#hob gadling fanfic

[just-some-random-blogger]

his imagines are incredible, you can make an imagine of the hob he meets Morpheus's twin sister the hope of endless, I imagine a hob enchanted by hope and a Morpheus on the side who is jealous of his sister

Dawn of the Endless

Hob Gadling x Endless!Reader, Dream of the Endless & Twin Sister!Reader

Summary: One century Dream brought his twin sister to the White Horse pub, and ever since, Hob's life was never the same.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: fem!reader, set in Elizabethan England, annoyed brother!dream, puppy!hob, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: this is so interesting. i havent written anything for hob at all yet so i was so excited when i saw this! also i know you said her name is hope but everyone in the family has a letter D in their name and i literally translated hope in every language available in google translate, hoping at least one of them would start with D and one of them did but i didnt like the way it sounded so i decided to rename her dawn, cos i mean dawn is the early morning and that gives hope so i hope you dont mind. i dont mention anyone else's but Hob's name though, since technically it's in his pov and he has no idea what Dream's name is either, much less Dawn lol im unsure if yall would be interested but since dream is here i'll still tag everyone who likes my dream fics lol Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9 @sloanexx

Hob had been taking his daily stroll that day, he remembers it vividly. He was walking by the fields near his estate, basking in the morning sun, breathing in the cool air.

There was a warmth, a light that drew nearer. It was slow to come and quick to leave, but in the moment, he thought nothing of it; he only thought it was the rays of the earliness greeting him.

He realized it was not that when he outstretched his hand to pluck out a Pasqueflower. Hob's fingers bumped into another's; his heart leapt to his throat in shock.

His head snaps to the side. He retreats his hand slower than hers.

"Apologies," she mutters, light and melodic, "I did not think you'd chose that flower."

Hob's jaw slacks, and yet he does not hesitate. He rips the flower from its stem, handing it over. There is a flurry within him when she accepts it with a smile. The very wind in his lungs is knocked out when she says, "thank you, Hob."

The next moment, she walks away. Hob only regained his wits by the time he wholly regret the fact he was so dumbfounded he didn't even get to speak one single word.

And yet, days after, it seemed fate wanted to bring them together again. He was determined not to let the moment slip away this time around.

He practically lunged from his seat when he saw the lady in the yellow dress from across the pub. He ran, twisting past the patrons of the place. He stops a few paces away from her, straightening his garb, clearing his throat. He then strides over, catching her attentions in observing the room, "hello."

Hob's breath hitches when she turns to him and smiles, more radiant than before, "hello!"

He sighs, raising his hands, "I-," he clasps them together, "I'm Robert," he wipes his palms on his top, then extends one hand, "Hob, for short."

Her eyes crinkle as her grin widens. She takes his calloused, clammy hand in both her soft and warm ones, shaking it softly, "greetings, Hob!"

When she pulls away, she turns her head to the side and bares her braided hair. Hob's breath hitches the second time when he beholds the violet flower in it. She chuckles softly, "I kept it with me."

He lets out an airy chuckle, "I- it has been nearly a week. I'm astonished it's still alive."

She presses her lips into a pout, "I did not let my sister touch it."

Hob knit his brows tightly, confused by the sentiment, though his lips were still curved up into a smile.

He throws his thumb over his shoulder, "would you like to sit with me for a while? I have a table there. I'm waiting for someone."

"I know."

In that very moment, she looks past Hob and points behind him. Hob turns around, catching sight of his set table, finding it was now occupied, occupied by the very man he was waiting for.

Hob tilts his head, pressing his lips together, yet, still, they rememain curved upward.

"W-"

"Come," she calls, cutting Hob off. She takes his arm in hers, making his heart thump wildly in his chest, "let us not keep him waiting."

Hob feels his breath quicken as he allows himself to be lead back to his table. She urges him to sit in a vacant chair. Hob does just that and watches as she circles back around the man across him.

He was clad in black, much like the previous times they met. The woman sits on the other available chair adjacent to both of them.

Hob looks between them. They both look back at Hob, her, smiling excitedly, him, scrutinizing with far less enthusiasm.

They looked like a living oxymoron, with her, robed in vibrant colors, and him, draped in nothing but black. Hob opened his mouth slowly, unsure of what to say. He thinks of saying something funny, something witty, anything that will break the ice, but his tongue is pressed down with the weight of their stares.

The brightly clothed woman turns to darkly clothed man and leans in, whispering something under her breath. He turns to her, extending a hand out to the table, mumbling something quickly before turning back to Hob.

He is at least grateful he did not have to speak first.

"Life has been treating you well, it seems," the dark haired man utters.

Hob straightens up, sucking in a breath as he smiles, "I have had a great many successful endeavors."

She perks at the sound of that, propping her head in her hands and her elbows on the table, "such as?"

Hob turns to her, gulping, finger digging into the collar that tightens around his neck, "such as..."

She raises her brows along with the corner of her lips.

Hob clears his throat, straightening up again, "such as trading!"

"Trading?" the blue eyed man speaks, tilting his head.

"Yes," Hob replies rather weakly.

"He must be very good at it," she chimes, turning to the other, "look at how tasteful his attire is!"

Hob fights back a smile.

"Life is more than the clothes on one's back, sister."

"Sister?" Hob calls, shocked by the revelation. He is all but ignored though.

"And yet small details as such help make life worth living."

Hob tries again, leaning on the the table, "you're siblings?"

The siblings turn to him at the same time, she smiles and he looks blankly. The former speaks, "of course we are. Is it not obvious?" The latter of the two narrows his eyes.

Hob's jaw slacks. He wonders if she is mocking him for a moment, but in any case, between the two, she doesn't look like the one who would be a mocker.

"I..." Hob trails off, "did not think at all of your relation to another."

"Perhaps you would care to think more," he states, "your life surely would benefit from it."

There, Hob thinks, surely that is the sound of mockery.

For a moment, a there was only the sound of the pub between them.

"Oh," the woman pulls back, grabbing her brother's arm, "look," she turns her face to him, "Hob gave me this."

Her brother's face contorts, brow raising inquisitively. He turns to Hob, silently interrogating him.

Hob leans back on his chair and licks his lips, "we met in a field by fate-"

"Fate?" his deep voice repeats. He sounded not all pleased. "What would you know about fate?"

His sister calls out to him under his breath. The pale man's tightened features relax a bit as he sighs, almost as though he was defeated.

"It was a happy encounter," she says, "was it not?" she turns to Hob.

Hob stills for a moment, then nods.

The man turns to his sister, reaching out for the flower in her hair, plucking it out from its place. Hob's lips part as he thinks of how her brother would surely crush the innocent bud in his palm.

She does nothing but watch as her brother examines the Pasqueflower in his palm. He asks, "what were you doing out in the fields anyway?"

Hob watches the siblings scrutinize the little flower.

When they turn to him, Hob's eyes widen and his body stiffens.

The woman's lips curve into a lopsided smile. She chuckles under her breath, "he was asking you, silly."

"Oh," Hob says, "well, I, well- I was taking my daily walk."

"Hmm," he hums, placing the flower back into his sister's hair where he took it.

She smiles at her brother, "special, isn't it?"

He turns to Hob when he replies, "yes. Special indeed."

Hob's sucks in a sharp breath. He inadvertently begins to choke.

The woman giggles under her breath, proceeding to pour Hob a glass of water.

Hob accepts it and watches the siblings turn to each other and mutter under their breath as he drinks. Dear goodness, what in the name of lord are they talking about? He would honestly give half- no- 3/4th of his possessions if it mean he could make sense of the two before him.

His soul nearly leaves him when they stand. The man looks down on Hob as he nods, "it has been a pleasure to meet you again."

"N-" he fumbles, standing up all the same, "no, you can't just leave."

Hob's shoulder burns and his chest tightens when the woman places her hand there. She offers him a playful look, "we never truly leave you, Hob."

What does that mean?!

The man offers his hand out to his sister, and she readily takes it.

When they begin to walk off, Hob does not make the mistake he did in the field and pipes up, "will you be back with him next time?"

They both turn to him, him, furrowing his brows, her, smiling yet again. The latter speaks, "we'll see."

Hob watches them walk away.

[morpheusbaby3]

*Hob Gadling the straightest character in sandman*

first thing fanfic writers do about him in their stories:

[lichanicksstuff]

Professor Gadling always knows which student wrote their paper and which one used chat GPT. Nobody knows how he does it. No paraphrasing program can dupe him. He can always tell. Every one of his colleagues is amazed by this skill, they always ask for his help judging if the essay was written by an AI or a person. And he does that with a wide smile on his face.

It's really easy. All it takes is to give his old friend a good cup of tea and a red pen to mark the ones that were not written by a human hand. "The imitations don't have souls," his friend says. And this is what he tells his students. They never understand and Hob finds it very funny.

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[emihotaru]

Sketchy and experimenting time!

Here is an illustration of the first chapter of "Giving Sanctuary", a Sandman and Dreamling fanfic by @avelera .

It begins in 1689, in the White Horse tavern, and I tried to render the candlelight atmosphere we can see in the show. I improvised a lot with my black ink and my watercolors and wanted to keep the sketchy vibes. I had quite a hard time with Dream's all black clothes...

I totally want to draw more moments of this story! Maybe one by chapter? I'll see^^

[elahogn]

✨ Dreamling Acts of service ✨

Inspired by @hardly-an-escape​ writing cuz i’m absolutely smitten, go read it right here

buy me a kofi if you think i’m worth it 

[arrogantshrew]

Every Dreamling fic

Hob: I teach history now *the sun beams from his smiling face*

Dream: You built me an inn *devotion*

Hob: I waited for you (you stood me up) *sad*

Dream: I was imprisoned *tears glisten but do not fall*

Hob: I am so angry and sad! *torment, devotion*

Dream: You can help by having hot sex with me. Also my name is Morpheus, but my family calls me Dream.

Hob: I will call you whichever variation of your name the author decides is most intimate.

[voukkake]

I really like that one fanfic that implies that, Dream tears are black

[drjholtzmann]

“Does it hurt?”

Dream looks at him with a furrowed brow, not understanding. 

“Being separate from them? Your siblings. You’re all the things that make up life. Seems cruel that you’ve been split into individual… entities.”

“We were not split. We were never a whole. Not together. We simply… began. At a time where life was not all of us, and then gradually became so. Life, for a time, was simply a thing destined to exist, without consciousness, and then die.”

“But now it is all of you.”

“Now it is all of us, because all of us exist. Life contains all of our functions because we exist in order for life to include our functions.”

“Right.” Hob says after a moment's thought, breaking down the knotted up logic of Dream’s statement.  “I s’pose… does it feel different, then? When you’re all together do you feel different? Do your… energies or whatever, react?”

“You are asking whether I feel more human when I am with my siblings, whose functions, like my own, make up the human experience?”

Hob doesn’t know whether to feel chastised by the question, so he doesn’t. “Yes. Yeah, I am.”

Dream pauses, and again Hob is not sure if it is in thought or merely for dramatic intent. “No. I do not. The only difference I experience when I am in proximity to my siblings is an increase of aggravation, usually.”

Hob can’t help the startled laugh that bursts out of him. “Okay.”

“Sometimes fondness. Though much less.”

“Okay, alright,” Hob chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds like family. You know, though... very human to have family.”

“They are not —”

“Very human, in fact, to have those kind of sibling relationships. Aggravation, fondness. So, maybe… you do all get a little more human around each other?” 

“That is not the case.”

“Alright then, well how about we agree to disagree?” He grins, knowing he’ll get a rise out of Dream.

“I am sure nothing I can do will stop you.”

“We can at least put a pin in it til further information comes to light, how ‘bout that?”

Dream gives a regal and filthy eye roll, but does not respond. 

“Take that as a yes, then,” Hob says, still beaming cheekily at him. “I’m glad, by the way,” he confesses. “That you weren’t some towering cosmic proto-god that got split into seven siblings.”

Again Dream looks at him with a vaguely startled, confused expression. 

“Just…” Hob shrugs, suddenly bashful, “for what it’s worth.”

“I… thank you… Hob,��� Dream says with the patient confusion of a parent speaking to a small child who is trying to explain their drawing of scribbles, but with a definite edge of snark that threatens to break through into outright mocking at any moment. 

“Alright, shut up. Question time is over, as long as you’ll have another glass with me.” He starts pouring the wine before he gets an answer.

[lenreli]

The Red Line

[AO3]

E, 6.3k. Hob gets a new life - and a new job. Dream begins to appreciate it, in his own way.

-

Dream steps into the Waking, more following Hob’s presence on the Earth, steadfast for centuries ― and looks around, Canadian wilderness reaching his senses. Hob did say, last time they met, that he’s overdue faking his death. 

Blinking, he knocks on the door in front of him, once. He knows Hob’s not asleep, and still Dream worries if he’s intruding, even with the way Hob had said― 

“My friend!” Hob beams, the door opened while Dream was pondering, “come in, come in!” Hob says brightly, gesturing him in with an arm. “This’ll be the first time I’ve seen you outside of jolly ol’ Landon, actually,” Hob says, excitement all but palpable as Dream looks around at the small house, Hob talking more about other places he’s lived in. Hob’s swearing a knitted sweater and jeans, matching the rustic insides of his new home. 

And Hob talks about ― friends he misses, moving to Canada, and so on. With no mention of his job, which Hob is usually happy to tell him about. “And what of your job?” At that, Hob pauses, “or have you decided to not get one this time?”

“No, still many things I want to do,” Hob says, voice suddenly quieter, and Dream frowns, unused to the other’s almost―evasiveness. 

Dream gives Hob a narrow look, suspicious. “Do you have an abhorrent trade, like in 178―”

“No! Never again! Definitely not!” Hob shouts, arms in the air as he shakes his head, eventually sinking into his blue sofa with a sigh. “No, not. It’s just. I don’t know. We’re not the friends to talk about this, and I don’t know how you’d react, so I haven’t,” Hob mumbles. 

Dream keeps silent as Hob pulls at the edge of his sweater, and eventually Hob heaves a sigh. 

“Fine. I’ll bite the bullet. I’m a sexline operator,” Hob says and Dream blinks, unsure what the problem with speaking about is, as he searches the subconscious for Hob’s new job. “I dunno, we’ve never talked about that before, and the prudishness of this century probably got to me a bit. I talk people into giving themselves orgasms, and it’s fun,” Hob mutters, shrugging as he explains. 

“I fail to see the problem.”

Hob laughs and rubs his face, “of course. Just ― weird human customs. My new job is usually more of a raunchy punchline or scandalous, terrible thing for some people.” 

“It’s not the worst job you’ve had,” he points out, and Hob laughs again, a bit more manic. 

“That bar’s in the Earth’s core, Dream,” Hob says, face hidden by a hand. “The literal fucking burning lava core,” Hob grouses, and Dream follows Hob into a small kitchen, windows letting light in as Hob puts on an electric kettle, leaning against the kitchen counters. “It’s been a thing, getting used to living here, and my new job, which is a more night-shift job than I was used to with teaching. At least seeing you again is helping with all that.” 

Dream swallows, emotions sticking in his body at the way Hob’s smiling at him, that he’s helped Hob. “I am here to help.” 

Hob laughs again, shaking his head as he gets a mug and a teabag. “Not just as your entire thing, but you, as my friend,” Hob clarifies. “Didn’t even realise how weird I was getting in my head until you popped in.” 

“You are the most normal man alive,” he replies dryly as the kettle whistles, and Dream smothers the smile he can feel as Hob laughs once more. 

=

Dream ― hasn’t been curious, knows what it requires, on a sexline. A discreet orgasm, or a filthy one, operators being given prompts, or not, until the one who pays is satisfied. 

However, he’d like to know, Hob on a sexline is a different thing, one he can’t help thinking about idly. And so, slipping into the Waking, into Hob’s new house, which is ― quiet. Soundlessly, he walks around until he reaches a closed door. The study, Hob showed him, and Hob behind the doors, imagining waking up early to go to the market. 

And Hob is speaking, words muffled by the door, so he leans closer, ear to the door ― and Hob may be thinking about market produce, meeting vendors, but the words are filthy, talking to someone. 

A woman, matching that voice to―strong hands, pressing inside herself, all the right spots as he moans, Hob’s speech rolling over her in waves of pleasure as she imagines. 

The door is cold against his body, but Dream’s only half-there as he makes the man’s hands coarser, marks and scars of Hob’s hands, hairier as she gasps. Closing his eyes, Dream smoothes out the man in her imagination ― green eyes changed to brown, grey at his temples, stubble and body hair, as the man ― Hob ― speaks to her to come, coaxing her along softly. 

Suddenly, the lack of imagination, daydream having served its purpose leaving him against the cold door, body hot as he listens to Hob laughing, him and the woman talking. And Dream wants to―phase through the door, has a hand on it, melt through the flimsy wood to reach Hob, body aching in arousal. 

Pressing his cheek to the refreshingly cold wood, he stops as the call ends and there’s a sigh. There’s shuffling around, and soon footsteps, a shadow moving to the door and Dream moves away with a soundless step as Hob starts to open it.

Hands twitching, he steps back again before going back to the Dreaming.

-

It happens again. Dream in front of the study, door shut as Hob speaks into the phone on the other side. He can’t even muster up any internal protests, that he was sure that Hob would be free, and not like some part of Dreaming wasn’t dedicated to keeping an eye on the time, on when Hob wouldn’t be working or sleeping. 

The door is cool as he touches it, pressing his ear against the door as Hob’s voice washes over him ― and in another province, a man is hearing the same voice. 

This time, Hob is vaguely thinking of pale skin and dark hair― 

Dream moves his focus to the other man, insides hot as the man fingers himself, Hob’s voice making him whine as he has vague images in his mind, nothing concrete and more focused on Hob’s voice. 

And he can’t help it, tweaks the vague image into Hob’s visage and the man whimpers as he imagines Hob going inside, and Dream shivers, can feel it in the imaginings of it. The man comes with a cry and Dream stares at the wood of the door, can feel it under his nails with how hard he’s grabbing it, body pulsing in arousal but unable to end it, just out of reach. 

Dream takes an unneeded breath as he thinks of melting through the door, where Hob is now laughing with the man, wanting to, wanting to feel more than illusory touch, can go insane with wanting the reality of it― 

No. he forces himself back, can only see the trail of ruin that’d leave Hob hating him, as he steps back into the Dreaming.

-

“Uh, boss,” Matthew says and Dream looks up from his census, then pauses, taking a moment before he stands up from the steps. Hovering in front of him, a large bubble, the transparency of it showing a red phone box, glass-panelled windows and a phone ringing.

Reaching out, he relaxes, can feel Hob’s ― daydream, behind it. “It is my friend,” he says softly, smiling as he walks into the bubble, and he pauses as he’s encased in warmth. Matthew and the throne room melt away as he opens the box, phone ringing still as he closes it. Reaching out, the phone stops as he picks it up, putting it to his ear. “Hob?”

“Woah,” on the other side of the line, Hob breathes, voice crackling as Dream presses the phone more against his ear. “Wasn’t sure that’d work. That’s really you?” Hob asks, voice getting slowly more excited. 

“It is. Matthew alerted me to ― you,” he frowns, the daydream brightening in vibrancy with Hob’s excitement, a joyful sound coming from the other side of the phone. 

“I dunno, I’ve been using phones so much lately with work, and so I thought what if. Well. This,” Hob says, voice crackling over the line and Dream smiles, happy to hear from him ― and reminding him guiltily, of why he hasn’t visited lately, “and like, I’m getting new friends here of course, and getting used to it all, and I just hope you’re not too busy with, uh. All that you do.” 

Dream sighs, resting against the glass behind him, “I am sorry, I―”

“No, it's fine! I get it, you’re a busy, hard-working entity and before we only met every century! Even with us being friends and everything―”

“Hob,” he cuts in, smiling as Hob stops, “I am glad you called,” he says, and Hob lets out a sigh, can feel the warmth of Hob’s home, his presence of the daydream around him, a balm for his tired self. 

“Didn’t even call for anything important. Just that I found a place that sells the best poutine I’ve ever tasted. Have you had poutine?” Hob asks and Dream can’t stop his smile, bright emotions fizzling inside him at the inane question. 

“I have not,” he answers. 

“It’s really good,” Hob says, words trailing into a groan, making Dream feel slight heat at the sound caused by the memory of good food,  “one time when you’re here we’re going to get poutine. Also, the moose here are insane. Recently I saw one as big as a car and it was so beautiful. And terrifying. Was just walking down the road! This is why I love moving all the time!” 

Dream looks down, fingers curling around the red curled line of the phone as he listens to Hob talk.

-

Somehow, Hob’s house always feels so welcoming, the immortal somehow infusing his home in the short time he’s lived there, compared to The New Inn, as well as the flat he had nearby in London. As Dream sits on the sofa, he can feel himself unwinding as Hob gets a cup of tea, the book he was reading left flat on the coffee table, revealing the summary and Dream hums at the sci-fi. “Aren’t you usually doing something at this time?” 

Hob lets out a sound, partly indecisive and partly thoughtful, “I do plan on going to a music festival tomorrow, so I’m getting things ready since I’ll be out all day,” Hob offers as the kettle whistles, and Dream blinks as Hob comes back over, sitting next to him and getting a coaster on the table to put his cup on. “Planning to go with some friend’s, so it’s just like. Water, and money, especially for merch and food,” he shrugs. 

“What type of music?” 

“Metal festival! Speaking of, I need to figure out my―wait, you can help me decide!” Hob says, getting up and rushing to his room, and Dream smiles, staring at the cooling mug on the table. 

“Your tea is cooling,” he points out as Hob moves around in his room, eventually coming out with a pile of clothes in an arm, as he pointedly stares at him before drinking half the mug. Hob’s throat working is ― mesmerizing, and Dream can’t make himself look away as he has half-thoughts of touching the other’s beard. 

“Okay!” Hob says and Dream doesn’t twitch, mind still stuck on the edge of the other’s stubble on his throat to notice that he’s moved back, holding up a mesh shirt and ripped jeans in one hand, “so, this?” Hob tugs out his other clothes, revealing a dark blue shirt and a different pair of trousers, black with studs and chains, “or this?” 

Dream tilts his head, thinking about the choices, “the first one.” 

Hob beams, nodding as he puts the clothes back into his room. “See, that’s what I was thinking too. Plus one of my leather jackets, since it’ll be cold, but also I will be in the moshpit, but eh,” Hob mumbles, voice lowering in frequency as he comes back out, sitting near him as he drinks the rest of his tea. “I’m so excited!”

“I can tell,” he replies dryly, and Hob’s brightness doesn’t even dim as he picks up his book, practically vibrating next to him. 

-

He does try to come after the festival. 

He doesn’t try hard enough as he stares at the closed door, can hear Hob’s low voice, muffled but getting clearer as he presses against the door. “And I would,” Hob pauses, and Dream tenses in anticipation ― and on the other end of the line, a man lets out a small whine, close to the edge from Hob’s voice. “Eventually, I’d let you come.” 

The man whines and Dream shivers, can almost feel the firmness of Hob’s voice in his body as he takes an unneeded breath. 

“The anticipation of it, it’d be worth it, don’t you think?” Hob asks, and the man agrees blindly. Dream swallows, body flooded with arousal. “I’d take you to the edge, again and again, until your mind is nothing but me, the way you’d beg for it,” Hob continues, voice dropping even lower as the man cries out ― and Hob thinks of pale skin, daydreams of― 

Dream forces himself out of it, would be sure that his face would be a fierce red if ― the wood doing nothing to cool him down as he presses into it, a hand lightly gripping the wood. There’s the taste of it on his tongue, like he can replace it with Hob’s confident words, the ease he can feel from the other side of the door. 

“Please,” the man begs, sobbing in a way that Dream can feel, wants to be the one crying it out. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get what you want. You’re touching yourself for me, aren’t you?” Hob breathes and the man lets out a cry and blurbled yes. “Just relax into it, into my voice,” Hob soothes and Dream shudders, a hand reaching into his robe as he soundlessly pants against the door. “Follow the flow, you don’t want to resist.” 

The man keens, mindless and full of Hob’s voice ― like Dream. Who wants to reach through the door and hang Hob up, wants those low tones focused on him, as he strokes himself, can feel how close to the edge he is― 

―Of making a mess of Hob’s door, and the thought is cold water as he pulls himself away, taking his hand off himself as he forces himself back to the Dreaming.

-

Dream doesn’t keep a solid track of time, but even he knows that this is a bad day. Pinched annoyance at himself for not visiting Hob, basking in the comforts of his home ― and not when he’s working, and so just sticks to the Dreaming. 

And today, an envoy of planets and galaxies, relatively small, which is the only good thing over all the fake politeness and the exhausting politicking. 

The bubble appearing to life in the room is the icing on the cake, Hob’s daydream-call as the celestial bodies look over at the phone box with worry. “It is nothing,” he grounds out, and feels even more exhausted as he pops the bubble, crunching it into nothing.

After, he promises himself as he forces the conversation back on track, and Dream feels vaguely like screaming.

-

It’s days before he shows up at Hob’s ― reasonably sure that Hob’s not working as he knocks on the front door. Dream feels tense, every non-existent bone in his body clenched as he waits, and as he thinks that Hob’s gone out, the door opens. “Dream!” Hob smiles and ushers him in, and it feels like his teeth grind less as he enters the other’s home. 

“I apologise. For not taking your call,” he recites stiffly as he sits, and Hob freezes, then smiles, sitting next to him, warmth radiating off of him in a way that makes Dream want to curl into him. 

“Felt a bit weird when that happened, but you are a busy entity. Nothing to apologise for, of course,” Hob beams, and Dream swallows the sound as the smile dims, expression becoming concerned. “Your hair,” Dream blinks―and wonders when his hair became long, it feels like ― stress, the weight of the envoy, of his actions last time he was here. “You seem a bit,” Hob bites his lip, “tense.” 

“I am fine,” he replies, and Hob gives him a skeptical glance. 

“Dream,” Hob says softly, a hand coming up to hover over the ends of his hair, “may I?” Blinking, he looks at Hob’s earnest expression, “I want to help. I’ve heard I give a pretty good head rub.” Dream blinks once more, then nods stiffly, and he watches as Hob moves around ― lighting candles that smell of lavender and getting some food before sitting back next to him, turning on the TV as he does. “Any preferences?” Hob nods to the TV, and Dream shakes his head. 

Dream tenses as Hob’s hands move slowly, making their way to his head―and Dream lets out a sound as a fingers stroke and dig into his scalp. The other hand joins in and Dream can’t help but cry out in relief, the touches unlocking some tight part of him as he can only manage to plant his face on Hob’s thigh, who doesn’t object, hands stroking and petting, massaging his scalp and hair. 

“You’re perfectly fine, just relax,” Hob whispers and he shivers, can feel the stress and tension melting away from him as he goes boneless on the sofa, breathing in the musk of Hob underneath him. Every pass and press of Hob’s fingers, nails into him releases even more tension, and he― 

Unfurls, the black mass of his body, tentacles flopping onto the floor, the machine creak of a black metal tail, as well as various other appendages, can feel them stretching out onto the carpet. Hob makes a sound but doesn’t comment, only taking a hand away and Dream looks up, seeing Hob eat some of his biscuits before Dream shuts his eye. 

“I’d rather not get another record player,” Hob says, and Dream doesn’t get why he says it until he opens his eyes, a feathered limb knocking said record player, and Dream makes a sound, softly moving his limbs around the coffee table, tentacles and a limb of black teeth curling around it until they circle to Hob’s feet. “Much appreciated.” 

And even with the stress lifting, his hair seems to grow, can feel it falling over the sofa as Hob doesn’t stop, seemingly happy to massage his scalp, other hand stroking his hair. 

-

Dream opens his eyes with a jolt, confused as he looks around, mind lagging from― 

The sleep. He had. He can’t remember the last time he slept. It was probably while the Earth was still a mass of dust and rocks, still to be pulled together. 

And now, one of Hob’s hands is still in his hair, touching it softly, the other arm touching his chest as he blinks. Can feel Hob in the Dreaming, can feel the night sky above him, the TV still playing softly as he huffs, relaxing back into the hold, putting his face into Hob’s hip. 

The hand in his hair pets him, fingers stroking through the long strands in some automatic motion, Hob still dreaming even as the fingers continue their movement. 

Dream allows himself more of it, hoarding the feeling of having Hob’s body so close, hands in his hair, then he sits up, Hob’s body heat still sticking to him as he turns the TV off. Hob only groans as Dream picks him up, carrying him bridal style to the other’s room, and Dream smiles, patting Hob’s hair as he puts the immortal under the covers. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, stroking the grey of Hob’s temple, making sure Hob’s dreams will be full of the feelings he gave Dream, the warmth and calm. “I feel much better now, my friend.” 

-

“I’m not boring you, am I?” Hob asks, voice cutting out over the phone line, and Dream hums, relishing in the familiar comfort of Hob’s presence inside the daydream, phone to his ear. 

“Of course not,” he says, making Hob do a skeptical noise. 

“Feel like I’m boring myself with this line of thought. Instead ― I always imagine you with a smartphone when we’re like this,” Hob says, and Dream blinks. 

“It is not a smartphone for me,” he replies, “it’s a phone box.”

“Like in Doctor Who?” Hob asks, voice curious, daydream brightening with the emotion. 

“No, a red one,” he clarifies, and huffs as he reaches out to the connection between them, “I will show you.”

Dream knows when Hob can see it ― can see him, can feel the invisible eyes on him as Hob lets out a breath. “Oh. Hello,” Hob speaks softly, and Dream gives him a small smile. “Cosy. I like it.” 

“It―“ feels like you, the bone-deep comfort, Dream doesn’t say, lulled into the sense of it, “it is beyond adequate for when we converse.” 

He gets the feeling that Hob blinks as he takes a moment, “I’m glad for that, then. Beyond adequate is one of my favourite descriptors about me,” Hob says teasingly. “Don’t think I would’ve done the black glass though.”

Dream looks at the sides, surprised to see the clear glass replaced with black glass, opaque and matte. “I didn’t realise,” he frowns, not touching on why he’d want to change the glass, what feels like the part of him still in that cursed basement. 

“How about stained glass, then? That’d be nice,” Hob offers, “just an idea.” Dream stares at the glass, the squares changing to varying hues, mixed in with the black glass. “Beautiful.”

-

Dream stares at the door, at the quiet behind it ― which soon changes as Hob gets a call, and Dream comes closer, pressing an ear to the door. Hob talks to the person ― his higher-up, most likely. The conversation is loud, Hob joking and laughing as he says that sure, I can do another.

The person greets Hob nervously once they’re connected, but Hob easily makes them feel at ease, and Dream feels a pang of envy for those who interact with Hob throughout the days, wanting to keep it all to himself, but knowing he can’t. 

And it’s not like he thought of Hob doing his job in detail, but as Hob gently coaxes out a fantasy, light-hearted and soft, Dream can feel the words prickle under his skin. A part of him thought that Hob would ― list out fantasies, easy to pick and choose from a menu.

His hands ball on the door, unwilling to move as Hob talks, as the person’s imagination sparks, and Dream holds himself back from changing the figment of imagination meant to represent Hob, keeping still. 

Hob’s words, practised and filthy, wash over him as he considers what Hob would coax out of him, can’t even fathom it as the person whines, getting louder in their cries, and Dream presses his forehead to the door, can’t even fathom the thought of Hob doing that to him. 

But still, he wants it, can taste it as the person comes, Hob gently coaxing them on, and Dream vanishes back to the Dreaming before he’s aware, mind sticky with thoughts.

-

Hob isn’t saying something, Dream can feel it in the way the daydream of the phone box twists and pulses. “Feeling an urge to go back to England ― not permanently at this point. More of a holiday, but I’ve been over there too long, so,” Hob grumbles, then sighs. There’s a pause, and Dream waits for Hob to speak.

“Hob?” He asks, straightening up on the glass panel, can feel Hob’s gaze on him. 

“Do you know,” Hob says quietly, the words careful and measured, “you have a presence?” 

“A presence?” He echoes, brows furrowing, and there’s another pause, can feel Hob putting the words together carefully. 

Hob hums, and Dream gets the impression of nervousness, “when you come here. To the Waking. Never noticed it much when we were at the White Horse, probably because of all the people and alcohol, but since we’ve met up outside that, I’ve noticed it. There’s a certain ― change to the gravity, to the air around you, when you’re here,” another pause, another drawn out sigh. More silence. “You’ve been listening to me. While I work,” Hob states, and Dream freezes. “Can feel you, on the other side of that door.” 

Dream swallows, thoughts screeching to a halt, too thrown off to even comprehend saying anything. 

“Why? Eldritch curiosity?” Hob asks, and Dream shuts his eyes, grabbing the out offered with both hands. 

“Yes,” he says, voice scratchy, “I am sorry for. Overstepping.” 

There’s a tiny laugh on the other end of the line, “I don’t care. How am I? Any critiques?” Hob asks, voice lightly teasing, and Dream takes an unneeded breath as he relaxes against the glass.

“You are adequate,” Dream says gravely, and Hob laughs gleefully. Dream intimately understands the meaning of dodging a bullet as Hob begins to talk about something else ― dinner, Dream catches, and he takes another useless breath. 

-

Dream does truly forget this time, as he looks around at Hob’s house, then pauses at the closed door, can faintly hear Hob speaking and Dream pauses. Can feel you, on the other side of that door rings in his head, and Dream ― reaches out, can feel how he changes things, presses onto the fabric of reality as he pulls it inside of himself, like a flower folding back up. 

Can feel the particles and dark matter buzzing inside his form as he walks closer and presses his ear against the door, closing his eyes as Hob’s soft voice washes over him, the laughter warm. 

And the other side of the phone ― Dream blinks, brows furrowing, because she’s a regular. A regular not there for sex, more for companionship, the familiar English accent of Hob’s voice, easing her homesickness. 

Sometimes she does get her self off after, but it’s more ― casual, Hob talking about recipes and both of them missing home. Serendipity of one day her wanting someone to masturbate to, and being struck by hearing the familiar sound. Crying and feeling embarrassed as Hob soothed her and made her laugh. 

Dream frowns, feeling put off, hackles rising as they talk and―Dream swallows, can feel the presence of him straining, not used to it, now that he’s aware of it, crawling under his skin― 

And on the other side of the door, Hob laughing and talking, and Dream can feel anger building, expecting ― filth, not this, which he can’t articulate why he hates it. 

Taking a deep breath, he steps back into the Dreaming, his presence blooming into nothing as dark clouds rumble in the sky. 

=

Dream slowly blinks, aware of a sound in his ear as he looks around ― the red phone box, black and rainbow-coloured glass, the phone’s curled line leading to the phone next to his ear, a dial-tone as it.

Tries to connect to Hob, Dream’s aware of, unable to feel Hob’s warmth, or his unseeing gaze as he sits on the floor of box, holding his knees with his free hand. He’s so tired. The bone-deep weariness, the work on keeping the Dreamling stable even when he doesn’t feel it. 

The way he ― didn’t contact or go to Hob, anger soon fading away, but by then there was political talks and treaties, a flurry of people counting on him, when he just wants to tend to his Dreamers, wants to make new dreams and nightmares, but can only manage nothing. 

Sighing, he presses the phone to his ear, dial-tone still ringing, and Dream considers that―”Dream?” A voice connects, confused as the daydream lights up, warmth infusing it and Dream relaxes at the sound of Hob’s voice. “So that was―you were calling me,” Hob says, voice confused and giving way to awe, and Dream smiles. What feels like his first smile in a while. 

“I was not sure it would work,” he says quietly, feet pressing against the corner of the box as he holds the phone closer to him. “I am sorry if I interrupted.”

Hob laughs, and Dream lets the sound wash over him, “nah. Just had some groceries to get ― then had this peculiar pushing feeling, like a knocking, which I ignored until I got everything home and put away. And it was my precious friend calling me,” Hob says, and Dream can easily see the smile with how Hob speaks. “You seem,” Hob pauses, and Dream looks up at the ceiling, can feel the other’s gaze, the concern and worry palpable. “Out of sorts,” Hob settles on. 

“I didn’t even realise I was calling you at one point,” Dream offers, and Hob makes a distressed sound. “It is nice to hear your voice,” he says with a sigh, curling around the phone. 

“And it’s nice to hear yours,” Hob says softly. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You already are,” smiling, he rests his chin on his arm, can feel Hob’s affection pouring through the daydream wrapping him up in heat. It intensifies and he shivers, can feel it press into all the empty and dark places, the bits of him still in cold and glass and pain―”I want to escape,” he blinks, only aware of the sentence after he said it, “but I cannot leave.”

Hob hums, and Dream can feel the phonebox flickering as Hob thinks, “a story, then? If you want,” Hob says softly, and Dream nods, the phonebox flickering, the red phone and it’s red wire only staying, “you said that to a friend, and this friend ― cares for you, can see how you need to get away,” Dream hums, falling into the highs and lows of the other’s voice easily. “And so, they kidnap ― nicely, taking you to some far-away cabin.” 

The phonebox changes, expands, becoming a wooden cabin ― a fireplace on the wall, fire crackling, a huge bed and Dream smiles, any kneejerk reactions fading into nothing at the constant warmth, Hob’s invisible gaze on him. And a shadow person, standing in front of him, hand outstretched, and Dream takes it to stand up from the carpeted floor, can feel Hob’s touch in the shadow. 

“Always working too hard, can see how it burns you out, putting too much on yourself, just wants to let you forget about it for a bit. It’ll all be there after, of course,” Hob says as they sit down on the bed, and Dream soaks up Hob’s voice, putting his head on the shadow’s shoulder, an arm moving around his own shoulders. “But you’re allowed time away ― especially with your friend, who took you so nicely, implored you to leave with them.”

Dream hums, can feel the Hob’s hair brushing against the back of his neck, the beard on his jaw as he presses his nose into the shadow’s neck, pleasantly scratchy. “Hob,” he breathes, insides twisting and hot, can��t help but to ― kiss him, and the daydream―Hob, hitches a breath. 

“Oh,” Hob’s voice is lightly strangled, but the shadow still kisses him back, hands on his jaw as the daydream heats up even more, can feel prickles of Hob’s growing arousal. “And―well―that is,” Hob stumbles, voice more breathless than before as Dream’s hands go into dark hair, thumbs stroking the grey of where Hob’s beard would be, and Hob lets out another sound. “Of course, your friend―that is,” a cough, “has wanted you, but wasn’t expecting this, was happy for just―” 

Hob swears as Dream licks into the shadow’s mouth, can feel hands going down to grip his hips as they kiss, can feel Hob’s gaze on him, hooking under his skin as he presses into the void-of-his-friend, can feel the other’s hard cock in jeans as he bites the shadow’s lips. 

There’s a gasp, a keen as the shadow’s hands go under his shirt, nails scratching up his torso. Hob lets out another sound, a tinge frustrated and the shadow moves, tugging him down onto the bed, pressing him against as Dream whines, shivering at the lips and stubble as the shadow bites marks into his neck. “This friend thinks you shouldn’t be working even in this,” Hob says, voice octaves lower as the shadow touches his robe, his shirt vanishing under it, “should focus on feeling good, on how maybe,” Hob’s voice cracks. 

“Maybe?” He purrs, can feel the other’s intense stare as his pants vanish, hands reverently going down his hips to his thighs. Can feel the daydream shaking with arousal ― Hob’s arousal, can feel the Dreaming beyond the little black bubble this is all placed in before he focuses back on the shadow, the room and Hob. 

And the shadow, fingers slick as they trail up his inner thighs, can feel Hob’s gaze zeroing in on him, focused to a point as he shudders, grasping at the shadow’s soft hair, “as a courtesy,” Hob rasps, voice deep as the shadow licks at a nipple, hardening under it quickly, and Dream gasps as a finger slowly enters him, pressing against walls with heat, “you should be fucked, taken care of, until you can’t think anymore.”

“By you?” He asks, keening as another finger enters him, stretching him slowly ― even though he doesn’t need it, body loosening around them easily and Hob whines, more fingers entering him. 

The shadow kisses him, beard rough against his face as they kiss, and Dream gasps, staring at ceiling as fingers graze his prostate, and Dream can only dig into the shadow’s shoulders, arching up into the feeling as thoughts vanish, the shadow moving down to nibble marks into his collarbone. “Yes,” Hob says, voice rough as the beard that scratches against his skin. “Would be happy to do that, for you, until you’re only just pleasure.” 

Dream groans, squirming under the shadow, wanting it so desperately as fingers continue to press that spot, and Dream grinds down on the feeling, chasing the orgasm in front of him, hearing Hob pant and moan. “With only your fingers?” He asks, voice tripping over itself, and he shivers as they crook inside him.

“To start with,” Hob answers, voice low and gutter-filthy, “a start, to get you out of your head, out of your work,” Hob says, fingers twisting and stretching even more, and Dream lets out a wail, arching into them mindlessly, body shuddering with pleasure. “With me.”

He comes with a cry, white coating the shadow’s front as Dream holds on, the press of warm nails verging into over-stimulation, into a shuddering, maddening amount of bliss. The fingers leave and he groans as he’s turned around, face pressing into pillows as the shadow forces him up by the hips, arse in the air. “Hob?” He slurs, can feel a nose ghost against his spine, thumbs digging into his waist. 

Hob lets out a breath, and he shivers as a tongue comes out, hot against his spine as it makes it’s way down. “There’s still so much to do, and there’s time for it all,” Hob promises.

-

Dream comes back to himself pleasantly, form faintly twinging as he stares at the wall of his bedroom, a stained glass window showing golden light that keeps him warm. His mind is clear, only one thing ― one person ― occupying it as he stands up, loose black robe forming around him. 

It’s only once he’s stepped into the Waking, and knocked at Hob’s front door, that maybe― 

Just a fantasy, Hob’s job, a one-off, his mind spirals as he crosses his arms, feeling the cool air with only his thin robe― 

“Dream!” He blinks and the door has opened, revealing Hob’s smiling face, and Dream relaxes at the sight. Hob doesn’t show any signs of what happened, which―of course, since it was a daydream. 

As Dream sits on the sofa, a part of him settles that if this doesn’t―become anything, he might be content with that. Since Hob didn’t throw him out at first sight, he can be happy with Hob’s friendship. 

“You, uh,” Hob says, tone faltering and Dream stares down at himself, at the small black robe. At the marks and beard burn he can feel on the inside of his thighs, the bruises on his neck. Hob’s face gets redder as he stares, brown eyes wide. 

Wide, and interested, can feel echoes of their daydream ripple through the air, Hob licking his lips and Dream’s form tingles, wanting. Not just a shadow, not just a daydream, wants to see Hob’s eyes get darker, like they are right now―and Dream surges up, grabbing Hob’s threadbare shirt to kiss him roughly. Dream’s hands clench as they go up, and he moans at the feel of the other’s beard, of the way Hob leans into the kiss, automatic― 

Hob breaks the kiss with a gasp, eyes wide with wonder, a hand in his dark hair, fingers curling around Dream’s dark strands. “Curiousity?” Hob asks, breathless. 

“No,” is all he says before going back in for a kiss, Hob’s other hand quickly grabbing his waist as Dream spins him around, pushing him onto the sofa. Hob gasps, hands tugging him down onto Hob’s lap, and Dream shivers at the affection and want he can feel coming from the other’s daydreams, Hob just as hungry as him as he grinds into Hob’s lap. 

[Fin]

[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

My main HC for Morpheus is he lives and just retires from the stress of being Dream.

He gets convinced to just live for himself and choose his own destiny without the expectation of his existence weighing him down.

Hob helps him, both of them moving into a cottage where they learn to coexist and Morpheus learns how to be human without the added stress of a city life.

He reads books, new ones having to be thoroughly digested rather than just instantly available in his head like a goddamn robot.

Maybe he helps Hob plant seeds and realises that it's somewhat close to breathing life into new creations and helping them grow into their desired functions, immediately addicted to the feeling of mud under his nails and stains on his clothes because he's creating a life without needing a purpose for it.

They go down to the beach, and yeah it's not like the Shores of The Dreaming but he still has his spade and bucket and by fucking Christ is he going to make the best sand castle ever, Hob, stop laughing!!

He builds and builds until he's tired and worn out and sweating pints, but there's a version of the castle - his home, even if it's not his anymore, even if it didn't feel like home, not really - standing proudly in the sand. And he stares at it, realising that the dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach is still there, but it's not as suffocating as it used to be. He's not weighed down by the unconscious minds of everyone, he gets to create for the simple pleasure of creating.

He gets to go back to the cottage, curls his feet under him and drinks hot chocolate as Hob cooks in the kitchen. Music's playing in the background as the fire roars in the hearth.

He feels safe.

He feels content.

He feels loved.

He's happy.

(And maybe a certain Angel and Demon buy a cottage close by, causing an all-out garden war between the Resident Goths on whose plants are better?? Which then creates the Annual Garden Competition. Both Hob and Azi are chilling and having cake whilst the Resident Goths are fighting over the last seedlings).

I just want the dweebs to all be happy.

Is it so much to ask for??

[mr-sadman]

Hello wonderful people! 

We are back again this year with our wonderful Dreamling Week, which will be taking place from June 2nd to June 8th this year!

Our stance on plagiarism and AI 

We do not accept nor condone the use of plagiarism, including the use of AI, whether in writing or art. If you are caught using either, you will be disqualified from the current event and barred entry for the other events the Mr. Sadman team puts forward.

Disclaimer : all images used in our graphics come from the Unsplash Archive (https://unsplash.com/about) which are free to use.

General Rules and Information

Being a server member, while strongly advised, is not mandatory for this event. Our AO3 collection will be entirely open and unmoderated for everyone to post. We will be accepting late submissions, so fear not if you don’t have time to post everything you wanted to post! Additional events, such as watch-parties, fic read-alongs and game nights, will be held on the server.

The official tags for this year’s edition are : #Dreamling Week 2024 and #Dreamling Week

For reblogging purposes, make sure your tumblr blog is visible in searches and don’t be shy to tag our account (mr-sadman)! Unfortunately, despite our vigilance, some posts can evade our attention, if that’s the case, please DM us and we will rectify the situation.

Official AO3 Collection : Dreamling Week 2024 [link]

If you are under the age of 18, you will not be able to create explicit content for the event. Just to reiterate, Mr. Sadman is a 16+ server.

The Mr. Sadman Modteam is a firm believer of “ship and let ship” as well as the kinktomato (https://fanlore.org/wiki/Kinktomato). In accordance with the Server’s existing rules, we will not tolerate any discrimination and harassment in any forms whatsoever. This includes: queerphobia, homophobia, racism, content policing, hate speech, doxxing, shaming, etc, as well as hostility towards organisers and fellow participants. 

Since the event is a few weeks away, what can I do now?

Spread the word and the joy! We have decided to post the prompts earlier this year to give more time for people to get creative!

Without further ado here is this year’s prompt list : 

Sunday 2nd Hunt Body swap Indulgence [First Time] Monday 3rd Pirates Hourglass Flowers [Exhibitionism] Tuesday 4th Steampunk/Solarpunk Painting Meet cute/ugly [Massage] Wednesday 5th Shapeshifter Storm Finger food [Dirty] Thursday 6th Soulmates Lecture Midsummer [Friends with benefits] Friday 7th Through the ages Nightmare Monochromatic [Hate sex] Saturday 8th Assassins Memories Sunrise/Sunset [Roleplay]

FAQs/TLDR

FAQs : 

When is the event ? From June 2nd to June 8th! While you should post the prompt for each day it is associated with, we will also be accepting late submissions, so have no worry!

Can I combine prompts? YES!! Be sure to indicate which days and prompts you are using in your description, otherwise, go free! You can post on either days associated with your prompts, or, if it’s a multipart work, on each corresponding day!

Is there any content restriction ? We accept all  works of all mediums - writing, art, collages, playlists, podfics, translations, video edits, etc. - , whether they are SFW, NSFW and/or triggering. Writers and artists- tag appropriately ; Readers and viewers - be mindful of tags!

Where should I post my work ? Anywhere from Tumblr or AO3!! We have accounts on both platforms and we also have an AO3 collection : Dreamling Week 2024 [link]!

What tag should I use for visibility ? We recommend using both #Dreamling Week and #Dreamling Week 2024 as well as tag our account (mr-sadman) ! We will try our best to reblog every entry but if you see that we haven’t reblogged/retweeted your post yet, don’t be afraid to DM us! Make sure your blog settings are set so that your posts appear in searches - otherwise we might not see them!

Are polyamorous ships accepted ? Yes!! As long as the focus of your entry is Dreamling, poly-ships are absolutely accepted!

Do I need to be a part of the server to participate? Absolutely not! Dreamling Week is open to all! Although some additional events (such as a watch party, game nights and fic read-alongs) will be held on the server, submissions do not need to come from server members only!!

I need help, how do I reach a mod?

If there is something that is not covered by our rules masterpost and/or FAQ, you are very free to reach out to us in the Discord server’s dedicated channel or in Tumblr DMs! 

Keep on Dreamling!~ <3

[lichanicksstuff]

"I don't remember my mother's face." Hob says, one day, while him and Dream were having their morning coffee. Dream looks at his friend. The tone of Hob's voice doesn't match the words he just said. They were talking about family and suddenly... He says this. And it seems like he doesn't even care, like it's just another thing he said.

It's not like Dream knows what it's like. He may not relate but he understands. In his kingdom there are many nightmares whose task, whose goal, is this very thing. Forgetting the most beloved face. Forgetting the voice that sang lullabies to you when you could still fit in her arms... Dream can't relate but he understands and he rots.

He rots because he remembers the face of every person that has ever lived. And Hob looks just like his mother.

[seiya-starsniper]

Six Degrees of Separation

Rating: Teen || Chapters: 1/4 || Word Count 1.4k

Summary:

The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

Hob Gadling wasn't planning on adopting three teenagers and a full grown woman, but stranger things have happened in his long centuries of life.

Read here on Tumblr, or over on AO3

dedicated to @softest-punk for making me emotional about Hob adopting the kids in DBD 💖

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

“In here!” Edwin shouts, gesturing frantically at the entrance to a pub that looks vaguely familiar to Crystal. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much time to wonder before the banshee chasing them lets out a blood curdling scream. Crystal rushes in with Charles right behind her, pushing the door and slamming it shut behind her. Thankfully the pub seems to be completely empty except for one man. 

A man who looked extremely pissed off to see them.

“Oh bloody hell, fuck no, not you, out!” the older man shouts, moving out from behind the bar and looking ready to chase them out by force if necessary. Crystal braces herself, glancing around frantically for some sort of back door that she can bolt to if necessary. She’s pretty sure she can outrun him.

Charles and Edwin however, are a different story.

“Hob, it’s us!” Charles exclaims, throwing up his hands in an attempt to show no harm.

“We’re sorry for bringing a ghost to your door, Mr Gadling,” Edwin adds. “If you’ll just let me borrow one of your books to get rid of this banshee, we’ll be out of your hair.” 

“Not you two, her,” the man, Hob (what the hell kind of name was that?) growls, pointing at Crystal accusingly. Edwin and Charles turn to her in shock, and Crystal is about to protest that she has no idea what this man is on about, but then the memory of how she knows Hob Gadling comes flooding back to her.

The pub they’d run into was The New Inn and Crystal had almost burned it down last year because some girl she hated at school had come here for her 18th birthday. With all of Crystal’s friends, sans Crystal. Ex-friends now, since Crystal had tried to burn the place down with the whole party still inside. Hob had, unsurprisingly, pressed charges, and it took a lot of money from her parents to make everything go away.

“I’m sorry!” Crystal yells, just as the banshee screeches and slams its body against the door behind them. It lights up an iridescent blue, a warding against ghosts. Of course Crystal had to go and fuck up the one supernatural relationship she had because she was an idiot asshole last year. 

“I know this isn’t a great time, but I’m kind of a different person now?” Crystal says, having no idea how to even begin to explain the weird circumstances of the last month. “I swear what my past self did isn't who I am now,” she adds, also raising her hands to show she means no harm. 

“She’s part of the Dead Boy Detectives Agency, mate,” Charles interjects, while Edwin nods furiously in agreement. “Please don’t throw her out!”

The banshee lets out another screech and slams itself against the door, rattling the frame so hard that Crystal’s afraid it might fly off the hinges at any moment. Whatever ward Hob had placed, it wasn’t going to hold out for that much longer.

“What the hell is going on?!” a familiar voice cries out, and then Jenny Green of all people is coming out of what Crystal assumes is the kitchen. She’s also brandishing a butcher knife, because why would any of that change now that she lives across the pond?

“Jenny?!” Charles and Edwin yell.

“Oh fuck,” the older woman curses, glancing back and forth between the three of them and Hob. Crystal really hopes they haven’t just gotten Jenny fired. Finding a job had been tough enough for her when they'd relocated, and she had refused any help financially from Crystal.

“You know them?!” Hob asks, shock clear in his voice.

“It’s a long story,” Jenny grumbles, then screams when the banshee throws itself against the door again. “What the fuck, why did you lead a ghost here? ”

The door rattles and creaks, and the ward around the pub shimmers and vibrates angrily, which seems to finally prompt Hob to action. He straightens his back, rubs a hand over his face, and then takes one, two, three deep breaths before he looks them all over appraisingly. 

“Jenny, get the salt from the back,” Hob orders, gesturing her back to the kitchen. “The iron knives should be on the shelf next to them. Edwin, you know where the tomes are,” he adds pointing upwards, likely towards a room on the second floor of the pub. Jenny and Edwin nod quietly before disappearing to their designated posts, leaving Crystal and Charles alone with Hob.

“Right, so since when have the Dead Boys gotten themselves involved with trust fund brats?” Hob asks, still eyeing Crystal warily as if he expects her to pull out a lighter at any moment. 

“Since this trust fund brat got possessed by a demon and got her memories stolen,” Crystal answers, wincing when she realizes how harsh that sounds. “Sorry. I just recently got them back and it's been a weird time. I really am sorry though. For like, nearly burning this place to the ground cause I was mad.”

“You did what? ” Charles cries out, his mouth agape. “Please tell me that was all David’s doing.”

Crystal scrunches up her face and then shakes her head. “I wish it was, but no. Just plain old shitty Crystal,” she answers truthfully.

Hob looks between the two of them, then sighs, his expression softening. 

“Look, clearly you’ve done some soul searching and I am the last person who should be allowed to hold a grudge against someone who’s done some bad things,” he says, then gestures to Charles. “If the boys vouch for you, then I’m willing to bury the hatchet. All right, Ms Von-Hovercraft?”

“Please just call me Crystal,” Crystal pleads. She really hated being referred to by her surname. It still felt weird and foreign to her, after everything she had gone through. Hob huffs, and this time when he looks at her, there isn’t a shred of contempt in his expression.

“Yeah okay. Crystal,” he says warmly. “You can call me Hob.”

Crystal wants to ask where the hell the name Hob comes from, because she’s pretty sure she remembers his name being Richard , but before she can say anything, Edwin and Jenny come back and Hob turns his full attention to taking care of the banshee that’s trying to get past the wards he has around the entire pub. 

“You’re lucky Tuesday’s a slow night,” Hob says, before he starts flipping through the tome. “Jenny, Crystal, make a salt circle by the tables over there,” he adds, pointing to his left. “You’re going to need to lead her there so we can trap her.”

Crystal and Jenny make as large of a circle as they can, pouring generous amounts of salt into the floor. When they’re done, Hob instructs them to the front of the pub, where the door is still rattling and glowing angrily. Edwin and Charles are standing next to Hob, Charles with his cricket bat out, and Edwin and Hob ready to chant the spell within the tome. 

“When I count to three, open the door and run like hell into the salt circle,” Hob tells them. “One, two, THREE!”

Crystal throws open the door and both she and Jenny cover their ears as they run towards the salt circle. The banshee’s cries are even louder now that she’s inside the pub, but their plan works. She follows them straight into the circle, then screeches again in anger once she realizes she cannot follow them out. Her long hands try to grab for Jenny’s apron, but Charles materializes right at the circle’s edge to bat her hand away. 

Hob and Edwin start chanting some spell in what Crystal assumes is Latin, and the banshee screeches at an even louder volume than before. The salt circle alights a bright gold, and Crystal and Jenny are practically thrown backwards by the force of the magic taking effect.

The banshee lets out one more high pitched scream, and then her dark grey dress suddenly becomes stark white, dark and wet black hair paling slowly to a soft light brown. When the banshee lifts her face, her eyes are no longer sunken and black, but wide and bright green. 

She’s beautiful, now that she’s no longer in pain.

The Night Nurse shows up shortly afterwards, collecting the woman and gently reassuring her that she’s going to a better place. She looks at Hob like she’s offended by his very existence, which the man takes in stride and cheerfully waves her off, telling her to say hello to her boss for him. 

“Right then,” Hob says after the banshee and the Night Nurse have left. “Now that that’s taken care of, care to explain to me what the bloody hell is the connection with you lot?”

[emihotaru]

Hello! No mermay this time, but since the @mr-sadman seasonnal exchange is over, and Moonlight-mav discovered her present, I can show it to you now! So, some Dreamling today!

Here are 3 little snippets from her fanfic Tomorrows Over Centuries I really enjoyed painting! I loved to make them snuggle!

You can read the fanfic here!

[thebitchesterbrothers]

Dream of the Endless is the prince of a small but wealthy and beautiful country. He’s not the oldest child so the crown will go to his oldest sister Death when his parents are going to die or abdicate one day.

He’s not important enough to rule one day but still too known to live an ordinary life. He grew up sheltered in a golden cage with certain expectations from his parents to live by. So he’s not surprised when one day his parents invite possible suitors for a lucrative wedding.

From Dreams perspective they leave him no choice but to flee from his own birthday party where he’s supposed to be sold off to the highest bidder.

And while his furious parents are busy firing his bodyguards Dream wanders through parts of the capital he’s never seen before.

He’s so high on the feeling of finally feeling free and unobserved for the first time in his entire life that he doesn’t pay close attention to his surroundings when he turns the corner.

Stumbling right into the arms of Hob Gadling.

Hob, who had spent the last ten years traveling and living abroad before returning home to finally settle down, maybe start a family of his own.

Hob, who never really kept track of the drama and scandals of the royal family.

Who doesn’t know that the beautiful - but slightly socially awkward and uptight - man in his arms is the most desired bachelor of his native country. And his prince.

But what he knows is that love at first sight most definitely exists because there’s no way in hell he won’t marry this dream of a man.

Needless to say that Dream spends the next week in Hobs tiny and barely renovated flat above the Inn Hob had recently bought. Half of that time he spends in Hobs embrace, the other half in his lap. Dream refuses to let his new love out of sight, clings to him, afraid Hob might find out about his family heritage and will try to get rid of him, trying not to get in trouble for hiding - and deflowering - the prince.

But eventually, on the eighth day Dream confesses he’s the prince everyone is so desperately looking for. The prince who’s supposed to be married off to a proper and, most importantly, rich spouse.

So on the ninth day Hob and Dream say yes to each other in an old chapel by the river, the only witnesses the priest and a tiny black cat who Dream takes home afterwards.

On the tenth day the royal family finds them and Hob finds out what he’s got himself into.

But looking at his gorgeous husband next to him he decides it’s all worth it if he gets to live the rest of his life side by side with him.