#bit hob really doesn't know how to stop all of this

[blorbosblog]

Basing this on the taste of your tags,

Could you provide a screenshot or two of such boards?

I bet they'd gloriously improve everyone's lucid dreaming

You know as much as I love Dream’s sad pathetic wet cat look I desperately need him to have a Padmé Amidala-esq wardrobe

Lots of silky fabrics and shiny things. Clothing that is form fitting. Clothing that is incredibly glittery and flowey. Clothing that is both all at once. A ridiculous amount of necklaces. An Insane Amount of shoes. Raven feathers are a common motif. Would never be caught dead in the same thing twice. Always looking Immaculate. Hob has never even seen him wear the same shirt more than once and while he can chalk the first 600 years of that up to the fashion changes for their centennial meetings, it’s starting to get Out Of Hand once Dream is popping into his lectures every other day. How does he do it. Where is all this clothing coming from. Hob is just a little too into it.

[gabessquishytum]

Dream is NOT going soft. But when he first meets hob in 1389 he does have a slight fondness for the adventurous, intelligent omega. Most of the rest of the story is as usual. They make their deal. They meet every one hundred years. Hob aggressively loves life.

He also puts on strong mating hormones that Dream ignores.

But Dream does worry about hob. It is a hard world for omegas. After 1689, hob certainly knows it. But in 1789, dream makes a split second decision to tell hob that if he is ever hurt or captured or in danger, just call and dream will hear him.

Sure enough a few decades later, hob calls.

Alarmed, Dream appears ready to defend him. They’re alone in a nice hallway where hob is pacing. He looks very relieved and Dream scans the area but can’t sense an obvious threat. No demons. No Constantine.

Hob twines his arm with Dream’s with a wide apologetic but frantic smile and leads him into the next room where a group of humans wait, including an angry alpha holding flowers.

“This is my alpha,” hob says firmly and squeezes Dream’s arm. “I really am mated. So for the third time, I can’t accept your proposal.”

So yes hob probably shouldn’t be cashing in his favor for a fake mate but this alpha was getting really pushy, and hob is improvising. It has nothing to do with the fact that hob’s been fantasizing about being Dream’s for centuries.

And Dream is not soft. And yet he finds himself unable to deny hob this service. How hard could acting be?

I'm deeply obsessed with the idea of Dream decked out in early 1800s fashion, standing awkwardly in the doorway, holding Hob’s hand in a way that suggests he has quite clearly never held anyone's hand before. He should probably be angry, but instead he finds himself faintly amused by this little scheme that Hob has whipped up. Soon he finds himself suggesting that he ought to appear around town with Hob, if they really want to stop all those pushy alphas from proposing all the time. Hob is only too pleased to accept, and thoroughly enjoys promenading the streets arm and arm with his stoic, silent, slightly eldritch alpha. The gossip about Hob and his mate is rife. And despite the potential danger for Hob that comes with becoming notorious, he finds that he really doesn't mind. After all, Dream has promised to keep him safe.

Of course it makes sense that Dream is also there to help Hob through his heats. And take care of him as he recovers afterwards. And buy him all kinds of nice clothes to show him off in public. And take him to balls and concerts and the theatre. But when he watches Hob happily cooing over their firstborn child together, Dream has to wonder... is he going soft, after all? Well. Maybe a little bit.

[the-kr8tor]

Hi! I love your TTN series so much.

I was wondering if you could write a bit more about them, like, reader meets Gwen or Miles (because Hobie already knows them) and maybe reader helps them with their suits or helps them by making something for them. It's okay if you decline this, I didn't know if this counted as a normal request or fluffy friday request, sorry. I really admire your writing, you're really talented.

Take care, you're amazing 🤍

Thank you, lovely! You're too kind 💛 hope u like this one!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mention. TTN! Hobie, TTN! Reader. FLUFF

Thread the Needle Masterlist

TTN oneshots Masterlist

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“Oh those are so based, dude!” Gwen exclaims from the floor, her sentence a bit muffled by the chips she's currently munching.

You look up from Miles’ suit that you're currently mending, the spandex slippery to touch. Sitting on the settee with Hobie sitting in-between your legs, you lock eyes with him who's equally confused as you. His head on your lap, eyebrow cocked up in question.

The four of them are sitting in a circle, snacks and sugary sweet drinks in hand. Miles lounges on the foot of the sofa, wearing an outfit you've designed once upon a time in college. You wouldn't let him wear Hobie's clothes, because, well, he looked like he was being eaten by just his shirt, his pants pooling on the floor. After almost tripping and landing smack on his face, you insisted on giving him a Y/N exclusive outfit. A one of one design.

You mentally take note to design clothes for the three of them that perfectly encapsulates their tastes.

Pavitr— who definitely didn't express how jealous he was of Miles’ new outfit, is sitting beside Hobie who is currently taping an ice pack to Pav's head with duct tape (that will definitely have consequences). He got annoyed that the ice pack kept slipping from his friend’s head, landing on his crisps, smooshing its contents.

“Ah, Gwen? What does ‘based’ even mean?” you ask, closing up the last seam.

All three teenagers look at you, then the other two stares at Gwen, waiting and snickering. Hobie leans against you, hand absentmindedly curled around your ankle.

“I keep forgetting you're from the 90s” Gwen cleans her hands with a napkin. “It means, uh, to carry yourself with swagger, yeah! I think…”

Miles and Pavitr guffaw loudly, Miles' soda spilling over the can. The houseboat shakes a bit on the water. You murmur out a ‘swagger?’ still scratching your head for an answer to your previous question.

“Oi! You're spilling everywhere!” Hobie throws a chip at Miles. It hits him on the forehead, leaving sour cream dust on his skin.

“Ack!” Miles mumbles while wiping his forehead. “You used to be cool, man”

“It's our house. I'd like to see you be cool when somebody spills sticky crap on your hardwood floors”

Our house. Even after all these years, Hobie still finds a way to make your heart sing.

You lean forward, placing a chaste kiss on his temple. Fingers kneading the muscles on his shoulder. “It's alright, Hobs. Miles didn't mean it, right Miles?” Hobie visibly relaxes, body melding close to yours.

The spider kids share a knowing look, triple smirks on their lips. Hobie doesn't notice, too busy getting lost in your eyes. You look at him like he's the stars in the sky.

Pavitr sighs, hand on his chin, mumbling about missing someone.

“Yeah, Hobs, I didn't mean it” Miles chuckles throughout the sentence, almost unintelligible with his laughter. Gwen scrunches her nose at her friend.

Meanwhile, you and Hobie are inside your own little bubble. The bubble bursts when the door to the houseboat bursts open with Ned heaving, clutching a stack of papers.

“Hobie! I figured it out—” he stops in his tracks, everyone looks at him, you stop with your barrage of massages. Pavitr pauses mid bite. Ned stares at the room, eyes swimming with questions.

“Who are these children?”

[im-not-corrupted]

Well I gotta send in a request now!

How about 4 - "Well, this is rather cliché" with Dreamling? ❤️ (Happy early V-day btw!)

Oooo this one was fun! Happy early Valentine's day!

-------

He has, admittedly, been avoiding Hob Gadling for quite some time now.

There is a valid reason, regardless of whether or not Matthew and Johanna believe him. There is simply too much in his head, his chest a mess of tangled feelings, and he knows already how this ends. This is a story he has lived through plenty of times before; it never ends well, and there are some things that are simply not worth it in the end.

Like ruining the friendship he and Hob have now. It has taken years for them to get to this point, and he values his friend's company far more than he'll ever be able to put into words at this point. He decided, when he realised that his own feelings went a little bit beyond friendship, that it would be simple to just--avoid it all. To not think about it.

Not thinking about it is harder than Dream would like. His thoughts turn to Hob constantly, unbidden, and there is no escaping it, not unless he buries himself in his work. In his writing.

Which he has tried his best to do, only Matthew and Lucienne both seem to believe that isn't healthy of him. This, he supposes, might very well be true, but he doesn't quite have the capacity to care.

Until Matthew and Johanna both decide to interfere. Which is how he ends up in the back of Johanna's car, with Matthew singing terribly off-key to the music blasting from the radio, a situation he thinks might very well be his own personal kind of hell. He already has a headache forming and has a feeling it'll only get worse as the evening goes on--he doesn't have a clue as to why he is here, but it cannot be good.

There is a reason he does not often talk to people. Really, the friendships he has with Johanna and Matthew weren't really his choice--they both wormed their way into his life without asking and somehow managed to stick around.

He is not. Unhappy. With that. He has come to value their friendship, too. They care for him, even if he cannot quite understand why.

Still. He does not often talk to people, and that is simply because that does not go hand-in-hand with his own lifestyle. He wishes to remain inside the walls of his apartment, where he doesn't have to think too hard on...on everything. On his own subconscious insistence on ruining almost every good thing he has. Inside his apartment, he can simply...write. Play music. Get out of his own head until its noise doesn't feel quite so overwhelming, until it becomes manageable.

This. Is not manageable. It is not. And though he is fond of both Matthew and Johanna--he is, even if he has some difficulty showcasing it--he already wishes they had not dragged him out.

"What," he asks eventually, when Matthew grows bored of the radio and the silence grows too heavy, "am I doing here?"

It is a question he has asked at least four times already. It is a question he will continue to ask until he gains an answer. If he does, that is. He has never been very good at surprises--he is not very good at surprises here either.

Matthew twists around in the passenger seat, shooting him a grin that Dream can only describe as 'mischievous'. Which, really, doesn't bode well at all. "Oh, you'll see!"

"I hope you realise just how uncomforting that is," he deadpans.

Johanna tells him, "Get over it. This is for your own fucking good."

He almost asks what that means--almost, because his eyes are trained on the windows, and he knows these streets. Has walked them a couple of times before now.

This is the route to The New Inn. 

"The New Inn?" he asks, and dread opens up, a chasm beneath him. His stomach drops to the floor of the car. "What--"

"The New Inn," Matthew confirms. The grin on his face has only gotten wider, though that fades when he looks at Dream. He sighs before saying, "Listen. Dream. You can't avoid the man forever."

"I can, if you stop interfering," he points out. He would appreciate less interference, actually. He would really appreciate less interference. Avoidance may hurt--and, god, it does, he has ached and ached since he first realised just how foolish he was being by daring to want more--but it is the best option. The only option, at least until he has his own feelings under some semblance of control. He will not allow this to ruin what he has with Hob, something the two of them fought for painstakingly.

It took years. Of Hob's persistence, and his saint-like patience. It took years of Dream avoiding whatever kindness he was offered, believing himself to be above it all, until his life was abruptly ruined by Burgess.

It took a lot of time to get over that one afterwards. But Hob was there, a shoulder to cry on if he needed it, an anchor in the middle of the storm. Johanna and Matthew, he met those two afterwards, but Hob--he was there since the beginning, and held him through it all.

Dream is grateful for him. For him, and for his older sister Death, who decided to offer him kindness, too. He can't ruin their friendship. What would he do without it? Without the chance to see Hob's smile, warm and gentle and loving, every time the two of them saw each other?

He would rather avoid the other man for a few weeks, until his heart outgrows its foolishness, than attempt to pursue anything. It will not end well--he has a long line of failed relationships to prove that one, and doesn't want to add Hob's name onto the end of that list. He will not be the one to ruin Hob.

Johanna snorts. She doesn't look back at him, for she's the one driving and she wisely keeps her eyes on the road, but if she could, Dream just knows she'd give him a very unimpressed glare. She's rather impressive at those. "Fuck off," she says, her voice sharp. "Have you even texted him in the last fucking week? The man's a wreck!"

"...I texted him," he answers. It is weak, though the answer isn't a lie. He has texted Hob, though only once before he decided the best option would be to simply turn off his phone. At least that way his attempts to get over his infatuation will be undisturbed. But he did. He has a feeling, though, that Johanna meant more than just once.

Then the rest of what Johanna said dawns on him, and guilt flares, ready to swallow him whole. "A wreck? Is he alright?"

"Well, you haven't texted him for what--three, four weeks now?" Johanna asked. "What the fuck do you think? He's asked me twice now to make sure you aren't dead in a ditch already."

"You need to talk to him," Matthew piped in. "So neither of you go insane."

"I'm not going insane," he protests, but it falls on deaf ears. Which, he supposes, might be due to the fact that Johanna is pulling up in front of The New Inn now.

It looks...surprisingly empty, despite the lights on in the windows. He blinks at the sight. It is Valentine's Day, so it certainly comes as a surprise. It isn't necessarily the most romantic of places to take a partner, but it does happen. Dream remembers the bustle of last year's Valentine's Day rather well, and he wonders why it is so empty now.

Perhaps Hob simply decided to forgo Valentine's day celebrations this year and leave The New Inn closed for the day. That doesn't quite fit with his perception of Hob, but it is a good and reasonable answer that fits a tiny bit too well with Johanna's previous statement of 'The man's a wreck', which is...discomfiting.

"Alright, in you go," Matthew tells him.

Dream simply stares at the building and makes no attempt to move.

"For fuck's sake, go," he says again. "We'll be here to drive you back if everything goes as bad as you seem to think it will. You need to fucking talk already. It's either that or we sit here all night."

The thing is--the thing is, honestly, that now that the opportunity is close enough for him to grasp, every part of him wants to walk into The New Inn. To see Hob again, to bask in the light of his company, despite every bit of logic telling him that it is, perhaps, the worst idea he's had in years.

But he has never been particularly great at resisting impulses, and certainly not ones he knows will end badly. So he sighs heavily and simply says, long-suffering and exhausted, "Very well."

It is, in the end, an easy feat to open the door of the car. The evening air is cold, stinging his face instantly, and he shivers in his coat as he makes the walk up to The New Inn, deciding it is simply best to ignore Matthew's far too loud call of Go get him, tiger that Dream is fairly sure the entire neighbourhood also heard.

He stands there for a couple of moments. Now that he is really there, that the door is in front of him, crossing that threshold seems suddenly impossible. He should--he should turn back, should leave before it all goes wrong. What was he thinking, deciding this would be a good idea?

He doesn't get to turn back. The door opens before he can put thought into action, and Hob is standing there, haloed by the lights on inside. He looks--well, he looks just as lovely as always, and the one on Dream's face is one so warm that it makes his heart flip in his chest. He rues that, the ease with which all his attempts to put distance between his feelings and himself are made futile simply by glancing at Hob's face.

"You're here," the other man breathes, and without warning, Dream is pulled into a hug.

It is. Warm. Lovely. Everything Dream has wanted these last few weeks, since deciding avoidance was the best route to go down. And he can't help but to hug back, a little awkward but still heartfelt.

It is over sooner than he wants it to be, but he resists the urge to pull Hob back. That, he thinks, really would make distancing himself from his feelings difficult, and things are hard enough as it is.

"Come on, come in," his friend says, and he pulls Dream by the wrist inside. It isn't a particularly rough grip--he is careful with Dream, gentle, and though the prideful part of him always rears its head at the display of tenderness, for he doesn't want to be treated or seen as weak, he is grateful for it--and he can pull away easily, but he follows along instead, soon engulfed by the cosiness of The New Inn instead of the frigid cold outside.

Despite his earlier theories, Hob did not forgo Valentine's Day celebrations. If anything, he seemed to have gone above and beyond, at least with the decorations--there are red and white decorations everywhere. Heart balloons, streamers, little heart-shaped decorations upon the tables--it is an assault on his senses, one he didn't expect, and he takes a second to take in the sight. It certainly requires some adjustment.

"Well, this is..." he starts, but lets the sentence trail off.

Beside him, Hob snorts. When Dream turns to look at him, he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Rather cliché, I know," he says wryly. "This was all Matthew. He...thought this would be a good idea? For...some reason? I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure what his thought process here was. I only said I wanted to talk to you, to make sure you were alright, and he did...this."

"...Ah." He has a feeling he understands Matthew's thought process exactly, and resolves to never consult Matthew in such matters again. "I believe I understand what happened."

"Well, I'm glad someone does," Hob says with a quiet laugh. It's not as joyous as his laughs usually are. "Listen, Dream--if I did something wrong, if I was coming on too strong, tell me? I can back off. I don't want to drive you away. You mean a lot to me."

Dream...takes a second to process. Stares at Hob, a bit baffled and not entirely sure he heard that correctly, before asking, "...Coming on too strong?"

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, or anything, only I was sure you felt...similarly. I'm sorry if I got that wrong."

He thinks back to their last interaction--the kindness of Hob's smile, the way he took Dream's hand in his, asking whether Dream wants to Come up to my flat, love? We can watch a movie, or I can make you dinner, whatever you feel like, and looks at it in a new light entirely. "You...Want more. Than friendship. From me."

It does not seem possible, not in any sense of the word. But, god, does Dream want it.

He laughs quietly, self deprecating, and tugs on his earlobe. It is an incredibly endearing action, that, and Dream adores him very much. "I didn't make it obvious enough?" he asks, then shakes his head. "Listen. I want--I want whatever you want. If that's just friendship, that's fine with me. But...yes. Yes, I would like...something more. With you."

The smile that breaks across his face is unbidden, but not necessarily unwelcome. He swallows down the nerves, the anxiety, and considers. If...If Hob wants more, too, if his own wants aren't monstrous, undesired...perhaps there will be no ruining their friendship. Perhaps he can take a chance, if only here.

He steps forward, takes Hob's hand in his. "I am not. Particularly great at this," he admits.

Hob raises a brow. "I might've noticed."

Dream glares at him. He doesn't really mean it. Its effect is significantly weakened by the smile that remains on his face. "But. I would like something more with you, too. If you would have me, still."

Eyes widening, Hob says, "Of course I would, Dream. Of course I would. Now that we're on the same page..." His hand tightens in Dream's. "Do you want to come upstairs? For a movie, or for dinner? For both? And to...talk, we should do that too."

He places a kiss, feather-soft and gentle, to Hob's cheek. "Yes. I think I would like that a lot."

Hob beams at him, and Dream thinks that this cannot be anything other than a good thing.

[wyvernquill]

I'm rewatching Anastasia and this convo would really fit in your AU

Hob: look, Murphy, I'm just trying to help Murphy: do you really think I'm an Endless, Hob?

Hob: you know I do.

Murphy: then stop bossing me around

I'm sorry, this ask is already over a year old, but I finally got around to writing a scene based on it! (Plus some Murphy&Gil bits I wanted to put in somewhere, anyway.) Hope you enjoy!

[Mild warning for contemplation of one's potential death, and having once lost the will to life - I wouldn't call it suicidal ideation, it doesn't quite go there, but I figured I'd better be safe than sorry.]

Link to Anastasia AU Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

“Hob.” Murphy interrupts, eyes flashing with frustration.

(Today’s how-to-be-a-Dream-Lord lessons are not going well - not that any of them have, but this one is a particular catastrophe. Gil has already given up on their contrary charge for the evening, and with the way Murphy’s shoulders are up and tension bristles between them, Hob is unlikely to make much more headway tonight.)

“Tell me. Do you truly believe I am him? The Prince of Stories? The Dream King?”

“Yes,” Hob lies, easily, unflinchingly, and with a smile on his face. A good lie has to be treated like the truth, and maybe, one day, it’ll actually turn into one. They’ve been trying so very hard to teach Murphy this, he should know it by now. “Of course.”

“Then, perhaps,” Murphy spits, and despite his feral arrogance, despite the way he holds his head high and squares his slender shoulders, it’s not the regal indignation of a King, but the helpless tantrum of an angry child who’s failing in class. “You ought to finally treat me with the fucking deference an Endless is owed, Hob Gadling!”

(There are tears in his pale-blueish eyes, Hob can see them, can hear the crack in Murphy’s hoarse voice.

Nobody has treated this man with respect in all the years he remembers, that much is obvious. Nobody but his birds. And he knows, they all know, that he’s no prince, that his blood runs red, not blue - runs at all, come to think of it. Endless don’t bleed.

But he wants to be. He wishes he was. Murphy is not Dream of the Endless, but he is ravenous for the spoils of such a role. Desperate to be respected, to be worshipped and revered, desperate to be owed the sort of treatment he has never received.

Hob ought to be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of that helpless hunger for kindness and decency… and he will be. For the rest of his immortal life, he’ll live with the shame of what he did to cheat Death, and still not regret it.)

Hob plasters a smile over his impatience and opens his mouth, gentle, calming words already on the tip of his tongue. Murphy is lonely and frightened and frustrated, that much is obvious. Fine. Hob knew it wouldn’t be easy, to teach their false Dream all he needs to know, and this is not an insurmountable roadblock. If Hob can only reassure him, earn his trust, be his friend, even, it will make everything much easier. Poor thing, lashing out like an injured animal. But Hob can surely coax him into-

Murphy recoils. Flinches back from the admittedly-half-faked warmth, his face, his entire bearing collapsing into itself like a heavy portcullis rattling shut.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, pointing one of his stick-thin fingers at Hob’s face, “don’t you DARE! I have no need for your false pity, and I want no part of it! I want-” the white of his eyes is bloodshot, and in his terror, in his fury, in his desperation, awash in unshed tears “-I want out. This deal is off. Find some other poor sucker to teach how to play Endless, I won’t do it! I’ve had enough!”

And before Hob can say as much as a single word, Murphy has snatched up his coat and slipped out onto the rainy street, Matthew following - but not after awarding Hob with a colder glare than he would’ve thought a mere raven capable of.

Murphy does not manage to flee very far.

He is in an unfamiliar town, with no money, no valuables besides the clothes on his back that are now slightly finer than he used to be; and the winter is cold and deep and stifling. He gets no further than a handful of streets until he slows halfway across a bridge, shaking with cold more than anger, snowflakes dancing around him. It is a quiet, windless night - and it has always calmed him, to stand underneath the dark sky at night, and know that most of the city lies asleep around him.

Matthew settles on the bridge’s parapet, caws. Hops closer, cocks his head to one side. There is a clear question in his bearing, a what now? glinting in his eyes. Birds are open and honest - unlike humans. Liars and hypocrites all.

“...I do not know, Matthew.” Murphy admits quietly. He has taken the coat, but forgotten the scarf in his haste, so he tugs at his collar, to keep the cold air from trickling down his spine. “I truly don’t.”

He does not have the means to return to London on his own - and at the same time, does not have much desire to do so. He had nothing and no-one there, but for the birds. Pockets can be picked anywhere - he could make a new start in this nameless town.

…if only it weren’t winter.

Murphy shivers, feeling his bones rattle with it. The night is calm, but bitterly cold, and it will not end well for him, sitting in the snow until morning. In the dark of winter, he cannot afford a night without shelter, a day without a sure way to come by some food to keep his strengths up. In London, he would have known where to go. Here, he is helpless.

Damn Hob Gadling, and may Destruction take him! Murphy will have no other choice but to crawl back to him, and hope he’ll be kept on as Endless-impersonator. Hope, because Murphy’s made a right pig’s ear of it so far, slow and clumsy to learn, and outright refusing to play at nobility. He will always be a gutter rat, Murphy knows it. They can’t fashion him into a Dream King, and perhaps this flare of temper will prove to Hob once and for all that there is no point in trying.

There is no point in trying.

Murphy gives up on his collar, and rests his hands on the parapet. Matthew caws, and presses his head against his arm, a far better reassurance than Hob’s false smiles. It comforts Murphy, at least a little. He’s not alone, never alone - no matter how lonely he might feel.

Underneath them, a foreign river flows just fast enough to avoid the freeze. The water does not reflect any stars, but the snow dancing over the surface makes it almost look as if. His own reflection wavers and breaks across the waves.

(Some nights, he dreams of a darkened shore and a sea stretching far past the horizon, black waters that fold up into the night sky, indistinguishable from each other. Of a wooden pier, and galaxies swirling underneath.

Whenever he leans out too far, the reflected eyes he meets are not his own, and he wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.)

Murphy shivers again, and savours the last remnants of his pride, before it, too, will have to be cast into the dirt and abandoned.

“I believe you forgot this, young friend.”

Murphy’s head snaps up.

Dreams and nightmares approach without a whisper, perfectly silent at night if they choose to be. Gilbert is no exception; and if Murphy were to pay attention to anything but his heart racing like a startled hare, he would perhaps be a little distressed by the fact that there are no fresh footprints in the snow beside his own.

But it’s only Gilbert, kind-eyed and not-human, holding out Murphy’s scarf like a peace offering.

Murphy does not take it.

“Did Gadling send you?” he asks, wary.

“Robert informed me what had transpired between you two.” Gilbert admits. “But rest assured, I am here on nobody’s behalf but my own - and, well, yours. Frightfully nippy tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

Murphy does not say. He trusts Gil as little as Hob, perhaps even less. A dream attempting to betray the memory of his master seems hardly like a paragon of virtue, and is perhaps even more suspicious than a deceitful human.

(He does, however, take the scarf now. It’s too cold to be stubborn, and when he winds it around his neck, it smells of sunshine on a summer meadow, warm and comforting.)

“And if you truly wish to leave… dear boy, I won’t stop you.” Murphy does not like the way Gilbert looks at him, as if trying to see someone else beneath his skin. He does not meet Murphy’s eyes, if he can help it. “In fact I would send you off with well-earned compensation for your time, and travel fare. Unless…”

Gil steps up to the parapet beside him.

“...unless I can convince you to stay…?”

“Why would you?” Murphy mutters, instead of why would I, if you’re offering to pay me off? “It should be perfectly obvious that I’ll never pass muster.”

“Ironically,” Gilbert smiles, but only at the man he pretends to see whenever he looks at Murphy, “it is well known among the former denizens of the Dreaming that His Lordship was often prone to very similar bouts of pessimism. I have faith in you, Murphy - and so does Robert Gadling. Please, do not leave. I rather doubt we will succeed without you.”

"You…" Murphy struggles with the words, the sentiment behind them lodging uncomfortably in his throat. "You have great respect, even love, for Dream of the Endless' memory. So why do you pretend? Why try to fool his siblings that I am him?"

For a moment, Gilbert seems ready to insist, as always, that Murphy is, or at least might be - but, to his credit, he does not play Murphy for a fool, in the end. Not this time. Not like Hob always, always does.

"You are quite correct. I loved His Lordship deeply, in a way that could never be understood by anyone but a dream and their creator." Gilbert sighs, his soft meadow-green eyes gazing far into the distance of better days, lined by old grief. "He made me to be the Heart of the Dreaming, and he was the Dreaming, so I knew his heart and self better than any other. The loss, when he… you cannot imagine it, young friend. I thought I would wither away and die. I thought that would be a mercy. To live as a dream in a universe that does not contain Dream of the Endless seemed entirely unthinkable, and to be quite frank, I did not think I would survive longer than a year at most in the Waking."

"I understand," says Murphy, quietly, and he does. He is no stranger to the feeling of being so untethered, only floating along with the end looming over him, death - not Death, no longer, the Endless have been cast from their domains - only biding its time.

(In the first year he can remember, Murphy did not think he would see another, either.)

"And yet, the year passed. And I lived." Gilbert smiles, faintly, taking off his glasses to polish them. "I suspect it was humanity which saved me, for all that they robbed me of my home and Lord, as well. I found… such joy, in this world. In my human form, wandering among them. Calling a few select individuals friends, even. Young Robert's companionship was a particular blessing, and I owe him more than he can ever know."

He sets the glasses back on his nose.

"Lord Morpheus is dead." Says Gilbert. Says it like fact, like something too absolute for the sort of dream-creature born of hypotheticals he is, like an unshakeable truth he has resigned himself to. His voice only barely breaks over the words. "And I shall grieve him for all the rest of my days… but I must live to mourn him. Life goes on, young friend, and we must all move along with it. And, well. I cannot speak for Robert's motivations, but the true reason why I have agreed to this mad scheme…"

Gilbert takes Murphy's freezing hands in his own. His fingertips are not lined quite right, they would not leave prints that look even remotely like those of a human - but aside from that, his grip is warm, avuncular, firm, reassuring.

"I fear that his siblings will not be able to live on without him." Gilbert confesses, quietly. "They are not made to accept change and move on from a loss as monumental as what humanity has wrought upon them. To have you… not him, not entirely, but perhaps enough… it is my most solemn hope that it might give them some form of closure at long last."

"So that's what it is?" Murphy laughs, bitterly. "Charitable concern for the well-being of personifications of abstract concepts!?"

"No." Gilbert corrects mildly. "Love. For my creator's family."

Murphy scoffs. His chest aches with it.

"What you, hmm. What you must understand, about Lord Morpheus…" Gilbert seems to be choosing his words very carefully. "...is that, for all that he was often harsh and commanding, he was so very loving, always. My Lord loved with all his self, even if he would attempt to turn a cold shoulder to the world - and I think you are much like him in temperament, young Murphy.”

Murphy does not acknowledge that. He doesn't think he can.

“He loved his family, and he loved the Dreaming, and all the beings in it. I was his heart, or near as, you must recall, I knew the truth at the core of him.

Memories or not, love as he did, and you will be a credit to his name, and a comfort to all who knew him."

(Murphy does not have it in himself to love like Dream of the Endless did. He already struggles to love at all.

But perhaps, for the sake of the entity whose memory he will dishonour, he can try.)

“So. Will you come back and resume your lessons?” Gil asks, very gently. “You may leave, now or any other time, of course you may. But it would be to your benefit, as well as to that of many others, if you did not.”

“I’ll stay,” Murphy forces out. He could blame the way his hands shake on the cold. “For now.”

“Thank you, dear child. Thank you.” This time, when Gilbert smiles, it very nearly feels like it is directed at him, after all. “Now, let’s get you out of this cold, hm? And Matthew as well.”

Murphy lets Gilbert herd him back to their inn, sits through Hob Gadling’s apology and wonders if it was sincere - he can never tell, with this infuriating man - and continues to learn as much as possible about the life of Dream of the Endless.

But he’s slowly realising, if anything will convince the Endless siblings, then it certainly won’t be the trivia. He’ll have to learn to love like the Lord of Stories, for their deception to have a snowflake’s chance in hell.

(Oh, wonderful. As if this wasn’t difficult enough already…)

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: Send a Thank You Note

(a continuation from Jo and Hob BFF shenanigans... @teejaystumbles you wanted to know what happens next!)

Dreamling || Rated E (CW/tags: nsft, getting together, this is really just an excuse for a bit of smut, Dream is a smartass (affectionate), bisexual Hob Gadling, just because Dream is on top doesn't mean that he doesn't want to take dick)

"Hob," Dream stops in the shadow between two streetlamps. Perhaps that is why his expression seems darker when Hob turns to him, one eyebrow raised, and nods for his friend to continue. "Was Johanna Constantine accurate in her assessment of your desire for me?"

Hob flushes again. Not quite the shade that Dream had observed on him earlier, but it's close cousin. It is sweet. And probably answer enough. But he waits to hear what Hob would say.

"Ah, well..." Hob meets Dream's eyes despite the butterflies trying to make him turn tail and run. One hand flies up to tug at his ear and Hob feels fifteen shades of 1789 all over again. "She does like to embellish the truth, and it is not like I am beholden to exactly what she said, but it isn't like I am against somethi-" He is stopped by delicate fingers on his jaw.

Dream has stepped into Hob's personal space, knows he is closer than the propriety of this age would dictate, which is exactly his intention. He takes a moment to marvel at the warmth of Hob's skin, its texture from stubble, how it trembles when Hob sucks in a breath through his teeth.

The hiss of air draws Dream's eyes to Hob's mouth in a way that is too heated to be unconscious. Hob has wanted this, to just be touched by Dream, by his Stranger, for so long. He lists forward, he can't help it, and when those fingertips press just a little more firmly into his face Hob swallows hard, licking his lips.

The sound that catches in Dream's throat upon seeing that tease of Hob's tongue should embarrass him. It should. He is a King. He is more than a god. He is Endless.

He, as the current turn of phrase goes, doesn't give a single fuck.

Dream might as well sky-write his intentions in lightning for how slowly he moves forward. Hob feels the anticipation as a physical weight pressing into his chest, restricting his breathing to shallow huffs. Dream's palm slides up to cup the stubbled jaw and he leans imperceptibly closer. They don't even close their eyes, Hob lost in endless blue even as their noses brush and Dream's lips touch the barest bit to his.

Hob is the one who caves, bends like tall prairie grass in the wind, hands grabbing at Dream's coat as he closes his eyes and kisses Dream for all he is worth. If he is only going get one shot, he might as well do it right.

But the answering rumble that comes from Dream - part growl, part purr, part groan - causes something in Hob to snap.

The kiss becomes a battle and before Hob can muster his forces for a second attack, he has backed Dream into a wall with a thud.

He opens his eyes. And sees dark green with very familiar brass numbers.

Not a wall.

Hob has Dream pressed up against his front door. Which was previously three blocks in front of them.

But Dream is still kissing him like the only air he can breathe is in Hob's lungs, so he doesn't have time to worry about it.

Dream takes his hand out of his coat pocket, dropping any remaining grains of sand, and pushes off the door with his hips and shoulders. After a twist, Hob's back hits the door harder than Dream's did, the door knocker rattling and a low moan pouring into Dream's mouth. He grabs Hob's thighs just beneath his ass and hefts, sliding Hob up the flat surface until he is at least a head taller, until he can suck on that tempting throat and feel those moans from the outside.

Hob clings to Dream's neck and shoulders, head falling back and Jesus fuck if he knew being manhandled like this was such a turn on he'd have sought out beefier partners sooner. Then teeth bite into his neck hard and Hob yelps.

"Do not dare think of others whil-" Hob's tongue in his mouth stops Dream from continuing that sentence for a solid two minutes. When they part, he has other priorities. "Daydream of your bedroom."

Dream's voice is a command and Hob immediately has the room in his mind's eye, imagines pushing Dream down into his sheets, crawling over him and then there is a strong breeze and...

It is a simple trick to take the location from Hob's mind, step them into that dreamspace and then from there into its Waking World counterpart.

"Bloody hell." Hob looks around, wide-eyed. When he turns back to Dream his pupils are blown and his mouth sinfully red. "You are going to explain that to me." He looks down, gets distracted, and starts biting at Dream's lips again. "Later. Explain later." They tumble into the bed, completely clothed, shoes still on, and Hob is about to pull away to say something sensible like "We should talk about this first," but then he hears Dream's fingers snap and suddenly there is not a scrap of fabric between them. "Oh, fuck me."

Dream hums, pressing as much of his skin to Hob's as he can manage and still maintain the boundaries of this form. "One of many options." He finds that the hollow above Hob's clavicle tastes lovely when sweat beads there, laps it up in long swipes that make the human beneath him shudder. "Is that what you would prefer?"

"Oh god," Hob wraps a leg around Dream's hip and grinds them together. "Anything." He repeats the motion and they both groan. "Everything. Yes."

Hob's incoherence strokes Dream's ego and he preens as he sits up, straddling Hob's thighs. The distance allows him to take in Hob's wrecked state, his mussed hair and flushed cheeks and sweat-damp chest. Their cocks brush against each other and Hob hiccups out a groan. When he wraps a hand around Hob the human arches and wails, clawing at Dream's thighs.

Dream knows what he wants, gives a thought to preparing this body for it, adding oil to make slick body parts that are not usually so. He lets go of Hob's dick and crawls forward, one hand on Hob's chest. "While I do abhor proving a Constantine right..." he reaches back and grabs the base of Hob's cock.

"Fuck! Dream we haven't oh Christ you are wet and open." Hob goes from alarm to awe to ecstasy in half a heartbeat, so quickly he feels dizzy. Then Dream starts to sink down and Hob holds on to bony hips for dear life as he watches his cock disappear into Dream's body. When Dream is fully seated Hob falls back into the pillows with a sob. "Dream. How?"

He plays with Hob's chest hair, runs nails over a peaked nipple, as he speaks. "I am the Shaper of Forms, Hob. I can take whatever form you, or I, need. Or want."

Hob tries to process that for a minute, staring up at the ceiling. "You... we are going to need to have a looong conversation after this because otherwise my bi ass is going to lose my job for not showing up for the next three weeks."

Dream laughs, a rumbling chuckle that Hob actually feels in his cock. "What a shame it would be," he starts rocking his hips, dropping down on just about every word, making Dream's speech keep time with the fucking, speeding up as he goes, "for you to be jobless. To have so much free time. Whatever would you do with yourself?"

"Alright, you sassy minx," Hob snaps his hips up as he pulls Dream's hips down and there, that made the eldritch being in his lap really moan. He repeats the motion until they have a rhythm, until they are lost to it. "Close," Hob whispers too soon, "I can't..."

Dream drives himself down harder and relishes Hob's cry. "We can strive for stamina later," he takes one of Hob's hands and wraps it with his own around his cock, fucking into the channel made between their palms. "Come for me, Hob. Please."

It is the please that does it, makes Hob arch and roar and come so hard he almost-

And then Dream's hand clamps down with his, what Hob would have thought would be painfully tight around his lover's cock, and his pale, lithe body, too, arches and then clenches so fucking tight around Hob that it stretches his orgasm longer, pulls more semen from his body in an impossible, lava-hot rush.

Dream watches as his own spend shoots up onto Hob's neck and face and even into his hair. Their is an additional frisson of pleasure that runs through him that he has marked Hob in such a way. He reaches up and smears some of it onto Hob's lips, who sucks at it greedily with a little whine.

Hob pulls Dream down onto the bed, a quiet grunt as his soft cock leaves his lover's body. His lover. They are on their sides, facing each other, and Hob's hand finds Dream's on his hip, tangles their fingers together. The silence that falls between them is warm with smiles and humid breaths.

"Hob, I know that humans do not always..." Dream frowns, gathers his words, and tries again. This is always where the Prince of Stories trips up, when trying to tell his own. "I realize that acting on physical attraction is not an indication of romantic intent. I would know your intentions, if only to moderate my own actions accordingly."

It takes a second for all that to filter through Hob's sex-addled brain, for him to parse the meaning of so many multisyllabic words, but when he gets it Hob can feel his eyebrows knitting. He traces Dream's cheekbone back to behind his ear and further to cup his skull and bring their foreheads together. "Listen carefully, my Dream," Hob hears his friend's breath hitch at that and he smiles, "Yes, as I have recounted the last one-hundred and thirty odd years to you it has probably been clear that I have been what most would characterize as a shameless slut. But if anything could temper me..." Hob takes a shaky breath. "I have wanted to approach you with romantic intent since June 8, 1489, when I realized how long, truly, it would be until I could see you again. So no moderation is needed, dove." He kisses Dream once, just a chaste press of lips. "Because I want all of you."

Dream surges forward and over Hob, gripping the strong muscles of his neck as they open to each other. They part because they are both grinning too widely, laughter too close to the surface, for their mouths to easily fit together.

"Oh gods," Hob giggles, "I am going to have to tell Jo."

"About that," Dream hums, all imperiously satisfied smile, "I might have let images of our, ah, activities filter into her dreams."

"Oh no, Dream. You didn't!" Hob is overcome with a fit of guffawing laughter that doesn't slow until his diaphragm hurts. "Are you telling me that you sent her the metaphysical equivalent of a picture of us in bed?"

Dream lets himself be distracted by the movement of Hob's neck, by tasting the curves of the muscles of his shoulders. "Perhaps."

Hob lapses into a fit of giggles again. "She is going to kill you."

"I would like to see her try." Hob can feel Dream smile into his skin. "Because I have a feeling if she truly has ill-intent then she will have to get through you first."

Hob laughs again, fingers tugging at Dream's hair until their eyes meet. "Aye, you are probably right, love. You are probably right."

[moorishflower]

"De Profundis" for the wip game 👀

Hello hello! De Profundis is my next continuation of the Hierarchy of Needs! :D Hob goes to a party! Dream has some revelations!

"I am expected. To host a delegation from Hell. To foster better relations between our realms." All of those words mean something, Hob thinks. Individually, anyway. Host, all right, the gathering, a delegation, makes sense, there have to be people to host...and then his brain gets hung up on the word 'Hell' and stops, and refuses to go any further. Hob clears his throat. When he tries to speak, his voice still comes out as a weak little croak. "I'm sorry," he says, "but you said 'Hell'? As in, fire and brimstone, nine layers, the devil?" "The nine layers are something of an authorial embellishment," Dream says. "But. Yes." "I see," Hob says, and then he just sits for a few minutes, because doing anything other than that seems a bit beyond him. Bless Dream for his oddities, he doesn't try to make Hob talk or ask him questions, but sits quietly with him, and periodically he slightly moves his hand, so Hob can feel he's still there. Hell. Hell. Actual, real Hell, which Hob had decided was irrelevant to him as soon as he'd really internalised that he wasn't going to die, and which he'd almost stopped believing in entirely sometime during the Enlightenment after he'd read Hume's Treatise. There'd always been a little part of him, though, which had thought that if things like his stranger existed, if there were beings out there who could bestow immortality with a word, then who was to say that the Devil didn't actually exist? Who was to say that Christ wouldn't someday return and usher in a brand new world? He doesn't actually know exactly how long he sits and processes this. Well, 'processes' is probably a generous word for it, but he compartmentalises, and that's what's key at the moment. It must be longer than ten minutes, though, because when Dream finally squeezes his hand hard enough to bring him out of it the chicken kiev is no longer steaming. "Ought I have informed you of the guest. Before I asked you to intend?" he asks, and Hob smiles wanly at him, trying to shove down the part of himself that remembers being very concerned with his immortal soul sometime in the early 1400s. He doesn't want to lie to Dream, but... "It...would've been appreciated," he says, and then quickly adds, "I would've said yes anyways! Of course I would. It's just...it's a bit of, uh, a shock."

[seiya-starsniper]

Dreamling Week Day 5 & 6 (Soulmates/Monochromatic)

This one is more of an idea for now, versus a full on fic, but when I saw the prompts for Days 5 and 6, my brain ran away with this concept. I honestly don't know if I'll ever get around to writing it myself, so if someone else wants to give a go, be my guest 😄

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

Soulmate AU where Hob sees color for the first time when he meets Dream in 1389. 

In this AU, due to their initially short lifespans, nearly all humans believe that you can only have One Soulmate. When you meet your soulmate, you'll immediately know, because that is when your vision goes from black and white to seeing in color.

Immortal beings however, such as the Endless, along with gods, the fae, etc., know that a "soulmate" is just a person with whom you can form a deep and life changing bond with. Most beings have multiple soul bonds, sometimes simultaneously, though only the first one grants you the power to see color, while any subsequent soul bond grants its own gift, depending on the nature of the relationship.

Because humans have such short lifespans at first, most humans don’t even meet someone with whom they can form a soul bond with before they die. There is also religious rhetoric that claims soulmates must be romantic in nature, or at least married.

When Death takes Dream to the White Horse, Dream senses his potential connection with Hob immediately. He is disinterested in forming a bond at first (his last human soul bond was Nada, and that left a poor taste in his mouth for obvious reasons), but then he hears Hob brag about never dying, and suddenly Dream is interested in his new potential soul bond.

Hob, at this point in time, has been told his entire life that his soulmate would be his future wife, so imagine his utter SHOCK when Dream appears. At first, he thinks he's going to Hell for having a man as a soulmate, but then he stops caring as they talk more, and then he's hopelessly charmed. They agree to meet in 100 years as normal, but then Dream leaves without giving Hob his name, and Hob's too drunk to notice he just let his soulmate get away.

Hob spends the next few years looking for Dream, mourning that he was too drunk to really have a properly conversation with his soulmate, but then 100 years go by, and now Hob thinks he's soulmates with the Devil so 1489 goes something like this:

“Why can I see color? Am I really soulmates with the devil?” “I am no devil.” “Then what are you? And why aren't I long dead?” “You said you wanted to live forever. So you shall. And I am interested.” “In me?” “In your experience.” “My…experience?” *lightbulb moment* “You want to know what it's like.”

Their meetings go much the same way, with Hob thinking for a bit that in order for him to continue being immortal, he has to prove himself "worthy" of his soul bond with Dream, whose name he still doesn't know. He meets his other soul bonds (Peggy, Eleanor, etc) over those centuries, and he loves each and every one of them, but Dream, the one who gave him colors, will always be the one that means the most to him. He realizes that maybe he no longer needs to prove himself to his first soul bond, maybe they can have something more than just a conversation one every 100 years.

Dream naturally, gets upset at the very notion (he's still reeling from how poorly everything with Nada ended) and so he storms out in 1889 as usual. When he gets capture by Burgess in 1916, Dream is not only cut off from The Dreaming, but from Hob as well, and so Hob loses the ability to see color. Hob, not knowing what's happened to Dream, thinks that somehow, Dream has died, even though soulmate gifts don't leave upon death. His fears are confirmed in 1989 when Dream doesn't show up for their meeting. Hob mourns, but he can't forget Dream, so when the White Horse is shuttered, he buys out The New Inn anyways, so that there's always some sort of memorial for Dream near the place where they first met.

Then 2022 rolls around and Dream walks into The New Inn and BOOM, Hob can see colors again. Cue a very romantic reunion 💖

[dino-cattivo]

Pray for me, cos I won't pray for you

My fic for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang!

The amazing art for this fic was done by @jeniidrawsshit and oh my god I love it so so much. It is just so amazing.

LINK TO THE ART!!! GO CHECK IT OUT!!

Pairing: Hob/Dream

Rating: mature

Word Count: 40,657

Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, gore like the dinner episode, The Corinthian is His Own Warning (The Sandman), Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Alternate Universe - Mob, Organized Crime, Hob joins the mafia, Self Confidence Issues, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, POV Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Needs A Hug, Misunderstandings

Summery: After their fight in 1889 Hob falls in with a bad crowd thanks to a boy that reminds him of Robyn. He tries to stop his descent into crime not wanting to be reduced to being nothing more than a murderer again. But eh fails. Compared to all the live he ends helping to guard a basement is tame. If only Corinthian, the right hand man of his employer, would stop flirting with him despite being turned down multiple times already.

Chapter 1 under the cut. Will repost the next chapters as reblog because of word limit.

~1889~

“You knew Lady Johanna. You know, Lushing Lou. You know everyone, don't you?” Hob asked in wonder. He may not know who or rather what his stranger was, but he could never help but be amazed by everything he could do. Sometimes when he laid awake, unable to catch sleep, he came up with the wildest theories about the man. He imagines him being a vampire, a fae, and even considered an old god from Greece. But he would never know, as his stranger never revealed anything about himself, not even his name. 

It felt unfair in a way. Him knowing everything about Hob, while Hob got nothing. It had crossed his mind to be petty, to keep things to himself, go against their deal in a way. But Hob couldn’t stop himself from telling the man whatever he could when they saw each other, eager to be able to share.  

“I saw her again, you know.”

“Who? Lady Johanna?” Worry flared up. He knew his stranger was fine, sitting across the table from him. He also knew the man was strong enough to protect himself. But he couldn’t help wanting to be there, to protect, to keep his stranger safe, even at the cost of his own freedom.

“She undertook a task for me and succeeded admirably, I might add.”

Jealousy, burning hot, filling his veins. He tried to tamper it down, to net let it get to him, but he couldn’t help himself. All the time he had wanted nothing more than to get close to his stranger, to prove his worth, and now he had offered that chance to someone else. He had chosen someone who had hunted them down and tried to do harm instead of someone he shared centuries of friendship with.

It hurt. 

Although, could he hold it against his stranger? The man knew Hob for so long, knew what he has done, knew all his failures during his long life. So it was no wonder he didn’t trust Hob enough to ask him for a favor. His voice was filled with self-loathing as he spoke. “That might be the only thing I've learned after 500 years. People are almost always better than you think they are. Not me, though. Still the same as ever.”

“I think perhaps you've changed.” Hob’s heart started beating faster at the other’s words. Did he really think so? Hob wished it was true. He wants to change, to be good, worthy of his stranger.

“Well, I may have learned a bit from my mistakes. But, uh… doesn't seem to stop me from making them. I think it's you that's changed.”

“How so?”

Hob should shut up now and be content with what he had, seeing the man he had fallen for every hundred years. He should not press the issue, no matter how desperate he was to be acknowledged by the other. But Hob had never been smart when it came to things he desired.

“I think I know why we still meet here, century after century. It's not because you want to see whether or not I'm ready to seek death. I don't think I'll ever seek death. By now, you know that about me. So, I think you're here for something else.”

“And what might that be?” His stranger looked curious at that. Hob liked the look as it meant he had done something to surprise the man.

“Friendship. I think you're lonely.” And in true Hob fashion, he managed to put his foot in his mouth. He knew the moment he had spoken, he had made a mistake. It was the truth, but the wording was just unfortunate and way too blunt. And not at all how he had planned to breach the topic.

“You dare…”

“No, look, I'm not saying–,” Hob tried to backpedal, but it was too late. “You… dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Maybe despite Hob’s foolish approach, there was a chance all of this still had a good outcome, and they would get closer. “Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong.” Or maybe not. Hob sprang up from his chair and chased after his stranger as the man strode out of the tavern. The man couldn’t do this. If he wanted or not, they were friends. You didn’t just storm off and leave your friends behind.

“I'll tell you what, I'll be here in 100 years' time. If you're here then, too, it'll be because we're friends. No other reason, right?” He was met by silence as his stranger didn’t seem fit to answer and just disappeared. 

“Fսck.” 

~1897~

He was pissed, absolutely livid. Who did he think he was? He had no right to speak to Hob like this, no matter how powerful he was. That was not how things worked. You couldn’t be an asshole like that and expect people to stick around. Hob didn’t need him. They saw each other only every hundredth years, and even then the stranger often didn’t have time for Hob and fucked off with someone else. So what if Shakespeare was famous now? Hob would still have been better company back then. No, he didn’t need the man. He would make new friends. Better ones.

~1936~

Okay, so maybe mistakes had been made and Hob should have chosen his words more carefully. That was on him. His stranger still shouldn’t have exploded like this and should rather have tried to talk things out like a grown up, but still – Hob hadn’t been entirely blameless in the situation.

When they saw each other the next time he would have to apologize and maybe then they could laugh together about the stupid fight. Or well, Hob had never seen his stranger laugh, couldn’t even imagine it. He would settle for a smirk then.

~1983~

Anxiety was settled deep in his chest. What if his stranger proved him wrong. What if he didn’t show, determined to not give in. Hob had no way of finding him. He didn’t even know who he was looking for. What would Hob even do? Nothing besides showing up in the White Horse every hundred years and praying at some point his stranger would forgive him and come for him. 

Once more, he felt powerless in their relationship. It was the whole reason why he had even started the fight, wanting to know more, anything about his stranger. He didn’t want to be on equal footing, knowing it would never be, but he wanted something that was his. He didn’t want to be just another amusement the man had, but to mean at least something to the other. 

Tears sprung to his eyes as he hit his desk in frustration. It was unfair. The stranger meant too much to him, was such a big part of his life, and Hob didn’t even know if he was the only immortal he kept. Maybe Shakespeare was out there under a new name, living his best life and meeting his stranger more often than every hundredth years. And there was nothing Hob could do about it, no way for him to even find out.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any more work, he gathered his documents and put them in a briefcase before leaving the empty office and making his way through the dark street. They were in the progress of having the gas street-lamps replaced by electrical once, but it was slow progress. And during it many streets stayed dark, since repairing gaslights when they were about to be replaced was a waste of resources according to the major. Hob didn’t care too much, he didn’t fear the dark.

He should have.

A dark figure stepped in front of him, barely noticeable in the moonlight. Turning around to run, he saw another figure blocking the other exit of the street and walking towards Hob. A flash of metal in the dark, a weapon. Hob swallowed, not because he was scared, he had survived much worse, but because it spelled trouble, and he couldn’t risk anyone finding out he was immortal. Not with times changing and hiding who he was becoming more and more difficult.

“Your money or your life,” Hob had to suppress a snort at the nasal voice. Ah, criminals, always the same no matter how many centuries passed. He remembered the time well, when he was in the other's position, stopping the carriages of rich folks and demanding the valuables. He had used the exact same words. Although, he guessed there was no much need for flair when it came to such simple matters.

“Alright, I will give you what I have. Please don’t hurt me,” Hob held up his hands, talking calm and trying not to provoke them. He couldn’t die, sure, but being stabbed hurt like a freaking bitch. Hob would rather part with some cash he had on hand and his watch. Nothing holding real value to him, and easy enough to replace. 

So very slowly and telegraphing his movement clearly, he reached inside his coat and pulled out his wallet, holding it out until it was snatched from his fingers. Next was his watch that got the same treatment. And still Hob was well-behaved, not struggling, calm and cooperating. He gave no reason for the situation to escalate, giving his robbers all chances to just leave now with their loot.

Which was why Hob was so surprised when pain exploded at the side of his head. He stumbled, his knee hitting the pavement, his palm getting scratched as he caught himself. Blinking, he tried to lift the haze from his thoughts as he looked up at the two shapes hovering above him. 

It was only instincts, honed through centuries with conflicts, that saved him, his head ducking automatically as he heard the swish of metal through the air. But just because the knife didn't slash his face didn't mean he was safe, as he was not as fortunate in avoiding the kick to his side. He cried out as pain exploded in his ribs. Every fiber of his being wanted him to curl up and protect his soft belly, but he forced down this instinct with gritted teeth. 

No, if you wanted to survive, you had to fight with everything you got. Using the momentum of the kick, he stumbled back to his feet, and got some distance between himself and the attackers. Despite the throbbing in his head, he now could see them more clearly, that was not the face of someone just messing around. No, they wore big smiles, and were enjoying his pain. They wouldn't stop. At least not on their own. 

One of them, heavy dark coat, spindly frame, soon ran towards Hob, knife in hand. Amateur movements. Hob stepped forward, getting close, deflected the blade by smacking the other's arm. His knee meets the other's stomach, sending him down. Before he could make sure he stayed down the other man, this one smaller but wider, jumped on him, and they tumbled to the ground.

That was fine. Hob knew how to wrestle and had the other in a chokehold in seconds. Still two against one, but he kicked out the legs of the man running towards him to tear him off his friend.

The body was suddenly in free-fall, arms whirling trying to get back balance. 

Then a sickening crunch and Hob froze.  

He had heard it often during his lifetime. He had sworn he would no longer be the cause of it. 

Looking over, he didn't need to see the neck bend in an awkward position to know the man was gone. 

Hob had killed him. He hadn't meant to, it had been an accident. But he had killed someone. 

After all the lifetime he had lead and all the killing and dying he had done, he had wanted to be done with it. He just wanted to live in peace and do let others do the same. But now he had ripped someone else out of their life. How could he live with himself knowing what he had just done. 

“Chris,” the man, Hob was still entangled on the ground with, cried out and struggled to free himself. Hob helped him as best as he could now that he was no longer in danger of being attacked. 

Getting up himself, he saw the man kneeling next to the body crying, shaking it and begging for Chris to open his eyes. The man didn’t. They never did. Once someone was gone, there was nothing you can do, no matter how you cried out to your stranger to spare them. 

Suddenly the man got up, swinging at Hob, but in his grief it had become uncoordinated and Hob easily stopped the punch. 

“You murderer! You killed him!”

He hadn’t meant to. And it wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t attacked him. But pointing that out wouldn’t help, as the man would not listen to reason. He wanted someone to be angry at, to blame, to lessen his own guilt. And Hob was the perfect target. Hob stopped the other punch and just held on as the man cried. It was the least Hob could do.

There was the sound of footsteps in the distance, spooking the man, and he ripped himself free and started stumbling away. Hob didn’t stop him, just sitting down on the ground next to the cooling body and waited. He should probably call the police, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, so he just waited. How long he didn’t know, but at some point steps came closer and when he looked up Hob could see men in uniform entering the alley. The police has arrived. 

Hob didn’t resist when he was dragged up and cold iron snapped around his wrist. Neither when he was pulled away. Everything was a blur. He didn’t remember how they made it to the station, just that he found himself in a chair, an officer sitting on the other side of the desk staring him down.

He was asked questions he can’t answer, the full name of the victim, their relationship and most of all why he did it. All Hob can say is, it was an accident, I didn’t mean to, they attacked me first, I just tried to defend myself, then he fell. Over and over, he repeats it like a mantra. Something to hang on when everyone wants to make him believe he did it on purpose. When their words make him question himself. 

I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I was just defending myself.

He didn’t know how much time has passed, there was no clock in the room nor window. His voice was rough and black spots dance on the edge of his vision, they hadn’t bothered giving him a glass of water. The blood in his hair from the first swing he took was dry and flaking off every time he shakes his head in denial. His ribs throb with every breath.

He was about to just nod, accept whatever they said if it meant he will be thrown into a cell where he could lay down and close his eyes. It would ruin his life, but wouldn’t that be right after what he had done? A few years of suffering was the least he deserved. Especially since he unlike others had the option to start anew after faking his death.

His downward spiral was stopped by a man bargain in, under loud protests of some officers. The man’s briefcase hit the desk hard, and Hob flinched back at the loud noise.

“Don’t say anything,” sharp blue eyes drilled into Hob’s making him cower at the imposing figure in front of him. The man commanded respect, not because of the nice suit he was wearing or the expensive jewelry or because he was even taller than Hob, but in the way he held himself, his presence filling the whole room. 

So Hob shut his mouth. It was not like anyone was really listening to what he had to say anyway. And not speaking would be good for the scratching in his throat. His fate now would be decided if the new person was a friend or someone wanting to drag him down. Hob didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

“You,” the man whirled on the officer, making him duck on instinct, only to puff up and try to make himself more imposing when he noticed. “Tell me how it comes that you had him in here for 8 hours and couldn’t even be bothered to give him a glass of water nor give him medical attention? Where are we? At the witch trials,” Hob flinched hard at the words, remembering the trials only too well. Back then he had broken as well, admitting to anything as long as it meant the pain would end. 

To his surprise, the stranger pushed his briefcase further on the desk, blocking Hob’s slumped form from view and gave him at least a bit of privacy as he fought with his demons.

“He killed a man! What do you expect? A fluffed up pillow and a three-course meal?”

“Human decency!” The officer was now absolutely cowering under the pressure, despite his best efforts. “Or are you that desperate you couldn’t take the 10 minutes to have him checked over? Maybe because you know you don’t have a case?”

“Bullshit! I know you love to put your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mr. Henderson. He killed the guy. We found him next to the corpse, and he admitted it was him who made the deceased fall.”

“And wasn’t he also quite persistence that the deceased and another man were the once attacking him, and he was just defending himself? Or are you just going to ignore that? So I suggest instead of harassing the victim, you should rather be out there looking for the second attacker.”

And the officer, despite his complaints and grumbling, got up and left the room. There was no way to know if he was really searching for the other attacker, and if there was even a chance to find the man with how little information Hob had been able to give, but getting a breather was enough for Hob.

His head laid on the desk, the cold helping against his headache, and he just rested his eyes for a moment. He heard movement but ignored Mr. Henderson for now. Or at least he tried to, but the man kneeled down next to Hob’s chair and his hand laid on Hob’s knee. 

Blinking his eyes back open was an effort, but Hob managed and looked down at the concerned eyes looking up at him.

“Mr. Gadling, I wish could say it will be alright, but your situation doesn’t look good. But rest assured, I will do anything in my power to get you out of this.”

“I don’t think I have the money to pay your commission,” Hob was not poor. But the last years after he had fought with his friend, he had let himself go. Gambling, and throwing money at unnecessary luxuries just because he could. When he had pulled his head out of his ass, he had already spent most of his fortune and was now living like the middle class. Not bad, but not enough to pay a man wearing jewelry that could feed a family for at least a year.

“Don’t worry about money. Just focus on getting through this.”

Hob snorted, so either once he was out the man would make demands to be paid back another way, forcing Hob into his servitude, or he was just plain stupid. Saying that straight to the man’s face was not the best idea, but the man just laughed.

“Personally, I see myself as someone just trying to do the right thing, reforming the misdeeds in the justice system.”

So, delusional. But Hob could work with that. And having a delusional lawyer was better than not having one at all, so accepting the help would be best.

“The biggest problem is all we have to confirm your story is your word. Even if the police showed an ounce of competence and finds the other robber, he will tell his own story.” Hob knew all that. He didn’t know why the other even bothered, since there was no way he would get out of here. Not with everyone in the station being hellbent on making sure he went to prison. But at least he got to go to a holding cell for now and take a nap until Mr. Henderson would return the next day. 

And return he did with a big smile on his face. The police had not found the other robber, but they had found a woman hanging around the alleyway, and with a bit of pressure she had admitted to seeing the whole thing backing up Hob’s story. The officers complained and tried to poke holes in his defense, but in the end they had no other option but to accept that his actions had been to defend his own life. 

Things dragged on, Hob being pushed from one cell to the other as people discussed his fate. Mr. Henderson, please call me Edward, was there every step of the way and the only reason why Hob didn’t fell apart. 

Still, Hob couldn’t believe it when the judge finally spoke the words not guilty, and he was stepping into the sun. Till the last moment he had waited for the second shoe to drop, for someone to jump out and present new evidence sending him to jail.

Turning to Edward standing beside him, smiling brightly, he couldn’t help himself, but pulling the man into his arms and thanking him under tears. The man had been there for him, like a true friend, and if he ever needed it, Hob would be there for him in return.

He had lost his stranger, but he was not alone. There were good people out there, just waiting for him. All Hobs had to do was open his heart and accept them. 

With this being over, Hob could move on with his life. Things finally looked up. Or they did until he found out he had no longer a job because of his long absence and his old boss was unwilling to hire a killer despite Hob being proclaimed not guilty. Hob didn’t understand it, but he was unwilling to start a fight. He could find someplace else. Only words of his case had spread through the whole city, and no one was willing to hire him. And without a job there was no money which meant he would be unable to pay his upcoming rent.

But nothing he tried worked. The only positions willing to hire him wouldn’t even make a dent in his rent, even if he had three jobs. And with the housing shortage, there was no place else he could live that would be cheaper. He could move, somewhere no one knew him. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave London. This was his home, where his only friend lived. And he had to be here in a few years to be at the White Horse in case his stranger returned. 

He could ask Edward for help, but he didn’t want it to seem he was just after the other's money. Especially with Edwards business taking a major hit after a person he was defending was proven guilty. Hob tried to help as best as he could behind closed doors but knew he couldn’t do more since it wouldn’t look good on Edward if he was seen with Hob. 

It was a major point of friction. Edward didn’t care about his reputation and had no trouble inviting Hob out for dinner or even hiring him. But Hob refusing frustrated him, especially when Hob even declined his money, despite Edward knowing how much Hob was struggling. He just wanted to support his best friend and being unable to do so and just having to watch how he made himself smaller and smaller, shrinking under all negative attention focused on him angered him.

Their love for each other made them want the best for each other. And it tore their friendship apart. They were unable to spend time together without a disagreement, and then their friendship ended in a big fight. 

And it was Hob fault. He always said the wrong thing, turning away the people he cared about. First his stranger now Edward. Maybe he was meant to be alone.

But the world didn’t stop for his emotional turmoil. The rent needed to be paid, now especially since there was no longer a friend who would have a place on their sofa for Hob to sleep on. And Hob really needed to keep a roof over his head. 

He was terrified of ending back on the street. He did it once, and it was the worst time of his life. Just a nightmare of pain, suffering, anger, blood, and a desperate fight for survival. He knew getting back up once you were so far down was almost impossible. He couldn’t let it get this far. Not if there was something he could do. Even if it means he had to let go of his pride.

The first time wasn’t planed. Was just walking, trying to clear his head and finding a way out. The window was open, everything else dark, and no car in the driveway. He knew it was wrong, he should be better than this. 

He climbed the fence and slipped through the window, heart beating fast as he listened for any sign of life inside the house. Nothing. Sneaking around, he grabbed anything of value. 

Ten minutes later he was out, pockets heavy, and on his way to the pawnshop. It was not enough to pay the rent but enough to satisfy his landlord getting another week before he would be kicked out. 

It made him think about how easy it had been. And how little effort had taken to get the money. And it was not as if he hadn’t tried other options. It was them, society, not giving him a choice. If they had just given him a job, he wouldn’t be in this position. It was their fault, not his. 

And it was not as if he had hurt anyone. A few valuables were gone. And? They could replace it, their house had been nice enough they could afford a small loss like that.

Yes. It was the least all of them deserved for letting him down like this. He would just take what he needed to survive. And it was only temporary until he was back on his feet. They all thought he was a murderer, a bit of stealing was nothing in comparison.

It became a routine, going on nightly strolls and returning with his pocket full. He was good at it. Always knew when someone was home or not, avoided being seen when he made his way inside, and didn’t spend a second longer inside than he had to.

No one had to know what Hob did. Well except, the pawnshop owner, but he didn’t say anything and just gave Hob a price much under the actual value of the items. Hob was fine with that. Paying hush money was better than being ratted out to the police. Especially since the police so far had no idea he even existed. There was always breaking and entering, and he chose his targets so far apart there was no connection. The cops had better things to do than chasing a criminal that didn’t cause real harm. And Hob liked things that way. He had managed to avoid prison once, he didn’t want to risk it, especially since this time there would be no Edward bailing him out.

His rent was paid, he had food in his belly and a new coat. Life was good. Or it should be. There was still the guilt nagging at him that all of this wasn’t his. That he had stolen it and it was wrong. But with every failed attempt to find another source of income, he fell deeper into his ways. It was just too easy. Until weeks passed by without him searching for a legitimate job. 

~1989~

He started hating the man he was becoming. Or rather, he was returning to. He had thought he had become better, had changed. But now he was back at square one. Just a lowlife surviving by harming others. He didn’t want to be like this.

But there was still hope. One last chance to turn things around. Hob may not have the best moral compass – if he had any at all- but his stranger always knew right from wrong. Even before society or law. It had taken him to tell Hob for Hob to realize slavery was wrong. Today it was unthinkable, but back then it has just been how things were. And even then his stranger had known it was wrong. Hob just had to tell him, and his stranger would set him right and correct Hob’s course for the next 100 years.

Yes, all Hob had to do was meet his friend and things would be okay. So he drove to the White Horse in a car he had stolen, full of excitement in the prospect of the weight leaving his chest. He would do better, become good. To get his stranger approval.

But the longer he sat there, alone, the worse he felt. It looked like this was his stranger's answer. They were never and never would be friends. Hob was alone, on his own. There was no one who cared. No one who had any expectations, everyone had given up on him. Why should he even try? If there was no one to judge him, why not make things easy for himself?

Things escalate from there, as there is nothing holding Hob back. So what if the houses he breaks into now are not from some rich fucks but middle class as well? They had shunned him just as well. And their security was a lot laxer. Also, less to steal, but it was enough. And then there was someone home, but the house was way too good to pass up on. But it was okay, he would just be quiet. 

A good plan if not for the man of the house stepping out of his bed to get a glass of water just as Hob was clearing out their silver drawer. They looked at each other frozen, and Hob was glad for the hat and the scarf hiding most of his face. 

Before the other could too much than let out a shocked shout, Hob had jumped over the counter and tackled him to the ground, choking him until he lost conscious. When the wife appeared in the doorway, he was prepared, knocking her unconscious.

He used things found around the house to bind them to two chairs and gag them, before taking his time emptying their whole house. They would call the police anyway, Hob could at least make it worth it. And worth it, it was. He left the pawnshop with a big bundle of cash.

And if he spotted some rich folks taking a shortcut through a dark allay, well then it was their own fault, since they had begged for it. You couldn’t blame Hob for standing there with a knife demanding their valuables in a sick play on the situation that had started this whole thing. But other than his attackers back then, he was just after the money. Once he had what he wanted, he let his victims go unharmed. 

He didn’t kill. That was a line he would never cross again. And if he had to attack someone or render them unconscious, he did it with causing as little harm as possible. It was something which baffled the police and press alike, as they couldn’t decide if he was a monster or a gentleman thief. It was kinda amusing reading about people losing their mind trying to figure him out. Especially since it was that easy. He was just someone no longer following societies rules and just living by his own codex, doing whatever he pleased.

Even if this codex was completely screwed. Like right now, still blood on his knuckles from having to knock someone out who resisted, but being offended by a bunch of teens ganging up on a gangly little thing. It just strokes him wrong, seeing something like this. 

But it is not his problem. There is no need to get involved.

Or at least it wasn’t until the boy rose his head and looked straight at Hob. Dark brown eyes, with hair of the same color. But that was not what stopped Hob in his tracks. He looked just like Robyn. Well, not exactly, it was more the vibes he was giving up. But Hob couldn’t stop seeing his son laying there on the ground beaten and bloody, his tormentors surrounding him.

He moved before he really thought about it. 

His fist connected with the nose of the guy to the left. The bone crunched under the impact and the guy stumbled back, shouting in pain. That got the attention of the rest of his group, who instantly stepped in to avenge their friend. With no option to back out of this anymore, Hob just went with the flow and beat everyone getting into punching distance. They had the numbers, but they were untrained and rather stood in each other's way than taken advantage and overpowering Hob. Which leads to Hob standing between fallen bodies, breathing heavy and blood on his shirt but mostly unharmed beside a few bruises. 

Walking over to the fallen boy, he saw him flinch. Hob hadn’t meant to scare him, although the display of violence must have been frightening. But he didn’t feel comfortable leaving him sitting on the ground with unknown injuries, especially since his attackers would get up soon. 

He wanted to gain the boy's trust, but Hob had forgotten how to be comforting and soft. Hadn’t had need for it in years. Even for Edward, he had not managed to bring back that part of himself. Which was just as well because Edward liked his brash and direct way.

But now he tried, crouching down, holding out his hands and speaking softly. “It's okay. I took care of them,” well, he tried. He failed miserably, sounding more threatening than reassuring, but he had tried. How had he managed to deal with Robyn without frightening the child? He couldn’t remember. And wasn’t that sad? Not remembering this everyday life with his son, only holding some special memories close to his heart while the rest faded?

Knowing that his presence would only distress the boy more, he got up and turned to leave. He would just call the police to check things out, once he was far enough away. Only there was a tug on his pant leg and turning he saw the boy grasping the fabric with shaking fingers. The big teary eyes looking up at Hob broke his heart, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down again and pulling the boy into his arms. Crying and wailing filled the alley, but the boy clung to Hob desperately. 

Carrying him into his arm and towards Hob’s apartment, reminded Hob of the times Robyn had been unable to sleep and Hob had walked through the whole house with the child in his arm to keep him calm, while Elenore watched them with a smile. He had forgotten it until his actions pulled the memory back up.

Entering his building, he sat the boy on his sofa and retrieved his extensive med-kit. Being unable to die meant treating injuries yourself that would bring up questions, going to the hospital. He didn’t need much of it to treat the boy. The injuries had looked worse than they actually were. A bloody nose, bruising, scratched hands and knees, a gash close to his hairline that luckily didn’t need stitches, and a cracked wrist. 

Once the task was done, Hob looked at the boy awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

“You want tea?” You could never go wrong with tea. The boy nodded and Hob set to work, returning with two mugs of tea.

“Thank you,” the voice was shy and soft. But at least the shaking had stopped as the kid started to relax.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hob meant it. Neither the tea nor stepping in had been much trouble, and Hob had done it for his own piece of mind. There was no need t thank him.

Hob swirled the tea in his mug, not knowing what to say. Should he give the kid money for a taxi? Take him home? Offer him the sofa for tonight? Hob didn’t know. 

Luckily for him, the boy was not as incapable of social interaction as he was.

“My name is Georgie Baldwin. What about you.”

“Hob,” he didn’t give a last name. The less the boy knew, the better it was for him with the life Hob lived.

“Thank you for saving me, Hob,” the boy put down his empty mug, hugged Hob and then left the apartment before Hob could compose himself. He looked at the closed door not understanding what exactly had happened, but then he just shrugged. Another weird day in his weird life. No need to think deeper about it. It was not as if hew would see the boy ever again.

After cleaning up the medical equipment, he laid in bed, unable to sleep. 

The encounter had brought up memories of a happier time. It made him realize just how lonely he felt. There was a gnawing emptiness in his chest, where his heart once was. He wanted someone to be there for him, to greet him when he got home, to care if he made it home. He didn’t want t be alone anymore. But every time he tried he messed up and ended up back alone. It was better to not try, and be disappointed rather than to suffer.

But knowing that didn’t fill the emptiness in his chest and no matter how much he tried he didn’t find any rest. Which left him cranky and short temperate when he stomped to the door, mug with extra strong coffee in hand, to tell whoever was on the other side to fuck off. Throwing the door open, he came face to face with the kid from yesterday.

The door banged close, as Hob didn’t have the patience to deal with whatever bullshit this was. Instead, he took a big swing of his coffee, cursed as it burned his tongue, and debated if a nice fluffy omelet was worth the effort of actually making it. 

His doorbell chimed again.

Hadn’t he been clear enough in his dismissal? But no, when he opened the door, the boy was still standing there smiling at him. What a prick. But not stupid, as he held out a bag that smelled heavenly of backed goods as bribery. 

With his stomach grumbling, Hob admitted defeat and took the bag, leaving the door open as he stepped inside. The boy had already been here, it wouldn’t do any harm to let him in. But Hob was not in the mood to play good host right now and didn’t offer any tea or coffee. Ripping open the bag, he found muffins and chocolate croissants. All things considered, it was a good bribe.

Humming happily, he dug in as the boy sat down watching him carefully. 

“So what so you want kid?” 

“It’s Georgie,” the way the kid pouted was kinda cute. He must have old ladies want to feed him all over town. “I want you to teach me how to fight.” Hob choked on the bit of croissant. He couldn’t say if it was his immortality or Georgie slapping his back that prevented him from entering the sunless lands. Whipping tears out of his eyes, he looked at the kid as if he had lost his mind.

“Are you completely crazy? Why would you ask me?”

 “The way you fought was amazing. Please, I want to be able to do it too.”

“Hard pass. Why the heck should I teach a brat?”

“I can pay you,” the kid dove for his pocket and placed a stack of bills on the table. It was no small amount. So, a rich brat. Well, it was not as Hob really needed money with how well his business was going. And he would rather not involve the kid by accident. If he went down for his actions it was one thing but dragging a kid down with him was completely different. And if he gave in now, he just knew the kid would one day rob houses side by side with him.

“Pass. Go home kid. You are young and have a bright life ahead of you. There is no need to get involved with the likes of me.”

“But what if they come back?! I need to be able to defend myself,” Hob just groaned as this was just playing unfair. Especially since it was a fair point. The bullies had found him once, and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t do worse when Hob was not close by to step in. It was just unfair. Hob was not responsible for the kid, could barely remember his name. But he had made it his responsibility when he stepped in. The least he could do was see things through now.

“Okay fine. I will teach you self-defense. Nothing more. And you will stay out of my business.”

“Deal,” the kid smiled brightly as he held out his hand for Hob to shake. Knowing that one day he would regret this Hob took the offered hand.

[nualaofthefaerie]

i would love to hear more of your thoughts and headcanons for ImmortalSandFlower 🙏🏼💞 absolutely adore how much you love Nuala :)

OMG HIIIII!

What a wonderful thing to ask me about. Since I am 100% back with the Sandman I actually have so many thoughts ISF thoughts that have been plaguing me so this is a wonderful opportunity to let them all out.

I've been especially thinking about ISF in the context of Dream's death. I think Nuala and Hob really bond over that. They are both immortal beings who live in the Waking World at the end of the story, so my headcanon is that Nuala accidentally moved in across his apartment and they meet by bumping into one another on the elevator. I don't know, it was always such a sweet image. And so they live door across door for years upon years and every year on the day of Morpheus' death they both carry bouquets of flowers and of course, as I said they are neighbours so they ask the other if they are for a passed parent or something and they both say "lover". And so they spend like an evening together and quickly realise they are mourning the same being. So when Hob reveals he is immortal, Nuala feels comfortable enough to show her ears. And from then on out they are inseparable. So, they build a small memorial for him close to the Inn and visit it every year. There is this stunning art that really looks like them in my head that I will gently link up here. They are a very gentle pairing and very cosy. (Although it must be noted, I REALLY ship Hob and Cluracan as well).

As for exclusively ISF headcanons:

Morpheus is the kind of a boyfriend whose hobbies are his partners, whenever he doesn't really have much to do he becomes a shadow to Nuala and Hob, who usually have their hands full with something. Nuala, after all, works in the Dreaming and Hob works as a teacher, so it's kind of whether he will be asked very nicely to help fold laundry or will be given some moral dilemma to ponder while Hob grades papers.

Nuala's love language is acts of service so the boys' rooms are always clean and aired out and there are flowers in the vases. My girl knows how to make a room a home.

Hob's love language is words of affirmation so they definitely clash there cause neither Nuala nor Morpheus are very good at hearing nice things about themselves, but Robert is a yapper so stop him if you can.

Dream's love language is...in development. Guys, he literally just learned to give a fuck, give him a minute. He's trying. Currently, he is in the stage of realising gifts are not enough to demonstrate affection.

Another headcanon, Hob and Nuala sing together a lot and force Morpheus into mundane activities that he doesn't understand the point of but to them it is fun.

Nuala takes the boys gardening whether in the Dreaming or in the Waking world is irrelevant, soil will be dug.

They are very Sun, Moon, Eclipse coded and their behaviours reflect that.

ALSO Robert definitely introduced the concept of movies to them and both Nuala and Morpheus find it a bit strange.

[noooooooop-e]

~My Songbird~

Chapter 4

As punishment for cheating in the games, Ana was forced to move to a random district.  She was told she would have to train as a peacekeeper if she ever wanted to be welcomed back to the capitol, however, she knew she could never go back to that life.  Regardless, she still had to leave.  She had bribed her way into being sent to District 12, hoping to find her song bird.

As she waited for the train to start, she anxiously started to play with her fingers.  She was excited and nervous at the same time.  She was broken out of her thoughts when someone called her name.

"Senjanus?!"  Ana's jaw dropped.  The man just chuckled in response.

"Yeah so as it turns out, the capitol doesn't love when you sneak into the arena to say goodbye to a friend, or when you throw chairs".  Ana giggled in response. 

"Well it's nice to have a familiar face with me on the journey", she smiled.

It was a long ride, to say the least.  Ana was grateful that she had Senjanus to talk to.  Their conversations made the trip much more bearable.

As time went on, Ana had fallen asleep.  She only had woken up when she heard the sounds of screeching.

The train had finally come to a stop.

Instantly, her face lit up.  She rose to her feet and quickly grabbed her duffle bag, grinning as she eagerly ran off the train.   She waited for Senjanus to catch up before they started to ask around for directions.  She also made sure to ask about any known information about Lucy Gray.

A couple hours went by, and Ana had found herself going in circles, finding that there was nothing truly helpful in finding Lucy.

That was until she heard someone singing.  The voice was unfamiliar, however the melody she had heard before. 

She turned around and her eyes lit up.  'That must be The Covey'.  She thought to herself.

She slowly walked up to the performers, who stopped in their tracks when they saw the woman.

They recognized the girl from the big screen at the reaping.  "Oh my!  You must be Ana!", a tall woman exclaimed, setting down her bass.  "I'm Barb Azure, Lucy Grays cousin.  Oh she's going to be so excited to see you!"

Ana gave her a wide smile as she was surrounded in a firm hug.  "Oh but it must be a surprise!  She's performing tonite' at the hob.  You should surprise her there!"

The blonde chuckled in response.  "Of course!  I'll need some directions though, I've been a lost cause all day", she explained.

A young girl ran up to her, suffocating her in a hug.  "Oh!  Lucy wouldn't stop talking about you!  I swear every day it's always "Ana this~ Ana that~ finally we can get some quiet now that you're here", she joked.  Barb rose a brow at her.

The girl looked at her, confused, before her eyes widened.  "Oh yeah!  How rude of me, forgot to introduce m'self.  I'm Maude Ivory!", she declared, holding her hand out theatrically for Ana to shake.

Ana smiled in response, introducing herself in return.  "Well, I should get going, gotta bring my A game if i'm going to be surprising her!"

Just as Ana was about to leave, Barb immediately cut her off.  "Wait a minute now!  Where are you staying?"

Ana stopped dead in her tracks.  'Oh shit, how did i not plan this out', she thought to herself.  She chuckled nervously.

"Right! Uh that's actually a great question!  I'm sure there is like an inn somewhere!"

Barb just gawked at her in response.

"This is district 12.  The closest thing we got to an inn would be under the broken down bridge.  You can stay with us.  The Covey would love to have you!  Lucy's out and about anyways!  She's performing at the elementary school."

Ana placed her hand on her heart, her eyes lighting up.  "Really?  I don't want to be a bother!". Barb nodded enthusiastically, assuring her that it would be in everyone's best interest.

Hesitantly, Ana accepted, albeit a bit nervous as she happens to be a people pleaser.  She thinks she's intruding on their personal lives.

Little does she know, The Covey is all about chosen family.

Five pm had finally come around, and Ana found herself getting ready in Barb's room.  Maude was helping her fix her hair while the older cousin picked out an outfit for her.

"Aw you look precious!  I can't wait till Lucy sees you!" Barb gushed.

Ana smiled as they began to walk over to the hob, her expression widening as Maude linked her arm around her own.  "You're pretty!  I'm so happy you and Lucy found each other."

"Aww, thank you!  I'm very happy too.  And it's even better knowing she has such an amazing family!"  She thanked Barb Azure as she held the door open for her.

She sat near the front, awaiting the performance.

Her breath hitched as Lucy Gray herself slowly made her way to the stage.  She did an elegant little twirl as she strode in effortlessly.  She took someone's flask and took a long lasting sip before setting it down.

It was around then when she started to play the familiar chords of "Nothing You Can Take From Me".  The song that originally brought her into the capitols heart.

As she continued singing, she locked eyes with Ana.  They widened and she paused for a moment, unable to comprehend the sight in front of her.   A shocked expression quickly turned into an ecstatic one as she resumed her song, not breaking eye contact once.

As the last notes of the song played, the hob erupted in applause, with Ana rising to her feet to join in the standing ovation.  Her head turned to the right as she saw a sprinting Lucy Gray make her way to the girl.

She yelped before giggling as Lucy practically jumped into her arms.

"Oh my god!  What are you doing here?!" Lucy asked, her voice shaking with shock and pure happiness. 

Before responding, Ana eagerly connected their lips, earning a sigh.  Once they released, Lucy buried her head in the crook of Ana's neck.  She shut her eyes as happy tears fell.

Ana smiled affectionately, her hold of the girl not faltering.  "I was sent away for cheating.  They said i'd have to train as a peacekeeper if i ever wanted to go back which- fuck that.  I'll stay here forever then.  Had to bribe the lady into letting me go here", she rushed out. 

Lucy let her drop her back to her feet, her arms still around her neck as she rose to her tips.  She rested their foreheads together.

"All that... for me?" She asked, surprised.  She hugged the woman, now full on crying.  She had missed her so much, and the fact that Ana risked her life and her status for her meant everything.

"Of course, my love.  I want to be with you.  And now we are finally free to be together.  I want to spend my life with you, I don't care where that life is, as long as it's with you".  Ana had to blink away a few of her own tears while saying this. 

"Oh~ I love you so much," Lucy cried.  "I never want to be separated from you again."

Ana placed her hands around the girls waist, smiling down at her.  "And we never will be.  I love you too.  We will never have to leave each other.  I'll always find my way back to you". 

Lucy grinned back up at her.  "And I to you," she whispered before connecting their lips again.

@womenrhot889801 is my main, got hacked. If you want to read the first chapters go to this account please, i’ll probably republish them in the future.

[gabessquishytum]

I wanted to write a little something more detailed based on this lovely ask, so I did - I'm afraid it's not very much, ironically because I'm very much struggling with my own Hypermobility at the moment! But I hope it'll bring joy, nonetheless <3

Love is Stored in the K-Tape

(550 words, rated M, no major warnings apply)

“You know, darling, it wouldn't hurt you to buy k-tape in a colour other than black.” Hob muses – measuring up the tape against Dream’s ankle and then cutting the strip. Dream huffs, and kicks his foot very lightly against Hob’s hand.

“Because the supposed flesh colour is so close to the colour of my skin.” Dream's tone practically drips with sarcasm. And all Hob can think is – he's adorable. Beautiful. An absolute brat.

“Well yes, it would look more like orange against your skin. But the blue would match your eyes so beautifully!” Hob picks up the last strip of tape and peels the back part away. He holds Dream’s ankle, taking care that the joint is comfortable, and applies the tape to the velvety pale skin. A quick kiss to the joint seals the process. “There we are, love. Is that alright? Not itching or creasing too much?”

Dream rotates his foot and gives a regal nod in response. Both of his ankles are taped, as is the outside of each foot (this part is to keep his toes from popping out of place). His right knee has been decorated too. Hob runs his finger over each piece of tape, and then leans in to kiss each one too. Hearing Dream’s little hum of satisfaction after each kiss brings a smile to his face.

“Thank you.” Dream eventually murmurs, when Hob has finished the tour of his joints. He tangles his fingers up in Hob’s hair and tugs affectionately. “For all that you do for me.”

Hob crawls up the length of Dream’s body to kiss him properly on the mouth before replying. “I can promise you that there's literally nothing else in the world that I'd rather be doing.”

“Even so…” Now Dream is blushing, just a little bit. It makes him look delightfilly radiant. He nudges his nose against Hob’s cheek. “Perhaps. I am becoming spoiled.”

“And perhaps. Spoiled is exactly how I want you.” Hob is half teasing, copying Dream’s intonation and the seriousness in his voice. But really Hob is the one who is quite serious, at least about this. He likes Dream to have expectations and demands of their relationship. It makes him feel like he's doing something right.

Dream only says “hmph.” And goes right back to pulling Hob’s hair. Hob has never been more enamoured with anything. He may be, he is willing to acknowledge, a tiny bit obsessed with Dream. This is what he wants: to be allowed to care for his lover and to make sure that he can enjoy sex without pain. It doesn't seem like too much to ask for. 

“Darling.” Hob nuzzles into Dream's oh-so-soft neck, licks the flutter of his pulse, and fails to stop himself from smiling. “Do you think that I could make love to you, now?”

Another one of those beloved regal nods. Dream’s hand slides down from Hob’s hair to the pelt on his chest, and he tugs on that instead. “I will be most disappointed if you do not, after all that effort.”

Hob has no intention of disappointing Dream ever, let alone this evening. And so he sets the tape and scissors carefully aside, to devote every ounce of energy and attention to his unique and utterly perfect Dream.

[wandafiction]

Pet Names - Just Us Chapter 47

Warnings: Slightly Suggestive Themes but Mostly Fluff

Word Count: 2687

Series List | Chapter 46 | Chapter 48

================================

I stirred from my sleep to the sound of movement outside of the door and light whispering, looking to my right I see the bedside clock read 7.00am, the boys must just be getting up. I reach over to turn the alarm off so it won't go off in a few minutes time, and wiggle my way out from beneath Wanda putting a pillow in my place so she doesn't wake up. I make my way towards the door stopping my movements when I hear Wanda moving about, looking over my shoulder I see her wrapping her arms around the pillow and pulling it closer to her body. I open the door slowly, trying to stop it from creaking, stepping out of the room before shutting it again. 

I make my way into the kitchen and am met by two very tired looking teenage boys, I smile at the site as I put a pot of coffee on. I grab a pan from the cupboard, placing it on the hob, also grabbing out the pancake mix and holding it up in silent question to the boys. They nod their heads at me, taking a seat at the table while they wait for me to cook them breakfast. I try to be as quiet as I can when moving around the kitchen, so as to not wake Wanda. Once I've started heating up the pancake mix I put it on a low heat so I can make some drinks without burning the apartment down.

"What would you boys like to drink?" I ask as I pour myself a black coffee knowing I'm going to need to be awake today.

"I will just have orange juice please Y/n." Tommy asks, lifting his head to look up at me instead of his phone.

"Same for me please." Billy continues to surf through his phone as I pour them out a glass each and place them on the coasters in front of them, receiving a thank you from boys. 

I head back to check on the pancake, not showing off, I flip it normally to see it is the perfect amount of cooked on that one side, so I put it back on the hob so the other side can cook too. We love an evenly cooked pancake. Once I hear it sizzling a bit, I flip it back over to check if it's cooked and when I decide it is, I transfer the pancake to a plate and put more pancake mix in the pan. I grab the plate, taking it to the table, placing it in front of Billy who immediately shuts off his phone and looks up at me with a smile.

"Thank you Y/n." 

"No problem Billy. Do you want any syrups or sauces, or just anything else with it?" Not knowing how he likes his pancakes like I know how Wanda likes them.

"Just plain syrup for me please." 

I nod, making my way back into the kitchen flipping over the pancake in the pan before grabbing the syrup from the cupboard and moving to place it on the table. I grab my coffee and put it on one of the coasters for where I am going to sit, heading back into the kitchen to plate up Tommy's pancake for him.

"Anything else you want with it?"

"I'm good with just syrup. Thank you, this smells delicious."

"No problem. You two eat up, and just leave the dishes in the sink. I will do them once I've finished eating." I head back into the kitchen to make my own pancake, while the boys eat theirs. There is enough pancake mix to make Wanda one when she wakes up, so I cover it over to make sure nothing can get in it. As I'm flipping my pancake over Billy enters the kitchen putting his dishes in the sink, turning to look at me.

"Thank you for the pancake Y/n, it was really good." 

"It's no problem at all Billy." He makes his way out of the kitchen and down the hallway to get himself ready for school.

By the time I have made my pancake Tommy has finished his food, but stays sat at the table as he waits for me to join. I sit down taking a sip of my coffee enjoying the strong taste of it this early in the morning. I notice Tommy slowly sipping at his orange juice, as I start to eat so before I take a bite I turn to look at him.

"You don't have to wait for me to finish eating to leave the table if you want to go get yourself ready, I don't mind eating alone." 

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure go get yourself ready, you have about half an hour before Gabe comes to collect you."

"Thank you for the breakfast, and the drink Y/n. I hope you stay around more often. This is nice."

"I have to agree with you there. But don't you dare do the dishes, go get ready and relax a little before you have to go to school." He nods as he stands from the table, dumping his stuff in the sink as he passes through the kitchen and I watch as he walks down the hallway. 

I eat my pancakes in silence enjoying the tranquility of the morning and the peacefulness around me, making sure that once I've finished I wash and dry the dishes. As I am putting away the last plate the twins reappear with their bags on their backs, placing them on the floor as they grab a tupperware box each from the cupboard. They sift around the kitchen making their own lunches. Billy opts for a plain ham and cheese sandwich, salt and vinegar chips, a bar of chocolate and an apple. Tommy goes for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ready salted chips, a bar of chocolate and a banana. They also both grab some strawberries, putting them in a small box each before putting it all in their bags. I look at the time and realise they will be going soon.

"Do you want to go see if your mom is awake to say goodbye?" Both boys walk back down the hallway, I hear Wanda's bedroom door opening after they knock. I can hear a small groan from the sleeping woman but as the boys say they are off to school she seems to find energy from nowhere.

"Oh gosh. I didn't realise the time. Did you have breakfast? Have you packed your lunch?" I hear her voice travel out of the room as the boys laugh a little.

"Yes mama. Y/n made us breakfast, and we packed our own lunch. Don't worry we have fruit in there somewhere." Wanda let's out a sigh as she says bye to the boys. They make their way back into the kitchen where Tommy hugs me bye while Billy simply waves, as they grab their bags and head out the door of the apartment. 

"Baby." Wanda's voice calls out to me as soon as she hears the door closed, so I make my way to her door and lean against the doorway.

"Yes princess?" 

"Cuddle?" She moves her hands above the sheets and makes grabby hands towards me, I roll my eyes but happily oblige as I make my way towards her. 

Her arms open up wider as I get closer and I open mine up too. I fall towards her and she squeaks, closing her eyes and turning her head fully prepared for me to land on top of her, but I catch myself by placing my hands next to her head. She opens up her right eye to look up at me, when she sees me smiling down at her she turns her head and opens her other eye a smile growing on her face.

"Hi baby." Her voice is quiet as she whispers between us.

"Hi princess." I reply in the same tone. I let my arms slip to either side of her body colliding gently with Wanda's and her arms immediately wrap around my torso. My legs are dangling off the bed, my head in the crook of her and I can feel her lips against my left temple leaving small kisses. I turn my head in time with her kisses so our lips connect, in a slow kiss our lips dancing together for a few seconds.

"Mmm, you taste like pancakes." I smile at her and kiss her again and she hums against my lips, before I pull away and she gives me that fuzzy look that I absolutely love to see.

"Well I did make pancakes for me and the boys, there is enough mix left for you to have one." I peck her nose making it scrunch. "So my beautiful princess. Would you like pancakes and coffee?" 

"Mhmm, yes please." She replies but makes no move to let go of me and I raise my eyebrows at her, her face the picture of innocence.

"You're going to have to let me go if you want pancakes?" 

"No I don't." She holds me tighter and I huff out a laugh.

"I think you do."

"Nope. Carry me...please?" Her big doe eyes searching mine.

"Of course. Anything for you princess."

Wanda finally let's go of me, shuffling to the edge of the bed as I stand up her arms up in the air as she makes grabby hands once again. I roll my eyes as I bend down to her height wrapping my arms around her body as hers wrap around my neck and her legs around my waist. I hoist us both up, making my way out of the room and into the kitchen. Once I'm in the kitchen I place her on the counter, getting out of her grip as her arms flail to try and stop me; a pout forming on her lips. I simply turn around so my back is facing her, backing up till I hit the counter and pull her arms around my neck and shoulders so her hands are resting on my chest. She gets the message and wraps her arms around my waist, placing her chin on my shoulder as I give her a piggyback ride around the kitchen.

She stays on my back the whole time I am making her coffee and pancake, every now and again leaving a small kiss on my neck, shoulders or side of my face. Everytime I smile and turn my head to kiss her cheek as it's as far as I can reach without her moving or leaning forward. I decide it's probably not the best to do my pancake flip trick with her on my back, so flip it normally like I did for the other pancakes and hear a disappointed groan from Wanda.

"You really wanted me to try and flip that pancake with you on my back." She simply shrugs her shoulders and plants another kiss on the side of my face. "You okay back there Cuddle bug?" I feel Wanda smile against the skin on my neck.

"Cuddle bug? That's new." I hum in response as I place the pan back on the heat to continue cooking the pancake. 

"Well that's what you are isn't it? My little Cuddle bug." Wanda's arms and legs squeeze me gently, as she nods against my neck. 

"I like it. Just didn't think I would hear any other pet name other than princess, not that I mind princess." She takes a moment  to herself before continuing. "Is there a reason you don't really like using pet names?" 

I take a moment to think, which Wanda allows as my brain goes through the few relationships I have had. Wanda is princess and now Cuddle bug. Steph was always just Steph because her full name was Stephanie so Steph is a pet name in itself….Well not really but I don't care that's what I called her. Then I think of Sarah and how I used to call her so many different pet names, and our daughter had a few pet names of her own.

"I think maybe because I used to call Sarah so many different ones that I struggled to think of anything that didn't relate back to her." Wanda kisses my shoulder letting me continue. "But I don't think I ever used Princess or Cuddle bug for her, so you get the honour of being the person I use them on."

"Well I'm honoured. What sort of pet names should I not call you? I mean what did Sarah call you? You know so I know to avoid saying them." I shrug my shoulders not being able to think of any.

"She didn't really. Sarah was a very straightforward type of girl, everything was black or white for her no two ways about anything. I think she would call me honey every now and again, but not enough times for me to class it as a pet name. I never really found it odd; it was just normal for us. So you can call me whatever you want to, it shouldn't affect me." 

I plate up Wanda's pancake, pour her and I a cup of coffee this time adding milk to mine and grab the plate in one hand and the two mugs in my other. I place them down on the table, crouching down till I feel Wanda's bum land on the chair stopping me from moving further. She unwraps her arms and legs, settling in her chair more and I sit in the chair next to her but angle it so I am directly facing her as I am not eating, just drinking. Wanda hums in approval at the first bite of pancake she takes.

"Delicious as always, baby." A smile into my coffee as my eyes look at her above the rim of the mug.

"I try my best." I take a sip of my coffee. "So what do you want to do after this?" 

"I can think of a few things." She bites her bottom lip, before eating another bite of her pancake.

"Oh yeah?" I raise a single eyebrow at her. "What do you have in mind bug?"

"Me, you and the bed." 

"Very forward. I like a woman who knows what she wants." 

"Good thing you love me then."

"I guess it is." Wanda opens her mouth to speak again but decides against it, going all shy on me as she stuffs another bit of pancake in her mouth as a small blush grows on her cheeks. "What's got you all shy bug?" 

"I'm really liking the new name and it's, uh, nothing, don't worry." She quickly takes another bite of her food.

"Princess, you have nothing to be shy about, you know that. So what is it you want to ask?" I sit patiently as she thinks it over.

"I want to try something." I wave for her to go on. "In the bedroom."

"What sort of thing princess?" Her blush grows even more. "I'm open to try new things, you just have to let me know what it is." 

"Could you maybe, uh, tie me up?" 

"Just your hands, or your hands and legs?" 

"Just my hands for now."

"Of course we can try that, but you promise to let me know if at any point you are uncomfortable." She nods her head.

"I promise."

"Okay. Well finish your food, and we can watch some TV so that we don't start when you've only just eaten. Have you got anything that I can use on your hands?" 

"I have a scarf or maybe one of the belts from my draws, I don't really have any handcuffs." 

"Well we can start with the scarf, so it doesn't hurt you at all and then go from there. Is that okay with you?"

"That's okay with me. Thank you baby for always listening and caring."

"Always. I have to look after my little Cuddle bug."

================================

[alteon77]

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children): Chapter 2

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life will be practically perfect.)

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

In the year 1689, Hob Gadling stumbles into the Tavern of the White Horse dressed in little more than disgusting rags. It doesn't shock him that almost immediately he finds himself having an altercation with the guard they'd placed at the door precisely to keep Hob's type out. But what does shock him is that it's his stranger who intervenes, a passionate fury told on his finely chiseled face that Hob is honestly too tired (and hungry) to overly examine much at the moment. 

"This man is my guest," his stranger says, an authority in his voice that Hob, even in his current state of starvation, guesses is nice enough. With the strange reversal of fortune that Hob's spent the past few decades dealing with, it's reassuring to have someone, anyone, stick up for him. Even if that someone is the enigmatic devil who'd both blessed and cursed Hob with eternal life. 

When he collapses into a chair across from his host for the evening, Hob digs into the bread, consuming it so quickly that he has to remind himself to chew, to breathe as his stomach cramps with its desire to have food in it. And his stranger, usually a bit… well, prudish, only sits back and listens as Hob speaks of his woes, seemingly uncaring of Hob's lack of manners or the solid finger-breadth thick layer of filth covering him. 

Of course, his stranger remains as aloof as he's always been. The cut of his clothing is finely done, making both him and Hob appear as if they're sitting on exact opposite sides of the table in more ways than one given the tattered remnants of Hob's own rags as they hang loose about his body. Though he is also patient this night, speaking pleasantly and pityingly despite that their conversation mainly consists of Hob mumbling things at him around a mouth full of food.

As the meal concludes, Hob is almost… ashamed of the way he doesn't want to leave his stranger's presence. In the years of stormy, utterly bleak upheaval that Hob has known recently, Dream is a bit like a lighthouse on a distant shore, the brightness of him cutting through all the gloom so that Hob is nearly afraid to venture out alone into the gale force winds and darkness of his life now. 

But he does so anyway. 

This is, after all, their arrangement. They meet once every hundred years. No more. No less. 

So Hob stumbles from the tavern, drowsy from his full belly, and finds an alley in which to promptly pass out. For the first time in years, he sleeps deeply. Astoundingly deeply, he'd say. Or he would say, he supposes, were he not practically unconscious and all. In his dreams, he finds himself on a path, its way dotted on each side with large, sprawling trees whose branches hang low with apples, shiny and red and perfect. He plucks one for himself, and despite that he knows he's still full, that he's just gorged himself on a rather large quantity of food during his centennial meeting with his stranger, Hob can't seem to resist taking a bite. 

He moans. It's otherworldly in its perfection, juicy and firm, the taste sweet with just the smallest hint of tartness to it. He chews what's in his mouth, savoring every last masticated piece of it before he swallows. 

When he wakes, the memory of his dream's warmth is still lingering on his skin, and for a moment, it almost feels as if the bright sunshine of that place has followed him here. It's not to last, though. Hob, as an immortal, knows all too well that that's the nature of living. Nothing is forever. 

Well, except for him, apparently. And his stranger. 

Still, the next night it rains, and the deluge that soaks him is bitterly cold. Hob finds another alley, tucking himself as far under the small overhang of a butcher's shop door as he can in some futile effort to stay dry and hopefully avoid freezing to death. It won't kill him, but the thawing of icy limbs is bloody painful, which makes him… reticent to experience such a thing if he can avoid it.  

Sleep takes him again, and he's somewhat surprised to find himself back on that same path from the night before. This time, though, he's starving, and he has three apples before he ventures out from the canopy of trees into a meadow so that he can feel the sun on his skin, can let it warm him in anticipation of how chilled he's sure to be when he's pulled from his slumber to face the harsh reality of his real life. 

A week later, Hob starts thinking that something… odd is going on. His days are still miserable, but his nights are… peaceful, wondrous even, the serene calm he finds in them mending his mind and his body. He aches less. The vicious hunger pains in his belly plague him no longer, as if the apples he consumes in his dreams are sustaining him somehow. But that can't be, can it? How addle-brained has he gone that he's even considering that as a possibility?  

Nonetheless, when next he sleeps, he notices the addition of plum and orange trees. After that, there are pomegranates and pears. And then… one night there's an entire table set with a feast fit for a king. 

And Hob knows he should question this unexpected good fortune after the dismal dreariness of decades of bad luck, but he decides not to. He instead partakes of the bounties he is given and thanks whatever deity strikes his fancy for these gifts of plenty. Even though he is aware that this strange kindness is only a dream. 

PRESENT DAY...

The next night, Hob isn't surprised to find the girl waiting for him.

Aurora is in an embroidered lavender dress made of something like silk or taffeta, the iridescent skirt of it swishing just above the tops of her black boots, boots that Hob's relatively sure are just miniature versions of the ones he'd noticed his stranger wearing the day before. Her pitch black hair is plaited back, though there are a few wayward curls that have worked free and dangle in front of her face. She seems to pay them no mind, however, unbothered by the sure annoyance of them in the way that only children can ever seem to manage. 

"Hi, Mr. Hob!" Aurora greets cheerfully, offering him a brilliant smile as she reaches out to take hold of his hand, using her grasp to pull him with her as she walks. "My mommy sent me to get you."

"Your… mommy?" He doesn't quite know if it's nervousness that he's feeling at the prospect of meeting the newly discovered (to him anyway) Mrs. Stranger. Will she be like Dream? Maybe worse? Maybe more haughty and inhuman? Could she end up hating Hob for being as normal as he is? Might she even try and dissuade Dream from seeing him again?

"Yep. She said Dadda needed a playdate."

Then again, with an answer like that, Hob tells himself that he could be possibly worrying over absolutely nothing. If she's brought him here to see Dream, then obviously it's not to stop them from meeting. Or having a playdate. Which… Playdate? Hob fights his wince, because he can unfortunately imagine the scowl on Dream's face when he hears that particular descriptor applied to their every century gatherings. 

"Well, we're not really due our next get-together for about 98 years," he tells Aurora, careful to emphasize the words get-together so that she might use those in lieu of the term playdate.

"But why?" she asks, glancing up at him with more than a bit of confusion in her shimmery blue eyes, and Hob doesn't understand why exactly they're so… twinkly. He peers down at her, studying them.

"What do you mean?" is his murmured question, and he thinks that… Wait. Are those stars? Does she have literal stars shining out from her eyes?

She blinks, and it snaps him out of his scrutiny like she's just clapped in front of his face and ordered him to focus. "You and Dadda are friends."

"Yes?" He doesn't quite know where she's going with this, but she seems very determined in whatever she's getting at.

"Daniel is my friend, and I see him every we… every week for a playdate."

Oh, no no no. There's that word again. Playdate. He wonders briefly if he should just firmly instruct her not to use it. Would she heed his advice? Is that even his place?

"Your dadda," Hob begins, still not sure how he feels about that word being used in reference to his stranger. "He decided we should have a meeting every century."

"But you're friends."

"Yes. I believe so."

"Mommy said you were."

Even he's not stupid enough to argue with a child about his or her mother and what they've said. When his Robyn had been a small lad, Eleanor's words had been law to the boy, so powerful that his son often acted like they were the building blocks of reality itself. "Oh. Silly me. Then of course we are."

"I think I need to have a talk with my dadda about how he should behave with his friends, then." She sounds resigned, vaguely exasperated, as if she has to do this often with her father. And somehow, Hob thinks that if she were to have that talk, his stranger might actually… listen? It’s an odd thing to consider, this slip of a girl lecturing the unsociable (to put it mildly) Dream of the Endless on how to properly conduct a friendship. Not that Hob doesn't think his stranger couldn't use a healthy dose of lecturing on the matter, since his abilities regarding it are frankly the worst of any he's ever came across.  

"He's very nice," she goes on, and Hob has to forcibly stop himself from laughing at that. Dream? Nice? Hob decides he won't touch that one with a three hundred meter pole. Not in front of Dream's actual child anyway. When Hob gets a chance to properly speak to him, however, he might have a few things to say about his stranger's niceness. Or lack thereof. "And he really tries to always be good, but he… doesn't get it right sometimes."

Sometimes? Pfft. That's an understatement if he's ever heard one, the radioactive icing on a cake made of this poor, naive girl's dross.

Wisely, he doesn't say that either. Instead he asks, "Did your mother tell you that as well?"

"No. But she says that Dadda has as much emotional intell… intell…"

"Intelligence?"

"Yes! She says he has as much of that as the bottoms of my boots do." Aurora frowns like she's thinking over her words very seriously. "Is that something that shoe bottoms have lots of?"

"What? Emotional intelligence?"

"Mmm-hmm."

And Hob really doesn't know how to answer that. He feels like it would be disloyal to Dream were he to confess to this child how… clueless her father is when it comes to interacting with others. Though he wonders why it should strike him as disloyal or why he should have any sense of loyalty at all, since apparently Dream is a repressed git who couldn't even be bothered to tell Hob, his friend by his own admission, that he'd married and had a child. "Er…"

"So… no."

"I dunno, honestly," Hob lies. He refuses to allow himself any guilt about it, either, because sometimes lies are acceptable, especially when they might spare a young child's feelings. "Maybe? Maybe not? I'm not a mum, so I don't even pretend to have any of their mysterious wisdom."

"You might be right, Mr. Hob," Aurora declares after a minute. "My mommy is very smart. And funny. Though Dadda says her sense of humor is horrid."

Ha. Hob bets his stick in the mud personification of a friend understands humor about as well as Hob himself understands how thermodynamic fusion works. And he can imagine that any woman married to Dream would probably benefit from being able to laugh at just what in the hell she'd gotten herself into by wedding and bedding such a standoffish clodpole. 

But he's not going to say that either. The truth is that he's… upset with Dream currently, and he'd rather save all of his anger for when they finally get to have their one on one playdate. He shakes his head, like by doing so he can shake that term from his mind. Not playdate. Meeting. Gathering. Encounter. Literally, he needs to refer to it as anything else besides a playdate. 

Hob tears his gaze away from Aurora, taking a moment to look around wherever they're at, a luxury he hadn't been afforded the day before since he'd been… well, running for his life and all. 

And what he sees there nearly takes his breath away.

He… He knows this place.

Trees line either side of the path they're on, their limbs stretching out over it like a canopy. Amidst the emerald green leaves, apples hang low and heavy, their heft making some of the thinner branches droop, and the scent of the fruit fills up the air, causing his mouth to water with the memory of it. 

It hasn’t changed at all in the centuries since Hob used to find refuge here.

"This is the or…orchard," Aurora supplies, reaching up on her tiptoes to snatch one of the perfect red globes in her free hand before rubbing it on her dress and handing it to him. "You can eat it. The trees are happy to have the weight of them off their arms, and I do it all the time while I'm waiting for cookies to finish baking."

The trees don't… mind? Do they speak here? Is there anything about this place or the being who runs it that's even close to ordinary? But of course not. Hob's known for a long time that his stranger isn't anything close to normal, so he supposes it makes sense that Dream's home would likely be just as outlandish as everything else about him.

"Cookies?" he questions, taking the offering from her, his stomach twisting in remembrance. "Does your dadda… make you those?"

Her eyebrows raise high on her forehead, a look of such childish incredulity on her face that Hob automatically assumes the answer to be a giant no, which is… sort of a relief. The mental image of his stranger wearing a bright pink apron and matching oven mitts while waiting impatiently for a timer to go off is one that could likely make his brain explode in sheer absurdity. 

"No, Mr. Hob. Minnie does the cookies."

"Minnie?"

She grins, standing on her tiptoes again to snatch an apple for herself. "Minnie is one of my favorites. She cooks alllll day and sometimes she even lets me help!"

Minnie… cooks. All day long, apparently. Why is he not surprised that his stranger seems to have his own chef here? His reluctance to consume any food over the centuries certainly makes more sense now. Why in the world would his stranger have eaten at The White Horse when he got to come home to a chef ready to prepare his meals however he liked. 

"Are there… other fruits here?" he questions, unsure as to whether or not he wants the answer given what it might confirm for him, but certain that he has to know regardless. 

"Yep," she supplies. "Oranges and plums and some other kinds I don't like very much."

"Pomegranates and pears, I'd imagine."

"How'd you… know that, Mr Hob?"

"A guess is all." His heart is thudding in his chest though, the realization of why he'd likely had that dream so frequently making his stomach twist in emotion. 

That awkward, aloof…. tosspot. Hob doesn't have a doubt in his mind that Dream had been aware of his escape to this place. Hell and damnation, there's even the chance that he'd started directing him here in some weird show of affection, despite that the plonker hadn't seemed to know what affection was back in those days. Stunned, he thinks over Aurora's declaration earlier that Dream was nice, that he tried to be good.

And kind of hates that she might possibly have been… Well, right.

Not that Hob is an idiot about it. He knows that his stranger isn't exactly a teddy bear or anything. His impression of Dream has always been that the otherworldly entity doesn't seem to much care about others, that the problems of humans are just… insignificant to him, probably as uninteresting as ants milling about on a picnic blanket while they march towards a basket in hopes of plunder. However, to think Dream might have done something so… considerate for Hob, no matter how clueless his stranger can be, makes him feel heavy and light all at the same time, as if he's both touched and overwhelmed by the sentiment inherent in Dream's actions. 

He hasn't the time to think very long on it, however. Aurora, seemingly energetic in a way that Hob has never seen from her father Dream, takes his hand again to lead him further into this odd world. She's quite clearly a tactile child, brushing those fingers of hers not tucked against his palm over blades of grass and flowers along the path while they walk. She hums a tune under her breath like she's talking to the flora they pass, and it's almost as if they're answering, their petals unfurling at her touch, the tightly budded blooms blossoming when she gets near. Still, for as tactile as she surely is, she's also very, very chatty, managing to pepper him with a multitude of questions even as she lavishes attention on the greenery. 

"Do you have a cat?" is her first one, given when she glances expectantly up at him. "Dadda likes cats best, I think."

"No."

"A dog? Like Archibald?" A smile lights up her face. "Does yours turn into a dragon too?"

Not bloody likely, Hob wants to say. It's not that he's a coward, per se, but more that he still has enough of a sense of self preservation to make the idea of even getting near another dragon a properly terrifying one. "No dogs either."

She scrunches her face up like she's trying to think of what other nonhuman companion Hob might have. "A… turtle?" she tries, looking dubious at her own suggestion.

"I don't have any pets, lambkin." He freezes suddenly, sorrow fogging up his mind for a moment. Lambkin. That endearment. It's what he had called his son when he was a little lad, and Hob hadn't meant to say it just then. It had been an unthinking term of affection, one that had rolled off his tongue by sheer instinct. 

When he chances a glance at Aurora, he's alarmed to see that the stars in her eyes have dimmed slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hob."

He can't help his frown. This child doesn't know that the loss of his son still hurts him, that sometimes he remembers Robyn's smiling face and his heart clenches tight in grief. "For what?"

"For making you sad," she offers quietly, and that sense of panic washes over him for only a few seconds before he finds himself feeling… warm and comforted, like someone's given his mind a hug. It's disconcerting but also… pleasant? 

Could this girl… be seeing his thoughts? It seems as if she asks far too many questions for that to be a possibility, but… Hob is well aware that Dream is capable of something similar, that he seems to know everyone. And yet he still doesn't hesitate to verbally inquire after the events of Hob's latest century whenever they speak. 

Aurora appears crestfallen, like she's worried that she's misstepped or said something she ought not have, and Hob forces himself to focus on that instead of the turbulent what if's banging about in his head. 

"You didn't make me sad," he rushes to reassure her. "I made myself sad."

"But… why?" Her expression is one of such confusion that Hob could almost laugh if he didn't fear it might hurt her feelings.

"Well, I didn't mean to. It was an accident."

"I'm still sorry you feel that way." And she seems so… genuine, so sweet in that way of innocent children, that Hob finds himself grinning at her for it.

He wants to say something funny, something charming that'll draw a giggle out of her, but they step out of the orchard then, and the sight before him is too staggering in its wonder for Hob to really concentrate on anything else. 

It's… beautiful. Magnificent. So incredibly astounding that he… he feels almost as if he cannot breathe from the sheer splendor of it, like the transcendence of it has bypassed his brain and wormed its way into his body instead. 

There's lush grass almost as far as the eye can see, a riotous multitude of fragrant, vibrant flowers dotting it. Their colors, deep crimsons and violets, oranges and yellows, are lovely, almost unreal in how crisp they are, in how heady their scents are. The entirety of the greenery ends just on the banks of a great body of water. A river, maybe? He can make out the blue of it from here, a perfect cerulean that glimmers sporadically with light when the sun's rays hit it just so, making it almost appear like it’s sparkling. 

A ship bobs gently in place, rocking to and fro where it floats. And he thinks he spots a… wooly mammoth on its deck? But that would be utterly ridiculous, right? Then again, given what he's came across already in this topsy turvy world of Dream's, Hob tells himself that on further consideration, it very likely is a wooly mammoth there that's strolling the planks, barking out orders at its helm as if it's the vessel's fluffy captain. Which, weird as this is to witness, Hob’s just grateful that it’s not another bloody dragon so near to him.

He continues his perusal, taking his fascinated gaze from the ship and its crew. Stretching over the river is a giant bridge, one of several it seems, but this one is unique in that he's pretty sure he recognizes it. Just like the Golden Bridge in Vietnam, massive sculpted hands seem to cradle the structure itself, the tips of the carved fingers resting near the railings like they're holding it aloft in midair.

But all of this, as lovely as it is, doesn't even begin to compare to the castle, his stranger's castle. And yeah, Hob's never seen such a prideful symbol of status in all his long life, so he knows that it must be where the most prideful bastard he's ever had the pleasure of meeting has to live. 

It stands tall across the water's edge, looming imposingly on what appears to be a verdant island, the shimmer in the stone it's built of causing it to look like a glittering diamond nestled atop rich green velvet. When they walk closer, Hob can make out more details in the architecture. The designs of this castle are ornate, meticulously done, and Hob is reminded of Grecian temples and Renaissance cathedrals. 

There are huge sculptures, finely wrought despite their size, and Hob takes note of a large Buddha statue flanking a giant portion of the structure's left side. The wider towers are capped with onion domes like the kind seen on Russian churches or Islamic mosques, their metal roofs gleaming in the sun, but the thinner towers have spires atop them. The overall style is Gothic, from the pointed arches to the peek of a flying buttress off to the right. In truth, however, Hob doesn't think he could pin down a main influence if he tried, except to say that opulence seems to be what his stranger had been going for. It makes sense in the grand scheme of things, given that Dream himself had told Hob that he'd existed for longer than humans had. How does a being like that relate to just one time? One place? Instead, this show of status reminds him of nothing so much as a collection, like it's just been made of all the things Dream simply… enjoys, as if he'd wandered through the market of humanity's history, snatching the bits and bobbles he found pleasing to bring them back here and cobble them all together, creating a fantastical marvel in the process.

Then again, Hob has the feeling that he could probably say that about this entire world of Dream's. 

"I assume that's yours," he drawls, finally shifting his gaze from the castle to Aurora. 

"Indeed it is, Hob Gadling."

Hob feels himself go still at the sound of his stranger speaking, and he turns back to say something, to greet him, to respond with anything more eloquent than the highly embarrassing dadda he'd uttered when last he'd addressed Dream.

Not that he really gets the chance, however, since Aurora chooses that moment to let go of his hand and make a beeline to where her father's standing. 

"Dadda!" she yells, excitement like a living thing in her tone as Dream readily sweeps her up into his arms. Aurora settles into his hold, perching on his slim hip while she leans forward to plant a kiss on his angular cheek, and the whole scene kind of…. softens him a bit in Hob's eyes. For centuries, this pale, powerful entity has been so untouchable to Hob, so unrelatable, but watching Aurora giggle and press yet another kiss to his stranger's cheekbone is almost humanizing to see. 

Hob would never actually say it aloud, but here Dream is almost like any other bloke, just some simple (albeit gloomily dressed) chap with a family of his own and a child that he obviously adores.

"Hello, my starshine. Why ever are you out here alone? Given that Archibald is confined to the palace and you need not chase him in an effort to keep him from trouble, I assumed you'd be with your mother."

"Mommy said it was okay. She said we're going to have tea today!"

Dream raises an eyebrow, blatantly studying the girl. "I see. And was this to be before or after she sent you to collect Hob Gadling?"

Now, Hob knows that Aurora was, in fact, sent to collect him, but he also knows enough to keep his mouth firmly shut about it, especially since Dream looks like he's sniffing out some plot against him like it's a truffle and he's a prized truffle hog. Furthermore, Hob has yet to meet Mrs. Stranger, and he thinks it would be a poor first introduction to bring tidings that he had been the one to tip her ornery husband off about her plan, even if he doesn't actually understand what said plan is. 

"Er… hi?" Hob offers instead, immediately fighting the urge to  groan at his apparent inability to speak plainly in Dream's presence these days. He hasn't really been nervous around his stranger since that second meeting in 1489 when he'd been afraid that he'd made a deal with a devil, and he doesn't quite comprehend why he should feel so tongue tied at present. Maybe because he's learning that he didn't know his oldest friend as well as he thought? Maybe because Dream seems so… different now that he's nearly unrecognizable? Maybe even because he's peeled back a layer of the mopey onion that is Dream's personality and found it might actually be… somewhat soft in the middle?

Dream is still a repressed wanker, granted, but Hob considers the possibility that Dream could be a kind, repressed wanker at the end of the day. And the realization of that is more than a bit shocking. 

"Greetings, Hob Gadling," his stranger says, taking a moment to spare Hob a glance. "Am I to assume my wife invited you for tea?"

"Um…" Hob trails off, wondering how in the ever loving hell he's supposed to answer that.

"No Dadda," Aurora cuts in, giggling again. Hob lets out a slow breath in relief. Twice over now he owes his savior for her rescue of him. "I invited him for tea. It was my first real invitation."

"And your mother assisted you, no doubt?"

"Nope. I wanted you to have a playdate."

Oof. She used the word, which is exactly what Hob had been fearing since he'd heard her utter it that initial time. To Hob's surprise, though, Dream doesn't correct her. Instead, he appears as if he's attempting to suss out whether or not his daughter is telling the truth. Which… she likely isn't, if Hob had to guess. 

"Aurora, are you being dishonest?"

She wilts slightly, her eyes going downcast. "No?"

Hob decides then and there that he's going to have to teach this girl the fine art of dishonesty at some point in the future, because her skills in it are sadly lacking. She is, simply put, abysmal at lying. 

"Perhaps it would be best for you to try that anew," is Dream's command, though it's gentle enough that Hob is almost proud of his stranger for it. Has having a child changed Dream that much? Has it allowed him such empathy and love that he is tempering his response to avoid shaming his daughter? 

And Hob is certain that it would indeed shame this girl to be caught. It's plain to see that this child loves her father tremendously, and she's a sweet thing, likely not given to untruths. He opens his mouth to intervene, to have the focus turned on him, only to find out rather quickly that he's not going to have to bother with doing that after all. 

"I love you, Dadda," Aurora tells Dream sweetly, and by the softening in his stranger's features, Hob can see that it's… working? What? How? Never in a million years would he have thought to witness this pouting, emotionally constipated entity felled so completely by an adorable little girl. Granted, she's an adorable little girl who seems to know how to play her father like a Stradivarius, but Hob thinks it's fair to find himself stunned by it nonetheless.

"As I do you, my starshine." Dream drops a kiss atop her head where she's snuggling against him, her tiny face buried in his neck, and they appear comfortable in this embrace, as if they cuddle like this frequently. Almost in a daze, Hob thinks that if he had his phone with him, he'd take a picture of what he's seeing. They're just so precious together that it puts a lump in his throat, one that he swallows down with great difficulty. 

Dream is apparently not as fooled by this cute distraction as Hob had assumed, though, which is evidenced by his next words. "I will, however, have the truth in this matter, daughter mine."

"Dadda, I'm tired," she murmurs. "And you're being rude to your friend. Mommy would call this a bad example."

Hob almost chokes while he tries to smother his laugh at that, especially when his pale stranger merely sighs heavily, his parental exasperation so ordinary and relatable that Hob thinks the mirth threatening to burst out of him on witnessing it is entirely understandable.

"Of course. I should hate if your ability to socialize were jeopardized by any behavior of mine." And… is it Hob's imagination, or is that comment as dry as the Sahara? He doesn't think he's ever heard so much sarcasm laced in a single sentence before. "Hob Gadling, will you join us for tea? I am certain my wife is expecting you."

He doesn't seem angry upon offering this, which surprises Hob. It's quite obvious that this little girl and her mum had absolutely been conspiring together, and despite Aurora's cuteness, Hob had thought there'd be more…. of a temper tantrum? Maybe a bit of storming off into the rain while both Aurora and Hob yelled after him about the virtues of friendship? He can't help but to think that, though. Unbidden, he remembers chasing his stranger when he'd left (i.e. fled) their meeting in 1889, insisting that they were friends, cursing himself the whole while for startling the obstinate, irritable entity by offering him companionship. Which is all to say that Dream assuredly has priors, doesn't he? And who better than Hob knows how ornery his stranger gets when faced with such terrible things as affection and feelings. 

"Come on, Mr Hob," Aurora pipes up, sounding mysteriously no longer tired, which is just further proof that she had been pretending in front of her father only minutes earlier. "You're my very first guest, and it would make me sad if you didn't accept my invitation."

Not that Hob had even been considering not going, but that just cinches the deal for him. After all, it's never been in his nature to say no to a child, especially when that child is as kind and seemingly goodhearted as this one.

And if a shudder goes through him at that realization, if he suddenly feels like that portends some kind of hilarious doom for him, then Hob brushes the feeling aside. It's just a spot of tea with a wildly charming, powerful little girl and her dramatically less charming but probably more powerful father. What, Hob wonders, could really go wrong?

It isn't until two hours later that Hob finds out the answer to that question. And it's… not great. Because as it turns out, a whole lot can (and does) go wrong during Hob and Dream's playdate.

[immacaria]

Title: Do not leave me alone

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Pairing: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/ Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus; Hob Gadling; Orpheus (The Sandman)

Tags: Modern AU; Parents AU; No Powers AU; Kid Fic; Divorced!Dream; Hob & Dream as parents; Baby!Orpheus; Fluff; Domestic Fluff

Words: 1727

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

It's early in the morning when Orpheus' cries pass through the room, waking both Hob and Morpheus at once. Morpheus moves slower than him, eyes opening just enough to look around and head not even lifting from the pillow. He is tired, Hob knows, not a bit used to having a small kid living in the same place as him. Hob isn't used anymore as well, but his body knows what to do on his own.

Sleepily, he reaches out for Morpheus' hand, stopping him from getting up and motions weakly to himself.

"Stay here," he says, voice slurring and eyes barely open. "I'll do it."

"Hob," Morpheus starts, but it's clear that he isn't even awake.

"Don't get up, I'll do it," he says again and really gets up this time, turning around just to make sure Morpheus is properly covered. The room's tiles are too cold for his feet and Hob is partially sure that later his nose will be running like crazy just because of this, but now all he needs to do is get to little Orpheus' room.

Orpheus, for the most part, is a quiet baby, one that doesn't cry too much or too often, and that is simply happy to see the world moving around him. The only moment Hob ever saw him get loudly excited was when Morpheus was working with a lyre, and Hob stopped for a while with the baby to just listen. Now, every night, both Hob and Orpheus go to sleep with Morpheus playing the lyre.

His room is partially close to Hob's - If you can consider anything to be close in this giant mansion that Morpheus likes to call a 'modest house' - and it's not long before he has little Orpheus in his arms. Hob coos at him as he adjusts the blanket around him, putting him against his chest. It hasn't been long since he has done this with his own child, holding Robyn against his chest and getting to feel his warmth against his skin.

If he closes his eyes now, he can still feel Robyn's laughter against his chest, his brown eyes closed from how hard he was laughing. He can still see how his little hands closed around the air while he giggled and how his body trembled with how strong his laugh was. He can still see Eleanor resting at the bed, eyes half-closed and a small smile on her face as she watches them dancing in front of the bed.

After their death, after he lost everything, life wasn't as beautiful as before, it didn't make sense as before. He kept on living, going to classes and teaching like nothing had happened, like his entire world hadn't fallen apart. Like his heart hadn't stopped beating after he recognised the corpses of his wife and son and had to carry on without them.

It wasn't easy, recovering from that time and moving on from the grief. It isn't easy, still. Everytime he takes Orpheus in his arms and puts him against his chest, he remembers what he lost, remembers how miserable and desperate he was.

Part of him fears that the same will happen again, that he will lose both Orpheus and Morpheus like he lost Eleanor and Robyn. Part of him thinks that he will lose them and there will be no one else to be there for him. It's one part he is still learning how to fight against, one part that made the last eight years pure hell, but one that is slowly disappearing from inside of his mind and heart.

Taking a deep breath, Hob lifts Orpheus from his cradle, wrapping him in his blanket and putting him against his chest. His little hands wrap against his shirt instinctively, looking up at Hob while he reaches out for the milk bottle. Cold surrounds them, slowly guiding them to sleep, and a smile appears on his face without him noticing.

As Orpheus feeds from the bottle, Hob rocks around and hums quietly, thumb moving up and down against the outside of his thigh. It’s not a song he ever remembers hearing, but one he knows nonetheless. It’s soft and calm, something a mother sings to her child when they are crying, knowing by all cultures and races.

If lyrics were to be added, they would be about unconditional love, protection and devotion. They would sing about protection and the promise that to forever be there for the listener, that they would never be left alone. Something to bring comfort and security when times were dark and grim, something to remember that there was light at the end of the day and that hope would forever be there as long as they never gave up.

“Know your father loves you so, so much, little one, and he will never leave you or let anyone ever hurt you,” Hob whispers to little Orpheus, his little eyes staring up at him. “And I’ll be here too, if you and your father let me. I know I may be broken and chipped, but I promise to try and learn to be better. I’ll take you to your music lessons when you grow up and help you throw your father crazy. I’ll teach you how to skate and, maybe, if I’m not too old, you can teach me how to play the lyre.” Orpheus smiles, the hand against his chest patting him weakly and Hob smiles as well. “And I-I will try to not compare you to my Robyn because I know you are not him, you are little, wonderful Orpheus and the light of your father’s eyes. I’ll be your Uncle Hob, the one who takes you to the park and teaches you how to balance bowls of water on top of doors to prank anyone that comes in, even if it’s myself.”

“I’ll show you how to enjoy a good s’more and to stop for a moment every day to appreciate the fact that you are alive, breathing and that there’s so much to live for because, Orpheus, my dear - ” he whispers, leaning in to kiss his forehead and smiling at him. There are tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to fall down, and he sniffs. “- There’s so much to live for. The sun, the stars, the people around you, the stories and music. I’ll show how to wake up every day and find a reason, just one reason, to be alive because wishing to be alive is the hardest thing to do.”

He should know. He spent so much time wishing that he could just go to sleep and never wake up again, that Robyn and Eleanor would appear to him in his dreams and tell him that he didn’t need to wake up again, that they would be happy there, just the three of them. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he still wished to.

“It’s not easy, Orpheus. It’s not easy being alive, but it’s worth it because it’s so, so good. There’s so much to be done, so much to be discovered, so many things to see and do. Even the little things, like discovering a new flavour of scone or how you like to take your coffee, are worth it,” his heart bleeds inside his chest, a clenched hand around his neck and he tries to not cry over the baby. "The way your friend laughs, the smile on a stranger's face when you compliment them, the way you feel when you have a particularly good day. That's what makes everything worth it, the little things who are as big as you let them."

Orpheus is almost asleep in his arms, face turning away from the bottle and Hob chuckles at the little furrow between his eyebrows, so much like his father's. He puts the bottle away and brings him up against his shoulder, patting his back carefully. His little head rests against the crook of his shoulder, hands clenching and unclenching around his shirt while he grumbles.

For a while, he walks around the room, humming and patting his back until a little burp comes out. Hob keeps walking, humming and caressing his back until he feels him sloping against him, snoring lightly, and he can't help but laugh because the kid is so much like his father even though he is just a baby still. Even their names look the same.

"Your father will always be here for you and so will I. You will never be alone and, I know, you will be brilliant in your terms," Hob turns around and tries to not drop Orpheus, startling when he sees Morpheus sitting down at the corner of the room, a notebook on his legs and a pencil in his hands. "What the fu-frick are you doing here?"

"You can swear, Hob, he is asleep," Morpheus whispers, voice gentle and soft. Even in the dark, with only the moonlight illuminating the room, he can see the way his lips curl upwards and the pen moves against the paper, creating lines and shades on the white sheet.

"No," he says and turns to put Orpheus back on his cradle, face up and surrounded by pillows so that he doesn't roll on his back or side. "Since when have you been here?"

"Not long. Long enough," he shrugs and gets up from the ground. His sweatpants brush against his feet, hanging loosely around his hips. As always, there's no shirt on and Hob thinks how he is not trembling from the cold. "Come to bed, it's late and you have classes earlier in the morning."

Sketchbook forgotten on top of the drawer, Morpheus leans in and kisses Hob in the lips chastely. His hands slid down his arms, finding their way to his hips and under his shirt. The kiss is more of a touch than a proper kiss for they are both smiling too much for it to happen.

"We will have you as long as you have us, Hob. You made us a family, you made us what you are today," Morpheus whispers against his lips, hands wrapped around his hips possessively. "I'm never letting go of you, Robert Gadling, you are mine."

"And you're mine," he whispers back and, together, they leave for their own room, quietly closing the door behind them.

[secondjulia]

Just Need to Catch My Breath

Help. I have a chronic daydream about Death & Hob being bffs because of all the times they've met on the battlefield.

I don't even know if I could put it into a fic because it's just this sprawling weed that's grown up in my heart, about how like Hob keeps seeing this same woman — an angel probably, then maybe he reads about the Valkyries after getting into printing, could that be it? They just have these little chats every time Hob winds up around the devastation of war & honestly, just life. Always say hi to each other. Every time she offers him a friendly smile and a hand up, but every time he just has to catch his breath, just staunch this wound for a bit longer, stuff his innards back in (he was only a little disemboweled), just rest a moment...

Over the years he's lost so, so many friends. And it still hurts, but the thought of that friendly face guiding them on makes it a little easier to bear.

He probably already knew her by the time she walked into the White Horse with Dream (maybe... on purpose? If someone could get Dream to listen to the people it'd be that guy who could chat up a rock [Seriously, she may have seen him actually talking to a rock once at Verneuil; probably a bit concussed.] ) She stayed back — they'd meet soon enough again, and Dream needed this.

Hob might've been a better person for it. It was a comfort to know she was taking care of those he'd loved and fought beside. But... after like a century (the Wars of the Roses were hell for everyone), he maybe feels a bit ashamed about just how many people he's sending to her personally. She's never judged or chided him, but every time his sword falls, he knows she'll see the aftermath. Part of a reason he gave printing a shot (even though it'd never really catch on) was to not feel that little squirm of guilt so often.

He didn't see her quite so much after taking that job with Caxton, though even life at peace in early modern England provided some opportunities to catch up.

After his star rose and fell and then he clawed his way out of destitution, his life became comfortable again, and he rarely saw his old friend. Wealth captured his attentions; he spent little time around the destitute or dying, and he hadn't picked up a sword in ages.

He is on one of Those Ships the first time he sees her in a long while. In an instant, the little squirm of shame explodes like a sea serpent inside him (I mean, where the fuck was it before, Hob?) He's had blood on his hands for centuries, but this isn't a battlefield, there is no fight, the dead and dying here have no blades or banner to fight under. Hob is suddenly — fucking finally — horrified, he's puking over the side of the ship and shuddering with the magnitude of what he's done.

And she doesn't even spare him a glance — why would she? There are too many souls to tend to.

He mumbles something about shipping to Dream the next time they meet, but he has already extricated himself from the business and done what he could (not enough, not ever enough) to repair the wounds he's opened in the world.

He sees her still less and less as the years go on. He rarely sees lives end now. He doesn't miss it — really! — but he does miss his old friend.

Volunteering in old folks homes and hospitals and hospices has given him an appreciation for life that he never quite had, even after hundreds of years. He's developed a gentleness and compassion that he hadn't quite grasped in his first several centuries of life. And every once in a while, he gets to see a kind smile and a familiar friendly face.

He's never told his stranger about his battlefield friend. Not sure why. But maybe one day, when they're reconnecting, there's a freak accident at the New Inn...

Like I really can't keep going because it will not stop!