#hob literary universe

[newsfromthehouseofbourbon]

January 7, 2024: Welcome to 2024!

Okay, I have been writing (and there is a LOT). However, I've had to deal with bedbugs for the past six months (and going). I have no time to go into the logistics (and the blame sits squarely on the shoulders of my stepsister), but I'm here to have some fun and tell you about what is going on with the HOB.

Without too much detail of the private conflicts that plagued this project since its creation upon the heels of the success of @tkwrtrilogy2, @tkwrtrilogy, and @tkwrtrilogy3, there has been an overhaul. Also, the latest addition to the trilogy will make its debut on Wattpad (but will come here eventually).

First, the OVERHAUL: Welcome to the HOB Universe.

You're asking yourself: WTF is this? Well, the best explanation of it can be seen here. All that applies is that this takes place in 17th-century France rather than Middle Earth.

I will be overhauling the Tumblr for @lesecretdelamaisondubourbon. There is a reason, but to find that out, you'll have to read the memoir about all of this (TBA). Either way, it comes on the heels of family drama and the death of a friendship that was supposed to last forever (according to her). But, the book (known by the title XIV) is going up on Wattpad, so while it is being overhauled over here, you can read it in its proper order over there.

XIV: The life and times of Louis XIV as told by Louis XIV--if you haven't figured that out yet. It is part of Book III; his father's story (@thesecretofthehouseofbourbonbook) is Book II.

Now, about that other book: The original title of the book (that was going to be written by my former co-author) was Monsieur. If you guess that the book was going to be about Philippe I, Duc d'Orléans (younger brother of Louis XIV), you were right.

If you think this is a retelling of centuries of rumor and innuendo, you would be wrong. This will be his story--told by Philippe. Under the title of Son of France (Fils de France in French), this is the story you were never told. After 383 years, it is time.

His story officially began in January of 2024, and he will be following his brother Louis here once he debuts on Wattpad. Stay tuned for more. He's part of the universe now.

[hardly-an-escape]

A Love Story | Dream/Hob | 23,000 words | Rated T

This is my entry for @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang! Featuring art by @ithinkimightbelost925-blog!

tags: screenplay/script format, alternate universe - human, romantic comedy, Writer Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Voiceover Actor Hob Gadling, Cat Matthew the Raven, miscommunication, jumping to conclusions, implied/referenced blackmail, vaguely implied animal death, involuntary outing, despite those tags this is Very Soft, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus loves Hob Gadling, Dream is just a bit stupid, Hob Gadling loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, happy ending, marriage proposal, implied sexual content, centennial husbands, falling in love

Hob Gadling is a voiceover actor and audiobook narrator, struggling to make ends meet. Morpheus Oneiros is a well-regarded literary novelist – with a secret. When a chance encounter brings them together, it leads to Hob’s much-needed big break and Morpheus’s longed-for romance. But – was it really chance? And why does Hob feel like Morpheus is hiding something?

Read on AO3 >>>

ART!!!

[wordsinhaled]

Alright y'all, I've been asked for some guidance and Middle English resources following up on my "Hob 'Middle English survives in me' Gadling" post, so... here goes! :D @slavicwitchling I hope this is a lil helpful! I feel like this... went way too in-depth for what was actually asked of me but feel free to say hi if you have more specific questions or anything else I can help with <333 (Or if anyone has q's about other random Medieval Lit Things that might be helpful for fandom please feel free to stop by!!! (Also lol, I make myself sound like an Expert or something but it's been a minute since I was in school doing this, though to be fair I'm diving headfirst back into this passion lately and may potentially be going back, so always happy to do some research if needed!)

What is Middle English? Middle English describes the period of the English language where it transitioned from Old English to Early Modern (aka Shakespeare's) English. During this period from the Norman Conquest in 1066 to the late 1400s, English also borrowed a lot of characteristics from French, and a lot of changes happened grammatically & structurally to make English sound, look, and feel a lot more familiar to our modern ears than Old English does. Here's a helpful article on this! There's some debate on when ME was spoken but more or less 1150 to 1500. What did Middle English sound like? What would Hob have probably sounded like? Here's my back-translation of Hob and Dream's 1389 conversation into Middle English! Here is also an example of a Middle English lyric found in the manuscript Harley 2253 (which dates to c. 1340) - "When the nyhtegale singes" ("When the nightingale sings"). Middle English was beautiful and Hob probably sounded kinda like this! Actually just go listen to all of Briddes Roune it's so pretty <3 And here's what the manuscript page looks like!

When the nyhtegale singes,  The wodes waxen grene, Lef ant gras ant blosme springes In Averyl, Y wene ; Ant love is to myn herte gon With one spere so kene, Nyht ant day my blod hit drynkes Myn herte deth me tene. Ich have loved al this yer  That Y may love na more; Ich have siked moni syk, Lemmon, for thin ore, Me nis love neuer the ner, Ant that me reweth sore; Suete lemmon, thench on me, Ich have loved the yore. When the nightingale sings, The trees grow green, Leaf and grass and blossom springs, In April, I suppose; And love has to my heart gone With a spear so keen, Night and day my blood it drains My heart to death it aches. I have loved all this past year So that I may love no more; I have sighed many a sigh, Beloved, for thy pity, My love is never thee nearer, And that me grieveth sore; Sweet loved-one, think on me, I have loved thee long.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight read in ME

The Canterbury Tales General Prologue read in ME (this is 45 minutes long, but you can just listen to part of it, haha)

helpful resources & websites

Luminarium — an anthology of medieval literature 1350-1485; I especially love the section for Middle English lyrics & poems!

the Middle English Dictionary via University of Michigan Library; an AWESOME searchable database of Middle English words and examples of their usage in context within texts. You can use the "Modern English word equivalent" search function to back-translate things!

Middle English manuscripts online at the British library!

List of Middle English terms of endearment — helpful for Dreamling fics ;)

How to call someone beautiful in Middle English <;3

(Some) notable literary works in Middle English in case that interests anyone!

Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, written between 1387 and 1400 — links to Harvard's Chaucer website w/ the text & in-line translations + helpful guides on how to read Chaucer, etc.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by anonymous, c. 1400 (the Gawain poet) — links to the Weston translation but I really like the one by Simon Armitage, which is great for learning ME because it's a facing page translation! I've seen a lot of people recommend against starting with SGGK as your first ME work because it's super weird and super steeped in Arthuriana, but like, I'm not gonna tell people what to read! If it interests you, you should read it :D Granted, I'm SUPER BIASED in favor of SGGK (it's my favorite work, no contest) but it could be good to be familiar with some Arthuriana first before reading

On that note, Sir Thomas Malory's Le Mort Darthur c. 1485 (links to a version online up on Project Gutenberg) is a translation & compilation by Malory of French & English Arthurian stories (the Old French Vulgate romances, the Alliterative Morte Arthure and the Stanzaic Morte Arthur). Fun fact, Le Mort Darthur was first printed by Caxton in an abridged version in 1485, right as Hob was getting in on printing! Afterwards they found the Winchester manuscript, which dates to prior to 1485 and is considered to be the more accurate version compared to Caxton's The Norton Critical Edition is a great unabridged Middle English full text version that reproduces some of the visual characteristics of the Winchester manuscript (illuminated capitals and fancy font for all the names, etc.) and has a lot of literary criticism, analysis, and a glossary in the back included. BUT I think this version could be a difficult read to get through if reading alone. Here is the Oxford World's Classics version (ed. Helen Cooper) which is easier/more approachable!

William Langland's The Vision of Piers Plowman c. 1370–86 (aka just Piers Plowman) - honestly, it really is not my favorite at all, but there is an entire International Piers Plowman Society. It's like the Ulysses of ME literature I guess??? So i... won't rag on it too much, haha; maybe I just need to revisit it and I will find something new in it to like. It's a series of dream visions in which the dreamer/narrator seeks a true Christian life. Here is the Middle English text (University of Michigan Library). Here's the Oxford World's Cassics translation

The Gawain poet is thought to also have written Pearl, Cleanness, and Patience, which are 3 works that survive in the manuscript Cotton MS Nero A X, the same manuscript as SGGK (the "Pearl manuscript", c. 1400) (more info on the manuscript)

[scifrey]

Somehow I wrote 137k words of The Sandman fanfic in the last 5 months. Behold: the result!

This has been an incredible journey - I decided to step back into fandom while I was waiting on some publishing info and news, just as something to do to keep my creativity sharp. The community and reception I discovered, however, has been astoundingly welcoming. I feel reinvigorated and ready to tackle my revisions on my next novel!

THE HOB ADHERENT SERIES

In which Hob Gadling's Stranger returns, they start a weekly hangout, Hob becomes Morpheus' Emotional Support Human (tm), Matthew bullies Hob onto a Docudrama TV series where Hob pretends to be his own ancestor, and Morpheus is the King of Repressed Symbolism.

Status: Complete

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some fun cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Primary Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Matthew the Raven, Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Patrick the Bartender, All the Endless Siblings, Rose Walker, Jed Walker, Lyta Hall, Daniel Hall, Orpheus, Lucifer, (plus some cameos from other characters from the Gaiman Television-Literary Universe)

CLING FAST

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series “Elizabethan Manor,” they’re overjoyed to find a professor who (according to their meticulous research) is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they’re filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Season 01 Episode 6.

CARPE DIEM

Hob turns six hundred and sixty-six, invites some fellow Immortals to his pub to celebrate, and receives a gift from Satan themself. Or, the Key to Hell was always going to Be a Problem(tm).

Set between the epilogue and chapter one of Cling Fast.

HOLD TIGHT

Hob is tasked with his first quest as Vassal of the Endless, Morpheus is bad at using his words, Destiny thinks he's so clever, Desire makes a confession, Rose Walker meets her Uncle's boyfriend, and Lyta Hall punches Dream of the Endless in the nose. Or, the one where Hob Gadling turns into everyone's therapist, and honestly, he ain't mad about it.

Set at the end of Cling Fast - after the premiere of “Elizabethan Manor”, but before the Epilogue.

KEEPSAKES

Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Includes tales of how Hob and Eleanor met and wed, Hob being a badass at a Ren Faire, some hurt/comfort and sleepy smut, and the story of how Hob met Orpheus.

TAKE ROOT

A deleted scene for a sequel I ended up scrapping.

[rainbowmoonstonestories]

Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings | Chapter 14

Chapters: 14/? Fandom: The Sandman (Netflix 2022, minor content from the Comics) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dream of the Endless/Morpheus x F!Reader  Characters: Dream of the Endless/Morpheus, Lucienne, Matthew the Raven, Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Hob Gadling, Death, Rose Walker, The Corinthian, other minor Sandman characters, Original Characters. Warnings: 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching, very long chapters to read. Summary: You always dreamed of becoming a successful Fashion Designer, sharing your creations with the world and making your father proud. But with him being very ill and so many costs solely weighting on your shoulders, things didn’t go as planned and you had to take a different path instead. An interesting offer led you to the elder Alex Burgess and you were hired as a new housemaid for a very good pay. However, your kindness and outstanding empathy convinced the man to give you an additional task for a doubled compensation; gaining the trust of Dream Of the Endless, held captive into the basement for over a century. Despite the shock of finding such an ethereal entity stripped of all his clothes and contained into a confined space, you had to accept for the sake of your father. But the more you got to speak to the mysterious anthropomorphic personification who didn’t utter a single word, the more you were lost into his eyes that, conversely, seemed to contain the entire universe. A deep connection formed between the two of you, separated only by a thick layer of glass.

Little did you know, what started like a simple housemaid job was about to change your life forever.

Credits: The moon dividers were made by firefly-graphics

Tagging: @number-0-iz, @emarich7. If anyone else wants to be tagged in the next updates, let me know! I noticed that Tumblr sometimes won't let me tag everyone for some unknown reason, so if it comes to that I can at least send you a message to notify you.

You can also read this on AO3 if you feel more comfortable!

Being deceived your entire life was not something you were prepared for. Fortunately, once again, Morpheus was there to provide support.

Note: This chapter is quite long. I was considering to split it and just add the second part to the next one, but I didn't want to make it longer than intended. In chapter 16, the Vortex part will officially begin.

Morpheus was ready to go to any lengths for you. The way you never took advantage of his power and treated his gifts with the utmost care was everything he could ever hope for. You were a genuine treasure, illuminating and uplifting the spirits of everyone, including Morpheus himself, without needing any refinement.

The pendant adorning your neck served as a powerful symbol, bestowed upon you to safeguard you from harm and infuse you with a piece of his essence. It was common knowledge that the Endless had the ability to prolong a mortal's life just by being near them, but when it came to you, Morpheus was resolute in ensuring that you wouldn't slip away from his hold sooner than he wished.

However, there was still an important piece of information from your past that remained hidden, a vital detail that Morpheus was forbidden to reveal. Despite being bound by a verbal agreement with Paregoros that prevented him from speaking about it, as the Ruler of the Dreaming, he possessed a talent for uncovering and taking advantage of loopholes to serve his own interests. Leveraging his abilities, he employed his gift of inspiration to ignite the creative brilliance of artists and writers, leaving an enduring imprint on history. Their invaluable contributions continued to be revered and celebrated across generations in textbooks and literary masterpieces. The dreams and nightmares he meticulously crafted had the power to shape the trajectory of mortals, guiding them towards a myriad of choices they would make in the Waking World.

He persuaded Richard Madoc to set Calliope free. He convinced Maya Davies to openly address her actions at the office, dealing with the burden of guilt and self-disappointment that would haunt her for an extended period of time.

There was no feat beyond his grasp within his domain. The purpose of the Dreaming itself was to fulfill such a role, granting him the ability to accomplish anything.

And so, he made the decision to inspire yet another human - someone he had never personally met, but who held immense significance and closeness to his beloved.

According to your account, your father was going through an emotional breakdown that tormented him with sleepless nights and anxious days. There wasn't a specific nightmare haunting the man, but his dream record offered Morpheus valuable insights into the root cause of his troubles.

Thus, Morpheus ventured into the vast expanse of dreams within his realm, searching for the particular one he sought. He wandered along an endless path that twisted and turned, encountering a series of ever-shifting scenes that emerged from the mortal realm. Passing through a gate adorned with roses, he effortlessly opened it with a simple wave of his hand. Stepping inside, he walked along a secluded beach, seemingly abandoned except for three figures near the edge of the sea. Among them, only one person was truly asleep, while the other two were mere projections of the human's subconscious mind.

The soothing sound of the waves enveloped the atmosphere, while the sun radiated its warmth from above. Your father, in his younger years, relaxed on a beach towel, a serene smile adorning his lips. He watched with attentiveness as a little girl constructed a sandcastle before him, showering her with praise for her imaginative creation and encouraging her to make it even more magnificent. Beside him, Paregoros rested her head on his shoulder, expressing her love for their daughter and her longing to perpetually preserve that cherished moment of togetherness.

Morpheus stood nearby, observing and hearing everything, yet maintaining a respectful distance. He watched as you lifted your head, your captivating eyes moving from the sandcastle to meet his gaze. A smile formed on your face, acknowledging his presence before redirecting your focus back to the construction in front of you., acknowledging his presence before redirecting your focus back to the construction in front of you.

As a replica of your childhood self, you existed solely within his realm and nowhere else. This version of you was nothing more than an abstract entity recognizing its master, yet even as a dream, you radiated a gentle warmth that had the ability to melt his heart.

He continued to observe the family for a little while longer, sensing a tinge of intrusion into a private moment not intended for his eyes. Morpheus contemplated turning away and departing, but to his astonishment, your father spoke in a way that seemed to be directed at him.

"Isn't it beautiful? This is how I’ve always envisioned things, for all of us.”

Morpheus walked closer, daring to stop just a few inches away.

"But this isn't real, is it? It's merely a construct of my mind. Just a dream.”

Morpheus' attention shifted back and forth, alternating between your father, Paregoros, and the little Y/N.

"Yes, you are sleeping,” the Endless replied, his voice echoing in the salty air. "But that does not diminish the significance of what you are dreaming about.”

The man chuckled softly, bringing his hands together around his knees. “’Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?’”

Morpheus reacted with a pout, furrowing his eyebrows, while the man responded with a wide smile. "It's a quote from Harry Potter. Have you ever read that one?”

“I have not.”

"Please excuse my digression, then.”

Paregoros and Y/N carried on as if nothing was happening. Your father cast a sidelong glance at his partner, his expression growing darker and more solemn.

"This is not my first time here," he realized. "But I must confess, I do not recall ever seeing you. Have we crossed paths before?”

“No.”

“I see. For some reason, you seem familiar to me.”

He pondered over it, attempting to dispel the haze of the dream from his mind. Eventually, he shook his head and snickered to himself again, finding amusement in his own thoughts.

"Ah, never mind," he said dismissively. "I think you remind me of a character from another book, The Sandman. But that's just foolish, isn't it?”

Morpheus remained silent, but this time, a barely concealed grin formed on his lips.

Even in his dreamlike state, the mortal was perceptive enough to notice it. “What?”

"You are quite like her," Morpheus noted.

Your father blinked in confusion. "Her?" he questioned, seeking clarification.

The King of Dreams tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed upon the little girl once more. The man followed his line of sight and, with a quick glimpse at you, he understood. "You know my daughter?”

Morpheus nodded in confirmation.

"But… how...?"

"No matter. The truth that you are keeping from her seems to be tormenting you.”

Upon hearing this, the waves receded partially, and a deafening silence descended, causing your father's shoulders to slump in defeat. “You know that as well?”

"You attempted to shield her from something that was just too much for the both of you. Your love for your daughter is immeasurable, but it is time for you to let go of this burden," Morpheus advised.

"How am I supposed to do that? I’ve been lying about it her entire life.”

"Your daughter is prepared, and she will not hold any resentment against you for it."

As the conversation continued, Paregoros kept her attention on the little girl, who was diligently shoveling and shaping the sand with a perpetual smile on her face.

"I don't want to lose her," he confessed. "She's everything I have.”

"Your fear is a perception, an obstacle that must be overcome.”

"Easy for you to say," the man responded. "She went through hell because of what I did, because of our deception. How could anyone forgive such a thing?”

"Y/N has achieved remarkable accomplishments. She is more than capable of accepting things that surpass mortal understanding.”

"You speak as if you know her better than I do.”

"I do possess precise knowledge of all of you, far better than you have of yourselves,” Morpheus asserted.

Your father raised an eyebrow and asked, "All of us? Who exactly are you?”

“Mortals like you have limited recollection of your dreams while awake.”

"Do you think I will forget you?"

"You may."

"Are you even real?"

"I am."

He narrowed his eyes, cautiously studying the Endless with great scrutiny. "You are him, aren't you? You are the King of Dreams."

“You do not appear surprised.”

He shrugged. "All stories originate from reality.”

Morpheus was convinced that your qualities were a legacy from your mother, with her inherently compassionate and benevolent nature. Yet, as he observed your father now, so composed and open-minded, he concluded that a portion of your value also stemmed from his good heart and understanding.

As Morpheus delved into the mortal's mind, he could see the tremendous effort he had been putting forth for your well-being.

"If you are unwilling to heed my words, at the very least, place your trust in your daughter," he urged.

Your father's eyes cast down, and in a sudden twist, his entire appearance reverted back to his present self. Both Paregoros and Y/N dissolved into grains of sand, scattering away with the wind, their presence fading like a distant song.

"She won't hate me, will she?”

"Hate? Y/N has nothing but love in her heart," Morpheus affirmed.

"While she does indeed hold love, she also carries a lot of pain."

"Your deceit is likely to nourish that pain. For her, and for you," Morpheus cautioned.

The man curled up, wrapping his arms around his legs, fully embracing them. The temperature began to plummet, causing even the skin of his dream to tingle with cold. "I'm terrified, Lord of Dreams.”

"Your fear is lacking significance. The heaviness of your secret is causing you harm, is this truly what you wish?"

Your father shook his head vigorously. "Absolutely not," he declared with conviction. "But I want her to be happy. And I fear that this will shatter her and rob her of that happiness.”

As much as Morpheus desired to offer words of comfort that could refute those concerns, he found himself unable to do so. Still, if there was one thing he was certain of, it was your strength.

"Your fear cannot be compared with the consequences you could face."

The man let out a deep sigh, tracing circles in the sand with his finger. "The human mind is quite a tangled mess, isn't it?" he mused.

"You always create more problems for yourself.”

Your father let out a lighthearted laugh, "That is so true.”

He directed his gaze, settling it on the horizon where the ocean formed a distant blue line, distinctly separating from the sky.

"I will give it some thought," he finally concluded. "Thank you for your guidance, your Majesty.”

Morpheus offered a final nod, maintaining his position as he closely observed the mortal's reactions. Just like you, the man seemed completely aware, effortlessly assimilating into the environment and actively engaging with it. He was also unique, a rare individual that Morpheus seldom came across in his realm, amidst the multitude of people dreaming all at once.

"Fair you well," he said, waving a hand in front of his face. "This dream is over.”

As office activities resumed the following week, it came to your attention that Maya had chosen to resign from her position within the company. In order for Oliver to drop the report, she agreed to make a financial contribution to compensate for the damages she had caused. In a remarkable turn of events, Maya went as far as visiting the office to extend a heartfelt and formal apology to the entire team, including you.

Maya appeared like a mere shadow of her former self, with a noticeable paleness and thinness. The makeup around her eyes was minimal, and her lips lacked any hint of lipstick. Despite her evident exhaustion, there was a newfound sparkle in her eyes that you had never seen before.

The collective shock persisted for days as everyone tirelessly worked to rebuild what had been lost. Gradually, the burnt garments were meticulously remade with precision, and the studio started to regain its pristine condition. The broken computers were replaced, while the damaged ones were repaired and restored to working order. A new electrical panel was installed and fully functional, and the walls were repainted back to their original ivory white color.

As the weeks went by, all of you became increasingly prepared for the upcoming Fashion Show. Everything had returned to normal, and your life was steadily improving, with each day bringing even greater prosperity and abundance.

However, just as you were settling into your routine, the universe decided to throw a new obstacle onto your path.

One day, after avoiding your questions for quite some time, your father finally invited you to visit him and discuss something of extreme importance. He didn't provide any details over the phone, but he promptly reassured you that it had nothing to do with his health.

Although the news brought some relief, it was impossible to ignore the tremor in his voice. Ever since you mentioned your Greek heritage, he had been behaving strangely, indicating that his melancholy had a deeper root than mere nostalgia. Whenever you were with him, he appeared solemn, lost in thought, and emotionally distant.

Morpheus had explicitly stated that his dream record remained relatively undisturbed, without any nightmares that could account for his distress. It was high time for you to uncover the truth, and you were determined not to leave your father's house without a proper explanation.

Undoubtedly, what you were about to uncover surpassed your expectations by a significant margin.

Throughout the entire lunch, the man strived to keep the conversation flowing smoothly. Yet, his strained smile betrayed his attempt to suppress his anxiety. You watched him, giving him the space to talk about his days and the new books he had bought, without putting any pressure on him. 

While you quietly cleaned the dishes, he kept immersing himself in his storytelling, explaining every detail of the books as a diversion for himself, leaving the tea you brewed largely untouched before him. 

Despite the urgency you sensed in his voice when he first called, as the day wore on, he still couldn't muster the courage to voice what was really troubling him. Thus, recognizing his struggle to initiate the intended conversasion, you decided to take the lead and bring up the subject yourself.

"Dad, you know that I enjoy our time together, but I need to ask you right now. What's happening with you?”

The instant you inquired, his feigned smile disappeared from his face. He closed his eyes, pausing to reflect, then released a shaky, prolonged sigh before he left the table and moved to the couch in complete silence.

You followed him, settling beside him and clasping his wrist. "No more lies. I’m here for you.”

His fingers clenched around yours, placing his other hand on top. "I know. You always are," he murmured. "And that's what makes it so difficult.”

“You’re worrying me...”

“Y/N, the truth is, I owe you an apology.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "For what?”

"There's something I've been keeping from you. Something significant.”

Your heart rate increased, "What are you referring to?”

"I.... I'm so sorry, sweetheart. You have no idea.”

Suddenly, he began to weep, releasing all the accumulated stress and regret. His body trembled uncontrollably, his sobs intermittently broken by loud hiccups. He doubled over, fervently caressing your hands in his desperation.

“Dad! What's gotten into you? Please, talk to me.”

He longed to respond, but his voice was drowned in the echoes of his heartfelt cries. All you could do was provide some solace, tenderly stroking his back and laying your cheek against his shoulder.

He took a few shallow breaths, attempting to regain his composure. His hands kept wiping his face, trying to erase the relentless tears.

At last, when he was able to speak again, he let the secret out unrestrained. “She’s alive. She’s always been. It was all a lie.”

If anything, his outburst only served to add to your confusion. “Who’s alive? I don’t understand.”

"I had no choice,” he continued. “She asked me to, for your sake. And I thought it was the right thing to do.”

By that time, your patience was wearing thin. "Dad, you're not making any sense. Who is she?”

His hiccups interrupted him again, causing his voice to shatter as he responded. "Y...o.u...r...... mo....th...er.”

It felt as if you had been doused with a cold shower. "My... mother...? What?”

He nodded frantically. "Y...yes," he trembled. "She's....alive.”

Your heart seemed to stop, only to restart at an even faster pace as you pieced the puzzle together. Since childhood, you were told the heartbreaking story of your mother passing away during your birth. You were robbed of the chance to see her, to hear her voice, or to experience her nurturing love.

A piece of you always felt absent, and there were moments when you wanted nothing more than to have her presence by your side.

She couldn't possibly be alive. No, surely you were misinterpreting his words. 

"Dad, this is absurd.”

"I couldn't, Y/N,” he lamented. “I... we.... it was just too much.”

You ran your fingers along your forehead, struggling to process his declaration. “If what you say is true, then where is she? And why?”

It couldn't possibly be real. Not a single bit.

Or could it…?

"She's not like us, lovey. She is... so much more than you could ever imagine.”

Then, like a bolt of lightning, a thought struck your mind. It was a piece of information you had heard before, which had completely slipped away. Even amidst the enigmatic circumstances, it was something you struggled to fully grasp.

“You don’t even know me. Why do you care so much about my relationship with Dream?”

The Fate in the center parted her lips into a broad smile. “Oh, we do know you, love. For you are the daughter of your mother.”

You felt the blood inside your veins turn icy cold. “My…mother…? What-”

“She does not know yet, sister-self.”

How could you have overlooked it, when what the Fates disclosed to you that day was enough to stir questions within you? You dismissed it as another of their baffling riddles, not considering to delve deeper.

And there was more.

“It would seem that your lineage is directly associated with Paregoros.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but… who would that be?”

“She is the personified spirit of consolation, comfort and soothing words. A companion of Aphrodite, Goddess of love, and Peitho, the Goddess of persuasion.”

“And I am related to her? What does that make me?”

“You are mortal. But you seem to possess certain qualities of her, which perhaps will spare you the cruel fate that is otherwise customary for any human I dare to come close to.”

Your blood surged through your veins as the realization started to sink in, unveiling what might be the most astounding truth you could ever anticipate hearing. You tried to sweep it away, given the high likelihood that you were jumping to erroneous conclusions.

And yet…

" She is... so much more than you could ever imagine.”

When your father noticed your growing panic, his crying escalated. "I never wanted to keep it from you, I swear! I told her it was a bad idea, that you had the right to know who she truly was. But... she couldn't. She... she wasn't allowed to.”

She wasn’t allowed to…

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! It was the only way.”

Slowly, you withdrew your hands from his shaking form, rising to your feet and taking a few wobbly steps towards the window. You made an effort to maintain your composure, folding your arms as a ripple of chills shot up your spine, branching out to your arms and the nape of your neck.

"The photo you took with her," you managed to say, pushing down your nervousness. "You said she was reserved and didn't like having her picture taken, but she agreed to give you at least one photograph.”

“Y-yes…”

"And conveniently, her face in the only photo you have is obscured by a lens flare.”

“I know…”

You had always been curious about your mother's appearance, unable to discern her features clearly in the photo due to the overpowering brightness.

"It wasn't an accident, was it?” You concluded.

“I… I don’t know,” he sniffled. “I suppose so.”

"You said she's not like us. Is she even human?”

You had grown up with the conviction that your mother had tragically sacrificed her life to bring you into this world. During your childhood, the guilt, derived from the belief that you were the cause of her untimely death, nearly drove you into the abyss of despair. Schoolmates cruelly taunted and branded you as a bane, someone who should have never been born.

The notion that she was actually still alive, hiding and perpetuating a false narrative without ever reaching out to you, seemed like an unfathomable concept that you found incredibly difficult to accept.

Just as your father seemed to be calming down, another sob overtook him. "No, lovey...”

As the dialogue progressed, the range of possibilities began to constrict.

"I need to know her name,” you asserted. “Her real name.”

Your father sprang up from the couch, swallowing hard and unfastening the collar of his shirt. His voice was rough and weary. “Paregoros,” he conceded. “Her name is Paregoros.”

Paregoros…

Your mother was a Goddess, the spirit of consolation, about whom you had never read in any book or website. She was unknown, invisible, a phantom who left nothing behind except for her own family. You were the daughter of a deity who deemed it acceptable to simply leave you to your fate for being a mere mortal. 

Did Morpheus hold this knowledge when she was brought up in your conversation? Had he uncovered her true identity, only to deliberately keep it hidden from you?

Your father approached your immobile figure, his apologies intensifying as he called out your name.

"Sorry, I need some air," you stated, spinning on your heels and striding past him without so much as glancing at his face.

Your father remained stationary in the center of the living room, tears cascading one after another as you sprinted away. The resounding slam of the door startled him, leaving him with no other option but to resort to prayer. He prayed for your return, and above all, for your forgiveness.

You didn't know how long you walked for, nor did you have any idea of your destination. You advanced like a robot on autopilot, your feet carrying you forward, your gaze distant and unfocused. You crossed numerous streets, turned various corners, and strode past multiple shops, glancing at their display windows without truly seeing what they sold.

Your mind was still grappling with the revelation you had just unearthed, uncertain of how to cope with it all. As you wandered aimlessly through the park, you found yourself pacing back and forth on a secluded, tree-lined path, vigilantly ensuring that nobody else was around. As your anger welled up within your chest, you buried your face in your hands, unleashing a scream so forceful that it nearly stole your breath away.

You were panting, running your fingers through your hair and squeezing your burning eyes shut. There were so many questions, doubts, and bewildering theories swirling in your mind, all of which you couldn't untangle on your own.

For the next hour, you attempted to ease your nerves by sitting on a bench, but unfortunately, it did very little to pacify the inner tempest that raged inside you. You watched as several passersby went about their activities—some jogging, others enjoying a serene walk with their family, their dog, or their romantic partner.

The more you sought an escape, the deeper your mind delved into it.

You waited until the sun began to dip below the horizon and solitude enveloped you completely. Struggling with coherent thought, you rose from your seat, tightly gripping the Moonstone and focusing all your energy on summoning the King of Dreams. "Morpheus," you said with a tone of anger. "Morpheus, can you hear me? I need to speak with you. Right now.”

You tuned into the soft rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds from the trees above. In the stillness, when no other motion was detectable, you felt as though he was beyond your reach, resolving that your only choice was to wait until nightfall. However, there emerged a figure right behind you, whose presence was unmistakably familiar.

"Y/N.”

You gathered yourself, your fists clenched, gradually turning and lifting your gaze to meet his. Morpheus was wearing the usual modern coat he always opted for in the Waking World, and his expression was a mixture of perplexity and concern.

He frowned, noticing the redness around your eyes. "My love, what-”

“Did you know?” You interrupted him, your tone questioning and accusatory.

“Know what?”

Your lips pressed together, holding back the emerging tremble. "I'm not simply associated with Paregoros, am I? I'm her damn daughter. Did you accidentally forget to mention it, or were you genuinely unaware?”

You hoped you were mistaken, that he, in spite of his position and wisdom, was simply oblivious to the true connection you shared with the Goddess in question.

The way his jaw strained and he cast his eyes downwards instantly shattered that hope.

"Why did you lie to me?”

“I did no such thing.”

"Really? Then what exactly did you do?”

Morpheus appeared calm, but you could tell that your sharp tone was getting under his skin. He peered intensely into your eyes, his feelings and intentions apparent as he spoke. "In the beginning, I truly believed she was merely a part of your lineage. It took a thorough inspection from Lucienne to correct our misunderstanding.”

"You still kept it to yourself, though.”

Morpheus wavered, taking a moment before providing a suitable reply. “It was necessary.”

"Did you think I couldn't handle the truth?”

"No. It was your mother who asked me to keep it a secret from you.”

You looked at him in disbelief, your mouth dropping open. "Wait, you spoke to her?”

"She requested a meeting.”

You released a laugh filled with revulsion, raising your gaze to the sky. "So she contacted you. Just like that.”

“Yes.”

Your mother couldn't make an effort to speak to you even once, never trying to approach her own child. And yet, she went out of her way to message the Lord of Dreams, solely to enforce her ban on revealing her identity to you.

Was she observing you covertly, watching your life like a detached spectator munching on popcorn?

"And you accepted her terms?”

“I assured her that you would never learn the truth from me.”

You scoffed. "Whose side are you on, exactly?”

"Y/N, can you not see it?” He inquired, his eyes mellowing.

“What am I supposed to see here?” Your voice escalated further, sounding desperate and reverberating in the space around you.

Morpheus didn't falter, stepping closer and encroaching on your personal space. "I said you would not hear it from me, and yet, you have learnt the truth. From whom?”

“How does that make any diff-”

Right then and there, it struck you.

Your father had dodged your pressing questions for weeks, never appearing inclined to divulge something that was noticeably gnawing at his soul. Then, unexpectedly, he was prepared to reveal the secret he had guarded for a lifetime? Out of nowhere, first thing in the morning?

The unwavering and confident expression on Morpheus' face, along with the slight smile he offered, provided you with a silent confirmation.

You laughed again, but this time, it was imbued with joy and relief. Because at that juncture, you realized that the King of Dreams had leveraged his sway and might to influence yet another mortal for you.

How could you have doubted him after all the trials you had weathered together?

"That’s cheating. You know that?”

“Perhaps. but in the end, I kept my oath.”

Upon reflection, and as your agitation began to subside, it seemed like the most judicious decision he could have possibly made. After all, he wasn't the one who should have borne the responsibility of disclosing such truth to you.

You smiled, lifting your hands to the sides of his neck and planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "And I even yelled at you. I'm such a fool.”

"My love, you are suffering from a state of emotional distress.”

"It doesn’t matter, it was wrong of me.”

Your fingers slid down to the front of his coat, and you found comfort resting your forehead against his chest.

"I just… I don't understand. Is it so wrong for Gods to fall in love and create a family?”

His hands gently settled around your shoulders. "There are rules that we must obey for the preservation of our domains.”

"You're saying there's a rule that forbids deities from associating with their loved ones?”

"Circumstances alter significantly when humans are involved.”

Even the Endless weren't allowed to partake in romantic relationships with them. You were the exception, allowed to remain by his side without the severest penalty befalling you for violating the universe's laws. Was your kind so trivial, worthless and lacking that it constantly had to be belittled and cast aside?

Not that you found this particularly shocking, but still.

"I don’t see how terrible it would have been for me to know.”

"It is not a suitable reality for a mortal child.”

Would accepting a mother, who was bound by her duties as a Goddess, be more detrimental than you believing she no longer existed?

"I needed her, Morpheus. I needed my mother.”

Once more, you lifted your head, searching for his eyes. "I've uncovered so many amazing things in the recent months that I believed only existed in my dreams. Things I was not supposed to see, nor to experience the way I did.”

A gust of wind swept through his hair as he regarded you with a penetrating look.

"I’m not a child anymore. I had to handle everything on my own for so long, working for my father’s well-being and haunted by the fear of it being useless and insufficient.”

Morpheus listened, barely even blinking.

"I was terrified. And I found myself thinking, so many times, that if my mum was still with me, with us… maybe things might have been different.”

Morpheus slightly opened his mouth, directing a quick glance towards his pocket.

“Is it possible for me to meet her? To talk to her?”

"My love, such matters require the highest level of caution.”

"Do you believe I'm being hasty?”

"Allow a few moments of reflection to absorb the knowledge you have obtained.”

You let out a deep sigh. "You mean coming to terms with the fact that my entire life has been a lie from the day I was born? That might take a while.”

"Your existence carries a greater level of significance, despite your inability to see its importance at this time.”

"How could it hold any significance when I've been pushed to the sidelines?”

He leaned in closer, looking down at you and firming his hold on your upper arms. He was fervent yet composed, quieting all surrounding sounds again so that the only thing you could hear was the soothing timbre of his voice, coupled with his earnest and heartfelt proclamation.

"It is a blessing.”

You let it seep in, permeating your heart and spreading its warmth throughout your body. Almost instinctively, one hand moved to your chest while the other reached for his face, fingertips lightly brushing against his chin, the contour of his jaw, and his cheek.

"You always know just what to say that makes me love you even more.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, only to promptly revert to his solemn demeanor and slide his hand into the right pocket of his coat. As you followed his movements, you saw him retrieve the familiar leather pouch of sand, observing it in quiet contemplation.

"I could show you," he proposed.

“Show me what?”

"My realm might hold the answers you are seeking.”

Grains of sand gently floated in the air, escaping from the pouch and performing a dance above your head. They sparkled, twinkling like miniature stars.

"Now?”

“If that is what you wish.”

Somehow, the little bag in his hand was radiating an unusually powerful attraction, enveloping you in a bubble of tranquility. Your understanding of his realm was still rather limited, and your grasp on your mother's origins was even more sparse. If direct confrontation with her to voice your queries wasn't a possibility, then you were left without a better alternative.

You offered a smile, moving closer to whisper into his ear, “Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.”

Morpheus appeared amused, regardless of whether he was familiar with the song you quoted or not. You created a small gap between you to allow him access to the contents of his pouch, from which he extracted a handful of golden, magical sand.

And thus, he inclined towards you, placing his hand before his lips. As he gently blew into his palm, the sand drifted delicately over your face, causing your eyelids to become instantly heavy. As your eyes closed, you felt progressively lighter, while your surroundings started to morph into an entirely different setting.

It was akin to being transported into another universe, journeying through the cosmos.

Meanwhile, your body was succumbing to numbness in the Waking World, but as he enveloped you in his arms, you didn't come close to falling.

Morpheus would never allow you to fall.

It was unlike anything you had seen during your past transitions to sleep. It felt as though your consciousness was levitating in space, gliding forward as a bewitching galaxy materialized before you. You were navigating an unseen path, walking through vibrant nebulae and stars.

In the distance, two figures materialized, standing face to face as you neared. Echoes of voices reverberated through the cosmic spectacle as everything became increasingly vibrant and clear with each step you took.

Once the scenery settled, you recognized the Greenwich plaza in front of the church, completely deserted except for two individuals standing beneath the main architectural arch. Their faces were difficult to make out, but the male voice was certainly one you had been familiar with since birth. It didn't take much time for you to notice that the man was your father in his younger years, while the identity of the woman standing before him was left to your speculation.

With your heart pounding rapidly, you cautiously edged forward, striving to discern their conversation. The woman appeared to be cradling a sizeable bundle of white cloths, gently swaying it to and fro.

"How can you ask me something like that?" Your father bemoaned. "She's your daughter. You simply can't abandon her with me and go.”

"I'm not forsaking her," the woman declared, her voice resonated like a melody, albeit laden with sorrow and guilt.

Upon reaching the porch, you finally managed to gain a comprehensive view of the enigmatic woman. She resembled the one from your father's photograph, except that her features were now clear and discernible.

She had an uncanny resemblance to how your elder sister would look, if you had one.

“Mum…?”

"No, that's precisely what you're doing," your father persisted. "You visit me after 9 months, a period during which I couldn't even support you through your pregnancy and childbirth, only to tell me that I must care for her as you take leave?”

Your heart plummeted.

"You don't understand," she murmured, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Then make me understand.”

Paregoros let out a shaky sigh, her eyes fixed on the newborn nestled in her arms. "You know who I am," she whispered. "My journey to the Mortal realm was only meant for duty's call. Our chance meeting, the unexpected love that blossomed, and now, this baby... none of these were in my original script.”

The quietness was shattered by your father's scoff. "Is that all I am to you? Just a character from a story that was originally written with a different ending?”

“Is that all I am to you? A mistake?”

Somehow, that dialogue stirred memories of the time Morpheus had unveiled the truth about Nada, describing his relationship with her as a colossal blunder that defied the established norms.

"Absolutely not. Our relationship, and our daughter, are treasures I wouldn't exchange for anything else in the whole universe.”

He exhaled deeply. "Then, why?”

"Because she can't stay with me. And I... I won’t be able to be at your side.”

Her voice quivered as she tenderly brushed her cheek against the baby's forehead, a gesture so poignant that it made your chest constrict and ache profoundly.

"What is this?" You questioned. "Is this an actual memory?”

"A memory within a dream," Morpheus responded, appearing next to you.

“My father’s?”

“Yes.”

The man tightened his fist against his mouth, holding back a surge of tears.

"What should I even do?" He implored his lover. "How can I manage this alone? She needs her mother too.”

The Goddess sniffled softly. "You will do just fine.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes I can. Because I know you.”

Your father stepped closer, casting a glance at the baby who seemed to be peacefully sleeping.

“She looks just like you,” he said, a smile of affection gracing his lips.

"You should hear the volume of her cries. She's as headstrong as you are.”

“Hey!”

Without realizing it, you reached out to clutch Morpheus' sleeve for support, engulfed by a tumultuous wave of sorrow and serenity as you observed your family together.

"One last thing," your mother murmured. "It's crucial that she remains unaware of the truth about me and my origins.”

"What? Are you asking me to lie to her?”

"She needs to lead a fulfilling life, without the constant speculation of whether or when I'll return to see her. I don't want her embarking on a futile quest for me, squandering precious time and energy."

Your father shook his head in disbelief. "What am I supposed to tell her?”

Tears welled up in Paregoros's eyes and swiftly rolled down her cheeks. "She must believe that I won't be coming back. To her... I need to be perceived as dead.”

Your father gasped in shock. "No... that's completely unacceptable.”

“My love, please…”

“I can't possibly tell her that. That's..... no. Just a big fat no.”

"It's not as if I'll never be keeping an eye on her. Or you,” she clarified.

"But she won't ever see you. Neither will I.”

“I know.”

“How is that even fair?”

“It is not.”

“Then don’t let me do this.”

The sight of your father pleading with her to stay, or at the very least, to permit the two of you to see her again, was so heart-wrenching that it brought tears to your own eyes. The mere thought of losing Morpheus was enough to rip you asunder. Seeing how your father had to progress without the love of his life, having no control over the entire ordeal, was so overwhelmingly heartbreaking.

It astounded you how well he managed to hold himself together, all on his own.

"I can't. Please understand... I need to be assured that she will be safe. That she'll find happiness. If I choose to linger, I'll not only be defying the laws of my domain, but I'll be sentencing both of you to a life fraught with endless pain.”

"And do you believe that I won't be in agony either way?”

She exhaled deeply. "I'm giving you the opportunity to move on.”

In that moment, you understood. Paregoros was tethered to an eternal existence, while your father's life was destined to be much shorter, aging with each passing day as she remained unchangingly pristine. She wished to liberate the two of you from that heavy burden, enabling you to live your lives in the human world as fully and joyfully as possible.

In a sense, your situation with Morpheus was not too dissimilar. He had already existed for millions of years, and there was no foreseeable end to his longevity. You, on the other hand, were as mortal as your father, and that only reinforced the stark realization of being merely a transient presence.

Morpheus was observing the dream intently, maintaining silence and allowing you to stay close.

“If you think I'll just forget about you and develop feelings for another, my dear, you are sorely mistaken,” your father retorted.

Paregoros let out a chuckle as she dabbed at her face to clear the tears away. "I knew you'd say something like that.”

You smiled, your watery eyes shifting back and forth between them.

Are you absolutely certain there's no other solution?" He asked. “She has a right to know who her mother truly is.”

"I'm afraid there isn't.”

Slowly, and with an evident reluctance, she handed over the baby to him. He wrapped his arms around the tiny bundle, cradling the child with such delicacy that for a moment you feared he would drop her.

"Does she have a name?"

Paregoros shook her head. "You should have the honor of deciding, considering what I’m forcing you to do.”

Witnessing your parents holding you, so intimately close to each other, was utterly surreal.

"I believe I have the perfect one in mind," he said proudly.

"What do you wish to name her?”

His smile broadened. "Y/N. I'm quite fond of Y/N.”

Y/N...." she echoed, letting the name dance on her tongue. "Yes, it fits her perfectly.”

Paregoros leaned forward to plant a kiss on the baby's cheek, her lips trembling as she struggled to pull herself away.

"May you be the happiest, my cherished Y/N.”

When her eyes locked onto your father’s, you could see the suffering in their exchanged silent stares. They shared a kiss, deeply engrossed in the final moment they could spend with each other. The sound of their hearts fracturing in two was almost audible to your ears.

Suppressing her emotions, Paregoros pulled away once their lips parted, transforming into the most sublime and beautiful Goddess you could ever envision. Her white dress clung to her figure in a way that was absolutely enchanting, the train of the gown trailing on the ground. Her hair, now partially swept up, cascaded down in a stunning flurry of curls, and her wrists were embellished with solid gold bangles and bracelets.

"Fare you well, my treasured love. I trust that you will look after yourself as well.”

"I will at least try," he responded, tears streaming down his face. "For her sake.”

Paregoros nodded, her face showcasing the most melancholic of smiles.

When she pivoted away, your father buried his face into the white fabric swaddling the baby, holding himself back from calling out to the woman again. She halted in her tracks, taking a deep breath as she absorbed the sounds of his sobs, before resuming her slow, graceful stride.

"Wait....don't go," you blurted out, trailing behind her. "Mum!”

"She cannot hear you," Morpheus reminded you gently. "She is a recollection from the past.”

"You claimed there was no nightmare in his dream record," you pointed out. "But then, what is this?”

Morpheus swiveled his head, his focus settling on your father, who was weeping and clutching his child, not having the heart to watch his love disappear.

“Look.”

The expression on the man’s countenance changed dramatically as the baby girl opened her eyes. She silently watched him, studying his unfamiliar face, her mouth moving adorably. Your father greeted her by uttering her name, gently stroking her soft chin with his index finger.

As soon as she flashed a smile, you were all enveloped by a radiant, powerful light. Your father was immediately enchanted by that sweet innocence, developing an intense desire above all else to protect such a delicate, pure being from any harm, regardless of the cost.

"My precious little girl... let's go home. Together.”

As evening drew near, your father was losing hope, convinced that you wouldn't return for the day. He sat at the dining table, his leg bouncing up and down anxiously, the ticking of the clock punctuating the passage of time.

He exhaled a lengthy sigh, rubbing his weary eyes and letting his forehead rest against the table. He questioned his decision, pondering if he was truly meant to heed the advice of his subconscious.

He fished out his phone, tapping aimlessly on the screen, hoping for a call or text message that never came. He opened the messaging app, ready to initiate a conversation with your number, but he ended up erasing everything he attempted to type.

He was tempted to get dressed and head straight to your apartment, hoping to at least find you there. But before he could rise from his seat, he sensed a sudden materialization within the room.

He leapt to his feet and let out a scream as a shadowy figure approached, but his fear quickly turned into confusion when he realized it was none other than the King of Dreams himself, holding you in a bridal carry.

He blinked a few times, giving himself a pinch to confirm he wasn't dreaming.

The entity silently observed him, bringing you to the couch and placing you onto the soft cushions.

"It's you...." your father uttered, scarcely believing the sight before his eyes. "Is she...?”

"Yes, she is in slumber,” the Dream Lord replied.

Your father ventured to take a few steps forward, kneeling on the floor for a closer inspection of you. Your breaths were regular and serene, and he could almost swear there was a hint of a smile spreading on your lips.

“She looks like an angel, doesn’t she?”

The King of Dreams didn't respond, but judging by the tender way he was holding you, your father could sense that there was more to the relationship between the two of you.

"You have looked after her well,” he declared.

"She's angered with me, isn't she?”

"No. She is not.”

The Endless stood upright, stepping back to afford the man ample space to sit near you.

Your father gazed at you sweetly for a moment, reflecting on how much you had matured and swelling with pride at your remarkable accomplishments. 

In the end, Paregoros was proven right. Whatever could have become of his life had it not been for her and you, was a prospect he didn't even want to entertain.

And while you were relishing your time in the Dreaming with Morpheus' complete approval, he was about to express his gratitude to Dream for returning you to him.

Unfortunately, before he could even speak, the Endless had already vanished.

Note: I obviously don't own the quote from Harry Potter or the Mr. Sandman song. I just like adding random easter eggs here and there at times.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 (currently reading) Go to Chapter 15 (coming soon) ->

[moorishflower]

Maybe sprout wings (Dream/Hob, Finished)

Maybe sprout wings || Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling || Mature || Finished, 91k

The Dreaming, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, 600 Years of Slow Burn, Pining, POV Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Saves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus from Roderick Burgess, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus is Bad at Feelings, it's The Odyssey but Dreamling, wandering, Returning Home, Corinthian-Typical Violence, Corinthian-typical fucked up sexual predation, Not Really Character Death, Epic, The Odyssey References, Homeric, Quests, Eye Trauma, Minor Violence, Protective Hob Gadling, Literary References & Allusions, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore

There's a dead man in the Dreaming.

Returning home. Conversations. The end.

[nostos on AO3]

[im-not-corrupted]

Definitely (Not) a Crush - a Dreamling Fic

Gen | No Warnings Apply | 2.3k | Dream/Hob 

Morpheus Sanfin is a famous author, whose books Hob has been obsessed with for a long while.

Hob Gadling owns a bookstore with Johanna Constantine--a bookstore Morpheus Sanfin will hold a reading at--and he definitely doesn't have a crush on Morpheus. Not at all. 

Written as a fill for the @dreamlingbingo, square D1, prompt: bookstore. Also written as a gift for @samsalami66, who wanted a Dreamling meet-cute fic!

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Writer Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Bookstore Owner Hob Gadling, Bookstore Owner Johanna Constantine, Pining, Meet-Cute, Dreamling Bingo 2023

Read more on Ao3 here, or read the fic below the cut!

When Hob first received the request from Morpheus's agent—the famous author Morpheus Sanfin, most popularly known for a series of truly inspiring works that Hob still thought about at least once daily even after two years of picking up the first one and devouring the entire seven book saga in two weeks—asking if he could hold a reading in the little bookstore he worked at Lit Books, he lost his mind. Just a little bit. A teeny, tiny bit. Nothing more than that, truly, despite what Johanna thought. (Johanna thought a lot of things, Hob knew from far too many years of friendship with her. That did not make her correct about any of it—and so it definitely didn't make her correct about the apparent 'celebrity crush' he definitely didn't harbour for Morpheus. There was no crush there, just...admiration, right? Admiration, because Morpheus is quite the literary genius, and Hob had spent far too long fawning over his works.)

In his defence—well, they were a small bookstore! Independently run, no big chain, and all of that. It was pretty decent, for what it was. They kept it running, made decent profit off it, and despite their differences, Hob and Johanna simply made it work.

Still. It wasn't the kind of place authors like him came to do readings at. Wasn't very good for publicity, after all, and that's what all the publishing houses were after. Publicity. More sales, more readers, and all of that.

He didn't know how Morpheus found out about their little store, nor why he or anybody else who worked with or alongside him might consider it for a reading, but, naturally, he agreed immediately. What else was he supposed to say? No, and miss out on the chance to see the man in person, and the chance to hear the voice behind each of the words he poured over for years? Yeah, right.  (Admiration. Nothing more.)

The email he sent back was perhaps less than professional and full of a little too much fawning over Morpheus, but that seemed to matter little. Arrangements were made, the date was set, and it arrived far too quickly for Hob's liking. Though the reading was set to happen two months after he received that first email from Lucienne, that didn't feel like nearly enough time to truly prepare. When the day came, he stood inside his little store with Johanna by his side, palms sweaty and heart beating irrationally fast.

He scowled at it, because really? Sure, he admired the man, but it didn't have to be more than that. Certainly didn't have to be such a huge deal, not at all.

(On his right, Johanna sent him a knowing look, one he promptly ignored by turning to the table stacked high with Morpheus's latest release. It was admiration. Nothing more than that!)

The first thing he truly knew about Morpheus outside of his works was his voice. There were numerous interviews to be found across the internet, and he spent more time than he’d ever willingly admit in search of them. It was his voice that first caught Hob’s attention—a deep timbre that stood in stark contrast to his lithe frame. Like distant thunder, perhaps, or something just as soothing. He thought it would be incredibly easy to fall asleep to that voice if he had the chance to; it was a voice made for storytelling, a voice that could easily chase away any insomnia after a mere few moments.

He spoke eloquently, which Hob supposed made sense, having read a lot of what he wrote. He liked the way his voice sounded on certain words, liked the way amusement sounded on him, the way his characteristic half-smiles (Hob had not seen the man smile much beyond those small upturns of his lips, truth be told) shone through even when he spoke.

Naturally, Hob recognised Morpheus’s presence in Lit Books by his voice first.

It hit him like a freight train. All at once, with very little warning, Morpheus was simply…there. There, inside the little cosy bookstore he and Johanna named Lit Books, where Hob worked. Where he spent half his time, really, and had done since Johanna dragged him out of his pit of despair after Robyn and Eleanor.

Morpheus was there, in the same room as him, and Hob…was having a time, alright?

He was different, in person. In all those recorded interviews, Morpheus looked…untouchable. Terribly pale underneath fluorescent lighting, stoic and still like marble. His eyes—crystalline blue, so startling they made Hob’s breath catch in his chest even through the screen—was the only spot of colour on his person, his face beautiful in a fascinating, elfin way. To Hob, he looked not unlike a god. Divinity from on high, a being of ambrosia and gold instead of ordinary flesh and blood like the rest of him.

Inside Lit Books, though, he looked a little more real. Harsh lines were made smoother, his skin a little less pale (though not by much), his messy raven hair fluffier. Amusement shone in his crystal blue gaze, still just as jarring in person as they were through Hob’s phone screen.

His voice, though. His voice was the same as ever as he inclined his head in Hob’s direction, the corners of his lips curled upwards ever so slightly. “Good afternoon,” he said softly, and—yes. Yes, his voice was the same, still so sinfully lovely, still so soft and even despite the power to command a room the man seemed to have.

He certainly had the power to command Hob’s attention, at the very least. He felt quite incapable of looking away from this man and his lovely, elfin features, half-convinced he’d simply disappear if he looked away. He found himself tongue-tied, too, his mind unable to come up with anything truly smart to say in reply to that simple greeting.

Somehow, he ended up settling on a terribly awkward, “…Hello.” It made his ears burn. Worse, it made Morpheus’s smile widen ever-so slightly.

Next to him, Johanna murmured something under her breath before holding a hand out between her and Morpheus. It sounded all too much like, God help me, though Hob didn’t get a chance to glare at her before she said, “You, too. Morpheus Sanfin, is it? I’m Johanna, and this idiot’s Hob. You’re early.”

By half an hour, actually. Which seemed like a reasonable amount of early in Hob’s books.

He didn’t say that, either, because he still remained incredibly stunned to silence.

Morpheus didn’t seem to mind. Hob had half a mind to send up a quick word of thanks to whatever god did or did not exist at the fact that he didn’t seem to think him entirely strange, which would be in his right honestly. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “Would that be a problem, Johanna?”

”Not at all,” she said, nodding over to the area prepared. They rarely had to do something like this before—the few readings they held previously were small. They never expected too many people to turn up, not like they did with this one. Quite a bit of rearranging had to be done, not to mention a lot of last-minute purchases of chairs. (This last bit made Johanna reconsider the whole thing, despite the half an hour Hob took to convince her that having Morpheus hold a reading at Lit Books could be good for them.) “Feel free to spend as much time as you need to get set up.”

He inclined his head slightly. A small and simple movement, one that managed to be incredibly regal while also conveying his gratefulness. Hob admired that about him, the ability to convey much with so little.

The man walked away from them then, striding over to the area carefully prepared for him.

Johanna snorted softly. “Pretentious prick,” she said, though didn’t seem to mean it really. There was too much amusement lying beneath it.

Hob frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t call him pretentious.”

”Is that you talking, or your crush on him?”

He threw a pen at her, ears burning as he resigned himself to an hour and a half of teasing and anxiety while Morpheus remained inside their store.

+++

It took only twenty minutes more before the store became full.

Morpheus’s fans were many. Too many, in fact—Lit Books really wasn’t made to handle this many people, and Johanna sent him a very deadpan look that said told you so and made him grin sheepishly.

The lack of room didn’t matter, in the end. Everybody found somewhere to sit, and Morpheus held control of the room easily. His voice had power in it, a weight to it that made everybody gathered around him lean forward in their chairs, breath bated in the hopes it’d let them hear him better.

Naturally, Hob found himself enraptured. He already read this particular release a couple of times. It was a sadder tale—a tragedy, if anything—following a being that contained multitudes after his escape from a glass prison, his struggles with personhood and identity as he tried to come to grips with the trauma he suffered. The first time he read it, the book left him with an ache he was unable to soothe, a sadness that lingered around every corner. The second time, he began to annotate, picking out his favourite lines and analysing it more than he ever bothered to analyse any of the things he read at uni. It left him with that same ache, and a greater appreciation for Morpheus’s craft—he was good at what he did, good at spinning stories that left one thinking, good at creating characters that felt so real.

Hearing it out loud, though—well, hearing it out loud made him look at the story in a different light. Morpheus’s voice gave every line weight. There was despair where, previously, Hob had not seen it; there was joy in the small things, in the descriptions of sunlight filtering through trees and through the stained glass of the main character’s windows. Everything felt so…so real, so true, and by the end of the hour, there were tears in Hob’s eyes and a newfound desire to pick up this book again and devour it a third time.

It took a while for everybody to leave. Hob busied himself with tidying up, grateful Morpheus’s listeners hadn’t made much of a mess. He replayed the reading again and again in his head and, distracted as he was, didn’t hear it at all when Morpheus stepped up behind him.

In fact, he remained blissfully unaware of his presence at all until the man cleared his throat, making him jump and let out a shriek he hoped would not be brought up again. Judging by Johanna’s stare—Hob had a sixth sense for these things and just knew she stared at him—she’d likely bring it up herself at some point.

”Ah, hello,” Hob said sheepishly. The chair held in his hands, one he somehow, miraculously, didn’t drop when Morpheus startled him, stopped him from offering his hand and he glanced at it with a grimace. There was no way he could put it down without seeming awkward, so he rubbed at the back of his neck nervously and shot a grin in Morpheus’s way he hoped was endearing and didn’t make him look worse.

The man cocked his head to the side. It was a remarkably bird-like action, and it made Hob’s heart flutter in his chest with irrational fondness. “Hob, yes?” he asked, and the sound of his name spoken in his voice did something to Hob’s insides.

”I—yeah.” He swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Yeah. I’m Hob. And you’re Morpheus.”

He didn’t face palm, but it was a close thing. Fuck, what a thing to say.

Somehow, Morpheus didn’t seem phased. If anything, he seemed amused. Hob didn’t know if that was worse or not. It might’ve been worse.

In an attempt to ease the tension, he offered, “Your reading. It was…It was good. Great, even. Never really seen anything like it before.”

He blinked, slow and cat-like. Something about that surprised him, apparently, though he still appeared pleased by the comment, though. At least, Hob thought so. It was remarkably hard to tell, in truth. “Thank you,” Morpheus replied. A tad belatedly, though Hob wasn’t about to comment.

He seemed ready to leave. Which was…fair, honestly, but Hob found he didn’t really want him to go. Somehow, that prompted him to ask, “Would you want to…go grab coffee, sometime? I’ve been curious about you for a while.” Longer than just a while, really, though Hob thought it best to not to appear terribly creepy. Just in case. “Of course, you probably get offers like that all the time, so no big deal if you say no! Of course.”

And, to the surprise of every one of Hob’s remaining brain cells, of which there were few, Morpheus inclined his head once. “I believe,” he said, voice still terribly soft, “that I would like that. I do not have a number for you to call, but you are able to contact Lucienne, yes?”

”Yeah.”

”Very well. I should like to see you again soon, in that case.”

Hob…wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting that at all. “…Alright,” he said, both breathless at the prospect of getting a chance to see him again and somewhat baffled by it too. “I’ll see you soon then, Morpheus.”

The man smiled. It reached his eyes ever so slightly, and Hob thought it was probably the most beautiful thing he ever set his eyes on. “And I you, Hob.”

(Later, Johanna came up beside him, watching as Morpheus left. “Not a crush. Uh huh.”

He hit her with the back of his hand and refused to acknowledge the all-knowing smirk she sent his way. “Shut up, Johanna.”)

[endlessbigbang]

Title: The Seven Lamps of Architecture Writer: Quilling (@Quillingwords) Artist: @the-cloudy-dreamer Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Word Count: 29,640 Pairing/main characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Up to 10 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Magical Realism; Gothic Atmosphere; The Dreaming is both a setting and basically its own character here; Literary and artistic references and allusions; Meta on storytelling and narratives; Dream goes by all of his names here; POV Hob Gadling; In which he gets to peel back each of the layers like an onion (or a tulip bulb - this will make more sense later)

Summary:

Moonlight made pools of yellow on the marble. What was this place? And the man he caught a glimpse of, the first night this place opened up to him, from between the windows that could have been doors. That was his Stranger from the Tavern of the White Horse, almost a century ago, Hob was sure of it. Hob had come to suspect that on that otherwise ordinary summer evening, he had embraced immortality and perhaps, given up his soul with perfect happiness. What a fable that would be. -- November, 1475. Hob Gadling arrives in Venice, explores a mysterious world of cosmic grandeur, trades ink-stained love confessions with his stranger, and embraces the most important lesson of all: that life is a story all on its own, past and present and an ending that isn't really an ending at all

Fic & Art: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48302461/chapters/121819900

[kittynannygaming]

[The Sandman] Bound - Chapter 4

Title: Bound

Word count: 892

Fandom: The Sandman

Pairing: Dreamling, Desunity, Despoe, Hob/Eleanor, Corinthiel, Dream/Past relationships

Rated: T

Warning: NOTHING GRAPHIC BUT Mention of child’s death and adults’ death, mention of suicide, Desire’s scheming

Summary: When you’re 10 (for a human) or the equivalent (for not-human), you’re given (during your sleep) a pet, representation of your soulmate. Thing is, both soulmates need to be born for them to appear. Dream of the Endless thought he didn’t have a soulmate, until a puppy appear near to him while meditating. On Earth, at the same moment, it is the year 1356 and Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling is just born. When he’s 10, he got the poshest, biggest black kitten with a very mean streak. Of course, neither Dream nor Hob see themselves in the other’s pet.

Chapter 04: 1489 & 1589. The (many) attempts of Hob Gadling at making himself better.

Hob discovered his immortality and wanted to be better for his dark stranger. There were ups and downs.

It was 2 months since they met the stranger at the White Horse. He went back home, to Loxleah, near Sheffield, to help what was left of his village until the end of winter. Maybe they would stay a year or two. It was still undecided. During a fight, Fluffy and Hob learnt that they were immortals after Hob took a blade to the heart. He staggered, fell, his heart stopped beating for a few seconds before the injury began to heal. Both felt the pull and push of Hob’s death. Fluffy was even more protective after that.

In 1476, he answered the notice of William Caxton, who searched for employees interested in the printing business. He was intrigued and decided to join. What a marvellous invention! If… no! When he met with the Dark Stranger, he would tell him everything about it! He learnt a thing or two there. Like how to read. He had known a basic alphabet and numbers from Mick, the blacksmith. Lady Caxton was kind enough to help him and he could read now “The Canterbury’s Tales” by Chaucer. It was pretty sure he heard some before. Didn’t remember where, though.

Fluffy loved to leave paw’s prints on some works, not a lot, one or two here and there. Paxton just laughed when Hob tried to apologize for Fluffy. The printer told him that it was a very good reason to give away for the poorest. Fluffy was very proud of his paw prints.

In 1489, the 7th of June, he met the Dark Stranger and his companion, Kelly, who was more forward with sharing stuff. But Hob didn’t mind a little mystery. The immortal and the Endless were surprised when Kelly and Fluffy decided to switch companions for the night. Indeed, the companions thought that if Dream see Hob and Kelly together and Hob see Dream and Fluffy together, obviously they were going to see they were the same.

“They can’t be that blind…”

“Don’t under estimate the power of denial. Particularly with these two.”

At the beginning of 1500, Hob decided to further his education in a discreet way. That’s why he found work at the University of Oxford. He could not be a student, obviously but he was fairly good at maintenance and was always here to douse the boys’ eagerness to fight when the need arose.

After 3 months, his habit to listen to lectures attracted the attention of William Grocyn, lecturer and lover of Greek language. Grocyn was delighted by Hob’s want for knowledge and the teacher thought the man was stubborn enough to overcome whatever came his way. He knew Hob couldn’t officially be a student here but he helped when he could. So Hob learned French, Ancient Greek and the mythology to go with, Latin and the seven liberal arts. He wasn’t too good with the sciences but he loved the literary part.

Fluffy wasn’t left out. He learnt a lot from other companions. Grocyn’s companion was very good at the political stuff. The human, political, boring stuff. Fluffy listened carefully.

In 1518, he found work at the Palace of Westminster. The fact that he was educated allowed him to go with the King Henry VIII in France for what would be know as ‘The Field of the Cloth of Gold’ in 1520. Hob would perfect his French, by befriending Martin du Bellay, historian and lieutenant general. Both men took a look at the Kings and sighed. This wouldn’t end well. And it didn’t end well: Henri challenged Francis in a wrestling match and lost. The atmosphere turned colder.

Hob would be back in 1548, as his own grandchild, where he met Joachim du Bellay and his friend, Pierre de Ronsard. He absolutely loved their works (Hob thought that his Stranger would love it) and they made sure to give him a copy of everything. They would continue until their death.

In 1580, Hob bought his knighthood (he freaking deserved it, seeing how many times he fought in their stupid wars) and in 1584 met Eleanor Neville (born in 1567), daughter of Charles Neville, 6th Earl of Westmorland. In 1585, they got married and Eleanor was banned of the family for religious reasons (officially). Eleanor’s family never loved him and his “low birth”.

In 1586, they welcomed their first born: Robyn. Eleanor’s companion was a fox, Odysseus and Robyn’s companion would be a black dog, Cerberus.

In 1589, he met his Stranger and Kelly again. He told him he was now a knight and was married, forgetting to tell the Stranger that Eleanor and him knew they weren’t soulmate. While Kelly and Fluffy did the honour to Hob’s table, Hob tried to show his Stranger how much he improved himself with no success. While Dream talked to Shakespeare, Kelly decided to stay with Hob and Fluffy and to get their gossips up-to-date.

In the end of 1603, Robyn was almost 18 and much to everyone surprise, Eleanor was pregnant again. The 24 June of the year 1604, she died, along with their 2nd son. Robyn died 2 years later, in 1606. Hob should be 46. When people saw that he didn’t grow older at all and didn’t look 50, he was tried as a witch and drowned. Fluffy got him out of the water. Both hated the next 80 years.

Eleanor – Robyn – Odysseus the Fox – Cerberus the Dog

Beta: In progress

For @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang

Masterlist

[serenailith]

it was a piece of cake (but making cake's not easy)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: b1, bakery Rating: e Word Count: 26340 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, baker!hob, literary agent!dream, heartbreak, anal sex, blowjob, self-doubts, dream really sucks at having faith in relationships, it’s a problem, calliope is NOT the villain, eating disorders Summary:

Dream has been going through the motions for three years, so when walks into the bakery, he isn't expecting for anything to really catch his eye. Certainly not the man behind the counter. But life has a funny way of unfolding, a painful lesson Dream and Hob are about to learn.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Dream sighs but follows Lucienne into the little bakery. She’s extolled its virtues for the past month, and now she has decided he must try it for himself and “Pastries just don’t travel well, sir.” So here he finds himself, stood in the queue as a line of people order and wait and go on their way.

He must admit he doesn’t understand the appeal. There are dozens of bakeries in central London from which he can obtain pastries and coffee. He’s certain there are a handful nearer his office, at the very least. He cannot imagine what makes this one so different that Lucienne had to drag him here.

He looks away from the large menu behind the counter and—

Oh.

He sees why, now.

A man stands behind the display case, cheerfully packing up danishes and muffins and croissants. The sour-faced woman at the till repeatedly rolls her eyes when he greets a customer by name and asks after someone in their life. But even through the distance, even though he knows nothing of these two, Dream can feel the love between them. He can see that the woman cares deeply for the man and holds no true judgement.

Lucienne nudges him, and he falls into step beside her as they approach the counter. She orders a hot latte with skim milk and a scone, while Dream peruses the options in the display case. His eyes have just landed on a rather large muffin dotted with plump blueberries when movement behind the case catches his attention. He glances away from the muffin and stiffens at the sight of the man.

His brilliant smile invites conversation, his dark brown eyes twinkling with good humour. A splash of flour dusts his cheek and the shoulder of his T-shirt, as if he’d wiped his hand there. The slightest tint of purple-blue lingers in the corner of his mouth—he must have been sampling his own offerings. His eyebrow quirks, just slightly, just enough to betray his confusion.

“He’ll have a lemon-blueberry muffin,” Lucienne says suddenly, and Dream blinks for what feels like the first time in forever, “and a flat white with caramel in it, please.”

“Of course. Jo’ll get you sorted, then.”

Jo glares at the man before turning to face Lucienne. Dream ignores the women as he watches the man gather up the baked goods; his hands are sturdy, quick in their movements. He whistles a jaunty tune as he wraps the scone in waxed paper. There are bits of dough beneath his fingernails. The man hardly seems to care for his appearance, judging by the unkempt pale blue T-shirt that, along with the smear of a flour handprint, bears stains from a fruit filling on the hem. His hair is pulled back into a ridiculous little bun at the base of his skull.

Dream can hardly take his eyes off the man.

Unfortunately, Lucienne doesn’t let him linger or waste away the hours just staring at this man. Her love of responsibility causes her to shove Dream’s coffee into one of his hands, his muffin into the other, then usher him out of the building.

Dream has never found her prudence more rude. But, though she is “only” his assistant, she is the one who takes the lead more often than not. He has entrusted her with his schedule, his time, his entire life. Dream knows that, without her, he is nothing. So he allows her to dictate most of his days.

His mind stays firmly on the baker throughout the day. Though he fights it, his focus drifts from the manuscripts and query lettesr on his desk and back to the man who’d been so happy to recognise people who came in for his goods. Very indescribably delicious goods. Dream had taken one tiny bite of the muffin, let the taste linger on his tongue for all of five seconds, then stuffed half the muffin into his mouth. Lucienne would have scolded him, he’s sure, except for the fact she’d done much the same with her scone.

“Sir, Mister Burgess is on line two.”

Dream sighs and presses his fingertips to his temple, already feeling the migraine brewing. RoderickBurgess has been a complete twat; he’s refused to accept Dream’s rejection of bringing him on as a client. More days of the week than not, Burgess is on the line demanding Dream change his mind.

Unfortunately for him, Dream won’t make a different choice. The very idea of a hack like Burgess trying to make it in the literary world is laughable. Nothing Burgess has ever submitted for consideration has earned him any praise; it is all drivel from a man who believes himself entitled to praise and acclaim. He wants to be represented for publication, and he wants it now.

Dream refuses to have his name attached to someone like Burgess. He would rather die than have his reputation tarnished by the connection.

Burgess takes the news, unchanged though it is, rather horribly. He spends the entire call alternating between threatening Dream and attempting to bribe him. Dream stays firm, hangs up, and immediately moves on to the next task. Rose Walker’s manuscript won’t be picked up by a publisher on its own, after all, and wasting any more brainpower on Burgess is a drain of mental resources.

That night, Dream goes home to an empty house and wonders, not for the first time, if this is all life has to offer him.

He wakes to silence, just as he does every day, and squeezes his eyes closed. If he tries hard enough, he imagines he can feel the warmth of a body beside his. That hasn’t been a reality in three years, not since Calliope left. He curls his fingers in against his palm and resists the urge to reach out. He knows there will be no one there; proving it will only hurt.

Pushing away the melancholy that has settled into his bones, Dream sits upright and runs a hand through his wild hair. A bird sings in the tree just outside his window, and he glares in its direction. Such cheery sounds should be banned, he thinks before disregarding the thought. It isn’t the bird’s fault he’s in such a dour mood. He scratches at a spot behind his ear as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Cold wood meets the bottoms of his feet, and Dream bites back a hiss at the drastic temperature difference. He hurries to shove his feet into his slippers before dropping to sit on the edge of the mattress. The day’s weight rests heavily on his shoulders, and it’s barely begun. He wishes to escape the mundanity of his day-to-day, but it’s that same mundanity that affords him the life he leads.

Not much of a life, he thinks with a disparaging look around. There are no costly trinkets, no expensive art on the wall, no fine vases breaking up the empty shell of his flat. The only thing he has to decorate the husk, the poor mimicry of a home, is an ornate rug on the living room floor. It had been Calliope’s; it was too large and cumbersome for her to drag it out, so she’d left it behind.

Just as she’d left Dream behind.

“Pull yourself together,” he snaps, voice echoing in the silence, and he presses his palms to his closed eyelids.

He’s completely over the fact Calliope ended their relationship so suddenly. Without warning. Without explanation. He no longer dwells on it, not even late in the night when he can’t sleep and spends hours watching the stars through his bedroom window. He doesn’t need the answers to questions he’s asked too many damn times.

Dream has accepted reality and moved on.

Even his subconscious thinks it’s a load of shit.

Pushing himself to his slippered feet, Dream makes his way to the kitchen. He isn’t hungry—hasn’t truly been in so long—so he bypasses the refrigerator completely in favour of the coffee machine. Coffee is a better friend this morning than food. It usually is.

Lucienne takes him to the same bakery as yesterday: Hob’s. An interesting, if uninspiring, name for an establishment. It gives no indication as to what the place is. Dream finds he rather enjoys the initial mystery of it. Though, if he’s to be honest, he never would have stepped foot through the door if it hadn’t been for Lucienne.

Dream keeps his gaze firmly on the menu board so he doesn’t stare at the man this time. He needn’t have worried: The man is nowhere to be seen by the time Lucienne and Dream approach the till. The woman behind the counter is different today. No longer the scowling slight woman of yesterday, this one wears a bright smile that reminds him so much of Thana. He should call his sister, he thinks as Lucienne orders a scone and lemon-blueberry muffin with their two coffees.

She glances at Dream as they make their way back to the car several minutes later. “Is everything okay, sir?”

“Hmm?” Dream realises he’s frowning, an ache forming between his brows, and forces himself to relax before he slides into the passenger seat of her car. “Everything is fine.”

“Should—should I have ordered you something different?”

“No, Lucienne. This is adequate.” He hesitates then amends, “They are… delicious. The baker is quite skilled.”

“Yes, I agree.”

They lapse into silence as she navigates them through the London traffic. It’s odd, he thinks, that he can be so uncomfortable with someone he’s known for years. Someone he trusts with more than his life. Lucienne has seen him at his worst and stayed, and still things are so stilted and awkward between them. Dream wonders if ever he will find it easy to converse with another.

Calliope is the only one, outside of his sister, with whom he had less trouble speaking. Not ‘no trouble’, simply… less. Lucienne should be amongst those, admittedly low, numbers for all she’s done for Dream.

The day passes much like Dream assumed it would: Long, uneventful, and ultimately draining. Lucienne leaves him outside of his building, and he waits until her sedan disappears from sight before he opens the door. Warm air gusts out, and Dream smiles slightly as he heads toward the lift. Stepping into his flat, however, is less welcoming than the warm foyer of the building.

Dream drops his bag onto the floor by the door, his keys in the bowl on the table in the entryway. The air holds a chill that has yet to dissipate even after so long, the frigid weight of loneliness seeping into every molecule of the flat. With a soft sigh, and more than ample self-hatred, he digs his phone from his pocket and opens the last message Calliope ever sent him. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

He shouldn’t keep it. He knows Calliope is never coming back. She’s made that abundantly clear over the last three years, the most obvious of evidence in the divorce papers she’d had delivered to his office. He hadn’t contested—what good would it have done? Dream has known Calliope since they were teenagers. He knows there’s no changing her mind when she makes a decision. And dissolving their marriage was a decision she’d never take back.

He doesn’t blame her. He wishes she’d only given him a reason. They were talking about starting a family in the months leading up to her sudden disappearance from their flat. He’d come home to all of her belongings gone and not even a note to explain.

Instead of deleting the text like he should, Dream locks his phone and sets it carefully on the counter, as if jostling it too much will delete the text for him.

Lucienne seems to understand how his night went when she gets a look at him the next morning. “Sir…”

“I know.”

And Dream does. He knows that he’s lingered for far too long on a failed relationship, but he can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t want Calliope back—she destroyed him too surely for that. But the lack of answers is what keeps him holding on to the past. It isn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair, his father’s voice snarls in the back of his head, and Dream aches to punch it free.

He doesn’t get out of the car when Lucienne comes to a stop outside Hob’s. Her sigh echoes in the silence long after she’s gone inside, and Dream rests his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. Today is going to be a long day if the ghost of his father and the memories of his ex-wife have their way.

The flat white isn’t as delicious today. There’s something missing in it, but he keeps it to himself. There is no point in mentioning something that’s most likely his imagination. Lucienne takes a sip of her latte and grimaces.

“Oh, I hope Hob is back tomorrow,” she announces as she sets the drink in the cup holder. “That is… dreadful. How’s yours, sir?”

“Awful.”

As Lucienne shifts the car into gear, Dream silently hopes Hob is back tomorrow, as well. If only for better coffee.

It takes a week before Hob is back. His skin holds an ashen tone, and his eyes betray him by giving away his exhaustion. But his smile is bright as ever. Dream stands in the doorway for a long minute, staring at the rapidly-dwindling queue, and debates whether to leave without ordering. Now I’m stuck, he thinks when Hob catches sight of him and grins. Dream would look foolish if he walked out now.

So he puts one foot in front of the other and curses Lucienne for coming down with the flu. Dream’s mouth dries, his throat closes, the closer he gets to the till. He licks his lips to wet them, but it does no good. His lips part, and he struggles to force the words out.

They are unnecessary. Hob is already reaching into the pastry case with a gloved hand.

“Where’s your friend?” he asks as he plucks up a lemon-blueberry muffin.

“Ill.”

“Ah. Seems there’s something going around,” Hob sighs and passes over the bagged muffin. “Well, tell her I hope she feels better, and I have a chicken soup recipe that’ll get her back on her feet in no time.”

“I will convey that message,” Dream manages after a long moment.

Hob grins again from where he’s preparing Dream’s flat white with caramel.

It isn’t until Dream is out the door that it sinks in: Hob had remembered his order. He’d recognised Dream and known what to make.

It makes sense, considering how often Dream and Lucienne have come in for coffee and pastries, but it still causes something warm to curl up like a cat in the base of Dream’s chest. He scowls and shoves it away. He can’t find something personal in the action. After all, Hob has proven he does it to people he sees regularly. What’s one more order to memorise?

Unfortunately, Dream is on his own the next day, as well. Hob is already moving by the time Dream finally walks into the bakery and has Dream’s order waiting before he even reaches the counter. It takes all of Dream’s willpower to not stumble to a stop at the speed—and consideration. He pays silently, nodding stiffly at the teen behind the till, and reaches for the bag that Hob holds out.

“My friend says she would be thankful for the chicken soup recipe,” he says, voice almost too quiet under the din of conversation around him. How are people so talkative this early in the morning?

“Great. I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a great day,” Hob says with a too-cheerful grin, and Dream merely nods again before making a hasty retreat.

Matthew fills in for Lucienne, and Dream finds himself wistfully thinking of all the ways she’s made his life easier. At the very least, she makes it so he doesn’t have to speak to the man who sends him tongue-tied and tripping over his own words. At the most, she handles much more than just secretarial duties; she’s a friend in as close a sense of the word as Dream can allow.

Matthew, on the other hand, is… adequate. He answers phones and reads over manuscripts like he’s meant to. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite have Lucienne’s eye for what makes for a good story. Dream doesn’t have the heart to tell the other man that his opinion on the manuscripts is flawed at its basest, so he suffers through bad story after bad story until he reaches one diamond in the rough.

Dream cannot wait until Lucienne is back.

Thankfully, she’s back within two weeks. She feels better than ever, she says as she takes her seat behind the desk, and Matthew visibly slumps in relief before scurrying off to do whatever it is he was hired for. Dream doesn’t remember, but he thinks Matthew might be Desi’s assistant.

The daily trips to Hob’s continue over the next couple of months. Though Lucienne tries a variety of baked goods and coffees, Dream stays with the same lemon-blueberry muffin and flat white with caramel. There is no need to order anything different when he’s pleased enough with what he’s had. Change is unnecessary.

He notices, though, that Lucienne wears an amused little smile now whenever they leave the bakery/café. Dream wastes precious hours trying to figure out why. He can’t think of a reason for the indecipherable grin. He gives up around lunchtime, knowing he will never understand on his own. Lucienne is quite adept at keeping her secrets when she wants to.

“You seem happy,” he says, stilted and awkward, when she arrives at noon with their lunches. She raises a perfect brow and gives him that enigmatic smile once more.

“Of course, sir. It’s a beautiful day out.” Lucienne’s lips press together, though her smile remains. Then, she seemingly takes pity on him: “Have you noticed, sir, that Hob is, well, flirting with you?”

Dream stares blankly before shaking his head. “He is not.”

“He is. Haven’t you realised he has your order memorised? He has to ask me every time what I’d like.”

“In his defence, you change your order every third time we go in.”

“Whether or not that’s true, it has no bearing on the fact that Hob flirts with you every single time he lays eyes on you.” She shrugs delicate shoulders and heads for the door. “If you don’t believe me, pay attention tomorrow morning.”

All of Dream’s focus vanishes and doesn’t return for the rest of the day. He can’t concentrate on the manuscripts or sending emails to various publishers. He hardly hears anything Lucienne says to him throughout the hours.

Could she be right? Is Hob actually flirting with him? Dream has to admit that Hob has been a star of his errant thoughts since that first day, when he’d made a fool of himself and Lucienne had had to save him from his awkwardness. Dream has caught himself occasionally wondering about the baker. Whether he enjoys his profession, what type of person he is. If he likes to read. Dream isn’t sure he could entertain even an acquaintanceship with one who doesn’t enjoy reading.

But if Hob is truly interested in Dream enough to flirt… Dream thinks that changes everything. His memorising Dream’s order is no longer impersonal—it’s quite the opposite. Dream is certain it isn’t anything more than good customer service, no matter what Lucienne says, but for Hob to show an attraction, no matter how small, is…

Dream wonders if it’s the best thing, to entertain thoughts of what could be if he’d only forget Calliope completely.

Hob is absolutely flirting with him. Even a disaster like Dream can recognise that the next morning.

Thankfully, Lucienne doesn’t say a word, only smiles, when Dream leaves a business card on the counter before making his way to the door at a near-run. He doesn’t even care that he’s forgotten to grab his lemon-blueberry muffin. He only needs to get away before he can storm back inside and grab the card before Hob can see it.

“That was brave,” Lucienne remarks once she’s behind the steering wheel, and Dream grits his teeth against the amusement in her voice. “I’m being serious, sir. That, what you just did? It was incredibly brave of you. I know… Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir. I know things haven’t been the easiest these past few years, but you’ve done something I think can make you happy.”

“I would rather not discuss this right now.”

She hums in response and starts the car. He turns his face toward the window and closes his eyes. She’s seen him at his worst, and he’s thankful she is seeing him now. Maybe she will stop worrying so.

Dream forces himself to focus on his work instead of dwelling on the fact he’s left his name and number for a perfect stranger.

Later that evening, once she’s come to a stop outside his building, Lucienne gives him a knowing look before he exits the car. Dream frowns, a question on his tongue, but closes the door without asking. He watches her car disappear from view then heads in to his flat.

He spends the next two hours going over Rose Walker’s manuscript once more, smiling slightly at the words on the pages. She has raw talent; he makes a mental note to suggest an editor for her next book. The sun has begun to set by the time he enters his kitchen. He sighs, goes through the motions of cooking dinner, then sits at the small dining table by himself with a plate of food before him.

The sight and smell turn his stomach. Hunger is an unfamiliar thing these days, rarely making an appearance in his life, though Lucienne makes sure he eats at least once a day. Dream taps the tines of his fork against the edge of his plate and glowers at the simple meal of a seasoned chicken breast, roasted potatoes, and corn. It had been his favourite before. Why does he hate it so now?

Thankfully, Dream is jerked forcibly from his ruminations by the sound of his ringtone. He frowns and stares at his cellphone vibrating across the countertop. He can’t think of a single person who would disturb him this late into the evening; Thana works the night shift at the hospital, Del rarely phones—she prefers to text—and Desi would wait until they see him face-to-face before saying anything. Lucienne would email.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Er… Hi.”

Dream’s frown deepens at the vaguely familiar voice that filters down the line. He can’t place where he’s heard it from, but he can admit it’s a pleasant voice. The man coughs quietly on the other end.

“It’s—it’s Hob. You, er, gave me your card this morning.”

Oh. Dream chews on his lower lip as his stomach swoops to his feet. His heart gives a tremendous lurch before bursting into a gallop. There’s no hiding the slight smile that tugs at his lips.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” Hob breathes then lets out an awkward chuckle. “I… I’m sorry if I’m phoning too late. I just got home from the bakery, so—”

“You are not. Phoning too late, I mean. I—I wasn’t busy.”

Dream grimaces at how he stutters over his words. He can almost hear Desi’s voice in his ears, goading him into admitting he is an utter failure at socialisation with fellow humans. And he is. The past thirty-two years of his existence have proven that time and again. He knows it well enough already. Dream doesn’t need his sibling’s reminder.

“Good. That’s, that’s good.” Hob’s voice wavers just a little when he asks, “So how was your day?”

Dream freezes. His fingers grip the device tighter as he stares blankly ahead. After a few seconds, he moves to sit in his chair once more and reaches for his fork. How was his day, besides spent trying not to wonder about this man?

“I had a productive day,” he finally says, and Hob’s exhale crackles in his ear; Dream doesn’t know him, but even he can hear the relief in the sound. As if he worried Dream wouldn’t answer.

“So did I.”

Dream drags his fork through the small pile of corn on his plate before setting the utensil to the side. He bites down on his lower lip to stem the awkward rambling begging to break free. What he would say, he has no idea, but it would do no good to embarrass himself. Hob seems to feel the same: He doesn’t speak for a few long minutes. Finally:

“Would you want to have dinner with me?”

Yes. The voice in his head immediately counters his initial reaction: No. Not after how Calliope destroyed him. Dream can’t take that chance again. But, the smaller part of him says, we’re so tired of being lonely. So tired of not having someone. So damn tired of feeling broken because no one can love us.

Dream just wants someone to love him again, even if he will deny that yearning for the rest of his life.

“I… I would like that very much.”

“Really? I, wow, that’s—that’s great. Er, how does Friday evening work for you?”

Dream hesitates, screws up in his face as he struggles to recall his schedule for the week. There is really no need: He rarely has plans for any day of the week beyond working. And Lucienne would agree that he can afford to spend one evening not poring over manuscripts or obsessively refreshing his email account in hopes another publisher has picked up one of his clients.

“Friday will do.”

“Great.” Hob’s smile is evident in his voice. “I’ll pick you up around seven, is that okay?”

Seven is more than okay, seven is perfect, Dream thinks as he gives a much less exuberant affirmation. Hob ends the call after another handful of silent minutes, claiming an early morning, and Dream stares at his phone where it now lies on the table.

He has a date. He has a date. He has a date. He. Has. A. Date.

He’s just picked up his phone when it dings, a notification lighting up the screen: I forgot to ask what your address is. Dream sucks on the inside of his cheek as he types out a response; it’s slow-going, considering how little he texts. In the last month, he’s sent five messages, all to Del. Thankfully, she never truly expects a reply. It’s enough that she knows he reads everything she says.

As soon as the message is sent—and his heart rate is back within normal range—Dream dials a number. She answers within seconds.

“I need help.”

Thana doesn’t seem to mind his lack of greeting, immediately slipping into older sister mode. It takes more than two minutes to assure her he is in perfect health with no injury or harm brought upon him. She asks once more for confirmation that he’s fine, and he snaps:

“I am absolutely fine, Thana. It’s just… I have a date,” he says, voice small. He is less certain now that this date is a good idea. He hasn’t been on a date since the beginning of his relationship with Calliope, seven years ago. What if things are different now?

“A date? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“So one would think.”

“You’re second-guessing already, aren’t you?” she sighs.

“What if… Thana, I have barely spoken to him before this. He is a stranger.”

“Is he cute?”

Dream frowns and rises to his feet. Tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear, he carries his plate across the room and scrapes the uneaten meal into the depths of the garbage bin. “He is attractive, yes.”

“Does he seem nice?”

“From what I have heard of him, yes. He—he makes sure to ask after every customer that comes in.”

“Then what’s the problem, little brother?” She inhales sharply, and when she speaks next, her voice has softened. “Oh, I understand now. Dream… You can’t let what Calliope did colour everything you do. Especially not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“This is hardly a ‘heart’ situation,” he protests, but he knows his sister doesn’t believe him.

“Please go on this date. If not for yourself, then for me. Help me stop worrying so much about you.”

“You need not worry.” He pauses, reaching for the sponge to clean the plate. “But… I will go.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Now, I have to go. Duty calls and all that. Phone me later, okay? I like hearing from you more than once a month.”

“I will. Thana?”

“Yeah, Dream?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby brother.”

She ends the call before he can say another word, but it doesn’t stop him from grimacing at the epithet. He’s always been “little brother” or, worse, “baby brother” to Thana. He loves her dearly, probably more than he loves his other siblings except for Del, though he imagines himself throttling her every so often. He never would. He doesn’t think so, anyway.

The next two days fly by. Dream can’t account for any of the hours of the last sixty and his nights are filled with nightmares. What if this date goes horribly, and Hob never wants to see Dream again? Then Hob’s will no longer be an option. Dream will never again taste the light decadence of a lemon-blueberry muffin or the perfect amount of caramel in a flat white. Lucienne will be annoyed at him for causing her to find a new bakery-and-café. Thana will pity him, Del will try to cheer him up in her own way. His eldest brother will only give platitudes that do nothing to ease the hurt. He’ll never know what his second-oldest brother will say.

Desi will never let him hear the end of it.

But he’d promised Thana he would go, so he makes it through the Friday from Hell without cancelling. Another call from Burgess, another threat against his life. His computer crashing—twice—and Desi sending Matthew to pester Dream about whatever tickles their fancy. Publishers rejecting Rose Walker’s story, which hurts Dream’s heart. Rose hasn’t let it stop her, but he is getting disheartened on her behalf.

Finally, the day ends. Lucienne takes him home, and Dream slumps into his flat with only one thought on his mind: Going to bed and not waking until morning. He’s just undressed when his phone dings from its position on his bed.

Thana (17.48): Have fun on your date tonight! Phone me tomorrow and tell me all about it!!!

The date. Oh, God, the date with Hob that Dream managed to forget in all the chaos of the day. He groans and rushes to the closet. He hadn’t even thought of what to wear. Or to ask Hob where he was planning to take Dream.

He has nothing. Not a single thing appropriate for a date. Dropping to sit on his bed, Dream realises he needs to do what he hoped he would never have to do: He needs to text his sibling.

He types, deletes, and re-types a message before finally sending it. Please come over. I need your help.

Desi (17.51): oh, big brother, whatever could you possibly need my help with?

Do not play games. I would not ask for help if I did not truly need it.

Desi (17.55): you owe me

A terrifying thought, to be sure, but Dream agrees anyway. He needs his sibling’s help, and if anyone will know how to dress appropriately for a date, it will be them. Dream can’t dare be picky about the conditions placed upon that assistance. Besides, he doesn’t think Desi would ask him for anything dangerous or illegal, just something to wound his pride.

They arrive within the half-hour, scarlet-painted lips stretched into a smug smile as they push past Dream. He closes his eyes and squeezes the doorknob for a moment then closes the door. When he turns to face his sibling, they raise an eyebrow.

“What do you need, big brother?”

“I… I have a date. In an hour,” he adds with a glance at the clock. “I’ve no idea what to wear, so I would like your help with that.”

“A date? Why, Dream, this is a surprise.”

Dream scowls and hunches in on himself. Desi’s shock isn’t unexpected, but they need not voice it so adamantly. He opens his mouth to speak, but Desi beats him to it.

“Wasn’t the last first date you went on with Calliope?”

“You dare bring her into this?” he hisses. “I should—”

“Should what, Dream?” Desi grins a sharp, vicious smile.“You need me, no matter how much you wish otherwise.”

Dream sighs, deflating. Desi is right. They both know there is nothing he can do to win this. With a wave of his hand, he heads to his bedroom and loathes the fact his sibling follows.

He hates even more the scrunch of Desi’s nose, the curl to their lip as they stare at the clothes in his closet.

“Have you thought of going shopping for a wardrobe that isn’t all black?”

“I like my wardrobe.”

“Clearly.” Desi sighs and rifles through the line of jeans. “Take it from me, Dream, variety is the spice of life. And colours can do a world of good for your mental state.”

“My mental state is perfectly adequate.”

“‘Perfectly adequate’ is hardly the glowing compliment you think it is, big brother. In fact, it’s downright sad.”

This is why Dream never calls upon Desi for anything. This, among other reasons.

Thankfully, his sibling pokes no more at him, only scowls as they hold up and discard clothing option after option. They mutter under their breath but otherwise don’t acknowledge their brother. After a while, they emerge from the back of the closet with a pair of black jeans and a navy button-down that Dream has forgotten he even owns. Dream takes the clothes from Desi and waits until they leave the room to dress and stand before the mirror on the back of his bedroom door.

His reflection stares back, and he has to admit… Desi has done an acceptable job. Dream thinks he might be a bit underdressed, considering he doesn’t know what this date will entail, but there is no time to waffle further on the situation. He has thirty minutes before Hob is meant to arrive. He sighs and exits his room.

Desi glances away from the screen of their phone, and Dream scowls at the lack of respect they have for his furniture.

“Get your feet off my sofa.”

“They aren’t on your sofa, big brother.”

“Can’t you ever just sit properly?” he says, exasperated to the point beyond words.

Desi takes pity on him, swinging their feet from off the arm of the sofa and to the floor, though they roll their eyes to signify their reluctance to obey his simple request. They pull themselves upright and give him a once-over. He stands still as their lips curve into a smile while they rise to their feet.

“You could look worse.”

It’s as high a compliment as he will ever receive from them, so Dream murmurs a thanks as Desi heads to the door. Their heels click on the hardwood, and their bleached hair practically glows in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. They turn to face Dream with one hand on the doorknob.

“My work here is as done as it will ever be,” they announce. “I’ll call on you when I need that favour.”

“You have my word, and—”

“I know. Your word is your bond. That’s one thing I’ve never doubted about you.” Desi stops, turns toward him once more, and their smile is softer now. Something reminiscent of what they used to look like before the relationship between the two changed irreparably. “I know we don’t always get along, but Dream? I really hope this date goes well.”

“Thank you. I—I do, too.”

Desi leaves then, pulling the door shut behind them with more force than necessary, and Dream grits his teeth. Of course they’d do one last thing to annoy Dream. But… He can’t really be upset with them. They’d stopped whatever they were doing to help him, and they had even wished him well on his date.

The decade-long feud had come to a close months ago, but Dream still struggles to believe it’s real. The fight had dragged on until neither could remember why it ever even began. It had taken a disastrous family dinner and their older sister to remind them of how close they used to be. The apology hadn’t been the hardest part. Reconciling has.

A knock sounds only five minutes later, and Dream realises with a start that he hasn’t moved from where he’s stood since Desi left. His hands clench into fists without permission, and it slowly registers in his mind that he’s shaking. His heart races in his chest, a rapid-fire tattoo that steals his breath. Wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans, Dream makes his way to the door on shaky knees.

Hob stands just on the other side, and his eyes widen slightly once the door is fully open. A smile stretches his lips, and Dream gives him a quick once-over. Beneath his tan jacket, he wears a fitted navy T-shirt and black jeans. A flicker of amusement flares to life beneath Dream’s breast. Hob must feel the same about wearing nearly-matching outfits for he huffs out a quiet laugh.

After a moment, he lifts his right hand to eye-level. In it is a thin strip of wood, a black ribbon dangling from one end. Dream reaches out for it; Hob gives it over with a smile that hardly seems real—more uncomfortable than anything. There is no need for his nerves, Dream thinks as he examines the item.

The wood is silky smooth, cut into a long rectangle with a rounded end. A hole has been bored in the centre of the rounded end from which the ribbon hangs. On the body is a depiction of a muffin with blueberries with a lemon slice stuck into the top, the image burned into the surface. It’s the prettiest bookmark Dream has ever seen; it’s certainly the only one that’s been made so painstakingly.

“It’s lovely,” he says, finally dragging his gaze away from the gift. “I… I’m sorry, I did not think to get you something.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hob assures him. “I asked you out, after all. I—So you like it?”

“I do. Did you make it yourself?”

Hob visibly relaxes, and his smile reaches his eyes. Tugging at his left earlobe, he shrugs slightly.“Yeah, it’s a hobby I picked up as a teenager.”

“You are very talented. One moment.”

Dream crosses the living room to his bookshelf, carefully tucks the bookmark between the pages of a collection of Poe’s works, then makes his way to the door where Hob still stands. After slipping on his own jacket, Dream grabs his wallet and keys before stepping out into the hall. Hob waits while Dream locks the door, then the pair walk toward the lift.

The descent is quiet; Dream has no idea what to say. He grimaces internally—if this is any indication of how the night is going to go, he can’t imagine that Hob will ever want to see him again, not even as a customer. Conversation is a necessity on dates. He may not have been on a date since long before Calliope left him, but even he knows he will have to talk at some point. He’ll even have to steer the conversation on occasion; he can’t expect Hob to initiate every topic. ic.

God, but he’s awful at this. It’s no wonder he’s alone.

Don’t think like that. It’s Thana’s voice that plays in his head, and Dream closes his eyes for a second. Lets himself imagine everything she’d say if she had been the one to come over and help him prepare. You’ll do great. Sure, you’re a bit awkward, but aren’t we all. Awkward or not, though, you’re a great man, and anyone would be lucky enough to know you.

Right. Lucky. Dream exhales slowly before following Hob out of the lift. The man holds open the door to the building, gesturing Dream into the cool night air with a smile. Neither man speaks as they cross the street to what Dream assumes is Hob’s car—either that, or they’re about to start the night off with a felony carjacking. Dream isn’t sure whether he’d mind or not.

Thankfully, Hob doesn’t seem to mind Dream’s silence on the drive to… wherever it is he’s taking them. He just lets the radio play a soft rock song, singing along occasionally. After two songs, he reaches over to shut the radio off and clears his throat.

“I hope you’re alright with Chinese.”

“I have not had much experience with that type of cuisine.”

Hob mouths the word ‘cuisine’ as if he doesn’t believe Dream can see him, then nods slowly. “We can do something else if you’d like.”

“Chinese food will be fine, Hob. You will just have to help me decide what to order.”

“I can do that,” Hob says, smiling like he’s just won some sort of lottery.

Dream wonders about this man, how he can hold such happiness within himself when the world is more often than not a cesspool of negativity. How can Hob so clearly care so much about life when it’s oftentimes cruel? Desi has, on more than one occasion, called Dream a pessimist, but he’s always felt himself pragmatic, realistic. Compared to Hob, however… It causes Dream to wonder if his sibling is correct.

Dinner turns out to be less uncomfortable than Dream feared it would be. Hob asks questions that require more than one-word answers, and he actually listens to Dream’s responses. His expressions read more evidently on his face than Dream has ever seen on another before. He cares.

Dream learns about Hob, as well. How, when Hob was thirteen, he broke the window of the house next door and was forced to make amends with the woman that lived there. She took a shine to him and offered to teach him better things to do with his hands than destroy—she taught him to bake. Mrs Delacroix taught him everything he knows about the craft.

“And when she grew too old, I took over her duties of donating food and pastries to the local food banks and churches.” Hob huffs out a soft laugh. “Never seemed to matter the denomination. She fed them all.”

Now, he says, he’s thirty-four and just as in love with baking as he was at thirteen holding a whisk for the first time. His mother began recruiting him into helping her with baking the desserts for family dinners. Within the month, he was left to his own devices.

He learned woodwork at sixteen, another way to use his hands to create. “I—I saw you were a literary agent on your card, so I figured making a bookmark was a safe bet.”

Dream smiles and picks up a piece of beef with his chopsticks. “It… It’s a beautiful thing, and I am well pleased with it.”

Hob ducks his head but not before Dream sees the ruby to his cheeks. They lapse into a companionable silence as they eat, even Dream, then Hob pays, claiming it’s his right as the initiator of the date. Dream doesn’t argue. It feels like a debate he will never win, so he merely nods assent and follows Hob out of the restaurant.

Their next destination ends up being a squat brick building only five down from the restaurant. Through the large windows, Dream sees four rows of easels already adorned with canvases. He cocks his head as he watches a man striding between the rows, placing what appears to be palettes at each station. Hob’s face screws up when Dream turns to him.

“I thought it might be fun.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called paint and sip. You, well, you drink wine while painting.”

Dream pauses, thinks it over. It does sound like a pleasant time, even if he’s never painted before in his life. And Hob has already proven himself to be a wonderful companion. The worst that can happen, Dream concludes, is his painting turn out to be utter rubbish. His lips quirk, and he approaches the door, pulling it open for Hob to enter.

“After you.”

Hob’s face splits into a large smile, and he passes by Dream. As he does, his hand brushes Dream’s hip under his jacket, and Dream barely manages to suppress a shudder. Hob’s hand was warm, even through Dream’s button-down, and almost tender. It’s been so long since Dream has been touched in such a gentle manner. No other date has gone like this—not as if Dream has given many people chances.

But Hob… Dream already knows Hob is something special.

True to Dream’s prediction, and hopes, Hob is just as great a partner during the painting process as he was during dinner. He laughs at his own mistakes, talks about his family when the instructor is quiet, and compliments Dream’s attempts at painting a starry night sky under which a tent is pitched and the silhouette of a couple sits. Dream appreciates the fibbing, but even he knows it’s atrocious.

He doesn’t care, not when Hob leans closer, not when he can smell the scent of Hob’s cologne, not when he can feel the warmth when Hob is mere inches away.

The instructor tells them to take the paintings with them when they leave. Dream carefully carries his canvas so as not to smudge the paint. He holds both paintings on his lap as Hob drives them back to Dream’s flat; this time, conversation flows much more smoothly than Dream would ever have expected. Hob even laughs at the few jokes Dream tells. Dream settles back in his seat, more smug than he really has any right to be, and stares at Hob’s face while he drives.

His eyes shine in the lights from the dashboard, and Dream sees flashes of his teeth as he speaks. His grins are quick to come and slow to disappear. They’re beautiful in a way Dream can’t explain.

He also can’t explain the surprise when Hob walks him inside, waits through the ride in the lift, and then walks Dream to his door. Once there, Hob chews on his lower lip then smiles.

“Wanna trade?”

“Another gift you’ve given me,” Dream says even while they swap paintings. “I feel special.”

“You are.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat at the earnestness in Hob’s voice. He coughs quietly then does what he never thought he’d do, something he never did even with Calliope on their first date:

He asks, “May I kiss you?”

“Absolutely.”

Hob’s answer is far too quick to be smooth, but Dream doesn’t mind at all. He leans forward just enough that their lips brush, and his sharp exhale gusts from him at the contact. Hob groans low in his throat and presses closer. His free hand comes up to cup Dream’s cheek, and Dream tilts his head into the touch. This allows Hob to deepen the kiss; Dream’s lips part beneath Hob’s, and that’s all it takes. He can’t breathe through the sudden, dizzying rush of want that floods through him.

He doesn’t want this night to end, not yet.

“I better go,” Hob mumbles into the kiss. “Or I won’t be able to stop.”

He pulls away slowly, diving back in for another kiss—this one chaste—before stepping back. Dream memorises the shape of Hob’s smile as he says a goodnight. Dream murmurs a goodnight in return then watches his date walk to the lift. Once the doors slide closed, Dream raises trembling fingers to his lips and grins at the ghost of a memory. Though it’s only just ended, Dream knows he won’t forget this first kiss.

Sleep comes easily that night. Dream’s mind replays the date. Each time, the details change but for the ending. He and Hob always share that devastatingly wonderful kiss. Even in his dreams, the kiss is spellbinding and intoxicating.

The next morning finds Dream just as entranced by the kiss he can still feel upon his lips. He busies himself with making coffee then checks the time. It should be early enough in the morning that he won’t wake her from her much-needed rest. Thana answers on the second ring, like she’s been waiting for her phone to ring.

“So? How did it go, little brother?

It was the best night of my life. No. That’s too eager, too much too soon. So Dream reigns in his words and replies, “It was a very pleasant evening.”

“You have to give me more than that, Dream!”

“We went to dinner—”

“Where?”

“A Chinese restaurant.”

“You ate Chinese food. You? The same man who orders the same muffin every time he goes to that bakery Lucienne found, and oh, my god, you’re dating the owner of that bakery Lucienne found!”

“It’s… We aren’t dating!” Dream protests over his sister’s gasp. “We went on one date, that is all!”

“Oh, Dream, I’m so happy for you. Imagine all the free coffee you’ll get.”

“I am not dating Hob for free coffee,” sniffs Dream.

“Ah, but you are dating him.”

“Would you like to hear about the rest of the evening, or would you prefer to continue this vein of conversation?”

Thana squeaks and makes a ‘zipping’ noise. “I’d love to hear about the evening.”

So Dream tells her about the way dinner had gone and about paint and sip, how much fun he’d had despite his initial reservations. He doesn’t tell her about the kids, though he admits he’s glad he went. Hob has turned out to be a decent man who can make Dream laugh.

“And laughter is something you desperately need in your life,” Thana says, and Dream would find her words flippant were it not for the softness of her tone. “I really am happy for you, little brother. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

“Thank you. I really am happy right now.”

“I hope it lasts. Now, let me tell you about my night.”

His good mood lasts until Monday morning, then it’s unceremoniously replaced by anxiety. Dream can’t tolerate even the thought of food so he skips breakfast completely. What if Hob has changed his mind about Dream, never wants another date? What if—

You’re letting yourself borrow worries. Calliope’s voice hurts to hear, but she’s right. She always was. So Dream draws in a shaky breath and heads to his closet to ready for work.

Hob’s cheeks turn red when Dream and Lucienne walk through the door to the bakery/café. His smile looks as real as it had three days before, and Dream swallows harshly at the memory of the taste of that smile—wine and spicy chicken. A combination that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway.

Jo narrows her eyes as she looks between Dream and Hob, then a smug smirk dances upon her lips. Dream feels his face heat, the warmth intensifying at Lucienne’s knowing glance. Thankfully, neither woman says anything except Lucienne ordering and Jo telling her the total. Dream barely listens, too intent on watching Hob moving about behind the counter.

The shirt he wears today fits perfectly, and it accentuates the muscles that shift beneath the fabric as he moves. His hair is in a low bun once more; Dream is almost sad to see it pulled back. He’d rather enjoyed the way it hung around Hob’s face on their date. The way he’d imagined how it would feel between his fingers before realising it was far too soon to think that way. Hob grins as he turns to face Dream, to-go cup in hand.

“You free on Friday?”

“I am.”

“Meet me here around five?”

“I will.”

It’s all they need to say, and Dream relaxes internally. Hob wants to see him again. That must count for something. Hob’s fingers brush against Dream’s as he passes over the flat white. A shiver runs down Dream’s spine, and he can’t stop the smile that breaks free. Small but no less real, it hopefully conveys more than his gratitude for the coffee.

Somehow, and Dream will never be able to explain it, the week goes by quickly. A publisher has finally picked up Rose’s book, so he at least has good news to give. Burgess doesn’t call at all; Dream waits with bated breath the entire week, but it was in vain. Even Desi has been less insufferable than usual.

They’d even asked Dream on Monday how his date went and seemed genuinely pleased to hear it went well.

He hesitates then asks Lucienne for a lift to the bakery. She hurries to finish up her tasks then follows Dream out to her car. Her silence lasts only until she pulls out into traffic.

“If I may, sir… I’m happy to see you happy.”

“Thank you, Lucienne. It’s—It’s nice to be happy.” He stares out the window at the passing buildings. “Do you think it’s a mistake to become involved in the man who runs your favourite bakery?”

She lets out an inelegant snort, shaking her head. “Of course not. I can’t imagine Hob holding it against anyone if things don’t work out.”

Dream sighs and lets his finger trail over the locking mechanism on the door. It’s nice to hear that she doesn’t believe Hob so vindictive, but there will always be that worry. After all, Hob is only human. Humans can be cruel when they want to be.

“I hope you are right,” he murmurs after a moment.

“So do I.”

Jo is pulling the drawer from the till when Dream walks in. Her “We’re closing” dies away once she sees him, then her lips stretch into that same smug smirk she wore Monday morning. And every other time he’s come in while she was working. She holds the drawer against her hip, calling over her shoulder:

“Oi, Hobsie, your boyfriend’s here!”

“Fuck off, Johanna,” is the response, and Jo—Johanna—snickers before disappearing into the back.

Hob emerges only a minute later. He looks a mess: Flour coats his hands, though he’s wiping them valiantly on a dishtowel, and there’s a smear of chocolate across his cheek. His T-shirt has the slightest dusting of either flour or powdered sugar along the hem. Locks of hair hang on either side of his face, sweat-damp and curling slightly.

He looked wonderful on their date, but Dream thinks Hob looks best like this. In his element.

Unfortunately, on his face is a twisted-up expression that rarely bodes well. He leans on the counter and pushes hair from his cheek. “I should have phoned.”

“You want to cancel.” Dream swallows the disappointment, bitter and acrid in his throat. Of course Hob wants to cancel. Why would he want to continue the charade of wanting to see Dream? It was inevitable, really, so Dream can’t really fault the man for reaching that point more quickly than others. “That—that… That’s fine. I’ll just…”

The words catch in his throat, and he turns away, back toward the door. He’s a fool for believing. He should have known. At least now, Hob no longer has to pretend. He can move on and be with someone he truly wishes to love. Dream only laments that it isn’t him.

Hob’s voice finally comes as Dream’s foot is through the doorway. “Wait, what? Of course I don’t want to cancel!”

Dream’s fingers flex around the doorhandle, but he doesn’t speak. It can’t be true. This only ever ends poorly, written in the stars to conclude in doom. Hob—

“Would you get back here, damn it?”

His feet move of their own accord: Dream finds himself before the counter once more only seconds later, and Hob frowns as his gaze tracks over Dream’s face. Whatever he sees causes him to blanch. His flour-covered hand reaches for Dream’s; Dream allows Hob to hesitantly lace their fingers together.

“Love, if I wanted to cancel, I would have done so long before now.” He smiles when Dream finally meets his eye. “I should have phoned to let you know I’d be running a bit behind. I’m doing a favour for my sister, it’s my nephew’s birthday tomorrow. So I’ve been convinced under duress to provide snacks. Because Tesco isn’t good enough, apparently.”

“I do not blame your sister for her particular wants. Tesco pales in comparison to your artistry.”

Hob’s lips part, and Dream relishes the rush of pink to the man’s cheeks. “Well… When you say it…” Hob sighs and squeezes Dream’s hand. “I’m afraid we’ll have to either start our date later, or postpone entirely.”

“Or,” Johanna’s voice cuts through the air, “and this might be a wild suggestion, but your boyfriend can help you with the baking.”

Dream’s eyes widen, and he glances at Hob. The other man takes pity on Dream; he tells Johanna to go home and bother Rachel. She only grins and heads toward the door while lifting her hand, middle finger raised. The bell over the door jangles before falling silent. Still Hob has not released Dream’s hand.

Dream doesn’t mind it. Hob’s hand is warm, sturdy. He runs his thumb over the ridge of a knuckle and picks over his words carefully. Instead of choosing to go home and await Hob’s free time, what comes out is:

“I would… I would like to watch you bake, if you are amenable to that.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s rather boring.”

Dream lifts his gaze until he is staring directly into Hob’s eyes, rich brown and full of confusion beneath brows drawn together. “I have had a particularly decent week. Good things have happened. I was looking forward to ending it on as high a note as it began. With you,” he adds when Hob only stares.

“Your clothes…”

“We will just have to take care not to make a mess.”

Famous last words, Dream thinks when the first cloud of flour settles on his button-down—he’d already shucked his blazer before even stepping foot into the kitchen. He has his sleeves rolled to his elbows at Hob’s insistence, but it has done no good in maintaining the cleanliness of his clothing. His gaze moves from the front of his shirt to Hob.

“At least they’ll wash?” Hob says with a rakish grin.

That they will, but that doesn’t stop Dream from pinching a small amount of flour between his fingertips and flicking it in Hob’s direction. It’s immature, childish, and completely out of character for Dream. It makes Hob laugh. He catches Dream’s hand in his own, pulling him closer.

The kiss is expected but no less sweet. Tender. Neither man makes a move to deepen it; they just leave it as gentle brushes of lips. Nonetheless, a shiver runs down Dream’s spine at each feather-light point of contact. He wonders when the last time a kiss elicited such a reaction like this. Perhaps in the beginning with Calliope, but not since.

His preoccupation explains how easily Hob surprises him with a puff of flour to his breast.

“Did you really just—?”

“You flicked flour at me first, love. I was only fighting fire with fire.”

With a soft exhale, Dream leans forward to press his lips to Hob’s. “Perhaps we were both a bit… exuberant.”

“Exuberant. Yeah. That sounds right.” Hob steps back and uses his thumb to brush at Dream’s chin. “I should really get to work.”

“I will endeavour to not distract you.”

“Oh, love, that’s an impossible ask.”

But Hob manages to work just fine with Dream sat on a stool only feet away. Row after row of cookie dough is placed onto a sheet and slid into the oven. While those bake, Hob starts filling muffin tins with batter, smashing chunks of fruit in metal bowls, blending cream cheese and sugar together. He does all this with an ease that Dream is envious of and a smile on his face.

“You enjoy this.”

“Hm?” Hob looks away from where he’s stirring fruit gel in a saucepan. “Yeah, I do.”

“I know you mentioned it at dinner, how you like this job, but… Seeing it is different from hearing it.”

“What about you? Any hobbies of your own?”

Dream hesitates. His only hobbies include reading and, embarrassingly enough, knitting. He hasn’t done the latter since Calliope left. She’d been the one to teach him, and he still can’t bring himself to enjoy something that reminds him of her.

But Hob asked, so Dream tells him the truth. He leaves out any information about his ex-wife. That’s a minefield best left unexplored. Hob seems to understand there is something Dream isn’t saying, but he doesn’t question it.

“You knit? That’s actually pretty awesome. Never have to buy mass-produced piles of shite.”

“Fast fashion is a terrible stain on this world.”

“I’d love to see something you’ve made.”

“Perhaps.”

Night has well and truly fallen by the time Hob places the last cupcake into the carrying tray. Dream helps tidy up the mess of flour, dough and batter that’s dripped to the countertops, the smears of fruit compote. He doesn’t miss the purple across Hob’s forehead from where he’d brushed his hair from his face, nor the yellow puree that lingers in the corner of his lips. Dream latches onto the surge of courage that he’s never held so dearly before, reaching forward to swipe a thumb over the glob of lemon gel. Hob’s eyes widen when Dream licks the mess from his thumb.

“You’re killing me,” Hob whispers before his hands come up to cradle Dream’s cheeks. “And what a fucking way to go.”

Dream doesn’t get the chance to admit how deeply his own feelings run already, how often he thinks of Hob despite this being their second date, before Hob is backing him against the counter, lips colliding with Dream’s. The kiss is devouring, demanding. Dream willingly gives as much as Hob takes; his hands clutch at the front of Hob’s shirt, tugging him closer. He gasps at the hard length that presses against him.

He’s no better, not really. The want is no longer a subtle stirring, satisfied to reside in the background. Now it’s an inferno that burns through his veins as his hips push forward. Hob groans, one hand dropping to Dream’s waist, and Dream relishes the slight pain of Hob’s too-tight grip. The sharpness of blunt nails digging into his skin through his button-down.

“Not—fuck, love, not here.”

“Then where?” and is that really Dream’s voice, a low rumble full of desire and need?

“I have a flat upstairs.”

Dream nods fervently, and Hob takes the lead. He stops only for them to wash their hands in the sink. Then his fingers twine with Dream’s, and he leads the way to a staircase in the back of the kitchen. Dream stumbles in his rush to follow, and Hob is there. He steadies Dream but continues on without word. Dream understands—he can’t speak, either, not through the dizzying rush of arousal that spikes as Hob strips off his shirt before they’ve even reached the door to his flat.

A long scar stretches across one shoulder, from the curve of his throat down to the base of bone. Dream yearns to touch it, to touch every part of Hob’s body and worship it as a supplicant before a god. He aches to know everything there is about this man, and damn it, he’s already too far gone for Hob.

It’s the same story as before, as it was with Calliope: He fell too fast then, and look what happened. But he can’t stop himself from watching a car-crash from Hell that is a relationship destined to meet a fiery demise.

“Are you sure?” Hob murmurs as he turns to face Dream, reaching around him to close the door.

“I… I want. You.” More than I can say, more than is advisable.

Hob’s groan echoes in the silence between them, and he tugs Dream in against his chest. They share breaths for a moment before Hob kisses Dream softly, slowly, and Dream bites back a plea for more. Devour me once again. Let me be yours if only for a moment. Destroy me if you must, but please give me this.

He ignores the decorations around him, the open curtains over the window, the way the moonlight spreads across the floor, everything but the bed and the way Hob still kisses him so sweetly.

Hob pulls away long enough to ask, “How do you want to do this?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Hey, no worries, love. We’ll figure it out together, okay? Have you… Have you ever been with a man before?”

“Once, before I met my ex-wife.”

Hob pauses, head tilting, and Dream wonders if he’s made a misstep. Will Hob force him to leave now that he has spilled something so personal? Something that points to his failure at maintaining relationships?

But no. Hob is kissing him again; his smile dances across Dream’s lips. “Well, then. Let me remind you of how great it can be.”

“You are rather confident,” Dream pants as Hob’s hands make quick work of unbuttoning his shirt.

Hob only laughs and shoves the button-down out of the way. Dream shivers once his skin is exposed, a chill that quickly fades under the heat in Hob’s eyes. The fire in his hands as he strokes his palms across the pale flesh. With a devilish grin that weakens Dream’s knees, Hob leans forward to press his lips to Dream’s throat. Dream gasps at the scrape of teeth across his jugular, the drag of thumbs against his nipples.

A strong arm wraps around his waist, and his hands flutter aimlessly before they cling to Hob’s shoulders. Hair rubs against his smooth skin, and he bites back a whine at the sensation. Hob shifts his attention from Dream’s throat to his lips, the hand still stroking Dream’s chest slipping around to splay across his back.

“Should we take this to the bedroom,” Hob begins, “or should I take you right here?”

Moving away from Hob sounds like a dreadful idea. The thought of parting and not feeling the strength in Hob’s body against his own sends a shudder down Dream’s spine, and his hands press more firmly against Hob’s skin.

Hob chuckles and nips at Dream’s lower lip. “Here it is, then. Bedroom later.”

Yes. Please. Dream barely thinks the words—the plea—before Hob’s hand is undoing the button of his slacks. Cool air slides along the heated skin of his cock; Dream shivers and arches into the fingers that suddenly wrap around him.

“That’s a good love,” murmurs Hob when Dream lets out a low, needy sound, his head falling back to hit the wall. “And just think, I’ve not truly gotten started yet.”

Dream watches as Hob lowers himself to his knees, hands reverently pulling Dream’s slacks further down his thighs, then inhales sharply when Hob takes him into his mouth without warning. Dream can’t stop himself—he’s wanted to touch, to feel the softness of Hob’s hair, since the moment he laid eyes on the man, and now he can. So he does. His fingers tangle in the loose strands of hair that have fallen from the bun, and Hob hums quietly. Dream gives an experimental tug only to let out a “Ah!” of surprise when Hob yanks him even closer. His cock slips further into Hob’s throat, and Dream feels his thighs begin shaking already.

Hob’s hands slide from Dream’s arse to his hips, pushing and pulling until Dream moves on his own. His hips slip forward in abortive little thrusts, and a moan slips from his lips when he looks down to where his cock is disappearing between lips stretched around his shaft. Hob glances up through tear-clumped lashes, colour high on his cheeks, and Dream loses control.

He tugs on Hob’s hair, holds him still as he fucks into the warm, willing mouth. He spills a release when Hob lets out a strangled sound, the most beautiful noise Dream has heard in so long; his knees nearly buckle when he feels Hob swallowing around his cock.

Hob may look amazing at work, covered in the evidence of his job, but Dream finds he’s more beautiful on his knees.

Dream breathes heavily, rapidly, while Hob clambers to his feet once more. Hob wraps his hand around the back of Dream’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss so soft, so at odds with the way he’d manhandled Dream so roughly. The taste of himself on Hob’s tongue elicits a strange sort of want.

“That was not part of tonight’s plan, just so you know,” Hob announces once they part, chuckling as he runs his thumb over Dream’s lower lip. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Dream swallows thickly and realises belatedly his hand is still tangled in Hob’s hair. He releases the strands and lets his hand drop to Hob’s shoulder.“Nor am I.”

“So…”

“I believe,” Dream says after a moment in which Hob falls awkwardly silent, “we were going to the bedroom now.”

Hob’s shoulders lose their tension, his body slumping slightly, and he gives Dream a cocky smile. It looks out of place on his face—so full of kindness and joy and affection—but Dream drinks in the sight anyway. Hob wraps an arm around Dream’s waist and begins walking backwards; Dream manages to not stumble over the slacks still around his thighs as he steers them toward a door through which he can see a bed with the bedsheets pulled back.

The sight brings a small smile to his face.

They don’t speak as Hob retrieves a condom from the bedside table, nor as they divest themselves of their clothes, though neither man takes their eye off the other. The instant Hob’s second sock hits the floor, he has Dream pulled in against his chest, and he’s kissing him like the world might end. Dream returns the same fervour, the same heat and need and desire wrapped into a tight ball beneath his sternum.

With each stroke of Hob’s tongue against his own, the fire fans higher, blows out of proportion until Dream feels he could burn to ashes. He could burn, and nary a care would he have. He would beg on bended knee for the chance to fall to destruction at the hands of this man who has already turned him inside-out. It’s far too soon—Dream has always done too much too fast—but he would plead for the opportunity to have his heart broken by Hob. This night would be enough, is enough, to make it worth it.

He loses all sense of himself, of time and reality. Dream is little more than speckles of galaxy witnessing the birth of a nebula, caught in the brilliance bursting forth. He’s surrounded by warmth and care, hands holding him steady as his body stretches and relaxes and opens so easily. There’s a beauty in the action, something Dream can never explain. He forces his eyes to open so he can look directly at the sun beneath him.

Hob stares back with pupils blown wide. His fingers press against Dream’s skin, nails scratching lightly as Dream rises then lowers, filling himself with Hob’s cock until he no longer knows where he ends and Hob begins. He rests his hands on Hob’s chest, feels the man’s heartbeat beneath his palms, and whimpers at the gentleness with which Hob thrusts upward into him.

“You—you are so amazing,” Hob whispers, hand coming up to cup Dream’s cheek. “Fucking wonderful, so beautiful, and I don’t know how I got so lucky to know you.”

Dream can’t speak, so he does the next best thing: He ducks his head to kiss Hob, pouring into it everything he wishes to say. He aches to tell Hob that this is the first time he’s felt so at ease with someone, that this is the quickest he’s ever fallen for anyone and it absolutely terrifies him. He’s petrified but unable to stop it. These feelings are a train barrelling toward him at high speed while he watches it rush nearer. Hob might be bruised and battered when this ends, but Dream will be broken.

Again.

And he isn’t sure he can pick up the pieces a second time.

For now, he thinks as he watches the emotions play across Hob’s face, for now… He will enjoy this as much as possible, as long as possible.

His hands slide across the expanse of Hob’s chest, feels the tickle of hair against his palms, and lets out a soft moan at the grip Hob still has on his hip. The way it grows infinitesimally, impossibly tighter as Hob’s control reaches the end of its tether.

“Love…”

“Please.”

Hob nods with a sharp smile before his left hand falls from Dream’s cheek. He holds onto Dream with a reverence that belies the fervour with which he suddenly fucks up into Dream. There is no tenderness but still so much care, and Dream finds his breaths punched out of him with each thrust. His fingers curl instinctively, tugging at the hair on Hob’s breast, and his head falls back as he drowns in the sensations filling him as surely as Hob does.

The movements grow rougher, more erratic, and Dream can find no embarrassment as he reaches for his cock. A small puddle of precum rests on Hob’s abdomen where Dream has leaked steadily since this began. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, immediately stroking himself in time with Hob’s thrusts, and reaches forward with his free hand to press his thumb against Hob’s bottom lip. Hob’s lips part instantly, and he sucks the digit into his mouth, laving it with his tongue.

“You say I am amazing,” Dream manages between pants, “but you’ve no idea of yourself, do you?”

“Tell me then,” Hob says, words muffled by Dream’s thumb.

So Dream does. Within each punched-out, rapturous word is the truth of what Dream sees: A skilled baker. A kind, intelligent, generous, caring man. Someone who is highly attractive in more ways than just his appearance, though, as Dream says, he finds no fault with the way Hob looks. He doesn’t say the most important thing, however. He keeps it to himself, terrified of the way it might ruin everything.

Hob surges upwards, capturing Dream’s lips with his own, and pulls him more roughly into the thrusts. It’s awkward, uncoordinated, clumsy and graceless and everything that shouldn’t be right. Dream comes seconds later with his cock trapped between their bodies, hand still moving furiously over his length, and Hob lets out a breathless chuckle when Dream whines into the kiss.

It isn’t long before Hob finds his own release. Dream closes his eyes as Hob’s hips slow, as he slowly, carefully, falls back against the pillows and brings Dream down with him. His cock slips free, causing Dream to wince, but neither man moves. It should be awkward, Dream thinks, to cuddle like this. To lie atop another man instead of side-by-side. But Hob’s arms hold him in place, fingers trailing lightly over his skin, and he doesn’t want to seek out the wherewithal to pull away.

Eventually, he must. He carefully rolls off of Hob and stares at the ceiling. Warm lips press to his collarbone, then Hob leaves him where he lies. When he comes back, he has a washcloth in hand and the used condom is nowhere to be found. Dream rolls over at Hob’s insistence, shivering when warm fingers hold his arsecheeks apart. He bites down on his lower lip to muffle his whimper at the drag of cloth against his hole. Hob freezes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am… more than okay,” Dream replies, and Hob’s sigh gusts across Dream’s exposed skin.

“Good. I was, well, I was hoping I hadn’t hurt you.” There comes a wet splat, then Hob is curling up beside Dream. “I meant it, by the way. That you’re amazing.”

“You’ve not known me for longer than a week.”

“Ah, but I’ve seen you every day for three months.”

“You cannot know someone merely by—”

“We also went on a date, so unless you were lying about an awful lot, I think I know you well enough to determine whether you’re amazing or not.”

“I haven’t lied,” says Dream quietly.

“Then you’re amazing.”

Hob says it so decisively, as if there is no reason to argue. As if he can’t find a reason why anyone would want to. Dream could cry with the relief that someone doesn’t view him as broken, as an abject failure. However, he can’t deny the terror at the fact Hob can’t see him as the flawed, shattered man Dream knows he is.

Minutes tick past. Each one moves more quickly than the one before it, until the clock reads half-eleven and Dream is trying to figure out the best way to ask Hob for a lift home. He supposes he could get a rideshare, but he hates those. He only does it when there is no other choice. Maybe Hob—

“Stay.”

Dream tenses up, eyes widening, at Hob’s sudden plea because it isn’t just a word. It isn’t a command. It’s a plea, an entreaty for more of Dream’s time. This is Hob coming close to begging, and oh, how Dream longs to stay. He wants to fall asleep in someone’s arms and wake to the sight of their sleeping face in the morning. He aches to sleep in a bed no longer empty beside him.

But…

He can’t have that. Not this soon. Moving too fast is dangerous. Damn it, though, he wants. He wants this, and he wants to be selfish. He wants to take and take, as much as he can, and have no qualms about doing so.

Dream wants but has no idea how to get.

He wakes to an empty bed, cheerful whistling, and the sound of what Dream will always recognise as a coffeepot clattering against its metal hotplate. Frowning, he rolls over and scrubs a hand over his face as he listens to Hob’s whistling become singing, pitched low, ostensibly to not wake him. Dream can’t help but smile at that.

Someone cares enough to ensure he gets enough sleep. Someone cares.

He pushes himself to sit up as footsteps near the bedroom. Hob stops in the doorway with two mugs in hand. Dream’s cheeks burn as he lets his gaze rake along Hob’s body from head to toe, cataloging every inch of bare skin he hadn’t memorised the night before. He can see the tail-end of the scar on Hob’s shoulder, a thin sliver of pink-silver that draws his attention in. Dream vaguely remembers running a finger along that very scar just last night, he remembers the way Hob had shivered under the touch.

“I woke you up.”

Dream shrugs inelegantly and, despite his best efforts, lets his gaze drop to Hob’s groin. Coughing quietly, he forces himself to meet Hob’s eye, flushing when he sees the other man staring back, one brow raised knowingly. Hob approaches the bed slowly, but Dream doesn’t look again. If he does…

He clears his throat once more. “You did, but it was a pleasant wake-up.” Better than I have had in so long. “I have no complaints.”

“Careful, it’s hot,” Hob warns as he passes over a mug decorated with tiny chef hats. He sits, reclines against the headboard beside Dream, and continues, “I’ve closed the bakery for today. Nephew’s party and all.”

Right. The nephew. Whose birthday is today, which is why the date last night got postponed.

Until it wasn’t.

Dream nods before setting his mug on the nightstand. He stretches his arms over his head, extending his legs as far as they will go, until his spine lets out the tension it’s been holding onto in his sleep. The blankets slip further down, and Hob lets out a strangled sound. Dream barely turns his head when Hob is pressing closer, lips finding Dream’s jawline with ease. Gasping quietly, Dream tilts his head and keens as Hob drags his teeth along the column of exposed throat.

“You are utterly gorgeous,” Hob groans before throwing a leg over Dream’s thighs.

“So you’ve said.”

Hob huffs out a laugh and pulls back enough to look Dream in the eye. “Actually, I think my exact word use was ‘beautiful’.”

“Are they not synonyms?” Dream shakes his head, wraps his hand around the back of Hob’s neck, and says “Never mind, just kiss me” before drawing Hob in to do exactly that.

It’s awkward, should be gross considering they both have morning breath, but Dream doesn’t care. He can’t care. So he lets his free hand trail along Hob’s back, his other hand remaining where it is holding Hob still, and kisses Hob back as vehemently as Hob kisses him. Dream’s fingernails dig into the slightly soft curve where Hob’s lower back meets his arse. Hob moans, hips jerking forward.

“Fuck me.”

“As you wish,” Dream murmurs back.

Hob doesn’t move but to rut against Dream’s leg, precum smearing against bare skin, but eventually, he gathers the wherewithal to straddle Dream’s waist. He leans to his left to reach for the lubricant that still sits on the nightstand. Dream takes the bottle from him before pushing at Hob’s shoulder—the one bearing the end of the scar. His thumb brushes the raised skin, and Hob shudders even as he slips to the side, rolling onto his belly at Dream’s command.

Dream runs a hand over the back of Hob’s thigh, fingers scratching through the hair until Hob lets out a soft whimper. He opens beautifully, Dream thinks, and he feels like heaven when Dream finally pushes into him a few minutes later. Warmth grips his cock tightly, and he has to hold himself still for a long moment or this will end before it begins.

Dream has never done this, not with a man. He was always the one being fucked, not the other way around. Alex had said it was inappropriate for someone of his standing to have a cock in his arse. As if Dream was lesser, for his name and for ever being the bottom. It never mattered how much Dream asked for the roles to be reversed. It never happened, and Alex ended up breaking up with him for requesting it too many times.

Two weeks later, Dream found out Alex fell into bed with some bloke named Paul. They’re still together, as far as Dream knows. Perhaps Paul doesn’t have as much a problem with being fucked instead of the other way around.

But now… Now Dream is finding out how wonderful it is to be on this end.

Dream drapes himself along Hob’s back, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of the man beneath him, and Hob’s moans break free. They crackle in the air with each thrust; Dream leaves wet kisses to the scar as his hips undulate slowly, carefully. Hob’s body clings to his cock, and he can scarcely hold onto his control.

Hob begins pleading for more, voice desperate and broken, and Dream obliges. How could he do anything else? He bites sharply at the back of Hob’s neck before pulling out. Hob whines but allows Dream to manhandle him onto his hands and knees. Dream hurriedly pushes back into the tight heat and lets his control lapse. Hob wants this, so Dream will give it to him. His nails dig into Hob’s hips as he fucks into his partner more earnestly.

His hand find Hob’s cock easily; it's hard, leaking, and Hob all but shouts when Dream wraps his fingers around the shaft. He comes within three thrusts, three strokes, and Dream lets out a soft noise of need as Hob clenches around him. It doesn’t take long before Dream is spilling into the condom, hips pressed to Hob’s arse and body tense as a bowstring.

He folds himself over Hob, presses his damp forehead to Hob’s sweat-slick spine, and breathes rapidly as he comes back to himself. With a long, low groan, he finally pulls out of Hob and flops to lie beside him as Hob drops to the mattress. Hob reaches over, arm fumbling until it rests across Dream’s stomach.

“You are a menace,” he rasps out, and Dream scoffs.

“Hardly. Have you met yourself? I stood no chance against seeing you holding a mug of coffee for me.”

“Oh? It wasn’t the nudity?”

“It certainly helped,” Dream concedes imperiously, grinning when Hob laughs.

“Well, I’ll be naked for you whenever you want.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

The pair falls silent for a few minutes. The peaceful quiet is broken by Hob clearing his throat. Dream’s heart races when he sees the expression on Hob’s face. He can’t read it beyond the seriousness it holds.

“I have to ask. Ex-wife?”

Dream sighs and turns his head to stare at the ceiling. Of course Hob would bring this up. He deserves to know the truth, though, especially if Dream wants this relationship to work—if ‘relationship’ is what he can call what he and Hob are doing. Finally, he finds the words and speaks them aloud.

“Yes. Ex-wife. She… She left me three years ago.”

“Oh, love, I’m—I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m sure it sucks hearing it. But I will say that absolutely sucks, and she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

“But she does, Hob.” Dream pushes Hob’s arm away and sits up. “She knew me better than you do now, and she knew what she was giving away. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t me.”

Hob reaches out carefully to grasp at Dream’s hand. “From where I stand, you’re worth sticking around for.”

“You know nothing.”

“Then let me.”

“What time does your nephew’s party start?”

Hob accepts the change in topic, rolling over to check the clock. Dream twitches at the loud curse and the way Hob scurries out of bed.

“Oh, Alice is going to kill me.”

“Are you late?”

“By half an hour, yes. I’m, fuck, I’m sorry, but—”

Dream shakes his head and climbs off the bed. His clothes are spread across the floor, kicked out of the way as he and Hob had made their way to the bed, and he quickly gathers them up. Hob ducks into his closet; the sound of hangers clacking together fills the air, and Dream listens to the low mutterings as he begins dressing.

His thoughts tumble around each other. The night had been amazing, better than Dream could have predicted, but… Is this the end? Has Hob gotten what he wanted and is ready to say goodbye? Or is Dream lucky enough to have this to hold onto for a while longer?

He barely suppresses his snort. ‘Lucky’. There are few times in life during which Dream is lucky. Finding Lucienne, he had been lucky. He is lucky to have Thana and Del as sisters, even Desi as a sibling. He is lucky to have his career and his own agency.

He is lucky to have found Hob.

But to keep him? That is not guaranteed, and it frightens Dream that he can feel this strongly after so little time.

“Okay, I’ve just got to brush my teeth. Mind help—Dream?”

Dream realises with a start that he’s been standing stockstill with one leg in his slacks and button-down hanging open. He shakes his head and hurries to dress properly. Hob tilts his head and approaches slowly.

“Where were you?”

“I was just thinking,” replies Dream, unable to voice his concerns. His fears. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Hob leans forward to kiss Dream gently. “If you’re sure. Like I said, I have to brush my teeth, then I’ll be ready to go. Would you be okay with helping put the food in my car?”

“Of course.”

“You’re amazing,” Hob breathes with a soft smile before he turns and disappears into the bathroom.

Am I amazing enough for you to stay?

Hob gives him a lift home, presses his lips to the back of Dream’s hand, and waits until Dream is at the door before driving away. Dream watches him go, heart sinking in his chest. Scowling, he vows to get over this. To lessen the intensity of his feelings for the other man. Too much, too fast, will only push Hob away.

Dream spends the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday ruminating over the night he spent with Hob. Hob doesn’t phone, and Dream doesn’t, either. What would he do if he did only to hear Hob tell him it’s time for goodbye? The longer he goes without hearing from Hob, the more convinced Dream is that one incredible date and one night is all he’ll ever get.

He asks Lucienne to skip the bakery on Monday.

Thana invites him for lunch, and Dream unwillingly goes. He knows she’ll ask after Hob, about how the two are doing, and he has no idea how to answer. If he admits his fears, she’ll try to reassure him. If he tries to lie, she’ll see right through him. But none of this stops him from joining her for a meal a street away.

“How long until you have to get back to work?” she asks as they exit the bistro.

“I have no pressing matters, and Lucienne can handle whatever comes up.”

“Good. I’m in the mood for some coffee.”

“Thana, no.”

“Thana, yes.” His sister glances sideways at him, nudging him with her shoulder. “I want to meet this Hob fellow.”

“It’s… It’s too soon for him to meet any of my family. Besides…”

“Besides, you’re overthinking it and worried he no longer wants to see you because you most likely slept together by this point, and you think so little of him that you’d assume he is finished with you now that he’s had a quick fuck?”

“Thana.”

“Dream, listen to me. He sounds like a genuinely nice bloke. Luce and I talk,” she says briskly in response to his questioning look. “He got you to try a new type of food. He made you happy, I could hear it in your voice on the phone. So why think so much of the wrong things?”

“I don’t think little of him,” he protests, but his sister is right.

If he thought more of Hob, he wouldn’t have such deep fears that Hob will leave. He wouldn’t assume it’s an inevitability. So Dream sighs, accepts Thana’s gentle admonishment, and follows her to her car. The drive to the bakery is filled with music from the Cure and his sister singing along to Boys Don’t Cry. Dream joins in for Pictures of You.

Only Johanna is up front today. She raises a brow at the sight of Dream and Thana then disappears into the back. When she comes back, Hob is in tow. He stops a foot away from the counter, and Dream hates the distance between them. He loathes the expression on Hob’s face.

“Hello, Hob.”

“Hi. The usual?”

“I—Yes, but—”

Hob moves toward the display case, easily pulling out a muffin. Dream frowns when he notices it’s the smallest one. He steps closer to the counter and reaches out to brush his fingertips across the back of Hob’s wrist. His heart drops when Hob pulls away.

“Hi, you must be Hob.” Thana smiles her bright ‘I’m so happy to be meeting you’ smile that has always helped her make friends.

“That I am.”

“I’m Thana. I’m sure Dream’s told you absolutely nothing about me, though as his elder sister, he really should have. I’m his favourite.”

Dream scowls. “You are not. Del is.”

“Oh, she’ll be so pleased to hear that!”

“So you’re his sister,” Hob says slowly, gaze flicking between Dream and Thana.

“Unfortunately for him, yes. Oh, those scones look fantastic. Can I have one of them?”

“Of—of course?”

Hob hurries to wrap the scone and muffin, though Dream is confused to see it’s now a larger one. When had Hob exchanged them, and why? Thana rolls her eyes as if she is able to read his mind, leaning over to whisper a single word: “Jealousy.”

Something warm flares to life beneath his breastbone. Hob was jealous. Calliope was hardly the jealous type; only a handful of times had she said or done anything to show any sort of envy. But Hob… Hob is exposing that side of him after so little time.

Dream hesitates when Hob passes over the flat white, then he wraps fingers around Hob’s wrist and pulls him closer. Hob’s eyes light up, and he closes the distance to press his lips to Dream’s. Dream tenses—it’s such a public display of affection, and Thana and Johanna are right there watching—but then he melts into the kiss. It’s incredibly short, chaste, and perfect as it is. It’s reassurance that Hob doesn’t even know Dream needs.

“I’ll phone you tonight,” Hob promises, an apology in his voice, and Dream can only nod. Hob turns to Thana with a brilliant smile. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

“You, too. Thank you for making my baby brother happy,” she says quietly, leaning forward so Hob can hear her.

“It’s a very selfish act, I promise you.”

Thana’s laugh fills the space long after she leaves Dream at the counter, heading outside with her scone and mocha. He sighs and turns back to Hob.

“I should go. She is my way back to work.”

Hob nods and glances down at where Dream still holds his wrist. Unfolding his fingers, Dream reluctantly lets go of Hob, lets the contact fade to nothingness. He hesitates before gathering up his coffee and muffin, heading toward the door. The bell chimes overhead, and Dream hates how cheery it sounds.

Thana waits in the driver’s seat of her car by the time Dream joins her. On her face is a grin that doesn’t bode well for him. She draws in a deep breath then lets loose.

“Dream, you said he was attractive. You said nothing about him being gorgeous in that kinda rugged, boy next door type of way. And he really is so nice! And you let him kiss you in front of everybody. You really are falling for him, aren’t you? Do you still worry he wants nothing to do with you now that you’ve slept together? I know you did, judging by that bruise on the back of his neck. I—”

“Bruise?”

Oh, no. If there is a mark, then that means Hob went to his nephew’s birthday party with the evidence of a love-bite. His sister must have noticed. Dream only hopes it wasn’t as embarrassing for Hob as it is for Dream now. He lets his muffin fall to his lap and covers his face with one hand.

“Dream?”

“He had an event to attend on Saturday.”

“And… Oh, you slept with him on Friday which is when he got that hickey.”

“Yes.”

“Well, he didn’t seem bothered by it.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

Thana’s teeth gleam in the sunlight pouring in through the windscreen. Her amusement is a heavy weight on Dream’s skin, and she shrugs slightly. “Sorry, baby brother, but there is no way he’s gone this long without someone pointing it out.”

Dream groans, letting his head fall back, and squeezes his eyes closed as his sister laughs.

Lucienne wisely doesn’t ask about the furious heat in Dream’s cheeks that lingers even after Thana has driven away. She only says that Burgess phoned again.

“Sir… I’m growing worried for your safety. He is becoming increasingly more volatile.”

“He is little more than a petulant child too accustomed to getting his way,” Dream says dismissively. “There is no need to be concerned.”

“If you’re sure.”

She doesn’t sound convinced, but she doesn’t argue. So Dream heads into his office, closing the door behind him, and drops to sit in his chair. Hob’s sister saw the mark on Hob’s neck. Does she know about Dream? Does she know that Hob is even attracted to men? Would she approve of this relationship, or would she demand Hob choose between family and partner?

You’re letting yourself borrow worries.

Dream sighs and runs a long finger over the cover of the next manuscript. The letters swim out of focus as he recalls the kiss Hob gave in the bakery. It was far more public than Dream has ever been comfortable with, but he doesn’t regret it. In fact, he’d do it again if only to reassure Hob there is no reason to be jealous.

Although Hob’s jealousy was rather appreciated.

With another deep exhale, Dream forces his attention to his career and not the man who’s quickly stealing real estate in his mind.

Before Dream knows it, an entire month has passed, and he and Hob have gone on a handful of dates. They began staying in by the third week, the sixth date; they’d start by watching films or talking over a home-cooked dinner, then end up in bed before the clock struck ten.

It was perhaps the most natural he’s felt in a relationship since… ever. Even Calliope hadn’t felt quite right until month seven.

Dream smiles at Johanna as she pulls the door open for him. She gives him her customary smirk, yells out to ‘Hobsie’, then ducks past Dream with a knowing “Have fun, boys.”

“Don’t worry, we will.”

Her footsteps falter, and she slowly turns to face Dream. He doesn’t acknowledge the flush to his cheeks at his words—he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but she hardly seems to mind. In fact, she looks almost proud that he’s spoken up. With a grin that’s more real than any she has given before, Johanna waves and turns again, striding briskly away.

Dream enters the bakery, flipping the sign to Closed and locking the door, before making his way behind the counter. Hob glances up from where he’s rolling out croissant dough, and his face splits with the force of his smile. Dream lets himself be warmed by the intensity then perches on the stool that’s become a staple in the kitchen. Just for him.

The thought fills Dream with something beautiful.

“Jo seems to like you.”

Dream rests his elbow on the metal countertop, his chin in his upturned palm. “Jo likes nobody.”

“Not true,” Hob protests with a laugh. “She’s just… particular about who she spends time with.”

“Why do you say she likes me?”

“Because she asks how we’re doing. In her own roundabout way, of course. And Johanna Constantine doesn’t ask about just anybody.”

“I am flattered to know she cares even a modicum about me.”

Hob finishes the dough, disappearing into the industrial refrigerator, then emerges a moment later. He wipes his hands on a towel before approaching Dream. He cradles Dream’s cheeks and stares at him for a moment. His hands have a thin layer of greasiness to them, but Dream ignores it in favour of accepting the kiss Hob bestows upon him.

“I’m so glad to see your face,” Hob grumbles against Dream’s lips. “Come upstairs with me.”

“How romantic,” Dream teases even as his hand drifts along the breadth of Hob’s shoulders, down his spine.

“I don’t mean to fuck. Well, not only that. I have something for you.”

“Lead the way.”

Dream follows Hob up the stairs, brows drawn together. His blood buzzes, and his mind races. What could Hob have for him? He’s already given so much. Dream still has the bookmark pressed between the pages of Poe’s collected works. He has Hob’s painting still hanging on his bedroom wall, across from where Dream sleeps so he can see it whenever he goes to bed. He has Hob’s jumpers and a throw blanket that doesn’t belong to himself draped over the back of his couch.

More importantly, Dream has Hob’s time and affection. Devotion. And there is no greater wish granted than that.

He comes to an abrupt stop just inside Hob’s flat. On the kitchen counters are trays of cupcakes and croissants, sticky buns and danishes, muffins and biscuits. Dream frowns and glances at Hob who shifts his weight between his feet.

“You… Now, I don’t mind, necessarily, but you always order the same thing. I figured why not try something else without an entire bakery full of people watching you.”

“This is—this is too much.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Hob. It really is.” Dream sighs and stares at the baked goods. “I…”

“Dream?”

The words come out in a rush, tumbling and freewheeling and full of a desperate desire to stay within him: “I don’t. Eat. Often, like most people do. I don’t make choices on what I eat when I force myself.”

“Who does?” Hob asks after a slight pause.

“Lucienne or Thana. Sometimes Del, but if I left it up to her, I would eat nothing but cereal every day.”

“So you, what, have an eating disorder?”

Something snarls deep in Dream’s chest at the words. Eating disorder. As if two words could encapsulate his struggles. His hatred. But what better words are there? Dream swallows down the shame and nods slowly, one dip of his chin. Hob crosses his arms over his chest; Dream fights the urge to cower in on himself, to hide away from the judgement.

“You’ve eaten dinner with me plenty of times.”

“I can’t… I can’t explain it. I don’t know why it’s easier. With you.”

“Well, if you ever feel I’m pushing you too hard to eat and you can’t, let me know so I can kick my own arse.”

Dream’s head snaps up quickly enough that his neck twinges. Hob watches him calmly, arms still folded across his chest, but there’s nothing on his face to say he’s disgusted with Dream for the admission. Or himself for the offer.

It’s an offer no one has ever made before.

“Do you think you could try some of these? Don’t worry about saying no. I’m donating whatever is left to Jo’s class.” At Dream’s raised brow, Hob huffs out a laugh. “She’s a half-day preschool teacher.”

“I did not expect that,” Dream says slowly, lips twitching when Hob chuckles again.

“She’ll be thrilled to know that. So. Can you?”

Dream looks from Hob to the treats waiting. He wants to—they all look amazing, and he’s certain they taste just as delicious as they look—but he isn’t sure. His stomach lets out a distinct rumble, one that means he can eat and be fine or he can eat and get sick.

But Hob went through all the trouble of making a variety of baked goods just for Dream to sample. The least Dream can do is try. Maybe it won’t be as bad as he fears. So he nods and hates himself a little less under the weight of Hob’s smile.

Over the next hour, the pair sits on the couch and works their way steadily through the food. Hob is more than willing to accept a single bite of each, to listen to Dream’s opinions on every bite. To take those opinions seriously and even write down any notes Dream might have for changes to the recipe. To brush his thumbs under Dream’s eyes when the tears start falling.

Dream can’t anymore. He can’t do it, and there is still so much left untouched.

“Okay, we’re done, love.”

“But there—”

“There is nothing else you need to force yourself to sample just to make me happy.” Hob winds an arm around Dream’s waist and hauls him into his lap. “You being here is enough to make me happy, and I hate that you thought you had to push yourself so hard just so I wouldn’t be upset.”

“You spent so much time,” Dream mumbles as he wipes at his cheeks. Pathetic, the voice in his head snaps. Absolutely pathetic and worthless. A waste of anyone’s time.

“I would’ve done anyway. Love, I said I was planning on donating to Jo’s class, yeah? There is nothing going to waste. Now come here.”

“I don’t—”

“I just want to cuddle, my dream. That’s all.”

Cuddles. The voice in his head grumbles but doesn’t speak up. Cuddles are acceptable, even for pathetic, worthless wastes of space.

After half an hour, Dream clambers awkwardly to his feet and motions toward the baked goods. Hob nods, and they work in silence to wrap everything and place it carefully in boxes. Dream hesitates by the front door when they finish; he doesn’t want to go, but he’s made enough of a fool of himself tonight. Hob should be able to have a reprieve from knowing Dream is such a mess.

“May I stay?”

Hob’s eyes widen, lips stretching into a soft smile. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

Hob bought a toothbrush for Dream, he notices when he goes to use the toilet. The black-handled toothbrush hangs in the holder beside the purple one that Dream knows is Hob’s. Dream stares at the closed door for a moment, imagining what Hob looks like now as he prepares for bed. Has he already changed his clothes, or will he sleep naked tonight? Is he already in bed, waiting for Dream?

My dream.

The words nearly knock Dream to his knees. As it is, he clutches the edges of the sink and closes his eyes, breathing unsteadily. He’s no one’s dream. Not Thessaly’s, not Alex’s, not Calliope’s. Hob may think otherwise, but it’s fact that Dream is hardly something anyone could ever want for long. The one with Calliope was his longest relationship, at four years, and even she grew tired of him.

He swallows down the tears and does his business; brushing his teeth feels like a religious experience, one he covets more than any moment he spent in a church. Once done, he blows out a breath and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

He hardly recognises himself anymore. The haunting in his eyes has faded, and his lips are quicker to smile, small though they are. There’s something beneath his skin, something visible to him, something that begs to be loved. He hopes Hob loves him, because he’s stupidly fallen in love with the man.

No, not stupidly. There is no one better for Dream to have found. Hob is patient, understanding, generous to a fault. He hasn’t judged Dream for anything, and he’s been so willing to change plans at Dream’s discretion. No. Hob is… Hob is as close to perfect as a human can get.

“Get lost, did you?” Hob asks when Dream finally joins him in bed.

“Only in thoughts.”

“Anything good?”

Dream purses his lips, scrutinising Hob closely. Nervousness plays in the subtle downturn of his lips, the inability to meet Dream’s eye, the way his fingers pick at a loose thread in the blanket. Dream reaches over to run a finger along Hob’s jawline, brings their lips together.

“They were of you,” he whispers when they part, “and they were wonderful.”

Hob’s relieved smile burns in Dream’s blood, and he holds onto that heat as he shifts closer. He knows he isn’t ready for anything sexual tonight—he’s still shaky from what happened in the living room earlier—but he wants to steal warmth and comfort from Hob, as much as he possibly can before he drains Hob completely.

Hob’s arms wrap around him, and Dream drifts off to the sound of steady breathing and the unwavering heartbeat beneath his ear.

The next morning, he deletes the text message. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

It’s Dream who says it first, only five months into their relationship. He’s doing little more than listening to Hob baking as he normally does on Friday evenings, one hand holding up his head, the other holding up a book. Dream glances away from the words of Chaucer, blinks slowly to clear the letters from his eyes, and watches Hob move about the kitchen like it’s a second home.

He’s an utter mess with flour coating his forearms and T-shirt from an unfortunate accident with the mixer, and his hair is falling from the bun he keeps it in while in the kitchen. Powdered sugar lingers on one cheek and in his eyebrow. His right glove has a tear through which dough has slipped. He whistles under his breath to the song on the radio, head bobbing to the beat.

“I love you.”

Hob’s hands slip, and the rolling pin goes clattering across the countertop. His head stays ducked for a long moment, then he lifts it to stare, wide-eyed, at Dream. Dream swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. Has he ruined everything? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. The most important ones were already said, and now there’s nothing left.

“Did you just say you love me?” Hob asks quietly, incredulously.

Dream nods and fingers the edge of the cover of his book. Hob stays silent, so silent for too long. Dream starts shifting awkwardly on his stool and averts his gaze. He’s ruined everything. This is the end. He’ll have to say goodbye and deal with all these emotions on his own. He will never have someone be so understanding of his issues with food, and he will have to come to terms with that. He’ll have to—

His thoughts screech to a halt at the lips suddenly on his own. He hadn’t noticed Hob moving, but this is definitely Hob kissing him breathless. As if the world will fly off its axis were they separate. Dream’s book falls to the counter, and he loops his arms around Hob’s waist, tugging him in closer to stand between his spread thighs. Hob plunders and devours, leaves nothing to question.

He doesn’t need to say the words, but he does anyway: “I love you, too. I love you, my dream.”

They make it halfway up the stairs before Hob pushes Dream against the wall and tugs his slacks down, drops to his knees awkwardly on the steps. Dream comes with a bitten-off cry and his fingers buried in Hob’s hair.

It was bound to happen, Dream realises as he stares at the patrons of the bakery, one foot still through the door to the kitchen. Hob’s pyjama bottoms hang dangerously low on his narrow hips, and he holds the hem in one trembling hand. The cool air grazes the bare skin of his torso, goosebumps racing along his flesh. His gaze cuts from the silent onlookers to Johanna. She hides her smile poorly before shooing him away.

Dream doesn’t waste a second—he turns and nearly sprints through the kitchen, up the stairs.

“Love? What happened?” Hob cradles his cheeks with warm hands that smell like bread. “Talk to me.”

“You have a very full bakery downstairs,” is all Dream manages.

Hob swears under his breath and pulls Dream in for a tight embrace. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you that I may be taking the day off, but Jo is running the bakery."

"Yes, a warning would have been nice. Then my assistant would not have seen me in your pyjama bottoms and little else."

“Lucienne was there?” Hob snorts in amusement. “Work should be fun, then.”

Dream pulls away and turns his nose up at the grin on Hob’s face. Hob rolls his eyes, not unkindly, and tugs Dream back in for a kiss. Unfortunately for Dream, it has the exact effect Hob was most likely working for: He relaxes, slumping in against Hob, and lets out a soft sigh as his lips part.

“You do not play fair,” he whispers seconds later, wrenching away at last, and Hob’s chuckle fills the space between them.

“And you should get ready for work before Lucienne decides to leave you here.”

Dream raises a brow and runs his fingertip along Hob’s bottom lip, gaze locked onto the motion. “Would you mind so much? After all, it would mean I was here with you.”

“Yeah?” Hob breathes. “What would we be doing?”

“Whatever you want,” Dream murmurs back as he leans forward a scant inch. Before their lips can touch, he pulls back, drops his hand, and says, “Unfortunately, I do have to work today, so if you will excuse me, I need to ready for the day.”

“You cruel, cruel man!” Hob exclaims as Dream slides past.

Dream’s laugh comes far easier than it ever has before.

As he sits behind his desk later that day, waiting for Lucienne to finish her call so they can go to lunch together, Dream thinks back on the last few months of his life. He’s found what he thought impossible for so long, and it’s all thanks to his assistant for her insistence he try the coffee and pastries at Hob’s. He wonders what gift a person would get another for something like that. What would say “Thank you for bringing about the greatest relationship I’ve been in in years. Thank you for introducing me to the greatest man I’ve ever known and who has shown such love and devotion”?

Dream isn’t sure, and it isn’t like he can ask Lucienne herself. Perhaps he can ask Thana.

He makes a mental note to do just that later then joins Lucienne by the front door. She smiles, sunlight gleaming off her wire-rimmed glasses, and leads him out of the building. They walk in silence for a few minutes before Dream inhales slowly. Steadying himself. Half-turning toward Lucienne, he opens his mouth and speaks.

“I… I realised I have never thanked you for your part in Hob and my meeting.”

“I only brought you to the bakery, sir.”

“If you hadn’t, I would not be in such a wonderful relationship.”

“I’m happy that you are happy, sir. May I say it is a good look on you?”

Dream smiles and ducks his head, but not before he sees the pleased expression on her face. They finish their trek with small talk that no longer feels so confining, so awkward and unwieldy. It may not feel right or easy, but it is no longer the gargantuan task it was before.

He’s just returned to his desk when Desi breezes through his office door. Heels click on the stone floor as they step over the threshold. Desi’s black pantsuit cuts a sharp figure of their body, and their bleached hair haloes around their face. Dream makes a move to protest their presence—he has work, after all, and no time for a social visit—but something in Desi’s amber eyes gives him pause.

They don’t look thrilled about being here. They don’t look as if they want to pester their brother about his love life or even to mock him for having taken so long to actually form one.

No. Desi looks as if they’d rather be anywhere else with anyone else.

They carefully lower themself into the seat across from Dream with a soft sigh. “Have you seen?”

“Seen what?” Dream reaches for the manuscript on top of the pile, frowning at the title. The Meaning of X. He drops the papers back to his desk and glances at his sibling when they don’t respond immediately. “Desi?”

“It’s… You know I don’t actually want to be the one to tell you, right? Just know that. This isn’t fun for me, contrary to past behaviour.”

“Spit it out, Desi. I do not have time for games.”

“Calliope is back in town.”

Dream’s heart stutters, and he ignores the way his skin grows tight. Drawing in a shaky breath, he pretends to give a damn about the next pile of rubbish an author thinks is worth his time. “She is allowed to go wherever she wishes.”

“She’s getting remarried.”

The clock stops. The world stops. Everything screeches to a standstill at Desi’s words. Calliope. Is getting married. Again. He swallows thickly and gives up all pretenses of reading the story someone sent in. Desi blows out a breath and stands, rounding his desk to perch on the edge.

“Dream… I’m sorry.”

“Why would you tell me this? You know—you know—that I am happy with Hob. Why would you bring her up?”

“Because I thought you’d want to know before you run into her on the street and found out that way!”

“Or is it that you hate seeing me happy?” he all but snarls without looking at his sibling. “That you would take that away by reminding me of just how awful love has been to me in the past is cold, even for you.”

Desi rises to their feet and gapes. Finally, they protest, “Dream, I would never!”

“You have before!” he shouts.

And doesn’t it always lead to this. Is it not tradition that he and Desi would be opponents, again and again, until the universe implodes? He thought his sibling had truly changed, but this shows that Desi is the same as they always have been. They are spiteful and manipulative and selfish.

Dream pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and points to the door with the other. “Get out, and do not ever come back. From this moment, we are nothing to each other.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Out!”

Desi stands where they are for a moment longer then storms out of his office. Dream knows it is only the hydraulics of the hinges that prevents Desi from slamming the door behind them. A moment later, the light on his phone blinks, and he exhales sharply.

Business as usual.

Dream manages to get through another call with Burgess—the man is getting quite creative with his threats; if only he could put that imagination to use in his writing—and an argument with a publisher who wants to take on a client’s book with specific conditions. He even survives a terse call with Thana, who admonishes him for being so cold to Desi.

“They were trying to protect you, you dolt.”

“I do not need protecting.”

Thana snorts. “Right. I know even you don’t believe that load of shit. Apologise to Desi, Dream. They did you a favour.”

“They—”

“They did what I asked them to do.”

Thana ends the call before Dream can say a word. After a moment, he sets his cellphone down and closes his eyes, head falling back until it hits the top of his chair. His stomach churns violently, bile rising in his throat, and he barely makes it to the toilet before he’s throwing up.

He slumps against the wall once done, sniffling against the tears though it does no good. They fall anyway; they leave wet tracks on his cheeks as he cries for the relationship he’s just ruined. Desi may have been to blame for their last fight, but this one is all Dream’s fault. He would understand if Desi never forgives him.

He does as Thana ordered him to: He sends Desi a text later that night, as Hob sleeps peacefully beside him.

I behaved poorly. I made accusations that had no basis in reality, and I treated you horribly. I’m incredibly sorry for my behaviour. I understand now that you told me only to protect me from being blindsided by the news. I am sorry beyond words, Desi. I will understand if you wish to no longer speak to me.

Desi (22.01): you are the one who said we were nothing, dream Desi (22.02): i suppose the gracious thing would be to forgive you. but i don’t want to. you jumped to some awful conclusions and i don’t like that it was so easy for you to think so poorly of me. i already apologised for everything i did before. we made up. or was that simply a ruse so thana would leave us alone??? whatever it was, i thought we were past it. i’d HOPED we were past it.

You are right: We did put our petty fighting behind us. I suppose it wasn’t nearly as put away for me as I’d hoped. I am truly ashamed of how I behaved.

Desi (22.06): i’ll get back to you

Dream sighs and sets his phone aside, then turns his head to watch Hob. The man’s chest rises and falls steadily, and his fingers twitch occasionally where his hand rests on his belly. With a deep exhale, Hob rolls onto his side facing away from Dream and begins quietly snoring. Dream huffs out a soft laugh, though the amusement fades.

Calliope is getting remarried. He wonders if she remembers their marriage, when they’d been happy before. Though the man he loves sleeps on beside him, Dream can’t stop imagining how different things would be if she had never left. Would he and Calliope still be happy? Or would they have grown to resent each other for whatever reason? Would they have had children, been deliriously happy with their lots in life? Dream aches for what could have been, despite the present happiness and peace he’s found.

Things come to a head a week later. Lucienne doesn’t bother with the phone; instead, she slips into his office, forcefully closing the door, and turns to face Dream. He raises a brow. She’s hardly ever ruffled like this. She is the cool, calm, collected one. Unflappable. But here she is nearly vibrating with emotion.

“There is… someone here to see you, sir.”

“If it’s Burgess, send him away,” Dream orders as he goes back to the contract on his screen.

“It is not Roderick Burgess. It’s—”

“Dream.”

Dream freezes even as Lucienne bites out, “I asked you to please wait in the lobby. Mister Emrys is—”

“It’s…” Dream clears his throat and tries again. “It’s quite alright, Lucienne. I thank you, but you may leave.”

Lucienne hesitates, and Dream can see the expression on her face without looking at her. Disapproval, anger, but ultimately resignation. She sighs and exits the office. Again, Dream knows the door would be slammed were it possible. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he locks the computer down and swivels in his chair.

Calliope looks much the same as she did three years ago. Her long brown hair is pulled into a loose ponytail that drapes over her shoulder. Her dark eyes watch him carefully, examining his every reaction at her presence, and Dream remembers the taste of her lips. Her teeth glint white as she chews on her lower lip, the only sign of nervousness she will ever show.

“Hi,” she says softly, tucking dainty hands into the back pockets of her jeans. The motion pushes her shoulders back, and he hates the way his gaze skims over her body. The way he notices how her blouse fits her just right. “I think… I think we need to talk.”

Dream shakes his head and stares at his keyboard. The computer monitor. His own hands. Anywhere but at her.“It’s three years too late, Calliope. You only wish to speak to me because you are getting remarried and, what, want some closure for how you left me without warning?”

“Dream—”

“You didn’t even find me worthy of a fucking explanation.”

Her eyes widen at the expletive. Dream would feel shame—would cower under the weight of his father’s reprimands—but all he feels now is rage that she would disrupt his life like this. How can she think it so easy to waltz back into his life, claiming a need to talk, when she wasn’t interested as she upended everything he knew? They had promised each other forever. He had given her everything of who he was.

She doesn’t deserve to know who he is now. Not after what she’s done, after she stole the heart of him. She doesn’t deserve to know who he is now with Hob’s love.

“Dream, please. I—I really think we need to talk.”

Despite the years, despite the pain she’s put him through, despite his resolve, Dream struggles to say no to the pleading in those familiar eyes. He wants to say no so badly, he can taste the word on his tongue, but he can’t. He’s never been able to. So he rises to his feet and follows her out of the office. Lucienne looks up from her computer as Dream passes; her lips press tightly together, and she shakes her head while going back to her work.

“Lucienne—”

“I will do my job, sir, and nothing more.”

Dream blinks against the burning in his eyes. She’s never spoken to him like this, not even when he was at his worst. She has dragged him to his feet many times, speaking firmly, bluntly, but never before has she sounded disgusted with him. Lucienne doesn’t look up again.

He continues toward the door and allows Calliope to lead the way. The walk is silent. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to voice the thoughts he’s carried over the years, and she clearly wants to wait for—some reason. He dares not pretend he understands the way her mind works. He thought he knew at one point.

They pass a bakery, and Dream glances at the windows. A large display case takes up space in front of a window, filled with tarts and slices of cake. He breathes in deeply, imagines he can smell the aroma of fresh-baked bread and danishes, buttery croissants. The cooked sugar of cupcakes. He imagines he smells Hob, his cologne, the sweat-slick of his skin as he moves inside of Dream.

Calliope gave him up years ago. Dream only hopes Hob doesn’t do the same.

Dream finds himself coming to a stop outside of a diner three streets away from his office. Calliope stands by the door, scrutinising him closely. Eventually, he steels his spine and follows her inside. He insists on sitting near the door; if this goes poorly, he doesn’t want an audience to his storming out. Or, at the very least, a smaller audience.

“What do you wish to talk about?” he asks once the server comes and goes, brings their coffee then retreats, and she raises her brows.

“I made a mistake.” Dream’s heart skips a beat at the words. She can’t possibly mean—? But no, she seems to read the question on his face, in his eyes, for she shakes her head. “In leaving you like I did, I mean. You’re right. I should have explained. I could have left a note or phoned after the fact or even sat on the couch with you and discussed it like rational adults.”

“Then why did you not?”

“Because,” she sighs, reaching for a menu, though Dream knows it’s only to have something to do with her hands. She always fidgeted when anxious about something. “Because I was a coward. I was afraid you would be able to convince me to change my mind.”

Dream frowns and cocks his head. “If I would have been able to so easily convince you to stay, what made you think it was the right choice?”

“Are you sure you wish to discuss this? It is… unpleasant.”

He nods, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. She averts her gaze to stare out the window, and he speaks if only to grab her attention once more:

“I have spent the better part of three years asking these questions of myself, Calliope. I believe I deserve answers only you can give.”

Calliope eyes him carefully then sighs, finger tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I fell in love with a broken man seven years ago. I thought I could fix you, but there was just too much. Too many cracks in your foundation, I suppose.

“You were—you hated your father but were so desperate for his approval. You didn’t speak to anyone for four months after he died, not because you were mourning him, but because he died without giving you the one thing you ever asked of him. Our relationship suffered because of it, and you never saw it. You came back from that period different. Never were you effusive with affection, but at least before, I never doubted your feelings for me.

“And you worked so much. I barely saw you, let alone had a relationship with you. I justified it as you working your way up so you could have a job you were proud of. So you could provide for us. But the hours grew longer, and I grew lonelier. Tell me, do you still work so many hours?

“Then there’s your… issues with food. I begged and pleaded for you to get help for them. You chose not to. You said you had it under control, but I watched you start to wither away. That was the first time I ever gave you an ultimatum—get help, or I was leaving. I knew I would not be able to handle watching that happen again and again because of your stubborn pride. Still, I stayed when you were forced to get treatment or you would die.”

“We were talking of having children, a family,” he hisses, and her face twists up as if in agony. How dare she pretend to feel anything? She didn’t before, when she left him so abruptly, so cruelly.

“I realised I could not have a child with a man I no longer loved. So I left.” Her gaze drops to the depths of her coffee, untouched by her lips though swirling with cream. “I never wanted to hurt you, but I had to think of my own happiness, too.”

His world fades to a pinprick, this point of conversation: I could not have a child with a man I no longer loved.

A text. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

She told him she loved him even when she didn’t. When she knew that love was gone from her heart. She knew he would believe her. Why wouldn’t he, when they seemed so perfect together? She was his guiding light, the one that he worked so hard to provide for. Calliope was the one he would have given up his life for. She was his muse, was the reason he wished to become an author himself.

But those dreams were dashed the second he came home to find her gone. His life was irrevocably changed because of her actions.

“Thana says you’re doing well now,” Calliope says after a long moment. “That you’re even dating someone.”

Something ferocious snarls deep in his chest, yearning to break free and destroy. “You do not get to speak of him.” He’s mine. Mine. Mine.

“I was just making conversation.”

“And he is off-limits, Calliope.”

“How did you know I was getting married again?”

“Desi told me.”

Calliope’s brows lift toward her hairline. “Desi? You’re speaking to them again?”

“Yes.”

“Dream… I would really like to have an actual friendly conversation.”

“And I would have liked you to keep to your vows.” Dream rises abruptly to his feet, knees hitting the underside of the table. Coffee sloshes onto the tabletop, and she lunges for napkins to clean up the mess. He does nothing of the sort. “But as you have shown me, you are incapable of that. Good luck with your marriage. I’ve a feeling you will need it.”

He strides toward the door, stopping only to pay for his coffee at the till, then leaves the diner. He gets a street away before leaning against the side of a building, chest heaving with rapid breaths. His lungs have shrunk, they had to have, for why else would he not be able to breathe properly?

He worked too much. His eating disorder—God, does he hate that phrase, he hates it—was too much for her to handle. He craved his father’s approval. Those were the reasons she fell out of love with him. She was no longer happy because of who he was as a person, and now she’s moved on. He has, too, but…

He hasn’t changed.

He vomits on the ground between his feet, chest tight and throat burning. A sob forces its way out of him as he thinks that same thought over and over, a mantra he can’t stop: He hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t—

Hob is going to tire of him just as Calliope did. Hob will leave without warning just as Calliope did. Hob will no longer love Dream just as Calliope did, and where will Dream be then?

Dream grasps at his hair with trembling hands, letting the storm rush through him. He knows he looks like a fool right now, crying so hard in an alley with passersby able to gawk, but he can’t stop. Something inside of him cracks, splinters apart. It hasn’t yet ended, and already Dream can feel what’s left of his heart shattering.

Finally, he calms enough to scrub his palms over his eyes. He has work to do. He can’t spend his day weeping over the inevitable like a child. Dream draws in a steadying breath and steps out into the foot-traffic of London.

“Sir!”

“Dream?”

Dream passes by Desi and Lucienne without a spare glance. “I will be in my office. Do not disturb me for any reason.”

“Dream, wait.”

He closes the door in his sibling’s face, swiftly twisting the lock, and makes his way to his desk on weak knees. He pulls his cellphone from the top drawer and unlocks the screen. There are six texts waiting to be read.

Hob (08.22): I hope your day is going well, love. Hob (09.19): Read any good manuscripts today? Hob (09.43): I shouldn’t have taken today off. I’m bored and have already cleaned the entire flat. Hob (09.44): I think I might break into yours and clean it, too. Hob (10.09): Anyway, I’ll let you work. I love you. Hob (11.28: Dream?

Dream hesitates, stares at the messages. “Did you just say you love me?... I love you, too. I love you, my dream.” Pain lances through his chest, and he doubles over seconds later. His phone clatters to the floor, but the screen remains on. The red letters remain visible through his tears.

This contact has been blocked.

He leaves work early without a word to Lucienne, though she calls fruitlessly after him.

The next morning finds him getting into the passenger seat of her car, studiously avoiding any sort of conversation. She tries, but he gives no sign he’s listening. Finally, she sighs.

“I don’t know what is going on, Dream, but I’m here whenever you figure it out.”

Dream. The last time she called him by his name, it had been in an argument over the necessity of him doing an in-patient program. He’d lost weight—too much, according to her, and even he had to agree though he didn’t want to. He was barely able to stand without getting lightheaded, and his clothing hung off his frail frame. He was never hungry, but he was always cold.

“Please, sir. Get help. Allow me to help you. Dream, please,” she had pleaded, tears in her dark eyes as she clasped his hands to her chest.

Dream checked himself in two days later.

Now, he turns his face to the window, closes his eyes, and lets the tear slip free.

When Lucienne stops at Hob’s, Dream doesn’t get out of the car. She comes back with a paper bag and a flat white with caramel. In the bag are a lemon-blueberry muffin and an apple-and-cream cheese danish—one of the few things Dream had tolerated the night Hob baked him a variety of treats to sample.

Lucienne pulls into a supermarket carpark and holds Dream’s hand as he cries.

He works all day with the door closed. She has to use the phone to alert him of any visitors or messages left for him. There are plenty of messages taken and two visitors: Calliope and, at lunchtime, Hob. Dream only claims he’s too busy for a break before putting the receiver back in the cradle.

The doorknob jiggles moments later, but the lock holds steady. As Hob walks away, Dream rests his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. He’s so tired of crying, so exhausted. He wants to feel nothing at all. He wishes he had never met Hob at all. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be sat in his office sobbing over such a beautiful mistake as falling in love with the sun.

Hob comes to Dream’s flat that night, but he receives the same reception as in the office: That is to say, none. Dream lies curled up on his couch listening to Hob knocking and calling his name. The tears no longer come. He doesn’t know if it’s an improvement or not.

The tears may not appear, but there is no hiding the agony residing in his heart. Another love lost. At least this time was his own doing, his own choice. No one could hurt him again, no one but himself. He just hopes he hasn’t hurt Hob.

He’ll move on and forget you soon enough. Dream concedes to the voice in his head, traitorous though it is. Calliope did. It stands to reason that Hob will, too. Hob has too much love in his heart to not want to share it; he’ll find someone better, someone who can love him without weighing him down.

Thana comes over a week later, clearly alerted to Dream’s state by Lucienne. He has barely spoken at work. Even Burgess’s calls end with only two words spoken the entire time—“Emrys” and “No”. His sister sits with him, his head in her lap, and runs her fingers through his hair as they watch mindless sitcoms on the television. They don't speak, but he knows she knows. He doesn’t cry.

Del brings with her the cheeriness that Dream usually loves. But right now, he can’t bear happy and vivacious. He needs silence, space to mourn the loss of another amazing relationship, and time to move on. He tolerates her presence in a way he never has before—barely. Then she leaves, and he can breathe again. He doesn’t cry.

Dream has just curled up on the couch two weeks, four days, and seventeen hours after his lunch with Calliope when a knock sounds at the door. He stares at the door but makes no move to answer the beckon. Whoever it is can leave him in peace. It’s all he asks for.

Unfortunately, ‘whoever it is’ turns out to have a key. The lock shifts out of place, the door swings open, and Desi breezes into the flat as if they own the place. Dream scowls and curses Thana. She was meant to have a key for emergencies, not to give to their other siblings. He curls further into a ball and tugs the blankets over his head as Desi moves about in the kitchen.

He startles when a weight settles on top of him, and the scent of orange blossom and vanilla black tea floods his senses. He shifts as much as he possibly can until Desi rolls off to curl up between his back and the sofa cushions. Their arm wraps around his waist; he closes his eyes against the pressure of their forehead between his shoulderblades. Their grip tightens as his body shakes with more tears, sobs he hadn’t known were building inside of him.

Desi holds him through it all, holds him even long after his eyes have dried and he uncovers his head. As soon as he does, their hand comes up to play with the ends of his hair. He clears his throat, but words won’t come. Desi shakes their head against his back.

“Don’t worry about it, big brother. It’s what siblings are for.”

“I have treated you poorly.”

“And I’ve treated you like shit. Call us even.” Desi sighs, a heavy thing that expands their chest. “I never wanted you to break up with your boyfriend.”

“It’s for the best.”

“No, Dream, it isn’t. He made you happy.”

“It would have ended much like it did with Calliope.”

“Calliope fucked up when she let you go, and we all know it.”

Dream throws back the blankets and surges to his feet. “Calliope did the right thing, Desi. I am, as she put it, a broken man.”

“She said what?” Desi sits up rapidly, amber eyes narrowing and unpainted lips pressing together. “She called you a broken man?”

“It is—”

“Shit. It is nothing but bullshit. You are not broken, Dream. You have your flaws, I won’t lie, but that does not make you broken.”

“I can’t eat,” he admits over their diatribe. “I try, and more often than not, I get ill. I work too many hours, and I still yearn for Father’s approval despite the fact he’s long dead. I am stubborn and stuck in my ways, prideful and arrogant. There are far more reasons to hate me than to love me.”

“You’re kind, loyal to those who earn it, and so fucking smart, it’s intimidating,” Desi counters. They stand and approach Dream slowly, as if nearing a skittish wild animal. “You are funny when you want to be. You bring happiness to readers everywhere in your career, and you are an amazing author. Yes, I’ve read some of your works that you had hidden in your room.”

“Those were private.”

“Those were forgotten when you moved out.” Desi places their hands on either side of Dream’s face, holds him still. “Dream… You are the best big brother I’ve ever had, even when you’re being an arrogant ass.”

His eyes burn, but no more tears come. He is cried out. Desi understands; they pull him in for a tight embrace, and he clings to them as hard as he dares.

They fall asleep on the couch with pints of ice cream melting on the coffee-table and the television playing late-night infomercials.

Desi gives him a lift to work the next morning, and he stares at the building for a moment before following them inside. Lucienne glances up from her computer screen, but the phone at her ear prevents her from speaking. Dream takes advantage of that, slipping into his office without a word, while Desi heads to their own.

He somehow manages to focus enough on his job that he doesn’t notice when Lucienne enters his office near lunchtime. She doesn’t ask for his order, nor does she have anything in her hands. Nothing but a stack of papers held together with a paperclip.

“You should read this,” she says, holding the manuscript out.

“Put it in the in-box, and I might get to it.”

“Sir. I think now would be the best time.”

“Lucienne, I do not have time for this. I have a call—”

“Which has been postponed. I told you that two hours ago. Your schedule is clear, and all pertinent emails have already been sent out. You have nothing but time. Sir,” she tacks on, though her tone gives anything but respect.

Dream presses his fingertips to his closed eyelids. Lucienne hasn't moved away from his desk by the time he looks up again; the manuscript is still in her hands, and she still stares at him with a look that says she knows he will give up eventually. They both know it, really.

However, he refuses to give in without some sort of fight. His mouth opens as if to protest again, but she beats him to speaking.

“Sir. Please. I do believe this one will be of particular interest to you.”

“I cannot imagine how,” he snaps even as he takes the bundle of papers. She carefully hides her smile, but Dream has known her long enough. He can see the relief and satisfaction in her eyes. He sighs and glances down at the print on the front page. “‘Dreams of Forever. How… pathetically trite. You think this is interesting to me?”

Lucienne grimaces and tilts her head. “The title needs work, yes, but it’s the heart of the story that matters, is it not?”

“Fine,” he says after a long moment of staring at the author’s name—initials, actually. RG. “Leave me.”

Lucienne bows her head, murmurs a “Thank you, sir”, and turns on her heel. Dream waits until the door is closed before he flips to the first page and settles back in his chair to read.

Once upon a time—Here, he snorts. No one begins a book with ‘Once upon a time’ unless it’s a fairy story meant for children. And those authors are not who Dream chooses to represent. But he’d promised Lucienne in a roundabout way. So he continues.

Once upon a time, a man opened a bakery. The man—we’ll name him Rob. Well, Rob didn’t expect much from it. All he knew was that running a bakery was his ultimate dream. He enjoyed baking. He enjoyed making people happy. He enjoyed meeting new people. He figured the bakery would be the best way to combine all three, and he was right. He loved every second, even the ones too early in the morning.

Actually, those were, perhaps, the best. The world was silent, and he was able to listen to everything slowly waking up. It was his favourite time of day, that precious window of time between midnight and dawning. No one bothered him, and he could bring his creations to fruition without someone pestering him. (He will never be able to thank the kindly old lady who taught him to bake, or to apologise for ever having been a pest himself.)

Those WERE his favourite hours. Then one day, into the bakery walked a beautiful, stern-faced woman with a shaved head and golden wire-rimmed glasses and the most beautiful man Rob had ever seen. With piercing blue eyes and pale skin, the man was simply perfect. Rob wanted nothing more than to plunge his hands into that thick black hair. He wanted to taste the lips that screamed to be kissed.

Rob’s favourite hours narrowed to minutes—minutes during which he was able to see and speak to the man, though words were hard for Rob. He tripped over his own tongue, and the man certainly didn’t seem to appreciate any flirtations. So Rob resigned himself to seeing this gorgeous face and never knowing the man behind it.

But then. Oh, but then, the miraculous happened. Three months into the near-daily visits, the man left behind his business card. Rob didn’t see it at first, but when he did… He was speechless. His friend took the piss out of him, but Rob only cared that he now had the man’s number. More than that, he had a NAME. He would admit to the first person who asked, he truly thought the man had been joking about his name, but no. Rob’s dream man was named just that: Dream.

Dream’s throat closes, and his fingers tighten around the papers. This surely isn’t… He must be imagining it. This isn’t…

Now that he had that information, Rob was afraid to wait much longer. So he spent six hours dialling the number only to stop himself before he could actually put the call through. He finally did it, his heart in his throat the entire time the line trilled. He managed to get the words “Would you want to have dinner with me?” out without making himself look like too much a fool, and he nearly cried when Dream agreed. After some hesitation, obviously. (Rob may have teared up a bit as soon as the call ended.) His best friends came over to help him choose an outfit for the date (well… Rachel did. Johanna mostly just sat on the bed and teased him mercilessly).

Rob was pleasantly surprised that the evening went well. That Dream agreed to another spent with Rob. That Dream asked Rob to kiss him goodnight. Rob went home thanking every god ever in existence for the chance to taste those kissable lips.

They had five months. Five glorious months before things went to shit. Rob thought everything was fine. Better than, really. Making love felt like the first time every time. Rob had spent more nights in bed with Dream than without, and he even had a copy of a key to his flat waiting in his pocket. He had planned to give it to Dream on the night marking six months of their relationship. They’d even confessed their love for each other. But… Dream put an end to that, one week shy.

Dream left Rob without answers, without apology. There was nothing left but a gaping hole in Rob’s chest where Dream had been and a key that Dream would never have. Rob spent weeks desperately trying to figure out what he had done wrong. How had things gone so horribly sideways without him knowing it was even a possibility? How could Dream so easily leave when all Rob wanted to do was give him the fucking world?

Then a month later, Rob realised…

Dream flips the paper over, but the backside is blank as he expected. What had Rob realised?

“Rob realised he’d done nothing wrong and it was all Dream being an utter arse and not talking about whatever scared him off.”

Dream’s head snaps up, and he stares at Hob. In the man’s hands are a lemon-blueberry muffin and a to-go cup that Dream knows contains a flat white with caramel. Hob’s lips quirk slightly.

“Rob also realised that no matter what, he still loves Dream and wants a forever with him, despite the pain he’s caused.”

“Hob…” Dream swallows and blinks rapidly, but the tears remain pooled in the corners of his eyes. “I…”

“I know, love. May I set these down? Only the coffee is starting to burn my hand.”

Dream rushes to clear a spot on his desk, and Hob smiles as he places the coffee on the surface. He places the muffin on top of the manuscript—his manuscript. Dream fingers the edge of the papers and lets the words swim out of focus.

“How did you get Lucienne to agree to this?”

“I’m very persuasive, as you very well know.”

“I do.” He sighs and finally looks back at Hob. “I’m a mess.”

“Oh, that, I’m aware of. But guess what, Dream? We all are. Every one of us has our issues and flaws and fears. I understand that, because I’d be a bloody hypocrite if I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to run off just because you let your insecurities get the best of you.”

“Calliope—”

“Your ex-wife did a real number on you, you’ve said. Luce has said. So have Thana and Del and Desi, and the fact that I’m now on speaking terms with your siblings without your knowledge will never not be amusing to me. I, however, am not Calliope. I… Damn it, Dream, I thought I’d proven to you that I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“And that’s the problem!” Dream says; Hob rears back, eyes wide, and Dream realises he’s shouted. He draws in a shaky breath and picks at the streusel atop the muffin. “That’s the problem. I… I was so used to being alone, to being left, that your staying was unfamiliar. It was… It was painful, to speak truly. Because even though you’d proven you’d stay, I still kept waiting for when that promise would end.”

“It was never going to.”

“Was?”

Hob rounds the desk to crouch before Dream. His smile is soft, sweet, and Dream can read nothing but love in it. “It never will.” His smile dims, and he reaches for Dream’s hands. “But I can’t—I can’t keep letting you break my heart just because you’re afraid. Dream… You’re either in all the way, or you’re out all the way. There’s no halfway in this. I don’t want that.”

“I need some time,” Dream mumbles through numb lips a minute later.

Hob’s face falls. Of course it does. Dream hasn’t given an actual answer. Hasn’t given any hope. But Hob doesn’t say anything. He only nods and rises to his feet. Dream stares at the floor as Hob’s footsteps get further away. At the door, he stops.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready. Either way.”

His I hope you’re in is almost too quiet, but Dream hears it anyway. He closes his eyes until the door clicks shut, then he stares out the window. Thick cloud cover obscures anything further than the end of the street. There are four other manuscripts he needs to read through, but he can’t concentrate on anything. All he can focus on are the soft words ringing in his ears.

What does it mean that Hob is willing to forgive him for such atrocious behaviour? Dream pushes his palms against his eyelids until he sees starbursts, and his chest rattles with a broken sob. He curls in on himself, struggles to maintain composure. He ended the relationship almost two months ago. The decision was one he made alone. He has no right to be torn up by it.

It’s time to move on.

But damn it, he doesn’t want to. Does he?

He doesn’t sleep that night or the one after. The only reason he sleeps at all through the rest of the week is because of Lucienne. She presses sleeping tablets and a variety of calming teas into his hands, begs him to give them a try:

“You are only hurting yourself, Dream. Please.”

How can he deny her this simple thing, when she has done so much for him? So he accepts the help she extends, and to his everlasting relief, the tablets work. It’s a fitful sleep, but sleep nonetheless. He dreams of Hob, bringing fresh waves of pain when he wakes, but it’s still rest. Lucienne seemingly approves—she no longer questions his ability to do things such as sit behind a desk and read manuscripts.

Eventually, the chamomile stops working. The sleeping tablets continue having their effect, but Dream wakes feeling worse than when he went to bed. His dreams take frightening turns into nightmare territory, and each morning finds him gasping and battling tears. Reaching for someone who is no longer there.

How could he have been so damn stupid to have let Hob leave like that? No. Hob hadn’t been the one to leave. Dream had pushed him away. Shoved him, really. He will never forgive himself for what he’s done. And now it’s been nearly a month since Hob found him in the office, and it’s too late.

Hob will have moved on by now, and why shouldn’t he. He deserves happiness, something Dream could never truly provide. Dream carries in his heart all the love possible to hold for another, but it would never have been enough. It wasn’t for Calliope, and it wouldn’t be for Hob. There is a set number of times a person can have another lonely meal during which there should be a companion, go to sleep in an empty bed in which another body should lie, or stroll through a park when there should be another holding their hand. Dream has always forced his partners to reach that limit far too quickly.

No, Hob would never have been truly happy.

Dream knows this is for the best, so he must accept it. Wanting differently does no good, and it's only a waste of time. So he resigns himself to drowning in the never-ending agony until Hob is nothing more than a distant memory.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready. Either way.”

Dream does. So he goes.

The bell over the door announces his arrival, but it goes unnoticed under the din of dozens of conversations. Dream hesitates; he had forgotten the lunch rush, when people need their midday bursts of caffeine. His hand hovers over the door handle behind him, but then Hob looks away from the customer he’s speaking with. Freezes.

This is an awful time. There are too many witnesses for this heartbreak, but Dream knows he needs to get the words out. To tell Hob that there is no hope. It is better to sever ties now than to drag it out. So Dream steels his spine, gathers his courage. It’s time. His voice cuts through the chatter:

“I’m all in.”

Hob’s answering smile is slow to appear and all the more dazzling for it.

[adventures-in-a-world-of-fiction]

I've been reading my way through a box set of the Sandman comics and I've got to the end of book ten. There are still four books left in the box, but I think they're prequels and other stories set in the same universe (i.e. extra bits) rather than a continuation of the story. It feels like the story have reached its conclusion. I have some thoughts about this. This is not a carefully thought out literary criticism essay or a refined piece of meta or anything. This is just me dumping my thoughts out in no particular order having finished reading the book last night.

Major spoilers below.

I was aware of the major event in The Kindly Ones from having read a bunch of fanfics. After watching the TV show, I start reading fics and while I focused mostly on the TV show fics because that's the version I was familiar with, enough writers are fans of both that they would borrow future aspects of the comics plot even for stories set in the TV show universe, so I picked up a few bits and pieces of what was going to happen. Even with that spoiler, I was caught by surprise by aspects of The Kindly Ones.

I didn't expect it to involve the plot with Puck and Loki. I just expected that the furies would attack after Orpheus's death - I hadn't expected that they would need to be given an excuse. I loved the journey Lyta went on to find the furies, with the transitions in and out of the real world and her metaphorical journey. That was handled beautifully well and I really hope the Netflix adaptation doesn't get canceled before it gets this far because I would love to see that interpreted on screen.

I was really moved by parts of both The Kindly Ones and The Wake. Seeing the deaths of the various Dreaming characters moved me more than I thought it would, and then we get Matthew's show of loyalty and the moment in the cave afterwards where he says he should have stayed, because if he'd stayed and died with Dream, he wouldn't be miserable now. That got to me. I hadn't expected to find myself tearing up over a comic book, but it was really well done.

Having the Corinthian brought back earlier is a great way to foreshadow what's going to happen, and introduce us to the idea of someone being the same person and not being that person at the same time. Corinthian has some of the memories of the previous version of himself, but he's not the same person. He's someone new. The fact that we have the length of a book to get used to that idea makes it easier to understand what happens with Dream and Daniel. The new Dream has some memories from the old Dream and is in some ways the same person, but he's also not Morpheus.

I'm disappointed that we seem to have skipped the scene where Hob finds out who Dream is. The timeline of their meetings is basically spelled out in the comics canon. They had their once-a-century meetings. Then Dream came to Hob in a dream before going to Hell. Then Dream randomly shows up while Hob is visiting the graveyard and they go for a drink - they talk about the dream then, so clearly there haven't been any meetings in the meantime. Hob talks about Dream having some sort of magical powers, but it's clear he doesn't really know what they are or what their limits are. Then we get to The Wake and Hob is told that the Dream King is dead and he is distraught. It can't be true, because the Dream King is his friend.

Somehow, in this scene, Hob knows exactly who Dream is - now that he's gone. It could be that he just knows "in the manner that you know things in dreams" as someone else puts it later one. There's a handful of panels where someone says that he knows they're there for a funeral is the way you just know stuff sometimes when you're dreaming, so it's possible that when Hob's told Dream's dead, he just magically knows that they're talking about his stranger. But in the scene with Death after the funeral, he says that he "figured it out eventually" about who Dream was.

It feels like there's a missing scene between the graveyard meeting and Dream's funeral where Hob works out who Dream was, and we never get to see it. Which is disappointing.

I do love the ambiguity of the ending. Like, the surface-level text of the comic is incredibly clear. The original Dream is dead. There's a whole book focused on the funeral, after all. Daniel says very clearly that he's not the old Dream, the old Dream is dead. It's plain in the text that he's gone.

But in the subtext? Woo boy, that's a different story.

You have Matthew speculating that Dream might show up, "The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated". The whole conversation about the jewel and the facets was about Daniel, yes, but it could also have been about the facets of the current Morpheus, and that killing one facet didn't necessarily mean killing the whole. You have the lines from multiple people about how the only choice was the change or die. You have Destruction saying that it would be okay to walk away to Daniel, echoing the earlier conversation with Morpheus, telling him that it's alright for him to leave. You have the moments with two Destinies with two books, suggesting that the story is splitting. Yes, Dream is dead, but there's another book where something else happened entirely.

And then, most significant of all, when Hob falls asleep at the ren fest, he dreams of Dream and Destruction together on the beach, surprised to see him.

It feels like a completely valid interpretation of the text to say that Morpheus/Dream didn't really die. He allowed an aspect of himself to die, so that Daniel could be reborn into the role of Dream, but the Morpheus part could have been split off. He could have taken the "change" part of the "change or die" message and become something new - something that isn't Dream of the Endless but that still keeps the rest of himself.

It's all but stated in places that Morpheus planned this - and the fact you have Loki realising he's been played is evidence for this. It could be interpreted as Morpheus planning a way to commit suicide that won't leave his realm or humanity suffering for his absence. Or it could be interpreted that this whole thing is a manipulation and that Dream let this happen because he knew he had a way to escape, a way that he wouldn't truly die.

There are a load of fics on AO3 that talk about retired!Dream - that takes the idea that Dream didn't really die, but killed off the aspect of himself that was Endless and became something more human. He gave up a chunk of his power along with his responsibilities, but now he gets the freedom. In most fandoms, I would take this as fandom's fix-it approach to canon character death, but here it feels like a valid interpretation of the text, given Hob's dream of Dream and Destruction together. Especially in light of the final story in The Wake.

The final story is a flashback to Shakespeare writing the Tempest and it has a couple of points where it talks about Prospero breaking his staff and giving up magic at the end. In a conversation with Shakespeare, Dream basically admits that this is wish fulfillment fantasy for him. He wants a story where the great magician can break his staff and drown his book and walk away from magic entirely, because that's something he knows he can never do. This could be interpreted in multiple ways. It could be taken as evidence that the retirement theory is correct, and that all through the last couple of books, this was what Dream was working towards, a way to leave behind his power without abandoning his responsibility. Or it could be interpreted as Dream saying that retirement was never an option for him, and the only way out for him was to orchestrate his death.

I don't know if anything will come up in the next four books to tip the scales one way or the other, but I like that the book leaves it ambiguous. Did Dream commit suicide-by-fury? Did Dream orchestrate his escape and run away with his brother? Depends which way you want to interpret it. Go with whichever answer makes you happy.

[kittttycakes]

Yessss, that intensity of attention that slightly!jealous Morpheus would have. Like you said, overwhelming in the best possible way, and wouldn’t that make you feel so powerful to have that kind of effect on, and reaction from a being that is more than a god.

And about that tournament… your thoughts on what Morpheus would be doing are pure perfection and have sent my brain straight to the gutter.

A) undoing the buckles and unlacing the ties etc. on each part of Hob’a armour and clothes, and tracing with fingers and then lips over each piece of skin that is revealed…

and

B) omg, I can just imagine the filth that could come out of Hob’s mouth as he outlines exactly why Grace doesn’t need the attention of any of the Fae. “Who else could do this/make you…/have you feel…?” Meanwhile Morpheus is putting his fingers/mouth/…..etc ;) to good use demonstrating exactly the things Hob is saying, and whispering equally filthy but eloquent/poetic things in her ear.

I am just so here for some loving on Grace!

Also, the potential for jealous Hob, can you please tell us more?

❤️

I think Morpheus would be incredibly tactile, so I am joining you in the dumpster, because the contrast between armor and the clothing underneath, between the clothing and the skin at the bottom of it all…impeccable. All of the precious metal and all of the fine fabric in the world can’t possibly compare to the feeling of skin against skin.

There are so many things I love about this dynamic especially: 1. Hob Gadling will not shut up in bed and that is just straight facts, he should be allowed to say everything that he’s thinking in that moment, because it’s always welcome and it always lands exactly how it’s supposed to. It’s especially impactful when he’s been building up this lovely romantic moment, because who else could love her like this, who else could cherish her so deeply, who else knows her so well…only to then drop the most scorchingly X rated filth after it. Get you a man that can do both. 2. I love the vulnerability of Morpheus allowing Hob to take charge. Morpheus is still very much in control, but he’s the one listening to Hob, and even if they aren’t exactly orders, he can be very good at following instructions when sufficiently motivated. 3. Grace just gets to have the best time possible and I love that for her, she doesn’t even have to lift a finger.

I love jealous Hob. I love him. Because the Hob that Grace knows, the one that she sees, is the product of years of change and of working to be a good man. He’s a good partner, colleague, friend. But the other side of wanting as much and as deeply as he does is that there’s this little seed of jealousy, just waiting for the sun to shine on it.

More below the cut for the sake of everyone’s dashes!

Relevant backstory: As some people in academia do, prior to meeting Hob, Grace had primarily dated other people in her academic cohort. During her PhD program, she had a serious boyfriend, and things only really ended between them because he got a job at a university abroad and she didn’t want to turn down the offer she had received at the university she eventually meets Hob at, and so things ended quite amicably, if bittersweetly, because neither of them was keen on doing long distance. Not wanting to prolong a relationship that had an expiration date, they parted ways some time before Grace began teaching at the university.

However, Grace has professionally crossed paths with him several times since the end of the relationship, because they both work in very similar fields/with similar literary eras, and they have a still-friendly professional relationship. Hob, naturally, knows about him in the abstract and it’s all fine.

Until he meets him, at a conference he and Grace both happen to be attending.

He’s nice! There’s nothing wrong with him! He’s very polite and professional and clearly knowledgeable in his field and Hob thinks he might hate him, actually. He’s just so familiar with Grace, that kind of easy knowing that you sometimes still have with someone you used to love and know very well. (Among his cardinal sins, not that Hob would ever admit to it, is that he’s about an inch taller than Hob.)

He also…doesn’t look anything like Hob. If anything, he looks quite a bit like Morpheus, actually. Tall, slender, dark hair, light eyes…There’s no real rational reason for him to be jealous at all. He hasn’t done anything! He only knew Grace before Hob did, and had a relationship with her, and in a different world, he would be the one with his arm around her and she would be wearing his ring and Hob just can’t have that.

He’s trying so hard not to be an absolute dick about it, but he’s not quite his usual charming self, and Grace can’t seem to put her finger on why until she finally corners him in their hotel room and gets him to own up to it, after which she spends a lovely evening convincing him that he has absolutely nothing, nothing at all, to worry about.

❤️

[qqueenofhades]

so is the sandman series just a bunch of little short stories? i know it’s a comic book, i didn’t read it lol, but it’s just supposed to be like “hey here are the characters here’s a general premise let’s have fun with it” ???

Aha, I am a bad person to ask, because I have never read the comics either, was wheedled into watching it by my friend who IS a long-time fan of the comics, saw gifsets of Gwendoline Christie as Lucifer and promptly simped for her like the useless lesbian I am, saw a lot of reviews of straight people whining about all the Gay, and went "hmm guess I have to watch this then." I am obviously a fan of the Neil Gaiman Cinematic Universe and have enjoyed many shows based on his works before (Good Omens, Lucifer, etc), and at various times found myself going, "so is The Sandman just a mashup of all of Neil Gaiman's favorite tropes/literary devices/character archetypes? Because I think it is."

Anyway, I also found myself confused by the not-totally-linear nature of the plot, the way various characters/plots seemingly appeared and disappeared, and the fact that they were evidently quite faithful in adapting the episodic, self-contained nature of the graphic novel (at least according to my friend, said Sandman expert). So that means that there are several stories-within-a-story that overlap and generally reference each other, but don't necessarily proceed in strictly logical or chronological order; for example the Rose Walker plot, which you would think would get started earlier, doesn't appear until episode 7 of a 10-episode series, and episode 11 is also largely standalone.

So yes, it is kind of mini-stories taken from the various events in the first volume of comics, and people more familiar with the source material than me have said it is pretty faithful in doing so. I am just here for beautiful Black women, cool magic, and of course the good ship Hob and Dream, because to literally nobody's surprise, ever, I love me some pining disaster idiot queer immortals who don't know they are in love even as everyone else they know ships them. Oops.

Likewise to the surprise of none and the regret of all, I held out for all of 12 whole hours before starting a new fic, and @bonfireofthesamities (silverbirch on AO3), @abeautifulblog (gremble on AO3), and I are now going whole hog on creating the Dreamhob Cinematic Universe, where we are all writing different fics that complement each other and use the same backstory and so forth. This is indeed the fic that I previously dubbed DVLA But Dumber, as it likewise features idiot queer immortals pining after each other through a variety of premodern historical events while attempting vainly to figure out their feelings. I will probably finish the first chapter tomorrow, and it will be a test to see if I can wait long enough to write a second chapter, or if I just go GIVE ME THAT VALIDATION!! and slap it up there. So yes. Stay tuned.

[scifrey]

CLING FAST

Read on Tumblr or Read Edited Version on AO3

Status: Complete

Series: the Hob Adherent series.

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it's not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling's Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Matthew the Raven, Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Patrick the bartender, Harriet Butler, Glenn Davies (plus some cameos from other characters from the Gaiman Television-Literary Universe)

Summary:

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series “Elizabethan Manor,” they’re overjoyed to find a professor who (according to their meticulous research) is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they’re filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Season 01 Episode 6.

READ ON AO3 | VIEW FANART | MY OTHER FANFIC | MY BOOKS

[lonelywretchjervistetch]

My DC Cinematic Universe: Superman (Part IX)

Chapter Nine: Superman

It's at this time that we finally begin the story for this first theoretical film. Bits and pieces have been added throughout this elongated essay series, but this post is the culmination of these efforts, as well as fixing or clarifying a few things I've already mentioned.

Now, before anything else, there is something I need to make abundantly clear. I am not a writer. I am not a screenplay writer, a comic book writer, or a writer of any other kind. My name is published in scientific papers, and my training is primarily in ecology and ornithology. I have a bunch of ideas about comics and webcomics, but haven't really finished them (as of yet). I have written a healthy number of film reviews on my side profile, but I DEFINITELY wouldn't call them literary masterpieces. So, yeah, absolutely not a writer.

However, what I am is a MASSIVE goddamn nerd who spends a lot of time thinking about how he would make movies about various comic book characters. Superman, of course, is one of those characters. So, before we start, here are a few things to keep in mind. This is meant to be lighter in tone, and more down to Earth than most Superman films tend to be. Think more like Superman: The First Movie, but a touch more serious nd introspective when it comes to our main character. And again, not a writer, so some blanks may have to be filled in here or there as we go along.

OK, OK, without further ado...let's see what we can do. Flash the DC logo, let's get started!

Prologue: Up in the Sky

We're gonna bookend this film with narration from Lois Lane, specifically pieces that she's writing on Superman and Metropolis. Gonna be mostly show and less tell, but Lois will help introduce us to the city. And in the beginning, we'll go from the opening directly to the street. Bustling activity on the sidewalk, people starting their day as the sun rises, and tracking life in Metropolis, right from the start.

Metropolis, for all intents and purposes, should feel like a real city. I'm talking Chicago, I'm talking New York. But, where Gotham represents those cities in the dead of night, when fear lurks in the darkness, we'll be seeing Metropolis shortly after sunrise, just as the city begins to wake up. And again, this should feel like a real city, with character and flavor all its own. And Lois' narration should reflect and describe that character. A city that's always been grasping towards a bright future, but is inhabited by those comfortable living in the modern day. A place of tomorrows that hold onto the past. Nostalgia tempered by ambition. Y'know, that kinda stuff.

As Lois begins to describe the feel and life in the city, as well as recent changes and strife, we go to Hob's Bay, a older harborside neighborhood, and one of the oldest in Metropolis. a man visits a news stand and picks up a paper. This man is Bibbo Bibowski, a local character and owner of the Ace o'Clubs pub, and he picks up a local paper, the Daily Star. He looks at the Daily Planet, which is reporting on Superman, and grimaces. Not a fan, clearly. He puts in a pair of headphones, and turns on a podcast, Leslie Willis' Live Wire. Yeah, on the nose, I know, but you get it.

As Bibbo's walking to work, he bumps into a clumsy young man, whom he identifies as Jimmy Olsen. The two are friendly, but you can see a brief clash of ideologies as Bibbo refers to Jimmy's job at the Daily Planet as less than respectable, given their stance on certain issues. Jimmy brushes this off, because he's going to be late to work. He grabs some food from a stand, then gets a rideshare to the Daily Planet. But before he can get there...

Why yes, that IS a clip from the 1997 film Steel, starring Shaquille O'Neal. And yes, this IS for a good reason! So, Jimmy's in the ride share, texting Lois to let her know that's he's on his way to the office. But, on the way, a crime erupts when the Metropolis PD race by, interrupting traffic. Jimmy, following the normal actions of an intrepid reporter (according to Lois, anyway), asks the driver to follow them. When they get there, they see the police interrupting a robbery.

Lois' narration continues, telling us that crime has been getting worse, with gangs taking claim over various territories, using increasingly powerful weaponry. This weaponry, in this case is the Toastmaster, a powerful weapon used by the White Rabbit Gang of Hob's Bay. Caught smuggling the weapons by the police, a fire fight has erupted. The Special Forces Unit, led by Maggie Sawyer and Dan Turpin, arrives with their own firepower and manages to subdue some of the gang members. But at that point, a much larger Toastmaster, the BG-105, is brought out by a member of the gang, each of whom have a white rabbit on their jackets. He fires the gun, and it's obvious that the cops are outmatched. It's also at this point that Jimmy's out of the car, taking pictures for a story.

A gang member grabs a box and runs away, backed up by his compatriots. And as the danger's increased significantly, and Maggie and Dan are about to be blasted by this Toastmaster...

Part One: This is Your Life, Clark Kent

So, yeah, obviously this is when Superman shows up. We flash the title screen real fast, play his bombastic leitmotif, and we jump right back into the action. Superman gets hit by the blast, and you can immediately tell that this isn't the normal kind of hit you'd expect Superman to take. Normally, we see Superman sort of glance off bullets and energy blasts like nothing, but this clearly has more kick to it. Superman takes a few steps forward through the blast, struggling a bit as he does it, while Sawyer and Turpin and the rest of the unit mobilize on the other members of the gang present. Even then, though, one of the gang members escapes, scared and not wanting to be caught. Superman is, of course, there to take out the big Toastmaster and provide needed backup for the cops.

The fight ends, Superman has some interaction with Maggie Sawyer and Turpin (the latter of whom is slightly more non-plussed by Superman getting into police business), and he takes off. Jimmy looks on at this, then looks at his photos, all of which are genuinely fantastic. Jimmy, for the record, should be a great photographer. And that should be agreed upon at the Daily Planet, where Jimmy arrives to the angry shouts of editor-in-chief Perry White.

Perry's shouting for Jimmy, as well as any reporters who have info on the White Rabbit attack that's just happened. Jimmy walks into a meeting, where we meet each of the major members of the Daily Planet crew. I've described them of Part V of this essay series, but real quick in this sequence, we get some basic descriptions of their roles in the paper.

Cat Grant is a gossip columnist, whose current focus is on Lex Luthor and his relationship with some Contessa from Italy, as well as other prescient gossip. She's been essentially removed from the Superman beat, which she's still kinda bitter towards Lois about, but whatever. However, over the course of the Superman franchise, Cat will find herself orienting more towards superhero and supervillain reporting, moving her into a slightly different role than she's had in the comics.

Steve Lombard, sports columnist, is focusing on an upcoming game between the Metropolis Meteors (a team which he used to serve on) and the Gotham Wildcats, the winner of which is set up go up against either the Midway Cardinals or the Star City Stags to determine standing in the National Conference. He rambles on about it, but Perry cuts him off.

Ron Troupe, political columnist, is reporting on politician Gordon Crown's campaign, which includes his stance on the crime increase, as well as the struggles of the police. This is our introduction to the some of the sociopolitical strain in Metropolis, which is obviously a major theme going forward, as well as Crown's goal.

It's at this point that Jimmy comes in, with reports of the photos he's gotten for a new story. He looks for Lois, who's on the crime beat and the city beat alongside Clark, and is also not there. Nor is city beat reporter Clark, and we see that their seats at the table are empty, much to Perry's irritation. He asks where Lois is, and we find out exactly where she is.

Here, we finally put face to the narration, as Lois Lane arrives at the crime scene in order to speak with Sawyer, Turpin, and the recently arrived Chief William Henderson, who is speaking with Superman and giving his thanks. Lois, being the intrepid reporter, tries to get an interview with anybody who'll give her the time of day. Basically everybody's in a hurry to leave, as the police are needed for an upcoming press conference with Gordon Crown, which Ron Troupe is also attending. But one person does interact with Lois: Superman. They obviously have a previous press-informer relationship, as Superman gives Lois a healthy amount of info about the events that had unfolded, then takes off after a polite (if slightly awkward) greeting. And once he takes off, running up and out of breath right after is Clark Kent, who had not gotten to the scene as a result of traffic, and was "beat to the punch" by Lois.

So, yeah, obviously Clark and Superman are one and the same, but I'm really trying to carve out a distinct difference between the two identities. Clark is Superman's real face, but he would try and play it up just a little bit to throw suspicion off of himself. Most of the time, this isn't an issue, but there is somebody who's come close to figuring out his secret: Lois. And we get this idea throughout the film. Anyway, Clark and Lois' dynamic is notably different, and we should see the change. The two are clearly friendly towards each other, although we should get the idea that this is a recent development. As reporters, they engage in some friendly competition and banter, but they're also somewhat too busy to hang out outside of work. Which is another dichotomy to enforce. Y'know, Superman is too busy for Lois, but Lois is too busy for Clark. It's symmetry! Anyway, after some pleasant and likeable conversation, the two head to work together.

Two more things real quick. Firstly, the romantic tension isn't quite out in the open as of yet, but there's definitely chemistry between the two. You should get the sense of a pre-existing relationship, with some potentially romantic overtones, but it's not crystallized yet. After all, romance between these two isn't exactly tension, since it's inevitable, but we should see the hints of it beginning to blossom. And it will blossom, but in an unexpected manner. Why?

Well, that brings us to our second point: Lois knows that Clark is Superman, but Clark doesn't know that Lois knows. Because let's be goddamn honest about something: Lois is absolutely a bullshit detector. And her insanely intrepid nature has led her to realize that Clark and Superman are one and the same. But she's mostly wrestling with ethics here. Does she ruin this person's life, and almost certainly the lives of others by telling a truth that doesn't need to be outed...or does she continue to gather information on this person, and try and understand them further to get a more fleshed-out story? And, of course, that was Lois' original plan, but she's realized that Clark is his own person, and not actually pretending to be something he isn't, in both of his identities. And in the process, she actually found herself liking Clark as a person, and not just as a story. But the distance between his identities is still hard for her to reconcile, so she's still figuring things out. But by the end of this film, she'll know exactly what she wants, and how she feels about Clark and Superman.

We cut from those two, and to an alleyway, to where the gang member who'd escaped earlier has run. A car pulls up, and the person inside is Bruno Manheim, who is being played by Tony Dalton in this essay. Somebody suggested it, and I like him for the part, honestly. The gang member is let into the car, and a friendly-seeming Bruno chats it up with them. Apparently, this struggle was part of a trade deal between the White Rabbits and Manheim's group, Intergang, but someone had tipped Manheim and his men off, meaning that Intergang didn't show up to the deal. Who tipped them off isn't said, however.

Manheim wants the Toastmasters, but now wants to deal directly with the boss of the Rabbits, whose identity is not well-known. After a conversation, Manheim intimidates the Rabbit and tells him he wants a meeting with their boss. He convinces the member to help arrange the meeting, and to tell only the boss so that this kind of thing wouldn't happen again. He lets the freaked-out Rabbit go, and relaxes in the back of his car.

A partition lowers, and a man in the passenger seat asks why he let him go. One, Manheim has other places to be; and two, at some point during the talk, Manheim slipped a tracker on the young Rabbit. Yes, this is a tech-savvy gang, and Manheim is not entirely stupid. He tells the driver to drop him off at "the rally", and then tells the man in the passenger seat to track down the rabbit. This man, John Corben, smiles at the request, and the group takes off. Oh, and the pre-Metallo Corben is played by Wilson Bethel in this essay.

OK, we're getting a little bogged down in the details, but let's continue following the story. At this point, I've been building up to a rally that's set to take place that afternoon. As Lois and Clark arrive at the Planet, they interact with the other members of the bullpen in various stages of their day, and we get to know see the inter-office relationships. Most prominently, of course, is Jimmy and our duo, and the three are pretty clearly often associated with each other. They go to meet Perry, he's a little pissed at how late they were, but lets it go in Lois' case when he hears their intel for the overarching story. But since Clark hasn't come in with a story, Perry assigns him to accompany Troupe to the upcoming Crown rally, and to get interviews with the audience members present, while Troupe interviews Crown himself. Clark agrees, and Jimmy offers to accompany them to get pictures of the event.

After this meeting, Clark gets a call from his folks, who are packing to head to Metropolis later that week on a visit. We get a hint that Jonathan Kent recently visited a doctor for cardiac concerns, but little more than a mention. Clark goes to meet Troupe, who's somewhat dismissive, but not out of any malice. It's from him and Olsen than we get an idea of who Gordon Crown is, as well as his views, and what the rally is going to focus upon.

Crown (played by Will Poulter for the purpose of this essay, and because I think he'd be a solid cast), is a young, likeable politician currently running for public office, after having been a popular political pundit working for the rival to the Daily Bugle, the Morgan Edge-owned company Galaxy Communications. On good terms with the Planet staff, he's an affable person with somewhat conservative views. Not everyone agrees with him, but he's got a reliable base. Interestingly, he's particularly critical of superheroes and vigilantes, having built his career on a very anti-crime platform.

He's also a very fast social climber, but this is attributed to him either being a massive suck-up (which he is when necessary), or just very good at his job (which he definitely seems to be). In any case, his success is undeniable, and his popularity is climbing, as seen by the decent number of people at the rally. This number includes Clark, Ron, and Jimmy, amongst other reporters; Inspector Henderson and Maggie Sawyer, who've just arrived; LexCorp representative Mercy Graves (more on her later), there in place of her boss; and pulling up in a limo in the back, Bruno Manheim. He gets out, then tells his driver he knows what to do. The driver pulls around the corner, then parked the car in an alley, bringing a gun with him.

He climbs up to the roof, and as this happens, we get a glimpse at Gordon Crown. We see him talking backstage with Mercy Graves, where she's giving him a message from Lex. He finishes that conversation, then greets Henderson and talks about the events of the day in terms of the White Rabbit Gang, just before going onstage. Just then, the driver sets up a rifle on a rooftop opposite the rally. Obviously, we're looking at an assassination attempt. However, before anything happens, the man leaves, simply setting up the gun and hooking it up to a technological device of some kind. He gets it set up, then leaves after setting a timer of some kind.

Once he makes it into the car, he watches on a screen in the car. When the time is right, he presses the button, and an obvious (obvious) laser light shines on Crown. Everyone sees this, including Clark, who speeds off to intercept the bullet. The gun fires, a bullet hits Superman, who's just arrived, and Crown locks eyes with a passing car, which holds Manheim staring at him through the window, and winking. Crown sees this, Crown understands this...but he says nothing. Instead, he takes the opportunity to thank Superman, even though it's apparent that he doesn't really want to. Superman goes to find the culprit, but to no avail.

After the shooting and the police follow-up, Lois arrives to cover this event, as it falls beneath her wheelhouse. After the stressful day, Jimmy invites Clark, Lois, and Ron to go to the Ace o' Clubs and take a load off. Ron passes, but Clark and Lois agree, and the group decides to meet up that night. Once there, we see that Crown has quickly rebounded, and is meeting with an anchor on a local news program, recounting the events of that day. Bibbo, with this channel on at the pub, comments to various individuals in the bar (Jimmy included) that some people (him included) think Superman was in on it, trying to make himself look like a big hero in front of the audience, and in front of Crown, his biggest detractor. Which, frankly, is a solid argument.

Lois agrees that the idea would be a good story, while Jimmy vehemently disagrees. He's a big fan of Superman, and he knows he was trying to do the right thing. CLark doesn't say much, since he doesn't like to comment on...well, himself. He does agree that it's a plausible theory, though. The three have a conversation about Superman, maybe about other similar figures that have appeared in the city or elsewhere, and give us a better idea of the environs in which we find ourselves.

From there, we go to a very nice house in Martinside, a very wealthy district of the city. A car pulls up to this house, and Gordon Crown exits. He enters the house, where in an office meeting with some of his men, Bruno Manheim is sitting and laughing. When Crown enters, he dismisses everybody but Corben, his right hand man. Crown's clearly a little upset at the assassination attempt, as there was no way Manheim could've known that Superman would show up. Manheim brushes it off, as the wound the bullet was meant to inflict would've been non-lethal, and that whoever his tech connections were knew what they were talking about with the remote rifle.

Crown capitulates this, and thanks Manheim for his cooperation. He also regrets the fact that Superman was there, as it could've helped his public image. Still, he thinks he's spun the angles all right, all things considered. The two have a shared moment of hatred for Superman, but Manheim seems to think he'll be able to take care of him soon. A curious Crown asks how, and Manheim credits his own connections. Just then, we hear someone else enter the room, with a clack of heels.

Now here's where things get a little...tricky. This is Angora Lapin (yes, really), played in this essay by Taraji P. Henson. In the comics, Angora is a villain of Steel, AKA John Henry Irons, having stolen his experimental weapons and work to make the Toastmaster and issue it to the streets for cash. She's the leader of the White Rabbit Gang in this film, and is called White Rabbit in the comics. And she's also implied to be an albino black woman. Which is...hard to cast.

Shout out, by the way, to Diandra Forrest, the only albino black actress I could find. I hope her career goes well, because it's very much in its infancy at the moment. But, for now, we're gonna go with Henson. Now, to be fair, Lapin is basically a cameo here, but she's received the message about meeting with Manheim to make a deal about the Toastmasters. Crown stays during this interaction, which Lapin clocks but cares little about. Manheim, in fact, states that Crown is under the protection of Intergang, and that he'll make things good for them in Gotham. Lapin and her gang can have in on that as well, if they make a deal for the Toastmasters, and lays low for a little while, working for Intergang in the process. Lapin agrees, but also notes that they didn't do much against Superman.

And that's when Crown interjects. His connections may be able to help with that.

Finally, this night in Metropolis is coming to a close. All of this has happened within one day. Clark and Lois leave Jimmy at the Ace O' Clubs, with both Lois and Clark headed home. They say their goodbyes, with Lois' dialogue indicating some kind of knowledge about Clark's secret life, which is easily played off as a joke. They say good night, and Clark goes back to the apartment. He reads some messages from his folks, who've obviously seen the news about the assassination attempt, and are checking in on their son. Clark responds with a smile, maybe even calls, and then heads to bed for the night.

But in his sleep, Clark has dreams that he's encased in crystal, cold and alone in an empty void. Other visions come to him, and we see glimpses of Krypton's destruction and his past. Clark, in this universe, doesn't know a lot about his past, save that he's from another planet, and that he didn't have these abilities from birth. He also knows of his connection with the sun of Earth, and that the ship he arrived here inside of is largely made of crystal and otherworldly metals. But the uncertainty, combined with these dreams of a forgotten past, is a constant thought with him. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat (which Clark doesn't usually do), he gets up and flies into the night as Superman, using his vision to see the stars beyond the light pollution from the city below.

And that's the end of...Act One.

Shit. SHIT. It's gonna be longer than nine parts, isn't it? Dammit.

Index: Superman

Part I: Why I Love Superman

Part II: On Lois Lane

Part III: The Kents

Part IV: The 'Rents

Part V: The...Frendts?

Part VI: Lex Luthor

Part VII: The Real Villains

Part VIII: Superman's Rogues Gallery

Part IX: The Story - Act One

Part X: The Story (Acts Two and Three)

Part XI: The Story - Climax

Part XII: Epilogue (Part One)

Part XIII: Epilogue (Part Two)

[xx-vergil-xx]

I just need you to know that Hounds has both ruined and eternally bettered my life. I just finished a complete re-read started before the two most recent chapters and one set of the endless (hah) sets of imagery really stuck out to me.

It's the way you just so subtly paint Hob as the Sun and Dream as all the stars. Warm gold, summer, dawn and fundamentally human things against the great cold but shining awe of the universe. The way he's a self proclaimed 'one in ten thousand' any yet the axis around which the whole story (and by extent I'd argue half the fandom) rotates.

Sorry this is ramble-y - I could just genuinely write a dissertation on this fic alone. (And from one English/Literature student to another - fuck you for the hamlet quote at the end of ch31!)

hello!! ahh!! thank you so much!!! it's such an unbearable delight to know something I wrote inspires dissertation-levels of fascination, from one person who writes mad literary essays to another this is extremely high praise and thank you so very much <3 <3 <3

(how could I resist the hamlet it was right there like the futility of revenge motif I am not a strong woman I will pepper hamlet in for spice left and right I think abt the "how all occasions do inform against me" monologue GOD I love hamlet and I will abuse it forever)

you handshake me students of literature getting wild and crazy over imagery because YES yes yes yes it's so neat when like someone gets and also loves a motif just yes yes yeah!!!! the sun and the stars!!!! it's them!!!!

like. like and I also think SO much abt distance with that image?? like the sun is a single star very close, the galaxy many stars very far away, and like. how they are parts of each other and still distinct. hob is all immediacy, you know? he's the action of living he's the axis as u so aptly put it he is there and present and felt because his life is so sensory and so like, in the moment, in the flesh. and then there's dream, who is himself a composite of stars (he's a whole mishmash of human dreams and fears and loves and stories) but so removed from the experience of them –– he is so far from the actual, real burning, the temperature sensation, the sweat, even the reality and immediacy of the light. and how the universe is big and beautiful and very far away. and how maybe the empty space wants to feel warm, how maybe the star wants a darkness to illuminate.

I think so much about the sun and stars thing really being a symbol of how they are refractions of each other -- the patron of stories and the man who cultivates them like the most prized garden. imagine, imagine you're a being whose entire role is to generative and foster narrative, to always tell the story, and then you meet someone who tells you stories. imagine you are a human who lives forever accruing stories to tell that you can't –– who would believe you? –– and you meet someone who you can give all that to. like. my god.

anyways anyways I got in a Rant Headspace there but just, thank you so very much for your unbelievably kind words, I appreciate them so deeply <3 <3 <3 and thank you for dropping by :) <3