merry-moody-missy

[merry-moody-missy]

(part 1)

"HeLLo HoBsIE."

"... Robin?"

"YeAh, y0U'vE bEeN CalLing mE tHaT... bUt tHaT's NoT mY NAmE. IF YoU wAnt, i CaN sHoW H1m to ¥oU..."

"N-no. Please, Del."

"SorRy."

"Is Dream here? Can I see him?"

"i SuPpOsE yOU c0uLd. YoU WOuLd. buT DReAm iS. aNGrY. fURIoUs. SaD. WoRr13D. sC4rEd."

[merry-moody-missy]

Where It Goes

Summary:

When a train breaks down during a snowstorm, the passengers are forced to spend the night at a hotel.

Two strangers share their Christmas plans and find themselves enjoying the company much more than they expected.

Rating: Explicit

Notes (more at the end):

For Sandman Connect 4 | @sandman-connect4

Prompts: Train + Breakdown + Feast + Explore

I'd been wanting to write a one-shot inspired by this fic written by @softest-punk, and this combination of prompts finally gave me the window for it~

Word Count: 5,130

———

Snow is falling softly on a Friday evening in December, and the streets are alive with brilliant lights and Christmas carols.

Morpheus sees all this with distant interest as he glances up from his book, making sure it isn’t his station yet when the train begins to slow to a stop.

Some people on either side of him get up to exit, and Morpheus goes back to reading. In his periphery, he notices that a couple and their child have just gotten aboard, and he moves to his left to make space for them on the bench.

The train begins to move again. Morpheus is in the middle of figuring out the clues that the detective has discovered in the novel when he feels something bump against his shoulder.

He looks to his left and sees that the man sitting beside him has fallen asleep, his arms wrapped securely around a backpack on his lap.

Morpheus purses his lips. His first instinct is to avoid the touch, uncomfortable with physical contact even from friends and family. However, he understands how tiring public commute can be, especially with the Christmas Eve rush. So he takes a breath and lets it be, managing to get back to the story.

Two stations later, the train lurches to an abrupt halt, making most of the passengers give a shout of surprise.

The man on Morpheus’ shoulder tips forward, and Morpheus instinctively holds out his hand to the man’s backpack to steady him. The man startles awake and sits up, blinking owlishly as the train makes a screeching sound, grinding to a halt halfway into the station.

“Sorry, mate,” the man slightly shakes his head and stifles a yawn behind his hand. “Didn't mean to fall asleep. Uh, what's happening?” He straightens the front of his brown jacket.

Morpheus furrows his eyebrows as he looks around at the other confused passengers. “I believe the train has broken down.”

No sooner has he said the words when the sound of the tannoy comes on and they hear the voice of the conductor informing them that there seems to be a problem with the engine, and everyone has to disembark the train now while they make repairs.

The passengers murmur and grumble their complaints, but there's nothing else to be done about it. The doors open and people begin filing out.

Morpheus sighs and closes his book. He should have known that going home to attend his parents’ Christmas dinner would bring only misfortune.

—

Hob adjusts the straps of his backpack on his shoulders as he goes with the crowd to enter the nearest hotel from the train station.

Snow is falling heavily now, and most of the main roads are closed. Some passengers had started complaining to the conductor and security guards and whoever else in uniform they could find, and so a compromise was reached that they would all be booked to stay the night in a nearby hotel, paid for by the train company as compensation for causing such a hassle on Christmas Eve, in exchange for the passengers not suing them or filing a mountain of complaints.

Hob isn't feeling particularly angry; he's sad to miss his parents’ Christmas dinner, but he's seen enough snowy Christmases to know that he can still most likely make it in time for Christmas Day brunch at their house.

Waking up to the bluest eyes he's ever seen also helped a lot with his mood. He scans the hotel lobby now for the man, but it's difficult with the crowd of people. Hob wonders briefly if the man didn't go to the hotel with them, but it seems unlikely considering how there's hardly any cabs driving in this weather.

A hotel staff approaches them and says that unfortunately due to the amount of people coming in all at once, they would have to share rooms for the night. There's more grumbling and scoffing, and the hotel staff says that a simple meal would be prepared for them soon, and they can wait in the lobby while the food and their rooms are being arranged.

People slowly settle down into seats, and Hob looks around to find himself a vacant flat surface to sit on.

His eyes land on a man seated on the third step of the stairs leading to the second floor. The buttons of the man’s black peacoat are undone, giving him a somewhat relaxed air as his gaze focuses on the book in his lap, his slender legs stretched gracefully on the lower steps.

Hob feels himself smile and makes his way towards the man. He unslings his backpack from his shoulders and gets something from the outer pocket.

“While we wait for dinner,” Hob holds out the unopened buttered croissant in clear packaging.

The man glances at him, then at the food in his hand. “Thank you, but it is not necessary. I am not hungry.”

Hob nods and returns the croissant in his bag. “Alright, well, the offer stands if you ever change your mind. Is it alright if I sit?” he points to the stairs. “Everywhere else is full.”

The man glances at the crowded lobby and nods. “Of course.” He turns a page in his book and returns to reading.

Hob sits on the same step as the man, on the farthest side against the wall. Fortunately, the staircase is wide enough that there's still plenty of space between them for people to walk through if they wanted to use the stairs.

Hob places his backpack on the step below him and takes out his phone to message his parents. He informs them of the situation and reassures them that he'll be home for Christmas brunch.

They talk for a while in the family group chat, and Hob is glad to know that the snowfall isn't too heavy at his parents’ place.

He looks up when he sees some people walking around, and he realises that they're starting to set up tables and distribute food.

Hob glances over to the man beside him, and he still looks the same as when Hob first approached; quietly reading his book with a very subtle frown of concentration, partly leaning against the railing.

Hob considers informing him that dinner is almost ready, but he gets a better idea.

He stands up and slings his backpack on his shoulders, and heads over to help with setting up.

A few minutes later, Hob comes back to the man with a plate of food. “Here you go,” he holds it out.

The man glances up and looks at the plate: grapes, cheese, two slices of white bread, and ham.

“Wasn't sure what you'd like so I brought the safest options,” Hob says sheepishly.

The man tilts his head a fraction to the side. “Why did you bring anything at all?”

Hob shrugs and sits down against the wall again, setting his backpack down. “To thank you for catching me earlier? Would have fallen on my face if you hadn't.”

“It was simply common decency,” the man said indifferently.

“So is this,” Hob holds out the plate again.

The man gives a small smile. “Thank you.” He takes the plate, but then a notification sound from his pocket takes his attention. He sets the plate down beside him and takes out his phone, frowning when he reads the screen.

“Something troubling you?” Hob picks up a grape from his own plate. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“I was supposed to go to my parents’ house tonight for Christmas dinner. I informed them earlier of the situation, and the passive-aggressive messages have begun,” he says drily.

“Maybe they're just worried about you?” Hob offers.

“They're worried about their image,” the man corrects him. “For reasons I am yet to understand, they want all their friends to see on social media that we spend Christmas together annually. Perhaps they think it would somehow draw in more business for their country club.”

“Oh.” Hob falls quiet. It’s a bit surreal to hear, especially since it’s a stark contrast to how Hob feels about celebrating Christmas with his family.

There’s another notification sound, but this time the man smiles at his phone. “My older sister told me to be safe, and my younger sibling called me a ‘lucky bastard’ for not being there right now.”

“I’m guessing none of you actually enjoy those dinners?” Hob smiles despite the unhappy sentiment, just glad to see that the man’s mood seems to have improved.

“Indeed,” the man sighs and returns his phone to his pocket. “Ah, where are my manners. I am Morpheus.” He holds out a hand.

Hob grins. “Hob,” he shakes Morpheus’ hand. “Hopefully you have a better Christmas Eve now than last year. No posh parents to tolerate here. Unless you wanna approach any of them in the lobby,” he nods in the direction of it.

Morpheus chuckles. “How about you, then? Where were you headed?”

“Same as you, Christmas dinner with family. We do it yearly, too. No complaints so far, apart from when I extremely messed up that batch of cookies two years back.”

Morpheus raises his eyebrows in curiosity. “How does one ‘extremely mess up’ cookies?”

“When one misreads ½ cup of baking soda as 2 ½ cups. Tasted like chemicals, I nearly choked on it,” Hob scrunches up his face at the memory.

“Where did the 2 come from?” Morpheus asks in amusement.

“It was the second item on the ingredients list. I thought ‘2’ was part of the measurement, since it was right beside the ‘½’,” Hob explains, gesturing with his hands.

Morpheus glances at his plate like it might be poisoned. “You didn’t cook any of these, did you?”

“Oi!” Hob says indignantly. “That was one time! I’ve made excellent cookies since then.”

Morpheus laughs, a real one that brightens up his entire face and makes Hob feel pleasantly warm on the inside.

“Well,” Morpheus says as he calms down. “I’m sorry that your Christmas Eve is turning out to be bleaker than last year’s. It sounds like you actually enjoy spending it with your family,”

“Oh I do, but last year was… different.” A ridiculous understatement, but Hob isn’t sure how much would be socially acceptable to tell someone he just met.

Morpheus looks at him curiously. “I’m guessing it was worse than inedible cookies?”

Hob chuckles awkwardly and glances down at his plate. “Yeah, uh… my girlfriend at the time broke up with me.”

“On Christmas Eve?” Morpheus says in surprise.

“She felt like she had to, I think,” Hob shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I proposed. Thought it would be a grand romantic gesture. And it was, which was the problem. She said things were going too fast, I was too much, stuff like that.” He focused on getting a piece of lasagna from his plate, taking a bite of it and chewing slowly to make himself stop rambling.

“I see,” Morpheus said without pity or judgement in his voice, which Hob is grateful for. “I apologise for having brought up such a personal matter.”

“Nah it’s alright. It hurt an awful lot at the time, but I’ve made peace with it now,” Hob says sincerely. “It took a long while and a great deal of support from my friends and family, but eventually I was able to move on from it. We wanted different things, that’s all.”

Morpheus nods and uses his fork to put some ham and cheese on the piece of bread and puts the other slice on it to make a sandwich. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re too much,” he gestures with the sandwich towards Hob before taking a bite of it.

Hob chuckles and tugs at his earlobe, feeling his face warm. “Thanks, mate. Uh, you can go back to reading now,” he gestures to the book still open on Morpheus’ lap. “I just wanted to make sure you got some food before they ran out.”

Morpheus raises an eyebrow. “You don’t wish to speak with me anymore?”

“No, I do!” Hob says hurriedly. “It’s just that, my sister’s a bookworm and I know she hates it when people interrupt her reading.”

Morpheus smiles. “I see. And what does it mean when she willingly puts a book away in order to spend time with someone?”

“Oh, that’s a huge honour,” Hob says fondly. “It means she’s really interested…” he trails off when Morpheus closes his book and puts it in his small messenger bag. “You’re…?”

“Interested? Yes.”

“In me?” Hob says without thinking and almost takes it back.

“Are you opposed?”

“No,” Hob replies probably too quickly.

Morpheus’ eyes are twinkling with fond amusement, and Hob thinks the flush on his face might be glaringly obvious.

He is saved from saying anything embarrassing by the announcement of the hotel staff that the rooms are ready, and that they can queue up to get assigned with roommates.

Hob and Morpheus finish their remaining food and get up to stand in line. Morpheus hangs back a little when they reach the queue and gestures for Hob to be in front of him.

The now familiar notification sound catches Hob’s attention and he turns in time to see Morpheus looking at his phone screen with a sour expression.

“More passive-aggressive texts?” Hob asks sympathetically.

“Yes. I'm muting them now. I shall just claim that the snow had caused disruptions in signals.” Morpheus pockets his phone again, but there’s still a crease on his forehead.

“Are you alright?” Hob asks.

Morpheus lets out a breath. “They keep asking how my girlfriend is and whether I'm bringing her there tomorrow.”

Hob’s heart drops to his stomach. Morpheus has a girlfriend? But then why—

“I have not told them we had ended our relationship more than eight months ago.”

“Oh,” Hob feels guilty about how relieved he feels. “I'm… sorry to hear that.”

Morpheus shakes his head lightly. “It was for the best. She works in Greece, and our relationship could not survive the distance. But as you say, I’ve made peace with it. I just haven’t told my parents about the breakup because I know they’re planning to set me up with an heir to some company or other. I don’t know, I don’t really keep track of their business deals.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not having dinner with them,” Hob says to lighten the mood as they move up the line. “You can enjoy Christmas Eve for once.”

Morpheus smiles. “Indeed.”

They reach the front of the line and the woman at the desk asks Hob if he already has someone to share a room with or if they need to assign him one.

Hob realises he hasn't thought about it, and turns to Morpheus. “Do you wanna share a room?”

Morpheus nods. “Yes.” He looks at the woman. “How many would we be in one room?”

“Given the limited capacity of the hotel this evening, four people would share a double room, that's our room with two beds,” the woman adjusts her glasses. “And two people would be assigned to each single room with one bed. Extra mattresses and blankets will be provided upon request.”

Hob exchanges glances with Morpheus. He wouldn't mind sharing a room with more people, but it might be more comfortable if it's just the two of them, given that they know each other more than anyone else here. Safer too, since they already trust each other to some degree.

Yeah, keep making those excuses, Gadling, a part of Hob’s brain tells him.

“It's your turn in the queue,” Morpheus says. “You make the choice.”

“It'll be your room too,” Hob points out.

Morpheus looks away for a moment. “I am not prone to socialising.”

“Single room it is, then,” Hob tries not to sound too happy about it and nods to the woman to confirm.

She types something on her computer and gives them their key cards. “That’s on the second floor, down the hall to your right. Have a good evening,” she says with a friendly smile.

“Thank you,” Hob takes the cards and looks at her nametag. “Lucienne,” he returns the smile.

Hob hands Morpheus a key card and they head to the stairs.

“You can now resume your sleep from the train,” Morpheus says playfully as they walk side by side.

Hob smiles. “I guess, but I'm not really sleepy anymore. I think I'd walk around and explore the place for a bit, and ask for that extra mattress. You take the bed.”

Morpheus shakes his head. “I do not mind the mattress. You can have the bed.”

“We'll coin flip for it later,” Hob says when they reach their room.

Morpheus looks around and walks towards a small shelf with drinks and snacks. “All these and not a singular water bottle,” he frowns disapprovingly.

“Oh I have one, haven't opened it yet.” Hob unslings his backpack and places it down on a chair.

He opens the zipper and a small wrapped present nearly tumbles out, but he catches it in time. He takes the bottle of water he bought at a convenience store earlier and puts the present back in the bag before zipping it shut again.

“Here you go,” Hob holds out the bottle as Morpheus walks over to him. “And that buttered croissant still has your name on it if you want it,” he pats the pocket where it still sits.

“Your bag is full of presents,” Morpheus says curiously as he accepts the bottle.

“Ah, yeah,” Hob chuckles. “For my parents and siblings. Stayed up late last night wrapping them, that's why I was dozing off on the train.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Morpheus smiles and opens the water bottle to take a sip.

“They'd have some for me too, we like giving each other presents. Nothing fancy, just small trinkets and things that we think would make each other happy.”

Morpheus' smile turns wistful. “Your family sounds lovely.”

“And your siblings would want you to have a lovely evening. How about it, then? Stroll around a bit before we argue who takes the bed?”

“There shall be no arguments. We will take the stroll and you will be too tired afterwards and fall asleep on the bed,” Morpheus declares lightly.

“You're not gonna outlast me that easily, I've spent many nights telling my nieces and nephews bedtime stories. And they do not fall asleep after just one.”

Morpheus huffs out a chuckle. “Lead the way, then.”

They go downstairs and order cups of hot chocolate from the crowded café before walking aimlessly around the hotel. They find a garden blanketed with thick snow, and a small gym that's closed for the night.

They eventually end up on a small balcony on the second floor overlooking the amenities at the back of the hotel.

“There's a tennis court,” Hob notices. “Do you play?”

Morpheus shakes his head. “I am not inclined towards sports.”

“What do you do, then? When you're not getting stranded in hotels with strangers.”

“I own a pub that also rents out rooms for those who need a place to stay.”

“Wow, I wouldn't have figured you as a pub owner.”

Morpheus arches an eyebrow in amusement. “You’d have expected me to have a beard? To be more extroverted like a bartender?”

“No,” Hob chuckles. “You just look like an artist, that's all. One of those fancy ones. With your eye for books and gorgeous fashion sense.”

Morpheus smiles. “I do play the piano and write songs, so you're not entirely wrong.”

“Really? I'd love to hear you play some time,” Hob says and instantly regrets it.

It implies a next time, that he wants to keep seeing Morpheus even after tonight.

Too much, too soon. A ring discarded on the coffee table—

“I would love to play for you,” Morpheus' soft voice puts a halt on Hob's thoughts. His blue eyes are bright with sincerity, and his lips curve with that smile that Hob is beginning to grow fond of. “And what do you do, Hob? Apart from judging people based on their appearance.”

“Hey, you just said I wasn't entirely wrong,” Hob points out.

Morpheus just chuckles and takes a sip from his cup.

“I'm a college professor, Literature.” Hob leans against the railing.

“I see,” Morpheus sounds pleasantly surprised. “Do you nurture young minds to express themselves through the written word, or torture them with poetry analyzations?”

“I delight them with Christopher Marlowe, thank you very much. I torture them with Shakespeare.”

Morpheus laughs and glances down into his cup. “I must admit I… did not expect this at all when they said we would have to spend the night here.”

“You didn't expect a college professor with a bag full of wrapped trinkets?” Hob finishes his hot chocolate and places the cup on the railing.

Morpheus smiles and looks at Hob again, and Hob feels something flutter in his stomach at receiving a smile like that.

“I did not expect anyone at all. I am not the most… approachable, I've been told. I had thought I would be spending Christmas Eve by myself.” He empties his cup too and sets it down beside Hob’s.

Hob wonders who could have told Morpheus that, but he decides not to pry and just shrugs. “I didn't want to spend Christmas Eve alone, and you're good company.” He takes a step closer and playfully leans forward. “I'm glad it's you I accidentally fell asleep on.”

Morpheus chuckles and also takes a step closer. “And I'm glad I put my book away to spend time with you.”

“Still interested, then?” Hob says even as his face warms.

“Yes.” Morpheus holds his gaze, eyes glittering with intent.

Hob’s mouth suddenly goes dry, and he can’t help but stare at those rosy pink lips, wondering if they would taste like the chocolate drink Morpheus just finished.

“You're the one who told me to enjoy Christmas Eve, correct?” Morpheus steps even closer.

Hob swallows, meeting Morpheus’ eyes and unable to look away. “Y-Yeah, you should.” He could easily step backwards to put more distance between them, but right now there's nothing on this earth that could make him want to do that.

“Hob…” Morpheus whispers and noses along Hob’s cheekbone, his warm breath like a caress.

Hob grabs Morpheus' face with both hands and presses their lips together, swallowing the pleased hum that slipped out of Morpheus.

The glide of their tongues against each other is soft, and Hob was right that Morpheus’ mouth would taste like the hot chocolate, except it’s infinitely better and Hob can’t stop chasing the heat of it.

Morpheus wraps his arms around Hob’s waist, and Hob summons a great deal of willpower to pull away from the kiss, placing his hands on Morpheus' shoulders.

“Morpheus…” Hob says breathlessly. “I want… I want to keep seeing you after this. So if this is just a one-time thing for you, tell me now so I know to expect it. We’d both been with other people relatively recently and I don't want you to think I'm just using you as a replacement because I was really sad this time last year—”

Morpheus gently places a finger to Hob's lips. “I wish to keep seeing you as well.” He retracts his finger to cup Hob’s face instead, running a thumb across his cheekbone. “And neither am I using you as a mere replacement. I said I would love to play music for you, and I meant it. Even if we go no further tonight, I am already glad to have met you.”

Hob takes a steadying breath and tightens his grip on Morpheus' shoulders to ground himself. “Okay, okay… If you're alright with it, then I wanna see you again some time after tonight. I'm really glad to have met you too, and I wanna see where this goes.”

Morpheus tenderly rests his forehead against Hob’s. “I dearly enjoy your company and I would like the same.” He pulls back to look at Hob. “Though I am hoping that where this goes next is to our shared bedroom?” he says with a fond smile. “Even if all you want to do is talk, I wish to keep holding you in my arms and—”

Hob has surged up to kiss him again, pushing him backwards against a wall.

Morpheus puts his hands on the small of Hob’s back and pulls him closer, meeting the kiss with such enthusiasm that it makes Hob pleasantly lightheaded.

They do eventually make it to their bedroom, though Hob can't at all remember how. He just hears the click of a lock and the next thing he knows he's on his back on the bed, Morpheus looming beautifully over him.

He grabs the front of Morpheus' coat and pulls him down, kissing him like he needs it to breathe.

Morpheus' tongue dives deep, exploring Hob's mouth and eliciting sounds that Hob might have been embarrassed by if not for the fact that Morpheus is making them too.

Morpheus' fingers slip under Hob's shirt and he shivers, earning him another pleased hum.

They push and pull and squirm until coat and jacket and shirts fall unceremoniously to the floor.

Hob feels the hard line of Morpheus' cock against his own through their trousers and a wounded noise escapes him, his hips bucking up to chase more of the sensation.

Morpheus mirrors his impatience and reaches with trembling fingers to undo Hob’s fly. Hob bites his lip to maintain a modicum of composure as he returns the favour, and soon enough they've divested each other of the rest of their clothing.

Hob gets impossibly harder at the sight of Morpheus cock, but he doesn't have much time to stare as Morpheus captures his lips once more.

They rut against each other, precome making them slick and sticky as they moan into their kisses. Hob remembers seeing snow outside but he doesn't feel the slightest bit cold; his skin is on fire and every touch of Morpheus only stokes the flames.

Hob threads his fingers through Morpheus' hair, keeping him in place and relishing in the feeling of soft raven locks under his hands.

He feels a hand wrap around both of their cocks and Hob gasps, breaking the kiss and eyes rolling back in his head.

Morpheus sucks and nips at his neck as he strokes down their lengths, his pace quickening until he's making muffled whimpers against Hob's skin.

Hob’s legs begin to tremble, he digs his fingernails into Morpheus' back and his mouth falls open in anticipation as he feels the familiar pull at the base of his spine.

“Hob…” Morpheus moans sinfully into his neck.

Hob's response is a sound that's all vowels, but he thinks he can't be blamed when Morpheus is tightening his hand and twisting his wrist in a way that's slowly driving him mad.

Hob takes Morpheus' face and brings it up to him, wishing once more to feel those soft lips against his own.

Their kiss is more gasping and panting than a proper kiss, but Hob is too far gone to care. He thrusts up desperately into the circle of Morpheus' hand, his eyes squeezed shut and his heart thundering in his chest.

Morpheus deepens the kiss and sucks on Hob's tongue at the same time as he twists his grip—

Lightning shoots up Hob’s spine and his vision goes white as he comes, shaking uncontrollably with his screams muffled against Morpheus' mouth.

Morpheus follows him a moment after with a strangled sob, thrusting and pressing Hob’s body repeatedly into the bed as he milks them both of every drop of spend.

They're both whimpering when Morpheus slows down his pace and stops entirely, collapsing on top of Hob.

Hob can barely feel his limbs but he manages to put a soothing hand on Morpheus' back, and they catch their breaths together as they feel each other’s heartbeats return to normal.

Somewhere outside the hotel, a clock strikes midnight, and the distant sound of Christmas songs can be heard.

“Merry Christmas,” Morpheus smiles and gives him a soft kiss.

“Merry Christmas,” Hob whispers, still on this side of breathless.

Morpheus slides off him to lay on his side, and Hob immediately turns around and pulls him into an embrace, their noses almost touching.

“I never asked, what were your plans for Christmas Day?”

Morpheus hums and idly runs his fingers through Hob's chest hair. “Pretend to still have no phone signal so I can keep avoiding my parents. Though I shall send a text to my siblings to let them know I am safe.”

“Then… Then, if you'd like, you can come with me to brunch?” Hob asks hesitantly. “It's another yearly thing we do as a family, and you're welcome to join.”

Morpheus' eyes widen slightly, and Hob starts to panic.

“I know I said we'll still see where it goes, you and I, I mean. But it doesn't have to mean much, it's just brunch and I want you to have a happy Christmas too and—”

Morpheus stops him with a kiss, and Hob distantly thinks in the back of his mind that that's a dangerous way of spoiling him. He might never shut up if that's how Morpheus always quiets him.

“Hob,” Morpheus says softly when he pulls away. “I would very much like to spend Christmas with you and your family. Though I'd argue I'm already having a happy Christmas right now,” he smiles.

Hob chuckles in relief and presses closer to Morpheus, tucking his face in the crook of his neck. “Just you wait, we haven't even begun yet. I'd make you breakfast but there's nothing to cook here, so we'll just have to see what's in the café tomorrow before we leave.”

“Does that buttered croissant still have my name on it?” Morpheus asks as he caresses Hob’s back. “I'll have that for breakfast if it means I get to spend a few more hours cuddling you in this bed.”

Hob groans and pulls away to look at Morpheus. “You're actually driving me mad, you know that? You can't be gorgeous and sweet, it's not fair.”

“You are very much the same, yet you don't hear me complaining.”

Hob feels himself flush, and Morpheus smiles and snuggles into him, resting his head under Hob's chin.

Hob can’t help but smile as well, and he lets his eyes close as he feels the pleasant warmth of Morpheus' body against him.

Hob pulls the blanket over them both, and as they fall asleep in each other’s embrace, Hob thinks that he's already having a happy Christmas too.

———

Notes:

Hob's Baking Soda Bungle is based on that time my sister misread the baking soda measurement in the recipe. The cookies really did taste like chemicals 🥲

Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments! <3

———

(2024 Sandman Connect4 Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

[merry-moody-missy]

Happy Ferdie Friday, folks!

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3rd and final part of the yellow sweater controversy 💖 based on @valeriianz’s amazing fic Bolt in the Blue 💙⚡️

[merry-moody-missy]

Skin Deep

Dreamling Bingo Square D2: Bar Fight

Rating: Explicit

Ship(s): Dreamling

Warnings: Implied past rape/non-con (not explicit or described)

Hob has a routine for how he uses his tattooed, biker aesthetic to coax people into his bed, and tonight he knows who he’s going for the second he steps through the door. The man at the bar is just Hob’s type- lithe and pale, artfully messy black hair framing his face. Despite the warmth of the bar, he’s fully covered up, a black turtleneck hugging his body and leather gloves covering the hands tapping away at a laptop. Hob wants to peel the fabric off of him, wants to see that pretty white skin blush beneath his mouth.

Hob has no idea what he's getting into, but he knows it'll be worth it.

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The thing is, Hob knows what he looks like.

He likes what he looks like- thick set and strong, muscle and fat filling him out, abundant body hair, and numerous tattoos and piercings adorning him. With a leather vest and a motorcycle parked outside of the pub he owned, he looked like every tough biker stereotype, only offset by his wide grin and friendly demeanor. 

Hob likes the way he looks. In part, he’s not ashamed to admit, because he is a lot of people’s type .

Specifically, when he walks into the pub, he is usually guaranteed at least one stuffy, buttoned up patron who secretly wants a little excitement in their life will look up and stare a little too long to be subtle. It’s too easy, the way Hob will sidle up to some nine-to-fiver, “just unwinding after work,” they explain, and Hob offers to buy them a round, and they ask Hob about his tattoos, and then Hob offers them a ride home if they don’t mind riding on the back of his bike, and by the end of the night he’s got the nice quiet secretary who “doesn’t do this normally, really,” moaning in his bed.

Tonight, he knows who he’s going for the second he steps through the door. The man at the bar is just Hob’s type- lithe and pale, artfully messy black hair framing his face. Despite the warmth of the bar, he’s fully covered up, a black turtleneck hugging his body and leather gloves covering the hands tapping away at a laptop. Hob wants to peel the fabric off of him, wants to see that pretty white skin blush beneath his mouth.

When he approaches, he is confident that he will get exactly what he wants. The stranger looks like the type that needs to relax, and Hob is more than willing to offer his services. He gives the bartender, Johanna, a quick look, wagging his eyebrows and nodding towards the man with a lecherous grin. Johanna rolls her eyes, but says nothing. As much as she gives him shit for his habits, she still keeps her mouth shut about him being the owner of the New Inn, so when he goes after someone sitting at the bar, she treats him like just another regular, and not her boss and longtime friend. 

Sliding onto the stool next to the stranger, he swings his body around until he can lean backwards against the bar top casually. The man glances at him out of the corner of his eye, eyes narrowing slightly, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge Hob. 

“Hey gorgeous,” Hob drawls, nodding at the nearly empty glass of something clear that sits to the side of the man, “Can I get your next round? I find that drinks taste better when they’re shared,” he winks.

“No thank you,” the man responds without hesitation, continuing to type away without sparing Hob a second glance.

Hob grins wider. He loves when they play hard to get. 

“Well that’s a shame,” he spins in his seat, facing forward and gesturing to Johanna even as he continues speaking to the man next to him, “You look like you’ve been working hard. Everyone can use a break now and then.” 

Johanna places his usual order- a simple whiskey on the rocks- on the counter in front of him, not bothering to linger. Hob takes a slow sip, letting the taste wash over his tongue and maybe swallowing a bit more prominently than is strictly necessary. The man continues to ignore him, but when Hob slips his leather jacket off his shoulders, he catches the man’s eyes darting towards him. Icy blue eyes roam over his arms, muscular and hairy and tattooed, and Hob doesn’t see any lust or want, but he does see curiosity. And he can work with that.

“Like what you see?” He asks teasingly.

The man huffs, turning his eyes back to his laptop, but Hob leans forward and continues, “Might seem crazy, sitting and getting stabbed with needles for hours, although to be honest I barely felt it,” he flexes subtly. The stranger doesn’t see it, so he keeps chatting, “But I like them. Getting to decorate myself however I want, make a statement, tell a story.” 

The word ‘story’ pulls the man’s gaze back to him, staring at Hob intently, and he grins, “I could show you more of ‘em if you want,” he says suggestively.

Next to him, the man arches a perfect eyebrow as he drawls, “Does that line actually work on anyone?”

“You’d be surprised,” Hob shrugs, “But the more important question is, is it working on you ?”

“No,” he responds without missing a beat, and despite not being the answer he was hoping for, it is so deadpan and blunt and utterly unexpected that Hob cannot help but burst into laughter.

“Wow, you don’t pull your punches!” He puts a hand over his chest theatrically, “It’s always the quiet ones that stab you when you aren’t looking.”

“You were looking.”

Hob laughs again. Oh, this guy is a riot. Hob feels something in his chest, a little flicker of flame that he has to beat back down until it turns back into lust. 

“You’re right, I was,” he concedes, looking the man up and down blatantly as he licks his lips, “And for good reason. A pretty thing like you here all alone? That’s asking for the exact kind of trouble I specialize in.”

The laptop slams shut, but it feels more like a door being slammed in his face.

“Well then,” the man drawls, “I will save myself that trouble, and find somewhere else to be alone.” As he stands to gather his things, he catches Johanna’s attention. When she approaches, he slings his bag over his shoulder and gestures between his drink and Hob, “Put it on his tab.”

It’s official. Hob is smitten.

“You know I’m good for it,” he grins, waving his fingers at the stranger’s back, watching as he leaves without a second glance.

When he straightens in his seat, Johanna is raising an eyebrow at him, “I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen you strike out.”

“Nah,” Hob smiles wider, leaning his chin against his hand, “I think it’s gonna be the slowest I’ve ever succeeded.”

Hours later, Hob goes home alone, but he barely notices. He’s too distracted thinking about the beautiful stranger from the bar.

~~~

A week later, the stranger is back. He doesn’t sit at the bar this time, instead occupying a small table for two in the back corner, laptop once more in front of him and a glass beside him, his clothing concealing him just as it had before. Hob feels an excited little leap in his chest, forcing himself to stop by the bar to grab a drink instead of beelining straight for the other man. When he does approach, he notices that the second chair is pointedly occupied by the man’s messenger bag. Grinning, he casually grabs a chair from another table, pulling it up and seating himself at the man’s table confidently.

The scrape of the chair against the floor makes the man jump slightly, head snapping up and blinking in surprise as Hob settles in across from him.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

His eyes narrow, spine so straight it almost looks painful, “It seems like you are the one incapable of staying away.”

“Can you blame me? I’m surprised no one else has tried to catch your eye.”

“Everyone else seems capable of taking a hint,” his eyes return to his computer, but his fingers don’t move.

“Everyone else is a coward,” Hob quips, taking a sip of his drink as he leans back in his chair, “The best things in life take a little work.”

“Is that what this is?” The man raises an eyebrow, “Work?”

“It’s a fun puzzle. Like the NY Times crossword. It’s only fun when it’s hard.”

“You do the New York Times crossword?” The disbelief in his voice is blatant.

“I’d do it in pen if I had the actual paper,” Hob brags, “But I make do with their app.”

“You do not look the type.”

“Oh, so now we’re profiling, eh? What’s that saying about books and their covers?”

“You have put far too much effort into your cover for me to believe you don’t want me to make assumptions.”

“You don’t miss a beat, do you?” For a moment, he leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, before abruptly sitting up. He doesn’t want to look like he has a schoolgirl crush after all. “All this and we still haven’t even introduced ourselves,” he holds out a hand, “Robert Gadling, b ut my friends call me Hob.”

The man doesn’t take his hand, simply raising an eyebrow, “Are you sure they are friends and not bullies?”

“Hey, it’s a perfectly fine nickname!” Hob laughed, “Old family name, who am I to break tradition?” He drops his hand, raising his own eyebrow in return, “I take it your name is better?”

“Do you actually care?” he fires back, “You don’t seem the type to remember it the next morning.”

“Again with the assumptions!” Hob shakes his head, and tries to grin, but is caught off guard to find that just a little of his mock offense is real, “I’m not an animal. I’ll remember your name and make you breakfast the next day.”

Across from him, the man leans back in his seat, and for the first time Hob gets the sense that he has his full attention. 

When his eyes drift over Hob’s body, it doesn’t feel like judgment, but it doesn’t feel like lust either. Just like the last time, it feels like curiosity.

“I will not be going home with you,” he declares finally, looking Hob straight in the eye, “regardless of whether you remember my name or make me breakfast.” 

“Bummer,” Hob responds easily, “I’d still like to know your name.”

There is a long moment where they simply stare at each other. Then, the other man slowly and gently closes his laptop, not the slamming door of their last meeting.

“Next time, perhaps,” he says, gathering his things once more.

Hob grins, “Next time, then.”

Watching the man leave, he gets the distinct sense that he just passed a test. 

He goes home alone again, and he doesn’t even care.

~~~

The third time, Hob is there first. When he had arrived he had immediately descended on a sharp-dressed businessman who looked like he’d run his hand through his hair a few too many times, tie loosened enough to undo the top button. Everything about him screamed that he’d had a long day and could do with some fun. Hob was good at fun. He was in the middle of telling the man all about how freeing it felt to ride a motorcycle and how he happened to have an extra helmet when his stranger walked in.

He enters like a shadow, a silhouette just barely offset by the paleness of his face. As he approaches the bar, his eyes flick over to land on Hob where he’s still got one hand playing with the man’s tie. There is a barely perceptible purse to his lips and a look in his eye that can only be described as disappointment before he looks away.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, my friend just walked in and- I just need to- it’s complicated, sorry, hope the conference goes well,” he scrambles from his seat, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste. He’s pretty sure he’s given the poor man whiplash, but he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty. The fact is, this man was just a distraction from the one who’s really been occupying his thoughts.

When he reaches the bar, Johanna is just placing the man’s drink in front of him. She gives Hob a pointed look, as though she knows he fucked up. Hob just shrugs. What can you do?

Slipping into the seat beside his stranger, he puts on his best winning grin, “Fancy meeting you here. Weren’t planning on saying hello?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he replies smoothly, opening his laptop and waiting for it to turn on.

“You could never interrupt,” Hob responds a little too honestly.

He sees the man’s hands clench into fists on the keyboard, “You should go back to him,” he turns his head to glare at Hob out of the corner of his eye, “You already know I will not give you what you want.”

“Still no name then?” Hob quips.

“We both know you want more than just my name.”

Hob doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

“I suppose that’s true,” he drawls, “I also want to know what you’re always typing away at.”

There is a heavy sigh in response, “You are persistent, Hob Gadling.”

“One of my best qualities,” he leans forward, grinning widely, “Got you to remember my name, didn’t it?”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Hob swears he sees the man’s lips twitch towards a smile. And then, miraculously, he turns to face Hob.

“I am a writer,” he explains, “I am in the process of outlining my next novel.”

Hob whistles, impressed, “ Next novel, huh? Is that why you don’t want to tell me your name? Don’t want me fawning over the famous author?”

“I use a pen name,” he states plainly, “I simply enjoy watching you struggle.”

“Should’ve known,” Hob shakes his head with a laugh, “What genre do you write?”

“Fantasy.”

Hob is a little bit terrified of the feeling blooming in his chest, “For real? That’s amazing! So is what you’re working on now the next in a series, or do you write standalone novels?”

The man seems surprised by the question, but turns to face Hob more fully, “I have written standalones before, but this particular story is the third in a trilogy.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re so focused on your outlining. Gotta make sure you wrap everything up properly.”

“Indeed.” There is a pause as he seems to consider something before asking, “Are you a fan of fantasy?”

“Oh absolutely,” Hob replies gleefully, leaning over and holding out his right arm. Winding around his forearm is a serpent-like beast, waves around its body and a delicate compass by its head, stylized like a monster drawn in the waters of a medieval map.

“Always loved stories of monsters and magic,” Hob explains. Once again, he sees his stranger’s eyes sharpen at the word “story”. “I especially love old sailors' stories, ‘ here there be monsters’ , sirens and leviathans. We don’t know nearly enough about our oceans to convince me it’s all fantasy. But to avoid sounding totally off my rocker I’ll begrudgingly use the word,” he winked.

“Fantasy realism, one might say,” the other man quips with a smile.

Hob likes him when he smiles.

“One might.”

The stranger refuses to tell Hob anything about his book, nose up haughtily as he claims he doesn’t want to give away any spoilers. But they talk about other books, and movie adaptations, and when he finally stands to leave, the man pauses for just a moment.

“Dream,” he finally says, voice grave and regal, “My name is Dream.”

And then he is gone again, leaving Hob to utter the name under his breath to himself, just to taste it.

~~~

“If you’re so anti-people, why do your writing at a bar? Why not just tap away at home?”

Hob had arrived a little later than usual this evening, and had sighed in relief at the sight of Dream sitting in the back with his laptop. He was tapping rapidly, barely sparing Hob a glance when he slid into the seat across from him. While Hob was used to the man giving him the cold shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. He’d thought after being given a name, they were making some kind of progress.

Dream narrows his eyes at the question, finally pausing in his typing to answer, “I am not ‘anti-people’,” he insists, “I simply do not enjoy strangers invading my space.” He raises an eyebrow at Hob pointedly

“Oh, I’m hardly a stranger at this point,” he grins.

“I know you as well as I know any actor,” he replies coldly, no hesitation, “skilled at your craft, and completely fake.”

That… hits a little too close to home, and Hob feels himself tensing, his own voice turning cold as he responds, “All the world’s a stage, sweetheart. Don’t pretend your high-and-mighty schtick isn’t its own act.” 

“Perhaps you should worry less about the stage,” Dream snapped back, “and more about your audience.”

Rolling his eyes, Hob crosses his arms, “God, I can’t believe you pissed me off enough to quote fucking Shakespeare,” he grumbles, mostly to himself.

Dream scoffs, “I can’t believe you know Shakespeare.” Hob feels himself bristle, and Dream raises an eyebrow, “If you do not like my ‘high and mighty’ act, you are welcome to find another,” he gestures at the other patrons in the bar, several of whom Hob can tell at a glance would be his usual targets before he met Dream. 

It strikes him, suddenly, that this is another test. Dream has been trying to scare him off since the moment Hob first saw him, and the moment he found a button of Hob’s to push he started slamming it. He thinks back to their last conversation, and something in him settles. 

Maybe Dream had a point. He’s starting to understand his audience.

He allows himself to relax, leaning back in his seat with a smirk, “Listen, it’s not that Shakespeare is bad . And I’m definitely not saying he’s unimportant, from a historical standpoint. I just think he gets way too much hype.”

Dream blinks slowly, and Hob gets the impression that a lesser man would be gaping. 

“Like, if I could just read Shakespeare, or watch one of his plays, and just experience it for what it is on its own? I probably wouldn’t be so bitter,” Hob explains, “But it’s the hype. Had to do a few too many essays on the guy in school and hear a few too many professors go on, and on, about him. He got built up too much and then couldn't live up.” 

Slowly, Dream closes his laptop. Hob expects him to stand and leave, but instead, he folds his hands in his lap, tilting his head at Hob curiously, “It is not his work or merit that you dislike. It is the way you experienced it.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Hob shrugs. He nods his head towards Dream’s closed laptop, “You leaving me again?”

“No,” Dream answers carefully, “Now I’m interested.”

“In me?” Hob feels his traitorous heart stutter hopefully.

Dream grins slowly, “In your experience.”

Hob grins back, leaning forward on the table, “Lucky for you, baby, that’s something I’ve got plenty of.”

~~~

Johanna has taken to rolling her eyes dramatically every time she sees Hob practically skip over to Dream. Hob has taken to ignoring her. 

He tells himself he likes the challenge. He tells himself it’s more fun seducing someone when it takes a little effort. He tells himself that’s the only reason he hasn’t gone home with anyone in months, why he’s taken to scanning the bar for the shape of a dark silhouette of a man instead of the shape of someone who might find him useful for a night. 

He hopes if he tells himself enough it will become true.

“You know, you never answered my question,” Hob prods one night, a few drinks in and having coaxed Dream into closing his laptop while they talk, “Why come to a bar to do your work?”

There is a pause, and Hob is surprised to see that Dream seems to be truly considering his answer. “I do not like to be alone,” he finally answers, “not truly alone. In my empty apartment just staring at-“ he cuts himself off. When he continues, he is even more tense, “It is nice to be around people. In a crowd. Even if I am not a part of it.”

His voice is even and steady, but to Hob it still feels so… sad.

“Do you want to be a part of it?”

Dream dips his head, looking down at his gloved hands and tugging at the edge of his shirt sleeve, “I don’t think it matters what I want.”

“It matters to me,” Hob replies softly.

When Dream looks at him, his eyes are carefully blank, windows with the curtains drawn tight. “Are you sure?”

There’s a lot Hob’s not sure of. This isn’t one of them. 

“Yeah, Dream,” he smiles, “I’m sure.”

Leaning forward, Dream rests his chin on one hand, and Hob can’t tell if he believes him or not. “And what of your wants, Hob Gadling?” 

Hob’s mouth moves on autopilot, “I’m a simple man, with simple wants,” he grins running his tongue across his lips suggestively. 

Dream shifts in his seat, leaning away from Hob, “Less simple than you think, I believe.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hob can’t help but question, “Me or my wants?”

He can only watch as Dream stands, going through the motions Hob has become so familiar with from each time he decides it’s time to walk away.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

~~~

Hob has no idea how Dream always manages to do it. One minute Hob’s sliding into the stool beside him at the bar, rattling off cheap pickup lines that make Dream huff and glare.

And the next, he’s rambling about the worst essays he ever read back when he was a history teacher. 

“I literally gave them outlines. My office hours were practically 24/7, and these punks still handed in papers with my name spelled wrong in the header and describing the 20s as ‘Ancient History’.”

Beside him, Dream’s lips twitch towards a smile, “I suppose it depends. Which 20s were they writing about?”

“Har har,” Hob rolls his eyes, “You’re hilarious. Prehistory is important, you know, and very different from medieval times, which is very different from Ren Faires, but even that was hard to drill into some of those kids’ heads.” He gestures enthusiastically with his hands, “And history is interesting ! Obviously I couldn’t go as in depth on every subject as I wanted too, but you would think just the sheer amount of time I was trying to cover would catch their attention. Imagine being too young to buy a pint and someone tells you we’ll only be covering 3000 years of history? Like, it’s mind blowing to me.”

Dream is giving him his full attention, something soft on his face, “It is a shame they did not appreciate your knowledge.”

His heart skips a beat, and with it Hob is suddenly struck by the fact that he has been rambling for most of the evening about literal ancient history that no one alive cared about. How did that even happen? How did Dream always manage to fluster Hob to the point of falling back on his old, nerdy habits?

It’s uncomfortable. He wishes it felt unfamiliar, but the truth is it feels too familiar, and he has no idea what to do with that. These are someone else’s habits.

So he takes a step back.

Shaking his head, he grins sharply, “Honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Make a better living owning a pub than I ever did as a teacher. Plus here I have the added benefit of beautiful patrons.” Next to him, Dream frowns, furrowing his brow as Hob leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, biting his lip as traces a finger over the cuff of Dream’s coat. “We’ve been dancing around each other for months now. What do I have to do to get you to shed a few layers, huh?”

Dream tenses so quickly and so sharply, Hob almost imagines he can hear his bones creaking. He jerks his arm back away from Hob, sliding to his feet to put even more space between them. 

His eyes are cold and glassy. Angry and frightened and hurt.

“Do you want to know what the last person who saw me naked did?” His voice is clipped, slamming his laptop shut and gathering his things into his arms before hissing through clenched teeth, “They didn’t care when I said stop .”

Hob thinks it would have hurt less if Dream had simply stabbed him.

“Dream, I…”

The other man nearly runs from the building, one hand gripping his bag while the other clutches his coat closed, as though there was any risk of skin showing through all that fabric.

“Dream-“ Hob stands as Dream opens the door, calling out, uncaring of the other bar guests, “Dream!”

“You sit your ass right the fuck down, Gadling.”

Hob has known Johanna for most of his adult life, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound so sharp. 

His voice wavers as he looks between her and the door, “But, I just want-“

“Do you really think following him outside, at night, after what he just said to you, is going to make him feel better?” Johanna interrupts. She doesn’t sound angry, exactly, just… strict. She’s not messing around right now.

And she’s right. Hob knows she’s right, and he finds himself collapsing back into his seat like a puppet with its strings cut. “Fuck,” his voice cracks, and he puts his head in his hands as if he could hide from the past five minutes.

“Look,” Johanna sighs, crossing her arms, “I’m gonna give you some tough love. You’ve been batting your eyelashes at that man for months now, and you know what I’ve noticed?”

“That he hates me?” Hob mumbles miserably.

“That he hates your act ,” she corrects sternly, “But every now and then you loosen up and forget whatever stupid script you’ve written for yourself to get into people’s pants, and it’s like,” she scrunches her nose in distaste, “like he lights up a little. Like a stray cat crawling out from under a car, or, whatever. Something stupid and sappy like that.”

Furrowing his brow, Hob glances up, hardly daring to hope, “Really?”

“Really,” Johanna answers definitively. “He actually likes you . Even if you don’t.”

Hob opens his mouth, but closes it without saying anything. There’s nothing he can say that Johanna doesn’t already know.

“Even if that’s true,” he responds slowly, “there’s no way I’ve got a shot now. Not after…” he waves his hand vaguely before dropping it back onto the bar with a soft ‘thud’, “...y’know.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Johanna shrugs, pushing Hob’s drink towards him, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

~~~

Hob waits for over a month.

Thirty-three days, technically. But who’s counting.

Normally Hob visited his own pub once or twice a week, taking care of any official management business at home. But for thirty-three days Hob goes to the New Inn every night. He sits in the back where he has a clear view of the door and he waits. If anyone approaches him he tells them the other seat is taken, he’s waiting for someone, they’ll be here soon he’s sure. He ignores the pitying looks, and the number of nights Johanna has to silently switch him to water instead of whiskey, and the way a not small part of him wants to give up and fall back into his routine. 

He keeps waiting.

And then, on the thirty-third night, Hob doesn’t even make it inside the pub. He stumbles when he sees the dark figure leaning against the wall beside the door to the pub. Dream is a thin void in the shadows, a silhouette with just the slightest spots of color where his cigarette casts a faint glow on his face. 

He steps forward cautiously, like approaching a stray cat. Desperate not to scare him off again.

“Hi,” Hob says, barely audible as he exhales the word.

Dream looks at him, and he looks so tired , “I couldn’t decide whether to go in or not.”

Nodding, Hob looks down in shame, “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I don’t know who you are ,” Dream continues, voice strained and frustrated, “Sometimes. You seem so…” Hob can’t tell if he is struggling to find the words or to say them. Finally, he clenches his eyes shut and admits softly, “Sometimes you seem so safe .”

Hob wants to cry.

“You can be so kind, and funny, and- and someone I want to be around,” Dream rushes on, “And then all of a sudden you go back to being someone who just. Just wants something from me that I can’t give.” He drops his cigarette, grinding it out under his boot as he whispers, “You give me whiplash.”

Johanna’s words ring in his head, about Dream hating his act, and it only just now occurs to him that of course Dream wouldn’t be able to tell which part was the act. All he knew was that Hob had two different sides that he couldn’t seem to settle on. How terrifying that must have been.

“I’m sorry,” Hob says, looking at Dream even as he doesn’t look back. 

“I don’t understand your persistence. Even before…” Dream trails off, waving a hand vaguely, “Just. Before. Always, I guess. People do not find me worth the wait.” His lips twist in a mockery of a smile, “Surely you have noticed. I am stiff, and awkward. I can be prideful, and cold, and… generally off putting,” he says, with a note in his voice that tells Hob he is quoting someone, “I am too much work for far too little reward.”

“Bullshit.”

Dream’s head snaps up, brow furrowed in surprised confusion, and Hob rushes to get the words out, “That’s absolute bullshit. I know I-” he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know I started things off all wrong. I know when I first walked up to you I was just another asshole looking for a hookup. But it’s not work to get to know you. It’s not a chore to treat you with respect. I’m not waiting for anything, even if I’ve been shit at showing it. I’m not putting up with all these moments between us just to get to the sex. I want the moments in between, want whatever you’re comfortable with.” His hand twitches at his side, wanting so badly to reach out but not feeling like he is allowed just yet, “I’m excited just to see you. There is no work, no reward . Spending time with you is a gift .”

Dream looks at him, searching his face before swallowing thickly, “You are much bigger than me,” he states bluntly, and Hob has never wanted to shrink so badly, “If I wanted you to stop something, I could not make you. I would just have to trust that you would listen.”

His eyes are challenging and questioning and desperate, and Hob feels his heart break. “I get it,” he chokes out, “I… I know you might not believe me yet, but I would. I will , I will always listen to you. You’re in charge, you can choose the pace, or, or if you even want anything more than this at all, and I’ll only ever be grateful to have met you. Even if you walk away right now and decide you never want to see me again… I’d be sad, yeah, but. I’d still be glad to have met you.”

There is a long pause, Dream considering his words with a look of uncertainty. He thinks about Dream’s words, I don’t know who you are , and takes a deep breath, decision made.

“Can I… can I show you something?” He waits until Dream glances up at him to start tugging at his own shirt, waiting until Dream nods hesitantly before shrugging off his leather jacket and tugging his shirt over his head. He grips the fabric tightly in one hand, and almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of being nervous at being seen shirtless, given how often he used to spend naked with complete strangers. But he knows this is different.

“A lot of these don’t mean anything,” he begins, gesturing at the tattoos covering his skin and the metal studs through his nipples, “After a certain point I was just filling up space, trying to complete the aesthetic. But some of them still, y’know. Say something about me.”

He points at the tattoo on the right side of his stomach. His tattoos blend together, so few people notice the individual images unless he draws attention to them. Normally, he doesn’t want to draw attention to them. 

Dream blinks, lips parting in surprise at the tattoo Hob normally prefers goes ignored, “Is that,” he asks slowly, “a Pokémon tattoo?”

Hob grins bashfully, “Ah, I was wondering if you’d recognize it.”

Nodding, Dream stated easily, “Eevee.”

“Yup. Always was my favorite,” here Hob lets himself be a little enthusiastic, let himself start to shrug off the instinctual embarrassment, “I mean, the fact that they can evolve into so many different things, all depending on their environment and how they’re raised. It’s poetic,” he says determinedly.

He is rewarded when Dream looks to be fighting back a smile, teasing without malice, “It is a children’s cartoon.”

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t cry during Mewtwo’s speech in the movie.”

“I never saw it.”

Hob gasped, clasping his chest dramatically, “That is a crime!”

Dream lets out a small, soft exhale, the closest to a laugh Hob has ever heard, and it makes it all worth it. So he continues, twisting to point at the intricate text across his shoulders, decorated like an illuminated manuscript.

“You’ve already heard me ramble on about Chaucer, so this one shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.”

It’s a tattoo he doesn’t often see himself, only ever catching the edges of the decorative ropes out of the corner of his eye. But he still knows it well: “ Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury”

“There was a time I thought I would get my doctorate in Medieval literature and language, and I was honestly excited to do my dissertation on The Canterbury Tales.” He still thinks about it sometimes. More, he privately admits to himself, since meeting Dream. As though that part of himself that he had given up on was still clinging inside him. “It… didn’t end up happening. But it’s still something I’m passionate about.”

Moving on, unable or unwilling to dwell, he lifts his right arm, pointing to a tattoo hidden on the inside of his upper arm. Leaning in to get a closer look, Dream’s lips twitch towards a smile.

“It’s so…. cute,” he says teasingly, “I would not expect that.”

Hob can feel himself blush, glancing down at the image of a pink and orange cartoon cat holding a strawberry, “Yeah, yeah. I had a cat named Strawberry growing up, and a friend of mine drew this for me after she passed. I don’t usually draw attention to it cause it does, y’know. Clash.”

Dream hums thoughtfully, “No,” he says confidently, “I think it fits well.”

The words are so simple and yet they make Hob’s breath catch in his chest. Turning around, desperate to move on before he loses his nerve, he points a finger at the next tattoo. When he looks over his shoulder, he grins at the sight of Dream biting his lip, very clearly stifling a laugh. Hob laughs too, as he’s learned to when it comes to this particular ink.

“It seemed like a good idea when I was drunk,” he laments, remembering picking the gothic font for the word “Harder” tattooed on his lower back. “You wanna know something funny though?” Hob turns back around, continuing when he sees Dream’s eyebrow raised questioningly, “I’ve only bottomed once since getting that tattoo. Guy saw it and proceeded to listen to my ink instead of me. Not-“ he rushes to elaborate when Dream sucks in a breath, “not like that . He was an asshole, and it was some of the shittiest sex I’ve ever had, but he never crossed any lines, promise.” 

Dream relaxes minutely, nodding in acceptance, and Hob’s heart warms at the other man’s concern for him. It gives him just enough courage to move on.

“This one is… hard to talk about.”

He points to his left bicep, Dream tilting his head slightly to take in the tattoo of a magic eight ball. A sliver of the eight at the top and a reading at the bottom that says ‘Try Again’, a large field of solid black separating the two and forming a nearly perfect circle.

“It’s a coverup,” Hob admits softly. “I was nineteen. Got mixed up with a bad crowd. I wish I could say I was just stupid but… the truth is I was mean . I was selfish, and cruel, and bigoted. Enough so to get a fucking hate symbol tattooed on my arm.” Hob has to close his eyes, breathing past the shame, “I’m not that person anymore. And maybe I can’t undo the harm I did in the past, but the least I can do is not walk around and make other people see something that makes them feel like shit.”

It’s a time in his life he hates thinking about, preferring to pretend it never happened. As though covering up the tattoo could erase the fact that he was ever such a shitty person. When he glances up at Dream, he thinks there might be a hint of judgment, a fraction of what Hob himself feels, but there’s also… acceptance. Not of the past, not the person he once was, because that person was unacceptable. But acceptance of the present. He looks like he knows Hob better and is not thinking less of him for it. 

And so he keeps going, hand drifting to his chest, “This one is hard to talk about too, but for a different reason.”

It’s cliche. It was cliche when he got it, and Eleanor teased him relentlessly but fondly, but Hob had no regrets. On his chest, over his heart, are three doves, with three dates beneath them.

“I got the first two after I married Eleanor.” Dream’s eyes snap up to his, surprised and confused. Smiling sadly, Hob points to the first of three dates under the birds, “One for each of us and our wedding date. Super sappy, but I didn’t care. And Eleanor loved to tease me but I know she loved it too.” His fingers drift over to the third dove, “I got this one added after Robyn was born.” He taps on the second date, “I had this image in my head, of getting a whole flock tattooed on my chest, of running out of room and filling every spare inch of my skin with my family.” 

His voice cracks on the last word. He presses his palm flat over his chest, over his heart, over the tattoo, as if he could press it even closer. When he moves his hand a minute later, he simply slides it up just enough to show the third date.

“Drunk driver,” he chokes out, “I wasn’t even there. Eleanor had been picking Robyn up from a friend’s house. I was getting dinner ready for when they got home. It was still warm when I got the call.”

It hurts less now, the pain dulled by time. But it’s still there . He thinks about telling Dream about how he had considered getting this one covered up too. Not even with a picture, just a black hole over his heart where his family used to be. He remembers how Johanna talked him down, told him to wait a week, two weeks, a month, and then suddenly he realized that he didn’t want to cover them up. Because his heart wasn’t a black hole. He was still here, and he would carry on, and he would carry them with him. So he simply added the third date instead.

Hob thinks about telling Dream all of this. But after the fourth time he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, he feels soft leather against his skin. Dream places his gloved hand over Hob’s, resting against his chest, and slowly intertwines their fingers. 

That little bit of contact is all it takes for the dam to break. “I thought that they were it for me,” he confesses, “I thought that I was done. I dropped out of school, only barely managed to keep myself above water, bought this pub through grit and luck. I knew I had to survive, had to keep living, but I thought I was done loving .”

His voice cracks again, and he realizes that he needs a minute to compose himself or he’s going to shatter before he even gets to the important part. 

Dream gives him that minute. Silent and steady, stroking his thumb against Hob’s.

Finally, he is able to take a deep breath, and he continues, “I got into this routine. Puffing myself up and mastering every line and pose to have a little fun, casual sex, because I thought that was all I wanted. I don’t… really know what to do without that script. When I want more than just sex.” When he looks up, Dream is staring at him with watery eyes, jaw clenched. “I haven’t felt like this since Eleanor,” he admits, not as ashamed as he thought he would be, “And it’s terrifying.” He lets out a watery laugh, “Sorry for fucking it up.”

The hand over his grips a little tighter, and Dream looks like he has made a decision.

“You didn’t fuck it up.”

Hob isn’t sure if he wants to insist that he did, or just say thank you, but before he can make up his mind, Dream is leaning in to kiss him. His eyes flutter closed, his focus narrowed into the soft press of their lips, and the way Dream’s free hand drifts up to rest against his neck.

“Take me home with you,” Dream murmurs against his lips, and Hob feels it like a gut punch.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to, I meant what I said-“

“And I meant what I said,” Dream interrupts, carding his fingers through the hair at Hob’s nape. “If you would rather not, that is fine. But if you are so willing to listen to what I don’t want, be willing to listen to what I do ,” he places a pointed kiss at the hinge of Hob’s jaw, making him shiver as he repeats himself, “Take me home with you.”

Hob exhales shakily, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’ve certainly never been shy about telling me off before,” he laughs, and feels it catch in his throat when Dream’s tongue chases the motion, “To my place. And we can figure out the rest together, yeah?”

“Yes,” Dream pulls away reluctantly.

Pulling him in for one more kiss, Hob can’t help but grin mischievously at him, “As long as you don’t mind riding on the back of my bike. I have an extra helmet.”

Dream steps back, and Hob misses the contact already, “Lead the way.”

Once Hob has put his shirt and jacket back on and they are situated on the motorcycle, Hob glances over his shoulder, and allows himself to be a little flirtatious, “Hang on tight, sweetheart.”

It backfires when Dream slides his hands around Hob’s waist, kneading at the soft flesh of his stomach before tightening his grip. One hand is braced just below his pecs, his thumb just barely brushing against where his right nipple piercing can be felt through his shirt.

Hob doesn’t believe in miracles, but it might be the only explanation for how he gets them to his flat without crashing.

~~~

Once Hob closes the door behind them, he has no idea what to do next.

He knows he needs to trust Dream to be honest about what he does or doesn’t want, but he’s so terrified of messing it all up again.

Luckily, Dream doesn’t seem to mind taking the reins, and Hob finds himself pushed up against his own front door as Dream kisses him firmly. His hands rest on Hob’s stomach, pressing and gripping and pulling him closer until their hips are flush together. Hob was hard the entire ride here, but now he can feel Dream’s answering arousal pressed against him. All he can do is moan against Dream’s mouth, arching his back against the door to shrug his jacket off. Dream pulls back just enough to do the same with his own coat. 

It strikes Hob that this is the first time he has seen Dream with even that one layer removed. No matter how muggy and warm the New Inn got, Dream always kept his coat tight around himself. There isn’t much difference now, at least not visually. He still has his turtleneck, the sleeves falling past his wrists over his gloves, his jeans. He is still a black shadow standing in Hob’s entryway, even without his coat. But Hob knows it's important. Knows it deserves another kiss. 

When Hob kicks his shoes off Dream once again follows suit, though he is forced to take a moment to loosen the laces before revealing his predictably black socks. In between every motion they return for kisses, constantly drawn to each other, each kiss getting deeper and hotter and more desperate. 

“Dream,” Hob moans, the name muffled against the man’s lips, “Tell me what you want? Anything you want, anything at all,” one hand cards through wild black hair while the other grips a sharp hip bone, holding him as close as possible. 

There is a soft hum in response, Dream looking up at him through dark lashes as he takes a moment to consider. Then he takes half a step back and holds out one of his hands. It reminds Hob of a king presenting his hand to a subject, and so he cannot resist taking the offered hand and bending his head to press a kiss to the covered knuckles.

He’s rewarded with a soft huff of laughter, and when he raises his eyes, Dream is smiling at him, “You may remove it, if you would like,” he says with a note of teasing.

Hob grins, straightening, and takes his hand in both of his own. Reverently, Hob tugs at the fingers of the smooth leather, well worn and soft. He slides it off Dream’s hand gently, and feels his jaw drop almost comically when he is granted the sight of intricately tattooed skin.

The top of Dream’s hand is decorated with a thick black outline of a cathedral window, similar designs running down the tops of his fingers. He turns Dream’s hand to look closer and finds himself gaping at a black starburst in the center of his palm, rich black specks splattering out to the edges of his palm. The ink is so thick and saturated, it feels like he can barely make out Dream’s skin beneath it.

His staring is interrupted when Dream silently offers his other hand, waiting expectantly. He is no less in awe when he removes the remaining glove and finds matching tattoos, holding both of Dream’s hands in his own as he admires the cathedral Dream has made of his skin.

“Take me to bed,” Dream says bluntly, “and I will show you more.”

Swallowing thickly, Hob can’t resist leaning in slowly, kissing Dream again when he doesn’t pull away. No matter how stoic Dream may try to appear, Hob knows he can’t rush this. Hob doesn’t want to rush this. 

Once he has kissed some of the tension from Dream’s body, he begins carefully walking backwards towards his room, still holding Dream’s hands. Still kissing him thoroughly. He stumbles a few times over his own clutter, but it’s worth it to be able to taste Dream’s soft breaths of laughter against his mouth. In the bedroom, he moves them deliberately until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Reluctantly, he releases Dream’s hands, letting himself fall back onto the mattress with a little bounce, crawling back until he can sprawl out among his pillows, head propped up enough to gaze at Dream. For a moment Dream stares, blinking slowly like a cat. Hob grins, patting his lap in invitation, and that gets Dream’s lips to twitch towards a smile. He climbs onto the bed gracefully, settling to lightly straddle Hob’s thighs. 

As soon as he’s close enough Hob is leaning up to kiss him again. He’s never disliked kissing, but ever since Eleanor it’s just been a means to an end, a detour from what he was really looking for. But now, he feels like he could kiss Dream all night, just kiss him, and he wouldn’t even notice the time passing. He could get lost in the softness of Dream’s lips, the bite of his teeth, the taste of his sighs.

But then he tugs at Hob’s shirt lightly, questioningly, and Hob is all too happy to let those gorgeous, tattooed hands explore his skin. It is strange to pull his shirt off for the second time in as many hours in completely different contexts. This time his shirt is tossed carelessly to the floor, and Dream does not hesitate to cup Hob’s pecs, massaging his flesh and running his fingers through the thick hair obscuring the art. Hob can’t help but moan, almost embarrassed by the sound until he sees the way Dream’s eyes darken with want.

A whine escapes when Dream pulls back, but he is distracted from the loss of Dream’s hands when he sees him deftly pull his turtleneck off, his hair falling wildly around his face when the fabric is released from over his head. He is expecting it this time, and yet it still comes as a shock to see miles of richly inked skin.

Much like his hands, all of Dream’s tattoos are solid, heavy black. His entire chest is taken up by an elaborate, upside down castle. Tall spires and towers reach from his upper chest down to the dip of his ribs. Around his collar bones, the image becomes distorted, black waves like water ripples, like a mote wrapping around his shoulders. On his stomach are three black stained glass windows, thickly framed with countless patterns and pieces inside, the line work thinner and yet so dense it still hides the pale skin it is drawn on. Hob catches glimpses of wings wrapping around his sides, and in the center of his throat is a solid black outline of a gemstone, the barest lines left open to show the cut of it, with black lace patterns wrapping around his neck like a choker.

“I was held for a month.”

Dream’s words startle Hob from his revelry, ice water running through his vein as he looks up at Dream’s carefully blank face.

“I lived with my sister. The man wanted her. He had been stalking her, but when he finally sent his men after her, they made a mistake. And they grabbed me instead. So he decided to make do with what he had. He stripped me bare.” Here, Dream pauses. Ducks his head, closes his eyes, steels himself for the next three words. “He. Hurt me.”

It’s something out of a horror novel. The type of tragedy you hear about on tv but doesn’t feel real. But the pain on Dream’s face is very, very real.

“Afterwards, I could not handle the sight of my own skin. I could not handle the idea of someone else seeing my skin. I could not stand the thought of being forcibly exposed again. It was a struggle to shower, to change my clothes, anything where I would have to see myself. It is still hard, sometimes. So I decided. I wanted a covering that could not be taken from me.”

Looking over Dream’s tattoos with this knowledge, Hob understands. He can see the way the swathes of black form a cloak around him, shielding him. He imagines sliding his hands beneath the ink, parting it like fabric to reveal marble white skin. He imagines Dream pale, and vulnerable, and alone, and he wants to cry. He wants to wrap Dream in more fabric, cover him with his body, and protect him from the past.

“It was not easy,” Dream continues, “the process. I had to uncover my skin in order to cover it with ink. But I was,” he stops, and he softens, just a little, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “I am . Lucky. To have a trusted friend who is a tattoo artist. Who was willing to work with me, and allow me to have sessions in a private room, and to hold my hand when I could not breathe.”

He looks down at his own arm, at the heavy black shapes that twist with the movement of the limb as he raises it up to hold in front of himself, “It helps,” he states plainly. “Even if my skin does not feel like it belongs to me anymore. The ink, at least, is mine.”

Someday, Hob will cry for Dream. Someday he will let the pain he feels for this man well up and spill over because Dream deserves to be cried over. But right now, he reaches up to Dream’s raised arm and twines their fingers together, tugging him down gently until he can press a kiss to the soft skin of his inner wrist.

“It’s all yours,” he says, voice full of wonder and awe, “All yours, all beautiful.” He lets out a huff of laughter, “Here I’ve been going on about my own tattoos, and you’ve been walking around as a masterpiece the whole time.”

Pulling his hand free of Hob’s grasp, Dream shakes his head, “No.” He leans back, resting his palms on Hob’s stomach, eyes roaming over the colors and lines adorning his skin, fingers tracing each picture idly, “If your body is a collection of stories, then mine is the Library of Alexandria. It’s all just ash now.”

Hob isn’t entirely sure of what to do, and simply bursting into tears doesn’t feel like the best option. So instead, he sits up slowly, pushes himself up until he and Dream are face to face and chest to chest, and then he wraps his arms around him. He hugs him firmly, but not so tight that Dream could not pull away if he wanted to. But Dream stays still in his arms, hands still pressed between them as Hob cups the back of his head with one hand while the other strokes up and down his spine. 

“You are so much more than ash,” he whispers into his hair, “and I’m going to do whatever I have to to prove it to you.”

For a long moment, he just holds him, and he thinks it might be enough when he feels the way Dream sighs and sinks into his arms. But eventually, Dream pulls back, the tip of his nose brushing against Hob’s.

“You can start by kissing me again.”

Hob can do that.

It’s an easy slide from soft back into heated. The embers that the sorrow had damped reigniting with each tug Dream gave to Hob’s chest hair, each earring Dream catches in his teeth. Hob lays back against the pillows and pulls Dream on top of him again, reveling in the way their bodies fit together. Hob moans loudly when Dream twists one of his nipple piercings, and then pulls an answering groan from Dream when he grazes his teeth over inked collar bones.

His hands drift down to the sharp jut of Dream’s hips, his thumbs brushing over feathers and flowers before ghosting towards the button of his jeans. He has barely brushed the metal there when black lined fingers wrap around his wrists.

“No.” 

When he glances up, Dream is still flushed and panting, but he’s not looking at him, his head turned to the side and wild hair obscuring his eyes. He is not tense, exactly, but not relaxed either. He seems like he’s bracing for something.

Hob’s heart hurts, but he manages a small smile, “Alright.” He lets his hands fall back onto the mattress. Dream hesitantly raises his head, expression carefully neutral as he looks down at Hob. 

Humming, Hob questions gently, “No to undressing, or no to touching? Or no to both?” He keeps his voice light, hoping to convince Dream that any answer is okay, because any answer is okay. Hob meant what he said, and if Dream needed him to prove it he would, anytime, as many times as he needed.

Blinking, Dream glances down again, letting the fingers of one hand brush against Hob’s chest softly, tracing the lines of the Clippership on his right pec. Hob watches and waits as Dream bites his lip, brow furrowed as he carefully considers his answer.

“I think. I would like for you to touch me more,” he finally replies, glancing up through long eyelashes, “but. I do not wish to remove any more clothing.”

“Not a problem,” Hob grins, bringing a hand up to cover Dream’s, craning his neck to press a kiss to his sharp knuckles. “Can I touch you under your clothes? Get your pants open just enough to get my hand inside? Or would you prefer I touch you through your jeans?”

There is a slight hitch in Dream’s chest, and his eyes glisten as tears well in his eyes. For a terrifying moment Hob is afraid he has said the wrong thing, but then Dream is leaning down to press their lips together. Their hands are trapped between their chests, still clasped together, and Hob can’t help but moan at the feeling of Dream’s smooth chest pressed against his, at the way he grinds down to press their erections together.

When he finally pulls back to breath, Dream has mostly blinked the tears away, “You may put your hands inside my jeans. Just. Try not to push them down too much.” His voice is breathless, and still a little shaky, but the nervousness has been replaced by want, and Hob doesn’t think he will ever be able to deny this man anything.

“Whatever you want, love,” he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Dream’s hair, tugging him back down for another kiss. Being pressed together makes it a little more difficult to get his hand between them, to fumble with Dream’s jeans, but his gut tells him that Dream needs a distraction, and Hob is all too happy to provide one by sucking on his bottom lip, just a hint of teeth to the kiss.

When he finally gets his hand into Dream’s pants, Dream lets out a stuttering gasp, His prick is rock hard and burning in Hob’s hand, and when he brushes his thumb over the tip he can feel the precome leaking there. He gathers up the bit of wetness with his fingers to smooth the next stroke, relishing in the jerk of Dream hips and the hitch in his breath. 

“ Yes ,” Dream exhales, his entire body writhing against Hob’s, the sharp points of his bones kneading into Hob’s flesh in a way that yesterday he wouldn’t have expected to be pleasurable. But tonight, he thinks he could come just from feeling Dream slide against him. 

He starts a slow pace, mouthing at Dream’s jaw as he strokes him, “Like that, sweetheart?” Hob’s words are strained. They are so close together that his knuckles press up and down his own cock through his jeans with each stroke, rough and hard and exactly what he needs right now. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dream chants, voice gravely with lust, and he dips his head to latch his mouth on one of Hob’s nipples. 

Hob lets out a sob as Dream’s tongue toys with his piercing, “God, you feel so good,” he slurs out, breathless and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

Apparently Dream can read his mind, or maybe just the desperation in his voice, because suddenly his hand is pawing at Hob’s fly. His back curls, putting a little space between them without separating their hips, allowing him to flick the button of Hob’s pants open. Hob lets out a shuddering sigh of relief at having even a little more room for his cock to breath, but the sigh quickly turns into a voiceless cry when Dream wraps cool, slender fingers around him.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” a part of him is worried he’s going to come from just that one touch, but somehow he keeps it together, even when Dream pushes his briefs down enough to grind their cocks together. 

With Dream arching over him, he’s granted a view of the space between them. Lifting his head breathlessly, he sees the soft pink head of Dream’s cock revealed through his open jeans, framed by the tan skin of Hob’s hand wrapped around it. Most of his cock is covered by Hob’s hand, but as Dream thrusts into his fist, Hob catches the barest glimpse of the shaft. And he sees a hint of ink.

He doesn’t mean to tighten his grip, but he does, his hand spasming as he moans helplessly at the beautiful man on top of him. Dream whines at the feeling, rutting a little harder as he drops his forehead onto Hob’s shoulder, “Gonna make a mess on you,” he warns, breathless as the head of his prick smears precome through the hair on Hob’s stomach.

Hob’s pretty sure his neighbors hear the moan he lets out, “ God , please do.”

His words are enough apparently, because with a few quick stutters of his hips, Dream is coming over Hob’s hand with a sharp gasp, thick spurts landing in hotly across Hob’s belly and chest. As his orgasm tapers off, he grinds down hard on Hob’s cock, pressing his pelvis and Hob’s own hand against him, and then it’s Hob’s turn to come undone, adding to the mess between them with a long, drawn-out cry. 

Hob’s not sure how long it takes him to come back down to Earth, his body still singing with pleasure and his breath slowly evening out. But when he finally opens his eyes, which he doesn’t even remember closing, Dream is still hovering above him, his own breath still a little quicker than normal. Dream is looking down at him, watching him with those sharp blue eyes, and when he sees Hob looking back at him, he smirks. And then, without breaking eye contact, he runs one finger up the center of Hob’s body, from the tip of his softening cock, up his belly, all the way to his sternum, drawing a trail through their combined spend until his finger is coated in it. 

And then he licks his finger clean. 

“Fuck, Dream,” Hob moans, one hand coming up to cover his face, trying to laugh but just sounding desperate, “Have mercy. I’m not a teenager anymore.”

When he spreads his fingers to look up at Dream, he finds him smiling. He looks relaxed, and mischievous, and happy, and Hob would do anything to make him smile like that every single day.

“My apologies,” he drawls, not sounding sorry at all. He rolls smoothly off of Hob, moving to lay on his back as he tucks himself back into his pants and straightens his jeans, “Our come just compliments your tattoos so nicely.”

Hob covers his face with both hands this time, trying to muffle the sound of his embarrassment and lust, “Menace. You’ll be the death of me.” He hears a soft chuckle, but they fall into comfortable silence, both of them coming down from the adrenaline of their climaxes. When Hob turns to look at Dream again several minutes later, he is staring up at the ceiling, hands folded laxly on his stomach.

“You can stay the night, if you’d like,” Hob offers, his voice a whisper so as not to break the peace, “I can sleep on the couch if you’d rather not wake up next to someone.”

Dream’s head snaps to look at him, his eyes wide with surprise. Hob looks back evenly, not taking it back, but not overexplaining either. Just gives Dream time to decide what to do with it.

“...May I have my shirt back?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Hob replies immediately, sitting up with a groan and a wince at the increasingly uncomfortable mess on his stomach. But he ignores it for now in favor of reaching over the side of the bed to scoop up Dream’s turtleneck, handing it back to him easily. Dream silently slips it back over his head.

“…Is it really that easy for you?” Dream asks after a long pause, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeves, “You are not… disappointed? With tonight? With... me?”

Hob feels his eyebrows reach his hairline. And the thing is, he knows what Dream is talking about, even understands it in a distant way, and so he knows he should probably respond seriously.

But the thing is, Hob knows what he looks like.

“Dream,” Hob speaks slowly and gestures at the drying come coating his abdomen, his spent prick still hanging out of his open pants, “do I look like I’m disappointed?”

For a moment, Dream just blinks, eyes wide with surprise as he stares down at Hob’s chest. And then he is slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle actual giggles , and Hob is so in love he can’t help but laugh with him. 

“I think,” Dream says once he has composed himself, “that I would like to spend the night with you. In bed together.”

Hob smiles so wide his face hurts, “Lovely,” he says, “lovely, lovely.”

There is an easy peace between them as they move around the flat. Hob wipes himself down and then finds a spare pair of sweatpants. Dream changes into them in the restroom while Hob rushes to put fresh sheets on the bed, because that’s how badly he wants to impress this man. He thinks it might have backfired when Dream exits the bathroom to find Hob struggling with the fitted sheet. His face flushes, feeling embarrassed and incompetent, some small part of him feeling like somehow this will be what runs Dream off for good.

But Dream just smiles fondly, and moves silently to the other side of the bed to assist him, and everything feels right for the first time in a very long time.

When they pull the clean sheets back to slide under the covers together, Hob feels something inside of him settle as Dream curls shyly against his side. He pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him loosely, and smiles to himself when he hears Dream sigh softly and melt against him. He is lithe and lanky, and Hob can feel the points of his bones through the layers of soft fabric covering him. Hob is soft flesh and muscle, wearing only his boxers.

They fit together perfectly.

~~~

The next morning, Hob awakes to the feeling of Dream’s fingers running gently through the hair on his chest. Even half asleep he has the presence of mind to appreciate the feeling of Dream’s bare fingers touching him.

“Morning, darling.”

Dream startles a bit, but settles just as quickly, “Good morning, Hob.”

Hob rolls onto his side to face Dream properly, and they end up nearly nose to nose. Dream still has one hand resting lightly against Hob’s chest, the other curled under his chin, absentmindedly rolling the end of his sleeve between his fingers. 

“I want to take you on a proper date,” Hob blurts out, “Y’know, dinner and a movie. Or something. Hell, you can pick what we do and I’ll just pay and carry your things. I just. I want to treat you right.”

Dream stares at him, looking surprised, and Hob keeps rambling, “Or not. If you don’t want to. I mean, even if you don’t I’m still probably going to get a tattoo for you. To match the one on my heart.”

He didn’t actually mean to say that last part out loud, and he’s positive it was far too much for a ‘morning after’ talk. But then, before he can get too caught up in his own catastrophizing thoughts… Dream is laughing. A full, proper, full body laugh, though it sounds rough and unused, as though he is laughing through a mouthful of broken glass.

It’s beautiful.

Dream kisses him, clumsily because he’s still smiling. He leans their foreheads together, and says, so earnestly Hob thinks he might cry, “I like it when you are sappy,” he pulls Hob close, tucking his head under Hob’s chin, “and I would love to go on a proper date with you.”

Hob tightens his hold on Dream, “Excellent,” his face hurts from smiling so much, “I’m going to spoil you.” Hob thinks he needs it.

He feels Dream hum against his throat, and then he is wiggling free of Hob’s grip, leaning back to look at Hob with a raised eyebrow, “But first,” he smirks mischievously, “I was told I would be provided breakfast in the morning.”

Hob was planning to cook for him anyway, but first he has to tackle him, and pepper his face with kisses until they are tangled together in a mass of limbs and laughter and ink.

~~~

A year later, Dream stutters through an explanation, even as Hob tries to interrupt with reassurance that he gets it. 

It took some time, but Dream has shown Hob all of his tattoos by this point. The towers and trees along his legs, the birds and dragons spanning his back, the strange bone-like mask running down his spine. Hob has had the honor of pressing gentle kisses to all of them.

“It’s different,” Dream explains now, desperately, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or-... I don’t know, I know it’s silly, but I just-”

“ Dream ,” Hob cups Dream’s face in his hands, thumbs resting softly on his lips to silence his anxious rambling. “Love, it’s okay . I promise, it’s okay. I get it.”

And he does. He thinks it makes perfect sense that even after being allowed to see Dream’s body that he wouldn’t want Hob in the room when he is being tattooed. It’s different, he thinks, being seen in the safe intimacy of their home, versus a sterile shop where- willingly or not- he is experiencing pain. Or course he wants the comfort and familiarity of being alone in the private studio with his best friend. 

Some of the tension melts from Dream’s frame, though he still has a touch of nervousness in his eyes, and so Hob leans in to kiss him softly. He lifts one of Dream’s hands and presses it to his chest, to the spot where, under his shirt, a fresh tattoo rests. Dream had helped him design it, a solid black silhouette of a rave, wings spread as it flies in the space below the image of three doves. He knows part of Dream’s concern is that Hob will be offended, because he was allowed to sit beside him and hold his hand while Hob got the tattoo dedicated to Dream.

But he also knows it’s different .

“I’ll be there to pick you up when you’re done," he says casually, "I’ll even bring you one of your ridiculous coffees.”

Finally, Dream smiles, relaxing as he finally seems to believe Hob’s words. 

“I love you,” Dream whispers against his lips, and Hob will never get tired of hearing it.

“I love you too. Now go, before Lucienne has my head for making you late.”

That night, back in their shared apartment, Dream lifts his shirt to show where his stomach is wrapped in Saniderm. Hob’s eyes well with tears as he sees the vibrant colors beneath the clear plaster. The three stained glass windows on Dream’s abdomen, previously just stark black outlines, have been filled with a gradient of color. Bright oranges, purples, reds, yellows. A sunset or a sunrise shining through the windows.

“For the light you brought back to my life,” Dream had explained when he first told Hob of his idea. Hob had cried then. He cries now too. 

Once their respective tattoos are healed, he knows neither of them will be able to keep their hands or mouths off of them, the visible proof of how they’ve changed each other. But for now, they settle for curling up together and kissing everywhere else.

They leave behind little love bites in the scant spaces between tattoos, until every spare inch is filled in.

[merry-moody-missy]

A little story inspired by this post by @academicblorbo and dedicated to her. Thank you for the inspiration 💜

Dreamling; rated E; Vampire Dream/Werewolf Hob

The scent hits Hob as soon as he walks into the pub. Under the sickly stench of sweat, of cigarettes that cling to lips, the stickiness of beer, the scent of him is like walking into the night and finally inhaling the aroma of stars and moon and darkness for the first time.

Hob looks around the pub, waving absentmindedly to the patrons he knows, when he spots him.

He is fucking beautiful. Skin like the marble of Rome polished to a shine, eyes like the way the moon’s caress over the city at its finest, raven wind swept hair.

He also looks bored out of his mind, fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of his untouched wine glass as the man across from him at the table talks and talks. Hob wonders if that man is dinner, but the way his blue eyed goth seems to stare at him with disinterest makes Hob think this is just a very, very unsuccessful date.

Hob takes a seat at the bar and orders a beer, and leans back against the mahogany and looks. A few minutes later, Hob’s beer is half drunk and blue eyes blink lazily and settle on him.

It is not by mistake, the arched eyebrow telling Hob as much. Hob just tilts his head, a wiggle of his eyebrows, a slanted look towards the possible date.

Blue eyes narrow and trail down Hob’s body, slowly, meticulously. Hob just lets him look, and when he glances back up, his lips tilt, just at the corners, almost a smile.

He waves his hand and says, “Leave now.”

Hob can hear his voice over the noise of the pub, and what a voice it is. Low, almost melodious, and it settles in his bones like the deep slide of a cello’s strings.

The man across from him suddenly straightens and gets up, walking out of the pub with a dazed, wide eyed look in his eyes, and Hob takes his empty seat immediately.

“Nice trick,” Hob says, leaning back into the still warm chair. The man looks at him, unflinching, eyebrow quirked elegantly.

“You were staring.”

“Can’t help it. I see a beautiful, dangerous thing and I’m interested,” Hob says, a cheeky smile. “Name’s Robert Gadling, but my friends call me Hob.”

A tilt of the man’s head, shadows caught in the perfect shelf of his collarbones that peak out of his low t-shirt.

“Am I dangerous, Robert Gadling?”

Hob just shrugs. “Most of your kind seem to think they are.”

A smile, perfect white teeth, no sharpness to be seen. Hob smiles back, and knows his own canines show a little more. The man leans forward, just an inch, and Hob watches the way his chest expands on an inhale.

His eyes narrow. “And you don’t smell like your kind at all.”

“Surprise me, what do we smell like?”

A twitch of that pretty nose. “Wet mutt and mud.”

Hob laughs, and takes a sip of his beer. “Well, I’m rather partial to hygiene and the occasional splurge on cologne. My students would probably not appreciate the stench and I have been getting World’s Best Professor mugs as Christmas gifts for five years now. Shame to throw such a stellar reputation away.”

A surprised blink. “You teach.”

“Yup.”

The man hums, but his lips twitch into something that might just be a small, impressed smile.

“And here I thought most of you just excelled in fetching sticks,” he says, and there’s a tease under it all, a relaxing of his shoulders.

“More of a frisbee man myself,” Hob shoots back, grin in full force. He takes another sip of his beer, and when he licks his lips, blue eyes hone in on the gesture.

The man leans back, fingers back to playing with the rim of his glass. He’s wearing black nail polish, of course he is, and up close Hob can just make out the faintest eyeliner around his eyes. Dammit, if that does not work a number on him.

“Call me Dream.”

Hob’s grin gets brighter. “Pleasure to meet you, Dream,” he says. “I would apologize for ruining your date, but we both know I’d be lying.”

Dream just rolls his eyes. “He was so boring I could hear the paint on the walls peeling. So far, you are turning up to be a tad more interesting.”

Hob just laughs. “I’ll take it,” he says. “Can I ask though, what the fuck were you doing actually being on a date with that stick in the mud.”

“My sister’s idea,” Dream says, lips curling in dissatisfaction. “She thinks I need to get out more.”

“Would coming back to my place fall into that definition?”

A laugh, barely a huff of breath, but Dream’s eyes sparkle with it.

“Presumptuous. Now that is more on line with your species.”

“Evasion. In line with yours.” Hob bites at his lip, and gives Dream an amused look. “Okay, how about we fast forward through the usual dating steps. Hi, I’m Hob, I teach medieval history at King’s College, I’m technically eighty-nine years old but I can pass as thirty six in my ID, I like feeding ducks in the park on weekends and I love rainy days.”

Dream’s smile curls his cheeks, and there’s no flush on his skin, but Hob just knows it would be there if he could blush.

“I’m Dream Endales, I’m an art curator for a gallery. I’m technically over three hundred years old, but I can pass as twenty eight. I love feeding the pigeons in the park and I love summer nights.”

“I watch too much Taskmaster and have seen every Lord of the Rings movie at least twenty times.”

“I’m partial to Doctor Who and I prefer the books.”

“First edition signed by the author?”

“Of course.”

Hob laughs, and asks, “Favorite Doctor?”

“Ten, of course.”

“National treasure he is,” Hob agrees. “Hmm, favorite color?”

Dream’s eyes search his face for a moment before he smiles and says, “Amber.”

“Favorite food?” When Dream just gives him an unimpressed look, he laughs. “Fine, fine. Hmm, favorite city?”

“New York. London. Osaka. And a small village in the Carpathian mountains where you can feel spring in the ground all year round.”

“Favorite book?”

“It is blasphemous to choose just one, and you should be ashamed for asking,” Dream drawls, and his lips twitch in a barely contained grin. Hob can’t help his own laugh, and he does not mind it sounds halfway too smitten.

“You’re right and please accept my apology.” He taps his fingers on the table, and gives Dream a cheeky grin. “Cats or dogs?”

Dream’s gaze turns darker. “Cats. But I am willing to be swayed.”

Hob presses his foot to Dream’s under the table.

“Last question. Your place or mine?”

Dream bites at his bottom lip, just the shine of one canine in the golden light of the pub, and it’s sharp but also so very pleased. Hob’s stomach sways with it, with an edge of hunger that he is sure is mirrored in Dream’s eyes. Dream picks up his glass and downs it one go, licking the red liquid off his lips as he finishes.

“Very well,” he says, standing up in one fluid motion. “Heel.”

Hob laughs, belly swooping with the heavy, perfect flow of desire.

Twenty minutes later he is on his knees in his own hallway, the slide of Dream’s cock over his tongue like the most delicious indulgence. Above him, Dream lets out a moan, chest moving with each desperate sound and his fingers dig into Hob’s scalp. Hob is sure he can feel the sharp dig of claws where there once were just blunt nails, and he sucks Dream harder, moaning around the length of him.

Dream’s thighs shake, and Hob digs his fingers into the trembling muscles, hard enough to bruise even as he knows that won’t be the case.

“That mouth of yours,” Dream says above him, voice melting into a deep tremble. Hob stares up at him as he pulls up the length of Dream’s cock, cheeks hollowing. He watches Dream’s pupils widen, his mouth parting on a gasp.

Hob pulls back, a string of saliva dripping down his lips, and he grins. Dream’s fingers twist in his hair, and he laughs again, mouth closing over the tip of Dream’s cock, tongue playing with the slit of it until the musky, salty taste of Dream settles down his throat and into the heated, hungry depth of his belly.

“Gonna make you come like this,” Hob says, licking down and back up the length of Dream’s cock. “And then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk straight tomorrow.”

Dream’s mouth parts on a grin, hips twitching. “Overconfident pup, aren’t you.”

Hob’s teeth dig into the pale, shaking skin of Dream’s thigh, just enough bite in it to make it hurt. Dream moans, body trembling down to his toes, and Hob moves and takes down Dream’s cock until his nose buries in the soft patch of hair at the root.

It doesn’t take long, and soon Dream is fucking into Hob’s mouth recklessly, making these beautiful sounds that travel straight to Hob’s own aching cock. Hob relaxes his throat, drunk on the taste of Dream, on the scent of his arousal, and when Dream’s body tenses, Hob is ready for it, for the spill of Dream’s orgasm on his tongue.

He moans, laps up every last drop until Dream’s body shudders with one last wave, and Hob pulls away his half hard cock with a greedy pop. He is immediately being pulled up into a kiss that is all teeth and heat, and he laughs against Dream’s mouth.

“Bedroom,” Dream says, orders, and Hob is more than happy to please. They stumble through the dark hallway, bumping into furniture and walls, clothes abandoned like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bedroom.

Hob pushes a naked Dream on the bed and immediately crawls between his legs, leaving biting kisses over every inch of skin he can find. He takes Dream’s left nipple into his mouth, right between his teeth, and shivers with satisfaction when Dream’s body arches off the bed.

Dream’s fingers curl around his jawline and he pulls Hob off, their gazes meeting. In the dark, his eyes shine like starshine is caught behind the perfect blue of his irises, and Hob watches him with heat and awe.

“Let me—“ he says, body suddenly thrumming with too much want, too much overflowing arousal.

“Yes,” Dream growls, and Hob moves immediately, their mouths clashing even as he fumbles for the bedside table drawer, pulling out the small bottle of lube. Dream bites at his jawline, licks at the parting of Hob’s lips.

When Hob coats his fingers with the cool lube, presses to the twitching hole, Dream’s body tenses with a sharp inhale. Hob presses his hot mouth to the line of Dream’s throat, licks the place where a pulse should be, Dream’s skin cool like night under his tongue.

He takes his time fingering Dream, the slow drag of his fingers inside of him, enjoying the way Dream trembles and gasps in his embrace, the slow build of his pleasure from Hob’s touch.

The desperation for more.

“Hob,” Dream growls, and it settles over Hob’s skin, goosebumps down his arms, a prick of bone deep instinct prickling at the back of his neck. Hob just grins, and bites at Dream’s perfect jawline, even as Dream’s claws dig into his skin until he can barely make out the scent of blood in the air.

“That’s it, love,” Hob says, rutting his hips, his hard cock dragging on the inside of Dream’s thigh and leaving a trail of hot pre-come over unblemished skin. “Ask for it.”

Dream’s lips curl, fangs finally on display, razor sharp. Hob kisses him and moans hungrily when the edge of them drags over his bottom lip. Dream moans, part annoyance, part desperation, but he whispers against Hob’s mouth, “Fuck me.”

Hob does not wait to be told twice. He pulls his fingers out of Dream, lines up their hips and pushes in before the breath finishes settling in his lungs. Where Dream is all cool, marble skin on the outside, his insides are nothing short of perfect, blazing heat and Hob sinks into him with a tremble that settles inside his marrow.

“Oh, gods,” he says, words punched out of him, and Dream’s right hand settles on the back of neck and pulls him into another kiss. Hob’s hips twitch forward, pulling a moan from both of them, and he does it again, and again, and again, shallow thrusts that soon turn harder.

He fucks Dream with reckless abandon, with an edge of desperation he has never felt before. For a moment, he wonders how he ever lived without this, with the lack of Dream’s perfect body inviting him in, their pleasure like a buzz in the air, Dream’s moans a song he did not know was missing.

His skin ripples, a shake right from the depth of his bones. A growl that he can’t control, pure want and instinct, the edge of an animal thrashing against its cage. Dream’s eyes find his, and they shine like quicksilver, a grin just as dangerous as the rumble in Hob’s throat.

Hob pushes up the bed on his hunches, Dream settling in his lap like he weighs nothing, eyes wide and hungry and shining like stars as Hob’s cock slides into him deeper. Hob’s hand settles on his lower back, an anchor and a guide, and Dream’s heels dig into the mattress under him as he fucks himself on Hob with quick, hard thrusts.

“Fuck, look at you,” Hob says, and he doesn’t care how it sounds filled with awe, with too much openness. Dream just stares at him, gaze shining with something that plays on the borders of Hob’s own awe. “You fucking perfect being.”

Dream gasps, and their bodies sway with it. His eyelids flicker over starshine eyes, and he drops his head to Hob’s shoulder. His mouth is a hot, wet heat against Hob’s throat, dragged over the pulse point with each roll of their hips, and Dream digs his free hand in the strands of Dream’s hair.

He tilts his head and Dream makes a sound, a beautiful dragged out whine that seems to break from his vocal chords, and Hob whispers, “Do it, darling. Take what you need.”

Dream trembles, gasps, his cock dragging over the hairs of Hob’s lower belly. And then Hob feels it, the open mouthed kiss over his carotid, the puncture of fangs through sweaty skin.

It is painful, for a moment, and then it is not anymore. His eyelids flutter on a shocked moan, his hips pushing up violently, and Dream holds him with desperation as he sucks Hob’s blood into his waiting mouth. A daze settles over Hob’s mind, heat and arousal and something more, and it takes a few more frantic thrusts before he feels Dream come all over his skin, moans muffled against his skin, body seizing with his orgasm.

Hob doesn’t last long, not with the stench of come and warm skin and blood in the air, metallic and fiery in the back of his throat. He fucks Dream through it all, thrusts inside of him with each wave of his orgasm until his body gives one last tremble and he falls backwards onto the bed, Dream’s body still held close.

It takes him a few seconds, maybe more, to blink out of the cotton-ball haze, and when he finally becomes aware of his surroundings again, he notices two things.

One, Dream’s skin is warm, the coolness of before dissolving over his skin like ink in water. And two, Dream is no longer biting him, now warm mouth pressing soft, gentle kisses over his throat, the line of his collarbones, the edge of his jawline.

Hob turns his head just as Dream meets his lips, and the kiss tastes like iron. He blinks his eyes open, sluggish yet satisfied, and finds Dream staring at him from above.

Hob smiles, lips curled and loopsided.

“Dinner and a date,” he says. “Now tell me that wasn’t impressive.”

Dream rolls his eyes, but it looks fond even as he scoffs. “You are an idiot.”

“Hmm, have been called worse.”

Dream’s left palm settles over Hob’s chest, and Hob touches his wrist. There’s the faintest pulse there, hidden between the fragile bones of his wrist, and when he looks he can make out, even in the darkness, the cherry pink blush over Dream’s skin. He grins wider.

“I could have killed you.”

Hob snorts, and then he laughs hard when Dream just glares at him. “Yeah, no. I’m serious, stop glaring, you definitely couldn’t.”

Dream just tilts his head, something predatory in his gaze and suddenly Hob is pushed deeper into the mattress, Dream’s claws digging into his wrists. Hob’s cock twitches, and Dream just quirks an eyebrow.

“Please tell me you don’t find this arousing.”

Hob just wiggles his hips, even as he can’t move under Dream’s body.

“Want me to lie?”

Dream’s gaze falls to his throat, then back again and Hob grins and moves. He takes an incredible amount of pleasure from Dream’s surprised yelp as he rolls them over, pushing Dream into the mattress, a mirroring of their earlier position. His thumbs press into the pulse point of Dream’s wrists, and Dream stares up at him with too bright eyes.

Hob’s half full cock slides over Dream’s inner thigh, and Dream gives him a look as he says, “How did you ever survive almost a century without any sense of self preservation?”

“My charm,” Hob shoots back, dipping his head and placing a kiss to Dream’s throat, then his jawline. “My sharp wit.” A kiss to the corner of Dream’s lips. “My perfect ass.”

Dream’s lips twitch. They’re blood red, like the color of of bone marrow under the crack of bone. He hums, and they part on a soft exhale, and Hob licks at them.

“A modern day wolf in sheep’s clothing, is what you are,” Dream says, and his voice is an amused rumble.

“Woof,” Hob says, and nuzzles at the perfect pulse point under Dream’s jawline, and he feels Dream’s croaky laugh everywhere they’re pressed together. He catches Dream’s mouth in a kiss that is this edge of tender, and says, “Stay the night. I have blackout curtains.”

Dream pulls away and stares at Hob with a look, wary before he blinks and it vanishes.

“I just lost control and sucked your blood and you want me to stay over.” It is not exactly a question, more a cool, unbelieving statement. Hob shrugs, and trails the backs of his fingers over Dream’s forearms.

“Sure.”

Another blink, the slide of Dream’s gaze over his face, searching. Hob presses his right hand over Dream’s chest, and feels the stutter of a heartbeat that seems to quicken. Fresh blood will do that to a person.

Another deep breath that Dream does not need, and he smiles. It’s a small, careful thing, but it looks dangerously real. His fangs have vanished.

“How good is your coffee making skill?” Dream asks, and Hob laughs. It sounds too happy, too relived, but he does not care.

“As good as my fucking.”

And Dream laughs then, and pulls Hob close into a kiss that stretches and stretches.

“I will need to test that,” he says, and Hob lets the spark of happiness grow and grow inside his rib cage.

This might be a mistake. There’s a buzz under his skin, a pinprick of bone deep instinct, centuries of it passed down from bite to bite. And yet, when Dream smiles up at him, when Dream nuzzles close into his chest, the flush of his skin still warm under Hob’s palms, Hob thinks, this might be a mistake, but maybe it is one worth making.

The morning turns into day when they wake up, and Hob fucks Dream again in his bed. This time, it is a heated slow thing, their touches almost gentle over warm skin that still blushes. Dream’s kisses drag over him, just the drag of teeth and fangs that doesn’t break skin, and Hob comes with Dream’s legs tangled around him, Dream’s moans slow and beautiful.

He makes Dream coffee, and they sit at his kitchen table. The curtains are pulled away on Hob’s side, golden sunset warming his skin, and Dream takes a sip under Hob’s careful gaze and the shadows.

“So?” Hob says, eyebrows lifting expectantly.

Dream hums, mug resting against his mouth for a long moment as he swallows.

“Your fucking is better,” he says, but his lips twitch when Hob just bursts into delighted giggles. If he had a tail, it would be wagging like a helicopter blade.

“Eh, you’ll just have to let me try again. Of course, that means sleeping over a few more times.”

Dream places the coffee mug down, thumb curling against the rim where his mouth was a second ago.

“I would not mind,” Dream says, and he is blushing as he says it, the same small, real smile twisting his features into something so tender, so beautiful. He looks away with a clearing of his throat, right hand lifting to the curtain, the backs of his fingers dragging down it. “Why do you have these?”

“I get horrible insomnia on the days before and after the full moon,” Hob says. “I get fidgety, can’t stay asleep at night and crash during the day. These help.”

Dream’s hand drops from the curtains to settle on the table, just an inch from where the sun slants a sharp bright line against the table.

“My win, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Hob breathes out, and leans forward, taking Dream’s hand in his. Cool fingers curl around his, blue eyes falling to their intertwined fingers. Dream’s pulse is slow, dragging, Hob can hear it under the quiet of the room around them. He asks, “How soon do you need to feed again?”

“You offering?”

“Yes,” Hob says, and watches the surprise in Dream’s eyes. Hob just shrugs easily. “You know I can take it. And I don’t mind.”

Dream fidgets in place, his shoulders pulling closed for one breath. “I have not fed from a living creature in two decades. I mostly rely on blood banks. Last night was… an exception.”

“Oh.”

“A very unexpected and lovely exception.”

Blue eyes gaze upwards, lips parting in a soft smile. A confession, fragile like the exhale of breath in the morning cold.

“Oh,” Hob says again, breathless and pleased. Yup, the tail would definitely be wagging. “I like that. And I would not mind if you did it again, just so you know.”

Dream’s nose scrunches and Hob tries and fails to not find it adorable.

“I might hurt you if I do it again.”

“No, you won’t.”

Dream huffs a breath, and his fingers grip Hob’s tighter. “Last time I fed on someone, I was careful but— I nicked the artery. They bled out in my bathtub.”

Dream speaks as if he is laying a horrible, heavy truth at Hob’s feet, ready for the trampling and yet Hob has to bite back a laugh, head tilting until Dream looks at him.

“Wow,” Hob says, dragging the word, his smile barely under control. “That’s what I call a bloodbath.”

Dream gapes at him, silence falling over the room for a moment that drags. And then Dream groans, covering his face with his free hand.

“Oh gods,” he says, palm pressing to his mouth. “That was horrible.” His shoulders shake though, eyes sparkling with mirth as he hides a snorting laugh behind his hand.

“You liked it.”

“No,” Dream says, but his hand drops and his smile shines in the shadows. There’s a blush on his cheeks, and Hob does not say how he would let Dream feed on him every night just so he can enjoy that flush of him every day.

Outside the flat, the sun sets and Hob holds Dream’s hand in this until the darkness takes over. For the first time in decades, night does not feel so lonely.

*

Two Weeks Later

“Stop worrying.”

Hob huffs out a breath, aiming for a laugh but it ends up nothing but a worried exhale. His fingers tighten against Dream’s, but Dream does not comment, just keeps holding on as they walk towards the cottage. It’s been Hob’s property for half a century, just enough in the middle of nowhere to make him feel safe during the full moon, but tonight he is nervous.

Dream’s never seen him turn. And tonight, Hob can just feel the full moon behind the summer clouds, skin itching with how much he wants to just let go, to let himself break and stretch and turn into something else.

“Hob.” His name on Dream’s lips, exasperated and fond all at once, and when he steps in front of Hob, his hands cradle his face like he is a small, fragile thing.

He isn’t. He hasn’t been for almost a century.

Hob looks at Dream, at the perfect curve of his cheeks as he smiles, and says, “I haven’t shifted in front of anyone for a long, long time.”

Dream tilts his head, fingers caressing down Hob’s cheeks. It makes Hob’s skin break out in goosebumps, the buzz of his transformation too close to the surface.

“Is it terrifying?” Dream asks, still smiling, still fond.

“Stop laughing.”

“I am not,” Dream says, even as he is. It makes Hob’s own lips twitch, and when Dream presses close, they part before he can think it. He can taste his own blood on Dream’s tongue, but also so much more, every sense pushed up to a hundred.

The same scent from that first night, even more intoxicating now. Ozone and iron, the sweetness of summer nights and the drip of Dream’s pulse so close he can taste it.

“You always tell me I can’t hurt you,” Dream says, mouth dragging to his cheek where he places the softest kiss. “It is my turn to mirror the sentiment.”

Hob groans, even as he knows Dream is right. It still does not settle the nerves. He knows what most supernatural creatures think about things like him. Dream said it so himself; wet mutt and mud. Hob is not ashamed of what he is, but he is scared of how Dream will look at him afterwards.

He does not want to lose this, even if he does not know what this is.

(It’s a damn lie. He knows what this is, for him. He knows the beat of his own heart, the swoop of his stomach when Dream looks at him. He knows and he wants it for another night, for another year, for the centuries to come.)

Above them, the moon pulls at his bones, clouds melting around her, and he bites back another groan, the pinpricks of pain digging into his muscles the more he holds himself together.

“If I do anything—“

“You won’t,” Dream says, sounding so sure. “And if you do, I have a backup plan.”

“Silver chains?”

“A frisbee.”

Hob laughs, and it sounds too tight, but Dream laughs with him and kisses the sound from Hob’s lips before he steps back, looking at Hob expectantly.

Hob takes a deep breath, and looks up. A tremble starts in his fingertips, in his toes, and rises and rises. He closes his eyes, and finally lets go. It’s like the snap of an elastic against his ribs, the pain suddenly there as his bones crack with a horrible, squelching sound. He screams, does not bother holding it back as he drops to the ground, body curling in on itself as it twists and breaks and forms back again into something new.

Something realer than the body he wears most days.

The pain reaches a crescendo, and then it stops, leaving nothing but relief in its wake. He stretches, digging paws into the dirt and grass under him, and his muscles ache with how good it feels to finally be free.

He stretches his neck, feels the new tendons lengthen and settle, feels his spine stretch wonderfully. When his jaw opens, teeth grow and sharpen into points, the tension of it melting.

He blinks his eyes open and finally looks up at Dream.

“Oh,” Dream says, voice barely a whisper. He stares at Hob with wide eyes, and his scent is an assault on Hob’s new, improved nose. Metal, as always, but so much sweetness under it all Hob’s mouth waters. Hob whines, but he does not move, just stares at Dream and waits.

Waits for the terror, for the disgust. Hopes Dream will leave without any harsh words. He is suddenly, painfully reminded of Eleanor, and how he loved her, and how she loved him, and how that was not enough. She was fae, and she knew their world, and yet she couldn’t get past their differences, millennia of beliefs too loud to ignore.

At the end of the day, Dream is what he is, and Hob is what he is, and so he waits and expects what always happens. He drops his head, another whine breaking from his newly formed vocal chords.

And then Dream is there, moving before Hob can sense him, supernatural speed that blurs even Hob’s sharp instincts. Fingers dig into the fur of his neck, touch so gentle it makes Hob’s head snap up.

Dream is. Smiling.

He is smiling and it is bright, brighter than the moon above them as it digs its way straight to the center of him. He runs his hands up Hob’s throat, and his eyes shine like the stars, voice breathless and in awe as he says, “You are. Exquisite.”

Hob’s tail gives a hopeful, small wag and Dream just laughs, delighted. His right hand curls into the soft fur, while his left caresses up, fingers grazing right under Hob’s amber eyes, then over his snout. Hob’s mouth opens easily, and he huffs out a breath when Dream’s thumb catches in the rows of teeth.

“Beautiful,” Dream murmurs, an edge of unbridled awe in his tone. Up close and in this form, Hob can hear his heartbeat. It is steady and strong, his own blood making it so, and he can’t help himself, he pushes forward until they both topple to the ground.

Dream’s laugh is a melody he can get lost in, as he nuzzles under his chin, as he lays his whole body over Dream’s knowing Dream can take it. His tail wags uncontrollably, and Dream buries his face into the fur and breathes in.

“Hmm,” he says when Hob settles his head on Dream’s chest, eyes staring up at him. “I was wrong. You don’t smell like mutt or mud at all.” There’s a smile there, a tease under the words.

Hob’s eyes narrow and lets out a playful growl, before he pushes off of Dream, canine teeth digging into Dream’s sleeve and pulling him across the ground right over the patches of wet earth, even as Dream laughs and pushes at him. It is no use, and soon Dream’s clothes are caked with it, and Hob gives him a look that definitely conveys, “Who smells like mud now?”

Dream grins, sharp and amused, fangs growing in the darkness.

“You’ll pay for that, little pup.”

Hob huffs then and pushes into a run. Not even a moment later, he hears Dream’s footsteps behind him, quicker than any human, almost as quick as his. If he could laugh, he would, the sound would burst out of him with so much happiness his arteries would sing with it.

What he does in howl, and lets his paws carry him towards the forest and the dancing moonlight, Dream falling in step with him.

When he wakes, it feels like popping every joint back into place, a painful pop and then the molding of muscles around it. He groans and blinks, then blinks again. His legs stretch, and they bump into something, someone.

When his vision clears, when his body finally settles in place, he realizes he is in the bathtub.

“Welcome back,” Dream says from his lounge in the water on the other side of the tub. Hob shakes his head, clearing the last remains of his transformation from the corners of his mind. When he looks around, he notices the muddy paw prints on the bathroom tiles, and he makes a face. “Do not worry, you’ll be cleaning that up later.”

Hob laughs, and finally relaxes, the back of his head resting on the edge. The water is warm, a balm to his aching muscles, and Dream’s lips are red like the blood moon. There’s drying mud over the edge of his cheek, and Hob can smell the remains of it on his hair, on the curve of his shoulders.

“Good morning,” Hob says, and finds Dream’s right ankle under the water. Dream’s eyelids flutter with a soft exhale when Hob’s fingers caress up his leg. “How did we get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

Hob shrugs, the water moving around them. “It’s always a bit fuzzy after I change back.”

Dream hums, says, “I tempted you back with my wicked vampire wiles. And a tennis ball.”

Hob laughs, and his ribs ache, still tender, but he does not mind. He moves then, crowding into Dream’s space, uncaring of the water that sloshes over the edge of the tub.

“Liar,” Hob says, lips barely an inch from Dream’s.

“Vampires cannot lie.”

“And werewolves cannot be tempted.”

Dream just lifts his chin in challenge, lips parting on a wicked smile. Gods, Hob loves that smile.

“And yet here you are,” Dream purrs, the vibrations of it like a symphony down to Hob’s bones. Hob presses forward and kisses the smile off of Dream’s lips and he swears he can taste the night in the slide of his tongue.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be, love,” he says, a whisper, a secret he can’t hold in anymore. Dream makes a sound, a soft moan, a catch of breath and pulls him close, water spilling all over the floor, his hands sliding up Hob’s wet skin.

“Well, isn’t that a marvelous coincidence,” he says, and Hob has to kiss him again, lest be broken down to dust by the adoring look in Dream’s eyes that he knows is a mirror of his own smitten gaze.

They kiss like that for ages, until the water turns cold around them, until Hob’s fingers prune, until even his breath tastes like Dream.

That night, when he changes, there is no worry. Just Dream’s smile and the moonlight making his heart sing.

[merry-moody-missy]

....:::: 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 ::::....

trilogy of explicit filthy friends-to-lovers smutathon

🏠 Damiano × reader ::: 🔥 kinky adults only playtime ::: PWP ::: ao3 link

....::::

🏠 House Sitter

Damiano has been your older brother's best friend for ages, when the two of them go on a roadtrip, he asks for you to water his plants. You discover & decide to explore his draw full of sex toys. But when he finds out, how will he react?

⛺ In Tents

You & Damiano are trying to hide your new relationship. But how will your yearly camping trip affect this secret?

🍽️ First Date

There is no more hiding your relationship, now you & Damiano can go on your first date. But you're going to find that theres more spice than whats listed on the restaurant's menu

::::....

[merry-moody-missy]

Hobs love is loud and boisterous. It's tight hugs, strong touches whenever possible, fast and passionate kisses. It's shouting his love for them from the rooftops. Talking about them to everyone who will listen.

His love is blazing red. His love is like the sun.

Dreams love is quiet and subtle. His touch is soft. Almost hesitant. His kisses are slow, but no less passionate. He whispers his love for them in the dead of night, when it's just the three of them in their own little world, with no one to overhear.

His love is dark blue. His love is like the stars.

Y/N's love is both loud and quiet, it's boisterous and subtle. They reciprocate Hobs touches and kisses with the same enthusiasm. They kiss Dream back just as slowly. Touch him just as softly. They show off and talk about their partners proudly any chance they get. They profess their love for them in the calm, quiet moments throughout the day.

Their love is vibrant purple. Their love is like the moon.

WHAT???!!!!!? OH MY GOD I LITERALLY HAVE NO WORDS THIS IS THE CUTEST FUCKING THING I HAVE EVER READ AND OH IM KICKING MY FEET AND GIGGLING!!!!!! THIS IS JUST GORGEOUS AND JUST CHEFS KISS

… I need to go lay down now oh my I love them so much 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[merry-moody-missy]

A little story for @academicblorbo because she has been an amazing supporter and gentle enabler: a little bit of fluff and smut.

(Inspired by @mr-sadman’s Dreamling Week prompt: Exhibitionism. But brain was slow so I missed the official posting day, sorry!)

Dreamling, rated E; Exhibitionism & Possession (but in a loving way and Hob is so very into it)

Hob takes another sip of wine, the taste blooming on his tongue, deep and rich. He hums in pleasure, and makes his way through the people around the garden.

Well. People may be overstating it a bit, considering this is the Dreaming after all and he is sure the person he was talking to earlier had a bit too many teeth for a regular run of the mill human. Might have even been two rows of them, but Hob was both polite and with a self preservation instinct brought by years of knowing immortal and unable to be ripped to shreds were two very different things.

He takes another slow sip and tries to not think about the fact that he is probably the only human being on this plane. Better for his brain in the long run.

He doesn’t mind it though, because this is the Dreaming which means this is Dream’s realm and Hob would do anything for his boyfriend. Even spend an evening (day? year? time was wobbly in these parts) making small talk with creatures out of myth and legend.

The wine’s good though, as it always is here, the exact taste of the vintage he loved sometime in the 1500s, and that’s always a plus.

“Hey Hobsie,” a distinctly American voice catches his attention, and Hob turns to find Matthew perched on the ice sculpture on the giant table brimming with every imaginable food known to the Universe. “How’s it hanging?”

“Enjoying the evening. You?”

Matthew hops down to the table, and pecks at a plate of shiny fruit. “Eh. Waiting for this shindig to wind down. I hate crowds.” He pokes at a cherry, and then ruffles his feathers. “The boss has been in a mood all week, can’t wait to have things back to normal.”

“His regular ray of sunshine, you mean?” Hob laughs even as he can’t hide how fond it sounds, and Matthew does not roll his eyes because he can’t, but Hob knows he would. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He sighs and looks around, smiling only half awkwardly when a group of… somethings, all gold skin and shiny claws tilt their heads and give him a once over.

Dream has been tense, tenser than usual leading up to the party. Hob did what he could as a doting boyfriend. Made him tea, let him mope on his couch, kissed away the pout from Dream’s mouth and even offered to tell everyone to fuck off. That got a smile from Dream, tired around the edges, but still a smile, even if Dream explained that the evening needed to happen. Something about presenting himself as the lord of the Dreaming once again after his absence.

“So like a dick measuring contest?” Hob had said and when Dream had spluttered, looking affronted but definitely a little amused, Hob had laughed and pulled him into a kiss, his laughter melting against cool lips that soon twitched into a smile that Dream denied all day.

“How much longer?” Hob asks, and Matthew’s right wing twitches in an approximation of a shrug.

“You know how time is here—“

“Wobbly.”

“Yup, so who knows.”

Hob sighs and downs his glass of wine. “Gonna go find Dream then, see if he needs a break. Cheers!”

“Right back at ya.”

Hob has not seen Dream in ages so he makes his way through the crowds with renewed vigor. He can’t do much for supernatural relationships, but he can offer Dream a break, steal him away for a moment, and maybe that’s enough.

The garden is a maze of greenery, tables overloaded with food and lights dangling from… somewhere, Hob’s not sure of how physics works here, if it actually does, but he succeeds in navigating it easily. He keeps bumping into creatures though, who smile at him with too many teeth and a spark in their eyes that makes something uncomfortable settle at the base of his skull.

He quickens his pace, pushing away the golden green vines that fall from the trees, and focuses on the task at hand. He does not get far though, the golden creatures from before accosting him as soon as he takes a few paces, their eyes wide and almost mesmerizing like melted, fiery metal.

“Are you him?” One says, their hands twitching towards Hob as another crowds behind him.

“Umm, hello,” Hob says, smile faltering just a bit. “I’m a guest of Dream’s, if that is the question.”

He’s been a medieval peasant, he knows not to play with names, even if Dream has promised him he is untouchable in his realm. Still, old habits die hard.

The creatures giggle, or something close to it, the tinkling of bells in the air.

“He is,” one says, and another touches his cheek as they say, “Such a fascinating one.”

Hob immediately tenses, sidestepping their touches with the kind of reflexes brought back by years spent as a bachelor in a royal court.

“Thanks,” he says with an awkward laugh. The creatures watch him, still giggling. “Umm, enjoy your evening, ladie— gentlem— folks!”

He lets out a breath when they do not follow, but his relief only lasts a moment when he is stopped by a hand on his chest, too long nails and too long limbs pinning him in place.

“So you’re the one Morpheus has been so fascinated with,” the voice says, and Hob’s gaze follows the line of her sinewy arm to a face like a marble cut to life. Eyes as green as the ocean at sunrise shine with interest, and when she smiles, her mouth is filled with things that look like needles.

What is it with the teeth?

“Seems so,” Hob says, and takes a step back. “Lovely meeting you, but speaking of Morpheus, I think I heard him calling.”

Her head tilts, smile even sharper, and the stench of sea fills Hob’s nostrils, the crash of waves under his feet. He shakes his head as a dizzy spell takes him over before the world rights itself.

“When you get bored of him, come find me,” she says and Hob gives her a salute and does not run, but does make a hasty retreat.

It keeps happening though.

A man with eyes like obsidian holds his hand and promises him a night among the stars. A creature with skin like the shine of light over a cobra’s skin crowds him against the drinks’ bar. A creature so beautiful, all perfect limbs and lips like cherries, invites him to her realm.

Hob is exhausted and frankly desperate for Dream, so when a creature that Hob is sure is fae offers him a drink and a smile that speaks of dark things, Hob is ready to drown himself in a punch bowl.

“Listen, I’m sure you’re nice,” Hob says, patting the fae on their chest. “But I am taken.”

“Yes,” they say, eyes blinking slowly. It makes Hob think of snakes, and he bites back a shiver. “But he has left you all alone. Pretty things like you should not be alone.”

Hob opens his mouth to tell the bastard to kindly fuck off, when he feels the air shift around them. It is not subtle, like the popping of air inside his ear when a plane lands, and the fae gasps and takes a step back.

“Hob,” the voice, Dream’s voice, seeps into the air around them, a shiver right in the back of Hob’s molars. “Terrace. Now.”

Hob grins at the way most of the supernatural creatures around him flinch in pain, hands coming up to ears, a few hisses of irritation.

“As I was saying,” he says and quickly moves, following the feeling of where he should go, legs moving easily. He makes his way to the end of the garden without any other interruptions, and takes the steps up to the terrace overlooking the garden.

The air turns heavier the more the climbs, honey dripping down the side of a jar, and the fairy lights that were so bright before seem to flicker and dim. He’s sure it was morning just a second ago, but now the air tastes like evening.

He pushes the thought away, because he does not care. He did not know his chest was tight with stress until his feet hit the last step and he sees Dream.

“Oh gods,” he says, making his way to the imposing figure that stands at the balcony, back to Hob. “I am so happy to see you, duck. Seriously, did someone spike the drinks, because I have not seen this level of horny since I chaperoned a prom in the 70s.”

He sees Dream’s shoulders twitch under the velvet mantle of his robes, and the vibrations from earlier are back, like he’s pushed some ice right in the back of his throat.

“You okay there, love?”

Dream just hums and when Hob leans his hip on the railing, his eyes are velvet and obsidian, the spark of nighttime right there in the sunny, spring warm garden.

“They want you.”

Hob huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He puts his hand over Dream’s on the railing, and after a long second, Dream turns his palm around until their fingers intertwine. Hob tilts his head until he catches Dream’s gaze and smiles up at him. Dream is always taller than him here, a fact that Hob secretly loves.

“Don’t be ridiculous, they want a warm body and I’m the closest thing.”

Another hum, this one melting into the dark edges of a growl. In Hob’s grip, Dream’s fingers grow longer, the points of his knuckles sharp and vicious.

“They want you, Hob Gadling. Because you are. Special.”

Hob rolls his eyes, and caresses over the bones of Dream’s wrist. He feels a pulse there, a caught moth under a glass dome.

“I am literally the most not special person in this gathering,” he says, huffs out a laugh. He doesn’t get far, sound caught in the dip of his collarbones when Dream pulls him, movement suddenly quick and predatory, and Hob finds himself stuck between the railing and Dream’s body. “Umm. Hello, love.”

Dream tilts his head, shadows catching in the sculpted angles of his cheekbones. He is always sharper here in the Dreaming, all the lines of him longer, elongated, a weird sculpture made real. When he blinks, it is slowed, molasses dripping.

“Oh but you are,” Dream says, and he smiles. His teeth shine with spit, their edges like canines. “The human who called Death stupid to her face and cheated immortality off of her.”

“In my defense, it was to her back and I did apologize for that one.”

Dream hums again, and leans forward. His breath caresses over Hob’s lips, the smell of summer wine. Dream’s hands press to Hob’s chest, drag upwards torturously slow.

“The human who lived lifetimes,” Dream continues slowly, a rumble in his voice that Hob feels everywhere they’re pressed together. Dream’s leg slides between Hob’s, pins him even more to the spot. “Who chose life again and again, even when life was cruel.”

He lifts a hand, thumb stroking Hob’s bottom li and says, “Do you know how many of their kind loathe their existence? Creatures of power and wealth who have begged for my sister’s hand.”

Hob swallows, and Dream’s thumb presses forward, catching on the wet edge of Hob’s teeth.

“And yet here you are, a human in an Endless domain, still so bright and full of life.”

The last word is a hiss between teeth and Hob’s lips part on gasp. He can taste Dream’s skin on the tip of his tongue, the taste of a lightning storm on the horizon.

“Dream,” he says, the name nothing more than a whine and Dream’s teeth flash in a grin of teeth and want. His thumb drags down Hob’s chin, a trail of wetness, and Dream is suddenly kissing him. It is not gentle, but the storm finally breaking, Dream’s mouth taking and heated.

Hob kisses back and his skin flushed with want, with the work of electricity. When Dream’s other hand slides under the waistband of his trousers, he lets out a gasp as he realizes he is already hard, aching in his clothes from just those words.

Prince of stories, Dream has called himself before, and Hob suddenly understand why.

“Fuck, Dream, love,” he says, and Dream just makes a sound that is more growl than anything, his sharper than usual teeth digging into the plush of his lower lip. “We’re— they— everyone can see us.”

Dream just laughs, an exhale of summer wine, and curls fingers around Hob’s aching cock. His hands are cold, a marble statue of beauty brought to life, and Hob’s hips twitch uncontrollably.

“Let them see you,” he says, fingers digging into Hob’s chin, this side of painful. Hob’s pulse stutters right under Dream’s pinky, in the soft skin of his throat. Dream pushes at his chin, turns Hob’s head. “They have craved you all night, so let them watch.”

At the edge of his vision, he sees the garden and the creatures gathered there. He sees eyes, from gold to obsidian, pinned to them, to him, hears the murmur of their fluttering voices.

“Fuck, Dream—“

Dream kisses his cheek, drags hungry lips low, lower and licks at the frantic pulse under his jawline. His hand works Hob slowly, torturously so, dragging out each wave of his pleasure as Hob’s cock leaks and twitches in his palm.

“A-ah,” the breath breaks out of his throat, a long drawn out mewl of pleasure. Dream’s teeth dig into his skin, and Hob knows it is a mark of possession, a mark of want and his cock leaks all over Dream’s fingers.

“Look at them,” Dream says, his voice a tremble in the very ground under them, in the marrow of Hob’s bones. Hob shakes his head, but he can’t not look, not when Dream licks at his earlobe with a tongue that’s long and wet and hot. “How they crave, like the hungry creatures that they are.”

Hob feels something slide up both his pants’ legs, cool like marble over his heated skin, soft like the touch of the air around them. His thighs twitch, yet the caresses remain, hungry hands that leave his skin a field of goosebumps. They touch him everywhere, fingertips digging into heated flesh, and it feels good, so good.

He is rutting agaist Dream’s body, fucking himself into Dream’s fist and he doesn’t care. Because Dream is beautiful like this, when he wants and lets himself want, when he touches Hob with the same awe Hob offers him.

“My love—“ he gasps, and finally pulls his eyes away from the flickering crowd, digs his hand in hair that is longer and slides through his fingers like water turned silk. “I don’t want to— ah! — look at them. I only want you.”

Obsidian eyes widen, the universe in a glass marble, and then a blink and the familiar, tender blue of forget-me-nots meets Hob’s gaze. Dream’s lips curl into a smile, tender around the edges.

“Say it again,” he says, whispers the words in a caress over Hob’s lips.

“You,” Hob says, back arching when nails as sharp as steel dig into his hips, when Dream’s hand twists around his aching cock. “It’s always been just you.”

Dream purrs, a cat that got the canary between his fangs, and crashes their mouth together in a gasping, vicious kiss. It is deep and desperate, but it is also brimming with the tender sweep of love, of everything Hob’s ever desired.

It’s all it takes.

He comes with a cry, body twitching helplessly against the unmoving sculpture of Dream’s body. Dream kisses him through each pulsing, overwhelming wave of his pleasure, holds Hob up when his legs give out.

When Hob can finally open his eyes without the risk of fainting, he is met with his Dream smiling softly at him, blue eyes filled with love and awe.

“My beloved,” Dream says, one hand cupping his cheek, cherry red mouth placing tender kisses over Hob’s parted lips, over his cheeks. He wipes at Hob’s face, at the tears Hob did not notice were there. “My beautiful gift from the Universe.”

“Dream,” Hob says, slurs the words. His mouth feels sticky, and when he breathes, the air is humid and tastes like the sweetest summer fruit.

Dream just tilts his head and leans forward, placing a kiss over Hob’s sweaty forehead. It pulls a sigh of pleasure from Hob, the touch cooling like he’s stepped out of the sauna into a crisp, winter morning.

Before he can think, he is being lifted into a bridal carry like he weighs nothing. He is too tired to comment, and he would never complain. Dream is strong yet tender with him, and Dream buries his face in the crook of Dream’s shoulder, where his robes have dipped. His lips press to cool skin, and he breathes in the scent of him, of thunderstorms and stars being born.

“Where—“

“Shush, my love,” Dream says, as they take the steps down from the balcony. “I’m taking you to rest.”

“But— the party—“

“I am the prince of stories, ruler of the universe’s waking dreams and its most dark nightmares,” Dream says with a haughty sniff. Hob hides his smile against his skin, eyes falling closed softly. “I decide when the celebrations cease.”

“Hmmm,” Hob says, eyes dragged down with sleep, body feeling warm and cared for and loved. “Whatever my King desires.”

He is aware of the murmur of voices, like insects crawling up from the ground, but he does not care, not when Dream holds him close and then, softly, kisses his forehead as sleep finally drags him down.

The last thing he hears is an undignified squawk and Matthew’s grumbled, “Really, guys? Right in front of my salad?”

[merry-moody-missy]

Another idea that started thanks to @mr-sadman ‘s amazing Dreamling Week 2024. Was gonna post it yesterday, but work was horrible so here is Tuesday’s prompt: Meet Cute

Dreamling, rated G; tw: medical problems but with a happy ending.

“I have a bad heart.”

Those were the first words Hob told Dream when they met. Dream frowned, still woozy from the painkillers the doctors were very generous with, and blinked at the boy in the hospital bed next to his. A paperwork mishap, the hospital overcrowded, and as much as Dream’s parents had huffed and puffed, Dream still ended up having a roommate for his overnight stay.

“What.”

“You keep staring at the monitor,” Hob said, gesturing at the machines that are beeping next to his bed, and Dream couldn’t help his eyes linger on the pulse meter on his finger. It was better than staring at the boy’s face. It was a good face.

“I was not.”

“Was to.”

“What are you, five?”

Hob smiled, and the machine made a beep again.

“And a quarter,” Hob said and laughed loudly, his face scrunching in amusement. The machine’s beep turned sharper, and he winced. Dream’s eyes widened and Hob waved him off easily. “It’s fine.”

“It does not look fine.”

“Like I said, I have a bad heart,” Hob said, turning on his side. His cheek scrunched on the pillow. “What are you in for?”

Drema turned on his side too, pulling the pillow closer to his chest. “They think it’s appendicitis. The doctors insisted I stay for observation.” He pulled his legs to his chest, and the pain in his abdomen spiked, not as sharp as before, but close enough.

“Sorry,” Hob said. Dream just shrugged, but something must have shown on his face, because Hob’s gaze softened. Dream wanted to hate it, but try as he might he couldn’t. He was scared, had been all day, a fear that was like a small thorn in the soft parts between his ribs. His parents argued, the doctors spoke like he was not there, and Dream was scared.

Hob was the first warm thing he’d seen all day.

“It is fine,” he said, because he did not know how to voice the words inside his brain. They felt too sharp, like bone shrapnel digging into his skull, like the stench of antiseptic that clung to his nostrils.

Hob just stared at him for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I have a book. Wanna read it together?”

Dream scoffed, even as his heart jumped with a feeling he did not understand. He thanked the stars he was not the one connected to the monitor.

“That’s childish.”

“Buddy, I’m gonna have to tell you something that might shock you,” Hob said, leaning forward conspiratorially. When he spoke again, his voice was a loud whisper. “This is the pediatrics ward.”

“Shut up, I’m 15,” Dream said, with a roll of his eyes. Even so, he could not hide the twitch of his lips. It made Hob’s smile turn brighter, and he started pulling at the wires, drawing the electrodes from under his shirt. “What are you doing? Don’t you need that.”

“Nah,” Hob said, bouncing off the bed.

“What if you— die.”

Hob just laughed as he crouched down to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a book. “I’ve decided I’m never gonna die.” He sat up with a lopsided grin, eyes bright like amber. “Come on, scoot over.”

Dream opened his mouth, and sat there for a long moment staring at Hob. Finally, he said, “You are an idiot.”

“Probably,” Hob said with a laugh and shrug. Dream decided he kinda liked that laugh, and the thought made his ears warm with embarrassment, and he blamed the shock of it for the fact that he did not complain when Hob got into the bed with him. It was too small for them, and his bony knees bumped Hob, his hand at an awkward angle as Hob scooched closer, Dream’s pillow pressed between them.

Closer, Hob’s face was even better. Dream looked away, and pushed his chin into the pillow.

“We’ll get in trouble,” he said, and Hob’s gaze found his as he smiled. His cheeks were stubby, the kind of beard only a teenager can grow, but they rounded beautifully as he kept smiling.

“Probably. Now you want me to read to you, or do you have anything better to do?”

Dream sucked on his teeth and ignored the pain in his belly and the warmth of his left knee as it pressed to Hob’s thigh.

“Fine,” he said and Hob’s smile got, surprisingly, even brighter.

That night he fell asleep to the lull of Hob’s voice, and in the morning after he was taken to the OR and he woke up in post-op, achy and blurry around the edges, Hob came to visit him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, tongue sticking to his teeth in a way that was both slimy and fuzzy. Hob just shrugged easily, and took his hand in his.

“Shhh, don’t break my cover, they think I’m an important neurosurgeon,” he said, and Dream laughed even as his belly hurt. “Besides, we’re friends now. Couldn’t just let you mope here all alone.”

Dream rolled his eyes, but knew Hob was right. They were friends, to Dream’s awe. They remained friends, to Dream’s surprise.

Hob didn’t seem to mind Dream’s sharp corners it seemed, even on days where Dream himself hated the way they grated on his insides. He did not mind when Dream never texted back, did not mind when Dream said he was not hungry and yet still stole half of his fries. He did not mind when he couldn’t offer hugs yet still fell freely into Hob’s.

Hob was his friend, so Dream ignored the way his heart sometimes skipped a beat in a way that reminded Dream of the heart monitor the first night they met.

“I have a bad heart,” Hob would say when people asked him why he missed some days at school, why he lost two months in a college semester to hospitals.

Dream hated that phrase. Because Hob always smiled when he said it, an edge of a joke but Dream knew it was true. A blockage, Hob said, made it beat slower, a valve that was this side of too wonky. Some days, it would be worse, and Hob’s skin would be this side of pale as he got up, and Dream would want to scream but what he did was learn to wait.

He waited in hospital waiting rooms.

He waited at cardiology clinics.

“You don’t have to,” Hob would say, and Dream would turn the page on what frivolous magazine he found in the waiting room and ignore him. Hob would huff and press his knee to Dream’s and say, “I’m not gonna die, remember?”

“Stop being an idiot,” Dream would say and it would pull a smile from Hob even in the whitest of hospital rooms.

He waited in the evenings, when Hob would be exhausted for anything. Dream brought him food, and books, and sat and waited for Hob’s heart to beat better again.

He became good at waiting and he became even better at listening. Some nights, when Hob slept, body dragged down by a wonky heart rhythm and the drugs he took, Dream sat with him and pressed his ear to Hob’s chest and listened.

He counted. One, two, three, and then more and more and more and relaxed only when he got to a thousand.

And soon he learned he loved Hob. It was there, in the pauses between each heartbeat, in the flutter of his pulse under his jawline where his skin was probably as soft as the ones on the inside of his wrists. It had to be, because that was where Dream would count the proof that Hob was still warm and alive.

He loved Hob.

Hob didn’t love him, but that was okay. Hob loved the world and life and that included Dream, so that was okay. Dream learned the song of his heartbeat and sat back as Hob fell in love like he did breathing, with Jack and Eleanor, with Phillip and Jessy.

Hob was warm, even when his heart struggled, so of course he loved. Dream could never fault him for that.

It hurt, maybe. But Hob’s heart kept beating, and that was what mattered.

Thinking back now, Dream thinks he was naive to think this wouldn’t happen. His luck was bound to run out one day.

“Excuse me?” His voice comes out cracked, a breath stuck between the rings of his trachea. “What do you mean you’re getting surgery?”

“Doctor David, he’s the new one, remember—“

“I know who he is.” Because Dream knew, of course he knew, he knew all of Hob’s doctors and he knew his medications by heart, and he knew the rhythm of his heart and yet he did not know this.

“Yeah, well, I went to see him last week and he said the arrhythmia is getting worse, and my valve is not holding up as well as they hoped,” Hob says, and he shrugs. Dream’s own heart lets out a broken wail.

“Your appointment was for two weeks from now.”

Hob makes a face, scratching anxiously behind his ear. “Yeah, well. I went sooner cause I was not feeling well.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Hob says, and Dream must make a sound, something both sad and angry because Hob closes the space between them and cups his cheeks in his warm hands. He is still warm, even now. “Hey, don’t make that mopey face. You had your exhibit to plan, I didn’t want to add more to your plate.”

Dream wants to punch him. What he does is say, “You’re an idiot.”

“Always have been,” Hob says, and huffs out a laugh. His face is open, always so gentle. “That’s what you like about me.”

“Don’t test me,” Dream says, but he sighs and his spine loses some of its tension. “When.”

“Next week.”

“Hob!” Word pushed out in a growl, but Hob still holds his head in his hands like Dream is a tender, soft thing.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he says and when Dream just stares at him with a look part anger, part apprehension, his thumbs caress down Dream’s cheeks. “I’m 38 years old, Dream. We both know it’s a miracle my ticker lasted this long.”

“But you keep to your diet and you take your meds-“

“I know,” Hob says, still smiling. “But it’s not enough. They’ll change the valve and add a pacemaker and it will work out fine. Hey, don’t make that face, it’s a good thing. And the surgery is suppose to be minimal risk.”

“Minimal is not zero,” Dream says and when Hob gives him a look, he lets out a breath. It pulls at his chest slowly, achingly. “Fine. When are we going?”

“You don’t need to—“ Hob starts, and then tells when Dream pinches his side. “Ouch, fine. Fine, you stubborn ass.”

But he laughs as he says it, and Dream closes his fingers around Hob’s wrists and feels his pulse. Slow, broken, yet still there.

The week passes by torturously slow. The hours in the uncomfortable hospital chair even more so. But they do not compare to the hours at Hob’s bedside, as he holds his hand and waits for Hob to wake up. He is pale, as he should never be, but Dream presses his thumb to the tender skin of Hob’s wrists and counts along with the heart monitor.

When Hob finally stirs, blinking his eyes open slowly, Dream tries not to sob. Hob watches him for a moment, and his hand slides up Dream’s palm, their fingers intertwining.

“Told you I’ll never die,” he says, and Dream says, “You are such an idiot,” and makes Hob laugh.

He means to say, I love you. The words sit there, a predator always close to nipping at Dream’s heels, always there. I love you, he thinks as Hob tells him the doctors say he’s fine, as Hob talks about how he’s part cyborg now, as Hob sits in the hospital for three weeks.

I love you, he thinks as he presses his ear to Hob’s chest as he sleeps and listens to the new, unfamiliar beat and knows he will learn this one too.

They’re back to Hob’s flat on a Friday and Hob watches him with an amused smile as Dream frets around him.

“I had a pacemaker, not brain surgery,” he says when Dream brings two more pillows from the closet, fluffing them up and stuffing them behind Hob’s back on the bed. Hob’s hair is wet post shower, strands curling around his nape, falling from his uneven bun, and Dream tries not to worry about him catching a cold.

“Unfortunately, you are too far gone for a brain transplant even if it would do you good,” he shoots back, and Hob laughs.

“Ouch, sure, make fun of a mortally wounded man.”

Dream just narrows his eyes at him and says, “I will suffocate you with a pillow.”

Hob leans back on the pillows and he looks tired but so very soft, the edges of him like melted wax, like a painting bursting forth.

“Hey,” he says, and his hand finds Dream’s. It makes Dream still like the world has been paused, even the air turning quiet around them. “Stop worrying.”

There are so many things Dream could say, yet something cracks inside of him. He doesn’t know what causes it, maybe it’s the still bruising under Hob’s eyes, maybe it’s the way Hob’s thumb sits over the bones of his hand, maybe it’s the exhaustion of the week.

“I was scared.”

The words are out, and Dream’s breath comes out in a trembling exhale, and Hob’s expression shivers.

“I’m sorry,” he says, takes a breath that shakes his chest. “I always did warn you that I have a bad heart.” His mouth twists in a sad curve, and he looks both so young and so tired. Dream remembers that first night, and how young they both were, and how Hob was scared then too, even if he didn’t show it.

“You never did, that was the problem,” Dream says, and places his free hand over Hob’s chest. One beat, two beats, rhythm solid. “It was always too good.”

“I have about twenty cardiac echocardiograms that prove differently,” Hob says, and Dream laughs wetly even if he does not feel like laughing. Hob watches him, eyes wide and wet, and filled with something that shines like awe. “Dream,” he says, and then stops, mouth parted on the last consonant of Dream’s name.

“You should rest,” Dream says, because he feels his palm burning over Hob’s chest, and his eyes sting and he can’t let the tender parts of himself out.

“Dream,” Hob says again, and pulls him close. Dream’s knees dig into the mattress. “What— what are we?”

Dream’s stomach tightens, and he says, “What do you mean?”

Hob tilts his head, and his gaze falls to Dream’s hand on his chest.

“It’s always been us, you know? You and me and my wonky heart. Since that night at the hospital, it’s always been us.”

Dream’s fingers shake, and Hob places his palm over them and squeezes. When he looks back up, there’s a sweep of a smile on his features, making the beautiful lines around his eyes deepen.

“And I think— I always loved it, you know, even when I didn’t realize it,” Hob says, voice a tender whisper. “I’m gonna die one day, I’m not stupid to not realize it, and it scared me. Fuck, it scared me so much, love.”

He pulls Dream close until Dream tips over and falls, their chests pressed against each other all of a sudden. Hob’s right hub cups his jawline, a caress like a summer morning.

“But even when I was scared,” he says, breath close to Dream’s lips. “It didn’t matter. Because I could live with my fucking broken heart because I also had you.”

“Hob,” Dream says, a whine pulled from his chest.

“Because I think,” Hob continues, leaning forward. “You’re it for me. I can feel it here.”

His hand squeezes Dream, presses it close, closer right over the place where his heart beats and beats.

“See that, love?” Hob says, and his voice is broken but so, so lovely. “It’s still there because of you.”

Dream makes a sound, just as broken, just as lovely and finally closes the distance between them. Hob’s breath catches, yet his mouth opens under Dream’s in a kiss that is desperate yet heart achingly tender at the same time, a bite of teeth but also a careful swipe of his tongue.

It is the kiss Dream was waiting for since that first night, when they were both nothing but bony knees and scared, broken hearts.

It is perfect.

He kisses Hob and Hob kisses him back, bodies fitting against each other like they were made to be. Hob tastes like his cheap toothpaste and the tea Dream made him drink as they came home, and he is warm everywhere they are pressed together. When Dream’s hand drags through Hob’s hair, he feels the wet strange drag through them, and he pulls.

Hob makes a sound, a gasp that Dream can feel everywhere they’re pressed together and warmth turns into a slide of heat.

Hob pulls away with a whine, and he holds Dream close, fingers digging into the lines of his body like he’s a precious thing.

“My love,” Hob says, and he laughs, beautifully breathless and flushed like he’s made of cotton candy. Dream kisses him again, drunk on the taste of him. Hob’s hips twitch against his, an uncontrollable edge to it, and his breath quickens.

Dream’s eyes snap open and he pulls back, hands on Hob’s chest and pushing him down not forcefully enough to hurt his stitches, but close.

“Your heart!”

“What?”

“The doctor said we shouldn’t overwork it,” Dream says, eyes wide and panicked and staring at Hob. “Oh my god, what if something happened and I hurt you with—“

“Your dick?” Hob laughs, and when Dream just splutters and glares he tries to get up, but Dream pushes him back down in the mountain of pillows. “Dream, my love, my darling. We were having a moment, it was nice, your mouth was on mine, I said I loved you—“

“You didn’t.”

Hob just smiles, a smile so beloved and perfect and Dream’s heart stutters and dips.

“I love you,” Hob says, so easy like it’s a breath, like it’s the sun coming up in the summer. Dream smiles, can’t help the rushing bloom of it, the way his own heart feels like it’s been given a new chance. “Now, can I kiss you again?”

Dream holds Hob in his place and leans forward, brushing their lips together.

“That’s all you get until we talk to the doctor.”

Hob groans. “You’re not gonna call my doctor to ask if we can have sex.”

Dream kisses him again, this time lingering for a second too long, sweet like honey.

“I love you and I spent my life scared I was gonna lose you to a wonky nerve ending in your heart. Now that that is fixed, I plan on keeping you forever. Never gonna die, remember?”

He kisses Hob’s forehead and pulls back and Hob stares at him with awe, with love, with a dopey smile on his lips.

“So yes, tomorrow morning I’m going to call your doctor and ask when we can have sex.”

Hob just laughs and holds his hand and Dream thinks, yeah. Broken hearts, both of them. But the healing is so, so worth it.

[merry-moody-missy]

"You're dead."