#and Hob's scars

[teejaystumbles]

A siren, Hob had thought, when he’d first found the man washed up upon the strand. One of those beautiful creatures of the deep, what tempted Odysseus and drew men to their dooms upon the rocks. He’s rather certain no siren has ever been depicted with tentacles, though. this has taken me almost the whole day and I regret nothing

@moorishflower <3

[banancrumbs]

I really like the concept of Morpheus going to one of Hob’s work events 🤧🤧 or just meeting with his friends!!!

[kittttycakes]

Ooooh kiss on a scar for any pairing involving Hob because I know how you like your Hob with scars!

I HAVE OWED YOU THIS SINCE JUNE OF LAST YEAR  Please enjoy some retired Dream! (Very mildly NSFW at the end, more implied than anything else.)

It was only a matter of time before Hob realized. Morpheus was many things, but he was not subtle in his affections once he let them loose, and Hob had begun to fill in the rough shape of a pattern long before he fully knew quite how much of a thing it had become for him.

Morpheus rolled over in bed, his long limbs splayed half over Hob, taking up far more than his allotted share of the mattress. Hob never complained, although he would occasionally threaten to shove him out of bed; it was an entirely toothless threat, and they both knew it. He was facing Hob, now, affording Hob the perfect view of his face as he woke up in stages: the flutter of his eyelashes, the slight frown and scrunch of his nose that he would resolutely deny if confronted, the slow blink as he opened his eyes. 

“Beloved,” he said, his voice still as low and resonant as it had ever been, unchanged by circumstance. What a pleasure, what a privilege, to have his voice be the first sound he heard in the morning. It took Hob a moment to place the tone of it, the exact same that he had used successfully at least once per week for the past month.

“Absolutely not,” Hob replied, voice still sleep-rough, even as he tightened the grip of his arm around Morpheus, pulling him closer. “I am not popping out to buy you a sausage roll at—” 

Here, he paused, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table with his other hand and squinting at the lit screen. “Five in the bloody morning, why are you even awake?” 

Only half of this interrupted statement was a lie. It actually was just past five in the morning; Hob’s alarm would not sound for another twenty-eight minutes, and a better question was, perhaps, why he himself was awake. 

Rather than replying to anything Hob had said in any human capacity, Morpheus hummed, low in his throat, and pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, directly over the pale, slightly raised scar that resided there. Hob hardly thought of it at all; it had been a part of his face for hundreds of years, and he barely saw it when looking at a mirror, but then, in bed with Morpheus, he realized just how often Morpheus had pressed a similar kiss to that exact spot, and began to wonder.

Twenty minutes later, hastily dressed and on the hunt for sausage rolls, Hob had forgotten all about it. 

-

Morpheus had a minor fascination with Hob’s hands, which Hob was more than happy to indulge him in. If that meant allowing him to map each ridge of them idly as they sat on the sofa, only half watching a documentary that Morpheus had chosen, he would allow it. More than allow it; he would encourage it, offering him his hand whenever he looked like he needed something to do with his own, watching the way the tension seemed to slip for him as he traced the familiar lines of Hob’s palm with his fingertips, his touch light, exploratory even after all this time. It was relaxing, in a way, the pressure never quite enough to be a massage, but soothing, nonetheless. 

He barely realized how intently Morpheus was studying his palm, finally having grown interested in the admittedly complex lives of the tropical fish displayed on the television screen, before his attention was drawn to the base of his thumb by the repetitive motion of Morpheus tracing the same line, over and over, against his skin.

“Taking up palmistry now?” Hob glanced towards Morpheus, smiling; he had no doubt that Morpheus would have Opinions on palmistry and its accuracy or lack thereof, and he looked forward to hearing them. 

“How did you get this?” Morpheus asked, a seeming non-sequitur until Hob realized that he was tracing the scar there. This mark he did remember: he had been awfully young, learning how to properly gut a fish, when his knife had slipped and buried itself in the skin of his palm, bright and sharp and quick as anything. 

Hob answered him, ending with a slight smile. “Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid.” 

Morpheus hummed again, a sound Hob had grown increasingly familiar with over time. This was his inquisitive hum, an indication that, perhaps, he had more to say on the subject, but would let it lie for the moment. Hob was nearly about to ask him what he was thinking when he raised Hob’s hand and pressed a kiss to the scar there, resuming his earlier posture afterwards as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary at all. He hadn’t, not really; the best part of living with Morpheus was just how many times a day he was allowed to kiss him, and to be kissed in return. 

Hob settled back into the worn cushions of the sofa, and thought again: Morpheus had not kissed the palm of his hand. He had kissed the scar.

-

Hob knew how lucky he was. His body could not be killed or destroyed—the latter an assumption that he was not terribly interested in testing out. This did not mean it was entirely unmarred by the ages; some marks had lingered longer than others, and any he had carried before 1389 never left at all. He rarely thought of it, but Morpheus seemed to have a renewed determination to catalogue each and every mark on him. This goal was not exactly new, but once Hob had noticed, it became impossible to ignore. 

He was running rather late, and needed to shower before he could turn up anywhere respectable people might be misfortunate enough to see him. Hob was often thankful for the size of the shower in the flat, but he was especially thankful that morning as he slipped in behind Morpheus, who was standing directly under the shower head in the near catatonic state that Hob now recognized as something that was not a cause for alarm, but merely the time Morpheus required to fully awaken and become human on some days. There were many ways this could happen, the shower being one of them, but they all shared two qualities in common: they allowed Morpheus a period of near silence in which he was not expected to speak unless he chose to, and they allowed him to stay still in whatever position he may have been in. 

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be a minute,” Hob said, careful to keep his voice low and soft. He gently nudged Morpheus to one side, enough to share some of the spray. Morpheus did not appear to either notice or care. 

Hob was nearly finished with his important but perfunctory shower when Morpheus seemed at last to come alive. 

“Hob,” he said, just the one word, in yet another tone that Hob recognized, and reached for him, pulling him in to kiss him softly. He hadn’t yet, that morning, Hob realized. Maybe he had missed it. 

Kissing him a second time was Hob’s mistake, one that ended with him irrevocably running late, any time he had gained through the speed of his shower quickly lost. Morpheus had not stopped kissing him; had, in fact, pressed him rather insistently against the tiled wall of the shower and knelt in front of him in a way that Hob knew his knees would not thank him for later, and then promptly proceeded to put his mouth everywhere but where Hob wanted it most. 

He was rather thoroughly investigating a spot on Hob’s hip with lips and teeth and tongue when Hob realized what was underneath his mouth, and reached down, tangling his fingers gently in Morpheus’s hair, pulling in the way he liked, to tilt his head up towards him. 

“So,” Hob said, fighting to keep his tone light in the face of Morpheus on his knees in front of him. “Should we talk about the thing with the scars, or—”

“I do not have a thing,” Morpheus replied, derisive without any real bite. 

“You most certainly do have a thing. Come on, you can tell me. Is it just that it’s a bit of rough or—”

Morpheus looked up at him, long suffering. “It most certainly is not. It is—you are—you have lived through a great many things. Survived them. Outlived them. There is something somewhat—attractive—about this.” 

The look he was giving Hob was enough to make a lesser man give in, and Hob was only human, after all. “I knew it,” he said, breathless, as Morpheus descended on him again, knowing as he did that he had known no such thing. They were so different, and always had been, but nowhere was it more obvious than in their bodies, the smooth unmarked stretch of Morpheus’s now-human skin. He wondered what would mark it first, what minor accident would lay its claim on him; he did not want him to be hurt, but he did want to see how he would change, in time. They had plenty of it.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[fishfingersandscarves]

hob/despair doodle

[obsessiveagony2point0]

I absolutely adored @cuubism’s wonderful physical therapy fic and needed to at least attempt to draw Dream handing Hob his poor hand.

I tried to look up hand surgery scars but there’s wasn’t a lot so I did my best 😅

Also to cuubism, I'm sorry for the second tagging of this 😅 I'm moving everything and literally just copying and pasting.

Original Post Date: March 4th 2024

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

[cloudyappleart]

Lil doodle inspired by That I Should Wedded-Be by @moorishflower

Yes hob deserves more body hair but consider this; I’m sleeby and this was meant to be just a sketchy doodle. Y’all even got a sort-of background out of me. Anyways good fic yes, dreamling my idiot beloveds.

[i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch]

Hob Gadling that acquires permanent scars during his immortal life my beloved ❤️

[nuttersincorporated]

I want to read a fanfic where, after their reunion, Dream and Hob are hanging out regularly. Then Dream decides to visit Hob in the Dreaming only to find out that Hob is having nightmares about their meeting in 1889 and about the possibility of it happening again.

...

Dream watched as Hob ran after the memory of him.

“Tell you what, I’ll be here in a 100 years’ time! If you’re here then too, it’ll be because we’re friends. No other reason, right?”

The memory of Dream doesn’t look back as he disappears. The real Dream can’t look away as Hob breaks down, falling to his knees in the middle of the street, big ugly sobs forcing their way out of his throat as tears mingle with the rain.

The dream shifts.

1889 Dream is back and looking down at Hob crying.

“Please, I’m sorry,” Hob cries. “I’ll never say it again!”

Hob reaches as if to cling to Dream’s leg but the imagined Dream kicks him away before he can manage it. Hob cries out in pain, clutching a broken nose.

The real Dream gasps in horror but the version of him that Hob sees looks down at him in cold with fury.

“Disgusting,” he spits before leaving again.

The dream shifts again. Dream recognises this place.

He sees himself and Hob sat at a small table, in the tea shop they visited only yesterday. His doppelgänger is half smiling in amusement as Hob recounts an anecdote from his teacher training.

Then Hob does something he hadn’t in the Waking. He reaches across the table and takes Dream’s hand. The smile disappears from his double’s face. He tugs his hand away and Hob blanches as if he’s been struck.

“You dare.”

“I’m sorry!” Hob says quickly. “I didn’t mean…”

Dream sees the anger on his own face, “You were amusing for a while Robert Gadling but you presume too much. I have grown tired of you.”

Dream sees himself stand to leave.

Hob is crying again, “Please, you said you were friends.”

“Enough!” the real Dream commands. The fake Dream disappear leaving only Hob and the real Dream behind in the tea shop. “Oh Hob, I’m so sorry.”

[endlessxdream]

dumping some tags

[chaosheadspace]

You KNOW I’m gonna request 21 with Dreamling for the kissy prompts 🥺

🤘five-and-dimes

Hello @five-and-dimes, thank you for sending in an ask! Here you go.

At first, Dream does not really notice.

After all, he has so much to do when he finally escapes, and Hob is a welcome distraction, a haven where he shores when his duty and the voices of others become too much, too heavy. Hob is safety, Hob is respite, Hob is a breath after surfacing after diving.

Hob helps him acclimatise again, makes humanity palatable in a thousand tiny morsels. Where Dream still feels cold glass, still tastes stale air, still sees painted stars, Hob slowly but surely replaces one hundred years of solitude with little flickers of colour.

Hob feeds him, just a few bites, of every meal he eats in Dream's presence. At first, Dream is hesitant, but he owes Hob, owes him for his loyalty, and a little food cannot harm him, can it? And Dream is surprised, the first time, how hungry his body is. Not for the offered sustenance, no, but for the care with which Hob offers a forkful of his dinner.

Hob's other offerings are easier to accept.

Soft blankets, clothes, even a black plushie called, according to Hob, mothman. He wraps Dream in warm softness, encloses him in the promise of a barrier between him and the recent past.

Television, which Hob is very enthusiastic about. Shows, films, video games. It runs human emotion through Dream on an infinitesimal scale, one at a time, easy, distinct. He tastes laughter again, fear, sorrow, lust, even allows himself to dip his toes into his sister Despair’s realm, but only briefly. The emotion does not have to be his, when he is watching. It is not overwhelming. He can feel it, and let it go. It leaves him exhausted but better, small chunks of himself puzzled into the cracks the past put there.

But Hob does not touch him, not really.

He offers hugs, and cuddles, and readily lets Dream treat him as part of the sofa, putting his feet or his head or his whole self into Hob's lap. But, Dream realises, he has never really felt Hob's touch. A squeeze on his coat-clad shoulder, at most.

It puzzles him, because Hob readily offers and gives touch to other people close to him, Dream has had time to observe. Tight hugs, claps on the back, ruffled hair, clasped hands in earnest conversation, Hob always reaches for people.

But not for Dream.

He recalls countless situations where Hob changed his mind, though. Tentatively lifted his hand, just to take it away again, uncharacteristically shy. If it is shyness at all.

And so it happens that in the middle of the game show they are supposed to be watching, Dream takes one of Hob's hands, startling him.

Hob turns his head, puzzled, trying to jerk his hand away. Dream does not let him. “Wha—”

“Why do you not touch me?” Dream asks softly. He loosens his hold on Hob's hand, turns it over in his grip and gently smooths his index finger over Hob's palm.

Hob releases a trembling breath. “Dream—”

“Please,” Dream says, even quieter, not looking Hob in the eye. Instead, he watches Hob's fingers curl slightly in the flickering light from the TV, trails the mounds of Hob's fingers from index to pinkie.

Hob switches off the TV sound.

“My hands aren't pretty,” he finally says. “They're not soft. They're warrior’s hands, craftsman’s hands, and I thought—” he swallows. “I thought you've had enough roughness in your life for once.”

Dream smiles, just a little. “Tell me,” he says, taking Hob's hand in both of his, “have you not been gentle with me?”

He raises it, cradled, moon white on sun-kissed. “Will these hands not protect me?”

He places a kiss on the knuckle of Hob's thumb, and Hob takes a sharp breath.

“These hands have fed me,” Dream continues, touching his lips to the pad of Hob's index finger. “They have clothed me, garbed me in blankets to ward off the cold.”

Dream's mouth slowly continues its way, feeling out the shape of Hob's calluses and scars, breathing the words into the space between Hob's fingers.

“Your hands will not harm me,” Dream says, carefully placing Hob's hand palm first against his own cheek, “and neither will you.”

A hitching breath, almost like a sob, and then Hob reaches for him with his other hand, drawing Dream in by the back of his head, twining his fingers into Dream's hair. And Dream goes gladly, leans forward into Hob's warmth, follows the call of Hob's lips with his own, tasting care and love and fierceness all for himself.

Send me a kissy prompt or read the other ones here

[banancrumbs]

i know that’s not enough

[hollowtakami]

Hii! I followed you from an old account that for some reason didn't let me make requests, but now I went back to my hawks era and with it came my obsession with his fics.

Aniwaaays, me and reverse comfort are one, so I was wondering if you could show how reader (s/o) comforts Hawks after suddenly reuniting with his father or just see a photo of him. like, idk brings back a lot of bad memories for him and I would like to see some of it if it's not too much trouble <3

I love You btw, and sorry if i bother u with this

content: mentions/implications of child abuse/trauma, reverse comfort, keigo has c-ptsd, him and reader are both trying their best

a/n: hiya anon! it’s no problem at all, i will always enjoy answering asks and writing for my darling kei<3 and thank you sm, that really makes me smile to know that people genuinely enjoy my work! ^^

Keigo saw so much flash before him every time he blinked.

He remembered the way his teeth would grit when he squawked, spat; the way his hands looked before they came down crashing, a tsunami of scarred skin that would scar him just the same.

Be it physically, or mentally.

Keigo found himself paralysed by the picture, printed in black and white. It might as well have been blood soaked into the newspaper, crumbling in the hero’s faltering grip.

For a moment, the avian wasn’t sat at the table with a breakfast, made with love, laid out like a declaration. But for a second, he was a beaten fledgling who’d been plucked of his autonomy.

Keigo blinked. He was holding a newspaper, he was not there.

The poor baby bird on the floor had dared to get up, the one wing that still flapped crushed under the boot of his father.

He was eating breakfast, the sun was on his skin.

Keigo was not there, physically.

You were surfing some butter around a pan, ready to make some scrambled eggs for you and your boyfriend. Letting the butter melt for a moment, you smiled.

Turning around, you beamed, “I’m using butter for the eggs this time, not oil, just like Fuyumi told me!”

Mentally, Keigo was there.

Noticing the way your partner looked as though he had been turned to stone, your heart grew cold. You switched off the gas hob, almost gliding through the kitchen to the dining table where Keigo sat, paralysed.

“Baby?” You whispered, your words falling on death ears.

The newspaper shook in the avian’s hand, your eyes flicking to the front page. There he was, Keigo’s father; Takami The Thief.

When he was drowning under the surface of his anxiety, you knew better than to startle him. You pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Your hand gently covered his like unexpected snow. You felt how cold his skin was, be it from the morning breeze or the fear laced in his blood.

“You’re home, birdie,” you said, clearly. “He’s not here, he never will be.”

Your words were firm, and for a moment you swore you felt Keigo’s fingers twitch under the blanket of your hand.

“I- I feel like, like I can’t breathe,” was all Keigo could say.

You inched closer to Keigo, wrapping your arms around him. Careful not to touch his plumage, as to not trigger him further, you squeezed him in your embrace.

“Smell the flowers, spread the pollen,” you gently instructed, “just like the therapist taught you, yeah?”

Keigo inhaled sharply through his nose, a shaky breath leaving his open mouth soon after.

The two of you repeated these steps together, completely forgetting about your cold breakfast waiting for you on the stove.

“I promise you, Keigo,” you lifted up his bangs, kissing his forehead. “I’m not gonna let him get to you.”

[hobiebrownbrowser]

Date Night

Hobie Brown x FEM!Reader 💜

Summary: Hobie takes you out on a date, A small skating ring tucked away in the crevice of a tall building inside a pub.

It was late at night. The bright lights of the city shining through your window. It was around 11PM. The sound of cars driving past your window as you play some soothing music, Scrolling through your phone to spot something that would clear your everlasting boredom.

You eventually gave up, Letting out a sigh and tossing your phone on the bed. It was a quiet foggy night. Cold air seeping through the crack in your window. You poked your head out, memorized by the stars that lit up the night sky.

You couldn't help but close your eyes, Listening to the music that played from your speaker that was tucked away on your desk, Tapping your finger against the cold window headboard. Not having to deal with any kind of problems tonight.

"Pretty lil thang aren't ya?" You look up a bit startled. A smile soon beaming on your face as a certain punk spider makes his way down towards you. It was Hobie, Hobie Brown that is. The famous punk who happened to also be your boyfriend.

"Only for you Hobs~" Hobie took off his mask, placing his scarred calloused lips on your soft ones, His lip piercing clinging against your teeth. You pulled him closer, a chuckle leaving his throat as he slowly pulled away.

"Seem' like someone's been missin me." You smiled, Opening your window wider for him, Letting the tall 6ft man climb through. You took time staring at his gorgeous eyes. The same smug smirk still plastered on his lips.

You couldn't help but return the look, Placing a peck on his chin. Hobie wrapped his arms around your waist, turning you around until you were face to face with a wide opened window.

You looked up at him a bit confused. A cheeky grin on his face as he tells you to get ready for a special night. You wanted to know where he was taking you but he kept quiet, Teasing out a few hints but you were still stomped. You eventually gave up trying to get it out of him, Looking through your closet to see what you had.

You ended up just picking out something random. Hobie putting a thumbs up even if he wasn't looking directly at you. You rolled your eyes, a chuckle coming out after. You got dressed, Hobie making a few quick glances before you'd caught him staring.

"Like what you see baby?" Hobie raised his brow, grabbing your hand and twirling you around so he could get a good look at you. You could hear him agreeing before a gasp left your lips. The palm of his hand making contact with your ass.

"Yea I do actually luv~" You playfully punched him in the arm, getting the rest of your things and letting Hobie take the lead out the window, Taking your hand in his as he waits for you to get a firm grasp onto his vest, Intertwining your legs with his.

"Ready beautiful?" You nodded, a gust of wind hitting your face as he swings above the alarming city. You leaned in on his shoulder, clinging onto him until his feet had hit the ground. You slowly peeked around, A purple neon sign catching your eyes as Hobie leads you down a small stairway tucked in a back alley.

He swings the door open and steps aside, Dozens of people skating with loved-ones. Genuinely having a good time. You gave Hobie a questioning look that was replaced with laughter, Letting him lead you inside and towards a small bar in the corner.

"Ayo, what up young chap!" The bartender greeted Hobie with a handshake. Hobie returning the favor by giving him a high five.

"This my gal I've been talkin' bout. She the sweetest person I've eva met." You shyly wave, the bartender greeting you with a salute before handing Hobie a few drinks he ordered. You take a small sip, your mouth curling as he'd ordered tequila.

"Too strong luv? I can get sum' else for ya." You shook your head, swallowing the tequila like it was nothing. He praised you for your brave actions, Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. You couldn't help but feel flustered.

He smirked, placing a finger under your chin and pulling you closer to him. You hummed as you can taste the bourbon on his tongue. Wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to get as close as possible to him. You whined once he pulled away, chugging the rest of his drink down before leading you to the skating course.

Hobie helped you put on your skates, slowly leading you to the ring. He immediately wraps his arms around you, Matching his rhythm was easy, placing your head against his chest as you both let the music tingle your ears.

You could feel the alcohol starting to kick in, Closing your eyes and letting the man you love lead you anywhere. Shivers sent down your spine as he praised you every now and then.

You could feel your body temperature rising, The feeling of his hands touching your body going straight to your arousal. You intertwined your fingers, looking in his eyes. You were practically pleading for him to touch you. His hands wondering towards your hips, caressing them.

He could feel how desperate you were, Your back arching away from his chest as you purposely grind your hips. One of his hands in your back pocket while the other rested on your abdomen.

"You alr' luv?" He whispers softly. Occasionally biting the top of your earlobe to bring you back from euphoria. Your body burning as his hand glides down towards your thighs.

You wanted him, Watching as he squeezed your thigh in his large palm, The clothes blocking him from touching your skin fully. You gasped as he slid his hand across your chest, Teasing the sensitive buds under your shirt.

"Hobie..." You could feel his chest heaving, The song slowly coming to an end. Hobie leading you off the skate ring and towards a door that was tucked behind the bar, The music being cut off once you both were inside, Hobie locking it behind himself.

Moans escaping your lips as he pressed you up against the wall, Showering your neck in kisses. Your lips quivering as he gently pulls on them. You plead out his name again, His hands roaming under your shirt until his palms made contact with your breasts.

Your body trembling under his touch once he pinched your nipples between his fingers. You wrapped your legs around his waist, Feeling his cock twitch underneath you. You clasped your finger on the rim of his belt, wanting him to desperately take them off.

You wanted nothing else but his cock buried inside of you, Shimmering out of your undergarments until they rested on your ankle. A shaky sigh leaving you once he trails his fingers inside your mouth. You cry out as he spreads your folds, Pushing a finger inside of you before adding another.

Incoherent mumbles falling from your lips as he teased your clit with his thumb. You buried your face into his neck, the scent of charred wood and bourbon coming into contact with your nostrils, Your arousal seeping down your thighs.

You whined from loss, Hobie pulling his fingers out and hosting your body up. His cock catching your eyes before he pushed himself inside of you.

You cry out in pleasure, Wrapping your arms around his neck. He whispered how good you were for him, your legs trembling as he devours your body.

Your cried drowning out the muffled music from outside, Every thrust making your body grow weaker. You begged Hobie to go deeper. His chest putting pressure onto yours. Your arousal coating his cock, Your mind in a complete daze, His groans getting louder every second that's passed.

You tightened your grip, Your moans turning into high pitched squeals as you cum all over his cock, so fucked out of it until you were seeing stars. Hobie's orgasm sending you over the edge as you scream out his name.

Hobie gently placed you down, Making sure you don't slip or fall. He kissed your temple, Showering your face in kisses. He waited for you to calm down, Cooing you out of your fucked state before picking you up bridal style and leaving out of the bathroom.

Your sweaty body shivering as the cold air pierces your skin. You slowly come back from your senses, Still a bit cock drunk from what just happened. You watched as Hobie took off your skates, To worked up to say anything.

You both finally looked at each other. Lovable smiles on both of your faces as he takes you home for tonight. Hand in hand as you both decided to walk.

"So how was it?" You looked at him, narrowing your eyes with gleaming eyes. You rolled your eyes, not wanting to reward him with such praise.

"I had fun tonight.." You look away clearly flustered, Hobie placing a kiss on your cheek before hosting you back up towards your apartment room. You bit your lip, not wanting to leave his side just yet.

"Please stay with me Hobie.." All he had to do was say yes, His brow arching slightly before climbing in the window and closing it behind him. He laid down on your soft comforter, Patting his lap for you to come closer.

You happily obliged, Sitting between his legs. His eyes softened once he got a closer look at you, Pulling you closer by your hand until you sat on top of him. You placed a kiss on the tip of his nose, His hands caressing your hips as he closed his eyes.

You placed a hand on his chest, Gliding your finger across the scars that were on his stomach, Placing one last kiss on his lips for a good night's sleep before putting on some pajamas and climbing by to his side.

"Goodnight Honeybun~" You placed a kiss on his forehead before following suit. Closing your eyes as you lay down on his bare chest.

Damn I write a lot. Hope y'all enjoyed lol

[cuubism]

this cursed eternal WIP is about to hit 30k words still incomplete so here, WIP Wednesday snippet, I guess?

--

He’d just gotten on a clean pair of jeans and was reaching for a shirt when the door clicked open. Dream stepped in, so quiet he was less person and more shadow. Gone were his long coat, and his boots. His black skinny jeans and long sleeve shirt were functionally identical to what he’d been wearing before, but Hob had a feeling the actual blood-soaked ones from before had been destroyed—if they’d ever existed outside of dreams in the first place.

He stepped quietly, barefoot, over to Hob, and Hob looked up and down at this change in attire. “Planning to stay awhile, love?” he asked, a weak attempt at levity.

Dream stopped before him. His eyes were deep and very dark. “You are shaking.”

Hob chuckled self-consciously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, turns out that sort-of-almost-dying is a bit of a shock to the system. It’ll pass, though.”

“It will pass,” Dream echoed, expression unreadable.

“Has before,” Hob said, tension prickling up his spine at the utter stillness of him now. And not the relaxed stillness that Hob had become accustomed to when they sat and drank together. No, this was the stillness of water about to overflow. Surface tension.

“Before,” Dream repeated, again.

Hob smiled weakly at him. “Promise.”

Dream’s night sky gaze flickered over his face. His shoulders were even narrower without his coat, and the lack of structured fabric made him look softer, human, normal. 

But Hob’s friend, his love, his stranger had never felt less normal. He moved in like the approach of nighttime, hovering clouds and darkness and rain, a blanket pulled over one’s head that might cocoon or suffocate. 

Hob would have accepted either.

Dream caught him by the jaw with fingers soft as lamplight, murmured, “Promise,” and kissed him.

It was a biting, hungry kiss, what Hob thought being eaten by the summer dusk might feel like. It was a darkness that pulled him down into southern seawater echoing with the warmth of the noontime sun; that pressed him into ticklish warm grass, a lover’s body over his as the sunset swept below the horizon; that took him by the hand and tugged him from the yellow light of the kitchen and out into hot August woods singing with insect voices and howling night creatures. All the comfort and thrill of nighttime in his mouth.

Dream’s voice thrummed through Hob’s chest and his own heart beat an answering note. He found Dream’s ribcage—so bony, still—and held him fast. Unbreakable bones and fragile heart under Hob’s hands. Dream’s mouth was hot against his and possessive but also tender, tenderer than Hob would have expected. There was blood still in Hob’s mouth, and Dream kissed him anyway.

Nothing about it felt surprising. In an echo, Hob found himself in a tavern in 1389, looking up at a beautiful, tragic, dangerous creature, something like premonition flashing through him. Dreams could be precognitive, and so when their lips met it did not feel new, but rather like the long-awaited fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. 

Then Dream slipped away, ducking to press his cheek to Hob’s and then pulling back entirely to look at him. His hands slid to encircle Hob’s neck, thumbs falling to the still-healing scar where the Corinthian had carved him open. He had a dab of Hob’s blood on his lower lip. Hob didn’t wipe it away.

“Dream,” he whispered, broken open.

“It is… unconscionable to me,” Dream started, voice low but still with that resonant quality, “that a creation of mine would harm you in this way. I am sorry, Hob.”

“Dream, come here,” Hob begged, and hauled him back in. 

He staggered under the force with which Dream came to him. It was like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse. Hob swept his arms up and around his back as Dream kissed and bit at the corner of his mouth, holding Hob close by his neck, his jaw, the back of his head, a flood of feeling that Hob knew had been in him, had caught balancing in his eyes, along his eyelashes, but never truly seen. The cup running over. 

Hob let it run, let it spill through his hands. His hands, which were held out to catch him, as soon as he was ready.

They kissed and kissed, blood and nighttime and the spark of violent life that always rushed through Hob’s body after he’d died and come back. It jumped like static from his lips to Dream’s, and a rush of color and feeling jolted from Dream’s hands into Hob’s body. Fear-joy-red-flowers-ice-smoke-laughter-crying— psychedelic swirls of everything imaginable. Were those all of the dreams? Were those in him all the time?

Dream released him when it became clear that Hob, at least, had to breathe. He took Hob’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing his knuckles, his palm, the pulse shuddering in his wrist, mouthing at the skin. Hob tucked his face into his hair and failed to catch his breath. 

Finally, Dream looked up at him, lips brushing Hob’s fingers. It could have been supplication, his dream king bowing before him, but that was not the look in Dream’s eyes—it was worshipful, but in the way a god worships a flower that’s bloomed from his hand. Hob couldn’t even manage to swallow.

He cradled Dream’s jaw in that same hand, running his thumb over his lower lip. “There is… so much in you,” he murmured, a heaviness in his throat. He wasn’t talking about all of the dreams. He was awestruck at the display of feeling, feeling that was whispered in the tilt of his lips and the gleam of his eyes but that may as well have been shouted for how Hob was able to hear it. “You don’t have to show me any louder, love, not if you don’t want to. I can see it. I see it.”

Dream’s hand wrapped around Hob’s wrist like he meant to hold him there. His tongue dabbed at Hob’s thumb as he spoke. “I would have you know—” God his voice was so deep now, echoing in Hob’s bedroom for all that the curtains and rugs and soft bedding should have swallowed it “—what you have become to me. I would have you know how you consume me.”

Hob had long been consumed by Dream in return so hearing this was revelatory, like breaking the surface of the water after drowning. Like collapsing in a seat across from his stranger in a 17th century tavern, and eating for the first time after starving. He’d thought he was okay, that he could be satisfied with his love being one-sided, loving Dream how he needed, so slowly, so carefully. How he was wrong.

He would have to be careful, very careful, to hold this passion gently.

Hob kissed his cheek, then his temple, the curve of his ear, the juncture of his neck and shoulder. There had been so much held between them, unspoken, for so long, that it was easy to slip into the nonverbal. To treasure him without having to speak it. 

“Dream…” he breathed, just that, Dream, and Dream came back to him, pressed his lips again to Hob’s. Kissed him like he needed it to live as Hob held his face between his hands, held him close, so close. He let Dream’s kiss calm the shivering after-effects of dying. Dream may have been full of all terrible nightmares and dramatic tales but Hob found peace in him too, the peace of easy sleep.

When Dream finally pulled away, his lips were tinted red from the strength of the kiss, his eyes shadowed under his lashes. God, he was so beautiful. Hob had thought so, from the first moment he saw him, only it had taken him some time to realize exactly how he thought it. Beautiful, like the moonlight, and like an artist, and like a work of art; beautiful like a wild fey thing he wanted to catch in his bed, wanted to lay out in all his long limbs and fine lines and worship.

“An appealing daydream,” murmured Dream, and Hob started.

“You can—?”

Dream’s brow quirked in amusement. “I can indeed view strong daydreams. Particularly when you are… open to me.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hob said, heart ticking up a notch. What a concept that was, for another time.

Dream left the matter there for now. Instead he twined his fingers through Hob’s hair, catching on dried blood. “You are bloodied.”

“Yeah,” Hob agreed. His cursory scrub with the towel hadn’t done much. The taste of his own arterial blood was still in the back of his throat.

He meant to say more, let the whole thing slide with a joke, maybe—but Dream’s look on him was so serious and solemn that the words went still.

“Come,” Dream said, and led him out into the hall and towards the washroom.

[hardly-an-escape]

tonight I am thinking thoughts about retired!Dream. about human Dream, weak and exhausted, dropped off on Hob Gadling's doorstep like an abandoned housecat.

I am thinking about Hob and Dream not immediately falling into bed, into a relationship, into orbit around each other. I am thinking about Hob turning his office into a spare room, teaching Dream how to be human, how to be independent, introducing him to new experiences and new people, and then basically sending him out free in the world once Dream knows enough to survive on his own. about Dream wanting this, wanting that freedom, that self-determination.

about Dream renting his own flat. cooking his own meals. choosing his own experiences, trying out everything under the sun completely on his own terms because he’s an adult with agency despite technically being less than a year old in human terms.

I’m thinking about Dream traveling. sending postcards and letters back to Hob in London from Cambodia, from Chile, from Butte, Montana. about Dream dating; about his first sexual adventures in a human body being with people he met in pubs or at the library or on Tinder. about Dream falling in reckless human love and getting his heart broken when the other person didn’t feel the same. about Dream making mistakes, making bad choices, getting hurt – never so badly that it scars him, never so deeply that it really damages him, but enough that it hurts – about Dream learning how to come to terms with that pain in his own right.

I’m thinking about Hob stepping into his role as Dream’s steadfast touchstone instead of the other way around. about Dream continually returning to the safe harbor of Hob’s care before he strikes out again on his own. I’m thinking about the patience and devotion and the longing Hob feels as he watches Dream explore; the highs and lows he experiences alongside him; how he wants Dream so fucking badly and will never, ever, push to have him until Dream comes to him of his own free will. because he will not have Dream if he feels beholden. I’m thinking about the iron lid Hob has to clamp down on his own desire, because that’s not what Dream needs from him.

until… it is. because there’s only one way this can end. I’m thinking about Dream realizing that none of his explorations, none of his liaisons, have brought him as much joy and satisfaction as Hob has simply by being his friend, by being there for him. I’m thinking about Dream, returning to Hob, choosing Hob, because he independently comes to the conclusion that they are, in fact, meant to be. about how much deeper, how much more meaningful that choice will be, coming after months or even years of journey and growth and self-discovery.

about what it will mean to Hob, to know that Dream has come back to him, has chosen him, over everything else; that after all his myriad human experiences he has determined that Hob is who will complete his human life and bring him the most joy. and then they make out disgustingly and live happily ever after.

[aangelinakii]

PERSONAL CHEF.

— who knew he was such a great cook ?

summary : after a naff day at work, you call up your boyfriend. he's quick to arrive, and quick to make you a comforting meal.

note : just a lil short fic whilst i try to get motivated to write some longer ones 😭😭😭

TRIGGER WARNING : mention of food, and brief mention of not wanting to eat.

from the moment you'd hung up the phone, jason todd had hopped on his red motorcycle and floored it to your apartment.

needless to say, you hadn't had a good day. almost anything and everything that could've gone wrong did go wrong, and the dejection had followed you all the way home. you didn't feel like cooking, and, quite frankly, part of you didn't even feel like eating, but every part of you knew jason would never happen.

when the knock came at your door, you'd been sprawled out on the couch, covered in a warm blanket, and when you opened it, jason engulfed you in a great hug. his hugs were immediately calming, with the way his massive arms acted as barriers to the outside world, and the way his head perched against yours extracted the negative thoughts from your brain.

everything he did for you was totally out of kindness and warmth and love.

he gave you a tighter squeeze and pressed a feather-light kiss to your temple, before pulling away from you and shutting the door behind him.

jason was quick to get to work — "just sit there and look pretty for me, okay?" he'd said as he pulled your apron over his head and tied it at the back. and you did so.

he'd picked you up and perched you on the counter beside the hob, so you could do just what you wanted him to. he filled a pot with water and placed it on the hob to boil, plopping in long stiff strands of spaghetti.

one thing you'd learnt about jason early on was that he loved food; adored it, even. he loved grocery shop trips with you, where the two of you overfilled the cart or basket, and he'd have to pay for it anyway. he loved stopping on the way home on his bike, you sitting behind him, arms around his waist, to grab some burgers or chicken strips – it only depended on how hungry you were to decide whether you made a pitstop overlooking the city to eat, or if you were able to keep the food untouched before reaching your apartment.

his favourite thing, however – and perhaps yours, too, on days like today – had to be cooking for you. either at his place or yours, he loved just being able to wind down and speak to you whilst preparing a great meal, and then getting to eat said meal. nothing calmed him more, made him more happy.

"so," he hummed a metre away from you as he chopped a red onion. "want to talk about what happened, or is that a no-go tonight?"

a great sigh huffed from your chest, and you brought your hand to your face as you shook your head from side to side, eyes closing. "nope, not today." with an exhale through your nose, you looked back up at him, where he glanced at you with sympathetic eyes. "i just want to relax with you tonight, forget about it."

"well, that, i can do." and jason scraped the diced onion into the pan of work-in-progress sauce, and took another smaller step to you to press a soft kiss to the side of your head.

he was such a rugged thing on the outside, littered with scars and years of trauma. after getting to know him, you were glad to have learnt more about what he had on the inside: kindness, humility, a bigger heart than anyone you'd met.