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just-j-really · 10 months

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Another Dreamling fic I'm probably not going to write: amnesia AU, but played for comedy/fluff. Hob forgets everything from the night he met Dream onward because of some sort of curse. Dream decides to look after him until the curse wears off, because he is Being a Good Friend.

So from Hob's perspective, a Mysterious Hot Guy told him he'd see him in 100 years time and then he woke up in the future, with the Mysterious Hot Guy refusing to let him out of his sight.

Hob is under the impression he's being kidnapped/seduced by some fey creature, and "show him the delights the future has to offer" is just how this guy flirts.

Hob is not opposed.

Meanwhile Dream is being dragged along on a whirlwind tour of the year 2023 by a Manic Pixie Dream Medieval Peasant who wants to see absolutely everything there is to see in the future right now immediately.

(I am a little bit thinking of the festival dance scene in Tangled, with Hob as Rapunzel. Only instead of Festival Activities he is enthusiastically dragging Dream around to the various Sights of modern London.)

The Sights in Question are this bizarre mix of 'things a modern person would consider an attraction in modern London' and 'entirely banal parts of modern London' and Hob is having the time of his life. The future has stores full of more food than he's seen??? And types of food he's never seen??? And spices and off-season fruit just sitting there??? And fabric is so soft now???? And medication and pest control are just??? Available??? Life is so rich!!!!

(And on the other hand like. This man was excited about playing cards. Someone please show him an arcade. He is forcing Dream to play every multiplayer game available. Especially the driving ones. Neither of them knows how to drive.)

(Dream takes him to a museum and he's staring at a display from the 14-1500s marveling at how futuristic the technology is. He's actually more excited about that stuff than he is about the whole 'computers' thing because it's close enough for him to have some point of reference.)

(Also sidebar from the comedy- Maybe Dream shows Hob the ruins of the White Horse. Hob stares at the building for a long time, then starts crying. Not outright sobs, just tears steadily slipping down his face like he's not really aware of them. Dream panics and tries to comfort him, mentally kicking himself for showing Hob the one connection to the life he knows in ruins. But Hob, laughing now, explains that this was the first time it really hit him? That he's actually 600 years in the future, not in some fairyland Dream created. And that means that all the disease and starvation and war and world-ending horror he was staring down 600-odd years ago didn't. He was going to grit his teeth and live no matter what but the fact that the world made it here along with him? That humanity's still here? And managed to create antibiotics and planes and chimneys in the meantime? That's a goddamn miracle.)

And Dream is getting dragged along with Hob, at first reluctantly, but slowly falling for Hob's enthusiasm throughout the day/week/whatever. And this version of Hob is like. Outright flirting with him. He's outright flirting with a lot of people, fair, but Dream especially. And of course Dream's having a feeling about it, because of course the version of Hob who doesn't actually know him, doesn't know how cruel he was over the centuries, is the one who'd be interested in him.

The Manic Pixie Dream Medieval Peasant Tour of London ends up taking on a decidedly romantic note, after a few days. And one night, after an evening in a restaurant that Dream knows is one of Hob's favorites, where everyone around them was silently willing them to get a room because the tension between two people who are very carefully sitting on opposite sides of the table and not actually touching, just talking to each other, was far too palpable, Hob caves, and drags Dream into a kiss the second they get back to his flat.

It's a good kiss, and Dream lets himself enjoy it for a moment, because he'll never get to kiss Hob again so at least he can have the memory of this one. Then he gently breaks the kiss and tells Hob, equally gently, that they can't. That Hob doesn't remember the majority of their relationship, how cruel Dream has been to him. That his present self doesn't feel the same way.

And then Hob, who's been staring starry-eyed at Dream this whole conversation, says "I do, though."

And Dream is like "Yes I know you like me now with but the you with your memory intact does not."

And Hob's like "No, I do. I got my memory back right when I kissed you."

And there is, unfortunately, more confusion (Hob explaining that yes he has always liked Dream it's just that 600 years have made him minutely less reckless and also the current him remembers that they are friends and doesn't want to ruin that. But no, Dream is wrong on all counts, he remembers every moment of their friendship and he does like Dream the same way and holy shit??? There is a 'same way'???? Dream wanted to keep kissing him????)

And then they clear all that up and live happily ever after.

(Yes it was a True Love's Kiss thing)

#dreamling #hob gadling #my fic

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seiya-starsniper · 2 months

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I mean, I can't NOT prompt 3."Can you just look at me? Please?" with Dreamling. Because I'm predictable like that.

🤘five-and-dimes

Hey @five-and-dimes, remember when you sent me this BACK IN MARCH? 😅 I finally got around to it, for Sandmannivery and also for Dreamling Bingo!

This was originally supposed to be a shortfic and then it ballooned to 4k, whoopsies! But I don't think you'll mind all that much ahahahaha.

@mr-sadman prompt: Amnesia @dreamlingbingo prompt: Square C1 - Rescue

Tags: Memory Loss, Dream of the Endless Saves Hob Gadling, Time Loop, Angst with a Happy Ending

Read the whole fic below or on AO3: a half-remembered dream

— — — — — — — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was warm and inviting. It was the type of day best spent laying out on the grass in a bed of flowers, with no thought or care to any sort of responsibilities for that day. It was a weekend after all.

Wasn’t it?

Now that he thinks about it—what day is it anyways? Wasn’t there something he needed to do? Why did it feel like there was something he was forgetting?

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was warm and inviting. It was the type of day best spent laying out on the grass in a bed of flowers…

…Where were all the flowers?

When the man sits up all he sees is an endless sea of grass. Where was he? What time was it? How long had he been here? Why was he—who was he?

Why can’t he remember?

What was going on?

How—

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun—

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. Again. The sun was shining. Again. The birds were singing. Always the same song, the same length, the same tune. The same, the same, the same. The sun was shining, but now it felt cold and hollow, not warm and inviting. There was something very wrong about where he was, and now that he was paying attention, he fits the pieces together to form a very simple conclusion.

Hob Gadling was dreaming.

He’d been dreaming for the entire time he’d been here. And he still had no idea where here was. Sometimes he’s laying in a field of flowers. Other times there’s nothing else but grass and rolling hills for miles. Sometimes he hears the babbling of a brook nearby. Sometimes he remembers the vague outline of a cottage that reminds him of his childhood home. The one from 1359.

Hob doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Every time he gets somewhat close to maybe remembering something, his mind just—floats away. He wouldn’t quite call it blacking out, his vision doesn’t go suddenly dark and he doesn’t lose consciousness then suddenly wake up. Could a person even wake up from a dream into another dream? Hob has no idea.

Sometimes though, if he concentrates enough, Hob can feel a deep ache in his muscles and bones. He knows it’s his real body that feels the pain because in this dream world, Hob can run and skip and jump for miles and miles and miles. Wherever his body, his real body was, Hob knows that it hadn’t moved or been moved in a very long time.

Too long, his mind supplies.

Wake up, he tells himself. He’d always been able to get himself to wake up if he knew he was dreaming. But it doesn’t seem to be working this time. Hasn’t worked on any of his other previous attempts really, but Hob still feels like he has to at least try to do it again.

Wake! Up! he tells himself over and over to no avail. Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Nothing.

Hob growls in frustration and desperately looks around the dreamscape, hoping for some sort of sign, some sort of clue for how to get out of here. Was he in a coma? Was that why he couldn’t wake up? Was his body safe? Was he—?

Hob startles suddenly as his eyes catch sight of a shadow. The movement is so swift, so sudden, that Hob’s not entirely sure he didn’t just blink and imagine it all. He whips his head around desperately, concentrating all his focus to the spot where he thinks the shadow may have gone.

And then he sees it. A small wisp in the dark. Hob runs, desperate to catch up to it. He wants to see what it is, who it is, because he’s almost certain the shadow is a person, and maybe they know a way out of this place, a trick to wake Hob up, something, anything to help.

But then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the shadow vanishes into the air, as if it had never been there at all.

But Hob knows that he’s seen it. He knows it’s there.

He knows he’s not alone here. Not anymore.

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was warm and inviting.

“Why can’t I wake up?” Hob asks the shadow, ignoring everything else around him. The shadow stands out in the bright landscape of the dream, though Hob is certain it did not mean for Hob to perceive its presence at all.

The shadow does not answer him. It never does. Hob sees the shadow all the time now, out of the corner of his eye, always just beyond reach. He doesn’t know what the shadow is, but he is certain that he knows the shadow itself. He’s forgotten the hows and the whys and the whens, but he knows the shadow is a friend. That it won’t hurt him.

The problem is, the shadow won’t help him either.

“Can you just look at me please?” Hob begs. If he were stuck here, if even they were both stuck here, wherever this weird limbo between dreaming and waking was, wouldn’t it be better if they worked together? Anything was better than this crushing loneliness Hob was feeling right now. He would do anything to have a conversation with someone right now. He doesn’t know when the last time was that he’d heard the voice of a friend.

“Answer me!” Hob demands, his anger rising now as the shadow continues to ignore him. “Why can’t I wake up from this dream?!”

Silence. Then—

“It is not safe,” the shadow says, and then, once again, it is gone.

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. No. It was an awful day, and Hob screams to the sky and demands the stranger—his Stranger—because something about that rings true in his mind—stop hiding from Hob and face him like a man. That too, rings true in his mind, that the Stranger at the very least, wore the shape of a human man whenever Hob saw him.

As always though, Hob’s questions are met with nothing but indifferent silence.

Hob will not give up. He knows now that something is very wrong, something that is keeping Hob from waking up, from living, and he is determined to find out exactly what.

Ever since Hob encountered the Stranger, his mind has stopped floating away, but now Hob is all too aware that he’s repeating the same day, in this same goddamned endless landscape, over and over again. And he doesn’t know why.

The Stranger knows why. He doesn’t always show up when the day resets, but when he does, he doesn’t speak, nor does he meet Hob’s eye, no matter how much he begs and pleads. If Hob tries to run to him, the Stranger somehow ends up further away, without having taken a single step. It’s infuriating.

Today, Hob can’t see him anywhere, but somehow, he knows the Stranger is here. And still, he ignores Hob’s requests to talk. Hob tries insults next, hurling whatever cruel and uncaring words come to the forefront of his mind. No response. He tries threats. Nothing. He goes back to begging, crying even, for any sort of acknowledgement from this cruel and uncaring god.

No response.

So Hob screams.

He screams and screams and screams and—

— — — — —

It was raining.

Finally, something was different. Hob had grown sick of nothing but sunny days and perfect weather. It was all so fake. The sunny weather was fake, the beautiful landscapes were fake, the trees, the flowers, the singing birds, all of it was fake and Hob hated it here.

Thunder booms in the distance suddenly, followed by the unmistakable crack of lightning, as if the weather had worsened to reflect Hob’s feelings on the matter. Maybe Hob was affecting this tiny little dream world he found himself suddenly trapped in. Maybe he had more power here than he originally thought.

Not that it really mattered anyways. Hob was still trapped, and his only hope for escape refused to talk to him. For all Hob knew, the Stranger he’s been trying so hard to communicate with is the reason he’s trapped here. Maybe he’s keeping Hob here because Hob did something to offend him.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows immediately that it’s not true. The Stranger, whoever he was, was Hob’s friend, and Hob knew, deep in his bones, his weary, achy, exhausted bones, that the Stranger wouldn’t keep him here against his will. There was something else going on, and for whatever reason, Hob wasn’t allowed to know.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Hob says to the falling drops outside his cottage window. “You said it wasn’t safe, but what if I’m not safe out there? Where is my body? Why am I asleep? What happened to me?”

Lightning crackles and sparks in the distant horizon in response, but Hob receives no other indicator that the Stranger, the shadow, had been listening to his pleas at all.

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Hob thinks he has never heard anything more perfect and wonderful in his entire life.

Because today, Hob finally remembers.

He remembers the meeting with his Stranger in 1389. Then 1489. And 1589. And on and on they went, secret meetings in the same tavern once every hundred years. A friendship borne on shaky beginnings, but still steadfast and true. He remembers the name of his friend. His patron. His—

“Dream!” Hob calls out to the sky. It vibrates and shakes and Hob can feel the atmosphere of the dreamscape tremble at the utterance of its maker’s name. Hob learned that Dream’s name is a closely guarded secret, that it is sacred, because to hold Dream’s name in one’s mind is to hold power over the Endless himself.

Even knowing this, Hob still calls for him. Even knowing the pull of Hob’s will, Dream still does not come.

Which means that something incredibly bad has happened. Dream would not lock Hob away like this without cause.

“Why am I here, Dream?!” Hob yells. “What’s going on?!”

— — — — —

It was…a day.

Hob does not know how long he’s been here, trapped, scared, alone. The dreamscape has grown dull with each passing, unchanging day, and Hob’s will to continue on with this charade of a life grows thinner and thinner as well.

He does not want to die. Hob will never ask for Death’s hand, of that much he’s certain. He will stay here for as long as it takes, confident that one day, he will once again taste what it feels like to be awake. To be alive.

But Hob is also tired, and, perhaps more importantly, he is bored. As peaceful as his little cottage is, as safe as it appears, there is nothing left for Hob to do but wait. And he does not know what he is waiting for, other than for Dream to finally speak to him and tell him that everything’s all right again.

So Hob decides to sleep.

He realized, some time back, that though his physical body is asleep, his dreaming body is wide awake. But this manifestation too, needs rest, and cannot sustain itself forever, even in the realm of dreams. His dreaming mind, too, needs rest from time to time, which Hob belatedly realizes is the reason why sometimes he has a dreamless sleep.

Dream, Hob is certain, will wake both his subconscious and conscious minds, when everything is safe in the Waking World again.

The cottage in this landscape of Hob’s mind contains a bed big enough for Hob to sprawl in. Hob wouldn’t have had this bed back in the 1300s, it’s more reflective of the one he shared with Eleanor in the 1500s, back when he was a lord and could afford all the finest silks and sheets. It’s far too large of a bed to sleep in alone, and Hob almost wishes he could craft himself a companion of some sort to cuddle up to, to at least pretend he’s not stuck in his own mind alone. And well, it was probably for the better anyways. Hob is pretty sure that even if he could make himself a companion, it wouldn’t be Eleanor he would create in his mind’s eye to cuddle up to. And well, that would be rather embarrassing to explain.

So Hob settles in his large bed, alone, and lets himself drift off, hoping that he won’t wake too soon.

— — — — —

It was a beautiful…night?

Hob spins and spins and spins, and still, he cannot fathom how it is he’s surrounded on all sides by nothing but darkness stars. He thinks he should be falling, for there is nothing but infinity below his feet when he looks down. And yet, the ground beneath his feet is solid as anything Hob has ever stood on, even if staring at it too long makes his eyes a little dizzy.

Everything Hob has come to know about his dream world is gone. The cottage is gone, the bed he’d been sleeping in for eons and eons and eons is gone, the grass, the flowers, the rolling hills, all of it is gone, gone, gone. Like it had never existed in the first place.

Hob tries running in one direction, then another. Yet for all his efforts, he never seems to truly move anywhere. He wonders what it all means.

Then, Hob sees him. A shadow in the dark. A wisp of power. A spark of hope and light and friend.

Dream of the Endless rushes towards Hob in the blink of an eye and collapses in a broken heap at his feet. Hob startles and then falls to his knees, clutching his oldest friend in his arms. Has Dream always been so small? So frail?

“My friend, what’s happened?” Hob asks, trying to not jostle the other too much. Dream doesn’t respond, only groans when Hob tries to take a closer look at him. “Dream, please, are you all right?” Hob pleads, hoping and praying to whatever entity out there that the Endless was all right. That this wasn’t the end of the line for the two of them.

Even if it was though, Hob is certain he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Hob,” Dream gasps after a moment, his head suddenly shooting up as he meets Hob’s eyes. Hob realizes with horror that his friend’s face is covered entirely in blood, and his eyes are sunken, endless pits of black. Dream looks like someone had beaten him for hours, then thrown him out to fend for himself. Hob feels helpless, not knowing what he can possibly do to help.

“My friend,” Hob wails, tears filling his eyes, and gripping Dream tightly. “What happened to you?”

“It’s over,” Dream wheezes, then coughs out a darkened ball of sludge. “You’re free.”

“What? Dream!” Hob yells, and then—

— — — — —

Hob gasps and coughs loudly as air, real air, fills his lungs. To finally breathe with his waking body is both the most glorious and agonizing thing. He feels as though he had been dead and brought back to life, only this time around, he’d spent a particularly long time being dead. Everything hurt, his head, his eyes, his bones.

“Oh fucking hell,” someone curses from next to him. Hob’s head snaps harshly to his left, trying to locate the source of the voice.

It is a mistake to move so suddenly.

Hot, fiery pain shoots up Hob’s spine and all the way up to the tip of his ears and he groans. The voice curses again, calling Hob a bloody idiot and it’s only when Hob sees a flash of a bright white trench coat that he finally recognizes who it is that’s at his bedside.

“Constantine?” Hob tries to say, but his voice cracks on the syllables. He coughs again. He’s thirsty. Parched even. His tongue feels like lead, and every time he tries to say something else, the words come out as a cough and a wheeze instead.

“The one and only Hobsie,” Johanna replies, still seeming to understand Hob’s intelligible noises anyways. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the flying fuck has happened then,” she adds, gesturing between the two of them. “Let’s get you some water first though, you look and sound like shit.”

— — — — —

Hours later, Hob’s mind is spinning as Johanna explains to him what’s happened to Hob over the past eight months. Eight. Months.

Apparently, someone had figured out that Hob was immortal, and, unsurprisingly, had tried to see if they could steal his immortality for themselves. There was a battle, a negotiation with a demon that Johanna was all too happy to smite, a failed spell, a cult, and—a coma.

A coma induced by Dream. To save Hob’s mind. The demon that the cult had summoned had wriggled its way into Hob’s head, eager for a vessel that would not die so easily. One that could easily wreak infinite destruction and chaos upon the mortal realm.

Dream would not let that happen. He’d followed the path of the demon into Hob’s mind, had fought tirelessly with it, while keeping Hob’s own consciousness locked away in a small pocket of the Dreaming, where not even Lucifer themself could reach. He’d left the guard of Hob's physical body to Johanna, who then stuck Hob in one of her safehouses just outside London, checking on him every other day to see if his condition had changed. She had been just about to leave for the evening when Hob awoke and, in her words, “scared her fucking soul into next Thursday, you git.”

Johanna, unfortunately, has no idea what’s happened to Dream, but she’s not nearly as terrified as Hob feels she should be when he describes to her the last he’d seen of the Endless before he’d woken up.

“That bastard’s too stupid to let a demon off him like that,” Johanna says, shrugging. “I’ll see if I can get a hold of him, but you need to fucking rest, or he’ll kill me himself.”

Hob thinks he should be afraid to go back to sleep, after being asleep for so long already. But shortly after Johanna leaves, Hob finds himself growing sleepy once more, and for the first time, he falls into an entirely peaceful, dreamless slumber.

— — — — —

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was warm and inviting.

Hob takes a deep breath, and smells fresh air for the first time in eight months.

He is awake. He is alive.

It had taken him almost an entire week to recover his strength after he’d woken up. An entire week of trying to make sense of his life, how he’d lost eight months of it, the cult of wannabe wizards who had tried to take his immortality from him, the lies Johanna had spun on his behalf so no one would look too closely into why Hob was suddenly missing. It had been overwhelming those first few days, but Hob’s always been quick to adapt to things, so today he is taking the time to relax and enjoy his hard won freedom.

Hob feels his presence before he sees him. He’s gotten good, over the centuries, at being able to sense when Dream was nearby. There was always just the subtlest change in the air, a sudden smell of morning rain where previously there had been none.

Dream sits next down to Hob on the bench, a loaf of bread in hand, which he starts to break apart to feed the pigeons that have gathered at their feet. He looks much improved from when Hob had last seen him. Still fragile, but whole and unhurt.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” Hob says, turning to face Dream and smiling to show that he’s not angry.

“I am aware,” Dream replies, his own lips quirking up just so. “I apologize for the delay. I had some additional matters to deal with.”

“Banishing demons and the like?” Hob asks with a small chuckle. Dream huffs.

“How are you, my friend?” Dream asks instead of answering Hob’s question. Hob stretches and then cracks his neck in response.

“Still a bit stiff, honestly, but doing loads better,” Hob answers. “Thanks for…everything. Even if I wasn’t always the most grateful at times,” he adds a bit sheepishly. He still remembers how angry and frustrated he’d felt. How lonely he’d felt.

Hob knows, logically, that he’d mostly reacted out of fear and ignorance, much of which was brought on by his amnesia in the Dreaming. But he still feels guilty about all the unkind things he’d thought about Dream, when Dream had been out on the front lines desperately trying to save his life. Things he knows that Dream was able to perceive while Hob was locked away in the Dreaming. He wonders if that’s why Dream hadn’t come to see him right away. If his friend was angry at him, though he didn’t look like it at present.

Hob is shaken out of his morose thoughts by a solid hand on his shoulder. Dream’s hand. God, he really must look like a wreck if Dream is this concerned.

“I am sorry,” Dream says solemnly, “that I took so long to rescue you. You suffered unnecessarily because of my shortcomings.”

“Dream,” Hob says, swallowing a lump in his throat, and trying to ignore the heat creeping up his face at where his friend is touching him. “You saved me. That’s not nothing.”

He’s touched at how much Dream cares, but it really wasn’t the Endless’s fault that Hob found himself in danger. If anything, it was Hob’s fault entirely for not being careful enough, despite centuries of living, and learning that hard way that he needed to be careful.

“But it was my fault you were compromised in the first place,” Dream says, then suddenly goes silent, his face pinched.

Hob furrows his brow, confused. “How’s that?” he asks. “It wasn’t your fault that someone figured out I was immortal.” Dream sighs, then shakes his head.

“Those that captured you were not well versed in the ways of the occult,” Dream answers.“They mistakenly summoned a demon far more powerful than they intended, and it was only because the demon knew of your association with me that they were spared their lives, and allowed to strike a bargain.”

“So the demon only helped because he knew you and I were friends?” Hob asks. “That’s hardly your fault still.”

“That is—not all of it,” Dream says, looking wretched and like he’s marching to his own execution.

“Then what else?” Hob asks, placing his hand over Dream’s own. It’s surprisingly warm beneath his touch, but Hob may just be projecting. Dream tries to remove his hand from Hob’s shoulder, and Hob lets him, but doesn’t release his own grip on the Endless’s hand, letting their hands slide down to the bench between them instead.

“It’s okay, Dream,” Hob says, squeezing his friend’s hand in reassurance. “You can tell me.”

Dream stares at the point where their hands meet, face still pinched with discomfort. Hob lets the silence between them drag out, not wanting to rush his friend. Whatever it was Dream wanted to tell him, it clearly was something that weighed heavily on his mind, and Hob didn’t want to put his friend under any more duress than they both had been through recently.

“The demon knew,” Dream finally says, so quietly that Hob can barely hear him, “that I felt more for you than just friendship.”

Oh.

“Dream—” Hob starts to say, his heart suddenly lurching, but Dream holds up his free hand to silence him.

“That is not the only confession I wish to make,” Dream admits, before he takes a deep breath Hob knows damn well he does not need.

“Okay…” Hob replies, bracing himself, but still feeling hopeful, despite Dream’s somber tone.

“After our reunion at The New Inn,” Dream says, his face now tinted the slightest shade of pink. “You dreamed of me.”

Ah.

“I…see,” Hob says, processing all this new information while trying to calm the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart. “So you’ve known for a while then,” he continues, his question confirmed when Dream nods his head silently at him, still looking somber.

“Why then—” Hob coughs and then clears his throat. “Why all the secrecy then?”

Dream’s brow seems to be in a permanent state of pinched, and Hob wants to smooth it out with his thumb, but he holds himself back as the Endless considers his words.

“My love has been a burden to mortals before,” Dream replies, looking stricken as some painful memory seems to overcome him. “It is, in fact, forbidden for the Endless to consort with mortals, barring certain circumstances,” he continues. “I withheld my knowledge of your feelings, as well as my own, for your own safety. For all the good that it did in the end.”

“Hey,” Hob says, squeezing down on Dream’s hand as understanding dawns on him. “I’m still here thanks to you. And still plan to be for the long haul. Too much to live for, remember?”

“I still put you in danger,” Dream starts to argue, but Hob shushes him gently.

“That sort of danger comes with what I signed up for,” Hob reassures him. “And I’d go through it again, just so you know,” he adds sincerely. “Too much to live for still includes you.”

Dream's eyes widen, shock and hope and awe clearly painted across his features. “You would still—?”

“I would,” Hob replies immediately, leaning in just close enough for them to almost kiss. “You're worth the risk, any day, any century, Dream.”

“You are a fool,” Dream replies, but there’s no reproach in his tone. Only a heat that makes desire curl in Hob’s belly.

“Maybe,” Hob grins, staring pointedly down at Dream’s mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

“You can do more than just that,” Dream purrs, and then suddenly the two of them are enveloped in a whirl of sand that instantly moves them from the park bench to Hob’s bedroom. Hob laughs as he finds himself pinned beneath the King of Dreams.

“C’mere you,” Hob says, tugging his oldest friend down into a kiss.

It was a perfect day.

#dreamling #dream of the endless/hob gadling #hob x morpheus #the sandman fanfic #seiya writes #seiya writes dreamling #sandmanniversary #sandmanniversary 2024 #dreamling bingo #dreamling bingo 2024

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zzoomacroom · 5 months

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Retired amnesia Dream + coma Hob for WIP ask game please 🥺🥺🥺

Thank you for the ask! @linzod asked about this one too, and I'm super excited about it! I only have it outlined so far, but I'm hoping to write it once I'm done with the mpreg fic.

So Murphy is just some guy, as far as he knows. He's an artist, and he's kind of a shut-in with no friends and no life to speak of. He starts having really vivid dreams that, unbeknownst to him, are showing him memories of his past life. He also keeps having these recurring dreams where he meets with this guy named Hob who seems really familiar and keeps telling Murphy that he's real, he's been looking for him, he's trapped in the Dreaming and he needs Murphy to find him in the waking world. Murphy doesn't believe any of it, thinks his unconscious mind made the whole thing up, and he's like, "great, I'm so lonely that my sleeping mind made me an imaginary friend." But then he keeps finding clues suggesting that Hob is telling the truth. He goes to the White Horse and, even though it's abandoned and boarded up, he recognizes it from his dreams. He also maybe finds mentions of Hob in historical texts, the drawing of them from the 1789 meeting, etc. So now he understands that it's all true, and he has to find Hob and hopefully regain his memories in the process.

Now I'm going to put what's happening from Hob's perspective under the cut, because it's a plot twist that would be revealed later in the story.

So how did they end up in this situation? Well, after the Wake, Hob became more unhinged than ever and couldn't accept that Dream was dead. So he planned to do a whole "Dream of a Thousand Cats" style thing and have a thousand people dream that Morpheus is alive again. But in order to organize and orchestrate this whole plan, Hob puts himself into a magically induced coma so he can stay in the Dreaming and make sure the plan works. But once it does, he finds himself stuck there. The mysterious and sketchy person he hired to put him into this coma has disappeared, and now he's trapped with no way to wake up. Morpheus keeps finding him when he dreams, so Hob is overjoyed about that but heartbroken that Morpheus doesn't remember him and doesn't believe any of his dreams are real. Eventually, Morpheus finds Hob in the waking world, wakes him up, gets his memories back, and they live happily ever after.

I don't want to give too much away, but I will say that this fic will also feature Death, Delirium, Daniel, Lucienne, Matthew, Johanna Constantine and Mad Hettie.

Hopefully I'll actually be able to get it written before too long 😭

#ask game #wip title game #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fic #sort of #retired dream #zoom writes #zoom says stuff

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avelera · 10 days

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So I’ve actually made some progress on my Hob amnesia fic (“hob is cursed to forget 100 years each night progressively, so Dream gets a walk down memory lane and learns just how in love with him Hob has always been” etc etc) fic anyway I decided to rewrite the opening (how they got together before Hob got whammied by the curse) which is becomings its own fic BUT I’m enjoying what’s happening there so anyway expect…. A lot of thirst. I’m resolved to finish this fic before posting so ONCE IT’S DONE you’re in for a treat!

#hob amnesia fic #dreamling

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linddzz · 7 months

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Yay!!

Congratudolences on the Surprise Marriage, Hob or Feral Cat Morpheus.

Congratudolences is the fill for the smut prompt "wedding night gets spicy" and is where this snippet comes from! It's like 11 pages and they still haven't banged because it's been a lot of Unhinged4Unhinged Dumbass Antics. Hob is going "tf do you mean this is our wedding reception." Dream is going "OH do you not want to be married to me then???!?!?!?"

Feral Cat Morpheus is less an actual fic WIP and more of the current RP Amnesia!au that my RP bud and I are still cooking. Premise is that after Morpheus bust out of his orb he drained himself too much to enact vengeance on Alex, leaving him with no solid memory of who/what he is and while he still thinks clearly, words are difficult and so hes mostly going with the most ancient language of "Growling and Biting and Hissing, with occasional Weird Moments of Ominous Eloquence"

Hob has never met him in this AU, so their introduction is Hob finding a naked Very Inhuman twink on the beach and tries to help him out, even if the inhuman twink (who Hob assumes is some injured fairy) keeps growling and trying to bite him when he isn't standing at the foot of Hob's bed in the middle of the night staring at him with glowing racoon eyes like a skinny insomnia demon

#asks #wip game #my fic

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qqueenofhades · 9 months

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For the wip tag game, the unknown and static strange

This is the only one of the listed WIPs that is already posted somewhere. It is my Dreamling (Sandman) fic that includes double amnesia, a historical mystery in art manuscripts and museum studies, Professor Hob, Human (or is he?) Dream, a complicated relationship to canon, and a whole lot of uncertainty about how and when they ended up that way. I have not updated it since August (alas), but I DO plan to get back to it eventually. There are currently 9 chapters posted and you can find it here:

#evonnagale #ask #tuss asks #dreamling ff #wip tag game

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valiantstarlights · 1 year

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[Hamilton AU] Keep Me in Comfort For All My Days

Leon (Hob with amnesia) is sick. Mr. Murphy (Dream) takes care of him.

This is a @dreamlingforukraine fic commission for @bazzybelle . ✨️ Thank you for your generosity and your patience 🙇‍♀️ I hope you like it! 😊

The title is from the song, "Non-Stop" from the Hamilton soundtrack.

CW: period typical homophobia. Contains fluffy fluff. 🖤

Some stuff you need to know if you opted not to read the story on AO3:

Hob has amnesia and is going by Capt. Gideon "Leon" Roberts.

Dream is masquerading as a rich foreign lord named Mr. Thomas Murphy to better keep an eye on him.

This AU is also an American Gods crossover. Hob!Leon is living in a two-storey house (called Reverie House), and his housemates are Slavic gods (The three Zorya sisters and Bielebog/Czernobog).

They have a Caucasian shepherd dog who answers to Little Bear and Ovcharka (which literally means sheepdog). 🐶

Leon blinks groggily awake, and the first thing he sees is Mr. Murphy reading a book by his bedside.

A glance towards the window shows him that it is currently dark out. A fire had been lit, but it is a small thing, and he is thankful that it is. He feels like he's burning up.

He could hear the muffled sounds of Mr. Czernobog and Ms. Polunochnaya talking downstairs. And if Ms. Polunochnaya is awake, then it must be around midnight.

He must be dreaming. Because while everything else seems normal, his room has this hazy quality about it, and there is also Mr. Murphy's unexplained presence.

Were he really awake, Mr. Murphy would not be in Reverie House in the middle of the night. And for that matter, he wouldn't be sitting by Leon's bedside, of all the places to sit and read.

So yes. This must be a dream. A dream where he is allowed to look upon Mr. Murphy for a long time without anyone to judge him negatively for it.

Mr. Murphy looks as stunningly beautiful as always. But in the low firelight of Leon's room, he looks otherworldly. His blue eyes now so dark, his raven black hair unbound, the skin of his neck and collarbones showing, his shirt unbuttoned...

Leon should look away. He should not be having these thoughts about Mr. Murphy's sharp jaw, his long eyelashes, his lips that looks so soft--

Mr. Murphy's eyes flick towards him then, and it causes him to blush. Lord have mercy on him. What was he thinking? It's a good thing Mr. Murphy cannot read minds, or else he would have thought Leon dirty and unnatural.

"Good evening, Captain Roberts," Mr. Murphy says. Leon tries not to melt from the sound alone, but it is difficult. The sound of Mr. Murphy's voice is a balm to his soul ever since he first heard it. "How are you feeling?"

Leon opens his mouth to reply, but only a croaking sound comes out. Before he could even begin to feel mortified, Mr. Murphy is already moving.

"Here, allow me."

Without another word, Mr. Murphy stands up and leans over Leon to prop him up in bed, then sits down beside him and pours water into a glass waiting on the bedside table.

Leon did not have time to voice his protest before one cool hand went to gently hold his nape while the other held the glass in front of his lips.

Leon is feeling about ten thousand things right now, from pleasure to panic, all contributing to him feeling unreasonably warm in the face. Mr. Murphy's cool hand on his nape feels good on his heated skin. He wants to lean against it, but keeps himself still and focuses instead on getting hydrated.

When Mr. Murphy suddenly withdraws the glass before Leon could drink his fill, however, he whines and leans his head forward shamefully, chasing the glass with his lips.

"Slowly," Mr. Murphy says. Leon manages a nod, and the glass is offered to him again. When he has drank his fill, Mr. Murphy withdraws the glass again and, to Leon's shyness, wipes the corner of his lips with his thumb.

"Mr. Murphy," Leon says. He does not fail to notice that his voice still sounded hoarse, like he had not been speaking for a long time. His limbs also felt weak, and the room might be swaying slightly around them. Are they on a ship? Why is Reverie House on a ship? "Am I dreaming?"

The corner of Mr. Murphy's lips tilts up at his words, and Leon finds his gaze focused there. What would it be like to make Mr. Murphy smile? What would his laughter sound like? How lucky Leon would be if he got Mr. Murphy to laugh because of something amusing he said.

"You are not dreaming," Mr. Murphy says. "But you do have a fever."

Oh. That explains a lot. Leon leans back further into the pillows to help the room stop spinning.

"Mr. Czernobog has informed me that Ovcharka found you collapsed in the fields while it was raining," Mr. Murphy continues, and this time there is censure in his voice. "What were you doing?"

Oh. Leon blushes, remembering. "I was sketching."

"Sketching," Mr. Murphy repeats dubiously. "You were sketching the field?"

Leon blushes even harder. It makes sense for Mr. Murphy to sound dubious. Soldiers don't sketch, and common-born soldiers certainly do not indulge in the arts during their free time. "I was sketching wildflowers," he says to his hands on his lap. "Because...when we first met, do you remember? You said you like them best of all the flowers. And I saw that there was a patch of particularly beautiful wildflowers in the fields when I was walking by and..." He sounds so silly. A lovesick fool. "I didn't want to simply pluck them from their homes and give them to you in a bouquet, especially when you mentioned that you love their determination to live despite the harsh environment they're in. And, well... I thought to sketch them instead. And give you the sketch, when I finished."

In hindsight, it was incredibly stupid of him to do that. He is no great artist, and the sketch itself must be heavily waterlogged by now, if not torn completely. His heart grew heavy. He really did give that sketch his all.

Mr. Murphy, who has listened quietly throughout Leon's entire explanation, remained silent for a few more seconds before he says, "You sketched wildflowers so you could give the finished piece to me? Instead of simply taking the flowers? Because of what I said about them?"

Leon nods miserably. Even Mr. Murphy thinks he's ridiculous. And the sketch he had so lovingly done must be torn to pieces by now. Because Ovcharka might have found him, and perhaps Mr. Czernobog had carried him back home, but there is no way his sketch survived. Mr. Czernobog is not a man who appreciates art, and would have left Leon's papers and pencils behind because it's a higher priority to get him home, and Ovcharka would have trampled all over his things with her large paws, not knowing the damage she was making and only worried for Leon.

Leon does not blame either of them for his loss. Mr. Czernobog, despite his stern appearance and curt words, is a kind man, and Ovcharka is a good and loyal dog. It is not their fault, but his. For taking too long, for staying out too long, and for not paying attention to the darkening midday skies.

"I will ask the Zorya sisters if your things have been retrieved," Mr. Murphy assures him. "But that is a task for later. For now, I wish to know how you are faring."

Leon wants to tell Mr. Murphy not to worry about his silly little sketch, but his throat closed up at the last second. "I'm fine," he says instead. "Or, I will be. Fevers never really keep me down for long."

"Oh?"

There was a curious note in Mr. Murphy's voice, but Leon is still too out of it to be certain he heard correctly. "Yes," he says. "I have contracted a fever a few times during the war. Some of my fellow soldiers die from it but," he chuckles grimly, "not me. I was even shot in the shoulder, but I healed pretty quickly from that as well. Minimal scarring and no pain afterwards. Hence the nickname Lucky Leon."

He does not mean to sound bitter or ungrateful to be alive. But for every time someone calls him that, Leon thinks about every other soldier who died from the same thing he has survived, and he feels rotten. Why should he survive when more deserving men die of such simple wounds and sickness? They have wives. Children. Loved ones they long to return to.

Leon had none of those. Still has none of those. Perhaps if the war happened now, he would have the Zoryas to think about while he and Mr. Czernobog are drafted to go to war, and Mr. Murphy is someone he would fight to return to, but the men he fought with had actual families waiting for them. Children who will never see them again. Wives who will never kiss them again.

So why should he be the one to survive?

He felt Mr. Murphy's hand touch the back of his on his lap, and stay there. "You have a dark look in your eyes," Mr. Murphy says gently. He's always so gentle with him. Leon does not know what he has done to deserve it. "I guarantee thinking dark thoughts will do you no good. And," A pause. "I, for one, am glad you have not succumbed to illness or grievous injuries."

Pleasure suddenly suffuses him due to Mr. Murphy's words, and he feels guilty. He does not quite know what to say to that, however, and so he simply says, "Thank you. I too, am grateful to be alive."

Because surviving the war means I got to meet you.

Mr. Murphy's hand is delicate and fine boned, but it feels right resting on top of his own rough one. Leon longed to turn his hand, palm facing up, and intertwine their fingers together, but does not dare to. Mr. Murphy will not welcome it. And he would be taking advantage of his friend's kindness if he were to attempt something like that.

"Would you like to have some soup?" Mr. Murphy asks. "The older Zoryas have prepared a vegetable soup earlier. I could have a bowl brought up for you, if you wish."

Leon blinks quickly a couple of times to help him not be overcome with emotion. Mr. Murphy is so kind and considerate. How lucky his wife must be, whoever she is.

If only Leon were a woman, he could have...

Well, not marry Mr. Murphy, certainly not. Mr. Murphy is a rich and important lord, and Leon is just another soldier, common born, and one just lucky enough to survive the war. But were he a woman, and were he pretty enough, and rich enough, he might have caught Mr. Murphy's eye and...

There is an image that surfaces in his mind. Him, dressed in rags, watching a long-haired Mr. Murphy walk away into the night. He wanted to kiss him, but knows that he shouldn't. He knows it would not be allowed. He is too dirty and worthless. Not fit for his Stranger at all--

Mr. Murphy's hold on his hand suddenly becomes tighter, and he has inhaled sharply.

Leon blinks, and the weird vision and the thoughts accompanying it disappears. "Mr. Murphy?"

There is a strange emotion in Mr. Murphy's eyes, and he is looking at Leon like...

Like how Leon wants him to look at him.

With hunger and barely concealed yearning, his body only being held back from moving closer due to propriety.

His heart flutters in his chest. 'I want to kiss you,' he thinks. 'I want you to stay with me. Never leave me again. Please. I will die. I will suffer endlessly.'

Mr. Murphy's other hand, the one not holding Leon's own, has risen to cup his jaw, and Leon could not look away. Mr. Murphy's eyes, a darker blue in the low light, looks even darker now, almost close to black. There seem to be stars twinkling from deep within them, like glittering jewels at the bottom of a lake at midnight.

"Mr. Murphy..." Leon licks his lips unconsciously, and watches as Mr. Murphy's gaze stray on his tongue. He looks like he is about to lean in and...

Leon's heart is beating so fast in his chest. Is he hallucinating? He knows it could happen at the peak of one's fever. For the sick person to see strange images, as well as imagine all their wildest dreams coming true.

He would do anything for this to be real.

Mr. Murphy leans forward, closing the distance between them, and his lips press against the corner of Leon's mouth, the very same corner his thumb had touched earlier.

Leon gasps, and his unoccupied hand reaches forward to clasp Mr. Murphy's expensive coat. His intention is to pull him closer, but he is too weak to do so right now. He wants to turn his head and capture those lips in his, but his heart is now pounding in his head, and the room is tilting dangerously--

"Mr. Murphy," he moans, high and embarrassingly transparent in his desire. "I want--"

He is delirious. He wants everything. He wants his Stranger, who is right here, impossibly, at his bedside, kissing him.

'Love me. Please, love me. I am here. I have been waiting for you for so long. My Stranger. My Stranger. My love. I love you. I love you.'

Mr. Murphy groans against him, pressing their bodies closer together, and his breath smells so sweet, like the scent of home. A place where one is cherished and adored. Leon feels his toes curling under the blankets.

He turns his head to kiss him back, to kiss him properly, and his lips grazed against Mr. Murphy's own before the room tilts on its axis and he is suddenly overcome with vertigo. He turns away and fights against the bile rising in his throat.

Mr. Murphy holds him tighter, but this time he is only assisting Leon so he could rest fully against the pillows. He too, has leaned away now, and his eyes are only full of concern.

Maybe there is something more in them after their kiss, but Leon cannot decipher it properly. He has managed to stave off retching, but he is still too disoriented to think.

"I will have some soup brought up," Mr. Murphy says as the room slowly stops spinning. He sounds apologetic, and Leon knows he must surely regret...

"I will not leave you," Mr. Murphy assures him, and squeezes Leon's hand. Leon manages to squeeze weakly back, earning him a small smile.

"I will call for Little Bear," Mr. Murphy says, and Leon is about to ask him how, because Ovcharka is a bit stubborn sometimes, when Mr. Murphy whistles a thin high note. A couple of seconds later, Ovcharka comes bounding in, woofing softly, then grinning her silly dog's grin at Leon when she saw that he is awake. To Leon's surprise, she does not jump on the bed like she sometimes does, and instead sits on the floor.

"Little Bear," Mr. Murphy says, "Will you please let Zorya Polunochnaya know that Captain Roberts is in need of something to eat?"

Ovcharka woofs softly once more before she pads out. Possibly to do the task.

"You know she can't understand all of that, right?" Leon asks. The room is stable once more, but he still feels dizzy. He is pretty sure that dogs can only be taught simple commands like sit and stay and roll over; not fetch a human to get some food for another human who is currently sick. And how would Ovcharka even convey that to Ms. Polunochnaya?

Mr. Murphy simply smiles at him, just his tiny one, but to Leon, every smile feels like the entire universe lighting up. "Perhaps. But I intend to stay with you, and so I have entrusted Little Bear to go get you some food."

Leon imagines Ovcharka carrying a tray with her mouth, balancing apples, and huffs with laughter. "You're funny, Mr. Murphy," he says, before his eyes slowly droop closed, and before he knows it, he is fast asleep.

When Leon wakes up, it is still dark outside, but Ms. Polunochnaya has just entered the room. When she notices that he is awake, she beams at him. Her face is glowing softly, like moonlight. She is holding a tray filled with fruit slices and a bowl of vegetable soup, as well as a pitcher of cold water and some eating utensils.

And Mr. Murphy is still sitting beside him on the bed, not having moved from earlier. He is still holding Leon's warm hand in his pleasantly cool one, but now their fingers are intertwined.

#dreamling hamilton AU #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #dreamlingforukraine #good job my thumbs #bold of me to call this a hamilton AU when not a single hamilton character is in sight rn #oh well 🤷‍♀️ the fluffy fluff was my priority and I feel like I have delivered ✨️

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roguelov · 11 months

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omg omg omg so I had a dream and I need to talk about it. Okay so it starts off with hanging out with Morpheus on the beach and watching him work, in a moment of being complimented he looks away from his work and it goes berserk it was supposed to be a dream and it went wrong and attacked me and then everything shifted into Victorian London and there is a group worried around me. They take me into their house and call a doctor and I didn’t remember anything but my name. I figured I must be married, as I have a ring on and when asked who my husband was I said I couldn’t remember. The doctor comes and cleans my head wound, and declares I have amnesia. The family said they would support me and let me stay with them until I regained my memories. 6 months go by and no luck with memories, until one day walking through the streets with one of the girls and Hob is across the street and sees me and makes a beeline and says my name I see him and I was like I know you, the girl I’m with gets very excited and asks if he is my husband and he’s like no but I am a friend of her husband. The girl tells me to go with Hob and to find out what my life was like and she rushes home. Hob takes me to the Inn to see Dream and I started to remember certain things and it’s a big deal and I pulled out a necklace with the ring he gave me on it and had him put it on me again and he said let’s go home and everything shifts and it’s the castle and he explains everything that I’m technically in a coma in the waking world he is just happy to have found me and yeah it was a good dream it would make a good fic if I would sit down and write it lol

Bro … my love … you straight up left this world and went to another 😂

The drama? The cohesive story? You just lived a whole other life! And I was invested the whole time!!! Like damn you had it all with such good tropes and god I’m so jealous that is probably one of the best dreams I ever heard I hope it was as thrilling as it sounds

#now this was a story #an A tier story/dream #always band obsessed #ask

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moorishflower · 2 years

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tagged by @arahir and @landwriter !!!

favorite color: NEONS. especially neon lime green.

currently reading: I haven't read a lot of fiction recently because Brain, but i HAVE been reading a lot of poetry. I finished reading John Lydgate's Temple of Glas recently, as well as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Beowulf.

last song: dinner and diatribes by hozier

last movie: i have not watched ANY movies recently but I did rewatch a bunch of S1 of Hannibal, the world's greatest love story

sweet/savory/spicy: savory! i've cut a lot of processed sugar and carbs out of my diet recently and now all my body wants at all times is salt and grease.

currently working on: this question is a call-out to me specifically uhhhh there's Maybe sprout wings, my perhaps too-ambitious Dreamling retelling of The Odyssey, The Whole of Love Contained, my Hob gets amnesia and everyone gets therapy fic, an as yet unnamed vampire AU...

i am gonna tag uhhhh @arquiving @arialerendeair @gomeerkatme @bluesundaycake and as always only if you want!!!

#ask meme

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arialerendeair · 2 years

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I posted 2,570 times in 2022

That's 1,012 more posts than 2021!

106 posts created (4%)

2,464 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@cenedrariva

@cuubism

@theawkwardterrier

@murderturtles

@thuriweaver

I tagged 1,173 of my posts in 2022

#dreamling - 618 posts

#dream of the endless - 245 posts

#the sandman - 183 posts

#aria posts - 146 posts

#hob gadling - 127 posts

#sandman - 83 posts

#yes - 58 posts

#malec - 50 posts

#i love this - 45 posts

#my heart - 30 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#but i really do believe people need to understand it’s not loving the source media as much as it is loving the relatability of the media

My Top Posts in 2022:

Challenge Mode

50,000 words.

48 Hours.

Starting now.

Wish me luck!

65 notes - Posted November 19, 2022

I’ve seen so much meta and so many posts about Nightmare as Dream’s other form, but I am obsessed with the other side of Nightmare’s coin.

What about Daydream? What about Dream when he’s in the fresh blush if love that’s like the first days the flowers bloom in spring? What about Dream when he had a wife and son and his son’s music echoed across the Dreaming?

What about two parents who were so tied to creation, teaching their son to sing, and to play music, and the Dreams that must have been created before it turned to sorrow. What about the happy side of the coin?

I’m just having a lot of emotions about Dream’s other aspects. I just. I love Nightmare. I love writing Nightmare (and Torment, who is a step beyond Nightmare in my mind), and their opposites. Who are Dream, and… well. Daydream.

66 notes - Posted November 14, 2022

Alec Lightwood Birthday Bash - Prompt Fill

From @to-the-stars-writing

I've seen a thousand amnesia fics, one or the other forgetting who they are, but what about a dual-amnesia fic where something happens on a mission or because of a spell and the others come in to find Magnus and Alec both temporarily forgot who they are, but they're still flirting like crazy with one another

~!~!~!~!~

When Alec woke up, there were three problems immediately apparent.

Number one, he was chained to the wall.

Number two, he no longer had his stele, his bow, or seraph blades.

Number three, there was someone else across the cell and he looked like he was in even worse shape, if that was somehow even possible. Which meant that he was going to be rescuing not just himself, but someone else too.

"Hey," Alec hissed, glancing toward the ominous looking door. "Hey, open your eyes. I can't do this alone, and need your help."

No movement, which meant that the other man was truly unconscious. Alec frowned as he took the other man in properly - pants that, angels below, were they painted on? A shirt that was... less fabric than it was supposed to be based on the slashes he could see, and a faint sheen of glitter on his eyes and hair could only mean one thing. He was trapped in this cell with a warlock, for angels knew whatever reason.

Alec looked around the cell again and tugged at his chains. He had a little bit of give, which was more of a blessing than he would have expected, and his feet weren't chained to the ground. Another quick check confirmed that he still had his boots, and even though the small knife he kept in the holster was gone (dammit, Jace was going to pout about that for hours, that had been a present), what he actually needed was not.

Taking a second, Alec took a deep breath and focused - most of his runes had expired, but he could still hear the sound of guards much further down from their cell. The only breathing he could hear belonged to him and the warlock nearby. Which meant if he made a little bit of noise it wasn't going to bring anyone running. He looked down at his boots and took a deep breath, testing all of his weight on the chains for a long moment.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're about to do something devastatingly ridiculous that only shadowhunters know how to do?"

Alec looked up at the quiet voice and saw that the warlock was awake, relaxing. At least he wouldn't have to be running around with an unconscious body. That would have made things frustrating and unreasonably difficult. "You have a better idea? Magic, maybe?" he hissed back.

The warlock hummed and shook his head. "Unfortunately, however we ended up here and based on the..." he wrinkled his nose and licked his lips. "Memory loss drought I can still taste the after effects of, my magic has either been drained, or I spent all of it. I'm not without some skills, but nowhere near your own, I imagine."

"I'll stand for you being able to walk," Alec muttered, ignoring the way that sparkling gold nail polish on his fingers shone on the faint light of the cell. "You injured anywhere?"

"Thankfully no." A faint rustle. "I am, however, not standing on the ground, so all of my weight has been on my shoulders and arms."

Alec winced in sympathy. That was going to mean he'd be able to walk but not do much in the way of fighting while his arms got their feeling back. "I should be able to get us out of here," he reassured and looked up at his hands again. "This might take me a couple of tries."

He took a deep breath and lifted his legs carefully out in front of him. Breathe in deep, and then move. Shifting slowly with his grip against the chains, Alec brought his legs up further, bending himself almost in half to fumble with the secret latch on the side of his boots.

"Darling, yoga instructors would envy that flexibility," the warlock praised. "Not to mention that it does give one a wide variety of IDEAS, the nature of which is entirely inappropriate for our current predicament."

Alec fought down the urge to snort, his arms starting to burn before he'd worked the lock pick half out of his boot. He dropped his legs back down and breathed through the burning of his arms. "Fuck, I need at least one more round."

The warlock chuckled. "Please feel free to do that as many times as you like. I am quite enjoying the view. I might enjoy a more practical demonstration later."

Alec snorted. "Pretty sure this is not the place to be flirting."

"On the contrary, it's the perfect place to be flirting," the warlock correct. "My name is Magnus, and I will be happy to take you out to dinner after this is over."

"Your wife wouldn't like that," Alec said, his eyes drifting to the ring on Magnus' finger. He took another deep breath and forced himself to relax, waiting for the burning to subside.

Magnus looked at the ring on his finger, blinking in surprise. "I've never had a wife, or a husband, mind you I am as equal opportunity as it comes. Where did..." he flinched, his head aching. "Ah, memory loss potion, right."

Alec gave him a rueful grin. "If it's any consolation at all, I would have said yes if you weren't attached." He'd never met someone as beautiful as Magnus in all of his life. If he'd had the chance, he probably never would have let someone like the warlock go. "All right, let's try this again."

Alec swung his legs up in an easy, determined motion and waited, breathing hard, for his fingers to bump against the lock pick. It took three more tugs, but at last it was free in his fingertips and he could drop his feet again with a groan. His whole body was sore and he was going to pay for doing that without runes tomorrow, that was for sure. "All right, now to see if I remember how to do this..."

Magnus hummed. "Where did a shadowhunter learn the art of lockpicking, I might wonder," he said, watching as the shadowhunter bit his lip in concentration, his eyes drawn back to the delicious sight of those lips reddening.

"My siblings," Alec said, and that was enough explanation, apparently, for Magnus, who said nothing further as he finished getting himself completely unlocked, carefully resting the chains against the wall.

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67 notes - Posted September 17, 2022

What it says on the tin - and I love it.

95 notes - Posted October 8, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

A Knight’s Favor

Okay hear me out.

Renaissance Fair - Hob drags Dream along for the fun of it all, mostly for an excuse to wear some of his oldest clothing, and his replica claymore (with dulled edges), attracting attention from everyone as he and Dream move together.

They watch performances by the dozen, and take in the tournament matches, when, after it’s all over, the master of ceremonies steps forward and says that he’s going to need everyone’s help to coax someone to do an exhibition match.

Hob’s eyes are widening and he’s cursing as Evan looks up at him, smirking wide and he’s nearly scrambling out of his seat when Evan gets the crowd shouting his name in a chant, demanding he come down and put on an exhibition.

Dream, of course, is watching all of this in amusement, and Hob’s just, embarrassed (in a proud way) and sighing. He explains that it’d disappoint people if he didn’t, so he steals a quick kiss (which gets all of the AWWWs from the audience) and heads down to the arena. He and Evan are kitted up, and have their weapons of choice (longsword vs. claymore was always an interesting one, since neither of them bother with shields).

Hob is just settling into position, when a ROAR goes up from the crowd and he sees Evan laughing and gesturing behind him. His breath catches at the sight of Dream standing there, holding out a ruby, a clear replica of HIS ruby, on a shimmering golden chain, a faint smile on his lips. He’s approaching before he realizes it.

“I believe it is custom to bestow a favor on the knight one wishes to win,” Dream says, his voice soft as he bends down and drapes the chain over Hob’s head, settling it against his chest before tucking it into his leather jerkin. “Do attempt to win for me, valiant sir knight.”

Hob’s flushed (and it has nothing to do with the light armor he’s wearing), and staring at Dream, who has the smuggest smirk on his face that he’s going to kiss off as soon as he’s done winning the battle. But he nods, because of course he will win this fight for Dream and he turns back to Evan.

Evan is smirking and Hob resolves to wipe that smirk off his face, and settles into a stance he hasn’t used in far too long. He doesn’t hold back, not for a second. He’s not going for a killing blow, only disarmament, but he can see the surprise on Evan’s face as he twists and wields the claymore in a way that only masters of it can.

The fight is quick, brutal, and the crowd is roaring their approval.

Hob can feel the heat of the ruby against his chest as Evan tries to push him back, forcing him into tighter combat. A quick twist of his hips, faking dropping to one knee and Hob was able to toss Evan over his shoulder, sword and all, before spinning to point the claymore at his throat, grinning.

Evan will laugh of course, and as the crowd cheers, he hugs Hob and thanks him for the match, and Hob turns to Dream who is...

His eyes are almost as hot as the ruby burning against his chest, the ruby that stands out against the white linen shirt he’s wearing under his armor, and Hob is grinning, triumphant and victorious as he strides towards Dream and reaches out for his hand, bowing low over it in a courtly bow before yanking his Dream into a kiss. There’s another roar around them, but Hob forgets all of them as Dream kisses him hard enough to have him forgetting his name, let alone any silly old tournament.

202 notes - Posted October 3, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #My year in review should literally be #“Aria did nothing relevant for the rest of the year”#“But then spent 2.5 months reblogging Dreamling NONSTOP”#“And that is all the info we have on her - thanks”

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