#Hob: You're such an idiot.

[magnusbae]

On the rare occasions when Hob is actually mad at Dream— he refuses to sleep. Coffee, energy drinks and the God forsaken awakeness pills? All fair game. If he has to inject caffeine directly into his vein, he would. Hob doesn't often get mad, but when he does, he likes to make a point. Dream and Hob match in more than one ways, really, they do. And so it is that the Dream Lord must come out of his realm personally to sprinkle sand into his lover's eyes because he'd be damned if Hob refuses his gift for more than two nights in a row. Not speaking for 100 years? Easy. Hob refusing sleep? Unacceptable.

[ralkana]

It is truly amazing how often my reaction to the end of a chapter of Dreamling fic is "Dream, goddammit, no."

[cuubism]

thinking about that meta about the endless not really transforming into different forms but rather being all forms simultaneously and just being perceived differently from different points of view. and yeah

--

"So, Death was telling me something interesting about you yesterday," Hob says, sipping on his coffee.

Dream pouts, though he would probably deny that that's what it is. "You are gossiping with my sister behind my back?"

"You know we talk."

"Gossip," Dream mutters again, steps taking on a pace adjacent to an irritable trudge. "What unseemly things does she say about me?"

"Why do you think she says mean things about you?"

"Every time we speak, she calls me an idiot," Dream says, and Hob lets out a startled laugh.

"That's what siblings do," Hob reminds him. "You know she loves you."

"Hmm." Dream plucks Hob's coffee from his hand, taking a ponderous sip. "What praises does she heap upon me, then?"

Hob shakes his head in fond exasperation. "She says that you -- Endless, that is -- can like... change your appearance for different people? Or creatures? Like. If you met a cat you would appear as a cat to them?"

"You do not quite have the right of it," Dream says. He hasn't returned Hob's coffee, despite having insisted that he 'did not require mortal sustenance' when Hob had offered to get him his own.

"What's the right of it, then?"

"It is not for human minds to comprehend."

Hob groans. "At least humor me and try to explain? Do you turn into a cat or not?"

"I do not turn into anything," Dream says, offended. "How base and common."

"Shapeshifting is base and common, I'll make sure to tell all the shapeshifters I know," Hob tells him seriously.

Dream lets out a sigh that Hob recognizes as meaning fine, I will answer your inane questioning about the nature of my existence. The funny thing is, now that they've gotten over the six hundred year barrier of what's your name and what do you do for work, Dream delights in talking about his creations. He will speak at length about his work given half a chance.

It's the personal -- whether that's something as mundane as how he takes his tea or as fundamental as what an Endless even is, exactly -- that's been hard to get at.

"I am a cat," Dream explains.

Hob stares at him, looking up and down at the very man-shaped figure walking beside him as if he needs to double-check. "You're definitely not a cat."

"Yes, I am," Dream says. He does not appear to be joking.

And apparently Hob is still thirteen years old all these centuries later, because he says, "Prove it."

"You cannot see it because you are not a cat," Dream sighs, as if this is truly a tragic occurrence.

"Maybe I am a cat," Hob suggests, tucking his hands in his pockets, all casual. "How would you know?"

Dream gives him a sidelong look. "You are not a cat. Though perhaps you would be more peaceful as one."

"Doubt it. But wait, so, if I was a cat I would be able to see your cat form?"

"In essence, yes. But. You speak as if I would be donning a coat. These are not forms. Merely fragments. Simultaneous angles on a whole."

"Fragments," Hob repeats. He works it through like a particularly hard math problem. "Hang on. So. You're also a cat now. If we met a cat they would see a cat."

Fuck, this is getting weird.

Dream looks proud of Hob for getting it. "Yes."

"Could have attempted to explain that instead of just saying I am a cat," Hob tells him. "I also still maintain that you are not actually a cat."

"I am as much a cat as I am a human," Dream says.

"So, not," Hob says.

"No," Dream agrees. "Because I am Dream."

"You're a nightmare, is what you are," Hob mutters, and Dream smirks.

"That, too."

They've been walking in silence for another few minutes when Hob asks, "What's your real form?"

Dream frowns. "All of my forms are real, Hob."

"Sure, you look like this or that to different people. What do you look like to yourself?"

"All of my forms are real," Dream insists.

"So what I'm seeing now isn't some kind of default? Are you just always different? Is this like that we don't know how other people see colors 'cuz everyone's eyes could be different thing? Or is there any internal consistency to you?"

"I don't know what thing you're referring to."

"What I'm trying to find out is did I invent this version of you in my head?" Hob asks, getting stressed about it now. Did his subconscious somehow decide this was what Dream should look like? Presumably Dream knows what he looks like to Hob. What if he doesn't like it? "Did I just decide yep that's what dreams should look like in 1389 and you've been stuck wearing black ever since?"

Dream chuckles. Probably amused Hob would ever think he had that much power. "No. There is what you call internal consistency in my appearance. Different creatures, cultures, and so on will see different aspects of me, but there is not a different aspect for each person. It is not infinite."

Oh, thank god. "So, you want to look this way."

"I suppose."

Never a straight answer with him.

"Well, just for the record," Hob says, "I fell in love with the entity but I happen to quite like the shape as well."

"The shape," Dream repeats, with a smile.

"Here's where you're going to tell me you're also a triangle or something."

Dream is silent.

Fucking hell.

"I'm not even going to ask," Hob decides, forcibly moving on. "I have another question."

"You have many," Dream observes.

"That's what you love about me," Hob says, and Dream tilts his head as if conceding the point.

"If there was a human culture that thought of dreams as represented by cats," Hob starts, "they might see you as a cat?"

Dream sips at Hob's coffee, considering. "I suppose."

"And was there ever one?"

"No."

Hob lets out a long breath. Dream is frustrating as hell to talk to sometimes, but Hob can't say he doesn't enjoy it anyway, doesn't enjoy the puzzle. "Was there ever any culture like that, though? That saw their dream representation as something other than a person?"

"There was one that thought dreams lived in bubbles, therefore I was the reflection of light along a bubble's curve," Dream says, expressionlessly. As if that isn't wild and fascinating. "However, that civilization has since disbanded and morphed into different forms."

"Which civilization was that?"

"You would not know it," Dream says.

Hob tips his head back and groans. "God, you're like an edgy teenager who knew that indie band before they were cool. Oh, which band? No, you wouldn't know them, they're too niche, too underground."

"Underwater," says Dream. "It was a civilization of dolphins."

Hob trips over a crack in the road and just manages to catch himself. Dream stops by his side, watching him with some concern, like he worries Hob might break himself in his clumsiness.

"The way the world looks to you must be insane," Hob says, staring at Dream.

Dream's lips tip up in the faintest smile. "Human perspective is narrow."

"Clearly. I wish I could see all your other forms. Must be amazing."

"You wish to see them?" Dream sounds surprised.

Hob scoffs. "Of course. But it's not sounding very possible."

Dream inclines his head in agreement.

Then a thought occurs. "Wait." And god, Hob has said a lot of stupid-sounding things in his life but this is about to be one of the worst. "If I pretend to be a cat, can I see your cat form?"

Dream can never answer a simple question directly, but apparently this absurd query is fine. "I suppose it is possible in theory for you to see it. But pretending is not enough. You would have to wholly assume the perspective of a cat. I do not know if it would be possible in practice."

Hob's never needed much more encouragement than that to try something. "Alright. Hold my coffee."

"I am already holding it," Dream points out.

"Hush. I'm being a cat."

How he's supposed to do that, Hob doesn't know. He paces back and forth before Dream, squinting in the sunlight. He looks at him from every angle. He tries to imagine what cats might dream of. Mice? Freedom? Sleeping in warm places? Their dreams must be feeling and instinct-driven, not intellectual.

Hob crouches down, looking up at Dream from as close to a cat's height as he can manage. Dream merely raises an eyebrow.

"Are you going to meow at me?" he asks mildly.

"Meow," Hob says, and Dream's mouth pops open in a round o of surprise that is one hundred percent worth the indignity of kneeling on a public street and meowing. "What do cats dream about, anyway?"

"World domination," Dream says solemnly.

"Haha," Hob says, but Dream doesn't take it back.

"Alright, I'm channeling megalomania," Hob tells him, shutting his eyes. "I'm channeling my inner despot."

"And an imposing one at that," Dream observes, looking down at him.

"Quiet, subject, can't you see I'm in the middle of ruling with an iron fist? Or paw?"

"I am quaking in my boots," Dream says. "Please, show mercy."

Hob squints back up at him. God, he's really trying, but it's hard. Cats live close to humans, but they are still so alien. Off in their own worlds, their own battles and hierarchies.

"Will it work if I lick you?" he asks. "Like how cats groom each other."

Dream blinks at him, once, twice, slowly, catlike, which he must be doing intentionally, because he's a bastard like that. "This is, as I believe you would say, getting odd."

Yeah, it is getting fucking odd.

"Perhaps you should try imagining my female form," Dream suggests, and if Hob weren't already on all fours on the sidewalk he'd have fallen over. "It is human, and may be easier."

"You have that?" Hob squeaks, scrambling back to his feet. "But I thought it was like, a species perspective thing? Do women just see you as a woman, then?" Then he shakes his head. "No, that's way too simplistic."

"Women can see me like this as well," Dream says. "Or however their culture dictates."

"So why would someone see you as one gender or another, then? Just a culture thing? Preference?"

"Why do some people see God as a woman?" Dream asks the air.

Hob groans. "You are impossible."

Dream smirks.

"Or maybe you just like being unknowable," Hob guesses.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps. Yeah, perhaps. I'm sure." Hob cracks his knuckles. "Alright, my unknowable cosmic entity of a significant other, let's see if I can turn you into a woman."

Dream stares at him flatly, but Hob can see the slightest uptick at the corner of his mouth.

Hob still doesn't know what exact perspective he needs to see Dream as a woman. Maybe if he just believes really really hard he can make it happen. Force of will. It's how he'd always planned to make himself immortal, anyway, absent a fortunate encounter with one prickly dream entity.

He stops looking at Dream, and tries to look through Dream. Tries to imagine how it feels to see the true depths of his eyes, how the cosmos in them go straight to infinity. He tries to see around the way the light reflects off of and shapes Dream's form to the shape within, like a sculptor seeing the body in the marble before it's carved. Hob is no artist, but he tries.

And he knows Dream. He may not know all these angles on his form, but he knows Dream, the entity, the person. They have had a long friendship, Hob and the concept of dreaming.

And just like that, the perspective shifts. For a split second, Hob sees an infinity before him, the eternity of all existence condensed in all its brilliant, glowing facets--then his brain skids around it to avoid going mad, latches onto an angle, and slams back to earth.

Hob sways, rubs at his eyes, and then laughs hysterically. "Fuck!"

"Hob?" Dream sounds uncertain now. "Are you well?"

"I think I just glimpsed cosmic knowledge never meant for my mortal eyes, or whatever," Hob tells him, somewhat maniacally. His ears are kind of ringing, eyes swimming in the afterimages of a very bright light. "You're incredible, do you know that?"

"As you judge," Dream says.

Hob finally drops his hands from his eyes.

And immediately slaps them over his mouth, letting out a sound so high-pitched and manic he hadn't thought his vocal cords could manage it. "Holy shit."

Dream frowns. "Are you well?" he asks again. "Perhaps I should not have allowed--"

"I fucking did it," Hob whispers, mostly to himself. "Oh my God. You're a woman. I think? You look like one. I guess?"

Dream looks down at himself. Hob wonders what he sees--does he see what Hob sees? Or does he see the incomprehensible mass of everything that he truly is under the human trappings?

"Ah," he says, and presses a single fingertip to one of the breasts that he now has, prodding it curiously. "It appears that I am."

Okay, so he can see what Hob sees. Good to know.

"Yup," Hob says. He can't seem to steady himself whatsoever. "Yup, yup. You are."

"Impressive, Hob," Dream remarks, looking up at him again with a smirk. His jaw is narrower now, his lips plusher, but God, it's that same fucking smirk that drives Hob insane.

Hob wonders if Dream's female form is also bound by some limitations on appearance the way his usual form is. He hopes so, because it if turns out he managed to manifest Dream's tits to fit his own subconscious desires, he might just have to choose Death at last.

Hob still has his hands over his mouth. He makes himself drop them.

Dream frowns at his silence. "Are you not pleased?"

"I'm very shellshocked and reorienting my view of the universe," Hob tells him. "Also, you're very beautiful and it's just a lot all around."

That smirk again. Whatever minor amount of immunity Hob has developed over the centuries is obliterated by the new shape of him. "Ah."

"Ah," Hob echoes. "Can I kiss you?"

"You may."

Hob does so with his usual enthusiasm, perhaps more, as he does so love novelty. Dream tastes much the same, feels much the same to his hands, and yet not, like Hob's different perspective on him has altered the angle of his touch. Hob runs his hands indulgently over the softer curves of him, settling them on Dream's waist.

"Dear heart," he murmurs into Dream's mouth. "Most beautiful thing."

Dream makes a soft sound and rests his face against Hob's.

They stay there for a long moment, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. Then Dream asks, "Would you have still kissed me if I was a cat?"

"On your little furry head, yes," Hob says, and pecks his cheek. "I thought you were a cat."

"I am," Dream says.

Hob groans. "Enough, I'm getting confused again. Let's stop with the metaphysics and go home and do something less headache-inducing."

"Like playing with the new toy you've found yourself?" Dream asks, raising an eyebrow, but obligingly lets Hob wrap an arm around his waist and tug him along down the sidewalk.

"Pretty much!" Hob agrees. "If you're amenable."

"I suppose I can bear it," Dream says solemnly, as though being kissed and coddled and worshiped is the greatest hardship of his eons-long existence.

Then he says, quietly, "You are singular, to perceive me thus."

"As..." Hob looks at him as they walk, looks at the elegant cut of Dream's cheekbone and the sweep of his eyelashes, the longer fall of his hair. "You mean, in more than one... facet?"

Dream nods. "You... see me. The truth of me. And still, you look upon me kindly."

"What other way is there to look at the one you've loved your whole life?" Hob asks, throat tight.

Dream leans into his side, and Hob presses a kiss to his temple, holding there for several steps. And he continues to hold him close as they go on, keeps his unfathomable boundless entity within the circle of his arms, where he can keep on fathoming him.

[just-j-really]

"I just don't get it," Hob says, for the fifth or sixth or possibly twentieth time that night, glancing over the rim of his cup at Will, who's sitting on the other side of the room, cuddling with his soulmate in an armchair that's really too small for the both of them. "Why everyone's so hung up on soulmates."

It's all anyone's been able to talk about tonight- and sure, that's fair, it is Will and Ann's engagement party, but Hob has overheard the phrases 'oh you're so lucky you found each other so young' and 'why did you wait this long?' far too many times for one night. Will and Ann met as toddlers; they've never had another option and Hob cannot fathom why everyone seems to think that's a good thing.

Case in point, even his little group of Unmatched friends react to his statement with varying degrees of exasperation.

Hob is just sober enough to be aware he should probably shut up, and drunk enough that he keeps talking anyway. "I mean, I've seen 'soulmates'," he says. "My parents were soulmates, both my siblings met theirs, half of my friends are paired off by now. It's not like I don't know how soulmates work. Soulmates are..." he takes a moment, gathers his thoughts, and even though he's not entirely sure what he's about to say, the moment the word leaves his mouth he knows it's exactly right, "Stupid."

His friends laugh uncomfortably. "You're an idiot," Andrew says, not unkindly.

But Hob's on a roll now, an argument that's been simmering in his chest for years spilling out of him, the exhilaration of speaking making the words come easily. "You literally don't have to stay with your soulmate. No one has to! Everyone just goes along with it because everybody else does. But not me. I've made up my mind," he says, setting his cup down and straightening his shoulders. He's been bullshitting a bit but he means this, knows down to his bones that this is something worth staking his life on. "I'm going to meet someone perfect who isn't my soulmate, and I'll marry them instead."

He feels like he should do something solemn to mark this occasion. Stand up on a table, maybe.

Instead, most of his friends laugh at him again. "Hobs, that's the literal definition of your soulmate. Someone who's perfect for you," Gwen points out. The laughter is teasing, and Gwen's tone is more reassuring than anything else, but still, Hob finds himself frustrated.

"But there's so much more out there. So many people to fall in love with," he insists. "Shouldn't I know who's perfect for me better than anyone?"

And his friends tease him for somehow being sappily romantic in his opposition to sappy romance, and he laughs along with them and points out that his perfect person will be more understanding than them, for sure. And he's genuinely a bit hurt, but Gwen bumps his shoulder apologetically and he thinks that destiny has nothing on these friends he's made on purpose, who know him well enough for these unspoken gestures. And there's movement in the corner of his eye.

Hob looks up.

The most gorgeous man alive is standing in front of him. He's tall- probably taller than Hob, even- pale and willowy, with a mess of soft-looking black hair. His eyes are a deep blue Hob didn't think existed in real life until this moment. He looks like the slightly magical prince in a fairy tale got loose in the real world and decided to become a goth. He's perfect.

"Did I hear you say," the man asks, his voice soft and deep all at once, resonant in a way that Hob's never heard before, "you have no intention of meeting your soulmate?"

Not if he's you, Hob thinks, I take it all back if he's you.

Despite what many of his friends will argue, he is capable of not voicing every thought that comes into his head, if only under extreme circumstances, so he offers the stranger his best grin and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"You'll need to tell me how that works out, then," the man replies.

"Don't encourage him!" Andrew calls from the other side of their little cluster.

The man- flinches, just a little. Hob probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been staring at him, but Hob's universe just gained a new center, so he is and he does.

"Hey," he says, catching the man's eyes, "Don't mind him, he's just boring. You really want to know how it goes, finding someone who isn't my soulmate?"

"I do," the man says, seriously, like he genuinely thinks Hob's quest is worth his full attention. It leaves Hob feeling warm, almost giddy.

"Perfect," Hob says, and then, because he's never known when to quit, "Let me give you my number, so I can update you?"

The man nods, a teasing little smirk appearing on his face, as though he and Hob already know each other perfectly, and this is a shared, ancient joke between the two of them. His fingers brush Hob's as he passes over his phone.

Nothing happens. There's no spark, no splash of color on Hob's skin marking where this stranger's fingers first dragged over his.

They are, definitively, not soulmates.

And Hob knows for certain that he's right.

[Part Two]

[dyns33]

A Silly Dream

Another idiots in love with Morpheus and female reader.

"… What did you just say ?"

Sometimes Y/N forgot that Dream of the Endless wasn't human, and therefore didn't think like a human. He had great difficulty communicating and understanding that there were things he shouldn't say or do if he didn't want to hurt people.

The problem was that even when she remembered that, she also remembered that he was an old being, so normally experienced and wise, the prince of stories and words, who yet kept behaving like a selfish, spoiled child who never learned from his mistakes.

"I just said I couldn't stay long for our meeting."

"No, after that. And, what 'meeting' ? We didn't have an meeting, it was you who came to my place."

"As with Hob Gabling every hundred years, I meet with you once a year, for you to give me your impression of the new dreams and nightmares, and in exchange I let you read an unfinished book from my library. But I am very busy and it will be difficult for me to stay more than an hour today."

He was really telling her that for all this time, more than a hundred years, their relationship was not at all friendly, but hardly professional, a simple obligation, which annoyed him but that he had the kindness to fill in each time ? Oh, Y/N felt really honored at that moment.

"… You're a jerk."

"I beg your pardon ?" wondered Morpheus, visibly very offended.

"I said you're a jerk. It's because of the kiss, right ? It's your way of telling me that I shouldn't have, and that I'm very lucky that you keep coming to see me instead of punishing me ?"

"You know I have to come see you."

"You're a real jerk. Go away, since you're so busy."

His face still impassive, Morpheus stared at her for a long time, as if he still didn't know what he should do, before standing up without saying anything and leaving.

The kiss had been stupid, Y/N agreed to admit it.

It had happened two years ago now, when she had just finished her review of the last nightmare he had created, and Dream was trying to explain to her why she was wrong in her reasoning.

It could have happened much sooner, because her heart had been beating for him and only for him for decades already, but before that day, she had always known how to keep her feelings buried deep inside her.

But this time, without her being able to explain why, while she admired his eyes deep as the ocean, his skin pale as the moon, listening to his lulling voice, Y/N had not thought, and she had kissed him.

Dream of the endless went silent. He had looked at her as if she had just stabbed him, and of course he had left without listening to her excuses, not finishing his sentence, but leaving her a book, because he had only one word.

She had strange dreams after that, where she was in a labyrinth, then in a castle, then in corridors, and always she had the feeling that she was looking for something without really knowing what.

Sometimes she saw Dream, sometimes a cat, and she began to follow him, never being able to catch up with him.

The following year he came back, they didn't talk about what happened, and everything seemed to be back to normal.

It hurt to think that all of this was actually just an obligation for him. Y/N had met Hob several times. She knew that Morpheus was really bad with people, since it had taken him more than half a millennium to admit he had a friend, but she had also heard of his lovers, and so she knew that he was not incapable of feelings.

There had been the secret hope then that he liked her, at least a little. It was over now.

The next year, when he showed up on her doorstep with a book, Y/N wondered if he was more mean than stupid, or the other way around.

"I thought I told you to leave. I know you're terribly busy."

"The competition is indeed quite exhausting, but everyone else has given up for the day."

"Oh, you have a moment for me in your schedule ? Too kind. No, wait, we have a meeting, I forgot. Well, I'm busy. Goodbye."

"You do not want…"

"Bye." she repeated, closing the door in his face without taking the book.

It was the first time she hadn't taken the book. If he wanted to, Dream could have appeared in her apartment, or in her dreams, to scold her and throw the book at her, but he didn't.

Y/N didn't know if she was happy or disappointed.

Meanwhile, the bizarre dreams continued.

This time, she was in the gardens of his castle, in the Dreaming. She knew it, because she had already been there. It was because of this stuff that she felt she was more than an obligation.

There were a lot of people in the gardens, some looking human, some not, and they were all looking for something.

Tired, Y/N decided that this time she didn't feel like running, and she sat down on a bench. A wing sound told her that a little spy had decided to join her.

"They all look ridiculous, don't you think ?"

"I don't know who they are or what they do, but I guess."

"They participate in the competition, of course." Matthew said with a desperate tone. "It's been so long now, what's it been, four years ? Five ? I don't know. Some like you have a point, others are starting to despair a bit. I wish they all despair and stop. The boss is tired."

"… What do you mean by 'I have a point' ?"

"The rules are simple, one kiss, one point. Two kisses, two points. Three kisses, the hand of the Master of dreams. None of them asked for his consent, wicked ones. Neither do you, I'm a bit disappointed, young lady. You're the least bad, but still. He was hurt, that was not good manners."

"Matthew… Matthew, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

The raven looked at her like she was stupid. Then he realized she must be really stupid.

"No… That can't be true ! You two are really the same. Two idiots, you deserve each other ! Idiots ! He was hurt, but happy ! He was waiting for the other kisses during your little dates in the Waking !"

"You're talking about our more or less professional and obligatory meetings that he doesn't have time to go to ?"

"What ? What do you mean by… He said something stupid, right ? Of course he said something stupid. You do stupid things, he says stupid things, when you could just kiss. God damn it ! He was grumpy last year, and sad this year, because he thinks you don't want to compete anymore. But you don't know there's a competition ! And you don't want to see him anymore, not because you don't like him, but because you think he doesn't like you ! Boss ! Boss, you really kill me sometimes !"

Y/N woke up not sure if she had dreamed or not. Of course, she had dreamed, and all dreams were real, but she didn't know if she had talked to Matthew, or if she had dreamed that she was talking to Matthew, which was not the same thing.

In one case, she could continue to hope stupidly. In the other, she was just plain stupid.

She got her answer when she came home from work one evening and found Morpheus on her couch. He looked smaller and more fragile than usual. Tired, as his raven said.

"I thought we already had our meeting this year." she said taking out her jacket, not knowing what she should do, or what he was going to do.

"We didn't. You were busy."

"Ah, yes. That's right. Tea ?"

"No, thank you."

Usually things were very simple. They greeted each other, talked quickly about the past year, then Y/N talked about her dreams and nightmares, saying why she liked them or not.

This time, they said nothing, sitting next to each other. Of course, he had brought a book, placed between them. She didn't know if she should talk about those weird dreams.

It was a new surprise when he spoke first.

"You're near my sister's realm lately."

"Which one ?"

"Despair."

"Oh. How is she ?"

"What do you think ?"

"I don't know, you are not really dreamy yourself. I mean, you are, just when you are not talking. The talking you is a real nightmare. But I meant, how is she, as in is she alright ?"

"I must say that I don't know."

"You should call her to ask, she's your sister. Except if she's a bad sister. I guess it's not my business. How are you ?"

"You never kissed me again. Why ?"

He was back, the child with his big deep eyes, his innocent look and his dangerous words. How could he say such important things without the slightest hesitation ?

Y/N found the courage to meet his gaze after taking a deep breath.

"I don't know. Maybe because you have to come see me, and you clearly didn't like the first time I kissed you."

"I appreciated that. I would have fully appreciated it under other circumstances, but at that moment I thought you were acting like the others, in order to win the competition."

Matthew wasn't wrong, they were both a bit stupid, and mostly unlucky. All of this was mainly a problem of bad timing, and communication. If Y/N had acted sooner, and if Morpheus had known how to talk, there would never have been any problems.

"Following your entry into the competition, I am obliged to join you, in order to give you a chance to steal two more kisses from me, under the same conditions as the first. All the others who succeeded having it done in the Dreaming, I do not have to meet them elsewhere."

"… So you've been obliged for two years. But before too, since you impose one meeting per year."

"I told you, I'm very busy. I wanted to make sure I can see you at least once, as much as possible, so it seemed safer to set a specific date."

Damn, he was a jerk. A lovely jerk, a sweet idiot, a pleasant fool.

"And so… You want to kiss me ?"

"I'm not allowed to give kisses, you have to take them. It's the rule."

"I don't like that rule. I didn't kiss you for that, I should have asked your permission, and I'm not going to do it again, that's wrong."

"So you don't want to kiss me." he whispered, looking disappointed.

"I don't wish to force you. I won't steal another kiss."

"You could ask me."

"And would that change anything ?"

"I can't give kisses, but I can give you permission."

During their little conversation, Matthew had been very clear, clear as he always was and much more than his boss who gave him a headache. Silently, for three years, Morpheus had been patiently waiting for Y/N to kiss him again, silently giving her his consent.

He had been too proud or too stupid to understand that he had to verbalize such things.

"Morpheus, I love you very much and I don't care about this competition, can I kiss you ?"

"You can." he sighed with relief and what looked like a smile.

This kiss was much nicer than the first. Probably because it had been desired for more than two years now. Y/N would have liked it to last forever.

"And… For the third one ? Do I have to wait until next year ?" she asked nervously, keeping her hands on his shoulders, thinking he would leave as soon as she let go.

"You can take as many kisses as you want, my love. You can take everything you want."

"Dream… My Dream…"

It was difficult to know what happened in the Dreaming at this moment. No doubt that Lucienne and Matthew announced to the other participants that they could leave because they had lost. Then the wedding planning began.

Y/N hadn't thought about marriage. She had only thought about Morpheus, silly Morpheus, and all the love she had for him. They would need to discuss all of this. But right now, she was too busy kissing him again and again, and him not devouring her with his endless passion.

"I'm glad it's you." he whispered against her lips. "I have to go now. We'll see each other tonight, I'll wait for you."

Being a man of his word, he left a book on the sofa before disappearing. A love story with a happy ending, maybe because he knew they would be fine, or just because he hoped they would.

Y/N read it before going to sleep to join her future kingdom, and her stupid prince of dreams.

[moorishflower]

Dirty Talk (Dreamling, Explicit)

This is because of @landwriter making me realize I don't have much practice writing dirty talk. This is still pretty tame in that regard.

"I don't think you're even capable of talking dirty," is what Hob says, one fine winter evening, comfortable and a bit comfortably tipsy, sat at his regular table in the New Inn with Dream of the Endless sat across from him, and he knows by the way Dream rears back like a cat whose nose has been flicked that he's made a mistake in saying it. It's only been a few months since Dream has come back into his life, since he's gifted Hob with information and explanations and finally, in the trenches of autumn as the leaves had crumpled from the trees in red and gold splendor, the rare sight of his smile and a trembling lower lip, and a soft, My friend, but in those few months Hob's come to the realization that he would do anything, literally anything and everything, to hold Dream's friendship. To make him feel safe. To keep him here.

And maybe mocking his friend's mode of speaking isn't the right way to go about it but, again, he's just pissed enough for it to not seem like a big deal, and Dream doesn't seem upset so much as he seems offended. Mates give each other shit all the time, Hob reassures himself, and it's not like they were talking about something life-changing. Dream had only been complaining about his sibling interfering with his realm, which has apparently caused some sort of imbalance in the Dreaming, and from there had followed a great lot of metaphysical and esoteric explanations that boiled down to 'wet dreams are on the rise' (pun intended). It explains why he's had so many in the past week. It doesn't explain why so many of them have featured dark hair and skin like cloaked starlight and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, but that's his albatross to bear, not Dream's.

And then Dream had said something along the lines of how sex dreams had used to have poetry to them, there'd been an intimate back and forth, not just of bodies but of words, a build-up and a climax. One thing had led to another, and Hob had said what he said, and he stands by it. Still stands by it, even as Dream's eyes turn flinty and the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk that would shame the devil.

"I am the Prince of Stories," he murmurs. His voice is a laser that cuts through the raucous din of the New Inn. There's a van's worth of footballers a few tables down, either celebrating or commiserating, it's not clear which, and the entire pub is lousy with the noise. Hob doesn't have to lean forward to hear his friend, so tuned is he to that purring baritone, but he does so anyways. It gets him closer to Dream, who also leans in, like he's about to share a secret. "Do you truly believe me incapable of crafting words titillating enough to bring one to completion?"

"I don't think you've ever said the word 'cunt' in your life," Hob says, doubling down like the idiot he is. He's never claimed to be a wise man, and especially not when he's in his cups. Besides, it's the winter hols, he's got nothing to do tomorrow, and if he ends this night with nightmares that make him piss the bed he'll concede that Dream has won this round.

"You would be incorrect."

Hob can't imagine Dream ever speaking in a way that's less than dignified. There's such power to him, all the time, such staid and solemn surety, and there's no room in that sort of denseness for telling your partner how much you'd like to suck their brains out of their prick. More's the pity, because he thinks if he could imagine it, the shape of his stranger's lips around the word 'cock' would surely be a fine feature to add to his repertoire of fantasies.

It's at this point that Hob makes the stupidest decision he's made all night.

"Prove it," he says, and takes a sip of his drink, secure in the knowledge that six centuries of swiving has rendered him immune to embarrassment, even in such a public setting. There is a long pause during which the only sound is the ambient riot of the Inn around them, the clink of glasses and the cheering -- or bemoaning? -- of the footballers, the nearly-incomprehensible drone of the sound system piping Top 40s Modern Rock into the kitchen behind the bar, Marv the bartender swearing as he uncorks a bottle of champagne for a mixer.

Then Hob feels something brush against his foot beneath the table, and the rest of the pub goes silent.

Or rather, not silent, but…muffled. Like someone's draped a great blanket over the both of them, and now it's just him and Dream, as it's always been, as it always will be, facing each other across a worn, wooden table, as much of the original wood as Hob had been able to salvage. He's worked it into the foundations, into the bartop and the tables and the floor, trying to preserve the stories he'd told for his stranger, the history, like it was ale that had soaked into the floorboards. Dream's eyes are focused on him, impossibly blue, and he feels another soft touch, this time higher up his leg. Like a foot stroking up his calf, except no game of footsie has ever left him feeling this breathless before, this yearning.

"Would you have me prove it to you with words of prose, Hob Gadling?" Dream's voice is a thing with texture. It'd be prosaic to compare it to such human stuff as velvet or fox fur, but Hob's limited in his petty human understanding, and to his ears it's plush and warm and welcoming. It's a voice to bury your face into, a voice that drips down the skin like warm honey or candlewax, with just enough bite to be interesting. "Would you have me woo you with poetry? Shall I compare thee, not to a summer's day, but to the wild bounty of the fields? More comely than all of autumn's fruits and grains, thy hair rich as the loam and the fertile earth?"

Fertile is an unfair word for him to use, Hob thinks. His brain's scattered out his ears in an attempt to try and hear better, but he doesn't have a choice, because if he wants to not hear he's going to have to get up and leave. And not listening to this just…isn't an option. Not with how Dream is looking at him, head cocked like a bird and his mouth red as garnets shaping around words, words, words.

"Shall I opine about the shape of your body? How broad and virile your chest? I have seen you at sport, Hob, and I know what you hide beneath sweaters and cardigans. I have seen the daydreams of those who lust after you. They imagine you coming in from your war games, stripping the shirt from your back and drinking the sweat from your body. They imagine what it would be like to sink to their knees and bury their mouths into your most intimate places. Worshiping you with hand and tongue. Would you have me describe these fantasies, Hob?"

Oh, please, he thinks, and wonders if it must show on his face, how dry his mouth's become, how tight his trousers are now, because Dream's little smirk grows wider. His pupils are blown so large they nearly eclipse his irises, and there's only a thin ring of startling blue outlining a sea of infinite void.

"Or would you prefer it in cruder terms?" The light pressure that's been dragging up and down his leg inches higher; it feels like fingers kneading into the soft insides of his thighs, and Hob's legs fall open to give the phantom hands better access. The Inn looks and sounds like it's moving in slow motion, but maybe that's just because he can't look away from Dream.

"Would you like me to describe how beautiful your cock is?" Dream asks, and he says it with the disaffected expression of someone asking about the weather and the deep and growling voice of a jungle cat, and Hob is fairly certain he makes a noise of his own, something undignified and stifled by how quickly he bites his lip. "How the weight of it would fit perfectly in my hand? You are made for pleasure, Hob. Thick. Heavy. Better still, to hold the shape of you in my mouth."

"Oh, fuck," Hob says. He's barely aware that he says it, but Dream's eyes light up with fiendish inner fire. There's no blue anymore. It's just black, and stars, and Hob drifting in them like a rogue comet, burning up.

"Yes. I could describe how you would fuck me. How you would turn me inside out. I would want to ride you first, to see the shape of you inside me. I would want you to fill me with your spend until I could taste it in my throat, and then, when I had found my pleasure, I would want you to bear me down into the bed. I would want you to break me in half, Hob Gadling, because I will accept no less than the most ardent lover, and if I do not finish the night with your cum leaking down my thighs and my arsehole gaping for you, I will not be satisfied."

The ghost-touch that's been drifting higher and higher along his thighs presses firmly against his groin, and Hob makes a strangled, gasping little noise, swallowed up by the thick syrupy slowness of the Inn, and comes in his pants. It's an orgasm so sharp and sweet and high that it feels like the prolonged note of a flute, and leaves his thighs quivering in the aftermath, and his breath coming in heady little rasps. He hadn't even been aware he was that keyed up, but then, he hadn't been aware of anything but Dream, and Dream's voice, and now how Dream is staring at him across the way, eyes glittering like a thousand diamonds set in velvet. Hob watches as he slowly lifts his hand from beneath the table, spreading his fingers. They're covered in cum, little beads and drips of it sliding down to the second knuckle, and Dream holds his gaze like a fist around Hob's heart as he raises his hand to his mouth and begins licking his fingers clean.

There's another noise, an uncomfortable whimper, that Hob doesn't want to think is him but probably is.

"Have I sufficiently proven myself?" Dream asks, popping his fingers free of his mouth with the most obscene, wet sound that Hob has ever heard. He imagines those fingers spearing into him and making that same sound from all the lube dripping out of his arse, and Dream's nostrils flare.

"Dunno," Hob manages to say, when he finally finds his voice. It's a thready, needy voice, but it is there. "Could use some more convincing. Don't suppose…you fancy coming upstairs to continue this conversation?"

There's a gentle stroke along the inside of his thigh, making his poor, spent cock twitch, and Dream smiles at him. "Yes. I believe there is more I could tell you, Hob Gadling."

And there is. A lot more. That night, and into the morning, and the next, and the next. Hob needs a lot of convincing.

He's grateful Dream seems up to the challenge.

[the-kr8tor]

Woven Wheel

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie is taller than the reader, CW food, FLUFF.

My Navigation

Thread the Needle Masterlist

CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

You sit on Hobie's rickety chair, on your lap is his emerald bed sheet, your hands expertly stitch together the large hole on the side of the cloth. Eyes glued to what you're doing, you don't notice Hobie's piercing gaze.

He's crouched over to the other side of the room, fixing the wiring of his answering machine. Hobie watches your cherry earrings sway as you move your head to the side to inspect your handiwork. The bags under your eyes are more prominent than the last time he saw you. He sighs, fingers wrapping around the wiring of his answering machine.

Hobie should've been more persuasive at telling you to stay home and get some much needed rest. But you being you, you won the argument, telling him that it'll be your place too once you graduate so you should come over and help with the cleaning and fixing. With that you already won, but then you added the fact that he already used a ticket from your favour card. Rolling your eyes through the payphone's receiver as if he can see you, you tell him that you always keep to your word. He relents, the only thing he can do now is to make sure you don't get too tired, opting to give you the easiest job, even if he means he has to do more.

So here you are sitting in his sparse living room, mending his bedsheet, watching as James walks over to you. You smile politely to the blonde, making small talk.

"You're gonna burn a hole right through her" Ned appears out of nowhere, whispering right in Hobie's ear.

Hobie pushes him off, Ned cackles at his annoyed reaction. "Fucker"

"You look like a lovesick teen, just go fuckin' tell her, you idiot" Ned sits down to Hobie's level, whispering to him. "Seriously, go do it before someone else does" as Ned says this, you laugh at something James said, the blonde smiles sheepishly at you. "Also I need to see you two finally get together before I leave. I deserve that much after watching you two yearn for each other the entire time I've known you lot"

Hobie frowns at what Ned says, fingers twisting the wiring in his hands faster, he jumps when a sudden jolt of electricity shocks him, the wiring falling from his hand "Fuck!" He yells, holding and shaking his hands.

You perk up, attuned to his scream of pain, stopping mid conversation. "You okay, Hobs?" Handing the linen to James, speed walking the small distance towards Hobie's crouched form. "The hell did you do?" Crouching down, you hold his hands gingerly, massaging his calloused fingers. Probably the opposite of what you should do when somebody gets electrocuted.

"I'm okay, just a shock is all" Hobie stares at your hands gingerly holding his. You nod, still a little concerned.

Ned chuckles, Hobie stares daggers at his friend, shutting him up, a faint smirk staying on his lips. "Maybe you should let Yuri do that, she's good with that kind of stuff" Ned teases Hobie more.

"Let me do what?" Yuri enters the boat, a large box in her hands.

"I have it," Hobie grumbles.

You stand up, dropping Hobie's hands on his side, "oh, let me help you with that"

Ned stops you before you could get your hands over to the box. "Got it, y/n"

"I got it" Yuri lightly shoves Ned away, "I'm not a damsel in distress" she walks towards the pile of boxes on the side of the boat, dropping the large box next to the pile, "see, no sweat"

"When's lunch?" James pipes up, still holding Hobie's bedsheet.

"Mate, you barely did anything" Ned scrunches his nose, "you're right though, when's lunch, Hobie?"

You laugh, Yuri rolls her eyes, a ghost of a smile on her red lips.

"Bunch of leeches, the lot of you" he murmurs. Tapping you on your arm, "what do you want?" Hobie asks you.

"Pizza or fish and chips" Ned says before you could answer, a teasing smile on his lips.

"I asked her not you" Hobie huffs.

"I second that," James agrees, pointing at Ned.

"A coke too," Yuri adds.

"Christ" Hobie places his hands over his hips, "you good with either?" He turns his head towards you.

"A large coke for me, please" you add to the teasing.

"I expected better from you" Hobie narrows his eyes, you giggle at his expression.

—

The chair creaks from under you, finishing the last stitches on the bed sheet, you try to make conversation with Yuri. She sorts through the various boxes for some utensils to eat with. The men left a few minutes ago to buy lunch, leaving you and Yuri inside the Houseboat.

"So what are you gonna study?" You break the silence.

"Getting right to the point, huh?" Yuri teases but you take it too seriously, eyes widening, afraid that you might've offended her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean–"

"I was joking," Yuri stops her perusal of boxes, now looking straight at you with her piercing gaze, "you can ask" she chuckles, "seriously, don't apologize"

"Oh, okay, sorr–" Yuri raises a sharp brow, you backtrack, suddenly nervous from her stare, "right, so um, what are you gonna study?"

Yuri smiles, "Architecture, I know, it's a surprise, huh?" She gestures towards her dark clothes, combat boots and spiked denim jacket.

"Kind of? I mean look at me, do I look like a fashion student?" Gesturing towards your not so plain clothes, but still pretty tame from what you used to wear back in the day. You opted for a pair of bell bottomed jeans instead of your usual straight cut denim, your long sleeved blouse rustles slightly when a draft blows in. The detailed design of hummingbirds stitched on the collar of your shirt practically comes alive every time you turn your head. You're slowly trying to ease back to your usual self, following Danny's advice. And it actually works since you had a major breakthrough with your design a few nights ago. You're keeping it a secret, a little surprise for your model.

"You're a fashion student?!" She feigns surprise.

Chuckling, you see why her and Hobie are friends.

"I joke" Yuri winks, "I stopped tryin' to blend in a looong time ago" she crosses the small threshold, sitting in front of you on an equally rickety chair, "you look different, they stare, you look plain, they whisper. You can't bloody win. Might as well be myself out of spite, right?" she lifts her leg to cross it over the other. "Così va il mondo'' she sighs.

"Such is life" you translate, Yuri smirks, eyes twinkling.

"I see why Hobie likes you so much," she leans on the wooden table, elbows propped up, hand holding her chin. "You're not just pretty, but smart too, huh?"

Smiling genuinely at her, you take note of her freckles, dotting her face like stars, her septum piercing glinting in the low light of the lamp you've placed on the table.

The door to the houseboat swings open, the boys' bickering slices the silence inside the boat.

"Fuckin' told you to hold it on its side!" Hobie argues with James.

"I did! It slid down! I can't control gravity, Hobie!" James retaliates.

Ned enters the space first, he looks so out of it, face frowning, exasperated at his two companions. He holds a liter of coke in his hand, the other a plastic bag of something hot inside.

Yuri side eyes you, shaking her head at the men arguing, you chuckle. She stands up reluctantly, going towards the pile of boxes to take out the utensils.

You follow her lead, walking to meet halfway with the tired Ned. He hands you the bottle of coke.

"I feel like I've aged ten bloody years"

You chuckle, helping Ned place the food on the wobbly table.

"Wait, place it on the floor, that table's not stable enough" Hobie stops you, grabbing the soda bottle from your hands, he juggles it in between the paper bag he's carrying.

"I got it, Hobie" you take the bottle from his hand, " 's not that heavy, you're already carrying too much"

"Where do we eat then, doofus?" Yuri asks the question that's on everyone's mind, she holds plates of various sizes in her hands, mismatched spoons and forks placed on top of the ceramic, in her other hand are mugs, hanging precariously on her ring clad fingers.

"Well, idiot," Hobie retaliates, "the floor is your best friend" He sits down on the newly polished floor, the wood gleaming in all its glory. The paper bag almost spills over when he sits down, grabbing the top of the bag before the contents decorate the clean floors.

"The chips!" James dramatically yells.

"They're fine!" Hobie clicks his tongue, he taps the floor next to him. "Right here, y/n" he softened up when he said your name.

You don't waste a second to cross the space, dropping down next to him. You sit criss crossed, cradling the liter bottle like a baby.

"You need a dining table or at least a settee that doesn't give you tetanus when the spring pokes you" Ned unceremoniously sits down, adjacent to you, he yelps when hot oil singes his finger. "Where else are we gonna sit?" He licks the oil off his red fingertip.

"You gonna buy me one, Neddy?" Hobie gives you a box full of chips, you give him a small 'thank you'.

"I'll buy you one if you actually do what we discussed earlier" Ned replies. Hobie narrows his eyes, non-verbally telling him to shut up.

You look at Ned quizzically, he shrugs, handing everyone their share of fried fish. Your stomach grumbles at the sight. Everyone sits in a circle, the pizza box and soda lays in the middle of the group.

Yuri snorts, knowing what he meant. James opens the pizza box, the savory smell coating the small space. He quickly grabs a slice, gobbling it down.

"Bloody hell, use a plate at least. Were you raised in a barn?" Yuri grimaces, handing James a plate. He nods a thank you, mouth full of dough. "Here you go, love" she hands you a couple of plates and utensils.

"Thanks,Yuri" You hand the spare utensils to Hobie, Leaning forward to grab a slice.

"What's all this? You two best mates now?" Hobie asks, biting off a chip.

"You jealous? We're just lookin' out for each other. Ain't that right, sweets?" Yuri winks at you. You stop chewing for a hot second.

Ned guffaws while James laughs with a mouthful of cheese and sauce. Hobie rolls his eyes, handing you his makeshift glass so you could pour him a drink.

You pour him one while Hobie casually rolls your sleeves up to your elbows so you don't splash soda on it. The fizz rises up towards the edge of the mug. "It's not that cold anymore"

"I'll manage" Hobie thanks you by tapping his mug towards yours, it clinks when they meet.

"Best fish and chips in town, fuck I'm gonna miss this" Ned says.

"They have fish and chips in Richmond," Yuri scoffs, biting into the doughy pizza.

"I know they have fish and chips! But not this fish and chips" he shows his plate like a commercial, hand gesturing around his plate.

"They literally all taste the same" James quips, hand reaching for tissues.

"They would taste the same for you because you don't stop to actually taste it" Ned rebukes.

Their banter fades in the background as Hobie scooches next to you, legs kissing yours, "you want my slice?"

"Hmm? You don't like it?" You lean further into him, "is it the cheese?"

"Nah, I just don't like it" he leans towards you, further closing the already small distance, breath mixing in with yours. "It's too.." he tries to find the right word to describe it, "..gooey for me"

You snort at his choice of word "hehehe say it again"

"What's so funny about 'gooey'?"

"You saying 'gooey', big punk Hobie saying gooey is funny" you take the pizza from his plate, taking a bite from it. "Oh, you're right, it is gooey"

"Doughy, fuck that's the word I was looking for"

You giggle, "I think 'doughy' has the same effect as 'gooey'"

"You're very funny" Hobie stops for a second, unabashedly staring at your lips, he brings his thumb over to it, wiping at the corner of your mouth. You don't have time to react, freezing into place. "Sorry, you got sauce on it" he continues wiping, thumb grazing your lower lip. You stare at him, eyes wide, breath hitching in your throat. "Got it"

You clear your throat, "Thanks"

"Oi lovebirds!" Ned whistles to get your attention, Hobie glares at Ned.

"We're not dogs, what the hell do you want?"

"Pass me the hot sauce" Ned points at the packets near your crossed legs.

Hobie scoffs, tossing Ned the packets. It bounces off Ned's mug, almost falling inside his drink. Ned flips Hobie the bird as a thank you. Hobie lovingly answers the same.

The group munches on their food quietly for a few minutes, you relish in the peace. Until James burps. Yuri scrunches her nose, you hide your giggle with a bite of your lip.

"So, what are you planning on doing after you graduate?" Yuri bravely asks, her utensils clinking on the plate as she finishes eating.

"Getting right to the point, huh?" You tilt your head at Yuri, copying the words she uttered a few minutes ago.

Yuri smiles, "aye, you got me there"

Hobie watches the interaction, glad that you made friends with Yuri.

"Well there's this fashion house where an old friend of mine works at, that would be nice working with him. And it's right here in London so I don't have to go far" you wipe your fingers with a napkin.

"Think big, y/n! What's your ultimate goal?" Yuri pats your knee.

"She's right, go big or go home, eh?" Ned chides in.

"You guys are laying it on me, huh?" You shyly say.

"My da applied to the biggest radio station in London when he was younger, he never thought he'd even get accepted! Now look at him, the most famous radio host in the country!" James adds in the conversation.

"Wait, who's your dad?" Hobie asks.

"JJJ" James answers, huffing his chest in pride.

You all look at him surprised, Hobie slowly turns to look at you, mirroring the same expression.

"What the fuck? You're just gonna drop that insane lore just like that?" Ned looks at James, shocked.

"Yeah, and you know what?" James shifts in his seat, hand curling around his drink. "I'm not even gonna elaborate" he snickers, drinking loudly from his mug.

"I see the resemblance" you lean a bit to look at James closely.

"Yeah, just tape a mustache on him and he's a carbon copy" Hobie agrees.

"Let's shut the fuck up about him, yeah?" Yuri cuts in, James softly mumbles out a 'hey'. "You don't even want to tell us" Yuri points a finger in James' direction. "Let's go back to the topic at hand, y/n, what do you want to do after graduation?"

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," Hobie places his chin on your shoulder, comforting you.

"Aye, you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable telling us. I mean I am asking what your hopes and dreams are. It's a tall order." Yuri tells you.

"It's fine, really" you smile bashfully, "I– there's a fashion house in Paris, that I've been dreaming of working at since I was a kid. I guess that's what I want to do after." You fiddle with your thumbs.

Hobie watches the twinkle in your eyes, he smiles sadly at the prospect of you moving so far away from him, but he can't help but feel proud. He sighs, avoiding looking at your face, instead he stares at your discarded plate.

"Now that's the answer I was lookin' for"

"Thought you wanted to model?" James asks, looking confused in your direction. You tilt your head to ask him what he meant. "You two did go to a runway show, I thought it's because you wanted to model or something"

"Oh, that was for research" you answer.

Ned snorts "can't imagine Hobie at a runway show, especially him walking down on it" Ned shields his face with his arms when Hobie throws him another packet of sauce, this time aiming right for his face. It bounces off harmlessly, Ned sticks his tongue out. Hobie mumbles out a 'child', glaring at his friend.

"Mate, show us your runway walk!" James stands up, posing exaggeratedly.

"You first" Hobie lifts his head off your shoulder.

"I asked you first!"

"You asked for jack shit, fuck off" Hobie says flatly. You laugh at them both.

"Yeah, Hobie he did ask you first" Yuri grabs her plate to put in the sink.

"Why don't you do it then?" Hobie raises a pierced brow.

"Sure, If everyone does it" she leans casually on the kitchen island, a towel over her shoulder. "What do you say? You up for a little modeling?" Yuri smirks at you.

"Uh, no thank you" you stand up grabbing yours and Hobie's plates.

"I'll do it, I've got the physic for it" Ned stands up, cleaning up his station. "Let's clean this up, so we have the space"

"Let's goooo!" James grabs his dirty plates, quickly putting it in the sink.

"I've never seen him clean that fast" Hobie whispers to you, taking the plates from your hands. You smile at him, crouching down to take the empty mugs from the floor.

Once the floor gets cleaned (again) James hypes himself up, getting ready to walk. You grab your digital camera from your bag. Maybe if you assign yourself as the photographer they wouldn't notice you not walking with them.

You don't know if it's the sugar high from the soda or James' instigation but whatever it is they all comply. Yuri has a rare grin on her face, Ned punches Hobie's arm while he laughs loudly. James jumps up and down excitedly.

Hobie chuckles when you show him the camera, "go get a good angle of me"

"That's going to be hard" you tease. Hobie elbows your side lightly. Walking to the front of the 'runway', you crouch down for the best angle to take their pictures.

"Alright James! Go" Ned pats James' back.

James walks dramatically, hips swaying from side to side. Once he reaches you, he pouts, exaggerated. Pointing at the camera.

The flash goes off, James nods appreciatively, walking back to the rest of the group. Ned is up next, walking casually. He flips the bird at the camera. You laugh loudly, music to Hobie's ears. He's glad their shenanigans are making you laugh.

Yuri walks like she owns the place, hand on her waist, striking a pose at the end. She pauses for a second so you could take her picture, Yuri throws you a 'rock on sign' with her hand, it shows clearly in the grainy screen. She walks back to the laughing group.

Yuri grabs Hobie's shoulders, shaking him. "Your turn, Hobart!" She chuckles deeply, pushing him towards the starting position, "you better strike a bloody pose or you'll have to do it again!" The other two laugh at Yuri's teasing.

Hobie huffs, walking normally towards you. The instigators yell at him to do it properly.

"Hobie, you fucker! That's not how a proper model walks!" Ned exclaims.

He stops in front of you, the flash goes off, as you laugh at the picture you've taken. Hobie lifts you easily by your arm. You stand up, grinning at him.

"What are you doing?" You say, chuckling.

"You think you could escape? You gotta walk with me" Hobie throws his arm around your shoulder, cackling loudly.

You try to wiggle out of his hold. "Nooo!" Your smile betrays you as you try to hopelessly push him away. Yuri takes the camera from your hand, angling it to take numerous pictures of you two.

You laugh loudly as Hobie imitates (as best as he could) how a model walks, with you in his arms. The flash goes off in tandem with your strides, making it look like you're on an actual runway.

"Love it!" James cheers you on.

"Work it!" Ned adds, clapping his hands.

You stop at the end, grinning from ear to ear. Yuri keeps taking pictures, you're sure it's gonna run out of space soon enough, but it's well worth it. Hobie bends at his waist, grabbing the back of your knees, his other hand slides to your back, looping his arm across it, pulling you to his chest, lifting you off the ground. You yelp, quickly looping your arms to his neck.

"Hobie! What the fu–" click! Yuri captures the moment.

"That one's for the front page!" Yuri laughs, checking the picture on the small screen. James and Ned scooch closer to Yuri, peeking at the pictures. They laugh and smile at the pictures you've taken.

Hobie still holds you up, hands warm against your jeans. "You come here often?" He smiles down at you, eyes twinkling at your flustered face.

"I could strangle you right now" you quip.

"You're not tall enough" Hobie scoffs even though he has a smile on his lips.

"I literally have my arms around your neck"

"Kinky" he narrows his eyes at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

You chuckle nervously, "you can let me go now" you say despite not actually wanting him to let go.

"Nah, you look great in this angle" heat rises in your cheeks when he winks at you.

"Well you don't, you've got a bit of a double chin in this angle" you tease back, almost not getting the sentence out completely because of your laughs.

"I could just drop you, y'know"

"But you won't" you lean up slightly, pinching the back of his neck.

"You sure 'bout that?" He pretends to drop you, you gasp a bit, smacking your palm on his chest. He chuckles at your reaction. "I'm not gonna drop you" he fixes his hold on you.

"Yeah, but I'm getting heavy aren't I?" You grin at how he's trying really hard at carrying you.

"No" he lies, slowly putting you back on the ground.

"Mm-hmm, told you so"

—

You hum as Yuri gives you an unexpected hug goodbye, reciprocating the embrace, you pull away, holding her at arm's length.

"Watch us play at the concert?" Yuri asks you.

"Of course, I'll be there"

"Ohh, we'll definitely win then" Yuri goes in for another hug, squeezing you.

You and Hobie stand on the boat, watching them drive off in Yuri's beetle.

The sun slowly sets in the horizon, bathing the boat in its orange light. A breeze rushes past, hugging your coat tighter around you.

"You want a ride?"

"Ride?" You got distracted by the rays hitting his face just right, accentuating his sculpted face.

"Yeah, ride y'know, vroom vroom?" He acts as if he's revving his motorcycle's engine.

You laugh again, face hurting from all the smiling. "Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

"Never" he holds the crook of your elbow. "You're not too tired?" Concern on his face.

"A bit, but I'm not done yet with your bed sheet" you stand closer to him, the tips of your shoes kissing his. "Why do you have so many holes in them? I think I know what to get you for your birthday"

"I'm genuinely excited for new bed sheets" he rubs your arm, warming you.

"That's a sign you're getting old"

"Fuck off, I'm only a year older than you" he scoffs with no ounce of malice in it.

"Mm-hmm you're a homeowner now, how does it feel Mr. Hobart Brown" you lift an imaginary microphone to him. He finds your playfulness endearing, smiling softly at your good mood.

He plays along, leaning towards the invisible mic. "It'll be better once you've moved in"

You bite your lip, bashfully looking at him through your eyelashes. Moving the mic back to you "You've gone soft, can you tell us about that?"

Hobie sighs loudly, almost blurting out exactly why he's gone soft around the edges. He holds your wrist, pretending to talk into the imaginary mic "Well Ms. L/n, it comes with age" he surrenders just so he can hear you laugh wholeheartedly again.

"Knew it" You poke his chest. "Now, let me help you set up your bed. I can't let you sleep on the floor"

He bites his tongue at the innuendo that appears in his mind, "I'm not gonna sleep on the floor, I have a mattress"

"Yeah, a mattress that's on the floor!" You put your hands on your hips.

Hobie surrenders to you once again, at least he gets to hangout with you more. He's already getting ready for the screaming match when you two get frustrated with building the complicated bed frame.

—

You run from the metro station, legs straining, huffing, trying to regulate your breathing. Maybe it's a mistake to wear your new boots to the show, your heels clack against the hard pavement, increasing your chance of stumbling and breaking your ankle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! You internally curse. You promised the band you'll be there for their final show, I can't believe I overslept! Please tell me they're not on yet! Regretting sleeping late because of your project. You shouldn't have made that complicated embroidery.

You skid to a stop, holding up your ticket to show the security guard. He nods stiffly, you practically run towards the side of the stage, dodging the growing crowd. You quickly gaze over the large stage, finding the staff still setting it all up. Yes! They haven't started yet! Smiling victoriously.

You stop, heels skidding to a halt, smile fading away when you see an unknown woman right next to Hobie, whispering closely to his ear, bare arms around his neck, fingers fiddling with the metal chain he always wears.

Oh

A/N: This chapter made me miss my chaotic OCs 🥺 Thank you for reading! Consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️

(please tell me if I missed any asterisks, they're placeholders for me during drafting. I feel like I missed some lol)

*pictures above are from pinterest*

[qqueenofhades]

Your tags on the Dreamling/Good Omens cross over have me frothing at the mouth and I just need you to know that if you were to write that “Crowley stumbles into the New Inn” fic, I would be highly supportive of your life choices

The place isn't otherwise busy. It's edging into the lull period of late afternoon, when the day drinkers have shuffled out and the evening drinkers aren't quite off work, when there are only a few tourists taking snaps for the 'gram and the bartenders are out back for a cigarette break by the bins. Hob is sitting at his usual table, confronted with a pile of papers, a brewing catastrophe about the autumn schedule that for some reason he is expected to sort out, three passive-aggressive emails from Philippa about the prospect of him becoming Head of School next year (not on your fucking immortal life, mate) and other mundane academic crises, when the door flies open and a bloke at the end of his rope staggers in.

Thing is, Hob knows this particular bloke, at least by casual sight. He's been in from time to time, has a drink, stares at the wall, looks moody, and goes out again, either to a vintage Bentley filled with houseplants or just the streets of Poplar. Hob has made friendly conversation with him a time or two, knows that his name is Anthony Crowley and he lives in Soho, and he has a husband/boyfriend/life partner of some description who often drives him bonkers (join the club? Though the Stranger isn't even really that). But from the look on Anthony Crowley's face, as much as can be discerned from beneath his ever-present black sunglasses (not really a fashion item one otherwise needs in London), this is a five-alarm fire, and Hob gets up in some concern. "Hey. Mate. Everything -- ?"

Crowley stumbles past him without answering, which is probably only what Hob deserves. He reaches the bar, and since the bartenders are still on fag break and nobody else seems around to do it, Hob scuttles around the back. "Get you something?"

"Beer. Whiskey. Drink. I don't care." Anthony digs in his wallet and flings the first assortment of bills he can find at Hob, which is far more than it costs for a drink even in this terminally overpriced city. "Make it strong. Want to forget my own fucking name."

"Right. Got it." Hob only worked the bar when the New Inn was first opened and they were still hiring staff, but he hasn't forgotten. He selects a Scottish whiskey, neat, and pours it into the bottom of a tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Anthony throws it back without even seeming to breathe and shoves the glass in search of another, and Hob frowns. "Oy. Take it easy."

Crowley mutters something about that being the last thing he intends to do, thanks, and Hob's curiosity, the one thing that has often propelled him through the centuries, gets the better of him. "Not my place," he says cautiously. "But is everything, y'know? All right at home? Your, uh, partner, is he -- "

The effect of this utterance is not dissimilar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Crowley rears back, looks for a moment like he's going to bolt, and is only prevented by Hob strategically shoving the refilled whisky glass into his hand. He tosses it down the hatch without turning a hair, wipes his mouth raggedly with the back of his hand, and with that, and no further prompting, launches into an absolutely nutty jeremiad. Something about Heaven and Hell, something about Aziraphale (that's his partner's name, yes) being a stubborn angelic idiot who's going to get himself killed, something about people named Gabriel (also an angel?) and Beelzebub (also a demon -- wait, demon?) running off together and he just thought -- he thought -- like a bloody fool he thought they could -- but no. Nooooooooo.

"Er," Hob says at the end, blinking hard. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"Course you don't." Crowley heaves a heavy sigh. "Even though you're not an ordinary human, I suppose it's just too...." He searches for a word, slurs a little on the end (maybe that whisky, of which he has just chugged the third glass, is having an effect on him after all), and enunciates with bitter, drunk precision. "Ineffable."

"Wait. What?"

"You're Robert Gadling." Crowley tips his head like an owl, trying to size Hob up in his progressively more lubricated state, and his dark glasses slide to the end of his nose, revealing lucent golden eyes beneath. "The special one. The immortal one. Right?"

Hob opens his mouth. Hob shuts his mouth. He realizes vaguely that it's quite possible Crowley has not, in fact, been talking in convoluted celestial metaphors the whole time. "How did you...?"

"I know your boyfriend," Crowley snaps. "Bit bloody full of himself too, isn't he? He and Az -- Azz-- Aziraphale probably sit around having secret societies for technology-hating, stuck-up, idiotic, holier-than-thou, utter total fucking prigs who can't use their words and constantly deny their feelings, eh?"

"My boyf -- " All at once, Hob feels as if a grand piano has been dropped on his head from a great height, like something out of an old cartoon. Yes, things with the Stranger are going well-if-you-squint, ever since their last meeting here: the idiot actually turned up, he apologized, he smiled, they had a long conversation, there were definite sparks. Considering the last, er, six hundred years or so of dismal precedent, that's a low bar, but still. "Afraid," Hob says at last, "he and I -- well, we aren't exactly like that, but -- "

Crowley keeps staring at him like he desperately wants Hob to sit him down and give him a clinic in how to get with the fussy, standoffish, excessively rules-bound immortal being he has been, evidently, also bloody pining after for Christ only knows how long. "Why not?"

"Ah." Good question. Hob isn't sure. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." Crowley stares moodily at the mirrored bar. "Sure. Yeah. Six thousand bloody years of complicated."

"Did you say six thousand -- ?"

"Yeah." Crowley holds out the glass again. "More."

Hob's mouth is still open. He's going to say something, but he doesn't know what. Six thousand years? God's wounds. He and the Stranger, at their piddly six hundred, are practically fucking married.

(He gets Anthony Crowley another drink, on the house. Can't help but feel that the poor bastard deserves it.)

[karalynlovescake]

Dreamling AU that I might have to write where Dream's siblings literally can't help him out of the fishbowl even if he asks because Reasons, but in this scenario they actually feel bad about it so they all just kind of decide as a group to keep an eye on his boyfriend Hob. Death is obviously great company and they get along well and Desire is like "i know about ALL your fantasies you kinky bitch, you're so great for my repressed big brother," and makes sure to spend the late 70's and 80's sending a variety of pale goth men in his direction. Despair shows up at the bar to keep him company when he's depressed enough to drink himself unconscious. Destruction actually met Hob once in the early 1600's and that didn't turn out well for Hob so he just sends a postcard from wherever like , "good luck, hang in there, my brother's an idiot but he's got it in him to not fuck things up this time." Delirium actually met Hob back in the early 1800's when he was doing a lot of opium, and she takes him to raves and concerts. They run one of those unofficial drug checking stations together because Del hates it when her big sister shows up to collect the people she is trying to party with.

Dream gets out and everyone is like, welcome back, we've been taking care of your boyfriend for you, and Dream (who is well aware that he stormed out on Hob and then didn't see him for 133 years) is like my what? And he gets invited to the next family dinner and Dream is like ??? And Destiny's just like, I got outvoted, he can stay.

[statisticallymorelikely]

trigger warning: choking, vomiting, blood

thinking about hob with hanahaki disease

hob finds his first petal days after their 1789 meet-up. he figures it's divine punishment of some sort for his trade. perhaps this is why his stranger had steered him away from it. he works hard to atone and repair the damage he's done. and there are no more petals.

he has his second bout a few decades after as he's enjoying a friendly cup of tea with an industrialist with gorgeous blue eyes. the red petals are stark enough against his handkerchief that it could be mistaken for blood. he knows it's not consumption, but he fakes his death fairly quickly after that.

hob searches for an answer but refuses to believe the one he found.

after his disaster of a meeting with his stranger, he hacks up a full flower, a bright red poppy tinged dark with his blood. he clenches it in his fist as his body is racked with coughs all night. by morning, he has enough to make a bouquet.

the red reminds him of the ruby hanging snug against his stranger's delicate neck. he coughs up three more flowers and finally believes what he's read. his condition worsens and it's only in his sleep where he has some respite.

he spends a few decades trying to find a cure, but all roads point to two impossibilities. his stranger would never love him back and hob would rather die than give up the part of himself that hopes he will.

so he moves on, tries to live his life as best he can with a garden of poppies growing in his lungs. each breath is more painful than the last and even sleep has ceased being a comfort. but at least he gets to be there as humanity prospers.

he witnesses people fight for their rights, reach for the sky then the stars. he watches them build a better world, destroy that world and rebuild anew with hope upon hope upon hope. he's there sharing in the people's joy and sorrow and each night he thinks of his stranger and prunes the stems crawling up his throat.

by the time he walks up to the white horse in 1989, he had forgotten what breathing normally felt like, especially this last year when the anticipation clawed at him from the inside. when his stranger fails to show up, he goes home sloshed and spends the night on his knees, sobbing and vomiting blood and flowers and acid all over his flat, choking on his own despair incarnate.

he wakes up gagging on a poppy plant in his mouth. he rips it out from deep within him with a gasp and tries to get what little air he can into his abused lungs.

hob starts to think is it even worth living with all this misery.

but then he starts to clean up his mess, picks up the forlorn plant he just pulled out of himself and can’t bring himself to throw the pathetic thing away. this thing, his love, is part of him, and idiot that he is he can't bear to see it die. it's the only thing he has left of his stranger and so he puts it in his flower bed and it grows into a riot of red.

when he buys the new inn and eventually inherits it as his son, he moves to the flat upstairs and brings his plants with him. the inn's planter boxes are soon teeming with life and it gives his patrons something lovely to look at. when people tell him how talented a gardener he is, he jokes that he put his blood, sweat and tears into those things.

years pass. being in a place that is devoted solely to his stranger aggravates his sickness further and he's barely able to talk most days now, even though he prunes every morning and night now. he's gotten used to the sensation of something lodged in his throat, the physical manifestation of the words he'd never had the courage to say. he takes comfort in this small life he's built here as he waits, thankful that it affords him the luxury of watching people be people everyday.

hob is working on the pub's account ledger one day when his stranger walks into the inn. you're late, he wheezes. he can see the shock and maybe pity, in his stranger's eyes. he wonders if he looks worse than when he was starving for 80 years.

when his stranger calls him friend, hob smiles, unable to offer more. he feels a bud bloom against his tongue.

when his stranger tells him his name, dream of the endless, hob rolls it quietly in his mouth until he gives into the temptation and says it aloud, just once. dream. a single petal flutters out and hob is not quick enough to hide it.

when dream picks it up, rubbing it delicately with long fingers, hob knows he understands what it means.

how long have you suffered? does it matter, hob thinks. outwardly, he shrugs and flags a passing waiter, signing for two glasses of wine.

dream surprises him by actually drinking with him, a rare occurrence in these past six centuries. but then his stranger has changed a lot, seeming softer and more subdued though no less regal. learning he's the king of dreams put quite a few pieces of the puzzle into place, though it does dash away his hopes for a favorable conclusion. what could a king want with someone like him?

per tradition, hob tells him of all he's seen this past century and change. he struggles through the first sentence but is immediately relieved when dream signs back his response. he tells dream about advances in transportation, and about a beautiful train journey he went on up the alps, and about seeing a man walk on the moon for the first time and about smartphones, and the wonderful and terrible things that people can do with them. he tells him about his students when he used to be a professor back when we could still talk and about the lovely lady who taught him how to sign.

dream listens with a wistful expression and the occasional word or smile. hob wonders if that's compassion he sees in his eyes, or perhaps guilt. but he doesn't know what for, after all, hob did this to himself. or maybe because he knows that a confession unaccepted will still keep a garden in hob's chest.

when the night grows too late, the bar staff drop by to shoo them away, but hob tells them he'll close up instead.

you own this establishment? dream asks when they're alone, a little in awe. hob nods, biting at his lip and stamping down the ache in his chest, swallowing words and flowers alike.

you built a pub for me. dream takes hob's hand and squeezes it once.

i have caused you incredible pain and yet you created something beautiful out of it. hob's pulse picks up and tendrils start to crawl up his throat. he knows, of course, he knows. poppies, hob. your sickness is not subtle. but it does have its laws.

dream stands and pulls hob up with him, tugging him close. tell me. confess to me and be free.

it'll take everything hob has to get the words out, body shaking as the effort takes what meager oxygen he has in his body. but dream's hand is tight in his own, and there's promise in his galactic blue eyes and hob is so, so tired and there's really nothing left to lose. so with bloodied petals in his mouth, hob whispers, i love you, dream of the endless.

and i you, hob gadling. dream presses the words right into his temple and hob feels something unclench in his chest. he then spends the next few minutes on all fours, hacking out what seems to be an entire field of poppies until the roots finally come out and for the first time in over a century, hob gasps and fills his lungs with sweet, sweet air.

he collapses to the side and just lies there, taking one lungful after the other. when he next regains awareness of his surroundings, dream is sitting beside him on the floor, hob's hand clutched in his, relief painted across his face when hob finally smiles dopily up at him.

hello, stranger. hob grins before pulling dream in by the lapels and smashing their lips together. he feels more than hears dream huff a laugh, his plush lips cold, yet soft against his.

hello, beloved.

[samsalami66]

Here we go again with a fun little drabble, this time for a spontaneous Knight!Hob and Prince!Dream au (which will probably get a few more additions lmao). It all started with my lovely @im-not-corrupted handing me the prompt "you know, it's ok if you're not ok" from this wonderful prompt list.

----

Dream ran down a corridor, his coat billowing behind him like an angry cloud of black smoke, set to destroy everything that would dare to stand between him and this God-forsaken door deep within the bowels of the castle. 

Dream ran, and it was the first time Dream remembered running since his childhood years, when he had been a naught but a babe, excited to explore every nook and corner of the massive palace that he called his home. Of course the first time he was forced to engage in such physical activity in as many years, it would be Hob Gadling's fault. Because it was always Hob Gadling's fault, from the moment he stepped foot into the throne room and announced he would become Dream's personal guardian, a Knight in his name alone, loyal to none other than the Prince of the Dreaming. 

What is he at fault for? a curious reader might ask, and Dream would whirl around on his heel and give a whole list of things Sir Robert Gadling could be blamed for, if only indirectly. 

For the blush he forced onto Dream's pale cheeks anytime their gazes met over a particularly boring dinner with his family. Perhaps also for the way Dream's heart skipped a beat whenever Hob spoke up to the King and Queen on his behalf, a feat so terrible even the most noble of men had failed before him. Good thing Hob was no nobleman, no son of high houses nor of new money. 

He was an idiot, first and foremost. A talented, quick witted and patient idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. After all, who just waltzes into a room with the King and Queen in it and promises undying loyalty to their adolescent son who no one particularly likes and expects it to simply work? And who decides to simply enter a jousting match without any former training or experience for fun?

Hob Gadling, of course, which was just one more example of things he could be blamed for. 

Nil consideration for his own physical well-being. 

Idiot. 

Dream was about to say as much as he threw open the door to Hob's chambers, but every ill thought spent towards his Knight's stupidity was immediately dropped as Dream found him hunched over the back of his armchair, one hand clutching at his bare chest as it rose and fell in quick succession. 

God's wounds, Dream had seen how Hob got shoved out of his saddle, how the lance had connected with his armor plate and sent him flying from his horse in one spectacular arch. But he never could have guessed just how bad it must have hurt, even through the steel and cloth. The bruise on Hob's chest was an angry black, his sides spotted with a deep red where his ribs were most definitely fractured. 

"Hob," the name left Dream's lips like a plea, like God's name would fall from a sinner's lips who prayed for salvation. And he did pray for salvation, in a way. Not his own, but salvation from endless pain nonetheless.

The man in question looked up between sweaty brows, a pained grimace painting his usual smile an ugly gray. Dream found himself by his side faster than lightning, hands coming up to hover helplessly over Hob's chest. 

Hob sighed at the concern clearly plastered into every corner of Dream's face, the way his lips tugged downwards in an obvious display of his dislike for the position he found Hob in. 

"Don't you worry for me, my Lord. I'm… fine. I'm fine, I promise." 

Tragically, the trustworthiness of this statement was negated by a heavy cough wrecking Hob's body, which left him groaning in pain over his injuries. 

"You are not fine, Robert Gadling," Dream hissed in response, hands finally coming to a rest on Hob's back. "Which is. Alright. It is alright if you are not alright. Just, please, lay down, my friend. You must rest."

Thankfully, Hob did not fight Dream as he was pushed towards his bedroom, and neither did he when Dream gently pressed him down into the mattress with a careful hand to his shoulder. His breath was still heavy and his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at Dream, something vulnerable hidden behind the dark brown of his eyes that Dream could not quite decipher in the near darkness of the bedroom. 

"Will you stay? My Lord?" Hob whispered, apparently balancing carefully between the realm of sleep and the world of the waking. 

"No duty could possibly force me from your side, my half-witted Knight." Dream responded quietly, his heart warming considerably at the soft smile that crept into his friend's eyes at the endearment, before they eventually fell close and Hob got pulled into deep and restful slumber. 

Dream placed a single feather-light kiss to the dark spot on Hob's chest before settling into the other side of the bed, his eyes fixed on the slowing rise and fall of Hob's breast. 

Hob Gadling really was an idiot.

Dream's idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

[dragon-kazansky]

Veil of the dreamless

Morpheus x Reader

A cursed Morpheus holds your father prisoner when he enters The Dreaming without permission. You, also able to enter the realm, take his place. Now a prionser to the Dream Lord, you do all you can to learn about the curse and hopefully break it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Nine - Sibling rivalry

☆☆☆

Hob leads you to the tavern. He opens the door and lets you go inside first. He keeps a hand on your back, gently guiding you to where he wants you to go. He leads you to the back.

At the very back sits a woman alone. She is sitting facing you, a smile on her face as you approach. You've seen this woman before. She was stood outside the tavern before it was even open before you entered The Dreaming.

"You."

Her smile widens. "Yes."

"This is Death. She is the older sister of our dear Dream." Hob explains.

"You're his sister?"

Death nods her head. "I am. Hob has told me you had taken your father's place in The Dreaming. That was very brave of you. How is my brother?"

"He's... been better. He needs help." You tell her.

"I know, but only you can help him."

"How? He wouldn't tell me how."

"Of course he didn't." Death chuckles. "My brother is an idiot."

"Please." You lean forward. "Tell me how I can help him."

"Do you love him?" She asks.

You state at her. She is waiting for you to answer. Your heart races. You know the answer to that question.

"Yes."

She smiles. "He deserves to be loved. You must tell him before the last petal cracks."

"What?"

"That's how you break the spell."

Hob looks at you gently. "If Morpheus could get someone to love him as he is now, the spell would break. However, all he does is push people away. He sent you back, I believe, because he was falling for you."

"But..."

"I shall send you back to him, but you must he careful. Desire plays games. Do not let your guard down." Death says.

"Okay... Send me back."

☆☆☆

Morpheus sunk down on the stairs to his throne. He buried his face in his claw like hands and sighed quietly.

The silence of the palace was haunting him. When you were here, there was life in these walls. Now that life was gone.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, but they did not belong to Lucienne. He knew her footsteps.

"My my, big brother. How the mighty fall."

Dream lifted his head to see Desire walking toward him. He glared at his sibling. He knew his time was almost up. The rose had barely any petals left. In fact, he was certain it was down to the last one.

"Came to gloat?"

"I won't deny, I'm here to see me win." Desire smiles. "I really got you this time, didn't I? The price is steep."

"Death would be more welcome." Dream says.

"Oh? Shall I request our sister join us then? Will she put you out of your misery?" Desire teases.

"If I ask."

Desire scoffs. "You're no fun like this. Where is the rose? I'd like to see it."

Morpheus sighs and stands. He leads Desire uo to his room where the rose sits. The last petal was already cracked. Once it shattered, that would be it.

"You let them go knowing the curse wouldn't be broken without them?" Desire grins. "Foolish brother."

"I let them go because they deserve better than anything I can give them."

"Fool."

Dream turns to his sibling. "This will be the last game you ever play."

Desire chuckles. "Oh, exciting~"

Morpheus prepares for a fight. If he goes, Desire goes with him.

☆☆☆

You find yourself standing on the bridge to the palace. Death is holding your hand. She has brought you back. Hob promised he would go back to your father and tell him everything.

You let go of Death's hand and ran across the bridge. All you could think about was getting to Morpheus and telling him how you felt. You just hoped you had enough time.

You ran through the grand doors and wondered which way to go. Where was he?

Matthew came flying in and looked relieved to see you. "You're back! Come quick! I think they might kill each other!" He flew up the stairs.

You felt fear set in and chased after him. Matthew led you to Dream's room. It was even messier than before. You eyes catch sight of the rose. The last petal was barely together.

"This way!" Lucienne calls. "Hurry!"

You ran after her, following her up some stairs you hadn't seen before. They go up and up and up. Matthew flies right over you. You reach the top of the tower to find Dream and Desire fighting each other.

"Morpheus!" You gasp.

He turns and looks at you. You shouldn't have called out. Desire takes the chance to push him down to the ground and stand over him.

"No use trying. Your time is nearly up." Desire grins.

"Don't hurt him!" You call out, stepping a little closer.

"Don't!" Morpheus says, looking at you.

"Please don't hurt, Morpheus." You plead.

Desire chuckles. "You came back for him? That's a first." Desire looks back down at their brother. "Your time is up."

"No! I love him!" You yell.

Morpheus looks up at you. His eyes are wide.

Desire looks at you and then down at Dream.

"I love him," you repeat.

The last petal on the rose crumbles. There is nothing left. You look at Morpheus.

Desire watches. Nothing happens. Desire laughs. You feel tears brimming as you rush over to Morpheus. Desire back away and let's you get close.

"You came back?" Morpheus asks softly.

You cradle his face. "I came back to tell you I love you..."

He smiles softly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You did nothing wrong. I spoke to my father. I spoke to Hob. I even met your sister. She allowed me to come back here so I could see you again."

Morpheus leans into your touch. "I love you too."

You smile and lean in. He leans in, too. The kiss is the most magical feeling ever. His lips are so soft.

Before you know it, a gust of wind picks up, and Morpheus is surrounded by feathers. You have to let go of him as they explode everywhere. You're left looking a pile of the black feathers.

"Morpheus?"

He sits up. Feather falls away from around him. You can see his face. His actual face. Black fluffy hair sticks up from his head and his bright blue eyes have never been clearer.

"Morpheus." You smile.

He smiles at you.

Desire no longer smiles.

You have done it. You've broken the curse.

Morpheus stands up and reaches for your hands. You take hold of his with a bright smile on your face. He leans in and kisses your forehead softly.

Death enters the tower and looks at Desire. "You should go."

Desire chuckles and then leaves. Maybe next time.

Death turns to her brother and smiles at the sight. He's in love, and someone loves him. She's happy for him. She takes her leave.

Morpheus does not let go of your hand. He never wants to let go again.

☆☆☆

@littleblackcatinwonderland - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @missdreamofendless - @intothesoul -

[endlessnightlock]

The Weight of Attraction

aka The Thicc Katniss Story

An In-Panem Everlark a/u

Imagine a world where a canon Katniss Everdeen is not a tiny, underfed girl. Picture her as more...substantial. Big ol' butt. A rounded belly. Broad shoulders. Tatas for days. A girl who is much like the author of this story (lol). Transport yourselves to this world, and enjoy your stay.

"I'm sorry, that's all I've got today," Katniss apologized. "Caught some tracks today--- a lynx or something is hanging around my spot. Scared most the game away." 

She didn't add that cold months weren't ideal for hunting. Sae already knew that; she'd spent enough years cooking her "winter special" entrail and tree bark stew to think otherwise. No matter what was in the pot, folks still had to eat. They were, for the most part, grateful to have it. 

Still, the two women frowned at the scrawny hares laid out on the back counter. Realists, both of them, but even they hoped for a proverbial bone to be thrown their way occasionally. Sae sighed. It was a soft little noise that held no trace of censure. "Ah, tis alright. With the roots you brought yesterday, I can make it stretch in the pot. Boil the bones till there's nothing left of them. Still got salt. Salt goes a long way to making anything palatable."

Sae's stand was tucked in a back corner of the Hob. Due to location, it should have afforded some privacy for their trades and conversation. But privacy was difficult to find, and soon enough, a voice that made Katniss cringe piped up from the counter where folks came for a bowl of Sae's stew. 

"What's the matter, not enough meat on their bones? Didn't leave enough in the woods for anyone else to eat?" the man asked.

Katniss had thought she and Sae were alone but of course. Shit. No such luck. Darius invariably showed up at the Hob when she did, like he was equipped with a sturdy girls radar. It wouldn't break her heart if that one bit of luck failed him. It was her turn to sigh. 

Darius was, while not threatening, very much a shithead. Sae insisted he had a yen for Katniss, "pay him no mind. He teases ya like a little boy would in school. Too tongue-tied to make an intelligent remark. Looks like a sick sheep, that one."

If Darius hankered for Katniss's company, bringing up her plump figure wasn't getting him anywhere. Or just commenting on anything to do with her looks in general. 

Not that she found Darius handsome. Blech.

"Keep that up, and you'll be getting nothing in your bowl today," Sae chided the redheaded Peacekeeper mildly. She stayed neutral regarding customer spats, at least in front of them.

"Nar, don't do that. I was only having some fun with her," Darius said. 

On a practical level, because Katniss was nothing, if not that, she knew she was fortunate to have a little meat on her bones living in a place like Twelve, where food was difficult to come by. 

Extra padding in the winter probably kept her from freezing out in the woods, but why anyone thought she wanted to hear their opinion about her body was beyond her. Just because there was a little more of her didn't mean she was open to any and all comments. It made her feel like she and her body were separate beings. There was Katniss, who lived inside her head, and then there was Katniss, who was stuck inside her legs, her ass, her chest. 

"You're a fucking idiot. No wonder you're sitting alone in the barracks every weekend. I wouldn't talk to you either if I were a woman," another Peacekeeper, whose voice Katniss didn't recognize, chided Darius, piquing her interest.

"Ha! I get plenty far with them, thank you very much."

"Sure you do," the other man said condescendingly. "Lots of dates with Sally-five-fingers is more like it."

Katniss had to choke back her laughter; she wouldn't openly encourage whoever was digging at Darius because that wasn't her. That didn't mean she didn't enjoy hearing disparaging remarks slung his way, though. Having her thoughts echoed in solidarity was good for a mood boost. 

After schooling her features into something neutral, Katniss glanced over her shoulder, immediately catching the eye of the unfamiliar Peacekeeper accompanying Darius. 

Despite not knowing him, the new Peacekeeper shot her a boyish grin, and she wanted to laugh at his cheekiness. A charmer, that one. 

Katniss suddenly knew with absolute certainty, call it intuition or the sight or what have you, the Peacekeeper had been looking her over. But not like Darius, who she was sure thought of her like a nice bit of pork at the butcher shop. Katniss was an anomaly in Twelve, where most women were near-skeletal in mid-winter from lack of nutrition. The new Peacekeeper gazed at her more as if she was impossible not to look at. 

It was a silly impression to hold of a man she'd not been formally introduced to. But hold onto it, she did, because she found him more than worth looking at.

Katniss tore her glance from his smiling eyes but scolded herself for her cowardice. It was alright for her to return the favor of looking each other over. Even if scrutinizing the new Peacekeeper left her itchy inside her skin like pins were pricking at every nerve. 

Darius might be tall, Katniss decided, but the new Peacekeeper was much taller. He practically dwarfed her, a near-impossible feat among most men she'd met. 

The man effortlessly bestowed a feeling of not sticking out like a sore thumb on her. Because he wasn't just tall but very broad-shouldered, the sleeves of his white uniform straining over an obviously thick chest and arms. 

A little jolt ran down Katniss's spine at the completely new and unexpected reaction to another person. She even wondered what he might look like underneath his clothes. She'd never contemplated what a man might look like naked. 

Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she clenched them into fists, telling her hands to behave themselves. They couldn't reach out to a stranger.

The Peacekeeper was fair-skinned. His eyes were blue, and his hair was ash blond, like the merchant class who ran the shops in town. His skin was ruddy from the January air and perhaps some embarrassment at nearly getting caught staring at her ass. He didn't realize she knew exactly what he'd been up to. He thought he was in the clear, staring at her ass like he'd been. But no. Katniss was sure of it. He'd been staring at her ass.

"And who might you be?" Sae asked the handsome ass-looker, assessing him casually. She turned back to Katniss and raised her eyebrows in approval. Katniss pointedly ignored her. As if she couldn't see with her own eyes.

"Peeta Mellark," the Peacekeeper said, sliding onto one of the tall stools on the customer side of Sae's front counter. 

"A Mellark. Now that you say it, you look a bit like the baker Mellarks. Surely you're related."

"In town? Yeah, I think so. My dad said we had some far-reaching relations here. I come from Seven," Peeta supplied, unconcerned by the questions Sae most certainly did not pump your everyday 'Keeper for at their first meeting. 

Sae sucked air in through her teeth. "Heard they grew 'em big out in Seven. And they were right. And a Mellark to boot! How interesting. Katniss, don't you think that's interesting?" she added, dragging Katniss's attention away from the width of Peeta's shoulders where her eyes kept invariably drifting. 

Katniss didn't mean to stare. She just couldn't look away from him.

Peeta Mellark met her eye. "Katniss?" 

Katniss nodded her assent, hating the heat in her throat and face. Her voice would have trembled if she'd tried to speak or come out high and thin.

"That's an unusual name," Peeta said as if waiting for more of an answer from her. Like he had to know more about her.

"Our Katniss is a bit of an unusual person," Sae said when she sensed Katniss floundering under his attention. "Takes good care of her family."

"Family. Are you married? Do you have children?"

Sae's smile stretched wide enough to expose those gaps in the back of her mouth where teeth hadn't resided for years at his question. "Our Katniss has no husband or children, just one sister and mother. Tis a pity no one's offered for her yet."

"Sae," Katniss said.

"I have a hard time believing no one's offered for her," Peeta said. 

Sae turned away to ladle stew into bowls and slide them in front of Peeta and Darius, the latter of whom might as well have disappeared with so little attention he was being paid. 

"Maybe she's picky. Those who can care for themselves have room to be so. Perhaps she has no use for men."

"None so far, but I'm thinking that'll change. You got to admit, she's a good-looking girl, right?" Sae prodded.

"Stop," Katniss begged, pressing her back against the wall and crossing her arms over her stomach, wishing she could melt into the sooty walls. She'd developed this stance after puberty hit her right between the eyes---self-defensive and emerging whenever she was nervous or anxious. The goal was to disappear into her father's worn leather jacket, where she wasn't scrutinized as much. 

But she'd left his coat on Sae's back counter. With the thin shirt, she'd thrown on in the wee hours of the morning and promptly forgotten about, crossing her arms over her stomach only accentuated her breasts, pushing them farther up and out until she realized too late there was cleavage peeking out the neckline of her shirt.

Darius made a strangled noise that had Katniss instantly furious. "Wow, you ought to wear that shirt more often. Really brings out...your eyes," he said, definitely not looking at her eyes.

Ass.

Well, that was enough time at the Hob for one day, Katniss decided suddenly. She wouldn't be trotted out like a prize breeding swine on the auction block and then poked fun at on top of it. "You're a twit," Katniss hissed at Darius. She turned away from the three, grabbing her coat and game bag. "Sae, we can settle up later," she said. 

Katniss never settled up later, not when they all existed on the margins, but she was that anxious to go.

"Sure we can," Sae told her. Sounded amused, even.

KPKPKPKPKPKPKP

Katniss ran into Peeta a few days later at Sae's counter, where he sat working his way through a bowl of stew. Minus Darius, fortunately. 

Katniss had thought about Peeta a lot, but she'd also spent a fair amount of time considering how she would make Darius pay for his comment about her breasts. Maybe ask Sae to slip a pinch of foxglove in his bowl next time he shows up. Giving Darius the shits would do plenty to soothe her mind. 

Dismissing pleasant thoughts of revenge she most likely wouldn't act on, Katniss walked past Peeta to trade with Sae. This time he kept his eyes off her ass as she rounded the counter to the back table. She was a little disappointed. "That's a nice-looking bird," he remarked as she unloaded a pheasant from her bag.

Katniss cocked an eyebrow at him. Yes, Peeta was handsome as they come, but was he asking her to talk to him, a Peacekeeper, about her hunting, which the Capitol most certainly regarded as poaching? 

"Don't worry," Peeta pushed his now-empty bowl across the counter and wiped his mouth. "I wouldn't shoot myself in the foot that way, so to speak. Enjoying the fruits of your labor too much. That's just. Really impressive."

She tipped her chin up, meeting his eye. Any pretense of flirting pushed back. "Alright then," she said. "Just see that you don't, Peeta Mellark." 

He smiled when his name crossed her lips.

After collecting her bowl of the day's stew, Katniss took the stool beside him. They didn't speak much, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.

KPKPKPKPKP

On a warmer afternoon a week or so later, Katniss was stepping through the scraggly brush leading up to the back entrance of the Hob when Peeta, after glancing around, stepped out one of the rear doors, shoving his face shield up before reaching her side. 

His expression made her frown in confusion. "What's going on?" she asked, tugging on the strap of her bag protectively.

"You can't be here today," he murmurred, tugging on her arm, giving her no chance to broker an argument. He touched her lower back when she resisted and herded her toward the Seam road.

Katniss stared at him in disbelief as they moved, the thoughts inside her head clacking like a sack of coal instead of connecting into coherent thoughts.

"New Head' Keeper," Peeta explained. "This one is bad news. He doesn't let things go like Cray did." He stopped once they were effectively camouflaged behind an oak tree and dropped his hand from her side, stepping back to put a respectful distance between them.

She appreciated his manners but missed his touch immediately. She wouldn't mind a little handsiness from him. Then again, he wouldn't be the respectful man she knew. He'd never even glanced at her ass after the first time.

"Thank you, I guess. Now I owe you one," Katniss told him, hastily shrugging off her jacket and snugging her game bag against her side before sliding the coat back on while Peeta glanced around, making sure they were still alone. 

She should be able to get home unnoticed with her bag hidden that way. But that was just the start of her problems. 

She sighed. She'd have to think of another way to trade until the heat was off. If the heat ever would be off. She'd only known one Head' Keeper her whole life. She didn't imagine it was a position in the corps that opened up often.

Peeta quietly laughed at her disgruntled attitude. "No, nothing owed," he insisted when she scowled at him. "I just wouldn't want to see anything happen to you, that's all."

Katniss caught his eye before looking away and nodding. "Just the kindness of your heart, then," she said softly, heart fluttering in her throat.

"Something like that," he murmurred.

KPKPKPKPKPKPKP

"This way," Katniss hissed, tugging Peeta's hand to get him going as Peacekeepers raced past his inert form to escape the blaze gnawing its way across the rooftops. Hundreds were flooding out the gates away from the fire. The district was on fire. 

Katniss couldn't leave Peeta behind even if she couldn't budge his big dumb ass, not after risking her life just to get to the barracks and warn him. At least her mother and Prim were going to the lake with Gale; she trusted her friend to get them safely in the woods.

Peeta had gone mute in horror and shock at the sight of the destruction, frozen to his spot like that thick layer of ice that sealed in the lake in deep winter, locked in place until spring thaw. Theoretically, Katniss thought, because he was a horse of a man and she couldn't do it herself, he could be forcibly moved, but it would require much more strength than even she had.

Twelve blazed, the hungry fire sweeping through the district, devouring every structure in the Seam and Town. The fire had started in the Hob, flames engulfing the coal-soaked warehouse like dry leaves in a burn barrel, and a stiff wind coming down from the mountainside kept the fire in perpetual motion, allowing it to consume everything in sight.

In desperation, because the heat of the flames was growing stronger at her back, Katniss stood on her toes and grasped Peeta's face, forcing him down to her. She kissed him; it was hard and insistent and inexperienced. His lips were soft, cold, and unresponsive.

Kissing him had probably been a stupid move, but it roused him from his stupor. When Katniss opened her eyes, Peeta stared at her, wide-eyed in stupefaction. He was breathing heavily. She was breathing heavily, too, her heart skipping a panicked rhythm for all sorts of reasons she had no time to separate into neat, labeled boxes. "Peeta, we have to go. You need to come with me. It's not safe here."

"Huh? Yeah. Yeah, okay," he said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Everything is just gone."

Katniss squeezed his hands and then gave them a light tug. "Don't be sorry. Just move. We don't have much time."

Part 1 of 2

What's this? Katniss and Peeta are thrust together by a joint need for survival? Whatever shall they do? ;)

[gabessquishytum]

ok, Selkies then, right? Cool, I got my BA in literature and cultural studies for this moment.

So some neigboring Queen gives Hob this seal fur coat she found. She trying to tell to Hob that she's totally DTF, but Hob is just like "right, thanks," and has the coat put away and doesn't want to think about it cause he's not really ready for the whole marriage thing, it's all stupidly political and complicated and he'd rather just keep the gifts the suitors-to-be send over in a hall where he doesn't have to look at them.

Meal while, Dream has been looking for his coat left and right, and that sucks because he wants to be a seal again. Eventually, he find that it was sold at market to a woman who worked for the queen, and when he tracked her down, the woman informed him that the queen gave it to Hob.

So *heavy sigh* Drean has to go tell Hob that he, Dream, needs his coat back to go back home.

No one will let him see Hob, no one will tell Hob that Dream wants an audience. And Dream has to brake into Hob's bed chambers to demand the coat back.

When Hob wakes up, he sees this man over him and is like "well, something just awoke in me."

But Dream has no time for these sexy shenanigans, he wants his coat back and if Hob could just kindly point him to wear it's being kept, Dream can get it and be on his way home.

And Hob, very happy to be rid of the coat for a good cause, says "I can get that for you," and Before Dream can stop him, Hob get's the coat and hands it to Dream. Dream won't take it, so Hob just drops it in his arms, so Dream can't really refuse him.

Hib gives one of his warm and goes back to bed, but Dream follows him.

Hob explains that he doesnt need permission to leave, and Dream should return home.

And Dream meekly explains that returning the coat like this was akin to a marriage proposals, and Dream taking it basically meant they were married now, and it would be impolight for him to *a-hem* leave his husband wanting on their wedding night.

And Hob doesn't want Dream to feel obligated, but Dream's on board if Hob is, and who is Hob to argue if a beautiful husband gals into his lap?

Hob is like fuck yeah!! I don't have to do all the boring political matchmaking!

But of course he feels super guilty for accidentally trapping Dream into a marriage! He feels like such an idiot. But Dream is like "actually my family sent me onto land to try and find a spouse but things got complicated and I lost my coat so this is good, I can go home and tell everyone that I'm not useless!"

And Hob is like "useless?? Why would your family say that, you're obviously perfect???" And Dream blushes and decides that his new husband is rather lovely, actually.

Turns out that Dream is actually a selkie prince! His family kind of suck and he much prefers being Hob’s consort. Dream tries to let Hob have the coat back to show that he won't run away but Hob refuses because he's determined to let Dream have as much freedom as he needs to be himself. So Dream takes Hob to the sea and they swim together and have sex on the beach as a kind of big Fuck You to Dream’s terrible family.

Hob issues a proclamation that is basically like "if you fucking touch my husband or his coat i will have you personally murdered :))" and I like to imagine that they have lots of lovely little selkie babies together or alternatively adopt some babies who have lost their parents. And when Dream goes back to visit his family, they have to begrudgingly admit that he's done very, very well for himself.

[valiantstarlights]

Does Chef Hob have any tattoos?

Prior to Hob's marriage to Dream, his body is free of tattoos. (There had been one crazy moment when Hob was still a culinary student when he got an intrusive thought to get measurement conversions tattooed on his arms so he wouldn't forget them. Thankfully, he had enough sense left in him not to go through with it.)

When Hob gets married to Dream, he couldn't help but notice that sometimes, Dream looks at him uncertainly. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. This happens rarely enough that Hob doesn't want to bring it up, but the fact that it happened more than once has him fantasizing about finding Dream's ex and beating them up for making Dream unsure about Hob's love for him.

(Dream has yet to tell Hob about his ex. He probably never would. But Hob has heard enough threats from Destruction to conclude that whoever Dream's ex was, they treated him so badly that Destruction would never be able to stop worrying about Dream. Even if he has seen firsthand how good Hob is for Dream, and how Dream is very happy with Hob.)

Hob gets an idea just before his and Dream's one-year anniversary that would hopefully assure Dream that he's gonna stay by his side forever.

Hob asks Dream to write his own name on a piece of paper. Dream is confused but does what he's asked to do anyway. He writes Dream Endless in beautiful, flowing cursive that has Hob tearing up a little.

Hob thanks Dream and goes to get Dream's name in Dream's own penmanship tattooed on the skin right above his heart. It's a shame that he had to shave his chest hair around the area, but it was worth it when he saw the finished product, and the tattoo artist assured him that it would still be visible even after his chest hair fully grows back.

Hob belatedly realizes that, since the tattoo was supposed to be a surprise for Dream, he can't exactly get 100% naked around him until the date of their anniversary. And that's like, a month away.

Hob tries to act normally about this. He's still very affectionate with Dream, still services him with his mouth and fingers and cock. He just can't take his shirt off yet.

Dream, whose last relationship was very not good, notices Hob's strange behavior not a couple of days later. Usually Hob would be tearing off his own clothes after getting Dream's completely off him, but not anymore. They're still having incredible sex, but Hob's mind seems to be somewhere else. He takes longer in the bathroom. They no longer fuck in the shower.

Dream gets increasingly upset. Has he done something wrong? Is Hob covering up hickies from someone else and that's why he doesn't want Dream to see?

Destruction, being Destruction, notices Dream being more quiet and subdued than usual when they visit the next weekend and immediately corners Hob in an unoccupied room far from where the others are.

"What the fuck have you done?"

"Wh-- I haven't done anything!"

Destruction can smell a lie from a mile away, and a second later, there is a flash of steel and something sharp is against Hob's neck. "I said. What. The fuck. Have you done."

Hob is a chef and is very good at handling knives. But he knows, without a doubt, that Destruction is more skilled than he is. He raises his hands in surrender, sighs, and says, "Fine. Get that thing away from me for a second and I'll show you."

Destruction narrows his eyes but allows it. He does not stow away his hunting knife. Hob eyes the knife for a second and concludes silently that Destruction is actually a hitman for hire. He starts to unbutton his shirt.

Destruction panicks for a second, thinking that Hob is gonna try to seduce him to get out of this (which, ew), but then he sees just exactly what Hob is hiding from Dream and he lets out a loud, booming laugh.

"Can I cover it up now?" Hob grouses, "Or are you gonna carve it off my chest? Do you have a filleting knife somewhere on your person too?"

Destruction still hasn't stopped laughing. "You're...you're a fucking idiot, Gadling," he says in between wheezes.

Hob rolls his eyes and buttons his shirt back up. "Tell me something I don't know."

Destruction does a complicated twirl with the knife in his hand, and then suddenly it's gone, sliding back to its sheath hidden under Destruction's sleeve. "Well, for starters, Dream is upset and thinks that you're cheating on him."

Hob's eyes bug out of its sockets. "I would never--"

"Well, yeah, I know that now, but maybe tell him that yourself. Don't wait until your anniversary to show him your surprise because odds are, he'll just think you're gonna leave him on the day itself."

Who the fuck-- "Did Dream's ex--?"

Destruction's face darkens. When he speaks, it's flat but furious. "The only reason I'm not gutting that pathetic excuse of a human being is because they're too important right now. But the moment their usefulness expires and I'm allowed off the leash..."

Jesus. Hob just unlocked Destruction's backstory but he's pretty sure he isn't meant to be hearing these details. "Well," Hob says as lightly as he could. "When you get your hands on them, punch them in the teeth for me, will you?"

Destruction regards him then, the monsters that lurked underneath their skins intent on protecting Dream looking at each other in the eye for the first time. He nods, satisfied. "You got it, Gadling."

"You gonna tell me what your line of work is?"

Destruction smiles like a shark. "Sorry. Classified."

As soon as they get home, Hob sits Dream on their bed and kneels on the floor in front of him. He holds Dream's shaking hands within his own and kisses them.

"You're leaving me," Dream says, and Hob absolutely hates how weak his voice is but how sure he sounds.

"No," Hob tells him firmly. "I...this was gonna be a surprise, but I was advised to show you as soon as possible. I'm sorry if I caused you to become upset. Believe me, that's not my intention at all." He starts unbuttoning his shirt. "I wanted to show you that I'm gonna stay with you forever."

"What could possibly...oh." Dream sees the tattoo of his name written in his own handwriting on Hob's chest, right above Hob's heart. His fingers reach out and caress the skin. Hob shivers. "This is what you made me write my name for."

"Yeah," Hob says. His skin felt especially sensitive with Dream's fingers gently ruffling his still growing chest hair. "You like it?"

"Hob..." Dream looks at him like...like for the first time, he's a hundred percent certain that Hob wouldn't leave him. That Hob will remain true to him. He has Dream's name written on him now, more permanent than a wedding ring. No one would be able to look at Hob now and say that he doesn't belong to Dream. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too, my sweet Dream. Gonna be yours forever."

Dream doesn't have a single tattoo on his body either, but come morning, he's asking Hob to write down his own name on a piece of paper.

Hob does his best to write his name in his neatest possible penmanship, even if it still looks mediocre and messy compared to Dream's impeccable handwriting. Dream doesn't mind. He loves it. He gets Hob's name tattooed in the same place on his body, right over his heart.

The tattoo artist, the same one who did Hob's tattoo, coos at them and halves Dream's fee when they found out that Hob and Dream's anniversary is coming up and that this was their gift to each other.

Hob grins foolishly every time he sees Robert Gadling written on Dream's chest, and he loves kissing over that area as soon as it was healed. Dream also loves running his hands over Hob's chest, his fingers petting Hob's chest hair that grows above the tattoo of his name.

On the date of their anniversary, they went to the beach. It was cloudy, and there were only a few people there, but that was fine. What they wanted was to show off their matching tattoos and have other people know that they were taken, wholly and completely, by the person whose name is written above their heart.

[lenreli]

Day 28 - Scary [Human AU]

[AO3]

Hob is terrified, scared down to his bones as realises what he blurted out. His post-coital self is an even more of an idiot than his normal self, as Morpheus opens his eyes, miles of pale skin, covered in marks and hand prints moves. And Hob wishes to stuff the I love you back in his mouth, wishes that Morpheus would ― do something other than stare with hazy blue eyes. Though hopefully, Morpheus is too blissed out to― 

"You what?" Morpheus says, pronunciations crisp. Well, fuck. 

Utterly, completely devastated, Hob thinks of years of being ghosted and looked over again, like when Morpheus didn't think they were friends, much less the recent 'with-benefits' part of now, so. Groaning, Hob hides his face in the pillow, and decides to just ignore it and hope that Morpheus talks to him tomorrow. "Nothing! I should get going―"

His quick exit is stopped by Morpheus's hand, an iron grip on his arm, and alarm bells blare in his mind as Morpheus stares at him intensely. "You said you loved me," Morpheus accuses, and Hob mildly suppresses a flinch. 

"As a friend," he covers weakly, looking around for his boxer shorts and putting them on one-handed. 

Morpheus's lips pinch, staring at him darkly. "You didn't mean it like that," and Hob bites his tongue to stop the biting retort that also wants to be blurted out, as his mind starts to spin itself into a panic. 

"It can be meant a lot of ways," he breathes, smile tight as he manages to find his shirt and pants on the bed. "Like how you're my best friend," he says, shaking Morpheus's arm off as he finds his denim jacket. "Anyway! Things to do. And make sure to text me the address of that museum for tomorrow," he says quickly, resisting the urge to kiss his best friend's now very confused and almost-offended, almost-angry face. 

Looking around the living room, he procures his wallet from near the door of the flat, and he's opened the door―"Hob!" Morpheus yells from his bedroom, and there's a crash which makes him turn around as Morpheus suddenly appears in front of him, dressed only in his haphazardly put on black dress shirt, collar askew, and that's the only thing he gets before Morpheus pulls him into a kiss. 

Morpheus is panting into the kiss, and a breath mint could be used by either of them, but Hob is shocked as he's kissed deeply, fingers digging into his cheek, and Hob can only blink and gape, mind not understanding as Morpheus ends the kiss with a triumphant sound. 

"I love you too," Morpheus whispers.