#dreamling bingo round 2

[serenailith]

shut up (and go to sleep)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: a4, bed sharing Rating: e Word Count: 2678 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: friends to lovers, frottage, masturbation, overhearing things that shouldn’t be overheard, hob gadling loves dream of the endless | morpheus Summary:

Hob... Well, Hob didn't expect this, but he can't find it in himself to regret a damned thing.

Link: on ao3

masterlist

note: this was supposed to be cute and fluffy. these idiots had other ideas.

Hob sighs and stumbles through the front door. The day has been long, tiresome, and far too frustrating. First, he is pretty certain he failed his presentation, mostly because his group didn’t do their portion of the work, leaving him to scramble to get it done overnight by himself. Then his shift at the coffeeshop had gone over, which meant he was late for his date with Joey—Joey who waited over an hour only to tell Hob the relationship was over. Joey who’d been Hob’s first partner since arriving at uni two years ago, his first partner since Eleanor. He’d been so surprised by the sudden turn of events that he’d missed the bus, so he had to walk home.

Now, his feet are killing him, his back is burning under the strain of carrying his bag, and he can’t stop coughing from all the cigarettes he’d smoked on the way.

He reaches for the light switch, flicks it, and sighs when no lights come on. Of course. He’d meant to pay the electricity bill last week, but he hadn’t had the money at the time. Hob scrubs a hand over his face and drops his bag to the floor. The floor creaks beneath his feet as he stumbles his way through the dark to the bathroom. He needs to shower then go to sleep.

No electricity means no hot water, so Hob shivers his way through getting clean. He hurriedly dries himself off before wrapping a towel around his waist. His bedroom is lit dimly by the streetlamps, and he uses the orange glow to find a pair of boxers. After tugging them on, he sighs, runs a hand through his damp hair, then turns on his heel.

“Go away.”

Hob huffs and shoves ineffectually at Dream’s shoulder once more. “Budge up, you arse.”

“You have a bed, Gadling.”

“Dream. Please.”

Dream sighs, then the bedframe squeaks as he shifts over. Hob slides in beneath the comforter, shuddering in the sudden burst of warmth, and presses even closer to his best friend. Dream doesn’t hesitate; he lifts an arm and drapes it over Hob’s waist. Hob squeezes his eyes closed and listens to Dream’s breathing, slow, steady, even. Comforting, really.

“Joey dumped me,” Hob admits quietly after a long handful of minutes.

“Joey is a wanker,” Dream mumbles back. “You always deserved better than him.”

“Yeah?”

Dream lets out a soft hum as his fingers ghost along Hob’s spine. “Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone who will tell you to shut up and go to sleep.”

“That’s—”

“Hob. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Hob laughs, a quiet thing, and knows Dream is smiling, too.

They’ve been friends since their first year at uni; they’d been assigned the same dormitory room, and they got on like oil and water. It took them two months before they learnt to communicate in ways they’d understand each other. As soon as they did, though, they became inseparable. At the very least, Hob needed Dream.

He rolls over onto his other side so his back is pressed to Dream’s front, tugs the blanket more securely around them, and falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes, it’s to an empty bed and a sticky note stuck to his forehead. Dream’s spidery handwriting tells Hob he’s gone to pay the electricity bill—Do not worry, I only took enough from the box for this. And your cigarettes. Hob curses and lets his head drop back to the pillow that smells like Dream.

Dream, who allows Hob to crawl into his bed and sleep curled up against him. Dream, who listens to all of Hob’s complaints and encourages him to take risks, go after what he wants. Dream, who commiserates when Hob fails at something and plies the man with plenty of ale and whisky when the ice cream doesn’t work. Dream, who now owes Hob cigarettes and will never complain when it’s Hob’s turn to owe.

Hob buries his face into the fabric and breathes in.

God, he’s pathetic.

It’s a week later that Dream crawls into Hob’s bed stinking of whisky and smoke. Hob knows what this means. With a sigh, he tugs until Dream sprawls atop him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Hob’s hips and arms curled between them. Hob pets gently at Dream’s hair and murmurs apologies. Dinner with his family always sends Dream home a mess.

“Hob…”

“Yes, Dream?”

“Am I truly unlovable? Am I too fucked up?”

Hob grits his teeth at the questions. How dare they make Dream feel so insignificant, so unworthy? He wraps his arms around Dream and pulls him closer, until it feels as if his ribs are opening to make space for the man. As if his heart is tearing itself in half to allow Dream to burrow and make a home there.

“You listen to me. Are you listening? Not just hearing me, because any fool can do that, but I need you to actually listen.”

“I am listening,” Dream mutters, words muffled by the breadth of Hob’s chest.

“Good. You are not unlovable. You’re fucked up, yes, but who amongst us isn’t? And with the family you have, I’m surprised you’re not worse off. But you are you, and you are amazing. Lovely and funny and so damn wonderful. You are lovable beyond words. You are so much more than what your parents have led you to believe.”

“Do you love me?”

“Oh, Dream, of course.”

“No,” Dream growls as he struggles out of Hob’s hold. He sits up, swaying slightly, and Hob grips tightly to his hips to hold him steady. “No, do you love me?”

“Dream—”

Dream stares down at him with wide grey-blue eyes. His hair lies flat about his face, and his pale skin is made paler in the moonlight coming through the window. His voice shatters as he whispers, “Hob, please tell me you love me.”

“C’mere, love.”

Dream lets out a broken sound, all sharp angles and rough edges, and he lists to the side to curl up against Hob. Hob stifles his sigh and holds a very intoxicated Dream as he snores softly.

Hob loathes Dream’s parents. His siblings. All but Del and Thana. They make Dream feel inferior, lesser, and he doesn’t deserve it. Dream is one of the greatest people Hob will ever know. His loyalty knows no bounds. He listens to whatever Hob says with a single-minded intensity that Hob has yet to see in anyone else, and his mind works in wondrous, beautiful ways.

“Oh, love, if I could change things… I would tell you.”

Hob falls asleep clinging to Dream in an effort to put back all his broken parts.

They don’t speak of it the next day. Hob wonders if Dream even remembers the conversation. Judging by the way he storms about the flat gathering up his art supplies, Hob is going to guess ‘no’, that Dream only remembers the disaster of a dinner and nothing that was said after he came home. It hurts, honestly, for the conversation to go unspoken. Hob can imagine all the words they could speak, all the different directions the conversation could go, but he will never know reality.

Dream doesn’t say a word as Hob makes coffee, as he readies for class, as he leaves the flat.

He’s halfway to the bus stop when he realises he’s forgotten his book—the one in which he’d tucked his essay over mediaeval literature. And his work uniform. Sighing, he hefts his bag further onto his back and pivots on his heel. The walk back to the flat seems to take even longer, and his legs grow heavier and slower with each step. Dream’s temper has always been rough to handle, but after last night…

Hob unlocks the door and slips through quietly. There is no need to disturb Dream while he works; it is usually cause for pointed sighs as Dream cleans up his supplies and puts away the work.

“I cannot work with interruptions,” he always says even as Hob apologises profusely.

He never holds it against Hob, no, and he certainly doesn’t mean to guilt-trip Hob. Hob just… feels guilty, anyway.

Dream isn’t in the living room when Hob looks up. His easel is, his palette is, even his cellphone is—and that gives Hob pause. Dream hates the thing, says it’s merely a vessel for vapid social media for which he has no time nor desire to engage in. Thana must have texted, then. Hob sets his bag down and makes his way toward his bedroom, coming to a stop in the hallway.

He listens more closely, and yes, he’s heard his name. Breathless moans and the faint squeak of a bedframe.

Hob swallows thickly before hurrying to his room. In his rush, he manages to knock over the standing lamp by his door, but he ignores the cracking noise of the shade as he scoops up his book. Down he goes as he trips over a pair of pyjama bottoms he’d left on his floor this morning. He scrambles to his feet and all but sprints toward the front door.

“Hob?” Dream calls from his bedroom.

Hob doesn’t say a word as he wrenches open the door and bolts outside.

He can’t pay attention to the lecture. His laptop screen stays blank even as the professor stresses the importance of the lesson. He barely refrains from scalding himself multiple times at work. Customers have to repeat themselves as they order until the manager puts him on drink-making detail. It hardly goes any better.

All he can hear, all he can think about, is the way Dream had said his name. Hob has heard his name fall from Dream’s lips too many times to count, but never has it sounded the way it did this morning. Hob has never heard Dream sound like that at all, rich and sensuous yet airy, as if he hadn’t managed to drag in enough oxygen. Just the memory sparks something deep inside of Hob.

Oh. Oh, no.

It was bound to happen, Hob thinks, as he clutches his bag to his side on the bus ride home. He’d had a crush on Dream in the beginning, even when all they did was misunderstand each other and argue. But that had gone away. Or so Hob thought. How could it be rearing its ugly head now, two years later?

Suppose hearing your best friend say your name while, what?, touching himself? Yeah, that might do it.

Hob shivers at the thought.

It’s nearing midnight, and he can’t sleep. He keeps hearing his name, keeps hearing Dream’s voice so molten in his ears, and it’s making life difficult. Hob knows it’s inappropriate, but… He imagines what it was like for Dream. What he’d done to himself. What had he fantasised about?

Hob steadfastly refuses to touch himself, instead rolling over to find a comfortable position.

It doesn’t work.

He stands outside Dream’s door minutes later, hesitating in a way he never had before. But he’d also never overheard his best friend jerking himself off to thoughts of him. Hob’s cock twitches, and he grits his teeth and tries to think of anything other than Dream.

“Are you going to stand there all night?”

Hob jolts and nearly falls on his face. His hand grips the doorframe as he steadies himself, then he swallows harshly before stepping into the room. Dream wears only his pyjama bottoms, his narrow torso on display. A trail of dark hair leads to the waistband of his bottoms. He has one hand tucked under his head, the other resting on his chest. He breathes steadily, a counterpoint to the rapid-fire breaths Hob is drawing in.

Hob slides in between the sheets and keeps as much distance between them as he possibly can. Dream frowns and pushes himself up onto one elbow.

“Hob?”

Hob squeezes his eyes closed and buries his face into the pillow even as he admits he heard Dream earlier that morning, he knows. Dream remains silent for a long moment. Too silent. Hob turns his head to see the flush that fills Dream’s face and extends halfway down his chest. Dream drops to lie on his back once more and stares at the ceiling.

“I—I am sorry,” he finally whispers. “I know it’s. Wrong. I should not have…”

“How long?” Hob whispers back.

“Weeks. Months.”

Hob hesitates—God, when will he stop hesitating? It’s only Dream, after all, but this… This will change things even more.

He shifts closer, reaches with one hand, and turns Dream’s head. Dream’s brows furrow, his lips parting, and Hob kisses him.

It’s slow, searching, seeking the truth and giving it back in turns. Dream remains immobile, only for a second, then he’s kissing back. With a soft groan, Hob tilts his head and licks into Dream’s mouth, tastes toothpaste and cinnamon tea. Dream throws a leg over his waist, squirming until he can straddle Hob.

“Show me,” Hob pants out as Dream mouths at his throat. “Show me how you touched yourself. Tell me what you thought of.”

Dream nods vigorously and scrambles to shove down the waistband of his pyjamas. Hob moves to recline against the wall and groans aloud at the sight, at the coarse black hair, at the cock Dream takes in his hand. His movements are slow despite the lust darkening his eyes, strokes so deliberate as to tease. He shifts to get more comfortable, and Hob moans at the pressure against his own dick.

“Tell me, love. Tell me.”

Dream huffs out a laugh and braces himself with one hand on Hob’s hip. “I thought—I thought of you. Touching me, holding me in your hand. Your skin would be, it was warm,” he says softly, and Hob trails a hand along Dream’s thigh. “Warm like that. You would stroke my—my cock and whisper praise, because you always praise me, and do you know how that feels, Hob?”

“Good?” Hob ventures, and Dream shakes his head.

“It is the most wondrous thing in my life. You are. And I thought of your hand on my cock and your other pressing into me. Like this.”

And Hob nearly comes when Dream reaches behind himself. It’s an awkward angle, even Hob can see that, one that stretches and strains at the muscles in Dream’s abdomen. He doesn’t seem to mind: He only moans and lifts his arse. Hob grips at his hips tightly, fights against the urge to take over. This is Dream’s show; he’s only a captive audience.

Dream’s hand speeds up as he whimpers, “You’d fuck me then, I thought of that. I imagined how you would feel inside of me. Hob, please. Please.”

Hob can’t deny himself the pleasure any longer—he sucks on his fingers before shoving his hand down the back of Dream’s bottoms. Dream cries out when Hob presses against his hole, and Hob carefully pushes inside. The way is dry, must be uncomfortable, but Dream lets his head fall back and exhales a sharp moan. Hob can’t get the proper angle, can’t reach deep enough, but Dream rocks his hips between his fist and Hob’s touch.

His release coats Hob’s T-shirt moments later. Hob tugs him down by the hips, until his cock nestles perfectly between Dream’s arsecheeks, and he ruts up against his best friend—fuck, this is his best friend, and it’s more amazing than Hob ever let himself imagine, it’s what he wanted way back when they first met and all he’s wanted today, and his hips move of their own accord. Quickly, roughly, until he comes in his boxers with a groan of Dream’s name.

Dream collapses beside him and immediately curls into his side. “Should we… talk about this?” he asks hesitantly once he’s caught his breath again; his voice shakes in a way Hob hasn’t heard in so long.

“Tomorrow,” Hob promises before yawning.

“Hob—”

“Dream. Shut up and go to sleep.”

[seiya-starsniper]

🐌 & 🐾 for the fic ask game!

🐌 What is one of your smallest writing goals?

My smallest writing goal is to write at least one femslash fic this year! (I will probably write multiple, let's be real lmao)

🐾 Do you plan on writing for any fests or competitions?

I am writing for Centennial Husbands Big Bang at the moment! And I just signed up as a writer for Endless Histories Fest! I'm sure I'll also sign up for round 2 of Dreamling Bingo when it comes up, and of course, there's my own event, Monsterfucktober Bingo! So at the very least I have those four going on whew. We'll see what the rest of 2024 brings!

~Writer Goal Ask Game!~

[sivan325]

[Masterlist Dreamling Bingo - Round 1]

@dreamlingbingo

Dead Dove - It's not a Dove, it's a Raven! - M

Beta Hob - Dream a Little, Tiny, Mini-Dream? 1/2 - E Claiming - Dream a Little, Tiny, Mini-Dream? 2/2 - E

[serenailith]

silent lucidity

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: c3, free space Rating: g Word Count: 3336 Ship(s): (endgame) dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: kidfic, surprise child acquisition, yet another summoning for poor dream, nightmares Summary:

Hob Gadling searches for answers, for help. He never expected it would come in the form of his oldest friend.

Link: on ao3

masterlist

It’s tasteful, the funeral. Quiet, too. The only sound comes from the preacher behind the pulpit, extolling the virtues and speaking praises of the woman who lies in the coffin behind him. The photo, having been enlarged, shows her smiling widely, a baby in her arms, on a shore somewhere. She looked happy. She looked alive.

But now she is no longer, and her family and friends are suffering.

Hob is suffering.

Amelia had been one of the greatest loves of his life. She brought out the hopeless romantic in him. She showed him love once more, what it meant to really need someone.

Hob has loved and lost throughout his six centuries, but walking away from Amelia pained him just as fiercely as losing Eleanor and Robyn. Amelia… She was different in a way Hob still can’t explain. But she’d died not knowing what happened to him—maybe even hating him for leaving her as he had—and that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He stands when the pallbearers heft the coffin onto their shoulders, watches them pass by with his heart shattering even further, and follows the rest of the gathering out of the small church.

The cemetery slowly empties of mourners, leaving Hob by the graveside on his own. She’d been planning to take his last name to become Amelia Holding. He’d had to break her heart almost two years into their relationship; he left one day while she was at work, leaving behind only memories of himself in the walls. To this day, he keeps the photos of her on his mobile.

He swallows down the tears he isn’t allowed to shed and turns away.

Hob has just returned to his flat from the storage unit the next morning when a knock sounds at the door. He hesitates with a stack of books in hand, books he will never be able to find anywhere in the world, books he spent ages searching for. Books he refuses to leave behind. Setting them on the rickety end-table he picked up at an estate sale upon first arriving back in London, Hob pushes his hair from his face and crosses to the door.

Through the peephole he sees a woman about his age—were he not immortal. She looks… normal, with black hair cropped close to her scalp and wide-set hazel eyes. She chews on her full bottom lip, gaze darting this way and that, as she knocks again. Hob frowns at the unfamiliarity of this woman but pulls open the door anyway. Something in her expression says she needs help, and he’s completely unable to ignore that.

“Hi, are you Robert Holding?” she asks in a rush as soon as his face comes into view, and Hob nods slowly. “Great. Er, can I come inside? Only… We need to talk.”

She looks away, and Hob follows her gaze to his left and—down? There, held in this woman’s hand is that of a child. The little girl looks between Hob and the woman, a scowl on her face that only grows when the woman ignores the pointed “Auntie Celine?” Hob steps back and lets the two pass; the girl’s feet stomp the whole way. Closing the door behind them, he crosses his arms over his chest and watches the two argue quietly across the room. The girl rolls her eyes but flops onto the couch without more fuss, and the woman—evidently named Celine—turns back to Hob.

“I’m… God, I’m so sorry, Robert. This, well, this isn’t how I wanted the day after my cousin’s funeral to go.”

“You’re Lia’s cousin?”

“Yeah, but. I don’t think a lesson in our family tree is important right now.” Celine visibly musters up whatever courage she needs and steps closer, gesturing toward the girl on the couch. “This is Alice.”

“Alice… as in Lia’s daughter?”

“Alice as in your daughter, too.”

The world stutters to a standstill. It’s an impossibility. It’s—it’s impossible. There is no other word for it. Amelia’s daughter can’t be his. That was one of his biggest demands in the relationship. She was on birth control, but he still used condoms. He did everything in his power to stay safe, protected. He can’t be this little girl’s father.

He just can’t.

“Celine—”

“Please, Robert. Trust me on this. Lia, she wanted you to be there, but she was so afraid to hunt you down when she found out she was pregnant. She didn’t want you to hate her for it happening, or for you to be angry or dismissive of the fact you helped create Alice.”

“I can’t be, Celine. I just… I can’t!” he protests, hands rising to hover before him, palms up. Everything is a jumble inside of him, but he manages to find the words to explain. “It was actually our biggest hurdle, the fact I was adamant about not wanting kids.”

“Well, you have one, Robert Holding. And—and I’d keep her if I could. But I can’t. I have four of my own and too much on my plate. And Alice deserves to know her father. You deserve to know your daughter.”

“Celine…”

How could he bear being a father? He’s already lost so damn much, and being a father now, when he couldn’t be one to Robyn… He knows nothing of Alice, nothing of how to raise a little girl in these modern times. Celine should find someone else, another member of the family tree.

But then he looks at Alice, really looks at her. Beneath the frustration of being ignored lies the telltale sign of fear. Her eyes dart around the room, and she wraps her arms over her belly. Hunches in on herself. There’s pain, too, in her honey-brown eyes.

The same eyes Robyn had. Robyn is there in the slope of her nose. Hob sees his siblings, so long dead but still so alive within this child. She has his mother’s curls and his sister Alice’s lips. Alice. He gasps in a breath that burns at the realisation that even though he’d never wanted children, that even though he wasn’t around, Lia wanted something to keep of him, so she’d borrowed his baby sister’s name.

“I’m moving,” he says abruptly, and Celine frowns, brows drawing together. “I’ll… I’ll keep her, but I’m moving away from London. Been planning on it for a while now, only stayed for the funeral. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Just—just let me phone her every once in a while.”

“I’d never keep you away from her.” You’re all she really has left.

Celine nods and turns her back to him. She crouches before Alice and speaks quietly, but Alice’s reaction to her cousin’s words is swift—and loud. Brutal. Alice lashes out, one hand in the shape of a claw, and Celine just barely manages to back out of range before she gets nails across her face. Her hands come up to grip Alice’s tiny wrists, and she pulls the little girl in for a tight hug. Her lips move too fast for Hob to understand anything she’s saying, but that’s fine.

It’s a private moment, after all.

Celine hurries to her car moments later, returning with a large canvas bag and a unicorn-shaped bookbag. She hugs Alice once more, tears in their eyes, then leaves.

For good.

Hob stares down at the girl sat on his couch, and she stares back.

“Auntie Celine says you’re my daddy.”

“I… I am.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Okay?”

Alice sniffles and pulls her knees to her chest; her light-up sneakers press into the cushion of the couch, and her eyes find his over the bony jut of her kneecaps. “I want my mummy.”

“Oh, love. I know. I want her, too.”

Alice buries her face into the fabric of her leggings and begins sobbing. Hob hesitates then sits beside her. His hand shakes slightly before he rests it on her back; to his surprise, she turns toward him and launches herself into his arms. He swallows thickly and holds her to his chest.

He remembers doing this with Robyn, all those years ago. Over three centuries since he lost his boy, and he still remembers all those nights he had to comfort Robyn to sleep after nightmares, patch up scrapes and bruises, read bedtime stories and sing lullabies. It hurts—no, it kills him—to be reminded of what he’d had and lost, but right now, he needs those memories. He’ll willingly bleed himself dry for this.

Alice pulls away and wipes her hand under her nose. Hob’s heart breaks a little more. She looks so lost, and he supposes she is. She’s lost her mother and now the rest of her family, stuck with him, and isn’t that a kick in the fucking teeth. He’s a father again, and she’s his daughter. But there’s nothing there beyond genetics.

He wonders at what kind of family she must have. Who would willingly let a little girl be placed in the care of a man they barely know, especially so soon after her mother’s death? Why had no one else stepped in to say ‘Hey, I’ll take her’? Why is it on Hob’s shoulders to keep her safe and alive when he’s ill-equipped for the job?

Alice sighs, curls up in the corner of the couch, and stares blankly ahead. Hob hesitates and asks if she’s hungry. She shakes her head. Of course not. Her entire life just got upended. He blows out a breath then pushes to his feet. Sudden child acquisition aside, he still has packing to do.

“Where ya goin’?” he hears twenty minutes later, which is a lot later than he expected to hear the question. Alice has been watching him since he began filling the second box with books.

“I’m moving.”

“Why?”

“Because I—I want to. I like London, but I like travelling more.”

“Mummy likes that, too. But she doesn’t take me much.”

“Probably wanted to keep you safe,” he offers after a long pause, and Alice only shrugs before blowing a curl out of her face. “I suppose this should be an adventure for you, then.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re coming with me.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

Her face splits with a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. He hadn’t thought it would. He turns back to the task at hand, tucking the final book into place. Rolling his eyes at the gilded letters on the spine, he turns away from the box to find Alice directly behind him. She holds out another novel, something by Maya Angelou, and blinks slowly. Hob smiles and takes the book, quietly thanking her.

“Mummy says being kind is better.”

“Better than what?”

She shrugs and plops down onto the couch again. “I dunno, just… better.”

“Well, your mum was a brilliant woman, so maybe we should keep that lesson in mind, yeah?”

Thankfully, Alice eats a slice of pizza for dinner but only after picking the pineapple chunks off and eating them one-by-one. He scrutinises her closely, watches her blow hair from her face between bites. He can hear her bare feet thumping against the legs of her chair, and she can hardly sit still as she eats. It’s… eerie, seeing the same restlessness in her that he always saw in her mother.

Amelia was completely inept at remaining still for too long. She always said life demanded activity, and who was she to deny such pleasure?

After dinner is more awkward. Hob cleans up and puts away the last few slices while Alice meanders into the living room. The walls are bare, shelves emptied of their contents. The television is long gone, sold to his neighbour at nowhere near profit-level. All that remains in the room are the couch and coffee-table. Even the rug has been tightly rolled and bound. Everything else is in a storage unit awaiting his return in however long it takes for him to make his way back home.

His flat is no home for a child. He’s no father, not anymore. But then he looks at Alice again and knows he can’t not be.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t need an office.

Once she’s under the comforter on his bed, Hob tucks her in and heads toward the door. The sheets rustle behind him, then he hears:

“Where’s my story?”

“Story?” he asks, turning around.

Alice has her hands planted on the mattress, a scowl on her thin face, and she nods slowly as if Hob is particularly thick. “Mummy always reads me a bedtime story.”

Hob stifles a sigh. He has no children’s books—why would he?—but he’s read enough. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to make something up. Though he’d rather go straight to bed and wake up to this having been a dream, he makes his way back to the bed and sits on the edge farthest from Alice.

She scoots closer as soon as he starts speaking, starts winding a tale of a princess heading off to find the fearsome dragon terrorising her kingdom. Alice slowly curls into a ball when the princess finds the dark and gloomy cave, closes her eyes as the princess raises her sword, and begins snoring quietly as the princess vanquishes the dragon and saves her kingdom. Hob waits for a few minutes once he’s sure she’s asleep.

She looks like what he remembers of his dear sister Alice, of his precious Robyn. How can he deny her when she looks so much like his loved ones? Like him?

Hob runs a tentative hand over her curls then makes his way back to the living room. The couch is as good a sleeping place as any. Sighing and crossing his arms over his chest as he stretches out on his back, Hob lets himself remember Amelia.

She’d been wild yet so safe. There was never any questioning where he stood with her. Amelia wore her heart on her sleeve and refused to play games. She was brutally, tactfully honest. Hob still hates how their relationship was built on a lie.

Alice wakes crying in the middle of the night, and Hob falls back on the memories to comfort her. He rubs her back and just holds her as she sobs for her mother. Hob’s chest tightens, and he swallows past the lump in his throat. It’s all he wants—to give this child back the woman who’s raised her, who loved her before ever knowing her. The woman who’d given Hob her heart only for him to return it so viciously.

He lays Alice back down once she’s asleep once more, her breathing wet but steady. She sniffs then rolls over onto her back, arms spread to the sides and legs kicked out. He stifles a laugh. God, she’s so much like Amelia. It’s painful to watch her, but Hob can’t seem to move away. He just wants this last reminder, he supposes.

Eventually, he leaves Alice’s side and goes back to the couch.

They have an early breakfast in the New Inn, the only two around at such an hour. Alice yawns through the meal, chin resting in one palm as she clumsily brings spoonfuls of oatmeal to her mouth. Most of it ends up back in the bowl, but she’s eating something. Hob finishes his cup of coffee, then waits until she says her belly is full, can she be done now? Once the dishes are cleared and put into the dishwasher, Hob hefts up their bags and bustles the child toward the door.

They settle in on the train soon enough, and Alice stares out the window at the people passing by. She doesn’t speak, which Hob thinks he should be concerned about—don’t children spend something like ninety percent of their life just chattering on? But he’s too tired, and too mixed up, to waste much brainpower on it. If there’s a problem, surely he’ll notice it. Or maybe Alice will tell him herself.

She falls asleep leaning against his arm only fifteen minutes after the train pulls out of the station, and Hob forces a smile at the lovely old grandmother in the seat across from them. He wonders if she sees a father and daughter where they are not, at least not in any way beyond blood. The woman smiles back, whispers how darling his little girl is, then goes back to reading her newspaper. Hob swallows thickly and turns his attention to the scenery outside the window.

He pretends the weight along the side of his arm isn’t there, if only for the time it’ll take to reach Paris.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. He is hyperaware of the pressure for the duration of the trip. He hears her steady, if rapid, breathing as she sleeps. No matter what he sees outside the window, all he can focus on is the little girl beside him.

He sees Amelia’s disgruntlement when he wakes Alice as the train pulls into the station. The child grumbles even as she sits upright and scrubs at her cheek. Pink lines and divots carve out the side of her face from the sleeve of Hob’s jacket. He rises to his feet and grabs their bags, quietly urging her to her feet. Alice squeezes into the aisle before him then leads him out of the carriage.

Margot raises a brow as Hob approaches, her gaze flicking to the curly-headed little girl trailing after him. She exhales a stream of smoke then stubs out her cigarette. With a shake of her head, she opens her arms and pulls Hob in for a tight hug.

“You never mentioned a child,” she says quietly, and Hob frowns. Is it genuine surprise, or is it disappointment?

“Didn’t I?”

“You know you did not, Robert.” Margot sighs then pulls away. “Everything is ready for you, though not for her.”

“I can handle that. Thank you for this, Margot.”

“Does she know?”

“No, and I’d prefer it that way.”

Margot shrugs and gestures toward the silver sedan behind her. Hob hesitates—aren’t children supposed to have a booster seat? But Margot is waiting, and Hob doesn’t want to impose on her time any more than he already is. So he ushers Alice into the backseat, helping her buckle the seatbelt, before he tucks their bags beneath her feet.

Once that’s finished, he turns to the woman he met a century ago and embraces her once more.

“I suppose I’ll see you in the next life.”

Margot laughs quietly, a throaty little sound, and leans up to kiss him gently. Her thumb wipes away the traces of pink lipstick Hob knows she’s left behind. “Oui. You will. I will tell Aunt Hettie you said goodbye.”

She grabs the handle of her luggage then disappears inside the station. Hob slides into the driver’s seat and lets out a slow breath. Right. New life. This is all going to be more difficult with a child. How could he ever explain his immortality to Alice? She’s only—

“How old are you?” he asks as he starts up the engine.

“Five. How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

He glances in the rear-view mirror at her gasp and stifles a laugh at what he sees: Jaw dropped, she meets his gaze with wide eyes.

“You’re old.”

You have no idea. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens with time.”

“Where are we?” she asks suddenly, stretching up to peer out the window. Apparently, she can’t see over the panel of the door, for she slumps in her seat once more.

“Paris.”

“Where’s that?”

“France.”

“Where’s that?”

“In—” Hob sighs, pressing his fingertips to his temple and rubbing in small circles. “Tell you what. How about I answer all your questions when we get where we’re going?”

“Where’s that?”

With a groan, Hob puts the car into gear and pulls out into the Parisian traffic.

[serenailith]

speechless

i’m back for round 2.

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: d4, gagged Rating: e Word Count: 740 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: anal sex, mild restraints, ball gag Summary:

Dream shows Hob what happens when you can’t talk.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

He’s beautiful like this, tears slipping from the corner of his eyes as he sits exposed for all to see. Dream slowly makes his way around the throne upon which Hob Gadling is sprawled. Dreamstuff holds his legs and arms away from his body, more around his throat. The slightest bit of pressure has him moaning, writhing; his teeth gleam in the dim lighting where they press into the rubber.

Dream can hear, can see, all that Hob wants—all that he needs. And Dream will give that to him, the immortal man he’s grown to love more fiercely than he has in so long. Dream would give him the world if only Hob asked. If he could, Dream would keep Hob in the Dreaming for all time, so that they may exist without the demands of the Waking. He would raze both realms to the ground if he needed to.

A flicker, then desire floods through him. He raises a brow as images assault him, as he absorbs all that Hob craves. A hand presses to dark brown hair, so soft and sweat-damp, and Hob’s gaze snaps to Dream’s face. Dream trails his fingers down Hob’s chest, through the thick hair there, to come to rest above his pelvis. Hob whimpers as his hips give an abortive thrust. Clearly unable to find relief, he nearly sobs as he stares up at Dream, eyes pleading and body trembling.

Dream has mercy—what kind of ruler, what kind of lover, would he be if he refused such pleasure to one who deserves it so much? And deserve it Hob does. He’s taken everything Dream has to give with an eagerness that pleases Dream. He’s yearned for more.

Dream leans down, wrapping long fingers around Hob’s erect cock, and gives one slow stroke. Hob cries out around the ball-gag, eyes squeezing closed. Dream taps his cheek and shakes his head when Hob opens his eyes once more. The man nods vigorously, sits still as a statue—if a statue were able to quake and quiver as their cock was touched, held in reverent hands, as fingertips trailed lightly up the shaft and back down.

Hob stares, so obedient, so good, as Dream leans in to press lips to jaw. Dream’s hand doesn’t stop even as he tightens the ribbon around Hob’s ankles, his wrists. As Hob lets out a startled gasp when the ribbon presses more firmly into the skin of his throat. Precum dribbles from the head of his cock, and Dream smiles a predatory thing.

Hob says something around the gag, words muffled but intent clear, and Dream moves to straddle his thighs. Pale hands wrap around Hob’s wrists, and Hob slides further down the throne. His spine is curved and pressing into the hard back, and his chin nearly touches his chest, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Especially not when Dream lowers himself onto his cock in one fell swoop.

Instead, Hob shouts, babbling unintelligibly, hips jerking upward as far as he can. Drool slides down his chin to drip onto his chest, and his eyes narrow to slits when Dream rolls his hips. Hob grunts and groans, moans and whines; his hands flex where they’re bound, and he struggles against the binds. They’re immovable, just the way Dream wants them.

He leans forward, lips brushing Hob’s ear as he whispers every fantasy Hob has had since he was bound to the throne. As he whispers how Hob has nearly begged to be taken, to be used, to be defiled. As he whispers how Hob craves to taste of Dream. He murmurs a command, one single word, and removes the gag in time for Hob to cry out his name.

Dream fucks himself on Hob’s cock as his lover lies back. He wanted used, and Dream will give that to him. Cum slips free around the length in his arse, but he ignores it as he chases his own high. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the scent of sex and sweat, the heat between the two as Dream rises and falls.

He comes moments later, his release coating the hair on Hob’s abdomen.

Dream grins down at Hob, spine curving to press a kiss to his slack reddened lips. Hob’s returning smile is beatific, a birdsong on a warm spring morning, the aroma of fresh-baked bread and love before a hearth.

It’s home.

[serenailith]

let me taste of your love

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: a3, come swallowing Rating: e Word Count: 555 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: come swallowing, brief breathplay Summary:

Hob loves giving oral. It’s just who he is. But he especially loves it when Dream is involved.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

If there’s one thing about Hob that a lover should know, it’s that he loves giving oral. Receiving is nice, too, but he loves—with a capital L—giving. He loves the taste and the sounds his bed-partners make and the way they clench their fingers in his hair and fuck his face. It’s quite possibly his most favourite pastime.

But nothing has ever felt the same as this. Nothing has tasted quite so delicious, been quite so addicting, as the feeling of a long cock buried in his throat tasting of starshine and petrichor. With his hands clinging desperately to immovable hips, his nose pressed to coarse black curls, gagging and choking and loving every second of the dizzying experience, Hob could cry with relief. Perhaps he does; he isn’t certain.

He begs silently, imagines rough thrusts that take away what little oxygen remains in his lungs. Fantasises about hands in his hair, tugging painfully, holding him still. He wants, wants, wants so bad, he can hardly breathe. Or, well, he wouldn’t be able to if he could.

The fingers tighten, and Hob whines as his head is pulled backwards. The cock slips from his lips; he gazes up at Dream with tear-stained eyes. Dream stares steadily back. Finally, his mouth curves, a fragment of a smile on a statuesque face, and he raises his free hand to press his thumb to Hob’s bottom lip.

“I know what you need, my love,” he rumbles, and Hob shudders at the rich depth of his voice. “Open, and let me give you everything.”

“Ev—everything?”

“Everything.”

Hob’s jaw drops on instinct, and he moans as Dream pushes back inside without hesitation, without words but hands full of praise. His fingers trail along the sides of Hob’s head, card through his hair; Hob stares up through his lashes to watch the expressions play on Dream’s face. Desire, lust, love, as he pulls back then shoves forward. Hob’s head rocks backward with the force, but Dream’s grip tightens and keeps him immobile.

From Dream’s lips falls a litany of words, all bearing worship and want. Hob lets out a muffled sob as he gags on Dream’s cock. Dream doesn’t stop; he merely grins sharply at Hob and fucks in again. The world spins as Hob’s lungs begin to ache from lack of oxygen, and he scrabbles at the back of Dream’s thighs.

Hob’s eyes close of their own accord, and he lets himself see everything—how Dream will look when he comes, his fingers holding tightly to Hob’s throat to squeeze out that last bit of air, how Hob will come untouched at the first gasping breath when Dream releases him. He imagines so much, so loudly, and he knows Dream knows it all.

Hob hums, moans, as his tongue floods with the taste of Dream, and he swallows greedily. Takes every last drop that he possibly can, though some dribbles from the corner of his mouth. When Dream removes his hands, Hob pulls back gasping, a string of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Dream’s cock. He grins, sated and sloppily, and sits on his heels. His chest heaves with each deep inhale as he struggles to draw in enough oxygen.

“Again?” he asks once he’s finally caught his breath.

Dream groans and reaches for him.

[serenailith]

my heart, my love iv

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: d5, holding hands Rating: e Word Count: 2559 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: graphic depictions of violence Additional Tags: bamf!hob gadling, king morpheus, prince orpheus, orpheus lives, depictions of mercenary-level violence, no set time era, anal sex, blowjob, outdoor sex, frotting, handjobs, falling in love far too fast Summary:

When King Morpheus calls upon him, Hob Gadling cannot say no. When he sets out to complete the task given to him, he finds more than he ever expected.

chapter summary: homeward bound

chapter 4/5 Link: on ao3 masterlist

chapter i ao3 | tumblr chapter ii ao3 | tumblr chapter iii ao3 | tumblr

The first thing he notices is the throbbing, the heartbeat in his abdomen, followed by birdsong. Warmth flows across his skin, and leaves rustle in the breeze. Soft wool presses to his bare back. Hob’s eyes slowly open, and he stares up at the canopy overhead. Everything aches; his skin burns with the telltale remnants of knife wounds, both thin, shallow lines and deeper gashes. Everything inside of him is on fire, it must be, for why else would he hurt so deeply?

He breathes in air that stings his lungs and lifts his head enough to take stock of his surroundings. Orpheus sits nearby, glancing around as if expecting something, and to see a sword in his small hands does something to Hob, something more agonising than the physical. Hob inhales the stench of blood and earth and turns his head only to jerk back at the sight of glassy eyes of the man Morpheus killed.

Morpheus.

He must speak the name aloud for the child calls out “Father!”, and the brush crackles with thundering footsteps. Morpheus appears at the tree-line, a bundle of sticks in his arms. They fall to the ground as he rushes to Hob’s side. Hob raises a shaking hand and cups Morpheus’s cheek, lying still as Morpheus checks him over. As Morpheus spreads a cloak over Hob though the day is warm. As Morpheus leans down to kiss him fiercely and deep.

“You fool,” he whispers as he presses his forehead to Hob’s. “You brave, foolish man. You could have died.”

“I couldn’t let something happen to you two. The kingdom would suffer. As would I,” he adds if only to witness the slow smile on Morpheus’s face. He realises with a start he’s never seen Morpheus smile before.

Morpheus kisses him again then turns to his son. “Orpheus, please help me start the fire.”

“Of course.” Orpheus pauses, setting the sword on the ground, and turns to Hob. “Thank you, Hob Gadling, for bringing my father to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Hob whispers, fighting against the heavy weight washing over him. He falls asleep to a gentle hand stroking his hair.

He can sit up the next morning, though it’s Hell. Morpheus had sewn the wound as well as he could with the meagre medical kit the palace staff had sent with Hob, so Hob has no fear of bleeding out. Yet.

He doesn’t try to move, only keeps a cloak wrapped over his shoulders as he leans against the trunk of a tree. Across the clearing lie the bodies of the first two victims of his rage. Of his vengeance for the hurt caused to his king. He can see the faces from here, blood-stained and filthy as they are. They are the gaunt, ash-white faces of men who made poor choices, who laid hands upon that which was not theirs and wrought agony upon the man who bears such heavy burdens as a crown.

He stares for a moment at the boy who sits beside the fire. Someone has twined ropes around his wrists, and the skin beneath is rubbed raw. He keeps his face turned to the earth, though Hob notices an occasional flick of a gaze in his direction. A bruise takes up half of the boy’s face, mottled black and purple, with four deep red marks from temple to jaw—caused by fingernails, if Hob’s guess is right. He wonders who'd caused the damage. Wonders what connection this boy had with this latest group of brutes. Wonders how he himself would have felt had he taken this child’s life last night with the others.

He finds he has no answer one way or the other.

Hob turns his attention to watching Morpheus and Orpheus struggle to find food, to set up an acceptable camp, to clean the one squirrel Morpheus manages to capture and kill. It is endearing, if a bit pathetic, to watch the two. These are skills Hob learnt as a child, yet here is a grown man and a boy of perhaps ten summers, and they know nothing of the world outside of their sheltered life.

Hob marvels at all they don’t know then realises he knows little of life inside the palace walls. They are two sides of the same coin, and he is a fool for thinking himself better.

Taking pity on the man he’s grown to love so quickly, Hob calls out instructions on how to start a fire that will grow hot enough to cook a meal and how to prepare the meat for cooking. It ends up slightly charred and dry, but Hob eats his portion with gusto. The enthusiasm does something to Morpheus’s expression; it morphs from cautious to delighted, and Hob relishes the fact that he’s the cause.

Morpheus carefully dabs ointment on Hob’s throat once they finish eating, and Hob sits still and watches silver-blue eyes narrow in concentration. He remembers the dirk, the way the tip had pressed into his flesh and promised worse. He remembers how frightened he had been, not knowing whether the king and prince had escaped. He remembers the stony determination on Morpheus’s face as the brute fell to the ground, breathing no more but bleeding so much.

Hob leans forward to brush a kiss to Morpheus’s jaw. “Thank you,” he breathes, hand coming up to cradle the back of Morpheus’s head.

“I…”

“I know.”

And Hob thinks he does. He thinks he understands the full weight behind what Morpheus is unable to say. Kissing Morpheus again, he lets his hand drop and rests his spine against the rough bark. Morpheus checks the stitches and touches tender fingers to the area around the wound. Whatever he feels must relieve him, for he smiles slightly and turns away.

Neither Hob nor Morpheus mentions the boy currently bound to a tree root sticking up from the ground.

The sun is barely over the horizon when they set out the following morning. Hob bites back a scream as he hauls himself into his saddle, and Morpheus tugs his tunic up to make sure the stitches have held. Leaning forward, Hob lets his forehead press to Marabelle’s neck; Morpheus climbs atop Oneiros and takes up Hob’s reins. Orpheus sits astride Arion as if he belongs on a steed.

Each step Marabelle takes sends shockwaves of agony through Hob, though he speaks not of it. He needs no coddling, and lying about in hopes he will recover sooner does no one good. So he keeps his curses and cries locked behind gritted teeth and allows Morpheus to lead the mare toward their destination. Though he knows he can do little if things were to go awry, Hob keeps an eye on the boy currently riding on Arion behind Orpheus.

Sleeping under the stars feels safer now, as if they aren’t chasing a monster or being hunted by time, though Hob knows danger can still lurk in every shadow. They don’t light a fire, instead feasting on berries and dried bark, and Morpheus takes first watch. Hob doesn’t argue, only reaches out a hand to hold onto Morpheus’s. He falls asleep to the gentle touch and softer voices.

The ride back to the city takes all of four days and half a fifth night, nearly twice as long as the ride out. Hob has had worse wounds in his life, nearly died more than once, but Morpheus refuses to rush. He forces Hob to accept slower travel and more tests. Hob supposes he doesn’t truly mind. After all, he is gifted a kiss on each occasion and the chance to better know the king and prince. To love them in his silence, a fierce love he has felt only once before. Eleanor and Robyn.

He avoids speaking to the boy, and the boy avoids speaking to him.

Morpheus pays for two rooms, and the innkeeper’s gaze flickers to the dried blood on Hob’s tunic and the rubbed-raw wrists of the boy before wishing them a pleasant stay. Once the quartet is upstairs, Orpheus vows to bar his door then hesitates. Morpheus does the same. Then, between one blink and the next, the two are embracing, and Hob looks away as if immorally watching something too private for prying eyes.

Orpheus vanishes through a door, the unfamiliar boy following, and Morpheus leads Hob into the second room. Hob lets out a soft sigh as he collapses to sit on the bed, permitting himself to lie back and sprawl. Morpheus murmurs something quietly, but Hob barely understands. He’s on the precipice of sleep and already imagining the most beautiful things. His quiet groan fills the room, and he reaches blindly.

His eyes fly open when his hand lands in a shock of hair, and he twines the strands between his fingers on instinct. Anything to hold onto while Morpheus takes him into his mouth again. Hob allows his hips to jerk upward, squeezes his eyes closed at the soft choking sound emanating from Morpheus’s throat, and hopes to not look foolish by the end of this.

He’s already a fool for this man, his lovely king. No need to embarrass himself.

A cool hand slips between his thighs to cradle his bollocks, to touch and tease and elicit stronger moans from him. Hob clenches his fingers around Morpheus’s hair, holding him still with Hob’s prick in the back of his throat, and he comes as Morpheus prods gently at his hole. Morpheus swallows again and again, eventually releasing Hob as he softens.

As Hob lies panting, Morpheus carefully eases his breeches back up and ties the laces. Then he crosses the room to the washing basin to wet the cloth that lies draped over the side. He quickly yet gently cleans Hob’s wound with soap and water, checking the stitches with a practiced hand, then tosses the cloth back into the basin.

“Does this mean you won’t have me thrown in the cells beneath the castle?” Hob asks as Morpheus sits beside him on the bed.

Morpheus snorts inelegantly, the first lapse of proper behaviour—not including all the intimacy with a mere commoner. “I believe not. You… Hob, you saved my life. Moreover, you saved the life of my beloved child. How could I ever repay you with imprisonment?”

“No need for repayment at all,” Hob says with a shrug. “It was—well, it wasn’t exactly a pleasure there at the end, but everything prior was better than I expected from a sheltered king.”

“I am not so sheltered, Hob Gadling. I have seen war. I have seen death. I have committed murder for those I love.”

“Do I count as a member of that group?” Hob asks, voice pitched low to hide the fear. Fear of whether he is or isn’t, he isn’t sure, but it lingers there nonetheless.

“Sleep. We will talk more when you wake.”

Hob turns his head, selfishly seeking out a kiss, which Morpheus gives him freely.

The next morning dawns clear, though a storm hovers on the horizon. Hob hopes they can make it to shelter before it arrives; even a thick canopy overhead is better than nothing. He keeps one eye on the thunderheads and the other on their surroundings. The woods are rife with potential ambushes. It would do no good for him to become complacent, to let his guard down, simply because of a wound and a dislike of storms.

“It was awful,” he hears Orpheus admit, and Hob wonders how long he’d been speaking. The boy sat behind him flinches as Orpheus continues, “They… They gave no reason, Father. They punished me for being the prince, and they enjoyed it. I hardly slept, too frightened of what might happen.” He glances at Morpheus. “I knew you’d send someone after me. I did not expect you to come, as well.”

“Oh, my darling boy, I will always come for you.”

Orpheus’s answering smile is blinding, and Hob can see what Queen Calliope must have looked like in her son.

The days pass on. Rainstorms come and go, leaving behind the scent of fresh air and rich soil. Hooves plod along muddy trails and through tall grasses. The sunshine brings more colour to both the king and prince’s faces; no longer are they so deathly pale. Streaks of gold appear in Orpheus’s hair, bleached by the sun and kissed by the gods.

Hob grows stronger, the pain in his abdomen weaker, though it seems to have no effect on Morpheus’s concern. He still checks the stitches and makes certain there is no swelling or infection. Orpheus is just as worried, asking after Hob’s well-being and happiness. It feels…

It feels like a family again, even with the boy whose life Hob has spared twice now, and it’s a revelation that kicks Hob in the teeth. A weighted ball of something settles in his gut at the thought. The last family he’d had—all the families he’s had, both of blood and choice—he’s lost them all. He loves so wildly, so fully, but it is never enough to keep a family. Death takes them all. Life takes them all.

He watches father and son talk to each other, the topic unheard by Hob, and blinks away the tears that form. He knew, starting out, there was an end-date to this task. Either he’d return successful with the crown prince in tow, or he would escape the kingdom stinking of failure. He knew, the moment he felt the first stirrings of affection for the mercurial king, that it wouldn’t last. It could never. Their stations in life are too vastly different, and love doesn’t matter much when two people are brought together for a mutual goal. It takes more than that for hearts to get involved.

All except Hob’s, clearly. His leaps from his chest and into the hands of a lover without hesitation, and that’s exactly what it’s done. Morpheus will never know just how much of Hob he owns.

A black speck arrives upon the horizon, and Hob lets out a sigh. Of relief or sadness, he isn’t certain. Relief that surely, he will get more than a night’s repose from riding. Relief that he’s succeeded in the mission set upon him by his king.

But he doesn’t want this to end yet. He wants more time with this man and boy. He wants to love Orpheus as Morpheus does, as a father does a son, as he ever loved—[loves]—Robyn, and he wants to love Morpheus until his final breath.

Another three nights go by, spent beneath the stars. Hob yearns to steal more kisses, to absorb them into his blood and survive off of them, but he can’t bring himself to fulfil that wish. How can he, when it will hurt badly enough when this ends? It will already rip such an enormous part of him from his soul, and Hob has to convince himself it isn’t worth it. It isn’t worth destroying himself for simple kisses that Morpheus will forget the second he’s within his guarded walls once more.

They approach the gates together, though Hob lingers at the back. The guards let them pass without more than a cursory glance, and Morpheus scowls even as he nudges Oneiros onward. Hob understands his frustration—surely the guards should be more protective of their king’s safety?—but Morpheus no longer looks like himself.

His hair has grown hardly an inch over the last three weeks, and his skin is sun-kissed. He wears no royal insignia. Even his stallion, while magnificent, has grown to look as dusty and unkempt as any commoner’s steed. The guards could never believe their king had slipped out of the kingdom with them none the wiser, nor could they believe their king rode through the gates right before their eyes.

To Hob’s surprise, Morpheus doesn’t turn the boy over to the guards.

Lucienne greets them at the base of the castle steps. On her face is a small smile that does nothing to hide her joy at having her king home once more. Her gaze flicks from Morpheus to Orpheus, and she can no longer contain it. A bubbling laugh roils from her lips, and her dark eyes glitter with tears. She glances at Hob, nods once, then turns back to the king.

The king, because Hob shall never again call him Morpheus. That was a name given in private, when he was acting in a capacity as a father, not a king. The king, because that’s who Morpheus is, and Hob would do well to remember that.

He dismounts awkwardly at the suggestion of a stablehand, and he follows the others inside. The King looks back over his shoulder, and Hob hardly dares to breathe at the sight of silver-blue eyes so bright. So unburdened, so [free].

“Merv will take you to our medical wing,” the king announces, “then I request your presence once more.”

Hob manages a shaky nod then follows the steward away. He’s clutching his heart in his hands, desperate to keep it though it shrieks to belong to the king.

What could the king want of him now? Perhaps, Hob thinks as the healer pokes and prods at the stab wound, this is the king’s way of saying thank you, you may leave now that I have my son back and no need of you. Please have need of me. I’ll do anything to stay.

“You are lucky,” the healer says, startling Hob from his wistful thoughts. “This could have been a fatal wound. Whoever intervened saved your life.”

Hob only nods in response. As soon as she gestures towards the door, he’s rising to his feet and crossing the room. He’s just stepped over the threshold when he curses loudly and stumbles back a step. Lucienne blinks owlishly at him from behind her glasses, and he hastily apologises. Her lips twitch.

“You are not the first man I have ever met, Hob Gadling, nor are you the first who has used less-than-desirable language in front of me.”

“Yes, but you’re—It’s just uncouth to use foul language without need.”

“A need such as being startled? I would say that qualifies. Now if you will follow me.”

He recognises the route as the one he took before, the one that leads to the throne room. He remembers that walk—he’d been full of confidence, in himself and his life choices. That was before, though. Before he met the king as a man, before he was fucked and touched by the king, before he fucking fell in love like a fool. Now there is nothing of him but a racing heart, clammy palms, and shaking knees.

What he expected, he will never know, but being knighted for his bravery in front of dozens of lords and ladies? That isn’t it. He stares up at the king, eyes wide and lips parted, as the king bestows upon him a new title for a new life. Hob would protest—he deserves none of this grandeur, none of this pomp—but the king… The king looks so pleased to do this. His eyes shine, and there’s a small curve to his lips that Hob knows no one else sees.

They don’t see him. Not as he truly is.

It’s hardly accurate to say that Hob is any better at knowing this man. After all, the king spoke little of himself while they were travelling, hunting and tracking together, sleeping beneath stars and canopies together. But Hob knows the most important parts of King Morpheus. He knows of the depth of the man’s love for his son and late wife. He knows the lengths the king will go to protect the ones he loves. The king is no fainting flower despite his current inability to thrive outside of these walls.

The one thing, the thing that matters most to Hob, is that he knows he loves the king with all that he has in him.

Hob rises to his feet when commanded, and he gazes upon his king as one would a god. King Morpheus smiles beatifically then turns to dismiss the others. Once the audience is gone, the throne room empty, he cups Hob’s cheeks in cool hands and presses a lingering kiss to his lips. This isn’t the king, Hob thinks, this is Morpheus. He clenches velvet in his fists and tugs Morpheus closer.

“You saved my life, did you know?” he whispers against Morpheus’s lips, and the king lets out a soft hum.

“I’d hoped as much. I was worried I was too late or that I’d done too little.” He pauses then kisses Hob again. “Come with me, my love.”

Hob’s knees threaten to give way at the epithet, the term of endearment that fills him with a heady warmth, but he manages to stumble after Morpheus. Blindly following the king, as he will for the rest of his life.

Up a grand staircase, down a corridor filled with lavish decorations, then through a door. Morpheus drags Hob inside and bars the door behind them. He crowds Hob to the wood and presses his lips to Hob’s throat.

“You asked if you were amongst the ones I love.” A gentle kiss, the softest brush of lips to skin, and Morpheus’s breath ghosts along Hob’s flesh as he whispers, “You are the second greatest love I have, Hob Gadling. You own all that I am.”

“I love you,” Hob gasps, hands coming up to bury in Morpheus’s hair. “I love you, my king, my heart, my everything.”

Morpheus pulls Hob through another door. Inside this room is a basin large enough for both men to sit, already filled with water that sends spirals of fragrant steam into the air. Hob pauses and marvels at the sight, but then Morpheus’s hands are pushing down his breeches, and his thoughts skitter elsewhere.

Stepping into the water is an earthbound Heaven, and Hob groans aloud as the heat bleeds into his skin. He lowers himself to sit, to recline until the water reaches his chin, and another low moan escapes. Morpheus grins—God, does that send something tightening in Hob’s chest—and carefully sinks down to sit astride Hob’s thighs. His arms wrap around Hob’s neck, and he brings their faces closer together.

“Say it again, Hob Gadling. Tell me.”

“I love you.”

Hob lets out a shuddering breath when Morpheus seals their mouths together. He knows, more truly than anything else in his life, he will always belong to the king.

[serenailith]

just breathe

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: d3, panic attack (adoptable) Rating: g Word Count: 432 Ship(s): (endgame) dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: panic attacks, near drowning, near death experiences, ptsd, hurt/comfort Summary:

A near-death experience (or as close to one as Hob Gadling can actually have) rattles Hob significantly. Thankfully, he has Dream there to help him through.

Link: on ao3

masterlist

The world spins wildly, a tightness taking hold of his chest. His head—no, not his head, his lungs fill with—that’s not air, oh, God, not again, not again, not again. His arms flail blindly, legs kicking on instinct, but the light grows dimmer. Bubbles erupt from his lips, obscuring his vision, and he can hear the ghosts of shouting. Jeering. Screams calling for his death, for witches have no use. He sinks lower, and his chest shrieks for air.

He inhales and chokes.

Something wraps around his bicep.

Gasping in great gulps of oxygen, Hob scrambles away from the dark figure crouched beside him. He can’t breathe, he coughs up water and bile. His heart pounds out an irregular tattoo beneath his ribs. His skin is wet with more than just the pool water; the ground beneath him tilts and whirls. He expels more water as he trembles violently.

“Hob.” Hands, warmer than him, cradle his cheeks before they lower to his arms. Hob goes limp as the figure pulls him into their lap. “Breathe with me, my love. Just breathe.”

Hob shakes—his body, his head, everything, all over—and the voice softens. Pleads for him to inhale slowly, exhale slowly. The hands tug him closer against a narrow chest, a chest that expands behind his shoulders. Hob struggles to get away. He can’t be touched, he can’t be touched, he can’t be touched, but arms loop around him, hold him still.

His chest expands slowly, four seconds in—has it really only been four seconds? as he exhales. His lungs burn, but he’s breathing. He’s breathing. He draws in another lungful of oxygen that burns, then another and another.

“Hob?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” he stutters, shivering in the cool air.

Dream rises fluidly to his feet, hauling Hob up without significant effort, and he steers them toward the locker room. Their footsteps echo in the empty, silent room. The water still laps at the edge of the pool, and Hob shudders as the shouts rise up in his ears again. Dream waves a hand, and the water stills.

Hob leans against Dream, steals his strength as he lets the Endless ease him onto a bench. Dream carefully towels Hob dry from his head to his feet then helps him dress. Hob closes his eyes and breathes in more air that hurts.

“M’car,” he mutters when he feels Dream reaching into his pocket.

“It will still be here later,” Dream murmurs back, pressing his lips to Hob’s damp hair.

Hob doesn’t argue further as the sand whisks them away.

[serenailith]

don’t go where i cannot follow

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: a5, last kiss Rating: g Word Count: 756 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: major character death Additional Tags:  end of the world, alternate universe - canon divergence, loss of anthropomorphic personification of concept Summary:

Hob thinks he should have had a warning, but when it comes to losing the love of your life, no warning would suffice.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

goes hand-in-hand with don’t let the sun go down on me

If ever in his life you’d told him that he would love a being as vast and endless as, well, an Endless, Hob Gadling would admit that it wouldn’t be his finest point but certainly not the worst ill-advised decision in his life. If you’d told him that said vast and endless Endless would love him back, he would have called you a bloody idiot and cheerfully bought you another round. He’d also have robbed you blind the moment you accepted his drink, depending on what era in his life this conversation took place, but alas, man’s nature can hardly be helped.

As it is, he does fall in love with a vast and endless Endless, and said vast and endless Endless falls in love with him, too. And no one is robbed—no one who doesn’t deserve it, anyway. Hob’s highwayman days are long past, but those skills don’t just disappear.

If asked when he first knew of his feelings for Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, Prince of Stories and King of Nightmares, Hob would lie and say it was some innocuous moment. Their eyes met, and the light hit Dream’s grey-blue ones just right, and that was that. In truth, however, it was back in 1689. When his Stranger (because Hob wouldn’t know his name for another three hundred and thirty-two years) had gazed upon him at his lowest, tears in those grey-blue eyes, and Hob had seen something other than devastating pity.

No, it was sympathy in his Stranger’s eyes. Sympathy in the form of tears that wouldn’t fall and…

Pride, perhaps?

(Dream later admitted, over their first dinner together, before the relationship officially began, that he’d been more proud of Hob for wanting to live, than he’d been of any human in too long. Hob still wears that particular piece of praise as a badge of honour, despite it all.)

It takes the two of them over five hundred years to get things right, but eventually, they do. And it’s all Hob has dreamt of since 1489 when his Stranger assured him he was no Devil. Sure, he’s had to keep those certain fantasies in the back of his mind, firmly locked behind gritted teeth never to escape. Life isn’t kind to those who want differently, after all. But still, Hob spent his sleeping hours, even those caused by drink, dreaming of better knowing his Stranger.

It wasn’t until 1789 that Hob allowed himself to imagine… more than just a certain amount of domesticity, of friendship. No, after that bout in the White Horse, when Lady Johanna had rudely interrupted their centennial meeting, that’s when Hob’s dreams took a rather drastic turn. He let himself fantasise about more than just hours spent reading with his Stranger or walking along the shores. He let himself dream of a familiarity given only to those made lovers.

1889 happened, then 1989, followed by 2021, and Dream came back from his imprisonment. He came back, and they had so much fucking time together. So many years, they should have had. Uncountable. Until—until everything ended. Until Death turned the lights out and locked the universe behind her. Until there was nothing left but what was to come.

Someone should have told him. He should have had warning. Someone should have said “This will be the last year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second you will ever spend with the being you love more than you’ve ever loved yourself.” He should have been able to do better, to hold on tighter.

They should have had more, him and Dream.

If he had known then what he knows now, Hob would have tried harder to dream, to find himself within Dream’s realm once more to share in the majesty. He would have made sure their last embrace—their last touch—their last kiss—their last everything would have been better. That Dream would know that no matter what happens, Hob has loved him so deep in his bones, it feels as if it’s always been a part of him. That Dream would know that there is nowhere he goes that Hob cannot follow, but Hob can’t follow now. Hob knows not where Dream has gone.

But Dream has gone.

Now all Hob has left are the memories, and he’s not ready. He will never be ready to say goodbye to the being he will never forget, never stop loving, never see again.

Hob isn’t ready, but he still lives on.

He still has much to live for.

[serenailith]

my heart, my love i

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: e3, kidnapping Rating: e Word Count: 2559 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: graphic depictions of violence Additional Tags: bamf!hob gadling, king morpheus, prince orpheus, orpheus lives, depictions of mercenary-level violence, no set time era, anal sex, blowjob, outdoor sex, frotting, handjobs, falling in love far too fast Summary:

When King Morpheus calls upon him, Hob Gadling cannot say no. When he sets out to complete the task given to him, he finds more than he ever expected.

chapter 1/4 Link: on ao3 masterlist

It isn’t quite how Hob expected his morning to begin. After all, no one expects a messenger to pound on their door before the sun is even peeking over the horizon. No one expects said messenger to announce that their king is requesting—no, demanding—their presence. At least the messenger had the decency to keep his gaze on Hob’s face rather than the spectacular display of nudity.

What can he say, he wasn’t exactly alone in bed.

This visit from the messenger is how Hob finds himself riding behind a carriage decorated with the royal coat of arms and golden filigree. It’s ostentatious, Hob thinks, and a quick way to get themselves robbed of their coinpurses. He pauses, head cocking. Do royal messengers even carry coinpurses? Or is the coat of arms enough to dissuade the lower class from asking for payment?

Knights surround the carriage on all four sides, four leading the procession, two on either side, and two before Hob. He would feel slighted at the lack of consideration for his safety, but he’s certain he’s far better at maintaining his status of ‘alive’ than the knights are. They may train, but it’s in the safety within the castle’s borders. Hob has learnt from the real word, real experience that’s nearly killed him dozens of times over.

His gaze darts from side to side, keeping watch through the trees as they make their way down the trail. The struts on the carriage squeak with each dip and uneven rise in the dirt, and he can hear the messenger’s voice though not the words. The tone is of anger, however, so perhaps it’s best that Hob stay out of that particular conversation.

A twig snaps, barely audible beneath the latest screech of metal against metal, but Hob hears it. He calls out a warning a split second before the party bursts forth from the tree-line. The knights are, surprisingly, slow to react, taken by surprise; their horses react faster as they rear up and kick their front legs. Hob’s mare backs up a few steps but otherwise remains calm. It isn’t the first time he’s been ambushed.

Hob pats her neck then spurs her forward. Reaching out, he grabs the arm of the nearest attacker and yanks as Marabelle canters past. The man struggles to keep up but fails, falling to the dirt. His sword lands feet away. Hob pulls Marabelle up sharply before dropping to the ground. She shuffles her feet, hooves clomping against the packed earth, and Hob hopes she stays as he sprints toward the blade lying neglected.

It’s easy enough, once it’s in hand, to fall back on his instincts. He dispatches the one whose shoulder he dislocated with his stunt followed by one whose face bears evidence of a prolonged lack of bathing. The knights have finally caught up by now, and Hob counts his odds as barely improved with the eight other swords on the same side as he.

The leader goes down with a bloody mouth and even bloodier abdomen.

The point of Hob’s blade presses against the throat of the youngest, the one barely out of boyhood. The boy—God, he’s just a boy—stares cross-eyed at the steel that threatens to end his life. The knights press in, though they don’t react. It’s as if they are deferring to Hob’s judgement. He’d laugh if the situation hadn’t been so fucked.

“You run with the wrong crowd,” Hob says lightly as if speaking of nothing more than the weather.

“They were all I had,” the boy mumbles, backing up a step only to find his retreat blocked by a tree. “And you’ve killed them.”

“Aye, and I’d do it again were my life in danger.”

The boy glares but swallows at the slightest prick of the blade against his skin. “You gonna kill me, too?”

“I should.”

“Then do it already.”

“Ah, I said I should. I don’t think I will, though.” Hob pulls the sword away but keeps himself ready. “You’re just a child, and I am not in the business of murdering children, no matter the danger they pose to my continued existence.”

“I’m not a child,” the boy snarls, spitting on the ground at Hob’s feet.

“What are you, of thirteen years? A child.”

“Fourteen, I’ll have you know.”

“Gadling, we don’t have time for this,” the messenger calls from inside the carriage. “Dispatch the child so we can be on our way. The king tolerates no dallying.”

Dallying. As if Hob hadn’t just defended his precious life. Rolling his eyes, Hob jerks his chin toward the trees. The boy hesitates, staring with narrowed eyes, then turns on his heel and runs. Hob pointedly avoids letting loose his tongue toward the messenger as he strides toward Marabelle. She stands still as he hauls himself astride her, and he waits for the others to pass before falling into line.

The ride to the kingdom takes all of three days. Night has fallen by the time the procession approaches the border; Hob’s arse and thighs ache, his spine a line of molten fire, but he keeps his complaints to himself as he passes through the magnificent gates for the first time in his thirty-three years.

Hob recalls all the times he’s vowed to enter the kingdom proper—“I’d be invited, see,” he’d said amidst the raucous laughter of his friends—and his lips twitch. If only Crispin and the others could see him now. The thought sobers him. Crispin never will see another day, and Richard and John moved away long ago. Edward is the only one who remains, but he has refused Hob’s friendship since the day that changed everything.

The day that Edward’s girl and Hob’s boy were murdered.

Hob blinks once, twice, four times to banish the tears and sits up straighter in the saddle as the carriage rolls down streets of stone. People stop and stare, whisper to each other behind upheld palms, and Hob resists the urge to wave as jauntily as possible. He’s made it this far in his life without calling too much attention to himself. Being seen within the kingdom will draw far more than enough, as it is.

Reaching the castle brings with it an apprehension Hob has yet to feel before. It stands tall and imposing, near-black against the brilliant blue sky. Enormous windows glitter in the sunlight; behind them, Hob imagines, lies the cruel and capricious king who gives very little care for those he is meant to lead. After all, no one has seen him in…

No one outside the castle has seen him since his coronation, now that Hob thinks about it. Everyone speaks to his advisor whenever they’re allowed audience.

The carriage slows, halts before the doors, magnificent and intricately carved, and Hob pulls Marabelle to a stop as someone rushes down the front steps. The messenger waits until the newcomer has pulled open the carriage door before even moving in his seat; Hob watches the newcomer’s face as the messenger passes. It takes all of Hob’s willpower to not laugh at what he sees: pure, unadulterated disgust. Certainly none of the respect a royal messenger would command. The newcomer’s cheeks flush vivid red when he sees Hob’s amusement.

“Sir?”

Hob turns to see another boy of no more than seventeen summers at his foot. The boy reaches up a hand and frowns when Hob doesn’t move. Hob frowns back.

“Yes?”

“I have been instructed, sir, to house your steed in the stables until your departure.”

Hob hesitates. He never leaves Marabelle with anyone, let alone strangers, but there’s the messenger waiting just inside the doors. The impatience on his face gives Hob pause—what could possibly be so damn important? Surely the king knows of patience, perhaps even maintains a modicum of it.

Sighing, Hob swings down off Marabelle’s back and hesitantly passes over the reins. He isn’t sure if he is allowed to threaten the stablehand of the royal court, but he really doesn’t care: He tells the boy that harm will come to him if something were to happen to his mare. The boy doesn’t bat a lash. He only nods, clicks his tongue, and leads Marabelle away.

Hob hurries to follow the steward through the doors. The messenger is gone; evidently, bringing Hob to the castle was as much as his job entailed. The steward leads Hob down a long corridor and through a set of doors just as beautiful as the front. Hob runs his finger along the carvings then turns to face forward.

A narrow rug runs down the centre of the cavernous room, leading to a dais upon which sits a throne. Upon which sits what Hob can only assume is the king. His dark hair hangs about his thin, pale face in a curtain of black, and the crown upon his head looks heavy in more than just physical. He glances away from the woman at his right, and Hob nearly stumbles.

High cheekbones and a sharp jawline make for a handsome face. Silver-blue eyes, made bluer by thick, dark lashes, find him easily. They narrow as Hob grows closer, and the steward gives a deep bow. He casts a glance at Hob, gaze pointedly flicking between man and floor, and Hob swallows before bowing as well. The king waves a hand, though his gaze never leaves Hob’s face, and the steward scurries away. The king must truly be cruel if his subjects are so afraid of him, Hob thinks. Well, I’m not.

“You are Robert Gadling,” the king says after a few minutes, and Hob suppresses a shiver at the rich, deep timbre of his voice.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“You are a hunter, are you not?”

“I believe so, sire. At least, it’s only one thing I do.”

The king raises a brow but doesn’t comment on Hob’s lack of decorum. “I have need of your skills, Robert Gadling.”

“Might I enquire as to what that need is, sire?” Hob asks when the king doesn’t speak further.

“I…” Here, the king falters, and Hob swallows his surprise at the sheen in those silvery eyes. “If I employ your services, Robert Gadling, you must swear loyalty, a solemn vow of bearing the secret of your task.”

A secret task? “Of course, sire, whatever my liege requires of me.”

The king nods to the dark-skinned woman who ducks her head and begins writing in the ledger she carries. Once Hob has promised fealty and that he will speak no word of what the king is to ask of him, she holds out her quill and ledger, and Hob signs where she silently points. She steps back from him the moment he’s finished, as if he is something dirty she dare not acquaint herself with. Hob refuses to take it personally.

He’s only a hunter, common amongst men, while she bears the royal insignia.

The king draws in a breath that, if he weren’t listening, Hob would say was steady. But there’s a quaver to it, one that says this task is more personal than perhaps the king is willing to admit.

“My son has been stolen from me,” he announces following a pregnant pause. Hob tries not to react, but his head jerks back anyway. The king doesn’t notice, but the woman does. She shakes her head slightly without looking at Hob. “I know not who committed such an act, nor do I know where they have taken him. That is where I require your assistance.”

“Sire, I—”

“You are a hunter,” the king interrupts. The tears aren’t gone, but there’s no sadness in his eyes now. No, there is only a blazing fire. “You admitted as such. You hunt. Which means you surely know how to track.”

“Yes, but sire, I make no effort to track and hunt humans.”

“You do now.”

Hob tries to think of a way to refuse, to leave this castle and go home where he can be just regular Hob again, drinking and swiving and boasting of jobs well done. But—

He can’t. This is his king, in all his glory and power. If Hob were to say ‘no’ and escape, surely the king will send his knights after Hob, and Hob would most likely not get another chance. He would be thrown in the dungeons for daring disobey. Finally, he blows out a breath and dips his chin.

“Of course, sire, your wish is my will.”

“You may go. Lucienne, please show him his chambers for the night.”

Hob and the woman have just reached the doors when the king’s voice echoes through the room: “And Robert Gadling, when you find those who took my child, be sure they live no longer.”

Lucienne leads Hob away before he can say another word. She doesn’t speak as she guides him up a grand staircase. The corridors here are drafty, chill, as if rarely used so little cared for. When she comes to a stop, it’s outside a plain wooden door. Hob realises with a start this is the wing for the common staff. It’s also far from the entrance; he would never be able to find his way out of here in time, and that is purely by design.

“Someone will come wake you at dawn’s first light, Robert Gadling,” she says, her voice clipped. Her wire-rimmed glasses slip down her slender nose, and she hesitates then pushes them back up.

“It’s Hob, please.”

“Goodnight, Robert Gadling.”

With a sigh, he turns toward the door and pushes it open. Inside is a rather bland room. There is a bed, of course, and a washing basin beneath the window. A chamberpot rests in the corner. Hob shakes his head at the fact he expected more and is slightly disappointed that he didn’t receive it. It was foolish of him to anticipate ornate sleeping arrangements.

He washes the dirt from his face and arms, and grimaces at how quickly the water turns a muddy grey, then strips from his days-old outfit. He uses his tunic as a washing cloth, dipping it in the basin and swiping at the dirt crusted on his skin. It does little good, but he feels better for it in the end. Without bothering to dress again, he slips beneath the blanket—at least this is nice, soft, warm wool—and closes his eyes.

It’s far before dawn when he wakes. No light lingers in the room as he lies there. He wonders what woke him, what roused him from such deep sleep, then realises it’s the silence. Never before has it been silent in his life. First, it was his family, their snores and quiet snuffles in the night, then it was his friends as they fell together in a heap on someone’s floor, drunk and forbidden from going home to their women in such a state. Next, it was Eleanor, with her gentle breathing as her hand rested upon his breast. After Eleanor, Hob had found himself listening for Robyn’s breaths through the wall, counting each inhale and exhale until he fell asleep.

After he lost Robyn and his friends, he used the nature of nighttime, the owls and grass-dwellers as they hooted and sang in the dark.

Now, it’s only Hob, and he loathes the silence.

[serenailith]

my heart, my love v

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: b3, much-needed hug Rating: e Word Count: 387 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: graphic depictions of violence Additional Tags: bamf!hob gadling, king morpheus, prince orpheus, orpheus lives, depictions of mercenary-level violence, no set time era, anal sex, blowjob, outdoor sex, frotting, handjobs, falling in love far too fast Summary:

When King Morpheus calls upon him, Hob Gadling cannot say no. When he sets out to complete the task given to him, he finds more than he ever expected.

chapter summary: in which bad decisions are made

chapter 5/6 Link: on ao3 masterlist

chapter i ao3 | tumblr chapter ii ao3 | tumblr chapter iii ao3 | tumblr chapter iv ao3 | tumblr

When Hob wakes the next morning, it’s to find that Morpheus has already gone. He rubs a palm over his eyes and pushes himself to sit upright, to lean against the grand headboard. A yawn forces its way out of him, and he stretches his arms over his head until his spine pops. Once he’s finished, he slumps against the padded wood behind his back and gazes around the room.

He hadn’t seen much last night when he’d stumbled in from the adjoining room. His focus had been solely on the king—the man he loves. The graceless kisses and hands burning against his skin. The gentle slide of a cock in his arse, the sweet words, the warmth of Morpheus’s body as Hob clung to him. What else could he have concentrated on if not the love between them?

It’s too soon, Hob knows it, but it had been much the same with Eleanor. Four days in her presence, and he was already planning on how to ask for her hand. He has never done anything by halves, and why should it be any different with his king?

Hob scratches idly at his chest, listens to the rasp of skin against hair, and stares at the tapestry on the far wall. It depicts a starry night sky, silhouettes of a family beneath. He knows, deep in his heart, it is Morpheus, Queen Calliope, and Orpheus as a wee one. His heart aches at the memory of Morpheus speaking of his late wife, the pain in the king’s voice. It was the same agony Hob felt when he lost Eleanor.

Running his fingers over the silken black duvet, Hob turns his gaze to the bed canopy overhead. Speckles of white break up the dark fabric; he recognises the formation of a cluster in the centre. Cassiopeia, mother of Andromeda. Beside it is Corvus.

Across the room, beneath the tapestry, sits a desk. On the desk is a pile of clothing. Hob smiles to himself at the sight and wonders if Morpheus is the one who left them there, if he’d spent time choosing what Hob will wear for the day.

Hob finds that he truly hopes so.

He finally climbs out of bed and shivers at the cool air that envelops him, coats his bare skin. After dressing quickly and tugging on his boots, Hob exits the bedchamber and makes his way through the corridors. He’s no idea where he means to go, but he goes anyway.

The aroma of rich soul greets him the instant he steps out into the early morning sunshine. Dew clings to his boots as he crosses the lawn to the stables. He turns his face to the sky, feels the heat on his skin, and grins. Things could have gone worse, but they hadn’t. He’s here. He’s alive.

Alive and in love and wanting desperately for a forever within these walls, within Morpheus’s heart.

Arion’s head pokes out from above the stall door, and Hob breathes in the scent of animal as he ambles down the aisle to come to a stop before his stallion. He’d carried Orpheus home, this beautiful beast. He'd done his job, and Hob can never show enough gratitude. He runs a hand from forelock to nose thrice then turns toward Marabelle’s stall.

She snorts at the sight of him then clops over straw to nuzzle at his shoulder. He huffs out a laugh and pats her neck, presses a kiss to the side of her face.

“’Lo, lady. Have they been taking care of you? They better be, or—”

“Oh!”

Hob glances back over his shoulder to see the stablehand stood there, pitchfork in hand. “Hi there.”

“Was not expecting to see you, sir,” the young man says quickly, giving a slight bow. “Is everything to your liking?”

“The horses look great. Thank you for taking care of them.”

“It is my pleasure, sir. Is… Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not yet. Thanks.”

Hob pats Marabelle’s neck once more then strides toward the door. The sound of footsteps follows him out, and he sighs. He doesn’t know what he wants to do—or what he’s allowed to do. Being in the heart of the kingdom is something he thought would happen at least once in his life, but to be within the castle walls… It’s unfamiliar, something he never dared dream of.

Off in the distance to his right is an orchard. Already, workers tend to the trees; he can see the shadows moving about. To his left lies the road that will lead him into the centre of town. Sighing, he looks between his two options.

His decision-making process is disrupted by the sight of a small figure darting down the front steps of the castle. He doesn’t think; Hob turns on his heel and runs after Orpheus. The child is fast, faster than Hob gave him credit for, but Hob eventually catches up. His hand wraps around Orpheus’s arm, and he tugs the boy around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, pulling Orpheus to the side. “Does your father know you’ve left the castle?”

“Why would he care?” Orpheus snaps, his fingers clawing at Hob’s in an effort to dislodge them.

“Because he just spent two weeks searching for you to bring you home safely. Because he loves you.”

“If he cared, he wouldn’t let that man stay here!”

“What?”

Morpheus—

It can’t be true. Morpheus would never. How would he, when the lad was part of the group who’d taken his only son? Why could he?

In his shock, Hob’s grip has loosened, but Orpheus doesn’t try to run again. He only stares up at Hob with narrowed blue eyes, bluer than his father’s but no less piercing. Hob lets out a shaky breath then wraps a hand around Orpheus’s shoulder. The child comes easily as Hob steers them back toward the castle.

Once they’re inside, away from prying eyes, Hob crouches to be at eye level with Orpheus. “Your father does care for you. He does love you. You may not understand why he does the things he does, but that changes nothing when it comes to his affection for you.”

“But why would he let that man stay?” Orpheus whispers, and Hob’s heart breaks at the sheen in his eyes. “Doesn’t he care that I was scared?”

Without hesitation, he pulls Orpheus into his arms, holds him tightly to his chest. The child—God, he’s such a young thing, and he’s sobbing desperately against Hob’s shoulder. Hob cradles the back of his head with one hand, running his palm over silken, sun-bleached hair. He stays silent as Orpheus cries and hopes no one comes across them. He isn’t quite certain how someone would react to a commoner comforting the prince even if it is a much-needed hug.

“I’ll talk to your father,” he vows as soon as Orpheus has quieted. “I will make him see reason.”

“Thank you, Hob.”

“Whatever you need, little dove, I will endeavour to provide.” I’d do anything for you and your father.

Orpheus vanishes around the corner a few minutes later, and Hob leans against the wall. He feels wrung-out, twisted up, and turned about. His mind races, struggles to come to terms with the fact that Morpheus is allowing the boy to stay within the palace walls. The boy had a part in Orpheus’s captivity. The boy had a part in the ambush on Hob, though Morpheus can’t have known about that. But to condone this? To encourage this?

Hob storms away in search of anyone who can tell him where to find Morpheus.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance to speak to the king until late in the afternoon. Hob doesn’t bother listening to anything Morpheus says, waiting for his chance. It comes in the form of Morpheus drawing in a breath between one sentence and the next.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Hob snaps as he unlaces his breeches. There is a dress code for supper, evidently, and commoner clothes are unacceptable.

Morpheus pauses, silence reigning in the room for a long moment. Finally: “I beg your pardon.”

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Hob finally faces Morpheus, finally gets a look at the confusion on his king’s face. “Why would you allow that boy to stay here? Do you not remember what he did?”

The king sets his comb down and turns toward Hob. “You dare question my actions?”

“I do, because they’re bloody stupid!”

“Robert Gadling—”

“Oh, using full given names now, are we? Go ahead, your Majesty,” Hob spits out, and when had he balled his hands into fists? “Explain what you were thinking.”

“I am not required to explain myself to anyone, not even you.”

“What about to your son?”

Morpheus’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step forward. It’s a slow thing, deliberate, a predator stalking its prey. “You bring Orpheus into this? You dare speak of a child you know nothing of?”

“I know he’s terrified.”

“How could you possibly know this? Or are you merely presuming?”

“Because he told me!” Hob shouts. Morpheus rears back, and Hob presses forward, forces the king to take a quick step back, then another and another. “He told me he is utterly terrified to have that boy here. That he does not believe you care for him if you allow such a thing. He thinks you no longer love him, Morpheus.”

Morpheus clings to the edge of his bureau, staring at Hob with wide eyes. His breaths come in quick, shallow pants; his chest rises and falls in quick succession against Hob’s. The fire in Hob’s veins flickers at the sight of tears. Despite his rage, despite the disgust that Morpheus would do what he’s done, Hob raises a hand to brush away the damp that slips free.

“Why?”

“He is a child, Hob, barely older than Orpheus. He has nothing.”

“And if it were an adult who begged your mercy after taking your son? Would you spare him then?”

“I would rip him limb from limb.” Morpheus swallows audibly and looks away. “What would you have me do? Execute the boy?”

“I’m not saying to kill him, Morpheus, my love. I’m saying to think of your son, the one who needs you most, and figure out another course of action for the boy.”

“Elijah.”

“Pardon?”

“He said his name is Elijah.”

“I do not give a fuck what his name is, Morpheus. He… Do something to prove to your son that he is most important to you.” Hob steps away, lets his hand drop. He quickly does up his breeches. “I think I will forgo supper tonight. I no longer have an appetite.”

“Hob—”

“Go, sire. Enjoy your meal.”

Hob turns away from the look on Morpheus’s face. The devastation and betrayal that linger there in equal turns. Neither man says a word as Hob slips from the room. As he strides away from the bedchamber he’d shared with Morpheus just last night, Hob hopes the king does the right thing.

Hob spends the rest of daylight riding Marabelle through the woods surrounding the palace. His focus strays from his surroundings, from his own safety. All he can think about is Morpheus’s lack of thinking and his lack of consideration for how his son might feel. Hob may be a father to a dead son, but he can’t imagine ever doing what Morpheus has were Robyn alive and abducted.

Hob would never forgive any who dared touch his child. Any who dared consider joining with those who had.

A twig snaps off to his right, and he pulls Marabelle to a stop, scanning the spaces between the trees. What emerges is a deer taking dainty steps. She halts when she sees him, but he gives her no reason for fear. He wishes no ill so he remains at a standstill. The deer crosses the path and disappears once more.

As soon as the brush is quiet, Hob nudges Marabelle forward and points them farther away from the heart of the kingdom.

The castle is quiet by the time he steps through the doors. Merv bows then vanishes around the corner, and Hob sighs. He doesn’t remember how to get back to Morpheus’s bedchamber, and now he has no one to ask. Exhaling slowly, he resigns himself to exploring until he finds the room—or until he falls asleep where he stands.

Door after door leads to nowhere, or, at the very least, not to where he is searching for. He’s just opened his tenth door when he stops at the sight of what lies beyond. A cavernous room holds a dozen low armchairs, and the walls—God, the walls! Full of books upon which Hob would never before have gotten his hands, and they’re all Morpheus’s. He steps further into the room and gazes around, struck speechless.

“Sir Gadling.”

He whirls around to see Lucienne sat at a table, a small stack of books before her. She raises a brow over her wire-rimmed glasses. A torch illuminates the area in which she sits, a ring of golden-orange light banishing the darkness. Forcing a smile, he approaches her as a child would approach a schoolteacher for a scolding.

“Lucienne.”

“His Majesty was looking for you earlier.”

“Was he.”

She sighs and closes her book, leaving a quill between the pages. When she looks at him again, there is something knowing in her eyes. “Sit, please. I feel we must speak.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not with me, no.” She huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. “No, this is about the king. Might I speak candidly without you telling him what I say?”

“I shall never tell a soul.”

Lucienne blows out another breath and presses her fingertips to her temples. When she speaks again, it’s in hushed tones.

“His Majesty is… mercurial. He often makes decisions on a whim, decisions that have repercussions with which he must deal and loathes to do so. As much as he claims to be impartial, he… Sir, he rules with his heart though he’d never admit it. It is especially true when it pertains to Prince Orpheus. He is blind where his son is involved.”

“He is allowing a boy to stay here, one who frightened Orpheus.”

Lucienne nods slowly; her lips press together, and she averts her gaze as she taps her fingertips to the tabletop. “As I said, Hob, he chooses actions with his emotions. He must see something in the boy that we do not.”

“I cannot imagine what.”

“Nor can I, Sir.”

“You wouldn’t call me Hob even if I begged, would you?”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“Right. I suppose I should find the king, shouldn’t I.”

It isn’t a question, and they both know it. Lucienne smiles, bids him a good night, and opens her book once more. Hob hesitates then exits the library. It isn’t until he’s on the next floor that he realises he never asked why she is awake so late. Shaking his head, he knocks gently on yet another door before pushing it open.

Morpheus is curled tightly on his side, fast asleep though breathing rapidly. His hand reaches out for the empty side of the bed—is he reaching for Calliope? Or is it Hob he seeks? His pale skin takes on a pearl-white glow from the moon shining through the tall window; Hob gazes upon the slumbering king and then sighs.

“Bloody fool,” he grumbles under his breath even as he closes the door behind him.

He strips to nothing within the minute then slips beneath the blanket. He rolls onto his side, facing Morpheus, and takes in his hand the king’s. Morpheus’s fingers tighten around his, and he slowly stirs before his eyes open. Hob wishes he knew what his king was thinking.

“You came back,” Morpheus whispers, voice raw and cracking.

“Of course, my love,” Hob whispers back. “I was angry. That doesn’t mean I’d leave and never return.”

Morpheus nods, and his hair scrunches between the pillow and his temple. “You… You were right. About Orpheus. And Elijah.”

“I didn’t want to be.”

“But you were. I should have listened.”

Hob reaches out and curls his hand around the back of Morpheus’s neck, brings their faces nearer together. “Yes, you should have, but you are human, as infallible as you believe yourself. At least you’re fixing the problem, yes?”

“Yes.”

Hob hesitates then shifts forward, presses his lips to Morpheus’s. He tastes of salt and wine; he pushes closer, and Hob drapes an arm over his waist and tugs him in against his chest. Morpheus’s lips part, his tongue darting out to brush against Hob’s, and his groan reverberates in the space between them. Hob huffs out a laugh when pale, slender hands shove at his shoulder, and he rolls onto his back. Morpheus comes along, throwing a leg over Hob’s waist to straddle him.

Hob holds onto sharp hips hidden beneath silk and rolls his hips. Morpheus gasps, bites his bottom lip; he pushes down against Hob’s groin with a loud moan, and Hob pulls at the waistband of Morpheus’s pyjamas. Morpheus moves only enough to pull his bottoms down then he’s back where he was. Hob’s prick slips between Morpheus’s arsecheeks, and the drag of skin on skin elicits moans from both of them.

Hob pulls against Morpheus until the king shuffles forward. Hob grins up at his lover and physically manoeuvres Morpheus until his prick presses to his lips. Morpheus opens his mouth to say something; his words are lost in the sharp gasp when Hob takes him in to the root. Morpheus leans forward, hands slamming against the headboard, and the change in angle works in Hob’s favour. He draws in a shaky breath before doubling down on his sloppy efforts. His hands press to Morpheus’s arse and guides him into thrusting shallowly.

It doesn’t take long at all before Morpheus comes with a bitten-off shout, whimpering when Hob swallows around the head of his prick, swallows every drop of his spend. Eventually, with a soft whine, Morpheus shoves himself backward, his prick slipping free of Hob’s mouth, and Hob grins when Morpheus tumbles to the side.

He lies beside Hob, panting and pressing his face to Hob’s bicep, only pulling back when Hob begins stroking his own prick. Morpheus watches in apparent awe as Hob works himself toward completion, slow up-and-downs at first before speeding up, grip tightening and wrist twisting on the upstroke. He comes when Morpheus brushes a fingertip against the slit, head falling back against the pillows as his release drips down his shaft.

He thinks he might die when Morpheus moves to lick away the mess.

Morpheus falls asleep moments later, as they lie tangled in each other, but Hob remains wide awake. The intimacy was wonderful, but he can’t help wondering what Morpheus’s solution is. What is to happen to the boy? How will it benefit Orpheus? Will it put Orpheus at ease?

Has tonight put a strain on the too-new relationship between king and commoner?

The moon has reached the far side of the sky by the time Hob closes his eyes and drifts away.

Morpheus is still beside him when he wakes. Smiling, the king leans down to nuzzle against Hob’s throat, lips leaving feather-light kisses there, and Hob hums at the touch. Perhaps things have not yet changed between them.

“What’s the solution?” he asks without moving his jaw, and Morpheus pauses before pulling away. “For the boy, I mean.”

The king sighs and moves to lean against the headboard. “Lucienne’s family will take him in. This solution is dependent upon his behaviour. Should he show signs of reverting to banditry or mercenary work, then… Then we will revisit the discussion.”

Revisit the discussion. At least it’s a different choice, one that won’t send Orpheus into fits of fright at the very idea of the boy being within the walls.

Morpheus runs a hand over Hob’s hair and frowns. “I. Am sorry.”

“For what, love?”

“Our fight. It was…”

“It was normal. And quick, really. Over before we knew it.” Hob pushes himself up onto one elbow and rests his hand on Morpheus’s thigh. “Are you telling me you and Queen Calliope never fought?”

“On the contrary,” Morpheus murmurs, lacing his fingers with Hob’s.

“All the time?”

“It was wonderful until Orpheus was born. The strain of being a father and ruling the kingdom weighed heavily upon me, and the responsibility of child-rearing and queendom weighed upon her. We were no longer the people we thought we had been, and it showed. Yes, we fought all the time. We often did not speak to one another for weeks at a time.”

Hob frowns and stares at their entwined fingers. He and Eleanor fought, of course, what pair hasn’t? But to go without speaking for weeks? It’s unfathomable. It brings a bolt of fear into his heart, as well. Will he and Morpheus ever reach that point? He truly hopes not, but this is so new, so unfamiliar, so unfounded. He knows not what the future will bring, and it could very well be that they will become a copy of Morpheus’s relationship with Calliope.

Swallowing, Hob forces a smile and drops to lie down once more. Morpheus raises a brow before bringing their hands to his mouth, before pressing a kiss to the back of Hob’s hand.

“I love you, Hob.”

“And I you, Morpheus.”

“Then might I entice you with a good fuck?”

Hob laughs deep from his chest at the crass words, at the coy tone, at the mischievous smile on Morpheus’s face. “Oh, please, your Majesty, I would love nothing more.”

It takes another two hours before either of them gets out of bed. They bathe quickly, Hob taking care to be gentle as he cleans Morpheus’s hole, then Morpheus helps Hob dress in the finery too fine for a commoner. The task is made more difficult and time-consuming by the lazy kisses they stop to share, but neither man rushes. There is no need, not today. Not right now.

Or maybe there is, Hob thinks when someone knocks at the door. He pulls away and finishes doing up the jacket as Morpheus crosses the bedchamber. Orpheus stands just on the other side; he glances at his father, smiling, but then rushes into the room to throw his arms around Hob’s middle. Hob freezes with his hands held aloft then reaches down to embrace the boy.

“Thank you,” Orpheus whispers as he stares up at Hob. His blue eyes shine with more than just the tears that linger there. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my little dove.”

When Hob looks up again, Morpheus is watching them closely. His eyes are red-rimmed now. There is something on his face, something unreadable, something that Hob hopes is approval. Hob hopes—God, does he hope—that Morpheus will allow this. Hob wants this so much, it hurts.

Morpheus smiles through his tears.

[serenailith]

two + two equals four(ever)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: c2, golden compass Rating: m Word Count: 1176 Ship(s): (endgame) dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - daemons, daemons, alternate universe - canon divergence, alex doesn’t kill his father but ol’ roddie gets what he deserves anyway, other additional tags to be added, crossover though no actual golden compass characters appear, kinda canonical but also really really  not Summary:

When Dream and his dæmon are captured by Roderick Burgess, Hob has no idea. But when a witch warns Hob of the dangers of the Devil's captivity and the devastation of intercision, Hob can't remain on the sidelines. So he and his own dæmon, Toivo, set off to do what needs to be done.

Unfortunately, things are rarely easy enough to go according to plan.

Link: on ao3

masterlist

chapter ii

Dream sweeps down the street with his robe billowing behind him, the sharp wind biting his face and swirling his hair around his face. Eislyn follows in step; she stays as quiet as usual, her paws padding over icy cobblestone, and he need not glance down to know she is at his side. She will always be there.

The people part for man and dæmon, their own dæmons nearly bowing in deference for the enormous black-furred cat. They are no royalty here, Dream and Eislyn, but there lingers an air around them that commands respect. Demands subjugation if only those they pass would dare enter their realm.

Dream hums low in his throat when he sees the lights burning ahead, twin flames on either side of a familiar door. Eislyn’s head rises further into the air, her silver eyes shining golden the nearer they grow to the torches. He waits until her side presses against his leg before pushing open the door.

Conversation swells around them, dappled with the thuds of tankards hitting wooden tables and raucous laughter. From the back comes ragged coughing—a boy no older than thirteen years pulls the cigarette from his lips and screws up his face as he passes it off. Dream can almost hear the eye-roll that Eislyn gives. They are both of the opinion that boys struggle to grow too quickly. They would rather tire of their playthings than enjoy the bliss of youth.

But youth, these days, is hardly a home in which to linger. The hearth has long grown cold and the walls carry with it the ghosts of happiness past. Boys shove themselves into roles more suited for adults simply so they can survive. They fight to be seen as older in order to make a living for their families. Times are lean for all but especially for those one step from the gutter.

Dream steps closer to the lads at the table, and they all stare up at him. The one holding the burning tobacco drops it to the floor once the heat reaches the tips of his fingers, and he stomps out the flickering embers before turning his attention back to Dream. The four boys are all victims of life, of time and those who have stolen far too much from them. The boy nearest him flinches when he slips his hand beneath his robe.

“Oi, mister, we ain’t—”

He falls silent when Dream places a small stack of coins in the centre of the table. Without a word, Dream turns away and listens to the group fighting amongst themselves over who got to keep the silver pieces. Eislyn casts him a knowing look but wisely stays silent. There is no need for words, not here.

Not now.

Hob Gadling gives Dream an inquisitive look but doesn’t ask as Dream takes a seat across from him. Toivo lowers his great head to the floor, amber eyes finding Eislyn’s silver ones before closing. Like his human, the wolf is far too trusting. Too relaxed where there is danger. Eislyn’s ears flick, the smallest amount of motion, and Dream presses his leg more closely to her side. She settles, though he can still feel the apprehension as if it were within his own breast.

The night ends much the same as it always does: Dream and Eislyn leave the White Horse in silence. Tonight differs, however, in that they leave the White Horse with no intention of ever returning.

Toivo’s quiet whimpering follows them long after they re-enter the Dreaming.

It’s been twenty-seven years since their argument in the tavern, and Dream is no closer to forgiving Hob Gadling for his impudence. His unmitigated gall of claiming that he and Dream are one and the same. The way he’d called Dream something so common as lonely. Dream is the furthest from lonely—he has Eislyn, after all, and Jessamy and Lucienne, Merv. He has the denizens of the Dreaming, dreamers who come each night to build worlds within his realm.

He is not lonely.

He is, however, weakened as he goes after his worst creation. The darkest Nightmare he’s ever made, the one who has taken upon himself the task of hunting humans in the Waking. The Corinthian, always so jealous of mortals, of those who bear their souls outside their bodies, the ones who have souls and not just the will of a Maker.

Dream stumbles as he holds the ruby, and the grains of sand swirl, slow, then shimmer to the ground. The Corinthian’s face swims clearer into view even as Dream’s sight goes dark at the edges. The grin on the Nightmare’s face would frighten anyone, and even his Creator is concerned at the delight. He opens his mouth, fingers tightening around his ruby, but then all fades.

Excruciating. That’s the only word to describe his very existence. The very core of him, the molecules that comprise his corporeal form. Eislyn cries out, a shriek of agony, and hands tug him in one direction while hands pull her opposite. He tries, he tries, he tries, but he’s—

He’s bound.

The world goes dark.

~

He counts another breath—his fourteen thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-first—then opens his eyes. The room is dark at the edges, but overhead is a brilliant light. He squints, though it does no good—it’s still too bright. Painfully so. He draws in a breath that burns and swallows against the agony building in his chest.

Eislyn. They’ve taken her, and he knows not where. He can’t feel her near. It’s too far—too far—too far—too far—and he has never felt such pain in his existence. There has never been such a distance between his dæmon and himself, but now… Now it’s too far, and he’s choking.

A door opens, and he closes his eyes once more. He listens to the footsteps, unsteady and interspersed with a metallic clicking. The sound nears. Despite his best effort to remain still, to remain detached from whatever is happening, he still jolts when something bangs against the glass.

“I know you’re awake, Dream of the Endless.”

He grits his teeth but refuses to open his eyes. The man on the other side pounds on the side of the prison again. Over and over, he beats on the glass and demands Dream’s attention.

“Fine,” the man spits out after one thousand and seventeen breaths. “Be difficult. Just know you will not be getting out of here until you comply. Until you give me what I want.”

Dream never will. But Eislyn…

What have they done to her?

The man is gone when Dream counts his sixteen thousand and five hundredth breath and opens his eyes.

Shivering in the cold air, shocking despite the heat from the overhead lights that burn against his skin, Dream closes his eyes and focuses on the connection thrumming between the two of them. That it remains is a relief, a symbol of hope. Dream fears the moment it vanishes.

Sixteen thousand, seven hundred, thirty-eight.

[serenailith]

dreamling bingo round 2 masterlist

a1: a2: a3: come swallowing—let me taste of your love ao3 | tumblr (e) a4: bed sharing—shut up (and go to sleep) ao3 | tumblr (e) a5: last kiss—don’t go where i cannot follow ao3 | tumblr (g) b1: b2: b3: much-needed hug—my heart, my love ao3 | tumblr (e) (chapter 5) b4: b5: c1: c2: golden compass—two + two equals four(ever) ao3 | tumblr (m) c3:  c4: c5: d1: d2: d3: d4: gagged—speechless ao3 | tumblr (e) d5: holding hands—my heart, my love ao3 | tumblr (e) (chapter 4) e1: e2: e3: kidnapping—my heart, my love ao3 | tumblr (e) (chapter 1) e4: e5:

round one here

[serenailith]

dreamling bingo masterlist

for @dreamlingbingo

a1: semi-public sex—ao3 | tumblr (e) a2: poker night—ao3 | tumblr (m) a3: star trek—ao3 | tumblr (g) a4: bdsm—ao3 | tumblr (e) a5: apologies—ao3 | tumblr (g) b1: bakery—ao3 | tumblr (e) b2: scars—ao3 | tumblr (g) b3: backrub—ao3 | tumblr (m) b4: flowers—ao3 | tumblr (m) b5: too late—ao3 | tumblr (g) c1: loud sex—ao3 | tumblr (e) c2: amnesia—ao3 | tumblr (g) c3: free space—ao3 | tumblr (e) c4: rescue—ao3 | tumblr (t) c5: turn over a new leaf (combined with haunted by regrets)—ao3 | tumblr (e) d1: cybersex—ao3 | tumblr (e) d2: sleepy sex—ao3 | tumblr (m) d3: "i can't lose you again!"—ao3 | tumblr (g) d4: only one bed—ao3 | tumblr (m) d5: blindfold—ao3 | tumblr (m) e1: masturbation—ao3 | tumblr (e) e2: sun burns out—ao3 | tumblr (g) e3: trust issues—ao3 | tumblr (g) e4: confessions—ao3 | tumblr (g) e5: ptsd—ao3 | tumblr (t)

round 2 here