#but maybe i'll continue doing lil snippets like this hahha

[valeriianz]

i was ready to leave this be but then @designtheendless made this gorgeous art so of course i had to write a bit more The Devil Wears Prada AU:

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Dream invites Hob as a plus-one to a fashion event. Hob is ecstatic to get a glimpse into the fast-paced, cut-throat industry that Dream has nudged his way into. He warns Hob that Morningstar might drag him away at any given moment and he’d be left alone, is that alright? Hob shrugs and can’t say he minds. If he gets free food and booze out of it, he’ll gladly wander around for a bit.

And for the first time in Hob’s life, he gets dolled up. Really dressing the part of a fashion mogul’s partner. Dream takes him out, using the money from a bonus in his salary to surprise Hob by taking him to a tailor. Hob wonders why none of his usual blazer and pants combo wouldn’t work and tries not to get offended at the way Dream scrunches up his nose and refuses to answer him.

“Every man should have a tailored suit in their wardrobe,” Dream explains while Hob stands on the short platform and the seamstress takes his measurements. “A perfect fit is the raison d’être of custom suits.”

Hob swallows at the perfect French slipping past Dream’s lips. He had only been in Paris for a couple weeks yet he was already name-dropping influential French designers, recalling conversations he’d had with them in stories he’d recant to Hob in an accent that Hob never knew Dream could pull off. Or that he’d be so enticed by.

“I’ll never get the chance to wear this again, you know,” Hob smiled, a little self-deprecating. Working as a chef hardly afforded Hob time to dress up. And it wasn’t like he ever went anywhere fancy enough for such effort. “After the party, it’s just gonna sit in my closet forever.”

“We’ll make use of it…” Dream says softly, standing up as the seamstress steps away to grab something. 

Dream takes up Hob’s arm, fingers trailing down the length of it, covered in a deep blue fabric that probably costs more than their monthly rent and Hob’s eyes never leave Dream as he inspects the pins and cuffs.

“A custom suit,” Dream starts again, dropping Hob’s arm and moving on to the front of the jacket, caressing the lapels. “Is designed to highlight the best features of its wearer. Bespoke tailoring is an art form, and you are the perfect canvas.”

Hob looks down at Dream, standing on the platform gives the illusion of added height, and Dream raises his eyes to look upon him. Hob tries very hard not to dive too deep into Dream’s blue eyes, tries not to get lost in the crystal clear sea of emotions, the way he could drown in them.

“And what are my best features?” Hob grins, raising an eyebrow, challenging.

Dream chuckles, tugging at the jacket. His eyes never leave Hob’s, even as the tailor returns.

“I’ll tell you later.”

There are a lot of big names and top designers at the event and Hob hasn’t a clue who any of them are, but he listens and nods when Dream points them out. He shakes hands with professional photographers and runway models and designers that Hob kind of recognizes but not really. He’s too busy marveling at the immaculate decor, the flowy dresses, and the free champagne. 

Dream, as warned, leaves his side constantly. But Hob has perfected the art of fake-it-til-you-make-it and smiles cheerily and engages in simple chit chat where he lets the other person do all the talking and nods along enthusiastically. He tugs on the sleeves on his jacket, amazed how a well-fitted suit can feel like wearing nothing at all. The fabric is also high quality, buttery soft to the touch and moving along his skin with every step like a gentle hug. He feels a little like a poser, but after a few drinks in him, settles more into the mindset of a party crasher.

After about an hour of missing Dream, Hob goes looking for him. Weaving and winding through the crowd, finding Morningstar on a few occasions and blatantly ignoring her, especially as he doesn’t see Dream with her.

Hob finds a back entrance that’s all glass and slips through into the cool evening air and hears Dream’s unmistakable deep tenor, talking with someone privately. 

And as Hob approaches, he notes the distinct agitation in Dream’s tone.

“... truly tired of finding you everywhere I go, Christian.” Dream sighs disdainfully. 

“You should be in print,” another voice– Christian, speaks quickly, laying on the charm heavily. “I see the way Morningstar treats you.”

“They treat me fine. You, on the other hand–”

“I’d treat you so well, Dream.”

Hob finally rounds a corner and finds Dream leaning back against a wall of the mansion, holding a champagne flute that no longer has anything in it between them, as if using it as a barrier. Christian is leaning just a hair too close in Dream’s space and at the sight of it, Hob nearly sees red.

“Hey, Dream. I’ve been looking for you.”

Dream turns his head and at the sight of Hob, his face relaxes immediately. The impatient, frustrated look in his eyes, the furrowed brow, vanishing in relief.

Hob isn’t a jealous guy, and he knows it isn’t jealousy that he feels rushing through his veins. It’s possession. It’s some kind of embarrassing animal instinct to claim and parade about how that’s mine, back off.

So the way he slips next to Dream, getting an arm around his waist and pulling him into a kiss that absolutely doesn’t need to be as lascivious and biting as it is, feels both appropriate and completely unnecessary. 

But the way Dream melts at the slip of Hob’s tongue, the way he’s kissing back, using his free hand to knot into the expensive fabric of his button down and pull, keeping him close, wipes Hob’s brain clean and nearly forgets why he’s doing this… until Christian clearing his throat makes its way past Hob’s ears.

They detach with a wet gasp and the way Dream chuckles, a low rumble that shoots straight through Hob’s chest and down to his crotch, makes Hob go back for another, and another. Lips only and chaste, but Dream still leans back respectably, turning his head to address the man before them with a sly grin as Hob nuzzles his way instead up his jaw and behind his ear.

“Christian, this is my fiance, Robert Gadling.”

“Uh, hi.” Christian bites out and Hob turns his head just enough to stare him down. “Didn’t know you were engaged.”

“You did.” Dream insists, extending his arm and pushing the empty glass into Christian’s fumbling hand. “You can leave, now.”

With a barely restrained sigh of “whatever,” Christian goes, shaking his head as he does and Dream takes Hob’s face in both his hands, bringing his attention forward.

“Sorry,” Hob cracks a grin. “I know you’re trying to network and he might’ve been some hotshot guy–”

“He was no one,” Dream interjects, his fingers getting in Hob’s gelled and combed back hair and pulling it. “And that was very hot. Thank you for saving me.”

“Anytime,” Hob laughs and Dream pulls him in to taste it.