#hob ch.7

[valeriianz]

For the fic writer asks:

4. Obviously you did research for BitB. I'd love you to ramble about it if you like I'm sure you've got STORIES

5. Did you outline it?

7. How'd you decide it would be Hob's pov?

25-27 I'd love to know a/some favorite lines, details, and any lore you might want to share

omg TJ what wonderful questions! thank you!! this is going to get LONG!

4: Rambling about research!

do you wanna see a screen shot of my bookmarks under my "band au" folder?

man, and that's only what could fit on the screen.

there is... SO MUCH i chose to ignore for this fic. ideas that i had to drop, lines or extra details about the other band members equipment. more logistics, what Lucienne actually does, what Mervyn has to put up with as the new touring stage manager... i realized very early on that i couldn't possibly cram all this (super cool and eye opening) information into the fic and still keep reader's interest and, most importantly, to not stray away from the fact that this is a dreamling fic. whenever i felt myself getting carried away with a side character or job or even social media numbers, gossip, outside POVs, i had to reign myself in and get back on track. there will be time for exploring everything i missed in side stories after BitB is finished. i just hope i still have the energy to write it all.

once, i was so deep into research that after publishing chapter 2, i went into work and when my chef asked what "GA" meant on my prep list, i answered with full confidence, "general admission."

(it means "get ahead.")

the worst part of this entire writing process is im still learning new shit. i havent rewatched or read a lot of what i've saved because, to be very honest, i was feeling a little burnt out. it's why we're kinda full steam dreamling now. it's why ive been glossing over a lot of technical stuff and being vague about conversations amongst the crew/not including it at all. i don't prefer ignoring my research, but at the end of the day i want to still enjoy writing this fic and finish it. even if i can't be as descriptive and detailed and nuanced as i used to be.

5: Did you outline the fic?

(also asked by @hardly-an-escape!)

i wouldn't call what i have a proper "outline," it's more like a 20k word document filled to the brim with notes that i skim at least a dozen times while i'm writing a new chapter (being in my brain is literally hell). i live multichapter life very dangerously. i copy and paste lines or sections (always scattered, never together! augh!) that are meant to go together and plop them in a new document titled "band au ch.#" and then i structure the chapter around what i want to happen.

but to answer this question in the plainest of terms: yeah. i know exactly what's going to happen up until the very end. even if its all in my head and the only concrete shit that's written down are beats/plot points. i'll figure out the rest later!

7: How'd you decide it would be Hob's POV?

i actually never even considered writing it from Dream's POV. this was my first fic in the fandom (which is so nuts to think about lol) and writing in Dream's POV sounded so scary lol. i also just thought Hob's would be easier because i have worked a few backstage shows, back in my college years. i figured eh, i can make this work. and i loved exploring how weird and mysterious musicians can be, from a normie's POV. making Hob a fan first and having him worry about developing a parasocial relationship... it was fun to explore.

25: Share your favorite line

oh god, i have so many haha.

“What are you thinking about?” starting in ch.2 and onward lmao

“It’s–” Dream laughs quietly, bitterly. “I don’t like change.” He says each word with emphasis, eyes trailing down to fixate somewhere past Hob. “And I still hold onto the things I can control, like my instruments–” his eyes swing up to regard Hob apologetically. “Or my clothes or my–” he brings a hand up and wiggles his fingers around his head. “My hair.” ch.4

"His majesty is pleased." ch.5

“You are obsessive,” he states, slow and cool and with a quiet smile cracking through his composure. “Just like me.” ch.7

“You look good.” Hob has to lean in to say so, unwilling to raise his voice amongst the roar of the fans. ch.11

“Del looks like porcelain, but she’s actually made of steel.” Desire swirls the contents of their glass before pushing their shoulders back with a deep breath. “She's tougher than all of us.” ch.11

“Everything. I want…” his fingers tighten in Hob’s hair, pulling him closer, speaking against his lips. “…Everything.” ch.14

26: Share your favorite detail

how intentionally coy Dream behaves. i love keeping him a mystery and deciding when and how much to allow his intentions to peek through has been so fun lol.

Despair is in fact covered in tattoos and piercings! i say this because i feel like sometimes i forget lmao. (but also her and Hob don't interact much so. my bad haha).

Delirium's constant explosion of color in the way she dresses <3

Hob's dedication to his job, Dream, and the people he cares about the most. i don't care if people think i'm making him too soft and good, im gonna project on that man and make him a sweet, sweet simp lmao

and ah, this doesn't matter anymore, and i kinda regret doing it but. i originally had Dream's favorite bass all black but the pickguard was white. so it actually looked like Jessamy. not gonna lie when @designtheendless drew it all black i decided i liked it better that way. and truly i do. that's when i went back to ch.1 and changed it haha. to actually see the guitar with Dream, all done up sparkling black and purple flecks... gosh it's just so him. but then i got up to the reveal that the guitar's name was Jessamy and i was like, "oh, right." lmao. no one seems to care so i'll leave it be.

27: Share a piece of lore you made up for the story

i have a lot lmao. and this post is already so long... im hoping i can get to some if not all of it in side fics in the future. but for now, here's some that's more like headcanons but:

Dream hates flying. he can full on go into panic attacks on the plane if he allows himself to get into his own head.

this was mentioned briefly in ch.4, while Dream was discussing the formation of the band, but Despair was in another band before joining Endless. she is the only character in the fic who gets to keep her English roots (lol sorry) and is the oldest in the band (30).

all of the band members ages: Dream, Desire, and Death are all 28 and Delirium is 22.

Dream can experience subdrop after going too hard during a performance.

Dream paints his own nails, it's very therapeutic.

as an exercise, i explored my own headcanons for Dream in this verse in a word doc, and one thing i will share from it that you might find interesting: If I were to ever give Dream a theological values, I would describe him as a satanist. He is a physical and pragmatic person, nonconforming, and although he is introverted, he enjoys being a part of a community (he loves his band).

also found this in my notes: How Desire and Dream got along was Death making them fight it out. Hob raises an eyebrow “like in a brawl?” He couldn't imagine Desire throwing hands. “No, in a pillow fight that escalated in hair pulling and verbal taunts.”

fic writer asks

[avelera]

🗡️ This Rough Magic - Ch. 7 🗡️

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Summary: After the disastrous 1889 meeting, Hob Gadling turned to the occult to find a way to contact his stranger and apologize. Yet despite becoming a fairly adept occultist in the process, Hob ultimately lost his nerve and never cast a single spell to contact Dream. Unfortunately, that was not the end of the matter, when Hob's dabbling brought him to the attention of Roderick Burgess, who is now convinced that Hob is a fellow Magus, capable of convincing Dream to give Burgess the gift he gave to Hob all those centuries ago: immortality. Now, Hob must use wits, magic, and a great deal of charm to convince Roderick Burgess he is indeed an ancient, powerful Magus who wants nothing more than to help Burgess become immortal too, if he is to get himself and Dream out of Fawney Rig.

---

Ch. 7 is up! Let's just say this is a hell of a chapter. Just, uh, remember this is a Dreamling fic, I suppose? 😬

[delta-pavonis]

Fic Update: Name Me, Tame Me Ch 7

Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || In Progress Alternate Universe - Mafia, Mafia AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, alpha!Hob, omega!Dream, BDSM, D/s, Dom/sub, kink negotiation, voyeurism, masturbation, vaginal sex, anal sex, cowgirl position, multiple orgasms, riding crops, (almost) no lube, squirting, female ejaculation, first time squirting, shibari, oral sex, posessive Hob, lingerie, weapons kink, object insertion, bloodplay, biting, licking cum off the floor, come eating, slut praising, sex furniture, spanking bench, discussion of cock and ball torture, aftercare, cock cages, shower sex, come marking, scent marking, watersports, urination, anal fingering, breeding, breeding kink, discussion of mpreg, orgasm delay/denial, bondage, spreader bars, face-fucking, discussion of somnophilia, impact play, flogging, St. Andrew's cross, anal fisting, knotting, collars, overstimulation, blood kink, blood drinking

Hob wants to wake to this every morning for the rest of his life.  Hob wants to go find the Fountain of Youth so that they can live forever and do this until the inevitable heat death of the universe.   Hob has one more morning after this. Fuck. Hob has to take a piss.

Read Chapter 7 on AO3

[landwriter]

Oaths | Dream/Hob | 34K | Explicit | Ongoing Ch.7: True Names (6K)

Falling In Love, Magical Realism, Dream is a Beautiful Fey Creature and Hob is a Handsome Bandit, Protective Hob Gadling, Protective Dream of the Endless, Historical References, Scotland, Middle English, Border Reiving, Adventure & Romance, Fairy Tale Retellings, Alternate Universe - Historical/Medieval/Fairy Tale, finding beauty in hard times, Oaths & Vows, Curses, Outdoor Sex, First Time Blowjobs, Frottage, Anal, Kissing in the Rain, really a lot of banging, Hair Braiding, Dirty Talk, Ballads, Duty, Friendship/Love, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, Canon Echoes, Self-Denial, Repression, Tenderness, Confessions, Bathing/Washing, Strangers to Lovers, Lovers to Friends, Friends to Idiots, BAMF Hob Gadling, (absolutely fucking feral Hob Gadling), unhinged words and deeds, or: a man and a fey walk into a meadow and they're both equally insane

What made you change your mind, he’d asked Catte, at her wedding. He remembered her words, even if he’d made no sense of them at the time. He understood now, and understood why there had been sadness and worry in her eyes alongside the joy. Nothing, she’d said. I never changed my mind. But my heart was stronger.

No summary this week. All I want to say is THANK YOU to everyone reading and commenting, and that this chapter is for you. I am so excited to share this piece of the story that after clicking post I'm going to turn off my computer and go climb a mountain just to calm down a little. would walk into a storm for you all <3 (note: i will not be turning on my location at this time)

[Read on AO3]

[cuubism]

WIP Tag Game

tagged by @pellaaearien 🥰✨

RULES: post the names of the files in your WIP folder. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

I always have way more wips than I can handle, and here are some.

Michelangelo's Hands

Good Horses

80s dreamling

In Waking Dreams ch. 7

wish pregnancy fic (lolll)

dreamling shibari

Covetous

Silly Rabbit installment - "Webs"

Deja vu, Deja Connu chapters 4 - 11

sequel to prince dream/knight hob smut fic Trade Secrets

"touch"

the melting press of the sun - part 4

Complex Mathematics - elopement chapter

the better to see you with, my dear [spy au] - chapter 4 and onwards

tagging @five-and-dimes and @im-not-corrupted, if you want to ✨

[fancy-rock-dove]

Chapter Head Art for Maybe Sprout Wings (Full set)

I have had just, So Much Fun working on these. This story really is built on such a great concept, and with such fantastic worldbuilding, and with action so thoroughly in tune with its themes that it really does reward digging into. @moorishflower's writing kills me in the best of ways (and in the sleep deprivation kind of ways but I have no regrets), and designing them was a great time. And on top of that, everyone here has been just, so lovely, so I'm very excited to post the full set of chapter head illustrations!

Stylistic consistency continues to elude me, but hopefully these look like a matched enough set regardless. Cursive titles are the chapter titles, block print is my own title for the illustration. Just for fun, and in tribute to the (probably truly unhinged) amount of time I spent thinking about Symbolism while making these, I'm including one selected Fun Fact relevant to my thoughts on some part of each of these at the bottom of this post in case that interests anyone!

Ch 1: Baobabs are some of the oldest living flowering plants on the planet and can live up to two millennia. I have a lot of feelings about the sheer volume of life these trees can contain (both spatially and in time) and what that means for how we look at them.

Ch 2: If Abel were looking to avoid anachronism, he could still absolutely have left out books that were machine-printed with moveable type, but they'd probably have to have been in Chinese or Korean, from somewhere that had already widely adopted the technology by the 14th century.

Ch 3: Homer's works contain what is believed to be the first written mention of apples in Ancient Greece. Its writing is about as many centuries removed from the events of the Odyssey as the events of this chapter are from the first recorded mention of apples in England.

Ch 4: An ink quill is definitely more aesthetic, but graphite had actually been discovered in England and pencils invented in the decades prior to Shakespeare's first writings. It's entirely possible he could've been jotting down quick notes with a pencil like any stagehand today.

Ch 5: Though Corinthian style architecture is named for the Greek city of Corinth, with which it's associated, its inventor Callimachus is actually thought to be Athenian. The spiny, curling acanthus leaves used in its motifs are generally associated with long life, immortality, and rebirth. Go figure.

Ch 6: Symbolically, clovers are a sign that others are thinking of you. They're associated with good fortune, and apparently also male energy, and seen as a sign of protection. Excellent Fiddler's Green groundcover here.

Ch 7: Three-masted, fully-rigged ships became common in Europe by the 16th or 17th centuries during the Age of Sail because the extra space for sails became more necessary with the increase in open-ocean voyages. Making them the go-to type of vessel for both trade and exploration.

Ch 8: The simple but effective design of drop spindles is largely unchanged from their first documented use in the first century CE. there's evidence of their use for spinning (making a single, stronger thread from many disparate fibers) dating back at least to the advent of agriculture, some 10,000 years ago. Definitely what I picture Clotho using.

Ch 9: The fractal, branching structures of roots, lightning, and Lichtenberg figures are all self-similar: you can get much closer and they'll still appear very similar or identical to the way they were at a distance.

Ch 10: The throne room scenes of Sandman were shot in Guildford Cathedral. The Dreaming's Castle was intentionally designed to be a mashup of a whole ton of architectural styles, but the facade and throne room definitely feel gothic or neo-gothic. It's been a classic for centuries and the gothic-style window is definitely the kind I picture Hob's room having, at least on days the castle's feeling a bit fancy.

Ch 11: The item at the front left there is a weaving shuttle. According to Artemidorus, while dreaming of most kinds of looms indicates that you should expect rest, dreaming of a warp-weighted loom -- the kind which was common in bronze-age Greece and enables multiple people to work together on the weaving -- indicates an upcoming journey.

Ch 12: I feel like I've already talked about the symbolism of this one elsewhere, so for this one, instead of a fact, a comment (that I found fun): The binding circle in this only shows up in areas covered by the puddle of the Dreaming Sea, the means by which the nature of the "gilded ring" was elucidated. :)

Ch 13: Greek ships often had eyes on their bow, which among other things, was intended to imbue them with some will and ability to avoid obstacles. The Argo famously had eyes and also some innate awareness/intelligence, and could actually speak to the crew.

Ch 14: While Calliope, muse of epic poetry and eloquence (and the one invoked at the beginning of the Odyssey) is associated with a book, scroll, or tablet, Erato, muse of romantic poetry and love stories, is depicted in crowns of rose and myrtle. My title for this one was very nearly just (Invocation pt. ii). Also, I have a headcanon that Dream has only seen very bad performances of the Odysseyif ( he's seen any at all) since antiquity. Any show that literally begins by calling his ex is something he's not gonna stay for unless he's really sure she won't actually show up.

Whew! thanks to anyone who actually read to the end of my rambling here! Clearly this whole story has been really, really fun to just turn over in my mind. Cool stuff just keeps falling out of it! Since I would literally be two photos under Tumblr's limit on this post otherwise, how about a couple bonus alternate versions at the end here? Because why not?? I added some red accents to a couple of these for fun, and though it doesn't fit the for the chapter headings, I do think it looks cool!

[coffeeandritalin]

(HOB, vol.1, ch.7)

Ok, but it’s so incredibly cute and sad how happy this door makes Xie Lian. It’s probably the first “gift” he’s received from someone in centuries - and specially made for him. And the way he continues to absolutely adore this door that San Lang built him… 🥹

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 7: two minutes | 5.8 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Hob finally starts processing some things.)

Gwen made her way to him on soft, silent feet, dragging their impressively equipped first aid kit closer along the counter as she went. Her hands smoothed across the span of his aching shoulders, and she hugged him as close to her as she could while he remained submerged past his elbows into the rancid bath, keeping Morpheus’ head above water.

She kissed his bleeding, disheveled head, and Hob cried harder.

“I’ve got you,” she promised in a whisper. “And we’ve got this. Yeah?” Hob took deep, shuddering breaths and nodded in sloppy silence. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done while he’s out.”

They pulled apart, she rolled up her sleeves, and they set to work.

With every layer they pulled from his skin, with every coat they scrubbed away, Hob’s outrage and grief deepened. Those once silken black locks broke apart in his hands in the way the hair of the starved and decaying always did, like brittle straw gummed together with grit and sweat. His beard, still such a strange sight to behold, was no better, and Gwen treated both with as much gentleness as she could, working first shampoo and then conditioner through both in a few ginger rinses. Hob, meanwhile, set to cutting away Morpheus’ clothes, cleaning away what was revealed and doing his best to keep track of what was months-soiled skin versus wounds. Eventually, the water grew too dark to see through, and they drained the bath, rinsing out the ceramic as best as they could before filling it back up with another round of hot water. They repeated the process, drained and filled and drained the tub again, and now Hob was satisfied that they could see the damage clearly. It was time to take inventory, to clean and treat as best as they could, and tidy him up.

There were pressure ulcers to his right hip, knee, and ankle from the long months spent pressed onto his increasingly boney side, and another to his tailbone. All were gnarly and deep and angry, draining all sorts of colors and fluids and smells, and Hob gritted his teeth against the bile at the back of his throat as he dabbed nearly a full tube of antibiotic cream into the wound beds and gently packed the ones on his hip and tailbone first with damp gauze and then taped more dry gauze over them. His knee and ankle were not yet as bad, and he wrapped them heavily in gauze after drowning the beds in ointment, hoping it would be enough. His skin was both raw and calloused from the repeated cycles of sun and cold; his hands and feet especially were frost-bitten and gnawed, and bug and vermin bites peppered his skin in scabs and cuts. Hob and Gwen finished the last of the antibiotics and two packs of Band-Aids, going through and covering what needed to be covered while leaving the rest open to the air. Bruises mottled every bony protrusion of his body, pooled in the spans of him that had been pressed to the ground for months on end, and Hob swore that in the past hour, he could’ve counted all two hundred and six bones beneath the emaciated, sunken skin before him. Morpheus’ eyes were shadowed hollows, his cheeks as narrow as a skull’s. His left wrist purpled and swelled as best as it could manage, betraying the likely fracture beneath.

But the worst damage was the fresh wound to his gut. Gwen bowed out as Hob prepared to tend to the mangled skin, and he couldn’t blame her in the slightest. The rats had ravaged the flesh along what had otherwise been a rather precise, blade-like incision, like a knife strike, until the muscle and sinew had been exposed. The wound continued to ooze blood in a steady throb, and Hob had known what that meant, even in the alley with the fleeting glance of the wound he’d managed.

He looked to the fondue candle lit beside him and the waiting butter and carving knives that glowed hot in its flame.

Not yet. He couldn’t do that just yet.

He put off the inevitable, opting instead to pull out a pair of surgical scissors and his shaving kit. It was an old school thing, a blade wielded with lather. No electronics here, not today, and he adjusted the lay of the thick, cloud-soft towels around Morpheus’ body before he set to the ragged mass of hair atop his head. Painstakingly, stroke by stroke, he scraped away the wiry beard until that once-familiar face emerged beneath, and he swore under his breath as, on each curving pass, he nicked the sunken skin and opened a small, oozing wound. He was, typically, a master at this. He had just never shaved a corpse before. He tended to the wounds both new and old revealed by his ministrations and then set to his hair, trimming away the matts and the hopeless tangles and the bits that he was frankly worried were beginning to mold. What remained was far shorter than it had been, shorter than Morpheus’ styling of the 1600s and certainly not as thick and full and healthy. This was patchy, downright threadbare in some places. But his scalp would heal, and the hair would grow back. That, Hob knew, too, to be fact.

He dampened a towel and gently massaged Morpheus’ head, dabbed and wiped until he had carried away every clipped lock and errant strand that he could manage.

Until there remained only that haunting, waiting wound.

“Oh,” Hob sighed, rocking back on his heels, and peered into his stranger’s lifeless face. “Forgive me for this, my friend.”

In the hall, sat on the floor against the wall, Gwen flinched as a startled, pained wail echoed from the bathroom. She bowed her head to her hand, pinning the length of her forearm between her forehead and knee, and the piteous sound faded beneath the low, comforting rumble of Robbie’s voice, his gentle hushing lulling the slam of bone on porcelain back to silence. Her phone sat in her trembling hand, screen open. Her thumb hovered over the dial icon.

This was all kinds of fucked. This was beyond what they could handle, beyond what she knew how to fix, beyond what Robbie could….

She thought of him, soaked through in foul water, stuck on his knees beside a corpse that wouldn’t die as he sobbed into his own arm and struggled to hold them all together.

All she had to do was press. If she pressed, those three little digits would make all of this go away.

I think he’s like me.

She darkened her phone screen, let her head thump against the wall, and dashed her hand against her nose and eyes.

“Oh, Robbie,” she whispered and watched the shadows move beneath the door. “What did you get us into?”

“You’re doin’ so good, mate,” Hob murmured, sweat beading his forehead as he knotted off the last pass of the sutures and snipped the thread off as close to the skin as he could. Morpheus’ knees jerked up into his thighs as he did, and Hob shifted his weight atop him in the tub until he settled once more within restless unconsciousness. “Almost there. So good.”

He tossed the needle aside to join the bloodied carving and butter knives on the floor, with their red-stained, rag-wrapped hilts. The rest of the care went quickly: dabbing a swath of surgical glue between the sutures, letting it dry while once again slathering the shit out of the rat bites with antibiotic ointment, and then covering everything in more of the gauze and tape until finally they were done. Hob rocked back on his heels and rested the backs of his bloodied hands against his forehead. He closed his eyes. Breathed.

“Okay,” he whispered after a long time. “Okay, okay, okay, okay….”

Morpheus groaned beneath him in his tenuous unconsciousness and began to shift uncomfortably in the tub. Hob’s respite was over.

“Gwen?” he called at that same low, cautious volume and began the process of raising his aching body from its cramped kneel and climbing from the tub. The hinges creaked, and her grip materialized at his elbows, steadying him as he returned to the safety of the tile.

“You okay?”

“Better than he is,” Hob tried to smile. It only came off as ghoulish, and he scrubbed the inside of his arm across his face only to groan as his effort to keep himself slightly less dirty was decidedly less than successful. “But the artery’s cauterized. He’s stitched and glued up. Nothing more to do now.”

The exhaustion that lined his face, the grimness to his normally indomitable spirit, the thousand-yard stare encroaching in his eyes…it all filled Gwen with a mounting disquiet. This was not the Robbie she knew. But there was a tense, aching feeling in her chest that also told her this wasn’t someone new. This man before her felt old—much, much older than she could comprehend. Hob let out another heavy sigh and cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her and his dead friend.

“Let’s get him to the sofa,” he said and touched a bone-tired, bloody, filthy hand to her hip as he made to turn to the tub. “Bed’s all ready, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said and caught his wrist with a gentle hand. “Hey. Come here.”

Hob hesitated but then leaned forward with a sudden wetness in his eyes, a collapsing of his shoulders. And Gwen closed her eyes as he pressed a long, tender kiss to her forehead. She leaned into him in turn and put a hand on his chest, her fingers playing in reflex with his hair where it peaked from the top of his damp shirt.

“I know I don’t say it enough,” he murmured, pressing his temple to hers. “But I love you. And thank you.”

Gwen pulled back with a sigh and turned to their waiting guest. “Tell me that again when we finally go to sleep tonight.”

“…Yeah.”

“Has he been out there since the funeral?” she asked as they wrapped Morpheus in more towels and awkwardly hefted his boney, lanky form between them.

“I don’t think so,” Hob grunted and shifted his grip as Gwen helped balance his Stranger’s weight in his arms. “I think it was since the Faire.”

“Your dream? The happy ending one?” Gwen asked and adjusted the hang of Morpheus’ legs over her boyfriend’s arm. He nodded. “Rob, that was still—”

“I know.” Hob let out a careful breath and took quick stock of their situation. This limp-boned bridal carry was as good as they were going to get, and he nodded Gwen toward the open door. “After you.”

They repeated their guarded shuffle in reverse, returning to the living room they had rushed through an hour ago, and Hob relievedly set Morpheus’ fragile weight to rest upon the sofa bed. It was one of those newer models, a fancier thing with a mattress that was actually decent and deep, plush pillows to boot; Hob was never more thankful for that splurge of a purchase than now. He positioned the pillows and cushions carefully, supporting his Stranger’s limbs and taking care to keep his elbows and heels lifted off the bed while tilting him to the left just far enough that the wounds on his back and hip stayed clear. As he worked, Gwen hurried to the dryer and fetched a bundle of Robbie’s old clothes, muttering a relieved thanks to the universe when she found they were still slightly warm. They’d been planning to donate them after the end of term, to pass their surplus along to the less fortunate in the spirit of the season.

She didn’t think they were going to find anyone less fortunate than this.

When she got back to the living room, Robbie was shaking out a thermometer, watching his friend with grim eyes, and he shook his head as he saw the gifts she bore.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“His fever’s that bad?” she asked, dumping the clothes on the bed anyway while he headed for their bedroom. “But the rest of him—”

He indicated the thermometer as he set it on the coffee table along his way and didn’t break pace. “Forty.”

“40 C?” she gaped and snatched up the glass and mercury to confirm for herself. “There’s no fucking way, he was ice—”

“His body’s trying to save the important bits,” Robbie called back. “Brain, heart, lungs. Arms and legs are useless when you’re trying not to die on the cellular level, so the heart stops trying to pump blood to them.” He hurried back into the room, a pair of boxers and spare T-shirt in hand. “Everything south of the lungs goes next, but frankly his lungs are already dead, too.” Gwen watched him carefully, unmoving at the foot of the bed with the thermometer still in her hands as he set to the careful work of dressing their guest. He moved with the practiced ease of a father dressing his child, with the swiftness of a clinically steady hand that wouldn’t have wavered even under mortar fire. It was such an incongruent shift, so bizarre a combination, that she almost missed the bitter mutter under his breath. “Only reason he’s still breathing through pneumonia like this is ‘cause he’s like me.”

He settled Morpheus’ head once more upon the pillows, the shirt pulled down and the boxers tugged into place, and reached for Gwen’s pile. She watched him pick out mis-matching socks and mitts, watched him fit them onto the man’s frostbitten feet and hands, watched him drape cardigans and pullovers along his extremities.

“Could you grab some extra pillowcases and fetch the ice packs in the freezer, love?” he asked as he worked, and Gwen blinked.

“What?”

“Need to cool his core down while I warm up the edges of him. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“You and I are going to have a long conversation later about how you know all of this,” she said but moved to do as he asked.

He watched her go, waiting until she was engrossed in the linen closet to whisper his private reply. “Maybe someday, love.”

He added a couple more pillows behind Morpheus’ head, stuffing them down to his shoulders until he was propped up a bit more. The rattling breaths eased just a bit, and Hob allowed himself to pause. His tired gaze pulled to the ceiling.

“One…” he counted as he inhaled, massaging the knuckles of his hands with dull fingers, “…two…three…four….” He exhaled and shut his eyes. “…Four…three…two….”

Their utility bill this month was going to be especially horrid. Already with the change in seasons he’d been expecting a higher price tag, but this was going to put them in the red. He’d make arrangements to dip into his special savings to cover them this time, but—

Thud went the freezer door.

He opened his eyes and stopped counting.

“Here,” Gwen said softly, handing him half of the ice packs in her hands.

COLD, Morpheus startled. Cold, cold, COLD where there hadn’t been cold moments before—he had been warm again, after so long. He wanted the warmth back, no, he wanted the cold, that was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The cold, he wanted to lose himself to the numbness, and he hurt. Everything in him hurt, his gut throbbed, his hands and feet were on fire like a million sticks of fire-brand needles. His skull was in a vise and exploding from the inside at the same time. His throat felt glass-shredded; every breath crackled like stepping on a shattered mirror, driving the sharp, mislaid edges further into the walls of his ribs—

Something dripped into his eyes, something wet and viscous, and he mewled, tossing his head and trying to push away his abuser’s hands only to yelp as his left wrist shrieked in pain. He blinked, trying to clear whatever it was they had put in his eyes. It burned, it hurt, it….

Hob’s gentle face loomed above him, a little clearer than it had been, fuzzy and haloed by the warm yellow lights of his flat as if Morpheus were looking at him through fogged glass.

(Or through ophthalmic ointment.)

He looked, he thought, like the angels in church windows….

Luminous beings of iron and glass, forged by mortal hands long gone yet beheld and living still.

Hob shifted, drawing closer, and a bloom of petals and butterflies burst from the flare of light that peeked from behind his head as he moved. It was a madman’s halo, a druid’s blessing, and it flooded Morpheus’ sight alongside a faint, nonsensical humming that pirouetted like ribbons of sound across his bleary eyes to settle in his ears.

“You’ve got a bad fever, my friend,” Hob murmured above him, adjusting the warmth that settled his limbs like grave earth even as he applied more searing cold to his chest and neck and head. “I’m trying to cool you down while warming the rest of you…you’re burned and frozen up all at once.” Calluses like Brillo pads, skin as soft as well-worn leather touched his cheeks, his neck, his chest as he was repositioned like a doll. The scent of cologne came with it, of laundry detergent and cleanliness…. The roles of lordling to the street urchin, it seemed, had finally switched, three hundred-odd years down the line. It made his gut turn. “Trust you to get yourself in a complicated fix like this, eh? Good news is, I’ve got some stuff now to make it feel better faster. Isn’t humanity grand like that?”

Those hands finally pulled away, finally left him alone. Come back, he wanted to beg. Stay away, he yearned to cry.

The butterflies continued to dance and flit. They split apart into fish and frogs and dandelion puffs that sparked into falling embers as they caught the lights overhead…like bursts of slow-falling glitter that burned and glowed like the coals of a dying universe.

His little sister’s fingers played in his hair, and her little hums grew louder.

“Are you singing to him?” Hob asked as he rifled through the first aid kit for some ibuprofen and Theraflu and proceeded to crush the former and mix both into a cup of steaming water. Slippery elm, marshmallow root, wild cherry bark, cinnamon bark, orange peel, licorice…modern medicine was a godsend, and Hob wouldn’t go back to the Dark Ages for anything. But the old remedies still had their uses, and folks nowadays were nice enough to mix them all up into a single tea for you.

Gwen looked up from where she sat by Morpheus’ head, adjusting the pillows to prepare him for his medicine. “What?”

“Singing,” Hob repeated. The spoon clanked a touch nervously against the cup walls, and he glanced back at her. “We’re lucky he’s out,” he added with a wry, deprecating sort of laugh and a nervous smile. “Don’t know what he’d do if someone started singing lullabies to him like a child.”

Gwen’s stare shifted from blank to concerned.

“I…I wasn’t singing, Rob.”

“You weren’t?” Hob finished mixing his concoction and carried it carefully over, the ceramic just shy of scalding against his palms. “Could’ve sworn I heard you humming.”

“Don’t you go cracking on me, too,” she warned, barely joking. “I’m already at my limit.”

“I’ll do my best,” he huffed and settled on the bed opposite her, balancing the cup carefully in his hands. “Okay, let’s get him sat up, tip his head back a bit. Try to wake him up some more….”

His sister’s hands cradled Morpheus’ skull, shifting him up, tipping him back, and his world swam.

Delirium, stop, he wanted to protest, but words had only just reformed as a concept in his blood-starved brain.

“Hey,” a voice that was not Delirium’s said at his head. It was American, but not like Corinthian’s voice was American. This one was warm in its melodies, blunt but kind, like the hands that moved with it. “We don’t know each other, but I’m Gwen. Sorry to meet like this….”

Gwen. Someone who was not Gadling, and yet who Gadling trusted to be with him.

Something deep in his gut twisted and burned, and his inflamed heart ached.

“I’m gonna help Robbie lift your head up,” she explained above him. Robbie. The ache deepened. The touch of her hands froze his burning skull like the ice packs, and Hob’s hand landed on his shoulder like a heavy anchor. Too much. Too much, too much, too much—too little. “You really think he’s gonna be able to swallow like this?”

Swallow.

Morpheus ground his teeth until the ache in his jaws turned to knifing, bone-splitting pain. He could hear Hob hiss above him, felt dull, powerful fingers massage into the trembling muscles of his jaw, and he redoubled his efforts to clamp down as his muscles and nerves began to burn under the man’s precise ministrations. His breath rattled through his teeth, gurgled in his throat. No. No, he would not open his mouth, would not cooperate, would not—

The hands stilled at the angle of his jaw, their fingers’ pressure as firm as ever, and commanded Morpheus’ efforts to stop.

“My friend,” Hob said with all the even, gentle calm of a father, “open your eyes.”

He would not cooperate. He refused.

The hands did not leave.

Millimeter by millimeter, hating himself for every step of his surrender, Morpheus opened his eyes.

“There you are,” Hob smiled, his face bloody with the mauling Morpheus had dealt him. Those warm, callused thumbs smoothed across his blade-sharp cheekbones. “My friend, you are very sick. Now, we can sit here and do nothing,” he admitted, “and you’ll heal in time. It’ll take near a century, but it will happen. But parts of you will heal wrong. You won’t be able to eat or drink properly for probably another hundred years, and your lungs are gonna be all kinds of crap.” He paused, just to be sure his warning was heard, to be certain it sank into Morpheus’ thick skull. “If you’re hell bent on sufferin’ like that, we can do it. I’ll be here, every step of the way.” In the face of that most sincere promise, Morpheus’ cage of a chest hitched on its next inhale, rattled more sharply, more deeply. His eyes shone, and Hob swallowed past the lump in his throat at the yearning that glimmered there. “But I don’t think you’ll like it very much in practice.”

You know nothing of what I can handle, Robert Gadling, Morpheus wanted to hiss.

I don’t want this pain, his heart cried. Please, make it stop. Help me make it stop.

Hob seemed to hear both replies. The sadness in his tired, closed-lipped smile grew, even as the understanding in his eyes deepened, and Morpheus’ treacherous heart stuttered to a near stop as Hob leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his burning forehead. It was a gentle thing, all chaste ceremony and solemn duty—as a knight kissed the hand of his lord. Morpheus’ eyes flinched shut at the soft, bearded touch. His chest, it hurt, it ached; it welled with such a force of feeling that he wanted to split apart with it, to let its flowers and mosses and fungi spill and grow and creep from the cracks of him, to pour from his ruptures and caverns.

Delirium’s fingers crept into his hair again, playing with the shortened locks with all her childhood wonder. Hob pulled away and carefully took up his mug once more.

“Would you drink this, my friend?”

No! Morpheus’ treacherous mind shrieked, gnashing fang-like teeth and glaring with obsidian-black eyes. How dare you—

Hob’s eyes shone in the low lights, twin hearths so steadfastly tended, and the grief finally fractured through that doggedly hopeful, wistful smile of his. Stained glass…like oh so many fragments of stained glass…

“If not for yourself, then…” Hob swallowed and went for broke, “…then, would you drink it for me?”

A long, tenuous silence filled the void between them. Morpheus’ half-blind eyes stared into his with the emptiest of intentions for so long that Hob was just about to give up when it happened. It was a small thing, almost impossible to notice—and Gwen, in fact, missed it altogether—but not to Hob. He knew his Stranger, inside and out. He knew him as he knew his own hands, he….

He’d known his Stranger for seven nights.

Seven nights could be a lifetime, if you knew how to spend the hours right.

Morpheus’s gaze slipped just a touch, first to Hob’s mouth and then to the cup in his hands, and after a painful swallow that took several tries to complete, his own split, desert-dry lips parted by the barest degree.

Hob could have cried.

“Thank you, my friend,” he smiled and tried not to let his relieved tears fall. “Thank you.”

He nodded to Gwen, and she gently supported Morpheus’ head, looking all the while as if she could drop him and leap across the room at a split second’s warning. It was probably for the best, he had to admit. Given how Morpheus had reacted to the heat of the bath, he doubted that the sensation of the tea passing down his throat and into his stomach, nor the taste of the medication both bitter and sickly sweet at the same time, with its undissolved grit suspended throughout would be tolerated.

It went about as well as expected.

Fifteen minutes, three cups of dosed tea, and two new shirts later, the deed was done. Hob hunched at Morpheus’ side, both of them exhausted, and he leaned against the arm of the sofa as he sat on the mattress edge and quietly hummed the aimless melody that Gwen swore up and down she had not been singing. His hand laid heavily upon Morpheus’ chest, a grounding weight upon his sternum that soothed the burn of the hot water that still lingered there in throbbing echo. Morpheus himself drifted, mired in a senseless space that was not quite sleep and not yet oblivion as he faded into the warmth and cold that alternated along his starved form. Delirium continued to sing somewhere in that cavernous nothing, her echoing voice mixing with a man’s, and her little colorful delights continued to blossom and bloom within the inky dark nothing that lulled him away. For her part, Gwen tinkered about in the kitchen, and she served herself first: a reheated bowl of last night’s soup with a chunk of French bread dunked into the purée of squash and spices. She took her time with eating. God knew she’d earned it, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that Robbie wasn’t quite back to himself, yet.

As for their house guest? Forget it.

Hob didn’t notice her eventual return until a bowl was tapping his shoulder, and he smiled his tired thanks to her as he accepted the heavy dish. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been sitting out in the sun it was colored after, and it smelled truly heavenly. He brought his soup-soaked bread to his lips, his stomach growling like a starved dog.

It was 1689, and he was crashing into a table on limbs fueled by naught but rats and rot, surrounded by feasting masses who sneered at him like he was worth less than the shit on their shoes.

The hunger died.

Gwen sighed and set her own bowl aside in a clatter as her idiot of a man slowly lowered his bread back to his dish, untouched.

“Robbie.” Exasperation outweighed fondness. “You have to eat, too. He’s in no state—”

Hob shifted closer to his friend, his hip pressing to Morpheus’, his knee tapping his ribs, and touched the back of his crooked fingers to the man’s gaunt cheek.

“My friend?”

Those half-shut eyes flickered but did not blink back to wakefulness.

“Robbie, he’s not—”

He raised his voice a bit louder.

“Hey.” He was not desperate. He just knew how this felt. He was worried; he was stubborn. But he was not desperate. If he got his Stranger to eat, the worst was over. If he got him to eat, right here, right now, this was easy to fix. He just needed someone to care for him. Simple as that. Nothing more.

Gwen’s eyes on him said otherwise.

“Stranger,” he pressed. “Y’did so well with the medicine, mate, why don’t we just try—”

“Robbie, this won’t go well,” she warned and moved too late to snatch the bowl from his relentless hands. “Just stop, you’ve done enough—”

The bread touched Morpheus’ lips, and he jerked, blinking as if startled from a deep reverie that landed him right back in the unpleasant present. The jerk turned to a retch, to a balk, and Hob flinched, Gwen’s hands pulling him away to his feet, as his friend tossed his head and batted helplessly at his mouth to banish the taste of food. The careful layers of heat and cold mismatched, their grounding weight upset, and that soothing equilibrium they’d so carefully attained shattered. Gwen tugged at Hob still, not unkind in her persistence, and did not relent until he took first one step, then another, and finally a third and backed away from Morpheus completely.

The stranger sagged into his makeshift hospital bed, his breaths coming fast and light, and his eyes drifted back to their half-shut, half-dazed stare into nowhere. The bowl of soup sat, cooling, in Hob’s grip.

Gwen’s hands held him fast like iron, one to his arm, one to his chest, daring him to try again.

“You cannot fix this in a night,” she said lowly. “No matter how badly you want to.”

“He’s gotta eat,” Hob tried miserably, and Gwen pushed him back another step.

“Robbie.” He glared at the refused offering in his hands with gritted teeth and burning eyes. “Let the meds kick in. Let him feel safe.” She paused and let him catch his breath through the tumult of emotions no doubt making a wreck of his insides. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

Hob frowned.

“What?”

Gwen swallowed as he met her eyes, his confusion deepening to something tinged with ancient distrust. But she did not waver. “You’ve been here before,” she said softly and pressed a little harder against his heart. “Except I get the feeling you were the one in the street, not the one with warmth and food to spare.”

His chest stuttered and stilled. The shine in his eyes brightened.

“But your friend isn’t you.” She spoke carefully, measuredly, never once blinking to ensure Robbie listened close. “Don’t get caught up trying to fix old wounds, Rob. They’re already scars.”

Morpheus wheezed on the sofa. Hob flinched at the sound and forced himself to breathe and be, with his healthy lungs and whole skin and eyes that could still weep and blink.

“Can you do that?” Gwen whispered.

Hob buried a hand midway through his hair, nails digging into Morpheus’ wounds, and bowed his head with a groaning exhale. The soup stared back at him.

“Rob. Can you do that?”

He nodded. When he pulled away, Gwen let him go, and she watched with some measure of relief as he poked at the soup in his hands, moving the purée about with aimless passes of his spoon. He just needed to eat. He would eat, and he’d feel a bit better, clearer-headed, and then they could—

Though the hearth crackled and popped on unchanged, Hob swore it guttered down to embers with the cold realization that swept over him like a rage.

“I could’ve—I would’ve shown—”

Grave dark, knowing, scheming eyes watched Hob Gadling from the shadows that lengthened like opening wings, and the tidal wave crashed over him, crest outrunning the trough until the weight of it cracked down on his head like a wine bottle.

“I know.”

That. Fucking. Bitch.

His restraint, unlike the wine bottle in that 1835 bar fight, shattered.

The spoon crossed the room like a hurled blade to smash two wine glasses in the dish rack and struck the wall in a cacophony of destruction. An almighty ring deafened his ears. His chest heaved like a furnace bellows, and his arm tensed to hurl the bowl after the spoon—

“ROBERT!”

The ring dulled. It lowered and waned and slowed until it was the throb of a furious pulse in his ears, in his temples, his throat…

All that preening, all that cocking about, that snide little voice in the darkest part of him grinned. Nothing more than a low-born animal, after all.

Robert Gadling squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could manage. And the bowl settled upon the granite island with such care that it didn’t even make a sound on landing.

“I’m sorry.” His whisper was as hoarsely raw as if he had been screaming. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you’re upset, but that is no excuse—”

“I know,” he nodded and massaged his temples, his eyes. “You’re right, I know. I’m truly, truly sorry, Guinevere.”

His heart still pounded its war-drum in his ears.

She had known what she was doing. All that time, Death had sat there, watching him in that fake pub, toying with him, putting the chisel to him and striking it just so with her words until he was on the verge of breaking…all that time, and she had known the truth. She had known.

She had looked him in the face, beheld his heartache, soothed his grief.

And all the while, she had been nothing but a maestro admiring her creation.

He braced one hand on the island and leaned his weight into it, the other digging into his hip as he continued to breathe at a frighteningly even pace. His expression cooled into marble and steel, as unreadable as an unwritten page.

“Love,” he began, and Gwen shivered as she watched his shoulders shift and square. The coldness of his face spread to the rest of his normally warm, welcoming frame. “I need you to lock yourself in our room. Don’t come out ‘til I let you know it’s safe.”

A long silence seeped into the once lovely home, filling it like the worsening storm outside.

“What are you gonna do?” she whispered.

Hob took one last breath. The rage tempered and refined within a blademaster’s forge, and he took the weathered hilt in his practiced, calloused palm. His racing heart slowed to a gallows’ march. He tried not to dwell too long on the notion that this air in his lungs might very well be some of his last.

Outside, the snow fell in a consuming, endless cold.

“I’m calling his family.”

[pellaaearien]

Another Word for Ache | Dream/Hob | 32K | Teen | Ongoing Ch. 7: Retrouvailles (7K)

Hunger as a Metaphor for Love, Dream of the Endless Needs a Hug, Hob Gadling wants to give him one, Non-sexual Intimacy, Inappropriate Use of Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs), Episode Codas, Dream of the Endless Frees Nada, Surrealism, Matthew Swears a Lot, Dream POV, Slow Burn, Not Actually Unrequited Love (They’re Just Idiots), or: it’s okay to have dreams about your platonic best friend so long as he never finds out about them

At the end of the row, the New Inn stands, an exacting mixture of old and modern, its frontage welcoming and unassuming. The grass is up to Dream’s knees as he walks toward the open door, still drawn by the bright, dizzying cloud of something that’s calling him in, singing in his bones, planting itself with a steadfast Here I am.

[Read on AO3]

The boys finally meet! And talk? 

[wizardofgoodfortune]

good times, for a change (ch. 7)

Rating: Mature Chapter: 7/?  Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Single Parents, POV Alternating, Dream is a sculptor, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Descriptions of Violence, Smoking, Drinking

As he slowly drove his Gen 1 Fiat Panda around the driveway, Hob was almost afraid he’d stain the cobblestone with his tires.

“It’s Orpheus and Mr. Murphy,” Robyn exclaimed, pointing to the front of the castle.

Orpheus was waving at them, with a huge smile on his face. He already had his sleepover attire on: fluffy bunny slippers and dark blue pajamas, decorated with stars, clouds, and moons. Behind him stood Morpheus, like the black and regal night sky. Only this time, he didn’t have his coat on. And actually, now that Hob looked closer, he actually had an honest-to-goodness t-shirt on, in the middle of autumn.

(read on ao3)

[sadmandream]

art for Ch.7 of what’s past is prologue by @wanderingdream

Chapter Summary:

In which Dream and Hob spend a lovely day together and absolutely nothing bad happens, absolutely not.

This is SUCH a good chapter!!! If you’re not reading, get over there and enjoy this beautiful story! And go yell at Sam for being AMAZING!!

[avelera]

Can I just say - the entirety of GS chapter 15 was spectacular and I loved every word of it, but above all my favourite line was Dream saying “my eldest brother does very little”

I just - love all the sibling pettiness that single line contains. I’m very much with Hob in thinking that Dream’s exasperation is charming. Like Dream just eyerolling 🙄 and telling Hob - “yeah yeah my big brother’s destiny or whatever but don’t be fooled - he’s not that important and he’s not cool and maybe I love him but he’s also kind of a prick.”

Also… Dream rejecting Destiny’s offer of dinner by saying “I have better uses for my time” and squeezing Hob’s hand?? Why do I feel like he’s planning something?? Maybe it’s just me but I’m side-eyeing Dream (and you by proxy lol). I feel like some sneaky courting may be afoot (or maybe that’s just wishful thinking).

Whatever happens I know it will be wonderful because it’s you writing it!! Thank you so much again for the delight you give through your stories!!

:D :D :D Thank you!

I mean, I admit, I did some due diligence, and as far as I can tell Destiny... reads. But he is the workaholic of the family, which is saying something in a family that also contains Dream and Death. But I like to think of Destiny as that older brother who is at the office 24/7. You know he's always at work but... why? What is he doing there? What's his day to day? No one knows. He just lives there so he has to be working all the time... right?

(Oh great, now I'm imagining Destiny as completely obsessed with Farmville or some other game you can totally get away with playing at an office job, lol.)

Now, I will say because it's not really a spoiler: Dream is not planning anything new with Hob. There's no grand courting plan coming out of nowhere to anticipate, though more plot-y stuff is coming down the pipe soon.

If we were to be in Dream's head in that moment, we would see that he's thinking about the initial bargain to look after one another. He's thinking about Hob's panic attack on the beach in Naxos, and how one of the nightmares (aka, PTSD but the term hasn't been invented yet) that haunts Hob's waking hours was caused by Dream abandoning him and leaving him alone at his lowest moments in the 1600s, when the reason Hob was immortal at all to go through all of that was Dream's fault (as Dream sees it) and he didn't help this person he's now in love with out at all. And he feels immense guilt for that now that he's realized he's in love with Hob! (Bro fell fast and hard at the meeting in Ch. 1.) He's thinking about how he feels he owes Hob his undivided attention for at least a little while, and we're talking cosmic scale here with the Endless! Dream is like "Maybe in a century I'll have cuddled Hob enough to feel ok with leaving him home alone for a night if he wants me here, ok, Destiny? You can wait until then, I've got better things to do and people I'd rather be spending time with if this isn't urgent."

Not that this is a burden for Dream! He just genuinely means he's busy right now looking after Hob as part of the agreement where Hob looks out for him and he sees that as higher priority, especially after Hob's very recent panic attack about Dream abandoning him, than a dinner that isn't even a formal Endless conclave and where Destiny won't tell him what it's for. So yeah, Dream is being a bit of a salty younger sibling about it. (As the oldest in my family, I am looking forward to writing some high-handed oldest sibling shenanigans for Destiny lol)

[delta-pavonis]

UPDATE Ch 7: Another Song (a Dreamling RENT AU)

Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling || Rated E || in progress

Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - RENT, the Dreamling-as-RENT AU that no one asked for but Christmas made me do, takes place during the AIDS epidemic in NYC in the early-mid 1990s, Calliope/Dream (discussed), this fic is full of motherfucking artists, and they definitely don't have a dollar, gratuitous use of lines from RENT, because why be creative when you can steal from a genius like Jonathan Larson, HIV/AIDS Crisis, characters with HIV/AIDS, implied/referenced suicide, idiots in love, getting together, lives of queer starving artists in NYC early in the AIDS crisis and all the associated bullshit about money that goes with it, a character gets mugged, discussion of stealing, discussion of the death of a dog, YES IT WILL HAVE A HAPPY ENDING

Read Chapter 7 on AO3

While they laugh it off the beeping sound of a digital alarm slices through the night air – be bee beep, be bee beep – and Dream frowns, pulling his watch out of his pocket because he was pretty sure that he had another half hour before– The beeping stops and Dream snaps his head up to see Hob standing there with an uncomfortable look on his face as he puts a small black beeper back in his pocket and exchanges it for an even smaller silver box. “Sorry, I need the reminder to take my AZT.” Hob murmurs, pulling one pill out and swallowing it dry before returning it to his coat pocket. When he is done he stands with his chin up, almost like he is daring Dream to comment.

[landwriter]

kathe here from their main blog and i bestow upon you the 👀 emoji for the fic ask!

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

kathe my dear!! the current WIP is oaths ch.7. i cannot share any of that because it's all PLOT. here's a bit of rough draft just like love sequel i started immediately after making this joke:

“You sure? Maybe it’s a bit like feeding wildlife. Shouldn’t do that.”

The Corinthian uses his height to press Hob against the fridge, and speaks low and threatening into the man’s ear, just the way he likes. “Oh, you think I’ll forget how to feed myself?”

Hob is hard against his thigh and he tilts his head up, to kiss the side of his neck. His heart is thumping so steady and strong the Corinthian wonders if he’s got a bigger heart working in there, one to power all his hunger. A horse heart, crushed into his ribcage.

“Maybe I’d like it if you forgot,” he says. “Maybe I’d like to spoil you. Maybe I’d like you to try eating out of my hand. See if you don’t like it better, to be fed by another.” He says it quiet, covering up the tenderness there with hunger, because he knows the Corinthian’s mother tongue. But he hears the tenderness in it still, and it ripples over his instincts like a different kind of threat. A different kind of snare. Still wire-sharp. He knows he’d draw blood if he struggled in it, even if Hob would let him go the moment he really did. That’s why he stills, he figures. That’s why he goes all limp, submissive.

Hob feels it. Hob knows exactly what he’s done, and he runs a soft hand over the back of his neck, like he’s tamed him. The Corinthian finally twitches away roughly.

“Kinky.” He grabs the forgotten sausage and starts slicing it to be fried. And Hob just laughs, like it was the joke they were making together all along.

(fanfic writer emoji ask)

[karalynlovescake]

tagged by @dancinbutterfly

Current time: 5:19pm EST

Current mood: idk fine? I actually got 9 solid hours of sleep last night and I have the holiday off, and work today is pretty chill. Current activity: being on tumblr while waiting for my lunch break.

Currently thinking about: cooking dinner and answering work questions for people.

Current favorite song: no clue. I can tell you that what’s been stuck in my head for the last week has been “Stuck on You” by Lionel Richie (thanks to hardly-an-escape) and the first 4 tracks of “So Much for Stardust” (thanks to DB). The mental jukebox has been mostly rotating those songs over and over.

Currently reading: “The Archive Undying”   by Emma Mieko Candon which was just, just released. Enjoying it so far. Main character is a grudgingly immortal disaster gay with just oodles of trauma and and is giving me ideas for a few of my dreamling WIPs.

Currently watching: Silo

Current favorite character: I mean. it has to be Hob Gadling, the most blorbo of men.

Current WIPs: Yeah I counted what imp working on actively and have ten of them really. so. i’m just going to copy this out of my notes.  1) Selkie AU (gabe’s fault)

2) REDACTED (The one I’m not telling anyone about)

3) Black unicorn

4) touch starved Dream ch 2

5) How to deal with territorial aggression in your anthropomorphic personification

6) Desire’s plan was to use Unity to baby trap Dream by proxy

7 ) Monsters Inc featuring Gault and Jed

8) Imperial Radch AU (this is objectively a terrible idea as it will require an in-depth read of the first two Ancillary books)

9) ADHD sleep problems

10) Fight club AU

[coffeeandritalin]

(HOB, vol.1, ch.7)

Xie Lian. No. Please. 😅