#or a dream Hob has later that night

[teejaystumbles]

Hey! If you're still taking prompts, maybe #11 for Hob?

also for @virgo-dream who requested dreamling with #11

"Seems your heart is locked up and I still get the combination wrong

And I'm still full of the love you want I reach for you on faith alone"

The Love You Want - Sleep Token

[gabessquishytum]

Hob is having a good day, so he decides to walk home.

In the morning, on his way to work, his bus passed a really done up church --- flowers bursting out, a red carpet was being laid down as his bus went by --- all and all it looked like a very fancy wedding was to take place. In his head, Hob wished them well, and moved on.

On his walk home, he was going by the church again, still flowery, but now there was a forlorn man sitting on the steps alone. Hob thought about walking by, but the guy looked so sad in his fancy tux?!?

Dream was (of course) left at the alter -- who could love him. So Dream sits, surrounded by the spectacular failure of another relationship, all cried out, on the steps of this church. He just wants someone who wants to be his as much as he wants them to be his.

It must have been hours later when a hand with a water bottle is thrust in his face as a handsome man (back lit by the setting sun) asks Dream if he's okay. Dream would ordinarily say he's fine, but the friendly concern in beautiful doe eyes makes him answer honestly that no he is not okay.

Oh, poor Dream. The tears immediately spill over and cascade down his cheeks. Hob plops down on the step next to him, gives him a friendly pat on the back. He offers a handful of (slightly crumpled) tissues and starts telling Dream about his own recent relationship disaster. Sure, he wasn't left at the altar, but the guy did say that Hob was "intense" and "overwhelming" and also "not even that good looking" which was pretty much a bummer all around. Dream manages a snuffling kind of laugh and shakes his head. He's heard all of those things before (except that no one's ever actually told him that he's not attractive, to be fair). All he can manage now is to rest his head on Hob’s shoulder.

After a bit Hob is like "wait, was there a wedding cake??" And Dream explains that it's back at his house where the reception was supposed to be. And so Hob grabs him by the hand, drags him home (Dream’s house is hella nice and fancy), tucks him under a soft blanket on the sofa and cuts him a MASSIVE slice of wedding cake. Royal icing and fruit cake may not fix everything, but it's got to be better than nothing.

Sitting on the sofa with a stranger and eating unholy amounts of cake was NOT how Dream expected or wanted his day to go. But somewhere along the line he finds himself smiling. Hob is kinder to him than anyone has been for a long time, even his future spouse.

Several years later they'll have their own wedding cake. And when they go to bed on their wedding night, they'll take a big slice of cake with them. To keep their energy levels up, and to honour the day they began to fall in love.

[deviantly-inspired]

Dreamling concept

I absolutely love the 600 year slow burn to friendship and then wildfire romance that's in dreamling fics (it's IMMENSELY satisfying) but also, please consider:

after they finally (finally) become friends after 600 years they just... take their time, with romance. They spend years getting to know each other, genuinely, as friends. They don't know eachother, not really, until Dream has held Hob while he sobs over a loved one dying AND when he's seen Hob in his PJs eating ice cream out the pint because his students have stressed him out to the point of needing either ice cream or violence and Hob likes to think he chooses violence less often these days. And Hob doesn't really know Dream until he's heard that awful laugh, some unholy mix between braying donkey and the sound of magma shifting beneath the earth's crust OR until he's watched Dream scowl at the tele because they got to the last episode of "Game of Thrones" and Dream isn't any happier then anyone else is about a lot of those decisions.

And they spend days and weeks and years of being in one another's pockets. Choosing to come together again and again for a pint or a season binge or a silent supporting friend when the weight of living is a little harder. They earn each other's trust, and because they're both a little dense and maybe a lot more walking-wounded, the moment that each of them realizes that the other trusts them is, well, it's something that makes life worth living, for both of them.

Hob realizes Dream trusts him first, something small, something like Hob going to guide Dream out of the way and Dream just goes without any sort of hesitation. Not mountains or meteors could move Dream if he didn't want to, but he just goes to where Hob guides him out of the way so Hob can take the carrots out of the oven. It's enough to humble a man, and Hob might have a little cry over it later, in private, but for now he grins and tells Dream he has to try the carrots with the lamb, he hasn't lived until he's done so.

And Dream is a little slower to realize, I think. Because Hob is pretty open and friendly, it's a bit harder for Dream who's not so good with interacting with people face-to-face, to tell that Hob doesn't really get close to very many people for all that plenty seem to like him. There's a few exceptions, but even they are kept at a distinct distance. And it's maybe something small, like a small party or gathering of some of Hob's friends and it's late and folks are tipsy and Hob just kinda... dozes off against Dream. And Dream doesn't think anything of it, Hob does this quite often but Hob's other friends are immediately very surprised: Hob doesn't sleep in front of others, they explain. A relic from the war/traumatic past/whatever Hob's used to tell them. No matter how late or how tired or even how drunk he is, Hob would rather drive/bus/walk home then sleep where others can see him. You must be pretty special, one of them says. He even fell asleep on you like that: I've never seen him look so relaxed.

And I think that there's something beautiful about the slow, inescapable draw of it. It's like two meteors from opposite ends of the galaxy that have been on a collision course for eons. They both have moments of realizing that they're falling in love. They know it's going to happen, and the tension is slow and sweet and lovely. And there's no need to rush, because there's trust there too. Sometimes they'll meet gazes and they'll know, both of them, in that moment that they're in love. That, someday, what's growing between them is going to be a bloom unlike anything the universe has ever seen before. And they'll smile together and continue watching bad tv dramas or swapping gossip or sharing their pints and maybe their shoulders brush and their touches linger a bit longer that night but it's okay. There's no need to rush. They have forever after all.

And I think also that Dream is just a dramatic romantic enough of a bastard to confess to Hob on June 7, 2089 and i think Hob is just enough of a dramatic romantic to tell Dream that he certainly took his time.

I'm not late, am I, Dream will ask.

Of course not, Hob will laugh, you're exactly on time. We've plenty of it.

And in the Dreaming there will be a quiet warm breeze and gentle sunshowers as in the deepest heart of the dreaming a flower never before seen blooms awake. And in the waking two friends close the gap between them and talk about how Sally next door really needs to stop over watering her flowers she's going to drown the poor things, really.

And then they'll have the absolute longest courtship and engagement of anyone in the universe. There will be entire religions that will rise and fall before they get married. Pantheons will come into existence and be utterly dumbfounded when they're invited to Dream of the Endless and Hob Gadling weddings because weren't they already married? They've been together since the beginning of it all.

It's be great.

[arialerendeair]

King!Dream and Knight!Hob! All the feels you can fit in that bad boy! Angst, pining, whump, whatever floats your boat! Spicy times if the spirit moves you!

THESE TWO ARE EVERYTHING TO ME AND I LOVE THEM, BECAUSE THERE'S SO MANY DIFFERENT WAYS IT CAN GO. BUT HERE IS ONE OF THEM!!

~!~

There's, of course, the Knight Hob who has been working his way into the position, is FIERCELY loyal to his king, and becoming a member of his Kingsguard is everything he has ever wanted in his entire life. It's an honor and a pleasure (even though it makes him ache, soul-deep, as he realizes how lonely his King is, how much the crown weighs on him, and how much everyone demands from him, and how the King denies himself to meet the needs of others).

They get closer and closer, because Hob isn't befitting a Consort, even as Dream himself (his King had insisted, whispering, demanding, that he use his given name, because save for his Niece, his Heir, no one else did, and Hob hadn't been able to resist the quiet plea in those words), picks an Heir and protects their Kingdom and continues to rule alone. So though he cannot rule by Dream's side, Hob does everything he can to support Dream, every day.

Sometimes that includes dismissing the other guards to ensure the King can take a bath in peace. Sometimes it includes ensuring the fire is extra built up on the coldest nights and the warmest of furs have made their way onto Dream's bed. He loves his King (because of course he loves Dream), and there is nothing he wouldn't do to ensure that his King was happy. Absolutely nothing. He would give anything, everything, to ensure the happiness of his King.

And that includes his own life.

When an attempt is made on Dream's life, when the crossbow bolt is pointed at him from across the hall, Hob is stepping up and into it, without a second's thought. It tears through his shoulder, sinking deep into the flesh, and Hob's last thought is that he hopes he dies, not because he wants to die (far from it - he never wants to die), but because he will no longer be able to protect his King with an injury like this and that is worse, so much worse.

When the world goes black around him, Hob doesn't hear the shout from his King, or the explosion of furious magic that follows, nor the soft as satin hands that are touching the area around where the bolt is buried in his skin.

When he wakes, a great deal of time has passed, and even still, Hob is exhausted, and he's already wondering if he has been dismissed to a medical room befitting his station when he forces his eyes open and is surprised to recognize the King's Chambers. A few belated seconds later has him realizing that not only is he in the King's chambers, but he is in the King's bed, and his heart jumps into his throat, because the King, Dream, is sitting beside him in bed, reading by the light of the candle beside the bed.

He shifts, just enough to alert Dream and wide blue eyes dart down to stare at him, and then it is a scramble of hastily whispered words to hold still, and then Dream is holding a cup of water to his lips for him to sip from. Just that is exhausting, but his throat no longer feels on fire, and Dream, beautiful, perfect Dream, is still watching him, afraid.

"You mustn't ever do that again," Dream orders, his voice soft, but shaking. "Never. You were nearly lost to us."

Hob smiles despite himself, because the King's demand is a foolish one. "A worthy sacrifice to keep you safe, my King." He's surprised when Dream's face crumples in return and his hand is taken, cradled oh-so-carefully, and pulled closer. "Dream? Why-"

"You were nearly lost to ME," Dream growls, pressing a desperate kiss to Hob's palm. "I cannot lose you. I cannot." Another desperate kiss to the warm skin against his lips, before he meets his knight's eyes once more.

Hob's breath has caught and he is staring at his King with wide, shocked eyes. He strokes his fingertips down the length of Dream's cheek, before tracing the swell of his lower lip, marveling at the allowance, that Dream has not moved, nor denied him. "Dream."

Dream's breath leaves him in a heaving rush. "Never again would I have you hear me address me as my title. My given name has never sounded right until it fell from your lips, and I would hear it every time you address me henceforth." He pauses, breathing deep. "I have no desire to be a King to you, Hob, not any longer. I wish to be something far more dear, and I will not wait until death has stolen you from my arms to make you mine."

The smile that grows on his face is wide and shocked, happy and stunned all at once. Though there are many more words to be spoken, plans to be made, there is perhaps only one thing that matters in that moment, and Hob takes the excruciating amount of effort required to lift his hand, place it on the back of Dream's neck, to pull him into a kiss.

"That is a command I am happy to obey, my Dream."

[cuubism]

"Ooh, Kinky"

Hob enjoys doing small, nice things for Dream. Dream... really likes it. A lot. Explicit. Acts of service Hob. Horny-for-kindness Dream. Smut, light angst, fluff, and simple pleasures.

Dream is about to reach his fucking limit with this social event. Hob knows, because he's seen it happen more than a few times before. It doesn't help that Dream's limit is... easily reached.

Unfortunately, this is a political event critical to the peaceful relations of the Dreaming, so they can't just fuck off whenever they like. Well, Hob could, probably, but he won't leave Dream stranded surrounded by his greatest enemies. Those enemies being small talk and attempting to smile, of course.

Dream is perfectly savage in a conversation when he’s allowed to use words as clever and cutting as he likes, but this event has been mostly petty, mundane topics and people trying to see just how rude they can get away with being before Dream breaks his composure. He never does, because he’s trying to reaffirm the strength of the Dreaming after his long absence, but his glares are icy and his annoyance visible in the patina of stardust dancing over his skin. Hob’s never seen someone say Your company has been a pleasure with quite so much venom, and he spent a not-insignificant amount of time as a knight in the Queen’s court.

He watches Dream grit his teeth and visibly restrain himself from dissolving into sand at the end of yet another mundane conversation, his fingers clenching at nothing. Once the person’s retreated, Hob leans against his side, murmuring in his ear, “Just a little while longer, hm?” and rubs a hand up and down Dream’s back. “Then I’ll take you home, run you a bath, get you those biscuits you like. Sound good?”

All Hob is expecting to get is a hum of acknowledgment, maybe a smile if he’s really lucky. Instead, Dream stares at him, eyes wide.

“What?” Hob says. He hadn’t even said anything bad. He’d been trying to offer a little encouragement, not make Dream more frustrated, after all.

“I—” Dream says, and swallows hard. Hob watches his throat bob. “That. Would be nice. Thank you.”

Odd.

Hob offers him a small smile, but doesn’t get to ask about it further as somebody else comes up looking for the Dream Lord’s attention. Hob leaves him to it for now, mulling on that reaction as he wanders in search of another conversation partner. He’ll just have to ask about it later.

****

Hob does not get to ask about it later. Nor does he get to run Dream a bath, or even get the biscuits out of the cabinet, because the moment they return to the Waking, Dream is climbing on top of him in bed and pulling down his pajama pants.

Hob just watches him do it for several long moments, half of his brain still asleep and the other half not comprehending things much better. “That all got you really pent up, huh?”

Instead of answering, Dream licks a stripe up Hob’s cock.

Hob yelps. “Jesus fuck!”

Dream merely hums, already hyper-focused on his self-appointed task of driving Hob round the bend. He leans in low, takes Hob’s dick in his mouth, sucks on it like it’s the only thing he’s been thinking of for the past eight hours, or whatever amount of time in the Dreaming, and, well, if Hob wasn’t hard when he woke up, he will be in about three seconds.

What a wakeup call.

“Dream—” Hob flails in his general direction and manages to find his hair, tangles his fingers in it. He has no idea what in the bloody fuck is going on, though it’s hardly a situation he’ll protest. “What—?”

“I appreciated,” Dream says, pulling off Hob’s rapidly hardening cock, “your company at that wretched event.”

Hob pets his hair, cradles his cheek. "My love, you don't have to pay me back for these things. You know I would do anything for you."

"You misunderstand." Dream leans his forehead into Hob's hip, breathing hard. Breathing. He really is worked up. "It is not. Obligation. I simply. Was thinking of you. All night."

"Oh. Alright then. Really?"

"There was nothing that could hold my thoughts more than you, my lover."

Hob sighs. "You say such pretty things."

"As do you."

The sight of Dream looking up at him with his face still pressed to Hob’s pelvis is not sanity-inspiring, but Hob still manages to ask, “What did I say, exactly?”

Dream hums as he presses his closed lips to Hob’s dick again, and the vibration travels all the way through Hob’s body. “Taking me home. Baths.” He kisses the head of Hob’s cock, tongue darting out just briefly to wet it. “Biscuits.”

It takes Hob so long to comprehend this he wonders if he’s actually still been asleep this whole time. “That’s what got you worked up?”

“It was sweet.” His long fingers sneak up to Hob’s hips. “Alluring.”

Hob is going to have to unpack this at a later time. “You sure you don’t just want the bath and biscuits?” he asks, and then immediately wants to hit himself.

“Later,” says Dream, and returns to his task of waking Hob up in the most startling way possible.

Later, they do indeed have that bath, which Dream takes as another opportunity to show his apparent appreciation, then rests, purring, against Hob’s chest as the water cools. Hob still has no bloody idea exactly what he’s done to inspire this, but he’s definitely going to have to do it again.

****

Apparently, he does it again not a week later.

Hob’s finally managed to get Dream in the habit of taking the occasional, proper night off from his work in the Dreaming, and so tonight Hob’s made them dinner (more for the familiar experience of sharing a meal than with the expectation that Dream will actually eat), with plans to have a relaxing night in watching a movie afterwards, and then even later, as they usually do, winding up in bed for something even more ‘relaxing’.

It doesn’t go that way. Or rather, it does go that way, but a hell of a lot faster than Hob had intended, and a lot weirder, too.

It starts with dinner, although ‘dinner’ is a bit of an optimistic way to speak of it—it’s actually ice cream, because if there’s one thing Dream will sometimes eat, it’s sweets. There’s never a bad time to eat ice cream, though, in Hob’s opinion. If you have regular access to ice, and freezers, why the hell wouldn’t you make use of it?

And Dream likes sweets. And florals. Hob has attempted to combine these into lavender-flavored ice cream—not something he’d been certain would work, when he started it, but he thinks it’s turned out pretty well.

He places a dish of it on the coffee table in front of Dream, a tiny spoon already stuck into the ice cream. Dream touches the condensation on the cold dish. “Did you make this?”

“Yup.” Hob takes a tiny spoonful of his own, and, yes, it is good, thank God. “It’s actually not as hard as I might have thought.”

Instead of using his spoon, Dream just dips a delicate fingertip in and brings a tiny smear of ice cream to his mouth. Licks his finger clean. Does he actually, truly, have to do those kinds of things to Hob’s sanity? “Lavender?”

“Mmhmm. Was going to try for dandelion, actually? I remember how much you liked the wine the other day. But I wasn’t sure the flavor would come through.”

“Because I liked it?” Dream says, looking down at the dish again. He sounds lost in thought.

“Yeah, of course I made it because you liked it.” Frankly, a large, and continually growing, percentage of Hob’s behavior is driven by what Dream might like.

“You do not have to go through such effort,” Dream says.

“Don’t have to,” Hob agrees. “I want to. Go on. Eat it.” He taps at Dream’s bowl with his spoon. Dream takes another tentative spoonful—actually using the spoon this time—and hums in appreciation.

“It is… very good,” he admits, and Hob can’t help his smile. He sits beside Dream on the couch, tucks into his own bowl—but quickly becomes aware that Dream is more so watching him than he is eating his ice cream, though he does occasionally lift some to his mouth and take a slow bite, lips lingering on the spoon.

“Have I got it on my face?” Hob asks, but instead of responding, as soon as he turns Dream leans in to kiss him.

Hob lets out an involuntary startled sound, but quickly gets with the program, putting down his bowl and taking Dream’s face between his hands instead. Dream tastes, of course, of lavender, with the static charge that sometimes jumps to his lips when he’s worked up. He licks into Hob’s mouth, pushing closer, leaving aside his bowl and spoon to half-crawl into Hob’s lap, whines when Hob runs his hands through his hair.

Hob chuckles as Dream starts tugging at his shirt. “Easy, love. No rush.”

“Is that truly what you wish?” Dream asks, pulling away just far enough to speak against Hob’s lips. His voice is heavy with want. “For me to go… slower?”

Deep down, Hob is really not a very strong man.

So he lets Dream push him down onto the couch, pulls him in with a smile as Dream kisses him hungrily. Hob’s back will regret this later, but for now he just spins into this moment with Dream, forgets about the subtle strangeness of Dream’s pivot to sex because Dream seems so happy and that’s all Hob wants, for him to be happy.

Dream undresses them both and straddles his lap and rides him like he lives to do it, and that successfully wipes any lingering thoughts from Hob’s head. All he knows is the blessed touch of Dream’s skin and the euphoria of having him. And knowing that, some way or another, he did make Dream happy.

****

Every once in a while, Dream brings his work to the Waking world so he can sit beside Hob while he grades without falling behind on his duties in the Dreaming. Hob’s not sure… exactly how he does that. He can’t properly create dreams in the Waking world, of course, but he seems to be able to… sketch. Drawing patterns in his sand on the tabletop, or molding it in the air before him, then whisking the designs back to the Dreaming for later fulfillment. It’s fascinating and highly distracting when Hob is trying to grade, but he certainly won’t tell Dream to stop.

Now, Dream has been spinning the same amorphous shape before him for nearly an hour, frowning. Stuck. His shoulders are tight, arms held aloft in the same position for far longer than a human would be able to manage.

Hob nudges his calf with his toes from where they’re sitting across from each other on the couch, legs outstretched. “You want to take a break, love?”

“A break,” Dream mutters, greatly affronted. “I think not.”

Oh, Hob can play this game. “What if I make it worth your while? Little massage, maybe? You must be sore after sculpting for that long.”

“I don’t get sore,” Dream, the proud idiot, says instantly — before pausing and taking in the rest of Hob’s statement. He finally meets Hob’s eyes, the swirling sand collapsing back into a cube in his palms. “You would… do that?”

“What, a massage? Yeah, I mean, it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dream agrees, staring off into the distance over Hob’s shoulder. “Nice.”

Hob scoots over on the couch to push up next to him, takes Dream’s hand between both of his own and starts rubbing at the meat of his palm. “Yeah, isn’t it? Something the matter?”

“Not as such.” Dream contemplates for a long moment; Hob waits patiently. “I suppose I am not used to it. It affects me, when you say such things.”

The fact that a simple offer of a massage to make him feel better is confusing to Dream hurts Hob’s heart, but fortunately it’s a problem he can fix. Or at least, something he can make Dream get used to. Eventually.

He kisses Dream’s palm. “Well? How about it, then? Let me make you feel good?”

“You make me feel good,” Dream says, with a little smirk that suggests exactly what he means. “Often.”

“Not what I meant, but we can do that, too.”

“Very well, Hob,” Dream concedes, with a heaving sigh, as if this is quite a concession indeed. “Do your worst.”

****

Hob does not get very far into “his worst.”

He supposes it was only inevitable. Straddling Dream’s thighs, rubbing warm oil in soothing patterns over his lithe back and upper arms, is not really a position conducive to reason. Hob didn’t start it, though. He was determined to show Dream an actual, nice, mostly innocent massage.

Then he’d pressed his thumbs into Dream’s neck, rubbing out the undeniable knots that were there despite Dream’s insistence that he did not have a physical body, and Dream had let out a very not innocent moan. And had pushed his ass up against Hob’s clothed dick.

“Stay still,” Hob had said, and Dream had subsided immediately, but not in true understanding or acquiescence. No, it was the quick obedience he played at because he knew obeying Hob’s commands like that turned Hob on.

Hob had recognized the ploy, but that did not change that fact that his self-control in the face of an obedient, wanting, moaning Dream was exactly zero.

That’s how they’ve ended up here. With Hob pressing Dream into the sheets, fucking him hard and fast, hands still slick with massage oil.

“You are incapable of just having a good fucking time,” he complains, not slowing in the slightest.

When Dream replies, Hob can hear his smirk even through the muffling of the pillow. “I am having a good time now.”

“There’s more than one type of a good time,” Hob says, and bites the back of Dream’s neck.

Dream shudders. “Why change a good thing?”

“More than one type of good thing,” Hob repeats. He doesn’t really know why he’s attempting to convince Dream not to have sex. How incredibly self-sabotaging. Only it feels important that Dream gets to experience simple nice things as well. Not only sex.

Though of course, Hob is always in favor of sex.

He tables that conversation for later. “Hush, now,” he says, and mouths over the bite mark he’d made on the back of Dream’s neck, deepening the bruise. “We’ll talk about that later, after I make you come.”

“Oh, we will?” Dream says, petulantly, and Hob leans back, pulling Dream with him by the hips so he’s balanced precariously on his elbows and knees, spine arched, as Hob keeps fucking into him. Which, admittedly, is probably exactly the kind of reaction Dream wanted to get out of him.

Dream lets out a pleased groan at the new angle, confirming Hob’s suspicions. Hob loves to get those sounds out of him, though, even if by Dream’s design. His own breath is loud in the quiet bedroom, the quick slap of their bodies together too, but Dream’s moan as Hob takes him in hand is louder.

His hand is slick with oil still, and Dream slides easily through his grip, pushed by the force of Hob’s movement. Each thrust punches a broken ha-h! sound from him, and his hands are fisted in the sheets, and Hob knows from experience his eyes are squeezed shut tight. Braced against overwhelm.

Lord does Hob love to overwhelm him.

“Do you think you’ll be sore tomorrow?” he asks, false casual. “More than when you were working? Do you think you’ll still feel me in you?”

“Yes,” Dream pants. “Yes.”

“Will you keep it, even if it hurts?” Dream could easily wash these small human remnants from his form, but sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he comes back to Hob joints still aching from being fucked. God it makes Hob sick with want.

“Pain is good,” Dream says. “I will take it.” He clenches around Hob as if to emphasize the point, body spasming. Held open and full.

‘Pain is good’ is not exactly what Hob meant, but Dream is overdramatic like that and he does like a little pain, sometimes.

In the morning Hob will take him in his mouth, bring him off with easy heat and agonizing slow pleasure. Then he’ll roll on top of him, fuck him through the afterglow, erase that soreness with a slow, easy stretch that melds right into him. Kiss him and move in him until Dream comes twice, at least.

Now, he twists his grip around Dream and thumbs over his slit in the way he knows will make him come, and grips his hip hard enough to leave bruises, and Dream cries out at the force, spilling over his hand.

Hob doesn’t slow. He takes Dream’s hips in both hands again, holds him there as he fucks into his tight, oversensitive body. So tight after, always, as if whatever arousal unlocked gets timid again in the aftermath. Hob would feel like more of a dick for loving it if Dream didn’t seem to get off on it, too.

“So fucking tense, baby,” he says, pressing Dream to the sheets again, mouthing at the back of his neck. His skin tastes like oil. Dream trembles under him. “Should I stay in you longer? Maybe I should make you wait. Keep you on my cock until you get used to it.”

“Yes,” Dream says. “Mold me to you.”

Hob fucks him harder, down into the bed, and Dream gasps at each stretch. Hob won’t last much longer like this. He’s surprised he lasted this long.

“Come back to me in the morning,” he says, “and we’ll keep practicing.”

And Dream moans, and that’s enough for Hob. With several quick stutters of his hips, he spills in him, Dream’s muscles going all tense under him at the feeling. Then he falls boneless over Dream’s back, and stays like that, in him, keeping a promise, or perhaps a threat, for a time.

“I love when you get like that,” Dream murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded. Shifting against where Hob is going soft inside him.

“How?”

“Wanting me,” Dream says.

“I always want you,” Hob says.

“You know what I mean.”

Yeah, Hob does, and it’s not really what he intended for an easy, relaxing evening, though Dream has relaxed under him. But this intensity, this roughness, no matter how much they both love it, hadn’t been what he had been aiming for at the start. He hadn’t even been angling for sex at all at the start.

And now Hob is picking up on the pattern that he’s been pushing aside each time it comes up. The way Hob will try to do something nice for him and Dream will spin it around into sex. After that event in the Dreaming. After Hob had fed him. He had been attributing it just to passion, but… maybe that’s not the whole truth.

He finally pulls out, trying not to relish too much in Dream’s groan at the feeling, and goes to clean him up with quick, practiced motions. Dream just hums, still sprawled out, loose and spoiled. Hob cuddles back up to him, turning him on his side and pulling Dream flush to his body, Dream’s back to his chest. He knows from experience that it’s the best position if he wants to get real, personal answers out of him, because Dream won’t have to look him in the eye as he says them.

“Do you not like,” he starts, thinking it through as he speaks, lips to the back of Dream’s neck, “when we do just… simple things other than sex?”

Dream stiffens immediately, which perhaps was inevitable. Hob holds him tight so he won’t slip away. “If you are dissatisfied with our lovemaking—”

“Not what I said.” He kisses under Dream’s ear. “Don’t jump to conclusions, eh?”

But jumping is how Dream’s mind works, Hob knows. It’s not for dreams to be linear, but to create zigzag webs of meaning, clouds of abstraction. Feelings layered and refracted.

“Are—” he starts, a thought occurring. “Are you unsatisfied?”

“No,” says Dream, but Hob isn’t convinced by it. He doubts Dream would let him do something he didn’t like—Hob hadn’t even gotten away with calling him a friend the first time without getting a reaction—but that doesn’t mean he would speak up about what he does want.

“I do enjoy such things you speak of,” Dream says before Hob can push. “‘Simple things.’ Nice… things.”

“Well. I’m glad, then. Only you… do turn it into sex. A lot. And I’m not doing ‘nice things’ just to get you into bed, you know.”

“Such temptations are not necessary for that, historically,” Dream says, with some of his rare humor. Hob can imagine the tiny smirk on his lips, and leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Temptations, huh?” he says, still close to Dream’s cheek, and Dream blushes. Just the barest amount, but any flush is easily visible on his pale skin. “My attempts at strange ice cream flavors really did it for you?”

“You made it for me,” Dream says. His voice is quiet like the hush of light rain.

Hob squeezes him to his chest. “You talk like no one’s ever done something just nice for you in a relationship.”

“Do not jump to conclusions,” Dream says, echoing him with a twitch of the lips. “But such small signs of care… it is a human thing. I am unused to that. I am… a medium through which fantasies are spun. Not a creature to be made tea and ice cream.”

“What if my fantasy is making you tea and ice cream?” Hob says. His heart hurts at the thought of it being foreign to Dream, even if he knows some of it is just his nature as an Endless, that Dream has had some good relationships, at least for the time that they lasted, and that supernatural creatures can have different ways of showing care—hell, he’s seen it with Dream himself—but still—

“You are turning my words upon themselves,” Dream says, but seems to find it humorous. “I suppose that because I am unused to it, such things unduly affect me. Is it a surprise, then, that I should want you so when you do them?”

“Are you saying those things make you horny?” Hob’s voice pitches up several notches. Dream actually squirms in his arms, as if to wiggle away back into stardust.

“I do not care for that word to be applied to me,” he says.

“You are, though,” Hob says. God, the fact that he seems to get turned on by simple care and kindness in a relationship is both sweet, hot, and terribly sad all at once. But with Dream naked in his arms he’s leaning more towards hot.

Dream doesn’t answer, and Hob leans over to catch his eye. “Hey, Dream. Look at me?” Dream still doesn’t, so Hob takes his chin and tugs until Dream finally turns his gaze to him. He looks almost… ashamed.

“Hey.” Hob lets his hand fall to a gentler hold, cradling Dream’s cheek. “None of that. Would think you were talking about tentacle porn, the way you look.”

Hob does not actually think Dream would be ashamed of tentacle porn. No, it’s only this.

“Humans only see tentacle sex as ‘kinky’ because you do not know any sentient beings with tentacles,” Dream says.

Hob stares at him for several long moments. Has to shake himself hard to reset. “That’s another conversation,” he says, and Dream gives half a smile, enough that it breaks that look on his face. Laughing at Hob’s meager human experience. He’ll take it.

“What I’m saying is,” he continues, “you don’t have to be ashamed. It’s sweet, really.”

Dream finally turns over properly on his back so Hob no longer has to lean over his shoulder. Hob takes advantage of it to lean in and kiss him, slow and lingering, and when he pulls away Dream is looking at him with his pupils wide and his mouth wet and parted, a look that begs another kiss and another of anything Hob’s willing to give him. Which is much.

“You can have whatever you want,” Hob murmurs. “Any other desires you’ve been keeping close to the chest?”

Dream shakes his head. “It is not about elaborate fantasy. I can make any sexual fantasy a reality in the Dreaming. But.” His gaze slants down. “I cannot make someone love me.”

“Oh, darling.” Hob kisses him again, soft and sweet this time. “I want to give that to you, don’t you know? All the time.”

“I am coming to that awareness,” says Dream, softly. “And perhaps we might… do more. Of these ‘simple nice things’ that you speak of.”

“Because it turns you on?” Hob says, but it’s just teasing now.

“Among other reasons,” murmurs Dream, and leans his head against Hob’s.

There’s nothing Hob wants more than to give him those things. The chance to see Dream happy is the sweetest gift he can imagine. His own ‘nice thing,’ perhaps, though nothing about it feels simple.

For now, he cuddles Dream close, rubbing his hand up and down his spine. Dream makes a rumbling, purring sound of pleasure, and presses into him, nose tucked against Hob’s throat. Hob loves him so much it makes his chest hurt, a sweeter version of the wound he’d felt during all of Dream’s long absence.

I’ll make you so used to nice mundane things you’ll get fucking bored, Hob thinks. Though there are a lot of nice, ordinary things—life’s made up of them—so it might take a long time.

Fortunately, Hob has a long time.

****

The next time Hob makes Dream dinner—actual dinner this time, not just ice cream, partly because he’s too weak to handle the image of Dream licking ice cream off his fingertips again—he just pulls Dream to the bedroom afterwards to cuddle. He wants to show Dream a quiet evening, to let him feel good without plan or expectation. And by the way Dream slides into bed beside him, presses up against Hob’s body, skin to skin, just his underwear on, and then rests there like it’s where he belongs, Hob thinks he gets the message.

Dream’s form is warm and alluring against him, but Hob doesn’t feel the need to push it further towards sex. The contented hum of Dream’s body at his side is its own form of satisfaction. The pleasure he can draw in him just by holding him close. Dream is calm and pleased and happy, and while they’ll surely slide into sex later, or maybe just tomorrow morning, if Dream stays that long, for now this is more than enough.

The slow build of pleasure as he strokes his hand through Dream’s hair and down over his back. The brush of Dream’s feathery hair against his jaw as he tucks his head further into Hob’s throat with a sigh. Dream is clearly pleased, Hob can feel that he’s hard against his thigh, but he seems content to just let it be for now, to relish in those early, warm moments of arousal. He really just wanted to be petted and spoiled and adored all along, Hob thinks with a smile. And how long has Hob wanted to spoil and adore him?

Hob’s just about to fall asleep, still lightly stroking Dream’s hair, when Dream’s head snaps up in the direction of the hallway, like a cat that’s spotted a fly buzzing around in the dark. “Sibling,” he calls, “I can sense your irritating presence. Reveal yourself, or suffer the consequences.”

“Ooh, consequences. I’m just shaking in my Louboutins,” says Desire, swanning out of the shadows, eyes glinting. Hob, properly awake now, gets the sense that they’re about to have a very odd conversation, here in his bedroom, in the middle of the night. Never a normal fucking tea in this family.

“What are you doing here,” Dream says flatly. “You aren’t welcome.”

He hasn’t moved from where he’s still curled against Hob, Hob notes with a little thrill.

“The level of horny wafting off this flat is revolting, I simply had to come see what you were getting up to.” Desire leans in the doorway, head in their hand, and looks the two of them up and down, face falling in what looks like genuine disappointment. “Are you fucking… cuddling? Are you— are you petting his disgusting hair?”

“Fuck off, Desire,” Hob says mildly, and Dream smiles smugly.

"Unbelievable," complains Desire. "The utter disrespect upon my realm."

"You are simply jealous that my lover is the most alluring in all the land," says Dream, and kisses Hob on the nose, then on his closed eye, then on the cheek. "Isn't he a sweetheart?”

Desire blinks at them several times in disbelief. Rubs their eyes. Looks again. "Nope, turns out I really did just witness that."

They manifest a cigarette, and take a long pull, leaning their forehead against the doorframe like the weight of the world is upon their shoulders. Then they straighten up, shaking it off.

“Well, I see you've done a swan dive off the deep end. I'll leave you to your demise. Don't call me unless you've decided to try some pet play or something else even marginally respectable."

"I shan't be inviting you to that," says Dream.

"Didn't invite you this time," mutters Hob.

"Lies. Foul lies. I know all. I see—” they point at them ominously— “all. Even though I'm wishing more and more that I did not. Sayonara, you puritan fucks."

And they disappear.

Hob breaks down laughing, tucking his face into Dream's shoulder.

Dream caresses his cheek. “What is it?”

"Oh, just. Kink-shamed by the embodiment of Desire itself. That's all."

Dream pouts. “It is not like Desire to kink shame. I assure you, I could have taken the form of a human and engaged in some real human fucking and they would still have taken issue because it was me.”

“Is that— uh,” Hob frowns. “Is that considered— kinky?”

Dream looks at him seriously. “Very.”

“Huh.” Hob ponders this strange little tidbit about immortal creatures’ lives. “Oh, is that right?”

Dream casts him a warning glance. “Do not do anything untoward with that knowledge.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to do something untoward with that. You kinky bastard, you.”

Dream sighs as if exhausted, yet unsurprised by Hob’s antics. “Many do seem to think so,” he admits.

“This is the best information I have ever learned,” Hob decides. “You know, darling, if you wanted to have terribly spicy human sex, you only had to ask.”

“You may come to regret that offer,” Dream warns, but he settles back against Hob’s side with a satisfied hum.

“Nah.” Hob already has far too many ideas for that. Many more things to add to the list of human experiences he can show Dream. Not all of them quite so wholesome as dinner and cuddling. Indeed, there are many different types of ‘nice things’ to be had, and more than one fun way to spoil him. “I don’t think so.”

And while he’s at it… maybe he’ll ask Dream about that whole tentacles thing, too. If they’re in the process of exchanging kinks, and all.

[theaceace]

While Dream was hanging out in the fishbowl, a few dreams and nightmares that (like the rest of the Dreaming) think Hob would be the best thing to happen to Dream in a long time and also that Dream has abandoned them all, go and start bothering Hob in the waking world

But because they're dreams and nightmares, it kind of manifests as (usually awful) hallucinations. Specifically of Dream, a lot of the time (look they're trying to get their lord's attention by needling his human, yes it's stupid, no they don't have any better ideas)

And Hob, with the same attitude that's carried him through 600-odd years is like 'well I guess immortal life is already so goddamn weird this might as well happen' and just rolls with the fact that he is having hallucinations now. Learns some coping mechanisms, gets really good at not reacting to them even when horrible terrible things are happening

So when Dream finally does get back and goes to see Hob, he's just like oh cool I'm seeing things again, thought I got over that like ten years ago, ah well got a lecture to finish, better get on with it and barely even glances at Dream

Dream, of course, reacts to this like 🥺 like the sad wet cat he is, but also maybe this is a bad time. His friend is shaping young minds, he's very important and busy, Dream can come back later

So he pops back into Hob's life that evening when most people are, if not asleep, then at least at home. Hob's in the New Inn (of course) but it's quiet enough that Dream thinks maybe Hob will talk to him this time

Absolutely nothing. Like sitting across from a brick wall (and because Dream tends not to be noticed if he wants, and he very much doesn't want to be perceived while he begs forgiveness from a mortal, people's eyes just kind of skim over him, which isn't helping with Hob's assumption that he's a figment of Hob's imagination)

Dream is feeling very, very cold. None of the gentle things he's been saying to Hob have got anymore reaction than his hand tightening slightly around his marking pen (Hob is waiting for something horrible to happen, as it so often used to when he imagined his stranger, and is getting more and more tense the longer it doesn't)

Eventually they're the only ones left, even the bar staff have gone home because it's Hob's pub and he has a set of keys. So finally, FINALLY Hob looks up and is like 'oh, you're still here. We're still doing this, then' flatly

Dream: I thought I might - (he was going to say apologise) Hob: yes alright get on with it, the sooner you start the sooner you can piss off again (thinking this is a vision here to torment him) Dream: ...very well. I understand, and you need not worry, I shall not trouble you further. Only, let me ask, one final time: do you still wish to live? Hob: (well it's never gone down like this before, at least I'm getting some variety in my waking nightmares) what sort of bloody stupid question is that, obviously yes! Dream: I am. Pleased to hear that. Goodbye, Robert Gadling

So off he goes, leaving a bottle of wine that he pinched out of someone's dreams on the table. Hob scoffs, rolls his eyes and goes to bed

And panics the next day when one of the bar staff asks where the super fancy wine came from, and also who his friend was last night, didn't get a good look at him, but I don't think I've seen him before?

There Hob is. Screaming internally, because he's only gone and fucked it all up and now he's NEVER going to see his friend again

(obviously he does, probably because one of the nightmares finally confesses what they did to Lucienne, who tells Matthew, who speaks both fluent Dumb Human and Dramatic Fucker Dreamlord and manages to get the two of them in the same room long enough to talk it out)

[landwriter]

hob gadling being so goddamn normal compared to his anthropomorphic husband, in-laws, and husband's social circle that he circles right back around to being the more sus/shady one OR hob gadling keeps accidentally derailing dream's attempts to be King of Nightmares by horny vibes/going "joke's on you, i'm into it"/"promise?" to any and all threats

Hob isn't normal, is the thing. He's not. He never was. He was smouldering with strangeness and hunger long before his future sister-in-law took one look at him and decided he'd be good for her little brother.

He asked her, once, bit drunk, if that was why she chose him: if she'd heard him forswearing her in the White Horse and looked at him, peered into the contents of his soul, and thought: well, there's one at least as stubborn as my brother - maybe they'll be good for each other. She'd just smiled and waited for Hob to take another sip before saying, "Good? I just thought it would be interesting," and twinkled at him when he sputtered. Hob said older sisters were terrors, and they'd toasted to that.

Whether she'd intended or not, they were good for each other, him and Dream. It took them a little bit to realize, a small handful of centuries holding one another at arm's length for fear of what would be seen any closer. Then they'd crashed together anyways, and it had turned out they were matched not just in that bloody-minded stubbornness to keep a decent thing going, but also in all the intensity they'd tried to smother to do so, the roaring hunger and devotion and need; the both of them strange creatures capable of giving so much and greedy enough to take just as much in kind.

On the outside, though, others see Dream, his distance, his power, the thunder of his voice, and don't see it as the armour it is, the necessary carapace protecting the sort of tender feelings that could scorch the entire earth, because he is a vessel for human emotions that are strong enough to live on in stories and dreams, because he is, in that respect, - and Hob gets choked up about this, if he allows himself to think about it too much - fundamentally more human than him, than all of them, the embodiment of every fantasy and fear and tall tale of men, tending to them each night, taking no rest for himself.

On the outside, others see Hob, his banal humanness, and other humans assume the rest of him is the same, and so do most non-humans, except they're baffled by it, baffled by why he is Dream's husband. So he plays it up, because it's funny, and if they're too incurious or gullible to figure out what lays beneath, then that's alright, because his husband figured it out, and loves him for it, and that's all he needs.

Dream didn't understand at first why Hob acted extra human whenever they mingled with other capital-e Entities and inhuman sorts, but now he finds it so amusing as well that Hob wonders how the gig isn't up from the moment anyone sees his twitching smirk. His husband has a terrible poker face, Hob thinks.

He's much better at pretending. In fact, he's so good at performing the petty normality expected of him that it goes full circle and becomes, somehow, magnetically strange to all the fantastical creatures in his husband's social circle.

He had not realized the heady effect of normal human upon non-humans until the time he had gone to a Samhain 'do in the Underhill, in his formal role as Prince Consort to the Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, first of his name, et cetera, and, rather comfortable with those sort of events by then, which were really not that dissimilar to interdepartmental faculty parties, with all the posturing and alcohol, only far better outfits, had, a bit soused on the fantastic elphin mead, accidentally started talking with a member of the faerie delegation about the football tables. At first he thought he'd committed a faux pas when the faerie just stared at him, slack-jawed, but later that night, he'd found himself surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed dryads and undine and fae, gratifyingly holding court on why Billy Wright had been such a shite Arsenal manager. Apparently, it was the highlight of the evening.

It also helps grease the wheels of immortal statecraft, which Hob thinks of as something of a secondary benefit to making his husband smile. He would be a fierce bodyguard and soldier for Dream, in a heartbeat, he would curry favour on his behalf with pretty words and eager gladhanding, but what works out best, he's realized, is when important folk approach them to talk shop with Dream, to head it off with warm conversation about things like Tube construction, ABBA, and sausage rolls, until they look thoroughly disconcerted, before gracefully handing them off to his husband.

Whenever the occasion allows it, he'll skip on the finery too (another thing, he thinks, that he only cares about his husband seeing). Once, a baku ambassador, himself arrayed in glorious golden robes that matched his sharp gilt claws, had been so baffled by Hob's appearance on the arm of Dream, in his ratty old jeans and a United jersey he got as a gag gift once (and, on principle, refuses to wear in the Waking) that the chimera had absently agreed with Dream's suggestion for revised quotas on devouring nightmares.

Dream had been so delighted by that victory that he'd pressed Hob up against the front door of their flat in Islington, the moment they got back in, and laid kisses all over the hideous jersey, murmuring that Hob was a fearsome diplomat, and Hob had laughed and said he was only a distraction, then let Dream drag him to the bedroom anyways to thank him for his contribution.

Some see what's underneath, of course, and Hob's just as glad for that too.

The second time they'd had dinner with Crowley and Aziraphale, well past the food and making excellent headway on the rest of the wine, Dream had been called away on urgent business. Hob thought the night would end there, but the moment Dream left, Crowley had leveled an unsober finger of accusation at Hob and said, "Don't think I can't tell what you're doing."

Hob hadn't needed to try and look confused, but then Crowley leaned in and said, conspiratorially and only accidentally hissing a little, "This 'regular bloke' thing, but you're worssse than him, aren't you? Bet you are. Bet anything," and Aziraphale had genuinely emitted a tiny gasp of affront on Hob's behalf, and Hob was too busy laughing to say that he wasn't wrong at all, while Crowley gleefully swiveled around and said "I told you so, angel. S'obvious. Humansss. Not a normal one among 'em."

It was a lovely thing to say, actually, and all too easy for Hob to forget sometimes, being a particularly abnormal human leading a particularly abnormal life. But Crowley knew what he was talking about. He spent far more time with humanity compared to most of the inhuman lot. When Hob had made him promise to keep his secret from the rest of them - humanity's secret, really - and explained why, Crowley had laughed and laughed and laughed. He thinks it's the moment they became proper friends.

Hob isn't normal, is the thing.

But it's fun to don it like ceremonial garb and be an ambassador of humanity twice over: in truth and performance both. It's fun to be exactly what's expected and still disconcert.

And most of all, it's fun to go back home with his husband, to their terribly normal human flat, and curl up together in their terribly normal human bed, and watch Dream's face flush with pride or amusement as he debriefs Hob on what chaos he's wrought this time, intentionally or otherwise, with his terribly normal human presence, and Hob just laughs, then smiles until his face hurts, because Dream is his husband, wholly apart from humanity and still the most human creature Hob has met, and he knows all the ways that Hob feels like both, too.

[valeriianz]

I am imagining a Bi-curious Dream. Human AU. Inspired by this post. (but not at all horny or much explicit). this got a lot softer than i intended.

----------------

Dream, who goes by Morpheus, has such a stick up his ass. And he’s always only dated women, and he’s always the one getting dumped. And after this last failed relationship, where Morpheus thought for sure he’d found The One (after a record breaking 5 months), Johanna takes him out to a bar to find him a hookup. A rebound. Morpheus grumbles that he doesn’t need a rebound but goes along with it all the same.

Johanna knows of Morpheus’ bi tendencies. Though Morpheus has only mentioned it in passing that he wouldn’t mind dating a guy “if the right one came along.” They went to undergrad together, where they met and how Jo knows Morpheus has certainly kissed a lot of guys, but the idea of ever actually dating one, let alone sleeping with a man, turns Morpheus all shy and unsure. She’s teased him enough about actually stepping out of his comfort zone and actually exploring his attraction, and figures now is the best time to put that curiosity to the test.

A few drinks in and Johanna spots Hob, an old co-worker and invites him over, much to Morpheus’ chagrin. They yell and get excited seeing one another, couple of extroverts that they are, and quickly exchange pleasantries, catching up. Morpheus is seemingly ignored, and he's making it his life’s mission to drown himself in gin and juice and become one with the sticky bartop.

Dream glares at Hob out of the corner of his eyes, sizing him up, hiding behind his drink. Then Hob turns to face him as Jo introduces him and the smile he throws at Dream nearly knocks him off the stool. Morpheus sits up quickly and has an annoying concern for how his hair and eyeliner look.

“Hello, Morpheus.” And Hob extends a hand and Morpheus takes it awkwardly, an unexpected buzz shooting up his arm from Hob’s tight grip on his cold fingers.

Morpheus nods in greeting, afraid if he opens his mouth his tongue might fall out. He’s always been passively attracted to men, found some cute or handsome, but figured it was a superficial thing, or something like envy. He’d never given conscious thought to what it might be like to share… intimacies with another man. His unconscious mind, however…

Hob looked like someone peeled right out of Morpheus’ darkest, lewdess, most shameful dreams. A man with bushy brows and scruffy beard, an easy smile, and kind, chocolate brown eyes.

Okay, maybe not the most erotic image to grace Morpheus’ vision. But the glint behind Hob’s eyes, the smile that was slowly sharpening to a smirk, and the way his fingers dragged along Morpheus’ skin as their hands finally dropped, filled Morpheus with a sudden urgency to drag this man to the nearest dark corner and let Hob have his way with him.

And later that night, fueled by liquid courage and a very confident Hob leading the way, Morpheus allows himself to be pulled against a warm, broad chest and kissed senseless against the wall of a house he’s never been in before.

Hob licks into Morpheus’ mouth like he’s a man starved and Morpheus is a 5-course meal, moaning loud enough to make Morpheus’ skull vibrate. And all Morpheus can do is try to keep up, working his jaw and swallowing down little whines that he can feel bubbling up. Hob is so vocal and handsy, his fingers trailing up Morpheus’ jaw, carding through his hair, gripping the nape of his neck with a teasing bite to his lip that makes Morpheus’ knees wobble, before one hand moves down to his waist, teasing the edge of his shirt and touching pale skin.

Morpheus, for his part, has his eyes squeezed shut and is almost fighting against the urge to give in. Wondering why this is so hard for him. He’s never been kissed like this before, never been held like a precious thing before, and– he knows he’s getting into his own head. Morpheus feels himself break away with a loud, wet gasp, turning his head and mumbling a half-hearted, 

“Wait…”

And, incredibly, Hob does wait. He stands in front of Morpheus and gives him a moment to breathe. To calm down from his own insecurities and nerves. Morpheus feels like Hob is the type of guy to go all the way. The way he’d been flirting with Morpheus at the bar gave him the implication that this wasn’t Hob’s first rodeo. He didn’t boast about experience or prowess, but it was in the way he carried himself, the way he couldn’t stop staring at Morpheus, smiling like he knew he’d end up following Hob home. 

And sure enough, as soon as they’d stepped through the threshold of Hob’s home, he’d turned and pinned Morpheus against the nearest surface and kissed him without warning.

“Hey, it’s okay. I got you.” And Hob kisses the corners of Morpheus’ eyes, rubs soothing circles along his pointy hip bones, and murmurs sweetness in a quiet, calm voice. A voice that slowly makes Morpheus unravel, relaxing in Hob’s hold and tentatively bringing his own arms around Hob’s shoulders and kisses him back, properly. Eagerly.

It’s slow now, lips-only and so sweet Morpheus’ lips part on their own accord and a rush of heat crawls up his neck as he makes a desperate, needy noise. He slips his tongue past Hob’s lips to distract himself from that moment of vulnerability, feeling Hob’s grin, tasting his muffled laughter.

It’s so sensual and soft, it makes Morpheus’ head spin. And then Hob presses his body flush to Morpheus’ and they both realize they’re hard.

Morpheus surprises himself by canting his hips forward, curious to feel how Hob is hard, for him. And smiling his own, self-satisfied smile as Hob sucks in a breath and groans, trailing his lips up Morpheus’ jaw and nosing along the underside of his ear. He grinds his own hips with a little more force and it rips a whine from Morpheus’ throat, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud and he’s squeezing his eyes shut again.

They rut back and forth for a while, Hob’s hot breath hitting Morpheus’ ear with punctuated groans of pleasure and praise that tumbles from his lips. He bites Morpheus’ throat, gentle enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to make Morpheus jolt, getting a hand in Hob’s hair and encouraging him to continue, which he does with chuckling enthusiasm.

Eventually they slow down, only for Hob to come around, take Morpheus by the chin, and wait for him to open his eyes again. Something in them makes Hob growl, leaning in like he can’t help it and biting Morpheus’ lip.

“We don’t have to go all the way, if you don’t want to,” Hob says, breathless and barely holding himself back. “But I’m dying to suck your cock.”

Morpheus flushes again, grateful for the dim lighting in Hob’s living room and nods eagerly.

The next morning, Morpheus is awoken to the smell of coffee and Hob in his kitchen, preparing breakfast. Morpheus walks in with bare feet, bare chest, flannel pajamas that are hanging off his hips for dear life, and is suddenly hungry.

He sneaks up behind Hob, slotting his pelvis against Hob’s ass and winding his arms around his waist like he belongs there. Like they do this all the time and this isn’t a one-night-stand gone awry. Hob chuckles in surprise, dropping what he’s doing to turn around in Morpheus’ hold and be kissed sloppily.

Morpheus came to the bar with Johanna looking for a rebound, just some meaningless sex to help him forget his ex. But the next morning, he had a boyfriend.

[seiya-starsniper]

For the blossoming romance asks: 18? 💜

Cecccciillllllll thank you for this lovely ask, I had so much fun writing it 💖💖

Bit early for Saturday, but this fill does kind of fulfill the prompt "Touch Starved" for Dreamling Week too 👀

blossoming romance writing prompts

--------

hello/goodbye hugs that linger

Hob Gadling, Dream has found, is rather fond of hugging. 

At the end of a long night spent conversing at The New Inn, Hob had wistfully asked Dream “a hundred years, then?” perhaps expecting the same answer Dream had provided him for the last 600 years. But his time imprisoned has changed him, and so Dream instead says, 

“I’ve heard that friends meet more often than merely once a century.”

The smile on Hob’s face grows slowly. It starts with surprise and wonder, a slight quirk of the lips, as if the immortal cannot believe what he has just heard. Then it grows into a blinding thing, full of teeth and unrestrained joy.

“Next week then?” Hob asks. “Perhaps next Saturday at 7pm?”

Dream thinks of his duties, of all the rebuilding he must do for his realm, of the still missing dreams and nightmares, and the vortex that is threatening to destroy the very fabric of the universe.

“I believe I shall be able to make it,” Dream answers, a small smile creeping up his own face.

“Wonderful!” Hob exclaims. “I shall see you here again, then.”

When they stand to depart the pub, Dream finds himself suddenly enveloped in warmth and the smell of old wood smoke and beer. He freezes, uncertain at first of what is happening until realization dawns upon him seconds later. 

Hob is hugging him.

Dream does not know for how long Hob embraces him, but it is over too soon for his liking when the man releases Dream from his hold.

“Sorry, probably should have asked first if you were the hugging type,” Hob says, suddenly shy and refusing to meet Dream’s eyes.

“I…I am not sure that I am,” Dream answers honestly. “It has been some time since someone last held me. At least a century, if not more.”

Hob’s eyebrows raise suddenly, alarm written all over his face.

“There’s a story behind that, isn’t there?” he asks, and Dream can feel the ache in Hob’s voice as he voices the question.

Dream nods. “I am not ready to tell it, yet. Perhaps next week. Or the week after.”

“However long you need,” Hob reassures him. “I’m not going anywhere, my friend.”

On the evening before their next meeting, Dream is exhausted. He has unmade his favorite creation, killed a dream vortex, fought with his favorite arcana, and discovered his sibling had intervened in his realm in a petty attempt at sibling rivalry. All within the span of a week.

—

It is. A lot.

Dream considers canceling their meeting. Reaching out to Hob in a dream and asking to postpone their appointment until Dream can collect himself and feel less unmoored.

But Saturday comes, and Dream finds himself standing just outside The New Inn, contemplating why he has not yet entered.

“My friend!” he hears from directly behind him.

Dream turns and there Hob is, dressed in an outfit similar but not exactly the same as the one he wore last week. The brown leather jacket is the same, as are the shoes, but his trousers are a different color and he’s wearing some sort of graphic tee shirt instead of a plain white one. 

“Hello Hob,” Dream greets, trying his best to smile, despite his exhaustion.

Hob’s brow furrows. “Are you all right, my friend?” he asks, concerns clear in the tone of his voice.

“I am…fine,” Dream answers though he is anything but.

Hob huffs disbelievingly. “No, I don’t think you are,” he says. “Ah fuck it.”

Hob pulls Dream into his arms and Dream gasps at their sudden closeness. Hob still smells like old wood smoke, and Dream wonders if this is his natural scent, or if it is some sort of cologne he wears, whose purpose is to drive Dream to madness with how much he wants to inhale it. 

Dream’s exhaustion lowers his inhibitions, and before he can think better of it, he finds himself wrapping his arms around Hob’s back and burrowing his face into the other man’s shoulder. He thinks the wood smoke smell is strongest here, in Hob’s jacket, and he wonders what Hob has done to imprint this smell into the material. 

“There, there,” Hob says, rubbing smooth circles into Dream’s back. “I’ve got you, old friend. I have you. I’m here.”

Dream finds himself clinging to Hob, perhaps more than is socially acceptable amongst humans, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind. They stand there, just holding one another, until a bar patron from inside emerges, forcing them to break apart and move away from the entryway to the pub.

“I don’t think the pub is the best place for our meeting tonight,” Hob says, once the other person is out of sight. “My flat is not too far from here, if you don’t mind a walk? I’ve got a bottle of mead old as Queen Elizabeth herself in the fridge. I think you may need it.”

“I believe,” Dream answers, his tongue heavy like molasses in his mouth, “that you may be correct.”

Hob smiles. “And I can hug you all you want in the privacy of my living room.”

“I would like that,” Dream says, and finds that he means it. Already his heart is lighter after Hob’s embrace, and perhaps it will grow lighter still, with each subsequent one, given freely, by his oldest friend.

[gabessquishytum]

Hob never told Dream everything he did to survive in 1689.

With nothing left to sell but his body, he became a sex worker to survive. It was not a good experience.

When dream met him that year, he felt for hob, got him dinner and a room and they ended up sleeping together. For dream, it was their first time together as lovers. For hob… it was the only chance he had with the being he loved. He was happy to let dream have his body, but hob believed that dream knew and had paid for him with dinner, the room, and the pouch of gold he left in the morning. Hob still enjoyed the night, but it broke his heart, begging Dream for his cock and wishing that it was more than a transaction.

They sleep together again in 1789. Dream sucks hob’s cock and then hob rides him on the table. Dream leaves him with a necklace—a gift to a lover, Dream thinks. Payment, hob thinks.

And in 1889, they fight. And in 2022, dream returns. They resume their friendship until one day Dream works up the courage to ask hob if he wants to resume their romantic relationship. And hob looks regretful and disappointed as he tells Dream that he doesn’t do that for money anymore.

And it’s the first time Dream realizes there has been a miscommunication.

OOO NOOOO I absolutely love misunderstandings like this. It hurts so much but it feels so fucking good.

Like. Dream is beating himself up so hard as he reflects on his previous sexual encounters with Hob. In 1689 he didn't even think about how Hob might potentially be too traumatised and messed up to even consent to sex. With people treating him like literal crap all the time, it's natural that he assumed that Dream was using him just like everyone else. Dream desperately wishes he could go back and rewrite the past. He can't believe that he's fucked up a relationship yet again, and he didn't even know it!

He humbly apologises and practically begs Hob to forgive him. And Hob is just... Well, a little confused? He always treasured his moments with Dream. Finding out all these years later that Dream didn't just think of him as a whore... it heals something in Hob that has been broken for a very long time. Dream is surprised to find himself being hugged tightly as Hob whispers "thank you" and "I love you" over and over.

Now he can get out the necklace that he's kept for all these years and wear it with pride on his very first proper date with Dream. And Dream can gently hold Hob’s hand and remind him that he is loved and valued. No matter what.

[thebitchesterbrothers]

„Nobody leaves this room until we’ve found my ring!“

Oh, great. Ava needs to be at the other end of the campus for her next class in fifteen minutes.

„Is he serious right now? It’s not our fault he lost his stuff.“ Doug, one of the other students dramatically rolled his eyes.

„Oh come on, have some sympathy. It’s probably antique and ridiculously expensive. Just help him find it and we can all be on our way.“

Just five minutes ago Ava was listening to Professor Gadlings lecture about early modern drama when he noticed the lack of his ring. One of the braver students had once asked him about his kind of uncharacteristically flashy ring he was sporting on his left hand.

The professor was known on campus as a very down-to-earth guy, almost suspiciously normal. Wearing cozy and practical clothes he always gave off the impression of a perfect son-in-law. In Ava’s opinion there was still a kind of mysterious aura about him but she never managed to put it into words. Not too much was known about him despite his cheery and social behavior.

It all added to his attractiveness. If one was into middle aged history professors…so basically at least half of the class had a crush on Mister Gadling and Ava surely was a leading member of the unofficial Dr. Robert Gadling fan club. For academic purposes only, of course.

That particular ring however didn’t seem like something the man would buy for himself. It was gold, beautifully carved and had a massive ruby embedded in the center of it.

It was just a touch too flamboyant for their professor that there had to be a story behind it.

But all he would give them as an answer was a sly smile and a cryptic comment about „how Shakespeare would die of jealousy if he could see him now.“

Said ring was now missing. When Gadling noticed his bare finger all hell broke loose.

Running his hands frantically through his hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail only to undo it seconds later. Crawling under his cluttered desk and painfully bumping his head in the process.

For a minute or two it was admittedly funny to watch the man sweat but now Ava just felt sorry for him. If she’d own such an obviously expensive piece of jewellery she would freak out too. Maybe it was an old family heirloom of some kind. The man owned all kinds of weird historic stuff, that much was for sure.

And apparently now they all had to help him find it if they wanted to leave this room anytime today.

So this is how Ava finds herself now on the surprisingly clean floors of lecture hall number five, looking for a shiny piece of metal along with her classmates.

Gadling seems to slowly but surely drift off into panic mode, spurring them on while turning every pocket of his trousers inside out, his hair sticking in every direction like one of the cartoon characters from her childhood. A mad scientist indeed.

“It has to be in this room! Keep looking! I can’t go home without it…and believe me when I say we’re all going to have a terrible night of disturbing dreams if we don’t manage to find it!” What is that supposed to mean, please?

Just as he’s about to flip his desk - yes, the very heavy and very antique looking desk - an unfamiliar voice breaks the chaotic atmosphere.

“Are you looking for something specific, professor? You seem quite distressed.”

And if Mister Gadling appeared ‘distressed’ before he’s outright shocked now.

In front of the old oak door leading into freedom - Ava can’t wait to finally leave this madhouse - stands the most gorgeous and posh looking goth prince she’s ever seen. Damn, those cheekbones alone are to die for, but his voice…dark, soothing, absolutely mesmerizing. The man looks regal even in a place that is anything but. That long flowing coat is a bit much though.

“Oh. You. Are here.” What happened to her eloquent professor?

“Indeed I am, Hob.” Hob? What kind of nickname is that?

“I mean why? Why exactly are you here? It’s just that you never visited before.”

Ava crawls back from under her chair to not miss a minute of whatever the hell this is.

She swears that Gadling - Hob, she remembers - starts to blush like a shy school girl. Who is that man that makes her professor lose his cool?

Meanwhile the rest of the classroom stopped the search for the ring, instead staring without shame at the play in front of them.

“My duties prevented me from visiting one of your lectures. I apologize for that. But you missed something of great value this morning. I thought you might want it back.”

And with that emo king (Ava really needs to find out that man’s name) calmly walks towards her professor, completely unaffected by his nosy audience.

Once he reaches the other man he gently takes his hand, opens it … and places a ring into his palm. Not just any ring, no.

The ring that “definitely has to be in this room”, as Ava recalls professor Gadlings voice. So much for that.

The stranger looks clearly amused at mister Gadlings obvious embarrassment.

“You left it next to the sink after washing the dishes. Then you realized how late you were and forgot to put it back on. I had to stop Matthew from hiding it under his pillow.”

Did Gadling have a cat? That man would surely get a cat and name it Matthew.

Gadling looks as relieved as he looks stressed by now.

“Thank you. I may have overreacted a bit.”

More than a few students agree on that but are too smart to make a comment.

That dark dream of a man fondly tucks a strand of hair behind their professors ear and wow, what’s happening? Ava tries to be as silent as possible to not ruin this moment. Her friends will never believe her.

Apparently Gadling finally found his voice again.

“You came all this way just to…”

“To take your wedding ring where it belongs, husband.”

And with that he places an almost chaste kiss on the other man’s lips and abruptly turns around to leave the - absolutely stunned and silent - room. Everyone is openly staring at poor mister Gadling now. Ava is pretty sure she saw one of the younger students filming or at least taking a picture of the whole thing. She’ll have to ask for evidence.

“Okay listen. None of this ever happened. You saw and heard nothing. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.”

Gadling quickly dismisses his students and almost flees the lecture hall.

Days later Ava still isn’t sure she witnessed a very elaborate fever dream

[littledreamling]

A Dreamling soulmate AU where your soulmate’s name is shows up somewhere on your body on your 18th birthday except on the morning that Hob Gadling turns 18, he wakes up to find every inch of skin covered in black ink, in countless names, in countless languages, in countless handwritings and, illiterate as he is, he takes it to mean that his true destiny, his purpose in life is to love not one individual but to spread his overflowing love to everyone. But then, as time flows around him like a cold mountain stream, he learns, and he slowly realizes that every line of ink, every carefully placed stroke, every delicately penned word translates to the same thing; Dream of the Endless. It’s on his skin, a hundred different times in a hundred different languages; Arabic on his right calf, Spanish on his left rib, Japanese on his lower back, English just above his heart. Every language he learns, he finds on his body, but there are others. Alphabets that no human mouth could produce the sounds for, letters and symbols that have been lost to time (he finds a set of hieroglyphics on the back of his thigh and while it takes a while for the rest of humanity to translate the symbols using the rosetta stone, Hob has always known what that particular picture meant, the open eye of the resut). He knows he’ll never be able to translate them all, but knowing that his beloved has claimed him so thoroughly never fails to make him giddy. Later, when he discovers his Stanger’s name, that hieroglyph feels oddly apt; resut, the awakening. It feels like sitting next to a warm fireplace, like stepping into a crowded tavern, like coming home.

Dream of the Endless doesn’t have a name on his body; the Endless do not have soulmates. But the night that he meets Hob Gadling, a single symbol appears on his chest; an hourglass, newly flipped, only a few grains of sand fallen through the narrow neck, a symbol of timelessness, of life, and of the sand that connects them both

[moorishflower]

Apropos of the Addams family post from a few weeks back: Hob meeting Gomez and them immediately vibing. Freak4freak friendship. Taking one look at the horrific sublime and wanting to kiss it with tongue

GOD yes like I have trouble imagining writing Hob meeting Gomez Addams actually because the IPs are so different but if he ever did it would be IMMEDIATE recognition. Same hat vibes. Have you beheld my big beautiful spouse? Behold them and despair (the despair is lovely this time of year)

Like can you imagine Hob attending ANY function in the Dreaming, either as the Dreamlord's husband or his consort? Normal McNormalman wandering around amongst gods and fey and nightmares and angels and being so painfully ordinary and HUMAN that he loops back around to being just. The cryptid in the room. Everyone whispering to each other, "Does anyone know that guy? Who is that? Did he sneak in?"

Hob just happily chatting away eating canapes and mingling and discussing footie with satyrs and shit, and finally some asshole god or demigod strolls on up to him and clears their throat, and demands to know "Who are you? Why are you here? You're just some human."

And Hob blinks his big beautiful brown cow eyes and he says "Oh! I'm here with my husband! Here he is now!" And just simp mode activates IMMEDIATELY. Dream standing there in full nightmare regalia glowering daggers at whoever has dared to impugn the honor of HIS husband, visibly bleeding shadows while the unfortunate guest contemplates how swiftly their mortality is about to be ripped from their still-conscious body, and Hob tucks his arm through Dream's, "How's your night been so far, baby? Good party, the brownies seemed very interested in the latest scores for Manchester, think they might be close to setting up a league of their own, dunno who they'd play against though. Christ, you look fantastic tonight. Doesn't he look fantastic? We should definitely dance later, imagine how you'd look on the floor with all these shadows around you. Phwoar. Are you thirsty, darling?"

"Wine will suffice."

"Sure, love, be right back. Nice talking with you, mate!" And off he trots to the refreshments table, and meanwhile Dream has expanded to roughly 1.5 times his normal height and living darkness wreathes him in an aura of cold sweat and midnight shivers, and he has to lean down almost at the waist to address whoever this unfortunate SOB is. Blinking slow and deliberate, like a lizard eyeing a mouse.

"You are lucky. My husband is in a charitable mood. If you ever speak ill of him again. It will not be his mercy you must seek."

And Hob comes back with two glasses of wine right as Dream is straightening up, and the unfortunate god or demigod looks like they're about to simultaneously weep and piss themselves, and he gives Dream his drink and then in a smooth and seamless motion gets his arm around Dream's waist and dips the 8ft tall nightmare man. Logically, and based on their respective heights, it should not be that easy, but Dream is visibly enjoying it.

"My sweet," Hob is murmuring into Dream's clavicle, "my darling, my Dream. Have I told you how beautiful you are tonight?"

"Yes. But tell me again."

And at this point Hob's would-be detractor takes the opportunity to flee, just as Hob is planting a line of smacking kisses up the Dreamlord's neck. "Beautiful," he's saying, "ravishing, stunning, awe-inspiring."

And after that there's a sort of flyer or pamphlet that gets circulated through a bunch of supernatural circles, with Hob Gadling's name and description and picture, THIS IS THE PRINCE-CONSORT OF THE NIGHTMARE KING, HE IS ALLOWED AND ENCOURAGED TO BE HERE.

[dsudis]

Adaptive Tea Making

For @domaystic Day 5: Learning Something New.

Dream is human now, and determined to learn how to make his beloved a cup of tea. He just has a small difficulty with time to get over.

___

Hob looked over at Dream, who was perched on a stool at the kitchen bench with his ever-present notebook open to a fresh page, his phone unlocked beside it, and an actual stopwatch beside that. He had a pencil in his hand, freshly sharpened, and a second pencil also perfectly sharpened set beside the notebook.

Hob had secondhand text anxiety just looking at those pencils. 

"Ready?" Hob asked, though surely it was not possible to be more ready than Dream currently was. 

Dream didn't even meet his gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on Hob's hands. "Ready. Please show me, one more time, how to make a cup of tea the way you like it." 

As Dream spoke he wrote on the pristine notebook page: Hob's tea instructions. His handwriting was crooked and crabbed but legible. 

"So--there's water in the kettle already," Hob said, feeling like possibly he was the one being tested. However he made this cup of tea, Dream would continue making this exact cup of tea for him forever. 

Hob was fine with that. Hob would frankly have been fine with continuing to get wildly undrinkable cups of tea from Dream forever, but Dream was determined to learn this particular human skill correctly, and seemed somehow convinced that this time he was going to crack it. 

Hob flipped the switch. Dream turned on a timer on his phone and then wrote down the first two steps: water in kettle and turn on kettle. He also wrote to one side, Phone timer: total length of process and drew a little line beside it to be filled in with a number later. 

They had learned, after Dream had committed a series of frankly baffling tea mishaps including "hot water with no detectable trace of tea" and "oversteeped to the point of activating an immortal's gag reflex through sheer bitterness" and "boiled the kettle dry" that Dream had no real sense of how time passed. It passed how he wished it to pass, in the Dreaming, and even in the Waking he had always been able to nudge reality a bit to make the flow of time conform to his narrative sense or personal convenience.  

Now that he was divested of those powers and operating a human body, the linear flow of time had so far made absolutely no impression on Dream. Hob had had to point out to him things like "if you wake up and it is still dark, it is still night, and you will probably want to go back to sleep until it's light out" and how often meals should happen.  

It was the tea that had made it clear that even telling Dream times when things should happen was not very helpful to him. He couldn't seem to hold the numbers in his head or make sense of them when he consulted a clock. Hob had simply started giving him other ways of gauging the passage of time, teaching him about the sun's position in the sky at mealtimes and when Hob returned from work, and about the activity of people visible from the windows, and which programs on the telly corresponded reliably to morning, afternoon, and evening. 

Hob had spent long stretches of time--most of his life, really--without access to clocks. People nowadays were obsessed with them, and with precise timing for everything, but Dream wouldn't need to worry about being punctual to a work shift or keeping all sorts of appointments. Hob could help him with where precision was needed, and could teach him to get along where it wasn't. 

Tea, unfortunately, was a matter of some precision. When the kettle let out the first gurgles, Hob grabbed the tea canister. "Plenty of times I just use bag tea, but my insufferably posh lover seems set on spoiling me, so," Hob scooped tea into the strawberry-shaped infuser. "This is what we've got in place of a tea bag. Time-wise, either should work the same." 

Dream faithfully wrote down prepare infuser (or tea bag).

"The timing for the kettle will change a bit. A smaller amount of water boils faster. There's a bit over two cups in right now," Hob pointed to the line on the side, "so it takes a little over two minutes." 

Dream wrote down kettle boils and then waited watchfully until the kettle hit its automatic shutoff and consulted the time. Kettle shuts off, he wrote down, and then 2:38 with a tidy little asterisk beside it.

"Infuser goes in mug," Hob narrated. "Pour the water over it, leave about an inch at the top for milk. And start your stopwatch, because this is the bit I couldn't tell you, because I do it by feel." 

Dream started the stopwatch and scribbled down more notes, drawing a little box for the all-important steeping time to be entered. Hob watched the mug, wondering once again how he did know when it was done steeping. He'd tried more than once to describe it to Dream, but none of his descriptions had been at all helpful--as proven by the various disastrous cups of tea--and had only frustrated both of them. 

He wanted to fill the silence, but Hob didn't dare mess this up for Dream, when he was so determined to get this right. Most of human life had come easily enough to him, once he set himself to adapt to it, but tea had thwarted him. Hob was a little worried that Dream was building this up into some kind of epic battle of wills he had to win to Succeed At Being Human. 

Dream looked up at him expectantly and Hob looked back down at his mug, a little worried that he'd gotten distracted--he'd certainly oversteeped his tea enough times for one reason or another--but no, a sniff and a glance told him it wasn't quite there yet. "Almost," Hob said. "Not really a bad cup of tea if you stop now, but not quite." He drummed his fingers, waiting for-- 

"Ah," Hob said, "Now." He reached for the infuser and lifted it out, and the stopwatch clicked at the exact instant it cleared the top of the mug. Hob set the infuser in the sink and then swirled the cup of tea, giving it another sniff to be sure, but yes, that was a just-right cup of tea. He grabbed the jug of milk and looked to see that Dream was intently watching before he poured in a dollop. 

Dream's eyes narrowed slightly and then he nodded and wrote down a specific liquid volume that Hob was sure was in fact precisely correct--Dream's spatial skills were laser-accurate and slightly unnerving.  

"And a spoonful of sugar, because I'm feeling like it today," Hob said. "I do honey sometimes. Sometimes two spoonfuls of sugar." He stirred in the sugar and sipped. "And that's--" 

Dream clicked the timer on his phone and recorded the time, then picked up the phone and tapped rapidly at it. "Tell me that the water should boil about now," Dream said, and held out the phone like a reporter's microphone. 

"Water should be boiling about now," Hob parroted obediently.  

Dream nodded, tapped at the phone again, and said, "Now tell me the tea is ready."  

When Dream held out the phone, Hob said, "Tea's ready, love." 

Dream was startled into a smile at that addition, and asked, "How is it?" 

"Just right," Hob said. "But if you--" 

Dream shook his head, still smiling, and went back to tapping at things on his phone. "These things are amazing, you know?" Dream said. "I thought I would have to learn magic, but these are like little prosthetic memories. If you work out all the steps, you can make it do all these things for you. Well, not for you, you don't need it. For me." 

"I mean, I'd be lost without my calendar and things," Hob said. He'd never thought of technology to solve Dream's difficulty with time. He'd thought it was just more clocks all the way down, there. 

"Watch," Dream said, and then, to his phone, "Computer, making a cup of tea." 

"Acknowledged," his phone replied, because Dream had watched possibly too many sci-fi movies with Hob at what had turned out to be a formative time in his life. "When there is water in the kettle, turn the kettle on." 

Dream mimed flipping the switch on the kettle. 

Nothing happened, since Dream was still a good yard away from the kettle. Reminded, Hob ran some more water into it and put it back. He was sipping his tea again and nearly choked on it when his own voice came from Dream's phone. "Water should be boiling about now." 

"Computer, wait," Dream said, and the phone was back to its Computer voice when it said, "Acknowledged." 

"In case there is more water in the kettle," Dream said. "If there is less, I will be able to tell it to skip ahead when the water boils." 

"Computer, resume," Dream added to the phone. 

"Prepare the infuser, then pour boiling water over it." 

Dream mimed dropping the infuser into the mug, then pouring the water. "Computer, steeping." 

"Steeping," the computer said, sounding slightly stilted like it had had to assemble that word from individual sounds instead of having it pre-recorded.  

"I'll be able to use this for anything to do with timing," Dream said, scratching down more notes in his notebook. "I just have to set the intervals and key phrases, and optionally recordings for specific announcements, and then I will be able to do things that need timing. As long as I have my phone. Possibly I should get one of those watches." 

"That's no trouble, then," Hob said, pulling out his own phone to order a watch to sync with Dream's phone. "And you know I'm always happy to be your speaking clock, love."  

Dream came around the bench and kissed him, curling a hand around Hob's on his mug. "I shall feed you your lines when I need them," Dream said, and somehow it was desperately romantic and made Hob so proud he could cry, knowing Dream knew that Hob would always be glad to help him do things in his own way. 

He opened his mouth to try to say it, his heart almost too full for words, and was cut off by his own voice from Dream's phone. "Tea's ready, love." 

[Now on Ao3!]

[lostelfwriting]

Bury Me with a Rose, We Both Have Thorns (Prologue)

Rating: Explicit

AO3 Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Death & Dream, Dream & Hob, Dream/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Death of the Endless, Hob Gadling, Jessamy, Matthew, Corinthian, Lucienne

Additional Tags: NO Major Character Death, Hanahaki Disease, Terminal Illnesses, Thoughts about death and dying, Decaying Health, Refusing Treatment, Strong Language, Unrequited Love, Enemies to ?, Past Minor Characters Death(s), Protective Death of the Endless, Doctor Human!Death of the Endless, Alternate Universe - Human, Tattoo Artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Flower Shop Owner Hob Gadling, Blood, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word count: 32k

I'm posting the whole work here on the 1st of March, but I strongly reccommend you read it on AO3, where I will be posting one chapter per day. Either way, click Read More or go to AO3 to read the Prologue!

Written for the event @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang. With beautiful art by @five-and-dimes!

It is a slow day at the studio, so while he is waiting for his next appointment, Dream is – like he does almost all of his free time – sketching new tattoo designs to add to his portfolio and listening to music loud enough to completely shut out his own thoughts. He is sketching a snake, having no doubt that it will catch someone’s eye. There is always someone who wants a tattoo of a snake. He pauses to look at his progress and ends up snorting in disbelief.

The drawing is truly a snake, but the reptile is weaving among the stems of flowers instead of a dead branch like Dream had intended. And they are ugly flowers at that. He is pretty sure that he gave a pot of those flowers to his secondary school teacher, who always called him Murphy, even though he hated that nickname. He can’t resist snapping a picture of the flowers with his phone and trying to look up what they are, but once he finds the name – cyclamen – he refuses to look up their meaning. It would surely be something stupid, like forbidden love, or maybe hopelessness.

Even the snake’s scales seem to actually be made of flower petals, and Dream rolls his eyes as he flips the page of his sketchbook. The downside to trying to tune his mind out is that he doesn’t notice when his subconsciousness begins to interfere with his process, and it has led to many flowery paintings in the past months. With a sigh, he starts copying the usable parts of the design onto another page until an insistent thought makes him pause mid-movement.

Just a few weeks ago, he would have been furious if this had happened. He used to tear those ruined sketches to pieces and then go outside into the late winter chill and glare at every passing person who dared to look his way. He wished they all felt as bad as he did, and most of all, his neighbour with his shop opposite Dream’s studio, with its bright, flowery logo.

Today’s drawing incident feels like just a small inconvenience. He feels zero anger, though he might still opt to destroy the sketch later, just for the miniscule satisfaction that the action will bring him. Or maybe he will keep it. Pin it to the wall next to his bed and look at it every night. He will look at the ugly flowers and realise with wry amusement and aching hollowness that he has finally accepted his fate.

He, Morpheus Endeles, is going to die.

He thinks about it and waits for anger or grief to appear, but they don’t. Good. He was getting sick of the self-pity. It has been months since he noticed the first symptom – the occasional cough – as something seemed to tickle his throat, easily blamed on a bit of dust. And then, a bit later, when he lay awake late at night and everything around him was quiet, he heard the soft rustle of leaves as he breathed. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that he had the Hanahaki Disease. He tears the ruined sketch out and shreds it into tiny pieces, enjoying the bit of satisfaction that it brings him. Maybe he is still harbouring some badly suppressed anger. He doesn’t need a fortune teller to tell him that he has no chance of getting affection from the person he hopelessly loves. Because it is his neighbour, the owner of The White Rose, Robert Gadling, a straight man who rightfully dislikes Dream.

+*+*+*+*+

Cyclamen: resignation and good-bye

[im-not-corrupted]

Very well! XD Since four has been done how about...12

Now, that I can do!

----

Waking up to his lover's face is something Hob Gadling wouldn't trade the world for, truly.

It's mid-afternoon when he does. The afternoon sun bathes the room in gold through a sliver in the curtains. He hadn't closed them properly the night before, but they were...otherwise occupied, in his defence. And his lover, Morpheus, still sleeps soundly beside him.

He's cute while he sleeps. He'd deny any comment about being cute instantly, of course—he prefers Hob to call him pretty or gorgeous, and Hob is more than happy to pile those compliments high. They are true, after all, and he believes his lover should know just how highly Hob thinks of him, even after twenty years of being in a relationship, and six hundred odd years of acquaintanceship before that.

The compliments never get old, not really. Morpheus preens every time Hob says something and feeds his still-intact arrogance and pride—he never really needed to be Endless for either of those things, not really. Hob loves that about him. Loves the slightly arrogant tilt to his chin, how regally he holds himself even if there isn't a crown upon his head anymore. (If he's telling the truth, he loves everything about Morpheus. There's not a single thing about him that Hob dislikes. They've had their moments, of course. Their frustrations. But they work through it, always, even when Morpheus is half convinced their spats are the end of the world, melodramatic bastard that he is. (Hob loves that, too.))

Cute, though, is the one that pops into his mind now as he gazes at his dozing lover. His hair is a worse mess than usual, a proper bird's nest, haloing his head where it rests on his pillow. He looks relaxed, in a way he rarely ever does during his waking hours. Even without the burden of Endlessness upon his shoulders, there is still a lot in his head.

It is easier now. He has had twenty years of being human to adjust to all of its messiness. Morpheus has told him, in the quiet of night—A time of confession, he'd mused at one point, and Hob does agree that there's something about the darkness of night time that makes being seen a little bit easier—that he aches less, these days. It is still there, and he has episodes where it aches so much more than usual, but they are easier to deal with.

Hob is glad for that. Glad his lover didn't take the easier way out. He thinks about it, sometimes, about how close he came to losing him—the thought catches him in its grasp, sometimes. Brings tears to his eyes. He does not like to imagine a world without his dearest friend.

He is glad that he never had to face that, not really. Instead, he gets this—soft, golden-lit mornings on Valentine's day, in which his lover continues to sleep and Hob gets to bask in the glory of having a love like this.

He does have plans for today, and he already woke up later than he would've liked. It is that thought that leads him to brush his lips against Morpheus's cheekbone in a gentle kiss, murmuring his name softly.

His lover doesn't sleep all that deeply. He dreams sometimes. There used to be nightmares, earlier on, that woke him in the middle of the night. He still has them sometimes, but they are rare. Occasional.

It's easy to wake him. He only needs to say his lover's name a little bit louder than he did the first time before Morpheus begins to stir slightly, and Hob smiles down at him with a soft, "Good morning, love."

Morpheus blinks up at him blearily. It takes him a moment to catch his bearings, but when he does, a smile splits across his face. It's soft, loving, and Hob loves the sight like he loves that of the rising sun at dawn. "Hello, lover," he murmurs, his voice raspy, still clinging onto sleep with some degree of determination. And then he blinks, seeming to recall something, before he moves to cup Hob's face with the palm of his hand. The band of his wedding wing is cold against Hob's skin. "And. Happy Valentine's Day, if I recall correctly."

"You do," Hob replies. He turns his head slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of Morpheus's wrist. "Happy Valentine's Day to you too, my love."

Immortality is great, truly.

Hob has never regretted a moment of it, not really. There have been moments, of course—the 1600s weren't great for him, and immortality didn't quite seem worth it when he spent practically every day for eighty years tired, hungry and so terribly cold. It never got bad enough for him to consider giving up—Hob didn't know what would be bad enough to make him consider that, not really—but despair was a familiar companion those years, and it was hard to find a reason to continue waking up every morning.

It got easier, just as it always does. If immortality taught Hob Gadling one thing, it would be this: there is very little in this world that lasts forever, and bad times aren't on that list. There is too much time for everything to remain the same in a world that is ever-changing, and no amount of bad times will make that any different.

Still, there are some downfalls to immortality. These downfalls will never be enough to make him ask for death. If he can live through the 1600s and come out of that with hope, then he knows he will only ever want to live.

One of those downfalls is the lack of constancy. Hob Gadling is immortal, but the rest of the world around him...is not. The rest of the world around him has a life span that lasts however many decades, and at the end of that, Hob still lives.

He does not regret that he does, but God's wounds, it does hurt. It is terribly lonely, sometimes, to be the only person left after everything. Friendships, relationships—they can't last, and it aches.

There is one constancy, though. Morpheus. He has been there since 1389. In the grand scheme of things, that is practically the beginning of his rather long life, and though they only saw each other once every hundred years, it was enough. More than enough, really.

He could never get tired of this. Of loving Morpheus, of getting to be with him. Even after celebrating so many Valentine's days with this man, he thinks he still wouldn't get tired of it.

"I assume you have plans for today, my love," Morpheus prompts.

"Mhm, I do." Despite his words, though, he allows himself to lay back down next to his lover, to pull him close. "But we can lay here a little longer. I'd like to hold you for a bit."

His lover nuzzles closer, letting out a soft, pleased noise. "I wouldn't dare complain about that," he agrees.

Hob places a gentle kiss upon his forehead. Yes, he will never tire of this, no matter how many times they get to do this during their immortal lives.