with a shake of his head. “You okay?”

Dream snorts, then winces, a hand going automatically to his ribs. Hob has to dig his fingers into his thigh to keep from reaching out. “No.”

Fair enough, even if it breaks Hob’s heart.

They lapse into silence again, deep but not exactly brittle. Dream pulls at a thread in the pajama bottoms, avoiding Hob’s eyes and Hob hates it. Hates the idea that Dream might think Hob does not want him there.

(Hob would keep him forever. He keeps that thought in the secret part of his mind.)

“You hungry?” he asks, quietly.

Dream’s eyes snap up to him. After a stretching moment, something relaxes in his face. “A little.”

“I’ve got some leftover curry. Or soup, if that’s easier.”

Dream nods. “Soup would be perfect, thank you.”

Hob nods and pushes to his feet. “Give me five minutes, love.”

He’s in the kitchen pulling a container out of the fridge when he hears the soft sound of footsteps behind him. Dream hovers near the table, not quite staying away, not moving closer either, and it breaks Hob’s heart. Hob gestures toward the stool at the kitchen counter.

“You can sit. I’m not gonna bite.”

“I know.”

But Dream still takes a second before sitting.

Hob heats up the creamy tomato soup he made a few days ago, as well as a few pieces of sourdough bread. He plates everything carefully, the motions soothing in a way nothing else has been all evening.

This he can do. Feed Dream, keep him warm and safe even if just for a little while.

When he sets the bowl down in front of Dream, their fingers brush, and Dream flinches. Shockingly, not away, but into it. Hob doesn’t move his hand for a moment, just lets it rest there, scared of breaking the fragile moment around them.

“Thank you,” Dream says, eyes on the soup.

“Anytime.”

Finally Dream breathes, chest shaking with it, and pulls his hand away, picking up the spoon.

They eat in silence, Dream with slow, careful bites. Hob eats too, even if he doesn’t feel hungry, more for Dream’s sake than his own.

When the dishes are done and the kettle’s on, Hob leans back against the counter and crosses his arms.

“Do you want to talk about what you’re going to do next?”

Dream lifts his eyes, and there’s something painfully fragile in his gaze, an expectancy of judgement, of something worse. Hob’s nails dig into the counter behind himself, a useless attempt to ground himself.

“I don’t know,” Dream says, like he’s admitting a sin. “I’ve been— I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Bullshit,” Hob says without heat. “You know how to survive. You know how to read people. You’re clever. You’re— fuck, you’re good, Dream.”

Please believe me, Hob wants to say, beg, carve the words in the air around themselves.

Dream looks down at the table, his thumb digging into a crack of the wood. “I don’t know if I believe that.”

“Well,” Hob says. “Then I’ll believe it enough for both of us.”

Dream lets out a shaky breath, his geez shaking up towards Hob, a tired twitch to his lips that still makes the planes of his face soften. “You really are fucking insane.”

Hob smiles. “Kind of did warn you on our first night here.”

Dream just hums, but his gaze stays soft and that is all Hob wants.

For a while, they just stand there in the kitchen, the smell of tea and antiseptic enveloping the room, but the tension from before seems to retreat to the shadows of the room.

Hob looks at Dream, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the dark lashes brushing his cheeks, and finally accepts what has been glaringly obvious since the moment Dream walked into his life.

That he is something Hob wants to protect, whatever it takes. In the back of his mind, he feels the touch of Eleanor telling him, now you finally get it.

When they finish their tea, Hob takes the mug out of Dream’s hands and sets it aside. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he pulls Dream into his arms again, this time properly.

He expects Dream to stiffen, but the opposite happens. Dream makes a soft sound, like his breath has finally broken free out of him, and melts into Hob’s embrace with a shudder. Hob holds him tightly and breathes through the relief of it, swaying gently in the warmth of his kitchen.

After a long minute, Dream exhales against his chest. “I’m tired.”

“Come to bed.”

Dream pulls back just far enough to meet his eyes, and says, “Just to sleep.” It is almost a question, a tilt at the end of the sentence, but he is smiling as he says it.

Hob nods, almost drowning in pure relief. “Just to sleep, love.”

Dream follows him to the bedroom, his hand cool in Hob’s, his feet soft on the floor. They settle under the covers, face to face, half an arm’s length between them.

“Is this okay?” Hob asks in the darkness, and Dream doesn’t answer immediately, but his hand finds Hob under the covers.

“Go to sleep, Hob.”

His fingers squeeze Hob’s, and his cold toes poke Hob’s shin, and Hob watches the lights from outside paint shadows over Dream’s face and he falls asleep listening to the lullaby of Dream’s breath.

#dreamling #fic #au #sex worker dream au

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