#hob's got Things to Do

[wordsinhaled]

something something established relationship shenanigans ~*~ there was more i wanted to add to this, but i had to wallop a pretty impressive bout of imposter syndrome into submission to post this, so i'm just gonna let it float off down the river the way it is <3

-

Hob wakes up with his mind already on Dream.

He pictures Dream getting his morning coffee—holding the steaming cup, lid off, the “M” in “Morfius” scribbled on the side peeking out from beneath his grip. They do tend to misspell it, Hob's noticed, in some occasionally tragic ways.

Dream would scoff and say, “This is precisely why I tell them my name is Murphy..." Hob would get his pen out of his shirt pocket and correct Dream's name for him. The ink would feather on the styrofoam, of course, and he'd probably need to tune the nib later, but it'd be worth it for the lift in Dream's forlorn expression, for the tiny satisfied smile it earned.

Hob’s thoughts drift to Dream during his lectures, too.

He remembers how they’d sat up in Hob’s bed together one evening earlier in the week while Hob skimmed through the assigned reading and marked pages in the book with sticky note flags to correspond to his discussion questions. How Dream had said to him, eventually, “You should not do your work in bed, Hob. Beds are to be used for sleep.”

How Dream’s hand had wandered up Hob’s thigh under the covers and curled around his hip, and he'd rubbed small circles there with his thumb, until Hob had looked over at him, and put down his book at last, and said, amused, “Your mind seems a bit far from sleep, love."

He'd found Dream’s eyes sparkling at him, mischievous and starry-dark, before Dream leaned over and took his reading glasses from his face, and said, “Beds can be for other things as well, of course.”

(In the end, Hob was in fact no longer doing that sort of work in bed, so he guesses Dream won that one.)

There’s a knock on Hob’s office door around noon.

Hob is expecting a student, or a colleague, but instead it’s Dream—his Dream, but not quite the same as ever: longer- and wilder-haired, leather-jacketed, taller than usual, an assortment of earrings and studs glinting in his ears.

Hob lights up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your thoughts have circled me rather insistently today,” Dream says, “and there was not much to do in the Dreaming. I thought I might visit.”

Hob knows there is always something for Dream to do in the Dreaming—knows Dream is, effectively, taking an actual break if he is here now. It makes his heart feel full to know his lover is choosing to share this scant, stolen time with him—and even more so to know Dream has, for once, done something for himself, however small.

He walks around his desk, kisses Dream hello. Dream tastes, impossibly, like the cinnamon latte Hob had imagined he'd have ordered that morning. He has to kiss him again to make sure; and once more after that, slow and indulgent; until he remembers he has actual work to do, and then he pulls back and touches his fingertips to Dream's choker. “This is new, darling. What’s this look, then?”

“I am... experimenting,” Dream says, the tiniest bit smug. Hob gives him the kind of thorough once-over that he hopes communicates his appreciation raucously enough.

“I’ve been attacking my emails,” he says, going regretfully back to his chair, “they’re never-ending, I swear. And I’ve got a Zoom with Liam about his writing project at two. But I hope you’ll stay anyway? Sit anywhere you like.”

“Of course,” Dream says. “I would not dream of keeping you from your tasks, Hob.” 

Hob just raises his eyebrows at him, pointed, until Dream laughs—a sound that used to be so rare, one Hob is still getting used to being able to evoke. It's an odd little noise, different every time; today it’s pitched low, somewhere between a cat’s purr and a human chuckle, and the vibration of it strokes a gentle but insistent warmth down Hob’s spine.

He expects he’ll accomplish remarkably little, if things go on this way.

Sit anywhere you like proves to be a difficult invitation. Hob’s office is largely taken up by his desk and his bookshelves on the best of days; his bicycle and umbrella vie for one corner. Most of the remaining space is currently occupied by a massive box, which contains Hob’s most recent order of secondhand books. Seating for visitors is almost an afterthought at the minute.

Yet Dream accepts Hob's challenge with aplomb, settles on the unopened box as though it is as good as any throne to him, and Hob returns to clearing out his messages.

He can feel Dream watching him, but whenever he glances up over the top of his computer, Dream has his nose buried in some tome or other plucked from Hob’s shelf. The afternoon passes like this—all through Hob’s Zoom call, during which Hob listens more distractedly than he'd like to Liam's latest additions to his thesis draft, and sweats lightly under the heat of Dream's gaze.

The moment his meeting is done, Hob snaps his laptop shut, the resounding click making Dream look up from the copy of Women's Libraries in Late Medieval Bourbonnais, Burgundy, and France he'd been perusing.

"Want to get out of here?" Hob asks.

[weirdfishy]

headcanon/AU where morpheus only went and visited hob bc hob dreamed of him — like death convinced him to go see him, but he didn’t know when he should go, and the longer he stewed the more he thought hob was probably done with him. but then hob unknowingly drew morpheus into his dream where they were talking and laughing like proper friends (or, alternatively, hob had morpheus pressed against a wall) so dream was like yay he doesn’t hate me let’s go visit him :)

[brittlebutch]

still can't help but empathize deeply with Hob's anger and affront over the duel during the 'Southern Lawn' episode, mostly because I also cannot understand the social steps taken to land him in that position during any part of those confrontations

[forgaeven1]

ifykyk : but are ur muses still at the restaurant

[leesalchemybook]

{reupload/throwback/archive} 2020.APR

inspired by a combination of the Ghibli movie Castle in the Sky and the video game HOB

[jacwags]

Because everyone seems to be forgetting this, Rue thinks Hob got the letter. This isn't only Rue being mad that Hob is picking his job.

As far as Rue knows, Hob had his pick of two options:

1) a life with Rue complete with their love for him

2) a loveless political marriage

And as far as they know, Hob looked at both of those options and ACTIVELY CHOSE the loveless marriage OVER THEM.

Not saying they are in the right here, just saying that this miscommunication at its finest.

[tj-dragonblade]

🌹

Thank you Dani!

This is more of an idea I want to explore than a proper WIP, and I could conceivably work with it in any fandom; it’s just some jotted notes and lines of dialogue at this point. But I’ve seen a trend over the years where it’s cute/hot/sexy if one character ends up being late to work or foregoing some other obligation because their partner showed up wanting sex, which is something I have a giant pet peeve about IRL, so. Fic therapy, maybe, someday.

===

“If there’s ever an emergency, catastrophe, some dire situation—I’d drop everything for you; you know I would, but sex…sex is not an emergency, no matter how much either of us wants it.”

[an-ruraiocht]

the good news is i managed to reset my internet banking on the bank account i don't use and it actually has more money in it than i thought it did so i can use this to pay for all the paint i need for my flat

the bad news is that i don't know the pin for this card and i have it written down in my house but i'm not in my house so i had to pay for today's paint/supplies with my regular card (it was over the contactless limit) and. i am a bit broke in that account at the moment. and i can't transfer it from the other account bc of not having the pin/access to certain security questions

so i'm in a weird sitch where i have the money, but the money is just in the wrong place and i cannot fix this until i get the PIN. which i am incapable of remembering. i've had this account for 4.5 years and i still don't know it, mostly because i use it about once per year and it's mainly there to give me an account that can handle cheques and international payments in a way that my main (mobile-only) bank couldn't for a while

[transmandrake]

Boiled an egg on my own today for the first time and only cried once... i am almost 22 years old.

If you feel ashamed you can't do or only recently learnt how to do some 'easy' 'basic' things, I'm proud of you.

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[seadeepspaceontheside]

I AM NOT GOING TO ADD MORE TOO THIS BECAUSE I GOT TOO MUCH ON MY PLATE but this was my KnightAu I had for Hob and Dream that you can read under the cut where I post about it earlier.

I am never gonna draw house of the dragon fanart but like I love insanity of how Cole and Alicient have for their former love (Rhaenyra) to fuck in her bed and thoughts of her non-stop. Which leads me to this Knight AU because I am honestly torn with the idea of a Dark!Hob that would do anything for their King until he was spurred because God Damn Fabien Frankel looks like a Young Hob. Or Hob Knight who is more like Harwin Strong/Ryan Corr who understands Dream's position and is loyal to him and is very much happy being the consort and a step-father to the King's children. Or even there are two Knight Hobs maybe either brothers (a year or two apart) or twins that are now at each other's throats over it. The older (Robert) who had the favour and then turned vengeful and vindictive not only his obsession with now King Morpheus while his younger brother/twin is now taken with the King. (Morpheus didn't think he would be King because of his older brother and sister. But incidents happen, so his brother Potmos/Destiny and the relm refusing Teleute/Death puts him in line of heir so he had to marry Calliope. Morpheus knowing that giving up the throne to his younger siblings was a bad idea. He would have run away with Robert when he wasn't heir. As well as his Calliope and Morpheus had an agreement that they could love others but Robert saw that as not being as in love with him) Robert hating how his younger brother mocks the nature of knighthood and coming to with such ease and now the King's favour and love. The Younger being always had feeling in his brothers shadow when Morpheus is with him. Hob had always feelings for the young lord when they were young but knowing that Rob and Morpheus were in love he was content with just being in love afar. It is not till later when his brother has no more right to the King's heart that he goes for it. And when his Older taunts him as a replacement and how the King has failed that he needs to be held back by fucking a hoard of knights from kicking the shit out of his older.

Much like Eddard and Brandon, I think just because Older Hob was his first love does not mean it was his real or true love. King Murphy would love Younger Hob knight as he is who he is and tells them apart a lot. And Morpheus has always cared for Hob but it grew into a more of a love. Much like later in life like Rhaenyra does hate Cole, he hates !DarkOlderHob for what he has become and how he makes his brother feel.

Either way watching HOTD gave me knight Hob feels. (seeing Harwin Strong do the thing with the nod and the rabbit I am like oh thats so Hob)

Also yes Dream does get kidnapped by the Scorned lord Rodrick Burgess and they cut his hair for proof to ransom! Also I said in the replies but *** Hob when he does get with Morpheus shaves to look more like Rob thinking it would be better to be basically his brothers replacement but Morpheus loves him the way he looks.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Hey could I please get #8 and #12 with coriolanus snow please? (even better if he's a little bit insane as long as he ends up happy with Y/N at the end)- thanks so much :))

-E

‘’If I ask you to kiss me, to be with me, in front of all these people, will you do it?’’ + ‘’I did this for you! Everything I’ve done has been for you!’’

I've been getting requests for Peeta, but I'm not - and will not be -writing for him. I never fell for him in the movies 🫣

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You couldn’t remember how the situation got so heated, but one moment you were laughing and having a good time inside the Hob bar and the next you and Coriolanus were yelling at each other. To add drama and theatrics to the scene, it was pouring rain. 

‘’I did this for you! Everything I’ve done has been for you!’’ he shouted, his pretty eyes filled with anger. 

You halted in the wet street and looked back at him, your wet hair clinging on your body. ‘’But I never asked anything from you!’’ you shot back, sick of hearing the same speech. ‘’I never asked you to come to my district and find me after the games.’’

‘’So you’d rather I did not?’’ he retorted with an arrogant edge. 

You shook your head. ‘’That’s not what I said.’’ 

You had never smiled wider than the night you saw Coriolanus in the street with Sejanus. His blond hair was no longer, all buzzed like the other peacekeepers. His decision to bribe the commander to serve as a peacekeeper in your district was a high risk, but the happiness it brought you outweighed the danger.

His jaw tensed, raindrops rolling down his face like unshed tears. ‘’I risked everything for you! For us. Is it not enough?’’ 

Your frustration echoed in the relentless rain, wishing he would get why you were upset without you having to explain it to him. But he was a man. Men never understand why these small things matter, why they can be hurtful. 

‘’We were having a drink with friends and you…you dropped my fucking hand! It’s like you don’t want to be seen with me. We’re not at the Capitol anymore, Coryo. We’re allowed to be together.’’

‘’Peacekeepers are not allowed to have a woman while serving. I could get in trouble if someone told about us to my commander.’’ 

A bitter laugh escaped you at his cowardly answer, lost in the drumming of rain on pavement. Where was the man you met in the Capitol who crossed rules left and right to get his ways? 

‘’Since when are you following the laws?’’ 

Coriolanus stayed quiet, your question left unanswered. 

You took a few steps toward him, trying to ignore how hot he looked drenched in rainwater by lowering your eyes on the buttons of his blue button-up shirt. All night inside the Hob, you had been thinking about the time you’ll go home and get to have him to yourself.  

And now here you were, fighting in the street…

‘’You think these men stay celibate for their twenty years of serving?’’ you asked, pointing back to the bar. ‘’Don’t be a fool.’’ 

‘’It’s different for us. I was your mentor. If it gets to the Capitol’s ears that you and I found our way to each other, I will be dispatched to another district or worse, we’ll both get hu—’’ 

You interrupted him with a scoff. ‘’You think anyone in there is gonna snitch on us? These people have no idea who you are, besides that you are a peacekeeper. And even if they did, they don’t care. You could have a hand under my skirt under one of the tables and they wouldn’t even notice. They’re just here to listen to music and have a drink and dance.’’ 

Your words were a stretch, but you needed to prove your point with something that would get a reaction out of him. 

Something shifted in Coriolanus’s eyes. He reached for you, grabbing your arm in a rough grip and pulling you close to him. ‘’I’d never share you with these men,’’ he growled between you, his jaw tight.

‘’If I’m yours, then show them,’’ you challenged, daring as you looked into his eyes. ‘’If I ask you to kiss me, to be with me, in front of all these people, will you do it?’’ you asked, raindrops clinging to your lashes. ‘’I’m not asking for much, Coryo,’’ you continued, your voice a mix of frustration and longing. ‘’I just want you to be with me. If you can’t give me that, then you made a mistake coming here.’’

The world seemed to pause, the only sound being the raindrops hitting the ground and turning it into mud. 

Coriolanus opened his mouth to speak, igniting a small glint of hope in your eyes. 

A part of him will always be scared that you’ll be separated again, but he wasn’t going to lose the love of his life because he was scared of losing you. 

—

Hunger games / BOASAS taglist: @crossyourmindrights @ziggyneedsabreak @folkloreshorts @runningfrom2am @soulessien @itzfckingreal @creedsofapollo

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[siameanee]

take your time 🎸 hobie brown x fem!reader

DONT OPEN UR WINDOW FOR HOBIE BROWN AT 3 AM 😱😱‼️‼️💯💯 (REAL) (NOT FAKE)

i don't post. or write fanfictions. this is the first and last fanfic ill write - there just isn't enough hobie brown fics out there. hopped on and said fine ill do it myself 😞 !

also i didnt proofread this 😭

wc: idk might be long tho

tags or desc or whatevr: hobie brown x fem!reader smut, hobie smut, hobie x fem!reader, fingering (r receiving), riding, kinda slow burn (i think), friends to luvas

shmut unda the cut ‼️

-------

you sat idly in your bed, scrolling through tiktok and giggling every once in a while. you twisted and turned until your gazed lifted from the endless videos and you saw the time: 3 a.m., causing you to plug up your lit up rectangle and turn away from it, hand under the pillow and the other reaching to pull up the covers in an effort to warm your shivering body.

however, your best friend, hobie, had other plans. minutes later, your phone lit up and you flipped back over angrily, trying to get used to the flash of light in your darkened room. 

hobs 🎸

open ur window? got hurt need sum help :)

3:45 a.m.

you furrowed your brows as you leaned up to be able to type. 

hobs 🎸

open ur window in a min? got hurt need sum help

3:45 a.m.

it's 3:45 hobie ... 😭

3:46 a.m.

you waited for his response, letting out a frustrated huff when he didn't respond for a full 4 minutes. as you rested your head on the pillow once again, you heard another ping from your phone as it lit back up one more time. 

hobs 🎸

open ur window in a min? got hurt need sum help

3:45 a.m.

it's 3:45 hobie ... 😭

3:46 a.m.

*Attachment: 1 Image*

says right here 3:46 ? 

3:49 a.m.

you were about to comment on his witty remark until you heard repeated knocks on your left window. as you got up, you discovered a tall handsome male clad in a spidersuit and some plaid trousers leaning down and grinning back at you, pointing to the windowsill. opening the window, he crawls in, lifts up his mask, and lands on your desk chair, groaning.

"what ha-" you started, but you saw his face riddled with wounds and the gashes zigzagging his chest. you closed your mouth and pointed your finger to him. "stay right there, hobie. don't snoop around. i'll be right back with the first-aid kit." you ran out of the room, hearing him shout back at you.

"won't!" hobie shouts from your room, and you can hear the smile in his words.

you return with the first aid kit, and true to his word -- surprisingly, or so you think -- hobie is in the same spot. you settle in between his long, manspreaded legs, tending to his facial wounds. you try not to notice his burning gaze on you as he tilts his head up for you to tend to his wounds. you can see his adams' apple in your peripheral version and you're trying oh so hard to mind your business. to do what he asked you to. to focus. he's your best friend, and all he asked of you was to tend to his wounds.

but when your fingers start to fumble on his face and you drop a bandaid, you're forced to bend down. you're forced to bend down in between his manspreaded legs, and when your cheek accidentally grazes the tent in his trousers on the way down, you realize how difficult this is going to be and you swear you can hear something -- a sound -- emerge in his throat before he clears his throat.

you decide to ignore it however, resurfacing and continuing on his face, trying to ignore the new grin he's wearing and the telltale half-lidded eyes on display for you.

"hobie, stop." you gnaw on your lip, trying not to look at his eyes. 

"stop what?" hobie speaks, causing his grin to widen. 

"whatever the hell you're doing." your eyes flicker to his lips as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and you pray he didn't notice.

he shrugs and lifts up his hands in faux surrender. "haven't done a thing luv." he smiles.

however, when hobie goes to put his hands back down, they don't land back on his thighs. instead, they land on your hips. your breathing quickens and hobie seems to take notice of this because you notice his grin widens. 

after getting sidetracked and going to his chest wounds so that you wouldn't have to look at that annoyingly pretty ass face of his, you finish tending to his chest wounds and return to his facial wounds to finish sewing them back up too. but when you travel up, hobie's hands do too. his index fingers -- that were hooked under your shirt-- slide up, and he reveals your pink panties, and you catch him looking down to see the gold he's dug up.

"hobie, hands to yourself." you shakily breathe out, trying to focus on his face. you said all this, but you also made no effort to remove his hands off of you, and he seems to have realized.

"yeah? should i really now? you can remove 'em at any time, luv. but you're not. why is that?" he tilts his head to the side to give you better access to a particular wound. you refuse to answer his question, so his deep voice dripping in a cockney accent emerges from his throat once more to ask the question again. "hm?" he asks, his right hand traveling to your back to arch your back and push you into him, so you can feel his boner in between your legs, and this elicits a short, cut off whimper out of you that he obviously takes pride in, as his smile is now handsomely toothy.

"fu-- hobie, please," your hands falter as you continue flimsily working on his face.

"please wha'?" hobie says. "gotta tell me what you want. use your words, huh?" and with that, he hooks his long fingers under your pretty pink panties, tracing the rim. 

his eyes never left yours as he did all of this, and it was apparent to you that he had no shame. 

but you didn't either, because when his fingers were removed from the band of your panties, you whined for him. for the loss of his touch where you needed it most. 

"do you need something?" hobie questions, innocently raising his eyebrow, hands traveling to graze your stomach.

you shake your head, biting your lip, scared to open your mouth just incase anything unwanted slipped out.

"good." he says, grinning from ear to ear as his hand dips to your pooling cunt, nearly dripping on the floor as he pulls your panties to the side, leaving you hissing and your hands fumbling on his face.

"oh no, can't have that doc. pay attention baby. i like how my face looks," he says cockily, rubbing tight circles around your clit.

"mh', hobie, please..." you say, starting to lose feeling in the cold tips of your fingers. 

"told ya to use your words luv." he says, dipping one nimble finger into your dripping hole, eliciting a moan out of you and he seems to swallow it as it leaves your throat.

it wasn't long before he slipped another finger into you, fucking you on his fingers slowly, refusing to curl his fingers up to hit that spot of yours that you needed so badly. you set your tools aside and he stopped moving completely, tutting at you before you picked the tools back up, and he resumed his slow, torturous pace in your cunt. 

"jus' like that baby," he coos after you finish closing up another wound, struggling to keep your composure as his pace starts to go at a cut-throat speed, his digits expertly doing a 'come here' motion against your gummy walls, making you drop your tools once more. he returns to your clit and picks up his pace -- as if it wasn't fast enough already --, making you moan and squirm on his deft fingers. "hobie--" you start, getting cut off by a moan as your grip on his shoulders tighten. "fuck-- please, please, please, please.." you chant. you noticed his gaze wasn't on yours anymore, it was on the way your slick pooled in his palm so mesmerizingly. 

"fuck... that's it baby." he said as you broke apart on his fingers after one more thrust up into your dripping cunt, causing you to cum all over his fingers, all for him, on him, leaving you moaning and shaking on his fingers.

his gaze returned to yours, your face furrowed and your lips glistening from spit, hobie looked you in the eye, making sure you saw him lick all of your taste off of his long fingers, leaving his mouth with an overly lewd 'pop' sound. he then reached for you and pulled you closer to make out with you, exchanging spit. you could taste yourself on his tongue, causing you to moan into his mouth. 

you thought you were done, and you were in bliss, making out with hobie brown, forgetting all about his boner. he was going to make sure you took care of it just like he took care of you, which is why he unzipped his trousers and let you feel his cock spring up rubbing against your stomach. 

you looked down in shock. there was no way that was going to fit in you. he was crazy. "hobie, that's not gonna fit," you say, gaze fixated on his angry red tip.

"yes it is luv. jus' sit on it, yeah?" hobie says, motioning to it. 

you lift your hips, folds grazing the head of his dick. you start to sink down on it, and you let out a loud moan when the tip entered you. you refused to move anymore, looking at him with furrowed brows before he tore his gaze from where you two conjoined and looked at your facial expression.

"fine... gotta do everythin' me fuckin' self don't i?" hobie mumbles, before grabbing onto your hips and slamming you down onto the base of his cock, causing a loud moan and mixed in whimpers to rip out of you. 

"shit... hobs..." you say, resting your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes and indulging in the full feeling. 

this only lasted for a couple of seconds due to how impatient your best friend was. soon, you heard a laugh followed by an "i know. fuckin' mesmerizin' innit?" hobie says, lifting your hips on his cock, before pushing you back down, eliciting a whimper out of your chest, causing you to reemerge and start bouncing yourself on his cock.

"fuck yes..." hobie says, groaning. "jus' like that baby. c'mon."

this made you bounce faster and start moving your hips around. hobie started to meet you in the middle with thrusts, the air becoming hot and steamy and filled with the mixture of your moans.

"oh my.. ha--...hobie..." your nails dug into his back as he thrust up into you. he didn't respond, but he started to trace circles around that pretty little nub of yours. "gonna cum for me baby? cum for me yeah? come on, all over my dick. cum for me please, i want it so badly. need you to cum all over my dick for me, please luv," hobie shamelessly whined in your ear.

and fuck, did he get what he asked for. his words sent you over the edge, making you cum all over that long-ass dick of his, forming a pretty white ring around the base of his cock as your cum dripped and followed the winding paths of his bulging veins. he noticed your eyes were off of his and on the enchanting scene in between you both, and with that he took your jaw in his hand and forced you to look him in the eyes. "keep ye fuckin' eyes on me, yeah?" he said in between heavenly groans that made you wonder if you could get wetter than you already were.

as he fucked you through your orgasm, stars formed in your vision and tears clouded your eyes as hobie groaned into your ear. with one more jerk up into your dripping cunt, hobie -- your 'best friend', need i remind you -- spilled his seed into you, slipping out of you, carrying you to your bed and fucking all of his escaping cum right back into your cunt with two digits, sticking the same two down your throat. 

"suck." he ordered, and you followed. 

he pulled your panties right back over your slick folds and laid beside you like he didn't just take your soul from you, fuck it, and return it to your body. 

"i think i like you," is all that british motherfucker says, facing you with an annoying -- but incredibly attractive at that -- shit-eating grin.

-------

authors note:

i did this in under 3 hours dont criticize anything please ill cry

hobie brainrot is going crazy rn!!!! give him more love so i dont have to anymore!!!

hobartholomew needs to be put in jail 😞😞

[kydrogendragon]

"And here we go, Robert Gadling gets ready for his third shot at the pole vault tonight," the announcers call out. Robyn and Orpheus sit on the couch at the Walker's, eyes glued to the television set. Rose, Jed, and Lyta crowd around the living room along with Lucienne and Jessamy and Matthew and even Jo and Rachel. Everyone had come over for the watch party.

"And here he goes. He needs to beat Sam Kendricks's score by at least three tenths if he wants to get a spot on that podium tonight. When we saw him back in Tokyo, he earned himself a silver medal. Let's see if he can earn himself a gold tonight."

Robyn leans closer. He grips the edge of the couch, eyes wide as his father takes a breath and races forward, pole in hand.

"And here he goes! Strong start there, good grip on that pole. Distance is looking good, maybe a bit short and oh!"

Their dad plants the pole down and thrusts himself up, up, up! He curves around the upper bar and...he hits it. He comes falling down, pole and bar alike as he crashes down onto the mat. Robyn deflates.

"Oh. Oh dear. I—" the announcer laughs. "Well, that's just unfortunate. Let's play that back. So you can see here—" the footage pauses as their dad's feet just begin to tip over the upper bar. "—he's got plenty of room here, lots of space up above. Robert is known for his strength and his ability to get good vertical height above that bar. But as he comes down—" the footage continues in slow motion. Their dad curls over the other side of the bar like they've seen him do hundreds of times before. It slows down until it stops right when he hits the bar. Matthew squacks.

"Oh my god!" Rose laughs.

"Oh, he is never living this down," Aunt Jo pipes off.

"So you can—" Even the announcer laughs again. "You can see where he hits the bar. And it's-it's really unfortunate because everything else about this vault was nearly perfect. But it looks like his, uh. Well. His lower half got a bit in the way there."

The camera cuts to their dad standing up from the mat, wincing as he gets to his feet. And then it cuts to Papa in the stands. He's doubled over, whole body shaking, and Robyn knows immediately that he's cracking up.

"Did dad really just hit the bar with his dick?" Robyn asks.

"Robyn!" Lyta cries.

"What! That's what happened, right?"

Jessamy chuckles before patting his head. "Yes, starling. Make sure to tease him about it tonight, okay?"

"There's definitely worse problems to have in life," Matthew laughs.

"Well, I can see now why Dream married him," Lucienne says.

"Please stop talking, I don't want to think about my cousin's junk, please and thank you," chimes Jo.

Orpheus turns to Robyn, frowning. "Dad's not getting a medal, huh?"

Robyn sighs. "No. I don't think so. Maybe in one of the other events, though."

"Hm. That's true."

The camera cuts to their dad, where he's standing at the stands in front of their papa. Dream's face is red from laughter, and even now, he's still giggling. Hob's laughing now, too, pressing a kiss to his lips. Hob whispers something to Dream, who bursts out laughing once more.

"Well, at least he seems to be in good spirits," the commentator says.

"As does his husband," the other chimes.

"Unfortunately for team GB, we won't be seeing any medals out of this event. Let's head over to the Men's Vault now."

"I cannot believe this is how you will be remembered, husband mine," Dream says, running his hand down Hob's chest. They're back at his hotel room, away from the villa for the night, much to Hob's pleasure. Those beds sucked.

"Don't remind me. My damn dick still hurts from that thing. I can't believe that happened. Christ." Dream chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw

"Well. Now everyone will know just how...well endowed you are. And how lucky I am to call you mine."

Hob shakes his head with a smile. "Guess you're the real winner from all this, aren't you?"

"If I have you? Then I always am."

Hob wakes up to exactly 46 messages from friends and family and co-workers alike, all commenting on his "performance" last night. Half sent him links to various articles, all labeled something along the lines of "Olympic Athlete Betrayed by his Penis."

Dream nearly pulls a stomach muscle from laughing so hard.

[cuubism]

The thing is.

Hob understands that Dream cannot be hurt easily. He is an ancient, powerful, nonhuman being. Hob has, in fact, heard a story from Matthew about when some foolish human wannabe-magician had attempted to stab him when Dream had gone to retrieve a spell book that had slipped from the Dreaming library. According to Matthew, the knife had simply gone through his chest like he was made of smoke and left no mark at all.

(Hob still wishes he had been there. He’d have snapped the guy’s arm. Or worse.)

Barring luck and a magical binding, like what happened with Roderick Burgess, Dream can’t be hurt by mortal means. Hob understands this. Hell, he can hardly be hurt by supernatural means either. Only a few very powerful beings would be able to manage it, or else the very laws that govern his existence, coming down upon his head.

The thing also is.

Dream bruises so easily.

Sometimes.

Like now, when Dream is actually limping across the floor of the Inn. Long coat, which usually does not come with him to the waking world, wrapped tight around him. A dark bruise blooms along his cheekbone. Hob doesn’t understand how it’s possible. It shouldn’t be, not when Dream can take a knife to the heart like it’s a gust of wind, but the fact of the matter is that it is possible, apparently. And so Hob’s got to do something about it.

He meets Dream halfway across the room, braces him by the arms. “Jesus, Dream. Are you hurt?” Well, evidently he is. “How badly?”

“I told him he should stay home and rest,” grumbles Matthew from where he’s hopping along the floor at Dream’s side. Hob hadn’t even seen him there, he’d been so focused on Dream. The fact that Matthew’s not even riding on Dream’s shoulder is not a good sign.

“I did not want to miss our meeting,” Dream says. Which is a hell of a thing.

“Come upstairs, then,” Hob says, and doesn’t quite realize he’s grabbed Dream’s arm and is right pulling him along until he’s already done it. But Dream just follows him. Matthew follows, too, which, again, is not making Hob feel confident about Dream not being too badly injured.

“What happened?” Hob asks, as he sits Dream down on the couch, perching carefully at his side.

“A minor altercation,” says Dream.

“He was thrown into a wall,” says Matthew. “The wall cracked, by the way.”

Hob winces in sympathy. “Thrown by who? Or… what?”

Dream says, “It’s of no consequence.”

Matthew says, “I don’t know, but it had a lot of limbs.”

Hob’s kind of glad Matthew’s here as bullshit translator right now.

“How badly were you hurt?” he asks again. Not badly enough to keep him from traveling, evidently, but badly enough that he is limping. As a measly little human, Hob might find himself limping for a while just by twisting his ankle going down the stairs— but he does not like that intersection of facts when it’s someone like Dream.

“I am fine,” says Dream, and then winces as he shifts his weight on the couch.

“Bullshit,” say Hob and Matthew simultaneously, after which Matthew adds, “Uh, I mean, bullshit, your lordship.”

Dream slants a reproving glance over at him, then back to Hob. “Can I see?” Hob asks, more gently. “I’d like to help. If I can.”

Gingerly, Dream shrugs his long robe off his shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing his usual black t-shirt, and at Hob’s urging he pulls that off over his head, too, though evidently with some pain. His chest and stomach seem uninjured, the unnaturally pale and smooth skin is still just that, unnaturally pale and smooth— so Hob tugs on his shoulder. “Can I see your back?”

Dream turns, and Hob tries not to think too hard about Dream doing his bidding like that—it’s tender and troubling and arousing all at once, and he’s definitely not going to think about that last bit—and sucks in a breath.

His back is a map of bruises, nebulae arcing over his shoulders and the nape of his neck, curling down over his spine like a coiled dragon. Dream bruises prettily, even like this, periwinkle and dusk blue, the purple of sunset clouds. Another reminder of how Night, too, lives within him.

“I told you,” Matthew says, hopping up onto the back of the couch by Hob’s shoulder.

Dream makes a grumbling sound, but doesn’t deny him this time.

Hob traces a light hand along his shoulder blade and the deep, spilled-watercolor of the bruise there. Thrown into a wall, Matthew had said. Ouch.

Dream shivers at the touch, and Hob says, tentative, “Do you usually bruise like that, love?”

He’s seen it before, though not this bad. Lines of strain on Dream’s hands. A red, banded mark on his arm on one of the few occasions he’d taken his coat off in Hob’s presence. He wants to hear it from Dream, though.

Dream says, tentative now, hunched on the couch like a wounded physical thing rather than what he is, “I… suppose.”

Sitting only in his tight jeans and boots, hair a mess, the mark on his cheek makes him look hunted. Hob touches that too, with light fingertips. Dream leans into his hand with a little sigh, and… oh. That’s something.

“Hey, he got the shit kicked out of him like a few days ago and just walked away like it was nothing,” Matthew complains, as if Dream’s I suppose answer is ridiculous. “And then obliterated the other guy, too.”

“Sorry, when was this?” Hob is still holding Dream’s cheek, but Dream doesn’t turn further to meet his eyes. “Why are you getting beaten up all the time, exactly?”

He’s not Dream’s minder. He’s not. He’s not. Hob forces himself to remember that fact.

“In my absence many have forgotten the might and sanctity of the Dreaming,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken there’s a little whining petulance in his tone which is… endearing, almost. “Other realms have become… impudent. Entitled. I am simply. Reminding them to show respect. Sometimes physical conflict is necessary.”

Hob sighs. “Well, Your Majesty, maybe it’s time to take a break from the ritual dueling, yeah?”

“…Perhaps,” Dream says, which is as much of an agreement as Hob ever gets.

He supposes he’ll take perhaps. Though the more he thinks about it, the more distressing it is to imagine Dream going around getting hurt. Even if he thinks he’s doing it for some important cause.

“Well, there’s not much I can do for these right now,” Hob says, and can’t keep the concern out of his voice. “Other than letting them heal on their own.”

“I see,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken his voice is small. And he reaches for his shirt, and—

“Hey.” Hob grabs his wrist. Dream freezes. “That doesn’t mean you have to leave?” He hates that it comes out as a question.

Dream wavers. Then he says, “Matthew.”

It’s loaded with more than just Matthew’s name. An order. Matthew squawks indignantly. “Boss! Come on. You’re really gonna send me back like that? When you’re like this?”

Dream just looks at him.

Matthew sighs, fluttering his wings. “Fine. Have your special private time, then.”

Special private time, Hob mouths to himself.

Matthew lifts his wings for takeoff. “You better not send him back with more bruises, Hobert.”

“Excuse me?”

Then he’s gone, winging out a window that Hob hadn’t realized was open. Maybe it wasn’t a moment ago. Who knows.

Dream looks after him, and sighs with real fatigue. “His insolence only grows.”

“Special private time?” Hob says, and Dream glances at him, and then away.

“He is under the impression that you are my…” he says, and trails off.

Oh. Well.

They’re not like that. But.

But?

Dream looks despondent now, staring off into the corner of the flat, back still turned to Hob’s chest. Hob’s become certain that he wants something, he came here for something, not just to make their usual meeting time… but he still doesn’t know what.

Probably he should ask. Not that that ever works with Dream. Probably he should anyway.

Instead he presses his lips to the curve of Dream’s shoulder, where the bruise is deepest blue.

Dream shudders, and then goes slack in his grip, his shoulders caving. “Hob…”

“Is that what you wanted?” Hob says against his skin. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe Dream is letting him. “Does it hurt very badly? Is that helping?”

“It…” Dream muses, and sighs. “Is. Helping.”

Hob takes Dream’s chin between his fingers and turns his face enough that he can kiss his cheek, over the horrible sprawled mark of the bruise. Dream’s eyes flutter shut. He braces a hand on Hob’s thigh as he twists back to lean into Hob’s touch. Hob could use his grip to turn his head further and kiss him properly, he thinks, with a trip in his chest. Dream’s lips are right there, soft and open.

Instead, he leans his head on the back of Dream’s neck. Lets his hands fall to Dream’s bare waist, lips brushing his skin as he says, “You don’t… really bruise, do you?”

Dream still has his head tipped back; Hob’s hair brushes his cheek. “It affects you to see it,” he says quietly.

“Of course it does,” Hob says, equally hushed now. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

“Even,” says Dream, almost tentative, “if I am not truly hurt?”

“You are hurt,” Hob says, and finally draws the strength to lift his head from Dream’s neck. Dream is still looking at him, over his shoulder. His eyes are very dark in the dim light, rimmed red, he looks soft and fragile as a flower petal and Hob would do anything for him. “You were thrown into a wall by ‘something with a lot of limbs’, after all.”

Dream huffs. “Matthew exaggerates.”

“It’s okay if you want it to matter,” Hob tells him. That’s what it is, isn’t it? “To… be seen.” He slides his hand over Dream’s where it still rests on his thigh, twines their fingers together. A flicker of stillness runs through Dream’s body, the way a human’s breath might catch. Hob thinks he might pull away.

Instead he yields, and Hob exhales hard, a breath that had coiled far too tight in his lungs unwinding. Dream caves into him, and Hob wraps his arms around him, pulls him close, kisses the curve of his shoulder and watches a bruise disappear in the echo of that touch.

“Just wanted a hug after a rough day, in the end?” Hob says, and Dream huffs again as if such a desire is offending even to imply. He doesn’t move away though.

“Is it that easy for you?” Dream’s face is close enough that his hair brushes Hob’s temple as he speaks.

“And what if it is?” What if Hob had wanted to hug him when he first spoke of his imprisonment, and held back, and still regrets it? And what if it’s so easy to fall into it now? To slip into a world, this world where he can pull Dream into his arms, like he’s wading into the ocean for the first time, into foreign currents powerful beyond imagining but primordially known. Resonant as a familiar dream.

In some sense it would be accurate to say that Hob has known Dream all his life—he is, after all, dreams. But Hob doesn’t think of his friend as dreams. Maybe it’s a limitation of his human mind not to see the endless scale of the picture. But when he thinks of Dream, he doesn’t think of all of life or anything like that.

Instead, he goes back to their meeting in 1689. When Dream had thought he might no longer want to live, and Hob swore he saw a tear nearly break that usually stern countenance. Hob had always been fascinated by him, but he thinks that was the first moment he really saw him, beyond the cloak of distance and fantasy Dream liked to wrap around himself.

He’d like to think that Dream saw him then, too.

That’s the Dream he thinks of. The Dream he’d like to say he knows. The person, not the incomprehensible entity that Dream sees himself as. An incomprehensible entity can take a knife through the chest and dissipate around it like smoke, but not a person.

“If it is,” says Dream, pulling back to properly look at him, “then perhaps I might… impose.”

He looks so… cautiously hopeful. How can he not know already? “You think it’s possible for you to impose?”

“Imposition is easy,” says Dream, quietly. Hob lifts a hand to cup his cheek, and at the same time, as if of the same mind, Dream leans in and fits his face to Hob’s palm, eyes falling shut again.

He looks so gaunt now, with his bruised cheek and shadowed eyes, sharp collarbones and the swooping curves of his ribs. Hob had thought it had gotten better since his imprisonment, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe it’s just that without the shielding of his shirt, and his robe, he looks smaller than Hob’s used to thinking of him, and angular and fragile. He’s still so impossibly beautiful, delicate like a tree glazed in post-storm ice.

It makes Hob feel unexpectedly bold. His heart trips over, but he leans in and kisses the corner of Dream’s mouth.

Dream makes a quiet, surprised sound. Turns his head, blind, seeking, and then their lips connect properly.

When Hob had let himself imagine the possibility of kissing Dream, he had seen a force of nature. His friend would kiss with the chill of the rain that night he’d left Hob standing behind the White Horse. With the encompassing darkness of the night sky. The full experience of him would be overpowering and that was okay, because even a taste of him had already turned the course of Hob’s life.

But this Dream caves. Tips his head back in Hob’s hand, opens his mouth under Hob’s. Stiffness bleeds from him, regality flees him, and what Hob has left in his hands is a soft, horribly bruised thing leaning in for a deeper kiss.

So he kisses Dream deeper. Swipes his tongue into Dream’s mouth. He tastes slightly metallic, like he might have bitten his tongue and bled, were he human, and he makes a soft sound as Hob breaks the kiss for an unfortunate but necessary breath.

He keeps Dream close, hand to his cheek. Dream, eyes still closed, says, “A kiss just to comfort me, Hob?”

It hurts, just a little, that he thinks so. “How about a kiss just because I wanted to kiss you? You really think I’m more selfless than I am.”

Dream chuckles. “I see.”

Finally, he opens his eyes to look at Hob again properly. He looks tentatively happy now, it’s there in the slight crease at the corners of his eyes, the little spark that’s returned to them. Hob’s heart swells to see it, to think that he could do that.

“What then,” says Dream, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, “would you do… selfishly?”

“Same thing,” says Hob, and kisses him again. Dream hums into it this time, pleased. “And tell you to bring me with you next time you’re asserting your dominance around the galaxy or whatever.”

“Why?”

“There’s some guys I want to throw into walls,” Hob says.

Dream huffs, but Hob thinks he looks secretly pleased. “I am not certain ‘guys’ is an accurate description.”

“You think just because the fifteen-armed thing is a lady that I won’t—”

And Dream actually laughs, a startled choking laugh. “Your definition of chivalry is—” he gathers himself— “appalling.”

“Take it or leave it, Your Majesty,” Hob says, grinning. Nothing feels better than getting a rare laugh out of Dream.

Mirth sparkles in Dream’s eyes. “I will take it,” he says, turning his head to kiss Hob’s palm, “of course. When you offer me haven and defense both, how can I not?”

Hob presses his kissed palm back to Dream’s cheek, over the dark bruise there, watching it start to fade. “Bring me your bruises, darling,” he says, “and I’ll protect you.”

Dream leans back in, and rests his forehead against Hob’s. He doesn’t need to ask for another hug. Hob just wraps his arms around him, and lets Dream’s contented sigh be its own question, and answer, at once.

[urfavouritegirlie]

Hobie HC's

Is of Jamaican descendant. His grandparents moved to England from Jamaica because of the job opportunities.

Has 5 older sisters and he's the youngest. (Knows how to treat women)

Is his dads favourite child.

Knows how to cook Jamaican dishes and does it passionately.

He loves jerk chicken. (Who doesn't?)

Has a big family. Uncles and aunties and a whole bunch of cousins ranging from 30s to babies.

Very family orientated before he was bitten.

Is distant to them now so they won't be in danger. Only close to his immediate family but only see them a few times.

His extended family think he's a rebel and a disappointment but they don't know him like his family do.

Excelled at school even though he thinks the school system is fraud.

Got his first piercing when he was 14. Asked his 5th born sister to go with him.

Had a hard time hiding the fact he is Spiderman until he found a place of his own. Small cheap apartment.

Hates politicians.

If some of them were campaigning to be Prime Minister he would would play his guitar on multiple speakers on high volume to disturb.

Has a good amount of money from when he modelled. Designers were begging him to model their latest outfits because they loved his look. Tall and slim. Immediately quit after big brands were after him. Did not want that kind of attention.

Prefers to do small shows with his band.

Was given so many numbers on pieces of paper from girls backstage.

Does not call any of them.

When he met Miles, got the need to protect him like an older brother. Was a nice change for him.

Has been suspicious of Miguel but doesn't show it. Waited till something happened aka Miles.

Can sip Wray and Nephews and not feel a thing. He has a limit tho.

Has a folder of drawings from kids that draw him.

Is an uncle to a nephew and two nieces. Sends them gifts 'from uncle Hobs'.

Check out the Miles 1610 HC’s right here