hexenmond

[hexenmond]

PSA: "Friedrich Merz hat gegen die Strafbarkeit der Vergewaltigung in der Ehe gestimmt" ist die Art des kontextunterschlagenden Gerade-so-nicht-Lügen, die man hierzulande normalerweise richtigerweise scharf kritisiert.

Ich habe das hier auf Tumblr jetzt schon so oft gesehen und finde es aus mehreren Gründen ziemlich schlimm, dass es unkritisch und ohne den relevanten Kontext gerebloggt wird.

Kurzer Kontext: Als das Strafrecht zum Thema Vergewaltigung 1997 reformiert wurde, um es geschlechterneutral ("andere Person" statt "Frau") zu formulieren und die Formulierung "außerehelich" zu entfernen, gab es eine Diskussion über eine Widerspruchsklausel.

"Die Klausel sah vor, dass eine Anzeige im Nachhinein durch das mutmaßliche Opfer zurückgezogen werden könnte. Kritiker befürchteten, dass Vergewaltigungsopfer so von Tätern unter Druck gesetzt werden könnten, ihre Anzeige zurückzunehmen.

Weil in dem Punkt keine Einigung in Sicht war, brachten verschiedene Abgeordnete schließlich einen sogenannten „Gruppenantrag” ohne die kontrovers diskutierte Widerspruchsklausel ein. Darüber stimmten die Abgeordneten dann ohne Fraktionszwang ab. Ein Gruppenantrag ist ein Antrag von verschiedenen Abgeordneten der Regierungsfraktion und der Opposition über Parteigrenzen hinweg." (https://correctiv.org/faktencheck/politik/2018/11/14/diese-abgeordneten-stimmten-1997-gegen-die-strafbarkeit-von-vergewaltigung-in-der-ehe/). Merz gehörte zu den Abgeordneten, die für die Widerspruchsklausel waren (aber damit auch für die Strafbarkeit der Vergewaltigung in der Ehe!), und daher nicht für *diesen* Entwurf des Gesetzes stimmten. Er sagt inzwischen, dass er das mit Hindsight anders tun würde.

Es gibt viele Gründe, den Mann nicht zu mögen, nicht zu wählen, etc. Ich finde vieler seiner Einstellungen und Vorschläge schlecht. Ich finde sein Verhalten und seine Prioritätensetzung in der genannten Abstimmung schlecht.

Aber a) sollten wir nicht versuchen, politische Mitbewerber verfälschend darzustellen, b) sind solche Dinge Gift für das politische Engagement. Die Idee, dass jede Partei, die ab jetzt mit der Union kooperiert, jemanden gutheißt, der kein Problem mit Vergewaltigung in der Ehe hat, ist nicht nur unwahr, sondern auch unheimlich demoralisierend.

Wie gesagt, bin voll dabei, Merz inhaltlich und zu seinen sonstigen Einstellungen anzugreifen - Fläche gibts. Aber halt nicht mit sowas.

[hexenmond]

Spooky Boyfriends! Werewolf-Hob and Nightmare-Dream from:

The High was Worth the Pain by @27dragons

[hexenmond]

Cinnamon Warmth

I simply HAD to write a little continuation of @unpredictable-probabilities' wonderful fic Where It Goes, so definitely read her fic before you read this one or else this will make little sense!

Read either here or on AO3!

To be completely honest, Morpheus was a bit nervous now that he was standing in front of the Gadling family home, his one hand resting in the crook of Hob’s elbow. Agreeing to Christmas brunch with Hob's parents had been easy as they had laid in the bed of the hotel, relishing each other's presence and warmth in their own little bubble, away from the rest of the world. But standing in front of the other man’s childhood home as his unexpected plus one for Christmas was a bit more spontaneous than his usual endeavours, and so the nervousness perhaps should have been expected. 

Hob on the other hand seemed totally unbothered that he would be introducing a man he met the day before to his parents, even with what had happened to him last Christmas. Morpheus strived for such a level of self-assuredness and optimism. If he were lucky his family would only disown him for such a decision. Or behead him, if he were less lucky. 

“Promise they don't bite,” Hob murmured to his right, and Morpheus snorted in response. 

“I wouldn't be too sure of that. Their son certainly didn't seem disinclined if prompted, and he must have learned it from someone.” 

“That would be Marleen's influence right there, I tend to keep my teeth to myself.” A male voice suddenly answered from the doorway, amused to no end. Morpheus whipped around with a deep blush rising on his face to the man now standing in the doorway to Hob's home. Leave it to him to make a bloody fool of himself first thing. 

Mr. Gadling was a very soft man, with smile lines around his mouth and crows’ feet around his eyes, which sparkled with the same sort of mischief Morpheus had already witnessed on Hob's face. There was also the same sort of resolve to make him feel safe and welcomed, and Morpheus deflated a bit at that slowly familiar look on his face. 

“Apologies, Mr. Gadling,” he said quickly and held out a hand to Hob's father, determined to overcome his social faux-pas as quickly as possible. “I'm Morpheus, Hob's… friend. At least for now.” 

The man barked a laugh at that and ignored his hand in favour of giving Morpheus a full-bodied hug. “I do like a man that knows what he wants! Call me Frank. No need to be all formal with family, eh?” 

Morpheus was released with a clap to his back and the most stunned expression he had ever worn in his life. He was given a moment to collect himself as Mr. Gadling moved to hug his son with the same enthusiasm he had bestowed upon Morpheus. The comparison made something ache in his chest, but in the best way he could imagine. 

“Now come in, boys, it's freezing! Marleen will want to meet the new face, so prepare for all the usual motherly fussing.” Mr. Gadling winked at him then, and Morpheus had exactly zero seconds to prepare before he was being pulled into the next pair of arms at the same time as Hob. 

“Oh, Robert, you didn't say you would be bringing such a gorgeous young man along!” The woman now embracing them both had a smile that rivalled the sun and brown eyes the same shade as Hob's. She smelled faintly of garlic and bacon and herbs, which caused Morpheus' stomach to growl with interest. The croissant perhaps hadn't quite been enough to fully ease his hunger this morning. “And he's hungry too! Well thank goodness I just finished preparations for brunch.” 

Mrs. Gadling shooed them into the dining room before Morpheus even had the chance to introduce himself and then headed off back towards the kitchen to continue her preparations. All that Morpheus could now do was blink, but somehow it didn't help with his orientation. Beside him Hob chuckled, then slowly led them to the table so they could sit down. 

“Perhaps I should have mentioned that they're very handsy.” 

Honestly, Morpheus wasn't sure if that would have helped. Nothing could have prepared him for this welcome. 

“It's alright…” Morpheus frowned as he realised that it really was alright. Usually he hated physical contact. But somehow, this wasn't too bad. Some part of him was even hoping to experience it again. The Gadlings were… warm. Their touch felt soothing instead of irritating. Perhaps it was a quality the whole family shared. “They're nice.” 

“They try their best,” Hob agreed and Morpheus nodded in response. 

Pans and pots clattered in the kitchen and some colourful but delighted curses accompanied most sounds. Morpheus was itching with the need to make himself useful. 

“Shouldn't we help your mother with preparations?”

“Not if we want to keep our heads, no. She takes great pride in preparing Christmas brunch by herself, we get to do the washing up later, if we're lucky.” Hob’s voice was fond as he talked about his mother, about this joke that must be reoccurring every year. 

“Marleen is a very independent woman,” Mr. Gadling agreed with a smile from the doorway, and Morpheus got the feeling that popping in on conversations like this was simply his thing. 

“She certainly seems like one, Sir.” Morpheus cringed a bit at his politeness, but no offer of first names could erase a lifetime of addressing even one's own father as ‘sir’. 

“Polite boy you are, hm?” He chuckled and sat down opposite them, then rested his chin on one of his hands to look at them. “How did you guys meet?” 

Morpheus opened his mouth to answer, when Mrs. Gadling suddenly flicked her husband against the temple with a disapproving click of her tongue. 

“At least wait until we're eating before you grill them. Here, be quiet.” She instructed and shoved a steaming pastry into Mr. Gadling's mouth, who only shrugged and munched away happily on the very fluffy looking cinnamon roll. 

Mrs. Gadling then places the rest of the tray and several other types of pastries on the table, quickly followed by a spread of hearty cheeses and meats and bread, as well as a pot of tea. It was simple, but the heat radiating off the pastries and breads spoke of a very early morning spent in the kitchen and hours upon hours of preparation work. Morpheus felt slightly unworthy of being on the receiving end of such a meal, made with care and love and at the sacrifice of time and energy. 

His own parents did not cook or bake or put any effort of their own whatsoever into Christmas dinners. They hired private chefs that made incredible eight course meals which only tasted of the craft but never of love. 

When Morpheus bit into a warm cinnamon roll dripping with sugary goodness and topped with an ungodly amount of frosting he tasted nothing but the love Mrs. Gadling held for her family. And possibly enough sugar to give him cavities overnight. He dove in again immediately after the first bite. 

Mrs. Gadling looked pleased at his enthusiasm as she cut off a piece of fresh bread for herself and buttered it generously. 

“So, now, how did you meet your lovely new friend, Robert?”

Hob chuckled at the curiosity in her voice and quickly swallowed his mouthful of cream cheese puff pastry. 

“Fell asleep on him on the train yesterday.” Two pairs of eyebrows were raised at that and Morpheus felt a blush dust his cheeks again. “And Morpheus very gallantly saved me from face-planting when the train suddenly broke down.”

Mr. Gadling made a face that said Yep, sounds like my son and Morpheus wasn't sure what it said about Hob that such a situation apparently was very like him. 

“And you just decided to tag along for Christmas brunch, darling?”

It took Morpheus an embarrassingly long time to realise she was addressing him with ‘darling’. Considering she didn't ask his name, he probably shouldn't be so surprised. 

“Er, yeah. Yes, sorry. I didn't have any other plans for the day and as Hob offered… I hoped his family would be as lovely to spend time with as he himself is. And I haven't been disappointed.” 

“Oh what a charmer!” Mrs. Gadling laughed in delight and nodded her approval. “I'm glad we didn't scare you away yet, sweetheart. But I gather if you survived a full day with Robert, you'll survive a meal with us.” 

“It is no hardship,” answered Morpheus quickly, then turned slightly more red than he had already been. “Neither spending time with Hob nor with you. I feel very welcomed, although you barely know me.” 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Gadling smiled indulgently at his words and Hob, too, seemed touched by them. 

“You're going to be good for our boy.” Mr. Gadling stated then and Mrs. Gadling hummed her agreement. “So, what do you do, son? Music or art?” 

[hexenmond]

I actually really like the thing when you're starting to get the hang of a new language, enough to understand and say simple sentences but you gotta get creative to get more complex thoughts across, like a puzzle. I remember a time in the restortation school when a classmate who wasn't natively finnish and did her best anyway dropped something and sighed, telling me "every day is monday this week. I have had four mondays this week." And I understood.

I don't think I speak much of spanish anymore, but in the nursing school training period I did there, I did manage to get by with making weird Tarzan sentences. I got a nosebleed at some point and startled another nurse. Not knowing the words "humidity" or "stress", I managed to string together: "This is ok. It is hot, it is cold, I have a bad day, I am sad, I have blood. This is normal for me." And she understood.

And sometimes you just say things weird, but it's better than not saying it. One time, I was stuck in a narrow hallway behind someone walking really slowly with a walker, and he apologised for being in the way. I was not in any hurry, but didn't know the spanish word for "hurry", but I did know enough words to try to circumvent it by borrowing the english "I have all the time in the world."

The man burst into one of those cackling old man laughters that they do when something in this world still manages to surprise them. He had to be somewhere between 70 and a 100 years old, and I guess if there was one thing he wasn't expecting to hear today, it would be a random blond vaguely baltic-looking fuck casually announce that he is the sole owner and keeper of the very concept of time.

[hexenmond]

Reblog this post to cast Crumb of Serotonin on whoever you reblogged it from

[hexenmond]

This dad wins Halloween! 🎃💀

[hexenmond]

THE LAST UNICORN 1982, dir. Arthur Rankin Jr. and Jules Bass

[hexenmond]

For my non-German mutuals wondering wtf is happening in the Bundesrepublik of Beer and Bread, here is an overview over the clown show so far:

Nov 6 - chancellor Olaf Scholz fires minister of finances Christian Lindner (FDP) for being an incompetent little bitch and drags him on live TV, resulting in a government crisis as the three party coalition (named Ampel aka "Traffic Light"), which is ruling the country at the moment, falls apart.

Scholz also calls for a vote of confidence on January 15th which (if lost) will lead to the Bundestag being dissolved, triggering snap elections in March. This sends everyone into a panic because the ultra right-wing AfD (with Best Of hits such as "Russia is sexy.", "We should criminalize abortions and force every woman to have more babies instead of rights." and "Deport all immigrants and traitors." and the inofficial ones such as "Why don't we just kill everyone we don't like, let's start with the queers.") has been gaining support for a while (because MAGA has no monopoly on racism, sexism, hate and overall stupidity) and no one with an ounce of empathy or a triple digit IQ likes that very much and is thus worried they might actually make it into a new coalition.

Nov 7 - minister for justice Marco Buschmann is heartbroken over the Ampel-Aus and resigns.

Volker Wissing (FDP), minister for transport, commits the funniest anime betrayal and backstabs his party in order to keep his job, leaves the FDP but gets promoted to minister of justice as a little treat. The memes skyrocket.

Bettina Stark-Watzinger, minister of education and research, resigns along with Buschmann and gets replaced by Cem Özdemir (current minister for food and agriculture) because agriculture - education - at the end of the day where's the difference, right?

Federal President Steinmeier hands Christian Lindner his official participation certificate in an awkward ceremony at castle Bellevue. This is broadcast live on television so everyone can be sure that the little bitch is really leaving.

Friedrich Merz (CDU) threatens the nation with the promise that if he (Merz) becomes chancellor, he will let Lindner back into the government so they can keep fucking up the country's budget together. Bffs.

Nov 8 - after backstabbing the FDP Wissing's website gets hacked in retaliation to display FDP ads.

Meanwhile concerns are being voiced that snap elections in March might be way too early due to a lack of paper.

Robert Habeck (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen), vice chancellor and minister for economic affairs and climate action, announces that he will be running for the position of chancellor with a social media post that shows him wearing a Swiftie bracelet which spells "Kanzler-Era" (chancellor-era). This sends Gundolf Siebeke from the super conservative CDU spiralling.

Nov 9 - Siebeke fires off a tweet stating that if Habeck becomes chancellor that would of course be totally the fault of women alone (who are all too emotional to make rational decisions) and Germany should "inofficially" consider revoking women's right to vote and officially implement "antiemotional" history lessons in school, earning him a massive shitstorm (completely deserved). Siebeke deletes the tweet.

Nov 10 - previous minister of justice Marco Buschmann processes his grief over the end of the traffic light coalition by composing and uploading a song to Soundcloud (feat. Gregorian chants) which is not exactly a banger but is admittedly still better than 99% of Germany's entries in the ESC these past few years.

Siebeke is still on his misogynistic bs and makes another incoherent and sexist tweet, this time yapping about queens and Christianity while trying to paint himself as the misunderstood victim.

There are sadly no more Volker Wissing memes.

Nov 12 - everyone has agreed to move the elections from March to the end of February because paper is no longer an issue, I guess? However, now everyone is unhappy because the date clashes with the carnival. No joke.

Siebeke changes the banner on his Twitter profile to read "Frauen. Wahl. Recht. Der 19. Januar 1919" / "Women. Right (to). Vote. January 19th 1919" in a pathetic attempt to show how much he actually (not) respects women while at the same time claiming in his Twitter bio that "only conservatism can secure democracy, freedom, rule of law, equality, climate and culture". No comment.

Nov 13 - 113 members of parliament have officially called for the Bundestag to open the long overdue investigation in order to finally ban the AfD.

It has been the longest week in the history of the Bundesrepublik. Everyone needs a fucking break.

To be continued

[hexenmond]

For my non-German mutuals wondering wtf is happening in the Bundesrepublik of Beer and Bread, here is an overview over the clown show so far:

Nov 6 - chancellor Olaf Scholz fires minister of finances Christian Lindner (FDP) for being an incompetent little bitch and drags him on live TV, resulting in a government crisis as the three party coalition (named Ampel aka "Traffic Light"), which is ruling the country at the moment, falls apart.

Scholz also calls for a vote of confidence on January 15th which (if lost) will lead to the Bundestag being dissolved, triggering snap elections in March. This sends everyone into a panic because the ultra right-wing AfD (with Best Of hits such as "Russia is sexy.", "We should criminalize abortions and force every woman to have more babies instead of rights." and "Deport all immigrants and traitors." and the inofficial ones such as "Why don't we just kill everyone we don't like, let's start with the queers.") has been gaining support for a while (because MAGA has no monopoly on racism, sexism, hate and overall stupidity) and no one with an ounce of empathy or a triple digit IQ likes that very much and is thus worried they might actually make it into a new coalition.

Nov 7 - minister for justice Marco Buschmann is heartbroken over the Ampel-Aus and resigns.

Volker Wissing (FDP), minister for transport, commits the funniest anime betrayal and backstabs his party in order to keep his job, leaves the FDP but gets promoted to minister of justice as a little treat. The memes skyrocket.

Bettina Stark-Watzinger, minister of education and research, resigns along with Buschmann and gets replaced by Cem Özdemir (current minister for food and agriculture) because agriculture - education - at the end of the day where's the difference, right?

Federal President Steinmeier hands Christian Lindner his official participation certificate in an awkward ceremony at castle Bellevue. This is broadcast live on television so everyone can be sure that the little bitch is really leaving.

Friedrich Merz (CDU) threatens the nation with the promise that if he (Merz) becomes chancellor, he will let Lindner back into the government so they can keep fucking up the country's budget together. Bffs.

Nov 8 - after backstabbing the FDP Wissing's website gets hacked in retaliation to display FDP ads.

Meanwhile concerns are being voiced that snap elections in March might be way too early due to a lack of paper.

Robert Habeck (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen), vice chancellor and minister for economic affairs and climate action, announces that he will be running for the position of chancellor with a social media post that shows him wearing a Swiftie bracelet which spells "Kanzler-Era" (chancellor-era). This sends Gundolf Siebeke from the super conservative CDU spiralling.

Nov 9 - Siebeke fires off a tweet stating that if Habeck becomes chancellor that would of course be totally the fault of women alone (who are all too emotional to make rational decisions) and Germany should "inofficially" consider revoking women's right to vote and officially implement "antiemotional" history lessons in school, earning him a massive shitstorm (completely deserved). Siebeke deletes the tweet.

Nov 10 - previous minister of justice Marco Buschmann processes his grief over the end of the traffic light coalition by composing and uploading a song to Soundcloud (feat. Gregorian chants) which is not exactly a banger but is admittedly still better than 99% of Germany's entries in the ESC these past few years.

Siebeke is still on his misogynistic bs and makes another incoherent and sexist tweet, this time yapping about queens and Christianity while trying to paint himself as the misunderstood victim.

There are sadly no more Volker Wissing memes.

Nov 12 - everyone has agreed to move the elections from March to the end of February because paper is no longer an issue, I guess? However, now everyone is unhappy because the date clashes with the carnival. No joke.

Siebeke changes the banner on his Twitter profile to read "Frauen. Wahl. Recht. Der 19. Januar 1919" / "Women. Right (to). Vote. January 19th 1919" in a pathetic attempt to show how much he actually (not) respects women while at the same time claiming in his Twitter bio that "only conservatism can secure democracy, freedom, rule of law, equality, climate and culture". No comment.

Nov 13 - 113 members of parliament have officially called for the Bundestag to open the long overdue investigation in order to finally ban the AfD.

It has been the longest week in the history of the Bundesrepublik. Everyone needs a fucking break.

To be continued

[hexenmond]

Additional Dreamling hanahaki AU idea, which I am fond of enough to make its own post:

Hob fell hard for Dream in 1489, and unfortunately immediately got hanahaki about it. Fortunately, it's a weirdly manageable level of hanahaki. Like, the immortality bit definitely helps, but it progresses much slower than your average case of hanahaki, and it seems to reset, or at least get markedly better, every time he sees Dream.

He still never gets a chance to tell Dream about it. In 1589 he's got a five-step 'Impress him. Have a conversation with him that isn't about immortality. Flirt a little. Use whatever information I get to figure out if I can seduce him. Go from there.' plan that just immediately goes to shit. It's the least of his worries in 1689, in 1789 he doesn't have the chance, and in 1889 he attempts to reach out again (less a calculated 'sweep him off his feet' this time and more a 'hey, we're friends, do you ever see the possibility of us being something more?') and of course Dream balks at the friends part and that goes to hell.

An then 1989 rolls around, Dream doesn't show up, and the once-a-century reset button Hob had been depending on just. Doesn't happen.

He's in bad shape when Dream finally shows up thirty-odd years later.

Eventually Dream gets the whole story out of him (it takes a bit- Hob is afraid of scaring him off again, and once Dream tells Hob why he missed their meeting, Hob's got the additional worry of 'how to explain without making him feel even worse about being imprisoned for over a century').

And once Dream does get the explanation, he immediately connects the dots incorrectly: hanahaki is born of unrequited love, and Hob always seems to recover from his case whenever he sees Dream. This of course means that being subjected to the full force of Dream's unloveable terrible self is causing Hob's feelings for Dream to wane. So he decides to meet up with Hob more often (but not too often, he wants Hob to still want to be his friend, even if those romantic feelings fade).

Cue a horrific misunderstanding. The facts of the situation are that A: Dream is slowly falling in love with Hob. He'd been nursing a tiny little potential crush for centuries, hence their meetings giving Hob that little reprieve, but he only starts actually falling for him when they start spending time together. This means that B: Hob is recovering. It also means that C: Hob's feelings are getting exponentially, monumentally worse by virtue of having his crush nearby so often, and occasionally looking at Hob as though he could possibly feel the same way.

Dream, only aware of points A and B, has confirmed his suspicion that he's horrible and unlovable and his presence has caused Hob to stop loving him. (And like. Yes. The other conclusion, that Hob's recovering because his feelings are requited, is, in fact, right there. Dream is far too primed to believe himself unlovable to make that leap.) He's also having a Real Bad Time emotionally because he's DEVASTATED that Hob doesn't love him anymore and also just. So, so glad to see Hob healthy. The Dreaming is experiencing freak thunderstorms midway through, and occasionally at the same time as, perfect sunny days.

Hob, only aware of points B and C, is confused. He's still in love, so that can't be what's caused his recovery, and Dream hasn't mentioned returning Hob's feelings, so clearly that can't be it either. Dream's some sort of eldritch god-being, it makes as much sense as anything that he can somehow suppress hanahaki. And Hob can live with that, he's perfectly happy with Dream as his friend. (Honestly he's probably three quarters of the way to figuring it out, if nothing else Dream keeps bringing him gifts and it's beginning to make him suspicious, but he just... doesn't think Dream would withhold that information when he knows Hob's unrequited love was factually killing him.)

Thus follows months of mutual pining. They're essentially living together, at least from Hob's perspective- Dream meets him after work, unless he has some other plans, and sticks around until he falls asleep. He's not there when Hob wakes up, but it's overall absurdly similar to living with a partner who works early mornings. Hob is also Having Some Feelings about this.

Thing is, though, they're getting closer (despite the fact that Hob is clearly falling out of love with Dream), and Dream ends up eventually explaining who/what he is.

And then-

"Oh," Hob says. "Is that how you're doing this?"

"Doing what?" Dream asks, nonplussed. They're in the Waking world, at a table in the back corner of the New Inn. Dream isn't doing much besides keeping a curious eye on one of the bartenders' daydreams of social media stardom, and even then, he's not sure how Hob would know that.

"No," Hob says, his voice low. "How you cured me. I've been dreaming of a cure for centuries, did you make that come true, somehow?"

A rush of hurt and anger nearly overpowers Dream, but Hob's looking at him with such genuine, earnest curiosity, a touch of admiration, and he realizes the truth. Hob wouldn't be the first person to fall out of love with Dream and fail to realize it, continuing to go through the motions until every trace of affection for Dream was destroyed.

He isn't sure if it's for his own sake or for Hob's that he says, "Have you considered that there may be an ordinary cause for your recovery?" and waits for the sword to fall.

"Oh," Hob whispers. Dream watches as the realization dawns on his face, only- he doesn't look disgusted, or angry, or disappointed. There's relief there, yes, which Dream had expected. He hadn't excepted joy, but there it is, the same all-encompassing happiness he sees every time he asks Hob what he thinks of his immortality.

Dream should not resent this. Loving him has only caused Hob pain, he should not resent that it is a joy for him to be freed. Still, it takes all his strength to keep the storm that is currently drenching the Dreaming from manifesting in his physical form.

He must not succeed, because Hob's expression is slowly shuttered by worry. "You're sure?" he asks, quietly.

Even when Dream had found him all those months ago, flowers clogging his lungs, unable to seek help for fear of what his fellow humans might do to him, he had not looked this fragile.

"I am Dream," he admits, staring at Hob's hand where it rests next to his on the table. As though it could make this any easier if he refuses to look at Hob's face. "It is not within my power to cure you in the Waking."

Silence. Far too much silence; if there is one thing Hob should not be, it is silent.

Hob's hand reaches out to cover Dream's, gentle as snow covering a corpse.

"Oh, love," he says, his voice just as gentle, "You did."

In a sense, yes, he had, by proving to Hob that he was not a creature to be loved. But if that were true, then why-

"I should have said something," Hob says. "Weeks ago, I should have-" He cuts himself off and squeezes Dream's hand, sending a shock of hope through Dream; he's discovered that the person he'd thought to be dead in the snow is still breathing. And Hob's hand is warm, a hearthfire when he'd lingered so long in the cold.

"Dream," Hob says, as solemn as Dream has ever heard him, "I have never stopped loving you."

He says it with the same certainty he'd told Dream, centuries ago, that he had too much to live for, and once again Dream can only stare at him in awe. There are very few things that a creature such as Dream might consider a miracle, but Hob, he thinks, is one of them. Perhaps one day he will find the words to tell him so.

For now, he threads his fingers with Hob's.

(and then they very slowly and cautiously start up a romantic relationship, Dream very worried that Hob will stop loving him and Hob very worried that Dream will get scared and leave, each of them trying to gently reassure the other that no I love you I'll stay as long as you want me. and eventually they both realize that they're on the same page there, and 'as long as you want me' is 'forever')

[hexenmond]

Are glasses (the type you wear on your face to correct your eyesight) in your native language a plural or singular?

In my native language (dutch) we say it's one item, it's called "bril" and it's singular. English says "glasses", and it's plural. I hope i made it clear.

I think the difference is that english refers to the actual two glasses in there, and dutch refers to the one object as a whole. And I'm curious about other languages!

Poll options:

- my native language is english, so it's plural

- native language is not English, but it's still plural

- native language is not english or dutch, and its singular

- my native language is dutch, so it's singular!

[hexenmond]

[hexenmond]

The Witch Door chapter 14 cover

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when everything else falls... one more page, and this chapter is done!

[hexenmond]

Hello, I have a Payneland prompt for you ❤️ Edwin, post-confession, slowly starts allowing himself more freedom to explore new ways he might be inclined to show Charles affection, confident that Charles wouldn’t begrudge him this and in fact has always seemed to enjoy his attention. Dealer’s choice on how Charles reacts to these developments! They are just so important to me 🥰

Thank you, as always, for all the fluff. You’re a joy to us all!

Yesssss. I set these boys aside for a bit to do Dreamling Bingo but I am SO excited to pick them back up again :D

—

“Charles,” Edwin begins, waiting his customary fraction of a second for all of Charles’ attention to be focused on him. “I think we ought to take a break today.”

Charles’ eyebrow rises in a shapely arch. “You feeling all right, mate?” he asks, though the twitch of his lips suggests his question is not entirely in earnest. “Only I’ve known you thirty-five years and I don’t think you’ve ever suggested taking a break before.”

Edwin purses his lips. Surely he has. He must have. It has been thirty-five years.

The sparkle in Charles’ eyes gives away that he’s teasing.

“Well, if you’d rather not—”

Charles straightens up on the sofa and sets aside the book he hadn’t been reading. He holds his hands up in surrender. “I never said I didn’t want to,” he says. “What did you have in mind for this… micro sabbatical?”

“A walk,” Edwin says. He says it too quickly, too sharply. Too nervously. Charles will notice. Charles will notice and he’ll ask in earnest if there’s something wrong, and it really isn’t that anything is wrong, it’s only—

“Works for me,” Charles says, bounding off the sofa. “Do I need a coat?”

“You’re a ghost,” Edwin says, stunned by his good fortune in hiding his nervousness. Now that he has gotten away with it, the feeling seems ridiculous. Why should he be nervous of directly asking to spend time with Charles in a non-work capacity? They’ve been keeping each other company, as Charles had observed, for over three decades.

All the same, that was before. And Edwin has never asked so much as they’ve… fallen in together. He’s never asked Charles for anything. Not, at least, for himself.

Charles grins at him. “Lead the way, then,” he says, gesturing for the door.

Within the space of just a few minutes, they step into the nearest park. Families with small children mill about, courting couples sit under the shelter of broad-canopied oaks, a lone figure sits tossing crumbs to the pigeons.

Edwin, steeling himself, offers Charles his elbow.

Charles reaches for it with as little hesitation as he had agreed to this outing, as quickly as he had turned his attention to Edwin at the barest hint it was wanted.

“How am I meant to…?” he hesitates, hand nearly touching Edwin’s arm, hovering uncertainly a hair’s breadth away.

Edwin, emboldened, curls Charles’ arm into the crook of his elbow. He glances up to check Charles’ response, and finds him smiling down at the new point of contact.

“Always wanted to do this,” Charles enthuses. “Holmes and Watson always did.”

“I suppose they did,” Edwin agrees. It is just as well he no longer has a physical heart, or it would currently be beating so loudly as to deafen both of them.

As it is, they go back to walking without incident, arm in arm.

—

“Let me,” Edwin interrupts Charles’ frustrated fumbling, and finds himself on the receiving end of a look both pleading and hopeful as Charles’ hands drop away from the bow tie he has been in combat with for some minutes, and he turns away from the mirror.

They are undercover tonight, at a supernatural gala ball. Undercover is perhaps overstating the situation—they have been invited to attend in their own persons, but to secret purposes. As far as most of the other guests are concerned, they are simply friends of the host—rather than being hired consulting detectives.

In any case, the dress code is formal. Charles is so unfamiliar with evening wear of the kind that he cannot even imagine himself into it without difficulty.

His shoulders, which had been creeping inch by inch towards his ears, drop the moment Edwin takes over the task for him. He glances at Edwin through long, dark lashes, a hint of a smile playing around his lips.

“Knew you’d come to my rescue,” he says. “Did you really have to do this? When you were alive?”

“Seldom,” Edwin says. “But yes, sometimes.”

Charles wrinkles his nose. “Too much like hard work.”

Edwin gives the tie one last tug, resisting the temptation to allow his hands to linger any further. “You might think otherwise when you see the effect,” he says, gently turning Charles back towards the mirror.

Charles laughs at his reflection. “S’pose I scrub up all right,” he says. “Doesn’t look half as good on me as it does on you, though.”

Edwin masters the reflex to blush at the last possible instant, fixing his gaze on the mirror instead.

“You look very handsome,” he says softly.

Charles breaks into a grin that makes his eyes crinkle. “You too, mate.”

—

Despite their host’s gravest fears, the ball has, so far, been thoroughly uneventful. Charles has reported nothing worth investigating, and Edwin has detected no suspicious magical traces—although in a room full of supernatural creatures of varying sorts, he cannot be entirely sure of the validity of his results.

For now, having exhausted their investigative avenues, they find themselves at a loss for anything to do but watch the proceedings from the sides. Charles leans against the drinks table, eyes following the dancing couples on the floor. Absorbed in the display and unselfconscious, dressed for the occasion, he looks altogether even more out of time than usual. He really is very handsome.

Edwin clears his throat, and Charles’ gaze swings instantly to him. The small, content smile on his face breaks into something much broader and warmer instantly.

“Seen anything worth mentioning?” Charles asks.

“Nothing new to report,” he says, glancing in the direction of the dance floor. Charles follows his gaze, then turns back to him, head tilted in silent inquiry.

Edwin clears his throat again. “I wondered if perhaps… that is, as we’re here, as we’re meant to be keeping an eye on things… would you care to dance?”

Charles’ smile returns with, if anything, even greater force than before. “Do you know how?”

Edwin blinks at him. “Of course.”

“Great, ‘cause you’ll have to show me,” Charles says, pushing away from the table and looking at Edwin expectantly.

Edwin, slightly dazed, eventually realises he ought to offer his hand. “Shall we?”

Charles takes it, eager but nevertheless gentle, and allows himself to be led to the floor. “It might be simplest if you follow my lead?”

Charles shrugs. “When do I not?”

Once again grateful for the lack of a physical heart, Edwin arranges their arms, placing Charles’ hand on his shoulder and his own, after only a moment’s hesitation, on Charles’ waist. Charles takes this with excellent grace, and after a few awkward, halting steps, begins to get the hang of the thing.

“You’re good at this,” he says, surprised and delighted.

“I was taught to do it,” Edwin says. “I’m surprised I remember.”

“Muscle memory, innit? Like how I remember how to throw a punch.”

“That has come up rather more often than the need to dance,” Edwin points out.

Charles shrugs again. “Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe we ought to do this more often.”

Edwin opens his mouth, unsure what he means to say. Before he can decide, however, the air is split by a blood-curdling scream.

—

“Hold still,” Edwin orders, harsher than he means to. They are safe in their office, warded against any further harm, but his nerves have not yet absorbed this safety in the face of Charles’ injury.

Their host had been wrong about the danger potentially posed by unknown foes. It had been much worse. They’d been lucky to escape with their existences intact.

“It’ll heal by itself,” Charles objects. “You don’t need to fuss.”

“I do,” Edwin says, voice shaking. “I need to fuss because I was afraid and if you don’t let me take care of you I may combust.”

The look in Charles’ eyes softens, and he straightens up and holds perfectly, preternaturally still, as only someone who can halt the facsimile of breathing might. Edwin takes a deep breath of his own, and reaches out again to apply the salve the Night Nurse—who had insisted, despite her title, that she was not that sort of nurse—had provided him with for the deep, ugly gash through Charles’ eyebrow.

It would heal by itself, once Charles’ temporary partial corporeality abated. That is not, for Edwin, soon enough.

“Thank you,” he says, smoothing salve over Charles’ torn skin with his thumb. He has taken on the pallor and the bruising of his dying self, the deep dark circles under his eyes that had heralded his imminent death, and it is all Edwin can do not to panic. He will be all right. He will be.

Charles hums softly as Edwin applies more salve than is possibly necessary or indeed useful, closing his eyes. As Edwin fusses—yes, he is fussing—Charles leans minutely into his touch like a cat demanding to be petted.

Tentatively, Edwin wills the salve off his fingers and touches them to Charles’ hair. This earns him a soft grunt, and more leaning.

His own breath held, he slides the tips of his fingers along Charles’ scalp, carding through his hair with infinite care, wary of becoming tangled in it and causing him more pain. A slow smile spreads over Charles’ lips, and he hums again.

“If this is the treatment I’m getting these days, I’ll have to get injured more often,” he says.

“You will do no such thing,” Edwin objects.

Charles cracks one eye open, breaking into a lopsided grin.

“If you wish me to pet your hair in future,” Edwin says, “you need only ask.”

“Careful, mate. I’ll hold you to that.”

Edwin rather hopes he will.

—

The case takes them, ultimately, to the rundown part of Highgate Cemetery which the public are no longer permitted to visit, watching someone dig up a grave.

Beside Edwin, Charles shudders. Edwin looks at him, frowning. There is frost on the ground, but he can’t possibly feel the cold.

“Freaks me out,” Charles says. “Graveyards.”

Edwin’s brows rise towards his hairline. “Charles,” he says. “You are a ghost.”

“Not the only things in graveyards though, are we? That’s a ghoul,” he says, nodding to the hunched figure still digging. They are obliged to wait until the digging is finished, since they too need access to this grave and would struggle to hold a shovel. Crystal had declined to help. Even Edwin finds it difficult to fault her in this.

“You’re not scared, are you?” Edwin asks. He struggles to imagine Charles being afraid of anything, let alone something as harmless to him as a ghoul.

“Freaks me out,” Charles repeats, petulant this time. “Sorry we can’t all be as brave as you.”

“Charles,” Edwin begins, meaning to placate him. The sound of a shovel breaking through rotten wood stops him.

Charles takes a deep breath, straightening. This part of the plan has already been discussed—he will distract the ghoul, Edwin will bind it, they will interrogate it at leisure, search the grave themselves, solve their client’s problem, and consider all of this a job well done.

“Wish me luck?” he asks, glancing over nervously.

Edwin reaches out to grasp his hand, squeezing it tight. Then, with a surge of confidence—Charles has accepted every other show of affection with enthusiasm thus far—darts forwards and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Good luck,” he says, squeezing Charles’ hand once more before letting it go.

Charles takes a deep breath, shaking himself, and squares his shoulders to face his foe.

It might be Edwin’s imagination—and it is quite dark—but he thinks he detects a hint of a flush to Charles’ cheeks.

—

When the Night Nurse checks on her two charges at first light, she finds them tangled together on the sofa, cuddling like exhausted kittens.

She decides to leave them be.

—

The sound of a waltz rising from the record player in the corner of the room makes Edwin look up from his work. He finds Charles standing before it, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet.

Edwin raises an enquiring brow.

Charles shrugs. “Said we should do this more often, yeah?”

“I suppose you did,” Edwin says.

Charles moves to the middle of the office floor, holding out a hand in invitation. After a moment’s processing, Edwin rises, and moves to take it.

Charles takes his other hand, and moves it to his shoulder.

“Let me lead this time, yeah?”

Edwin, still dazed, nods. He is unaccustomed to following, but Charles will not judge him harshly.

Charles, in fact, proves to have been such a quick study that following him is no difficulty at all.

“Got some practice in,” Charles confides with a grin. “Her nibs knows how to bust a move.”

Edwin’s imagination, rich and fertile as he prides himself on it being, cannot quite manage to form a picture of the Night Nurse waltzing, with Charles or anyone else. Possibly because he’s still processing the knowledge that Charles has made a point of finding dance instruction.

For this. So he could dance with Edwin, alone in their office, for no reason at all. Except, perhaps, that he wanted to.

This complex series of emotions must show on Edwin’s face, because Charles laughs.

“We should be dancing at least as often as throwing punches,” he says. “Right?”

Edwin nods. He does not necessarily follow the logic, but agrees with the sentiment.

Charles’ smile softens. “Good. Could get into this.”

Edwin meets Charles’ warm, glittering gaze, helpless. He’s still as in love with Charles as he has been for the past thirty-odd years.

Since he first saw him. What purpose is there in pretending otherwise?

Charles twirls him around—an unorthodox step, but then Charles is not prone to orthodoxy at even the most crucial moments—and laughs as they fall back to the standard waltz.

“Could really get into this,” he says, catching Edwin’s eyes. For three steps, four, five, they stare at each other.

Then Charles leans in, and brushes a kiss over Edwin’s lips.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, so close their noses are still touching. “I’ll die.”

“You’re already dead,” Edwin says. He would like to say a thousand other things, but Charles has always had a way of thoroughly distracting him.

Charles grins. “Could probably risk doing that again, then,” he says.

And he does.

[hexenmond]

Tough decision, but "I will hang on (until I can't anymore)" with Dreamling? (Soccer au maybe? 🥺)

🤘five-and-dimes

Shooting for the Sky

Hey my lovely @five-and-dimes! Thank you for the prompt, I had a great time writing this! I hope you don't mind some humour sprinkled in between the usual angst and fluff, the idea suddenly grew wings and took flight and I had zero control over it.

Morpheus is regretting every single decision he has ever made in his tragically short life that led him up to this moment. If only he wasn't at fault for a hundred percent of them, from starting to kick a ball around with Olethros at age ten, to signing his first professional contract and later joining the Fiddlers. 

This blasted team of absolute nutters. 

Team building, Hob has said with a smile and a glint in his eyes that Morpheus hasn't quite been able to place. Now he knows it to be unbridled insanity mixed with a healthy dose of sadism, joy granted by witnessing his best friend's early demise due to the heart attack he would surely suffer in the next few moments. 

Morpheus has heard about team building exercises where a team went to play minigolf or drove around with go-carts or some other safe and ordinary and fun experience. But of course his band of suicidal idiots would go skydiving for such an event. And of course they have all done this before, since they have zero sense for self-preservation and do not care about their personal well-being at all. 

Those words out of his mouth have only caused the other men to burst into laughter when he said them. 

So now he is here. ‘Here’ being an aeroplane about a kilometre above sweet British grounds, strapped like a toddler to Hob Gadling's chest. Apparently you do not jump on your own the first time you skydive, which has never been a thing Morpheus gave much thought to, since he never expected to find himself in this situation. 

But he has done a lot of things he didn't expect himself to do since he has met Hob. Wonderful, amazing Hob, who is currently resting his chin on Morpheus’ shoulder so he can look out the window while Morpheus himself is trying his hardest not to hyperventilate. 

The team would never let him forget it if he had a panic attack over skydiving. Their serious support ends with the after-effects of abuse, everything else will become part of the Terrific Team Tales (what an awful name), which they recap at least once a year on pub night, specifically to torture the other members with embarrassing stories of the past. 

It is a horrifying tradition. Truly grotesque. 

Morpheus will not give them more material by panicking. 

So, instead, he concentrates on Hob. 

Hob, who stands pressed to his back, head to calf, lending to him the warmth Morpheus so rarely feels on his own. Hob, who's scent envelops Morpheus like a hug of comfort and safety, calming him like few other things could these days. And Hob, who's midsection is pressed directly to Morpheus’ backside. Will be pressed to his backside for the whole dive. Together, in the air, putting his life in Hob Gadling's hands. 

Oh dear.

Perhaps the panic attack is the better option after all. These thoughts will only lead him to a single outcome, and he's absolutely not going to face this conversation after falling a whole kilometre out of an aeroplane. Absolutely not. 

Just as Morpheus is about to force his thoughts back onto the ridiculous ideas of his teammates, the voice of the pilot sounds over their headsets.

“We reached the final height for the jump! The door will be opened as soon as we hit the agreed upon coordinates. Have a good way down, gentlemen!” 

Cheers ring out around Morpheus, and ten men, Hob included, jump up and down with barely concealed excitement. Hob's jumping jostles him where he stands, and Morpheus barely catches himself before he would have crashed backwards into Hob. 

“Someone's excited,” he comments with a wry smile, which only turns softer when he looks over his shoulder to see Hob's bright eyes, shining with joy.

“I get to share one of my favourite activities with my favourite person, of course I'm excited!” 

Morpheus softens even further at that answer, Hob’s affection as always so easy to grasp. 

“Ugh, find a private channel to flirt on with your man, Hobert!” Sounds Corin's voice over their headset, and Morpheus can't help but chuckle at how he and Hob stick their tongues out at each other. 

“Ten bucks that I’ll land first!” calls Abel into the round, which Cain immediately meets with “Twenty bucks that you’re full of shit!”

“Fifty that you’ll both be last,” Mervyn murmurs, and the rest of the team laughs at their bickering, as they always do. 

Cain and Abel, the other brothers in the team, have a sort of love-hate relationship going on. Half of the time Morpheus is a bit worried they might kill each other with their antics, but in the end they would never seriously hurt each other. Though if it does happen one day, Morpheus believes the murdered brother would come back to life just so that they might continue their bickering. Mervyn likes to pretend that he doesn't find it hilarious. 

Behind Cain and Abel the door of the aircraft suddenly opens, the wind suddenly overpowering every thought Morpheus might have had. He couldn't look outside, as there were about nine burly football players between Hob and him and the door. But even just the coldness of the air against his face, unnatural in comparison to the cold he has felt so far down on safe ground, wipes his mind clean of coherent thought. 

“Ready?” Hob says, so close to his ear that Morpheus feels his breath on his cheek, clearly to avoid speaking over the open channel. It makes him shiver, but the cold covers the real reason just fine. 

“Absolutely not,” he replies as loud as he dares, while making grabby hands towards Hob's arm to hold onto. The other man complies immediately, and Morpheus digs his fingers deep into Hob's biceps. “But I'll be fine as long as you're there.” 

“If you change your mind, say the word, yeah? We don't have to jump.” 

“Kollité, I would do a lot of things to see you happy. Including jumping out of a plane with only a piece of cloth strapped to my back, like some crazy person.” 

Hob looks increasingly fond the longer Morpheus talks, and eventually he smacks a loud kiss to his cheek, and then another to his forehead and his nose and wherever he can reach from behind Morpheus’ back. It's silly and adorable and so Morpheus laughs, free from the fear of judgement he once had. 

“I like my men a little crazy.” Hob murmurs into his ear then, and Morpheus thinks he might choke on the thin and cold air. 

“Let's go boys!” Corin then calls over their headsets, which suddenly brings movement into the aeroplane. One after another, the Fiddlers jump out of the open door, some head-first, others (Ken) do a flip into nothingness. And all too soon, Hob and Morpheus are the only ones left on the plane. 

“Run. Makes it easier to jump,” Hob calls over the noise. 

Screw it, what is there to lose (except his life, the part of his brain that is not yet totally beyond salvation provides) anyway?

Together, he and Hob run the ten steps towards the door of the aircraft and jump. 

Morpheus regrets it almost immediately. 

Upon falling, his stomach swoops and turns in the most uncomfortable manner possible and when he looks down he sees certain death rushing at him. His heart pounds in his ears and he's pretty sure he doesn't breathe for at least a full minute with how light headed he feels as he finally sucks in his first breath. 

But then broad arms snake around his chest, impossibly warm hands are splayed across his ribs, and Morpheus feels himself melt against Hob. He trusts this man, quite literally with his life, proven as of this moment. After all, Hob is the one that has the parachute strapped to his back and he is also the one who knows how to work it. Morpheus thinks (hopes) that in an emergency he would remember the instructions Hob gave him a few hours ago and pull the right flap, but he prays it won't come to that.

He would much rather enjoy Hob's warmth against his back, the arms that hold him and not open his eyes again until they're on the ground once more. 

“Just hold onto me, love.” Hob whispers into his ear and Morpheus can’t help but snort. 

“Oh I’ll hang on, alright? Don’t think I will let you go though, once we’re on the ground.”

A chuckle, right beside his ear, and Morpheus simply closes his eyes and concentrates on Hob’s warmth, the wind on his face and the adrenaline rushing through his body. After that first moment of falling, the tingling in his stomach almost turns into a pleasant sensation and he feels like every breath fills his lungs up way past the limit. He could run a marathon right now without breaking a sweat, the amount of energy coursing through his veins is just perfect. 

Slowly he starts to understand why the other men were so excited for this team-building activity. 

Adrenaline-junkies, the lot of them. 

Morpheus opens his eyes next when they are suddenly jolted into a slower fall. As he looks upwards he sees the bright green parachute with the Fiddlers’ club crest in the middle that Hob has shown him during their preparation for the jump. Since this is a team building exercise, naturally all gear is sponsored by the club and usually Morpheus would find this incredibly tacky. But looking upon the crest of the Fiddlers only fills him with a sense of pride, to be using or wearing anything sponsored by this team is simply amazing. 

He’s proud of who he works for, who he’s representing, and the thought is so sudden Morpheus feels tears sting in his eyes. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hob’s voice sounds next to his right ear and Morpheus has to blink a few times before he can see clearly what Hob is referring to. But once he does he lets out a small gasp of surprise. The sun is setting on the far horizon and a few clouds break her light just so that reds and purples and pinks colour the sky around them like the most stunning of watercolour paintings. 

“Oh,” he whispers as the tears suddenly spill over, his throat closed off with emotions he can't quite name. It really is beautiful. The sky, the view, the man behind him. His life, really. He's grateful for so many things in that moment, but he manages to voice one thing.

“Thank you, Hob. For taking me along. And being patient with me.” 

“Anytime, lovey. Anytime.”

[hexenmond]

(also on Ao3)

It’d all started simply enough.

“My wife would like you to make love to her. I would like to watch.”

Hob, being a simple man easily swayed by the promise of sex with a beautiful woman he was halfway in love with anyway, had agreed.

So for the past six months, he’s been over at the Endless household nearly every week, on a Friday or Saturday unless either they or he couldn’t manage it for other reasons. At first it’d really just been sex—fine by him, Calliope was beautiful and sweet and good-humoured and thoroughly into the whole thing, and Dream had lounged in a big velvet armchair facing the bed and watching. Hob had learned what they both liked, and done more of that, and as far as he was concerned everyone ended the night very happily. 

He certainly had, going away and teasing himself to the thought of his two beautiful hosts excited to be alone together once he was gone. Imagining Dream tasting him on his wife’s gorgeous skin, smelling him in her hair, and getting off on it—which he presumably did, because they kept inviting Hob back. A handful of weeks in, they’d invited him for dinner and made a very pleasant evening out of it, so they’d kept doing that, too, before retiring to the bedroom.

Dream was so quiet that Hob got the feeling he was meant to forget he was there, but he never quite did. Not even while he was staring into Calliope’s eyes, or buried nose-deep between her thighs. He couldn’t have forgotten, not with Dream’s gaze laying over him like a weighted blanket the entire time.

Now, the whole ritual ends with the two of them sitting on a retaining wall in the tiny back garden, illuminated by the lights in the kitchen while a thoroughly sated Calliope naps upstairs. Dream offers Hob a beer, as usual, and pretends to drink one of his own, and they sit together, mostly quiet, talking about nothing important if they do talk at all.

The thing Hob has noticed is this—every week, Dream sits a little closer, a little longer. At first he’d thought he was imagining it, but their hands have just brushed together as Hob shifted his, and that’s never happened before.

The way Dream’s breath hitches has never happened before.

A tiny smile tugs at Hob’s lips, even as a tender little frond of affection unfurls under his ribs. This is unbearably sweet, actually. He laughs.

“Are you going to ask?” Hob asks. “Or do you want me to?”

Dream shifts minutely next to him.

“It’s okay,” Hob says. “I’ll do it.”

Dream’s breath hitches again as their fingers brush together.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Dream’s pretty pink lips fall apart. Even in the low light, his cheeks glow like a beacon.

He clears his throat, and looks down at where their pinky fingers are still touching.

“I was rather hoping you might...?”

“Oh!” Hob says. “Well, we can do that, then.”

Dream turns to stare at him, mouth falling further open. Hob shrugs.

“I like you, and I think you’d be even more gorgeous than usual squirming and whimpering for me.”

“Oh,” Dream says. “I believe Calliope likes it when I do that, yes.”

This raises a number of exciting questions for Hob, but most of them can wait. There’s only one that matters right now.

“Do you think she’d want to watch?”